“Sidney Snibbard! That bloody toad wouldn’t have the nerve.” Faulkner shook his head again.
“But he did. And the last girl, if you remember, was stabbed. That frightened him. But I believe it also gave him the taste for blood. There’s an evil side to SPI and Snibbard’s been using it. He’s found a psychopath whom he’s nicknamed Zoby. It wouldn’t be difficult through private chat-boxes to flush out a total shit-head. Apply SPI and you have yourself a remotely operated killer. Snibbard wouldn’t have the nerve, true. But he could remotely use someone else to rape and kill.”
Faulkner was looking at him with open mouth, his head shaking slowing from side to side.
“It’s difficult to believe, I know. I would not have done so myself unless I had positive proof,” Richard said. “I found a memory stick amongst our master files, hundreds of digital photos of the murdered women.”
“You’re fucking having me on, tell me you’re having me on. Why would he put them there?”
“To blame us. I didn’t place them there, you didn’t. I’ve never raped a woman, you’ve never raped a woman. Snibbard has. He’s the only other one with the combination to the safe. He’s the only one perverse enough to have those women killed in the manner they were. I don’t have to tell you how close I was to Sarah Finch.” Richard brushed his brow, looked away as he took a sharp intake of breath. “She helped me in the early days. We even talked of marriage.” He sighed, shook his head. “I believe you went out with Lizzie and got friendly with Helen?”
“You don’t think for one moment I had any involvement in their deaths?”
Richard looked back as if shocked. “No, Derek, of course not. And I’m only telling you about Snibbard because I have a high regard for you.”
“We should go to the police.”
“And fuck up everything we ever worked for? You would be incriminated, I would be incriminated. Snibbard would blame us for the murders and the SPI. You may have noticed from the papers that miscarriages of justice are quite common in this country.”
“Fuck.”
“In a nutshell, that’s why I’m saying, watch your back. If you have any doubts, I’ll show you the photos that Snibbard left in the safe.”
“I’ll come to London with you.”
“No. You’ve got work to do here. I’ll clean up at head office and we’ll meet there tomorrow. If that pair are police we’ll come out of this clean. Then we’ll deal with Snibbard.”
Faulkner’s face was ashen when Richard left and drove back to London. Now he had put his plan into motion he needed everything to fit perfectly.
Share value and interest in PKL was only maintained through SPI. With that gone, the sales would plummet. Zellar could have all she asked for, so could the Fagan woman. All he wanted was their money followed by their bodies. If Vicky was a policewoman then she could be the witness. Zellar could be the sacrificial offering; her price for feminine depravity. He had twenty-three of the twenty-five WorkWell flash drives containing SPI in a safety deposit box plus a copy on his laptop. The final two programmes would be ready in the next two days. It was vital Wileman had the full complement to officially put the WorkWell programme worldwide. Then Harry Woods, using his secret copy to portray him as a trusted supplier, could send SPI influences wherever he wanted. Richard was confident the stock markets would soon turn his few millions into billions. It all depended on Snibbard. Poor Snibbsy, poor Faulkner. As for Jovana and Vicky, “Got a mission for you, Zoby,” he said out loud as he headed down the motorway. “Except you ain’t going to have the fun this time, this time it’s mine.”
Richard arrived back in Shoreditch after the office had closed and went straight to terminal three. Using the main server he brought up the public relations info and tapped in Fagan. He was thinking if the Fagans had come from the Brighton hotel, would they have gone there under cover as police simply to get access to Milton Keynes? He doubted it. There were quicker routes to PKL investment, it was still possible they were genuine. He hoped so. It meant a million pounds of Fagan’s money remained available.
The monitor flicked through categories before stopping on a list of potential investors. There was only one Fagan on Saturday at the Morrison Hotel. He had given an address in Watford.
Richard checked with the phone book then connected to the hotel’s PKL rep. “Lucy, it’s Snibbard here,” he said. “I need some information.” He listened to her silence.
“Mr Snibbard from Shoreditch?” she questioned.
“PKL project manager in person, Lucy. Last Saturday you had a Mr Fagan who showed interest in investing. Did he have his wife with him?”
“Let me check my records, sir.” He heard her tap on keys and waited. Her voice came back seconds later. “I’ve no record of a wife but there were two daughters, Rebecca and Sophie Fagan. Both won new player incentive prizes, a trial set of PKL. We have their e-mail addresses. One for the prize-winners and one where the original hotel vouchers were sent. The hotel register does not tally with the address given with the bank details.”
“Is there a reference number for the original hotel vouchers?”
“Yes they had to give that for their prize details.” She read off the number. “We also have photos of the girls for our magazine.”
“OK, so I want everything e-mailed to terminal three, Shoreditch, now.” He switched off then brought the PKL agents’ list up on screen. He checked on incentive schemes then typed the voucher number into the allocations.
