Watch Me

by Angela Clarke

  ‘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.

  Chapter 6

  Tuesday 15 March

  11:00

  ‘And how does that make you feel?’ Amanda, tight grey curls hugging her face
, tipped her head to the side.

  Freddie Venton stopped looking at the framed counselling qualifications on the boxy magnolia walls and stared at the woman. ‘Are you taking the piss?’

  ‘What makes you ask that, Freddie?’ Amanda’s hands rested on her notes like primed mousetraps.

  ‘Bit of a shrink cliché.’ It smelt of patchouli in here. Or what she imagined patchouli smelt like. There was a loaded box of tissues on the low pine table between them, and Freddie couldn’t get comfortable on her inoffensive cream chair. Amanda continued to gaze at her. Great. They were going to play this game again. Amanda – call me Mandy – was one of those counsellors who liked to give their clients time to talk. Freddie had had counselling before – who hadn’t? – but she preferred the proactive CBT approach. She didn’t want to talk about her relationship with her hamster as a child, or whatever. She just wanted to be able to sleep at nights. Or during the day. She wasn’t fussy. The scar on her head, still spiky with stitches the doctors kept promising would dissolve, throbbed. ‘Look, I don’t want to waste your time or anything.’ God knows the NHS had better things to spend their money on than paying this woman for a staring contest for fifty minutes once a fortnight.

  ‘I’m not a shrink, as you call it, Freddie,’ said Mandy.

  ‘Head doctor then. Psychiatrist. Quack.’ This room was like her first-year halls at uni. Pine bookshelves stood to attention, proudly displaying Amanda’s only redeeming factor: she had some Naomi Wolf books. Feminist icon. It’d lured her into a false sense of security. She should have clocked there were no windows in here and left straight away. Was that a counsellor thing? Nothing to distract you from your emotional trauma? Or nothing for you to jump from? She’d only ticked the box saying she felt suicidal at the GP so they’d hurry up and give her her meds back.

  ‘I’m a counsellor, Freddie. As you know. Do you not want to talk about how you’re feeling?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Why are you here, Freddie?’

  ‘You know why I’m here.’ Everyone knew. She’d made the front page of every national newspaper: Social Media Murder Mayhem! Newsnight had done a special on it.

  ‘I know that you were nearly killed. That you had emergency brain surgery. That since then you’ve been recovering at your parents’ home. And that you haven’t been back to London since,’ said Amanda. The trump card.

  Freddie started counting the books, noting the colour of the spines: one blue, two white, three white, four red …

  ‘Did you think any more about contacting your old friend, Gemma?’ said Amanda.

  Freddie rolled her eyes. She knew it’d been a dumb idea. Why would Gemma want to speak to her after everything that happened? Five yellow, six white … Did publishers get a cheap deal on white covers or something?

  ‘You did ask to attend counselling, Freddie. There must be a part of you that wants to talk about what happened?’

  ‘I’m only here because my doctor won’t sign off on meds unless I show up.’

  ‘I see.’ Amanda looked sad. Disappointed.

  Freddie sighed. ‘Look, I’m not trying to be difficult, I’m sure you’re a very good therapist. It’s just that I don’t need to talk. I just need to be able to sleep.’ Something caught the corner of her eye, a dark shadow flashing across the edge of the room. She turned, but there was nothing there. It was just her and Amanda and a box of Kleenex. She casually let go of the cushion she’d clutched in mild panic.

  Amanda frowned. ‘Does the thought of not having your sleeping pills frighten you?’

  Well, duh. Without them, any sleep she got was full of the face she feared. ‘It’s like I said to the GP: if you found a drug that let you sleep, which let you get up, live, eat, do normal things, then you wouldn’t want to stop taking it, would you?’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘She,’ Freddie said.

  ‘What did she say?’ pressed Amanda.

  The ballsy girl who’d worked in Espress-oh’s coffee shop, the one who was a promising journalist and walked round Dalston like she owned it, had vanished. A heavy, dusty curtain had been dropped across her life. And she was too frightened to pull it back, in case there was nothing left on the other side. ‘The doctor said I had to come here to see you, Mandy.’

  ‘And how did that make you feel?’

  Chapter 7

  Wednesday 16 March

  10:45

  T – 22 hrs 45 mins

  ‘Thanks.’ Nasreen hung up the phone. That decided it then. She didn’t have a choice. She was going to have to take a gamble. For that’s what it was: a roll of the dice. It could go well, or it could go badly. Very badly.

