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Trust Me
Angela Clarke
Литагент HarperCollins
ANGELA CLARKE
Trust Me
The Social Media Murders
Copyright (#u3dbcae0d-5619-5ece-aea5-81e84a10a096)
Published by Avon
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
The News Building
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2017
Copyright © Angela Clarke 2017
Angela Clarke asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008174644
Ebook Edition © June 2017 ISBN: 9780008174651
Version: 2017-05-11
Praise for Angela Clarke (#u3dbcae0d-5619-5ece-aea5-81e84a10a096)
‘Written in the sharpest style, [Follow Me] races along, leaving the reader almost as breathless as the heroine – but there is a verve to it that is impossible to resist… Clarke is certainly someone to watch’
Daily Mail
‘Watch Me is another zinging thriller in this social media crime series from Angela Clarke… Smart, sassy and totally on point, following Nas and Freddie’s investigations is a must’
Sarah Pinborough, author of Behind Her Eyes
‘Starts with heart-pounding intent, and then the excitement intensifies…’
Sharon Bolton, author of Daisy in Chains
‘Fast paced and full of excitement, it’s hard to know where each chapter will take you in this thoroughly unpredictable ride. It kept me gripped and I cannot wait for the third instalment to see what happens next’
Katerina Diamond, bestselling author of The Teacher and The Secret
‘The clock is ticking in Angela Clarke’s excellent new novel Watch Me. Creepy, clever and unnerving; you won’t ever want to log on again’
C. L. Taylor, author of The Missing
‘I loved this! An utterly addictive, gripping thriller’
Robert Bryndza, author of international number one bestseller The Girl in the Ice
‘Stylish, pacy and packs a bruising punch’
Sarah Hilary, author of the DI Marnie Rome series
‘A sharp, punchy, fast-paced thriller, that will keep you hooked until the very last page’
Casey Kelleher, author of Bad Blood
‘Fast, feminist and sharp as a knife. Just ripped through Watch Me by Angela Clarke and recommend you do the same. If you dare’
Anna Mazzola, author of The Unseeing
‘Ingenious, fast-paced and full of dark wit. This is crime writing with attitude’
Mark Edwards, bestselling author of Follow You Home
‘An utterly compelling, brilliantly plotted tale that expertly ramps up the tension and drags the reader in as the pages turn and the clock ticks down’
Neil Broadfoot, author of All the Devils
‘A very contemporary nightmare, delivered with panache’
Independent
‘Freddie is a magnificently monstrous character’
Saturday Review, BBC Radio 4
‘Clarke has made an appealing flawed female lead who’ll make immediate sense to readers who enjoyed Rachel in The Girl on the Train. An invigorating cat-and-mouse game, with a dark and filthy wit that deliciously spikes the regular drenchings of gore’
Crime Scene Magazine
‘Slick and clever’
Sun
‘Set in a London of East End hipsters, Tinder hook-ups, and internships, this tongue-in-cheek tale explores murder in the age of social media’
Sunday Mirror
‘A chilling debut’
Hello
‘Puts complex women and their stories front and centre’
The Pool
‘Angela Clarke brings dazzling wit and a sharp sense of contemporary life to a fast-paced serial killer novel with serious style’
Jane Casey, author of the Maeve Kerrigan series
‘In Follow Me, Clarke creates a completely compelling world, and a complex heroine. Freddie is refreshing and fascinating – a credible addition to the crime canon and a great alternative for anyone who has grown frustrated with the male dominated world of the whodunnit. Follow Me is literally gripping – the tension levels were forcing me to clutch the book so hard that my hands hurt!’
Daisy Buchanan, Grazia
‘A fascinating murder mystery and a dark, ironic commentary on modern social media’
Paul Finch, author of Stalkers
‘Clarke turns social media into a terrifyingly dark place. You won’t look at your accounts the same way again. I was hooked and couldn’t stop turning the pages. With a memorable and unique protagonist, Clarke explores the phenomenon of (social media) celebrity while tapping into your fears’
Rebecca Bradley, author of Shallow Waters
‘Pacey, gripping, and so up-to-the-minute you better read it quick!’
Claire McGowan, author of The Fall
Dedication (#u3dbcae0d-5619-5ece-aea5-81e84a10a096)
For Claire McGowan, with thanks.
(Will people think we’re at it now, like Bront? and Thackeray?)
Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.
T. S. Eliot
Table of Contents
Cover (#ua44724f0-9eff-5569-a72d-c70ecdac57a9)
Title Page (#u262d52c5-960f-5fb4-ac37-14dad296f294)
Copyright (#ufde2edd9-0f90-544e-b3e3-3b87443870df)
Praise for Angela Clarke (#ud8dcc2b4-db97-5f18-a6b3-659f4342f57a)
Dedication (#ue405d4fa-1ab6-5a39-85ce-e5014dc0fbbd)
Epigraph (#u7c81dff2-9074-575a-ac31-e237cb010196)
Amber (#u11b06149-9e9b-57f2-963f-fce704b17258)
Kate (#u72c769ff-1b3b-5e04-bfb7-9a9e22b92a73)
Freddie (#uee928d7b-3f48-50dc-b499-14870f9ee866)
Nasreen (#u1f1cd60d-06c3-5838-95a5-b7cf3120fd54)
Freddie (#u33ffd64d-0321-5d1b-b3ef-00662247643b)
A (#ude5708d6-1e24-59a5-ac76-e34af3a6cebd)
Kate (#u49249f84-5796-5432-bfe9-fcd3a5f68c96)
A (#u4bf3da51-e588-5fb3-8ffa-ec67adac41ab)
Freddie (#u8282d673-9b24-5a8e-b65e-362740d5c03a)
Freddie (#u4654006d-2796-548a-8094-8370c115c8f2)
Nasreen (#u94fc8820-bfc0-56d7-b344-223463696784)
Kate (#ufb69c00a-3efc-5c0f-8fef-3d775e51084b)
Nigel (#ub8cb8350-64fe-5048-9ee7-9984c69e8709)
Nasreen (#u3cc6a005-bbd0-5a68-adce-00e2d2715715)
Freddie (#ua25f1b59-a958-51dc-b5ce-7be7c340e689)
Nasreen (#u2d3bf8db-3f70-5a66-90ef-42405b3ad37e)
Kate (#u8b0d0dc9-3df7-5aef-a8c9-7ed0658c7fa2)
A (#u80c2e9d0-20f0-56f8-9cea-0db6c9cc4896)
Kate (#uce44bd13-4c05-57a7-a787-3375602ba027)
Nasreen (#u70619236-e6f3-509a-b70b-5e38ca43714e)
Nasreen (#litres_trial_promo)
A (#litres_trial_promo)
Nasreen (#litres_trial_promo)
Paul (#litres_trial_promo)
Freddie (#litres_trial_promo)
Freddie (#litres_trial_promo)
Kate (#litres_trial_promo)
Nasreen (#litres_trial_promo)
Freddie (#litres_trial_promo)
Freddie (#litres_trial_promo)
Amber (#litres_trial_promo)
Kate (#litres_trial_promo)
Nigel (#litres_trial_promo)
A (#litres_trial_promo)
Freddie (#litres_trial_promo)
Freddie (#litres_trial_promo)
Kate (#litres_trial_promo)
Nasreen (#litres_trial_promo)
Kate (#litres_trial_promo)
Freddie (#litres_trial_promo)
Nasreen (#litres_trial_promo)
Nasreen (#litres_trial_promo)
Freddie (#litres_trial_promo)
Freddie (#litres_trial_promo)
Kate (#litres_trial_promo)
Nasreen (#litres_trial_promo)
Freddie (#litres_trial_promo)
Nasreen (#litres_trial_promo)
Nasreen (#litres_trial_promo)
Freddie (#litres_trial_promo)
A (#litres_trial_promo)
Freddie (#litres_trial_promo)
A (#litres_trial_promo)
Nasreen (#litres_trial_promo)
Nasreen (#litres_trial_promo)
A (#litres_trial_promo)
Nasreen (#litres_trial_promo)
Freddie (#litres_trial_promo)
Nasreen (#litres_trial_promo)
Kate (#litres_trial_promo)
Nasreen (#litres_trial_promo)
Freddie (#litres_trial_promo)
Nasreen (#litres_trial_promo)
Freddie (#litres_trial_promo)
Nasreen (#litres_trial_promo)
Nasreen (#litres_trial_promo)
Freddie (#litres_trial_promo)
Nasreen (#litres_trial_promo)
Freddie (#litres_trial_promo)
Nasreen (#litres_trial_promo)
Freddie (#litres_trial_promo)
Nasreen (#litres_trial_promo)
Freddie (#litres_trial_promo)
Nasreen (#litres_trial_promo)
Freddie (#litres_trial_promo)
Nasreen (#litres_trial_promo)
Freddie (#litres_trial_promo)
Nasreen (#litres_trial_promo)
Freddie (#litres_trial_promo)
Kate (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
Reading Group Questions (#litres_trial_promo)
Q&A With Angela Clarke (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Angela Clarke (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Amber (#u3dbcae0d-5619-5ece-aea5-81e84a10a096)
Hurriedly she opened her wardrobe, pulling her coat from the hanger and shoving it into her bag. She had minutes at most. Panic burnt through her body. Every fibre felt like it had been stripped raw. Tears welled up and over her eyelids, splashing onto the carpet. She tried not to snivel. There was still a chance to get away. She made it to the hallway before she remembered the photo. Her heart squeezed. She couldn’t live without it. Not now. Running back into her bedroom, she reached for the frame on her bedside table.
A noise sounded behind her. A thud, and then the front door opening. She froze. Held her breath. Her hand outstretched. Shaking. Her heart hammering in her ears.
Too late.
New message:
Wanna go to a party?
Going to be bangin.
Trust me.
Kate (#u3dbcae0d-5619-5ece-aea5-81e84a10a096)
The table is shaking. Kate realises she’s gripping it. She is shaking. The video on the computer screen is jerky. Handheld. Shot from a mobile. Live. It’s a room: square and shabby. A single bulb hanging from the ceiling. Beer bottles and empty cans brimming over with cigarette ends colonise the space. She can’t see any windows. But there’s a closed door in the background. Is it locked?Two crude drawings – an animal and a circle – have been spray-painted in black onto the back wall. A stripped, stained duvet has been made into a hasty bed. Her brain can’t – won’t – process what she’s seeing. It’s like something blunt-edged is smashing into her, trying to gouge out the fear that’s been buried under decades of safety, food, shelter and scatter cushions. But it’s there. It’s coming. An innate force within her. She recognises danger. Fight or flight. She says the words over and over in her head, until she realises it’s a command: fight or flight! Kate doesn’t move. She doesn’t make a sound.She is watching it happen.
A voice on the video shouts: ‘Like up the post! Get this to one thousand likes!’
He sounds like one of the boys from her class. Young. Excitable. A child.
The girl on the screen turns to look at the camera. Her eyes focus in recognition. They look past the lens. Out. Realising. Pleading. They’re looking straight at Kate. Fight or flight? The girl twists, tries to push herself up on her elbows. The man forces her down. His slim muscular back is turned toward the camera. Kate can’t see his face.
‘No!’ The girl manages.
She said no.
The girl’s speech is slurred. ‘You’re hurting me. Please. No.’
Kate reaches toward her. Her fingers futilely prod the screen. Push her laptop. She is at home. In her house. Watching this. Where is this being filmed? Somebody must hear the girl’s shouts? Someone must stop this.
