Nasreen was heading down to reception to collect Cynthia Warner. Morris stepped out of the gents and an ugly sneer spread across his face. ‘Can we all have a go, or do you only shag DCIs and above?’
Anger and shame burned through her. ‘Fuck off, Morris.’
‘Touchy!’ he laughed.
Pushing past him into the stairwell, she was relieved to find herself alone. She could punch Morris in his smug, disgusting face. Where was Jack? Was he angry? Upset? Did he blame her for the leaked email? This was a total disaster, and she hadn’t even had to face anyone senior yet.
It was Thursday. Deadline day. Under nine hours to go. Sliding ever closer to 9.30 a.m., when what was left of Nasreen’s life would be detonated. Lottie would be killed. Jack’s heart would break. Her heart would break. The horror of the situation threatened to rear up and throw her off course.
Cynthia Warner was standing in reception, a visitor lanyard round her neck. Short, with a wide torso, she was swathed in various dark layers of clothing. A large handbag hung from her shoulder and in a fabric shopper she had a collection of files tied together with what looked like red legal ribbon. Nasreen had taken some time to look into Cynthia and discovered she’d been arrested for breach of peace at a Greenham Common rally in the eighties. She’d not crossed paths with the law again, but Nasreen had noted a litany of campaigning causes across the woman’s social media – Amnesty International petitions and lots of articles from the New Statesman. She was the kind of busybody do-gooder that used to clog up her old station’s reception, shouting about parking rights. It would be like sitting in the room with two Freddies.
Nasreen touched her ID against the barrier. ‘Mrs Warner, I’m Sergeant Nasreen Cudmore, thank you for coming in so quickly.’ She held out her hand to shake.
Cynthia’s round face separated into an efficient smile as she dropped her phone in her bag and grabbed Nasreen’s hand with a force that belied her diminutive stature. ‘Ms Warner. Pleased to meet you, Sergeant Cudmore, I’m a big fan of your work.’
A fan? Her work? ‘I just do my job. Thank you.’
‘Nonsense.’ Cynthia whirled the lengths of fabric that hung from her and waddled towards the security barrier. ‘It’s vital that we have an increasing number of diverse faces representing the police force in this country. Time we broke down some of these barriers.’
Diverse? ‘My ethnicity has nothing to do with my placement in the force, Ms Warner.’
Cynthia turned and smiled warmly at Nasreen, her small rabbit eyes twitching. ‘Of course, dear. I’m just saying you’re a beacon. A role model. I did a talk at a school in Hackney the other week and showed them photos of you at the arrest of the Hashtag Murderer.’
Nasreen felt a chill go through her. The Apollyon Hashtag Murderer case had been front-page news for weeks. Her face, her photo and her actions had all been part of that. She still couldn’t get used to strangers who thought they knew her. Inwardly she groaned as she imagined what the Hackney kids had thought of this woman’s slideshow. ‘As I’m sure you’re aware, we’re working on a pressing case at this minute. Thank you for coming in so swiftly.’ She steered Cynthia Warner towards the lift.
‘That poor girl. I feared this would happen,’ Cynthia sighed.
Nasreen needed to stay away from the subject of Lottie. ‘We appreciate your discretion on this matter, Ms Warner.’ The doors opened. ‘If we could take a look at your research and ask you some questions about the suspect named Alex Black that would be great.’
‘That man is depraved.’
‘We can talk discreetly here,’ said Nas, leading the woman into the meeting room. The phone on the desk was already connected so DI Saunders, Chips and Freddie could listen in. ‘Please: have a seat.’ Cynthia manoeuvred her hips into the chair and placed the folders she’d brought with her onto the table between them. Hopefully she’d agree to leave them behind.
Nasreen kept her manner clipped. They needed to find out fast if this woman did have any relevant info. ‘Cynthia, do you know who Alex Black is? In real life? Do you have any contact details for him?’
‘No,’ she said.
Nasreen felt her shoulders droop. ‘You’ve clearly been researching him for quite a while. You’ve never seen anything that would lead you to guess where he’s based?’
‘No, I haven’t.’ Her eyebrows knitted together and she frowned, as if she hadn’t thought of this before. ‘I contact the girls, or try to.’ She tapped the files. ‘So that we have everything ready for prosecution.’
‘You’ve spoken to the girls featured on the site?’ This sounded more promising.
