Invasion of Privacy: A Deep Web Thriller #1 (Deep Web Thriller Series) (29 page)

“Got you!” cried Fiona, from across the room. She turned around and waved Jenny to come over a big grin on her face. “Look at this,” she said, pointing at her screen.

Black and white CCTV footage of the Flexbase reception in Paddington was paused on her computer screen. It was mounted high and took in all of the reception area, the desk on the left, the entrance doors in the centre and the waiting area to the right. The female receptionist sat behind the reception desk painting her nails. A time code in the bottom corner said, “16:09.” Fiona resumed playback. Nothing happened for a moment and then the entrance doors rotated and a cycle courier walked in, carrying a large letter. He wore trainers, a shiny charcoal tracksuit and carried a backpack. His head was still covered in a black cycle helmet and facemask, the kind used by cyclists to filter carbon monoxide. He spoke to the receptionist, although nothing could be heard, as there was no audio. She nodded and he walked forwards towards the camera and then underneath, out of sight. Fiona stopped playback.

“Right ?” said Jenny, noncommittally.

“Now watch this.” Fiona pulled up another CCTV feed. Jenny recognised this as the reception area from Watford, smaller and less grand than its cousin in Paddington. This time, a security guard sat behind the reception desk, doing a crossword in his newspaper. The time code showed, “19:13.” Fiona pressed play. After a moment the guard looked up towards the entrance doors. He pressed a button and the doors opened. A cycle courier walked in, in exactly the same garb as the one from the Paddington footage. After a short conversation with the guard, he too was allowed to enter the building.

“It’s the same guy in both, I’m sure of it.” Fiona rewound, put both video feeds on the screen and allowed them to run simultaneously. It was the same man. He wore the same clothes and moved in the same way. “And in both cases, he’s arrived not long before each victim. You can see them coming in later.”

“That’s great work, Fiona.” Jenny was impressed with the constable’s initiative. “Have you got footage of the courier leaving?” She was thinking of the time code.

“That’s the strange thing. There’s no footage of him leaving at all. It’s like he came in and never left.”

“That is odd.” Jenny studied the two feeds. “What do you think? Is that Derek Saxton under that mask and helmet?”

“It’s hard to say. Could be, I suppose.”

Jenny wasn’t sure. Saxton was powerfully built and muscular. The dark tracksuit bottoms and jacket worn by the cyclist made it difficult to gauge his build. 

“Can you work with O’Reilly to see if we can get a close-up of his face? We might at least be able to see his eyes or something.”

“I’ve just emailed him the two MPGs and asked him for exactly that.”

“Good. And can you contact the team on-site at Derek’s house and office? Ask them to search for any cycling gear.”

“Already done,” beamed Fiona.

When Jenny returned to her desk, she noticed a missed call on her mobile phone. Then she remembered that she’d left it on silent since the team briefing three hours earlier. She pressed a button and saw that she had missed four calls, all from different people: April, Alan, Karim, and Harry.

Her sister would have phoned to confirm arrangements for the coming weekend. It was Kevin’s birthday. Which reminded Jenny, she needed to buy a present for her nephew. Alan, who was at the morgue, would have called to give her an update on the formal identification of Anna Parker, whose mother had travelled up from Torquay for the grotesque formality. Karim, who was at a different morgue in Watford, would have been giving her an update on the Audri Sahlberg post-mortem. And Harry, who had been forensically analysing Derek Saxton’s laptop and home computers, searching for evidence of the Anna Parker email invitation or the Audri Sahlberg letter and instruction note, was returning her call. She had left him a voicemail earlier, telling him to meet her the next morning in Canary Wharf, and accompany her during her visit to the Flexbase headquarters. Given that they were looking into the meeting room booking processes, she wanted the computer expert with her for when the techno babble started.

She saw that three of the four had left voicemails. And then she noticed that she had also received a text. It was from a number she didn’t recognise. She read it and gasped.

DI Price. I have critical information on the Audri Sahlberg case that you need to know. I will only discuss with you personally. Tomorrow 10:00 a.m. Alone. Somewhere public. Let me know where. 

What the hell was this? She looked at the time. It had arrived twenty minutes ago. She composed a response and pressed send.
Who is this? How did you get my number?

