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 fro
nt 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.
“You’re saying this is the Saxton house?”
“Yes. I think this is the girl’s bedroom.”
“Hold on a minute, that’s Jason Edmonds,” said Jenny, incredulously. And then, more calmly, “He’s the crime scene manager. And that’s his team. Is this live?”
“Yes. Although there’s a couple of minutes time lag as the video travels over the web.”
Brody minimised the feed and selected the master bedroom. Hilary Saxton lay on her bed talking on the phone. Brody turned up the volume. Jenny leaned in closer to hear over the background hubbub of the café.
“They won’t let me see him,” Hilary said. “He’s been there all night. I don’t know what’s going on. Dad, why would the police suspect Derek? It makes no sense . . . ”
Brody muted the volume.
“And you saw me on this yesterday?”
“Saw and heard. You were in the kitchen with Hilary Saxton and a posse of other police officers.” He clicked out of the bedroom and brought up the kitchen. It was empty.
“What kind of website is this?”
Avoiding the whole pentest saga, Brody summarised what he knew about the site while giving her a tour of it, randomly selecting locations and feeds. He explained how you registered, paid for basic webcams and then paid more to access additional feeds and audio. And he finished with his belief that all the webcams were in the UK.
“Is it legal?” she asked.
“No idea. I guess it depends on whether the people in all these locations have given their permission to the site.”
“Do the Saxtons have any idea that their house is being broadcast to all and sundry over the Internet?”
“I don’t know. Most of the people on these webcams seem to be completely oblivious. But in the case of the Saxtons, I’d go as far as to say that they know the webcams are there. I saw Audri look up at one of the webcams yesterday morning. Knowingly, it seemed to me. But whether they’re aware that these feeds are viewable by just anyone, you’ll have to ask them.”
“I will.”
“Did you know that Derek Saxton was having an affair with the au pair?”
“Yes,” she replied. Brody was dismayed. He’d thought that would be new information. She continued, “But how do you know this?”
“I’ve observed them fooling around under the wife’s nose. Quick gropes here and there, that kind of thing.” He didn’t want to mention the bath scene that he and Leroy had watched.
“Interesting.” She narrowed her eyes. “What’s your role in all this, Mr . . . Brody? Why do you watch these feeds?”
It was the most difficult question and he’d planned for it.
“I do contract work for an IT security consultancy. I specialise in helping their clients protect their systems and networks from cyber threats.” As he spoke, he realised that was the nearest he’d ever got to the truth when meeting a woman for the first time. It didn’t even sound that bad. For once, he had avoided inventing a film industry related profession; film director, cameraman, movie producer, or even stuntman. But then, this was no date. He looked Jenny in the eye and, despite his instincts to the contrary, lied to her face. “One of the other security consultants is going out with someone who works in a call centre business. It seems she’s being stalked. As a favour to him, I’m trying to find out the identity of her stalker.”
“Go on.”
“This is the call centre . . . ” Brody selected one of the three call centre locations he’d found on the site. “Someone’s been emailing her video footage of her talking on the phone, not always on official call centre business, if you know what I mean.”
“I’m not sure I’m with you.”
“They’re both embarrassed because the recordings were from her side of their conversation. Talking dirty with her boyfriend.”
“I see. Can’t you just trace the email?”
“I’ve tried. It’s from a Russian site that provides disposable email addresses, completely untraceable.”
“Presumably, the email headers make it appear like it’s from someone she knows?”
“I’m impressed. Again,” he said.
“Don’t be,” she said. “We’ve had something similar happen on this case.”
“That’s interesting. Which anonymous email service was used?”
“I’ve no idea. And anyway, I can’t talk about case details.” She sipped her espresso. “What name was used on the fake email?”
“No one they know. Seems to be a made-up name.” Brody was now inventing fake facts on the fly. He hadn’t expected to go into this much detail.
“Do your friends know the video is broadcast on this website?”
“No, I haven’t told them that yet. She thinks it’s one of her co-workers who’s got access to the CCTV system at work, which is what I thought initially. It’s only when I traced the source of the video file she sent me that I discovered SecretlyWatchingYou.com.”
It was a convoluted story. He should have gone for something simpler.
She wasn’t finished. “Does the call centre company know they’re being broadcast on this site?”
Brody continued improvising. “I haven’t asked them. The girlfriend wants to keep it all hush-hush, so my approaching the employer won’t help.” He hoped she didn’t ask who the company was. He didn’t have an answer for that.
“So why were you watching the Saxtons if you’re focused on this call centre location?”
At last, back on track.
“I wasn’t particularly. I was just getting to know the site, looking around, when I saw you and half the Met. I figured you probably didn’t know about the webcams and that you ought to.”
“Well, that’s very public spirited of you.” She cocked her head to one side, studying him. Brody couldn’t tell if she believed his story or not. Jenny seemed very sharp. He’d invented the friend-of-a-friend stalker story to appeal to her compassionate side. In his head it had sounded plausible, like most of his deceptions, and although he hated lying, he could hardly state the truth – DI Price, I’m in a desperate race against another hacker to be first to crack the SWY site. All so that I can retain my online god-like-status among my fellow hackers around the world.
Jenny said, “But I don’t see how these webcams fit in. We’ve got the husband in custody. He orchestrated the whole thing.”
“Derek Saxton.”
Brody noticed that she hesitated before nodding her head in confirmation.
After a moment of silence, he asked, “Would you like another coffee?”
“No, one’s enough, thanks.” Jenny looked at her watch. “Anyway, I’ve got to be somewhere soon. I was expecting my colleague to turn up by now.” She picked up her phone, tutted and said, “Two missed calls from him and a v
oicemail. I bet he’s running late.”
“Who?”
“My computer expert.”
Jenny held up her hand while she listened to a garbled message on her phone. Her face dropped. “Damn, he’s not coming.”
“Was he going with you to the Flexbase headquarters?”
Jenny eyed him suspiciously. “How the hell would you know that?”
“I must have overheard someone mention Flexbase when I saw you in the kitchen.” He watched her try to recall whether this was true. “And anyway, the news cameras have been outside the Flexbase building in Watford. That’s where Audri’s body was discovered, right?”
“And so you just put two and two together?”
“I guess. It makes sense. And you chose this coffee shop, right near their Docklands head office.”
He wasn’t sure she had bought it. “What did you need a computer expert for?”
“None of your business, why?”
“Well, I’m here. Maybe I could help.”
“Definitely not, Mr Taylor.”
He gave her his best smile and said, “I thought we had this sorted, DI Price. Call me Brody.”
* * *
It was the second time in his life that he had spent the night in a police cell. The first had been fifteen years ago after a drunken night out in Bath, when he and one of his Sarries teammates ended up in a massive brawl with some local rugby fans in a nightclub. That time Derek had awoken with an almighty hangover. This time he found himself soberly facing up to the stark reality of his predicament.
Last time, the fight and his overnight internment had become front-page news. He’d earned the nickname Mad-Dog Derek because he had put one of the fans in hospital with both arms and three ribs broken. Derek wondered whether he’d be on the front of today’s papers. He’d heard somewhere that any publicity is good publicity and his agency could certainly do with some. But to be in the headlines as a murder suspect? That was too much.
He had spent most of the night awake, lying on the hard surface of the cell’s bunk, his thoughts oscillating between Hilary and Audri.
Invasion of Privacy: A Deep Web Thriller #1 (Deep Web Thriller Series) Page 23
