The Unseen (19 page)

“Young girls are young girls, convent trained or not. Teresa admitted most students had hotmail addresses. It was innocent fun to them, sending messages to friends and parents. The girl said in her opinion, if God did not want them to access modern technology, he would not have provided it. From what I saw of the older nuns, I doubt they even know how to switch a computer on. They have four PCs in the library, all supposedly used to research illuminated manuscripts on a worldwide basis. It also brought the temptations of the world to the heart of their community. Last Thursday Katherine downloaded the Garden of Serenity, the final level of Princess Kay-ling.”

“Did it have SPI?”

“Finola will find out, she’s taken all Katherine’s equipment for analysis. Last Saturday, the poor girl went innocently to collect a two thousand euro prize. She went to meet Zoby. She told Teresa she could trust Zoby.”

On the return drive to Dublin, Sean stayed with his own thoughts, glad that the dark scenarios which whirled through his head were frequently interrupted by the ringing of his mobile. If Crystal and Zoby could reach to Ireland, they could reach to Australia, America, Russia.

Heidi had booked them separate but neighbouring rooms in Jury’s Hotel. Sean felt better after a shower and use of the hotel toiletries for a shave. Spruced, he went down with Victoria to meet DI Haggarty and Finola in the bar.

“They’ll have information from the hard drives tomorrow,” Haggarty said. “We played the one flash drive found in the girl’s room. Crystal and Zoby are integral characters in the PKL game. On the surface they seem OK.”

“Slow them down and you’ll find subliminal suggestions, obey Crystal, trust Zoby,” Sean said. “Messages are sent as viruses and downloaded onto the game. They encouraged Katherine to obey instructions. What we’re looking for is the origin of any e-mails, anything connected with her last journey.”

Haggarty leaned away, apologising as he answered his mobile. It created silence. When he finished he leant back and scratched his stubbled chin. “Local Garda have been checking over a burnt out Mercedes. Seems it holds partial remains of a bag containing knives. The vehicle was stolen two days ago and fits the description by our witness. I have a team on it now.” Haggarty rose to leave. Sean stood also.

“We’ll come with you.”

“You look after the Brit side, I’ll look after mine. Stay in touch. Enjoy your dinner and have a safe journey home.”

“I think we’ve been told our limits,” Sean said, watching them leave.

She looked good, even in clothes crumpled by the long day, but then Sean knew he wasn’t looking at the clothes. She had untied her hair from the French pleat so it fell dark to her shoulders, shining in the candlelight. He went back to the menu.

“Share oysters?” she asked.

“Sure.” The night was good for sharing. He thought better of saying it. Both ordered steak and Sean picked a good-bodied Syrah he hoped she'd like. The alcohol played its part after a hard day. While they ate he received two text messages, one from Sophie, one from Becky.

“They’re good kids,” Sean said. “Worried about their Dad in foreign parts.”

“Kids reflect their parents.” Victoria’s red lips sipped at her wine and left a smudge of lipstick imprinted on the glass.

“Jesus, not their mother.” He closed his eyes, then looked back to her. “No, I shouldn’t have said that. Her heart is good, we’re just not compatible. Living with a policeman is not easy.”

“Guess that’s why we’re alone. We’re too selfish outside of professional endeavours.”

He ate slowly, wondering if he should dig. “You never married?”

“No.” The word had a hollow, final ring creating a line not to be crossed.

Sean waited and finished his meal while she ate sedately. “I should never have married, but then I love my kids. They give life meaning,” he said.

“Exactly.” She sat back, her ambiguous half smile suddenly bewitching, her eyes beautiful. He wanted to sleep with her.

“We have an early start tomorrow.” She checked her watch.

“Tempus fugit. Day after, we’ll be Mr and Mrs Fagan.”

“How respectable.” She gathered her bag and stood.

Sean followed her to the lift and waited in silence as they rode to the fourth floor. He was conscious of her absolute power. Outside her room she stopped to face him. She made to speak, then kissed her finger and touched it to his cheek.

“Good night, Mr Fagan.”

“Good night, Mrs Fagan.”

She hesitated on closing the door. Her touch lingered until sleep came.

They split at the airport to collect fresh clothes. Within two hours Sean arrived at the undercover house. There were six properties in a square-shaped cul-de-sac, each property a twee little box trying to seem more pretentious than its neighbour. Sale notices were still up with only two sold. Few could afford the price.

Jan waited with the Jaguar keys.

