Watch Me

by Angela Clarke

  ‘Romeland High is by the cathedral,’ said DC Green, stopping at a red light. ‘We should be there in two minutes.’

  Freddie couldn’t believe she’d survived bourgeois, bland Pendrick for so long. Bright blue sky opened between white clouds over St Albans’ historic rooftops, and she felt overwhelmingly claustrophobic.

  Lottie’s suicide note was still backlit on her screen. Why had she been sent a copy too? They were being sucked in. Nas was right: they were the link, she and Freddie. They were the eye of the storm that threatened to destroy the missing girl.

  Chapter 12

  Wednesday 16 March

  13:25

  T – 20 hrs 55 mins

  Freddie had been sent the message too. Nasreen felt sick. The sender wanted them to know this was about the Hashtag Murderer. About Apollyon. There was no reason to think the prison officer had lied about the access the killer had to the outside world; but the prison officer might not know what he was up against. It wasn’t unheard of for a sympathetic or bribed screw to take a mobile in to a criminal.

  The car turned and St Albans Cathedral, a grand, gothic building, glowed majestically before them, golden in the sun. Along from the abbey was a flint-layered block gateway house, which looked to be part of the grandiose St Albans School.

  ‘It’s stunning,’ said Nasreen, inhaling the fresh, cut-grass smell of spring and trying to roll the tension from her shoulders. They could be standing in a quad at an Oxford college.

  ‘All right if you’re into Hogwarts, I suppose.’ Freddie’s hands were in her hoodie pockets.

  ‘Romeland School is on Fishpool Street,’ said Nas, shielding her eyes from the sun. ‘That one.’ She pointed at the chocolate box road that wended away downhill.

  DC Green shut the car door, her tan suit jacket creased from the drive. She didn’t take her eyes from Freddie, who was leaning against the car. ‘Can you not do that? I’ll be in trouble if the paintwork’s chipped.’

  Freddie didn’t move. ‘You always want to be a cop?’

  Green stiffened. ‘My father was in the force.’

  Nasreen knew cops who were devastated when their children joined, not wanting them to have the life they had, the long stressful hours away from family. You didn’t get a good work–life balance, and not everyone was happy for their loved ones to take such risks. The first time she’d been hospitalised, her dad had cried and begged her not to return to work. But it wasn’t that easy. This was more than a job. Green retreated at the personal question, turning away. No bad thing: the less interaction Freddie had with the team, the better. Nasreen didn’t want anything getting back to Saunders or Burgone.

  ‘Green, I’m going to take Freddie into the interviews with me. To observe. I don’t want to overwhelm the kids.’ Green looked crestfallen. Nasreen had been there: getting palmed off with the dull jobs. She sympathised. ‘Why don’t you go get yourself some lunch? We can meet you back here in, say half an hour?’

  ‘Oh, get me a pain au chocolat?’ Freddie rifled through her pockets. Green sucked her cheeks in. Oblivious, or unbothered, Freddie continued. ‘And an espresso, but like a good one, yeah?’

  ‘Now I’m a waitress?’ Green looked at her disdainfully.

  ‘You got any cash, Nas?’

  Nasreen cringed. ‘Sure.’ She handed Green, who managed a sarcastic smile, a twenty from her wallet. ‘Lunch is on me, yeah?’

  ‘Cheers, Sarge. Do you want anything?’ Green’s face softened a fraction, placated by the gesture.

  The thought of food made her stomach heave – she wasn’t sure if it was the hangover or stress. ‘Just a smoothie. Something like that’d be lovely. Thanks.’

  ‘No probs.’ Green folded the notes into her back pocket. ‘I’ll see you back here.’

  ‘Right,’ said Nas, turning to face Freddie. ‘Ready?’ The sight of her friend’s livid scar jarred again. This was what Apollyon had done to her. And Freddie was lucky: she’d lived.

  Freddie caught Nas looking and self-consciously pulled her hair forwards.

  ‘Sorry – I didn’t mean to stare.’ Nasreen felt her face grow hot.

  ‘Don’t wanna frighten the children do we,’ said Freddie as she headed down the hill.

  Nasreen hurried to catch up. ‘I didn’t mean …’

  ‘Forget it. It’s cool.’

