Читать книгу Watch Me - Angela Clarke, Angela Clarke - Страница 15

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.