Chips handed Nas a cup of coffee. She took it gratefully, looking away from the blown-up versions of the photo Alex Black had sent them. She couldn’t look at the girl’s eyes. Every time she caught a flash of Lottie’s terrified expression she was back in Greenwich Deer Park, the blonde hair of the runner splayed on the ground. The background behind Lottie was dark, the light limited. The wall behind the girl, and it did look like a wall, was dark brown – discoloured maybe?
‘How you getting on?’ Chips perched on the edge of her desk, which creaked under his bulk.
‘It could be a disused building? Looks damp.’ There were what looked like green water marks over the dark brown walls. The room had a low ceiling.
‘What about the wall hanging?’
She showed him the zoomed-in section of print. To the left of Lottie’s head, behind her by a metre or two, was something hanging on the wall. White, or at least once that colour. They could only see a section of it. ‘I can’t tell what it is. A print of a drawing maybe?’ Four long, thin lozenge shapes were visible, pointed loops marked their ends, as if four asparagus stalks had been laid next to each other at a fifteen-degree angle. ‘What do you think these are? Fingers?’
Chips held the print away from him. ‘Pencils, maybe? Or bananas?’
This was all they had to go on. Her heart was racing after seeing the body. She couldn’t see another. Lottie couldn’t end up like that. She hadn’t seen Burgone since they’d arrived back, but she knew he was here: his car was downstairs. Chips had been to speak to him. The sound of Burgone retching in the wood in relief, or horror, juddered through her. It was a visceral response; he’d been stripped by this, robbed of his professionalism, his dignity. The brilliant cop was gone, and instead he was just a man. A victim himself. And the message had been addressed to her: she was doing this to him. She shook it all off. Looked again at the blown-up image. She wondered if Freddie might recognise it. ‘Where’s Freddie gone?’
‘Guv!’ Morris, his voice near hysterical, was pointing at his desktop. He had the news on. The cameras were outside the office. Oh shit.
‘Found her.’ Chips nodded at the screen as Freddie rounded on the poor person behind the camera. Nasreen recognised that look all too well. Red mist. ‘What’s she doing?’
‘They’ve pissed her off.’ Nasreen shook her head. The woman worked as a journalist: you would think she’d know better than to take the bait.
‘Put the sound on,’ Saunders barked. Please don’t. Morris, ever accommodating, whacked the volume right up.
The room hushed as a chirpy female voiceover said, ‘And we’re getting reports of a live comment coming from Freddie Venton, the consultant we believe is working with the police on this case, right now.’
‘Consultant!’ Morris scoffed. Nasreen winced.
A plummy male voice off camera could be heard saying, ‘Is this a warning to silly girls not to take obscene photos of themselves?’
Crap.
Freddie’s nostrils flared as she spun to face the guy. Her voice crackled and sparked with unsuppressed rage. ‘Every woman, every person, has the right to take whatever photos of themselves they like, without having to worry about twisted, entitled idiots stealing them or sharing them without their consent. The ones at fault are those who circulate intimate images to humiliate, embarrass or coerce others.’ White-hot spittle rained. ‘No one is responsible for Lottie Burgone’s kidnap other than her kidnapper.’ Nasreen’s heart leapt. ‘The person calling himself Alex Black.’ And it crashed back into her chest. You couldn’t just quit while you were ahead? They shouldn’t be commenting on this.
Freddie looked straight at the camera. ‘I am sick of being told what to wear, how much to drink, where to go, where not to go, to be nice, to smile, interrupted, dictated to, blamed, lectured, trolled and patronised. We’ve had enough.’ There was a cheer in the background and a few people laughed. The camera zoomed in, so Freddie’s face filled the screen. ‘We are not victims. You don’t get to blame us for the things you do. You’re screaming into the wind, you and your man-baby pals, Black. You’ve already lost. We run the game now.’
The camera cut back to the chirpy woman in the studio, her eyes wide. ‘Well, that was quite some statement,’ she said. Her co-presenter had a rictus smile on his face. ‘I think we can all agree that was …’
‘Really quite unexpected,’ the co-presenter guffawed.
Chirpy’s head snapped to glare at him. ‘I haven’t finished, Simon.’
Nasreen smiled and shook her head as Morris cut the volume. The room dissolved into excitable chatter. A couple of people were clapping. She’d stuck up for the guv’s sister: that made her a hero. There was a whoop. Only Freddie could lose it and deliver a political diatribe during the middle of a police investigation. And she knew just who was going to get blamed for bringing her in … It was over. Burgone had said Freddie couldn’t interact with anyone outside of this office. And she certainly couldn’t speak to the press. Saunders would never let her stay on the team now, but when she looked up he had a smile on his face, and he was still looking at the screen. He turned and his face fell into a hard scowl. ‘Okay, people, settle down, that’s enough,’ he snapped. Hush descended on the room.
‘Remind me never to play Scrabble with Freddie,’ Chips said, standing up from the desk. He looked sympathetic, as if he were at a wake.
Saunders was powering towards her. ‘You and me need to have a little chat, Cudmore.’ His voice was low and threatening – his favoured style. She was aware the whole room was listening, hushed in anticipation of the fireworks. A dissonance of mobile tones sounded. Oh god, not again.
‘We weren’t the only ones watching.’ Chips had his phone out.
Saunders was frowning at the screen, his eyes widening, a look of what? Shock? He stared at Nasreen.
‘Cudmore?’ Chips’s pudgy face gaped at her.
There were murmurs round the room; people were pushing themselves away from their computer screens. Had he emailed it again? People were turning to look at her. ‘What? What is it? Another photo? Is Lottie okay?’ The eyes of the room were on her. Dread tingled over her whole body. Chips turned his phone round, shaking his head as he held it out to her. And she knew straight away what it was.
To: JonathanBurgone@police.uk
From: NCudmore@btinternet.com
I’m sorry I left without waking you. I didn’t know what to say. I know we haven’t worked together for long, but you need to understand that I’m not like this. This is the first one-night stand I’ve ever had. I drank too much. Way too much. I can’t undo what happened, but I can take responsibility for my actions. I admire you greatly. Maybe too much, maybe that was the problem. And if there’s any way we can forget this ever happened … I want to fix this, sir. I’m committed to the team. I promise nothing like this will ever happen again.