  But it wasn’t. A muscle in Freddie’s neck twitched. She was putting on a brave face. Nasreen always took care to maintain eye contact in interviews with domestic abuse victims; why couldn’t she do that with Freddie? Because you feel guilty. The scar was a Post-it note on Freddie’s face, reminding her of the trouble she’d caused her.

  ‘How long we got?’ Freddie asked.

  Recovering herself, Nas replied, ‘If we keep it swift, thirty minutes.’

  ‘I mean on the clock. How long until Lottie is …’

  She didn’t need to check the time. ‘Under twenty hours.’ What would Saunders be doing now? She was away from the main hub of the investigation out here. Perhaps Chips thought that was better. Had she sidelined herself from the search?

  ‘You said Melisha Khan was Chloe’s bestie, right?’

  ‘Yes.’ She steered Freddie off the cobbled pavement and into the tarmacked entrance of the school. Set back from the winding road of beautiful historic houses, the red-brick, three-storey nineties pimple of Romeland High was at complete odds with its surroundings. Through the upstairs windows she saw pupils in dark blue blazers, moving, chatting, laughing. Lunch time.

  ‘Nice of them to stick the state comp kids in this, when they’ve got Malory Towers just up there,’ Freddie said. Nasreen didn’t have time to respond before she fired out a question: ‘What’s the name of the boyfriend – the kid she broke up with?’

  ‘William Taylor.’ A sign directed them to the reception. A reinforced glass door, green and distorted so those passing by couldn’t peer in.

  ‘Presuming our William Taylor is the same Will.i.am. T. on Facebook – why do you think Melisha Kahn has written “I know what you did. You killed my best friend. I’ll never forgive you” on his wall?’ Freddie held her phone up.

  ‘What?’ Melisha had posted the message on William’s Facebook page on Monday, after the original investigation by the local force had finished. Emojis underneath marked that others had reacted to the post: small red angry faces, crying faces, laughing faces. Nasreen’s pulse accelerated. They could be on to something.

  ‘Their profiles say they’re at Romeland. You think it’s them?’ Freddie asked.

  ‘Let’s find out.’ If they worked out what had really happened to Chloe, they could work out what had happened to Lottie.

  The shrill sound of two phone notifications stopped her in her tracks. Freddie grabbed her arm: her phone had pinged as well. The noise of the schoolyard fell away. Blood rushed to her ears. Nasreen’s hands were shaking. A new Snapchat. A photo. Her mind conjured up horrible scenarios. Hundreds of crime scene photos fired through her mind. She didn’t want to look. Her legs felt weak. Had this been sent to Burgone? Oh god. She had to do this. Be strong. For Jack. She tapped the Snap open.

  The first thing she saw was Lottie’s eyes. Wide. Terrified. Her forehead was smeared with blood. Her blood. Silver gaffer tape cut across her face, sealing in her scream. Her hair was askew, as if she’d been yanked by it. Tears were running down her face. It was a horrific, twisted take on the selfies of Lottie’s feed. Over the photo was a message:

  You have 20 hours to save luscious Lottie’s life. Tick tock.

  Freddie lurched away from her and bounced off the red-brick wall, bending double, gasping for air. ‘No. No. No.’

  Nasreen couldn’t speak. Couldn’t find the words. Fighting to control herself, gripping her phone. Stop shaking. Lottie was still alive. That had to be a good thing. What had they done to her? Her phone rang: Saunders calling. They must have got the message too. Poor Jack. Sending Saunders to voicemail, her finger hovered over Burgone’s number. Her breath was coming
in short, sharp gulps. What could she say? She screwed her eyes shut, shook her head, tried to get rid of the image of Lottie screaming. Crying. Blood streaked down her face. There was no doubt left: Lottie had been kidnapped and the threat to her life was credible. They had twenty hours to save her. Less than a day. Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock sounded Nasreen’s heartbeat.

  Chapter 13

  Wednesday 16 March

  13:35

  T – 19 hrs 55 mins

  ‘I don’t think I can do this,’ Freddie said. Her whole body felt hot.

  ‘We have to.’ Nas’s eyes darted around the square reception room of Romeland High, checking all the exits.

  ‘Will they be able to trace the Snap?’

  ‘The tech lads will try. But it was from the same number as before, so my guess is it’ll have been rerouted.’ Nas’s tone was free of emotion, but she was anxiously twisting her fingers together.

