“Yeah, okay.” His tone was flat.
“Don’t forget, we need you to come into the station tomorrow or the next day to make a formal statement.”
“Yes, you do. I mean, I do.” Brody opened the door and stepped out, suddenly brighter.
Jenny pushed the clutch back in, felt for the bite on the Audi’s first gear and released the handbrake, ready to shoot off the second the door shut. She wanted to get to Dartford ahead of Alan.
But Brody leaned back in and said, “Perhaps we could do that tonight? Over drinks?”
Jenny was taken aback. Her head was in work mode and so she hadn’t seen that coming. What signs had she been giving off that he would suddenly go there? He was attractive; she could appreciate that. He was smart. And he liked good coffee.
Suddenly, the car lurched forward two feet and stalled. Her foot had slipped from the clutch. Brody, who had been half in the car, was caught in the ribs by the doorframe and was knocked to his knees. His face fell flat on the passenger seat. Behind him, the heavy passenger door slammed shut due to the car’s abrupt forward movement, and smashed onto Brody’s rear.
“Argh!”
“Oh God, I’m so sorry. Are you all right?” Jenny scrabbled to unhook her seatbelt so that she could help him.
He raised his head up off the seat and used his body to push the door back. His knees were on the pavement. She looked him over, concern etched on her face, but he was laughing.
“If only I’d known the protocol when asking you out for a drink was to kneel down . . .”
“I am so sorry. Are you okay?”
“Nothing broken, Jenny. I’m still on my knees though . . .”
Jenny was trapped. She was desperate to get to Dartford. A thousand thoughts flew through her head. She couldn’t delay anymore. Perhaps the quickest thing was to . . . And anyway, he wasn’t a material witness so there was no real conflict of interest. If she kept him close, he might still be of use to the case. Harry was obviously an amateur by comparison.
But all day she’d had a feeling that something else was at play, as if Brody had an ulterior motive. Perhaps his asking her out was what she had sensed? She wasn’t sure. But right now, right this minute; all she could see was an earnest, honest, hopeful expression.
What the hell. “I’ll give you a ring later if I’m free at a reasonable time.” It was an acceptance of sorts, but one that at least gave her a way out if she decided to change her mind. Hopefully, it was enough for now.
“Perfect.” He stood up awkwardly, manfully masking the pain that the lurching car had caused him. “I’ll see you later, then.”
He waved her off. She glanced in the rear view mirror and saw him tentatively make his way towards the train station entrance, one hand holding his side.
A frustrating hour later — for what should have been a twenty-minute journey — Jenny exited a roundabout towards Dartford town centre, her window wipers now on full. Her phone rang. She glanced at the display and saw it was Alan. Damn, he was there already.
“Are you near?” he asked through the Audi’s speakerphone.
“Sat nav says four minutes.”
“Okay. In that case, I’ll let you see this for yourself.”
“See what?”
“You’ll see.”
“Al, come on, this is serious.”
“You’ll understand.”
This wasn’t like Alan. She kept the line open as she drove down Dartford Road. The satnav forced her to turn left and announced that she had reached her destination. She pulled to a halt and scanned her surroundings, but even with the window wipers on full speed it was becoming hard to see clearly. She could make out a run of office buildings rather than the residential road she had been anticipating. Up ahead and under a golf umbrella she spotted Alan waving to her, while holding his phone to his ear. His voice came through her car speakers.
“Over here, Jen.”
“What is it?” She pulled up next to him.
She disconnected the call and jumped out of the car, moving in close to Alan under his umbrella. She repeated her question to his face. “What is it, Al?”
He indicated behind them and then rotated them both around within the confines of the umbrella’s shelter.
She took it all in at once. The number ‘15’ was mounted in large modern looking aluminium lettering on the front wall. They were definitely outside the address Kim Chang had found on her rental contract for Walter Pike. But behind the wall was a six-storey, purpose-built office building. Above the entrance was a large sign. Despite the incessant rain, she easily recognised the logo and her brain did a double take.