Miss Danielle Pointu came up, c/o S Fagan. This time the address was St Albans. A man of property, Richard thought. Or maybe one of them belonged to Vicky Fagan. This did not sound like police, certainly not if children were involved, but there was no harm in getting inquisitive. He had to know whom he was dealing with. Rebecca and Sophie sounded the most interesting names. If Vicky came over with the money, no problem. But if they were police or some other concern, then Zoby could have a field day. Operating him from America would be a very interesting experiment.
When Sean entered the Watford undercover house he sensed the atmosphere as empty and soulless. No human spirit had yet left its mark, no history coloured its atmosphere.
“We weren’t followed,” Sean said, placing the supermarket bag onto the kitchen worktop. “I kept a careful watch on the motorway, and a careful watch in the supermarket.”
“Didn’t think we would be.” Victoria dumped more carrier bags beside him. “But after I’ve met Caswell tomorrow, he might get more nosey. OK, I’ll leave you to put away. I’m going to sort the spare room for you.”
“I thought we were meant to be married,” Sean said, putting beer cans into the fridge. He looked over to her, eyes wide and hopeful.
“If I thought the opposition might peep through the bedroom window, then I’d sleep with you. But as that is highly unlikely, you can sleep in the spare room. However, as you are a lottery winner, you can first take me to dinner.”
He lifted two bottles of white Rioja from the bag. “Who wants crabby restaurant food? I’ll do better. I’ll cook you dinner. Halibut in white wine with olives, capers and a tossed green salad, or maybe you’d prefer peppered steak?” He extracted a bottle of Monsterio, Calatayud, red. “Or …”
“It won’t happen, Sean. Our lives are too far apart and too busy. I can’t let it happen.” She remained by the door, staring at him, her arms folded as if she were trying to hide.
He placed the bottle onto the kitchen worktop. “I remember four magnificent days in Cornwall. Four days where you and I played undercover for real. I remember one night when something so wonderful happened, it has stayed in my mind and heart ever since.” He moved towards her.
“No.” She raised her hand. “It’s a memory. A beautiful memory I agree. But let’s keep it that way. Let’s not complicate our lives. Marriage never worked for you. Even partnerships don’t work for me. This is business, Inspector Fagan, not a casual fling.”
“That might be, Agent Lawless. But you’re still bea
utiful.”
She stared for long seconds. “So are you,” she said and walked out the room.
He finished unpacking the groceries and laid two prime halibut fillets on the cutting board. His granny had always told him to persevere. Maybe he could tempt her with his culinary skills. Maybe. Upstairs he heard the shower. The night was early and Mrs Fagan had set him a challenge. Were their lives really so distant and far apart? His mobile rang and Diane spoke.
“Just reporting in, boss. Travelpath is big. We estimate there are at least twenty staff on the premises. Others come in on a shift basis. The boys are building up photo IDs, mainly males, but it’s possible a female worker might be passing on information.”
“Unless we hit a match with our burglar, there’s no easy way out of this. We need to start following people home, see who their friends are.”
“You’re looking at manpower.”
Sean heard the click of her lighter, heard her draw in smoke. “Cobbart would want firm results first,” he said. “I have a disk nicked from PKL and a camcorder film which needs to be taken to Steve Rawlings. If you have a team member anywhere near they could collect them. Otherwise I’ll deliver tomorrow. But if we can prove mass fraud, Cobbart will sanction more men.”
“I’ll phone round, boss. Be in touch.” Diane switched off.
His isolation interrupted, he took the opportunity to check his text messages. Becky said hi, and yes, she had done her homework. Sophie informed him she had reached level 3 of Princess Kay-ling. Sean texted back. Don’t forget your mum’s birthday this Saturday. He put down the mobile. Don’t do what I did, forget. He went back to preparing dinner.
Maybe Victoria was right, each of them was so wrapped up in their work they had no time for personal things. But every now and then they could at least recreate that same magic they had once shared in Cornwall. No commitment, just blind, passionate lust. He washed the fish, peeled the potatoes and set them on the stove. For a moment he paused, realising that was the crux of their problem. They hadn’t simply shared sex, they had made love. Something must still lie deep, something to re-awaken.
When everything was ready to cook Sean went up the stairs. The door to the main bedroom was shut and his clothes left in a neat pile in the spare room. It removed any excuse for him to knock.
He used the main bathroom, showered changed and went back to the kitchen. Sean heard the deep-throated roar of the motorbike cut out on the driveway moments before the bell rang. The guy on the step wore full leathers and looked like some mechanical robot but with tiny waist and hips. When the visor was lifted, Jan looked out.
“Diane said you had an urgent collection. I’d just followed a suspect home to Radlett so I shot over here.”
Sean gave her the disk and the camcorder film taken via his lapel badge. “Take ’em to Steve at High Tec. What’s new at Travelpath?”
Jan shook her head, her deep brown eyes looking back at him through the elongated slit of the helmet. “Just leg work.”
“What we need is the manager. Set up a lift for tomorrow, Jan. Tell the others.”
“Will do, boss.”
Sean closed the door and called Steve. “I’m sending you a disk from PKL. Also a camcorder film. Could you let me know if they contain usable evidence?”
