Lottie’s kidnap was now headline news. The photo of her bound and gagged would be reproduced in grainy print on the front pages of the early editions. Breaking news on the ten o’clock show. Her face a permanent fixture on the rolling news channels. Freddie knew the story: attractive blonde kidnapped in sensational social-media-based plot. Possible links to the Hashtag Murderer. Apollyon’s Revenge hadn’t just brought the circus to town, he’d brought every clown on the globe. Everyone’s eyes were on them. Everyone knew what was happening. They’d lost control of the press coverage. They’d lost control of everything. The office was full of police. Ringing phones. Shouting. People were running in and out. And Freddie couldn’t do anything. She was useless.
‘How did he do it?’ Nas was saying.
‘The text message version was only sent to us and the guv,’ Saunders barked. ‘The newspapers and channels got an email instead. The texts were sent from an automated computer account – not another phone. We can’t trace it. It’s bounced between here and – fuck!’ He flung his hand up in frustration.
‘But how did he get our numbers?’ Nas was saying. ‘And Freddie’s?’
‘A hack,’ Chips was saying. ‘Or a leak? He could have someone on the inside.’ They looked around the room with alarm: it was swimming with people. Freddie didn’t know any of these people. She didn’t trust any of them. And there was something else: something Nas had said when she’d appeared out of the dark, ghostly trees. Something was very wrong, but she couldn’t find it among all the noise.
‘We can’t get anything off the email address that sent the message to the media either,’ Chips said. ‘The whole lot’s gone via Tor: it’s anonymous. The Twitter account, Instagram, and all the social media accounts that posted the same message look like they’ve been hacked. They’re all registered to a handful of stupid buggers who had easy-to-guess passwords. It’s simple enough to do and means we’ve got next to no way of finding out who really posted that message.’
‘Dammit!’ Saunders slammed his hand onto the nearest desk.
‘The photo’s not geotagged,’ Nas said. ‘But I’m getting it blown up. There’s something in the background. If we can see what it is it could give us a clue as to where he’s keeping her.’
Freddie put her head in her hands and took a deep breath. It was like the room had no air left. She had to get out. Keep breathing. One, two, three… She stumbled into the corridor. Took the stairs. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Her breath fast now. Too fast. Her heart hammering to get out. Then she was out the ground floor fire escape. Out the back of the building. Gasping. Taking a huge greedy gulp of air. Her chest heaved. Slowed. The noises around her started to come back. A car beeped in the distance. A taxi drove past. Two people walked along the street laughing, a drink after work. She was okay. She was in London. She was okay. She was scratching her wrist again. Fuck it. She’d needed something for her hands to do. Checking her back pocket for her cash card Freddie walked down to the shop with the Lotto sign outside. A man stood behind the till, looking up at a small television on the wall. On the screen was the news. A photo she recognised from Lottie’s Instagram page. Then a stock image of DCI Jack Burgone in uniform – it was difficult to tally the composed, smiling man on screen with the distraught man who’d run into the woods to be with his dead sister. What did it feel like to think a person you loved was dead? Murdered? What did it feel like to then have hope, and then this? She thought of the sickening photo of Lottie. How much could one person take?
On screen a photo of Nasreen appeared. It must have been taken at a crime scene – she was outside a building, walking across camera. Her hair was scraped back into a ponytail and she had a look Freddie recognised as ‘pissed off’ on her face. She still looked like she was in a movie. Freddie would’ve looked like she’d been dragged through a hedge backwards. And as if to prove the point the image shifted and there she was – a photo from her Facebook page, taken at a 1980s fancy dress party. She was wearing a shoulder-padded jacket that made her look like a Michelin man, and her smile was lopsided, as though she was drunk. Which she had been. It must have been about one in the morning when they took that. The shop assistant turned to glare at her, as if it were her fault she was on the bloody television. He had an excellent monobrow. ‘Ten B&H? Ta.’ Freddie held out her card for contactless. Outside she cupped the cigarette against the wind and inhaled.