A minute later the reply arrived. Insistent.
Tomorrow 10.00 a.m. It will be worth it.

Instead of replying with another text, she dialled it. It rang and rang. No voicemail. Eventually, she gave up. She thought about where to meet and recalled that she was going to Docklands tomorrow morning. She knew somewhere.

Okay. Taylor St Baristas, Canary Wharf. This better be good. Or I’ll have you for wasting police time.

The reply was almost immediate.
You won’t regret this.

Jenny wasn’t so sure.

* * *

“Thanks for the lift Patrick, but I think I need to be on my own.”

“I’m worried about you, Kimmy. On your own in the house.”

“I’ll be fine. I’m not good company right now, anyway. Why don’t you go out with some of your friends?”

“I’d rather make sure you’re okay.”

“That’s very sweet of you. But I’m fine. Honestly.”

Kim pulled the door handle and the passenger door partially opened. The garish red leather seats creaked as she leaned over to kiss Patrick on the cheek. He turned his lips towards her, expecting more. She lowered her head and so he jerkily planted a peck on her forehead instead. Kim withdrew, unclipped her seatbelt and climbed out of the car. 

“See you tomorrow?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve got a full day of rehearsals and then straight into the final ballet performance.”

“The show must go on, eh?” He grinned amiably.

“Yeah, I guess.”

His faced dropped as he realised from her harsh inflection that he’d said something wrong. But, as usual, he had no idea what. The show must go on. Just like life must go on. But not for her friend. Not for Anna.

She shut the door and turned her back on him. He would watch her walk up the path; she knew that. When she turned her key in the lock and pushed the door ajar, she turned to him and waved.

He waved back and then screeched off up the road, the rising exhaust note of his white Porsche loud in the quiet backstreets of Charlton this late at night. She watched him slalom at speed through the parked cars on the narrow road, wondering why he always had to drive so fast.

The front door closed behind her. The house was quiet, unnaturally so. The faint yellow light from the streetlamp outside passed through the arched window above the front door and provided minimal illumination in the hallway. The near dark matched her mood and she wasn’t inclined to change it. The light or her mood.

All day she’d been in the company of people: her fellow students, her teachers, and the dancers in this evening’s penultimate ballet production. She’d found that only when dancing was she able to forget. No, not forget. Suspend belief about her best friend’s death.

Kim dumped her coat and bag and opened the fridge in the kitchen, its glowing interior the only light in the room. There was no wine left, she had drunk it all last night. She spotted a bottle of beer and opened it. Taking a greedy swig, she drifted upstairs. The further she went, the darker it became. When she reached the first floor landing, she had no choice but to put on the light. The first thing she saw was the open door to Anna’s room, the Jasmine plaque crooked on the door from her encounter with Jenny, the nice detective from yesterday who’d kept her company till late into the night.

Feeling drawn, Kim entered Anna’s room. She turned on all the lights, then turned off the centre light as it was too bright. 

On the bed, she saw Theo, Anna’s enormous teddy bear that she had brought with her from her home in Torquay. She placed her already empty beer bottle on the bedside table, lay down on Anna’s bed, and wrapped Theo’s massive arms around her. 

The tears came quickly, followed by wracking sobs. She let them. Eventually, as the sobs became less frequent, she allowed herself to drift off to sleep.

She awoke with a start, initially disoriented. Why was she in Anna’s room? Why was everything so silent? Where was Anna? And then it all came back in an angry rush. Adrenalin flowed freely. Her anger and frustration grew within her like a nuclear chain reaction. She couldn’t contain it. She had to burst. The guttural scream she howled was a start. Jumping off the bed, she grabbed the empty beer bottle and threw it wildly, immediately searching for another projectile as it flew from her grip. She heard the satisfying smash of breaking glass but then the room dimmed unexpectedly. 

Shocked back into herself, she turned around slowly. The bottle had hit one of the wall lights, exploded and smashed the glass cover to bits. The bulb inside, now exposed, had been blown apart as well. Shards of thick, green bottle glass interspersed with thin, multi-coloured glass from the bulb and light-shade lay strewn about the corner desk and floor. She was lucky the fuse box downstairs hadn’t tripped.

