The Unseen

by James McKenna

  The shrill ring of the doorbell sounded over her retreat like an angry irritant. She ignored it, hoping someone would go away. Only on the second, persistent ring did she relent. Putting the glass aside she shrugged first one then both arms into her dress, holding the front together as she walked.

  Peering through the spy hole she saw no-one.

  “Stupid people.” She opened wide and looked out. The figure against the side of the wall came as if from nowhere, thrusting with great force as he pushed through and slammed the door shut, confronting her body to body.

  Danielle reeled backwards, conscious of a masked head, eyes circled, teeth bared as he rammed a pad to her face. The stench of chemicals was in her mouth, her nose, choking her. She knew then she was to be raped. Hysteria consumed her, she lashed at his neck and chest until he pulled her body against him. She remembered Frankie’s lesson. Fight rape with rape. Her hand went down, her fingers clutching over the fabric of his trousers, feeling for his testicles, ensuring she grasped a firm handful. He grunted surprise until she squeezed, gritting her teeth while twisting and pulling with all her strength. The grunt turned to screech and he dropped the pad to grip her wrist. She head-butted, made stars before her eyes, but it sent him back against the stairs. Free of his grip she ran, making half way to the kitchen before he grabbed the neck of her dress, ripping it from one arm as she twisted free. He snatched her trailing hand, wrenched it up her back, forcing her through the door and face down over the kitchen table.

  She screamed, she could hear her scream as he banged down her head then lifted her skirt. She took the kitchen knife feeling his fingers search into her pants, groping for entry to her body. She plunged blindly backwards, felt pain in her own leg and pulled out the blade to jab again. This time he screamed, his hands suddenly gone as she struggled beneath him, pushing in the knife with all her strength, scrapping it against bone. The obscenities spat into her ear drew back and his weight eased, allowing her to lift and jerk free. Her own voice split the air along with his wail of disbelief. Running out the back door, she gathered her torn dress, sprinting the full length of the garden, glancing only once to see him in the doorway, knife protruding from his thigh. She made for a gap at the bottom of the hedge. Elderly neighbours were already there, staring wide-eyed.

  “Fucking bitch!” Zoby threw the knife to the ground and for moments stood staring as blood spread over his combat trousers. He felt the clutch of panic as his thigh became gripped by a dull, aching pain.

  “Colonel, I’ve taken a hit, I’m bleeding.”

  “Get out of there, Zoby.”

  “The bitch, fucking bitch.”

  “Get out of there, that’s an order.”

  “Yes sir, yes sir.” Zoby grabbed a tea towel and wrapped it round his leg, tying it in a knot before hobbling for the front door.

  There was only one person in view, a woman on her driveway. She looked scared, unsure. “Did I hear screaming?” she asked.

  “Fucking bitch.” Zoby got into his van and drove. He couldn’t believe what had happened. How could this one be so different? He had never taken a hit before. Now he had so much pain, tears welled in his eyes. Someone would pay. “You fucking bitches, you’ll pay, all of you.”

  “They went shopping!” Sean sensed the first kick of fear, then rationalised. He was overreacting. He heard Miss Nathan explain arrangements at the Red Lion. He clicked the receiver and began to redial. Stay calm, stay calm. He repeated it mentally and waited for the duty sergeant at Dunstable police station to answer. Cobbart was staring, talking to Heidi, his expression dead-faced as he crossed the room.

  “St Albans police have you on file as a serving officer,” Cobbart said. “They’ve been on to Pimlico. There was an incident at your home. A young woman attacked.”

  A sheath of dread descended, clawing over Sean’s skin and mind. “Is she alive?”

  “Leg wound, no other details.”

  From the earpiece Sean heard the duty sergeant asking after his enquiry. Cobbart took the phone away. Eighteen people stared in silence. Sean looked to Cobbart and saw compassion, also resolve. “You know the rules, Sean.”

  “Check the hotel, Red Lion, Dunstable. Now! My daughters should be there, so should their mother”

  “Sir,” Heidi called. “Your wife’s already on the phone, she’s hysterical.”

  Sean sat and listened to his wife, then rested head in hand while he talked to the receptionist. Dark panic was feeding in a frenzy and threatening his mind. No one moved, the air was static as he replaced the handset, an isolated click of plastic on plastic.

  “A man fitting the description of Mark Harrison and calling himself Zoby drove away my daughters. They’ve not been seen since.” He looked to the surrounding faces.

  No one answered, only stared at him. Heidi bit her lip; Jan placed one hand over her mouth. Victoria reached out, then dropped her arm.

  Sean stood, fists clenched, his rage agonising to bear. He called up all mental strength then centred it into cold, tense calm, to lose it would destroy him. He looked at John Cobbart. “These are my children, I’m not letting go.”

  “You have no choice, you’re too close. Your mind and judgement will not be rational. I’m taking over. I’ll listen to your advice, everything you say, but from here the decisions are mine. You can do no more. Every copper in Britain is behind you. We’ll get your girls back.”

