Behind the Facade (25 page)

Sean remained determined to interrogate Charles
computer. He considered how to gain entry to the premises. He could try and pose
as a legitimate client or customer who had business there. However, considering
the reception Rupert had received, it was unlikely he’d get anywhere near to
Charles work area, whatever his excuses, and any interest in Charles might
raise suspicion or concern. Even if he masqueraded as a police officer, he
couldn’t be sure his ruse wouldn’t be uncovered. Another danger was that if, as
he now suspected, there were other people behind Brenna’s fate,
he
could risk arousing the wrong kind of attention. He was
starting to wonder if this was indeed what Charles had done. Had he discovered
something that had resulted in his death? After all, a man like Harry Pearson
would want to cover up any potential scandal connected to him and would likely
have the means to do so. Could it be that Charles was the scapegoat? Was he
being vilified when he had actually been, as his lover insisted, a good and
innocent man? A man who’d actually been trying to help Brenna, had even rescued
her?

Sean’s current job in America involved computers and
security systems. It would be easy enough for him to slip in the offices after
hours, disarm any alarms, identify the desktop and download the entire hard
drive. Though risky, if he pulled this off he could have the evidence he needed
and some of the answers to those unresolved questions.

Sean meticulously planned his approach. Observations
on the building and the comings and goings persuaded him the best night to
enter the premises was after seven on a Saturday when no-one was around, as
even the cleaners didn’t come in until the Sunday, yet it wasn’t too late at
night to arouse suspicion if he was observed. He calculated he could be in an
out within minutes, with relatively little fuss and having left no sign of his
presence. The security system was a top class American one but, as luck would
have it, one that he had helped to design. This had firmed his resolve,
reassuring him luck was on his side.  How wrong could he have been?

He was surprised, but not overly perturbed, when he
realised that he was no longer alone in the building. At least the noise of the
lift starting up kindly alerted him to his visitor. He warily watched the lift
rise to the top floor. He was on the one below. He heard the person walking
around and opening doors above him. He then saw the lift descend but, instead
of going back down to ground level, it stopped at his floor and the doors
opened. Sean quickly dropped out of sight.

Having declined to turn on the lights on his floor,
everything, including himself, was safely obscured in darkness. Still, a little
light had been shed by the computer screen, which was still in the process of
transferring the data. Sean was unable to interrupt its progress by shutting it
down, without compromising the download. The lift doors opened to reveal a man
in a tux, carrying a file (likely what he’d come back for). The man queried,
“Anybody here?” and then started to reach for the lights. Unfortunately, before
turning on the switch, he’d obviously noticed the glow from Charlie’s console.
He left the lights and approached the workstation instead, cautiously, calling
out “Hello?”

Not wanting him to interfere with the computer’s
operation, Sean had no choice. He sneaked up behind him and clobbered him.

Seconds after the man had fallen to the floor, the
computer bleeped, indicating the download was complete. What a shame the
blighter hadn’t been a little slower or the download a little faster, Sean
thought. He could have avoided this scenario altogether. Recovering the USB
stick, he shut the computer off. What now? He frowned down at the man’s
insensate form.

Checking his pulse, he was relieved when he found a
faint heartbeat. He’d given him a fair clout. Glancing at his ID, he noticed
that he was a senior sales executive for Bespoke Cars. He even had a
cotag
for accessing the Bespoke Cars offices. Was it worth
exploring up there or even rousing him in order to interrogate him about Harry
Pearson? He jumped guiltily as his deliberations were interrupted by the
strident tones of a mobile phone, emanating from the man’s unconscious form.
This interruption prompted him to dismiss his speculations. He was not sure how
much further his luck could be tested.

Should he leave him where he was? An idea then came
to him. Dragging him across the floor without too much effort, grateful for the
almost obsessional passion he had for keeping in shape, he carried him down
stairs and deposited him, together with his file, in exactly the same spot, one
floor down.  Luckily the offices were identical in equipment and layout.
Now, when his unwelcome visitor regained consciousness, he would likely believe
he had caught some activity going on at an entirely different computer.

