Watch Me

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: [e-mail]

From: [e-mail]

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.