Disgusted with herself, Kim turned on the main light and carefully picked up the broken shards. She made a pile of broken glass on Anna’s desk. When the floor was clear, she stood up and picked at bits on the broken wall light, in an attempt to make sure all the loose pieces were removed. 

One piece offered up some resistance. She realised it wasn’t actually a piece of glass, but some kind of electrical component, with two thin wires streaming out the back of it. She was no electrical expert, but it didn’t look like it belonged in the light. The only electrical component that she thought should be there was the screw hole for the bulb. She pulled at the strange component and more wire flowed out and then it caught. 

What the hell was it?

What the hell, she decided. She yanked it. It came free in her hand, but the fuse box downstairs tripped at the same time. All the lights went out. 

Damn.

She pulled her phone out of the pocket of her jeans, swapping it with the electrical component she had liberated from the light. Using the phone’s torch as illumination, she carefully made her way to the ground floor and found the fusebox cupboard in the kitchen, where she flipped the tripped fuse upwards. Light came back on upstairs. She switched on all the lights downstairs.

Her phone rang in her hand, the vibration and the noise making her jump out of her skin.

She looked at the display. Patrick. Why was he ringing this late? Why was he ringing at all? They usually messaged each other, text conversations being their normal mode of communication when not face-to-face. She couldn’t be bothered to talk to him. They’d talked enough earlier. He’d only ask her if she was all right. And she damn well wasn’t and didn’t want to lie.

She pressed the red button, dropping his call.

WEDNESDAY

CHAPTER 10

Facing a mirrored wall, Brody watched DI Jenny Price enter the busy café. Her eyes darted round the establishment. He took the opportunity to study her. A chic grey trouser suit, a purple blouse and black, practical shoes, had replaced yesterday’s maroon outfit. She carried a raincoat over an arm. This morning, her hair was pinned up although some auburn locks had slipped free. He could see the line of her slender neck.  

He watched her use her phone to make a call, looking around as she rang. The display on his phone lit up — he’d put it on silent — but he ignored it. When it stopped, he pressed send on the text he had prepared earlier.

Your cappuccino is getting cold, DI Price.

He watched her receive the text and scan the room suspiciously. Eventually, she caught his eye in the walled reflection and held it. Brody nodded obligingly. She acknowledged him and then coolly turned away and approached the counter. He let out a deep breath, not realising he’d been holding it. He watched her order and pay. She was given a numbered wooden block. 

“You’re not a cappuccino girl, then?” said Brody as she sat down opposite him, pushing the coffee he had bought her to one side.

“I’ve already had my breakfast.”

“So you’re Italian?”

“No, but I agree with Italian coffee etiquette. It makes sense.”

“That explains your choice of this place. You know your coffee.” Brody took a sip of his espresso. “And this is damn good coffee.”

“It’s Guatemalan.”

“Yes, from the Huehuetenango region just North of Guatemala city.”

“I’m impressed,” she said, nodding, “that you can pronounce Huehuetenango.”

Brody chuckled. The waitress arrived and placed Jenny’s order in front of her. An espresso and a tall glass of tap water. 

“Well DI Price, it seems we’re both passionate about coffee,” Brody commented. He watched her sip her drink and savour its flavour. He felt genuine admiration.

“Looks that way, Mr . . .”

“Taylor. Brody Taylor.”

“So, Mr Taylor. You have information about Audri Sahlberg?”

“Please, call me Brody.”

“And you can call me —”

He cut in. “— Jenny?”

“DI Price,” she corrected him. “But I am intrigued how you seem to know so much about me and this case.”

“There’s a simple answer to that. I saw you at the Saxton house in Bushey yesterday.”

“Where were you then?” She raised one eyebrow. “I didn’t see you.”

“I was at home,” he lied.

“I don’t understand.”

“Why don’t I show you?”

Brody whipped out his tablet PC and launched an Internet browser. He brought up the SWY site, logged in and selected
Au Pair Affair
. Of the seven camera feeds, he saw movement in Audri’s bedroom. He selected it and it filled the screen. Men in white over-suits were systematically poking about the room.