The Unseen

by James McKenna

  I must go, Katherine hurriedly tapped the words.

  Download tomorrow night, you must meet PKL face to face. You must accept her reward. Saturday would be good.

  Katherine came out of the private chat-box and went straight to the site for Trinity College, Dublin. She clicked her mouse over the departments and onto the Book of Kells. By the time Sister Beatrice reached her shoulder Katherine studied detail of the illuminated manuscript.

  “Such devotion, my child, does you credit,” Sister Beatrice said.

  “Is it not beautiful, Sister?”

  “And available through the wonders of this machine. But, I thank God I’m too old for its complications. They baffle me.”

  “I can show you, Sister. It’s easy when you know how, and you can reach the world.”

  “I thank you, child, but no. I prefer the cloisters of God’s walls. Come now, it is time for prayer and supper.”

  “Sister, my hands are causing me pain again. I need to visit the chiropractor in Dublin. My father will pay, of course. Do you think maybe, next Saturday?”

  “I’ll talk to Mother Superior, but I’m sure it can be arranged.” She displayed her own small, withered hands. “Pain in the fingers is the bane of a good calligrapher. To illustrate a manuscript is to give suffering to Christ.”

  “My time of suffering is yet to come, Sister, I’m sure.” Katherine completed shutting down the computer and rose from her seat, brushing the skirt of her convent uniform. On her cheeks she felt the fusion of heat, in her pocket the newly loaded flash drive.

  Crystal sat back from the keyboard and closed his eyes on visions of Sister Katherine. She knelt before the altar, her naked breasts and long, white limbs bathed in candlelight. He laid back his head, his breath coursing over wet lips, his fingers splayed. He had seen two of the others naked, but not this one. When she became his cyber slave, then he would see her stripped and tethered by Zoby. For moments he shivered, waiting for licentiousness to pass. Eventually he returned his attention to the office computer.

  The file he selected contained Princess Kay-ling’s final quest, the whole four hour sequence infused with a strong, subliminal psychotic induction pulse to obey Crystal and trust Zoby. He attached both as files and emailed them to Katherine along with a note.

  It is imperative you return to and re-enter the Garden of Serenity. Kay-ling awaits you. She will send her trusted charioteer, Zoby. Do as he asks and you will end in God’s grace while obtaining two thousand euros for your convent and three thousand shares in PKL. This goes to all contestants reaching level ten. A just and rightful reward. He signed it Crystal. When the e-mail had been sent he deleted it from file and started a second message to a different address.

  Zoby. Immediate action required to secure and interrogate hostile. Subject young, beautiful and claiming purity. Need to confirm virginity. Acknowledge mission acceptance. He signed it, the Colonel.

  Crystal sent, then deleted his message, switched off the computer and left the office. He returned again at 6 a.m. the following morning. Zoby’s response sat waiting in a chat-box.

  Mission accepted.

  Crystal tapped on the keys. Look for photograph, money and mission schedule in usual drop-box. Digital footage required as previous. Mission start, immediate.

  I await your orders, Colonel. Zoby sent back.

  Colour identification, yellow. If she’s fully indoctrinated, she’ll have something that is yellow. Mission code, Clean Cut. Again Crystal sent, and then deleted the message from file before closing down. At six in the morning no-one saw him drift through the empty Shoreditch office. Should there be any future incrimination, the use of PKL’s main office server via terminal 3 would only add confusion. He felt safe, confident.

  On this bright morning, Mark Harrison strolled the pavements resplendent in blazer and grey slacks, his shoes polished, his shirt pristine. He saw the people around him, ordinary people, the kind he hated. He hated the shit heads who had turned down his application for Sandhurst, who had failed him on selection to the Marines, on selection to the Paras. He hated the dumb idiots who had failed him first year in medical school. He hated the headmistress who had expelled him for fondling young girls. He hated the probation officer who had sent him to a psychiatrist. He hated his mother whom he had burnt alive when he was ten years old, but most of all he hated his soldier father who had never acknowledged him. Then he saw Cindy outside Travelpath, his agency situated under the towering American Stock and Commercial Bank. Mark let the miasma of hate slide from his mind. For the first time that week he felt OK. Cindy sure had a lush figure, soft, round and slim. She was everything he wanted; beautiful, rich, a market-maker on the trading floor, a real wheeler-dealer. He tried not to think of her husband; her husband made him angry.