“Will do,” Steve said. “At the moment we’re intercepting heavy e-mail activity, most of it’s coded. It’ll take time to crack, but my guess is, they’re scrubbing hard disks and over-writing with new programmes.”
“Who are the recipients?” Sean asked, turning back to the kitchen.
“Morrison Hotel, Brighton is the main one, but there’s other stuff going out on multi-transmission. Probably to sales agents. If you open files from a trusted supplier containing a dedicated instruction, it would bypass any checks and covertly download a cleaning system.”
“So we raid the hotels now, get what evidence we can?” Sean spoke with visions of Victoria in Cobbart’s office, her lips compressed, her eyes unyielding. What did MI5 know that he didn’t?
“Too late,” Steve said. “By the time we’re on target everything will be clean. It will only blow our cover. Somewhere, someone won’t open their file instruction. We need only one lead, one staff member to start talking. One agent or investor with a suspect file.”
“I know just the person. Keep at it, Steve.” Sean redialled and waited on Danielle. “If you receive e-mails from PKL, the girls’ prize, possible business information, don’t open them.”
“But my research. What must I do?”
“As I tell you.”
“Les hommes!”
Sean listened to the silence as she switched off. If PKL were cleaning files then they suspected unwanted interest. He couldn’t see how his lifting of the DVD had compromised their operation, but it was possible they were edgy after the Irish murder. Which also meant whoever cleaned was a participant.
He returned to the kitchen and stared to cook. If their cover had been blown then any contact Victoria now made on her own would be dangerous. She would need backup and if MI5 wouldn’t provide it, then he would, whether she liked it or not, whether she knew or not.
When Victoria appeared, she had clearly made an effort. A top and long skirt flattered her figure but in a totally discreet manner. Her makeup was light, her hair loose.
“You look stunning,” he said.
“Thank you.” She smiled and folded her arms staying near the door. Her expression had a mixture of sadness and determination which he thought was perhaps the reason for her extended absence. She bit on her lower lip.
“Sean,” she looked up at him. “I don’t want sex for the sake of sex. I always thought you and I had more than that. And in truth, I’m scared of facing it. I’m thirty-six-years old with three failed partnerships. I don’t want children, and yet, I do want children. Same time I don’t want commitment outside of my job. That places me in a vacuum cocooned by a veneer of resolve. To make love with you would dent that resolve. And that frightens me.”
“Like it or not, what you just said means we have a whole future. So maybe I could start by tempting you with something more interesting than sex.” He scooped a halibut fillet from the pan. “Good food and wine. Perhaps a little Classic FM on the radio?”
She smiled. “Try to understand, Sean, for us.”
“I’m trying, for us.”
End of mission, Zoby cleaned and stowed reusable equipment. Cards, driving licences and soiled clothes he destroyed. His trophies were the memorabilia, items considered keepsakes of war. Not even the Colonel knew of his trophies. He had to trust the Colonel, the Colonel had always been there, always in command; but the Colonel never knew about trophies. Zoby never told him.
The nun’s uterus and vagina had kept well in the cool-bag. With the aid of a scalpel he cleaned associated body tissue and congealed matter from the black, grey tube lying on the kitchen table then washed it under the tap. He whistled quietly to himself as he set about the task. He knew a better job was possible, but it wasn’t his fault. They should have allowed him to stay in medical school and become a top surgeon. Zoby stopped his tuneless whistling and started to hum the Princess Kay-ling battle hymn. Both ovaries and fallopian tubes were severed, but he figured they weren’t necessary. They no longer had a use. More important was a means of display. He had in mind a flat glass tank with the whole piece pinned out. Then maybe he would give it to Tate Modern. Dead flesh in preserving fluid seemed popular with the people who ran it and he would like others to see his skills. When satisfied with its cleanliness he let the soft tissue slip through fingers into a laboratory jar of formaldehyde, his nose wrinkled at the smell. Sealed away he placed the new jar next to Helen Carter’s. Her jar was small and the contents something of a disappointment. He had really wanted to take the severed head but her expression had become stretched and ugly, so he cut off her ears instead. It seemed a good idea at the time. Now they looked nothing.
During the day he had phoned the office and
told Stratton his mother had died and he was arranging her funeral. Stratton sounded sincere in his condolences though Zoby doubted he was. He agreed to do some work from home and downloaded files over the Internet. That evening he went out hunting but found no suitable quarry. He was restless now, he was always restless after a mission. Staring into the mirror he saw himself tight, compact, neat. The perfect combat soldier, always ready for action. Somewhere beyond his image in the mirror he knew the boy hiding inside was also watching, somewhere way back, somewhere no-one could see. To distract himself, he worked out for three hours, then practised two hours with his Samurai sword. He considered the possibilities of taking up conceptual art for real and making himself famous. The idea of shocking people appealed to him. He would steal a baby and cut it in half. Why mess with dead animals when you could do the thing properly? Zoby spent the night thinking of that and looking up maternity hospitals. The baby would have to be new, unsullied by human contamination. Unable to sleep, he checked his e-mail. The Colonel had a new mission, immediate action, code red. He sat waiting.
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