The Unseen E-Book

James McKenna

• Herausgeber: Lone Cloud
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 487

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Next time you switch on your computer are the unseen waiting to enter your mind, or are they already there?DI Fagan investigates the ritual murder of three young women and finds links between victims and a computer game. On examining hard drives from the murder victims PCs, traces of subliminal hypnosis are found enticing victims to remote places where they are killed.When a fourth women is murdered in Ireland Fagan realises he hunts a killer capable of global influence. He also discovers governments both sides of the Atlantic are aware and observing. When his own daughters become involved, nightmare encircles him.Subliminal messaging is illegal. It cannot influence a person against their will but for the undecided or vulnerable it can embed into a mind and influence judgment, i.e. buy certain products, vote for a certain politician, kill your neighbour.

Leseprobe

THE UNSEEN

By James McKenna

THE UNSEEN

First published by AuthorHouse in 2008

This edition reissued by

Lone Cloud Publishing in 2012

Unit 1 Betjeman Close, Cowper Road, Harpenden, Herts AL5 4XH

ISBN-978-0-9569723-4-7

[email protected]

Copyright James McKenna 2012.  All rights reserved

The right of James McKenna to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act

 No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form,

or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. 

Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages

 A clip catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade, or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent

 in any form of binding or cover other than that is which it is published and without similar condition including this condition

being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

Visit lonecloudpublishing or jameswmckenna.co.uk for more books by this author,interviews and comments. 

You can sign up for enewsletters so you always hear first about new releases.

 Other book:

The Uncounted

 Books soon to be released:

Final Justice

Global Raider

wwwcrimefiction-jamesmckenna.co.uk

Thanks to Kevin for his cover design and

Virginia for her hard work and tenacity

CHAPTER 1

Stella had no defence against Caswell’s gaze on her body, nor his predatory thoughts which she sensed creeping through her clothes with invasive lust. Beneath her business smile came an uncharacteristic tremor of nerves. Familiar with appreciative glances, she occasionally encouraged them, but this guy made her feel like meat. This guy stirred fear.

“If you would follow me, Mr Caswell.” She indicated the stone steps and led him from the terrace of Casco Bay Villa towards a rocky headland on the Maine coast. Looking towards the sea and Atlantic swell, she heard his overbearing presence follow her.

“I expected this meeting to take place at Head Office in New York,” Caswell said.

“Head Office is wherever Mr Wileman resides,” she replied over her shoulder, conscious his eyes now devoured the minute quiver of flesh beneath her fitted skirt.

“Does he always have such good looking young women around him? You must be really useful to him, an old boy like that.”

Stella compressed her lips and continued in silence, trying to distract with thoughts of her boyfriend, of the progress on her thesis, trying to lighten her descent so her breasts did not shiver with each footfall on the hard steps.

“I mean, lot of the top guys I mix with got personal assistants resembling dragons beyond their sell-buy date. But you, you got something else, including one peach of an arse with legs stretching way up. I see you’ve no wedding ring. Fancy dinner tonight?”

Stella squared her jaw and wrinkled her nose. “Thank you but I have a previous engagement. And I am not Mr Wileman’s PA, I am researching for my PhD in computer technology.”

“Brains and beauty, now that I like. You ever need a job, come work for me. I got a special position in mind.”

Stella took a turn in the downward path and allowed silence for an answer, her thoughts finding sanctuary amidst the gulls circling on outstretched wings. The sight calmed her annoyance but did little for her uncertainty as to why Wileman had summoned her, why her instructions included escorting Caswell from the villa. She assumed Wileman wanted to learn about her research. After all, he paid for it. The Wileman Foundation had lifted her from childhood poverty, had schooled her, put her through college and university and now paid a salary while she wrote her doctorate thesis. Wileman had opened all the doors, this had to be important, least for her. She didn’t know about the guy screwing her butt. She just wished he was someplace else.

The path turned to an outcrop of trees, then became lost as it wound down to the beach cove and summerhouse. Wileman sat on a bench overlooking a small cemetery with white picket railings. Sea air brushed his wrinkled face while his gaze remained on the distance, as if lost amidst the sounds of surf and gulls.

“Mr Wileman,” Stella called. “The British executive, Richard Caswell. You said to bring him.” She stopped by the bench and pushed strands of loose hair behind one ear. She sensed her face was glowing and her brow moist.

Oscar Wileman looked between them before offering his hand, only then did Caswell remove his eyes from her. Still flushed she gave full attention to her boss, fingers clasped sedately, hoping for something good. Wileman stayed silent for a moment then indicated she sit beside him. Expensive clothes draped his thin body, his spiky hair standing oblivious to the breeze as he examined Richard from behind rimless spectacles.

“Pretty girl, ain’t she?” he said, as if she was not there, his face without animation, his blue eyes bright and cutting.

“Exceptionally so,” Caswell smirked.

“Stella,” Wileman said her. “I’ve asked you here because your future work will have direct influence on Richard’s project.”

“As you wish, Mr Wileman.”

“Oh I do wish, Stella. You’re a bright young lady with a bright future. I have things planned for you.”

Stella felt relief and shuffled her feet. Maybe this was her big opening.

“She has a Masters in flash advertising on computer screens. It’s there for seconds, then gone, not dissimilar from what you do,” Wileman said. “Her brain and body are wasted here, but I like to have intelligent and pretty girls around me. It’s a privilege of wealth.” Wileman turned back to the fenced graveyard. “I bury my animals in this plot. Dogs, cats, a bear, even a llama. Plus a few other creatures. This is my pets’ cemetery.”

“To have kept so many you must love animals, Mr Wileman,” Caswell said, Stella loathing the false smile on his round, chubby face.

“No. I amuse myself by training them. I do so by feeding their ambition and greed. In return they give me obedience. As Stella will give. Because of it she will do whatever it is you intend to ask of her.”

“Mr Wileman, please.” Stella sat up sharp, putting hand to bodice. “I will always follow your wishes, but I’m not sure I understand.”

“It’s simple, Stella. I need your total obedience no matter what I ask. And this assignment will be proof of that obedience. When I picked you and others from the gutter, when I educated you, I did so for a reason, for possession of your soul. And I if I say lie down and roll over, I expect just that. You got a problem, you can leave right now, leave my company and my payroll.”