Comments from viewers float up over the feed:
They’re so young lmao
She a slut!!
She said no. This is rape.
This is rape.
‘Just one more!’ the man shouts. Man? His skin is smooth, hairless, young. The girl jerks back. Claws at his face. Kicks her legs.
She said no.
He slaps the girl hard. The noise a loud crack. She’s flung sideways. There’s a scream. Is it the girl? Is it the man? Is it Kate? The girl scrabbles, swings up, punches him in the face. A fighter. She’s a fighter.
The camera judders. Lurches up. ‘Hey?’ calls the voice from behind. Unsure. Young, she’s convinced now.
‘Skank!’ The man roars, grabbing a bottle. A glass bottle. He smashes it down at the girl. Her face. Her hands. Frenzied. Slashing. There’s screaming. Blood. The camera convulses. The boy’s voice grows frantic. She can’t make out what he’s saying.
The man swipes toward the camera. ‘Turn that off!’ She sees his blood-splattered face. And the video feed goes dead.
Kate pushes away from her dining table, away from the computer. She stumbles, grabs the doorframe. Vomits. Liquid smacks the vinyl kitchen floor. Again. Again. She’s shaking. Cold. Bile. Retching. Then she drags herself, shuddering, teeth chattering, to her phone. Pulls it down to her. Dials 999.
‘Hello, emergency service operator, which service do you require? Fire, police or ambulance?’ It’s a woman; she sounds calm.
Kate’s voice bubbles from her throat, as if someone is speaking through her. She forces the words out. ‘Police. You’ve got to get to her. She said no. Someone needs to get there. You’ve got to…’
‘Where are you calling from, ma’am? What is the nature of your emergency?’
Kate blinks as if her own eyelids are heavy, weighted with blood.
‘I’ve just seen a young woman raped – stabbed. There’s a lot of blood. Please: you’ve got to help her!’
Freddie (#u3dbcae0d-5619-5ece-aea5-81e84a10a096)
Oh my God. She shook her head. No way was she gonna move in with him. She was only twenty-four. Was he crazy? She had her whole life ahead of her.
‘I think you’ve got the wrong idea.’ Freddie swung her legs over the side of the bed.
‘What do you mean?’ he said.
She’d let him get too comfortable. She’d got too comfortable. ‘This – us, like it’s fun and stuff, but no.’ She thought of her parents’ wedding photo: her mum twenty-four years old in her lacy white dress. Each time her dad smashed the frame during a drunken rage, her mum just replaced it without mentioning it.
‘No?’ He sat up, the duvet falling off his naked body. ‘What have the last few months been then? You’ve stayed the last twelve nights and you’re saying this is just – what? A fling?’ His eyes were wide. Stung.
Shit. She’d let her guard down. She didn’t want to be a jerk. ‘You know I’ve been sofa-surfing for months.’ She grabbed yesterday’s knickers from the floor, turned them inside out. ‘This has just been temporary, while I find new digs.’
‘You’ve been fucking me because it’s convenient?’
It wasn’t like it was all one-sided. ‘You’ve had perks too.’ He was thinking with his dick.
‘Thanks a fucking lot, Freddie!’ His cheeks burned red.
Anger she could deal with. She pulled her bag open. ‘Where’s all my stuff?’
‘I gave you a drawer.’ He pointed at the Ikea set under the telly and Xbox. His bottom lip shook.
‘You gave me a drawer?’ No one has ever made space for you before, Freddie. That must mean something.
‘Don’t you like staying here?’ He reached to brush back the frizzy curtain of hair that had fallen over her face.
Yes. She couldn’t breathe. She needed to get out of there. ‘It’s not that.’
‘You don’t like me then?’ He let his hand fall back against the blue duvet.
‘Course I like you.’ She dived at the drawer. Quicker would be better. Pulled it open, started scooping her stuff into her bag.
‘Then why don’t you stay?’ He was up now, moving toward her. His arms wrapped round her as he kissed along her naked shoulder, her neck. She felt her body give under his touch, as one hand ran over her shoulder, circled her nipple. The air in the room was hot, foetid. August was gradually turning the heat up on London. Smothering them. She would hurt him. Hurt them both. Be strong, Freddie.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, pushing him away. ‘I can’t do this.’
His arms dropped. He stepped backwards. She didn’t look. This is for the best.
‘But…’ His voice wavered. ‘I think I’m falling for you.’
She froze.
‘I love you, Freddie,’ he said.
Freddie swept the last of her things into her bag and ran. She clattered out of the flat, pausing at the foot of the communal staircase to pull on her vest and shorts. Her heart was screaming at her to go back. Be strong. She heard him stumbling for his jeans, his keys, calling after her. She bolted out into the street; the sunlight wrapped itself around her in a stifling embrace. Happy bloody Monday.
Nasreen (#u3dbcae0d-5619-5ece-aea5-81e84a10a096)
‘Thanks to Freddie, we’ve got a new lead,’ DI Chips, too old-school to bother with new-fangled office politics, rested two meaty hands on Freddie’s shoulders and gave her a grandfatherly squeeze of pride. Nasreen doubted he’d ever been this fond of an Intelligence Analyst before. In fact, she doubted he’d ever spoken to one before.
Freddie had been recruited to the Gremlin cyber-crime team after consulting on some high-profile cases; she was internet savvy, analytical, unorthodox, outspoken, and Nasreen’s old school friend. And, despite Nasreen’s stellar fast-track performance at Hendon College, and her further three years of experience in the Met, it was Freddie who looked at home here. Chips was beaming at her. ‘Tell us what you’ve got, lass?’
Freddie hiked her ripped denim shorts up as she stood.
‘You could’ve dressed for the occasion,’ DI Saunders straightened his own stiff white shirt cuffs. Not a hair out of place.
‘I have,’ Freddie replied. ‘It’s too bloody hot for anything else.’
Nasreen envied Freddie’s carefree attitude, even if she didn’t approve of it. The newspaper front pages blazed with the incoming heatwave, and she’d had to dry the sweat patches on her own suit under the hand drier this morning.
‘I’ve been looking at intelligence reports of activity we know is linked to the Spice Road website.’ Freddie handed round a series of reports filed by arresting officers across the force. The Spice Road was an Amazon-style website on the dark net where you could order anything at the click of a button. They could see the drugs, weapons, and sometimes people being sold and bought on the site, but couldn’t see who they were coming from or going to. ‘Each of those observed, questioned or charged for delivery of these drugs in these cases belong to the THM,’ Freddie said.
‘Tower Hamlets Massive, the Poplar gang?’ DC Green’s freckled skin was flushed. Despite being the newest member of the team, she’d clocked how big this was.
‘We didn’t know that the THM gang were linked to Spice Road.’ Freddie sounded excited. Perhaps she’d been working on this when she’d blown Green and her partner’s barbecue off at the weekend? Nasreen had been left talking to their gawky accountant neighbour. She had the terrible feeling they’d hoped she would see him again.
‘The highest ranking THM member we’ve come across is a guy called Paul Robertson.’ Saunders put a photo of a white guy, shaven-headed and sunken-eyed, on the wall. ‘Robertson served time for the manslaughter of Rhys Trap, a key member from rival gang the Dogberry Boys. An act we think was a test to prove his loyalty to those who run THM – the brothers Rodriguez.’
Nasreen knew all about the Rodriguez family. ‘The brothers haven’t been seen in public for over five years.’
‘We suspect they’re running the operation from Spain,’ Chips said.
‘Gotta love the Internet,’ Freddie said. ‘You can work from anywhere.’
‘We had a trace on Robertson until a year ago when he vanished,’ Chips said.
‘You think he’s in Spain too?’ Nasreen asked.
‘No sightings and nothing flagged on any of the borders.’ Saunders still wasn’t looking directly at her. She’d been deskbound for the last six months, and could guess she was about to get the worst job. Again.
Saunders took another sip from his morning protein shake. ‘Robertson is wanted in connection with several drug-dealing cases and an armed robbery in Bracknell. The drugs squad had a trail on him when he disappeared.’
‘Someone had a bad day in the office,’ said Chips. They all laughed.
The door opened and DCI Burgone entered. Nasreen’s laughter turned into a cough. She stared at the ground, though she wanted nothing more than to look into his blue eyes. Freddie, Chips and Green were still laughing, but she could feel Saunders watching her.
‘Sorry I’m late.’ Burgone’s classic Queen’s English tone instantly restored order. As he was the governing officer, Freddie would have reported her discovery to Burgone before she spoke to Saunders. ‘Carry on, Pete.’ Burgone took the nearest chair, the one next to her. His amber scent beckoned her closer.
Don’t look.Act natural. Closing her eyes, Nasreen was back to that night: her hands in his thick dark hair, his hand cupping her chin, their lips meeting. She snapped her eyes open. It had been six months since she’d had a one-night stand with her boss. Six months since the rest of the team found out. Six months since she’d been lucky to hang on to her job.
Saunders cleared his throat. ‘Paul Robertson is our best shot of getting to the Rodriguez brothers, and ultimately it’s them who are running the Spice Road.’ He paused to pull another photo from his file. ‘Paul Robertson has a daughter, Amber Robertson, who disappeared at the same time as her father.’ A chill passed over Nasreen. Saunders added the photo of a young, dark-haired girl to the board. ‘She was fifteen when they went to ground.’ Amber smiled up from under a fashionable floppy hat, her voluptuous curves played for maximum impact in a cropped khaki T-shirt and tight black jeans. Cases involving teen girls always got under Nasreen’s skin, and she felt the familiar tightness form in her stomach.
‘Pretty lass,’ Chips said.
‘We think she’s the weakest link in the chain. Find her and we find her dad. Find him and we find the Rodriguez brothers.’ Saunders tapped the board. ‘Chips and Green are tied up finishing off Operation Kestrel right now, so I want you on this one, Cudmore.’
His words startled her. ‘Me?’ She leant forward, too eager, caught the glass of water on the table in front of her. Her hand shot out to steady it. She felt the blush rising up her cheeks. Burgone was right there.
‘Unless you’ve got better things to be doing with your time, Sergeant?’ Saunders said.
‘No, sir. Thank you, sir.’ She prayed Burgone was looking at the board.
Green gave her a smile – a congrats for being back in the game.
‘Get Freddie to help you with whatever she can get on Amber. I want her found.’ Saunders was gathering his papers together.
‘Wait, so there’s a missing fifteen-year-old girl – surely someone’s looking for her already?’ Freddie cut over the noise of scraping chairs.
‘She’s been on the Missing Persons list for a year, but they’re inundated.’ Saunders said. ‘They’ve done the normal checks, but until now she wasn’t high priority.’
Freddie blew air through her teeth. ‘Not high priority? But now we want to bang up her dad we’re interested?’
‘Now I’m interested,’ Saunders said.
‘I don’t know how you sleep at night.’ Freddie stared at him.
‘Like a baby, ta.’ He was always pleased to get a response.
Nasreen knew how busy Missing Persons were, and with the connections Paul Robertson had, it’d be all too easy for him and his daughter vanish. ‘What about the girl’s mother?’
‘Died when she was three,’ Saunders said. ‘RTA.’
‘Daughter of a dead mum and a drug-dealing dad, some kids get all the luck, don’t they?’ Freddie grimaced.
‘Freddie, can I have a word – in my office?’ Burgone had paused at the door.
Nasreen couldn’t help but stare as Freddie left the room with him. What was that about?
