Cyber Terror (9 page)

“You can’t, but I kept my word yesterday. I will this time as well.”

Dipak looked into Jordan’s face for a few seconds, assessing his truthfulness.

Jordan said, “Even if you’re not sure about me, it’s worth a gamble, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

Jordan smiled. “I thought so, but I’ll do what I’ve promised – if you give me what I need.”

“How do I get stuff to you?”

Jordan gave Dipak an e-mail address. “And make sure you attach a passport-style photo,” he said. Then he pulled his collar up around his neck and made a dash for his car.

One wide road ran through the Suffolk village of Long Melford. On either side, every other shop seemed to sell antiques. Guided by his inertial navigation system, Jordan drove
into a quiet lane just off the main road and parked outside Phil Lazenby’s deserted house. It was a modest bungalow with a small neat lawn and sculptured hedge that must have been tended by a
gardener during the pilot’s frequent absences. When Jordan went through the gate at the side of the property, he could see that the back garden was also immaculate. Someone had banished every
single weed from the flower beds.

The house key was where Angel said it would be – under the large pot by the back door. Jordan used it to let himself into the kitchen. Apart from the purring of the fridge-freezer, the
place was silent. Eerie really. And immensely sad.

Jordan took a deep breath and went into the tiny lobby. By the front door, a few letters had fallen untidily onto the floor. They would never be opened and answered by Captain Lazenby. Jordan
walked into the living room. At first glance, there wasn’t much in it. A settee and comfy chair, a coffee table, a TV, a wood-burning stove with a small stack of logs, and very little
furniture apart from a writing desk. At once, Jordan made for it.

On the desk, there was a space that would probably have been occupied by a laptop, but it wasn’t there. On the left, there were various computer CDs, a printer, a radio-controlled clock, a
notepad, photographs of his wife and children, and a stack of paper. On the right, seven large folders were propped up on a shelf. Jordan took the middle one and opened it at a random page. It
contained rows and rows of old dull postage stamps. Alongside every one, there was a neatly handwritten note about the stamp: its designer, subject and date of issue. Turning the pages, Jordan
realized that he was looking at a bulky stamp collection. All of the ones in this album seemed to be from the Netherlands. He had no idea if the collection was valuable or worthless. Uninterested
and disappointed, he closed the folder and put it back on its shelf.

He couldn’t see a diary, so instead he examined the notepad. Flicking through it, he saw phone numbers, an old list of Christmas gifts, a note about something in Ipswich, a record of jobs
that needed doing around the house, and a message about a flight to Amsterdam. The pilot’s handwriting was large and precise. Jordan was hardly an expert on grammar, but he couldn’t see
a single spelling mistake. Plainly, the jottings were not the work of someone who was dyslexic. The word Captain Lazenby had written on the back of Paige Ottaway’s photo would not have been a
misspelling.

Jordan reached for the pictures of Mrs. Lazenby and the couple’s children. He slipped them out of their frames, turned them over and let out a sigh. The pilot had not jotted anything on
the backs.

It really didn’t matter if Jordan left the photos and frames scattered on the desk, but he reassembled them anyway. Somehow, that seemed more respectful.

When he’d finished putting everything back as it had been, he looked again at one of the notepad pages. Phil had written three lines.

Jordan wasn’t certain what it meant, but an idea formed in his mind. He put down the pad and went on a slow walk around the rest of the house. He checked every drawer in the bedrooms just
in case there was a diary or anything else that might shed more light on Captain Lazenby – and why someone might want to kill him. But nothing grabbed Jordan’s attention.

As soon as Jordan entered Demi Reed’s living room in Woodbridge, he noticed the bass guitar propped up in one corner. Around its neck was hung a large gold crucifix.
Jordan took one look at the shrine and realized at once why he’d heard of Carlton Reed. Until Short Circuit had put an end to his life, Carlton had been a musician, the bassist in a group
called Cyber Storm.

Demi noticed his gaze and said, “God claimed a good man. Did you know Carlton? I mean, his music?”

Jordan nodded. “I downloaded the first album. It’s such a shame.”

“Amen.” Demi sat down heavily and waved Jordan towards another chair.

The room was the opposite of Captain Lazenby’s. It was packed with furniture and untidy. Every surface seemed to be covered in magazines, mugs, leaflets, CDs and trinkets.

