The Unseen (10 page)

Without Victoria’s DNA information, the Sinclair and Carter murders had only circumstantial connection. Although both carried evidence of rape, abuse and butchery, after Carter’s decapitation, except for the ears, the body had not been touched. In contrast, Lizzie Sinclair had been systematically cleared of all primary organs. The Suffolk woman had her throat slit and her torso hacked open in a frenzied attack of stab wounds. Pieces were missing, but evidence showed disturbance of the remains by forest animals. He emailed the Forensic Science Service for the conclusive DNA match. If proof could be established of involvement by organised crime, SOCA had an ongoing op and a vicious killer, but he doubted there was a connection. Gangs rarely mutilated except to demonstrate power of punishment. This kind of savagery produced no profit. The only other link not investigated was their individual involvement with computer technology, something Sinclair had started to look at just before his death. From the page numbering, most of his notes on this were missing. Sean put it down to drunken negligence. Jan and Chad looked in at 8 p.m., enough excuse for a gathering in the pub.

One beer and thirty minutes later he headed for home. The car CD played Rachmaninov’s No 2. It cleared his mind of murder, but not Victoria Lawless. He pondered on her re-entry into his life, her considerable attractions and, more alarmingly, her failure to inform on vital evidence. He reasoned the woman had allowed contempt of Creech to cloud her judgement, or more deviously, she played a political game not yet apparent.

Sean switched off the car lights and stepped out onto the cobbled drive of his detached home. For moments he stood in cynical pleasure of ownership. He no longer resented the house, just accepted the place as a burden of fatherly love.

Danielle sat cross-legged in the family room, her figure draped in a pink wool tracksuit. She waved from where she sat before the laptop, momentarily shifting her concentration from the video game she played. In her moment of distraction she was zapped.

“You’re getting worse than my daughters,” he said, from the doorway.

“A new business opportunity to help my thesis.” She smiled and switched off. “Part is on the psychological affect computer games have on children and young adults. For some it becomes an obsession with sub-psychic influences. Because many games have no social contact, the players may become isolated and detached from reality. For certain minds drawn into deep concentration, there exists the possibility of subliminal psychotic induction. I believe this is a possible means of corrective education, particularly for computer-orientated delinquents.”

“Sounds scary. You got my kids involved?” He returned her smile and watched the round, soft movement of her body as she stood.

“Sophie and Becky are keen to help.” She eased past, heading for the kitchen. It left him with the sweet aroma of a woman just bathed. For brief seconds he closed his eyes and imagined.

“And the business?” he questioned, placing his briefcase in the hall and following the lure of her scent.

“Through Finch Distribution I am now a home agent for PKL Computer Games and Starways Software,” she said. “I sell their products and make small money to help pay university fees.”

“PKL came up in a meeting today.”

“Now, monsieur, I am also part.” She poured red wine for them both, placing his glass at a single setting on the table. “I discover and apply two weeks ago. Now I am accepted, they give me my own website, half price games-console and lots of free software. I will put it on your PC. The girls can also play trial games for Princess Kay-ling II. Everybody wins.”

He watched her dish potatoes and casseroled beef. She placed his plate on the table then turned to the sink. “Camilla phoned, she goes this weekend to New York with Bradley. She asked if girls could stay again. I said, OK.”

Sean watched her movements, watched the taut stretch of her tracksuit bottoms. “Nice casserole,” he said, and began to eat, realising celibacy was no longer compatible with domestic harmony. Victoria smiled into the vision of his mind. He drew back and looked again at Danielle.

She hung up the tea towel, collected her wine glass and came opposite. He glanced up as she sat and saw the subtle smile of a scheming woman.

“I have a present for you, monsieur.” She drew an envelope from her pocket and slid it across the table. “A chance for you to take your girls somewhere Bradley would never think of. A little gift before my departure.”

She was looking at him over the rim of her glass. He had seen Camilla look that way. He slit the envelope with his finger. The contents took away his suspicions.

“A complimentary, half-price weekend reservation for Morrison Hotel, Brighton, one family room for Saturday night. That’s great,” he said, searching for excuses to reject.

“It came free with my PKL business package. They have some franchise deal. If I introduce a friend, there is free invite. So I do it over the Internet and put your name, but you must go this weekend. It is in Brighton, so you have the seaside. There is also free gym, swimming pool, sauna, and most important, the latest cyberspace games room.”

“Danielle, you’re very sweet, and I’m touched, but it’s not for me. I have work.” He placed the invitation back on the table and smiled into her eyes, hoping she wasn’t upset.

Momentarily she squeezed his hand, something she had never done. He felt himself weaken.

“Think of what the girls will tell Camilla and Bradley. Swimming pool, sauna, Jacuzzi, disco. The games room has the most advanced virtual reality systems in Europe. It can only be used by invited hotel guests. The girls will love it; Bradley will hate it. My gift to a good father.”

Sean reasoned with a large gulp of wine. “You’re some sales lady. How can I refuse?”

Danielle stood and walked around the table. “As a French woman, I understand honour and pride, monsieur.” She kissed his cheek and retrieved her wine glass. “I go back to my computer game, leave you to eat in peace.” She crossed the floor and he watched the sway of her departure. In the doorway she turned. “One thing I forget, the weekend, my friend may come, it’s OK to stay maybe, two nights?”

She had conned him so shrewdly Sean felt only admiration.

“Sure,” he smiled reluctant consent. “Just make sure he doesn’t leave smelly socks.”

“Not him, her. And I’m sure her stockings will stay secure.”

Realisation of macho jealousy was enough to make him think perhaps he had been alone too long. “Put the girls together, use one of their rooms,” he said.

