The Unseen (29 page)

“Who created Zoby?”

He looked at her, his eyes momentarily dark, she felt the hair on her neck prickling, felt the goose bumps rise on her arms.

“We all created Zoby,” he said. “Cute, isn’t he?”

She uncrossed her legs and stood. “I’ll read through your share offer and meet you tomorrow, Mr Caswell.”

Caswell stood also and Victoria read indecision in his eyes. Would he make an advance and possibly jeopardise his sale? She swallowed on her sense of apprehension. To rebuff him completely and make a scene would ruin further undercover surveillance. She felt the lounge chair behind her legs as he took a step forward and raised his hands, possibly to make a point, possibly to intimidate. Was this the man who ordered Zoby to cut up women? If he thought she was police he would not be jeopardising himself, surely? Her cover was safe, but was she? She stood her ground and looked him in the eyes as she felt his fingers close over one breast. She had deliberately left herself open, offering herself as bait. She daren’t show weakness.

“My husband will be home at any moment,” she said, annoyed at the tremor in her voice. “When he’s been drinking, his behaviour can sometimes be abusive. I’ll be at your office at 11 a.m. tomorrow.”

He moved his hands. “I look forward to it.”

Victoria folded her arms in defensive protection, but her apprehension remained. This guy was money motivated, sex should have been secondary, yet he endangered their transaction just to fondle her breast. Something was not right.

“Don’t take offence that I touched you, please. I appreciate beautiful things.” He smiled. “And you are beautiful, Vicky.”

“Flattery, Mr Caswell, is pleasing but don’t pick up bad habits from Mr Snibbard. For the moment let’s keep our business in hard cash.”

“Message received.” He turned towards the hall and Victoria followed, trying to cover the inexplicable fear that continued to coil in her stomach. She shook his hand before closing the door and for moments rested her forehead against the wood, listening to the sound of his car move away. Back in the kitchen she retrieved her wine glass pretending the tremor in her hand did not exist, realising she had fooled herself over her ability to ignore the phobia of all women, rape. She knew then that faced with reality, she had felt as vulnerable as any female hunted simply for her sex. For two days she had flaunted money and possible availability. But would he really have behaved that way with a million pounds at stake? Maybe she had been too blatant in her portrayal, or maybe she was seeing the first insight into Crystal’s mind. Perhaps he knew she hunted him and was challenging her to back down or face him. Perhaps Alice was right, Zoby was closer than she realised.

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 what 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.