Читать книгу Trust Me - Angela Clarke, Angela Clarke - Страница 19

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.’

Nasreen nodded. Good. She was handling this in the best way possible. Reluctantly she stood. ‘It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Kate,’ she said, holding out her hand to shake. She wanted to make it better. ‘If I can ever do anything else to help you, perhaps something to do with the school, do let me know.’

Kate clasped her hand. Kept eye contact. ‘Thank you, Sergeant. I appreciate the time you’ve taken today.’

She felt she’d failed the woman, as they left the café. ‘Ready?’ she asked Freddie, trying to sound upbeat. ‘Moast won’t be impressed if you’re late for this session.’

‘We could at least try Saunders?’ Freddie had a familiar stubborn look on her face.

Saunders already thought Nasreen was a waste of time, she wasn’t going to gift him more ammunition. ‘I can’t.’

‘It’s not right,’ Freddie said. ‘It’s not fair.’

‘Life’s not fair,’ Nasreen snapped. God, she sounded like her mother. When did that happen? Six months ago she might have tried harder, but she’d been burned since then. Caring too much didn’t lead you to make the best decisions. She had to be less emotional, more like Saunders. Maybe in a few years, when she’d recovered some ground, when her career was more stable, she could help the Kates of the world. But not now.

Freddie was aggressively chewing her lip, looking at her phone. Nasreen could tell she was disappointed with her. ‘I need a piss.’

‘Right. I’ll meet you in the car park?’ Freddie had to understand Nasreen couldn’t do anything? She had to appreciate the difficult position she was in?

Freddie didn’t reply, simply picked up pace as if she wanted to shake Nasreen off. Nasreen let her go. Turning, she could see Kate, still sat at the table by the window. Her head was bowed, as if in prayer. Her face was drawn, almost pained. A saying Freddie’s gran always used came to her mind: She looked like she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders.