Trust Me

‘What does that have to do with it?’ Shame bubbled inside her. How dare he judge her?

‘It’s late,’ said PC Jones. ‘Our minds can play tricks on us, especially if we’ve had a drink or two.’ He sniffed again.

Did he think she’d drunk so much she’d been sick? ‘You think I’m making this up?’

‘I’m not saying that, Mrs Adiyiah.’ He held his hands out to placate her. ‘I’m sure you saw a very distressing video, and I’m sure you think it was real.’

‘It was real.’ This was preposterous. ‘There was a girl. And she was attacked by the man in the video.’

‘I thought you said it was a boy?’ PC Jones said.

‘A young man, seventeen, maybe eighteen. Not much more than a boy,’ she said.

‘Right.’ PC Jones nodded.

‘You should be writing this down,’ she said.

‘I have everything I need, Mrs Adiyiah.’ He was sliding the pad into his pocket. Putting the pen away.

‘You don’t believe me?’ The injustice of it hung in her words. He was dismissing her.

‘I believe you’ve seen something that’s upset you. And I believe that you think it’s real. But we’ve had no reports of anything that would tie in with what you’re claiming you saw.’ He gave her a simpering, sympathetic smile. ‘I suggest you have a nice cup of tea and a good night’s sleep, Kate. And I’m sure you’ll feel better after that.’

‘I’m a teacher,’ she said. As if it might make him listen, might make her real. ‘And I don’t appreciate your tone.’

‘Very nice,’ said PC Jones, heading toward the door. He was leaving. Ignoring her. She thought of the girl’s eyes, staring out at her, pleading. ‘You have to help her!’ She thought of the blood dripping onto the duvet. ‘She might not have much time.’

He gave her another placating, watery smile. ‘I’ll be sure to mention it in my report. Good night, Mrs Adiyiah.’

She could already guess what that report would say. She stood in shock as he closed the door behind him. He didn’t believe her. A rip had appeared in the world, plunging her London into that of the poor girl’s in the film. She’d ring the hospitals. Come forward as a witness. But what if she was still lying there? In that room? Not able to get help? Think, woman, think. Kate picked up her wine glass and downed the remains in one go. There was one more thing she could try, but it wouldn’t be easy. She turned the computer towards her and started to type.

A

The water was running over his face, his clothes. He hadn’t turned the bathroom light on. Hadn’t wanted anyone to wake up. But it was never dark here. Street lamps and tower lights shone through the bathroom window. Could they see him? He felt like he was glowing. He crouched down, leant against the tiles. He hugged his knees tightly. The water was red. A Lynx shower gel bottle tumbled from the side and clattered against the floor of the shower. He held his breath. Please don’t wake up.

Her hair had wrapped round his arms when he’d pushed her up. Clung to him, wanting him to stay. Oh God. He didn’t want to think about this. He squashed his palms against his head. Wanted to push it all out. One minute they were partying, and then she’d thrown the punch. If only she hadn’t done that. If only she’d just stayed quiet. Her arms had felt small. Tiny, like his younger brothers’. He could close his whole hand round her wrist. Easily snapped. The clothes had thrown him. The skirt had buttons and zips and everything was backwards. Mixed up. And they were softer than boys’ clothes. Her top had been almost slippery. He wanted to tell Simon tomorrow. But he couldn’t do that. Couldn’t tell anyone. Couldn’t cause any more trouble.

Water was working into his mouth now. There could be blood and hair and stuff in it. He scrubbed at his face. Spat. Spat again. Leant forwards, his head on the shower tray. He could smell the bleach down here. Water bubbling up around his nose and mouth. He was blocking the plug. He could just stay here. Let the water cover him. Drown. Forget about her.

And then he realised what he was doing. Oh God: he had to get it off him. Retching, he stood up. Fell forward, wincing, to turn the tap off. He ripped at his clothes. Until they were in a soggy pile on the floor. He was naked. Wet. Oh God. He pulled for a towel, scrubbed it from him. Rubbing harder, harder, as if he could scrub it off. His skin was raw. He deserved the hurt. He rubbed again. He would be grazed in the morning. Sore. Good. Then he used the towel to wipe out the shower. He kept going. Didn’t know what time it was now. Wiping the floor. Wrapping his clothes up tight in the towel. Tying it in a knot. He’d have to get rid of them. His favourite jeans. How was he going to explain that? His favourite…

He froze. His teeth mid-chatter. Her hat. She’d been wearing a hat when she’d arrived. Evidence. That would be evidence. Where was it? He couldn’t remember when he’d last seen it. When she was dancing? He had to find it. He was responsible. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t mean to do it. He crumpled to the floor. I didn’t mean to do it.

