Free Social Engineer by Ian Sutherland

living room window playing forty-forty, kerbie and later, kiss-chase, while she practised her scales over and over, her bow movements across the strings becoming autonomic as muscle memory took over, the melodies becoming more complex and harmonious.  
    Anna forced a smile onto her face. “Okay then. I’ll do my best.”
    He nodded. “Whenever you’re ready, Anna.”
    She took two more deep breaths, drew back the bow and launched into the concerto, her favourite piece. The music, as Elgar had planned, came slowly and hauntingly at first. Within a few bars she was lost to the stately rhythm of her part. Webber disappeared from her thoughts, even though she could see him immediately opposite her. It was as if someone else was observing him through her eyes, so lost was she in the music.
    Webber began to wave his arms as if conducting her. Although his timing was slightly out, he became quite animated, his eyes closing in rapture.  
    Anna, too, closed her eyes and within a few bars, had completely surrendered herself to the magnificent piece. She felt as though she was achieving a level of grace that she knew was denied her in any other aspect of her life. The bow in her right hand elegantly flew left and right over the strings. Her left hand moved up and down the fingerboard, rapidly depressing the strings, the positions fluent and clear, each note perfect.  
    She reached the final crescendo with a flourish. She knew that she had never played better and that Tuesday would see her in Covent Garden. A bead of sweat trickled down her back. She opened her eyes, smiling expectantly.  
    Webber was nowhere to be seen.  
    She swivelled on the chair, scanning the room in panic. He was right behind her, one arm raised high, holding what looked like a large dagger, a maniacal grin spread across his face.
    Uncomprehending, she asked, “What are you . . .”
    Webber rapidly swung his arm downwards, twisting his wrist at the last second to cause the solid base of the dagger’s handle to strike Anna cruelly across the side of her face. Her head exploded in pain, whiteness obscuring her vision. She dropped to the floor. Her cello and bow fell from her hands, clattering on top of her, numbed notes emitting from the instrument’s strings as it fell to the floor beside her. Alongside the pain Anna instantly became nauseous, as if she’d downed too much tequila too quickly. Tears streamed from her eyes, mingling with the blood oozing from a gash on her cheek. She covered her head with her hands and crunched into a foetal position.  
    The image of Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz , her favourite movie as a child, flickered into her mind. She saw Dorothy holding back the curtain, exposing the charlatan behind the illusion, and accusing him of being a very bad man .  
    Anna forced her heavy lids to open. Her own version of a very bad man was leaning down towards her, the point of his gleaming dagger held out in front of him, the illusion he had held her in for three days now completely shattered. She glimpsed past the sharp point and into Webber’s eyes — black, lustful and full of malicious intent — and saw her death in them.
    Fathoming that she had just given her final performance, yet oddly grateful to have played so perfectly, Anna felt her eyelids droop again as she allowed herself to drift towards welcome blackness.

CHAPTER 2

    “I’m here for a 9:00 a.m. interview with Richard Wilkie. My name is Brody Taylor.”
    The pudgy receptionist pushed her glasses further up the bridge of her nose and checked her computer screen. She squinted in confusion.
    “We don’t have a Mr Wilkie based in this office.”
    “Yes, sorry. It’s a video interview. He’s calling in from Dubai.”
    “Ah, I see. Yes, here you are. The ground floor video conferencing suite is booked for you, Mr Taylor.”
    The receptionist printed off a security pass, pressed a button to open the gate, allowed him to pass through and escorted him to a meeting room