Invasion of Privacy: A Deep Web Thriller #1 (Deep Web Thriller Series) (43 page)

“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.

Wincing, 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. 

Five minutes later, Brody reached the front door of his flat. His thoughts during the walk from the Underground station had slowly become darker, matching the downcast weather. His inability to make any serious progress on hacking SWY was becoming seriously frustrating. He’d publicly thrown down the gauntlet earlier today with his poker-style ‘all-in’ challenge that he would pwn SWY within forty-eight hours. He’d typed the challenge onto the CrackerHack forum message boards via his mobile phone while standing in Saxton’s kitchen, just as it was starting to dawn on Mrs Saxton that more than three webcams had been fitted in her home. 

At that moment, he’d been absolutely convinced that he was about to uncover the back door into SWY; unearthing the route the source webcam feeds took to get to the site. If he’d realised at the time that their route was somehow completely masked, he would never have been so bold. His hopes had been raised again when Jenny had invited him to visit a second SWY location at the students’ house. But all he’d actually proved was that it was a mirror configuration of the Saxton webcam setup. The backdoor route into SWY still eluded him. 

It made no sense at all. And now everything was at stake and he was running out of time.

Brody pushed the key into the lock on his front door and, just as he was about to turn it, suddenly recalled his promise to Leroy earlier. Damn, he was supposed to be giving Leroy and Danny free rein on the flat tonight, so that they could celebrate their anniversary. But it was wet and cold out here and he needed access to his equipment. He had work to do. He glanced over his shoulder and saw from the bright lights across the road that Bruno’s coffee house was still open. Okay, he’d given them the hour or two that Bruno’s remained open. Then he’d have no choice but to disturb them. After all, he was hardly going to spend the night in the cramped confines of his Smart car, parked outside his own flat just to give Leroy and Danny some privacy.

Despite the lateness of the evening, the coffee shop still had a few customers. Perhaps the warm, dry environment had been an unplanned refuge from the earlier showers. A smiling Stefan trotted over to him. Brody didn’t know whether to be impressed or saddened that Stefan was still working, this late into the night.

“Ah, Mr Brody, Mr Brody. Is raining dogs and cats, no?”

“Yes Stefan, it’s wet out there.”

Brody’s favourite seat by the window was free and, as usual, Stefan attempted to predict Brody’s order. But Brody couldn’t remember coming in so late and so this was uncharted territory for them both. Apologetically, Brody corrected Stefan’s normally correct guess of a late-evening single espresso with an out-of-character request for herbal tea. He left Stefan to choose the flavour.

As Brody opened his laptop case, he felt a waft of cool air from the front door as two or three customers left. As the door was about to seal shut it opened again, sending another chilly draught his way. As someone trudged in, leaving wet footprints trailing behind, he wondered if he should sacrifice his seat by the window with its optimal Wi-Fi reception and move into the warmth. He was fairly sure he could still pick up his private Wi-Fi signal further back in the coffee house. 

Stefan returned, placing a steaming sepia-coloured beverage on the table.

“Is Liquorice tea, Mr Brody. You like?”

Brody had no idea. “I’m sure it’ll be lovely, thanks Stefan.”

“Is good for making feel better.”

“That’s just what I need.” Brody lifted the cup to his lips, compelled by Stefan’s hovering presence to sample the liquid. He sipped a little and then loudly slurped lots of air over the hot liquid to avoid scalding his tongue. “Jesus, that’s . . .” He had been about to swear but caught himself in time. “ . . . That’s very nice, Stefan.” And with the temperature having dropped to a palatable level, he realised he rather liked the mellow aniseed aftertaste.

Satisfied, Stefan left him to it. 

Brody had work to do. He didn’t believe what Dwight Chambers, the CTO of HomeWebCam, had told him over the phone at Kim Chang’s house earlier; that there was no trace of traffic between HomeWebCam and SecretlyWatchingYou. Brody figured Chambers was either covering up his company’s failings from preventing the leak of data from his website or that Chambers was somehow involved in SWY. He had to find out, one way or another. And the only logical step was to break into HomeWebCam and track the feeds from there.

Brody logged on to his tablet PC and connected to his private, securely encrypted Wi-Fi network.

* * *

“Which property?” asked Walter Pike, stroking his chin. “I can’t remember every place in my portfolio.”

They were in Interview Room 4 in Holborn Station. Pike sat on the other side of the metal desk from Jenny and Da Silva. Jenny knew he was playing for time, trying to figure out their line of questioning. She and Da Silva had just finished going through the interview preliminaries, pointing out his right to a solicitor, which he resolutely declined. Da Silva thanked him for coming down to the station at short notice, not that Jenny or DC Jones had given him any choice when they had met him on the drive of his imposing family home, just as he was returning home from work. When Jenny explained they needed to discuss some issues related to his tenants he had immediately offered to come to Holborn rather than invite the two policewomen into his home. He claimed that he didn’t want to bother his wife with his work.

“Troughton Road in Charlton,” Jenny stated lightly, holding his eye, steadfastly maintaining a friendly manner.

She knew that Pike was well into his sixties, but the only giveaway was the lines leading away from his eyes. His thick head of hair was artfully spiked in the style of a twenty-something. And even though it was silvery, the colour looked as if it was a deliberate fashion choice rather than a result of ageing. Under a brown suit, he wore a white t-shirt. Jenny was reminded of Don Johnson in the 1980s show,
Miami Vice
, but the signature shoulder pads were missing. Not that Pike needed them: he obviously spent plenty of time at the gym.

“Okay, I know it. Yeah, it’s one of mine. So what’s got you lot out of bed then? Bins left out on the street? Neighbours complaining because there’s nowhere left to park? Whatever’s going on you’ll need to take it up with the tenants. I’m only the landlord.”

“Who are the current tenants, Mr Pike?”

“Just a bunch of students. Massive profits in students, you know.” He balanced his chair onto its rear legs, leaning back dangerously. “You take a Victorian two up, two down, stick in a few partition walls, convert the dining room into another bedroom, and
voilà
, you’ve got six bedrooms. Stick an advert in the local Uni and suddenly you’ve got six new tenants. Everyone thinks students are hard up, but you add up the rent for six rooms in what was previously just a three-bedroom house and suddenly you’ve got a lucrative income. From students, no less.”

“Female students, I notice.”

“Yeah, well, simple business decision. Much less damage from bints.”

That was a term that Jenny hadn’t heard in a very long time. Pike may have modernised his image, but his attitudes were clearly stuck in the 1970s. She tried not to let her distaste show.

“Tell me about any extras you’ve had installed in the house.”

“Extras?” Pike remained balanced on the rear legs. “What are you on about, girl?”

“DI Price, Mr Pike,” corrected Da Silva. “You do not address a police officer as
girl
.”

Jenny bristled with indignation, noting how Da Silva rose to her defence.

“No offence.”

“The house that you let to these six students . . . Are they fully aware of everything inside?”

“I’m not with you . . .” He stopped himself and then, with a broad condescending smile, “ . . . DI Price.”

“Let me ask it another way. Is there anything in the house that the tenants should be aware of but are not?”

Pike remained balanced back on his legs. His silence lasted a beat too long before he said, “No.” 

Jenny changed tack and, in a petty bout of revenge, asked sweetly, “Are you a silver surfer, Mr Pike?” She’d heard the term on a radio phone-in show all about mature Internet users, never expecting to employ the phrase herself.

Da Silva turned in his head in surprise at her uncharitably-phrased question. Pike squinted his nose, trying to work out what she meant.