Freddie had been sent the message too. Nasreen felt sick. The sender wanted them to know this was about the Hashtag Murderer. About Apollyon. There was no reason to think the prison officer had lied about the access the killer had to the outside world; but the prison officer might not know what he was up against. It wasn’t unheard of for a sympathetic or bribed screw to take a mobile in to a criminal.
The car turned and St Albans Cathedral, a grand, gothic building, glowed majestically before them, golden in the sun. Along from the abbey was a flint-layered block gateway house, which looked to be part of the grandiose St Albans School.
‘It’s stunning,’ said Nasreen, inhaling the fresh, cut-grass smell of spring and trying to roll the tension from her shoulders. They could be standing in a quad at an Oxford college.
‘All right if you’re into Hogwarts, I suppose.’ Freddie’s hands were in her hoodie pockets.
‘Romeland School is on Fishpool Street,’ said Nas, shielding her eyes from the sun. ‘That one.’ She pointed at the chocolate box road that wended away downhill.
DC Green shut the car door, her tan suit jacket creased from the drive. She didn’t take her eyes from Freddie, who was leaning against the car. ‘Can you not do that? I’ll be in trouble if the paintwork’s chipped.’
Freddie didn’t move. ‘You always want to be a cop?’
Green stiffened. ‘My father was in the force.’
Nasreen knew cops who were devastated when their children joined, not wanting them to have the life they had, the long stressful hours away from family. You didn’t get a good work–life balance, and not everyone was happy for their loved ones to take such risks. The first time she’d been hospitalised, her dad had cried and begged her not to return to work. But it wasn’t that easy. This was more than a job. Green retreated at the personal question, turning away. No bad thing: the less interaction Freddie had with the team, the better. Nasreen didn’t want anything getting back to Saunders or Burgone.
‘Green, I’m going to take Freddie into the interviews with me. To observe. I don’t want to overwhelm the kids.’ Green looked crestfallen. Nasreen had been there: getting palmed off with the dull jobs. She sympathised. ‘Why don’t you go get yourself some lunch? We can meet you back here in, say half an hour?’
‘Oh, get me a pain au chocolat?’ Freddie rifled through her pockets. Green sucked her cheeks in. Oblivious, or unbothered, Freddie continued. ‘And an espresso, but like a good one, yeah?’
‘Now I’m a waitress?’ Green looked at her disdainfully.
‘You got any cash, Nas?’
Nasreen cringed. ‘Sure.’ She handed Green, who managed a sarcastic smile, a twenty from her wallet. ‘Lunch is on me, yeah?’
‘Cheers, Sarge. Do you want anything?’ Green’s face softened a fraction, placated by the gesture.
The thought of food made her stomach heave – she wasn’t sure if it was the hangover or stress. ‘Just a smoothie. Something like that’d be lovely. Thanks.’
‘No probs.’ Green folded the notes into her back pocket. ‘I’ll see you back here.’
‘Right,’ said Nas, turning to face Freddie. ‘Ready?’ The sight of her friend’s livid scar jarred again. This was what Apollyon had done to her. And Freddie was lucky: she’d lived.
Freddie caught Nas looking and self-consciously pulled her hair forwards.
‘Sorry – I didn’t mean to stare.’ Nasreen felt her face grow hot.
‘Don’t wanna frighten the children do we,’ said Freddie as she headed down the hill.
Nasreen hurried to catch up. ‘I didn’t mean …’
‘Forget it. It’s cool.’
But it wasn’t. A muscle in Freddie’s neck twitched. She was putting on a brave face. Nasreen always took care to maintain eye contact in interviews with domestic abuse victims; why couldn’t she do that with Freddie? Because you feel guilty. The scar was a Post-it note on Freddie’s face, reminding her of the trouble she’d caused her.
‘How long we got?’ Freddie asked.
Recovering herself, Nas replied, ‘If we keep it swift, thirty minutes.’
‘I mean on the clock. How long until Lottie is …’
She didn’t need to check the time. ‘Under twenty hours.’ What would Saunders be doing now? She was away from the main hub of the investigation out here. Perhaps Chips thought that was better. Had she sidelined herself from the search?
‘You said Melisha Khan was Chloe’s bestie, right?’
‘Yes.’ She steered Freddie off the cobbled pavement and into the tarmacked entrance of the school. Set back from the winding road of beautiful historic houses, the red-brick, three-storey nineties pimple of Romeland High was at complete odds with its surroundings. Through the upstairs windows she saw pupils in dark blue blazers, moving, chatting, laughing. Lunch time.
‘Nice of them to stick the state comp kids in this, when they’ve got Malory Towers just up there,’ Freddie said. Nasreen didn’t have time to respond before she fired out a question: ‘What’s the name of the boyfriend – the kid she broke up with?’
‘William Taylor.’ A sign directed them to the reception. A reinforced glass door, green and distorted so those passing by couldn’t peer in.
‘Presuming our William Taylor is the same Will.i.am. T. on Facebook – why do you think Melisha Kahn has written “I know what you did. You killed my best friend. I’ll never forgive you” on his wall?’ Freddie held her phone up.
‘What?’ Melisha had posted the message on William’s Facebook page on Monday, after the original investigation by the local force had finished. Emojis underneath marked that others had reacted to the post: small red angry faces, crying faces, laughing faces. Nasreen’s pulse accelerated. They could be on to something.
‘Their profiles say they’re at Romeland. You think it’s them?’ Freddie asked.
‘Let’s find out.’ If they worked out what had really happened to Chloe, they could work out what had happened to Lottie.
The shrill sound of two phone notifications stopped her in her tracks. Freddie grabbed her arm: her phone had pinged as well. The noise of the schoolyard fell away. Blood rushed to her ears. Nasreen’s hands were shaking. A new Snapchat. A photo. Her mind conjured up horrible scenarios. Hundreds of crime scene photos fired through her mind. She didn’t want to look. Her legs felt weak. Had this been sent to Burgone? Oh god. She had to do this. Be strong. For Jack. She tapped the Snap open.
The first thing she saw was Lottie’s eyes. Wide. Terrified. Her forehead was smeared with blood. Her blood. Silver gaffer tape cut across her face, sealing in her scream. Her hair was askew, as if she’d been yanked by it. Tears were running down her face. It was a horrific, twisted take on the selfies of Lottie’s feed. Over the photo was a message:
You have 20 hours to save luscious Lottie’s life. Tick tock.
Freddie lurched away from her and bounced off the red-brick wall, bending double, gasping for air. ‘No. No. No.’
Nasreen couldn’t speak. Couldn’t find the words. Fighting to control herself, gripping her phone. Stop shaking. Lottie was still alive. That had to be a good thing. What had they done to her? Her phone rang: Saunders calling. They must have got the message too. Poor Jack. Sending Saunders to voicemail, her finger hovered over Burgone’s number. Her breath was coming in short, sharp gulps. What could she say? She screwed her eyes shut, shook her head, tried to get rid of the image of Lottie screaming. Crying. Blood streaked down her face. There was no doubt left: Lottie had been kidnapped and the threat to her life was credible. They had twenty hours to save her. Less than a day. Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock sounded Nasreen’s heartbeat.