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

by Ian Sutherland

  That weekend, she borrowed Damien from April, her sister. Together they went shopping for her own Xbox. Back at her flat, Damien set it all up for her and showed her how to use it. A month later, she had completed Call of Duty’s single player campaign on the hardest level. Playing against the computer turned out to be straightforward as the enemy soldier’s movements were predictable. She offered to babysit her nephew more frequently and together they played split-screen mode, sometimes as a team against the computer and occasionally heads-up against each other. Around that time, Damien explained about online play, where you could compete against other gamers from all over the world in real time, either one-against-all or in teams of four. That weekend, she borrowed her nephew again and he helped her order a broadband connection for her flat. When it was installed he’d connected the Xbox to it and set up her own online username. Two months later, Jenny won her first victory over Damien in head-to-head combat, he at his home in Kent and she in her flat in Richmond, both continuously taunting each other via their microphone headsets. Within six months, Jenny had risen above Damien in the worldwide rankings, much to his embarrassment.

  Nowadays, Jenny was an ardent online gamer, a hobby she kept entirely secret from all her friends and especially her colleagues on the force. Only April and Damien knew. Well, plus a few thousand online gamers, but they only knew her as Jennifer3000. Whenever a visitor pointed at the Xbox sitting under her television, she explained that she’d bought it for her nephew for when he came round to stay. Damien now thought Jenny was, “Well cool!” –something her straight-laced sister found highly amusing.

  She had upgraded each time the makers released a new version of Call of Duty, or COD as gamers referred to it. She had also become competent on other first person shooters such as Halo and Far Cry. She knew a thirty-two-year-old single female police detective like herself didn’t fit the typical demographic, but she didn’t care. She enjoyed the escapism and the connectedness of being part of a group, even if most of the group’s members were spotty teenage boys or grown-up social incompetents.

  Jenny wondered if perhaps it was she who was the social incompetent. It wasn’t like she lived a normal life. The few friends she had stayed in touch with from her distant schooldays were all starting to marry and have kids in their two-up, two-downs. Even most of the female officers in the force managed to hold down long-term relationships, although mostly with other coppers. After being the focus of station gossip during one three-month relationship with her immediate superior some years ago, back when she was in uniform, Jenny had vowed never to date another colleague again. This rule, however, turned out to be a real problem. It was hard to meet decent men in her line of work. The few civilians she had risked dating seemed to be far more interested in the bragging rights going out with a policewoman gave them in front of their mates. One, a good looking advertising executive introduced to her by her sister, had, after a month of romantic meals and nights out, finally showed his true colours by asking her, in the middle of ripping each other’s clothes off, to fish out her uniform and handcuffs. Instead, she applied her police training and viciously bent his arms up behind his back and launched him, just in his underwear, out the front door, down the stone steps and onto his arse in a huge puddle that had conveniently formed by the kerb. The rest of his clothes landed next to him a couple of minutes later.

  Jenny had spent another hour playing COD before she caught herself yawning. She’d finished the game, pleased at the win, logged off and went back to bed. This time, when her head hit the pillow, she had drifted off into an uninterrupted, dreamless sleep.

  The sport news on the radio gave way to music. She didn’t recognise the song. Jenny reviewed the list of actions in her notebook and picked up her phone. She dialled Alan Coombs, who answered immediately. He was already at Holborn.

  “Do you ever sleep?” she asked.

  “When you’re my age, sleep’s less important. Anyway, I only live round the corner.”

  Alan's wife had died from cancer two years ago. Since then, he had allowed the job to fill the void in his home life. He often came in on weekends, without claiming overtime, to process the never-ending backlog of paperwork. And he was always the first into the station each day, active case or not. Occasionally, she worried he would burn himself out, but he always remained upbeat and cheerful.

  After a few minutes of catching up, she placed her finger under the first point on her notepad and asked, “Where have we got to on the CCTV footage?”

  “Fiona went up to Flexbase HQ in Docklands yesterday. She got there fairly late, so they said they’d email the video files to her this morning. They may already be in her inbox.”

  “Did she see what was on them?”

  “Don’t think so. They just asked for the timeframe and told her they’d send it over.”

  “Hmmm, sounds strange.”

  “It’s some big computer system that centrally manages the CCTV for all their offices around the UK. It’s not like the good old days where you’d have a VHS video recorder out the back of a shop.”

  “Okay.” Jenny moved her finger down to the second point. “What about the other flatmates?”

  “Yeah, I finally got hold of them yesterday evening. They’re all on study leave since last week. Guess where?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but she already knew from her conversation with Kim last night. “Egypt, on holiday. They’re flying back in tomorrow, but their alibi looks solid. I’ll check them out anyway.”

  He didn’t need to add the last part. Jenny knew Alan Coombs followed up every lead diligently.

  “How’d they take it?” Jenny recalled what Kim had said about the dynamics in their house.

  “They seemed upset. Shocked. They were on speakerphone their end. One of them was uncontrollable. Broke down crying. It was a difficult call.”

  “I bet. Anything else, Al?”

  “Just one thing. I talked to Jake Symmonds, the lecturer who supposedly made the recommendation to the Royal Opera House.”