‘Most of them. I either contact them when they post themselves – trying to get the images taken down – or when they post their details.’
‘Do you mean when they dox them – share the girls’ telephone numbers?’ How many had they done it to?
‘Yes. And sometimes they post their work addresses, or their home addresses,’ she said.
‘Do they dox them all?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Some don’t even know their photos are there until I contact them.’ A look of sadness hooded her eyes further. Would it be better to remain ignorant?
‘And you’ve never spoken to the police about any of this?’ Nasreen asked.
‘Oh, I’ve tried.’ She sounded accusatory. ‘There was a woman officer at my local station – honestly, I thought she was on my side. She took me out for a cup of tea at some greasy cafe and said there wasn’t anything they could do about all these poor girls being victimised like this. They didn’t have the manpower. She suggested I turn my research over to the Internet Watch Foundation. But I wasn’t going to do that unless I knew they’d act on it.’ She rapped her ringed fingers against the folders. ‘Some of the girls in here are only fourteen.’
Nasreen sympathised with the officer who’d dealt with this prickly woman. The Are You Awake website was encrypted. The policewoman would have quickly found herself at a dead end. The way Alex Black had sourced the team’s mobile numbers, her email account, potentially breaching the police’s own intranet, showed how Cynthia Warner was trying to fight an opponent she could never beat. She was hopelessly out of her depth. ‘I’m sorry you were told that, Cynthia. I can promise we’ll look at what you have now.’
‘Now it’s too late. He’s got that poor girl!’ Her face coloured in angry raspberry-coloured blotches. ‘I knew something like this would happen!’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘He’s evil!’ she spat.
‘There’s nothing else you’ve seen, something you might not have thought important at the time, that could suggest where Black is based? Alex has never posted photos that show him, or the place he is?’
‘No.’ Cynthia shook her head. ‘He’s too wily for that.’ She was so vehement, it was like she knew him. He was clearly real to her, very real. But she knew nothing more than they did.
Nasreen tried not to sigh. This was a waste of time. ‘Can I ask when you first became aware of Alex Black, Ms Warner?’
The woman seemed to deflate, her bosom collapsing down onto her stomach, her layered scarves drooping like the petals of a dying flower. ‘My daughter. One of his henchmen hacked into her computer. She’d never even sent the photo to anyone.’
Nasreen didn’t remember seeing a victim named Warner in the list of names they’d uncovered. ‘Did you get him to remove the images?’
‘Oh no.’ She shook her head. ‘The more I tried to reason, the more things he posted. Images that were fake, but awful. He told his disciples how to target Laney: she started getting texts.’ Like Chloe. ‘And then they sent fake photos of her, disgusting photos, to all the governors at her school. She’s a teacher.’
Nasreen put down her pen. ‘Did you report this, Cynthia?’
‘Laney wouldn’t let me. She just wanted it to stop.’ She had tears in her eyes. She wanted to comfort her, but she had to ask. ‘What happened?’
Cynthia took her glasses off and rubbed at her eyes; a smile touched her lips, but there was no joy in it. ‘She didn’t kill herself, if that’s what you want to know. After the photos were sent to the governors she was let go by the school. The headmaster was a lovely man, you could tell he felt dreadful about it, but he had no choice. Even though the photos were fake, the governors wouldn’t believe it, or they didn’t care. They said they couldn’t have her teaching children after that. That it had “compromised her professional authority”.’ The last words came out bitter. She paused for a moment, swallowed, and Nasreen had to lean closer to hear her. ‘She had a breakdown.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘He’s a monster. Manipulative, controlling. He gets under the skin of those boys. They think he’s the messiah.’
From what Freddie had shown her it was more like recruitment: Black targeted disillusioned young men. ‘Like a cult?’ Nasreen asked. She thought of the frenzy the Hashtag Murderer had inspired.
‘Alex Black inspires obsession. Evil!’ Cynthia jabbed the tortoiseshell glasses in her hands towards her. No wonder she was so emotional on the matter. It must be awful to see a person you love go through that. With a twinge, she thought of Burgone. Cynthia was a hurt and upset woman, but she’d amassed a huge amount of information on Alex Black – there must be something she knew, something he’d done that would tell them where to find him. Cynthia summoned the energy, or maybe the courage, to speak again. ‘Laney never went back to work. It was six years ago.’