Flexbase.
* * *
“Anything from the computer yet, Harry?”
Harry O’Reilly was on his knees, fiddling with some wires under his desk. Only his backside was visible. Jenny heard a thump and an Irish expletive as he banged his head on the underside of his desk. Above him lay five or six computers, most with their covers off, exposing their hi-tech innards. Wires and other leads meandered all over the messy desk and down the back. Many components were in evidence bags, but she could also see empty bags and envelopes. She wondered at the computer specialist’s ability to properly maintain chain of custody for evidence.
Harry backed out from under his desk, rubbing his scalp. He recognised Jenny and smiled weakly. “Nothing we don’t already know, Jenny.”
“Which one is it?” Jenny indicated the clutter on his desk.
“Ah don’t worry yourself, it’s not one of those. It’s properly logged into the evidence room downstairs. I’ve been after taking a mirror image of its disk and I’ve been analysing that instead.”
“Anything with Walter Pike’s real address?”
“Not so far. I’m thinking the PC’s been used for nothing other than receiving the webcam feeds. The cache is empty. There’s no browser history, no cookies, no passwords, nothing.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Harry nodded and crawled back under his desk. She left him to it. A few seconds later she heard another bump and another expletive. She shook her head.
Her journey back from the Dartford Flexbase office building had been frustrating. Although she still hoped it was the breakthrough they so sorely needed, she had arrived there after the building’s day-staff had finished, leaving behind a hapless security guard who could offer no real help. Her frustration had been compounded by the traffic travelling at a snail’s pace most of the way back to Holborn, slowed down by more showers. It was certainly April in London.
The rest of the enquiry team were out working through the backlog of outstanding leads on the two cases. Her attempts to track down Walter Pike had so far come up short. The land registry for the house rented by the students had his name on it, but no other address. The letting agents were shut and not returning calls or emails. In desperation, she’d left a detailed voicemail for David Dawson of Flexbase, given the unexpected connection between Walter Pike and Flexbase. She’d also reminded him that he owed her the tenant database.
Having exhausted her immediate priorities, Jenny was catching up on admin, including the paperwork piling up on her desk, and the digital tasks assigned to her on HOLMES2, typing up notes and statements with index fingers taking turns, one letter at a time. All the while she resisted the urge to dump it all on Verity, who would selflessly bail her out, as usual.
She found herself smiling about Brody’s proposition earlier, stalling the car and smashing the poor man’s ribs. She’d been taken aback, unused to civilians coming on to her, especially when she was in work mode. She’d only agreed to the date to get rid of him. At least that was what she’d been telling herself all day since. But there was something about him. She found him attractive, that was for sure, especially those sparkling green eyes. He wasn’t a copper: a definite plus. And although he was a techie like Harry, he didn’t seem particularly geeky. Perhaps she would meet him later. Maybe she’d text to confirm.
Decis
ion half-made, she quelled all thoughts about Brody and got back to attacking her massive workload.
“You got a minute, DI Price?”
Frowning at the abruptness of his tone, Jenny looked up at Da Silva. “I suppose.”
“My office, now.” He strode off.
She looked back at her computer screen and clicked on the button to save her work. An error message appeared and her heart sank. She’d pressed the wrong button, cancelling her work rather than saving it and had just wasted the last hour. Disgusted with herself, she stopped at Verity’s desk and, swallowing her pride, begged her indulgence.
“Dearie me,” said a sympathetic Verity, “You shouldn’t be bothering yourself with all that. Just you leave it with me. Go on now, dear, off you go.”
Jenny effusively thanked the kindly indexer and stomped over to Da Silva’s office. Sat behind his desk as if he was Lord of the Manor, Da Silva indicated with a regal wave of his hand to close the door.
“Sir?” Jenny pushed the door shut with her heel.