  “Alive, or dead?”

  “Go see their mother, calm her. Check up on the housekeeper. I’ll keep you informed.”

  Sean slumped to a chair and Cobbart turned on the room, everyone was suddenly active.

  Jan put an arm round his shoulder. “You want my help, boss?”

  “Go to St Albans, find where Danielle’s been taken.” He looked up and saw her tears. “Cradle her ’til this is over. The house will be full of cops, she can’t stay there. Tuck her up somewhere. Give her my love.”

  “I’ll take care like she’s my own.”

  Victoria came over holding a computer printout from Heidi.

  “Want to drive with me?”

  He shook his head, unsure of anything.

  “What about your ex-wife?”

  “She chose Bradley.”

  “So trust me. MI5 is not under Cobbart’s jurisdiction. You want to ride, you’re welcome.”

  Cobbart stood in full swing, jacket off, sleeves rolled. He looked the part, good leader showing the way, phone in each hand. As if conscious of Sean’s scrutiny, Cobbart spoke from where he stood. “I have a nationwide alert, I need photos, Sean.”

  Sean opened his wallet and slipped out a school portrait of both girls. “It was taken three months ago. I’ll get others.” The words came dead and hollow as he placed the photo down.

  “There’s a witness to Danielle’s attacker, he drove a black van,” Cobbart said. “They’re taking her statement now. I’ll have teams linking up from all over; the Met, Hertfordshire, Bucks and Essex constabularies, the whole South East police force if necessary.”

  “I need air, space to think.”

  “Stay in touch. We’ll find them,” Cobbart paused, as if wanting to say more, then went back to his phones.

  Sean followed Victoria outside to her BMW and stood hands on roof.

  “So give me something good,” he said.

  She held the printout. “From Zoby’s hard drive, a mobile number sent to the Colonel. No mention why. Heidi checked. It’s stolen, pay as you go.”

  “Impossible to trace unless it’s switched on. A long shot, way down the list for Cobbart.”

  “If Zoby uses it, MI5 have resources to track the signal and location within four minutes.”

  “He may never use it and if he did and smelt police, he might panic.” Sean covered his face, not wanting to speculate further.

  “I wasn’t thinking we make contact as police,” Victoria said. “He takes instructions from the Colonel. The Colonel, if he was Faulkner, is dead, but Zoby doesn’t know it. We could mimic the
Colonel.”

  Sean paid little attention. He could hear her but he was looking into the face of Caswell. “He knew. When we interviewed him at Shoreditch, I saw it in his eyes. He was mocking me. He knew what was to happen. He set this up.”

  She touched him, caressing his shoulder. “Why do that? What possible reason?”

  “A diversion. Where is my attention now? Where is everybody’s attention?”

  “You’re being paranoid, Sean.”

  She was looking up at him, her eyes searching over his face. “He used us to shoot Snibbard and he’s getting away with it,” he said.

  “Cobbart was right, you’re no longer rational.”

  “Fuck Cobbart, I want Caswell. If my girls are dead, he is the one who murdered them.” He pushed up from the car, centred now. He had a quarry, all he needed was firm evidence and a weapon. He began to walk towards his car until she ran in front and thumped his chest.

  “Listen to me, please. Do it my way. We can save your girls. Don’t destroy yourself by doing something crazy.”

  He kept his target, kept Caswell in vision and saw the eyes mocking him. “I have no time to waste. Caswell is the key to Zoby and my girls.” He looked down at her, placing his hands on her arms. “If they are alive.” He moved her gently aside and opened the car door.

  “You can’t go near him, Sean.”

  “If I have evidence they can’t stop me and I’ll get evidence.”

  She stood aside as he drove off and stayed in his rear view mirror until he turned into the early evening traffic.

  Zoby parked in front of the house and limped around the back. The pain in his right leg was a dull ache and he hated it, hated all pain.

  He checked his prisoners first. They were still trussed like chickens. By the red around her eyes, the alien had been crying. He liked that. She’d cry a lot more before dark. Ripping the tape from their faces brought yelps of pain. He liked that too, their pain. They were female. He wanted to give them pain from the boy inside. They would never have children, never, ever!

  “Let us go, please,” the elder said, her eyes wet.

  “Shut up. I’ve been hit in combat and all you do is whine. You want me to take a belt to you?”

  She shook her head. “Please, don’t hit us. Let my sister go and I’ll let you do it to me.”

  “Do it to you.” He leaned close to her face. “You’ll let me do it to you. I’ll fuck you whenever I want, bitch. Your big sister cut me, and you’re going to pay. I’m going to gut your baby sister while she’s still alive, understand? Bitch. Why should I suffer pain? Why always me?” He struck out at her, feeling the crack of his knuckles on her cheek. When her head sagged he limped to the bathroom and looked into the mirror for the soldier.

