The Unseen (7 page)

“That’s so neat, thank you, Mark.”

He watched her smile. When the time came he knew she would submit, they all did. She waved and headed for the bank, merging with the crowd who entered the glass and marble hall. Smart, snappy people with money and ambition, Mark knew he could take them all. He had reached grade ten of Killing Field. Mark reached grade ten on all the video games Crystal sent him. Mark knew he was top-dog, and wouldn’t Cindy know it soon. But first, he had his mission.

Sean climbed the stairs in an unmarked warehouse off Cricklewood Broadway. The building had almost become a second home throughout the Back Door operation. The Serious Organised Crime Agency fronted it as a pharmaceutical sales company; the neighbours believed it. When Sean entered the central office, DC Heidi Greenshaw, the administrator for Blue and Red Teams, sat tapping computer keys.

“Hi, boss.” She looked up at him, her plump little face cherub and pretty.

“Where is everyone?” He indicated the empty room.

“All beavering some place.”

Sean checked his watch. “Call them. I have something real nasty. First briefing at 1700 hours. I want everyone here.”

Sean entered his cramped office at the back of the unit and threw the two files for Operation Poor Girl on his desk. Letters and memos were stacked neatly to one side by Heidi. Sean sat and opened the top file. The photo showed the mutilated corpse of a once beautiful woman. He visualised the blank face of a spectre in darkness and weariness was replaced by determination. He had a target; a person who shouldn’t be on this earth.

Sean gave full concentration to the tragic demise of both women, each attractive, intelligent and ambitious, each forced to a degrading and violent death. Sinclair’s obsession for justice became understandable, as did his frustration over the lack of police co-ordination. Sean observed an absence of notes leading to the days before Sinclair’s death. Notes missing, or never made. Periodically he heard the comings and goings of Red Team who occupied the same building, the starting crank of motorbikes, car tyres squeaking over concrete in the shared vehicle pool below, the occasional laugh, blasphemy, chirping ring of numerous mobiles. Twice he phoned the contact number for Victoria Lawless, both times finding her unavailable. The second time he left words on her voicemail. Whatever his own incoming messages, Heidi deemed them unimportant because she left him in peace. When he entered the Ops room at 1700 hours, the whole of Blue Team waited expectantly. He carried with him copied files of Sinclair’s suicide and the two murders comprising Operation Poor Girl. Inside he felt totally focused. Cobbart had given him a specimen that made the assassins from his other operation look saintly.

“In case you were feeling overworked, the troll has landed us with a possible suicide and two murders.”

“We don’t do murders,” the voice came from Detective Constable Sims. With choir boy looks and cheeky eyes he would have passed in school uniform as much as in his seriously casual clothes.

“For the record, we’re searching links to organised crime and the possible involvement of an imported hit-man.” Sean looked to the corner where Sims sprawled in his chair. “Off the record, it’s a favour for the Old Boys’ Club. They want to reactivate the files independently of CID, more pointedly, independent of the Creech mob in East London. After reading current information, my mind is open, but off the record, we have a gut-ripping serial killer.”

Sean glanced to the faces of the nine men and women comprising Blue Team. Some wore jeans, some were booted and suited.

“Can we assume Poor Girl and the Back Door enquiry are linked?” DS Diane Sutton spoke from the rear, arms folded over a full bust, her body heading past its best.

“Yes. John Cobbart is crusading for his old friend Sinclair. Cobbart was Godfather to his daughter. In that respect he’ll give all the help he can but funds are tight so any time given needs positive results. We give Poor Girl priority for three full days, then after we’ve gathered initial facts, you’ll only come in when needed. I’ll do the rest. We begin with Sammy Sinclair’s suicide. It’s nothing to do with organised crime, least not on the surface. So no-one say it, just do it.”

“I thought he was a piss-head,” Ali Hussein said.

“One of the murder victims was his daughter. She also died in Stoke Newington. In fact, father and daughter died within a hundred metres.”

“That’s Charlie Creech’s manor again. He ain’t gonna like us.” Jan Rice stretched her long legs. Lean and small busted, with a boyish ambiance, Sean figured maybe she and Danielle had something in common.

“Consider him the enemy. Sinclair publicly accused Creech of incompetence. Probably for that reason, on Sinclair’s demise, Creech sent only one junior DC to investigate the scene. Maybe the lad picked up everything, maybe not. Ali, Bob, I want you to find out.” Sean moved across the room and handed a file to Bob Howells. “Sinclair believed there was a link between the two murders, also that this killer operated under external orders. If so, it’s organised crime in our back yard. Unfortunately, he gave no reason and some of Sinclair’s papers are missing. If we can prove Sinclair’s death was the result of defenestration, we have ourselves a case. Bob, Ali, try and find out. ”

“What if Creech blocks us?” Ali asked.

“Go behind his back, use the crime report information system at Bramshill. Get an excuse to interview the DC. We’re the Serious Organised Crime Agency, Charlie Creech is an outdated head-banger lost in a 60s TV script. OK, first case Helen Carter. You may have heard of her, TV presenter and journalist, mainly on high tech and new innovations. Again she had all the attributes of Lizzie, looks, personality, yet also a private person. She was a declared lesbian who welcomed and received full media attention because of it. Jan,” he walked over, holding out the file. “I’m not being sexist, but you’re the best informed to have insight into her mind.”

“Thanks, boss.” She raised her eyes and took the file. “Always knew dykes had a use.”

“More than that. When you prove Charlie Creech wrong, your knee in his bollocks will be twice as painful.”

“That’s bribery.” She grinned and opened the file on a picture. “Fucking hell.” She slammed the cover closed. “What bastard did that?”