“I’m in the middle of updating the Decision Logs on HOLMES. I just want to make sure I’ve got everything straight. We wouldn’t want a murder review to catch us out later.”
Jenny lamented inwardly at his use of inclusive words like ‘we’ and ‘us’. He knew full well that it was his responsibility as SIO of a murder case to define and note the key strategic and tactical decisions made on the investigation and record them, along with their rationale, in Decision Logs. As SIO, only he would be questioned on the decisions by any future murder review team, not her. And that was only likely if a case dragged on for over a month with no real progress. It wasn’t surprising Da Silva, like her, was now playing catch-up given the velocity of these two cases, but treating it like passing a test was certainly not the way to approach it.
“How can I help, sir?” She was becoming irritated. Didn’t he realise that she was carrying her own massive workload? Babysitting Da Silva through leading his first murder investigation was starting to become tiresome, despite the exposure she was gaining from it personally.
“I just want to make sure I’ve got the logic behind every line of enquiry. Let’s start with DS Coombs. He’s gone to check out some nightclub in Soho, right?”
“Yes, it’s called Ice. Other than Flexbase and the killer’s MO, it’s the only link we’ve found between the two victims.”
Da Silva made notes on his pad. He was certainly focused on getting this right. He looked up. “Victim selection?”
“Yes, what if the killer knew them or at least saw them at the club?”
“Doesn’t that conflict with this webcam website idea? That’s also about victim selection?”
“Yes. It’s one or the other. Or some other connection between the victims we haven’t uncovered yet.”
“Can’t we just talk to whoever owns this website?”
“Unfortunately not. O’Reilly says it’s located in Russia. No contact details. Probably because what it does is totally illegal. He’s put in a request with the local Internet service provider, but he’s not hopeful of a response in his own lifetime.”
“What about following the money? People are paying to view these webcams.”
“O’Reilly’s on it. He’s even called in support from National Cyber Crime Unit.”
“Good. But aren’t we dealing with some other website with a load of webcams? Where does that fit in?”
“It seems that Derek Saxton and the landlord of the house where Anna Parker lived both signed up to using one called HomeWebCam.com, which seems to be a legitimate service, except that —”
“— their webcam feeds have somehow made it onto the Russian site.”
“You’ve got it. NCCU are now on that as well.”
“Okay, what about Flexbase?”
“We know the killer is intimate with their meeting room booking processes. He’s got to be a tenant or employee.”
“Or ex-tenant. Or ex-employee.”
Jenny nodded. Da Silva may be inexperienced, but he wasn’t clueless. She needed to remember that.
“So that’s why the landlord is a person of interest.”
“Yeah, Walter Pike. He’s Anna Parker’s landlord. We think he installed the webcams in the house. And the address he used on the tenancy agreement was for a Flexbase office. All told, that’s a pretty complete set of connections.”
“But what about Audri Sahlberg? Does Pike link to her?”
“Not as far as we can tell. But when we pull him in we’ll see.”
As they talked, Da Silva filled up pages of his notepad. Now that they had the employee database from Flexbase, Fiona was working on cross-referencing names between them and with any known criminals. They were still waiting on the tenant database. Karim had interviewed Audri Sahlberg’s only friend, Ornetta Stavoli, but nothing of note had come from it. Harry was examining the computer retrieved from Anna Parker’s home, the one that captured the webcam streams. They had released video footage of the cyclist entering the Flexbase receptions to the media. Members of the team were trawling through Facebook and the other social media sites, searching for any kind of correlation between the victims. Later that would be extended to the Flexbase employees. Da Silva’s earlier idea about a cleaning company common to both locations had already been eliminated.
After about fifteen minutes their discussion came to a natural end. Jenny stayed silent as Da Silva flicked back through his notes, checking to see if he’d missed anything. God knows how he’d summarise that lot into a HOLMES compliant Decision Log.
He shook his head. “Lot of angles to cover here.”