  The room the kidnapper was holding Lottie in looked dark, abandoned, scary. Freddie kept seeing the petrified eyes of the girl. She couldn’t bring herself to look at the photo again. Nas had ignored several calls, finally silencing her own phone. They had to focus on the interviews. She had to stop her teeth chattering.

  ‘What about the photo itself – could they trace that?’

  Nas shook her head, approaching the receptionist with thick-framed glasses, who hadn’t looked up from her beige computer. Freddie looked around the room. It was surreal standing here. The white-painted walls were yellowing with age. It was like being inside a giant nicotine experiment. Blue felt pinboards punctuated the walls like clots on an x-ray.

  ‘Good afternoon, I’m Detective Sergeant Nasreen Cudmore.’ Nas showed her warrant card to the scowling receptionist. ‘Ms Bradshaw is expecting me.’ The school bell sounded: end of lunch. Freddie could hear shouts and voices, shuffling feet, doors banging and chairs scraping as the kids went back to class. She blinked away images of Lottie gagged with gaffer tape.

  The receptionist took the card in her peach-painted nails.

  ‘You’re here about Chloe Strofton?’ She whispered the name as if it were a delicious secret. ‘Such a tragic waste.’ Her face puckering into faux concern. ‘Young people nowadays, they have it all given to them on a plate.’

  Student debt, high unemployment, astronomical house prices, environmental destruction, thought Freddie. Yeah, so much given to them.

  ‘We never had mobile phones or laptops in my day and we just got on with it. If you ask me, I think they have it too easy.’

  ‘We didn’t ask you,’ Freddie’s horror quickly segued into anger. How could someone like this work with children?

  Nas shot her a warning glance.

  The receptionist extended a gnarled hand. ‘And your ID?’

  Oh shit.

  ‘This is my colleague Freddie Venton.’ Nas gave the woman her winning smile. Freddie couldn’t even pretend. ‘She’s a specialised consultant working on this case.’

  ‘Is she DBS checked?’

  ‘No,’ answered Freddie.

  ‘I’m not sure I can let her in. She could be anyone.’ She glared at Freddie. ‘She could be a paedophile.’

  Oh yeah, I’m just hanging around looking at photos of kidnapped girls and interviewing dead girls’ friends for a laugh.

  ‘Sign in.’ The receptionist slapped a clipboard onto the desk. ‘She’s not to be left unattended at any time. Even if she needs the toilet.’ Her dog’s-bum mouth twisted into a smile that suggested she’d won. Freddie signed her name as Jack Hoff.

  A woman entered the reception from one of the far doors. ‘I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Mrs Smailes.’ In her late twenties, she had cropped blonde hair. Black Converse trainers complimented her smart skinny black trousers and neat grey jumper. ‘I’m Ms Bradshaw. We spoke on the phone.’

  Nas introduced them and Ms Bradshaw shook their hands. ‘We’re all devastated about Chloe. Such a bright girl. The pupils are very shocked by it all. We’re a small school, and I have to say, thankfully, we don’t have much experience of this.’ Ms Bradshaw’s efficient tone couldn’t disguise her anxiety. It must be frightening to feel responsible for all these young lives. Freddie thought of Lottie: they were responsible for her life. ‘If you follow me, I’ve arranged for us to use the school nurse’s office. She only comes in for vaccinations. Though we have had a counsellor coming in for any pupils who wish to see her.’

  The hallway was empty. Voices, mostly those of teachers, drifted from behind closed classroom doors. Mineral or organic matter deposited by water, air or ice is called sediment … And y equals? One wall of the corridor was constructed of glass, overlooking a small square of concrete, on the other side of which was the canteen. More felt pinboards lined the other wall, plastered with posters advertising a forthcoming school disco. It was all so … ordinary. Chloe had walked down this hallway, gone to class, left, and vanished. What had happened to make her do that?

  ‘We’re in here.’ Ms Bradshaw pushed open a green door. The room was small, but sunlit, with low, comfortable chairs that were clearly designed to encourage pupils to relax, to talk.

  ‘Thank you, Ms Bradshaw,’ said Nas. ‘This is perfect.’ It felt separate to the rest of the squeaky corridors, with their dark rubber scuff marks. Safer, as if they were retreating from the threat of the investigation.

  ‘Call me Caroline, please.’