Stella felt her mouth open as she twisted on the bench, felt her gaze drop, felt fear creep to every fibre of her body.

“I ... I.” Her eyes closed and moments passed.

“Witness, Richard, the control of wealth. Witness and learn. If you want money, Richard, this is your opportunity, but first, like Stella, judge which is more important, morality or ambition.”

Stella stared between the two of them, hating both, hating her inability to leave, her weakness in not speaking out.

“My morality is yours, sir,” Caswell said, his eyes on her breasts.

“Good, because I’m talking about control of America, control of the financial world and all the power that acquires. America’s vast debt and the infighting of politicians over solving it puts this country and, indeed, mankind on the brink of collapse. If you cannot pay the army and the police, you cannot rely on them. The result, chaos, anarchy, a return to the primeval.”

“I’m with you, boss.” Caswell nodded his head and Stella watched his intrusive gaze give way to self-righteousness. “If you have ability to influence the politicians, you have ability to control the people.”

“And make a lot of money.”

“I assume you refer to my work on subliminal psychotic induction,” Caswell said.

“SPI over computer screens directed at the right people could put our country in the direction we require, indeed, we could influence our whole civilisation.”

Caswell curled his fingers into a fist. “Covert control by the unseen. Money, just think of all that money.”

“Which is why I’m closing you down.”

“What?” He stepped back, sagging, his arms splayed.

Stella sat motionless, teeth clenched, trying not to gloat over Caswell’s demise. What game was Wileman playing?

“Such controversial research is highly volatile. Any connection to my company would be disastrous. Your programme is terminated forthwith and you are dismissed from Starways.”

“You’re kidding me? I’ve proved what we can do.” Caswell raised both hands in bewildered question.

Wileman remained looking out to sea, his expression bland. “At this point, Richard, note the extent of my power over your bank account. Then listen to my requirements.” He paused. “You listen too, Stella, because your research is not dissimilar. WorkWell, our new business and office support application, will soon be ready for integration into the Starways operating system. In England you will set up a company and using what Stella sends over, you’ll develop WorkWell so it accepts coded SPI viruses. In other words, install a facility which will interpret certain coded viruses as updates from a source provider.”

“That would corrupt your own software.”

“You misunderstand. What I want you to develop and incorporate into the WorkWell programme is a means whereby a virus from an unknown source, but carrying the right code, is accepted by the software as legitimate. These viruses will lie in a server or PC as a Trojan horse. They will not damage or cause a problem. Their only function is to send subliminal messages to the terminal user whenever there is screen movement. Within two years SPI, subliminal psychotic induction through our WorkWell application, will influence the world, will influence the money markets and politicians. Think of that, Richard.”

“But why England? Why not here, in America?”

“Starways must never be involved. If we were ever accused of experimenting with SPI it might be interpreted as an intention to influence individual or public opinion. The media would slaughter us. That’s why this meeting is private and witnessed only by Stella, who in turn chooses to prove her loyalty and obedience beyond question.”

“But why go to England?”

Stella felt her breath, sharp and short. She swallowed and watched Wileman turn hard eyes on the Englishman before raising a bony finger. “It is illegal to use SPI on the public. If the government found out they would confiscate our research for themselves. They too would like to influence, the Senate and House of Representatives. Perhaps even now they watch us, waiting to intercept and steal our programme and they would use it, Richard, believe me.” He shook his head. “All done while the courts crippled us with a fine of billions. No, security is paramount, that means out of sight and out of mind, somewhere in Britain.”

“Employees would talk.”

“Not if you pick only those who share your morality and ambition. Pay them well, the same way I do Stella, then you’ll have their silent obedience,” he said and squeezed her hand. “You will start a cover company known as PKL. Starways own the rights on two computer games, Princess Kay-ling and Killing Fields. PKL will pick up those rights very cheaply. You’ll infuse both with the SPI research already developed. Over the Internet you can then send SPI out to these games as a virus and use the British population as guinea pigs. As a British firm, you will also be a listed sub-contractor on the WorkWell application. But the sole purpose of your involvement will be to adapt the application to accept SPI which had been developed through the games. For every other appearance your work is to create an SPI firewall provided as an upgrade.”

“For user safety,” Richard added.

“Diplomatically put. But our insertion must be designed so no-one can trace the source. At all times we must remain the unseen.”

“Starways will fund the whole operation?”

“Starways will have no involvement. Your set up funding is in place via Russian contacts. Thereafter PKL should make enough profit to fund itself. I don’t want you drawing attention. Use any excessive profit to keep trusted employees silent. Your reward will be waiting here when you return and that reward will be substantial.”

“I have a free hand?”

“Stella will use her research programme to covertly pass you information, otherwise no-one this side will come near you. Insofar as Starways is concerned, you’ll be a minor British non-entity and totally deniable. But there are three provisos. You must stay clean and you must stay hidden. Keep PKL as a family game, that’s where the money lies.”

“You’re on, Mr Wileman.”

“The third proviso is, when finished, you remove all traces of research in the UK, then via Stella you will personally deliver the results of your work to me, here at Casco Bay. On no account must you transfer anything relating to Starways by e-mail or let any other party have a copy. The result of failure in this would be unpleasant for you. Stella will monitor your progress and be your only contact.”

“Have no fear, Mr Wileman, my ambitions will always be at your disposal.”

“Excellent. Go down to the summerhouse and wait for Stella. You may use her as you please. She won’t like it, but she’ll accept. She also has ambition and once she sacrifices her integrity to that ambition, then I will trust her loyalty.”

“Mr Wileman, what’s going on here?” Stella said, watching Caswell saunter down towards the beach. “Listen, listen please. I’m not a whore and I see no logic in what you demand. You already have my loyalty.”

“Do I, Stella? Well, I demand more. I need your hatred of Richard Caswell, your ruthless determination to destroy him if required. I need your anger, your contempt. The path

you have chosen is the building of power for the purpose of self. It is a path without morals and to that end we are all whores. Your mind and body are but a means to an end. Greed has placed mankind on the edge of destruction; only control by the strong will save the human race. Do you wish to be amongst the strong? Because if we fail what will occur over the next hour may well occur every day of your life. I know Caswell, I know his past, his lack of morals, but I chose you to stand with the inner circle, with the unseen.”