As soon as she turned the corner she realised she’d made a mistake. She thought this was a secure building. Didn’t that mean it was a secret? She should have stayed round the back.
A woman on the edge of the scrum, dark hair hanging over one side of her face, her microphone in her hand, smiling at the camera, caught sight of her. Fuck. ‘Freddie! Freddie Venton! Do you know who has Lottie Burgone?’
They surged towards her. Journalists, twenty at least. Lightbulbs flashing. Blinding her. Shouting.
‘Is Lottie Burgone dead?’
‘Is the Hashtag Murderer back?’
‘Has the kidnapper demanded money for Lottie’s return?’
‘Is the message board site Are You Awake involved?’
‘Should these sites be closed?’
‘Is this personal?’
‘Happy Birthday, Freddie!’
It’d be further to turn back. Putting her free arm up in front of her face she pushed on for the building, the rising shouts mirroring the rising dread she felt. Lottie was out there: trapped, tied up, terrified; and the whole world had an opinion on it. A tweet. A share. A thinkpiece. Any illusion that they had control of the investigation had been shattered into thousands of unfixable pieces the moment the photo of Lottie had been sent to the press. There would be crank calls, panic and the general public to deal with. They had eleven hours to find her. Less than half a day. The clock ticking down with each camera flash. How could they possibly reach her in time now?
Chapter 32
Wednesday 16 March
22:41
T – 10 hrs 59 mins
Chips handed Nas a cup of coffee. She took it gratefully, looking away from the blown-up versions of the photo Alex Black had sent them. She couldn’t look at the girl’s eyes. Every time she caught a flash of Lottie’s terrified expression she was back in Greenwich Deer Park, the blonde hair of the runner splayed on the ground. The background behind Lottie was dark, the light limited. The wall behind the girl, and it did look like a wall, was dark brown – discoloured maybe?
‘How you getting on?’ Chips perched on the edge of her desk, which creaked under his bulk.
‘It could be a disused building? Looks damp.’ There were what looked like green water marks over the dark brown walls. The room had a low ceiling.
‘What about the wall hanging?’
She showed him the zoomed-in section of print. To the left of Lottie’s head, behind her by a metre or two, was something hanging on the wall. White, or at least once that colour. They could only see a section of it. ‘I can’t tell what it is. A print of a drawing maybe?’ Four long, thin lozenge shapes were visible, pointed loops marked their ends, as if four asparagus stalks had been laid next to each other at a fifteen-degree angle. ‘What do you think these are? Fingers?’
Chips held the print away from him. ‘Pencils, maybe? Or bananas?’
This was all they had to go on. Her heart was racing after seeing the body. She couldn’t see another. Lottie couldn’t end up like that. She hadn’t seen Burgone since they’d arrived back, but she knew he was here: his car was downstairs. Chips had been to speak to him. The sound of Burgone retching in the wood in relief, or horror, juddered through her. It was a visceral response; he’d been stripped by this, robbed of his professionalism, his dignity. The brilliant cop was gone, and instead he was just a man. A victim himself. And the message had been addressed to her: she was doing this to him. She shook it all off. Looked again at the blown-up image. She wondered if Freddie might recognise it. ‘Where’s Freddie gone?’
‘Guv!’ Morris, his voice
near hysterical, was pointing at his desktop. He had the news on. The cameras were outside the office. Oh shit.
‘Found her.’ Chips nodded at the screen as Freddie rounded on the poor person behind the camera. Nasreen recognised that look all too well. Red mist. ‘What’s she doing?’
‘They’ve pissed her off.’ Nasreen shook her head. The woman worked as a journalist: you would think she’d know better than to take the bait.
‘Put the sound on,’ Saunders barked. Please don’t. Morris, ever accommodating, whacked the volume right up.
The room hushed as a chirpy female voiceover said, ‘And we’re getting reports of a live comment coming from Freddie Venton, the consultant we believe is working with the police on this case, right now.’
‘Consultant!’ Morris scoffed. Nasreen winced.
A plummy male voice off camera could be heard saying, ‘Is this a warning to silly girls not to take obscene photos of themselves?’
Crap.
