Richard drove straight to Shoreditch and entered the flat above the empty offices. In the darkness of his spacious apartment, he banged his fist against the wall and recoiled with pain, cursing himself for his stupidity. For the sake of seeing her fear he had nearly blown everything.
“Control,” he said aloud. “That’s what Zoby’s for. To do what you can’t. Not yet, not yet, Harry boy.” Richard hit the wall again. She was too cool, too icy for a new millionaire, ex-pub owner. If she had really been the person she portrayed, pushing her tits around and showing her legs, she would have welcomed him, laid down for him, given a sample of what to expect, flashing her money and her power with brassy ignorance. Not doing that showed she had no money. A policewoman would have blustered or pushed him off, but she had stayed ultra cool, even invited him to play again tomorrow. So what was her game? Maybe someone spying for Wileman. He didn’t care. If she had no money, then she was meat for Zoby. Which left him Zellar. Tomorrow would not be quite the day people expected. Tomorrow would be Richard Caswell’s last day on earth, whether any of them paid or not.
Richard sat on his king sized bed and lifted a mobile. Zellar answered on the fourth ring.
“I have your share certificate,” he said.
“Thank you, Richard, I collect it tomorrow.”
“Tonight, bring your cheque. I’ll give you the twenty thousand, more maybe.”
“I need signatures from my employers. Come to my hotel and tomorrow I give you cheque.”
“If you want your shares, you come here, tonight. Tomorrow is too late.”
“You let me take certificate away?”
“Sure, but first I’m going to leave my signature in you.”
She laughed. “It is a price. You will not be disappointed. Give me one hour.”
Richard switched off. “Whore.” He spat the word. Another one with no money chancing her luck. Boy, was she going to get some signature.
He phoned Patricia, his secretary. He listened to her detached answer then almost sensed her sitting up from a couch as she realised who spoke. “For complex reasons, I’ve had to call an emergency meeting for tomorrow morning,” he told her. “Snibbard’s behaving real funny and Derek is getting pissed-off. I don’t want any scene or scandal upsetting the staff. Could you do me a favour, ring round and inform everyone to take the day off. It’s Friday so they’ll be happy to have a long weekend. They’ve completed WorkWell and their bonus is waiting. I want no-one in tomorrow except you, I need your help. We have a big investor coming, a Mrs Fagan.”
“I saw her today,” Patricia said. “Attractive lady.”
“I’d like you to welcome her and assure her everything is fine. I think Snibbard did something to upset her.”
“Groping again, I suppose.”
“Maybe worse. I don’t want any staff there to hear heated accusations. A lot of money is at stake.”
“I don’t have all staff telephone numbers at home.”
“I’ll e-mail them to you. Once you’ve seen the lady onto the premises you may go yourself.”
“Anything you say, Mr Caswell. See you tomorrow.”
Richard hung up. Tomorrow Harry Woods came back into life. Tomorrow would be the start of everything.
Sean stayed in the pub for two pints then returned to the office when Diane and Simmy left for home. A woman DC from Red Team had taken over Heidi’s desk. Once suspects had retired to their houses and beds, surveillance activities diminished, except for the prime suspect, Mark Harrison. The search for him had intensified. The woman DC was scanning computer records provided by the military, fitting names to the electoral role. Recent civilian deaths of any females were checked via address against a list of Harrison’s on the military register. A son joining the forces was usually young enough to give a parental address. If his mother died, there would be a connection. None tallied, which made Sean more certain that Harrison lived in a fantasy world. Two other members of Red Team sat watching video footage from Luton and Dublin airports. Somewhere in the crowd was Zoby.
For half an hour he checked the files on Caswell, Snibbard and Faulkner, then at 2200 hours he left for the undercover house in Watford.
For distraction Sean slotted a disk into the CD player and listened to Glazunov Violin Concertos, hoping somehow to put himself in the mood for wine, pizza and Victoria. He imagined her smile, her lips, her body. He remembered her passionate re-entry into his life that morning, her warm embrace, the sweetness of her kiss. Was it just another brief but tantalising encounter, or the start of a hidden dream?
When he opened the front door she stood to one side pointing a Glock 17 automatic at him.
“Hi, having a tough day?”
“Sorry.” She stepped back. “I’m a touch edgy. Caswell was here.”
Sean closed the door and took the weapon from her hand, carrying it into the kitchen and placing it on the worktop.
“He was checking up on us, our home, our marriage, our story.”
“Did we pass?” he asked, over his shoulder.
“More pointedly he was checking on me, testing me out. I think I fooled him, I said you were in the pub.”
“Did he try anything?”
She shrugged. “For a woman alone his presence is unnerving, as if he’s circling, hunting.”
Sean poured himself a glass of wine, looked at Victoria’s glass on the side and topped it up. “I warned you. Playing footsie with the enemy is dangerous.”