When Stella entered the beach house Caswell had stripped to his shorts, the hang of his gut folding over the stretched waistband.

“Can we talk this through,” she said, moving from the door and circling the open plan floor as he came towards her. “Wileman has this notion that if I let you make love, there’ll be some kind of bond.”

“Love, Stella, who’s talking of love? I don’t want love, I want absolute control. I want you suffering and humiliated.”

“Listen Mister, you’re crazy.” She put the couch between them as he crossed the room. “I’m not some floozy and I ain’t gonna let you fuck me like some pig.”

His movement and precision came much faster than she expected from a middle-aged slouch. Stepping on the couch he grabbed her blouse and a handful of hair simultaneously, pulling her over the back so she fell head down to the cushions, her legs flaying the air.

“I don’t intend to love you, Stella. I intend to rape you, to fuck you purely for my pleasure. Have you monitor my progress, some chance. You don’t know half of it. Soon I’ll have power over you as I have power over Zoby, eventually over Wileman, power over everyone who uses a computer.” One hand reached into her skirt, grabbing and yanking at her pants, while the other ripped open her blouse.

“You bastard, fucking get off me. Fuck off.” She thrashed her arms as his overweight body pinned her full length on the cushions. His hands seemed everywhere, ripping, pulling, grabbing. Reaching her nails to his neck, she gouged in primeval retaliation, clawing until the back of his hand smacked hard across her face. For moments her sight fragmented then another blow hit her mouth. In the dazed cloud of pain she laid comatosed, feeling his full weight flop over her, feeling him probe then enter her body, feeling him heave and squirm, then in seconds roll away.

“Bitch,” he said and began to dress.

Stella lay as left, conscious the blood from a split lip wet her chin, staring at the ceiling, her mind swirled in self-contempt, then loathing and hate for the animal now leaving the house. Tears mixed with the blood, tears driven by all-consuming rage. Wileman had been right. Hate came so easily, hate for the hand which fed her, for the one who had abused her, but mostly hate for herself.

Time passed, she had no idea how long, time meant nothing. Then a face appeared above her, a friendly, female face with motherly concern.

“I’m Diane Hopper,” the woman said. “You’re safe now. I’ve brought a doctor and one of our security personnel. We need to take some DNA swabs and your statement. Need to get that lip cleaned up. Rape is a serious crime. Caswell could spend his life in jail should a complaint be made.”

“You knew this would happen, what this guy would do?” Stella sat, lowering her legs and pulling at her skirt.

“We know nothing, only our orders. So let’s get started.” She beckoned the doctor.

Stella remained wrapped in self-loathing, complying with instructions, signing the sworn statement, allowing treatment to her lip. The clothes Diane Hopper produced from a case represented a full outfit with price tags Stella only dreamt of.

“Welcome, Stella, to the House of Wileman. I’m instructed to inform, you now have a new position, Head of UK Research and Development. Mr Wileman said by now you would understand the need for past events. He also said be careful. Richard Caswell is a very violent and dangerous man. Oh, and Stella, don’t report anything to the police. Starway’s security will handle this.”

When they had gone, Stella dressed, cold to the caress of the expensive lingerie, the silk blouse and business suit. All fitted perfectly, all had been planned. Staring into the mirror she examined her puffed lip, her bruised cheek and discoloured eye. Yes, she understood. She had been used. Wileman now had the threat of a rape charge over Caswell and her hatred of him. Hatred enough to kill. She shivered. If they were capable of doing this just to trap Caswell, what might they do to her if she failed them? Yes, she understood. With hatred came self-loathing and fear.

CHAPTER 2

Her back to the door, Danielle fussed over the kitchen worktop not realising Sean had entered. For seconds he surveyed her trim outline, then joined Rebecca, his hormonal fourteen year old daughter, at the table.

“Hi Dadda,” she said, not looking up while frantically scribbling homework.

“Breakfast!” Danielle called. “Eat now or be late for school.”

“I’ve gained half a pound,” Rebecca said. “I don’t do breakfast.”

“Half a pound for a young woman is nothing, please eat your cereal, it’s slimming.” Danielle placed croissants and coffee before Sean as Rebecca scooped cereal onto a spoon, holding it in the air while still scribbling with her other hand.

This appeared to satisfy both and Sean glanced between the two, his gaze slipping slowly from Danielle, her slight smile, her boyish face and pageboy hair cut always a pleasure to see. At forty he figured maybe he had started suffering middle-aged fantasies, for he never failed to imagine a sensual presence in her eyes, same time he also saw a barrier forbidding him to cross. Something about her stance, her manner and strong will made him suspect. Camilla, his ex-wife, had found Danielle through friends. Sean had no objection, she kept house, cooked his meals, looked after Sophie during the week and both girls when Rebecca visited weekends. Not that male desires had ever nudged him to cross the unspoken line, but he suspected Camilla was vindictive enough to have deliberately set him up to share house with a mature twenty-nine year old PhD student with preference for her own gender. Who cared? She was a great cook. Pity she had handed in her notice, her study time in England having run its course.

Sophie strutted in, posing at the threshold, one hand on her hip, the other against the frame. She wore her new prep school uniform, box-pleated skirt, white blouse and primrose tie. Sean felt pride and love brush the world aside.

Danielle clasped hands. “Oh Mademoiselle, vous êtes elegant et si belle. What style, what poise – please to join us for breakfast.”

Sophie’s model walk was not textbook. Sean kissed one cheek, Danielle the other.

“So my first week at boarding school,” Sophie said. “But I am taking my computer games.” She drew a yellow play station from her skirt pocket.

Sean placed an arm to encircle her shoulders and Sophie leant her head against him. For seconds he closed his eyes. All Camilla’s demands for private schooling in exchange for unrestricted child access were worth such moments.

“My eight year old little girl is growing up, leaving home.”

“But I’ll be back next weekend, every weekend we’re not visiting Mum. So just watch out.”

