The Unseen (44 page)

Sean searched his eyes, the troll was in residence. “Caswell orchestrated and controlled everything. Even his carefully planned exit.”

“During your family’s abduction, Caswell was voluntarily assisting police with their enquiries. The CID were impressed by his concern, particularly at the devastating misuse of PKL research by Faulkner and Snibbard.”

“That’s bollocks and you know it. The Home Office wanted the SPI research and they’ve got it. What they didn’t want was Caswell in court talking about it. Caswell’s real name is Harry Woods. The Witch knew and let him go. If you check the passenger lists, you’ll find that sometime while we were searching, one Harry Woods flew out of Heathrow. Victoria told me.”

“If Caswell ever did control Zoby, then he had lost that control. The recordings of your phone proves it. He could not have helped you, Sean.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Who will ever know? But I do know, that in letting him go, an evil has been let loose on this world. Caswell used SPI over the Internet to induce a psychopath to murder selected people. He used SPI to encourage those victims to their place of execution.”

“Say that in court, Sean.”

“But it happened. Caswell influenced investors to part with millions. Spread subtly, the power of SPI is immense. What if a paedophile used it? Get into a stranger’s car, little girl, take sweeties, little girl. Walk in the woods, big girl, like Sarah Finch, like Lizzie Sinclair, like a helpless nun.”

“Subjective science fiction. We all know it’s possible, but how do we prove it? Even if we knew for certain he was guilty, and we don’t, we have to produce evidence.”

“Morrison Hotels. Kids go from all over the country. What he could have done mentally to those kids is horrifying.”

Cobbart shook her head. “All hard drives at those hotels show only the regular PKL Games. Our high-tech unit have checked. There are no subliminal suggestions and certainly no chance of prosecution.”

Sean heard the departure of counsellors and psychologists, heard Camilla gushing her patronising thanks. He poured more whisky.

“What of Milton Keynes? There has to be something there.”

“There is no evidence of SPI. Steve Rawlings has been through the lot. The new PKL games were all clean. We’ve interviewed every staff member. All were aware of SPI but research was to protect the WorkWell programme against an SPI virus. True, that defence does have the potential for abuse by those who control a trusted file. Accepted as official, the SPI can pass anti-virus software and hide in the operating system. It is untraceable, does no apparent damage, can be sent, altered or deleted at any time. PKL is a legitimate research company engaged in controversial work, but there is no proof they broke the law. Neither is there proof that Caswell contaminated the WorkWell programme. There are no master files, only hearsay.”

“You telling me we have nothing?” Sean hit the table, causing Cobbart to sit back. “What do I have to do? Give my resignation, go over there myself and put a bullet in Caswell’s head? This man is setting himself up as a mass murderer, yet money and bureaucracy allows him to remain free.”

Cobbart raised his hand. “It’s been a long day, Sean. But we can still only look at the evidence.”

“What about my girls? They were influenced to trust a killer.”

“Caswell was in custody at the time of their abduction. Zoby was operating alone and independently.”

“Whose side you on, John?” Sean gulped his whisky. “You issued an arrest warrant on evidence of a witness statement.”

“Against my better judgement, on a wild hope it would help your family. Viewed rationally, it’s only an uncorroborated statement collected by a drunk from a rent boy.” Cobbart shook his head. “There are occasions in policing when no matter what you feel, you can only consider what is possible and what is not. What will bring a conviction and what will not. Snibbard, Faulkner and Harrison were our killers. Caswell is not on the list. It’s hard, but that is fact.”

“You disregard everything I told you.” Sean took a deep breath, restraining his anger.

“I didn’t say that. Politics and policing have always been unethical traders.” The troll smile flashed briefly, then Cobbart’s face became shallow. “Caswell has what others want. In result, he’s gone. If it’s any consolation, I have it on good information that the Home Office did not receive what they expected. Someone cheated them.”

“Caswell will find other Zobys, he’ll kill more women,” Sean said. “Will the unseen faces live with that?”

Cobbart spread his hands and for the first time looked troubled. “I understand your feelings. Your daughters were abducted. But don’t destroy yourself. Let others deal with him. For you the case is closed.”

“Not for me. Not ’til Caswell is put away. I will not turn my back.”

“You’re tired Sean, think carefully before you act.”

When Cobbart left, Sean heard him talk briefly with the duty patrolman outside, then silence, followed by car engines and the measured pacing of the patrolman. Sean reached for his phone and dialled Cricklewood. Diane picked up. Her words were boisterous.

“It’s the boss,” she shouted. “Come over, boss. We’ve having a party. Everyone’s so relieved for your girls. Give them a kiss from Blue and Red Teams.”

He listened to background voices, cheered by alcohol. “You did a great job, all of you,” he said.

“Come over. Celebration time. We won, we won!”

“Did we? Give everyone my thanks.” He replaced the receiver and buried his face in his hands.

Danielle sat at the kitchen table wearing a loose towelling robe, a glass of untouched wine before her. Sean put his whiskey down and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Where are the girls?”

“Tucked in bed with their mother. It is good they are close.”

“How about you?”

She squeezed his hand. “Hours ago I fought on this table trying to stop the violation of my body. Now for some, it is a safe, family home again. But for me, never. I have been shown an existence amongst us so dark it suffocates life. To know it is there destroys all confidence, all trust. To know that any woman can be hunted simply for her sex reduces her to an animal existence. That is so hard. How I weep for what it has done to your girls.”

