Watch Me
Angela Clarke

Copyright

Published by Avon

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

The News Building

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2017

Copyright © Angela Clarke 2017

Angela Clarke asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008174613

Ebook Edition © December 2015 ISBN: 9780008174620

Version: 2017-01-10

Praise for WATCH ME by Angela Clarke

‘Watch Me sees the return of Nas and Freddie from Follow Me and goes further into their past and the guilt it has left them with. Fast paced and full of excitement, it’s hard to know where each chapter will take you in this thoroughly unpredictable ride. It kept me gripped and I cannot wait for the third instalment to see what happens next.’

Katerina Diamond, author of The Teacher

‘Watch Me is another zinging thriller in this social media crime series from Angela Clarke. From Snapchat to doxing to revenge porn, each turn of the page will make you reconsider your Internet life, and will definitely leave you worrying who’s watching you. Smart, sassy and totally on point, following Nas and Freddie’s investigations are a must.’

Sarah Pinborough, author of Behind Her Eyes

‘The clock is ticking in Angela Clarke’s excellent new novel Watch Me. DS Nasreen Cudmore and her friend Freddie Venton receive a chilling message via social media – they only have 24 hours to save the life of a young woman. Who has taken her? The answer lies online but the deeper they delve the more dangerous the situation becomes. Someone is watching their every move. Creepy, clever and unnerving; you won’t ever want to log on again.’

C. L. Taylor, author of The Missing

‘Starts with heart-pounding suspense; and the excitement intensifies throughout.’

Sharon Bolton, author of Daisy in Chains

‘I loved this! An utterly addictive, gripping thriller.’

Robert Bryndza, author of international number one bestseller The Girl in the Ice.

‘Stylish, pacy and packs a bruising punch.’

Sarah Hilary, author of the DI Marnie Rome series.

‘A sharp, punchy, fast-paced thriller, that will keep you hooked until the very last page.’

Casey Kelleher, author of Bad Blood

‘Fast, feminist and sharp as a knife. Just ripped through Watch Me by Angela Clarke and recommend you do the same. If you dare.’

Anna Mazzola, author of The Unseeing

‘Clarke drags you into the dark world of the internet in this edgy, tense, social-media thriller. You’ll hold your breath, as you turn pages at speed to find out the next twist in a world filled with complex characters who are wonderfully vivid, with real depth and warmth. I for one can’t wait for the next book in this series.’

Rebecca Bradley, author of the Detective Hannah Robbins Series

‘An utterly compelling, brilliantly plotted tale that expertly ramps up the tension and drags the reader in as the pages turn and the clock ticks down.’

Neil Broadfoot, author of All The Devils

‘Ingenious, fast-paced and full of dark wit. This is crime writing with attitude.’

Mark Edwards, bestselling author of Follow You Home

Praise for FOLLOW ME by Angela Clarke

‘Written in the sharpest style, the story races along, leaving the reader almost as breathless as the heroine – but there is a verve to it that is impossible to resist … Clarke is certainly someone to watch’

Daily Mail

‘A very contemporary nightmare, delivered with panache’

Independent

‘Freddie is a magnificently monstrous character’

Saturday Review, BBC Radio 4

‘Clarke has made an appealing flawed female lead who’ll make immediate sense to readers who enjoyed Rachel in The Girl on the Train. An invigorating cat-and-mouse game, with a dark and filthy wit that deliciously spikes the regular drenchings of gore’

Crime Scene Magazine

‘Slick and clever’

Sun

‘Set in a London of East End hipsters, Tinder hook-ups, and internships, this tongue-in-cheek tale explores murder in the age of social media’

Sunday Mirror

‘A chilling debut’

Hello

‘Follow Me is compelling, a proper page-turner’

Emerald Street

‘Angela Clarke brings dazzling wit and a sharp sense of contemporary life to a fast-paced serial killer novel with serious style’

Jane Casey, author of the Maeve Kerrigan series

‘In Follow Me, Clarke creates a completely compelling world, and a complex heroine. Freddie is refreshing and fascinating – a credible addition to the crime canon and a great alternative for anyone who has grown frustrated with the male dominated world of the whodunnit. Follow Me is literally gripping – the tension levels were forcing me to clutch the book so hard that my hands hurt!’

Daisy Buchanan, Grazia

‘A fascinating murder mystery and a dark, ironic commentary on modern social media’

Paul Finch, author of Stalkers

‘Gripping, darkly funny and feminist, I loved Follow Me’

Caroline Criado-Perez

‘Pacey, gripping, and so up-to-the-minute you better read it quick!’

Claire McGowan, author of The Fall

‘Smart, fast paced, fresh and frightening. Follow Me is a gripping debut’

Rowan Coleman, author of The Memory Book

‘Follow Me is a well written, taut, absolutely fascinating and scarily good crime novel that is too true to life … It will certainly make you look at social media and Twitter in particular with the utmost scepticism and horror. Outstanding! Clearly the start of a wonderful series, superbly written. I definitely want more’

Ayo Onatade, Shots magazine

Dedication

Dedicated to Laura Higgins

and to all those who work tirelessly to help and advocate change at www.RevengePornHelpline.org.uk

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for WATCH ME by Angela Clarke

Praise for FOLLOW ME by Angela Clarke

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1: Friday 11 March

Chapter 2: Wednesday 16 March

Chapter 3: Wednesday 16 March

Chapter 4: Wednesday 16 March

Chapter 5: Wednesday 16 March

Chapter 6: Tuesday 15 March

Chapter 7: Wednesday 16 March

Chapter 8: Wednesday 16 March

Chapter 9: Wednesday 16 March

Chapter 10: Wednesday 16 March

Chapter 11: Wednesday 16 March

Chapter 12: Wednesday 16 March

Chapter 13: Wednesday 16 March

Chapter 14: Wednesday 16 March

Chapter 15: Wednesday 16 March

Chapter 16: Wednesday 16 March

Chapter 17: Wednesday 16 March

Chapter 18: Wednesday 16 March

Chapter 19: Wednesday 16 March

Chapter 20: Wednesday 16 March

Chapter 21: Wednesday 16 March

Chapter 22: Wednesday 16 March

Chapter 23: Wednesday 16 March

Chapter 24: Wednesday 16 March

Chapter 25: Wednesday 16 March

Chapter 26: Wednesday 16 March

Chapter 27: Wednesday 16 March

Chapter 28: Wednesday 16 March

Chapter 29: Wednesday 16 March

Chapter 30: Wednesday 16 March

Chapter 31: Wednesday 16 March

Chapter 32: Wednesday 16 March

Chapter 33: Wednesday 16 March

Chapter 34: Wednesday 16 March

Chapter 35: Wednesday 16 March

Chapter 36: Thursday 17 March

Chapter 37: Thursday 17 March

Chapter 38: Thursday 17 March

Chapter 39: Thursday 17 March

Chapter 40: Thursday 17 March

Chapter 41: Thursday 17 March

Chapter 42: Thursday 17 March

Chapter 43: Thursday 17 March

Chapter 44: Thursday 17 March

Chapter 45: Thursday 17 March

Chapter 46: Thursday 17 March

Chapter 47: Thursday 17 March

Chapter 48: Thursday 17 March

Chapter 49: Thursday 17 March

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Acknowledgements

Q & A with Laura Higgins, Online Safety Operations Manager of the Revenge Porn Helpline

Keep Reading

About the Author

Also by Angela Clarke

About the Publisher

Prologue

She gets off the bus one stop early, opting to take the muddy back path over the busy main school gate. She could slip in unnoticed. A lie, but the greasy, stone-spiked, mouldering leaves and dog-wee-splashed track give her a few more seconds of cover. Mum doesn’t believe she’s sick. But she is. A heavy, squirming bacterium has multiplied inside her, thousands of poisonous sacs settling in weighty pockets of flesh. They could see it. They could sense it. She’d never be accepted. She knew that now. Adults say it’s because she’s clever: what a joke! It’s because she’s defective. Malformed. A broken pot which has bulged and cracked in the kiln. Her stomach is looped and low, her breasts sagging boulders pulling her down. The tops of her thighs burn through her straining tights. She can feel the welts forming: raw blisters on the skin. There’s a comfort in the pain: penance. Wincing, she thinks of the restraining hands. Pushing her down. She strokes the bruise on her arm, and tries to blot out what happened next.

In the schoolyard two girls, younger than her, patent record bags slung over their shoulders, giggle. Their voices drop as she nears them. Why would they be bothered with her? There’s a shout from a group of year seven boys, she looks at the asphalt when she sees they’re watching her too. What’s going on? Her heart drums a warning in her ears. Gripping the strap of her school bag tight, she walks faster, almost running by the time she reaches her locker. The hallway and stairs teem with students, her year, the years above and below, a hundred eyes greedily turned on her. Someone shouts: ‘Slut!’ Her cheeks burn. Sweat pools under her arms, her breasts, her back, choking wafts catching in her throat. What’s happened? Anxiety surges through her. Her fingers slip as she enters the pin code for her locker. They’re waiting; the air is tense with expectation, and the joke she’s not in on. She steps back as she opens her locker, fearful something’ll burst out. What she sees is worse. Photos have been slid into the locker through the sides. Her with her shirt unbuttoned. Gelatinous mountains of breasts. Her skirt round her waist. Knickers pulled down. With clumsy hands, she tries to stuff the pictures into her bag. To cover them. To cover herself. They skitter across the floor. Panic fizzes like sherbet through her, foaming into her eyes. Falling onto her knees, desperate to hide them, she scrabbles for the photos as they slip and scrape across the vinyl.

‘Nice minge!’ a boy shouts. They’re all laughing.

‘Whore!’ a girl calls. Another spits at her. Jerking back to avoid it, her bottom bangs into the locker behind. A fresh wave of laughter. There’s a tight, jeering knot of friends around the spitting girl. All she can see are leering, cackling faces. Vicious monkeys that flood the stairs, swarm through the hallway. Someone waves the photo in the air. Another boy pretends to lick it. They all have it. She’s pinned, skewed like a caught butterfly, displayed for all the world to see.

Inside, the sacs rupture, and she’s washed in a wave of black. Her heart breaks.

Chapter 1
Friday 11 March
20:00

Melisha Khan stared at the message on her phone. An image. Words. A timer. You’ve got six seconds to view this. Her school uniform felt like it was tightening, her white shirt compressing, her striped tie snaking around her neck. Her mind scrabbled for normality. Five seconds. Her hand shook. Her fingers didn’t respond.

Four seconds. Her eyes spun off the words on the note and ricocheted round the room.

I can’t go on …

Pages of highlighted French GCSE notes fanned around her feet. Her laptop upended. Three seconds. A stain of red nail polish spread on the floor.

I can’t live in fear …

Melisha tried to form a sound. Her lips were lax, useless, dull. Inside her a voice screamed this is important. Do something. Anything. Two seconds.

This is the only way …

Melisha thought she was mature. Had it all sussed out. She felt the cold reality now. Cotton-wool wraps, safety, childhood, were stripped away. She was raw. Alert. Adult. This was the moment she grew up. Her eyes fixed on the words, the sentences. The note came into focus:

As I type this I feel calmer. I’m doing the right thing. It’s a relief. I can’t go on after people find out. It’s disgusting. I’ve let down my friends, family, teachers, everyone. Only those who’ve seen will know why. I can’t live in fear of it coming out. All the lies are finished. Mum, Dad, Freya, Gemma, I screwed up. I can’t hurt you more. I love you. It’s time I fixed the mess I made. This is the only way. I promise you all you’re better off without me. I know you’ll feel sad reading this, but I know that’ll be over soon. The pain will fade. Your tears will dry. You’ll live happy lives. I love you. Now it’s time to go. I’ll be dead within twenty-four hours of you receiving this note.

One second. From deep inside the command grew, forcing its way up and out of her, juddering her whole body. ‘Mum!’ she screamed. And the photo vanished.

Saturday 12 March
20:01

His bike sped through the wood, jumping the tree roots which pushed through the muddy ground like bony fingers. His brother’s bike light, lower and slower, turned birch trees into streaks of white in the dark. The wind whipped back from him. He was flying. Fifteen minutes till curfew.

A flash of orange caught his eye. Treasure. He skidded to a halt as the path gave way to a grass clearing, grey in the gloom.

His brother shouted behind him. ‘We’re late!’ Nose and cheeks pink from the cold, he didn’t want to get in trouble. ‘Whose bag is that?’

‘Dunno.’ He kicked at the handbag with his toe. ‘Looks like a girl’s.’ There were folders and books in the top. He laughed, teasing, ‘Maybe she’s shagging someone!’

‘Gross!’ His brother’s small face screwed up.

‘Let’s take it for Mum.’ He knew he’d freak. Stealing was naughty.

There was no squeal. His brother didn’t answer. He looked up at him, he was pale. Eyes wide saucers. Mouth like a goldfish.

‘What?’

He gulped as he pointed behind them. His arms shaking. Turning was like watching a replay on his computer game. Slow mo. Behind them, five, maybe six big steps away was a girl. Lying down. Curled up. His ears went weird. Like whistling. Her forehead was on the grass, face turned towards them. She had pretty yellow hair. It was cold out there. He stepped towards her.