“Yeah, well I’m going to be a real meanie. When Danielle leaves, the housework gets left so when you two visit you’ll be scrubbing, washing and cooking.”

“Dadda.” Rebecca looked up, chin on curled fist. “Don’t fib, you wouldn’t do that. You’re the biggest softy going. And we love you for it”

“Children, who would be a father?

“You would Dadda.” Sophie hugged him. “Because we know you’ll get a lovely housekeeper to do everything while you take us to the theme park. But if you really want us to work ... but you wouldn’t, would you?

“OK so I get a housekeeper, but who’s going to look after you, my little sweetheart?”

Rebecca shuffled books into a briefcase and stood from the table. “Don’t worry, Papa, she’s got big sister to mind her.” She came round the table, her fitted skirt high over mid-thigh.

“That skirt’s too short,” Sean said, sitting straight.

“Father, get real.” She helped herself to a Ryvita. “I’m wearing 70 denier black tights, they’re the decency item. The skirt’s simply for school rules. Tell him, Danielle.”

“Les filles seront toujours des filles et les pères, toujours des pères. Eat and be happy. Tomorrow skirts maybe long and computer games a bore.” She sat sipping coffee while the girls ate. Concentration lasted two minutes.

“Dadda, take us somewhere special next visit, please. You know Bradley took us for lunch at the Park Lane Hilton in his new Mercedes, then to the cinema. So you gotta do better.”

Sean grimaced at visions of his ex-wife’s partner, a pink shirt, highlighted hair. “Let’s be original. Let’s sightsee London top of a number 9 bus.”

“Cool.” Rebecca cracked another biscuit and moved from the table. “Can’t wait to tell my friends.”

Danielle stood and started stuffing textbooks into a monstrous shoulder bag. “OK, mademoiselles, we are late. Cases in car. Make sure you have your school work.”

Sean watched his two daughters gather equipment as they hurried from kitchen to hall, assembling coats, cases, sports bags and carriers. He hated this moment. It was Camilla’s method of absent torture. The school was only forty minutes away. Danielle could have fetched and carried, she had time. He rose when Sophie came for her hug.

“Miss you already, Dadda,” she said, clinging around his waist.

“Miss you too, little sweetheart. Have a good week.” She stretched on tiptoes as he bent to kiss her.

Rebecca came next, embracing with both arms, her cheek against his chest. Silence said more than words. Sean kissed her head. “Take care, my lovely. Call mid-week.”

“Rely on it. Bet flash Brad’s never been on a number 9. Love you, Dadda.” She returned the kiss.

Sean watched them depart in Danielle’s ancient Citroen. He felt sadness. His girls were growing up, soon they would be growing away, vulnerable to what lay out there.

* * *

The new warmth of early spring and the tranquillity of the English countryside gave Sarah little comfort. For the first time in her career she was perplexed by indecision; to tell her partners of Richard Caswell’s unscrupulous behaviour in marketing PKL shares, or join in his deceit. Torn between conscience and ambition, even on her walk she found indecision over which path to follow. Her normal route to the right led through pine and dappled sunlight, the left fork traversed meadowland to Rattlers Wood, a place of dark and heavy deciduous trees, a place never visited.

She chose the left fork. Logic told her it was foolish, she would be late back for her meeting, late back to reveal that for two years PKL had used subliminal psychotic induction to influence sales and make their games the best selling in Europe. With substantial shares and sale distribution rights, her company had much to lose.

“This way gives me time,” she spoke in whispered excuse as she walked, her hands thrust in pockets, her gaze on distant sheep. Inside her jacket she clasped her mobile, occasionally turning it in her fingers. Why walk to a place she did not know if not to gain time? She put her indecision down to conscience and a desire to escape. Since reaching level ten of the PKL video game and entering Princess Kay-ling’s Garden of Serenity, the compulsion to visit Rattlers Wood had grown steadily. She enjoyed walking into the unknown to explore where the inhibited feared to tread. Like the use of Ben, her young gardener. Why shouldn’t she satisfy the licentious frustrations of a single woman nearing middle age? It kept her slim and conscious of appearance. She desired more eccentricity in her life than addiction to a computer game, even if such addiction had resulted in making her a wealthy woman. PKL was heading towards becoming the best selling

computer game ever; providing they didn’t get caught. She picked up a stick and thrashed the grass.

“How could you be so stupid, so greedy?” she said aloud, as if Caswell was beside her. Five days ago she had felt pride on reaching level ten. The first person ever, the first person to walk through the gate into Kay-ling’s Garden of Serenity. But for the first time also, the screen showed graphics without action. Without the distraction of moving characters, her keen eyes became drawn by the flickering pulse of words which read the same as the constant thought in her mind. Buy PKL shares. Realisation and anger came immediately. Throughout the hundreds of hours playing PKL, Caswell had influenced her to buy PKL shares. She held thirty percent of their stock. To tell the truth would cripple her finances plus those of every shareholder.

Richard’s denial had come with sharp anger.

“Rubbish. Absolute fucking rubbish,” he had shouted. “You’re losing it woman, becoming addicted with visions of fantasy. It’s a game, not real. Maybe we should check your distribution contract for a mental health clause.”

But when she downloaded the following programme, the Garden of Serenity had been overwritten. More suspicions; and still he had not agreed to an investigation.

Ahead of her, at the boundary of Rattlers Wood, raucous crows tussling on the ground caused her to hesitate. Go into the forest or turn back?

Puffball clouds dotted the sky and the air was still, perfumed with the scent of spring. Sheep dotted the meadow. Looking one way she saw the perfect rural setting but looking the other way she found more crows sitting on the wire, all watching her with bright, hard eyes. Those on the ground fought over the carcass of a dead ewe, the victim of some rogue dog. They picked out its eyes, flapping their wings and squabbling while plucking putrid flesh.

Sarah turned away. She wanted the solace of rural England, not its dark side.

