Brody was intrigued; he’d never hacked into a building control system before. Most of them were proprietary systems, and not usually connected to the IP network, making it almost impossible to gain access remotely. But Flexbase had installed the most ultra modern systems in order to show off their prowess. If only they knew that by doing so, they had opened themselves up to attack. It was a good job he wasn’t a black hat or performing a pentest; he’d have a field day.
Eventually, he discovered the back-end database server used by the meeting room booking system and gave himself full access.
He ran some initial sizing queries and, discovering that it wasn’t that huge, downloaded a complete copy of the database so that, offline, he could safely analyse it to his heart’s content. It didn’t take long for him to find the database table with the core booking records. He scanned the columns and clenched his fist in triumph. There was indeed a column in the table that stored IP addresses.
Filtering the records based on the dates of the murders and the locations of Paddington and Watford, Brody rapidly homed in on the meeting room bookings made by the killer. The IP addresses used for both bookings were the same. Excited, Brody quickly cut-n-pasted the address into a reverse IP lookup website to see if it could shed any light on the real world location.
To his initial surprise, a specific address in the town of Newbury in Berkshire was listed.
Newbury? Wasn’t there something about Newbury?
After a moment, Brody remembered what it was and smiled grimly at the screen. The murderer was either dead lucky or dead smart. The address was for Vodafone, the massive mobile phone company, with headquarters located in Newbury. Which meant that the murderer had accessed the meeting room booking website via his mobile phone. Brody couldn’t take it any further himself without access to Vodafone’s systems. However, the police could work with Vodafone to obtain the mobile phone number mapped to the IP address at the time the booking system was accessed.
If they were lucky, the phone number would come with a name and address of the account owner. However, if it was a pay-as-you-go number, there would likely be no details. Brody was pretty sure it would be pay-as-you-go. No one would be that stupid. Especially someone intent on committing murder.
Brody ran a query using the IP address as the search key to see if the murderer had made any more bookings. He was shocked at the results when he saw hundreds of records. But then he realised that many Flexbase customers must access the system from mobile devices connected in via the Vodafone network.
Brody was about to stop there but, staring at the raw records of the Watford meeting room booking on his screen, he noticed something. Following the train of thought, he quickly brought up the Paddington booking and saw the same pattern. In both cases, the murderer had booked more than one room in the building. Brody recalled Jenny explaining this yesterday.
Brody reckoned that it would be unusual for multiple meeting rooms to be booked at the same time by the same person. And with that in mind, he constructed a query against the database that searched all Flexbase offices for meeting room bookings with a similar pattern. He narrowed it down to the last six months. After a few refinements, the query returned the two bookings he knew about, as they naturally fitted the pattern.
But there were also four others.
Brody stared at his screen, initially not believing the breakthrough he’d achieved. He checked the IP address used to make the bookings and saw that it was the same. He’d found four more of the murderer’s bookings. Four they knew nothing about.
And then he spotted the date and time of the first booking. It was for today in a Flexbase office in Windsor. He looked at his watch with a sinking feeling. Shit, the reservation had begun fifty minutes ago.
Immediately he’d phoned Jenny, but had got no answer. He’d left a voicemail and then rapidly typed out his text to her.
The other three reservations were for dates over the next few weeks, in different Flexbase offices all over the country.
Still pacing around the desk, Brody willed his phone to ring.
When it did, it made him jump. He grabbed at it, clumsily knocking it flying off his desk. But his adrenalin was flowing now and he managed to grab it before it hit the hardwood floor.
“Jenny, he’s struck again.”
CHAPTER 18
“Miss McNeil?”
Sarah had been surprised to hear her name come from the man’s lips.
She’d been playing the guessing game as internal staff came down to greet their guests. It was a busy reception with a constant stream of visitors. Each time a man exited the lifts behind reception and made his way through the turnstiles, she’d predicted whether or not he was Francis Delacroix. So far, she’d been wrong twice. Both times the person had called out someone else’s name and escorted them back through security. Sarah was expecting a middle-aged gentleman, overweight from too many client lunches, and wearing a sharp suit without a tie, his shirt collar open — after all, she knew he was American.
She had completely discounted the man who was greeting her now, with his dark beard and moustache. He wore black jeans, black boots, a plain black sweatshirt, a black cap and large dark sunglasses. The only colour was the flash of gold in the prominent Adidas logo embroidered on his cap.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Yes I’m Sarah McNeil.”
Hesitantly, she held out her hand.
“Francis sent me down to collect you. He’s stuck on a conference call with the States.” With a slight smirk, he stared at her outstretched hand. As if making an important decision, he finally reached out his own and they shook hands lightly. She couldn’t help but notice his sweaty palms and she did her best not to wipe her own hand after he turned his back and headed towards the security turnstiles.
Rather than go through the staff turnstile, he waved a security pass at the receptionist and stood by the glass door. The receptionist pressed a button and it swung backwards, allowing them both through.
The lift opened silently at the press of a button. Inside he pressed ‘six’, the top floor. The doors glided to a close.