His brother whimpered – ‘No!’ – his voice whiney. He made a sound like their cat did when it had a fur ball.

He took another step. Her eyes were open. They were black like a doll’s. He jumped. Thought he might pee himself. Gripped his trousers. ‘She’s dead.’

‘I want Mummy,’ his brother cried.

‘She’s dead.’ He stumbled back, treading on his toes. Fell over his bicycle. This was real. He had to protect his brother. He was the eldest. He grabbed for him and the bike. ‘Go. Get going!’ Tears burned his eyes. He wanted Mum. He wanted Dad. Scrambling, he pulled his own bike up. The metal was ice in his hands. ‘Go!’ he shouted as they pedalled. Faster. Faster. Looking back he saw her lying in the moonlight. Her dead black eyes watching them.

Monday 14 March
13:27

From: FreddieVenton@gmail.com

To: GStrofton@NHS.net

Subject: Hello

Hey Nurse Strofton!

Long time no hear! I saw Nasreen Cudmore a few months ago. We ended up working together. You might have seen it on the news? Bit crazy – hunting a serial killer!! She said you were a midwife. That she’d seen you a few years back. So I thought I’d look you up. I found you on the hospital website and had a guess at your address – there looks like there’s a standard format. Hope this doesn’t bounce back! Well, this is weird. After all this time. It’s taken me weeks to write this. And I call myself a journalist – ha! I’ve been taking some time off actually. I had to have an operation, needed a bit of time to recover. But that’s not really important. I’m writing because I wanted to say sorry. My therapist thinks it might help to go back and apologise to those I feel I’ve hurt. Can you imagine that? Me with a counsellor! What a London twat I am! But the truth is I am sorry for everything that happened back then. I was just a kid, and there was some stuff going on with my parents. Not that that’s an excuse. I’m sorry. I hope you’re okay. I want you to be happy.

If you ever fancy catching up for a drink or something, I’m staying back with my parents right now. They’re still in Pendrick. Your hospital’s only thirty minutes away according to Google Maps. Let me know … For old time’s sake?

Cheers,

Freddie x

From: GStrofton@NHS.net

To: FreddieVenton@gmail.com

Subject: Re: Hello

Never contact me again.

Chapter 2
Wednesday 16 March
09:05

Sergeant Nasreen Cudmore had never been hungover before. A slight headache, sure. Nothing a paracetamol wouldn’t fix. But this morning her body was rebelling. Her mouth felt fur-lined, like the inside of an over-worn Ugg boot. The insipid March sunlight burned her eyes. She’d escaped the nauseous sway of the tube to pant along Victoria Tower Gardens, veering right and away from Millbank and the Thames, perspiration seeping into her collared shirt. Her long black hair, washed hurriedly, clung damp and freezing against her neck. She wasn’t a big drinker at the best of times, and this certainly wasn’t the best of times. Moments from last night ignited in her memory. Fingers ripping at shirt buttons. Loosening belts. Her hands on his warm skin.

The yellowing art deco chunks of the secure building that housed the Met’s Specialist Crime and Operations units came into view. Only the presence of concrete car-bomb barriers, dressed up as flowerbeds, distinguished it as anything other than a normal Westminster office block. DCI Jack Burgone had headhunted Nasreen to join his specialised cyber and e-crime Gremlin taskforce after her involvement in a high-profile murder investigation last year. Eight weeks into her new job, and the rest of the now four-man team still didn’t seem thrilled to have her on board. DI McCain, who preferred to go by the nickname Chips, had raised his salt-and-pepper eyebrows upon meeting her. After twenty-five years of exemplary service in the paedophile unit, eight of those under DCI Burgone, Chips had been looking to take a less active role. But Burgone had persuaded him to join the newly conceived Gremlin unit. They’d been joined by DI Pete Saunders – a vain, ambitious thirty-five year old who liked to remind people of his achievements both in and out of the job. Saunders took great delight in pointing out others’ shortcomings. Especially Nasreen’s. In the two years since it’d been formed, the triumvirate Gremlin unit had overseen a number of successful ops, including the apprehension of the founder of underground drugs website Lotus Road. DCI Burgone was the force’s golden boy: dedicated, focused and well connected from his days at Eton, he’d shunned a job at a government boardroom table in favour of real results on the frontline of the force. And Nasreen was the newbie who’d got drunk in the pub. Way to go, Cudmore.

At twenty-four, Nasreen had spring-boarded from the graduate fast-track scheme, and landed a promotion to Detective Sergeant. Fast. She’d worked hard, and sometimes at great personal cost, to get where she was, but her age, her skin tone, and what she’d been told were her good looks had left her dogged by accusations of favouritism, tokenism, or worse. Not being able to hold a drink in front of her colleagues was not going to help.

9.07 a.m. She was late for the morning meeting. She’d never been late before. Ever. It was the second thing she’d done for the first time in the last twenty-four hours. She was never going to have a one-night stand again, either. Licking her dry lips she caught a taste of him. Shame burst through her body in a fresh wave of sweat. They’d sense it straight away. Chips and Saunders knew she was out of her depth in the team, and she’d played right into their hands. Idiot. Could she call in sick?

People, officers and civilian support staff were streaming past now. Her feet felt as though they were moving of their own accord. Marching her forward. After the total fool she’d made of herself, and consumed by burning embarrassment, Nasreen’s need to people please still overrode everything else. Swiping her ID card, she hurried into the lift, pulling her hair into a ponytail and scraping under her eyes for stray mascara. The email she’d sent was seared onto her mind. Too little, too late.

This morning’s meeting was to cover the case they’d been discussing in the pub last night. Several glasses of red in, and after a busy day during which she hadn’t managed to grab lunch or dinner, the details were hazy. Did it involve going into a school to talk about e-safety? Saunders had suggested that might be a suitably non-challenging role for her. She’d laughed, but it hadn’t been a joke. It was something to do with social media; she scrolled through her phone. A little yellow square with a white ghost on it denoted the newly downloaded app. Snapchat – that was it. It was something about school kids sending messages via the app. Was it bullying? Used to always being prepared, Nasreen hated floundering for answers. It was one of the reasons she was good at her job: she liked to know why, liked to ask questions, put things, and people, where they belonged. Uncertainty was what life gave you; order was what you made with it.

Opening the Snapchat app, an unread message from yesterday appeared: a photo of Saunders’s chiselled face grimacing at her, his manicured stubble casting a five o’clock shadow over his skin. Cartoon dog ears and a tongue added to the surreal effect. A timer in the corner of the photo wound down from eight seconds, after which the image would disappear. If only she could do that with last night. Snapchat’s USP was that images or videos were only viewable for a time dictated by the sender. Then they vanished. You couldn’t see them again. Why? Some people – other people – sent sexy photos of themselves to lovers. A glimpse of her lacy peach knickers crashed through her head. And black boxer shorts. Hair flopping forwards into those penetrating blue eyes. Lips on lips. Skin on skin. The lift door opened onto the spotless, cream-walled, grey-carpeted corridor. Her floor.

Chips looked up as she let herself into the designated meeting room. He had a kindly, line-riven face, and the red, mottled cheeks that come from a career spent indulging in Scotch on the difficult days. Like Father Christmas, if Santa had spent years locking up sex offenders. A paper bag split open to reveal a bacon roll – with a bite taken out – was on the chair next to him. He knew how to handle his hangover, as he knew how to handle his drink. He would never lose control like she had.

‘You’re late, Cudmore.’ The tap of Saunders’s biro against his silver chain-link watch rang through her like a gunshot. He sat with one ankle resting on the other knee. His pumped biceps were barely contained by his starched pale blue shirt.

She felt scruffy. ‘I’m sorry, I … The train …’

‘Let’s get on with it, shall we?’ DCI Burgone spoke softly. She feared she might laugh. Burgone’s black hair had been forced into waves of submission. Whereas Saunders might be considered ruggedly handsome, Burgone was beautiful. He had an elegance to his features and a confidence in his movements that highlighted his patrician nature. His nickname in the force was Jack the Lad, a knowing joke given that he was a consummate pro, and anything but flashy. Nasreen grabbed the nearest chair, looking away from her boss’s questioning gaze.

Who’d left the pub first last night? The whole floor had been out to welcome the new receptionist, Lorna. Anyone could have seen them. Superintendent Lewis was explicit about relationships between colleagues: not on her watch. It was instant transfer. If anyone found out, Nasreen would be gone. She’d only said yes to the first glass because she was irritated no one had organised welcome drinks for her. And then it all went wrong. She’d left him sleeping under the duvet, mortification powering her home. Frantically sending that email. Damage control. Still drunk. She was zealous at stamping on accusations she’d slept her way to the top. If anyone said anything suggestive she told them where to stick it – loudly. She avoided being alone with male colleagues in social situations. If there were two of them left at the bar, she’d head for a group or call someone else over. Nothing that could fuel the fire. And now what? She’d poured petrol all over it and handed round the matches. Her career was smouldering. If only she could work out who knew what.

The DCI opened the file on his desk. ‘Thank you all for coming in this morning.’

‘Urgh,’ said Chips. ‘I feel like I’ve licked a badger’s arse.’ Nasreen thought she might be sick.

‘Thank you for that delightful image, Chips,’ the DCI smiled. ‘As discussed last night, we’ve had a request from the Hertfordshire Constabulary for some educational support. A fifteen-year-old girl from St Albans took her own life after sharing her suicide note on Snapchat.’

Suicide? She must have missed that bit when she was at the bar. Nasreen hated suicide cases. Especially teen suicides. Abruptly, she felt like she was fourteen again. Hearing the phone ring late at night. Her parents waking her to say her friend Gemma was in hospital. That she’d slashed her wrists. That the note blamed Nasreen and her best pal, Freddie.

‘The photo of the typed suicide note was circulated among her friends and sisters, and primed to vanish after six seconds.’ The DCI’s voice dragged her back to the present. He held up a printout: a photo of a typed note, overlaid with a text banner. ‘The local force didn’t have access to it at the time of the investigation, but what we assume is a screenshot copy of it has been leaked from someone and is being shared online. Several parents have contacted the school to say their children have been sent the note over WhatsApp. The local force and the school are worried.’

‘The Werther effect?’ Nasreen had read a lot of suicide research.

‘The what?’ Saunders looked amused.

‘Copycat suicides,’ said DCI Burgone. ‘With well-publicised cases there are often suicide clusters. It’s called suicide contagion – a real and alarming syndrome.’ Chips tutted and shook his head, as if this sort of thing could be discouraged with disapproval.

‘Schools and communities are particularly susceptible to the phenomenon,’ Burgone continued. He sounded like a newsreader from a bygone broadcast; it was reassuring, and one of the reasons the press loved him. His handsome face was made to be on camera. ‘The detail of how the suicide note was sent hasn’t made the news yet, and we’d like to keep it that way. It has spread across social media, and the school are worried in case anyone else tries to take their lives, emulating Chloe Strofton.’

Nasreen’s head snapped up. Strofton. Her pulse quickened. Coincidence? Had she misheard the name – hungover, tired, and wired from everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours?

‘The local force has requested we go in and chat to the pupils,’ the DCI was saying. ‘It’ll be a good PR exercise for my funding budget. It’s a standard approach: try to stem the sharing of the note. Reinforce the inherent dangers. Tell the young people they can talk to us or their teachers if they have concerns. We’re seeking to nip this in the bud quickly.’

‘I’m pretty sure Cudmore volunteered last night,’ Chips grinned. ‘She’s closer to the kids’ ages. They won’t want to hear from old lunks like me and Pete.’

‘Speak for yourself!’ Saunders reached a powerful arm down for the vitamin drink at his feet. ‘But I can’t be doing with kids. Not the maternal type. Isn’t that why we got her in?’ He was watching for her reaction.

Nasreen kept her features placid. Did he know? ‘What was the name?’ Her voice sounded strangled, she coughed to cover it.

‘Someone needs to rehydrate.’ Saunders took a glug from his drink. She concentrated on looking at her phone, as if she were about to type notes.

‘Strofton. Chloe Strofton.’ DCI Burgone looked at his paperwork. ‘Aged fifteen. Parents Deborah Strofton, forty-six, and Robert Strofton, fifty-two. Two sisters: Freya Strofton, thirteen …’ It felt like Nasreen had plunged into freezing water. It filled her ears, her mouth, her nose, her eyes. She knew what was coming. ‘And Gemma Strofton, twenty-three.’

It was her. Gemma. The girl that had changed Nasreen’s life. Chloe had succeeded where her older sister Gemma had failed. She had to say something. She knew the victim, or at least she had known the victim’s sister eight years ago. She opened her mouth. A blast of remembered anger, fear and sadness hit her, ripping jaggedly through time. She could see herself, lying on her single bed in her pink-painted bedroom, fourteen years old, sobbing. Desperate to make it better. ‘I’ll take the case, sir.’

DCI Burgone nodded. ‘Good. A young woman – like Chips says, you’ll have more chance of connecting with these kids.’

Young? Was that what he thought of her? And he’d said woman; did he agree with Saunders? Had she been brought onto the team as a female officer to deal with the emotional stuff after all? He smiled, and she stared back into his eyes. The same eyes she’d stared into last night.