“But is he the enemy? Or just one of ‘them’. One of the male gender who see women as vaginas with extended parts.” She put a plate with three-quarters of a pizza in the microwave and pressed buttons.
“Isn’t that what Zoby is about? What your enemy is about?”
“My enemy.” She looked at him. “That puts me in my place.”
“I didn’t mean it that way. Women are not so alone as some of them like to believe.”
“Then don’t isolate us by gender. Women are vulnerable, it’s the nature of humanity. The male is meant to protect, not hunt us. We’re not animals.”
“Animals don’t have the restraint of morals over lust. Neither do some men. It’s one reason we have laws and police.”
“To protect females? How sad.” She folded her arms defensively.
“To protect us all. Just think, one human can now use SPI to murder another human, using a third human by remote psychotic control.”
“How sophisticated we’ve become.” The microwave beeped and Victoria removed the plate, setting it on the kitchen table with a knife and fork. “Let it not be said I don’t reciprocate your cooking, Mr Fagan.”
“It is noted, Mrs Fagan, along with your concerns on female vulnerability. But as you once explained, if the blonde doesn’t want to kiss you, she won’t and most won’t. But if the blonde is undecided, outside events can influence her to do so. We are dealing with fringe lunacy. Zoby, like others, may have always suffered fantasies of killing, but restraint and fear prevented it. If the Colonel removes that restraint by SPI and then provides victims and places, it might tip a psychopath over the edge, as it might tip other seemingly normal people over the edge. And once their cravings are fed, bloodlust rises. Via the Internet, someone has a remote killing machine. Someone able to create countless killing machines.”
“You mean the Colonel and Zoby might never have met?”
“Exactly. And if there is one Zoby, there could be thousands. Your neighbour, the person beside you on the tube, your auntie Dot knitting the kids sweaters. The populace might not be so safe as they think.”
She sat down opposite him, her face creased with the potential horror of SPI.
“Look at the millions in North Korea,” he continued. “How many have met the beloved leader? Yet how many slavishly obey him? SPI is only a technical extension of what’s happening there.”
She folder her arms on the table and hesitated to speak. “How’s the pizza?” she finally asked.
For Sean, it revealed a little of wh
at MI5 was not telling him. His directing of the conversation had worked. He ignored her question. “All four victims were computer experts, all four played computer games. What if they discovered SPI was used to sell shares? Maybe they were killed not for sex but to silence them. Using Zoby, the slayings would appear sexual and not commercially motivated. Sinclair was not killed for sexual reasons.”
Victoria bit on her lower lip and sighed. “All possible,” she said. “So, we stay with the three principal suspects.”
“And Zoby. I’m gathering history on our three executives, all went to the same university in Glasgow. They all studied computer or related subjects. These three go back a long way. I’ve got Diane digging info from their past. All of them maybe guilty of using SPI. Snibbard almost certainly used it to lure and rape women in Glasgow, maybe Caswell also. Faulkner has a conviction for Internet fraud. It’s possible all three are guilty of murder.”
“Admitted,” Victoria said. “So we go deeper, but by necessity, faster. I’ve arranged to see Caswell in Shoreditch tomorrow. He’s expecting a cheque. I can bluff for a while but in the end I’ll have to give it. As tomorrow’s Friday, the bank won’t bounce it until Monday. That gives us three days before our cover is blown.” She checked her watch. “It’s past midnight, time to switch off. Time for me to retire.” She smiled without conviction and left him to eat.
Sean knew her departure covered a retreat. She knew now that he knew what MI5 were after, for the government, for themselves; the use of subliminal influence over the populace. The beloved leader wasn’t far away. How they intended to lift it without anyone realising he did not know, but he was sure they had a plan, both Britain and America. That aside, Victoria was right about one thing. Dawn would come all too quickly. It was time to give Operation Poor Girl a rest.
After a while he went upstairs and relaxed under the shower. She made no reply to his knock on her door. The bedside light glowed and she looked up from the pillows with an expression which said she had waited; that this was now their time.
“Let it not be said I don’t reciprocate your favour, Mrs Fagan.”
“Don’t make a habit of it, Mr Fagan.” She threw back the sheet.
“Should I be so lucky?”
“That’s what worries me, you might be.”
Zoby considered the Dobbs sitting room and decided it needed interrogation space. “Gotta have room to swing a sword, stretch a woman or two,” he said out loud. He began to shift furniture, whistling as he worked. He was left with three chairs and a dining table. He placed the three chairs side by side, tying the legs and backs so they formed a bench, that way he could sit the two hostiles with a gap between, or stretch one out over the full length of three seats. He’d done that for a while with the Carter woman. She hadn’t like that, being stretched out while he played with her from behind. She had obeyed real quick after that.