“The person we search for.” Sean looked to the room. “Helen Carter was stripped, tied and whipped, repeatedly raped, then finally beheaded while kneeling on the floor of her own living room. Both ears were cut off. Her ordeal lasted three days. Chad,” he looked to the West Indian. “You work with Jan.”

“Pleasure, boss.” The velvet roll of his voice passed on an audible smile. “I just love to cuddle with Jan.”

“I have a good reason to choose you, Chad. Helen Carter was of mixed race. Her mother is from Trinidad and stayed her closest confidante. From the report, the lady doesn’t take kindly to white policeman.”

“No problem, boss. Little black ladies are my speciality.” Chad’s grin widened. “Hey, Jan. This time we smoke your fags.”

“This time you keep your hands off my butt.”

“Enough,” Sean cut in. “I’ll look into Sinclair’s daughter Lizzie myself. But for general information this is the brief. Another quiet academic girl, close to gaining her doctorate in Information Technology. Her murder took place in Abney Park Cemetery, Stoke Newington. Again, turf belonging to Charlie Creech. For those who don’t know, Abney Park is an overgrown Victorian shambles favoured by foxes, rabbits, winos and the dead. What Lizzie was doing there, nobody knows. She lived in Hampstead. June eleventh last summer she was stripped, raped then cut up over a tombstone. The press linked it to devil worship. The investigating DI for both London murders was Victoria Lawless who, some of you may remember, was once a sergeant with SOCA”

“That prissy petal working for Charlie Creech?” Diane said. “I don’t believe it, the girl was political.”

“Going from SOCA back to the Met CID is not easy. She was looking for an opening, he was looking for someone to tread on. She ran both the Carter and Sinclair files, she believed both were murdered by the same man, but was never allowed to finish her investigations. Under media pressure, Creech dragged out a convenient scapegoat, one Edward Mears, a convicted burglar and rapist. The evidence against Mears was purely circumstantial backed by a confession under duress. In her usual, bolshie manner, sweet Victoria resigned in protest. Mears, of course, walked free, but Creech played to the press as the hard-nosed copper let down by a soft judicial system. He made it obvious the killer had been caught and set free. The tabloids loved it. Creech became a celebrity and our gods promoted him to superintendent. He’s now behind a desk but controls his manor like an outdated warlord. Both murders went to the back shelf.”

“What of the beautiful Victoria?” Jan asked. “She’d be spitting venom at Creech. She’s got info we need.”

“Victoria quit the job but got taken by MI5. She’s now a spook with the equivalent rank of DCI. And you’re right, she’s eager to shaft Creech. She’s agreed to help our investigation.”

“More likely wants to run it,” Diane said

“If she’s a spook, she might well have other motives.” Simmy spoke without his usual smile. “She could fuck our security.”

“Leave Victoria to me. If she’s here to play games, I’ll soon find out.”

Victoria Lawless sat in a Spartan room and observed the woman opposite. Alice Sibree had the exterior of a professional bureaucrat, her tailored outfit and bland face able to fit on any committee or board of enquiry. To receive her total concentration was unnerving. Victoria shifted in the chair and uncrossed her legs, wishing she had a worn a longer skirt, hoping the trickle of sweat down her back would not show through her crisp white blouse. She had dressed for smart comfort on a hot day and had bound her thick dark hair into its customary French pleat, knowing the style gave boldness to her small, classical features. She wanted to impress. Alice Sibree did not sweat or wear makeup. A protracted silence hung between them before Victoria spoke again.

“You’re asking me to go beyond the pale.”

“It comes with the job. Occasionally every industry demands its pound of flesh. The Secret Service is no exception. But from past involvement, on this occasion your flesh is the most suitable.”

Victoria sensed a second bead of sweat course down her lower spine. The older woman was asking her to enter a web surrounded by predators. She saw it as a possible compliment to her operational skills, or her use as cannon fodder. “What if their killer strikes again?”

“Leave him to the police. From start the real objective of this operation is deniable. If, as I believe, Starways is involved, its financial, legal and political defence will be formidable. MI5 will not spend resources defending a hopeless position. They will close the door, Victoria, leaving the sacrificial victims outside. That’s you and me. I may be the temple priestess, but my throat will be slit along with yours. Alternatively, with success, the rewards to your career in MI5 could be significant. Your loyalty will not be forgotten. You will be giving to your nation the ability to infiltrate and control without the subject’s knowledge. We can spread a lot of good. Think of the positive directions in which we might guide the inmates of our prison services, our citizens on benefit, our hoodies, our rioters, those who should know better.”

Victoria shifted in her seat. Those who should know better could equally mean the civil service, the security forces, the politicians. She swallowed and stayed silent. “What exactly is the brief?” she asked.

“This operation is to manoeuvre events, minimise police damage and covertly lift the WorkWell research ahead of anyone else. That includes our American cousins, the CIA and the FBI. No doubt they all watch, but I want our finger in the pie first. This is your golden opportunity, my dear.” She smiled but Victoria saw no sincerity.

“I would be directly answerable to you?”

Alice nodded. “Only me.”

“OK,” Victoria said. “But on condition that, if the killer is one of them, I have the right to terminate.”

“Not if he’s the principal player. It might compromise our objective.”

“You would allow another woman murdered?”

“You have a sharp brain, Victoria. Don’t cut yourself on it,” she paused. “As in all nations, those who govern and control our country have an inner sanctum, the Community. That community has much to offer those who go the extra mile. Keep that fiery temper of yours under control and leave vengeance to God. He’s never far away. Your time will come when our objective is secured.”

Victoria re-crossed her legs and felt sweat catch on the back strap of her bra. She suddenly realised if the room did not rate the air-conditioning switched on, no-one had booked the room out. The meeting was off record.