The Unseen

by James McKenna

  “We’ve won more prizes.” Sophie came up behind and threw arms around his neck. “A trial set of the new PKL game.”

  “And we’ve had our photos taken for the prize-winners’ annual,” Becky said, flopping in the chair beside him. “Everything will be sent to our email address.”

  “Girls, I’ve told you.” Sean pointed to emphasize. “Don’t give personal addresses to anyone without sound reason. That’s home address or e-mail address.”

  “Dad, you big silly. It was the PKL receptionist, the lady on the desk. You can trust PKL. We’re going to the disco.” He was left with two more kisses.

  “Trust PKL, trust Zoby.” The words stuck in his mind. Time to find out about Zoby. Sean drained his whisky and went to the games room. He stayed long after midnight. The game constantly became harder, constantly demanded all his concentration. In time he reached level six, but learnt nothing about Zoby except he was reliable and trustworthy.

  In sleep he dreamt of Princess Kay-ling dashing over the desert with her young charioteer. He woke up thinking about it and went down to breakfast convinced PKL a good investment.

  The girls were chatting about their disco night and the prizes they had won. Sean considered re-mortgaging the house to raise money. Two tables away, Mr and Mrs Poser were signing papers presented by the lacquered PKL rep. If they bought in, why can’t I? Sean pondered this, then found his mind locked in sudden realisation. He took careful stock of people around. Sophie was chattering in the background. Everyone was smiling, everyone had that big, life-is-so-nice smile. Unnatural.

  “Dad.” Sophie shook his hand. “They got some great Princess K sweatshirts in the shop, would you buy one for Becks and me?” Sophie had her best, try your luck smile.

  “What colour?”

  “Yellow.”

  “Any reason?”

  She shrugged. “It’s our house colour.”

  “No.” He felt mean but adamant. “Listen girls, I thought we’d go swimming, then maybe a walk on the beach. Meet me by the pool in thirty minutes.” He stood and surveyed the room amidst a babble of noise, the clatter of cutlery, plates, the drone of voices, everything as it should be in a big family hotel. Obey Crystal, trust Zoby. “I have calls to make,” he said, and left the table.

  He phoned Steve first. “Sorry to wake you on a Sunday but I need urgent info.”

  “Kids woke me two hours ago. It’s football in fifteen minutes – shoot.”

  “Can SPI be downloaded without the recipient realising?”

  “If it came as a virus and the recipient had good anti-virus software, then it might be difficult. But if it was a trusted source, the AVSW would accept the input as supplier material.”

  “How about a hotel chain? How about one specialising in cyberspace entertainment?”

  “No chance. They’ll have individual play-stations all networked to a secure server. Any virus would be stonewalled. Alternatively, if someone had connections to the system provider and made a rogue insertion by giving a trusted source code, then the virus would enter and lie undetected like a Trojan horse.”

  “Steve, I think I’ve just pulled something grimy out of the water.”

  He phoned Cobbart next. “I need to know if our undercover fund is in place.”

  The man was dry-toned. “One hundred thousand will be deposited by Monday morning. Just don’t even think of writing a cheque.” He gave bank details. “Finding a suitable undercover house in case the opposition check up is taking longer. Perhaps by tomorrow. There is a recent development in Watford which looks promising.”

  Sean went to PKL reception and told the woman he might consider investing a hundred thousand pounds in PKL. “We won the lottery a month ago,” he qualified. “But I want to do this quick, and I want to talk to a director.” He watched as her fixed smile slide to oily smooth.

  “You won a lot, sir?”

  “Five million plus, but we’re investing in small packages.”

  “Very wise, sir. But for that amount PKL would ask for bank references. We only act as commission agents here. All your transactions would be done direct with PKL head office in Shoreditch.”

  “No problem.”

  He phoned Victoria on his way to the pool. “What did you find out? Is it possible for SPI to influence someone against their nature?”

  “Afraid not. It’s possible to confuse them but you won’t get the blonde to kiss you if she doesn’t really want to. On the other hand, if the blonde is undecided, she can be influenced to your way of thinking, but nothing outside her natural inclination. More alarming is that SPI can awaken basic instincts and emotions. Underneath our civilised veneer there’s a savage in all of us. For some, that’s only skin deep and easily ruptured.”

  “But it could influence people to wear yellow or be happy?”

  “For what purpose?”

  “To give an indication of whose mind is open to influence.”

  “Very possible.”

  “Victoria, I think I know why Sarah Finch walked into a forest, why Helen Carter opened her door to a murderer and why Lizzie Sinclair visited a graveyard. What I said while we were outside Thames House about you playing Mrs Fagan, you want to go active?”

  “With such an ingenious chat-up line, how could I refuse?”

  An hour later the PKL rep sought him out by the pool. Mr and Mrs Fagan were invited to visit Milton Keynes. Arrangements could be made for them to stay at a local hotel if need be. Their bill at Morrison’s had been waived.

  Victoria sat for ten minutes before she phoned and had no love of herself when she did so. Alice sounded ruffled, clearly her Sundays were precious.