“Yeah.” It was probably the understatement of the day. Every avenue created numerous leads, each of which needed following up and led to more. Like most investigations, the amount of work grew exponentially.
Her phone rang. It was a Central London number. Da Silva nodded his assent even though she was going to answer it anyway.
“DI Price,” she stated.
“David Dawson returning your call, DI Price.”
Jenny recognised the posh accent of the incredibly tall Flexbase CEO she had met that morning with Brody.
“Thanks for getting back to me, Mr Dawson. I do hope you’ve got the tenant database because I’m sitting here with my DCI discussing court order applications.”
Da Silva furrowed his brow. He had no idea what she was referring to.
“There’s no need for that, DI Price. I told you we would assist the police any way we can.” He sighed. “What I called to say was that I’ve got a present for you . . .”
She waited him out. He was trying to assert control by making her reel in the information.
Another sigh at her refusal to play his game. “In your inbox is the full tenant database.”
“Thank you.”
“That’s not the present, DI Price . . .”
Bloody hell, he was persistent. “Fine, what is it?”
“I did listen to your voicemail earlier. If you search through the database I’ve sent you, you’ll find the home address that we have on file for a certain customer of our virtual receptionist service.”
It took her a moment to make the mental leap. Walter Pike. At last.
“You’re welcome, DI Price,” said Dawson sourly when she hadn’t responded. She tried to offer her thanks, but he had already hung up.
Heading towards her desk, with Da Silva on her tail, Jenny shouted urgently for Harry. The office stopped what they were doing to stare at her, aware that something had broken on the case.
A loud thump sounded from under Harry’s desk followed by a weak, “Feck.”
“Harry, get your arse over here.” She reached her desk and her PC. “Now.”
* * *
The long escalator slowly but persistently carried Brody up to ground level from the depths of Angel tube station. Rubbing his side, he wondered if he’d cracked a rib or two. He was tempted to lift his shirt up to check for bruising.
Winc
ing, he speculated if Jenny Price was worth all this pain. He hadn’t really planned to ask her on a date. It had popped out of his mouth, surprising him almost as much as it seemed to surprise her. Was he completely mad? He was deliberately courting the company of a member of the police service. Not that he was a criminal, mind. It was just that he knew full well that some of his actions in the course of his work strayed very much outside the boundaries of the law.
From the moment he’d first seen Jenny on the webcams he’d been intrigued. But when she’d sat down opposite him in the coffee shop that morning he’d been captivated; not just by her natural beauty, which was probably enough in itself for most men, but also by her coolness, her assertiveness and her unwavering focus on getting the job done. The combination of qualities was intoxicating.
The exclusive Internet dating site Brody frequented offered unlimited introductions to many women. Many of them were attractive. Some of them had powerful occupations. A few were intelligent and witty. But the unnatural situation of blind dating meant that both parties were constantly attempting to present themselves positively, while at the same time weighing up the other. Rarely did Brody agree to a second date. He wondered if the unusual backdrop of tagging along with Jenny while she carried out her profession — and he secretly carried out his — allowed him to encounter the real Jenny Price, unencumbered with the artificiality of dating? He liked what he saw and was impressed with the way she conducted herself. Then he reminded himself that today had not been a date. For Jenny, it had been her job. At best he had been some kind of witness. Tonight would be the dreaded date, assuming she actually phoned. Perhaps the usual dating pressures would come to the fore, but he hoped not. Hopefully, they’d already built enough of a foundation to ride through the usual pitfalls.
Brody exited the station into a dank evening and turned right towards Upper Street. He must have missed a heavy rainstorm while he’d been travelling on the Underground. Shiny pavements and wet black roads reflected the streetlights and headlamps from passing traffic. Fast-running impromptu streams flowed alongside pavement gutters, searching for drains. Pedestrians held on to folded umbrellas, ready to raise them at the slightest hint that the heavens would open again.
Invasion of Privacy: A Deep Web Thriller #1 (Deep Web Thriller Series) Page 33