“Was he touring in Ecuador?”

“They’d been all over South America,” Demi replied. “You see, there’s no money in selling recorded music these days. It’s all about playing live. He was away
on tour a lot. Too much. But I’ll tell you this. He never missed being here for our daughter’s birthday. Except for the year he did jury service. And when he went back to Jamaica
because his parents got caught up in the hurricane. He couldn’t help either of those. He loved his family. That’s the sort of man he was.”

Jordan was wondering if it was a coincidence that Carlton’s group was called Cyber Storm when Short Circuit was summoning electronic disasters. “How did the band get its name?”
he asked.

She shrugged. “It sounded good. There’s strength in the combination of the man-made – that’s the cyber part – and an act of God. That’s what I think,
anyway.”

Jordan took three photographs out of his pocket and spread them over the clutter on the coffee table.

Watching him, Demi said, “Ah, yes. A policeman told me you were looking into disturbances on the plane. Like drinking too much. Well, I’ll tell you now, that wasn’t
Carlton’s scene. He never touched a drop. Except when... Anyway, it wasn’t him.”

Jordan pointed to the images of Victoria Truman, Phil Lazenby and Paige Ottaway. “These people were caught up in it. I wanted to know if Carlton knew any of them, but...” He looked
at her. “Sorry, but I’ve got to ask you instead.”

Demi put her head on one side as she examined the pictures. Then she pushed away the photos of the two women. “I don’t know them.” Tapping the other one, she added, “But
him...”

“Yes?” Jordan prompted.

“He’s familiar.”

“Captain Phil...”

“Got it!” she interrupted. “He’s that hero pilot. The one who’s just died. God bless him. If you ask me, it’s ironic. He walked away from a plane crash, but a
bump in a car got the better of him. The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

Disappointed, Jordan asked, “You never met him? Phil Lazenby, that is.”

“No.” She raised her eyes to the ceiling and said, “I’ve never met Him, either. But one day...when I’m with Carlton again.”

To Jordan, she seemed open, honest and deeply wounded by her husband’s death.

“Did he know anyone heavily into electronics?”

“Yes. The band’s manager, the sound engineers, the special effects crew...”

“Sorry. Silly question.” Jordan wiped the smile from his face and took a deep breath, “Did the group do drugs?”

She sat upright and stared at Jordan. “God help me, no. No drink and no drugs. Except... Not the sort you mean anyway. I’ll tell you this. He had terrible migraines. He was always
taking something for them. That’s all.”

“Just one more thing. Did he know Lemon Jelly, the group?”

She thought for a moment and then answered, “Yes. I mean, he wouldn’t have known them if they’d walked into church, but he knew of them. We’ve got their CDs somewhere. Or
maybe Carlton downloaded their stuff. Anyway, they used a lot of samples.”

Jordan nodded. “Like a man talking about all the places he’s been to?”

Demi’s face lit up. “Yes, I remember that one. I don’t know what it’s called – I’m hopeless with titles – but I can hear it right now. In my head. I
used to say that man’s travelled as much as Carlton.” She laughed at the memory.

“Yeah,” Jordan replied. “I like it as well.”

As he left, Jordan made a decision to visit another address in Suffolk. Eager to find out why Captain Lazenby had chosen to write his curious note on Paige Ottaway’s photograph, he drove
towards Felixstowe.

In his mind, Jordan searched the internet for information on Paige Ottaway. Her name cropped up all over the place. From 2006 to 2010, she’d been chairwoman of her local
Women’s Institute. She’d worked as a volunteer for several charities and she’d been a Suffolk councillor for a while. Yet the world outside her own area hadn’t taken any
notice of her. She’d become newsworthy only when she died in a freak accident during a brain operation. At least, all the reports called it an accident.

The man who answered Jordan’s knock on the door seemed too young to be Mrs. Ottaway’s partner. Jordan said, “Hello. Is this where Paige Ottaway lived?”

The man in the doorway looked puzzled, but nodded. “I’m her son. What do you want?”

“A chat about her operation and what went wrong.”

“Who are you?”

“Jordan Stryker. I’m looking into a few accidents like your mum’s.”

Paige’s son sucked in a sharp breath. “A few?”

Jordan nodded.

“You’re a bit young.”