Nasreen made a note to go back through Are You Awake to find Laney’s thread, to study it, to match the online with the real-life timeline. If there was anything she could do to bring this man to justice she would. She would try to help Cynthia and her daughter. ‘The site must have been in its infancy then?’
Cynthia nodded. ‘Yes, Laney was one of the first.’
‘Does Laney use the same surname as you?’
‘No, she uses her father’s surname: Gardem.’
That explained why Nasreen didn’t recognise her from the list Freddie was compiling. ‘She was only the second girl he targeted.’
Nasreen felt her heart quicken. ‘Do you know who was the first?’ They were combing through the threads, but it would take them hours, possibly days, to sort all of the posts into chronological order. Any time someone posted something new, that thread was elevated to first position on the message board.
‘Yes,’ Cynthia said with a sad smile. ‘A girl called Daisy Jones. She was only sixteen, poor thing.’
If Daisy was the first target, was it possible she had been known personally to Alex Black? If they found Daisy Jones, was there a chance they could trace him? But it was a common name. ‘Did you ever speak to Daisy Jones during your research?’
‘I tracked her down. Alex Black posted her contact details next to the photos of her.’ Cynthia made a noise like a laugh. ‘But she’d moved. Her whole family had. They emigrated. He forced them out of the country.’ Anger dripped from Cynthia’s voice. How many lives had this man destroyed?
‘Do you have contact details for her now? Where does she live?’ Nasreen was taking hasty notes. Saunders or Chips would already be running the name through the PNC.
‘The States, I believe.’
Nasreen caught the word and felt her hope fade. ‘You believe? You haven’t spoken to her?’
‘She wouldn’t speak to me. I found an email address. Her father replied: he said they’d done the best they could to forget what had happened. To move on.’ Cynthia looked angry again. ‘They refused to talk to me.’
But they might speak to me, thought Nasreen. To the police. This was important. ‘When was this, Cynthia?’
Cynthia pulled one of the folders towards her and undid the ribbon, moving her glasses to the end of her nose so she could peer through the bifocals as she flicked through the printed sheets inside. Small transparent coloured tabs stuck out from between the pages. ‘Here it is.’ Her rings creaked as she placed the other pages down. ‘I received the email on Sunday the seventeenth of November, five years ago. I have an email address for her and her father.’
Nasreen nodded. They could use that to try to source a number. Try to get hold of Daisy Jones. See if she could identify Alex Black. ‘And Daisy’s father: he gave no indication who Alex Black was?’
‘The message was short: he only said what I’ve told you already.’ She turned the printout to face Nasreen. She scanned the words: Cynthia had recited it almost perfectly. ‘Parents get like that sometimes. It’s happened before. They blame the girls for taking the photos in the first place. Think it’s best to leave it well alone. Brush it under the carpet and forget about it.’
Nasreen felt anger on behalf of Daisy. To go through something like that and have your own family hold you responsible; it was awful. She bit her cheek to stop it from showing on her face and in her voice. ‘Thank you. Do you know anything more about Daisy? You said you had her previous address – when the family lived in the UK?’
‘Yes.’ Cynthia turned back a few pages and Nasreen guessed each coloured marker denoted a different girl. A different victim. ‘Here you go.’ She turned the page to face Nasreen. Next to a photo of a pretty blonde with long wavy hair was a screenshot of a post on Are You Awake. And underneath was a typed catalogue of the victim: name, address, place of work and/or school. The words jumped out at her.
‘You’re sure this is right?’ She rested her finger on the paper.
‘Yes,’ said Cynthia, nodding. ‘Why?’
Nasreen felt her heart rate increase. This was it. Everything had been connected right from the beginning. ‘I’m going to need to take this, Cynthia, if that’s okay?’ The woman nodded, her face blotchy with emotion. ‘You’ve been very helpful, Ms Warner. Thank you.’
‘Please,’ Cynthia reached out and grabbed her hand, the cold metal of her rings pressing into her fingers. ‘Please get him.’
‘I will do everything I can,’ said Nasreen, looking into her sad eyes. She pulled away. DI Saunders, Chips and Freddie were already waiting in the corridor. Nasreen held the page up. ‘Daisy Jones went to Romeland High. She was the first victim. She was sixteen. What’s the betting there’s a personal connection and that’s where our Alex Black went too?’