  “And?”

  “He claims he did no such thing.”

  “Well, I think we knew that anyway.”

  “Yeah. He said there is a partnership between the college and the ROH, but it’s more about their professionals coming in to teach at the college.”

  She thought out loud. “The killer must have known that, to make it more believable to Anna on the email . . .”

  “I agree. I’m going up to the Royal Opera House later. Just to check things out. You never know.”

  “Good thinking. What about the college itself?”

  “I’m heading there after.”

  “Great. Okay, I’m just about to jump in the car. Should be at Holborn by about 8:30. I want to look through the CCTV footage as a priority.”

  “Right. See you then.”

  Jenny washed up her bowl, turned off the radio, and looked around for her maroon suit jacket. She grabbed her car keys and black leather handbag and exited the flat.

  By the time she was driving over Twickenham Bridge, the car’s heating system had begun to take the edge off the cold. Her phone rang. It was a central London number, but not one she recognised. She accepted the call and spoke into the hands-free system.

  “DI Price.”

  “Ah, DI Price, it’s Clive Evans here.”

  Jenny racked her brains to place the name.

  He continued, “The building manager from Flexbase in Paddington.”

  “Ah yes, Mr Evans.” She remembered the lanky, whiny man now.

  “Sorry to trouble you, but I thought you ought to know . . .”

  “Know what?”

  “There’s been another.”

  “Another what?” She had no idea what he was talking about.

  “Another dead girl.”

  * * *

  “Audri?” called a female voice.

  A pause.

  “Audreeee!” Much louder this time. “Where is that girl?”

  “No idea.”
A male voice answered. “Do you want me to go up and wake her?”

  “Don’t be stupid, Derek. You can’t just walk into her room. I’ll do it.”

  Silence. Thank God. Brody allowed himself to drift back to sleep again.

  “She’s not here!” The woman’s voice again. Annoyed.

  “What do you mean, not here? Where else would she be?”

  “She mustn’t have come home last night.”

  “What do you mean? Did she go out?”

  “Yes, with Ornetta.”

  “Where to?”

  “I don’t know. Watford, I suppose.”

  Watford.

  Brody was sure that was a piece of information he needed to know. Only he couldn’t recall why.

  Watford . . . Watford. A town on the north-western perimeter of London, just inside the M25 motorway. He had been there four or five years ago with Leroy and his sister, Hope, who had also moved to London from Wales. She had met a guy in a nightclub the night before who claimed to be a stand-up comedian. Leroy wanted to check out Hope’s potential new boyfriend and declared they had to see him in action. If he made Leroy laugh, then Leroy would grant his blessing to them both. Hope begged Brody to accompany them, if only to keep Leroy reined in, and the next day Brody accompanied brother and sister to the end of the Metropolitan tube line, where they tracked down the dingy comedy club in Watford. Hope’s one-night stand was the opening act of the evening's line-up and it was soon apparent why. He turned out to be excruciatingly unfunny and the small audience, sensing blood in the water, heckled him relentlessly, especially Leroy. Initially, Hope was mortified but eventually she gave in and heckled him herself. The comedian promptly exited stage left to a round of rapturous applause. Hope never saw him again.

  Watford . . . why was Watford important now?

  And then Brody had it. It was an English town. It was a place, a specific location in Middle England, where life carried on as normal; the line of thought that had prompted his new hacking approach the previous evening. Watford was the real-world location of the Saxton household’s webcam feed inside the virtual world of SecretlyWatchingYou.com.

  Brody opened his eyes.

  He lay slumped on his desk, his arms curled into a makeshift pillow. He raised himself slowly and felt his back crack. His shoulder muscles ached. His legs had somehow entwined themselves around the wheel spokes of his chair. He disentangled himself and immediately wished he hadn’t. Blood gushed to his lower legs and, along with it, excruciating pins and needles. He held his body rigid until they wore off. Finally, able to move without pain, he stood and rubbed his beard vigorously. It needed trimming.

  Lying on the desk in front of him, he noticed the disgusting, probably-covered-in-piss, yellow bottle of bleach that Leroy had placed on his desk yesterday — the clue that had helped him realise the SWY feeds were all from the UK; his Middle England line of thought. He screwed his face in disgust as he realised that, in his sleep, he’d somehow wrapped his arms around it and inadvertently used it as a makeshift pillow.

  Cursing Leroy, he rushed to the bathroom and scrubbed his face clean. He returned to the living room with some sheets of toilet paper wrapped around one hand as a substitute glove. Carefully picking up the bottle of bleach from his desk, he dropped it and the paper into the wastebasket. He’d rather buy a replacement than touch that one again.

  He looked at his watch. 8:15 a.m. He’d been there all night. Just after 1:00 a.m., Leroy had returned home with Danny, both half-cut. They tried engaging Brody in conversation, but he grunted distractedly and then donned a pair of headphones. Eventually, they took the hint and disappeared to the bedroom. A few minutes later, Brody removed them only to immediately reinstate them on hearing porn movie noises emanating from their room. An hour later he’d risked it again and found to his relief that all was quiet. He’d carried on observing the feeds and must have fallen asleep sometime after two.

