Invasion of Privacy: A Deep Web Thriller #1 (Deep Web Thriller Series) (26 page)

“We’d like to speak with Mr Saxton,” said Alan, “Miss . . .?”

“Parker.” She flashed a smile. “Call me Jude.” She frowned. “But you don’t have an appointment?”

“We don’t need one.” Hamid flashed his warrant card. “We’re police.”

“Oh! I’ll just let Derek know.”

Jenny barged around the desk and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll do it.”

Parker, failing in her job, reached out for Jenny’s arm. “No, you can’t —” 

Jenny shrugged her off and opened the rear door.

“Well. Wait till I tell my George about this. How rude!” Parker sat down.

Behind a modern executive desk sat a much older version of the man from the two photos, only a little larger with hair beginning to recede. He was on the phone, reclining in his chair with his shoes up on the desk. 

Seeing Jenny, he said into the phone, “Hold on a moment, Arthur. . .” Spotting the two men following behind, he said, “Tell you what, I’ll phone you back in a few minutes. Something’s come up here.”

Saxton set the phone back on its cradle, lifted his legs off the table and stood. “You’ve just interrupted a conversation with Arthur Aguda. This better be important.” Standing, Saxton’s height and build was imposing. 

“The Olympic boxer?” asked Alan, clearly impressed by the name Saxton had dropped, but foolishly handing control to the agent.

“Yes. My new client as of yesterday.” He said this through a huge smile. “He’s about to turn professional and I’m —”

Jenny interrupted, “We’re here to talk about Audri Sahlberg, Mr Saxton.” 

“Who’s we?”

Jenny dug out her warrant card. “Police, Mr Saxton. Tell me about Audri.”

“Audri?”

“Yes. Tell me about her.”

“She’s our au pair,” said Saxton, warily.

“That’s all you have to say?”

“That’s all there is to say. She lives in our house and looks after our baby. Dictionary definition of an ‘au pair’.”

“That’s it?”

Saxton cocked his head to one side. “That’s it?” 

“Alan, caution Mr Saxton would you.”

Alan recited, “You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence . . .”

As the policeman read him his rights, Saxton sat back down in his chair, a dumbfounded expression on his face. Jenny pulled over one of the wheeled guest chairs and sat down too. Hamid did likewise. When Alan finished, he noticed that the secretary had followed them into the room, so he ushered her out and closed the door.

“Now Mr Saxton. Let’s try again. Tell me about Audri.”

“What’s going on?”

“You’re saying you know nothing?”

“About what?”

“Audri?” Jenny was deliberately not giving anything away.

“She didn’t come home last night. Shit, has something happened?”

“You could put it that way,” said Hamid. “She was found dead this morning.”

Jenny glanced at Hamid, but held back the scowl she wanted to throw his way. Saxton brought his fingers up to his open lips. Jenny was impressed. He really did look surprised. Shocked even.

“How?” he asked, finally. And then in quick succession, “Where? Why?” And then, shaking his head, “Fuck me.” 

“Mr Saxton, she was murdered,” Jenny stated.

Saxton continued to shake his head in apparent disbelief.

“Last night, Derek, she left your house to meet up with you. To continue your illicit affair.”

Saxton’s head stopped shaking. His eyes narrowed and he glared intently at Jenny. “I think I need a lawyer.”

“Yes, you do,” agreed Jenny. “You better ask him to meet you at Holborn Police Station.”

* * *

Brody ordered one macchiato and one cappuccino. He paid and stood waiting by the counter while the barista prepared the two coffees. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Leroy waving to him, letting him know that he had successfully secured them two seats in the bustling coffee shop. 

They were in Monmouth’s in Borough Market, located on the south bank of the Thames, just a short walk from the Tate Modern and Globe Theatre tourist hotspots, both located opposite the massive dome of St Paul’s Cathedral, proudly towering above riverside building on the opposite bank. Although Monmouth’s was one of London’s best independent coffee chains, the internal seating area was small and spartan, utilising wooden bench tables and tiny wooden seats to make the most of the limited space. But it was worth it for coffee this good, even though it looked as though he and Leroy would be sharing a table with a pair of elderly couples — American tourists by the look of their bright clothes and shopping bags. 

Brody collected the coffees and brought them over to where Leroy sat, squeezing himself into the tight space. 

“Out with it,” demanded Leroy.

Brody added a spoon of sugar to his macchiato and sipped it, savouring the strong flavour. He listened to their neighbours’ voices. Yes, they were Americans. 

“Come on Brody,” insisted Leroy. “You’ve got a face as long as a fiddle. Is it this hacking thing? You haven’t lost your little competition have you?”

“No, it’s not that. I’ve stumbled into a police investigation.”

“Eh?”

“Earlier today, I was at a police crime scene.” Brody leaned in close and lowered his voice. “For a murder.”

“Fuck me! Who did you kill?” Leroy’s exclamation was far too loud. Their American neighbours stopped their conversation and all four turned to stare at him and then, having digested what had been said, at Brody.

“Sorry about that. We were just rehearsing some lines from
Hamlet
,” said Leroy amiably, his face completely straight. “Hamlet here,” he pointed at Brody, “has just killed Claudius. It’s a key scene.” He leaned forward, as if letting them in on a secret. “We’re understudies from the Globe Theatre and we’ve only just found out we’re on tonight. We both need to get a bit of practice in.”

