Watch Me Page 2

  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 bot
h 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.’