A fence post gave support as she braced herself to precariously straddle long legs over the wire, finally hauling herself onto the far side. She had no right to be there. Rattlers Wood was private land, the property of some trust or forestry company. The sort of place she liked to visit with Ben. Sex had always been a favoured indulgence, particularly with someone fifteen years her junior. Sex gave a break from computer games, from the stress of business and money. It gave the woods new meaning and a reason for her to explore new places. Somewhere here was a spot for future use. She had visualised it in her mind, a vision which had been there for weeks, as if in a dream. It was a Kay-ling kind of place, a circle of trees where grass lay open to the sky. A beautiful and secret place, a place of sanctuary.

Without sheep the grass grew calf deep and then gave way to new bracken interspersed with areas of flat leaf mould. The smell of budding foliage grew intense. Within minutes of moving from the boundary she was totally enclosed by trees. Her sense of isolation became overwhelming, as if the world outside had been severed, her thoughts and conscience free to decide. Accumulation of wealth could not be used as an excuse, she thought. She had morals, ethics. Children and young people played these computer games. Subliminal psychotic induction had the premise of evil.

She found the clearing within three hundred metres of entering the forest. It was as she had imagined, tall grass and warm sun in a surrounding wall of leaves. She had seen it many times. Where? She thought, how?

“Buy shares, visit Rattlers Wood,” she whispered. “Oh dear God! No.”

A branch cracked and bushes rustled. Sarah stood motionless, listening to a second single crack of dead wood, realising she was not alone. She saw him over her left shoulder, a square faced young man, clean-shaven, his mouth open, his eyes staring, no movement, no expression, as if a wax dummy.

“Knew you’d come,” he said. “The Colonel is always right. I’ve been watching you, waiting days for you to get here.”

“What do you want? I don’t carry money,” Sarah said, unable to prevent a quiver in her voice. Should she run? She was no longer fit, instead she fumbled for her mobile.

His speed was startling. As he closed the gap between them she screamed, her feet slipping on damp leaves. Next moment she was thrown full stretch on the ground. One of his hands pinned her throat, strangling her voice as another hand unfastened her trousers. He was immensely strong, stronger even than her terror. She thrashed, punched and kicked, her half-choked cries startling crows out of the trees and into the sky. The next moment he twisted her over, her face rubbing into leaf mould as he lifted her legs, yanking her trousers around her ankles.

“Welcome to Zoby’s world,” he said, pressing her shoulders to the ground. She screamed again, screamed to the crows and the empty forest, feeling the brutal pain of him thrusting inside her.

CHAPTER 3

Traffic jostled for position both sides of the motorway, never allowing Sean to test the five-year-old Mercedes allocated from the motor pool. Cars were constantly swapped between team members so no outside observer knew which vehicle belonged to whom. The front hubcaps were missing, one wing was re-sprayed, but the engine purred to perfection. He allowed an hour from his home in St Albans to the team’s covert operations office in Cricklewood. An hour of thought and contemplation, mostly on his work, but frequently on his ex-marriage and access to his daughters. Camilla claimed her infidelity had resulted from his neglect and constant absence at work. His crime, she insisted, and counter-accused with accusations of his own infidelity. Though innocent, he knew such accusations from an operational view point would be hard to disprove. In the balance lay unrestricted access to his daughters. For certain Camilla stayed determined to play the offended bitch and kept a constant presents by her insistence on Danielle to innocently intimidate and frustrate with French charm, beauty and sensual presence, a temptation from which he stood forbidden; plus her insistence on private education to cripple his finances. The rewards were no legal recriminations, no open court battles to twist his daughters’ love, instead he had them most weekends, had their happiness and the chance to see them grow.

Such thoughts drifted between car noise and the constant ring of his mobile, mostly from his office in Cricklewood, but this time from Cobbart, his boss.

“Sean, have something for you, urgent.”

Sean drove straight to the Serious Organised Crime Agency headquarters in Pimlico. The message had been urgent.

His chief’s office lay in its usual shambles of organised chaos. Files were piled high, the desk littered with notes and computer printouts ready for shredding.

Chief Superintendent John Cobbart sat in an untidy bundle of pinstriped suit, dandruff and half-rimmed glasses, his manner gentlemanly, his expression inscrutable. Sean gave respect to the man, he even liked him, but the divide of seniority always remained.

“How are those girls of yours?” Cobbart asked, waving him to a seat.

“Growing fast.” Sean sat. “One already thinks she’s a woman.”

“Ah, for days of long ago,” he paused. “You remember Superintendent Sammy Sinclair?”

“He had a bad end.” Sean visualised the man, balding, red-faced with a gut bulging from an enlarged liver. He had once lectured when Sean was a cadet at Hendon Police College. The man had shown a sharp-witted brain; drink only kills so much of a person.

His boss pushed the papers on his desk and looked uneasy. “He was a good copper, one of the Old Boys. And that particular club are unhappy with the way he was treated.”

This is Masonic, Sean thought uneasily and said, “Suicide is a lonely, desperate act. The man drank himself to hell.”

“He had his reasons, though I question whether he made his own exit.”

“The coroner said he did.”

Cobbart’s expression changed and for the first time he looked human enough for Sean to realize the man suffered emotions.

“Sammy had a daughter, Lizzie, from a marriage long in pieces,” Cobbart said. “Lovely child.” He shifted in his chair, eyes downcast. “She was my goddaughter. A year ago Lizzie was murdered. I want you to investigate it along with another unsolved murder. At the same time, I want the true circumstances surrounding Sinclair’s death. I’m certain they’re linked.”

“SOCA doesn’t do murders.”

“Not officially, not unless they’re involved with organised crime.” Cobbart cleared his throat. “If you solve the tragedy of the Sinclair family I can guarantee the Old Boys will be forever grateful. Don’t under-estimate that gratitude or their power.”

“I’m a new boy on the block, John. I’m not a Mason, not part of the Old Boys’ network and I never will be. Besides that, I’ve Operation Back Door in progress.”

Cobbart’s big white teeth appeared in the troll smile from which he earned his nickname, a cynical smile edged with devious interpretations. “Operation Back Door is looking at the trafficking of assassins for use by organised crime, correct?”

Sean nodded. The guy knew it was correct.

“Perhaps one of those assassins has been used in these murders.”

“Unlikely.”

“But possible. Therefore I’m letting Operation Poor Girl run in tandem with Operation Back Door. I’ve even managed to get limited funding.”