Chips and Saunders were gathering up their stuff, Saunders groaning and stretching his arms out as he stood. Nasreen had a new email. He’d replied. Her chest constricted. Everything raced past her: the wine, the email she’d sent, Gemma, Chloe, DCI Jack Burgone’s lips on her.

To: NCudmore@btinternet.com

From: JonathanBurgone@police.uk

We need to talk.

Those four little words never signalled anything good. They heralded the end of relationships, disciplinary actions, bad news. Saunders was back in his blazer, Chips was headed for the door. Looking up she caught the DCI’s eye: static shot through her. She couldn’t breathe; she could only think of what he tasted like, what he felt like, how he’d made her feel. He’d talked to her, listened to what she’d had to say. Or she thought he had. Was it a trick of the alcohol? Had she wanted to believe he thought she was smart? He could’ve just been being polite to a new member of his team. But when they’d stood outside the pub, laughing in the rain, she’d seen it in his eyes: lust. He’d felt the connection too. She couldn’t be on her own with him here in the office. Not yet. She needed to get things straight in her head. She stood, knocking her chair into the table behind. She walked fast to catch up with Chips as he and Saunders reached their open plan office, aware the DCI was just behind her. Her phone beeped. At first she thought it was an echo, but the others’ phones all sounded at the same time. A cacophony of beeps.

‘What the?’ Chips frowned. ‘Which one of you silly buggers is sending Snapchat photos now – I thought we’d had enough of that last night.’

Saunders grimaced, turning his phone over in his hand. The DCI pulled his from his suit pocket. Now was not the time for PPI insurance junk mail. Nasreen swiped the screen of her phone and it opened on her new Snap. It was from a number she didn’t recognise. Time to change her security settings. The timer in the top right-hand corner was ticking down. Six seconds, five seconds. It was a photo of a typed note, overlaid with a text banner. Nasreen’s breath caught in her throat.

‘Holy shit!’ Chips said.

‘Is that another suicide note?’ Saunders asked. ‘How the hell did they get my number?’

‘And mine!’ Chips grunted.

Nasreen scanned the words, the name at the bottom: Lottie Burgone. ‘It’s my sister’s number.’ The DCI frowned. ‘Is this a joke? Did one of you send this?’ He glared at her.

‘No.’ Nasreen looked round. They were all shaking their heads. Alarm flickered in Saunders’s eyes. She looked at the photo:

A pointless opulent life leads you onto nothing.

I can’t go on. Lottie Burgone

‘Get her on the phone – now. Call her, Jack,’ Chips was saying. Nasreen stared at the words in the caption that overlaid the note:

You have 6 seconds to read this and 24 hours to save the girl’s life.

Her brain crackled. This wasn’t a wind up. This was a threat. Her fingers flew. Four, three, two … She screenshot the image, taking a photo of it half a second before it disappeared forever.

Chapter 3
Wednesday 16 March
09:31
T – 24 hrs

‘I’m calling the number.’ Saunders had his phone to his ear. ‘Straight to voicemail. It is her number, yeah, your sister’s, sir?’

‘Yes. My phone recognises it. I don’t understand … Why would she send this?’ The DCI was holding his phone in both hands. Nasreen thought he was shaking it, then she realised he was shaking.

‘Do you have another contact for her, sir?’ Nasreen reached over her desk for the landline.

‘What’s her address?’ Chips ran round to his computer.

‘She lives in Greenwich. She’s a student at the university,’ DCI Burgone stuttered.

‘Undergraduate?’ said Nasreen. ‘How old?’

‘Sociology. Eighteen. She’ll be nineteen next month.’

Three years age difference to Chloe Strofton. A similar demographic. Young teenage woman. Student. Could she have seen the fuss around Chloe’s suicide online? Was this a contagious suicide attempt? ‘Any other telephone number, sir?’

‘Zero, two, zero, three …’

Nasreen wrote the number down as the DCI said it.

‘That’s her flat number.’ He blinked. Held his mobile to his ear. Nasreen heard the tinny sound of the girl’s voicemail message. ‘She lives in halls. There are five other flatmates. All girls. I think. I usually take her out for dinner. We meet at the restaurant.’

‘I’m sure there’s some innocent explanation,’ Chips said. ‘The lassie or one of her pals mucking about.’ Nasreen saw Saunders give him a look. The line rang in her ear.

‘Does she have any history of mental illness, sir?’ asked Saunders.

‘No, of course not,’ snapped Burgone. ‘Sorry. I know you’re just … following procedure.’ The words sounded cold. Callous.

Saunders cleared his throat. ‘And does she have any history of trying to harm herself?’

‘No. She’s happy. She’s really into running. Fitness. This isn’t her. She wouldn’t …’ His face paled. ‘I’ll send her a WhatsApp message. Sometimes it’s easier to contact her that way.’

The phone at the other end of Nasreen’s call was picked up. A woman – young, breathless, anxious – answered. ‘Lottie?’

She had been waiting for her call. Lottie wasn’t there. Had this flatmate received the same frightening Snapchat? Nasreen’s stomach fell away. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Nasreen Cudmore. Is Lottie – Charlotte …’ She looked at the DCI; he nodded his affirmation. She tried to keep her face neutral. ‘Is Charlotte Burgone there, please?’

‘Has something happened to Lottie?’ The girl sounded panicked.

‘Can I ask your name, please, miss?’ She looked straight ahead at her computer, away from the DCI.

‘Yes. Sorry. It’s Bea. Beatrice Perkins. I’m Lottie’s friend. Her flatmate.’

‘And is Lottie there, Bea?’ Nasreen felt the eyes of the room on her. Chips had paused from typing on his computer.

‘No. She’s gone. I mean, she went for a run this morning. But she never came back. I tried her phone but she didn’t answer. And I got this weird Snap. And oh god – have you found her? Is she okay?’ The girl’s words fell over themselves – fast, frantic. Nasreen looked up at DI Saunders and shook her head.

‘I’ll get on to the university.’ Saunders picked up his phone.

‘Christ.’ The DCI was staring at his mobile. ‘She hasn’t picked up the WhatsApp message yet. It says she hasn’t seen it. But if she’s running then …’

‘And at what time did she go for her run, Bea?’ Nasreen noted the times on her pad – the timeline of a missing person.

‘Six a.m. She always goes at the same time. She’s a morning person. Dani – our flatmate – she saw her leave. She was up to get to the library early. She’s got coursework due.’ The girl was babbling. They’d need to speak to the other flatmate. ‘Lottie always wakes me when she gets back. She’s always back at seven thirty. Always. But she didn’t come back today. I didn’t realise until after nine. I slept through. I missed my lecture.’

‘Does Lottie run alone?’

‘Yes. No one else can get up at that time each day. She’s a machine,’ Bea said. ‘I mean in a good way. Oh god. This is awful.’

‘Take a deep breath for me, Bea, you’re doing great.’ Nasreen kept her tone even. ‘Does Lottie ever go anywhere else straight from her run? The library? Another friend’s perhaps? A boyfriend’s?’

‘No. She comes home to shower. She wouldn’t go anywhere else before that. She likes her hair to be done.’ Bea sounded small, far away. Nasreen wished she could put her arm around the girl.

‘And has Lottie been upset about anything lately?’ She knew what she was asking, in front of her boss, in front of Lottie’s brother.

‘No! She wouldn’t kill herself! She wouldn’t!’ Bea’s voice wavered and smashed like porcelain on kitchen tiles.

Even those closest to suicide victims don’t always suspect that anything is wrong. ‘Is there anyone else there with you, Bea? We may need to send an officer to come and speak to you.’

‘Dani will be back soon. She should be. Oh god. Lottie wouldn’t do this. She wouldn’t.’

Nasreen looked at her watch. ‘You’re doing great, Bea, just a few more questions. So the last time any of you saw Lottie Burgone was at six o’clock this morning?’ When I was coming home from sleeping with her brother. ‘So she’s not been seen for the last three and a half hours?’ It wasn’t normally a priority at this stage, but Lottie had sent a suicide note. As far as Nasreen knew, DI Saunders and Chips had never met Lottie Burgone, and she certainly hadn’t. Why would she send a suicide note to all their phones? How would she have their numbers? You have 6 seconds to read this and 24 hours to save the girl. Her gut contracted. This sounded more like a ransom note.

‘We haven’t seen her since then. I should’ve woken up earlier. I should’ve gone to look for her.’

Nasreen looked at Chips as he picked up his handset. ‘I’ll get onto the local force,’ he said. ‘Get some eyes on the ground.’ His voice was gruff, focused.

‘Bea, I’m going to need a list of all Lottie’s friends, boyfriends, anyone she’s been hanging out with recently. Do you think you can do that?’ Nasreen asked.

Bea Perkins took a big breath in. ‘Yes.’

‘Thank you, Bea.’ Chips was now onto the Greenwich force. He gave her a nod. ‘Bea, we’re going to have someone with you very shortly to go through that list. They’ll be in uniform. In the meantime, I’m going to give you my number here and my mobile as well. If you hear from Lottie, or think of anything else before my colleagues get there, call me immediately. Have you got a pen?’ She heard the girl rummaging in the background, imagining the chaos of a student bedroom. This girl shouldn’t be doing anything more than worrying about her classes today. She gave Bea the number.

‘I’ve put in a request for some floaters.’ Chips was talking as if it was just another job. As if they weren’t talking about the guv’s sister. ‘We’ll run a cell site check on her phone, see if we can pinpoint where she was when that message was sent.’

Burgone nodded.

She wouldn’t interrogate him, but they needed to get as much information as possible. The DCI hadn’t seemed to blink for over a minute. Chips stood awkwardly, unsure whether to offer a pat of comfort to his boss and friend. DI Saunders was on his own phone at the other end of the office, his back turned to them, his voice low, rolling out the plan. Nasreen spoke gently. ‘Is there anywhere else she might go, sir? Friends from home?’ She didn’t even know where Burgone was from. ‘A boyfriend’s? What about your parents’?’

‘Oh god – Mum and Pa.’

Nasreen flinched at the affectionate term. Under normal circumstances, that would have earned a gruff laugh from Chips. It was like seeing something soft and intimate, and Nasreen didn’t want to intrude further than they had to. Burgone seemed to summon strength from inside, his face taking on its usual self-assured expression.

‘Our parents are in the South of France. I’ll call them. She doesn’t have a boyfriend. That I know of. I’ve met some of her uni flatmates – Bea, who was on the telephone to Cudmore, and another, Dani. They’re nice girls. I doubt they’ve had any involvement with the police before. I don’t know about the others she lives with. Before college Lottie was a boarder at Bedales, I think she’s still in touch with some of the girls from there.’ Worry lines fanned out from his eyes. ‘She spends a lot of time on social media, particularly Instagram – she has a number of sponsorship deals.’

‘Sponsorship for what?’ Was Jack’s sister famous? Had he ever even mentioned his family to her? This felt all wrong: she should have been finding out about him casually in a pub over dinner, not during a criminal investigation.

‘Companies, mostly sports ones, I believe. They send her products and pay for her to feature them on the site.’

‘She’s famous?’ asked Chips. Burgone didn’t respond.

Nasreen wanted to know what the DCI’s sister looked like. ‘Which brands?’

‘I’m not sure. My mother will have a list, she helps Lottie do her accounts.’

Saunders was walking casually over, hands in his pockets, as if strolling in the park. Did he know something already? Something from his phone call? Or was he just acting calm, trying not to distract the DCI? Her brain automatically ran through the questions and connections she would draw if they were talking to anyone else. She woke her desktop and searched for Lottie Burgone and Instagram on Google. Chips and Saunders were standing behind her, Saunders’s citrus aftershave enveloping them all. The DCI was pacing.

‘There.’ Chips pointed at the first search result.

Lottie’s account opened on the screen; she was called LottieLondoner. Her profile picture showed the same classic bone structure as her brother, but instead of his short, dark ruffles of hair, Lottie had long blonde tendrils that hung around her tanned face, her cheeks still soft like a child’s. She was thin, and very toned. There were countless photos of her in yoga positions that Nasreen knew, from the odd class she’d taken, took time, dedication and real strength to perfect. She must spend hours exercising. Could someone who’s flooded with endorphins be a credible suicide risk? Lottie’s account was full of taut, tanned skin: acres of it. The scoop of a traps muscle bisected by a bright green vest strap; the slice of a shoulder blade highlighted by a peach racerback; a hewn stomach underscored by tight, pale blue leggings. At no point was Lottie naked or even provocatively dressed, but as she scrolled past photos of her doing handstands, legs split apart, knees bent into right angles, her torso bending backwards, Nasreen felt there was something sexual about them – even if the girl wasn’t conscious of it. It made her uneasy. This job had a way of making you view everything through the cynical eyes of society’s undesirables. There was Lottie on the beach. In the park. In the gym. And a number of photos of food: white plates of brightly coloured fruits; sliced avocados; and Lottie smiling and sipping green juice through a pink straw. Perfection.

‘Athletic lass,’ Chips said.

‘I have those protein shakes.’ Saunders sounded impressed. Burgone hadn’t come to look at his sister’s page.

‘Yeah, but you can’t stand on your head, can you,’ Chips said.