Freddie

She had to show Nas the messages on Amber’s Facebook page. Did the people who’d posted them know something they didn’t? Could the fifteen-year-old be dead?

‘Nas?’

‘I’ve got started on Amber Robertson.’ Nas cut her off, without looking up from her computer. ‘I wanted to know who she stayed with when her dad was inside, given her mum’s dead.’

‘Right, good thinking.’ Freddie nodded, aware Burgone was following her out of his office.

‘Social services placed her with her grandmother – Paul’s mum,’ Nas continued.

That must be a good sign, she was probably worrying about nothing. Amber could be with her nan. ‘So she could be there now?’

‘The grandmother passed on three years ago, and there’s no listing anywhere for her own mum’s family. Looks like they’re mostly abroad,’ Nas said.

Freddie swallowed. ‘I think you should see her Facebook account…’

‘Guys,’ Burgone interrupted them from behind.

Nas immediately turned to face him. Freddie stared at the posts on her phone: was she overreacting? They were just words. They could even be posted by trolls winding up Amber’s friends?

‘I’ve got an announcement to make.’ The others looked up from their desks as Burgone cleared his throat. ‘Congratulations are in order. Freddie has been promoted, and now, as well as providing intelligence analysis for the team, she will also be working as a Civilian Investigator.’

What? Promotion was pushing it somewhat. Nas looked shocked, then slightly horrified. Freddie felt her spine stiffen.

‘A Civilian Investigator?’ Saunders made the words sound like swears. ‘That’s worse than the bloody plastic PCSOs.’

She’d expected hostility from outside the team, but not from within. ‘You worried about the competition?’ she snapped at him.

Nas inhaled next to her.

‘It was at my recommendation, Pete,’ Burgone said. ‘Freddie will be a great asset for interviewing. Keep you guys free to focus on managing investigations.’

He wasn’t mentioning the budget cuts, or that she’d nearly lost her job.

‘It’s policing on the cheap.’ Saunders looked past her at Burgone.

‘It’s happening.’ Burgone’s tone shifted.

‘You’ve got to be kidding, guv?’ said Saunders.

Freddie waited for Chips to back her up, but he was staring at his shoes, frowning.

‘Freddie will receive proper training: she’ll be attending a course at the Jubilee Station today, and Cudmore will be giving her in-house instruction during the Amber Robertson search,’ Burgone said.

Nas’s eyes widened. Freddie couldn’t believe none of them had a good word to say about it. She’d found them the Spice Road–THM link: she knew what she was doing.

‘Assuming that’s okay?’ Burgone added forcefully.

‘Yes, sir,’ Nas said, not looking at Saunders.

Freddie looked at Green, who managed a measly smile back. You could cut the atmosphere with a Post-It note. What did they think she was – just some stupid secretary banging out bloody spreadsheets?

‘Well done again, Freddie.’ Burgone released his Hollywood superstar smile. ‘The Gremlin team are behind you one hundred per cent on this.’

Yeah, waiting to trip me up.

Burgone paused as if they might applaud. No one moved. ‘Right, crack on then,’ he said.

Green made a show of picking up the phone and requesting to be put through to some woman. Saunders’s face was set in a scowl, and he slammed into his chair and started moving files noisily round his desk. Chips still hadn’t said anything.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Nas hissed at her side.

‘I only just found out myself.’ She didn’t feel like confessing this was all a clever ploy to keep her in full-time employment. Burgone had gone with the promotion line: she would too. ‘I’m not gonna tread on anyone’s toes – don’t worry.’

‘Right. So you’re off to the Jubilee for the rest of the day then?’ Nas had her chewing-a-wasp face on.

‘Actually, I was about to show you this.’ Freddie thrust her phone at Nas.

‘Show me on the way,’ Nas turned her back on her to grab her own phone.

‘You what?’ She caught Green looking at them and shot her an evil. Could no one in this bloody office bring themselves to say congrats?