He left the building, glancing behind him but
deciding to leave the security settings as they were and the place unlocked.
That was when fortune had well and truly ambushed him, in the innocent yet
disastrous form of Kate Pearson. He’d been so close to success, even dodging
the returning employee. He should have considered the man might have a
companion. He had been an idiot not to exit via the underground car park, but
he hadn’t been entirely sure he’d shut the cameras off on that level.

 Kate. His thoughts lingered on her. His search
for Brenna’s killer had begun and ended with her, when she shouldn’t have been
a part of it at all. It had always worried him that he might easily cross paths
with her again.

In the comfort of his American home, he’d finally
found the link with Bespoke Cars, the email Charles had sent to their accounts
section,
[email protected]
.
Charles was querying a discrepancy with a car on an invoice he’d come across.
Unfortunately, the email did not give a great deal of information, not even a
delivery address for the purchaser. Sean had searched but had been unable to
find an electronic copy of the mysterious invoice but, one thing had been
certain, if Charles was right about the car it was describing, it was a car
that did not exist.  A whisper had shivered down his spine, as if Brenna
herself was telling him something, when he’d seen the date of the email – it
was the same date as Brenna’s death.  He’d felt sure that this was no
coincidence. Had Charlie felt curious enough to go and look at the car for
himself? Had he stumbled across something else entirely? Had he stumbled across
Brenna? It had all made a sick and eerily logical kind of sense. Charlie had
talked about Bespoke Cars selling girls and this email did suggest something was
afoot.

He’d become convinced that there was a sinister
trade behind the seemingly wholesome façade of Bespoke Cars and its owner,
Harry Pearson. There was not enough evidence to take to the police and so it
was up to him to uncover that evidence. He had nothing better to do after all.
If he was mistaken, what had he lost? It gave him a
focus,
it gave him a reason to carry on living and most of all it could give him the
vengeance he so desperately sought for his sister. He had worked hard on
inventing a new persona, obtaining fake id and social security, building up his
own car sales business and website, even having some plastic surgery done on
his nose to alter his appearance. He’d known that patience and thoroughness was
necessary if he wanted to enter into Harry Pearson’s life and, more
importantly, into his confidence.

He had thought he could avoid any contact with
Katherine Pearson and if he did come across her he would just keep his
distance. Well, something else had ambushed him the second time he’d met her:
his own heart. Battered beyond repair, he’d believed it had finally died when
his sister had. It had been extremely inconvenient of it to make some spastic
attempt to resurrect itself. He shook his head, dispelling this line of
thought. He didn’t love her. He didn’t deserve to. It was time to forget her
and remember his objective. It was time to end this. It was time to avenge his
sister.

 It wasn’t too long before Kate regained
consciousness. She moaned as she came round, her eyelids flickering. She tried
to sit up but this sent a flood of nausea crashing through her and she remained
on the floor, waiting for the dizziness to subside a little. By degrees, she
managed to get herself into a sitting position against the wall.

She tentatively explored her head and body but could
find no injury or bleeding. She remembered the gun pointing at her. What had
happened? She looked towards the dressing table and saw unused bullets gleaming
dully on the floor. She’d been so certain he intended to kill her, certain that
the bullet would find her head or her heart. But he’d emptied the gun. He’d
never intended to shoot her. She must have fainted, like the weak-willed,
gullible fool she was. It was then that the tears started to flow and she gave herself
up to them, the emotion and trauma of what had happened to her drowning her in
a wave of despair and anguish. 

She eventually regained enough composure to think
coherently. Her crying fit had left her hiccupping violently but at least she
no longer felt as dazed and paralysed. She hadn’t had time to dress after her
shower and she slowly pulled on some clothes. She then made her way falteringly
to the bathroom to splash water on her tear-fractured face.