Sean closed his eyes. Her loss of faith, her loss of belief in the world gave him cold determination. How many years before his daughters recovered? If ever. Caswell would not escape.

“You’re a strong lady. Your world, my daughters’ world, it will return, I promise. It is also why I must continue.”

Danielle stood, tears glistening on her cheeks. “You must find yourself a good woman, then I go back to France.” She left quickly, heading for her room.

Sean returned to his study and switched on the computer. Numbers flickered over the screen, the computer box gently thumping its way through start-up. Images, icons and system codes rattled before him. He saw only Victoria, her ivory skin shimmering like a ghostly spectre from the darkness. “A good woman,” he repeated.

His hand rested on the telephone. What he wanted most was to be in her bed, in her arms, in her body. He was drunk, he knew it, drunk, maudlin and stupid. The screen settled and a metallic female voice welcomed him to Starways Processing Systems. Every software package showed a Starways icon.

“You won’t get away.” He pointed to the screen. “You made me a victim. But your world doesn’t frighten me. I can also kill, and I’m coming after you.”

He lifted his glass, drained the contents and crossed the silent hall. He dropped heavily onto the living room couch, lay there, pushing off his shoes, one against the other. From outside came the click of a lighter – the patrolman, puffing on his cigarette. When Sean closed his eyes, Victoria reappeared and stayed in his mind as he drifted in turbulent dreams.

Richard felt it imperative to have Stella’s trust. Unrestricted access to the master files would only come if Wileman believed in him via Stella. Pretending dedication to Wileman’s orders, he examined in detail the contents of the file she had provided, only stopping for meals and to sip orange juice.

“What’s your reaction?” she asked after several hours.

“Interesting,” he said, unsure how deathly boredom could be given praise. “It has a lot of graphics. Are they necessary?”

“Yes. I wrote the programme,” she said. “It’s part of my thesis. Would you trust me to write something for you?”

“I trust you,” he said, without thinking.

“Good.” She smiled. “Then if you trust me maybe you would like to see another?” She passed him a flash drive. “Mr Wileman said you should take notes, he wants your opinion. So do I. The moving graphics and figures are for a reason.”

“Do you want a complete analysis?”

“The sooner it’s done, the sooner you have a pocketful of money. Trust me, Richard, Mr Wileman does.”

When they touched down at Logan International Airport in Boston, he watched Stella bracing herself in the seat, her eyes tightly shut until the 747 ran smoothly along the runway.

She smiled for him and pushed the spectacles up on her nose. “A car is waiting,” she said. “It’s a three hour drive to the house, but don’t worry. I have more files to pass the time.”

“Thank you, Stella, that’s most considerate of you. Perhaps when we arrive we can get straight down to putting my SPI on to WorkWell ready for incorporation into your system? You don’t have to get involved, I can do it myself.”

“Sure.” She glanced sideways. “If you want to burn your butt, it’s fine by me.”

“It’ll take most of the night. You can sleep, this is my baby.”

“We’ll see.”

He smiled and watched the tight set of her lips. During the night he would recopy the master file and hide it off the Beach House premise. Wileman would never know.

The man mountain who had claimed Richard’s seat on the aircraft followed them out of the terminal building, his face still blanked by dark glasses, his body dapper in the long leather coat. Stella called someone on her mobile and ten minutes later a silver Mercedes 500 was delivered to passenger pick-up.

Stella drove in concentrated silence and soon had them on the freeway, heading north. Richard chose to sit in the back, ostensibly to concentrate on the software programme he analysed, but in reality to fall asleep, which he did after an hour. He awoke when they stopped outside the house in Casco Bay.

Stella opened the car door for him and smiled. He felt safe. You could trust Stella.

“The computer facilities are down in the Beach House,” she said. “You want to work the night, you can.” She hoisted the laptop bag onto her shoulder. Richard followed as she walked, watching the quivering strut of her stride beneath the tight skirt. The main house was in darkness save for outside lights. Around the back and passed the pool, strings of lanterns lit the path leading towards the turbulent Atlantic. The way ran over rock then descended towards trees that quickly isolated them from civilisation. It seemed longer than he remembered, but up ahead he heard the pounding of waves followed by the suck of surf over beach. Guided by lights strung between poles, he kept his concentration on Stella and the sway of her hips. She kept a good stride but slowed when they came to the last cluster of pine trees. He watched as she bent momentarily and retrieved something from the bench, the same place where Oscar Wileman had sat contemplating the ocean and his pet cemetery. Then she turned back to him.

“Something wrong?” he asked

“No, Mr Caswell, I’m very positive. I’ve been given this opportunity by Mr Wileman to show my ultimate commitment. He’s a hard taskmaster, but he’s fair. You were chosen because greed motivated your success and drove you to experiment on the public in a manner no reputable company would dare. In a reputable company, staff may have spoken to the press, but you kept everything secret because you wanted it all for yourself. You see, he knew you would try to double-cross him. He knew you had those women killed so he would dissociate himself in case of legal connection. But unluckily for you, his dissociation is in sending me to collect the SPI files, allowing me revenge for you raping me.”

“We’re alone here, Stella. That’s not good for you.”

“Not quite alone, Mr Caswell.” She beckoned and the man mountain stepped from the trees, a shovel over one shoulder. Richard saw the white of his smile and the reflection of light on gold. “Mr Wileman promised you sanctuary, deep and permanent sanctuary. He’s a man of his word and I’m here to help,” Stella said.