  Static burst over his head radio. “Fucking Crystal. Where’s my money?” he shouted, and hit his head so it jolted before he switched the radio to send. “Zoby to Colonel, I made it back to base. But I’ve been hit in action. I’m hurting, Colonel. Where the fuck’s my money?” He twisted up the volume but only static came back. “Do I start on the hostiles? Why the fuck don’t you answer? Fucking Crystal.” He switched off in disgust and stripped to his shorts.

  Blood matted over the wound and his thigh was sticky with congealed blood. It surprised him the hole was so small, it sure hurt for such a small cut. His balls hurt too. Bitch! He felt the void in his head open. Felt it space his brain and saw the floor come up towards him.

  CHAPTER 21

  Driving a Vauxhall car from the pool, Sean locked himself in the vacuum of isolation, scrutinising details in logical sequence. Time did not allow for failure.

  Whoever killed Jovana Zeller did so in a manner that gave perverse satisfaction, a copy of Zoby, someone who knew Zoby’s work. Snibbard was a backroom wanker, not a front man. Zeller’s death had flipped him. Probably because he believed the same fate awaited himself. That left Caswell or Faulkner as the killer. Faulkner had arrived late and been shot by Snibbard within minutes. It had to be Richard Caswell. Trust Richard, trust Richard. Snibbard had said it as if on auto-speak. In the event, Caswell had successfully put Faulkner up as the Colonel, even made mockery over what he knew was to happen outside. That required black perversity, a brain as crazy as it was greedy. Gutting Zeller showed his lust for gore. What better way to satisfy that lust than to witness from a safe distance? That had been possible with Sarah Finch, very probably with Lizzie Sinclair. Now Sean realised why her father had investigated a top floor council flat and a rent boy called Danny. Half an hour later he parked in Stoke Newington.

  The caretaker was dressed in a silk blouse and baggy shorts, his hair spiked and tinted.

  “You lied.” Sean held the door wide. “What happened to Danny after Sinclair went out the window?”

  “He went home.”

  “Where’s home?”

  “Where black people come from. Why ask me? He gave favours, that’s all. Creech knows.” The man retreated trying to close the door.

  Sean pushed in after him. He was conscious of his fists in tight knots, conscious he must stay rational. “Before he left, what did he tell you?”

  “Ask the female fuzz, I told her.”

  Victoria knew, he felt shocked. Was that MI5’s secret? “When?”

  “Couple of weeks ago.”

  Sean stared down at him and saw fear creep into his expression. “Tell me the truth, Malcolm, because there’s no-one here to save you now, no-one but me.”

  “Danny saw someone in the flat watching the girl being murdered. One of those flash city boys.”

  “You said nothing.”

  The man swallowed. “Creech said not to. You know how he is.”

  “So why did you tell the woman?”

  “She had some photographs. Said the boy was under age. Not true, I never touch anyone under eighteen, he wanted to, he wanted my help. Gay people do help each other you know. The police aren’t meant to blackmail.”

  Sean loosened strong fingers around the caretaker’s neck. “Someone is hurting my children. I’m angry. You don’t want to see that anger, do you?”

  The man shook his head.

  “You scared of Creech?”

  This time he nodded. Sean leaned close and whispered. “Be scared of me, Malcolm, be very scared of me and be scared now, because your life depends on truth. The old boy who went out the window, did he know what Danny saw?”

  “Yes, he took Danny’s statement.”

  “When the old boy died, was Creech here?”

  “No, but some of his men were. There were dealers around.”

  “Was the window-sash in place?”

  “No. Someone, I don’t know who, took it out. I put it back afterwards. The policewoman knew that, she asked me a long time ago.”

  “What really happened to Danny?”

  “Men in suits took him away. Honest, that’s all I know.”

  Sean grew conscious of his own staggered breath. The guy was a pawn and except for lies, without blame. “Time you moved on, Malcolm, some place other than here.” He let go leaving finger marks imprinted on the man’s neck. The caretaker’s eyes watered, his epiglottis shifting as he swallowed.

  Walking back to the car Sean kept his fear shrouded by anger. Anger and purpose fed him, gave him hope and strength. He dialled Creech on the mobile number given by Victoria. The response was instant.

  “This is Fagan, I want a meeting.”

  “The Queen’s Head, Church Street. Surgery every Friday night between six and eight. Any villain in the neighbourhood has a problem, they can talk direct. SOCA included.”

  The bulk of Creech’s body occupied a single table, his shaven head glistening, his stubby ringed fingers clasped round a beer glass. Two of his boys sat close, looking like smaller versions of their boss. Creech pointed to a chair with a shovel hand, index finger stretched.

  “Take a pew, Mr Fagan, tell me your problems.”

  “Who took Danny the rent boy?”

  Creech put ha
nds to expansive belly and drew breath through clenched teeth. “Now, let me see what I recall of that incident. Poor little black boy rents his arse to make a living. Unfortunately, it doesn’t feed his habit so he grafts on the side as a police informant. Now, in this neighbourhood, that’s a dangerous occupation.”