The Unseen

by James McKenna

  “Operation over. Well done.” His boss accepted a whisky and sat by the desk.

  Sean maintained eye contact, hoping for a reaction to truth. “Zoby was a paid killer, directed by a third party. He killed for pleasure and profit. So did the third party.”

  “Snibbard or Faulkner – perhaps we’ll never know which,” Cobbart said.

  Sean searched his eyes, the troll was in residence. “Caswell orchestrated and controlled everything. Even his carefully planned exit.”

  “During your family’s abduction, Caswell was voluntarily assisting police with their enquiries. The CID were impressed by his concern, particularly at the devastating misuse of PKL research by Faulkner and Snibbard.”

  “That’s bollocks and you know it. The Home Office wanted the SPI research and they’ve got it. What they didn’t want was Caswell in court talking about it. Caswell’s real name is Harry Woods. The Witch knew and let him go. If you check the passenger lists, you’ll find that sometime while we were searching, one Harry Woods flew out of Heathrow. Victoria told me.”

  “If Caswell ever did control Zoby, then he had lost that control. The recordings of your phone proves it. He could not have helped you, Sean.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Who will ever know? But I do know, that in letting him go, an evil has been let loose on this world. Caswell used SPI over the Internet to induce a psychopath to murder selected people. He used SPI to encourage those victims to their place of execution.”

  “Say that in court, Sean.”

  “But it happened. Caswell influenced investors to part with millions. Spread subtly, the power of SPI is immense. What if a paedophile used it? Get into a stranger’s car, little girl, take sweeties, little girl. Walk in the woods, big girl, like Sarah Finch, like Lizzie Sinclair, like a helpless nun.”

  “Subjective science fiction. We all know it’s possible, but how do we prove it? Even if we knew for certain he was guilty, and we don’t, we have to produce evidence.”

  “Morrison Hotels. Kids go from all over the country. What he could have done mentally to those kids is horrifying.”

  Cobbart shook her head. “All hard drives at those hotels show only the regular PKL Games. Our high-tech unit have checked. There are no subliminal suggestions and certainly no chance of prosecution.”

  Sean heard the departure of counsellors and psychologists, heard Camilla gushing her patronising thanks. He poured more whisky.

  “What of Milton Keynes? There has to be something there.”

  “There is no evidence of SPI. Steve Rawlings has been through the lot. The new PKL games were all clean. We’ve interviewed every staff member. All were aware of SPI but research was to protect the WorkWell programme against an SPI virus. True, that defence does have the potential for abuse by those who control a trusted file. Accepted as official, the SPI can pass anti-virus software and hide in the operating system. It is untraceable, does no apparent damage, can be sent, altered or deleted at any time. PKL is a legitimate research company engaged in controversial work, but there is no proof they broke the law. Neither is there proof that Caswell contaminated the WorkWell programme. There are no master files, only hearsay.”

  “You telling me we have nothing?” Sean hit the table, causing Cobbart to sit back. “What do I have to do? Give my resignation, go over there myself and put a bullet in Caswell’s head? This man is setting himself up as a mass murderer, yet money and bureaucracy allows him to remain free.”

  Cobbart raised his hand. “It’s been a long day, Sean. But we can still only look at the evidence.”

  “What about my girls? They were influenced to trust a killer.”

  “Caswell was in custody at the time of their abduction. Zoby was operating alone and independently.”

  “Whose side you on, John?” Sean gulped his whisky. “You issued an arrest warrant on evidence of a witness statement.”

  “Against my better judgement, on a wild hope it would help your family. Viewed rationally, it’s only an uncorroborated statement collected by a drunk from a rent boy.” Cobbart shook his head. “There are occasions in policing when no matter what you feel, you can only consider what is possible and what is not. What will bring a conviction and what will not. Snibbard, Faulkner and Harrison were our killers. Caswell is not on the list. It’s hard, but that is fact.”

  “You disregard everything I told you.” Sean took a deep breath, restraining his anger.

  “I didn’t say that. Politics and policing have always been unethical traders.” The troll smile flashed briefly, then Cobbart’s face became shallow. “Caswell has what others want. In result, he’s gone. If it’s any consolation, I have it on good information that the Home Office did not receive what they expected. Someone cheated them.”

  “Caswell will find other Zobys, he’ll kill more women,” Sean said. “Will the unseen faces live with that?”

  Cobbart spread his hands and for the first time looked troubled. “I understand your feelings. Your daughters were abducted. But don’t destroy yourself. Let others deal with him. For you the case is closed.”

  “Not for me. Not ’til Caswell is put away. I will not turn my back.”

  “You’re tired Sean, think carefully before you act.”

  When Cobbart left, Sean heard him talk briefly with the duty patrolman outside, then silence, followed by car engines and the measured pacing of the patrolman. Sean reached for his phone and dialled Cricklewood. Diane picked up. Her words were boisterous.

  “It’s the boss,” she shouted. “Come over, boss. We’ve having a party. Everyone’s so relieved for your girls. Give them a kiss from Blue and Red Teams.”

  He listened to background voices, cheered by alcohol. “You did a great job, all of you,” he said.

  “Come over. Celebration time. We won, we won!”

  “Did we? Give everyone my thanks.” He replaced the receiver and buried his face in his hands.

  Danielle sat at the kitchen table wearing a loose towelling robe, a glass of untouched wine before her. Sean put his whiskey down and placed a hand on her shoulder.

  “Where are the girls?”

  “Tucked in bed with their mother. It is good they are close.”

  “How about you?”

  She squeezed his hand. “Hours ago I fought on this table trying to stop the violation of my body. Now for some, it is a safe, family home again. But for me, never. I have been shown an existence amongst us so dark it suffocates life. To know it is there destroys all confidence, all trust. To know that any woman can be hunted simply for her sex reduces her to an animal existence. That is so hard. How I weep for what it has done to your girls.”

  Sean closed his eyes. Her loss of faith, her loss of belief in the world gave him cold determination. How many years before his daughters recovered? If ever. Caswell would not escape.

  “You’re a strong lady. Your world, my daughters’ world, it will return, I promise. It is also why I must continue.”

  Danielle stood, tears glistening on her cheeks. “You must find yourself a good woman, then I go back to France.” She left quickly, heading for her room.

  Sean returned to his study and switched on the computer. Numbers flickered over the screen, the computer box gently thumping its way through start-up. Images, icons and system codes rattled before him. He saw only Victoria, her ivory skin shimmering like a ghostly spectre from the darkness. “A good woman,” he repeated.

  His hand rested on the telephone. What he wanted most was to be in her bed, in her arms, in her body. He was drunk, he knew it, drunk, maudlin and stupid. The screen settled and a metallic female voice welcomed him to Starways Processing Systems. Every software package showed a Starways icon.

  “You won’t get away.” He pointed to the screen. “You made me a victim. But your world doesn’t frighten me. I can also kill, and I’m coming after you.”

  He lifted his glass, drained the contents and crossed the silent hall. He dropped heavily onto the living room couch, lay there, pus
hing off his shoes, one against the other. From outside came the click of a lighter – the patrolman, puffing on his cigarette. When Sean closed his eyes, Victoria reappeared and stayed in his mind as he drifted in turbulent dreams.

  Richard felt it imperative to have Stella’s trust. Unrestricted access to the master files would only come if Wileman believed in him via Stella. Pretending dedication to Wileman’s orders, he examined in detail the contents of the file she had provided, only stopping for meals and to sip orange juice.

  “What’s your reaction?” she asked after several hours.

  “Interesting,” he said, unsure how deathly boredom could be given praise. “It has a lot of graphics. Are they necessary?”

  “Yes. I wrote the programme,” she said. “It’s part of my thesis. Would you trust me to write something for you?”

  “I trust you,” he said, without thinking.

  “Good.” She smiled. “Then if you trust me maybe you would like to see another?” She passed him a flash drive. “Mr Wileman said you should take notes, he wants your opinion. So do I. The moving graphics and figures are for a reason.”

  “Do you want a complete analysis?”

  “The sooner it’s done, the sooner you have a pocketful of money. Trust me, Richard, Mr Wileman does.”

  When they touched down at Logan International Airport in Boston, he watched Stella bracing herself in the seat, her eyes tightly shut until the 747 ran smoothly along the runway.

  She smiled for him and pushed the spectacles up on her nose. “A car is waiting,” she said. “It’s a three hour drive to the house, but don’t worry. I have more files to pass the time.”

  “Thank you, Stella, that’s most considerate of you. Perhaps when we arrive we can get straight down to putting my SPI on to WorkWell ready for incorporation into your system? You don’t have to get involved, I can do it myself.”

  “Sure.” She glanced sideways. “If you want to burn your butt, it’s fine by me.”

  “It’ll take most of the night. You can sleep, this is my baby.”

  “We’ll see.”

  He smiled and watched the tight set of her lips. During the night he would recopy the master file and hide it off the Beach House premise. Wileman would never know.

  The man mountain who had claimed Richard’s seat on the aircraft followed them out of the terminal building, his face still blanked by dark glasses, his body dapper in the long leather coat. Stella called someone on her mobile and ten minutes later a silver Mercedes 500 was delivered to passenger pick-up.

  Stella drove in concentrated silence and soon had them on the freeway, heading north. Richard chose to sit in the back, ostensibly to concentrate on the software programme he analysed, but in reality to fall asleep, which he did after an hour. He awoke when they stopped outside the house in Casco Bay.

  Stella opened the car door for him and smiled. He felt safe. You could trust Stella.

  “The computer facilities are down in the Beach House,” she said. “You want to work the night, you can.” She hoisted the laptop bag onto her shoulder. Richard followed as she walked, watching the quivering strut of her stride beneath the tight skirt. The main house was in darkness save for outside lights. Around the back and passed the pool, strings of lanterns lit the path leading towards the turbulent Atlantic. The way ran over rock then descended towards trees that quickly isolated them from civilisation. It seemed longer than he remembered, but up ahead he heard the pounding of waves followed by the suck of surf over beach. Guided by lights strung between poles, he kept his concentration on Stella and the sway of her hips. She kept a good stride but slowed when they came to the last cluster of pine trees. He watched as she bent momentarily and retrieved something from the bench, the same place where Oscar Wileman had sat contemplating the ocean and his pet cemetery. Then she turned back to him.

  “Something wrong?” he asked

  “No, Mr Caswell, I’m very positive. I’ve been given this opportunity by Mr Wileman to show my ultimate commitment. He’s a hard taskmaster, but he’s fair. You were chosen because greed motivated your success and drove you to experiment on the public in a manner no reputable company would dare. In a reputable company, staff may have spoken to the press, but you kept everything secret because you wanted it all for yourself. You see, he knew you would try to double-cross him. He knew you had those women killed so he would dissociate himself in case of legal connection. But unluckily for you, his dissociation is in sending me to collect the SPI files, allowing me revenge for you raping me.”

  “We’re alone here, Stella. That’s not good for you.”

  “Not quite alone, Mr Caswell.” She beckoned and the man mountain stepped from the trees, a shovel over one shoulder. Richard saw the white of his smile and the reflection of light on gold. “Mr Wileman promised you sanctuary, deep and permanent sanctuary. He’s a man of his word and I’m here to help,” Stella said.

  Fear came instantly to Richard. He lifted his hands in protest. “What the fuck’s going on? I’ve done everything that was asked. I brought the files. Only one set.” He began to retreat, looking back along the path to see a shadow of someone moving down. “I want to see Wileman.” He pointed to Stella. “I trusted you.”

  “I know. SPI is so subtle, so simple when used on those who think they are so clever.”

  “Look,” Richard raised an arm. “You want money?”

  “No,” she said. “I want revenge. You ain’t going to rape me or the maid, Harry Woods. You ain’t going to rape any woman, even though it’s the only way you get an erection. Welcome to your sanctuary, your permanent sanctuary beneath the ground.”

  He watched the bull nose revolver come up and for an instant looked into the end of its barrel, at least until the sharp flash of its discharge.

  Sean woke long before dawn and listened to the silent house, his mind momentarily at peace before the return of memory. It came without mercy. In the end who had allowed his daughters to be kidnapped and Danielle attacked? Who didn’t see the emerging dangers? He could blame Victoria, Cobbart, MI5, the Home Office, but in truth he knew the blame was his. He had screwed up and left Caswell to spread his murder on the web, left him with the ability to butcher other human beings by manipulating the minds of deranged people. Unless he removed that evil, Sean could never forgive himself.

  In his study he found the computer still running, the screen saver twisting Escherean shapes through impossible three dimensions. He clicked onto Starways Business Centre and began his report. He spent two hours in deep concentration. He praised the operation teams and damned all others. He tore up the printed copy and switched to a new file. His letter of resignation took minutes, less to ball it up and start another. Each time he gave a reason for his failure, he stopped, dissatisfied. Their way, his way, Zoby would have lived, would have one day walked free. It left only a justice that was beyond the boundaries, beyond the law; Victoria’s justice.

  In the room overhead he heard Sophie wake, heard the tremors of fear in her voice as she called for her mother. On the desk his mobile buzzed. The world was still there, still demanding.

  “I’m sitting outside in my car. Can we talk?” Victoria asked.

  “Sure.” Sean stood and walked through the litter of paper. Inside he felt emotion and resolve battle for supremacy. When he opened the door, Victoria looked up at him, her eyes steady, her voice soft.

  “Confession time. Forgiveness time too, I hope.”

  He stood back and let her pass into the study. Who didn’t have confessions?

  “I intended to kill Zoby from the start,” she said. “I wanted to ever since I saw the bodies of Helen Carter and Lizzie Sinclair, since witnessing what he did to them simply because they were women. When I resigned from CID because of Creech, MI5 took me into their fold for my silence. In return they promised Zoby, but Caswell had to stay clean, least ’til the WorkWell programme was completed. Then the Americans would deal with him.”

  “These were orders?”


  “Of course not, informal, off the record suggestions. But they might have been printed in stone. Zoby in exchange for Caswell. I sold my soul for revenge.”

  “Not for the witch?”

  “No, I did it for the dread and humiliation Zoby caused to women, for Sarah, Helen and Lizzie Sinclair. For the young nun in Ireland. In other words, for myself. Involvement made me a victim. You should know that place of entrapment. It’s a dark hole full of cold anger. Alice thinks I killed to protect Caswell. She never realised my rage.” Victoria shook her head as if in disbelief. “I’m the golden girl and in reward the witch has favoured me with the truth, or at least the truth so far as her conscience allows. She left it to my conscience whether I tell you. Under the circumstances, it’s the least I can do.” She paused and spread her fingers. “Caswell is dead. He was a danger to all society. His termination was arranged and carried out by other interested parties”