  The large screen in the centre of the room displayed the Au Pair Affair location from within SWY. The kitchen feed was selected and the audio that had awakened him originated from there. A man sat on one of three stools at a breakfast bar, crunching his way through a bowl of cereal. Brody recognised him from the day before, when he had first seen him in the same kitchen, illicitly kissing the au pair and fondling her breasts. So, his name was Derek. Hilary stood by the sink, a smartphone in her hands.

  Brody added the name to his notes. He had the full cast now. The Saxtons – Derek, Hilary and their baby, Izzy – and their au pair, Audri. And now he had a location. Watford. He should have enough to track down a specific address. He fired up a browser on his computer and quickly navigated to a commercial people-finder site. Even with the limited information he had, he would be able to run a search through loads of publicly available records, all visible online to anyone who chose to look. The site made it quick and easy, centralising information from birth, marriage and death certificates, the phonebook, electoral rolls, company director registrations and the land registry.

  As he searched, he heard the Saxtons resume their conversation.

  “Have you tried ringing her?” asked Derek.

  Brody paused to look at the main screen.

  “What do you think I’m doing?” Hilary waved the phone in her hand at him. It looked to Brody like an iPhone. She put it to her ear and frowned. “Ringing tone, no reply . . . Audri, it’s Hilary here. It’s 8:20 a.m. Where the hell are you? I’m going to be late for work now, young lady. Ring me as soon as you get this.”

  “You should probably text her, as well. And Facebook and tweet her. Young people seem to take far more notice of that stuff than voicemails.”

  “Yeah, you’re an expert on young people.” She spoke with a tedious tone in her voice, not looking at him.

  Derek peered at her sharply, his spoon frozen halfway to his mouth. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Hilary ignored him and rapidly tapped out a message on the phone.

  On Brody’s PC, the search results came up. Negative. Damn, that was unexpected. He tried a few variations — initials instead of forenames, different spellings of Saxton, focusing on Hilary as the primary instead of Derek, expanding the geographic search beyond Watford — but still the search came up empty.

  He wondered if he’d somehow misheard Watford. After all, he had been half asleep at the time.

  In the Saxton household, the debate about Audri carried on.

  “I can’t believe she’s going to make me late! Can’t you look after Izzy, Derek? Surely you haven’t got anything important on this morning. Especially after that late meeting last night.”

  “It’s because of that late meeting that I have to get to the office first thing. Tons to do. Sorry, darling.”

  “Bloody hell. I’ve got a huge funeral order to prepare this morning. Ten different wreaths.” She looked at her wristwatch. “The funeral directors are picking up the flowers from the shop at 1:00 p.m.”

  “I’m sure Amanda can handle it, darling.”

  “She won’t get back from New Convent Garden Market until about 10:00 a.m. I’ll have to ask Joan to come in, even though it’s her day off.”

  “There you go, darling. Problem solved.”

  “I tell you what. When that girl gets home, I’m going to bloody well kill her.”

  * * *

  The feeling of déjà vu was sickening.

  Another dreary meeting room inside another characterless office block. Another naked, lifeless young woman, used and discarded like a Barbie doll no longer in favour, the weight of her torso keeping her body on the table, her splayed legs limply hanging down almost, but not quite, kneeling on the floor. Bound arms stretched out in front. Her head lay cheek down on the table, dark hair spilling and merging with a pool of blood. And so much blood. Red splatters across walls and windows from the slicing action of the killer’s sharp knife, coupled with the last few desperate spurts from the body’s once powerful beating heart and then, gravity and time having don
e its work, blood slowly drained from the gash across her throat and the slice on one arm into a massive red slick, puddling across the oval table and overflowing the sides to the chairs and floor beneath.

  “Is it the same?” asked DI Hamid, a note of hopefulness in his voice.

  Jenny forced herself to look for differences.

  The absence of a cello was one. The lack of clothes either on the body or — she checked around — anywhere in the room was another. Just a bright red coat, thrown across the other end of the table from where the victim’s body lay.

  “Yes, pretty much the same.”

  “My guvnor will be really hacked off when he gets here. He’s not had a good murder case for ages.”

  “Really? I’d swap places with you any day of the week if that’s true.”

  Hamid shrugged. “I wouldn’t. We might not have loads of murders to deal with every day like you lot in the Met, but we still have plenty of serious crime to keep us busy as hell.”

  Hamid was from the Bedfordshire and Hertfordshire Major Crime Unit, a joint force set up by the two neighbouring police constabularies bordering Greater London to its north. Watford fell within their territory rather than the Met’s. Jenny had gate-crashed someone else’s party.

  Clive Evans had called an hour ago. He had been alerted by the building manager from the Flexbase offices in Watford. He had no real details to tell her, only that it was a dead girl in a meeting room, just like yesterday in Paddington. He told her local police were already on the way.

  “How come your colleague from Watford phoned you so quickly?” Jenny had asked Evans.

  “Because all Flexbase building managers around the country were informed of what happened here yesterday, mostly so that we could reassure any clients in case they heard about it on the news. No one for a minute thought the same thing would happen again.”