  “Miss Cindy.” He tapped her shoulder. She turned, startled. He saw surprise in her eyes, or maybe fear. He didn’t want her to be afraid, not yet. He wished he could squeeze her breasts, he longed to squeeze her breasts. “I was going to phone,” he said. “I managed to book the Lake District’s most charming yet secluded cottage. Got you a good deal with boat hire thrown in.”

  “Mark, that’s so neat.” She squeezed his arm and he flexed his muscle.

  He loved the way she said, that’s so neat. “Specially for you, Miss Cindy.”

  “My husband will be delighted. This is our first anniversary. The chance of a few days together is so rare.”

  Mark tried to keep his smile. “I did it for you.” He hoped her husband fell out the boat and drowned. He was going to kill him anyway. The day after the jerk got back, he would kill him. “I did it for you,” he repeated. “Everything just as you wanted, spent hours on it.”

  “And it’s appreciated.” Again she touched his shoulder. He thought she would kiss him. Her eyes were shining, big, beautiful, blue eyes. He bet she wore really expensive lingerie, silk or satin, designer stuff. He couldn’t wait to get his hand in her knickers. “If you e-mail your credit card details and address, I’ll get the whole package hand delivered to your home.”

  “That’s so neat, thank you, Mark.”

  He watched her smile. When the time came he knew she would submit, they all did. She waved and headed for the bank, merging with the crowd who entered the glass and marble hall. Smart, snappy people with money and ambition, Mark knew he could take them all. He had reached grade ten of Killing Field. Mark reached grade ten on all the video games Crystal sent him. Mark knew he was top-dog, and wouldn’t Cindy know it soon. But first, he had his mission.

  CHAPTER 5

  Sean climbed the stairs in an unmarked warehouse off Cricklewood Broadway. The building had almost become a second home throughout the Back Door operation. The Serious Organised Crime Agency fronted it as a pharmaceutical sales company; the neighbours believed it. When Sean entered the central office, DC Heidi Greenshaw, the administrator for Blue and Red Teams, sat tapping computer keys.

  “Hi, boss.” She looked up at him, her plump little face cherub and pretty.

  “Where is everyone?” He indicated the empty room.

  “All beavering some place.”

  Sean checked his watch. “Call them. I have something real nasty. First briefing at 1700 hours. I want everyone here.”

  Sean entered his cramped office at the back of the unit and threw the two files for Operation Poor Girl on his desk. Letters and memos were stacked neatly to one side by Heidi. Sean sat and opened the top file. The photo showed the mutilated corpse of a once beautiful woman. He visualised the blank face of a spectre in darkness and weariness was replaced by determination. He had a target; a person who shouldn’t be on this earth.

  Sean gave full concentration to the tragic demise of both women, each attractive, intelligent and ambitious, each forced to a degrading and violent death. Sinclair’s obsession for justice became understandable, as did his frustration over the lack of police co-ordination. Sean observed an absence of notes leading to the days before Sinclair’s death. Notes m
issing, or never made. Periodically he heard the comings and goings of Red Team who occupied the same building, the starting crank of motorbikes, car tyres squeaking over concrete in the shared vehicle pool below, the occasional laugh, blasphemy, chirping ring of numerous mobiles. Twice he phoned the contact number for Victoria Lawless, both times finding her unavailable. The second time he left words on her voicemail. Whatever his own incoming messages, Heidi deemed them unimportant because she left him in peace. When he entered the Ops room at 1700 hours, the whole of Blue Team waited expectantly. He carried with him copied files of Sinclair’s suicide and the two murders comprising Operation Poor Girl. Inside he felt totally focused. Cobbart had given him a specimen that made the assassins from his other operation look saintly.