Nas shoved an intelligence report at her so forcefully it folded against her top. ‘I was about to say before the guv came in –’ Nas’s voice wavered slightly over the word ‘guv’, and, forgetting her anger for a second, Freddie had a sudden urge to whisk her old friend out of here and away from the others. ‘The last officers to speak to Paul Robertson before he went to ground: guess who? Tibbsy and Moast.’

Freddie let go of the paper. ‘Shit,’ she muttered, then went to catch it quickly. DCI Moast and DS Tibbsy. Nas’s old team. It was like going back to the beginning: the first case that had thrown them all together. ‘The gang’s all back together, hey?’ Freddie hoped her voice sounded jokey.

‘You can go to training after we’ve found out if there’s anything else they know about Paul Robertson.’ Nas swung her handbag over her shoulder and stalked out.

‘Better catch up with teacher,’ Saunders said without looking up.

‘What’s wrong with you? Get out the wrong side of the rowing machine this morning?’ she shot back.

She heard Green snort as she pegged it after Nas. She needed her to read the condolence messages on Amber’s Facebook feed. She needed to start on the cellsite analysis – looking at who Paul and Amber called and texted before they disappeared. And she one hundred per cent needed Nas to not rock up at the Jubilee before Freddie could do some damage limitation post the L word bomb this morning. ‘I’ll meet you in the car park,’ she called to Nas’s back, as she neared the lift. ‘I’ve got to grab something from the shop!’

Before her friend could turn around, Freddie bolted for the stairs. She just needed a minute to think. To send a message: contain this morning’s fallout. Jesus, she hadn’t even had time to change her clothes since then. In her palm, the smiling photo of Amber on her phone bounced up and down as she ran down the steps. Maybe she was overreacting, but those messages had unnerved her. She knew Nas would likely dismiss it as conjecture, or her overactive imagination, so she needed more. She needed to build up a picture of Amber Robertson’s life. Rest In Peace. She couldn’t let anything else get in the way of this investigation. They needed to find the dark-haired girl.

Freddie

Freddie walked quickly through the air-conditioned reception of the anonymous Westminster office building that housed them and the other Special Ops teams. Perhaps she could call him? And say what? So you know you said you loved me and I ran away? Now me and Nas are headed to your station, and, well, funny story: I haven’t told her about you. She probably couldn’t cover that in a two-minute call, and she probably couldn’t cover it in a text either. She felt the heat of the sun as soon as the door opened: her skin prickled with the shock of going from cold to hot. Her vision quivered at the sides.

‘Ms Venton, Freddie!’ The voice made her jump. A tall woman in a purple sleeveless top and patterned cotton wide-legged trousers was coming down the street. ‘Freddie Venton? It is you, isn’t it?’

She recognised her. Beads woven into her braided bob glinted in the sunlight. She’d interviewed her for an article she was writing about the student protests. She was a teacher – very good on the impact of rising fees on working-class kids. What was her name?

‘Hi.’ She waved and started for the other side of the road. She didn’t need an audience while composing this message. Nas had already got her knickers in a twist over her new job, she didn’t need more aggro for keeping her waiting.

‘I don’t know if you remember me?’ The teacher reached her side, puffing slightly.

Freddie pasted a smile on her face. ‘Student protests, right? I’m in a rush, good to see you though.’

‘I’ve been looking for you.’ The woman glanced over her shoulder as if someone might be following her.

She was clutching her handbag strap so tight her knuckles were white. She looked spooked. ‘You all right?’ Freddie followed her gaze; the street was empty.

‘You’re a policewoman now, aren’t you?’

Freddie recognised the edge in her voice. Oh, great. She should have kept walking. ‘I’m not actually a police officer, no.’ Being berated for selling out to the police wasn’t on her fun things to do list.

‘But I saw you on the news? A few months ago, here. I found the pictures online.’ She grabbed hold of Freddie’s arm.

This was getting weird. Was she some kind of stalker? What would Nas do in this situation? Smile? Back away slowly? Arrest her?

Before Freddie could do anything the woman spoke again. ‘There’s a girl and you’ve got to help her.’ The hairs on Freddie’s neck stood up. The woman’s eyes were pressing, urgent, but she didn’t look nuts. Or like she was lying. She looked scared. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk? Please, Ms Venton.’

Freddie’s phone blared out the opening lyrics to KRS-One’s ‘Sound of da Police’: her personalised ring tone for Nas. She sent Nas to voicemail. ‘Café over there?’

