I stand and go to the small closet wardrobe. At the back is a small backpack with a few essentials packed. Namely, several thousand in both pounds and dollars, cards set up to access my off-shore account in the name of my shell corporation company, a burner phone and charger, toiletries and a change of clothes. Everything I need for a couple of days.
While my job title has the word ethical in it, some people don’t believe there’s such a thing when the word 'hacker' is after it. My escape bag is a precaution I've always had packed, but not one I ever anticipated using under these circumstances. I bring it out and add my laptop and charger, along with my keys and the other random items from my handbag.
Murph jumps up onto the desk and protests loudly at his lack of attention. “Okay, I’ll feed you.” I’ll have to top up the automatic feeder. And maybe ask Mrs Kavinsky from upstairs to drop in if I’m not back in a week. Although, that leaves a point of reference for what I might be doing.
I head to the kitchen with the long-haired lord of the house leading the way, pressing the button to manually provide his food, and then fill up the dispenser and check the feeding times. He tucks into his snack and I take the opportunity to fuss over him. My fingers stroke down his silky mane. I’ll miss my little friend’s company. Even for a few days.
Being one of four siblings, I prefer my own company to that of others. It’s not like I don’t have friends. I do, sort of. But it doesn’t come naturally to be social or comfortable around others. I often look at Ivy or Persephone and wish I had their confidence or ability to be in a room with others without feeling the urge to bolt.
With my silent goodbye to Murph, I go to my bedroom and the small personal safe at the bottom of the wardrobe. I enter the code and draw out the two passports. The fake was another precaution and a document that caused me to buy the safe. I wanted it locked away and hidden. Travelling under my own passport will leave an easy trail, and while I know Landon will want to find me, whether he'll tell the police what happened is an unknown question at the moment.
I take both passports, put the fake into my bag, and hide the real one in one of my kitchen cupboards.
With all the basics covered, I take a second to look around my home. It might only be 700 square feet of space, but it’s my sanctuary. I can’t see a way through to find that again right now, but maybe in the future …
I set the alarm and close the door behind me. Derek’s car will be fine left on the street. Or Landon will find it, and he’ll know I came home. As long as he can’t track my next movement, I’m good.
Next stop, the airport.
~
I’ve never had to test the fake passport, but I travel through security with no problems. After clearing the bag scanner, I head for the duty-free shops. There’s one thing about Heathrow Airport, and that’s you don’t actually need to bring anything with you to the airport. Everything is here, and the small bag on my back needs to be topped up.
I head for a clothing store. Morocco will be hot, and I’ll need to blend in. I grab a dress in my size, a maxi skirt and a long scarf that I can double as a headscarf, then make quick work of picking up what else I need to make sure I’ll look modest. While in Casablanca, what I’m wearing is fine. The city has its own financial centre as well as being a major port, plus it’s a huge tourist centre. But after that, I need clothes with more authenticity than the big city provides.
My place is in a little village, a short journey from the outskirts. Beautiful sunsets and beaches, and quiet. I fell in love with the location and bought the little apartment there several years ago.
All I can hope now is that it will provide me with the salvation I need to sort this mess out and work out my next move.
Chapter Three
NOAH
It’s the dead of night in Pimlico. One in the morning to be precise. I’m hanging out under a tree and watching the occasional person walk along Claverton St. There aren't many out at this time, and there isn’t even much traffic passing through this area. I’m not surprised – it’s Pimlico. The only thing I’m likely to see on this street are coppers on patrol to keep the wealthy happy that they’re paying their taxes for a reason.
I’ve been here on and off for most of the night, waiting to see some lights go on. None have. It’s dark in there, and her pricey two-bed flat looks as empty as the lacking light suggests. No movement, no curtains twitching, and no one home. I move eventually and cross the road, getting my tools out of my pocket and slipping my latex gloves on. I can’t fuck around. I need in that flat to see if she’s left any clue as to where she’s gone. No flight details have come up as yet, and no train or bus schedules show her name. She might have paid with cash for the latter two, but I’m taking a guess she wants to fly her little arse out of this place for a while.
A quick few seconds jacking the main door, and I slip in through the hall and make quiet strides to her door. The next lock is trickier, but nothing stops Locke on a mission, certainly not a fucking door, and I get inside within another few minutes. Everything’s silent. I turn instantly and scan for the alarm, inputting the codes I found earlier in the day the second I find it. No one wants that kind of noise going on. It didn’t take me long to find the codes. This place is registered with ASAC alarm systems. High-end, maybe, but their online security is shit. Fucking pointless paying a few grand a year for a service if they can’t even keep their codes wrapped up tight.
I walk softly in the dark, making sure not to wake the people above me, and go about searching through her stuff. Bedroom first. Everyone hides shit in there. Fuck knows why. Might as well slap a label on the outside of your house telling thieves that. A big neon one that points to the exact location of anything worth something. Idiots. We all learn it young. Some old thief tells a young one, and then that young one tells the rest of the gang. Stupid. Having said that, by the time I’ve ransacked her drawers, cupboards, wardrobes and open, empty safe, I’m no further forward in finding any info than I was when I came in.
Wandering into what seems to be a small study, I look over the area dedicated to a bank of files and folders, a screen and Mac system set up under it. Doesn’t take me long to wake that up and have a look through her files in there either. Nothing. Not until I start trying to get into the hidden stuff anyway. There’s a load of cryptic security in place, most of it’s in some Arabic language, so I can’t even bypass the protocols to try breaking her passwords.
Doesn’t mean I’m not trying, though.
Engrossed in finding more, the sudden feel of something brushing against my leg makes me jump ten feet in the fucking air. The chair tumbles away under me, my own hand catching it before it falls to stop the noise, and I scan like fuck to find the little shit of a thing. It sits looking at me from the middle of the rug, one black paw being licked as it stares. I back away, literally climbing the walls to get as far from it as possible. Fucking things. I didn’t even know she had one.
I take in the dark area, searching for something to help me out. What, I don’t know. Just something. A gun would be useful if it wasn’t so fucking loud. “Stay there,” I mutter, backing around the side wall to get back to the computer. “Don’t piss me off and I won’t need to kill you.”
It moves, raises its tail and starts sashaying over like it owns the place, making me back away again. Guess it does own the place, but that doesn’t mean it’s got any fucking right to get in my face about anything. “Take it easy you little fuck. I don't have time for a fight.”
It isn’t until it gets to the end of the rug that I take a look at the rug itself. Arabic maybe. I look up and around the walls, searching for pictures or objects, something that might give me a steer on the Arabic connection. There’s a selection of not a lot, quickly followed by muted colours and nondescript pieces of art, but that’s two Arabic things.
The main lounge doesn't offer up anything else of interest other than graceful decorating and the same chalky blues, and I shift into the kitchen at the light sound of something mechanical whirring. The black devil thing walks past me and tucks into some biscuits that fall out of a machine onto a plate, dipping his tongue into water, too.
My eyes sweep low around the room and I find a computerised cat flap built into the door that leads to the garden. I wave my hands at the cat, hoping it might fuck off. It doesn’t. It hisses and glares at me, tail straight up in the fucking air as if it might attack. I’m so quick to go back out to the lounge and shut the door, it hasn’t got a chance of following me.
Blowing out a breath, I head back for the study and start pulling down her neatly organised folders, flicking through the info in each one as I get to it. Bills, cat insurance papers and older paperwork from years back that means nothing to anything.