Sarah stood slightly behind the man. She was disconcerted by his casual appearance and complete lack of graces. He hadn’t introduced himself and offered no small talk. He hadn’t even looked her in the eye, although it was hard to tell behind those dark sunglasses. And anyway, why the hell was he wearing them indoors?
Sarah collected herself. In her mind, she rehearsed her opening chitchat, reminding herself to politely ask about Mr Delacroix’s flight. She tapped the leather satchel hanging from her shoulder. Inside were the last six issues of Commercial Aviation News. She would walk Mr Delacroix through them. She straightened her skirt and made sure her blouse was tucked in.
The doors opened and, without a word, the man stepped out and turned left. Sarah followed. Half-height sections of clear glass between the building’s structural pillars acted as a continuous wall, preventing anyone plummeting six floors to certain death. She glanced into the open space of the atrium and was abruptly reminded that she was uncomfortable with heights. She immediately adjusted the line of her walk so that she was within touching distance of the grey wall on her left, which made its way right around the perimeter of the atrium, regularly interrupted with numbered oak doors.
At Room 613, the man stopped, opened it and indicated she should enter.
“I’ll go get Mr Delacroix.”
Sarah entered the meeting room and looked back to see the strange man close the door behind her. She was alone.
An oak meeting table with eight black leather and chrome chairs took up most of the space. A large window looked out onto the town. At this height, she had a wonderful view of Windsor Castle. She wondered if the Queen was in residence. Sarah had once toured the castle on a school trip and recalled that the Queen often held Easter Court during March and April. She spotted a Union Jack flying above the castle, but then couldn’t remember whether its presence meant the Queen was there or
not.
Admonishing herself for not keeping her mind focused on her meeting, Sarah turned her back on the view.
She placed her satchel on one of the chairs and then noticed tea and coffee flasks, cups and saucers, bottles of water and upside-down glasses laid out neatly on a side table. There were even biscuits, which made her realise she’d skipped breakfast. She wondered whether she should pour herself a drink, but decided it was probably more professional to wait for her host. But maybe, if she was quick, she could sneak just one biscuit? Their presence had set her stomach off. She was starving. She even felt an ominous rumble and then began worrying that it would be audible during her meeting. Damn, what a basic mistake to have made.
The door opened.
Sarah turned to greet Francis Delacroix, only to find that it was the same man again, still wearing his cap and sunglasses. She did her best to mask her disappointment. He walked around the table towards her.
“Mr Delacroix said he’ll only be another five minutes.” With one hand he indicated the beverages, the other remained behind his back. “Would you like a cuppa while you’re waiting?”
“Uh, yes thanks.”
The man made to move past her, but she said, “It’s okay, I can make it.” If he left, then with five minutes’ wait she could munch through a few biscuits and stop her stomach from gurgling.
She turned her back on him and took a cup, trying to decide between tea or coffee. She reached for the coffee flask.
“You stupid fucking bitch.”
Sarah froze, her arm still outstretched, trying to process what she’d heard. His voice was deathly in intent. Before she could stop herself, she felt her chin begin to tremble and her legs weaken.
“You come here dressed like that?” He was right behind her, breathily whispering into her ear. “You’re begging for it again. You always do, you fucking whore.”
Sarah realised she’d made a dreadful mistake.
Instinct took over; fight definitely overcoming her flight response. Slowly, as if she hadn’t heard anything, she gripped the coffee flask. She lifted it, feeling the weight, pretending to pour, as if she hadn’t heard him speak.
“This time,” he breathed into her ear, “You’re going to beg.”
Without warning, Sarah pivoted on the spot, swinging the coffee flask with all her might at the man’s head. But he was ready, as if he had sensed her intentions, and skipped back a step. Sarah’s momentum carried her all the way round, the flask crashing into the meeting room wall and dropping from her hands. Before it had even hit the floor, Sarah spotted the hand the man had kept hidden behind his back. It thrust towards her. Clasped within it was a large dagger. With crushing force, he smashed her on the side of the head with its weighty handle.
Sarah lost consciousness before she hit the floor.
* * *
“You’ve just had a visitor come in for Francis Delacroix. Where is she?” demanded Jenny breathlessly, Fiona right behind her. She scanned the visitors in the waiting area behind, but they were all men. Her eyes darted to the clock on the wall. Damn, they were too late.
The Flexbase receptionist arched an eyebrow at her colleague as if Jenny wasn’t there. The other receptionist, clearly the more senior, shrugged.
“I’m a police officer.” Jenny hunted urgently through her pockets for her ID, switching to the senior receptionist. “She’s in danger. Tell me, where she is?”
“I’ll have to get the building manager down,” replied the receptionist, picking up the phone.
“There’s no time for that!” shouted Fiona. She reached over the counter and grabbed the visitor signing-in book. She quickly looked at the most recently logged visitors. “She’s here. Her name’s Sarah McNeil. Look, signed in for F Delacroix from FCS. Only twenty-five minutes ago!”
“Tell me where FCS is?” commanded Jenny.
Dumbfounded, the receptionist remained silent. But her junior colleague stammered, “R-room 520. On the f-fifth floor.”
Jenny jumped over the security barrier and ran for the lifts. She heard Fiona right behind her.
Jenny pressed the button.
