suicides,’ said DCI Burgone. ‘With well-publicised cases there are often suicide clusters. It’s called suicide contagion – a real and alarming syndrome.’ Chips tutted and shook his head, as if this sort of thing could be discouraged with disapproval.
‘Schools and communities are particularly susceptible to the phenomenon,’ Burgone continued. He sounded like a newsreader from a bygone broadcast; it was reassuring, and one of the reasons the press loved him. His handsome face was made to be on camera. ‘The detail of how the suicide note was sent hasn’t made the news yet, and we’d like to keep it that way. It has spread across social media, and the school are worried in case anyone else tries to take their lives, emulating Chloe Strofton.’
Nasreen’s head snapped up. Strofton. Her pulse quickened. Coincidence? Had she misheard the name – hungover, tired, and wired from everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours?
‘The local force has requested we go in and chat to the pupils,’ the DCI was saying. ‘It’ll be a good PR exercise for my funding budget. It’s a standard approach: try to stem the sharing of the note. Reinforce the inherent dangers. Tell the young people they can talk to us or their teachers if they have concerns. We’re seeking to nip this in the bud quickly.’
‘I’m pretty sure Cudmore volunteered last night,’ Chips grinned. ‘She’s closer to the kids’ ages. They won’t want to hear from old lunks like me and Pete.’
‘Speak for yourself!’ Saunders reached a powerful arm down for the vitamin drink at his feet. ‘But I can’t be doing with kids. Not the maternal type. Isn’t that why we got her in?’ He was watching for her reaction.
Nasreen kept her features placid. Did he know? ‘What was the name?’ Her voice sounded strangled, she coughed to cover it.
‘Someone needs to rehydrate.’ Saunders took a glug from his drink. She concentrated on looking at her phone, as if she were about to type notes.
‘Strofton. Chloe Strofton.’ DCI Burgone looked at his paperwork. ‘Aged fifteen. Parents Deborah Strofton, forty-six, and Robert Strofton, fifty-two. Two sisters: Freya Strofton, thirteen …’ It felt like Nasreen had plunged into freezing water. It filled her ears, her mouth, her nose, her eyes. She knew what was coming. ‘And Gemma Strofton, twenty-three.’
It was her. Gemma. The girl that had changed Nasreen’s life. Chloe had succeeded where her older sister Gemma had failed. She had to say something. She knew the victim, or at least she had known the victim’s sister eight years ago. She opened her mouth. A blast of remembered anger, fear and sadness hit her, ripping jaggedly through time. She could see herself, lying on her single bed in her pink-painted bedroom, fourteen years old, sobbing. Desperate to make it better. ‘I’ll take the case, sir.’
DCI Burgone nodded. ‘Good. A young woman – like Chips says, you’ll have more chance of connecting with these kids.’
Young? Was that what he thought of her? And he’d said woman; did he agree with Saunders? Had she been brought onto the team as a female officer to deal with the emotional stuff after all? He smiled, and she stared back into his eyes. The same eyes she’d stared into last night.
Chips and Saunders were gathering up their stuff, Saunders groaning and stretching his arms out as he stood. Nasreen had a new email. He’d replied. Her chest constricted. Everything raced past her: the wine, the email she’d sent, Gemma, Chloe, DCI Jack Burgone’s lips on her.
From: [email protected]
We need to talk.
Those four little words never signalled anything good. They heralded the end of relationships, disciplinary actions, bad news. Saunders was back in his blazer, Chips was headed for the door. Looking up she caught the DCI’s eye: static shot through her. She couldn’t breathe; she could only think of what he tasted like, what he felt like, how he’d made her feel. He’d talked to her, listened to what she’d had to say. Or she thought he had. Was it a trick of the alcohol? Had she wanted to believe he thought she was smart? He could’ve just been being polite to a new member of his team. But when they’d stood outside the pub, laughing in the rain, she’d seen it in his eyes: lust. He’d felt the connection too. She couldn’t be on her own with him here in the office. Not yet. She needed to get things straight in her head. She stood, knocking her chair into the table behind. She walked fast to catch up with Chips as he and Saunders reached their open plan office, aware the DCI was just behind her. Her phone beeped. At first she thought it was an echo, but the others’ phones all sounded at the same time. A cacophony of beeps.
‘What the?’ Chips frowned. ‘Which one of you silly buggers is sending Snapchat photos now – I thought we’d had enough of that last night.’
Saunders grimaced, turning his phone over in his hand. The DCI pulled his from his suit pocket. Now was not the time for PPI insurance junk mail. Nasreen swiped the screen of her phone and it opened on her new Snap. It was from a number she didn’t recognise. Time to change her security settings. The timer in the top right-hand corner was ticking down. Six seconds, five seconds. It was a photo of a typed note, overlaid with a text banner. Nasreen’s breath caught in her throat.
‘Holy shit!’ Chips said.
‘Is that another suicide note?’ Saunders asked. ‘How the hell did they get my number?’
‘And mine!’ Chips grunted.
Nasreen scanned the words, the name at the bottom: Lottie Burgone. ‘It’s my sister’s number.’ The DCI frowned. ‘Is this a joke? Did one of you send this?’ He glared at her.
‘No.’ Nasreen looked round. They were all shaking their heads. Alarm flickered in Saunders’s eyes. She looked at the photo:
A pointless opulent life leads you onto nothing.
I can’t go on. Lottie Burgone
‘Get her on the phone – now. Call her, Jack,’ Chips was saying. Nasreen stared at the words in the caption that overlaid the note:
You have 6 seconds to read this and 24 hours to save the girl’s life.
Her brain crackled. This wasn’t a wind up. This was a threat. Her fingers flew. Four, three, two … She screenshot the image, taking a photo of it half a second before it disappeared forever.
09:31
T – 24 hrs
‘I’m calling the number.’ Saunders had his phone to his ear. ‘Straight to voicemail. It is her number, yeah, your sister’s, sir?’
‘Yes. My phone recognises it. I don’t understand … Why would she send this?’ The DCI was holding his phone in both hands. Nasreen thought he was shaking it, then she realised he was shaking.
‘Do you