  “In case you were feeling overworked, the troll has landed us with a possible suicide and two murders.”

  “We don’t do murders,” the voice came from Detective Constable Sims. With choir boy looks and cheeky eyes he would have passed in school uniform as much as in his seriously casual clothes.

  “For the record, we’re searching links to organised crime and the possible involvement of an imported hit-man.” Sean looked to the corner where Sims sprawled in his chair. “Off the record, it’s a favour for the Old Boys’ Club. They want to reactivate the files independently of CID, more pointedly, independent of the Creech mob in East London. After reading current information, my mind is open, but off the record, we have a gut-ripping serial killer.”

  Sean glanced to the faces of the nine men and women comprising Blue Team. Some wore jeans, some were booted and suited.

  “Can we assume Poor Girl and the Back Door enquiry are linked?” DS Diane Sutton spoke from the rear, arms folded over a full bust, her body heading past its best.

  “Yes. John Cobbart is crusading for his old friend Sinclair. Cobbart was Godfather to his daughter. In that respect he’ll give all the help he can but funds are tight so any time given needs positive results. We give Poor Girl priority for three full days, then after we’ve gathered initial facts, you’ll only come in when needed. I’ll do the rest. We begin with Sammy Sinclair’s suicide. It’s nothing to do with organised crime, least not on the surface. So no-one say it, just do it.”

  “I thought he was a piss-head,” Ali Hussein said.

  “One of the murder victims was his daughter. She also died in Stoke Newington. In fact, father and daughter died within a hundred metres.”

  “That’s Charlie Creech’s manor again. He ain’t gonna like us.” Jan Rice stretched her long legs. Lean and small busted, with a boyish ambiance, Sean figured maybe she and Danielle had something in common.

  “Consider him the enemy. Sinclair publicly accused Creech of incompetence. Probably for that reason, on Sinclair’s demise, Creech sent only one junior DC to investigate the scene. Maybe the lad picked up everything, maybe not. Ali, Bob, I want you to find out.” Sean moved across the room and handed a file to Bob Howells. “Sinclair believed there was a link between the two murders, also that this killer operated under external orders. If so, it’s organised crime in our back yard. Unfortunately, he gave no reason and some of Sinclair’s papers are missing. If we can prove Sinclair’s death was the result of defenestration, we have ourselves a case. Bob, Ali, try and find out. ”

  “What if Creech blocks us?” Ali asked.

  “Go behind his back, use the crime report information system at Bramshill. Get an excuse to interview the DC. We’re the Serious Organised Crime Agency, Charlie Creech is an outdated head-banger lost in a 60s TV script. OK, first case Helen Carter. You may have heard of her, TV presenter and journalist, mainly on high tech and new innovations. Again she had all the attributes of Lizzie, looks, personality, yet also a private person. She was a declared lesbian who welcomed and received full media attention because of it. Jan,” he walked over, holding out the file. “I’m not being sexist, but you’re the best informed to have insight into her mind.”

  “Thanks, boss.” She raised her eyes and took the file. “Always knew dykes had a use.”

  “More than that. When you prove Charlie Creech wrong, your knee in his bollocks will be twice as painful.”

  “That’s bribery.” She grinned and opened the file on a picture. “Fucking hell.” She slammed the cover closed. “What bastard did that?”

  “The person we search for.” Sean looked to the room. “Helen Carter was stripped, tied and whipped, repeatedly raped, then finally beheaded while kneeling on the floor of her own living room. Both ears were cut off. Her ordeal lasted three days. Chad,” he looked to the West Indian. “You work with Jan.”

  “Pleasure, boss.” The velvet roll of his voice passed on an audible smile. “I just love to cuddle with Jan.”

  “I have a good reason to choose you, Chad. Helen Carter was of mixed race. Her mother is from Trinidad and stayed her closest confidante. From the report, the lady doesn’t take kindly to white policeman.”

