Angela Clarke - Watch Me

Chips snorted.

‘So the perp sent the Snapchat message and then switched the phone off before dumping it?’ she asked.

‘Possible,’ said Saunders.

That implied they knew what they were doing. Whoever had taken Lottie was savvy enough to know not only that the phone was trackable, but that it’d be trickier to trace if it was switched off. It gave them a head start. ‘Whoever took her must have incapacitated her fairly fast,’ she said. ‘If she was screaming and drawing attention, you wouldn’t want to hang around to fiddle with the phone would you?’

‘No,’ Chips frowned. ‘The SOCOs said there were signs she’d put up a fight.’

‘We have to consider the possibility that whoever took her has already killed her,’ said Saunders. His jaw was set; he looked thoughtful rather than sad. Nausea rippled inside Nasreen.

Chips was sitting on the edge of his overcrowded desk. The papers he was holding in his right hand were creased under the strain of his fingers.

‘If they’ve already killed her, why send the message about us having twenty-four hours?’ said Nasreen. She couldn’t be dead.

‘I don’t know what their game is,’ Saunders replied. ‘But there’s been no ransom demand. And because they’ve ditched Lottie’s phone, we have no way of initiating conversation with the kidnapper.’

He was a sage investigator, and even though she knew what he was saying was right, she was glad Burgone wasn’t around to hear it. Even if Lottie’s parents were rich, and it sounded like they were, it took days to raise a large sum in cash, not twenty-four hours. No ransom delivery also meant they couldn’t mark notes, or hide a tracker in the money. And with no communication from the kidnapper, they didn’t have anything they could trace. Nothing that would give away where Lottie was being held. What was this about if it wasn’t about money?

‘We could be looking at a personal motivation: revenge for someone the guv put away? Maybe they have no intention of negotiating. Or returning her.’ Saunders seemed to read her thoughts.

‘That’s just a hypothesis.’

‘You know we have to consider all the scenarios, Chips,’ said Saunders, raising his eyebrows at his colleague.

‘She’s the guv’s sister, Pete. We’re bringing her home.’ No discussion. His line rang and he answered gruffly. ‘McCain.’

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: