The Unseen

by James McKenna

  “Don’t fuck with me, this is personal. Is he alive?”

  “My, my, Mr Fagan, we are in a strop. Truth is, I don’t know. He’s no longer under my care and protection. Yardie gangs operate here.” He clenched teeth again and shook his massive head. “If they’re not shooting each other, they’re shooting informers. Last I heard, your lad ran back to the Caribbean. Unfortunate move. That’s Yardie home turf with Yardie law. My guess, he got eaten by a shark.”

  “But you have his statement, he saw Caswell witness the graveyard murder?”

  “No, Mr Fagan, Goldilocks has a statement.”

  “But it would be in your station file?”

  “Wrong again. Goldilocks told me Sinclair had a statement. It was in his file. How good that statement was I don’t know because it never reached my station. Ask Goldilocks, she was the investigating officer.”

  Sean stared, his cold anger rising. This man was telling him lies. Had to be telling him lies. “Who murdered Sinclair?”

  Creech hooked thumbs to braces and let go an expansive sigh. “Nobody.”

  It raised a laugh from his boys. Sean never shifted his gaze from the tight little orbs staring out of Creech’s face.

  “Sinclair was a copper, one of us.”

  “Sinclair was a piss-head. He also went undercover as a wino looking for witnesses. He found your rent boy, paid him, got a statement, foolishly believed it, so wanted more. A meeting was arranged in the flat. The boy never turned up but he told some dealers a copper was spying on them from there. My guess is, they threw him out the window. Sad.”

  “Not suicide. You knew that.”

  “One of the dealers was an informer. I needed him to bust a ring. Unfortunately, both got killed in the process. Justice and convenience for all.”

  Sean stood and kicked back his chair, snapping his words. “The death list in your manor seems more than convenient, Superintendent.”

  Creech leaned on the table and pointed with a stubby finger. “Before you cast aspersions, Mr Fagan, Sinclair poached on this manor against my advice. He was warned what would happen if caught by the opposition. He chose to ignore that warning. I’m here to fight crime, not nanny a jug head.”

  “Where’s his statement?”

  “Ask Goldilocks. Go back to your own manor, Fagan. You don’t belong here.”

  Victoria had lied, lied to him from the start, stayed with him not to corner Caswell, but to protect the guy. She was still doing it. He could not believe her betrayal.

  With Danny missing there was only his statement. Possibly, just possibly, if confronted by that statement, Caswell might strike a deal to save himself, give up Zoby, name a location. Zoby had kept the Carter woman alive for three days. Would Victoria deny truth for a chance to save his children, this woman to whom he had declared his love? He phoned the warehouse. Victoria had gone. Cobbart came to the phone.

  “The black van was stolen. We also have witness reports on a silver Jag which was possibly the abduction car. Information is coming in fast. We’ll find them.”

  Sean saw no point in being less than direct. The facts stood there even without proof. “Caswell witnessed Lizzie Sinclair’s murder. To do that he must have known it was to happen and where. He arranged it.”

  “OK, I’ll put it on file. We’ll get to it.”

  Sean recognised the patronising tone, knew he was not believed.

  “Fuck you, John. He knew.”

  “You’re stood down, Sean. Now chill out.”

  Sean threw the phone to the car floor and clasped head in hands, fingers dragging at despair. It took a minute, but frustration and anger subsided. Calm crept to the edge of his brain and he held it there. I mustn’t lose it, mustn’t lose it, he thought. Outside people passed on the pavement, going about their lives, smiling, chatting, people without cares.

  He picked up the mobile, checked it still worked then phoned Victoria’s personal number. The auto reply told him she was switched off. He left a message on voice mail. “I know of Danny’s statement. I want the truth.”

  Sean turned on the ignition and stared to drive. He needed to win back Cobbart’s confidence, not have him believe he dealt with a crazed father. Three days, Zoby had kept Helen Carter alive for three days. A chance hung there. He needed Danny’s statement.

  He redialled the Met CID and asked for the Shoreditch enquiry team. He kept his voice calm, listening as he was transferred through different office numbers. He ended up with the CID inspector from that morning’s interview.

  “I know of evidence linking Caswell to a London murder. Can you keep him in custody ’til I raise a warrant?”

  “Not my problem, Inspector Fagan. After his statement Caswell was released without charge. He left in the company of his lawyer and two Home Office senior civil servants.”

  Sean switched off. “Bastards, what are they doing?” he shouted, shouted to no-one.

  If someone had spirited Caswell from police custody, then he was certain who. On contact with MI5 switchboard at Thames House, he gave his name and rank then asked for Alice Sibree. The operator took his mobile number. He waited five minutes for Sibree to return the call. In those minutes he confronted his isolation and realised he had been pushed outside of the normal world. This was the victim’s world, the helpless world. He had to go back, or lose.

  When finally she called, her voice was dry and bureaucratic. “How can I help you, Inspector Fagan?”

  “I want Caswell.”

  “He’s gone.”

  “Where?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Lies, he thought. She knows. Calm, he had to stay calm. He swallowed. “Caswell is involved with murder. He used subliminal psychotic induction over the Internet directing a psychopath to chosen victims.”

  “Inspector Fagan, the use of SPI on the public is illegal. PKL were researching SPI to build a firewall against its use in virus form. However, this work was not completed and has no significant value or interest to anyone.”

  Sean drew breath and let it out slowly. “Ms Sibree, would you please tell me where Caswell is at this very moment?”

  “I could find out, but it may take time.”

  “Zoby has kidnapped my daughters. He attacked and tried to rape their nanny. I know of Danny’s statement. I’m not interested in SPI, I’m interested in the lives of my children.”

  He listened to her start of words, then silence. When finally she spoke again, her voice was uncertain, shocked. “I’ll check with the Home Office then phone you back.” Her change of manner said everything. How long had she known Caswell was the Colonel? How long had the spooks kept it all under wraps, hoping Caswell would not commit more murders before they struck a deal? For what, for covert use of SPI in the WorkWell programme without Starways realising, without the American intelligence service realising? Would they still protect Caswell for SPI while Zoby killed two children?

  The warehouse remained in full operational activity. Cobbart stood central. Sean zeroed himself, took Cobbart’s arm and led him aside. “I’m sorry for my outburst, John, but time’s running out, I need to find Caswell.”

  “Alice Sibree’s been on the phone asking why in the current situation, we are so concerned with Caswell, and what your involvement is.” Cobbart raised eyebrows. “I explained you were stood down, but you’ve certainly rattled her.”

  “There’s a witness statement that Caswell watched Lizzie Sinclair being murdered.”

  “Give it to me and I can do something.”

  “Victoria has it. She took it from Sinclair’s file. Sinclair got it from a rent boy called Danny.”

  “The word of a rent boy won’t survive against the lawyers Caswell could hire.”

  “I don’t have the time to argue. For God’s sake, John, every second counts.” Sean raised his hands, desperate for him to understand.

  “But how can it help your daughters?”

  “I can confront him, he may trade Zoby for a deal and give us a location.”
>
  “You believe that?” Cobbart shook his head.

  “I have to.” Sean tightened all his nerves. At the first lack of control Cobbart would walk away.

  “Is this wise, Sean? Other official agencies are not seeing it your way.”

  “If Caswell witnessed Lizzie Sinclair’s murder, he knew of it in advance. It’s my belief the Home Office had MI5 monitor Caswell’s research all along, using him to carry out experiments on the population which they would never dare touch themselves. Now it’s finished, they want it. Awareness of Caswell’s control over Zoby gives them leverage. But if he’ll trade with them, he may trade with me.”

  Cobbart shook his head. “Wild. You’ll need all sorts of proof to verify such statements. No agency would allow itself to sanction murder.”

  “They didn’t. The murders had already occurred when Sibree found out. She’s been pulling strings to make sure no-one else did, at least ’til the SPI programme was finished and the Home Office had its prize. Now they want him safe, unable to give evidence on the extent to which he used SPI and its influence on the public. But I’m not interested in that, I’m interested in my daughters and the small time we have. Don’t you realise? That’s why Caswell did this, to distract us.”

  Simmy interrupted. “We got visitors, guv.” He nodded over his shoulder. Victoria Lawless stood in the doorway, hands behind back, not meeting his eyes. Alice Sibree strode towards them, her sharp nose cleaving the way. She met Sean eye to eye.

  “Due to the distressing circumstances of this incident, I’ve come to offer MI5 resources, at least those at my disposal. I won’t deny previous involvement, but this cuts through all of us, Inspector.”

  Sean looked to Victoria who remained behind, eyes still lowered. A sense of betrayal, anger, despair, all boiled at once. Was this atonement, or further deceit?

  “Where’s Caswell?”

  “The Home Office inform me he is currently on an aircraft to America, presumably to visit Starways. It was an amicable departure. There was no reason to hold him, and he gave his word to return if requested.” She cupped her hands and posed, prim as a schoolteacher.

  “Bollocks he will.” Sean watched the hatchet smile appear. Her eyes never faltered.

  “Inspector, it is your family we are concerned with here, not Richard Caswell.”

  Sean looked to Cobbart, then back to her and knew he faced a wall. She had outmanoeuvred him and endangered the lives of hundreds of women worldwide. She had left his daughters in the wilderness with time evaporating. Zoby had kept Helen Carter alive for three days. Oh God, what suffering did he inflict on children? Sean felt the surging of rage. He shouted, pointing. “Witch, you are the darkest evil.” The whole room turned, shocked to silence.

  “Sean, you’re stood down for good reason,” Cobbart said. “Victoria, take him for coffee.” He gestured Sibree away. “We appreciate your help,” he told her, guiding her across the room.

  Victoria stayed, head bowed. Sean waited for her to burn, instead she looked up at him, eyes steadfast. “Come ride with me,” she said.