Nasreen had to stop this fixation with Burgone. Superintendent Prue Lewis’s disciplinary words played over in her mind: ‘I forbid my officers to have relationships with their colleagues because it ruins their careers. Especially the women. People will always assume you got to where you are because of who you slept with, Nasreen. You will have to work twice as hard to prove them wrong now.’ Nasreen couldn’t let her own mistakes stand in the way of doing the job she loved. She had to believe she was still of use. The tension in her stomach solidified into a hard, heavy millstone. The pretty fifteen-year-old Amber Robertson was Nasreen’s shot at redemption, if she could find her.
Freddie (#ulink_37c0eefb-cbc7-5162-9d57-49db3948d326)
Fifteen years old and on the run. It’d make a good film, but it was bleak in real life. Freddie wanted to look into Amber Robertson more; no one else seemed that bothered about the missing girl. She still didn’t get that about police: how could they just compartmentalise all this shit? She opened Facebook, Instagram and Snapchat on her phone. Would a fifteen-year-old really give those up as well as everything else? She herself wouldn’t, and she had nearly ten years on her.
‘I’ve just come from a meeting with the Superintendent,’ Burgone was saying.
She tapped in Amber Robertson and pressed search. A number of profile squares appeared on Facebook. One looked familiar: same girl, same hat. Freddie clicked.
Burgone was still talking and she’d tuned out: ‘And so you can see my problem,’ he finished. His face had a look of concern on it.
Her gut twisted. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’
He sighed. ‘I feared you might find it difficult to hear.’ His sharp navy-suited arms rested authoritatively on the table. His face solemn. ‘We’re having to make cutbacks. I’m sorry, Freddie, but I no longer have the budget for a full time Intelligence Analyst.’
What? ‘Is this a wind-up?’ Burgone had offered her this role when she was broke, and she’d been surprised to discover she loved it. Putting together the pieces of the puzzle. Making a difference. She’d found the link between the Spice Road website and the Tower Hamlets Massive. She could find Amber Robertson. And now he was going to take it away from her? Hell, no. ‘You approached me.’
‘And you’ve done a brilliant job,’ he said.
‘Do you know how late I stayed working on that Paul Robertson lead?’ She was up out of her chair now. Throwing an accusatory finger at him. Burgone’s eyebrows had reacted, but he’d kept the rest of him admirably still.
‘I appreciate you’re upset, Freddie.’
She thought of his privilege, his entitlement. What she’d done trying to scrape together enough for a bloody rental deposit. The fallout to the L word this morning. Had that been a mistake? Now was not the time to think about that. Burgone had probably never worried about money in his life. ‘I don’t think you do, mate.’
‘I will always be grateful for what you did for me and my family.’ Burgone looked uncomfortable whenever he mentioned how they first met: a tense investigation involving his sister.
‘I did what anyone would have done,’ she said, cutting him off. Did he really think she would try and hold it over him? ‘I don’t know how you were raised, but I was brought up to help people when they’re in trouble.’ She thought of the embarrassment in her mum’s eyes when she’d found out that her dad had pinched the money she’d been scraping together for Freddie. Gone in an optic. Literally pissed against a wall. The anger fizzled out. Burgone wasn’t the enemy.
‘I haven’t finished yet, Freddie. I’ve given it a lot of thought, and there is a way I can make it work with the budget. But it will require effort on your behalf.’
She slumped back into the chair. ‘I can’t work any more hours.’ The booze had gone months ago: too expensive, too risky. She often wondered what her dad would have been like if he’d been broke as a lad. If rent was as high as it was now. Would he have become an alcoholic sooner, or never succumbed in the first place? ‘Go on then, spill?’
‘I can afford to keep you on part-time as an Intelligence Analyst. But I also have funding for another different part-time role.’
‘That makes no sense,’ she said.
‘It’s down to how funding is allocated.’
‘Bloody government, screwing everything up as usual,’ she said.
Burgone had shifted his attention to a pile of papers on his desk, looking for the right form. ‘I have budget for a Civilian Investigator. They’re designed to relieve pressure on active officers, thus improving police effectiveness: it’s seen as a saving in the overall budget.’
‘What does it involve?’ Investigator sounded promising. She missed being out looking into leads. Not that she should ever have been meeting the public, she thought, smiling to herself, but there’d been special circumstances before.
‘Your role would include interviewing victims of burglary, assault and car crime. The training programme is three weeks long, and will include briefings on interrogation techniques, how to structure an interview, and a number of aspects of the law that are relevant.’ Burgone said. ‘Some of it you’ll know from your analytical training, and, er, previous experience.’ He handed over a printed worksheet. ‘And if I assign you to Detective Sergeant Cudmore for management, we may handle some of the training in-house.’
‘I could go out and interview suspects?’ she said.
‘Perhaps not that.’ He smiled. ‘But certainly supporting statements from witnesses and other interesting parties. If you complete the training and probationary period, as before.’
‘Will I get a business card?’ She’d always wanted one of them. Was jealous of Nas’s when she’d handed them over to people. It made her official. Real. She’d send one to her mum.
‘Well, yes. I guess it will be useful for you to have something with your contact details on to leave with interviewees,’ Burgone said.
‘Okay,’ Freddie said. ‘I’ll do it.’
‘There is one more thing: this is a slightly sensitive issue,’ he said.
Ah: the catch. Here it came.
‘This is a fairly new scheme within the force, and not everyone is a fan. Some officers have registered concerns over the limited training and accountability of civilian investigators – this won’t win you any friends, Freddie.’
She shrugged. ‘No worries. I haven’t got any anyway.’
He smiled. ‘Then I’ll make sure DS Cudmore has the relevant training criteria to cover. Hopefully you can run it alongside this Amber Robertson case. And we’ve had a bit of luck: another recruit has had to drop out of an existing training course, so we can get you over there today and get you started.’
‘Cool.’ She’d come back to the office after, to start work on finding Amber: that’d give the phone company time to get the records over.
‘And it should be quite fun for you,’ Burgone was saying.
Oh, yeah, I love sitting in a room being lectured to.
‘It’s being held at the Jubilee Station,’ he said.
‘What?’ Her mouth fell open.
He mistook her dismay as delight. ‘I know you worked with the officers there on your first case.’
Yeah, and I’d rather forget it. He handed her another printout: a list of the training details, the location, times and dates. She scanned the page for familiar names: balls.
‘This’ll be a great chance to catch up with them all. DCI Moast is leading the training – he said he couldn’t wait to see you again,’ Burgone said with a smile.
I bet he did. Spending time in an enclosed space with meathead Moast was not high on her to-do list. Crap. Now she’d have to face the music over this morning’s row too. She’d wanted things to cool off for a few days. Kip at a mate’s. Burgone looked as pleased as if he’d just paid off her student loan. Christ knows how many strings he’d pulled to get her onto this course so quickly. It wasn’t his fault he had no idea what he’d just done. She managed a weak smile. ‘Cheers.’
‘This is a great opportunity, Freddie,’ Burgone said. ‘And I know you’ll really make the most of it.’
She could already see the sarcastic grin on Moast’s Lego head.
Standing in the hallway, the Facebook account she’d opened earlier was still visible on her phone. There were photos of Amber grinning at the camera. This was it. Her account. Freddie watched video clips of her and her friends singing on the back of a bus, Amber’s eyes sparkling with mischief. There was a photo of Paul Robertson from behind, Amber holding an egg up so it was the same size as his bald head. The caption read: When your breakfast looks like your dad! Cracking! Freddie laughed. The sound snagged on her heart as she reached the last post. July 12 last year. The day before Amber and her father disappeared. The girl’s final words.
So many special people in my life. So sorry for any hurt I cause. Love you all. Forever. xxxx
Underneath tens of Amber’s friends had posted comments. Sad emojis. Broken heart photos. They started up a few weeks after the final post. As if enough time had passed that they could no longer hope for the best. Freddie scanned them quickly:
Come home soon!!!
Miss you foreva xxx
Thinking of you always xoxo
And a shiver passed over her, as she realised more than one person had posted the same message:
RIP Amber xxx
Why would they think Amber Robertson was dead?
A (#ulink_d2850d92-5e3c-5626-aa42-4c9d1ffb84b5)
He can feel the weight of her, her arms thin in his hands, her shoulders rolling, heavy. How can someone so fragile be so heavy? He had to hide her. This is his fault. He panicked. No one can know. He needs time to think. To fix this. He can still hear her screaming. He covers his ears. His heart is battering against his chest, like a dog on a chain going mental. Whoooof. Whoooof. Whoooof. Punching to get out. He feels like he’s turned inside out, that everything is backwards and he can’t quite grab hold of it. His hands are wet, slick. It’s her. She’s all over him. Blood. There is so much blood. This was supposed to be a laugh. Hot. Make him popular. This can’t be happening. It’s in his mouth. He can taste her. He gags. There’s a hair wrapped round his fingers. A long dark hair, stuck like when one catches you in a swimming pool. Cold and dark like pondweed. No, it’s cotton: a thread tying her to him. The dog in his chest is thrashing. Tearing him apart with its teeth from the inside. What has he done?
Kate (#ulink_c5ca21d8-3cae-5d69-bbeb-188bbc763e05)
Kate hadn’t been able to sit still since she’d seen the video. Her laptop, black in power-save mode, was still at its abandoned angle on her dining table. Fifty-six years old, and she couldn’t bring herself to get any closer to the screen. Instead she’d focused on clearing up the mess on the kitchen floor. As she’d wiped up the sick and bile, she tried not to think of the girl’s pleading eyes. She forced herself to take another gulp of sugared tea. She’d changed, and put her soiled clothes in the washing machine.
She could still smell the acid of vomit, and leant over the sink to open the kitchen window. But the familiar square of garden, in which she grew sweet peas and strawberries, twisted and turned away from her. The electric streetlight played nasty tricks with the rows of houses that stretched away over Hackney. Somewhere out there was the girl. Terrified. Hurt. What if the boys knew she’d been watching? What if they’d made a note of her account? Could they find her? A shadow licked at the edge of her garden and she jumped. London, with its exotic blends, its languages, its music and food and dance, that dynamic that made it special, that had made it her home all her life, felt hostile. She was overlooked. An easy target. She let go of the window handle as if it had burned her. Instead she pulled the slim chain to unfurl the kitchen blind, small flecks of dust floating down onto her as she obliterated the city skyline she’d always loved.
She ran up the white-painted stairs to her bedroom, pulled the curtains up there too and fetched her perfume from the bathroom. She sprayed the scent in the kitchen, the tangerine and blackcurrant smell settling uneasily over the sour stench of sick. She would feel better when she knew they’d found the girl. Got her to hospital.
The doorbell buzzed and she jumped. It would be the police. It was a Friday night, presumably they were busy, it’d been just over an hour since she’d called 999. She slid the spyhole aside; the sight of a man made her heart rate spike. You can see the uniform, silly woman, you know it’s the police. Still, she put the chain across before opening the door.
‘Mrs Katherine Adiyiah? I’m PC Jones.’ The man drew the sounds of her surname out, unsure where the vowels sat. He held up his ID. He was young, with close-cropped dark hair, and shadows under his pale eyes. She wondered how long he’d been on duty.
‘Hang on,’ she said, releasing the chain. ‘Sorry about that.’
‘Good to see people being security conscious. Better to be safe than sorry, Mrs Adiyiah,’ PC Jones said.
It was an absurdly normal exchange. Words you might say about putting an extra hour on the meter for the car.
