Three long hours had passed since Jenny’s first meeting with Derek Saxton in his office just outside of Watford. They were now back in Holborn.
Once Jenny realised that Da Silva wasn’t planning on being present, she had ensured Alan Coombs was with her in the interview room. He knew her interview style, unlike DI Hamid earlier. His interruption during her initial meeting with Saxton at his office had annoyed her immensely. Not that she had let her feelings show, especially in front of the suspect. Hamid obviously employed a confrontational approach, blunt and direct. In Jenny’s mind this approach typically handed over too much information, and therefore control, to the suspect. She preferred to adapt her technique to the situation and, in Saxton’s case, she had wanted to see what he was willing to offer up first. It helped clue her into how she needed to play things later when the questioning got tougher and the answers more evasive.
Although the Audri Sahlberg case had had a quick break with Derek Saxton’s detainment, she was very conscious that nothing had so far linked Saxton to Anna Parker’s murder, even though the MO’s of the two crimes matched closely. There must be some other connection.
She sat opposite Saxton in a large interview room, a wooden table between them. The red light on the recording system was on, picking up audio and video from microphones and cameras concealed in the walls and ceiling. Both DCI’s, Da Silva and Jeffries, were watching the live feed in the room next door. Alan Coombs sat to her left. To Saxton’s right was Stephen Masterson, his solicitor, clad in a Savile Row three-piece suit, a silk handkerchief peeking out of his top pocket. He looked decidedly uncomfortable, frequently rubbing his thighs. Jenny reasoned that most of his lawyerly dealings related to business – advising on employment contracts, mergers and acquisitions and shareholder disputes. But here, dragged by his client into a criminal situation, he seemed distinctly out of his depth.
“How long has it been going on?” Jenny asked, pleased that her persistence had finally elicited something of note from Saxton.
“About four months.”
“And your wife?”
Saxton looked at his palms and shook his head. Then he eyeballed Jenny. “And she doesn’t need to know either.” He spoke firmly and turned to his lawyer. “This is confidential, right? They can’t say any of this to Hilary, can they?”
Masterson shook his head noncommittally. “Depends.”
“On what?” he demanded.
Jenny answered. “On whether you killed Audri.”
“I told you ten times already. I had nothing to do with it. Why would I?”
“To cover up the affair you’re now admitting to.”
“For fuck’s sake!”
Jenny changed tack. “Tell me about last night.”
“I was working late.”
“Where?”
“In my office.”
“Tolpits Lane?”
“Yes.”
“Anyone with you?”
“No. Jude left at about 6:00 p.m.”
“Are you having an affair with her as well?”
Saxton glowered at Jenny and turned again to Masterson. “Can she really dish out this kind of dirt?”
Masterson shrugged.
Saxton spoke in a deliberately slow, exasperated voice. “No. I am not having, nor ever have had an affair with my secretary.”
“So, you were in the office from 6:00 until well after 10:00 p.m. And no one saw you?”
Saxton thought for a moment and then looked up brightly. “Actually, I went to the gym. Yes, I forgot that. I left the office a few minutes after Jude.”
“And where is this gym?”
Saxton gave the address. Jenny asked Alan to note it down and check up on it after the interview.
“Then you went home?”
“No, I went back to the office.” He looked crestfallen.
“At what time?”
“About 7:15 p.m. It was just a quick workout.”
“And no one saw you? Not even the receptionist?”
“Oh yes, of course.” His expression brightened. “The security guard. That time of night, they put a security guard on reception. He saw me.”
“At 7:15 p.m.?”
“Yes, about then.”
“And he saw you again when you left to go home later?”
Saxton paused for thought. “Actually, no. When I left later he wasn’t there. Must have gone to the loo or something.”
“That’s convenient.”
Jenny wondered about Saxton. His thoughts and emotions were all over the place. He wasn’t thinking clearly. Nothing stacked up. His defence was weak. And yet, when Jenny wasn’t rubbing him up the wrong way, he seemed to be earnestly trying to help. It was time to up the stakes.
