The Unseen

by James McKenna

  “Licence and cards sound stolen.”

  “Hundred percent certain, unless our target’s completely stupid. I have Jan following through. She’s a good street lady and knows her way.”

  “Just warn her not to visit any suspect. Zoby likes untouchable ladies. An attractive, lesbian policewoman would be his ideal victim.”

  “So would an MI5 lady, so take that advice yourself. Three women trusted Zoby, went to meet him and died. What I don’t understand is, where does Sammy Sinclair fit? Someone knows. Because SPI wouldn’t work on an alcoholic.” He waited on her reaction. She had been close, she had to know something.

  “I never found out,” she said and dropped underwear in a drawer before opening her briefcase. “MI5 goodies.” She handed him a mobile. “These mobiles are under constant surveillance and no-one can listen in.”

  “Except MI5.”

  “I said, no-one listens.” She folded her arms and nodded to the briefcase. “I also brought bugging equipment and surveillance cameras. Shall we go to work?”

  Sean looked at the brand new bed and the pristine sheet, then headed for the stairs.

  On the drive to London he slotted a CD of Mozart’s Adagios into the stereo and listened without talking. They were now Mr and Mrs Ordinary amongst the traffic. He felt amazed by that, to have an attractive and charismatic woman who pretended to be his wife, who would kiss him in public if required, but not in private. Heidi’s phone call interrupted his thoughts.

  “Bradshaws are in Lambeth, boss.” She read the address. “Darley in Kennington. He and his wife returned from holiday yesterday. Their alibi is sound. The place was burgled. He’s there now if you want to see him. Forensics have finished.”

  Sean thanked her and headed the car to Kennington.

  “Look at the mess.” Jez Darley gestured to his immaculate flat. “The whole place is ruined, my wife is distraught and forced to stay in a hotel.”

  Sean ignored Darley’s posturing. He wanted simple information. The rest of Darley’s life was his own affair. Victoria stood across the room as if casually admiring the flat’s contents, her face bland.

  “Was it only the doorframe he broke?” she asked. “Nothing else?”

  “Only!” The man turned on her, his bald head glistening, his designer shirt and jeans perfectly tailored. “Our spiritual space is corrupted. And where were you people? I exhaust myself at work, pay my taxes, take a well-earned break and you allow this to happen.”

  “Did he steal anything other than the card, passport and driving licence?” Sean asked.

  “Isn’t that enough? I’m furious.” Darley folded his arms and drew down his chin.

  “He could have shit on your bed,” Victoria volunteered, her face still bland.

  Sean flexed cheeks to control his smile. Victoria screwed her face a little. “Normally they trash the place, crap everywhere and break what’s of value.” She flicked a hand towards the original paintings, porcelain and Eastern rugs. “Lucky you had cheap stuff.”

  Darley’s jaw slackened. “The contents of this flat are insured for a million pounds.”

  “The last burglary we looked into, the man was raped by two creepers. That’s thieves who break in at night. He was sore over that, really had it in the butt. Sometimes it’s lucky to be out.”

  “This is outrageous.” Darley stormed three paces then turned. “You don’t think he’ll come back?”

  Victoria stayed silent.

  “Who knew you’d be away, Mr Darley?” Sean asked.

  “Friends, but they would never, never.”

  “You were turned over by a pro. He left no prints, no visible signs of disturbance. He was looking for cash, credit cards, items which had immediate value. My colleague is right, you’re lucky.”

  “Do burglars come back? They do, don’t they?”

  “Did any trades people know the flat would be empty? Did you book through a travel agency or over the Net? Did you give the dates of your holiday and address over the Net?”

  “No. I booked through Travelpath, a highly reputable city firm. Their service is impeccable. Should I have additional locks fitted?”

  “Bars on the windows,” Victoria said.

  “But I’m on the fourth floor.”

  “They abseil from the roof.”

  In the street outside, Sean unlocked his car. “Are you that hard on all witnesses?” He watched her smile appear.

  “The guy annoyed me. I was thinking of Helen Carter. I just compared how lucky Darley and his wife really were. He was out to give us nothing. Now he’s spooked enough to give whatever we ask.”

  Sean held the door and saw logic in her technique. He admired the curve of her figure as she slid onto the seat and wondered when if ever, they would again make love. To distract himself he phoned Jan.

  “What’s on the Bradshaws?”

  “Still away, back early this evening. The flat’s been burgled. I called the local Bill and they’ve put a seal on it, but we can’t touch ’til the Bradshaws give consent. The good news is, the neighbour spoke to a guy. A bogus plumber, fat and balding. They’re doing a photofit now.”

  Sean recognised the fading of Cindy Bradshaw’s tired happiness. She had maybe planned a bottle of wine and a pizza, or a homecoming fling at some favourite restaurant. Now her face became apprehensive, her husband taking her hand. Police waiting was bad news. Who’s dead? What’s destroyed?