‘Thank you.’ Relief sounded in the teacher’s voice. ‘You’re a good person.’

‘I wouldn’t go that far.’ Freddie’s nerve endings crackled. What was this about? ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t remember your name?’ Freddie headed to the indie greasy spoon on the corner.

The woman’s voice and demeanour was still tense. ‘It’s Kate.’

Nasreen

She couldn’t believe Burgone had just forwarded her the training manual for Freddie’s new role as Civilian Investigator without another word. It was a blank email. Not even an FYI. He’d promoted Freddie while he was ignoring her. Did he feel the same as Saunders: that she was now the team member you gave the rubbish jobs to?

You’re just being paranoid. You’re reading too much into this. It’s just a task, like any other. Look at it another way: he trusts you to train Freddie.

Or he thinks you’re the only one she’s likely to listen to. Perhaps taking one for the team – training Freddie – would help her get back in everyone else’s good books? And where the hell had Freddie got to anyway? They could have been on the road ages ago. She tried to wind the window down more; the pool car smelt like cheesy feet. She reread the scant intelligence report DCI Moast had filed about his stop and search on Paul Robertson. It had taken place last June, a month before Robertson and his daughter had disappeared. The last official interaction between the force and Robertson.

Her mobile beeped: Freddie’s name flashed up. Opening the message, Nasreen started with shock:

911. Meet me in the café on the corner.

911? Urgent? Her pulse quickened; she flung open the car door and took the stairs up to the street two at a time. Giulia’s Café was on the east corner. Freddie was sat in the window, talking to a casually dressed older black woman she didn’t recognise. Nasreen slowed. What was the emergency?

Freddie beckoned her in. ‘Nas – over here.’ She pulled over a red vinyl chair. ‘This is Kate: I worked with her when I was at the Guardian.’

Oh, no: press. She didn’t move towards the seat Freddie had positioned. ‘We’ve got an appointment we need to be getting to.’ How could Freddie imply this was a crisis?

Freddie lowered her voice. ‘Kate needs our help.’

‘I’m not talking to the media,’ Nasreen hissed back. They could be with Moast and Tibbsy now, making progress on a proper case. One she needed to deliver on.

Freddie’s eyebrows furrowed. ‘Kate’s a teacher. She’s seen a violent rape.’

‘What?’ A rape? Neither of them looked like they were joking. Nasreen hung her jacket on the back of the chair, sat down and extended a hand to the woman. ‘I’m DS Nasreen Cudmore.’

‘Thank you for agreeing to talk to me,’ Kate said.

She hadn’t really been given a choice. Freddie took a swig from her bottle of water.

‘Go back to the beginning,’ Nasreen said. ‘When was this? Where did you see it?’

‘I wrote down everything.’ Kate opened the black handbag that was on her lap and took out an A4 jotter. Nasreen could see paragraphs of neat blue writing. Dates. Times. Notes. And then she told them what had happened.

Nasreen studied Kate’s face as she talked. She maintained eye contact. Her delivery was clear, and without hysteria. She occasionally double-checked a time and the name of the account that had hosted the feed, but it seemed as though she wanted to ensure she got everything correct, rather than that she’d forgotten any details. She didn’t exhibit any of the usual tells you might see with those who were lying. When she finished, Nasreen spoke. ‘And you reported this?’

‘Immediately on Friday night,’ she said. ‘After I was sick,’ she added matter-of-factly.

Two days ago. ‘And what did they say?’

‘A PC Jones came to my house. He thought – well, he implied – that I had been confused.’

Freddie tutted.

‘I tried ringing the hospitals, but no one would tell me if the girl had been admitted. Because I’m not family,’ Kate said. ‘I’m a witness, aren’t I? And I keep thinking what if they just left her there and no one knows?’

Nasreen let her speak.

‘It was the early hours of Saturday morning by then. I’d had one glass of red wine, as I was working. That’s the ironic thing: I was only looking at the feed for research. I’m compiling a paper on sexual safety and the internet among teens for a conference in the autumn term,’ Kate said.

Nasreen had planned to ask why the woman had clicked onto a live stream video titled ‘Live Sex’. It was an oddity – apart from the assault – in what Kate had presented so far. ‘Freddie said you’re a teacher?’