Sean sighed. He had no doubt of the power and influences that Cobbart and the Old Boys represented. He also had no doubt he was being thrown into crossfire between the politically correct paper fillers and the Old Boys’ Club. From either side he was on dangerous ground. At the same time, Cobbart would not have placed this on him without absolute trust in Sean’s loyalty. Shit.

“What of the other murder?” Sean asked by way of acceptance.

Cobbart’s expression showed brief satisfaction, then darkened. “Like Lizzie, the other woman was attractive and successful. When Sinclair retired on medical grounds, he investigated his daughter’s death and linked both. Each killing was extremely brutal; both women were computer buffs. Both the killings were in London and both are on the shelf. That is totally unacceptable.”

Sean clenched and opened his fist. Gangland killings were one thing, psychopathic butchery something else. What made it more difficult were the logistics. If Cobbart had managed to open and fund two abandoned cases and encroach on a third without consultation or approval of the original investigating teams, then he was probably on the very outer edge of the official system. Poor Girl was going to upset people and tread on toes. “I’ll need access to the case notes,” he said. “That means liaising with the Met. Whether or not these murders are open or shelved, the CID won’t welcome my interference.”

“Have no fear, I can guarantee the investigating officer’s full co-operation.”

“Who’s he?”

The man sat back and for the first time smiled with real pleasure. “She is Victoria Lawless.”

Sean sagged. “You sure pick ’em, boss,” he said, visualising her face, attractive, intelligent, pushy, an expert in the use of a beguiling presence. Cobbart would have been no match for her. “I heard she made DI in the Met.”

“Briefly. Her boss was Charlie Creech.”

“She worked for that arsehole?”

“I’m glad you share my sentiments, but she’s a tough lady. She investigated both London murders and might have solved them if Creech had not ordered her to arrest the wrong man. Lawless resigned, as she resigned on principle from SOCA. She’s now a spook with MI5 and equivalent to chief inspector. Creech’s suspect walked free but Creech became a tabloid hero by accusing the courts of weakness. Hence he shelved both files as solved but awaiting justice.”

“Then I can count on her co-operation?”

“Better. When I took these files from Sammy’s house I used the Met’s CRIS computer to check a few facts. Somehow she got knowledge of it because two days later she

was sitting in this office flashing those big dark eyes and showing enough leg to gain an old man’s full attention. She has downtime and is free to help.”

Not a good idea, Sean thought. He kept his expression bland when Cobbart pushed two A4 files towards him. Clearly Victoria’s tactics remained consistent, as did her understanding of male gullibility.

“Try this contact number.” Cobbart passed a card. “Her contribution will be invaluable and, more pertinently, it gives her a golden opportunity to shaft Creech.”

You and her both, Sean thought, but said instead, “I trust she will accept this is my operation?”

For the first time Cobbart looked uncertain. “You’re handling an SOCA investigation, she’s MI5. Both female victims suffered the most appalling violations. For Victoria this will be justice for her gender. But I’m sure two senior officers like yourselves will find an amicable solution.”

CHAPTER 4

Mark hunted on the streets, his stride positive, his bearing military. He took pride in knowing he was the best, always pristine, pressed grey slacks, well-cut blazer and regimental tie. He wanted to feel good this bright morning but the pressure was balling inside his skull, imploding into a black void of frustration. He blamed the blonde girl on the dance floor. She had laughed, had walked away calling him a liar, had left him cut by the jagged edge of her scorn. Bitch. To get himself right he tried to distract himself with images of Cindy Bradshaw. He visualised her beautiful face, her beautiful body, the firm swell of her breasts beneath his hands, but all he got was the blonde girl laughing. One day he would kill her, like he had killed the others, like one day he would kill Cindy if she ever became a hostile. But he knew that was impossible. Last time they met, Cindy had smiled at him with big blue eyes. She had touched his shoulder, her breasts brushing his arm. Cindy was the perfect female and one day soon, Cindy was going to be his. What he needed in the meantime was enemy action, an interrogation or some close-quarter combat. On this bright morning, somewhere near, there had to be a hostile.

He found her in the Strand near Trafalgar Square. She sat on a rolled up sleeping bag begging from passing office workers. She had tattoos here, there and everywhere. She wore rings in her upper ears, rings in her lips, studs in her nose and tongue. Mark wondered if maybe he should melt her down. He smelt her body, a sharp, rancid odour. A small rat dog lay beside her.

“When did you last have a bath?” he asked.

“Don’t get personal, mate. A quid will do.”

The imperfections of this creature brought a sense of nausea. Was she a hostile or a potential recruit? He had to

test her, change her and restore his faith in female perfection. He had two hours spare before work, also a place in which he could secure her and later practise his techniques in training and obedience. “Want to make real money?” He heard the tone of sincerity in his voice, sincerity gained from lessons at drama school. He felt confident in his ability to deceive.

“I don’t do sex,” she said, her lip curled.

“From where I’m standing, you don’t have sex to offer.”

“Piss off.” She reached for the dog which growled in guttural menace.

He would have kicked her, but at 8 a.m. the pavements were getting busy with early workers. He smiled a little and tried to keep his brain cool as he produced two, twenty-pound notes. Her punishment could wait. “I’m looking for eyes, not tits. I’m not interested in what’s under your clothes but what’s in your brain.”

She drew up her legs and wrapped them with her arms, hiding what figure lay beneath two T-shirts and baggy jeans. “You’re standing on my patch, geezer. Either give, or fuck off.” She looked away.

Mark dropped a twenty-pound note at her feet, nodding in satisfaction when she snatched it with the speed of a darting lizard. Her expression changed from bored indifference to cunning.

“Plenty more where that came from. No sex, I just want you to beg, and watch.”

“While you jerk off, bloody weirdo.”

Mark felt the vacuum of a black void hollowing into his brain. Now he would make her suffer, truly suffer. She would end up screaming. He elevated the situation to live engagement. Objective one - penetration of hostile confidence. His smile widened. “Lady, I got a hard shell and you are rightly suspicious, that’s good. I wouldn’t be interested in a sucker. Truth is, I’m recruiting for MI5.”