Freddie’s nostrils flared as she spun to face the guy. Her voice crackled and sparked with unsuppressed rage. ‘Every woman, every person, has the right to take whatever photos of themselves they like, without having to worry about twisted, entitled idiots stealing them or sharing them without their consent. The ones at fault are those who circulate intimate images to humiliate, embarrass or coerce others.’ White-hot spittle rained. ‘No one is responsible for Lottie Burgone’s kidnap other than her kidnapper.’ Nasreen’s heart leapt. ‘The person calling himself Alex Black.’ And it crashed back into her chest. You couldn’t just quit while you were ahead? They shouldn’t be commenting on this.
Freddie looked straight at the camera. ‘I am sick of being told what to wear, how much to drink, where to go, where not to go, to be nice, to smile, interrupted, dictated to, blamed, lectured, trolled and patronised. We’ve had enough.’ There was a cheer in the background and a few people laughed. The camera zoomed in, so Freddie’s face filled the screen. ‘We are not victims. You don’t get to blame us for the things you do. You’re screaming into the wind, you and your man-baby pals, Black. You’ve already lost. We run the game now.’
The camera cut back to the chirpy woman in the studio, her eyes wide. ‘Well, that was quite some statement,’ she said. Her co-presenter had a rictus smile on his face. ‘I think we can all agree that was …’
‘Really quite unexpected,’ the co-presenter guffawed.
Chirpy’s head snapped to glare at him. ‘I haven’t finished, Simon.’
Nasreen smiled and shook her head as Morris cut the volume. The room dissolved into excitable chatter. A couple of people were clapping. She’d stuck up for the guv’s sister: that made her a hero. There was a whoop. Only Freddie could lose it and deliver a political diatribe during the middle of a police investigation. And she knew just who was going to get blamed for bringing her in … It was over. Burgone had said Freddie couldn’t interact with anyone outside of this office. And she certainly couldn’t speak to the press. Saunders would never let her stay on the team now, but when she looked up he had a smile on his face, and he was still looking at the screen. He turned and his face fell into a hard scowl. ‘Okay, people, settle down, that’s enough,’ he snapped. Hush descended on the room.
‘Remind me never to play Scrabble with Freddie,’ Chips said, standing up from the desk. He looked sympathetic, as if he were at a wake.
Saunders was powering towards her. ‘You and me need to have a little chat, Cudmore.’ His voice was low and threatening – his favoured style. She was aware the whole room was listening, hushed in anticipation of the fireworks. A dissonance of mobile tones sounded. Oh god, not again.
‘We weren’t the only ones watching.’ Chips had his phone out.
Saunders was frowning at the screen, his eyes widening, a look of what? Shock? He stared at Nasreen.
‘Cudmore?’ Chips’s pudgy face gaped at her.
There were murmurs round the room; people were pushing themselves away from their computer screens. Had he emailed it again? People were turning to look at her. ‘What? What is it? Another photo? Is Lottie okay?’ The eyes of the room were on her. Dread tingled over her whole body. Chips turned his phone round, shaking his head as he held it out to her. And she knew straight away what it was.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
I’m sorry I left without waking you. I didn’t know what to say. I know we haven’t worked together for long, but you need to understand that I’m not like this. This is the first one-night stand I’ve ever had. I drank too much. Way too much. I can’t undo what happened, but I can take responsibility for my actions. I admire you greatly. Maybe too much, maybe that was the problem. And if there’s any way we can forget this ever happened … I want to fix this, sir. I’m committed to the team. I promise nothing like this will ever happen again.
Chapter 33
Wednesday 16 March
22:51
T – 10 hrs 49 mins
Freddie’s heart was thumping in the lift. Bastard. Bastard! She’d let him get to her. She could just hear her mum now: Freddie, you’ve got to watch that temper of yours. It lands you in hot water. And couldn’t you have run a brush through your hair? It’d be all over the news now: her threatening a kidnapper! Would he retaliate? Had she endangered Lottie? Her stomach lurched at the thought. Her fingers tapped frantically at her phone. She had no signal in the lift. The screen was frozen on the last Alex Black search result she’d been looking at in the car. It wasn’t an MRA site or another display of awful photos. It was text heavy: a blog titled ‘Cynthia Warner.’ She scanned the menu tabs:
What is Revenge Porn?