  “Fagan’s moving closer,” Victoria told her. “He’s on to SPI, its use in the hotels and its source. If you wish to take precautions, now is the time.”

  “Can he prove anything?” Sibree asked.

  “No. But that won’t stop him. He works from logic. The proof is fitted in later. He wants me to go undercover as his wife.”

  “Then do that, Mrs Fagan. Draw close, encourage him to confide as only a good wife can.”

  CHAPTER 12

  On their arrival from Brighton the previous night, Danielle had greeted them with a warm, blustering welcome; Frankie had been dressed in a black leather mini skirt and transparent Cossack blouse. Becky had gazed in open admiration, Sophie in awe. Sean still had a fantasy vision. Monday morning Frankie stood strident in full biker’s leather while Danielle fussed barefoot and brave faced.

  To stay would intrude on their farewell. He grabbed toast, kissed both on the cheek and left. He had already kissed his girls goodbye, Sophie’s embrace hard to let go of. Sometimes he hated Camilla. Before he made the car, Steve Rawlings’ call jerked his brain back from anger.

  “An SPI directive in the last five games Sarah downloaded from PKL told her to explore Rattlers Wood. Part was overwritten by new material but part remained on the hard drive,” Steve said. “An SPI message given in the final game, the Garden of Serenity, told Helen Carter that Zoby would be calling. The game had been downloaded by file transfer protocol from the PKL website a week before she died. They have a work unit in Milton Keynes and a head office in Shoreditch. I’d say both are now priority search areas with Zoby and Crystal the main contenders for questioning.”

  “I already have a visit arranged to Milton Keynes,” Sean answered. “But Zoby and Crystal are cyber characters. How do you question them?”

  “Question the person who put them there. The difficult bit is not to alert them.”

  Cobbart’s call came next. He had found a house, now he wanted to set the scene. Victoria was on her way. Sean felt the adrenalin surge. At last he could go hunting.

  By 9 a.m. Victoria sat beside him, Cobbart opposite.

  “Short notice,” Cobbart said. “But as you are going to probe and stir PKL, we must expect them to probe back. I’ve managed to set up a rented place in Watford. That way at least it’s halfway between Milton Keynes and Shoreditch. Four w
eeks ago you had a five million joint win on the lottery. The bank has been briefed and will back the account. Just don’t use it because there’s only a hundred k which is not to be touched. PKL have already e-mailed them for references so you’re covered on the financial front. You’re new partners, not married. If they look further than Mr and Mrs Fagan, this way we cover Sean’s visit to the hotel, his daughters being from a previous marriage. Plus it gives a reason for your individual names and circumstances.”

  “Sounds cosy.” Sean smiled at Victoria without response.

  “Milton Keynes is the main animation studio, exhibition and display venue,” Cobbart said. “The head office is on two floors of a sixties block in Shoreditch. Richard Caswell is Managing Director and also has a flat there. Outwardly, Caswell’s main occupation centres on selling shares. Their value has increased four-fold in six months. It’s a bubble ready to burst. The availability of your fortune will be very attractive to him. We don’t have much information to show exactly who runs what, but other directors are listed as Sidney Snibbard and Derek Faulkner. Both highly qualified in their fields.”

  “They’re on a scam,” Sean said. “They’re using SPI to influence investors. We should widen our investigation to both murder and fraud.”

  “No.” Victoria shot the word out and plucked the neck of her blouse. “This is strictly an investigation into murder. Divert activities by opening another front and we’ll end in a quagmire.”

  Sean watched her expression and judged it didn’t gel with her words. He felt perplexed as to why she wanted limitation. A second front would allow Cobbart to increase manpower and speed up the investigation. They had links, a positive lead. No one could deny progress. Victoria shifted as if for better defence.

  “Murder and fraud could be linked,” Sean said. “I suspect Morrison Hotels have SPI in their games. Our victims were also influenced by SPI. The two operations could be combined.”

  “SPI is still an unproven supposition,” Victoria said. “Conflicting activity may cross and then alert our killer. Let’s keep this low profile, at least ’til we have a positive target. Say, two weeks. I suggest we work undercover alone and use your team only if we require outside activity.”

  As Sean expected, Cobbart chose neutral ground and ignored both.

  “For the image of new moneyed people, I’ve arranged a metallic gold Jag. Log book in Sean’s name. Also joint chequebook. But for Christ’s sake, don’t write any cheques. Covering for one hundred thousand put the accountants into meltdown.”

  Sean turned slightly and smiled for the full attention of Victoria’s eyes. He saw no give, just adamant self will, the Victoria of old. She was making excuses to keep the operation covert and contained. She knew something he didn’t. He figured confrontation would dig her in, so decided on subtlety.

  “SPI proven or not,” Sean said. “When we go in, a hundred thousand should get us serious attention. If they believe we have a lot more spare we can dangle it for a detailed inside view. The dangers are, Victoria and wealth. Sarah Finch was a wealthy woman and attracted our killer. Likewise Helen Carter. Victoria may do the same. We need to take precautions and have a team ready for immediate action.”