“Tell me about the sex games you enjoyed playing with Miss Sahlberg.”
Saxton’s jaw dropped. She’d hit a nerve with that one. “How —?” He stopped himself, reformed his thoughts and then said, “I’m not going to dignify that with an answer.”
“That’s up to you, Mr Saxton. But my advice — and I’m sure your solicitor would agree — is to offer up the truth in advance. It will go down well for you later.” It wouldn’t make any difference, but Jenny didn’t think Masterson had enough experience of courtrooms to know for sure.
Saxton said nothing.
“Is it that you’re uncomfortable talking to me about this?” she asked. “You know, me being a woman and all that.”
“No. I’m not embarrassed. It’s just . . .” He looked at Alan for moral support. “It’s private. That’s all.”
“I appreciate that, but it is relevant.”
“I don’t see how any of what me and Audri got up to in the sack has any relevance.”
“Just answer the question, Mr Saxton. Did you include sex games in your relationship with Miss Sahlberg?”
Saxton let a deep breath out. “She’s very uninhibited. Up for anything. Full of ideas.”
“Like . . .” prompted Alan.
“Do I have to do this?”
Jenny didn’t move a muscle and was confident Alan would remain quiet at her side. Masterson shuffled in his seat, rubbing his legs again.
Saxton spoke slowly at first and then, as he made it through the first few examples, related his encounters with more enthusiasm. At no point did he blush, although Jenny felt her cheeks redden. “She was just great. She’d text me all the time. You know, dirty texts. She’d do things like dig out my old rugby kit and we’d have sex while she was wearing it. Or make me wear it. She’d drag me into the woods for a quickie in the park near where we live. Or she’d put on private peep show. Or just wear high heels. And she got hold of some handcuffs from somewhere . . . Like I said, she was full of ideas.”
“And all this under your wife’s nose.” Jenny fought to keep a judgmental tone out of her voice.
“Yeah,” he sighed. “Audri was . . . pragmatic. So matter-of-fact about it. We never did much of anything when Hilary was around. She would wait for Hilary to go to work and then text me to pop back home.”
“The way you describe it, everything was her idea. Never yours?”
“I did start to take the lead with new ideas in the last few weeks. She told me that I couldn’t leave it up to her all the time.”
“Was one of your ideas for her to leave the house naked save her coat and shoes and meet you somewhere?”
“Where are you going with this?” asked Masterson, speaking up for the first time. “Mr Saxton is cooperating beyond the call of duty here.”
“Alan, show Mr Saxton the letter.”
Alan leafed through the pile of papers in front of him and handed over the evidence bag containing the invitation that had been found in her coat pocket.
Saxton read the letter slowly. Masterson leaned in to read over Saxton’s shoulder. Saxton stood up and walked in tight circles behind his chair. “No way. But this is . . . I mean, how the fuck . . .” Saxton continued, failing to string a sentence together for a minute more.
>
“Did you write this letter, Mr Saxton?”
Saxton looked Jenny squarely in the eye and said, “No.”
“Who else knows about your liaisons with Miss Sahlberg?”
“No one.”
“You sure?”
He paused for a moment and then nodded.
“You see my problem? If you didn’t write it and no one knows about your private games, then who else could have written it?”
Saxton sat back down in his seat, the wind completely taken out of his sails. He picked up the letter again and re-read it, leaning forward in his seat. “But that’s not even my office!” he exclaimed. “See here.” He lay the letter down on the desk and pointed. “It says to come to my office in Clarendon Road. That’s not my office.”
“Did Miss Sahlberg know where you worked? Had she been to your office in Tolpits Lane before?”
“No, she’s never been there.” He thought a bit more. “I’m not sure if I ever said specifically where I work.”
“So, she would be none the wiser,” concluded Alan.
Saxton chose not to comment.
“How many au pairs have you had?” asked Jenny.
“Two others.”
“Did you have affairs with them as well?”
“No.”
“But you wanted to, didn’t you?” Jenny prodded.
“No.” It was an obvious lie.
“Are they still alive?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“A pretty relevant one given the situation, don’t you think?” Jenny didn’t wait for an answer and switched to another topic. “Do you know Anna Parker?”
“Who?”
“Does Audri know an Anna Parker?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“Where were you last Friday? Late afternoon, early evening?”
“Friday? Why Friday?”
“I’ll ask the questions, Mr Saxton.”
Saxton thought for a moment and, with a sheepish look, said, “I was with Audri. Left work early to go home.”
“Where was Mrs Saxton?”
“She went out with the girls from work, so Audri suggested . . . well, you know.”
“I think I’m getting the picture. So you have no alibi for Friday either.”
“Why do I even need one?”
Jenny ignored him and switched tracks again. She thought that if she went fast enough, perhaps he would slip up. “Do you ever go to the Royal Opera House?”
“What the hell are you on about?”
“Just answer the question, Mr Saxton,” commanded Alan.
“No. I fucking hate opera.”
“What about Greenwich? Trinity Laban college? Ring any bells?”
“Eh?”
“Flexbase then?”
“Flexbase. What, the facilities company?”
“Yes.”
“What about it?”
“Are you a customer of theirs?”
“No. They’re far too expensive. I looked at them once, years ago. You want one of their offices and it’s like renting a hotel room when what you need is an unfurnished flat on a long term lease.”
Jenny almost smiled, remembering that she had made the same point the previous morning to the Paddington building manager.
“You know where the Flexbase office is in Watford?”
“I just said I knew, didn’t I?” And then it dawned on him. “Oh, I see where you’re going with this. Yes, they’re in Clarendon Road. But I wasn’t there yesterday. I haven’t been there in years.”
“It seems we only have your word for that. No one saw you after 7:15 p.m. And we have a letter from you to Audri, referring to your on-going sex games and inviting her to meet you at Clarendon Road.”
“I told you, I didn’t write that letter! I didn’t leave my office in Tolpits Lane, two miles away, until after 10:00 p.m. And I certainly didn’t kill Audri.”
“Is there any CCTV in your building to verify any of this?” Jenny already knew there wasn’t.
“No idea.”
“What about Clarendon Road?” asked the lawyer. “Is there CCTV there?”
Saxton looked at his solicitor in surprise. “Nice one, Stephen.” He turned to face Jenny, waiting for her answer.
“Yes, there is. In the foyer. We’re trying to get hold of it now.”
Like the Paddington Basin office, the CCTV system was managed centrally from the Flexbase headquarters in Canary Wharf. They were waiting on Flexbase to provide the footage from both receptions. She made a mental note to put pressure on them to hurry up.
“And when you see I’m not on there, what then?”
Alan answered. “Means nothing. There are other ways in and out of the building. Delivery entrances and so on.”
“Christ on a bike, what do I have to do to prove I had nothing to do with this?”
“Nothing Derek,” advised his lawyer. “It’s the police that have to prove you killed Miss Sahlberg. It’s not your job to prove you didn’t.”
Saxton glared at Jenny and then formed his lips into a smile. It was stone cold.
* * *
You love the planning stage: making sure you’ve thought through every eventuality, leaving nothing to chance. You know that doing what you do on a whim would be foolish. You’ve seen enough programs on the TV to know that the police only catch the ones who slip up. And so you plan. You make sure that every little thing is covered.
You’re pleased with the way you planned for the babysitter. You knew you couldn’t walk into the room while she was naked without her seeing you and screaming loudly. And so you came up with a plan. You’d once heard the babysitter suggest using a blindfold to the rugby player. You’d adapted her idea, knowing she was predisposed to it. And so, when she saw it listed as an instruction, she hadn’t hesitated.
