The Unseen (37 page)

Outside Victoria leaned on the balcony, her arms folded. Sean leant beside her and allowed a moment of silence to establish peace.

“If it makes you feel better, they’ve found e-mail between Snibbard, Faulkner and Harrison,” he said.

“When will you believe me?”

“When I’m proved wrong. I can guarantee Zoby’s computer is awash with SPI. Little suggestions like kill, rape, stab.”

“I don’t believe SPI could make someone kill.”

“Neither do I, but it could tip a psycho already halfway there and it could also direct him towards victims without him knowing why.”

“You think Caswell did that?”

“Greed is a great motivator and someone using SPI on the commercial markets could make a lot of money.”

“Speculating again.”

“I’ve an open mind.”

She turned, leaning her back to face him. “Was it open this morning when you spoke to me over the telephone?”

“So, what’s your reaction?”

No smile, but a softening of the eyes. “Why don’t you trust me? Love and trust go together.”

“In a perfect world.” He pushed off the rail. “But the world is not perfect. You coming?”

“So, I’m still part of the team?”

“I like you where I can watch you.”

Sean clambered up the stairs to the warehouse office. New desks, equipment and people were everywhere. Centre stage John Cobbart lorded over the activity in a crumpled pinstriped suit, glasses perched, his finger pointing as he gave orders. Sean was glad to see him. He needed muscle that would open doors.

“Getting juicer by the hour,” Cobbart said, as Sean approached. “Well done, Sean. You’ll get chief inspector out of this.”

“I need Caswell for an in-depth interview, John. Although Victoria disagrees, I think Caswell is central to all this.”

“At the moment, he’s hailed a hero. That makes him untouchable. If you want him, Sean, you’ll have to produce substantial and irrefutable evidence.”

“Evidence at present is zero,” Victoria said, folding her arms. “Snibbard, is responsible for murder and according to your own men out at Milton Keynes, Faulkner is responsible for Zoby. Be that Harrison or Snibbard, or both. Caswell is a victim in this.”

“Until we get Harrison. He’s the key to Crystal, the Colonel. Harrison is the connecting factor.”

“Steve’s lifted dozens of e-mails from Harrison’s computer,” Heidi said over his shoulder. “Want me to print them off?”

“Cheers, Heidi.” Sean raised his thumb for her. “How do we keep Caswell in custody?” he asked Cobbart.

“Without substantial reason, we can’t even keep him in the country. But why chase Caswell when the evidence indicates Faulkner and Snibbard?”

“Money, power, twisted lust. But mostly because Snibbard said, “trust Richard”, the same way our female victims trusted Zoby. Snibbard was under the influence of SPI. ”

“Try making that stand up on News Night, never mind in a criminal court.”

Sean accepted the A4 sheet from Heidi. “When I have Zoby,” he said, glancing at what Steve Rawlings had sent him. Then he read more closely. “Jesus, Zoby has my home address. Meter reader. He was there yesterday.” In the following silence Sean felt a pulse in his cheek. Cobbart was staring, eyes full of concern, then detachment. Sean stood helpless until his brain returned from frozen dread.

“Jan,” he grabbed her arm. “Phone Danielle at university, tell her under no circumstances must she go home. Take her to your place, a hotel, anywhere, but not home.”

“Where are your girls?” Victoria asked.

“At boarding school in Buckinghamshire. Their mother picks them up later this afternoon.”

“Sean,” Cobbart’s voice was deadpan “If there is personal involvement, you’re out of it. No ifs or buts.”

“Having my address is not involvement,” Sean said, knowing his argument was already lost.

“Having your address makes you a potential victim.”

“Boss,” Jan was listening to her mobile. “Danielle’s switched off. She’s probably in a lecture. Want me to phone college admin?”

“Yes, but only as a precaution. I don’t want them panicking her.”

Sophie thought Miss Nathan a bit blustery so stayed saintly silent in case the teacher changed her mind.

“I disapprove,” Miss Nathan said, and sniffed. “However, headmistress and your mother consider it acceptable. She picked up your text after landing and phoned from the airport. You may leave at three. Your mother is going home first but will collect you from the Red Lion Hotel between six and six-thirty.”

“Yes, miss.” Sophie spoke in unison with Becky.

“And you stay in school uniform.”

“No, miss.”

“Yes, miss. You wear your uniform in the local town not only with pride, but also as a means of security. Do you have your mobiles?”

“Yes, miss.”

“Leave them switched on, phone Mrs Thrower when your mother arrives. And don’t leave your homework until the last minute.”

“Yes, miss.”

Both girls walked at speed. They had twenty minutes to pack weekend bags and catch the bus.

Sophie thought it better to stay in Becky’s shadow when they entered the Red Lion Hotel’s lobby. Big people were best dealt with by big people. The atmosphere had a comfortable plushness. An elderly couple sat over tea, they smiled and Sophie grinned back. A purse and T-shirt for their mother had been bought in ten minutes. Now they had twenty minutes to spare.

“We’ve arranged to meet someone here at four,” Becky told the receptionist. “OK if we wait?”

The woman was young, plump and bespectacled. She looked down at Sophie, Sophie gave her best grin. The receptionist glanced over to a porter then indicated a window seat. “All right, but quietly please.”

“Can we use the loo?” Sophie asked the question essential to their plan.