And waited.
Impatiently, Fiona stared at her superior. “Fuck it,” she said suddenly. “I’ll see you up there.” She sprinted off across the middle of the atrium, heading towards a large staircase.
The lift arrived. The doors slowly slid open. Just as Jenny was about to press the fifth button, she saw the junior receptionist running towards her.
“Room 520 is FCS’s offices. But they’re in 612. It’s a meeting room on the sixth floor.”
Jenny nodded her thanks and pressed ‘six’. The doors closed.
As the lift climbed the wall, Jenny looked through its circular glass into the open area of the atrium. She could see that Fiona had made it to the stairs and was taking them two steps at a time. Fruitlessly, she tried waving to catch her attention, but Fiona’s head was down. Jenny reached into her jacket pocket for her mobile to call her colleague, but it was empty. Damn, she’d left it in Fiona’s car.
The lift dinged its arrival on the sixth floor. Jenny ran out, translated from the sign immediately ahead that her direction was left. She ran along the corridor. 601, 602, 603 . . .
Fleetingly she considered shouting to Fiona across the atrium that it was the sixth floor, not the fifth. But that might alert the killer. The thought made her quiver in fear as she flew past 609. She shook her head, forcing the negative thoughts out of her mind. She had been trained for this.
612.
Jenny halted, breathing heavily. She couldn’t see anything through the opaque glass walls of the meeting room. She listened and, not hearing anything, decided on the only logical course of action.
She threw open the door and burst in.
The room was completely empty.
* * *
Sarah’s eyes flickered open as consciousness slowly returned.
She tried to take stock of where she was.
A castle filled her vision. Was she dreaming? She sometimes had a recurring nightmare of being trapped in a tower and being rescued by her prince, only for the moat to sprout flames and the drawbridge burn before he could cross over on his white steed, trapping her forever more. Usually she awoke at that point, consciousness calming her that it had all been a dream. But now, even though she knew she was awake, the castle was still there.
She felt something slide up her back. Suddenly she felt cool air conditioning on the exposed skin of her back, reaching all the way down to her knees. And then it all came rushing back.
Sarah screamed.
But her mouth was gagged completely. She only managed a muffled sound.
She lay face down on the meeting room table. She could feel stickiness on her cheek and lifted her head. A pool of blood lay on the table. The side of her head felt numb. She realised she was the source of the blood and panicked. Trying to rise, she discovered her hands were bound together. Still, she pushed her body up by her wrists. She could feel the floor through her feet. Her high heels were gone.
“Stay still, whore.”
The whisper was right in her ear.
Sarah froze, trying to judge the situation. The window with the castle view provided some reflection. The Union Jack was spluttering in the light wind. Dark clouds formed in the distance. She could just about make out his silhouette. He stood behind her, between her legs, leaning over to whisper. Seeing a glint in the window, her heart leapt into her mouth, as she made out what appeared to be a massive dagger in his right hand. Her clothes had been sliced open at the rear, trails of skirt and blouse having fallen to the table, only held in place because she lay on them.
To emphasise his command, her attacker placed the knife under her windpipe. She could feel the cold steel edge pierce her skin.
Tears formed. Saliva dribbled from her lips.
She felt him fumble behind her. His left hand brushing her naked skin. And, with burning clarity, she understood that he was opening his fl
ies.
She screamed again, the sound caught in her mouth by the cloth gag.
* * *
Jenny stared aghast at the empty meeting room.
She was shaking with adrenalin. She had the right room, didn’t she?
The receptionist had said 612. Jenny stepped out of the room and checked the number outside. Yes, 612. She looked over the balcony, but it was too far to shout to the reception and be heard.
Thinking quickly, she ran back in the room and grabbed the phone in the middle of the desk. She dialled ‘0’, praying that it would ring on reception downstairs.
It was answered straight away. She recognised the voice of the senior receptionist.
“There’s no one in 612,” she panted. “Are you sure you’ve got the right room for Francis Delacroix?”
“Give me a second.”
Jenny waited, forcing herself not to shout obscenities down the phone.
“Well, that’s odd. He’s got all five meeting rooms on that side of the building booked. From 611 to 615.”
Jenny wanted to bash her head with her hand in disgust. Of course. He’d booked more than one so he wouldn’t be overheard or interrupted. Just like in Paddington and Watford. He was in one of the neighbouring rooms.
She dropped the line and stepped out of the room. Left or right. She chose right. There was only one room to cover in that direction. Outside 611, she paused to listen. Again nothing.
Jenny threw open the door and rushed in. The door slammed against the wall. The room was empty.
Quickly, she stepped back out and made her way to 613.
Taking a deep breath, she threw open the door again. Just as she was about to rush in, a figure, all in black, rushed at her and knocked her back. Flailing, she staggered backwards. The man flew after her and pushed her hard once more, sending her sprawling. She tried to turn but crashed her side into the glass half-wall. Her momentum tipped her upper body over the railing and into the open space of the atrium. She grabbed the railing, but her assailant gave her one final push and she felt herself topple over.
Invasion of Privacy: A Deep Web Thriller #1 (Deep Web Thriller Series) Page 41
