Invasion of Privacy: A Deep Web Thriller #1 (Deep Web Thriller Series) (3 page)

“You’ll have my resignation in your inbox within the hour, Mr Lamont.” They all waited while Welland gathered his belongings and left the room in Germany.

“Well, Mr Taylor,” said Lamont. “A bit unorthodox, but I’d like to thank you for saving our company from a very embarrassing predicament, not to mention the potential law suits.”

“Just doing my job.”

“I think we should delay the presentation of your findings report until I’m back in the UK, which will be Monday week. I’d also like to personally shake your hand. And if everything is as insecure as you describe, it looks as though Chu will see a lot more budget going his way.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Brody.

“And me,” said Chu, his relief evident.

Ten minutes later, Brody drove out of the Atlas Brands car park in his metallic orange and black, custom-designed Smart Fortwo coupe. It would take a good few hours to get back to London. His phone vibrated. He slowed, looked down and glanced at the message header. It was from Crooner42 and entitled ‘Pentest Outcome . . .’

Brody stopped the car and clicked on the message, fully expecting to see his name in lights.

He couldn’t believe what he read.

* * *

Breathlessly, DI Jenny Price lowered her umbrella and flashed her warrant card at the police constable blocking the entrance to the tall, glass-clad office building. The PC acknowledged her as “Ma’am”, a phrase that always made her feel like an old maid. She pushed the revolving door.

The entrance was imposing, with high ceilings, a large, stone reception desk, and three cream leather suites placed to one side. In the centre of the foyer, a spherical water feature drew the eye momentarily from a large glass block structure standing proudly behind the reception area. Set in a brickwork layout, each rectangular glass tablet had a different company logo etched into it. There were about thirty in total.

Regaining her composure, Jenny recognised DS Alan Coombs leaning on the reception desk, his back to her. He was attempting to interview the receptionist sitting behind, but she was talking to someone on her headset. 

Alan turned around and saw Jenny. “Ah Jenny, you’re finally here.” There was no sarcasm, just genuine relief in his voice. 

Jenny automatically formed a catalogue of reasons for her lateness in her mind. She could list at least five traffic black spots she’d inched her way through in the journey across London. But she should have accounted for the Monday morning rush hour. Or she could blame the satnav, which had outsmarted her once again, taking her to South Wharf Road instead of North Wharf road. Hence her recent battle with the elements as she’d been forced to negotiate a wet and windy footbridge over Regents Canal. But blaming the satnav was akin to admitting her technophobia.

“I swam all the way,” she offered, shaking out her umbrella.

Alan looked her up and down. “You’re soaking. You’ll catch your death.”

“Al, don’t worry, I’ll dry off quick enough.”

The fifteen years Alan had on Jenny seemed to define the fatherly manner he adopted with her, overriding any seniority she had over him in rank. She found this trait in him endearing when it was just the two of them. But when he exhibited it in front of other coppers, she wanted to scream at him.

“What’s the situation, Al? All I’ve heard from Karim is that a young woman’s body was found here this morning.” She was referring to DC Karim Malik, another member of her team, who’d phoned her earlier. 

Alan filled in Jenny with what he knew. The corpse was in a meeting room on the top floor. From her belongings, she had been identified as Anna Parker, a second-year Music student from Trinity Laban Conservatoire in Greenwich. Her throat had been slit with a knife. No weapon found. Initial observations were that she had probably been brutally raped before being killed. 

He concluded, “Poor kid.”

Jenny’s barriers had instinctively risen as she listened to Alan's dispassionate recount of events. She’d survived two years as a Detective Inspector in the Camden Borough Murder Investigation Team by projecting an invisible, impenetrable shield that kept the horrors of the job out and the emotions buried inside. 

“Any idea when she was killed?”

“That’s what I’ve just been checking at reception. According to this,” he held up a large transparent evidence bag, a visitor’s book inside, “she signed into the building last Friday at 5:20 p.m. The pathologist just arrived a few minutes ago. He should be able to confirm time of death.”

“Does the visitor book show who she was here to see?” 

“Yes, a W. Webber of WMA Associates for a 5:30 meeting.”

“Does the receptionist recall the victim?”

