Invasion of Privacy: A Deep Web Thriller #1 (Deep Web Thriller Series) Read Online Free Page B
Author: Ian Sutherland
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
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
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