The Unseen (9 page)

She shook her head again. “Did you ever stop to think why I left the police, why I’m so angry? When Creech shut me down, the analysis results were still away. For reasons unknown, the system took eight weeks to complete tests. I assume because it would have proved Edward Mears’ innocence and Creech a fraud. They never got to the National Crime Facility and I only made the comparison once in MI5. Sarah Finch also matches. That shows interference or incompetence beyond belief.”

“You rifled police files?” he asked. “Without authorisation?”

A twist of smile appeared. “MI5 is part of the Secret Service, you know. And I enjoy that kind of thing.”

“We have a serial killer.”

“We have a number one juice-head, and I want him, Sean. That’s why I’m here, and I’ll do anything to get him. I want him for Lizzie, for Helen, for Sarah. I want to stop him before he kills again. And I want revenge for the disgust of all women who fear and wonder how this happens in our society.”

At 6 p.m. Mark parked his moped outside Cindy Bradshaw’s home which occupied the ground and basement floors of a converted Victorian house in Lambeth. Pretending to be confused, he went first to the basement entrance beneath the canopy of the building’s main steps and found it reasonably hidden from the pavement. The door was heavy and contained three deadlocks, one above the other. Mark tapped the frame. It was modern, relatively new and made of softwood. He thought Mr and Mrs Bradshaw sure seemed concerned no-one entered their neat little home; but Mr and Mrs Bradshaw had so weakened the doorframe by hollowing out lock-keeps, they made means of entry, just so neat.

“So neat, Cindy baby,” he spoke aloud, and climbed back up steps to the front door. He whistled as he posted in their package from the Travelpath Agency then returned to his moped. He figured they would leave anytime after 0700 hours next day, which gave him plenty of time to pick the place over.

When he burgled the Kennington flat, first rummaging produced only a credit card and a small amount of cash. In disgust he defecated on the bedroom floor, then looked on top of the wardrobe.

“Can’t fool me,” he said, on discovering a passport plus driving licence with photo ID in the name of Jez Darley. He figured it his best find ever. The guy was medium height and compact like himself, round faced with not dissimilar features. Easy to copy. The credit card was six month old but in pristine condition, which probably meant its purpose was to hold a long-term debt at zero rate. A dangerous card to use because it might well be full, but it was handy with the driving licence and passport. He disregarded all else. Photos of the couple showed a plain woman.

“Sexless cow,” he said, looking into her underwear drawer. “You gotta be ‘A’ list to get my interest.”

Switching on their PC he found their passwords on auto-admittance, so read a few emails and got to know them better.

“Can’t hide from me,” he said. “You hide nothing from Zoby.” They weren’t married. She was Sue Raybert, her friends called her Bunny, a lawyer, he discovered. That made her more interesting. He went back to her lingerie drawer, picked out a pair of black lace knickers and pushed them into his pocket. Now he had power over her.

The ride on his moped to Willesden cemetery took forty minutes. He found the cut grass and symmetrically placed headstones gave him a sense of well being, mainly because the ground held his dead mother.

The mailbox had been his own idea. It gave a purpose for her existence and an occasion for him to stand on her grave. The black marble chips, long sullied by grime, held deposits of moisture which allowed the establishment of moss and weed. The grave bore no headstone, no identification of its occupant, just a small, inconspicuous disturbance of the surface, as if some animal had buried its faeces, or some hand clawed from beneath.

Mark whistled as he scraped away the chippings and extracted a sealed, waterproof wallet. He weighed it in his hand, rubbed fingers over the thick wad and nodded satisfaction. The Colonel could always be relied on. He had hidden once, waiting for the Colonel to arrive. When he did, he knew it was Crystal masquerading as the Colonel. It did not matter, so long as he received his money. He had watched Crystal without being seen and followed him to the tube station. He disliked Crystal, the man was not built like a soldier and Mark much preferred the Colonel, except the Colonel never came. Perhaps one day they would meet, soldier to soldier.

Inside the wallet he found one thousand pounds in twenty pound notes, full details of his mission, plus photos and ID of his target. A nun; his first. The adrenalin rush was instant, his prick became rock hard. He felt elated. The white cloth of her wimple enhanced her face to give an unblemished and simplistic beauty. He couldn’t wait to find what lay beneath, what goodies would be his as he consumed her purity. Between Sister Katherine and Cindy, August looked like being a good month. Mark began to whistle and felt the sun was shining on his day. OK, time to go to business, he thought, time to organise itinerary, the logistics and acquisitions. He pocketed the wallet and removed his mobile. Walking back to the cemetery gates he dialled Travelpath. Stratton, his boss, would be dealing with after-hours customers, people on the way between work and station, pavement cattle looking for escape. Stratton was on the line within thirty seconds of connection. Mark knew he’d oblige. Mark was his best salesman and sold more holidays than the rest together.

“Bad news, Mr Stratton. I just visited my mother. She’s has a serious condition. The doctors say it’s irreversible.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mark.” He listened to the man’s pause, his indecision. “Will you be working tomorrow?”

“’Fraid not, Mr Stratton, it may be four, five days. Cancer is like that. You never know where you are.” Again the pause.

“You must do what is best. We’re very busy, I have to go. Call me when you’re free.”

“Thank you, Mr Stratton, I knew you’d understand.” Mark hung up. Stupid arsehole, he thought. Then the man was gone and Sister Katherine entered his head instead. He tried to image her naked, pristine and untouched. He began to whistle again and found a spring in his step.

Mark divided his flat between operational and living quarters. Communications and combat room lay on one side, the kitchen, his bed and trophy room the other. In the combat room he stored various equipment including a Samurai sword. He practised daily but had used it only once operationally, to behead Helen Carter. Discovering the keenness of its blade, the sudden and awesome consequence of its use had been stunning.

