Nasreen tapped her fingers against her knee. Chips had told her, This stays between you and me. No mention to Saunders, no mention to the guv. And she’d blown it. Saunders’s words rang in her ears. He’d actually snatched the phone from Chips – or at least that’s what it sounded like. ‘Asking a civilian because you couldn’t do the job yourself? Is that what you call proper police work?’ She hadn’t been able to get a word in as he kept going. ‘I don’t care what they taught you at your old station, but that’s not how we do things on Gremlin. Get rid of her and get your sorry arse back here now.’
She’d managed a ‘But …’ before he’d torn into her again.
‘Just be thankful the guv’s under too much pressure for me to haul you in front of him and make you explain yourself. Try something like this again and I’ll personally march you out the fucking building.’
Then he’d hung up. Actually cut her off. She kept replaying it in her mind, growing more incredulous each time. A part of her wanted to believe Saunders was so threatened by her presence in the team that he was behaving like this to drive her out. Or reinforce the hierarchy. But his vitriol was so great, it felt personal. He really did doubt her ability. He really did think she was threatening the investigation. Even though she’d turned up a result: a link between Chloe and Lottie. Together Freddie and she had uncovered explicit images of first Chloe and then Lottie. Both girls were on Are You Awake. She didn’t believe in coincidence, she believed in reasonable doubt. Likelihoods. The truth you saw under the lies people told. And could she lie now? She was building her argument, aware that as they got closer to London, closer to the office, she would have to explain herself. Explain why she hadn’t only deceived Saunders and Burgone once, but why she was wilfully doing it again. Get rid of her, he’d said. But Freddie was here in the car. Eating a croissant on the back seat. She was taking them the very person she wanted to hide from them.
‘Did you think Chloe was taking drugs?’ Freddie’s voice rang out from the back seat, dragging her into the here and now. She was scribbling notes onto a napkin, croissant crumbs everywhere.
Nasreen hadn’t seen anything that hinted at Chloe being involved in drugs at all. ‘No, did you?’ It was nagging at her.
‘Will seems the type to buy tea leaves thinking it’s hash. I had a mate in uni who …’
‘Can I remind you, before you go any further with that sentence, that Green and I are members of the law,’ Nasreen interrupted. This was all she needed. Though she caught the faint hint of a smile from Green.
‘Well why’d you ask then?’ Freddie looked up from her phone.
‘I didn’t. You brought it up.’ Nasreen could sense Green listening keenly. She’d been unfair to snap at her earlier: it wasn’t her fault Saunders was furious at her. If she could just keep a lid on Freddie’s quirkier aspects …
‘In the interview – why did you ask the girls about it?’
‘Because Chloe Strofton died of a heroin overdose.’ Nasreen heard Freddie’s pen clatter against her phone. She was starting to feel sick from turning round. She looked at the car in front of them, read the number plate in her mind. That was supposed to help.
‘Heroin? Where the hell did she get that from?’ Freddie was sounding excited. ‘Seriously. I doubt she’d ever even seen magic mushrooms! The riskiest thing those kids do is sniff Pritt Stick.’
Green snorted.
‘It doesn’t strike me as the kind of school that has a big drug problem,’ said Nasreen. ‘But you can never tell – the dealers get everywhere.’
‘I can attest to that,’ said Green, as she signalled to change lanes. ‘I did a stint with the NCA.’
‘I thought they were basketball? No – wait – that’s NBA,’ Freddie said.
‘I don’t think the National Crime Agency would be thrilled with that mix-up,’ Green said drily. Nasreen smiled despite herself.
Freddie was tapping her pen against the phone. ‘So someone sourced it for her?’
‘It’s possible,’ said Nasreen.
‘Someone could have stuck it in her as well?’
She winced. ‘The thought had occurred to me, yes.’ Freddie didn’t mean to sound cruel, but she had a habit of externalising what was going on. A hangover from being a journalist: as if she were seeing it all from two steps back, making it fit a story. It was a good trick to have, one many police officers used. Flippant remarks, black humour: a good coping mechanism. But it was one Nasreen didn’t like. It was important not to lose sight of the human cost at the heart of their cases. That was what drove you on, made you look longer, harder, keep trying.
‘Our boy Liam’s on here 123 times. Chloe’s thread goes on for pages, I haven’t read it all, though there’s plenty of nasty stuff by the looks of it.’
Nasreen braced her hand against the glove box as Green braked sharply at a roundabout.
‘Sorry about that, I thought they were going. Think the blue lights panicked them.’
‘We’ll get them printed when we get to the station.’
‘He started it. The thread, I mean,’ Freddie said. They curved round the slip road and onto the M1. Thankfully the traffic was moving, things would be better now: a straight line. No stopping and starting. ‘And Lottie’s.’
‘Liam started the thread about Lottie as well?’ She’d given the website details and the name Liam to Chips. They’d soon know who owned the site, assuming it hadn’t been encrypted. It wasn’t a dedicated revenge porn site, or at least that didn’t seem to be its MO based on the threads she and Freddie had scrolled through. Finding out who this Liam was could be the first serious lead they’d had. Hiding her hunch from Saunders had been worth the gamble; she tried to stoke her resolve.
‘He hasn’t commented as many times as he has on the Chloe one – twenty-six times by my reckoning. But Lottie’s thread is more popular. It’s got over 2,000 comments. She’s Lottie Londoner isn’t she?’
Nasreen twisted to look at her. Another link? ‘You said you didn’t know the victim?’
‘I don’t. Not in real life. I did a piece once on the rising stars of Instagram. She was on the list.’
‘Right. Of course.’ That made sense. Last year Nasreen had read back through some of Freddie’s published articles: ‘Why You Should Send Your Used Tampons to the Chancellor of the Exchequer’. ‘Twenty Ways Your Best Friend at Twelve Will Always Be Your BFF’. That one had been about her: them. It made her uneasy that there was yet another connection between Freddie and Lottie and Chloe.
‘Can we have some music?’ Freddie asked.
‘Erm, yes. I suppose. Green, is that okay?’
The DC sighed and nodded.
‘How does this work?’ Nasreen pressed buttons and the radio blared into life. ‘Can’t Fight the Moonlight’ by LeAnn Rimes filled the car. ‘How’s that?’
‘Awful.’ Freddie wrinkled her nose. ‘Has this got Bluetooth?’
‘That’s your department, Green.’
The DC looked irritated, stabbing at the radio to silence it. ‘Yes.’
‘Aces! Got ya.’ Two pips, like the speaking clock, rang out through the speakers. And then a voice, a woman, husky, amused. We always thought that we were not a rock’n’roll band, but it sure feels like rock’n’roll – a laugh – over here tonight. And then the beat kicked in, filling the car with synth guitar. The staccato lyrics, rhythmic, like a chant: We don’t play guitars. Green tapped her finger against the steering wheel in time, an actual smile on her face.
‘Who’s this?’ Nasreen asked.
‘Chicks on Speed.’ Freddie was looking at the gathering warehouses that were starting to blur the edges of the countryside, marking the start of London. Had she really not been back since then? Freddie nodded her head in time to the track. It was shouty. Defiant. Infectious. Just what she needed. Nasreen let the song lift her, inflate her with confidence. They could do this. And then she looked at her watch. T – 17 hours 50 minutes.