  Saunders had his back turned, speaking on the phone, writing notes in his barely legible scrawl. He didn’t trust her. Better to try Chips.

  He was sitting at his desk. ‘Sir, can I have a word?’ she asked quietly, the printouts tucked under her arm.

  ‘Aye, lass.’ He didn’t look up.

  ‘In private?’

  That got his attention. His eyes flicked to Burgone, who was back at his desk. She shook her head: No, it’s not that. We haven’t found a body. Yet.

  He nodded, stuck the pen he was using behind his ear, and followed her out of the room.

  Chips looked up and down the empty hallway. ‘This private enough?’ He had a way of softening his voice, and tilting his head so he was looking down at her as he talked, some feat given they were the same height. Gently patronising: it was how she imagined he talked to his grandkids.

  She nodded. Not sure where to start. How to start. ‘You know I worked on the Hashtag Murderer case?’

  ‘We all know that, lass.’ A mild look of exasperation spread across his jovial face, as if to say, Now is not the time for an ego stroke, young lady.

  Chips wasn’t a career cop interested in office politics, so no point playing games. He was focused on bringing those responsible to justice. Stick to the facts; get to the point. ‘The killer used an alias online,’ said Nasreen. ‘He called himself Apollyon.’

  Chips took the biro out from behind his ear and popped the top off. ‘I read the newspapers at the time, and your report when you arrived.’

  ‘Did you?’ It was a surprise: he’d never shown much interest.

  ‘I like to know who I’m working with, Nasreen.’

  ‘Yes, sorry, sir.’ He’d made her feel childish again. Of course he’d want to know what his new colleagues had worked on before. She thrust the printouts forward. ‘Look at this.’

  ‘The suicide notes?’ His fleshy hands wrapped around them. The skin of his finger had bubbled up around his wedding ring, fusing the smooth gold band into his flesh.

  ‘The first letter of each of the words of Lottie’s, and the letters at the beginning of each line of Chloe Strofton’s note. They spell …’

  ‘Apollyon. Well blow me.’ He frowned at pages. ‘Are you thinking there might be a link between this case and the Hashtag Killer case?’

  Yes. And it’s me. I’m the link. I’m connected to both these people. ‘It’s possible. Someone’s gone to a lot of trouble to spell these notes out. Would Chloe and Lottie do that themselves?’

  ‘So you’re thinking if someone else wrote and sent the note from the other lass’s phone as well, it might not have been suicide after all?’ He flipped between the pages.

  ‘Exactly. Then whoever did that might be the same person who has Lottie.’

  ‘But there’s nothing in the file to suggest foul play?’

  ‘The investigating force had no reason to think it wasn’t suicide,’ said Nasreen. ‘They didn’t have the note at the time.’ Chips blew air through his teeth. Nasreen pushed. ‘If it was your daughter missing, would you follow it up?’ His eyes flew up, angry. She’d gone too far. But if her gut was right, and this person was targeting their team because of Nasreen’s presence in it, then it could have been her younger sister, it could have been Chips’s daughter, it could have been any one of them sn
atched. ‘I’d like to go back over the Chloe Strofton case, speak to her family, see if there was anyone new in her life, anyone acting suspiciously. The local force won’t have been asking those questions first time round.’ Could she really sit across from Gemma and her parents and look them in the eye while she asked about Chloe? This is your chance to make it better, Nasreen.

  ‘No. You can’t go upsetting the poor lass’s family and hinting their daughter’s death was suspicious. Not without something more concrete.’

  He was right, of course. For a moment she felt relief. Then reality smacked back. Lottie was still missing. ‘But I could speak to the girl’s friends discreetly, those who received the note. The report said she’d recently broken it off with a boyfriend – I could speak to him? I could go to her school? The teachers would count as responsible adults. See if there’s anything there?’

  Chips was still looking at the notes, chewing on his cheek. ‘You can go, but make it quick. If there’s nothing in it I want you back here and helping Saunders and me.’

  He was trusting her with this. She knew what she had to do, but the thought of threatening this newfound fragile pact snagged the words in her throat. ‘I’m going to need help.’

  ‘Green can go with you. Take a pool car.’ Chips straightened; the conversation was over.

  What did she think of Green? Could she be trusted? Anything was better than having Morris along. You’re doing this for Burgone, remember. ‘I’m going to need more than that, sir. I need a second pair of eyes: someone else who knows the Apollyon case inside out. To bounce ideas off. I’d like to bring in Freddie Venton.’

  ‘The civilian who worked on the Hashtag case?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘No chance. What about your former DCI?’