‘It’s Miss actually. But call me Kate. Please, come in?’ She had thought there might be two of them, but there was no one else outside. The street was empty, apart from a drained vodka bottle discarded three doors down. Laughter and voices carried over from the road behind: people walking home, or on to the next venue. The gentle pulse of bass mingled with the hum of night buses, taxis, cars and takeaway delivery drivers from the surrounding roads. A man appeared round the corner, his face nothing but a dark shadow under his hood. She shut the door quickly.
PC Jones was standing in the living room, looking at the bookshelves that lined the walls. His eyes snagged on the well-loved copies that were turned out to face the room: The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman, Ngozi Adichie’s Half of a Yellow Sun, A Testament of Hope by Martin Luther King. There was something about his manner that felt oddly invasive.
‘Please, sit down?’ She indicated the wingback that was at one end of the dining table. Her home was small: this one room served as lounge, dining room and study, leading straight into the open-plan kitchen. A two-up, two-down. Plenty big enough for her.
He hitched up his trousers to sit on the creaking chair. Kate was on good terms with the PC who worked with her at school, and would have liked to see his familiar face. Having a strange man in her home was only compounding the sense of violation she’d felt watching the video. But that wasn’t PC Jones’s fault. She’d witnessed a horrific crime: she had a duty to report it. She had a duty to that poor girl. He didn’t look eager to get started. She forced a smile onto her face. ‘Can I get you some tea, or a coffee?’
‘Tea would be great, ta,’ he said. ‘Milk, one sugar. Any biscuits?’ He rested his palms on his spread knees, like a spoilt emperor, she thought, eager and greedy.
She nodded. It was nearly 3am. She was discombobulated by it all. She busied herself with pulling the tea things down from the cupboard. She put out a cup for herself too, adding two sugars. She was still jittery. It was the shock.
‘You told the call handler you believed you’d seen an assualt?’ PC Jones had followed her into the kitchen unnoticed. Her body jolted in reaction. The teabag box buckled in her hand. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you jump,’ he said, smiling.
She tried to smile back. Everything felt wrong.
She could see his distorted funhouse mirror reflection in the chrome kettle, looking at her. ‘Was it out the front of the house, or from upstairs, Miss Adiyiah?’
‘They didn’t tell you?’ The spoon was limp in her hand. ‘It was online. I saw it happen online.’
‘Online?’ His mouth turned down at the sides and she was struck by how much he resembled a fish. ‘How do you mean?’
‘I was on Periscope. I was watching a live stream video, of two boys and a girl. Well, I think it was two boys, one of them was holding the camera. There could have been more, I suppose, behind the camera.’ The thought horrified her. Who could sit by and watch that without intervening? She’d been unable to help. She wouldn’t wish that paralysing sensation of helplessness on anyone. Though if they had deliberately chosen not to act… that was worse.
‘Two boys and a girl?’ PC Jones had produced a notebook from his back pocket.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘One of the boys was…’ The word swelled and lodged in her throat. She coughed. ‘He raped her. And when she tried to stop him he attacked her. With a bottle.’
‘And you saw this online?’ PC Jones said.
‘Yes,’ she nodded. Saying the words out loud hadn’t lessened their power, but made the whole thing feel more vivid. As if she were watching it happen again. Here. In this room.
‘And where was this video shot?’
‘I don’t know. I just clicked on a feed for London. So it must be somewhere in the city. Someone must have heard something: there was a lot of…’ She wanted to say screaming, but couldn’t. ‘Noise.’
‘I see. And what were the names of these boys and the girl?’ PC Jones said.
‘I don’t know,’ she said.
‘You don’t know?’ His eyebrow raised on one side, and she saw the doubt in his eyes.
‘I can tell you the name of the account. Here, I wrote it down.’ She passed him the torn rectangle of note paper. Metronome02. It was burned on her memory, like those heart symbols floating up the screen. People had liked it; that’s what she couldn’t understand. Had they not understood?The policeman took the paper, his fish head nodding. She glanced at the laptop. You must do this. You must help the girl. ‘I can show you the video.’
She walked past him before her nerve dropped. When she touched the mouse, the screen seemed to crack. The page or her eyes flickered, she couldn’t tell which. The screen was no longer linked to the feed; instead there was an error page: This user no longer exists.
‘It’s gone! They’ve deleted it.’ She clicked refresh. The same page appeared. ‘Oh God! Of course: because it’s evidence.’ She couldn’t stem the relief at not having to watch it again, or hear it. She thought of the screams. The panicked sound of the boy behind the camera. The gurgling.
‘So.’ PC Jones drew out the syllables of the word, twisting it in his fish mouth. ‘The video has vanished?’
‘You can see for yourself.’ She pointed at the screen. ‘They’ve deleted it.’
‘Right,’ he looked around the room, his eyes resting on Angela Davis’s Are Prisons Obsolete? If it had been one of her pupils she would have marched across the room and turned the book around. Made them concentrate. But as she watched him blow air out in a dramatic sigh, she felt more than just anger at his ill manners, she felt unease. ‘So you’re saying that you saw a video…’
‘A live stream,’ she corrected.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘A live stream during which you believe you saw a sexual assault and a stabbing take place, but you don’t know where this took place, or who these people were?’
‘I don’t believe I saw it, I know I saw it,’ she said.
PC Jones grimaced. ‘Are you sure you couldn’t have misunderstood what you saw, Mrs Adiyiah?’
‘Yes.’ Heat rose in her cheeks.
‘Maybe it was a film, like a Hollywood one or something? They’re very realistic nowadays,’ he said, glancing at the vintage poster she had framed on her wall.
He was dismissing her. As if she were, what? A confused old woman? ‘I know the difference between a film and real life, thank you.’
He sniffed, taking in the perfume, and the vague sour stench that lingered in the flat. ‘Can I ask if you’ve been out at all tonight, Mrs Adiyiah?’
‘I don’t see how that’s relevant.’ She couldn’t believe he had the cheek to interrogate her.
‘Have you consumed any alcoholic beverages this evening?’ He looked at the glass of Shiraz next to the computer, where she’d left it.
‘What does that have to do with it?’ Shame bubbled inside her. How dare he judge her?
‘It’s late,’ said PC Jones. ‘Our minds can play tricks on us, especially if we’ve had a drink or two.’ He sniffed again.
Did he think she’d drunk so much she’d been sick? ‘You think I’m making this up?’
‘I’m not saying that, Mrs Adiyiah.’ He held his hands out to placate her. ‘I’m sure you saw a very distressing video, and I’m sure you think it was real.’
‘It was real.’ This was preposterous. ‘There was a girl. And she was attacked by the man in the video.’
‘I thought you said it was a boy?’ PC Jones said.
‘A young man, seventeen, maybe eighteen. Not much more than a boy,’ she said.
‘Right.’ PC Jones nodded.
‘You should be writing this down,’ she said.
‘I have everything I need, Mrs Adiyiah.’ He was sliding the pad into his pocket. Putting the pen away.
‘You don’t believe me?’ The injustice of it hung in her words. He was dismissing her.
‘I believe you’ve seen something that’s upset you. And I believe that you think it’s real. But we’ve had no reports of anything that would tie in with what you’re claiming you saw.’ He gave her a simpering, sympathetic smile. ‘I suggest you have a nice cup of tea and a good night’s sleep, Kate. And I’m sure you’ll feel better after that.’
‘I’m a teacher,’ she said. As if it might make him listen, might make her real. ‘And I don’t appreciate your tone.’
‘Very nice,’ said PC Jones, heading toward the door. He was leaving. Ignoring her. She thought of the girl’s eyes, staring out at her, pleading. ‘You have to help her!’ She thought of the blood dripping onto the duvet. ‘She might not have much time.’
He gave her another placating, watery smile. ‘I’ll be sure to mention it in my report. Good night, Mrs Adiyiah.’
She could already guess what that report would say. She stood in shock as he closed the door behind him. He didn’t believe her. A rip had appeared in the world, plunging her London into that of the poor girl’s in the film. She’d ring the hospitals. Come forward as a witness. But what if she was still lying there? In that room? Not able to get help? Think, woman, think. Kate picked up her wine glass and downed the remains in one go. There was one more thing she could try, but it wouldn’t be easy. She turned the computer towards her and started to type.
A (#ulink_b0bde9d4-7009-548a-ae76-9ed8c72e1669)
The water was running over his face, his clothes. He hadn’t turned the bathroom light on. Hadn’t wanted anyone to wake up. But it was never dark here. Street lamps and tower lights shone through the bathroom window. Could they see him? He felt like he was glowing. He crouched down, leant against the tiles. He hugged his knees tightly. The water was red. A Lynx shower gel bottle tumbled from the side and clattered against the floor of the shower. He held his breath. Please don’t wake up.
Her hair had wrapped round his arms when he’d pushed her up. Clung to him, wanting him to stay. Oh God. He didn’t want to think about this. He squashed his palms against his head. Wanted to push it all out. One minute they were partying, and then she’d thrown the punch. If only she hadn’t done that. If only she’d just stayed quiet. Her arms had felt small. Tiny, like his younger brothers’. He could close his whole hand round her wrist. Easily snapped. The clothes had thrown him. The skirt had buttons and zips and everything was backwards. Mixed up. And they were softer than boys’ clothes. Her top had been almost slippery. He wanted to tell Simon tomorrow. But he couldn’t do that. Couldn’t tell anyone. Couldn’t cause any more trouble.
Water was working into his mouth now. There could be blood and hair and stuff in it. He scrubbed at his face. Spat. Spat again. Leant forwards, his head on the shower tray. He could smell the bleach down here. Water bubbling up around his nose and mouth. He was blocking the plug. He could just stay here. Let the water cover him. Drown. Forget about her.
And then he realised what he was doing. Oh God: he had to get it off him. Retching, he stood up. Fell forward, wincing, to turn the tap off. He ripped at his clothes. Until they were in a soggy pile on the floor. He was naked. Wet. Oh God. He pulled for a towel, scrubbed it from him. Rubbing harder, harder, as if he could scrub it off. His skin was raw. He deserved the hurt. He rubbed again. He would be grazed in the morning. Sore. Good. Then he used the towel to wipe out the shower. He kept going. Didn’t know what time it was now. Wiping the floor. Wrapping his clothes up tight in the towel. Tying it in a knot. He’d have to get rid of them. His favourite jeans. How was he going to explain that? His favourite…
He froze. His teeth mid-chatter. Her hat. She’d been wearing a hat when she’d arrived. Evidence. That would be evidence. Where was it? He couldn’t remember when he’d last seen it. When she was dancing? He had to find it. He was responsible. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t mean to do it. He crumpled to the floor. I didn’t mean to do it.
Freddie (#ulink_85c7d678-69cc-52b0-bb59-30eed6a45fc2)
She had to show Nas the messages on Amber’s Facebook page. Did the people who’d posted them know something they didn’t? Could the fifteen-year-old be dead?
‘Nas?’
‘I’ve got started on Amber Robertson.’ Nas cut her off, without looking up from her computer. ‘I wanted to know who she stayed with when her dad was inside, given her mum’s dead.’
‘Right, good thinking.’ Freddie nodded, aware Burgone was following her out of his office.
‘Social services placed her with her grandmother – Paul’s mum,’ Nas continued.
That must be a good sign, she was probably worrying about nothing. Amber could be with her nan. ‘So she could be there now?’
‘The grandmother passed on three years ago, and there’s no listing anywhere for her own mum’s family. Looks like they’re mostly abroad,’ Nas said.
Freddie swallowed. ‘I think you should see her Facebook account…’
‘Guys,’ Burgone interrupted them from behind.
Nas immediately turned to face him. Freddie stared at the posts on her phone: was she overreacting? They were just words. They could even be posted by trolls winding up Amber’s friends?
‘I’ve got an announcement to make.’ The others looked up from their desks as Burgone cleared his throat. ‘Congratulations are in order. Freddie has been promoted, and now, as well as providing intelligence analysis for the team, she will also be working as a Civilian Investigator.’
What? Promotion was pushing it somewhat. Nas looked shocked, then slightly horrified. Freddie felt her spine stiffen.
‘A Civilian Investigator?’ Saunders made the words sound like swears. ‘That’s worse than the bloody plastic PCSOs.’
She’d expected hostility from outside the team, but not from within. ‘You worried about the competition?’ she snapped at him.
Nas inhaled next to her.
‘It was at my recommendation, Pete,’ Burgone said. ‘Freddie will be a great asset for interviewing. Keep you guys free to focus on managing investigations.’
He wasn’t mentioning the budget cuts, or that she’d nearly lost her job.
‘It’s policing on the cheap.’ Saunders looked past her at Burgone.
‘It’s happening.’ Burgone’s tone shifted.
‘You’ve got to be kidding, guv?’ said Saunders.
Freddie waited for Chips to back her up, but he was staring at his shoes, frowning.
‘Freddie will receive proper training: she’ll be attending a course at the Jubilee Station today, and Cudmore will be giving her in-house instruction during the Amber Robertson search,’ Burgone said.
Nas’s eyes widened. Freddie couldn’t believe none of them had a good word to say about it. She’d found them the Spice Road–THM link: she knew what she was doing.
‘Assuming that’s okay?’ Burgone added forcefully.
‘Yes, sir,’ Nas said, not looking at Saunders.
Freddie looked at Green, who managed a measly smile back. You could cut the atmosphere with a Post-It note. What did they think she was – just some stupid secretary banging out bloody spreadsheets?
‘Well done again, Freddie.’ Burgone released his Hollywood superstar smile. ‘The Gremlin team are behind you one hundred per cent on this.’
Yeah, waiting to trip me up.
Burgone paused as if they might applaud. No one moved. ‘Right, crack on then,’ he said.
Green made a show of picking up the phone and requesting to be put through to some woman. Saunders’s face was set in a scowl, and he slammed into his chair and started moving files noisily round his desk. Chips still hadn’t said anything.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Nas hissed at her side.
‘I only just found out myself.’ She didn’t feel like confessing this was all a clever ploy to keep her in full-time employment. Burgone had gone with the promotion line: she would too. ‘I’m not gonna tread on anyone’s toes – don’t worry.’
‘Right. So you’re off to the Jubilee for the rest of the day then?’ Nas had her chewing-a-wasp face on.
‘Actually, I was about to show you this.’ Freddie thrust her phone at Nas.
‘Show me on the way,’ Nas turned her back on her to grab her own phone.
‘You what?’ She caught Green looking at them and shot her an evil. Could no one in this bloody office bring themselves to say congrats?
Nas shoved an intelligence report at her so forcefully it folded against her top. ‘I was about to say before the guv came in –’ Nas’s voice wavered slightly over the word ‘guv’, and, forgetting her anger for a second, Freddie had a sudden urge to whisk her old friend out of here and away from the others. ‘The last officers to speak to Paul Robertson before he went to ground: guess who? Tibbsy and Moast.’
Freddie let go of the paper. ‘Shit,’ she muttered, then went to catch it quickly. DCI Moast and DS Tibbsy. Nas’s old team. It was like going back to the beginning: the first case that had thrown them all together. ‘The gang’s all back together, hey?’ Freddie hoped her voice sounded jokey.
‘You can go to training after we’ve found out if there’s anything else they know about Paul Robertson.’ Nas swung her handbag over her shoulder and stalked out.
‘Better catch up with teacher,’ Saunders said without looking up.
‘What’s wrong with you? Get out the wrong side of the rowing machine this morning?’ she shot back.
She heard Green snort as she pegged it after Nas. She needed her to read the condolence messages on Amber’s Facebook feed. She needed to start on the cellsite analysis – looking at who Paul and Amber called and texted before they disappeared. And she one hundred per cent needed Nas to not rock up at the Jubilee before Freddie could do some damage limitation post the L word bomb this morning. ‘I’ll meet you in the car park,’ she called to Nas’s back, as she neared the lift. ‘I’ve got to grab something from the shop!’
Before her friend could turn around, Freddie bolted for the stairs. She just needed a minute to think. To send a message: contain this morning’s fallout. Jesus, she hadn’t even had time to change her clothes since then. In her palm, the smiling photo of Amber on her phone bounced up and down as she ran down the steps. Maybe she was overreacting, but those messages had unnerved her. She knew Nas would likely dismiss it as conjecture, or her overactive imagination, so she needed more. She needed to build up a picture of Amber Robertson’s life. Rest In Peace. She couldn’t let anything else get in the way of this investigation. They needed to find the dark-haired girl.
Freddie (#ulink_a7c11119-6efb-569c-8dec-b128f7b5d7a0)
Freddie walked quickly through the air-conditioned reception of the anonymous Westminster office building that housed them and the other Special Ops teams. Perhaps she could call him? And say what? So you know you said you loved me and I ran away? Now me and Nas are headed to your station, and, well, funny story: I haven’t told her about you. She probably couldn’t cover that in a two-minute call, and she probably couldn’t cover it in a text either. She felt the heat of the sun as soon as the door opened: her skin prickled with the shock of going from cold to hot. Her vision quivered at the sides.
‘Ms Venton, Freddie!’ The voice made her jump. A tall woman in a purple sleeveless top and patterned cotton wide-legged trousers was coming down the street. ‘Freddie Venton? It is you, isn’t it?’
She recognised her. Beads woven into her braided bob glinted in the sunlight. She’d interviewed her for an article she was writing about the student protests. She was a teacher – very good on the impact of rising fees on working-class kids. What was her name?
‘Hi.’ She waved and started for the other side of the road. She didn’t need an audience while composing this message. Nas had already got her knickers in a twist over her new job, she didn’t need more aggro for keeping her waiting.
‘I don’t know if you remember me?’ The teacher reached her side, puffing slightly.
Freddie pasted a smile on her face. ‘Student protests, right? I’m in a rush, good to see you though.’
‘I’ve been looking for you.’ The woman glanced over her shoulder as if someone might be following her.
She was clutching her handbag strap so tight her knuckles were white. She looked spooked. ‘You all right?’ Freddie followed her gaze; the street was empty.
‘You’re a policewoman now, aren’t you?’
Freddie recognised the edge in her voice. Oh, great. She should have kept walking. ‘I’m not actually a police officer, no.’ Being berated for selling out to the police wasn’t on her fun things to do list.
‘But I saw you on the news? A few months ago, here. I found the pictures online.’ She grabbed hold of Freddie’s arm.
This was getting weird. Was she some kind of stalker? What would Nas do in this situation? Smile? Back away slowly? Arrest her?
Before Freddie could do anything the woman spoke again. ‘There’s a girl and you’ve got to help her.’ The hairs on Freddie’s neck stood up. The woman’s eyes were pressing, urgent, but she didn’t look nuts. Or like she was lying. She looked scared. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk? Please, Ms Venton.’
Freddie’s phone blared out the opening lyrics to KRS-One’s ‘Sound of da Police’: her personalised ring tone for Nas. She sent Nas to voicemail. ‘Cafе over there?’
‘Thank you.’ Relief sounded in the teacher’s voice. ‘You’re a good person.’
‘I wouldn’t go that far.’ Freddie’s nerve endings crackled. What was this about? ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t remember your name?’ Freddie headed to the indie greasy spoon on the corner.
The woman’s voice and demeanour was still tense. ‘It’s Kate.’
Nasreen (#ulink_eb73ff6b-7557-5f4e-92e3-e985ec510735)
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 cafе 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 Cafе 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 cafе. ‘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.
Kate (#ulink_d20dc047-f49b-5c8b-9896-5efb9cd78c77)
She wasn’t sure how long she’d been sitting here now. She blinked away the vision of the long-haired girl lying there. Looking at her. Pleading for her help. She’d failed her. No: that couldn’t happen. Did she know anyone else who might help? She wracked her brain: what was the name of PC Scott’s superior? Would he listen? She was sure her cousin Yvonne used to date a cop. Or was he in the army? He was tall, neat, he had that air about him. A man in uniform. Small teeth that grimaced when he smiled. Yvonne could put them in touch. The more Kate thought about it, the more she thought perhaps it was the army he was in. This was hopeless. She could go in person to her local station and try to speak to someone higher up? Freddie’s friend had been polite, but unable to disguise her doubt.
The video had seemed real. Sounded real. But maybe it was staged, an elaborate practical joke? Could it be taken from a film? She’d told Sergeant Cudmore she could describe the face of the man in the film, but could she really? He was fading from her memory. He’d only looked at the camera once. His features were softened in her mind, mixing with those of her students, with other young men she knew. He could have been younger than nineteen, maybe even sixteen. She rubbed at her eyes with the heels of her palms. This was infuriating. Why didn’t they believe her? Why didn’t they want to help? She’d seen pity in Sergeant Cudmore’s eyes at one stage. Did they think this was some attention-seeking stunt by a lonely old woman? Come on, Kate, you’re only fifty-six. Not old yet.
Perhaps the wine had played tricks on her mind that night. It had been late. Hot. She hadn’t been sleeping well. Perhaps she should do as they all kept saying: forget about it. Move on. Would someone else have given up by now? But she’d seen that girl suffer. Someone must be looking for her. Her gut twisted at the thought of her own daughter. She’d been an unexpected gift following a tryst at a teaching convention. Her father had been a kind man, funny, warm, and visiting from the States. They’d been in talks about how to make it work. He’d put in for a transfer: a swap with a teacher from a private school over here. Everything had been planned. And then Tegbee had arrived early. She’d felt the pain as she waited on the platform at Hackney Central. The hand of the woman next to her as she pointed. Blood spotting on the floor. Then her waters broke. She was three months early. Tegbee’s father had got the first plane he could, but he didn’t make it in time. Tegbee – Forever – had lived for four hours. The two of them, alone in her hospital room. She would have been at university this year, or maybe planning to go travelling. Her whole life in front of her. What if it had been Tegbee in that video? The thought was unbearable. That was someone’s daughter. Someone’s child.
The phone vibrating in her handbag jolted her back to the present. It was a number she didn’t recognise. She cleared her throat, aware tears were calling to her.
‘Hello, Kate Adiyiah speaking.’
‘Kate, this is Freddie Venton.’
‘Freddie?’ She looked up, confused: she couldn’t have been long back inside the building.
‘I’ve only got a second.’ She heard something that sounded like a flushing toilet in the background. ‘I believe you,’ Freddie said, ‘and I’ve got a plan. You got a pen handy?’
Nigel (#ulink_d93688f6-fc72-5987-a3e1-42f49091ceae)
Miranda had been very clear, there were to be no more indiscretions. In return, she’d promised she would try harder. But she’d been quick to forget that. It wasn’t on. There were two people in this marriage, and she wasn’t pulling her weight. She had use of the house in London, though she preferred the estate in Chipping Campden. Her attention was always with the harridans she called friends, attending endless expensive lunches where no one ate anything. All the women had the same stretched faces, stringy bodies and fingers sharp with rings from past and present husbands. It was bad enough having to touch their cold hands at work, pressing the flesh, their rings jabbing like sharp teeth. They made him work for every single penny. All the jovial smiles and hours spent listening to their inane charity chatter.