“No need. My bed is big enough for two.” She blew a kiss.

Mark opened his eyes and listened, his body gripped by panic as a harsh exhalation of coarse breath disturbed the stillness. His mouth closed and the sound stopped. For moments he peered around the room, glad nobody was there to see his fear. Glad nobody was going to hurt him. He was alone. Always he found himself alone. Except today he had Cindy and tomorrow, Katherine. He saw her vision, her body cloaked in white, waiting.

Mark rose from his bed, he had a mission. At 0500 hours precisely he began his daily training and worked up a heavy, grunting sweat. Twenty minutes were spent at martial arts, ten on muscle toning. Showered and towelled, he stood in his boxer shorts before a full-length mirror. He liked the mirror, he understood perfection. Beside him, open shelving held theatrical makeup, wigs, body padding, face distorters and coloured contact lenses. He prided himself on his ability to camouflage, to slide through the city jungle without visible recognition. That meant voice change too. The voice gave persona to image and misled people’s interpretation of whom they saw. During preparation he played speech tapes and practised the accents for his chosen character. He considered it essential to blend, to become a shadow within shadows.

At 0815 hours, Mark presented a beer-gutted and balding man at the intercom shared with Cindy’s ground and basement flat. A male voice responded from above, clipped, impatient.

“National Water,” Mark spoke into the speaker. “Bradshaw’s got a leak. Might ’ave to turn yer water off, OK mate?” He wore a black T-shirt under overalls. A plastic ID card around his neck identified him as authorised fitter 304. Mark believed in giving a justifiable presence. It eliminated chance discovery and satisfied inquisitive hostiles over noise and intrusion.

“That’s inconvenient.” The voice became authoritative. “Do you have a key? Who gave you a key?”

“The Bradshaw’s left ’em wiv the office.”

“The main stopcock is under the basement steps but don’t turn anything off until my wife leaves for work. Is that understood?”

“No problem, mate.” The intercom went dead. Arsehole, he thought. He returned to the pavement, went round the basement railings and down steps. Under the canopy formed by the main entrance, he set down his tool bag and switched on his head radio.

“Commencing entry,” he spoke into his mind-radio and checked his watch.

“Op time zero, eight, one eight,” the Colonel answered.

Mark drew on surgical gloves, removed a short builder’s prop from the bag and dragged out its telescopic head. Using a block of wood to spread pressure over the three deadlocks, he wedged the base of the prop against the brickwork under the pavement and pushed home the retaining pin. With the flat steel plate against wood, he began winding the screwed shaft, expanding the telescopic length of the prop until he heard the first splintering of the inner frame. Careful not to cause too much external damage and cursing in case the door was bolted, he put a further four turns on the handle. A section of the weakened frame twisted sideways, snapping cleanly where the door-keeps had been cut into the wood. Forced simultaneously, all three locks and their steel retention-keeps came free from the splintered internal frame so the door swung open.

Mark immediately released tension, folded the prop and returned it to his bag. “Entry accomplished,” he spoke into the head radio and again checked his watch.

“Operation time two minutes thirty seconds, you’re on schedule,” the Colonel answered. “Fastest yet. You’re flying, Zoby.”

Mark smiled, his confidence high. The Colonel always used his nickname on a mission. He re-twisted the splintered section of doorframe so at a glance it appeared undamaged.

“Find it OK?”

The voice cut Mark’s isolation and he jerked startled, recognising the nasal clip of the arsehole from upstairs. The idiot peered down over the railings, his face pumped up with class pretension. Mark relaxed, he could take him anytime. The man was nothing.

He rubbed the padding of his belly. “Any chance of a cuppa before I graft?” He stared upwards. Would the prat comply? No chance.

The man stared as if observing some incomprehensible idiot. “I think not. My wife will inform you when the water can be turned off.”

“No problem, mate.” Mark carried his bag into the flat. When he looked back the man had gone. “No problem, I’m just too good for you shitheads.” He wondered what the wife looked like, wondered if she was worthy of special attention. He considered the possibility of paying a call. Maybe she had more to offer than tea. He closed the basement door and wedged it with his bag. For a few moments he stood imagining her submission.

“Zoby! The purpose of this operation is acquisition of mission funds. Stick with priorities.”

“Sorry, Colonel.” Mark smiled at the soft reprimand. “Operation proceeding.”

The area gave access through to the back garden, the block floor narrowing where stairs descended from the front door and hallway above. The first room housed a small gymnasium containing a treadmill, weights and steam box. Mark stood on the threshold and allowed his mind to fill with images of Cindy pumping iron. He saw her legs spread either side of the bench. He sure hoped Cindy obeyed when he came to take her. He would hate it if she turned out to be a hostile, hate it if she deceived him. Standing there, thinking of her, he felt the mist come down and settle on his brain. He had no comprehension of how he got to the next room, but he was there, standing by French windows and looking out onto a neat garden. Light threw oblongs of sunshine and shadow over the floor and a giant, king-sized bed. The quilt and pillows were still rucked, the sheets smelling of her perfume, of her body. Her nightdress lay at the bottom. Black, long and gossamer thin. His penis swelled.

“Zoby, proceed with operation objectives,” the voice sounded dry, without compromise.

Oh, oh. Colonel’s getting edgy. “Yes sir.” Mark dropped the nightdress underfoot and went to the bedside cupboard nearest the door. “Search commencing, sir.” He rifled with practised skill, his latex-gloved fingers shuffling the contents and searching between layers. He found no money, no cards. Disappointed he started on the adjacent drawers, working from the lowest upwards, always returning everything to position. He ignored all items of value, a gold watch, cufflinks, ID bracelet. He wanted only cash or cards. Nothing.