‘I can do the splits,’ he said. It was a ludicrous mental image. He shrugged. ‘I did a lot of gymnastics when I was a kid.’ Subject closed.

Nasreen tried not to smile at the idea of alpha-male Saunders in a leotard. She hadn’t made it to spin class this week, and, she thought guiltily, she’d had cereal for dinner three out of the last four nights. Along the top of the screen were the account’s stats. Lottie had posted 2,253 times. ‘She’s got 24,000 followers?’ Incredible!

‘Has she?’ Burgone smiled to himself, as if he expected no less of her. She swallowed the lump forming in her throat. Chips was frowning.

She clicked the first image: Lottie in the park, balancing on one leg, the other stretched back and up, like an arabesque. She was laughing, her hair falling forwards in soft waves around her face. It had 340 likes. ‘She has fans,’ she scrolled through the seventy-seven comments:

@Boinggirl Beautiful hair!

@Reasontolive Lottie I love you. I don’t know how you do it! <3 <3 <3 Please follow me back!!!

@CarlyAngel86 You’re such an inspiration. Thank you for sharing the real you.

Why would a girl with a seemingly perfect life kill herself? And why send the suicide note via Snapchat? And why to them? Tell us where you are, Lottie. Tell us how to help you.

Nasreen looked from the sunshine of Lottie’s Instagram account to Burgone. He didn’t meet any of their eyes. She longed to tell him everything was going to be all right. But she didn’t. Training and experience taught you not to make promises you couldn’t keep – not to a victim’s family. And that’s what he was now. No longer the guv. No longer in control. Jack Burgone was on the wrong side of the investigation.

Chapter 4
Wednesday 16 March
10:15
T – 23 hrs 15 mins

Burgone had gone for some fresh air after calling his parents; they’d heard nothing from their daughter since they’d last spoken to her two days ago. She’d seemed fine. Normal. That word you always watched for. The thought of anything happening to either of Nasreen’s younger sisters physically hurt her. What had it been like to make that call? Chips or Saunders should have spoken to the family, listened for the telltale signs of tension, lies swimming under the surface, but it didn’t seem right. This was the DCI. It was his family. His missing sister.

Superintendent Lewis had told Burgone he was to take a back seat now. Chips and Saunders were managing the investigation.

Nasreen looked at her watch. She had been ignoring her bladder for the last thirty minutes. She didn’t want to leave her desk until they’d located Lottie, but she couldn’t hang on any longer. The hoped-for phone call that stated this was all a terrible mix-up hadn’t come. Grabbing her phone and her handbag she stood up.

‘Where you going, Sergeant?’ Saunders’s voice rang out over the room.

Nasreen stared at him. Are you really doing this? ‘Just popping to the ladies’. If that’s all right?’

He turned his chair so his knees pointed at her, the navy fabric of his suit pulled taut. He nodded his angular face at the empty cups of water and coffee on her desk. ‘You better not be too hungover to do your job properly, Cudmore.’

Nasreen felt her face colour. Was he testing her? So much for trying to rehydrate. Chips didn’t look up. ‘I’m fine. Sir.’

‘Fine isn’t good enough,’ Saunders snapped, whirling his chair round to face his desk. ‘We have a reputation of being the best of the force, and I’m not having you dent that on my watch, Cudmore. Pick it up.’

A wave of disbelief passed over her – did he expect her to ask for permission to go to the bathroom?

Without turning around, Saunders barked. ‘Get on with it then!’

Nasreen let the door swing shut behind her. How dare he talk to her like that? They’d all hit the ground running on this one. The superintendent had authorised ten floaters: four here at the office, six out in Greenwich. No questions asked when it was one of your own. Officers from Greenwich West were questioning Bea and Lottie’s other flatmates. Tracking down her other friends, shaking students from their beds, from others’ beds. The thought she wasn’t doing everything she could to help Burgone made her feel sick. Burgone wouldn’t think that, would he? That was just Saunders posturing, surely?

There were two floaters ahead of her in the hallway, and with a sinking feeling she recognised the hunched shape of DC Morris. She’d met him on her first day here and found him to be odious. Rather than doing his actual job, he preferred to use his time collecting leverage, real or fabricated, on nominals and colleagues. He was a terrible choice for this investigation, but needs must and one more person, even one as insidious as Morris, was better than none. Walking beside him, her ginger hair pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, was DC Jan Green. Nasreen knew little about Green, except that she was sorry the pale, freckled woman had got landed with Morris.

‘I bet you it’s a wind up.’ Morris’s voice was a low rumble that threatened to break into a laugh. ‘A spoilt brat who’s not getting enough attention – you know the family’s minted, right?’

‘I hope the guv doesn’t overhear you discussing his sister,’ Nasreen said. They jumped and turned to face her.

DC Green’s eyes were wide, and up close Nasreen could see they were a pretty almond shape. The constable recovered quickly, tucking her hands behind her, standing to attention. ‘Sorry, ma’am.’

Morris, a good ten years older than Nasreen, remained slouched. ‘It’s no secret Little Lord Fauntleroy was born with a silver spoon.’

Nasreen glared at him. ‘I wouldn’t keep DI Saunders waiting. You don’t want to get landed with the CCTV tapes.’ This was everyone’s least favourite job, and Nasreen knew Saunders disliked Morris’s whiney demeanour.

‘Must be nice to just open your legs when you want to skip all the work, hey, Cudmore?’ Morris opened and closed two fingers in front of her, his face a mix of lechery and disgust.

Nasreen knew she wasn’t unreasonable to look at. It was why she tied her long hair back at work. Glancing at DC Green’s boxy tan trouser suit, she wondered if she too opted to dress androgynously for efficacy. Could Morris have seen her and Burgone last night? No, he would have been more graphic. She kept her voice quiet, edging it with threat. She’d learned that from Saunders. ‘We have a missing eighteen-year-old girl. Get your mind out of the gutter, your finger out your arse and get on with your job, Constable.’ DC Green dipped her chin, but Nasreen caught the smirk. Morris’s eyes were full of hate. ‘Get on with it!’

It wasn’t like Nasreen to pull rank, but Saunders had got to her. If she needed to prove her commitment to this case then she would. The nearest ladies’ was two floors below, so she chose the stairs over the lift to get her thoughts straight.

In the bathroom she looked in the mirror for signs she’d given anything away. Apart from the shadows of the late night under her eyes, she looked normal. Alone for the first time since she’d arrived at work, she let her face fall, and the strain of holding it up hit her. The Morrises of the world didn’t normally rile her. There’d be time to get her head straight later – possibly a lot of time, if Burgone let her go from Gremlin – but for now she had a job to do.

The door to the ladies’ opened behind her. She straightened, brushing at a stray hair that had come loose from her ponytail. Lorna, the younger of the two receptionists, walked in. Her brunette hair was curled back into a sophisticated chignon and held in place with a lavender butterfly grip that somehow managed to look both naive and winsome. A new hire, and at the tender age of nineteen, Lorna’s recent arrival on the staff had caused mass hysteria among Nasreen’s male colleagues. There’d almost been a fight over who would get to buy her a pink Prosecco first when she’d come to the pub. The girl dipped her delicate pointed chin to her pastel V-neck sweater. Nasreen couldn’t imagine wearing such girly clothes to work. But then she couldn’t imagine mouse-like Lorna being trained in hand-to-hand combat. They may work in the same building, but they had very different jobs.

‘I didn’t realise anyone was in here.’ Lorna sounded petrified.

She smiled hello, feeling guilty for her ungenerous thoughts. The girl was hovering, fiddling with an ornate ring, as if she were plucking up the courage to say something.

‘You okay?’ Nasreen asked.

A pale pink blush rose on her cheeks. ‘I just wondered if there was any news on DCI Burgone’s sister?’ Bad news travelled fast. ‘He’s such a lovely man.’

Nasreen felt a stab of jealousy, though she knew she was being ridiculous. Burgone had been nothing but his usual charming self to the receptionist. And, to give them their due, neither Saunders nor Chips had said anything inappropriate about her, or to her, as far as she knew either. They may have their reservations about Nasreen’s suitability for the team, but they weren’t based on her gender. Which was some comfort, she supposed. The girl was still twisting her ring. She didn’t want to worry her. ‘We’re pursuing a number of enquiries, Lorna.’

‘If anyone can find her you can, Sergeant.’ Lorna bit her lip.

Nasreen was taken aback; she’d hardly spoken to the girl before. It must be the Burgone effect: Jack the Lad strikes again. She was simply caught in his reflected glory. ‘We’re a good team.’ She thought of Chips and Saunders’s varying degrees of hostility towards her. Well, they could be. Had to be.

Back in the office, Burgone was at a desk in the corner, typing as if he could force answers from the rattling keyboard. She looked away before anyone caught her staring at him. Saunders was on the phone. DC Green had settled at a desk to the right and was shifting through files; she gave Nasreen a weak smile. Nasreen paused by Chips, who was pinning a smiling photo of Lottie to the incident board.

‘Dani, the other flatmate, confirmed Lottie was wearing this gym kit when she went out this morning.’ He tapped the picture.

Lottie was in a matching set of Aztec-patterned pink and purple leggings and bra top, with a coordinating hoodie over the top. On the right breast of the jumper were the initials LB. Nasreen recognised the costly brand as one she lusted after herself, waiting until items went into the sale before she could afford to buy them. ‘Was it a freebie?’

‘Yup. Hence the lass has a photo of it on her site. Handy for our door to door.’

You couldn’t ask for more than a recent photo of a missing person wearing what they’d last been seen in. Lottie documented her whole life online. It wouldn’t take much for someone to work out her routines.

Nasreen kept her voice low; she didn’t want Burgone to hear. ‘Do you think we’re looking at a suicide risk or foul play? The wording of the message – you have twenty-four hours to save the girl’s life – sounds like a threat.’

‘Aye, I wondered that.’ Both of them kept their eyes forward, as if they were in a covert investigation – undercover in their own office. ‘Us all being sent the message, it feels wrong.’

Nasreen girded herself to say the name of the first victim, not to let it carry any other significance. It was a sad coincidence she was Gemma’s younger sister. That’s all. ‘Are we sure the other girl – Chloe Strofton – took her own life?’

The investigating force couldn’t have known a second suicide note would be sent via Snapchat and that a second girl would soon be missing. Nasreen thought about the messages, the public nature of circulating the notes on the app. The infamy that was now spreading online.

‘The coroner declared she did,’ Chips said.

‘I’d like to take a look at the case notes anyway – see if anything jumps out?’ Chips nodded his agreement. Two wasn’t a pattern. They could simply be looking at a copycat suicide, in which case the priority would be to find Lottie before she harmed herself. Would Lottie also copy the method Chloe had used to take her life? She wasn’t looking forward to reading how Chloe had died, but she had to do it. The press was good about keeping details out of the public domain, especially when minors were involved, but if Chloe’s suicide note had ended up on social media, then what other information might also have been leaked?

Saunders hung up and grabbed a ringing phone before the DCI could, his movements strong and swift. ‘Saunders speaking.’ He pulled his pad close to write notes. News. She froze, as if taking another step might break the fragile safety net that protected you before you knew the truth. ‘Yes. I see,’ Saunders was saying. ‘And can you confirm where that was?’ That? A deliberately innocuous word. Her stomach contracted. Please don’t be a body. Burgone was gripping his desk with both hands. Green kept her eyes down.

‘Yes.’ Saunders’s tapping foot betrayed his anxiety. ‘Let me know when the lab have the results. Rush job. Orders from the top: this one’s priority. Any issues and they answer to me.’ His pen vibrated across the page. ‘Yes. Thanks.’ Laying his pen down, he carefully replaced the receiver on the cradle. He turned to face them slowly, resting the tips of his overlong fingers together. It felt like the room was holding its breath. His eyes met Burgone’s gaze. ‘A top matching the description of the one we believe Lottie was wearing when she left her flat this morning has been found on West Grove Lane.’

‘Does it have her initials on it – LB?’ Hope sounded in Burgone’s voice.

Say no.

‘Yes. It looks like it is her hoodie.’ Saunders flexed his fingers, giving them time to absorb the words. Nasreen caught Green’s eye. Her face had grown paler under her freckles. ‘There are also signs of a struggle where the top was found. The SOCOs are on their way to the scene now. We’ll confirm if it’s Lottie’s and see if we can lift any other DNA from it.’

‘A struggle?’ the DCI repeated.

Chips was leaning against the incident board, his thick arms folded over his chest, a troubled look rumpling his fleshy features.

‘There are scuff marks on the ground,’ Saunders said. ‘And the top has been partially torn.’

The words were out before Nasreen could stop them. ‘So she’s been abducted?’ Saunders shot her a look of disgust, and Nasreen didn’t dare look at Burgone.

‘We don’t have enough to assume that yet.’ Chips’s maturity lent his words a much-needed level of reassurance. ‘But we can’t rule it out either. Let’s find out if there’s any cameras on West Grove Lane. See what the door-to-door teams turn up.’

Saunders nodded; Nasreen did too. Having things to do, a structure, helped.

‘Cudmore, look at the other lass’s file: see if you can find any link between the two girls.’ He was authorising their earlier conversation, making it open. Chips’s tone softened to talk to Burgone. ‘Might Lottie know Chloe Strofton, guv?’