Once, he’d thought of Miranda as different. When they’d been at university she’d seemed fresh and fun, she’d worn her hair loose past her shoulders, and laughed at his jokes. Here was someone who was as passionate as he was about his purpose, his career. Now he felt cheated. As if she’d been a mirage to lure him in, a siren, her own desires the rocks on which he crashed. She’d driven him into this intolerable position.
Young party members always looked up to him; he was used to that. Occasionally an upstart would try to win his spurs by picking an argument, but there would be no using him as a stepping stone. As if the prime minister would be able to cope without him! That’s what people failed to appreciate. If they attacked him, they attacked the cabinet. They were primed to protect Nigel, not that he couldn’t dispense with the whippersnappers himself. They always had such flimsy arguments based on nonsensical anecdotes. Too used to letting their phones and their computers think for them. Jade had been different.
He loved how her fat breasts and bottom shook when he made her laugh. She’d taught him that LOL meant ‘laugh out loud’ and not ‘lots of love’. It had been natural to progress things. Tempting. She was there every day in the campaign office, touching his arm, fluttering her eyelashes at him. But he hadn’t succumbed. He’d done the decent thing. That’s what Miranda failed to grasp. He had never, in person, acted in an ungentlemanly manner. They had merely exchanged words. Some naughty little messages. It was all a bit of harmless fun. But Miranda would not be reasoned with. It was she who’d put him in this ludicrous situation. How was he supposed to do his job if he wasn’t allowed online? Not everyone sent handwritten note cards like her cronies. Many of his constituents reached him via Twitter. Support for policy announcements was more easily achieved with a click. Besides, it was damning to suddenly disappear. One couldn’t simply close one’s accounts unnoticed. People would assume, wrongly, that he had something to hide. The vultures would be on him within seconds. So he’d elected to do what was best for them as a couple. Miranda’s comprehension of these things was weak at best. He’d requested Quentin change all the passwords in front of her. Told Miranda it was a direct order from Number 10. She’d believed it was a security issue, and those accounts would only be used for work from now on.
Switching service providers was straightforward. The internet really did make everything much more readily available. He was shrewd, he stayed away from anything too obviously titled; he didn’t want any stray hacks getting hold of his cookies and whatnot. Besides, it was easy enough to find what he wanted on more mainstream applications. The promise had been there tonight, but it wasn’t at all what he’d hoped for. Utterly repulsive viewing. People actually enjoyed this filth? He had suggested to himself that he had imagined it; it had, in truth, been a long day. It was now the early hours of the morning, and he was onto his third scotch. But his mind couldn’t conjure something as repugnant as that. Boys at the club joked about a bit of slap and tickle, but this went far beyond a touch of the whip. He felt quite sickened that someone would even make a film like that. And it was certainly film. Wasn’t it? Staged. Special effects and all that. He’d stumbled into some nightmare vision of a sick man’s imagination. Because if you were going to attack someone, it made no sense to do it on camera. He took another sip of scotch, the ice dripping away slowly into nothing. It had been strikingly real. He poured himself another two fingers. Unnerving in its brutality. But it couldn’t actually be real. Because that would be unimaginable.
Nasreen (#ulink_875fbf50-ca6f-5f30-b800-8d310f51abb4)
‘I made some calls while I was waiting,’ Nasreen said. She had the engine running as Freddie slid into the car. She wanted to forget about Kate and the film she had seen. And she didn’t want to row with Freddie about it.
‘I found Amber’s Facebook account – she hasn’t posted since the night before they disappeared. It looks like a goodbye – she says she’s sorry and loves them all,’ Freddie said, a pen tucked behind her ear.
Could Amber have known they were running away? ‘I spoke to the head teacher at her school,’ Nasreen said. ‘He confirmed she didn’t show up the day her dad disappeared, and they received no telephone call or letter in relation to her absence.’ Amber’s former teacher had obviously run through this before, and had given an emotion-free, inclusive account of what had happened. ‘They tried to contact both Paul Robertson and Amber, but both phones had been switched off, as we know.’
‘There’s a load of comments under her last post – the friends on here didn’t look like they knew it was coming,’ Freddie said, lowering her window as they drove through Westminster.
Nasreen wanted to look at the posts, but she knew she’d feel sick in the car. ‘All the statements taken from her friends at the time suggest they were surprised.’
‘They could be lying – you know what teens are like,’ Freddie said.
Nasreen didn’t like to think about lying teens; it reminded her of what she and Freddie had done when they were that age. The lasting pain they’d caused. Nasreen indicated and pulled onto Lower Thames Street. The river twinkled next to them in the sunshine, the pavements clogged with groups of lacklustre tourists licking ice-creams.
Freddie shifted in her seat. ‘Some of them have written RIP under her message.’
Rest in peace – why would they do that? ‘Probably just a teen thing.’
‘You don’t think they know something we don’t?’ Freddie said.
‘Make a list of everyone on there – see if we can find out who they are, and if they were close to Amber. Could just be randoms,’ she said.
‘Or trolls.’ Freddie leant back and rested her flip-flopped feet on the glove compartment.
‘Feet down, please. This is police property.’
‘You need to chill out, Nas.’ Freddie left her feet where they were.
Was this about not being able to help her friend Kate? ‘You okay?’
Freddie kept her eyes fixed on the road. ‘Why didn’t you say congrats about my promotion?’
Oh God: she’d been so preoccupied with what it meant that Burgone had promoted Freddie whilst dumping her training on her that she hadn’t thought about Freddie at all. She winced. ‘I’m sure I did.’
‘You agree with Saunders then?’ Freddie shifted in her seat so she was facing her accusingly, all bare legs and arms.
What had Saunders said? ‘Of course not,’ she said, flustered.
‘Well, you don’t sound thrilled about it. Only Green’s said anything nice.’ Freddie was developing a sulk.
Despite her bolshie attitude, Freddie’s ego was fairly fragile. She’d worked hard since she’d started with the team, harder than Nasreen had thought she would, if she was honest. And she’d turned up some pretty good results: making the link between the Spice Road and Paul Robertson was impressive. She deserved this accolade.
‘I’m happy for you,’ Nasreen said. And she was. Wasn’t she? She just had this irrational jealousy that somehow Burgone thought Freddie was a stronger asset to the team than her. That he’d written her off because of what had happened in the past. She was acting crazy: she knew it. She had to shake off this stupid analysis of everything Burgone did and said. Otherwise it was going to sabotage her work.
She realised Freddie was staring at her. How long had she left her hanging?
‘Convincing,’ Freddie said drily.
‘Congratulations,’ Nasreen said.
‘Cheers,’ Freddie said sarcastically.
Well, that went well. The flat-fronted textile shops and redbrick office blocks of Whitechapel Road bordered them. The minaret-style sculpted silver tower at the side of the Brick Lane Mosque glinted sunlight across the windscreen. Nasreen cleared her throat. ‘Still looks the same round here.’ When she’d started at the Jubilee after her fast-track training, she’d hoped joining the flagship East End force would springboard her career. She would never have guessed it would catapult her straight to the top: to Special Ops. Perhaps it was too fast? Perhaps she should have stayed here. But then she’d never have met Burgone at all. And despite everything that it had cost her, that would have been worse.
‘They closed down The Grapes,’ Freddie said.
‘The station’s local? No. How do you know that?’ Had she missed a get-together with the old team? Had they frozen her out as well?
‘Night out a few months ago. Seeing uni mates.’ Freddie looked up from her phone. ‘We’re here.’
The Jubilee Station, the ageing 1970s jewel in the Tower Hamlets policing borough, loomed before them. All concrete and white-metal-framed windows.
‘It’s such a clusterfuck,’ Freddie said as Nasreen signalled and turned into the place it had all started.
Freddie (#ulink_92537bae-e555-503c-bd5d-69d0b1cebf12)
She’d nearly blown it then. Practically told Nas she’d been back here, because she was focusing on Amber. She was just a normal kid. Did she know what her dad was up to? Did it matter? Paul Robertson was part of THM. The Rodriguez Brothers didn’t limit their empire to drugs, they were linked to people trafficking. After working through intelligence reports in the last few months, Freddie understood more about what these gangs did than she ever had before. Women and girls forced into the sex trade. Abuse. The territory wars. People were tortured, killed. She thought of those she knew in journalism, who insisted everything they owned or ate was fair trade, who boycotted Starbucks and Apple because they disagreed with their aggressive retail strategies, or because they used sweatshop workers to make their shiny products, but who had no problem shoving coke up their noses. Drugs were linked to abuse and death. She didn’t think she’d ever be able to smoke hash again.
On Amber’s Facebook she was beginning to see a pattern. ‘I think I’ve got something.’
Nas pulled into a space in the square concrete carpark out the back of the Jubilee Station and cut the engine. A wave of heat rolled over the car. ‘What is it?’
‘This Corey Banks guy appears, and then reappears. He’s all over her feed by the end. In December 2015 it states they’re in a relationship. She had a boyfriend.’
‘Maybe she still does. Find him and we might find her.’ Nas took the phone from her. Her face turned pale. ‘Oh God.’
‘What? What is it – do you recognise him?’
‘Yes. And his name’s not Corey Banks.’
‘Freddie Venton!’ A shout from outside made them both jump, as DCI Moast’s hand slammed onto the top of the car. Nas dropped her phone. ‘And Cudmore.’ He squatted down next to her open window, so his Lego head was on a level with hers. His leering face had lost none of its charm.
‘Sir,’ Nas said, scrabbling for the phone.
‘Just had a call to make my day,’ he said, grinning at Freddie. ‘I hear you’re going to be in my class this arvo.’
‘It was sprung on me.’ She reached for her phone, taking in the little shake of Nas’s head about the guy calling himself Corey Banks: don’t mention it. This whole police practice of only saying stuff on a need-to-know basis was balls. Surely if they all knew what was going on, they’d stand more chance of figuring stuff out? For all they knew, Moast had relevant information. ‘I’d rather stay out here with the bins, to be honest.’
‘Venton, Venton, Venton,’ Moast said, opening her door and standing back. ‘Don’t be like that.’ She sighed and swung her legs out. Timing, as ever, was not Moast’s strong point. ‘Besides –’ he grabbed her arm and put his face right up against her ear ‘– now you officially work for the Met I’m your superior. You’ve got to do what I say.’
‘Get off.’ She shook her arm free.
Nas slammed the car door behind them. Moast turned and grinned at her with his marble tombstone teeth. ‘And if it isn’t the Met’s finest rising star. Hope you tell all the adoring top brass that it was me who taught you everything you know, Cudmore.’
Moast had clearly not heard about Nas’s slip-up a few months back. Nas walked over and held her hand out. ‘Good to see you, sir. How are you?’
‘Same shit, different day, Cudmore,’ he said, aggressively pumping her hand. Still a posturing asshole. This afternoon was going to be torturous. ‘You just dropping your kid off at nursery, or have you come to learn something they can’t teach you over at Special Ops?’
‘I’ve come to pick your brains, if you’ve got five minutes? It’s regarding a stop-and-search you and Tibbsy carried out last June.’ Nas had her game face on: sucking up.
‘Sure thing. We’ll get Venton here to make us all a nice drink and we’ll have a chat,’ he said as they walked towards the propped-open fire exit of the station.
‘I’m not a sodding barista,’ Freddie said. She wanted to know why Nas had looked so freaked out.
‘Ah, yes, but you were.’ Moast stood back to let Nas enter the building before him. Then he stopped, turning to block her way. ‘And you always will be to me.’