He recalled every detail. Sweat soaked his naked torso as he stared down at her, knowing after three days and two nights of interrogation he had her compliant. Face to the floor, her wrists tied to her neck then hobbled to her knees, she could not lift or move other than to crawl butt up. He removed her gag.

“One sound and I will whip your arse ’til raw. You want out of this then you better be totally obedient. Understand?”

“Yes.” He heard her whine, heard the gargled shiver of her voice before she lapped water from a bowl. It was then she had urinated, destroying what he saw as the perfect ambiance of her submission.

“You bitch, that’s against military regulations. For that you’ll suffer.” He replaced the gag, muffling protest as he velcroed the straps behind. He pulled up her head by the hair. “A good whipping, I think.” He removed his belt, dangling it before her. “Lesbian, ha. But now you know a real man I guess you think different.”

“Nummhh,” she begged and shook her head, eyes wet and wide.

“And if you make one sound, I’ll use this.” He picked up his sword. In the Victorian flat amidst the leafy suburban streets how he had loved the way her body trembled, the shiver of her skin, the total hysteria of her muffled pleadings. He had not planned to kill her, but kneeling at that moment she looked so vulnerable, so perfectly placed. The movement came before he realised. The sword severed her neck in one clean and precise strike so that the body sagged while still retaining its kneeling position. The head rolling sideways onto the blood sprayed carpet, its eyes and mouth open.

The Colonel loved his home movie and gave Mark a bonus of two thousand pounds. Mark cut off her ears as a keepsake and put them in his trophy room.

Combat training lasted an hour. Then dressed in fatigues, Mark cooked hash browns and beans before switching on his computer. Whistling, he downloaded the latest interactive games Crystal had emailed and spent the next six hours fighting Princess Kay-ling. By means he didn’t understand, Crystal had given Kay-ling Katherine’s face. At 0200 hours, he had beaten her to submission. His reward was her total capitulation. He felt good then, his body lathered in sweat. Mission completed, combat proficiently proven.

“OK, bitch. Time to pay the price of failure,” he said and clicked the reward button.

Crystal’s computer-generated animations were the best, totally different from those in the regular game. So lifelike was the presentation of his victim that Mark sensed her terror, begging for his mercy before he killed her. It felt good, but now for some reason he wanted to kill Sister Katherine for real. Her image came constantly to his mind, a perfect female face combined with the aura of virginity. When he slept that night he dreamed of her. The Colonel’s instructions were explicit. Operation Clean Cut would commence 0500 hours the following morning. Mark loved that name, Clean Cut. So neat.

“Do you ever surf the Internet?” Katherine asked, her mind burdened with secrets. She pulled her legs onto the single bed and leant back against the wall. Teresa sat at the small worktable, absently doodling on a pad. She was plump, her face round and her smile radiant.

“Of course, for research,” Teresa said.

“I mean, looking for other things?”

“We’re not allowed to.”

“I know, but do you?”

Teresa shrugged, her bright cherry lips pouting to a rose. “Sometimes,” she said finally.

“I do, every evening.”

“I know web addresses for sex sites.” Teresa dropped the pen and swivelled ready for telling. “By accident, of course,” she added.

“Of course.” Katherine smiled and giggled with her. She swivelled her body, leant forward, their heads close. “Not sex, computer games,” she whispered.

“I’ve never played,” Teresa also whispered.

“I’m Southern Ireland champion, I’ve won first prize in the Kay-ling finals; money.” Her breath felt short as she sighed with the relief of confession.

Teresa stared back, her mouth open. “How much?”

“Two thousand euros.”

“What will you tell the Sisters? They might expel you.”

“I’m telling no-one, no-one but you. I’ve wangled treatment for my hand this weekend, in Dublin. I’ll collect the prize and give it straight to my parents. They’ve spent so much on me. The Sisters need never find out.”

“You’re a sly one.” Teresa took her hands. “And me thinking you were Holy Jo herself. You’re so daring.”

“I arranged it with Crystal. I meet Zoby this Saturday at Trinity College in Dublin, and if I take my old files they will give me new ones. I downloaded final instructions this evening in the library. I’ll play them tonight.”

“How?”

Katherine pulled her bag from under the bed and lifted out the games-console. “Don’t tell, please.”

“Never. How’s it work?”

“Best in the dark. I use headphones for the sound. This game, Princess Kay-ling, it’s all loaded on flash drive. It’s complicated so I’ll show you when I come back. I have it set up now, ready for tonight.”

“I can’t wait to have a go.”

“Don’t tell, promise?” she repeated.

“Cross my heart.” Teresa leant close, her voice hardly audible. “I have a satin suspender belt and stockings, I wore them last Sunday to Mass.”

“You minx.” Both giggled their voices half-choked with gasps of suppressed snorts.

An hour later Katherine drew the curtains and fitted her headphones. Crouched beneath bedclothes, she viewed the play-screen and moved hips with the strutting sway of Princess Kay-ling. When she switched off two hours later, her mind held conviction she must meet Zoby near the inner entrance of Trinity College, 11 a.m. Saturday. She needed to wear something yellow and take all her old files. She had never felt such exhilaration and confidence. She could trust Zoby, Crystal said so.

In his warehouse office, Sean sweated hours over the Poor Girl file becoming more and more certain. He wanted this guy, wanted him in a box or a cell. He began to understand Victoria’s emotional involvement. She had been hunting a human misfit who viewed women as objects for his sadistic gratification. Sean channelled his own anger. It was a professional necessity. While Victoria investigated the London murders, he knew she would have done the same, but forced to turn away, her anger had now become raw and deep. Even worse, it had become personal.