Invasion of Privacy: A Deep Web Thriller #1 (Deep Web Thriller Series) (53 page)

“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 flies.

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.

Even from this height, Jenny could see the solid marble floor of the building far below. People in the atrium seating area were looking up and pointing at her to each other, their mouths open in shock. Jenny felt gravity take hold and began to plummet.

* * *

You are filled with righteous fury. How dare anyone interrupt you in the middle of it? Especially another woman! 

You shoved her out of the room with all the force you could muster. 

You surprised her as she opened the door. But that was because you were ready. You’d heard the bang of the door in the next room. You guessed you were about to be interrupted by someone. But you were surprised when it was female. 

 You watch in silent fascination as she cartwheels over the side, her legs flying overhead. Her body begins to fall.

Going . . . Going . . .

— but at the last moment, her hand reaches out and grabs the railing on top of the glass wall. Her body pivots and you see her hips smash into the concrete floor, jutting out beneath the glass wall. She screams in pain but grips even tighter, despite the momentum her legs have developed in the open space of the corridor beneath threatening to pull her hand away.

She hangs by one hand, taking deep breaths. You can hear screams from insects down below.

You peer over, ready to prise her hand from the railing and finish it. Insects are pointing up at you both, screaming. You focus on her.

“You fucking whore,” you snarl, unable to stop yourself. You want her to pay for interrupting. You stare at her stricken face. 

Unexpectedly, you recognise her. You immediately suppress the implications of that. You can deal with all that later. But there is one implication you can’t get past. You will miss out on this one. What a shame.

You whisper gently. “Why did it have to be you? Such a waste.” 

Her face shows confusion as she hangs on.

Reluctantly, you grab her hand and begin to lift a finger. 

“No, please don’t,” she begs. 

Yes, she begs, just like they all do. Eventually.

And then her expression changes. A calmness falls over her. She stares at him intently, almost as if she can see through his dark sunglasses.

“What do you mean, such a waste?” she asks you, almost inquisitively, as if the situation were just a normal conversation over tea.

You stop lifting her fingers. Just for a moment. 

“You would have been good. That’s the shame of it. Far better than that whore in there.” You nod your head backwards at the meeting room behind you.

“Then let me go,” she says, steadily.

And for just a second you think about letting her go. Maybe you could line her up another time.

“The building is surrounded by police. Don’t make it worse for yourself.”

And you realise that the whore is just tricking you. Playing for time. Playing for her life.

You resume prising her fingers from the railing. As her grip begins to slide you say to her, “Goodbye, Detective Inspector Jenny Price.”

And despite the imminent fall to her death, her face contorts in shock at the sound of her name. Her fingers lose their grip completely. You stand back and watch her body drop from view through the glass wall.

Such a shame.

She really would have been perfect.

You hear screams from below. They bring you to your senses.

You run for it.

* * *

After fifteen minutes, Brody gave up pacing the room, waiting for Jenny to let him know what had happened. He decided to head over the road to Bruno’s. He grabbed his tablet PC and wallet and slammed the front door shut behind him, only then recalling with a wince that Leroy had disappeared back to bed. For once he deserved his morning lie-in. If it hadn’t been for Leroy’s earlier counsel advising Brody to apply his skills to helping real people, he wouldn’t have discovered the killer’s latest meeting room booking. He just hoped Jenny had made it in time to save whoever had been lured to their death.

When Jenny had finally returned his call Brody had hurriedly explained
what
he’d found, neatly avoiding the
how
of it. Shocked but then suddenly very hopeful, she quickly pointed out that there might still be time to save the victim. In the two previous instances, the killer had reserved the meeting room an hour before the victim’s scheduled meeting time. She asked which Flexbase building it was so that she could contact the local force to storm the place. When he told her it was in Windsor, she swore loudly. They were only a few miles away but had just joined the M4 heading back towards London. Brody jumped on Google maps and instructed her to exit at the very next junction. There was a back way through the village of Datchet, skirting alongside both banks of the Thames straight into Windsor from the east. While on the phone, Jenny frantically relayed directions to her colleague, who was driving. When they finally screeched to a halt outside the building, she curtly thanked him and hung up.

And that was the last he’d heard.

“Ah, good timing Mr Brody, you’re usual seat has just become free. Please sit down.” 

Stefan’s toothy grin barely broke through Brody’s daze. Numbly he sat down. The waiting was killing him. He looked at his watch. It was now twenty minutes. Why hadn’t she phoned him back?

“Okay, let me see. Late morning. Too late for cappuccino. Too early for espresso. Maybe a macchiato?” Eliciting no response, not even a subtle shake of the head, Stefan looked confused. 

Brody hadn’t heard a word. On autopilot, he sat in his chair and opened his computer, just for something to do. At least Jenny hadn’t asked him the obvious question about how he’d come by the information about the killer’s meeting room reservation. But he knew it would come. He’d need to come up with a good story.