  “I can drive my own car, thanks.”

  “No you can’t. Sibree has her car deliberately blocking yours. The driver won’t budge without her say so.”

  “What’s her game?”

  “Bluff. She’s obeying orders from unseen mouths. My car is free. Whatever you think, you must trust me, please.”

  “I wish I could.” Emotions came and he shivered his breath to contain them. She was the one person he wanted to trust, but of those he had believed in, she worse than all others, had betrayed him.

  “They’ve bought time for Caswell but not enough,” she said. “He’s at Heathrow. His plane doesn’t leave for an hour. We put a tracker insider his case.”

  Sean stared long and hard but her gaze never faltered. She didn’t lie.

  “What about the statement?” He watched her draw a letter from her pocket and pass it to him. His doubts wavered. Time was ticking again.

  She shook her head. “Tomorrow is too late. I never realised that before. It’s too late because now I know tomorrow never comes.” Moisture glistened her eyes.

  She followed him to the door, waited while he stopped at Heidi’s desk to hand her the statement. Heidi looked up at him, pale eyes tired and drawn.

  “In ten minutes hand that to Cobbart,” he told her. “Do it when Sibree’s not close. Tell him I’ve gone to arrest Caswell at Heathrow. Get an arrest warrant on grounds he illegally possessed dangerous weapons.”

  He whisked away Victoria’s car key the moment she had pressed the lock release on her BMW. Time needed speed. “You handle the mobile,” he said, then waited until she sat beside him. “Once we’re clear of here switch on the klaxon.”

  She nodded and clicked over her belt. “Love sure is a bitch,” she whispered.

  Sean took every back turn he knew towards the M4, headlights glaring in the dusk, siren screaming. Victoria sat silent, feet and hands braced against the speeding car.

  “OK, what’s his flight number?” Sean asked.

  “I don’t know. Only that he’s there.”

  “Then hassle the airport, use MI5 clout. Try flight desks, security. Find out what’s going to the States. Find out who has Richard Caswell as a passenger in one hour. Buy me time.” He glanced as she dialled and felt the relief of doing something positive. Zoby had kept Helen Carter for three days. If Caswell knew the location, there was a chance.

  Waiting in the shuffling queue for security clearance to the departure lounge of Terminal 3, Richard Caswell sensed a growing state of anxiety. Throughout the day he had gambled and won, now the last hour seemed to drag for an eternity.

  That afternoon he had sat in some grey building belonging to the Home Office. On the table between Richard and two bespectacled Home Office officials were the flash drives found as intended, and then stolen from the conference room by the MI5 woman.

  Richard thought the woman clever to realise what he had done and steal the evidence from under the police, but not as clever as himself. No woman could outsmart Harry Woods. It was why he found them all such easy prey. Even now, his manipulation of her created deception and through it, he had outsmarted even the Home Office.

  “We advise your immediate departure out of the EU. In reciprocation, we will look after this research until your safe return,” the balding man had said.

  “I’ll need clothes, I’ll need documents,” Richard protested. “I’ll need … ”

  “A suitcase has been packed from your flat, it’s waiting downstairs with your passport,” the woman cut in.

  “Most convenient.” He tried a tight smile. “The contents of the files are under license from Starways. Until I hand them over they remain my property.”

  The man had spread his fingers on the table. “Allow me to be explicit, Mr Caswell. The use of SPI on the public is illegal. The police are very thorough and if they had these files you would find to your regret that no person is above the law. However, in a few months when things have settled down and reasonable answers have been found for difficult questions, your presence may not be of such interest. Particularly if the police remain unaware of these files. Also, as they are in our safe-keeping, neither will the Secret Service be further involved.”

  Richard had smiled with genuine pleasure. He was winning. “Starways will want their property back.”

  “I’m sure we can come to an amicable arrangement,” the woman said.

  “In other words, you want the goods while I piss off with nothing.”

  The woman had cleared her throat.

  “I’m sure you have assets, Mr Caswell,” the man said.

  “I need to visit my bank.”

  “Granted.”

  Richard travelled by cab and removed all contents from his safety deposit box. They included five flash drive sticks containing the full and final results of SPI and the WorkWell programme, a laptop with copies of the programme on its hard drive, some cash, and the life
of Harry Woods via passport and credit cards. The files on flash drive were for Oscar Wileman. He was a dangerous man not to satisfy. The laptop was for himself. The files left with the Home Office Richard shrugged off. They contained only traces of SPI, simple stuff first used at the hotels. It would take time for anyone to discover, ten, fifteen hours. But just in case, he intended to leave Richard Caswell in the departure lounge. All Richard had to do was get Harry Woods on an aircraft.

  After half an hour on the tube ensuring nobody followed, he went to Heathrow’s Terminal 3. To hide the time of his departure he had previously spent a small fortune with American Airlines booking five flights to New York. He had also booked seats for Harry Woods on Virgin Atlantic to Boston. Watching the board, he saw all flights were on time and within close departure of each other.