For an hour he practised with his sword, slicing the air where their necks would rise over the chair backs or hang from the seat edge if they were prone. He had plenty rope and belts and found more cord in the garden shed. He imagined one over the chairs, another spread-eagled on the table, her thorax taut, waiting for the blade. He kept imaging them till his mobile buzzed with a text message.
Limo req for lift
Zoby switched on his head radio. “I need target location, Colonel. Two women might need special equipment, have to be prepared.” He heard only static back. “Fucking combat radio.” He smacked his ear. That left him angry. He returned the text message.
Where’s my money?
Crystal messed up. But money safe. Women gorgeous, best yet. Trust me. Col.
Zoby put down the mobile, hit the head radio a second time so it crackled to life. This time he heard the Colonel instantly.
“These bitches are long-limbed and firm-breasted, Zoby. Top quality, hardly used. Self-willed though, need training.”
“Leave it to me, Colonel,” Zoby answered. “You want a limo, we get a limo.”
He texted. Sending patrol to secure transport.
Zoby felt real neat in the police uniform and figured he would have made a good cop, most likely he’d be undercover, a top detective, catching those shit heads who had fucked up his life. He pulled a dark blue topcoat over the jacket and covered his head with a crash helmet. The police cap he placed in a side pannier. His journey on the moped into central London took an hour and twenty minutes. At 0200 hours he encountered little traffic. He parked up near Hanover Square and swapped helmet for cap. He strolled a little, then hovered in a doorway for covert views of New Bond Street. In the dead of night, traffic remained light with few pedestrians. He wanted a vehicle with single occupancy, a class car, Jaguar, Mercedes, preferably something with a stretched chassis. He watched for ten minutes but saw nothing suitable. When a cruising patrol car turned around the corner, he stepped back into shadow and watched it pass. The two men and one policewoman inside were chatting, passing the night while he worked. When he returned to the light, four girls, clearly drunk, went silent on his sudden appearance. He enjoyed that, power. He felt himself harden and decided to walk. If a cop car had passed it wouldn’t do again for some time. He walked slowly, his hands behind his back, strolling the pavement for thirty minutes until finding the car he wanted, a long wheelbase Jaguar with chauffeur compartment. It was double parked and clearly waiting for a pick up. The driver, a bored Afro, watched Zoby leave the pavement and walk to his window.
“This your car, sir?”
“Just waiting on customers, man.” The driver smiled white teeth, his hair grey.
“Do you mind stepping out of the car, sir.” Zoby checked the road. No one was nearby.
“Listen, man, I’m only waiting. They’re African diplomats. They don’t walk.”
“Out of the car, sir,” Zoby said, and opened the door, sliding an eight-inch length of lead pipe from his pocket.
The driver had one foot out, his head coming up when Zoby struck. He made no sound and his body fell sideways when yanked onto the road. Keys in the ignition started the engine first time. A rear wheel rode over the man’s legs as Zoby drove away. Across Park Lane he turned for Marble Arch. Thirty-five minutes later he was on the A1.
“Zoby to Colonel. Limo secured. One hostile down, no hits taken.”
“Roger that, Zoby. Return to base. Long day tomorrow.”
Zoby switched off his head radio. “A busy day costs money, Colonel.”
Zoby awoke before first light, checked the perimeter boundaries then exercised for two hours. At 0700 hours his mobile beeped with a text message.
Check hotmail, Termination Road. 2 + 1 TQW. ASAP.
“That’s a cyber café job,” he said. “TQW. Top quality women 2 + 1. Hey babe, that’s so neat. I get three of ’em.”
Zoby took the van and left the Jaguar hidden behind the hedges of Hollyoaks. He would have to work on that one and change the number plates. A secure vehicle was essential. Parked in Stevenage town centre, he fed the meter, feeling good and confident. Three women, all he needed now was his money.
Zoby was the first customer at the cyber café. He tapped on keys and downloaded the jpeg file. A girl at the counter looked disapproving when he swore. “A fucking alien.” A child stared out from the picture. It was the same stare as the boy in the hall. He recognised that stare, it went right through him, like she saw into him, saw him hiding deep inside. He hated her, fucking alien bitch. When she was his, he would cut her in half, exhibit her at Tate Modern.
He flicked to the second picture. The same Morrison Hotel lobby, but this time it was hot pussy, young, tender, good tits and a neat figure. She would make up for the alien. He flicked back a picture and examined the younger one in more detail. If she was cute, he’d keep her a day. If she was some whinging brat, then off with her head.
He read the text while printing off the contents.
Mission target. School girls, hostile. Location, foyer of Red Lion Hotel, Dunstable. See map for location. Today
, 1600 hours sharp. Approach as Zoby taking both to photo session. Secure and hold captive. Do not harm until ordered. Repeat, do not harm until ordered. Crystal will deliver money personally. Execute him immediately after. Colonel.
The Unseen Page 22