Burgone looked startled, as if he’d forgotten they could see him there. ‘Not that I know of. The girl was schooled locally in Hertfordshire. I can’t see how their paths would have crossed. But they could’ve met online?’

Social media had changed the way people socialised: your pool was no longer restricted to people you met in real life. The job had made Nasreen wary: she’d closed the scant accounts she’d had the day she started at the College of Policing. She couldn’t imagine meeting up with someone she’d met online, but she knew plenty of people did. Especially those her age and younger. Perhaps Lottie and Chloe had met?

‘If Lottie’s internet-famous, then we have other motives to consider,’ Saunders said. ‘Let’s check if there was anyone acting odd online, as well as looking for potential links to the Chloe Strofton case. Someone else may have borrowed her Snapchat idea.’

Burgone’s face was pained. Chips rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘Why don’t you get some air, lad? Keep you clear headed, hey?’ More than colleagues who’d worked together for a number of years, they were friends. This hurt Chips as much as it did the DCI. Nasreen turned her attention to the paperwork on her desk to give them privacy, not looking up as Burgone left the room, but feeling his every anguished step. It was just gone 10.30 a.m. Lottie had been taken against her will. They had twenty-three hours to find her: the clock was ticking.

Chapter 5
Wednesday 16 March
10:35
T – 22 hrs 55 mins

Opening the file, Nasreen sharply inhaled: there was Chloe Strofton. If there had been any doubt she was the younger sister of Nasreen’s old school friend, it was gone now. The smiling selfie, taken in happier times, showed that pretty Chloe had the same blue eyes and pinched chin of her older sibling. But instead of the curly, mousey hair that Gemma had, Chloe’s was long and wavy, streaked with blonde highlights. Now would be the time to mention she knew the family – or used to know the family. Nasreen should say she recognised the girl from the photo. Keeping quiet about a personal connection to a case was a bad idea. What would her colleagues think if they knew she’d bullied a young girl till she’d tried to kill herself? They questioned and arrested teens regularly enough that her young age wouldn’t matter. They’d see her as a bully. She’d be lumped in with the likes of Morris. Nasty, tainted. She could imagine Chips’s revulsion. If he didn’t use the personal connection to the case to get her removed, Saunders would use her past, her failings, to get rid of her. He would drum her out of the team. And Burgone, the thought of him knowing what she’d done … Her skin prickled with the shame of it. It didn’t matter what she’d done since, or who she’d become: that one stupid, cruel mistake had tainted her. If she told them she knew the Stroftons, she’d be off the case. But if she kept quiet, she could find out who did this to their daughter. This was her chance to make it better.

Sleeping with Burgone had been an error of judgement. She’d let her own desires get in the way of the job and look what had happened. Burgone had acted rashly too. They were both to blame, but she couldn’t help feel it was she who’d jeopardised their careers. That she was responsible for threatening the Gremlin taskforce. What had happened with Gemma had taught her she couldn’t let her own selfish needs override another’s. This was her chance to atone for those mistakes. Nasreen looked at Burgone’s empty chair, his dark cashmere overcoat hanging lopsided from the back. More than anything she wanted to help him.

Chloe Strofton’s last forty-eight hours had been unremarkable. She’d spent the day at Romeland High School, after which she’d told her parents she was staying at her friend Melisha’s house. Instead she disappeared. She was picked up on CCTV boarding a bus from near her school in St Albans to Hatfield, getting off at the Galleria shopping centre just after half past four. A camera then picked her up once more inside the shopping centre. She wasn’t seen again until her body was found in Wildhill Wood, a number of miles away, at 8.30 p.m. the next day, following an anonymous tip-off from a male caller. The Snapchat of her suicide note had been sent at 8 p.m. the previous night. Did the wood hold personal significance to Chloe? Why had the caller not left his details? People used wooded areas for all kinds of insalubrious pursuits: drug taking, underage drinking, illicit rendezvous. She made a note to call the officer at Hertfordshire Constabulary who’d worked on the case, and ask his opinion.

Photos from the scene showed Chloe Strofton’s small body on the forest floor, curled into child’s pose. Her arms and face were a dark purple from hypostasis – where blood had pooled post mortem. Her veins made a blue marbling pattern in her skin: petechiae within hypostasis. Nasreen had seen bodies like this before: a drugs overdose. The pathologist had noted that the girl’s body showed no indicators of previous drug use. Chloe Matilda Strofton was fifteen years old, 5'4", and weighed 105 lbs. At her time of death the following substances had been found in her blood stream:

 Morphine (free) of 370 ng/ml

 6-monoacetylmorphine of 16 ng/ml

 Codeine (free) of 15 ng/ml

 Alprazolam of 34 ng/ml

 Amphetamine of 22 ng/ml

Next to the body, along with her school bag, were a blue plastic wrap and a 1cc syringe. No spoon, no cotton wool, lighter or any of the other drug paraphernalia you might expect to find from cooked heroin. Chloe had prepared the syringe elsewhere. Or someone had prepared it for her. Over-the-counter drugs, or even prescription drugs, and alcohol, were easier to source. As were razor blades and the materials you could use to hang yourself with. Chloe hadn’t copied her older sister’s failed attempt.

The investigating team hadn’t requested to look at Chloe’s computer; Nasreen would have liked to know what her search history was. How had a fifteen-year-old girl from a middle-class area, with no known history of criminal activity or drug use, ended up forty-five minutes from where she lived, dead from a heroin overdose?

Nasreen had worked on the case of a twenty-three-year-old mother who’d overdosed and suffered pulmonary congestion like Chloe. She’d asked the pathologist at the time if it would have been quick – the woman’s toddler had been in the flat and she didn’t like to think of him seeing his mother in agony. The pathologist confirmed that in cases of pulmonary congestion, the victim would quickly enter a comatose state, dying relatively soon after from lack of oxygen. Chloe’s death would have been fast and painless. That was something. She didn’t like to think of the girl on her own in the woods, frightened, in pain, with no one to help. Perhaps the bright Chloe, predicted As and A*s in her GCSEs, had researched her options and chose this as an easy death? Chloe would never sit those exams now, never turn sixteen, never go on to have a job, or a family of her own. A life over, all too soon.

The rap of Saunders’s pen on his desk raised her and Chips’s attention. The DI pointed at the phone cradled between his shoulder and his ear, and mouthed, ‘Cell site hit.’ A signal from the phone had been picked up! Nasreen couldn’t suppress the flutter in her stomach: this could be good news.

DI Saunders was nodding, writing down what he was being told. ‘Okay. Yup. We’ll let the SOCOs and the tech lads see if they can find anything on it. Anything at all. Keep me updated.’

That didn’t sound so promising.

Saunders turned to face them. ‘The phone was ditched, not far from the spot where the hoodie was found. A young lad found it on the way to school, pocketed it, and apparently turned it on during his first break.’

Compromised DNA.

Chips threw his hands up in front of him. ‘Where were the parents? Did they not notice their kiddie picking up a bleeding phone?’

‘Apparently his eleven-year-old brother walks him in,’ Saunders shrugged. ‘Latchkey kids, I guess. What you gonna do?’

If only someone else had spotted it first – though most people would instinctively pick the phone up, regardless of whether they planned to turn it in or keep it. The boy had inadvertently disturbed the scene, delayed them finding the phone, and more than likely compromised any forensic traces on the device. And the discovery possibly had bleaker implications. ‘Are we sure it was ditched, rather than dropped during the struggle?’ Nasreen asked.

‘The kid says it was switched off when he found it. And it was further down the road. He thinks.’

Chips snorted.

‘So the perp sent the Snapchat message and then switched the phone off before dumping it?’ she asked.

‘Possible,’ said Saunders.

That implied they knew what they were doing. Whoever had taken Lottie was savvy enough to know not only that the phone was trackable, but that it’d be trickier to trace if it was switched off. It gave them a head start. ‘Whoever took her must have incapacitated her fairly fast,’ she said. ‘If she was screaming and drawing attention, you wouldn’t want to hang around to fiddle with the phone would you?’

‘No,’ Chips frowned. ‘The SOCOs said there were signs she’d put up a fight.’

‘We have to consider the possibility that whoever took her has already killed her,’ said Saunders. His jaw was set; he looked thoughtful rather than sad. Nausea rippled inside Nasreen.

Chips was sitting on the edge of his overcrowded desk. The papers he was holding in his right hand were creased under the strain of his fingers.

‘If they’ve already killed her, why send the message about us having twenty-four hours?’ said Nasreen. She couldn’t be dead.

‘I don’t know what their game is,’ Saunders replied. ‘But there’s been no ransom demand. And because they’ve ditched Lottie’s phone, we have no way of initiating conversation with the kidnapper.’

He was a sage investigator, and even though she knew what he was saying was right, she was glad Burgone wasn’t around to hear it. Even if Lottie’s parents were rich, and it sounded like they were, it took days to raise a large sum in cash, not twenty-four hours. No ransom delivery also meant they couldn’t mark notes, or hide a tracker in the money. And with no communication from the kidnapper, they didn’t have anything they could trace. Nothing that would give away where Lottie was being held. What was this about if it wasn’t about money?

‘We could be looking at a personal motivation: revenge for someone the guv put away? Maybe they have no intention of negotiating. Or returning her.’ Saunders seemed to read her thoughts.

‘That’s just a hypothesis.’

‘You know we have to consider all the scenarios, Chips,’ said Saunders, raising his eyebrows at his colleague.

‘She’s the guv’s sister, Pete. We’re bringing her home.’ No discussion. His line rang and he answered gruffly. ‘McCain.’

Nasreen tried to smile at Saunders, but she couldn’t muster it. Neither of them wanted to contradict Chips, but the implications were clear. They were all thinking it. Saunders pushed his hand back through his hair, pulling the skin on his face taut. She could see the grooves of his skull, a reminder of how little really stood between you and someone who wanted to do you harm. Though, with his fast movements and limber strength, she’d put money on Saunders in most fights.

What about Lottie? She’d kicked out, fought hard enough to rip her hoodie. She was in physically great shape, strong and lean in the photos, though Nasreen would have preferred to see a few more cheeseburgers on her Instagram feed. She looked like a fighter. Sometimes just that will to survive was enough. Nasreen had seen it in her colleagues. In victims of terrible crimes. In her friends. But even the strongest will could be extinguished by another. Someone had wanted to take Lottie, and they had. They’d also threatened to kill her. Would they execute that plan as well?

Chips ended his call and headed for the incident board. ‘Lottie went for a run every day at 6 a.m. She’s picked up on the campus CCTV camera about five past the hour, heading towards Greenwich Church Street.’ He was filling in the details on the timeline as he spoke.

‘Any cameras on West Grove Lane?’ asked Saunders.

‘No joy,’ said Chips. ‘It’s largely residential. But the university have cooperated fully. As they should: PR nightmare for them, a student going missing. Their in-house security are going through their recordings with the Greenwich lads. They’ve got a snazzy digital set-up, so they’ve been able to match Lottie’s expected movements on campus with the relevant footage.’ Chips was scribbling in black marker as he spoke.

‘Everything they have should be double checked.’ Saunders stood next to Chips as he copied notes from his pad. ‘We’ll get Morris on it.’

Good, thought Nasreen. Serve him right.

‘There’s a camera at the offie on the corner – here.’ Chips tapped the map of the Greenwich area they’d unfurled alongside the board. ‘But it’s trained on their back door and side alley. It points away from that end of the road.’

They tensed as Burgone cut in from the doorway. ‘Idiots! There’d be more chance of people coming at them from the front.’ How long had he been there? What had he heard? The muscles in his face twitched, his lips a thin line from pressure. Saunders, his back to the DCI, frowned and rested his hands in his pockets as if he were worried what else they might do.

‘Which way was she going?’ asked Burgone.

Chips moved stiffly, unsure whether this was the right thing to do. ‘We can see her on the university’s camera here and here, heading along this road,’ he said, indicating the relevant area on the map. A yellow highlighter marked her flat, the road where she was picked up by the camera, and then the spot where the hoodie had been found. There were countless roads between the two points. It would take hours to find, watch, and scan tapes from all those roads, even if they put multiple officers on it.

‘Yesterday she returned to her flat at the usual time of 7.30 a.m., made smoothies for her and her flatmate Bea, showered and was at lectures for 9 a.m.’ Chips flicked through his notes. ‘We can see her on the campus camera again, crossing the quad and talking with friends before going into her lecture building. She returned to her flat at 1 p.m. Dani reports seeing her collecting a folder for a later class. Again she’s seen chatting to friends on the campus. She was home just after 6 p.m., working in her bedroom on coursework. Bea and Dani then both saw her when she came out to make her dinner in the shared kitchen: chicken and vegetables.’

‘That’s her favourite,’ Burgone said forlornly. Lottie was meticulous about her diet and exercise: it structured her time. Her body was her tool – like a model, she earned money from it. She was dedicated and worked hard; attributes she shared with her brother.

Chips pushed on. ‘According to her flatmates, she seemed fine. Possibly stressed about her coursework, but nothing concerning.’

