Watch Me. Angela Clarke
stubble casting a five o’clock shadow over his skin. Cartoon dog ears and a tongue added to the surreal effect. A timer in the corner of the photo wound down from eight seconds, after which the image would disappear. If only she could do that with last night. Snapchat’s USP was that images or videos were only viewable for a time dictated by the sender. Then they vanished. You couldn’t see them again. Why? Some people – other people – sent sexy photos of themselves to lovers. A glimpse of her lacy peach knickers crashed through her head. And black boxer shorts. Hair flopping forwards into those penetrating blue eyes. Lips on lips. Skin on skin. The lift door opened onto the spotless, cream-walled, grey-carpeted corridor. Her floor.
Chips looked up as she let herself into the designated meeting room. He had a kindly, line-riven face, and the red, mottled cheeks that come from a career spent indulging in Scotch on the difficult days. Like Father Christmas, if Santa had spent years locking up sex offenders. A paper bag split open to reveal a bacon roll – with a bite taken out – was on the chair next to him. He knew how to handle his hangover, as he knew how to handle his drink. He would never lose control like she had.
‘You’re late, Cudmore.’ The tap of Saunders’s biro against his silver chain-link watch rang through her like a gunshot. He sat with one ankle resting on the other knee. His pumped biceps were barely contained by his starched pale blue shirt.
She felt scruffy. ‘I’m sorry, I … The train …’
‘Let’s get on with it, shall we?’ DCI Burgone spoke softly. She feared she might laugh. Burgone’s black hair had been forced into waves of submission. Whereas Saunders might be considered ruggedly handsome, Burgone was beautiful. He had an elegance to his features and a confidence in his movements that highlighted his patrician nature. His nickname in the force was Jack the Lad, a knowing joke given that he was a consummate pro, and anything but flashy. Nasreen grabbed the nearest chair, looking away from her boss’s questioning gaze.
Who’d left the pub first last night? The whole floor had been out to welcome the new receptionist, Lorna. Anyone could have seen them. Superintendent Lewis was explicit about relationships between colleagues: not on her watch. It was instant transfer. If anyone found out, Nasreen would be gone. She’d only said yes to the first glass because she was irritated no one had organised welcome drinks for her. And then it all went wrong. She’d left him sleeping under the duvet, mortification powering her home. Frantically sending that email. Damage control. Still drunk. She was zealous at stamping on accusations she’d slept her way to the top. If anyone said anything suggestive she told them where to stick it – loudly. She avoided being alone with male colleagues in social situations. If there were two of them left at the bar, she’d head for a group or call someone else over. Nothing that could fuel the fire. And now what? She’d poured petrol all over it and handed round the matches. Her career was smouldering. If only she could work out who knew what.
The DCI opened the file on his desk. ‘Thank you all for coming in this morning.’
‘Urgh,’ said Chips. ‘I feel like I’ve licked a badger’s arse.’ Nasreen thought she might be sick.
‘Thank you for that delightful image, Chips,’ the DCI smiled. ‘As discussed last night, we’ve had a request from the Hertfordshire Constabulary for some educational support. A fifteen-year-old girl from St Albans took her own life after sharing her suicide note on Snapchat.’
Suicide? She must have missed that bit when she was at the bar. Nasreen hated suicide cases. Especially teen suicides. Abruptly, she felt like she was fourteen again. Hearing the phone ring late at night. Her parents waking her to say her friend Gemma was in hospital. That she’d slashed her wrists. That the note blamed Nasreen and her best pal, Freddie.
‘The photo of the typed suicide note was circulated among her friends and sisters, and primed to vanish after six seconds.’ The DCI’s voice dragged her back to the present. He held up a printout: a photo of a typed note, overlaid with a text banner. ‘The local force didn’t have access to it at the time of the investigation, but what we assume is a screenshot copy of it has been leaked from someone and is being shared online. Several parents have contacted the school to say their children have been sent the note over WhatsApp. The local force and the school are worried.’
‘The Werther effect?’ Nasreen had read a lot of suicide research.
‘The what?’ Saunders looked amused.
‘Copycat 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]
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