  “No problem, boss. Little black ladies are my speciality.” Chad’s grin widened. “Hey, Jan. This time we smoke your fags.”

  “This time you keep your hands off my butt.”

  “Enough,” Sean cut in. “I’ll look into Sinclair’s daughter Lizzie myself. But for general information this is the brief. Another quiet academic girl, close to gaining her doctorate in Information Technology. Her murder took place in Abney Park Cemetery, Stoke Newington. Again, turf belonging to Charlie Creech. For those who don’t know, Abney Park is an overgrown Victorian shambles favoured by foxes, rabbits, winos and the dead. What Lizzie was doing there, nobody knows. She lived in Hampstead. June eleventh last summer she was stripped, raped then cut up over a tombstone. The press linked it to devil worship. The investigating DI for both London murders was Victoria Lawless who, some of you may remember, was once a sergeant with SOCA”

  “That prissy petal working for Charlie Creech?” Diane said. “I don’t believe it, the girl was political.”

  “Going from SOCA back to the Met CID is not easy. She was looking for an opening, he was looking for someone to tread on. She ran both the Carter and Sinclair files, she believed both were murdered by the same man, but was never allowed to finish her investigations. Under media pressure, Creech dragged out a convenient scapegoat, one Edward Mears, a convicted burglar and rapist. The evidence against Mears was purely circumstantial backed by a confession under duress. In her usual, bolshie manner, sweet Victoria resigned in protest. Mears, of course, walked free, but Creech played to the press as the hard-nosed copper let down by a soft judicial system. He made it obvious the killer had been caught and set free. The tabloids loved it. Creech became a celebrity and our gods promoted him to superintendent. He’s now behind a desk but controls his manor like an outdated warlord. Both murders went to the back shelf.”

  “What of the beautiful Victoria?” Jan asked. “She’d be spitting venom at Creech. She’s got info we need.”

  “Victoria quit the job but got taken by MI5. She’s now a spook with the equivalent rank of DCI. And you’re right, she’s eager to shaft Creech. She’s agreed to help our investigation.”

  “More likely wants to run it,” Diane said

  “If she’s a spook, she might well have other motives.” Simmy spoke without his usual smile. “She could fuck our security.”

  “Leave Victoria to me. If she’s here to play games, I’ll soon find out.”

  Victoria Lawless sat in a Spartan room and observed the woman opposite. Alice Sibree had the exterior of a professional bureaucrat, her tailored outfit and bland face able to fit on any committee or board of enquiry. To receive her total concentration was unnerving. Victoria shifted in the chair and uncrossed her legs, wishing she had a worn a longer skirt, hoping the trickle of sweat down her back would not show through her crisp white blouse. She had dressed for smart comfort on a hot day and had bound her thick dark hair into its customary French pleat, knowing the style gave boldness to her small, classical features. She wanted to impress. Alice Sibree
did not sweat or wear makeup. A protracted silence hung between them before Victoria spoke again.

  “You’re asking me to go beyond the pale.”

  “It comes with the job. Occasionally every industry demands its pound of flesh. The Secret Service is no exception. But from past involvement, on this occasion your flesh is the most suitable.”

  Victoria sensed a second bead of sweat course down her lower spine. The older woman was asking her to enter a web surrounded by predators. She saw it as a possible compliment to her operational skills, or her use as cannon fodder. “What if their killer strikes again?”

  “Leave him to the police. From start the real objective of this operation is deniable. If, as I believe, Starways is involved, its financial, legal and political defence will be formidable. MI5 will not spend resources defending a hopeless position. They will close the door, Victoria, leaving the sacrificial victims outside. That’s you and me. I may be the temple priestess, but my throat will be slit along with yours. Alternatively, with success, the rewards to your career in MI5 could be significant. Your loyalty will not be forgotten. You will be giving to your nation the ability to infiltrate and control without the subject’s knowledge. We can spread a lot of good. Think of the positive directions in which we might guide the inmates of our prison services, our citizens on benefit, our hoodies, our rioters, those who should know better.”