‘Then where is she!’ The DCI slammed his fist onto the desk in front of him. Chips’s breathing was audible. Saunders frowned; he saw emotional outbursts as weakness. ‘Sorry. I just …’ Burgone stopped and stared at the photo of Lottie that Chips had pinned to the incident board. He turned, and walked out.

Nasreen couldn’t stand by and watch him hurting like this.

Saunders arched an eyebrow at her: ‘Do you think now is the ideal moment to go for a fucking stroll, Cudmore?’

Her cheeks flamed. Everyone could hear him. ‘No, of course not.’ She caught hold of her heart, pulled it back inside and locked it down.

‘Of course not,’ Saunders parroted in a high and squeaky voice. Nasreen clenched her teeth, fighting to not let her anger show. ‘Sit the hell back down and get on with your job, Sergeant.’

Did he know she’d been following Burgone or was he just taking his frustration out on her? Green caught her eye and pulled a sympathetic grimace. Nasreen tried to get her thoughts in order. She didn’t need to give Saunders any more reasons to pick at her.

The photos of Chloe Strofton and Lottie Burgone showed blonde, attractive, young and seemingly happy girls. And yet they’d both, apparently, sent suicide notes via Snapchat. Could Chloe’s death be related to Lottie’s? Had the police investigating her alleged suicide missed something? Nasreen laid out a printout of Lottie’s note on her desk:

A pointless opulent life leads you onto nothing.

I can’t go on. Lottie Burgone

And the banner overlaying the note:

You have 6 seconds to read this and 24 hours to save the girl’s life.

She pulled out the printed screenshot of the Snapchat note Chloe had sent and laid it on the desk next to Lottie’s. Across Chloe’s note – which was much longer than Lottie’s – was a similar banner:

You have 6 seconds to read this, and 24 hours to find me.

First person. Different. Both of the notes were printed, typed, in what looked like Times New Roman, on white A4 paper. Chloe’s note looked like it had been folded in half, and then in half again, crinkled, perhaps from being put in a pocket? She flicked to the photographs of the scene where Chloe had been found. Yellow evidence markers marked her orange school bag, which was more like a stylish leather handbag you might see a businesswoman carry than the scruffy rucksack Nasreen had had at school. Both Chloe and Lottie were fashionable, concerned with their appearance. A pointless opulent life. She looked at the zoomed-in version of Chloe’s suicide note:

As I type this I feel calmer. I’m doing the right thing. It’s a relief. I can’t go on after people find out. It’s disgusting. I’ve let down my friends, family, teachers, everyone. Only those who’ve seen will know why. I can’t live in fear of it coming out. All the lies are finished. Mum, Dad, Freya, Gemma, I screwed up. I can’t hurt you more. I love you. It’s time I fixed the mess I made. This is the only way. I promise you all you’re better off without me. I know you’ll feel sad reading this, but I know that’ll be over soon. The pain will fade. Your tears will dry. You’ll live happy lives. I love you. Now it’s time to go. I’ll be dead within twenty-four hours of you receiving this note.

Chloe Strofton

What was disgusting? And what would others know? She flicked back through the statements gathered by the local force. They hadn’t had the note at that point; a copy had only been turned in when it started circulating online last week. Interviewing the family, friends, teachers etc., they all seemed to give the same impression: Chloe had gone from being a happy, confident girl, often fond of being the centre of attention, to withdrawn and quiet over the last couple of months. There’d been a break-up: a boyfriend, William Taylor, sixteen, also at Romeland High. Everyone put it down to the usual ups and downs of teen love. She’d never been prescribed antidepressants, or been diagnosed with any mental health issues. Nasreen frowned. Someone had missed something: didn’t the teachers notice that something was awry? Or her parents? Mrs Strofton was a solicitor and Mr Strofton was a GP. They were good people, who had been through a lot over the years – Mrs Strofton had been ill, not to mention everything that had happened with Gemma. There could be more illness, trouble at work, financial worries, countless things that might mean you didn’t spot the warning signs in your own daughter. And they would regret that for the rest of their lives. Losing a child was one of the worst things she’d seen people go through in this job.

She read over the note again, mouthing the words. There was something odd in the rhythm of it. Stilted. Was that a reflection of the girl’s troubled mind? She’d used her full name to sign off. Typed. Like Lottie had. She flicked her eyes between the two notes. And then she saw it. Her heartbeat slowed. The sounds of the office peeled away like falling petals. Everything was crisp and clear. The letters sharp, elevated from the printouts. The first letter of each line of Chloe’s note, and the first letter of each word in Lottie’s note, spelt the same word: Apollyon. The destroyer. The name of a serial killer who’d tweeted clues to his next victim. Nicknamed the Hashtag Murderer, Apollyon had been caught by Nasreen and her old school friend Freddie. Her blood ran cold. Chloe Strofton: younger sister of Gemma Strofton – Nasreen and Freddie’s best friend at school. Lottie Burgone, the younger sister of Nasreen’s boss. Nasreen looked up as Chips pinned a photo of Chloe Strofton on the incident board, alongside that of Lottie Burgone. Nasreen was the link. The empty chair of DCI Burgone, askew, flung backwards, a flag of his desperation. His sister was missing. Taken. And it was her fault.

Chapter 6
Tuesday 15 March
11:00

‘And how does that make you feel?’ Amanda, tight grey curls hugging her face, tipped her head to the side.

Freddie Venton stopped looking at the framed counselling qualifications on the boxy magnolia walls and stared at the woman. ‘Are you taking the piss?’

‘What makes you ask that, Freddie?’ Amanda’s hands rested on her notes like primed mousetraps.

‘Bit of a shrink cliché.’ It smelt of patchouli in here. Or what she imagined patchouli smelt like. There was a loaded box of tissues on the low pine table between them, and Freddie couldn’t get comfortable on her inoffensive cream chair. Amanda continued to gaze at her. Great. They were going to play this game again. Amanda – call me Mandy – was one of those counsellors who liked to give their clients time to talk. Freddie had had counselling before – who hadn’t? – but she preferred the proactive CBT approach. She didn’t want to talk about her relationship with her hamster as a child, or whatever. She just wanted to be able to sleep at nights. Or during the day. She wasn’t fussy. The scar on her head, still spiky with stitches the doctors kept promising would dissolve, throbbed. ‘Look, I don’t want to waste your time or anything.’ God knows the NHS had better things to spend their money on than paying this woman for a staring contest for fifty minutes once a fortnight.

‘I’m not a shrink, as you call it, Freddie,’ said Mandy.

‘Head doctor then. Psychiatrist. Quack.’ This room was like her first-year halls at uni. Pine bookshelves stood to attention, proudly displaying Amanda’s only redeeming factor: she had some Naomi Wolf books. Feminist icon. It’d lured her into a false sense of security. She should have clocked there were no windows in here and left straight away. Was that a counsellor thing? Nothing to distract you from your emotional trauma? Or nothing for you to jump from? She’d only ticked the box saying she felt suicidal at the GP so they’d hurry up and give her her meds back.

‘I’m a counsellor, Freddie. As you know. Do you not want to talk about how you’re feeling?’

‘Not really.’

‘Why are you here, Freddie?’

‘You know why I’m here.’ Everyone knew. She’d made the front page of every national newspaper: Social Media Murder Mayhem! Newsnight had done a special on it.

‘I know that you were nearly killed. That you had emergency brain surgery. That since then you’ve been recovering at your parents’ home. And that you haven’t been back to London since,’ said Amanda. The trump card.

Freddie started counting the books, noting the colour of the spines: one blue, two white, three white, four red …

‘Did you think any more about contacting your old friend, Gemma?’ said Amanda.

Freddie rolled her eyes. She knew it’d been a dumb idea. Why would Gemma want to speak to her after everything that happened? Five yellow, six white … Did publishers get a cheap deal on white covers or something?

‘You did ask to attend counselling, Freddie. There must be a part of you that wants to talk about what happened?’

‘I’m only here because my doctor won’t sign off on meds unless I show up.’

‘I see.’ Amanda looked sad. Disappointed.

Freddie sighed. ‘Look, I’m not trying to be difficult, I’m sure you’re a very good therapist. It’s just that I don’t need to talk. I just need to be able to sleep.’ Something caught the corner of her eye, a dark shadow flashing across the edge of the room. She turned, but there was nothing there. It was just her and Amanda and a box of Kleenex. She casually let go of the cushion she’d clutched in mild panic.

Amanda frowned. ‘Does the thought of not having your sleeping pills frighten you?’

Well, duh. Without them, any sleep she got was full of the face she feared. ‘It’s like I said to the GP: if you found a drug that let you sleep, which let you get up, live, eat, do normal things, then you wouldn’t want to stop taking it, would you?’

‘And what did he say?’

‘She,’ Freddie said.

‘What did she say?’ pressed Amanda.

The ballsy girl who’d worked in Espress-oh’s coffee shop, the one who was a promising journalist and walked round Dalston like she owned it, had vanished. A heavy, dusty curtain had been dropped across her life. And she was too frightened to pull it back, in case there was nothing left on the other side. ‘The doctor said I had to come here to see you, Mandy.’

‘And how did that make you feel?’

Chapter 7
Wednesday 16 March
10:45
T – 22 hrs 45 mins

‘Thanks.’ Nasreen hung up the phone. That decided it then. She didn’t have a choice. She was going to have to take a gamble. For that’s what it was: a roll of the dice. It could go well, or it could go badly. Very badly.

Saunders had his back turned, speaking on the phone, writing notes in his barely legible scrawl. He didn’t trust her. Better to try Chips.

He was sitting at his desk. ‘Sir, can I have a word?’ she asked quietly, the printouts tucked under her arm.

‘Aye, lass.’ He didn’t look up.

‘In private?’

That got his attention. His eyes flicked to Burgone, who was back at his desk. She shook her head: No, it’s not that. We haven’t found a body. Yet.

He nodded, stuck the pen he was using behind his ear, and followed her out of the room.

Chips looked up and down the empty hallway. ‘This private enough?’ He had a way of softening his voice, and tilting his head so he was looking down at her as he talked, some feat given they were the same height. Gently patronising: it was how she imagined he talked to his grandkids.

She nodded. Not sure where to start. How to start. ‘You know I worked on the Hashtag Murderer case?’

‘We all know that, lass.’ A mild look of exasperation spread across his jovial face, as if to say, Now is not the time for an ego stroke, young lady.

Chips wasn’t a career cop interested in office politics, so no point playing games. He was focused on bringing those responsible to justice. Stick to the facts; get to the point. ‘The killer used an alias online,’ said Nasreen. ‘He called himself Apollyon.’

Chips took the biro out from behind his ear and popped the top off. ‘I read the newspapers at the time, and your report when you arrived.’

‘Did you?’ It was a surprise: he’d never shown much interest.

‘I like to know who I’m working with, Nasreen.’

‘Yes, sorry, sir.’ He’d made her feel childish again. Of course he’d want to know what his new colleagues had worked on before. She thrust the printouts forward. ‘Look at this.’

‘The suicide notes?’ His fleshy hands wrapped around them. The skin of his finger had bubbled up around his wedding ring, fusing the smooth gold band into his flesh.

‘The first letter of each of the words of Lottie’s, and the letters at the beginning of each line of Chloe Strofton’s note. They spell …’

‘Apollyon. Well blow me.’ He frowned at pages. ‘Are you thinking there might be a link between this case and the Hashtag Killer case?’

Yes. And it’s me. I’m the link. I’m connected to both these people. ‘It’s possible. Someone’s gone to a lot of trouble to spell these notes out. Would Chloe and Lottie do that themselves?’

‘So you’re thinking if someone else wrote and sent the note from the other lass’s phone as well, it might not have been suicide after all?’ He flipped between the pages.

‘Exactly. Then whoever did that might be the same person who has Lottie.’

‘But there’s nothing in the file to suggest foul play?’

‘The investigating force had no reason to think it wasn’t suicide,’ said Nasreen. ‘They didn’t have the note at the time.’ Chips blew air through his teeth. Nasreen pushed. ‘If it was your daughter missing, would you follow it up?’ His eyes flew up, angry. She’d gone too far. But if her gut was right, and this person was targeting their team because of Nasreen’s presence in it, then it could have been her younger sister, it could have been Chips’s daughter, it could have been any one of them snatched. ‘I’d like to go back over the Chloe Strofton case, speak to her family, see if there was anyone new in her life, anyone acting suspiciously. The local force won’t have been asking those questions first time round.’ Could she really sit across from Gemma and her parents and look them in the eye while she asked about Chloe? This is your chance to make it better, Nasreen.

‘No. You can’t go upsetting the poor lass’s family and hinting their daughter’s death was suspicious. Not without something more concrete.’

He was right, of course. For a moment she felt relief. Then reality smacked back. Lottie was still missing. ‘But I could speak to the girl’s friends discreetly, those who received the note. The report said she’d recently broken it off with a boyfriend – I could speak to him? I could go to her school? The teachers would count as responsible adults. See if there’s anything there?’

Chips was still looking at the notes, chewing on his cheek. ‘You can go, but make it quick. If there’s nothing in it I want you back here and helping Saunders and me.’

He was trusting her with this. She knew what she had to do, but the thought of threatening this newfound fragile pact snagged the words in her throat. ‘I’m going to need help.’