What to Do if You’re a Victim of Revenge Porn
Useful Links
Alex Black
The lift doors opened. She clicked on the Alex Black page, looking up just in time to avoid walking into a pinch-faced woman in a grey skirt suit. ‘Sorry. Do you know if there’s somewhere I can go for one of these?’ She rattled her fag packet at her.
The woman didn’t smile. ‘There’s a balcony on the next floor. Next to the fire exit.’
‘Cheers.’ Freddie looked back down at her phone. The page had opened onto what looked like a blog. She pushed open the door to the back staircase and ran up. On the next floor was another fire door. Freddie tested it gingerly. Evacuating the building by setting off the fire alarm wouldn’t be a good move right now. But all that greeted her was the rush of cool air from outside and rhythmic hum of London drifting up from below. It was comforting to know life was still normal for other people out there. That they weren’t trapped in a Kafkaesque nightmare of reoccurring internet criminals. Her phone beeped.
‘You’re not supposed to be out here.’ She jumped. At her feet was the man she recognised from the park: DCI Burgone. He looked different with his face composed: quite hot. He had a touch of Tom Hiddleston about him. He was leaning against the stone wall of the building, elbows resting on his knees. Ornate brickwork shielded them from the outside, so she couldn’t see the road below, only the twinkling towers of the London skyline. ‘Freddie Venton, I presume?’ He held a hand out for her to shake. The moonlight picked out his cheekbones like they were made of cut glass. And he was bloody posh. As if she’d stumbled on a character from Brideshead Revisited.
‘Fag?’ She put one between her lips and offered him the carton.
‘You’re not supposed to smoke up here,’ Burgone said.
‘Some woman just told me I could,’ Freddie said, sliding down the wall to sit beside him. She didn’t really want company, but the guy’s sister was missing. And she’d potentially put her in more danger by messaging Alex Black.
‘Which woman?’ He was a typical policeman, asking a load of questions.
Freddie sparked up as she replied. ‘Thin, dark hair piled on her head, grey skirt suit, face like a smacked arse.’
‘Ah,’ Burgone said. ‘That’ll be the superintendent.’
‘Bollo
cks,’ Freddie exhaled. ‘And I was just getting settled in.’
‘Can I have one of those?’ he said. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’
Freddie handed him the packet and the lighter.
He coughed as he inhaled. ‘I haven’t smoked since Eton.’ Freddie raised her eyebrows. ‘Did that make me sound like a twat?’
‘Yup.’ She blew smoke up into the air, noticing the faint rings of red around his eyes.
‘I’m a bit out of sorts.’ He looked at his phone. The screensaver was of him and Lottie. She with her arm round his shoulder.
‘I should take up vaping really.’ She leant back and looked at the sky. ‘Makes you look like such a tosser though.’
She caught a slight smile in the corner of her eye. ‘I can see the risk,’ he said.
She paused for a moment. It hung in the air between them. The weight of the situation. The fate of his sister. ‘She seems like she’s really nice,’ she said, nodding at the photo.
‘She is,’ he smiled. ‘This was on Sunday. We met for brunch. I get busy at work, so we don’t always get to spend time together.’ Freddie snatched the phone from him. ‘Hey!’
‘What’s that?’ She pointed at the watch on Lottie’s wrist. She’d seen one before.
‘A smartwatch,’ he said. ‘It was a gift, I think.’
‘It’s a FitSpo,’ she said. ‘Some cockblanket I went to uni with has one.’ He looked offended. ‘Sorry. Look, the point is it tracks your movements. He’s always posting his stats. His running routes and stuff on it.’ Burgone was already on his feet. ‘It works in tandem with but separate to your phone. These babies beam out a whole stack of info. I read a piece about it: advertisers suck it up and half the time people don’t realise they’re sharing all this data about themselves.’
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