‘Yes, I’m head of Hackney High.’ She still had hold of her notebook. ‘I’ve been there over thirty years. I was born locally, and I stayed. It’s my community. My kids mean everything to me.’

‘I interviewed Kate a few years back.’ Freddie had remained spellbound during Kate’s report, but now she was picking at the label on her bottle. ‘She won a TESA award for the work she does at her school. For turning their results around. She pioneered an outreach scheme to provide positive role models for kids from broken homes.’

‘I have a good relationship with a local constable, PC Scott. I tried to contact him, but he’s on holiday with his family in the Algarve for a fortnight,’ Kate said.

‘All right for some,’ Freddie said.

An award-winning head teacher who had turned around the reputation of an inner-city school. A fine upstanding member of the community who worked with the police. It lent validity to her claims about why she was watching that particular video. The Crown Prosecution would call that a good witness. There was no alteration in her voice or body posture when she spoke about either the video or her school. If she was a liar, she was a very good one. ‘Do you have kids of your own?’ Nasreen asked Kate.

‘No, I live alone,’ she answered.

Nasreen nodded again. ‘And you didn’t recognise either the woman or the man in the film?’

‘No,’ said Kate. ‘There were two men. One was behind the camera. They were boys really. The one I could see may have been nineteen, the one whose voice I could hear sounded younger than that.’

‘Would you be able to provide a description of the man and the woman who were visible to help make a photofit of them?’

‘I don’t know,’ Kate faltered.

That wasn’t unusual: most witnesses weren’t confident they’d be able to describe suspects they’d seen, especially when put on the spot. But when questioned correctly, they often came up with the goods.

‘We’ll do the photofits first then?’ Freddie had been typing notes into her phone as Kate was talking.

Nasreen bristled. ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. This isn’t our case, Freddie.’

Kate’s facial muscles tightened. ‘You don’t believe me either.’

‘It’s not that,’ Nasreen said. ‘It’s just that we can’t confirm that what you saw was real.’ Nasreen knew what Saunders or Chips would say. There was no evidence.

‘Come on, Nas,’ Freddie said. ‘Talk to Burgone, he’d listen to you.’

She doubted that very much. She wanted to help – this woman had obviously seen something awful – but they couldn’t police the world. ‘With the account deactivated, there’s no way to confirm the video feed was shot locally.’

‘It was London, it was tagged in London,’ said Kate.

‘That’s easily faked,’ Freddie said. ‘Annoyingly.’

‘It looked like local authority accommodation.’

‘You recognised it?’ Nasreen pushed.

‘No, it just had that feel.’ Kate was growing agitated. ‘I’ve travelled, I watch a lot of world cinema, everywhere has a different light. I know that light. I’ve been in flats like that. It was London, I’m certain of it.’

Nasreen sighed. ‘I’m really sorry, Kate, but everything you have given us is circumstantial. There’s no concrete evidence that a crime has been committed here.’

‘Someone must be looking for the girl?’ Kate insisted.

‘Yeah, people just don’t disappear, do they?’ Freddie said.

Well, they do actually. All the time. Nasreen tried to keep her face neutral. ‘I’ll run it through the Missing Persons Database: see if there’s anyone who’s been reported that matches the description you’ve given. And I’ll have someone check the hospitals.’ She didn’t hold out much hope.

‘That’s all we can do?’ Freddie said.

Nasreen didn’t look at her friend. She didn’t need her guilt-tripping her for this. A teen girl with those stab wounds would have stood out on the regular intelligence reports that were circulated among officers. She didn’t doubt that what the woman had seen was real, but it probably was filmed abroad. It was likely Kate had stumbled onto a particularly nasty element of the sex trade: a trafficked girl who’d been brutalised on camera. She didn’t want to make it worse by telling her that what she’d seen was probably a murder. A snuff movie. She looked at her watch. ‘Freddie, we better get going.’

‘That’s it?’ Kate said.

Nasreen felt sorry for the woman. ‘How have you been since the video? It must have been a very difficult thing to see.’

Kate’s lips thinned. ‘I haven’t been sleeping well, but I’m a tough old girl, really. I’ve had to be in my job.’

Nasreen didn’t doubt it. ‘I can recommend a grief counsellor, if you would like?’

‘I’d prefer to manage this myself.’ Kate gave a small conciliatory smile. ‘The doctor has given me some sleeping pills.’