‘Green can go with you. Take a pool car.’ Chips straightened; the conversation was over.

What did she think of Green? Could she be trusted? Anything was better than having Morris along. You’re doing this for Burgone, remember. ‘I’m going to need more than that, sir. I need a second pair of eyes: someone else who knows the Apollyon case inside out. To bounce ideas off. I’d like to bring in Freddie Venton.’

‘The civilian who worked on the Hashtag case?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘No chance. What about your former DCI?’

‘I’ve spoken to DCI Moast.’ The call had been awkward: silence on the other end as she’d mentioned the word Apollyon. They both had blood-smeared memories of the case; they both felt they could have done things differently. ‘He’s in the middle of a trafficking bust. The Jubilee station is full of people smugglers and refugees. Some were being shipped out for the sex trade, small children being sold into slavery. It sounds like a mess. The soonest he or any of his team would be able to help would be the day after next. If we were lucky.’

‘And according to the message we’ve got twenty-four hours,’ Chips sighed.

‘Twenty-three, now.’ And ticking down. ‘Freddie could help us.’

‘I thought she was brought in as a PR stunt during the Hashtag case?’

‘Freddie knows Apollyon better than anyone. She was the one who cracked the cryptic clues he posted.’ She’d also been the one who’d goaded him into a response. ‘She’s a little unorthodox.’ Rash, confrontational, and prone to erratic behaviour: she’d need to keep a close eye on her. ‘But she has an encyclopaedic knowledge of popular culture.’ Which she’d probably prefer to call Wikipedic. ‘She understands references that are common knowledge online, and could overlay them analytically to the information we have. I think it’s worth at least consulting with her.’

‘She’s too young.’

‘She’s the same age as me.’

Chips’s face suggested that was rather the point. ‘We have tech specialists we can consult if need be.’

Irritation toyed with her. ‘With all due respect, sir, this is different. The digital forensics team are second to none, I’m not questioning that, but Freddie wouldn’t be looking at recovering and investigating material from devices we find. She’s a digital native, able to recognise things we might miss. She knows the Apollyon case. Aside from DCI Moast and his team, she’s the one person I’d trust to spot patterns.’ If she could just get him to understand how important it was to get Freddie on board.

Chips peered at the notes and sucked air through his teeth. ‘It’s not him is it – the Hashtag Murderer? Apollyon? Doing these?’

The thought was terrifying, but she’d had to consider it. ‘I spoke to the assistant chief at his prison. He’s in solitary after stabbing a fellow prisoner in the eye with a sharpened pencil.’

‘Nice lad.’ Chips rubbed his temple.

‘He’s got no internet access and refuses visitors. The assistant chief was adamant there’s no way he could have written this, sent it, or shared it with the outside world.’ Despite that there was still doubt in her mind; she knew what the Hashtag Murderer was capable of. But the evidence didn’t point to him, not directly. ‘If it’s not him then someone else is using his moniker. Freddie could just take a look – that’s all I’m asking.’

‘You came to me because you know Saunders won’t agree to some consultant being brought in to a case that involves the guv. Because you think I’m a soft touch?’

Crap. ‘I don’t think that, sir. I have the utmost respect for you. You’re a legend in the force.’ She felt her face blush.

‘You mean I’m old, lass?’ Chips chuckled.

‘No, not that. You’re not old. I …’ The chance of getting Freddie’s help was slipping through her fingers. She couldn’t tell any of the team she was the link between the two victims. Not until she knew it wasn’t some ghastly coincidence. But she could tell Freddie. Freddie could help. ‘I just want to find Lottie. Safe.’

‘We’re already treading a fine line, lass, having Burgone stay. Saunders is jumpy. He likes doing things by the book.’ He paused. ‘Then again, I thought you did too.’

Her face coloured again. ‘I do. I really believe Freddie could help. I’m not asking for her to be brought onto the team. I can show her the intelligence on the notes, see what she makes of it. If this is a copycat, then it’s a copycat of a serial killer.’

His face clouded. ‘Then this might just be the start.’

The threat hung in the air between them.

‘Okay,’ he relented. ‘She can look at what we’ve got, but it’s got to be off record: there’s no budget for this. She can’t be expecting money.’

‘Not a problem.’ She hoped. Freddie may come off rough round the edges, but she had a big heart.

‘This stays between you and me. No mention to Saunders, no mention to the guv, okay?’

‘Yes, sir.’ She reasoned she was merely protecting her source: Freddie.

‘I don’t want any difficult questions from the CPS. Got it?’

She nodded.

‘If we were talking about anyone other than Jack’s sister I wouldn’t be authorising this.’ Chips thrust the notes back her. His face was closed, stern. He was angry she’d put him in this position.

‘If it was anyone other than the guv’s sister, I wouldn’t be asking.’ That was the truth. If Nasreen was the link between the two girls then one person was already dead because of her. She had to follow this lead, no matter where it led. Saunders and Burgone couldn’t find out about Freddie. Saunders was itching to find fault with her. If he knew about Freddie he might start digging, and then how long would it be before he uncovered that she, Freddie and Gemma had all gone to school together? That they had been the best of friends. That Freddie and she had nearly driven Gemma to her death. She had no doubt he’d use that to leverage her out. It had to stay a secret for her own safety too.

Chips looked at his watch. ‘You’ve got three hours. Max. Make it count, Cudmore.’ Three hours to speak to Freddie. Three hours to interview Chloe’s friends. Three hours to work out if she really was the link. Three hours to work out if she was to blame for Lottie’s predicament. She could hear Chips’s watch ticking as she hurried away. This is it. No room for error. 10.55 a.m. T – 22 hours 25 minutes. Make it count.

Chapter 8
Wednesday 16 March
11:45
T – 21 hrs 45 mins

Freddie Venton stared at the ceiling of her childhood bedroom. A hairpin crack ran from the top of the rose-patterned wallpaper (her mum’s choice) and slithered across the ceiling. Mum had been at the doctors for her blood pressure, she was going into the school late today. Freddie could hear the sound of her work pumps moving across the hallway. She shut her eyes and slowed her breathing, like she used to when she was young, reading late under the covers.

‘Love?’ her mum whispered. ‘Are you awake?’

Yes, I’m awake! I’ve been awake since blood poured into my eyes. Since sleeping meant the dreams came. And they couldn’t come. She couldn’t relive it. She couldn’t sleep. So she pretended. Her mum had enough on her plate with her dad’s antics; she didn’t need any more worry.

There was a rattle as her mum put a tray down, not wanting to intrude, but not wanting her daughter to starve either. Freddie could sense her standing there. A broken husband and a broken child – life had not been kind to Mrs Venton. ‘Happy birthday, love,’ she whispered, pulling the door gently to.

Not long now. Freddie heard the gruff grunt of her father, his articulation lost to the alcohol.

‘Do you think we should try the doctor again?’ her mum stage-whispered.

Another grunt.

‘It’s been weeks. She’s barely eating. She hasn’t said more than a few words.’ Freddie heard the worry in her mum’s voice. She wanted to tell her it was all going to be all right. But she couldn’t. Instead, she began to count the roses on the wall again. ‘This can’t go on,’ her mum was saying. Twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one …

The front door opened and closed, and Freddie heard her mum’s Corsa start. She listened for the jingle of the keys. A whistle for the dog. The door opened – Dad was leaving for the pub. She waited in case he’d forgotten anything. One minute, two minutes, three minutes … Then she threw the duvet off, shuffling across to the tray. Sandwiches. Marmite and cucumber: her favourite when she was little. There were a couple of cards tucked under a present. Freddie picked up the small weighty rectangle, the wrapping paper covered in birds, and read the tag:

Thought I’d get this fixed for you.

Happy Birthday, love Mum and Dad xxx

She knew what it was. Placed it unopened on the tray.

She padded downstairs and into the room at the back of the house. Her father’s den: a boxy room, with a raised, jutting windowsill, as if the builder had forgotten to put the bottom part of the wall in. The blue curtains were drawn. Mum didn’t come in here. Freddie didn’t come in here. The small coffee table and the blue sofa bed were covered in used glasses. Dad slept in here sometimes, when Mum couldn’t take it anymore. It smelled stale. Sour. Sitting on the sofa, she stroked the grooves where her dad sat. Closed her eyes. Tried to remember what he was like before. The good memories were fainter now. Him swinging her round in the garden, her giggling uncontrollably. Her and Nas cycling up and down the path outside their house. A trip to Thorpe Park. She tried to remember what happiness felt like. But a heavy blanket had settled over Freddie the day she was attacked; she’d felt nothing but thrumming anxiety since.

The doorbell sounded. She froze, as if they could see what she was doing. The guilt of the emptiness.

The doorbell rang again. Longer. More insistent. ‘Hang on!’ she shouted. When did she last speak that loud? She ran to the door. The dark blur of the person standing behind it was fractured by the geometric glass pattern. She opened it. Fought the urge to dissolve into tears. There on the doorstep in her smart black trouser suit was Nasreen Cudmore.

‘Hello, Freddie.’

Chapter 9
Wednesday 16 March
12:20
T – 22 hrs 10 mins

‘You going to invite me in?’ Nas’s face looked as it always had: high cheekbones carved into flawless skin, brown eyes sparkling, dark hair hanging in a velvet tuile from her hairband. Beautiful, but detached. There was something new in her eyes: a nervousness, a quick sweep from one side of the room to the other, as if she was scanning the horizon, checking the exits. Then it was gone, replaced with the face Freddie knew Nas used to greet the general public. Warm, effusive, persuasive.

‘What you doing here?’ It was the middle of the day. Why wasn’t Nas at work? This was a long way from the East End’s Jubilee police station. Skyscrapers cut like a bookmark through the pages of her memory. Highlighting moments of pain. That’s far away. You’re safe here. Safe.

‘I need to talk to you.’ Nas’s gaze flickered to her hand, and Freddie realised she was gripping the door handle so tight her knuckles were stretched white. She let go.

‘You best come in then.’ She led her into the spotless lounge. Her mum’s OCD hung in the air, mingling with the smell of polish. Trying to scrub out the stains in her life. ‘Bit different from my usual style.’ She tried to sound lighthearted, but saw Nas take in the perfectly spaced ornaments on the dresser. Did she remember when Dad broke them all? Smashed them while Freddie and Nas told ghost stories by torchlight under a duvet; Nas scared, Freddie flippant about the shouts and screams coming from downstairs. As if it was normal. In a way it was. That was a long time ago. Different house. Different ornaments. Different life.

They sat on the dark brown leather DFS sofas, facing each other. Nas perched on the edge of her seat, still in her coat, her hands clasped in her lap. Her nails shiny with clear polish. Freddie glanced at her own mismatched pyjamas. Nas looked at her scar. It throbbed in response. It’s all in my mind. ‘Do you want a cup of tea or something?’

‘No. Thank you.’ Nasreen smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes, as if she were talking to a child. She was uneasy in her presence. ‘How are you doing, Freddie?’

‘Nightmares, no sleep, I’m trapped in suburbia, you know.’ It was supposed to be a joke, but her words were brittle, cracking ice underfoot. A car drove past outside, the rumble of the engine underscoring the silence that engulfed the room. Freddie’s breathing sounded loud, a rasping echo of the car’s exhaust.

Nas shuffled in her seat, her polished heels squeaking against each other. She cleared her throat. ‘I need your help. With a case.’

‘No.’ Freddie was shocked at the word. She hadn’t planned to say it. It felt as though someone was speaking through her, someone she’d forgotten existed. How dare Nas just show up and say that! How dare she just walk in and act as if nothing had happened. She wanted her gone. Standing, she caught the edge of the veneered coffee table with her knee. A weird, unfamiliar feeling spread through her. Pain. A short, sharp stab. She felt it. She was thawing. Melting. Her body tried to override it. ‘Well, if you don’t want a drink, then …’ She wanted to shout: We’re done. We’re finished. Get out! But she’d sound crazy. Was she going crazy? Maybe. Maybe she already had. But she didn’t want to show Nas that. ‘I think I’ll make myself a coffee.’

Nas didn’t move. Freddie could see what was dancing around behind her eyes when she’d scanned the room: desperation.

She was supposed to be safe here. Hidden. No one would think to look in a suburban backwater. Down a winding country lane. What’s out there? She could feel the isolation of the house. All four walls exposed to the elements. Is he back? ‘I can’t,’ she said, her hand shooting to her forehead. Her scar felt coarse and bumpy: a warning to never get too close again.

Nas produced a brown envelope and placed a photo of a smiling blonde girl on the coffee table. Don’t look at it. ‘This is Chloe. On Friday, 12 March at 8 p.m. she sent this photo of her suicide note via Snapchat to her friends and sisters.’ Nas pulled a photo of a printed letter from the envelope. Freddie walked to the bay window; straightened her parents’ 1970s wedding photo.

Nas continued, unperturbed. ‘The note warned that the body would not be found until twenty-four hours later.’ Freddie looked at her mum’s smile. So happy. So long ago. Before life had taken all hope from her. ‘At just after 8 p.m. on Saturday, 13 March, Chloe’s body was found in Wildhill Wood.’

