The Unseen (30 page)

After a while he went upstairs and relaxed under the shower. She made no reply to his knock on her door. The bedside light glowed and she looked up from the pillows with an expression which said she had waited; that this was now their time.

“Let it not be said I don’t reciprocate your favour, Mrs Fagan.”

“Don’t make a habit of it, Mr Fagan.” She threw back the sheet.

“Should I be so lucky?”

“That’s what worries me, you might be.”

Zoby considered the Dobbs sitting room and decided it needed interrogation space. “Gotta have room to swing a sword, stretch a woman or two,” he said out loud. He began to shift furniture, whistling as he worked. He was left with three chairs and a dining table. He placed the three chairs side by side, tying the legs and backs so they formed a bench, that way he could sit the two hostiles with a gap between, or stretch one out over the full length of three seats. He’d done that for a while with the Carter woman. She hadn’t like that, being stretched out while he played with her from behind. She had obeyed real quick after that.

For an hour he practised with his sword, slicing the air where their necks would rise over the chair backs or hang from the seat edge if they were prone. He had plenty rope and belts and found more cord in the garden shed. He imagined one over the chairs, another spread-eagled on the table, her thorax taut, waiting for the blade. He kept imaging them till his mobile buzzed with a text message.

Limo req for lift

Zoby switched on his head radio. “I need target location, Colonel. Two women might need special equipment, have to be prepared.” He heard only static back. “Fucking combat radio.” He smacked his ear. That left him angry. He returned the text message.

Where’s my money?

Crystal messed up. But money safe. Women gorgeous, best yet. Trust me. Col.

Zoby put down the mobile, hit the head radio a second time so it crackled to life. This time he heard the Colonel instantly.

“These bitches are long-limbed and firm-breasted, Zoby. Top quality, hardly used. Self-willed though, need training.”

“Leave it to me, Colonel,” Zoby answered. “You want a limo, we get a limo.”

He texted.
Sending patrol to secure transport.

Zoby felt real neat in the police uniform and figured he would have made a good cop, most likely he’d be undercover, a top detective, catching those shit heads who had fucked up his life. He pulled a dark blue topcoat over the jacket and covered his head with a crash helmet. The police cap he placed in a side pannier. His journey on the moped into central London took an hour and twenty minutes. At 0200 hours he encountered little traffic. He parked up near Hanover Square and swapped helmet for cap. He strolled a little, then hovered in a doorway for covert views of New Bond Street. In the dead of night, traffic remained light with few pedestrians. He wanted a vehicle with single occupancy, a class car, Jaguar, Mercedes, preferably something with a stretched chassis. He watched for ten minutes but saw nothing suitable. When a cruising patrol car turned around the corner, he stepped back into shadow and watched it pass. The two men and one policewoman inside were chatting, passing the night while he worked. When he returned to the light, four girls, clearly drunk, went silent on his sudden appearance. He enjoyed that, power. He felt himself harden and decided to walk. If a cop car had passed it wouldn’t do again for some time. He walked slowly, his hands behind his back, strolling the pavement for thirty minutes until finding the car he wanted, a long wheelbase Jaguar with chauffeur compartment. It was double parked and clearly waiting for a pick up. The driver, a bored Afro, watched Zoby leave the pavement and walk to his window.

“This your car, sir?”

“Just waiting on customers, man.” The driver smiled white teeth, his hair grey.

“Do you mind stepping out of the car, sir.” Zoby checked the road. No one was nearby.

“Listen, man, I’m only waiting. They’re African diplomats. They don’t walk.”

“Out of the car, sir,” Zoby said, and opened the door, sliding an eight-inch length of lead pipe from his pocket.

The driver had one foot out, his head coming up when Zoby struck. He made no sound and his body fell sideways when yanked onto the road. Keys in the ignition started the engine first time. A rear wheel rode over the man’s legs as Zoby drove away. Across Park Lane he turned for Marble Arch. Thirty-five minutes later he was on the A1.

“Zoby to Colonel. Limo secured. One hostile down, no hits taken.”

“Roger that, Zoby. Return to base. Long day tomorrow.”

Zoby switched off his head radio. “A busy day costs money, Colonel.”

Zoby awoke before first light, checked the perimeter boundaries then exercised for two hours. At 0700 hours his mobile beeped with a text message.

Check hotmail, Termination Road. 2 + 1 TQW. ASAP.

“That’s a cyber café job,” he said. “TQW. Top quality women 2 + 1. Hey babe, that’s so neat. I get three of ’em.”

Zoby took the van and left the Jaguar hidden behind the hedges of Hollyoaks. He would have to work on that one and change the number plates. A secure vehicle was essential. Parked in Stevenage town centre, he fed the meter, feeling good and confident. Three women, all he needed now was his money.

Zoby was the first customer at the cyber café. He tapped on keys and downloaded the jpeg file. A girl at the counter looked disapproving when he swore. “A fucking alien.” A child stared out from the picture. It was the same stare as the boy in the hall. He recognised that stare, it went right through him, like she saw into him, saw him hiding deep inside. He hated her, fucking alien bitch. When she was his, he would cut her in half, exhibit her at Tate Modern.

He flicked to the second picture. The same Morrison Hotel lobby, but this time it was hot pussy, young, tender, good tits and a neat figure. She would make up for the alien. He flicked back a picture and examined the younger one in more detail. If she was cute, he’d keep her a day. If she was some whinging brat, then off with her head.

He read the text while printing off the contents.

Mission target. School girls, hostile. Location, foyer of Red Lion Hotel, Dunstable. See map for location. Today, 1600 hours sharp. Approach as Zoby taking both to photo session. Secure and hold captive. Do not harm until ordered. Repeat, do not harm until ordered. Crystal will deliver money personally. Execute him immediately after. Colonel.

Zoby cleaned the driver’s seat of crumbs. He hated to drive a messy limo. Limos were meant to be pristine, clean and smart. They were for rich and important people. He had changed the number plates and filled the tank with sixty pounds of premium petrol. It hurt to spend his own money, he hated spending his own. He wanted cash. He waxed the car exterior with polish found in the boot, shined it like he owned it. He checked and stowed equipment next, ropes, belts, masking tape, clingfilm plus two sealed bags with chloroform soaked pads. He figured that would keep them quiet. The boot was large enough to squeeze two inside. No problem. With hours to spare he plugged laptop to mobile and checked for messages.

Rendezvous confirmed. Targets will be there. All systems go.

No mention of money or the third girl, Zoby thought. Maybe she’ll be with them. Trussing up three at once would be tough, would need a quiet spot. He re-checked his maps. He needed somewhere near the pick-up point, a quiet lane with no-one around. Couple of smacks would quickly quiet them down, chloroform would do the rest. He hoped they wore skirts. He loved wrestling when they wore skirts.

He checked the camera and unsheathed the sword. Braced with legs apart, he cleaved the air above the chair backs in one whistling sweep, wondered if he could behead both with a single swipe. That would be a first, two in one. “So neat.”

In the morning Sean kissed Victoria goodbye before they went their separate ways. He figured they had one, maybe two more nights before returning to their normal lives. If by choice they met after that it might be the start of commitment. Did she want it? He realised now that her loneliness matched his own. Both were vulnerable to the other, both human. He blew out breath and walked to his car.

After driving in a five-mile loop checking no one followed, he headed for St Albans, knowing the war would always be there, circling his life, hammering in his mind, in his face. Always giving an excuse.

Jan greeted him with a chained door then waved him in to the smell of fresh coffee. She looked neat and scrubbed, boyish in tight jeans and polo shirt, girlish with a slight whiff of scent. She led him into the kitchen. There was no sign of Danielle.

“A meter reader came yesterday morning,” Jan said. “He stood in the hall. Something about him unnerved Danielle. The guy was young with long hair and brown eyes.”

Sean considered the possibilities. “Doesn’t fit the description of our burglar.”

“You can’t jump at every shadow, boss. Meter men have to call. Do you want a couple of uniforms outside?”

“If John Cobbart thought for one instant my domestic situation was compromised, I’d be off this case immediately. I have no reason to suspect any threat. The girls are staying the weekend with their mother. It’s just the connection via the agent’s address. I’m responsible for Danielle, so I’m playing safe.”

“Danielle’s real nice. If you want me sitting again tonight, no problem.”

“If you could stay the weekend, at least until I return, I’d appreciate it.” He went quiet as Danielle wondered into the kitchen. She was wrapped in a bathrobe, her hair spiky, her eyes defiant. She folded her arms and looked straight at him.

“Jan says she stays at university with me. But there is no need. In university I have friends, some big men, I am safe. From what? You don’t tell me, but I am safe.”

“She’s right, boss.” Jan cracked an egg. “I’m more use to you on the job than sitting outside a lecture room.”

“What about lunch? When you go out?”

“I stay in canteen. I stay with my friends. Jan and I, tonight we have meal together. That I enjoy, but not at my tutorial. I insist.” She put hands to hips.

Sean recognised French defiance. “A compromise. Jan takes you to uni, picks you up this evening, OK?”

Danielle smiled and nodded. “OK. Jan helps you during the day. You need good women to help, Monsieur, then you catch this man.”

“You sure?”

“Of course, a woman knows.”

Sean passed through the ops room and looked around the activity as nightshift switched with day. Blue and Red Teams were swapping information. Heidi and Diane were busy collating, making sure everyone had a brief. Phones sounded as Sean greeted them. Carole sat near Heidi’s desk, her face pale, her blonde curls newly sprung.

“Nightshift found six Mark Harrisons currently in army service but none with a recent bereavement or relevant address,” she said.

Dead end. He thrust his hand into pockets.

Diane came across and put papers on the desk. “List of suspects is now down to ten. Two high profiles in Birmingham, five in London, three not so interesting.”

“Head of the list?” Sean asked.

“Still Mark Harrison. Mainly because he remains an unknown entity. We have virtually nothing on him. The photofit from the office manager is poor. He doesn’t match our burglar or the description from the clerk at the car hire company in Dublin. Mind, her description is basically worthless. The neighbour’s description is more like the manager’s.”

Sean raised both hands and growled in frustration. “One way or another this guy must be eliminated. Take a police artist and find Cindy Bradshaw,” he told Carole. “Work her ’til you get a portrait she can positively identify. Go to Travelpath, get all Harrison’s colleagues to verify or change for an exact likeness. Then check again with the neighbour. Check the image against CCTV footage on Dublin flight arrivals from the time the car was hired backwards at least three hours. He may have sat around for a couple of hours in order to disrupt any time check. By the end of the day I want Mark Harrison eliminated or busted. Game?”

“I’m rolling, guv.

When Victoria entered the café in Kensington she felt Alice Sibree’s disdainful glare over the crotch-cutting trouser suit Victoria wore for Caswell. The material followed detailed contours like a second skin while the jacket sculptured itself over a platform bra and V-neck sweater. Victoria bought coffee and joined the older woman who sat at a table, her back to the wall and facing the window.