  “You’ve been burgled,” Victoria said, her tone sympathetic.

  “Did they do much damage?” Cindy put down her case and unlocked the door.

  “Bastards.” Her husband went straight to the living room. “I don’t see damage.”

  “He stole a credit card and used it during another crime. A more serious crime.”

  Sean closed the front door. “Your neighbour saw him,” he said. “A bogus plumber.”

  Her husband was already on the stairs, Cindy behind, Victoria followed.

  “I hide an emergency card in a suit pocket.” The husband went straight to a cupboard. “I left only one, a gold Visa.”

  Sean watched Cindy’s jaw tighten and saw a woman losing her privacy. “We went in a hurry,” she said, moving to pick up her nightdress. “He’s handled this?” She turned to the dressing table.

  “Card’s gone,” her husband said, flicking through the wallet.

  “Anything else?” Sean asked.

  “No.” He looked to his wife and his face said he lied on her behalf.

  Cindy gave a small, tight shout of rage. “Pig! He’s been through my things. Bastard!” She pointed to the defiled briefs on the floor.

  Sean thought the husband good. He went straight to her, cradled her and let her shed silent, angry indignation.

  Victoria produced an evidence bag. “May we take these, Mrs Bradshaw? It would seem they might hold DNA evidence.”

  “Take the whole damn lot. He’s dirtied everything. Christ, I think I’m going to throw up.” She pulled away from her husband, not stopping until she was behind the bathroom door.

  “What kind of perverse creep would do that?” Bradshaw said.

  “Burglars are sick; slimy misfits of society.” Sean saw bright anger in Victoria’s eyes, anger which said, if you defile the modesty of one woman, you defile all women. He understood then a little of her personal involvement. She shook her evidence down into the plastic bag and sealed the top, pulling the snap crease with firm, definite fingers. “I’ll hand these to our lab.”

  “It could have been worse, Mr Bradshaw,” Sean said. “The more serious crime involved a woman’s death. Until your door is repaired, a uniformed office will remain outside in case.”

  “Are we in danger?”

  “I don’t think so. More probably you’ve just been used. Who knew you were away?”

  “Neighbours, a few friends.”

  “No trades people or services you use or cancelled?”

  He shook his head. “None I recall at this moment.”

  “How did
you book your holiday?”

  “Travelpath. I’ve used them before. They’re a good firm.”

  Victoria’s eyebrows were up. “What happened here would upset any woman. I can understand Mrs Bradshaw’s disgust. If she wants counselling, I can get someone.”

  “Thanks, but my wife’s a strong lady, we’re also good friends. We’ll handle this together.”

  “Mr Bradshaw.” Sean passed him a card. “If you think of anything you feel relevant, please call. Forensics will be here shortly. It’s best not to touch anything until they’ve finished. I’m sorry this has been such a bad homecoming.”

  Cindy Bradshaw emerged from the bathroom, pale faced and red eyed. She sat on the bed. Bradshaw went to her. Victoria nodded Sean towards the door.

  On the street outside Sean clenched his raised fist. “Travelpath, it has to be the link. This calls for a full team.”

  “You realise this will split our operation,” Victoria said. “We now have two lines of enquiry. One into PKL, one into Travelpath. You deal here, I’ll deal with PKL.”

  “No chance.” He let her into the car and went round to the driver’s side. “Remember your own advice to Jan. In PKL you become a potential victim. You don’t go in alone. We’ve still time to see Cobbart.” Sean checked his watch. “I want things rolling here. Could be a late night.”

  “Drop me at the nearest tube. Do what you have to. I’ll be at the cover house at ten tomorrow morning, not late tonight. Let’s not tempt fate, Mr Fagan.”

  “For a sideline operation you’re causing a lot of expense,” Cobbart said. He sat in his shirtsleeves amidst piles of paper, a disgruntled crease to his brow.

  Sean gave him facts. “I need my team active not just on standby in case Zoby appears. If the Old Boys want justice, resources will have to increase substantially.”

  “Your own team is no problem, but diverting others from outside operations may be difficult. Who’s Zoby?”

  “Our target. It’s my belief SPI was used to make four women trust Zoby. Someone in Travelpath knew the burgled flats were empty. Maybe Zoby, maybe someone who knows Zoby. I want my team to start surveillance while I’m at Milton Keynes. I want photos of all employees at Travelpath. We need to work out the numbers involved. Then I’ll need extra people to start whittling the numbers down to serious suspects.”

  “Request what equipment you need. Extra manpower,” he shrugged and pursed his lips. “I’ll try.”

  Sean knew then that his day was done. Until men or equipment materialised he could not put a plan into action. Travelpath was closed. He drove to Cricklewood. Heidi had turned out the lights. No one was in the local pub. An hour later he was in the cover house staring at a big empty bed, an Indian takeaway downstairs on the kitchen table. He figured the day had been good. The op had gained momentum and direction with Zoby was a step closer. But what he needed now were faces

  He slept fitfully, woke before dawn and was in the office by six. His first objective was to draft a list of requirements to Pimlico; a long wheelbase van with periscope facility and camera equipment, traffic warden uniforms, body sets for group communication. At seven he heard the first car roll into the motor pool, by seven-thirty, members of Blue Team sat in readiness.