“Houses either side are still empty,” Jan said. “Wouldn’t mind one myself. Nice patio and kitchen.” She handed him the morning post. “Gas, electricity and telephone bills, just in case you want something to dump for snoopers. I put an answering machine on the phone. Before your lottery win you were a welder. Victoria ran a pub. In case they check with the hotel, the girls were from your previous marriage.”

“The place was full of kids. Can’t see anyone’s interested in mine. If the bank gave this address, that’s all we need. These people are after money, not my family tree.”

Jan nodded and moved away when his mobile rang.

Steve Rawlings was buoyant. “The hard drives on their computers all show e-mail activity from the PKL Shoreditch web address. All originated from PKL3 which suggests it’s terminal three on the main office server. The sender signs as Crystal and makes frequent references to Zoby.”

“What about SPI?”

“It’s in virus form and the message is always simple. Obey Crystal, trust Zoby. Be there at 11.00. Get into the car. Let Zoby enter. One appears every three to ten seconds.”

“They have an effect?”

“Providing they are simple, and these are, yes, they can have an effect. Yesterday we experimented. We sent SPI messages to the screen of a volunteer WPC. She only drinks tea. We told her, buy coffee. This morning in the canteen, she asks for coffee. She immediately realised, didn’t know why she bought coffee and changed it. She was subjected to three hours. If we had hit her for thousands of hours, what of the effect then?”

Sean listened to the quiet draw of his own breath. Trust Zoby in the forest, in the graveyard, your house, your convent.

“Steve, what do I need to look for at Milton Keynes?”

“Computer-wise that’s difficult without raising suspicion. Any person with access could originate these things. Cobbart found us a court order to hack their lines. We’re set up to intercept all e-mail traffic. What we need to discover is who’s using T3, then link them with timed e-mail transmissions. That won’t be easy.”

Victoria packed, choosing clothes to fit her role while trying to convince herself that deceiving Sean would eventually bring good. Minutes before she left for the cover house she phoned Alice Sibree.

“Sean Fagan is closing in rapidly. I suggest we lift the WorkWell programme now, or it may be too late.”

“I require more time. Those above can’t possibly act through official channels. One whiff of this to the media and they’ll descend like savages. Our source inside PKL informs us the rogue components accepting SPI codes remain incomplete. They require three more days. Caswell will then pass the flash drives containing these components to Wileman. In turn his trusted technos then need to incorporate them into the WorkWell application before any SPI message from either him or us will be accepted. Delay Fagan.”

“Alice, when the time comes, Fagan will go in like a sledgehammer and nothing I do or say will stop him.”

“Then work on Caswell. You must get close to him, close as you can in the time available. If possible, steal a copy of the WorkWell files without anyone realising.”

“And just how do I manage that, Alice?”

“Use your cunning and your charms, my dear. You’re very good at it. It’s why I picked you.” She hung up.

Thank you Alice, Victoria thought. This was probably what the Witch wanted all along, to steal, off-record illicit research that could never be placed on record. But for whom, a government agency? Certainly not one that was making its self known.

Sean watched from the living room as Victoria’s BMW pulled into the drive. He went to greet her and help with the case. She was dressed in a fitted blouse and tight trousers, her hair tidied by an Alice band. She looked the exact part of Mrs Publican, turned Mrs Wealthy Suburbia.

“It was the show house,” he said, carrying the case upstairs. “Fully furnished, Cobbart has leased it for three months though I doubt we’ll need it a week.” He pushed open a door and placed the case inside. “Master bedroom. What do you think?” He indicated the made up bed.

Victoria placed a briefcase on the dressing table and folded her arms. He watched a half smile appear. “I hope it’s comfortable for you, but I won’t be sleeping here tonight. Mrs Fagan resides, but only sleeps with Mr Fagan when the enemy watches. And that won’t be ’til after we visit PKL headquarters.”

“How one must suffer for duty.” He shrugged as she brushed aside his hopes.

“Any news from Ireland?” she asked, opening the case to place bottles on the side and hang clothes in the cupboard.

“Haggarty phoned. Items found in the burnt out Mercedes held evidence of Katherine’s blood. Looks like Zoby is getting over confident and careless. The car was stolen from a golf club previous day. The thief made a pretence of booking lessons, fortunately on that first visit security cameras got the licence plate of a hire car from Dublin airport. Forensics commandeered and took the car apart. They found traces of Katherine’s blood on a seat. Hire details give a British driving licence, one Jez Darley. They checked hotels. One Brit did a runner without booking out, but they have a credit card swipe in the name of a Martin Bradshaw. Haggarty faxed details to the office. Heidi’s is checking for addresses.”

“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.