Nasreen tried to smile at Saunders, but she couldn’t muster it. Neither of them wanted to contradict Chips, but the implications were clear. They were all thinking it. Saunders pushed his hand back through his hair, pulling the skin on his face taut. She could see the grooves of his skull, a reminder of how little really stood between you and someone who wanted to do you harm. Though, with his fast movements and limber strength, she’d put money on Saunders in most fights.
What about Lottie? She’d kicked out, fought hard enough to rip her hoodie. She was in physically great shape, strong and lean in the photos, though Nasreen would have preferred to see a few more cheeseburgers on her Instagram feed. She looked like a fighter. Sometimes just that will to survive was enough. Nasreen had seen it in her colleagues. In victims of terrible crimes. In her friends. But even the strongest will could be extinguished by another. Someone had wanted to take Lottie, and they had. They’d also threatened to kill her. Would they execute that plan as well?
Chips ended his call and headed for the incident board. ‘Lottie went for a run every day at 6 a.m. She’s picked up on the campus CCTV camera about five past the hour, heading towards Greenwich Church Street.’ He was filling in the details on the timeline as he spoke.
‘Any cameras on West Grove Lane?’ asked Saunders.
‘No joy,’ said Chips. ‘It’s largely residential. But the university have cooperated fully. As they should: PR nightmare for them, a student going missing. Their in-house security are going through their recordings with the Greenwich lads. They’ve got a snazzy digital set-up, so they’ve been able to match Lottie’s expected movements on campus with the relevant footage.’ Chips was scribbling in black marker as he spoke.
‘Everything they have should be double checked.’ Saunders stood next to Chips as he copied notes from his pad. ‘We’ll get Morris on it.’
Good, thought Nasreen. Serve him right.
‘There’s a camera at the offie on the corner – here.’ Chips tapped the map of the Greenwich area they’d unfurled alongside the board. ‘But it’s trained on their back door and side alley. It points away from that end of the road.’
They tensed as Burgone cut in from the doorway. ‘Idiots! There’d be more chance of people coming at them from the front.’ How long had he been there? What had he heard? The muscles in his face twitched, his lips a thin line from pressure. Saunders, his back to the DCI, frowned and rested his hands in his pockets as if he were worried what else they might do.
‘Which way was she going?’ asked Burgone.
Chips moved stiffly, unsure whether this was the right thing to do. ‘We can see her on the university’s camera here and here, heading along this road,’ he said, indicating the relevant area on the map. A yellow highlighter marked her flat, the road where she was picked up by the camera, and then the spot where the hoodie had been found. There were countless roads between the two points. It would take hours to find, watch, and scan tapes from all those roads, even if they put multiple officers on it.
‘Yesterday she returned to her flat at the usual time of 7.30 a.m., made smoothies for her and her flatmate Bea, showered and was at lectures for 9 a.m.’ Chips flicked through his notes. ‘We can see her on the campus camera again, crossing the quad and talking with friends before going into her lecture building. She returned to her flat at 1 p.m. Dani reports seeing her collecting a folder for a later class. Again she’s seen chatting to friends on the campus. She was home just after 6 p.m., working in her bedroom on coursework. Bea and Dani then both saw her when she came out to make her dinner in the shared kitchen: chicken and vegetables.’
‘That’s her favourite,’ Burgone said forlornly. Lottie was meticulous about her diet and exercise: it structured her time. Her body was her tool – like a model, she earned money from it. She was dedicated and worked hard; attributes she shared with her brother.
Chips pushed on. ‘According to her flatmates, she seemed fine. Possibly stressed about her coursework, but nothing concerning.’
‘Then where is she!’ The DCI slammed his fist onto the desk in front of him. Chips’s breathing was audible. Saunders frowned; he saw emotional outbursts as weakness. ‘Sorry. I just …’ Burgone stopped and stared at the photo of Lottie that Chips had pinned to the incident board. He turned, and walked out.
Nasreen couldn’t stand by and watch him hurting like this.
Saunders arched an eyebrow at her: ‘Do you think now is the ideal moment to go for a fucking stroll, Cudmore?’
Her cheeks flamed. Everyone could hear him. ‘No, of course not.’ She caught hold of her heart, pulled it back inside and locked it down.
‘Of course not,’ Saunders parroted in a high and squeaky voice. Nasreen clenched her teeth, fighting to not let her anger show. ‘Sit the hell back down and get on with your job, Sergeant.’
Did he know she’d been following Burgone or was he just taking his frustration out on her? Green caught her eye and pulled a sympathetic grimace. Nasreen tried to get her thoughts in order. She didn’t need to give Saunders any more reasons to pick at her.
The photos of Chloe Strofton and Lottie Burgone showed blonde, attractive, young and seemingly happy girls. And yet they’d both, apparently, sent suicide notes via Snapchat. Could Chloe’s death be related to Lottie’s? Had the police investigating her alleged suicide missed something? Nasreen laid out a printout of Lottie’s note on her desk:
A pointless opulent life leads you onto nothing.
I can’t go on. Lottie Burgone
And the banner overlaying the note:
You have 6 seconds to read this and 24 hours to save the girl’s life.
She pulled out the printed screenshot of the Snapchat note Chloe had sent and laid it on the desk next to Lottie’s. Across Chloe’s note – which was much longer than Lottie’s – was a similar banner:
You have 6 seconds to read this, and 24 hours to find me.
First person. Different. Both of the notes were printed, typed, in what looked like Times New Roman, on white A4 paper. Chloe’s note looked like it had been folded in half, and then in half again, crinkled, perhaps from being put in a pocket? She flicked to the photographs of the scene where Chloe had been found. Yellow evidence markers marked her orange school bag, which was more like a stylish leather handbag you might see a businesswoman carry than the scruffy rucksack Nasreen had had at school. Both Chloe and Lottie were fashionable, concerned with their appearance. A pointless opulent life. She looked at the zoomed-in version of Chloe’s suicide note:
As I type this I feel calmer. I’m doing the right thing. It’s a relief. I can’t go on after people find out. It’s disgusting. I’ve let down my friends, family, teachers, everyone. Only those who’ve seen will know why. I can’t live in fear of it coming out. All the lies are finished. Mum, Dad, Freya, Gemma, I screwed up. I can’t hurt you more. I love you. It’s time I fixed the mess I made. This is the only way. I promise you all you’re better off without me. I know you’ll feel sad reading this, but I know that’ll be over soon. The pain will fade. Your tears will dry. You’ll live happy lives. I love you. Now it’s time to go. I’ll be dead within twenty-four hours of you receiving this note.
Chloe Strofton
What