  ‘I will need to ask you to sit in on the conversations, if that’s okay, Caroline?’ Nas’s tone had lost the supercharged charm she’d used for the secretary, but it was still warm. How could she detach so quickly from the horror of that image? How could she stop seeing the terror in Lottie’s eyes? ‘As I explained on the phone, these aren’t official interviews, not at this stage, but I will need an independent responsible adult here while talking to minors.’

  ‘I could have done it,’ Freddie said.

  Nas smiled as if she’d made a joke. ‘I’d like to talk to Melisha Khan, Chloe’s best friend.’

  ‘Yes. I also requested that Ruby Dawson come and see you. She, Melisha and Chloe were a bit of a trio,’ said Caroline, indicating for her and Nas to sit down. Freddie took a chair, its foam not quite as soft as she’d hoped. She pulled her jacket off and slung it over the back.

  Nas was still standing. ‘I’d also like to speak to a pupil called William Taylor – we understand he and Chloe had been going out?’

  It sounded so childish: going out. But Freddie could still feel the heat from her own teen relationships. Alfie from her weekend job at Waterstones had been lanky and pale, with fine, floppy hair she liked to push out of his eyes. They’d bonded over their love of The Smiths. He wasn’t her first, but he was certainly the first to leave a mark.

  ‘Do you know why they split up?’ Freddie asked.

  Caroline looked surprised, as if the question had never occurred to her. ‘No. So many youngsters form relationships, break up. It’s part of growing up. Are the children suspected of something, Sergeant?’

  ‘Please, call me Nasreen. I don’t want to put the pupils on edge.’

  ‘You’re a cop, Nas. They’re not gonna treat you like you’re their best bud.’

  Nas frowned. ‘Freddie, can I borrow your jumper?’ Freddie chucked her hoodie at her.

  ‘I’ll go and fetch the students,’ Ms Bradshaw said.

  ‘Just Melisha and Ruby first,’ Nas said. ‘I’d like to speak to the girls without William present.’

  A slight shadow passed across Caroline’s face. Did she suspect Nas wasn’t telling her everything? ‘I’ll find out where William is and get him to come along … in about ten minutes?’

  ‘Perfect.’ Nas was so good at making people do what she wanted, Freddie couldn’t help but smile. Caroline stepped out, closing the door behind her.

  Nas took her suit jacket off. ‘Leave the questions to me. When they come in.’

  ‘But what if I’ve got something to say?’

  ‘I’m already sailing close to the
wind by having you sit in on this.’

  ‘It’s not like you to break the rules.’ She didn’t bother toning down the sarcasm. What was the point of being here if all she did was sit like a pot plant in the corner?

  Nas pulled the hoodie over her white button-up shirt. ‘I didn’t have time to set this up properly. I need to extract any relevant intelligence and get it back to the team.’

  The spectre of Lottie filled the small room. ‘I’ll behave.’

  ‘Good.’ Nas zipped the hoodie up. ‘How do I look?’

  ‘Like a copper wearing a hoodie over her suit.’

  ‘Right.’ Nas unzipped it and flung it back at her. ‘I’ll play to that: authority. Chloe and her friends have no history of trouble. But I want to know what that Facebook message is about.’

  Freddie thought of the lies she told. Yes, I looked for new jobs today. Yes, I wrote a pitch today. ‘Just because they’re young, it doesn’t mean they’ll trust you.’

  ‘This is hardly a hostile inner-city school is it?’ Nas gestured at the pastel landscape on the wall.

  ‘And what d’you know about hostile inner-city schools?’ She’d meant it as a joke, but being in a school again, with Nas, and talking about concealing the truth gave her voice an edge.

  Instantly Nas cooled. ‘When I was a DC I worked on a stabbing at a school in Hackney.’

  Freddie tried to imagine a younger Nas – the one who’d got lost somewhere between the shy fourteen-year-old girl she’d known and this composed, cool-headed policewoman. It was still odd: Nas, the girl she used to share her penny sweets with, was a cop. She’d thought the police were sexist, racist, homophobic, transphobic dinosaurs. But while she’d seen things that reinforced this view, she’d also seen the drive, commitment, and sacrifice Nas and her fellow officers made. And – she lightly touched her scar – how they put themselves in danger every day. By choice. She wanted to ask after Nas’s old colleagues, but it didn’t feel like the right time. Instead, she asked, ‘What happened – at the school stabbing?’