“No, she only works mornings. Job share. I’ve got the details of Friday afternoon’s receptionist.” Alan handed her the evidence bag. “Here, you take this upstairs. I’ll track down the other receptionist.”

“Thanks, Al, you’re a real gem. Where’s his lord and master?”

“Da Silva’s upstairs pissing off the crime scene team with inane questions.”

Da Silva had been their DCI for the last two weeks. He’d been promoted from a DI in the Kidnap Unit in Scotland Yard to run the Camden MIT. On a murder case, his rank made him the Senior Investigating Officer in name, but not yet in action as far as Jenny and the other members of his MIT were concerned. He seemed inexperienced in how to effectively prioritise the lines of enquiry and balance the limited resources within his team. Jenny was not alone in wondering if he’d been fast-tracked through the ranks too quickly; another minority officer benefiting from the Met’s positive discrimination policies. Although, why a black man from Birmingham had a name like Raul Da Silva, Jenny had yet to find out.

The doors to one of the four lifts slid open. The occupant made a beeline for them. “Not more police?” the man said, tetchily. 

“And you are?” asked Jenny.

“Clive Evans. I’m the building manager here.” Evans held his hand out, very business-like. Jenny shook it and introduced herself and Alan.

The building manager’s lanky frame towered over both her and Alan. Jenny assessed that the grey pinstripe suit Evans wore must have been custom made. There was no way you could buy such a long suit in your average high street shop.

“Can you lead the way?” asked Jenny, walking purposely towards the lifts.

He overtook her in three gangly strides. “Uh, ok. This way.” 

Jenny followed Evans to the lifts, hoping the squelching in her shoes was less noticeable than it felt. They stood side-by-side.

When the doors slid to a close, Evans asked, “How long will the top floor be cordoned off? The officers upstairs won’t tell me anything. Most of our meeting rooms are located on that floor and they’re all booked out this morning. I can see this is a serious situation but my tenants are already complaining. I need to tell them something.” 

Jenny watched his reflection in the lift’s mirrored doors as he whined on, but it was the way he looked down his nose at her that wound her up.

“Mr Evans, you do realise that there’s been a murder? A
murder
. That’s a damn sight more important than a few business meetings being cancelled.”

“I do understand that, Detective Inspector. But what should I tell the tenants?”

“Seems to me that most business meetings take place in Starbucks these days. I believe there’s one just around the corner.”

Evans opened his mouth to respond indignantly and then thought better of it.

They stood in silence as the lift glided upwards. Jenny checked her shoes, half-expecting to see a puddle oozing out from the shiny black patent heels. She noticed that, in her struggle through the downpour, one side of her white blouse had come loose and was showing below the line of her fitted grey jacket, which had also come undone. She tucked the blouse back into the grey skirt and glanced self-consciously at Evans’ reflection, only to discover he was staring straight at her reflected breasts, his lips slightly parted. She was used to it, but most men immediately looked away when they realised they had been caught staring. She looked down and understood. Her blouse had become transparent from the wet and her bra was on full show, leaving little to the imagination. 

“Seen enough?” she demanded, buttoning up the jacket. She felt her face redden. 

He switched to staring at his feet and mumbled something that might have been an apology.

As the lift slowed, Jenny ran fingers through her wet shoulder-length auburn hair in an attempt to get it back under control and recover some sense of professionalism.

The doors parted on the eighteenth floor, revealing a uniformed PC with white overshoes covering his boots. Immediately he said, “Sorry, this floor is closed . . .”

“It’s okay, Constable,” said Jenny, flashing her warrant card. 

“Okay, ma’am. SOCO says you’ll need to wear these.” He handed out paper slippers to them both, which they obediently put on. 

“This way,” Evans said, turning left. Jenny followed. 

“You said ‘tenants’. What do you mean by ‘tenants’?”

“The companies that rent office space within this building. Customers of Flexbase, the owner of this building.”

Jenny thought of all the logos behind reception. “So this Flexbase just rents office space then?”