“I still care,” Jordan replied.

“All right. You’d better come in. I’m Sam, by the way.”

In the living room of the small terraced house, Jordan asked, “Is your dad in?”

“No. I don’t know where he is. Since Mum died, he’s been going downhill fast. Who knows what he’s up to? Doing more crazy things, I dare say. Anyway, what are you doing
here? What’s it all about?”

Reaching into his pocket, Jordan replied, “I’ve got some photos.” While he spread them out, he named each of the people. “Phil Lazenby, Victoria Truman and Carlton
Reed.”

Sam gazed at the portraits for a few seconds and then looked up at Jordan. “I don’t know them, but the first one’s that pilot. Have the other two died in accidents as
well?”

“Yes.”

“Captain Lazenby was in a car, not a hospital. What about the other two?”

“A plane crash and a house fire.”

“What have they got to do with Mum, then?” asked Sam.

“They’re from round here and their problems all kicked off with an electrical fault.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“What if it was sabotage?”

Sam’s mouth opened. “What? What do you mean? Who’d do that? It doesn’t make sense. Why are you talking about sabotage?”

Jordan decided to change direction. “What sort of person was your mum?”

Still looking bemused, Sam replied, “A pillar of the community, as they say. She’d do anything for anybody. She helped out with the homeless, alcoholics, immigrants, the elderly. All
that sort of thing. Everyone around here knew her. No one would...you know...do what you’re suggesting.”

“Okay,” Jordan said, sensing that he couldn’t push Sam Ottaway much further.

“I’ve just been talking to a solicitor. She thinks we’ve got a chance of suing the hospital for negligence. Negligence, not on purpose. That’s why I’m here –
to tell Dad. A case like that’d give him a focus. He’d feel like someone was paying him attention for a change.”

The phone rang. With a glance at Jordan, Sam answered it. “Hello? Sam Ottaway.” He listened to the voice for a few seconds and then said, “Yes, that’s right.”
Another gap before he exclaimed, “He’s what?” He sighed and shook his head. “All right. I’m on my way. I’ll be there in five. Or less.” He slammed down the
phone and said, “I’ve got to go to the hospital. It’s Dad.”

“What’s wrong?”

Sam grabbed a coat. “He’s chained himself to the railings as some sort of protest or stunt. But he’s ill.”

“Maybe I can help,” said Jordan.

“I don’t know how,” Sam replied as he made for the door. “But I can’t stop you following me.”

It was a strange sight. Mr. Ottaway was propped against a low brick wall outside the hospital and his arm was bent back. Heavy-duty handcuffs attached one wrist to the tall
iron railings that were embedded in the mortar. He looked like a schoolboy with his hand up, wanting to go to the toilet. But he was also unconscious and a pale blue colour. A doctor was pushing
awkwardly and repeatedly on his chest. Even though the wall was squat, Mr. Ottaway’s arm wasn’t long enough to allow the doctor to place him flat on the ground. Hospital staff had
erected a large sheet to stop everyone peering at the scene. Frustrated, the doctor called out, “Where’s the fire engine? They’re supposed to be bringing cutting gear.”

“What’s happened?” Sam asked. “I’m his son.”

“Cardiac arrest,” the doctor panted. “He’d be okay if I could get him inside.”

A nurse said, “There’s a DIY store a couple of minutes down the road.”

The doctor nodded. “Get us a hacksaw.”

Jordan was not going to wait. The sheet was like a screen. It hid him from any photographers. He clambered onto the wall and took the metal upright in both hands. It felt solid and immovable,
but he didn’t let that put him off. Summoning all his strength, he tried to wrench it out of the mortar by yanking it upwards. It didn’t budge. Instead, he tried twisting it.

No one else thought he stood a chance, so they ignored him.

His false hand gripped the metal tightly and he slowly increased the torque. Below, the grey mortar that topped the bricks began to show tiny cracks. Encouraged, Jordan tried sudden jerks, one
after the other, until he could feel some give in the fixing. As the metal rod began to move, it rattled against Mr. Ottaway’s handcuff.

Sam and a nurse with a hospital stretcher stared in surprise as Jordan continued to loosen the railing.

The doctor didn’t pay Jordan any attention. He was becoming more and more concerned. And frustrated. “I’m going to lose him if we don’t get him in soon!”