  Her nose twitched.

  “Sounds feasible,” Cobbart said.

  “Let’s get professional here.” She shook her head. “First, I’m a big girl and I’ve been trained to bite back. Secondly, my time here is off the record which gives me licence you guys don’t have. The last thing I want is big policemen bounding through the window and queering my patch. On the first encounter we gather intelligence, then withdraw. On the second encounter, Sean plays from the front while I go covert behind their backs, right into the heart, if need be. Once I’ve identified a target I’ll extract. How I do that is down to me.”

  “Settled then, but as a precaution I’ll put Blue Team on standby, just in case,” Cobbart said and answered his phone on the third ring. The troll smugness became concentrated. Sean glanced at Victoria who stared petulantly out the window. He thought her beautiful.

  “Get back to this Liam Haggarty,” Cobbart spoke into the handset. “Tell him we have useful information, but I want to trade. I want our own man to visit, I want shared intelligence. I’m positive he’ll realise the benefit of mutual co-operation, particularly if they can blame a Brit.” Cobbart hung up and rubbed his jaw.

  Victoria had turned back to look at him, her expression as if she knew what was to come.

  Cobbart exhaled. “That was our man at Criminal Intelligence. They’ve had a request from the Irish Garda in Dublin regarding the brutal murder of a young nun. There are similarities to the Poor Girl murders. Looks like our boy’s been travelling.”

  “How do you know it’s him?” Sean asked.

  “Has all the hallmarks. The girl’s vagina and uterus were cut from her body. Whoever did this took them away.”

  Sean felt his rage and condensed it into a hard knot. Victoria had her eyes closed, hands balled to fists.

  “Liam Haggerty, he’s the Garda in charge?” Sean asked.

  Cobbart nodded.

  “Tell him I’ll be over. I need him on our side.” Sean called Heidi on his mobile. “Book a ticket for Dublin.” He checked his watch. “Quickest you can get to leave in one hour thirty minutes, sod the cost. Return by 0900 hours tomorrow. Central accommodation for one night.” He looked at the troll. “Boss, I need a fast car to the airport.”

  “Include me,” Victoria said.

  “No.” Sean stared into the flare of her eyes and continued before she could protest. “Someone has to take a briefing from Steve Rawlings. We need to know more about SPI, we need to know about its transmission and covert use. We need to know what you and I face at PKL headquarters. More important, what you might face when you get further involved and I might not be there.”

  “I’ve investigated both London crime scenes, I know details you and Haggarty don’t.”

  Sean stayed with eye contact. She was stubborn, without compromise.

  Victoria hid smugness when she placed her ticket on the check-in desk at Luton Airport. Sean had outmanoeuvred her in Cobbart’s office with the retention of Blue Team, but he could not deny the logic for her going to Ireland. Zoby had killed again. This time she was determined he would be sanitised. In the departure lounge she gave Sean her best pretty-girl smile and made excuses. “Need to buy things for overnight,” she said and received a grunt for her effort. She crossed to a discount arcade and hid behind shelves selecting underwear, then a toothbrush, her mobile pressed to one ear.

  Alice Sibree sounded sympathetic, Victoria doubted she was. “I can’t stay passive on this, Alice, not if it’s Zoby again.” She listened to Sibree’s hesitation.

  “Let’s not do anything rash. Zoby’s demise will come. It’s a prime objective. But we need to protect our operation and secure copies of the merchandise. Then we extract before the police close in. I’ve had word, Wileman’s people are also watching. It must appear to Wileman that he is the sole beneficiary of SPI or the covert use of our own viruses will be compromised. If you find Zoby, eliminating him before time would bring media involvement and jeopardise our objectives. Your opportunity will come. Wait.”

  “And what of Crystal, he’s equally guilty?”

  “How does one kill by remote hypnosis? The difficulty of proof is his saving grace, and for the moment ours. Keep in contact.”

  When Victoria returned, Sean stood waiting, his head and shoulders above the others like a rock in a human river. She saw him aloof, isolated, scowling. He looked so lonely. She maintained her best pretty-girl smile.

  “Cobbart was on the phone,” he said to her. “The man follows Cheltenham Gold Cup. So does half of Ireland, including the Garda. As a result he has good contacts. A car has been arranged for our arrival and Haggarty will be at the crime scene. All you need is to win him over.”

  You and him alike, she thought, and followed towards the departure gate.

  Sean
shook hands with Garda Fitzgerald who held the door while Victoria slid into the back seat.

  “First name’s Cory,” Fitzgerald said. He was clad in jeans and leather jacket, his hair was cropped and two studs were fastened in one ear.

  “Terrible,” Cory said, as he manoeuvred through Dublin’s outer traffic. “Would you believe a pure wee nun. Just a young girl, no older than my own sister. The whole of Ireland is shocked.” He floated the car into a roundabout and headed out the other side on the N3 to Navan. “We’ll get the bastard though. Word is he’s Brit. Is that right?” He looked into the rear mirror, to the guilty foreigners.