“I suppose so.” The receptionist fussed with papers. Sophie followed Becky to the Ladies, watching the porter watching her sister.

Inside both went for separate cubicles. Sophie unzipped her sports bag and began to shed the school uniform. She heard Becky doing the same.

Sophie had brought her best jeans, PKL sweatshirt and new trainers. She changed with record speed, sitting on the lavatory to lace her shoes. She heard Becky head for the washbasins.

Sophie swung the door, Becky was bending forward applying makeup. She wore a white micro skirt and yellow, button through top.

“I can see your knickers,” Sophie said.

“No you can’t!” Her sister tugged the skirt and straightened a little.

“Dad would go ballistic. Where did you get that?”

“From Julie. It’s perfectly decent.” She wriggled herself, stretching the hem to maximum length. It made no difference from Sophie’s viewpoint. Becky’s top was barely buttoned over a new uplift bra. Sophie moved beside her.

“I can see your boobs.”

“Will you shut up?"

“Can I use your lipstick?”

“If you behave.” Becky pushed the makeup bag towards her and went back to applying mascara.

Sophie selected flame red and began to press it over her lips.

“How do I look?” Becky asked.

“Like you’ll catch a cold.”

“You’re such a child.” Becky patted her hair, fluffed it with a comb before preening, smoothing hands over her figure. Sophie did the same, then was forcibly turned to face her sister.

“My God, you look like Dracula.” Becky fished a tissue from her bag. “Bite your lips on that,” she said, offering a folded edge.

Sophie did so, leaving a scarlet imprint. Standing patiently she allowed her sister to dab at the corners, then comb and fluff her hair before spraying her with perfume.

“That’s better,” she said. “Now, if you want a wee, this is the time.”

Sophie hesitated, then ran back to the cubicle. “How long we got?”

“Ten minutes. See you outside.”

Sophie listened to the swing of the door. She always wanted a wee at the last minute, never knew why.

Becky sat staring from the window. Sophie checked her watch for the fourth time in two minutes. Zoby was late. The receptionist glanced across, her eyes questioning. Sophie went over to her.

“He’s late,” she said. “Is it really five past four?”

“Yes, dear. Who’s late?”

“Zoby.”

The receptionist looked to the porter who was watching Becky as she shifted willowy legs.

“You mean Zoby from Princess Kay-ling? You know Zoby from PKL?” The porter asked. “I play the games. Why’s he coming here?”

“We won a prize. Going for a photo session with the princess herself. But it’s probably only an actress, unless she really is true. You think she is?”

“Who knows?” The porter winked, then looked back to Becky. “But if Zoby said he’ll come, he’ll come. You can trust Zoby.”

“He’s here!” Becky sprung from the window, smoothed her skirt and patted her hair. A long silver bonnet drew up outside.

Zoby was all Sophie had imagined, handsome, muscular, perfectly tailored. Better than a pop star.

He looked to Sophie in her PKL sweatshirt and bowed. “Ladies, I am Zoby, charioteer to Princess Kay-ling. She awaits your pleasure not twenty minutes drive.”

“We have to be back by six sharp,” Becky said. “Our mum’s coming.”

Sophie watched the slightest frown move on Zoby’s face.

“No problem, ladies.” He bowed towards the door.

Everyone was smiling, Sophie waved. “See you later,” she said and followed after Becky. Her stomach was churning, like prize-giving at school.

Zoby played PKL tunes on the sound system, the volume loud enough to deter conversation. He didn’t want stupid questions, he needed concentration to sort out static circling inside his head. He adjusted the rear mirror. Observation for primary assessment was essential. He liked most of what he saw. He thought the alien looked wild-eyed, excited, bopping her head to the music. The older one played Miss Cool. She stared from the window, legs crossed, one hand touching the buttons on her shirt. She sure had nice tits. Couldn’t wait to get his hands on them. After five minutes he cleared the last buildings and headed for open country. He needed them strapped up before the motorway. The lay-by chosen was partially hidden by trees. Not the best spot, he thought. If someone stopped he’d have problems. He didn’t want hostiles nosing, asking why he’d strapped a couple of females, but then he had a heavy bar, good for cracking heads. He hummed quietly to himself as he pulled over.

Only one empty car stood in the lay-by. A little thing, all polished and clean, probably old people out walking. Both girls sat forward, looking around, unsure of the surrounding country, but still eager.

“This it?” the elder one asked.

“Sure is,” Zoby said, taking a sealed chloroform pad from the glove compartment. “Let me open the door so you can get out away from the road side, much safer.” Both girls waited on him. He liked that, no questions, just obedience. He flicked the pad from its bag and held it in the same hand he used to open the door. His right fist coiled, he watched the elder one struggle to stand. He saw all she had, couldn’t help otherwise in a skirt that short. When she finally came out of the car, he smacked the coiled fist hard into her upper midriff, dropping her like a corpse. The alien had slid to the open door waiting for her turn. Now she just sat there, jaw gapping. He rammed the pad into her face, his other hand behind her head. She kicked for a while, twisted, then went still.

Zoby bent down to the elder one who had puked where she knelt, doubled up and clutching her stomach. He yanked her hair back, pushing the pad over her mouth and nose, watching the terror in her eyes until they closed. He liked that, terror, obedience. The mission was looking good. She sure had a nice body.