The Americans smiled dubiously, nodded politely and resumed their own conversation.

Leroy smiled at Brody, like a dog awaiting a reward for fetching a stick.

Brody took no notice and said quietly, “I didn’t kill anyone, you idiot. But, I think it might be linked to the get root hack I’ve been working on.”

“The webcam thing?”

Brody nodded.

“How’s that got anything to do with someone being murdered?”

“Hopefully nothing. A coincidence … You know that girl we watched?”

“The one in the bath?”

Brody nodded.

“What about her?” Brody waited for Leroy to make the mental leap. Leroy’s jaw dropped open. “
Her
?”

The American lady next to Brody turned her head again, raising an eyebrow. 

“Sorry, not you love,” said Leroy. “We’re talking about Ophelia now. Hamlet’s girlfriend. Drowned herself.”

The woman harrumphed and returned to her own conversation.

Brody explained. “I traced the real world location of that webcam to this mansion in Bushey. I drove up there earlier. I was just about to knock on the door when a shitload of police cars came flying out of nowhere. At first I thought they were there for me, but when I walked away they didn’t follow me.”

“So how do you know what they were there for if you walked away?”

“I spied on them through the webcams on the website.”

Leroy looked up, digesting Brody’s story. Brody finished his macchiato, waiting.

“Blimey, did you see the body?”

“No. She was killed somewhere else. The police were trying to track down the husband. I think they think he killed her.”

“Why?”

“No idea.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Nothing, I guess.”

 “But what if what you know is crucial to the police investigation?”

“The webcams or the affair?”

“Either. Both.”

“I’m sure they’ll figure it out themselves. They’re police after all.”

“But they might not. What have you got to lose?”

“Leroy, I can’t. What I do is borderline illegal. I don’t need the police sniffing around in my life. I can’t just walk up to them and say, ‘Hi. You won’t believe this but I saw you lot live on camera on some dodgy website and I thought you might like to know.’”

“Why not? At least you’d be leaving out the hacking bit.”

“Hmm.”

“Probably best not to mention you were sitting right outside the house today when they turned up, otherwise they’re going to ask why you were there.” Leroy paused as a thought struck him. “Why were you there?”

“I needed to get onto the local area network that the webcams themselves are on, the network within the house. Then I can follow the route the live webcam traffic takes to get to the website itself, hopefully exposing a weakness I can exploit.”

“I think I got about a quarter of that,” laughed Leroy. “So, you were planning on illegally breaking into someone’s personal network in order to hack into a website? Probably best if you don’t mention any of that to an officer of the law.”

“Well, if I don’t say any of that, I guess I’d better not mention I was dressed as a BT engineer so that I could obtain entry into the house under false pretences.”

“You weren’t!”

Brody was pleased that he had shocked Leroy. “The police turned up when I was in full character.”

“I bet you cacked yourself.”

“Pretty much.”

They both laughed.

The Americans turned their heads once again. 

Brody addressed their neighbours this time, “Tragedies like Hamlet are far too depressing in this day and age, so we’ve come up with a few jokes that we’re going to insert into the play tonight. That one was a rip-roarer. You should get tickets for this evening’s performance. It’s going to be a blast.”

“But keep it to yourself about the jokes,” added Leroy, “Can’t have our director finding out and ruining our fun.”

The woman next to Brody tutted loudly and turned to her husband. Taking his cue, the husband stood and announced to the table, “Right, that’s it. I’ve had enough of this crap. Let’s beat it and leave these two English fools to their pretentious delusions.”

“Yes,” agreed the second woman, “You’re not taking us for a ride.” She reached into her bag, pulled out a piece of paper and held it so that Brody and Leroy could read it. It was a ticket for the Globe that night, for its production of
As You Like It
.

The tourists gathered their bags and headed for the exit, shaking their heads and muttering about “the damned locals”
.
Leroy turned to Brody and said loudly, for the benefit of the Americans, “Oh shit Brody, we’ve only gone and learned the lines for the wrong play!”

The door slammed shut.

They high-fived each other and spread out. After a minute, Brody said, “You know what, Leroy? You might have a point. If I did help Jenny, then maybe I could legitimately get inside the Saxton household as part of the police investigation.”

“Who’s Jenny?”

“Oh, she’s the main detective. DI Jenny Price.”

“Ooh,
Jenny
,” said Leroy, teasing. “You sure this is still about the hacking job?”

“Now you’re just being stupid.”

“So she’s not good-looking then?”

“Shut up, Leroy.”

“Maybe you should try for a bit more honesty when you speak to her. You don’t want to be caught lying to a police officer.”

“Not lying as such. Just not quite telling them everything.”

“If this Jenny ever finds out, I’m pretty sure she’ll go apeshit.”

“I’d just be there to help. After all, I have information they don’t have.”

“You never learn.” Leroy shook his head sadly. “Anyway, how will you approach her? You going to show up at her nick tomorrow?”

“No, I don’t fancy walking in off the street into a police station. Too many cops for my liking.”

“What then?”

“Leroy, you underestimate me. I’m a social engineer. I’ve got moves the police will never see coming.”

“Uh-oh, that doesn’t sound good. You’re going to ‘social engineer’ your way in front of the police officer running a murder enquiry you’re somehow involved in?”

Brody beamed at Leroy. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I am.”

* * *

Saxton lowered his head in concession. “Okay. Okay. I admit to the affair with Audri.”

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.