Great.
‘You nearly cost me my job back then,’ he said menacingly.
‘And your management of the case nearly lost me my life.’ She pointed at the scar on her forehead: the permanent chewed reminder of just how badly he’d screwed up on the Apollyon case.
He laughed. ‘I’d watch your mouth if I were you. You’ve got to pass this afternoon’s session to get your new job, and guess who gives the marks?’
‘Father Christmas?’
He tutted and shook his head. ‘Still not learnt any respect, I see, Freddie.’
‘Guv?’ a voice from behind them called. She turned to see the rangy frame of Tibbsy lumbering through the car park carrying an M&S sandwich. Maybe she and Nas could lose these guys and talk in the Ladies?
Moast swung an arm over her shoulder. ‘Look what the gods have gifted us, Tibbs. We’re going to have some fun this afternoon!’
Who was the guy calling himself Corey Banks, and why had Nas looked so scared when she’d seen his photo? As they trooped inside, sweat prickled on Freddie’s brow. Ignoring the chatter around her, she focused on the hard, sharp question that was cutting through the noise: and what did that mean for Amber?
Nasreen (#ulink_592e9ccf-4e7c-5fdb-9389-31e3ad008766)
‘I don’t want to keep you,’ Nasreen said. Tibbsy had joined Moast and Freddie in the Jubilee’s polystyrene-ceiling-tiled hallway. She needed to get back to the office and confirm her suspicions about what she’d seen on Amber’s Facebook. This could potentially change the whole direction of their investigation.
‘Still sprinting ahead, hey, Nas?’ Tibbsy enveloped her in a hug, pressing her face into his white shirt. She could feel his collar bone against her cheek. He smelt vaguely of shower gel and sun cream. ‘You back to stay?’
She laughed. It had been such a long time since anyone had seemed so pleased to see her. Again she wondered if she’d made a mistake in leaving. Tibbsy was a good partner.
‘’Fraid not. This is a flying visit. Wanted to ask you and the guv about a stop-and-search you did last June. Paul Robertson – the Rodriguezes’ drug runner?’
‘Ha! I remember that.’ Moast signalled for them to duck into his office.
Tibbsy’s face had flushed pink. ‘Not my finest hour.’
‘Why’s that then?’ Freddie asked, as they squeezed into the room. The plant in the corner had died since she’d left. Nasreen wondered if anyone else had watered it. Or even noticed the brown leaves.
‘Bit of a cock-up, wasn’t it, Tibbs?’ Moast grinned.
‘Yeah, well, I didn’t know who he was, did I?’ Tibbsy rubbed his hand across the back of his neck, and looked at the floor.
‘He got a right royal bollocking from the Drugs lads: they had surveillance on Robertson, when this lunk walked right up and started asking questions. I’d only popped into the office to get some gum. Can’t leave him unattended: he’s like a bloody big kid.’
‘Why did you talk to him if you didn’t know who he was?’ Nasreen said. Freddie was stood in the doorway, her arms folded over her chest. It wasn’t like her to sit on the sidelines.
Tibbsy glanced up quickly before looking back down at his shoes. ‘He just seemed like trouble.’
‘Don’t give me that,’ Moast said. ‘He was doing his whole knight-in-shining-armour bit.’
‘He was shouting at some girl,’ Tibbsy said nervously. ‘I just didn’t like the way he was going off at her.’
‘What did she look like?’ Freddie asked.
Tibbsy shrugged. ‘I dunno.’
‘Liar. He only noticed ’cause she was fit,’ Moast said with a laugh. ‘So he wades in with his badge out, breaking up a fight between one of London’s most notorious gangsters and his missus. Lucky he wasn’t packing heat.’
‘You know that for sure?’ Nasreen said. There were rumours Paul Robertson had been involved in the fatal shooting of an officer twenty years ago, but nothing had ever been proved.
‘He backed right down. Said he was sorry for the fuss,’ Tibbsy said, turning pale. He’d obviously since learnt of Paul’s reputation.
‘What colour hair did she have?’ Freddie said.
Tibbsy shrugged again.
‘Long and dark,’ said Moast. ‘She was a right stunner. Shut her mouth as soon as this one walked up to her. You’ve got that effect on women, don’t ya, lad?’ Moast was enjoying Tibbsy’s embarrassment.
‘What were they arguing about?’ Nasreen asked.
‘How old was she?’ Freddie said.
‘I dunno. Young. Twenty. They were just going at each other in the street.’
‘She had some balls on her,’ Moast said. ‘Not many people would speak to Robertson like that. I thought I was going to have to radio for backup when I saw Tibbs striding over there. Left my debit card in the shop and everything.’
‘What happened?’ said Nasreen. Freddie was frowning, pulling her phone out of her pocket.
‘He said he didn’t want no trouble. She said she was fine and we left it at that,’ Moast said. ‘Didn’t really want to push Robertson without backup. And I’d seen his name on intelligence reports: I knew we probably weren’t alone.’
‘Did she look like this?’ Freddie held out her phone.
Moast took it. ‘Yeah – that’s her. You know who she is?’
Freddie nodded at Nasreen. ‘Oh, yeah: we know all right. That’s his daughter Amber.’
‘But they’re a different colour!’ Tibbsy said disbelievingly.
Freddie rolled her eyes. ‘So’s Nas’s dad: it’s not like it’s a bloody miracle, you tool.’
Tibbsy blushed again. ‘Sorry,’ he said to her.
‘Don’t worry about it.’ Nasreen shook it off. ‘So he was arguing with his daughter in the street twelve days before they both disappeared.’
‘Yeah, and on the same day she posted on her Facebook page that she was feeling down and “everything sucked”,’ Freddie read from her phone. Nasreen was starting to piece together a picture in her mind.
‘That’s his daughter.’ Moast let a whistle out his teeth. ‘She looks like a goer.’
‘She’s fifteen in that photo.’ Freddie minimised the page.
‘No wonder he was doing his nut!’ Moast laughed. Tibbsy made a half-hearted attempt to join in, before a look from Freddie silenced him.
Now Nasreen wanted to get back to the office more than ever. ‘That’s been really helpful.’
‘Has it?’ Freddie sounded surprised.
‘Thanks for your time, sir,’ Nasreen said, holding out her hand for Moast to shake again.
He gripped it and grinned at her, wrapping his other hand over hers. ‘Always a pleasure, Cudmore. Stop by whenever you like. But next time leave Venton in the car, yeah?’
She smiled and nodded, keen to get out of there. If she was right about the man calling himself Corey Banks then this could be explosive. They could have been looking at this all wrong. She was halfway down the corridor back to the car when she heard the slap of Tibbsy’s feet on the linoleum behind her.
‘Hey, Nas,’ he called.
‘Hey, Tibbs – remembered something else?’
‘What?’ His eyebrows knitted briefly together. ‘Oh: no. Sorry. I just wanted to say I was sorry again. For what I said in there. You know me: big mouth – big feet to put in it.’ He looked sheepish.
‘Seriously, forget about it. I have,’ she said.
‘You promise? Because you and me have always been cool, haven’t we?’
‘Yeah, sure,’ she said growing uneasy. Did he want something? Perhaps he was on the lookout to progress from the Jubilee himself?
‘Cool,’ he said. ‘That’s cool then. Brilliant.’ He took a step back, his long arms flapping at his side. Half a wave. ‘Right. I’ll be seeing you then.’
‘Right,’ she said, smiling.
‘Stop by whenever you want.’
‘Okay,’ she said, stepping backwards herself.
‘Okay – so I’ll see you.’
‘Bye,’ she said, sensing this could go on for ages. Tibbsy might want to drag his heels today, but she had things to do. Increasingly pressing things. She glanced at her watch. She could be back at the office in twenty with a bit of luck. Not that it was likely to make a difference now. Not after so long. She could be mistaken, obviously. Could have misread the situation. Briefly she closed her eyes and prayed that that was the case. Because if she was right, if what she suspected were true, then the consequences for Amber could be very bleak indeed.
Kate (#ulink_89cff8fe-a69d-5d68-a2ea-72e0696bd32c)
That night she’d taken down the box from its shelf. It wasn’t pretty, like she really deserved, but it was waterproof and fireproof. A safe box. A safe place for her to be. She slipped off the chain she wore under her shirt and pushed the small gold key into the padlock. It was silly keeping it locked, really. No one else lived here, no one else would begrudge her this, but she preferred to keep it personal. It was a secret between her and her girl.
Gently she opened the lid. Her senses greedy for it, she reached in, pulled out the small knitted blanket and held it to her nose. She could smell her: her baby. She closed her eyes. She was back in the hospital room again.
So happy and so sad, all at once. Light seemed to pour from Tegbee, her big brown eyes staring up at her. Her eyelashes were so long, and she had a dusting of hair that curled round her scalp like silk. She was the prettiest, most beautiful baby she’d ever seen. And she was hers. She’d made this little miracle. She stroked her full cheeks as the girl blinked. She didn’t even cry. Only grizzled once, but she stopped when Kate started to sing to her. Hush little baby, don’t say a word, mama’s going to buy you a mocking bird. And if that mocking bird don’t sing, mama’s going to buy you a diamond ring. The doctors must have made a mistake. There couldn’t be anything wrong with a child who was so perfect.
Kate opened her eyes: don’t think of that bit. Don’t think of the pain. Not tonight, not now. Carefully, she laid the blanket on the table. She hadn’t had a drink since the night she’d seen the video, but today was a special occasion. Regardless of everything else going on, she would still celebrate. As if she were here. The bottle was chilling in the fridge, still wrapped in its blue tissue paper from the deli. Only the best for my girl. She opened the cupboard where she kept her best china and took down one of the crystal flutes her sixth formers had presented her with on their graduation.
‘That was the year we lost three boys,’ she said out loud. ‘One to leukaemia, and two to juvenile detention.’ She unfurled the tissue paper and loosened the safety cap of the bottle. ‘But it was also the first year that one of our students made it into Oxford.’ She held the cork, twisting the bottle. ‘His name was Dwayne Haden. You would have liked him.’ The cork popped and a stream of bubbles frothed out of the bottle. She laughed as she caught the fizz in her glass. Then she poured one more and took them both back to the table.
Under the blanket was the onesie Tegbee had worn on that first day. She’d buried her in the christening dress that had belonged to Kate’s mother. They’d had to take Kate’s womb out when Tegbee had arrived; she knew there’d be no more children. She lifted out the photos. Her and her baby smiling. You could she had her father’s eyes. But Tegbee’s lips were from her mum. Sometimes she couldn’t help imagining what she would look like now. She’d be so beautiful. Tall like her dad. Would she love the same books as her? She’d planned on sharing her favourite films with her little girl, curling up on the sofa with her in her arms. Reading to her at night. When she was older they would have spent summers in Ghana and the States; she was going to teach her all about her heritage. The bubbles rose in the glass and popped. Kate lowered her flute and clinked it against the one on the table.
‘Happy nineteenth, baby girl.’
A (#ulink_469f7d41-f595-5a81-bcdc-1b92ba6ffd0d)
Her body is warm, soft. His duvet barely covering her naked ass. Her leg pressed against his, the rhythmic push of her hip. He starts to gasp. Her hand softly works its way down under the covers, down his chest, round his nipple, down his stomach, tracing the line of hair that’s started to grow there. He gulps. Tries to control himself. And then he’s stroking her beautiful face, feels the flesh turn cold and come away in his hands. Chunks of meat fall from her. He tries to push it back, hold her together. He starts as her bone fingers close over his dick. Her beautiful dark eyes fall onto swivelling nerves. Her lips laugh and fall away from her skull, biting into his face, and scurry across his body, hungrily drawing blood. Her flesh peels back and she’s sinew and muscle and then skeleton. He tries to get away, but laughing she mounts him. Pushes him back. She claws at his chest, plunges her fingers into him, grabs his heart. Pulls it out. He can see it beating as she squeezes, and her hip bones snap closed over his cock.