Then she laughed. The noise was a screech on stale breath that soiled the very air he stood in. For Mark it confirmed his suspicions, she was a hostile. No Brit woman would smell the way she did or foul the air with her stinking breath. Cindy’s breath was pure and sweet, the kiss of an angel. This smart arsed bitch was an alien whore. He let his smile grow wide.

“Not so far-fetched as you think, miss. Street people are perfectly suited for unobtrusive surveillance. If you watched the building across the road, who would notice? If I stood here for even five minutes, I’d be sussed immediately. It’s twenty minutes walk to Thames House, Milbank, MI5 Headquarters. You get forty pounds for the walk. Fifty pounds for an interview. Your country needs you, lady.”

“You kidding me?”

Mark shook his head and held up the remaining twenty. “I kid you not. You any idea how many terrorist groups operate here?” he said, and watched her stand, watched her come up for the bait. She was maybe eighteen, maybe older, definitely female in a scrawny sort of way.

“We’re gonna stay on the pavement, always in full view of everyone?”

“Down Whitehall, past Parliament, past Lambeth Bridge to Thames House. Straight through the middle of law and democracy.”

“Give, and you’re on.” She reached for the twenty.

He drew the note backwards, enticing her hand to follow, ensnaring, playing her on the line. This was so easy. “When we get there. You’re not stupid, neither is MI5.”

“Don’t mess with me. I want a tenner now before I go anywhere.”

Mark tore the note in half and pushed the Queen’s head into the neck of her T-shirt. Would she scream as she died, would she not? “You get the other half on arrival, plus an extra twenty for expenses.”

The rat dog shifted round to her feet, staring upward, one paw raised, waiting on its mistress to decide her move. Mark had confidence, money always swayed the disbelievers no matter what bullshit he gave. Something for nothing was a great persuader.

Mark started to walk away. Inside he could hear himself laughing, hear the boy who was hiding where no-one could see. His prick was rock hard. Would she follow? He heard her call, heard the dog bark. A moment later she was beside him, sleeping bag slung over one shoulder. Using mental monotone, he spoke to the Colonel over the combat radio inside his head, a radio that had been there since he was a boy. “Stage one successfully accomplished, Colonel. Hostile defence penetrated. I will now consolidate position ready to secure prisoner. Anticipated interrogation time, two days.”

“Go to it, Zoby.” The Colonel’s answer also came inside his head, came back over the combat radio fastened permanently into his brain, a radio which had been there for as long as he could remember.

“Name, rank and number?” he asked her, but the words came out as, “What’s your name?”

“Me mates call me Sisshy.”

“What’s your real name?”

“Does it matter? Sisshy will do fine. What’s your name?”

“Darley,” he answered. “Captain Jez Darley.” He put a guiding arm to her shoulders as they crossed the corner of Trafalgar Square, dodging traffic until safely in Whitehall. He felt the thin shoulder blade beneath her T-shirt and wondered how it would crack. Her odour was pungent, a dank smell of stale clothes and body. He hated an unhygienic hostile. When they got to the flat, he would scrub her, scrub her with a hard brush until she came out militarily clean. He would curry the dog, make the girl beg for her food. He smiled at the idea but did not report it to base.

Again she laughed, that hoarse, screeching laugh that was instantly irritating. “Jez Darley. What sort of ponce name is that? Sounds like some dickhead celeb’s name.”

“Ex-regiment. I was SAS.” He quickened his pace. The black void was back in his head, spiralling incessantly through his thoughts, cutting communication with the Colonel. “Before that I attended medical school.” He spoke in a clear, clipped voice mimicked from speech therapy tapes, hoping the hostile would not realise his radio link was down. He had to play cool, had to play steady.

“A spy, a doctor! You’ll be a bloody prime minister next.” The ass screeched laughter again.

He hated her, this filthy shank of female meat that never stopped talking, rattling in his ear like an incessant drone. Soon he would teach her the purity of restraint, gouging her body as she screamed her life into silence, the same way his mother had screamed into silence. But then his mother always screamed. Screamed more when she lay burning, too drunk to rise from her bed, too drunk to move while he fed the flames with vodka, his back raw from her scrubbing. “Bitch!” He stumbled. The dog yelped.

“It’s a dog.” The girl was there again. “Don’t kick my dog.”

He was lathered in sweat. They were passing Parliament. He remembered nothing of walking down Whitehall. “MI5 keeps this place clean,” he said. “We check each member for terrorist connections.”

“Bastard politicians.” The girl flicked two fingers. “Least I’m an honest beggar. What do those sods do but fiddle their expenses?”

Again Mark tried radio communication and failed. The vibes from this hostile really screwed him. He was speaking, he heard his voice clear and distinct. “Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country. If you undergo the test, lady, if you pass, you can do

a lot to put these bastards down. I’ve fought in Afghanistan, Africa, Iraq. I’ve undertaken covert missions from the Colombian jungle to the Arctic.”

“What test?” She stopped on the pavement, then trotted to catch up.

“The usual to join any organisation. Medical, IQ. Then if you really want to go for it, selection. If you do that, you’re on a grand a day.” As he hoped, beyond Parliament and Victoria Tower Gardens, away from shops and offices, pedestrians gradually thinned to none. To their left lay the black swathe of the Thames and the far embankment.

“A thousand a day?” Once more she stopped, the dog also. “If you’re fucking with me, I really know how to embarrass a bloke in public.”

Mark looked back at her and tried to decide. They were alone here, the pavement deserted, but if he gave her a good kicking, it might draw attention from passing cars. Better to get her to the flat, stay with mission schedule. The owners were holidaying for two weeks. He could gag her, enjoy her for days before she died. He smiled, hoping to convey reassurance. “That’s what I’m on. It takes time to get there, but serious money can be made once you complete training. You start off as a watcher then end in T Branch, counter-terrorism, or maybe K Branch, serious crime and espionage.”

When she caught up he crossed the bottom of Lambeth Bridge. He loved this spot, this place so close to MI5. “There it is.” He pointed to Thames House, keeping on the opposite side of the road as they walked the tree-lined embankment. He felt certain of re-establishing communications here. He always managed communication outside MI5.

“OK, gimme,” she said, holding out her hand, following along the stonewall dividing pavement from river.

“When we get to the flat. That’s over Vauxhall Bridge in Kennington.” He passed the last of the trees and looked across the river, along the embankment on the opposite side, to MI6. He was waiting on a call from MI6, waiting for acknowledgement. He was the universal soldier, it did not matter what agency employed him.

“You think I’m going to some flat, you’re out of your box.” She came behind, her voice rattling, irritating, seriously getting him annoyed.

“OK.” He turned to her and produced the second half of the twenty-pound note. “Here. If you do the interview you get another fifty and the bonus I promised.”

“You’re having me on, ain’t ya? What’s your game?”

He hated her. He wanted no more questions. She was a hostile, he wanted her obedience, he wanted her to understand discipline, the rigors of combat, of interrogation and pain. He had suffered, she must suffer. The beatings, the humiliation. He wanted her in pain. “Come to the flat and find out, you get fifty for the test. That’s seventy quid, plus what you got already.” He tried to smile but the pressure inside his head left no strength for animation. She was before him, hand out, begging, offering her stinking body.

“You ain’t got seventy quid, have you? You’re all mouth. You were never in the SAS. MI5, my tits. You’re a dickhead.”

The void dissolved as the Colonel spoke with clear and precise orders. “Immediate action, eliminate hostile.”

He was surprised at her lightness. Clutched by the chest and crotch, she went up like a beanpole, her rattling voice turning to a scream as she sailed over the embankment wall. It took seconds. He was unable to see her fall all the way. The cessation of her shriek came when she entered the dark water of the Thames below, then silence. The dog started yapping, nipping sharp bites to his ankles until he scooped its twisting body and hurled it out over the river. Then he had total silence.

“Hostiles down,” he repeated loudly to the Colonel, watching a car which had stopped by the kerb.

“You bastard.” The passenger door began to open. A fat woman stared at him. “You threw a dog over that wall. I saw you.”

“She annoyed me. You going to do something?” He moved towards her. The woman shouted and slammed the door as the car moved off.

Mark sucked on a forefinger where the dog’s teeth had bitten. Smart-arse bitch, who cares about a couple of dogs? He ran to the wall, hoisting himself to look over. Twenty feet below, brackish water rushed in tidal current, its surface unbroken, empty of life. “Enjoy your bath, Sisshy,” he repeated aloud and dropped back to the pavement, suddenly annoyed. What right had she to leave him? Now he had no-one. No one to play with, never anyone to play with. In the end they all went against him. “Returning to base.” He spoke to the Colonel on the combat radio in his head. He wrapped a clean handkerchief around his finger while walking back towards Parliament and the West End. “Returning to base,” he reported to no-one. “Combat proficiency proven. Zoby is number one.”

Richard Caswell sat in the PKL conference room hearing the traffic from below, his elbows on the polished glass table, his fake smile encompassing the development team. For the first time in his life he made serious money and the last thing he wanted was a bunch of nerds going moralistic on him. Before him were some of the best creative minds in the business, minds that covered programming, psychology and graphics. He wanted their skills but their professional ethics he could do without, and for that he relied on their greed. They were paid double the salaries given by competitors. Richard had an unshakeable faith in greed. Wileman’s prediction had proved correct.

“Listen, guys.” He kept his arms on the table, his hands open as if he was embracing them all, yet speaking to each individual. “PKL is a computer games company. We keep our edge by being first at the research frontier. That costs money, so we contract out to others. Part of that research contract is in subliminal psychotic induction for security purposes. We send that research to our clients across the pond. It belongs to them, not us.”

“It’s illegal,” Joan Hincks said. She looked at him from a pinched face, her hair in a straggly knot, her figure loose and sloppy beneath ill-fitting clothes.

Richard improved his smile for her. Hincks was important to him. Ever since her recruitment to PKL he had consistently remained the absolute gentleman in her presence. That and his city suit style all helped his impeccable image as the hardworking entrepreneur.

“I’m aware of that, Joan,” Richard said and glanced through the glass at her knees. “The use of SPI is illegal. Our client, Dr Stella is using this research to form barriers she can offer against the unscrupulous use of SPI by rogue outfits. Look at it as a vaccine. You use a virus to protect against a virus.”

Dr Klass with beard and sockless feet tapped his fingers on the table. “We are currently experimenting with an image lasting one hundredth of a second. There is no brain in the world able to consciously read that. But subconsciously, yes it does. It’s dangerous.”

“My point exactly. So we need a computer to read it also and lay a defence, and that’s what this is about.”

“But we are sending it over the Internet as a virus. Don’t you realise the implications?”

Richard smiled at the chubby bearded doctor and longed to punch him in the face.

“That virus is sent to targeted volunteers, people who are aware of what is happening. You yourself volunteered as a guinea pig, Dr Klass.” Richard turned to Snibbard, his project manager. “What was this week’s colour?”

Snibbard looked through his folder. “Green,” he said. “Next week’s colour is yellow.”

Dr Klass looked down at his green shirt and pursed his lips. Others round the table smiled.

“That’s the extent of our influence, Dr Klass. For the last days, SPI over your computer has been suggesting you wear something green. Nothing sinister in that, and you did volunteer. Jill, you were a target this week. How about you?”

Jill Faulkner gave a tight grin and crossed her long legs. “That’s a secret between me and my hosiery.”

All laughed as Richard winked and tapped his nose. “So it should be. I see other guys wearing green, some who don’t.” Richard opened his hands. “Proof that what we do is harmless. Every person at this table had been sent SPI suggesting that they wear green, but every second person also had an anti-virus sent with built-in defence. Hence half of you wear green, while half don’t.”

Klass raised a pedantic finger. “But if used by a trusted supplier, one of the global networks, it would enable them to bring subliminal induction to mainstream software. Users would have no defence.”

“Doctor, our trials and research are used by Stella in defence of any unscrupulous body doing just that. All the big anti-virus software companies are probably researching the same. You notice the increase in flash advertising on our screens. Some may believe they can just step further, then further. We need to be prepared, we need defence. Buy breakfast cereals is one thing. But what about pay your taxes, vote fascist, obey the police?