Your plan worked. You walked nonchalantly into the meeting room, knowing she would have followed your instructions to the letter. You were able to walk around the room, the babysitter assuming from under her blindfold that you were her rugby player. You were able to take a good look at the goods. She was stunningly beautiful, made even more so by her vulnerability.
The icing on the cake was how you fooled her into allowing you to touch her. By far, it had been the best part of your plan. You were particularly proud of that. On your smartphone, you had recorded the rugby player’s voice from the webcam site. You caught a perfect little snippet of him saying, “Sshhh, Audri.” And each time she’d spoken or looked doubtful, you’d played it from your phone. It had kept her calm, reinforcing the illusion that she was in the room with the rugby player.
You used the time to feel her all over. Fondle her breasts, squeeze her nipples and even finger her wet pussy. She was begging for it. And it had made you so damn hard. Close to bursting.
And so all your planning came to a sudden halt after you knocked her over and placed the knife to her throat.
You’d planned to take your time. But you rushed it again. In the heat of the moment, you rushed it.
What a waste.
Still, there are plenty more fish in the sea. You’ve already selected the next one. The one a lot like her.
And you’ve already booked the meeting room. You’ve got a deadline to meet.
You’ve come up with a plan. After all, you’ve been watching her for months. You know so much about her, how can you possibly fail?
* * *
“Ah, nice of you to finally join us, DI Price,” said Da Silva, his sarcastic tone indicating the exact opposite. “Where the hell have you been?”
The briefing room was full to the brim, about thirty people: detectives, uniform and civilians. Heads swivelled round to stare at Jenny. Da Silva stood at the front, like a teacher addressing a class. Jenny caught Alan’s eye, but he shrugged his shoulders, letting her know that he didn’t have a clue what was going on. She had never seen Da Silva take front and centre before.
“I was just — ”
“Ju
st sit down,” he commanded.
She looked around. The only seat available was next to Alan, right in the middle. She quickly made her way to it, people standing to make room for her to pass. Da Silva folded his arms melodramatically and waited for her to sit. She felt like a chastised schoolchild, and her face flushed red.
“As I was just saying, I am not happy at all . . . ” Da Silva stared at Jenny as if everything was all her fault.
She wondered what on earth could have happened in the last hour to cause this uncustomary behaviour. She had been on the phone during most of the journey back from Watford, getting updates from the team. None of them had mentioned anything about Da Silva being on the warpath.
“One.” Da Silva held up his index finger, emphasising the point he was about to make. “I spoke to the press earlier and one of the journalists knew the name of our prime suspect. Now they all do. I want to know who let that little gem of information slip.” Da Silva looked around the room slowly, making it clear he believed someone on the team had done it.
He held up a second finger. “Two, the evidence on which we have arrested Mr Saxton is circumstantial at best. I’ve just sat down with the Chief Super and he ripped me a new arsehole over it. If we put what we currently have in front of the CPS, they will just laugh in our faces.
“And most importantly, number three. I do not believe that everyone here is giving the two hundred per cent I asked for when I first spoke to you all a couple of weeks ago. Carry on with this level of performance, and we’ll slip further down the rankings on the Commissioner’s dashboard. And, let me tell you, I will not have that. Not on my watch.” He held up his third finger, even though he’d made the third point already.
Jenny had never heard Da Silva use foul language before. It didn’t take a detective, even though there were plenty in the room, to understand that it was the second point that had riled him up so much. But she was surprised at his first point. She supposed it could have been someone on the team. But there were many other potential sources.
“I have already dealt with the first point. I’ve reminded the press of their obligations under the law. They cannot publish the identity of our suspect until I say so. The third point you will all deal with by upping your game with immediate effect. And I’d better see a difference. That leaves the second point. Let’s discuss that now.”
Invasion of Privacy: A Deep Web Thriller #1 (Deep Web Thriller Series) Page 21