‘I’m sorry for the girl, Nas. Course I am. But it’s nothing to do with me.’ All her edges felt raw, as if every nerve ending had been exposed. She needed her to leave.

The leather of the sofa creaked. ‘Chloe was Gemma’s sister.’

Freddie spun, catching her parents’ photo; it clattered backwards against the windowsill. ‘Why tell me this? Haven’t you put me through enough?’

‘This morning at 9.30 a.m. a second Snapchat suicide note was received from Lottie Burgone.’ Nas’s tone was calm.

Freddie picked up the photo, slamming the frame down onto the wood.

‘We have reason to suspect someone might have taken Lottie. Look at the note. It sounds like a threat.’ Nas thrust two photos at her.

She grabbed them so they wouldn’t fall. ‘I can’t.’ Her eyes scanned the words. I feel calmer …. the right thing … the pain will fade.

‘She’s eighteen, Freddie.’ Nas dragged her palm back over her hair.

The words pulled on Freddie’s eyes. You have 6 seconds to read this and 24 hours to save the girl’s life. Nas said 9.30 a.m. Over three hours ago. I can’t.

‘Lottie’s the sister of my new boss.’ Nas shook her head, as if it wasn’t real.

‘I’m sorry.’ Freddie handed the photos back. She didn’t want to touch them. Didn’t want to know this. She just wanted to be left alone. Freddie saw the shadows under Nas’s eye make-up. She saved your life. You owe her. I can’t … An eighteen-year-old girl … Gemma’s sister. Gemma, who told you never to contact her again. Her chest constricted, her windpipe closing. The words, the images, started to tumble down on her. Freddie turned away. Stared out the window. One leaf, two, three, four, five …

Nas gathered up the photos – Gemma’s dead sister – and put them back in the envelope. Outside the light started to shift, a slow descent into the shadows. ‘You don’t need me. You’ve got cops. Trained professionals.’ Freddie wasn’t sure who she was talking to. ‘I’m seeing a counsellor. She wouldn’t like this. I’m not ready.’ The fields around her parents’ house stretched away from the single-track road. If she listened hard, blocked everything else out, she could just make out the motorway.

Chapter 10
Wednesday 16 March
12:30
T – 21 hrs

Nasreen wanted to grab Freddie. Shake her. Beg her. The devastation on Burgone’s face floated before her; jarring with the images of gasped pleasure last night. His toned, slender torso. His arms around her. Her heart screamed at Freddie to help. But what could this broken shell of a woman do? She looked awful. She’d lost weight – it didn’t suit her. Dark shadows were etched into her face. And the scar. She thought it would have healed. Faded. But it’s belligerently, defiantly there. The most real part of her. There was nothing left of the girl she knew. This had been a mistake.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have come.’ She’d look into getting Freddie some help when this was over. The grim thought of what the next twenty-four hours might hold was destabilising.

Her stomach churned at the thought of explaining this to Chips. So much for impressing him: she’d wasted time and resources, roping in DC Green on a wild goose chase. Her phone had full signal, but no missed calls. No updates from the office. No breakthrough. They had twenty-one hours to find Lottie. They needed a lead. Another message. Something.

Freddie was silhouetted against the net curtains, hugging herself tight across her chest, her cartoon character pyjama top hanging off of her. Nasreen didn’t like to guess when she’d last washed her hair. She should have come sooner. As a friend. She didn’t know things were this bad. She would have made time, if Freddie or her mum had called her. Wouldn’t she? She swallowed her own doubt and guilt.

‘Do you remember the year it snowed and school was closed for four days?’ Freddie was staring out the window as she spoke. ‘We made snow angels at the bus stop.’

Nasreen’s chest pinched. This was her fault. Freddie should never have been involved in the previous case. She was a civilian. Not trained. She had put her childhood friend in the path of danger. It was a gamble, and Freddie had lost. When this was over she’d come back. Try and get her to have a shower, take her out for a walk.

Nasreen tucked the envelope into her jacket: the only clues she had, resting against her heart. ‘Take care of yourself, Freddie.’ The black leather gloves she’d been issued with when she’d joined the force creaked as she pulled them on and made for the door. She’d call Chips while DC Green drove. This was not going to be fun.

‘It’s not him, is it?’ Freddie asked.

Nasreen paused. ‘Who?’

Freddie turned, the faraway look gone, her eyes focused. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. ‘Apollyon.’

Nasreen stared at her. She’d barely looked at the notes …

‘It’s an acrostic – you know that, right?’ She tilted her head to one side, her hair, longer now, falling in jagged corkscrews. Her face had a familiar look: the one that came before she announced some great discovery. Fish don’t have fingers. Grown-ups make babies by sexing. Hayley Mandrake’s sister has done it behind Morrisons. Hundreds of Freddie’s revelations cascaded through Nasreen’s memory, half of which were declared dud, tossed away as Freddie’s mind raced to the next adventure. The light had switched back on behind her childhood friend’s eyes.

‘Yes,’ said Nasreen. ‘But it can’t be Apollyon. He’s inside. Locked up. Solitary. No internet access.’

Freddie nodded. Circuits flashed, connecting above her head. ‘Gemma’s sister. Your boss’s sister. Apollyon.’

It wasn’t a question, but she nodded anyway. Keen not to break the chain. She knew what she was asking her to do.

‘You told them yet?’ Freddie raised her eyebrows.

There was no way she could know about Burgone – could she? Nasreen’s ears grew warm. ‘Told who what?’

‘That you’re the link.’

The relief was fleeting. ‘I’ve told them the relevant bits. About the Apollyon link in the notes.’ Freddie would never meet the team. They were highly unlikely to bump into each other in a social situation. Chips and Saunders liked pubs, with real ale and loud inappropriate jokes. And Freddie liked … being nocturnal? She’d get Freddie’s insight and then get back to the unit, with neither party ever being the wiser. ‘The name on the notes is circumstantial, but we could be looking at some kind of copycat.’ The idea of another serial killer sloshed through her stomach like acid. ‘It’s not a pattern. I just want to double check. If the same person is involved in Lottie’s disappearance then we might find something in Chloe’s case that leads us to them.’

‘Apollyon used Twitter, and now he’s shifted to Snapchat,’ mused Freddie.

‘We know the Apollyon case better than anyone else.’

‘I am the case!’ Freddie pointed at the gouged scar on her forehead.

If these two girls had been abducted, killed, because of Nasreen, then she had to fix it. Had to. Freddie was her best shot at that. She was wrapped up in this tighter than anyone else.

‘Am I in danger?’ Freddie’s face shifted, threatening to withdraw.

Of course she’d want to know that! Nasreen should’ve immediately reassured her. ‘There’s no evidence to suggest you’re at risk.’

‘What about the people I know? Mum? My dad?’ Freddie folded her arms over her chest.

‘There’s no reason they should be. You don’t know DCI Burgone, or his sister, Lottie. Do you?’ The thought that Freddie might somehow know Burgone stung, though she wasn’t sure why.

‘Don’t think so.’

‘Okay. If there is any link then, it’s me.’ It was the first time she’d verbalised it. Suddenly, it was no longer an abstract concern. The events of the last twenty-four hours slipped through her fingers like uncooked rice. Wishing things were different and that she could stay here with Freddie was pointless. ‘Perhaps the Apollyon word cropping up in both notes is coincidence, I just …’

‘Feel it in your gut?’ Freddie had a glint of mischief in her eye. She put great faith in intuition, using it more than once to sanction a bad idea. ‘I didn’t think you went in for all that wishy-washy stuff, Nas. You’re a woman of facts, evidence, procedure. You follow the letter of the law.’ She gave a mock salute.

‘I still think homeopathy is a load of rubbish, if it makes you feel better.’ This was more like the Freddie she knew and loved to bicker with.

‘Doesn’t everyone?’

Freddie was deflecting. Possibly stalling for time. That meant she hadn’t made her mind up yet.

‘Will you help?’

They stared at each other. The tick of the carriage clock on the mantelpiece filled the silence. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Nasreen didn’t have anything left to say. She was asking a lot of her friend, knew it was irresponsible. But asking for Freddie’s help was the only thing she could think of. T – 20 hours 38 mins. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Freddie looked round, as if she were seeing the room for the first time. ‘Give me five.’ She tugged at her top. ‘I need a shower.’

Nasreen could have hugged her. Should she hug her? She stepped forward, faltered, and stopped. She’d taken too long to decide, and Freddie was already at the stairs. That kind of gesture – a hug – belonged to their past. When they were teen BFF’s, or whatever it was called now. ‘I’ll wait in the car.’ She felt better. As if just having Freddie on board changed everything. It was a familiar feeling, she realised, one from childhood. From when she’d stood shoulder to shoulder with Freddie in the playground. The mouthy girl had protected her, taught her to fight back, speak up. She’d had this invincibility: a gift. Nasreen now understood it was bravado, bolstered from Freddie’s troubled home life. You had to speak up to be heard over a drunken father. You had to fight back. But it was still a powerful feeling: two is better than one. They could do anything together. She wanted to give that reassurance, that same feeling to this Freddie. The pale, thin, damaged one. ‘They get better, by the way.’

‘What?’ Freddie was halfway up the stairs, school photos of her in her grey-and-red uniform on the wall behind her.

‘The nightmares.’ Nasreen’s eyes rested on the image of the eight-year-old Freddie. How old they’d been when they’d first met. Two young girls, skipping in the playground. Eating strawberry yoghurts with plastic spoons. Running with their hoods on their heads, their coats flying behind them like capes. Their whole lives ahead of them.

‘Good to know,’ she said over her shoulder. And Freddie Venton walked back into the flames.

Chapter 11
Wednesday 16 March
13:05
T – 20 hrs 25 mins

Freddie shook the towel from her hair and opened the wardrobe in her room. Inside, unopened, were all the cardboard boxes that had been returned to her by the police. After what had happened, her room – the living room in her flat – had become a crime scene. Ironic really, given that it was her breaking into a crime scene in search of a news story that had kickstarted all of this. She tried to think back to that person: the one who was a journalist, writing reams of articles – mostly for free – for online newspapers. It was like imagining a character in a TV show or a film. The threads linking her to that person had been severed. And that life, her life, had been sealed in boxes and hidden away.

Pulling down the first box, she ripped off the tape, rummaging through sweatshirts, jean shorts, knickers … the detritus of her former self. Nope. Not there. She opened the next: full of paper takeaway cups bagged in forensic plastic. They had to be kidding. Why keep this crap? Bloody police – always so proper. She shoved it aside and opened the next. Finally! She pulled out her skinny jeans. Black. And under them her DM boots. Black. The jeans were loose, so she rolled the waistband to sit low on her hips. She could do with a pizza. She was hungry. When had she last been hungry? Pulling on her boots, she felt the familiar tilt and wear to the leather, shaped on the streets of London. They were made for city streets, not country lanes or, even more insulting, suburban pavements. Was it hunger or was it excitement? There was a strange sensation in her stomach: fizzing. Her body felt different, and it wasn’t just that her checked red shirt and purple hoodie hung off her, unexpected gaps between her skin and the material. It was that she felt it at all. It had started downstairs with that warm, damp feeling inside, and it had spread through her, tingling her fingers, wriggling her toes. A switch had been flicked. She’d experienced a surge. Was she ready for this? Could she leave this house? This street? This town? Could she get in a car with Nas and drive back to London? She could – should – call her counsellor. And do what? Talk about her bloody feelings? There was a girl out there who needed her help. Who gave a toss about her feelings? She shoved the small present from her mum, still wrapped, into her pocket. Running down the stairs, she grabbed her denim jacket on the way.

The cold March air blew through the flapping fabric of her clothes. No meat on her bones to keep her warm, that’s what her gran would’ve said. The strange car parked in the driveway brought Freddie back to the present. To what she was about to do. And how does that make you feel? she heard Amanda’s voice say in her head. Fuck you, Mandy. Fuck you and your feels. Walking with purpose towards the car, she faltered when she spotted the outline in the driver seat: a woman with red hair. Nas was on the passenger side. Freddie didn’t much fancy making chit-chat. Pulling open the back door she slid into the car. It smelt of pine air freshener, and the faint hint of disinfectant that seemed to cling to all police property. Did they buy it in bulk? Or did it just permeate everything, seeping in from stations, cells, hospitals, morgues …

She didn’t want to think of Chloe’s body lying cold on a stainless-steel slab. Would they have taken her to the same hospital her sister worked at? Would Gemma have been there when they brought her in?

Freddie had always liked Gemma’s mum. She didn’t do ‘the face’ when she asked after Freddie’s parents. So many adults – teachers, the librarian, other mums and dads – had done ‘the face’. Head tilted, lips pursed into a solemn pout, eyes full of false concern. They’d only wanted gossip. More dirty titbits about how terrible her drunk father was. She remembered being eight or nine, walking into the entrance to the village hall for Brownies and hearing Sally Perkins’ mum: Sally says Freddie is always getting into trouble at school. She’s disruptive. It’s hardly a surprise with a father like that. He’s an alcoholic. Freddie had looked the word up on Ask Jeeves later: she hadn’t known what it meant, but she knew it was bad. She’ll probably be a drug addict before she’s left secondary. It’s genetic, isn’t it? I won’t let Sally play there anymore.

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