He has screamed himself awake too many times. So he won’t sleep. Nights are the hardest. He sits in the corner, on the floor. The bed is too soft. He tries to count to stay awake. Recites what he knows about the solar system. The solar system was formed 4.6 billion years ago. Tries to keep moving. Paces his room. There are eight planets that orbit the sun. Mum thinks he’s sick. It started off as a lie; maybe it’s not any more. In decreasing order of size the planets in the solar system are Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Earth, Venus, Mars, Mercury. He doesn’t speak to anyone. Shuts his brothers out of his room. You need a degree in engineering, biological science, physical science and mathematics to be an astronaut. You must have 20/20 vision. You must be between 62 and 75 inches tall. His phone beeps. The number is unknown, but he knows who it is. Hands shaking, he opens it.
Blood is thicker than water.
Blood. He keeps his phone by his side all the time. You must have at least 1,000 hours minimum flying time in a jet. Turns his music up to try to block out his breathing. The sounds of her. Headphones don’t work. You must have 20/20 vision. His books are unopened. His laptop closed.
The sun sets again. Light pours through the curtains. You must have 20/20 vision. He watches it shrink down the wall. You must have 20/20 vision. He walks to the window. His mum is on night shift and the flat is quiet. His brothers are sleeping. Fam. Blood. You must have 20/20 vision. He didn’t close his eyes all night. He didn’t go to sleep. It’s dark outside, and in his reflected face he sees hers. Blood. They will be looking for her. You must have 20/20 vision. He has decided. There is only one way out. Only one thing he can do. He watches himself mouth the words:
‘I’m going to kill you.’
Kate (#ulink_b5545ec1-916b-55ba-9a7e-9749d9b3a7aa)
Her eyelids fluttered. Her neck felt stiff. Her wine glass was still in her hand. She must have fallen asleep on her chair. She’d taken a sleeping pill and she probably shouldn’t have had alcohol. She was groggy. Thirsty. She shifted in her seat and then stopped. There was someone else here. Someone in the room with her. Had the man from the film found her? Kate opened her eyes a fraction. It was still dark outside. Night time. It felt cooler. It was the early hours of the morning. Should she pretend to still be asleep? Cry out? Years of teaching had taught her that a strong stance was best: no weakness. She sat up quickly. Her eyes open. ‘Can I help you?’
A tall black woman was standing in the corner of the room. She didn’t flinch or move when Kate spoke. Instead she smiled, her white teeth beautiful in the dark. Something caught at Kate. She didn’t feel scared. She felt calmer than she had for a while. It was the tablets, she told herself. The woman stepped forward into the strip of yellow streetlight that shone through the window. A silver charm bracelet jingled around her wrist. Kate had seen one like that before. Many years ago. She must be hallucinating: the pills.
‘Tegbee?’
When the young woman spoke, her voice was as familiar as her own. The voice she’d carried in her head every day for nineteen years. ‘Hello, mama.’
Kate held her breath, not wanting the mirage to fade.
‘I’ve missed you.’ Tegbee smiled and stepped towards her. Her baby girl. All grown up. Perfect. So perfect. She smiled at her, tears forming in the corners of her eyes.
Answer your
phone. We need
to talk.
I can explain.
Just pick up.
You can’t
hide from me.
Pick. Up.
Don’t do anything
stupid. Anything
you’d regret.
…
…
…
This isn’t over.
Nasreen (#ulink_f107d2a2-e7b6-5862-b90d-7d772705bd0b)
Nasreen felt the familiar pull of tension in her stomach as she neared the office. But it looked like only Chips was in. She’d spent the evening poring over all the files she could find. This was not looking good. At some point she must have fallen asleep; she’d missed a call from Freddie, but it was gone 1am by the time she woke up. Too late to call back.
Chips looked up from the teetering barricade of folders on his desk. ‘You get me one of those, lass?’ A soft puffy finger pointed at the Espress-oh’s bag she was carrying.
‘Skinny mocha it is.’
He beamed. After forty-odd years of drinking black coffee with a dash of milk, Chips had been converted to the sickly drink by Freddie. He was a man of routine, his physical bulk a metaphor of his immovability, and yet within two weeks of working with him Freddie had changed the habit of a lifetime. She had that effect.
‘Is DI Saunders in?’ She tried to sound casual.
‘He’s in a meeting with the boss.’ Chips sipped from his drink. ‘This really is cracking.’
Freddie’s voice carried from the corridor. ‘Hey, Milena, it’s me. Just to say cheers for letting me crash last night. I left the key under the bin outside. Hope the night shift wasn’t balls. Catch ya soon.’ The door to the office opened and Freddie appeared, her hair piled haphazardly on top of her head. The same cutoffs on as yesterday, but with a shapeless T-shirt. She pointed straight at Nasreen. ‘You and me need to talk. I called you.’
Nasreen replaced the lid on her own reusable coffee cup. ‘I was working on the case.’ She pulled the files she’d had at home from her bag. ‘The guy calling himself Corey Banks on Amber’s page is better known as Alexander Riley, or Lex Riley as he’s known on the street.’ She passed Freddie the printout of Lex she’d made from the Police National Computer.
Freddie read it and blew air out through her lips. ‘He’s a known gang member?’ She dropped her own rucksack behind her.
‘Yes. The Dogberry Boys.’ Just thinking about it made her feel a bit sick. Amber was fifteen when they were talking online. When she described him as her boyfriend.
‘Didn’t Paul Robertson go down for killing one of their members?’ Freddie asked.
‘Yes. They’re rivals.’ She watched the colour drain from Freddie’s face. ‘They’ve been in an escalating turf war for the last few years.’ It didn’t bear thinking about. But they had to.
‘Why’d he change his name?’
‘Presumably because Amber or her father would have recognised it,’ Nasreen said.
‘But he was dating the daughter of one of the Rodriguezes’ head guys… Shit.’ Freddie shook her head in disbelief. ‘So, what, he was trying to get into her life undercover?’
Nasreen nodded. ‘What if we weren’t the first ones to think that Amber was a good way to get to Paul Robertson?’
Freddie sat down heavily. She was staring at the printout in her hand, her face echoing Nasreen’s yesterday when she’d recognised him. A look of shock. Lex Riley’s sneering mugshot leered from the top corner. ‘He made first contact,’ Freddie said. ‘I’ve seen the message on her Facebook page. He approached her.’ It all fitted. ‘He set her up? Catfished her?’
Nasreen’s stomach tightened. A fifteen-year-old child. ‘It looks like it.’
‘We could have this all wrong: she might not be on the run with her dad. You think Lex Riley could’ve got to her?’ Freddie looked at her imploringly.
She wished she could dismiss her fears, but sleeping on it hadn’t helped. Lex Riley wouldn’t waste his time stringing Amber Robertson along for a laugh. He was the cousin of Jay Trap, the head of the family that had dominated the Dogberry Boys for the last two decades. He wasn’t some bit-part player. He’d been implicated in a stabbing on the Dogberry estate. The case had collapsed before it made it to court, when the key witness backed out of testifying. Nasreen had read that the witness’s pet dog had been found skinned outside her house. Alive, just. There’d been a note pinned to the poor animal: your children are next. You didn’t mess with these people. Lex could have only been interested in Amber for one reason: because of her father. This was a gender-flipped honey trap. ‘We need to find out everything we can about Lex Riley. Can you look at any intelligence reports we have on him?’
Freddie nodded. ‘I should get Amber’s telephone records today with a bit of luck – I’ll see if I can trace contact between the two of them.’ Grimacing, she took the papers back to her desk.
What had happened to Amber? Images of a skinned dog formed in Nasreen’s mind. She picked up a cold half-drunk tea someone had abandoned on her desk. Clear desk, clear mind. She was halfway between the office and the staff room when she heard Saunders’s voice behind her.
‘Skiving off already, Cudmore?’
His petty mind games were particularly pathetic when contrasted to her growing fears about Amber. But she didn’t have enough to bring it to his attention yet: it was just a theory. They needed to compile more evidence. She smiled, determined not to let him get to her. ‘Just tidying up.’
‘That’s my mug,’ he said with a grin. ‘Ta for cleaning it for me.’
‘I’m just taking it to the kitchen.’ Being a skivvy for her Inspector wasn’t part of her job description.
‘Won’t take you long to run it under the tap.’ He turned into the office, calling: ‘Make sure you get all the tea stains off. And I’ll have a fresh one while you’re there, Sergeant.’
Blooming cheek! She crossly shook the cup upside down over the sink in the slender kitchen and flicked the kettle on. And yet you’re still doing it, Nasreen? Get a grip. As a small rebellion, she didn’t rinse the cup before she dropped in a fresh bag on top of the cold tea. Saunders was training to swim the channel, and his nutrition plan didn’t allow sugar, so she added three teaspoons. The water boiled like her resentment.
She marched out of the kitchen in a rage, and slammed straight into Burgone. She swerved, trying to save his tailored suit from the hot tea. He jumped backwards.
‘Whoa!’
Boiling liquid sloshed over her thumb. ‘Ow!’ She swapped hands, shook it off and stuck her thumb in her mouth.
‘Are you all right?’ Burgone’s blue eyes looked at her with concern. He stepped towards her and reached for the hand that she was still sucking. Suddenly she felt absurdly sexual, and she let her fingers drop. He caught hold of them and gently turned her hand over in his. Running his piano-player touch lightly over the damaged skin. Every cell in her body felt primed. She daren’t speak. ‘We need to get this under the cold tap.’
She nodded dumbly as he took Saunders’s mug from her and led her to the sink. He turned on the tap, before tenderly holding her hand towards the water. The shock of the cold brought her to her senses.
‘It’s fine,’ she said, shaking him off, wincing as the water splashed onto his shirt, turning the white fabric transparent. It clung to his toned abs. She tried not to stare. ‘Sorry. I’m being stupidly clumsy.’ She tried to laugh.
‘Do we need to get the first-aid box?’ he asked, inspecting the burn. She wished he’d look away. Leave. She was surprised the water didn’t hiss into steam when it touched her skin: she felt hot with shame.
‘No, no, it’s fine. Honestly,’ she said.
He picked up the mug again and gave it a quizzical glance. ‘I thought you only drank herbal tea?’
He remembered!Get a grip, Nasreen. ‘It’s for DI Saunders.’
‘He’s got you making tea for him?’
She panicked. She didn’t want to seem like a grass. Or a whinger. ‘I was going to the kitchen anyway.’ To take back his cup.
His face relaxed into a glorious smile. ‘I’m so pleased you two are starting to bond.’
Was he? Had she been wrong? Did he really care what had happened to her since their one-night stand? ‘I wouldn’t say we’re bonding, exactly. More that he’s acknowledging my existence.’ She was being inappropriate, but Burgone smiled.
‘He’s a good cop, you can learn a lot from him.’
She nodded: Saunders’s record spoke for itself. Though Lex Riley’s potential involvement with Amber might derail her chance to prove herself to him. If Lex Riley had got to Amber – got to Paul – then finding the girl might not lead to Robertson after all.
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