Evans paused. “Well no, there’s a lot more to it than that. Many of our clients are small companies who can’t afford to lease their own permanent office, what with the multi-year contracts and all of the infrastructure costs required. Even if they signed a lease somewhere, they’d need to furnish it, install the IT infrastructure, staff a reception desk or switchboard … It all adds up, you know. Thousands, if not tens of thousands just in setup costs alone.” 

Jenny guessed that Evans had probably given this sales pitch many times before. His hands motioned animatedly as they walked. “That’s where Flexbase comes in. We provide ready to use offices with no upfront costs and no long-term lease. Our switchboard even answers the phone in their company’s name, presenting the illusion of a much larger company. And we take care of everything. From printers and photocopiers right through to AV equipment and meeting rooms.”

Jenny looked around. The long corridor was sparsely decorated, just two inoffensive pastel shades of green, the lighter tone on top. Door after door broke the monotony, with the odd framed print in between, each one showcasing more swathes of pastel colours. Not proper pictures. None of the offices had windows onto the corridor and the doors were solid wood. Anything could go on behind them. They rounded a corner and Jenny saw the crime scene tape three doors down. 

“So really, you’re like a hotel with concierge and room service facilities, but for companies instead of people.”

Evans spluttered at her deliberately crass comparison. 

“Is WMA Associates one of your tenants?”

“Yes, they’re on the third floor. Been with us for about five years.” 

She changed tack. “Who found the body? You?”

“No, Barry Pitman from Trendal. They’re located on the tenth floor.”

Jenny halted just before the door to the crime scene. 

“Okay, thanks, Mr Evans. No need for you to come any further.”

“Uh, sure,” he said hesitantly and then, looking relieved, said, “Yes, I’ll leave you to it then.” He turned back the way they’d come.

She had attended numerous murder scenes, all of them hideous. Even when the victims were criminals themselves, falling foul of their own kind, the sight and stench of lifeless, mutilated bodies always shook Jenny’s view of the world. Murder wrenched someone’s life away unnaturally. It stole their future. In a way, it was a theft of the most grievous kind. 

Jenny steeled herself and stepped around the tape into the room.

A surreal sight confronted her. Not the photographer flashing his camera every few seconds. Not the three-man SOCO team kneeling down in their white, hooded bodysuits, scraping trace evidence into envelopes and plastic bags. Not the pathologist taking rectal temperature readings from the body of a young girl, naked from the waist down, lying face down under a nearby table. Not even the blood that had spewed from beneath the poor girl’s neck, spread into a vast dark stain before being soaked up by the carpet tiles. No, all of these details were normal. Well, for a murder scene. What was surreal was the cello in the centre of the room, neatly balanced on its endpin and leaning against an office chair. 

In the sterile surroundings of the corporate meeting room, the large musical instrument was completely out of place. Fifteen or so desks were joined together in one long, extended curve around three sides of the room, surrounding the upright cello in the centre. Together with the bow lying on the floor next to it, Jenny had the impression of some kind of musical recital gone terminally wrong; the audience long since departed.

One of the crime scene investigators was examining the legs of the table that the dead girl lay under. He looked up, noticing Jenny. The bright blue eyes between the hood and the respiratory mask narrowed. Jenny recognised Jason Edmonds, a crime scene manager well known for feistily protecting the integrity of crime scenes. 

Edmonds signalled Jenny to stay where she was and came over to her. “DI Price, if it wasn’t for your fucking boss and all his bollocks about . . .” he lowered his voice and put on a Brummie accent in an impression of Da Silva, “‘
needing your feminine insights
’, the nearest you’d have got to
my
crime scene would have been the reception downstairs.”

“You’re softening up, Jason. I’m just surprised you haven’t emptied all eighteen floors and kicked everyone outside in the rain.”

“Don’t think it didn’t cross my mind. You know I can’t have all and sundry traipsing through here like it’s some macabre fairground sideshow. It’s the integrity of the evidence we gather here that will be used to convict someone.”

“I’m sure that’s true, but only if we catch him first. And for that to happen we need some insights into the how and the why of it. That’s where me and my weird, womanly ways come in.”

Reluctantly, Edmonds removed his mask, revealing a slight smirk. His eyes sparkled with humour. “Alright, alright. Let me tell you what we know so far and then you can piss off more quickly.”