  “Jan, Diane, get yourselves over to Westminster Traffic Division and kitted out with uniforms,” Sean said, shuffling his sheaf of papers. “You patrol as wardens outside Travelpath. Simmy, Chad, you carry out surveillance from the van. I want photographs of all staff members, let’s see if we can get a match with the photofit of Bradshaw’s bogus plumber. Build up what character traits you can on the manager. If we can lift him and bring him on our side it will make life easier. The agency has twenty branches. Heidi, find where head office is and what other outlets they have locally. Mike, make a visit on the pretence of booking a holiday, go back often as possible. Get a feel for the staff inside. Ali, Bob, you start tailing and eliminating suspects. One of them may well be Zoby.

  “Victoria and I visit PKL early afternoon and hopefully follow up on their Shoreditch office tomorrow. Could be we’ll find something dark in PKL’s administration, but my instinct is Zoby is someplace else, probably working in Travelpath.”

  Sean left them at 9 a.m. and was waiting for Victoria by 10.30. She wore a fitted business suit, the skirt short and the jacket open. The kind of outfit she wore when dangerous.

  CHAPTER 13

  Richard sat nursing his 12-bore shotgun as he waited on Wileman’s call from America. He reached for the instrument at its first ring.

  “The line is scrambled,” Oscar Wileman said. “I trust everything is coming to a conclusion?”

  “Everything is as I planned, Mr Wileman. How was my research received at your end?”

  “Certain parties showed keen interest but they’re concerned over any hint of publicity. Should that happen they, like myself, will retract and then condemn. So make sure you clean away all evidence and your team are suitably silenced. Return here with the single copy immediately your programme is complete.”

  “Rely on it, Mr Wileman,” Richard said, holding the phone to his ear as he walked to the window and looked out across the city. He imagined the little arse counting his money and thinking of his future world influence. But it would never match the influence Richard Caswell would have on world stock markets. He needed only an extra million from Zellar and he would be gone into the unknown, a covert copy of the SPI disks hidden for his own use.

  “How long before you finish?” Wileman asked.

  “Three days.”

  “Just be careful. If it ever got out, SPI would be dead on the ground and your future with it.”

  Richard felt his smirk grow naturally. “Don’t worry, Mr Wileman, I’ve planned meticulously. There’s only one niggling worry.”

  “What?”

  “You clearly haven’t heard the news. Zoby’s been at work in Ireland.” Richard listened to the long pause before hearing Wileman’s pained exclamation.

  “I don’t wish to be involved in your security. Sanitise everything.”

  “The problem is, with SPI, it’s easy to create a new Zoby. There are thousands of psychos out there. I suspect one of my partners conditioned a second one.”

  “Then get rid of both. Get your house in order.”

  Richard listened to the click of Wileman’s receiver thinking, that scared the little shit. He replaced the shotgun into its cupboard along with the Remington pump action then headed downstairs to Snibbard’s office. The man sat at terminal three.

  “How’s it going, Snibbsy?” Richard put a hand on his shoulder.

  Snibbard rattled his fingers over the keyboard. “I’ve just sent a sample of our latest SPI over the pond by special courier.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope?”

  “No, just enough to keep them panting.”

  “Little bit at a time, Snibbsy. Just like we did in Glasgow. Remember how we started at Glasgow University?”

  Snibbard nodded and to Richard’s satisfaction lowered his head. Mention of Glasgow had become a deliberate goad. It reminded Snibbard of the female students and Richard’s intervention to save him from the police.

  Richard looked down at his friend with Machiavellian benevolence. “The very start of SPI over the Internet. Three girls, Snibbsy, we got three out of five girls into the woods. And who was waiting there? Not the teddy bears’ picnic.”

  Snibbard looked nervously across his shoulder to the open office door.

  “A long time ago, Rich. And you set it up. You were watching, remember?”

  “Assessing the experiment, Snibbsy,” Richard said. He patted Snibbard’s shoulder. “But now for the good news. Zellar’s going to put in a million. Providing, that is, I give her a good seeing to.”

  Snibbard grinned, then frowned. “But you can’t. You’re …”

  “Don’t say it, Snibbsy boy.” Richard pointed his finger. “They’ve got pills nowadays. But it’s all in the line of duty. Anything for our partner
ship.”

  “What are we going to do about Faulkner?”

  “He’ll have his cut of PKL.”

  “He’ll end up in prison.”

  “That’s why we’re leaving, Snibbsy, so we don’t. But someone has to take the blame.”

  “Poor sod.” Snibbard tapped a key and swivelled in his char. “But then he shouldn’t be greedy.”