As she looked at herself in the mirror, she stared
at the girl who stared back at her. What she saw was a face she did not
recognise.
A face once full of joy, now empty and devoid of
hope.
Grief had dissolved to leave a horrible nothingness. Hope had
betrayed her. It had led her to believe she was on the cusp of a new,
marvellous chapter in her life.  That hope had proved not only vain, but
treacherous. She raised her hand, prompted to destroy the image before her,
erasing the eyes that looked back with only despair and defeat in their depths.

How could she possibly go on from here? Her whole
life had been turned upside down. Why had he returned to destroy what was left
of her already shaken sanity? Had she been an accessory to her own undoing?
She
had seduced
him
after all. No!  The shame and horror of this was
too much. Her mind recoiled from the thought. He was a sick, twisted man. 
He must have planned the whole thing. Taking down her defences one by one,
earning her trust through lies and deceit and then destroying her, leaving her
to wallow in her own self-loathing.
But why?
Did he
hate her that much?

This thought incited a fresh bout of tears. She
suddenly swiped at her face in disgust. She was indulging in self-pity. How
dare he make her a victim again! Well he wasn’t going to get away with it this
time. She shouldn’t just be sitting here. She should be exposing him.  Her
anger propelled her to her feet and she looked around for her mobile phone.
Where was it? She checked the nightstand, her pockets, under the bed. No phone.
She stopped abruptly. The bastard had taken it. Had he known she had no
landline? He must have anticipated that she’d want to call someone, to call her
father.

“My sister was tortured and murdered. Your father
was responsible.” These words suddenly seemed to echo, like clanging bells, in
her mind. She wasn’t the object of his hatred, or maybe she was, but only by
association. He hated her father. He blamed him for his sister’s death. She
clapped a hand to her mouth as she was hit with a frightening truth. Her father
was in danger. She couldn’t stay here. She had to warn him! It was interesting
that she never, for one minute, considered that her nemesis could have been
speaking the truth. He was a deceiver. Her battered psyche could now only
accept black and white, not shades of grey. Her father had loved and cherished
her all her life.
To believe him an evil doer, a murderer?
That would truly be trading sanity for madness.

She now looked around for her bag, which contained
her purse and car keys. She swore when, after ten minutes of fruitless,
increasingly frenzied, searching, it was still nowhere to be found. He must
have taken that as well! Her body began to shake and she could feel the sweat
blooming from her pores. He had clearly done everything he could to prevent her
following him, which added more credence to the idea that he was going after
her father. She sat down heavily on the bed, gritting her teeth and fighting
against the panic that threatened to consume her. Get a grip, girl, and think!
she
cajoled herself. 

Perhaps she could rouse one of her neighbours and
get them to ring the police? But her glance fell on the digital display of the
clock next to her bed. It was now past 2am in the morning. A number of her
neighbours were elderly people and she’d probably have to knock so loud she’d
end up waking the whole floor. Was it a good idea to get the police involved
anyway? Would they come quickly enough when she had no proof of the danger to
her father and the immediate threat to
herself
had
passed? She groaned in frustration and bit the inside of her cheek. That
bastard had played her like a puppet! But she’d be damned if she’d allow him to
render her completely helpless yet again. She suddenly raced through to her
living room and reached up on a shelf for the vase she kept her spare change
in. She counted through it. Thank God she was a hoarder; there should be enough
for a taxi at least. She scribbled a quick note and posted it through the door
of her nearest neighbour. It didn’t say very much but at least it meant that someone
would keep an eye on her unlocked flat and might be prompted to call the police
if she did not return. That last thought sent a shiver through her. She had
every intention of returning but what awaited her at her father’s house? Was
her father already dead? Would her adversary think twice about killing her if
she confronted him again?

