Scare Me To Death, CJ Carver [nice books to read .txt] 📗

Jibran Bouzid here. She’s red-flagged the alert.’

‘Let’s have a look.’

Albin turned the screen so that they could both read. Jibran Bouzid was mentioned in a blog that had come out of Indonesia on Monday 25 February, from someone called Budiwati, the Wise One. It was written in Indonesian and peppered with photographs of commercial aircraft taxiing, taking off and landing, passengers embarking and disembarking, luggage being loaded and unloaded.

‘Can we translate it?’

‘Sure.’

A day in the life of a dispatcher. My shift started at 04.30 this morning when I arrived at the inbound aircraft’s stand and requested departures teams to start calling passengers to the gate at -30 minutes to departure…

Lucy continued to read, her interest piqued. She’d never appreciated the amount of effort that went into getting her backside onto her aeroplane seat and delivering her safely to her destination along with her baggage. It was impressive and it was also a huge time-waster.

Her gaze snagged on the word bomb.

Albin made to scroll the page down but she put out a hand. ‘Wait.’

BEWARE FAKE BOMB DETECTORS.

Our security guy here tells me he’s been conned. He bought a supply of bomb detectors from Morocco last month and every last one is fake. He’s had to ditch them. So who’s selling these things? I’ve heard talk of a man called Jibran Bouzid, but nothing’s corroborated so don’t quote me. Whoever it is, don’t they realise they’re putting innocent people at risk? In my opinion they should be strung up. It’s my suggestion you test your equipment before implementing it and double-check its authenticity. Or people could die.

Lucy’s mind filled with sparks of yellow and white. Using her phone, she searched the internet to find nothing on fake bomb detectors being linked to EG220. Next, she googled the name Jibran Bouzid, who immediately popped up as a Moroccan civil servant and politician, currently serving as Morocco’s Defence Minister. Why had Kaitlyn red-flagged the alert?

‘I don’t suppose our blogger has a phone number,’ Lucy said, then, ‘not that that’s much use if he doesn’t speak English.’

‘You can drop him an email.’ Albin pointed at the little grey envelope at the top of the blog.

‘Brilliant.’

Lucy quickly brought out her phone, opened up the blog, and shot off an email, conveniently translated by Google, to Budiwati, the Wise One, adding her phone number in case he did speak English. You never knew your luck.

She turned her wrist to see it was 3.53pm. Her stomach gave a lurch. Seven minutes until she called her father. She knew she didn’t have to do it at precisely 4pm but if she didn’t have some kind of deadline she’d only start procrastinating. She rose to her feet. Wheeled the chair back to where it had come from.

‘Thanks, Albin.’

‘Any time.’

Lucy decided on the privacy of the soft interview room for her call, as long as it was free, of course. Her heartbeat picked up as she approached the door. Ridiculous. She was only making a phone call but she felt as though she was preparing for her first bungee jump.

She was half-hoping the room was occupied and when she saw it was free, her pulse increased even further. Come on, it’s only a phone call for Chrissake. She slipped in and shut the door behind her. A sofa, two armchairs, a coffee table, and a potted palm in the corner. She shouldn’t really be here but where else was as quiet? Her fingers felt strange as she dialled her father’s number.

Hi, it’s Lucy. Your daughter.

It started to ring.

Lucy. It’s Lucy. You’re my dad. Remember me?

It kept ringing. And ringing. Eventually it rang out. No messaging service.

Deflated, she looked at her phone. She’d try him again later.

The door opened and a man walked into the room. Stocky, dark-haired. In one second her pulse went through the roof until she realised it wasn’t her attacker from last September.

‘You okay?’ the man asked. ‘You look a bit peaky.’

He was one of the murder squad, first name Simon, if she remembered correctly, and she only remembered it because it was her father’s middle name. Carl Simon Davies.

‘I’m fine.’ Her voice was higher than its normal pitch and she hurriedly cleared her throat. ‘I just needed a moment’s quiet.’

‘Don’t we all.’ He gave a sympathetic grimace. ‘I was just checking the room was free…’

‘It is.’ She brushed past him, and even though she knew he wasn’t her attacker her nerves still spiked. When would she return to normal?

The MIR was buzzing when she walked in, the atmosphere electric. She grabbed the nearest detective. ‘What’s happened?’ God, she hoped she hadn’t missed something vital. It would be just her luck.

‘We’ve got CCTV of Kaitlyn scoping out Ricky’s office last Sunday. It looks as if she flew in from Morocco and went straight there. She had her suitcase with her.’

‘Scoping?’

‘Yeah, she was checking it out. You know, looking up and down, peering in the windows.’ The detective’s eyes were alight. ‘She then went to her Airbnb and changed, and guess where she went next?’

Lucy recalled where Ricky and Kaitlyn had met. ‘PJ’s?’

‘Yup.’

‘He was a mark.’ Everything started to make sense. It wasn’t romance, or even finding a rich man to spoil her. ‘She targeted him.’

‘It certainly looks like it.’

‘How did she know he frequented–’

She paused when her phone rang, pressed answer and said, ‘One moment…’ She pushed her palm over the microphone.

‘PJ’s,’ Lucy finished.

‘Believe it or not, it’s on his website. His bio. His interests are reading crime thrillers, eating out and going to the movies. He says when relaxing he can be found having a glass of fine wine at his local, PJ’s. Apparently he’s attracted several clients this way.’

‘Because they can’t be traced on the phone,’ Lucy guessed. ‘Ricky was using PJ’s as an extended office.’

‘That’s what we reckon.’

Lucy nodded and turned aside to take her phone call. ‘Yes?’ she said.

‘You called me.’ A man’s voice, sounding irritated. ‘I’m calling you back.’

And she’d asked him to wait. He didn’t sound as though he liked being told