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

‘You going to invite me in?’ Nas’s face looked as it always had: high cheekbones carved into flawless skin, brown eyes sparkling, dark hair hanging in a velvet tuile from her hairband. Beautiful, but detached. There was something new in her eyes: a nervousness, a quick sweep from one side of the room to the other, as if she was scanning the horizon, checking the exits. Then it was gone, replaced with the face Freddie knew Nas used to greet the general public. Warm, effusive, persuasive.

‘What you doing here?’ It was the middle of the day. Why wasn’t Nas at work? This was a long way from the East End’s Jubilee police station. Skyscrapers cut like a bookmark through the pages of her memory. Highlighting moments of pain. That’s far away. You’re safe here. Safe.

‘I need to talk to you.’ Nas’s gaze flickered to her hand, and Freddie realised she was gripping the door handle so tight her knuckles were stretched white. She let go.

‘You best come in then.’ She led her into the spotless lounge. Her mum’s OCD hung in the air, mingling with the smell of polish. Trying to scrub out the stains in her life. ‘Bit different from my usual style.’ She tried to sound lighthearted, but saw Nas take in the perfectly spaced ornaments on the dresser. Did she remember when Dad broke them all? Smashed them while Freddie and Nas told ghost stories by torchlight under a duvet; Nas scared, Freddie flippant about the shouts and screams coming from downstairs. As if it was normal. In a way it was. That was a long time ago. Different house. Different ornaments. Different life.

They sat on the dark brown leather DFS sofas, facing each other. Nas perched on the edge of her seat, still in her coat, her hands clasped in her lap. Her nails shiny with clear polish. Freddie glanced at her own mismatched pyjamas. Nas looked at her scar. It throbbed in response. It’s all in my mind. ‘Do you want a cup of tea or something?’

‘No. Thank you.’ Nasreen smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes, as if she were talking to a child. She was uneasy in her presence. ‘How are you doing, Freddie?’

‘Nightmares, no sleep, I’m trapped in suburbia, you know.’ It was supposed to be a joke, but her words were brittle, cracking ice underfoot. A car drove past outside, the rumble of the engine underscoring the silence that engulfed the room. Freddie’s breathing sounded loud, a rasping echo of the car’s exhaust.

Nas shuffled in her seat, her polished heels squeaking against each other. She cleared her throat. ‘I need your help. With a case.’

‘No.’ Freddie was shocked at the word. She hadn’t planned to say it. It felt as though someone was speaking through her, someone she’d forgotten existed. How dare Nas just show up and say that! How dare she just walk in and act as if nothing had happened. She wanted her gone. Standing, she caught the edge of the veneered coffee table with her knee. A weird, unfamiliar feeling spread through her. Pain. A short, sharp stab. She felt it. She was thawing. Melting. Her body tried to override it. ‘Well, if you don’t want a drink, then …’ She wanted to shout: We’re done. We’re finished. Get out! But she’d sound crazy. Was she going crazy? Maybe. Maybe she already had. But she didn’t want to show Nas that. ‘I think I’ll make myself a coffee.’

Nas didn’t move. Freddie could see what was dancing around behind her eyes when she’d scanned the room: desperation.

She was supposed to be safe here. Hidden. No one would think to look in a suburban backwater. Down a winding country lane. What’s out there? She could feel the isolation of the house. All four walls exposed to the elements. Is he back? ‘I can’t,’ she said, her hand shooting to her forehead. Her scar felt coarse and bumpy: a warning to never get too close again.

Nas produced a brown envelope and placed a photo of a smiling blonde girl on the coffee table. Don’t look at it. ‘This is Chloe. On Friday, 12 March at 8 p.m. she sent this photo of her suicide note via Snapchat to her friends and sisters.’ Nas pulled a photo of a printed letter from the envelope. Freddie walked to the bay window; straightened her parents’ 1970s wedding photo.

Nas continued, unperturbed. ‘The note warned that the body would not be found until twenty-four hours later.’ Freddie looked at her mum’s smile. So happy. So long ago. Before life had taken all hope from her. ‘At just after 8 p.m. on Saturday, 13 March, Chloe’s body was found in Wildhill Wood.’

‘I’m sorry for the girl, Nas. Course I am. But it’s nothing to do with me.’ All her edges felt raw, as if every nerve ending had been exposed. She needed her to leave.

The leather of the sofa creaked. ‘Chloe was Gemma’s sister.’

Freddie spun, catching her parents’ photo; it clattered backwards against the windowsill. ‘Why tell me this? Haven’t you put me through enough?’

‘This morning at 9.30 a.m. a second Snapchat suicide note was received from Lottie Burgone.’ Nas’s tone was calm.

Freddie picked up the photo, slamming the frame down onto the wood.

‘We have reason to suspect someone might have taken Lottie. Look at the note. It sounds like a threat.’ Nas thrust two photos at her.

She grabbed them so they wouldn’t fall. ‘I can’t.’ Her eyes scanned the words. I feel calmer …. the right thing … the pain will fade.

‘She’s eighteen, Freddie.’ Nas dragged her palm back over her hair.

The words pulled on Freddie’s eyes. You have 6 seconds to read this and 24 hours to save the girl’s life. Nas said 9.30 a.m. Over three hours ago. I can’t.

‘Lottie’s the sister of my new boss.’ Nas shook her head, as if it wasn’t real.

‘I’m sorry.’ Freddie handed the photos back. She didn’t want to touch them. Didn’t want to know this. She just wanted to be left alone. Freddie saw the shadows under Nas’s eye make-up. She saved your life. You owe her. I can’t … An eighteen-year-old girl … Gemma’s sister. Gemma, who told you never to contact her again. Her chest constricted, her windpipe closing. The words, the images, started to tumble down on her. Freddie turned away. Stared out the window. One leaf, two, three, four, five …

Nas gathered up the photos – Gemma’s dead sister – and put them back in the envelope. Outside the light started to shift, a slow descent into the shadows. ‘You don’t need me. You’ve got cops. Trained professionals.’ Freddie wasn’t sure who she was talking to. ‘I’m seeing a counsellor. She wouldn’t like this. I’m not ready.’ The fields around her parents’ house stretched away from the single-track road. If she listened hard, blocked everything else out, she could just make out the motorway.