She returned to her flat and wrenched opened a
drawer in the living room. She found what she was expecting to find: a
taser
. She had recently stopped taking it with her
everywhere she went. Even with her amnesia, the fear of her ordeal had stayed
with her and she had hated the idea of being left helpless and defenceless
again. This was also the reason she had kept a gun in the apartment. The irony
was that Michael had made her feel much more positive and secure and she had
stopped keeping the
taser
on her person all of the
time. She picked it up and almost dropped it in alarm as mental images flashed
before her mind’s eye. She now remembered, in horrific, vivid detail, the last
time she had used one. She forced herself to grip it tightly instead. She must
not balk from using it again. It had the shape of a gun and could even be used
to masquerade as one. Her life and her father’s life could depend on it.

She put the weapon in her pocket, grabbed her coat
and ran outside. She’d head for the taxi rank nearby and may even be lucky
enough to flag a taxi down before she got there.

*

Sean was granted access to Harry’s house and,
considering it was after 1.30am in the morning, he was surprised to find the
man still up, dressed and in ebullient spirits. Well, he thought to himself, he
would soon be turning his mood right around. He had done what he could to
expose Harry’s diseased operation and the maggots who fed from it. Now all that
was left was to truly punish the bastard. He fingered the gun in his pocket. He
could put a bullet in his skull right here and now. However, he was loath to do
so. This man had handed his sister, and God knows how many other innocent
girls, into the hands of depraved monsters and he did not deserve a quick and
easy death. He accepted Harry’s offer of a drink and sat down in the seat that
was indicated.

“Sorry to call at such a late hour,” he said “but I
think I have some very important information about the man who abducted your
daughter.”

Harry turned to him, his hooded eyes glittering
dangerously. Sean had a second to register a frisson of concern at what he read
in their stygian depths. Before he could react, bands of steel had slid out
from concealed cavities in the chair he was sitting on and he was clamped
immovably to it at his wrists and ankles. He sensed another presence behind him
and watched helplessly as Sebastian, sporting a huge, inane grin, retrieved
Kate’s gun from the depths of his coat pocket.

Harry smiled at him. The smile contained about as
much humanity as a viper. “You’re diligence is commendable,” he said, his voice
jarringly cheerful, “but his identity was revealed to me not fifteen minutes
ago.” Sean’s first thought was that, despite his precautions, Kate had
undergone a miraculous recovery and managed to get in touch with him.

Harry approached the chair. “You’re first big
mistake was when you targeted Dominic. It was only a matter of time before I made
the connection to Brenna Monaghan, our first and only reject, and from there to
her Irish-American brother,
Sean
. A bit stupid of you to use the same
name, don’t you think?”

Sean lunged toward Harry but his restraints did
their job, preventing any forward momentum. His form heaving in frustration and
rage, he spat “She was no reject, you fucker! And it was no mistake to get rid
of that perverted butcher! Don’t you realise, you idiot, that I
wanted
you to know who was behind his fate?”

He sat back, calmer now
and content to use words as his weapons. “Seeing your reaction that day in your
office, it was priceless,” he finished cockily.

Harry knew that Sean was just trying to get a rise
out of him. He simply
smiled,
content in the knowledge
that he finally had this weasel right where he wanted him. “You’re next mistake
was when you tried to implicate Robert Spencer. It was Robert, God bless him,
who noticed the resemblance between our Sean Murphy, captured on camera, and a
certain American he’d met who was dating my daughter. Perhaps, he was simply
less prejudiced than the rest of us, or just paid closer attention to you. He
certainly saw things more clearly than I.”

His grin widened.
“Thank you for
so kindly handing yourself in to me.
It saved me the trouble of going
looking for you.”

He now bent in front of Michael and his expression
changed to one of venomous contempt.

“You underestimated me. Did you really think that I
would not find you out?”

Sean glowered at him. “Well it took you long enough,
you pathetic prick. You even let me fuck your precious daughter.”

Sebastian let out a howl of rage at this and clubbed
him savagely across the head with the gun.

While he was still reeling from the blow, Harry’s
hand grabbed him by the throat. “Well I hope that memory sustains you. Because
by the time we’re done with you, you’ll be cursing her name and wishing you’d
never set eyes on her.”