Watch Me. Angela Clarke

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СКАЧАТЬ view. Only the presence of concrete car-bomb barriers, dressed up as flowerbeds, distinguished it as anything other than a normal Westminster office block. DCI Jack Burgone had headhunted Nasreen to join his specialised cyber and e-crime Gremlin taskforce after her involvement in a high-profile murder investigation last year. Eight weeks into her new job, and the rest of the now four-man team still didn’t seem thrilled to have her on board. DI McCain, who preferred to go by the nickname Chips, had raised his salt-and-pepper eyebrows upon meeting her. After twenty-five years of exemplary service in the paedophile unit, eight of those under DCI Burgone, Chips had been looking to take a less active role. But Burgone had persuaded him to join the newly conceived Gremlin unit. They’d been joined by DI Pete Saunders – a vain, ambitious thirty-five year old who liked to remind people of his achievements both in and out of the job. Saunders took great delight in pointing out others’ shortcomings. Especially Nasreen’s. In the two years since it’d been formed, the triumvirate Gremlin unit had overseen a number of successful ops, including the apprehension of the founder of underground drugs website Lotus Road. DCI Burgone was the force’s golden boy: dedicated, focused and well connected from his days at Eton, he’d shunned a job at a government boardroom table in favour of real results on the frontline of the force. And Nasreen was the newbie who’d got drunk in the pub. Way to go, Cudmore.

      At twenty-four, Nasreen had spring-boarded from the graduate fast-track scheme, and landed a promotion to Detective Sergeant. Fast. She’d worked hard, and sometimes at great personal cost, to get where she was, but her age, her skin tone, and what she’d been told were her good looks had left her dogged by accusations of favouritism, tokenism, or worse. Not being able to hold a drink in front of her colleagues was not going to help.

      9.07 a.m. She was late for the morning meeting. She’d never been late before. Ever. It was the second thing she’d done for the first time in the last twenty-four hours. She was never going to have a one-night stand again, either. Licking her dry lips she caught a taste of him. Shame burst through her body in a fresh wave of sweat. They’d sense it straight away. Chips and Saunders knew she was out of her depth in the team, and she’d played right into their hands. Idiot. Could she call in sick?

      People, officers and civilian support staff were streaming past now. Her feet felt as though they were moving of their own accord. Marching her forward. After the total fool she’d made of herself, and consumed by burning embarrassment, Nasreen’s need to people please still overrode everything else. Swiping her ID card, she hurried into the lift, pulling her hair into a ponytail and scraping under her eyes for stray mascara. The email she’d sent was seared onto her mind. Too little, too late.

      This morning’s meeting was to cover the case they’d been discussing in the pub last night. Several glasses of red in, and after a busy day during which she hadn’t managed to grab lunch or dinner, the details were hazy. Did it involve going into a school to talk about e-safety? Saunders had suggested that might be a suitably non-challenging role for her. She’d laughed, but it hadn’t been a joke. It was something to do with social media; she scrolled through her phone. A little yellow square with a white ghost on it denoted the newly downloaded app. Snapchat – that was it. It was something about school kids sending messages via the app. Was it bullying? Used to always being prepared, Nasreen hated floundering for answers. It was one of the reasons she was good at her job: she liked to know why, liked to ask questions, put things, and people, where they belonged. Uncertainty was what life gave you; order was what you made with it.

      Opening the Snapchat app, an unread message from yesterday appeared: a photo of Saunders’s chiselled face grimacing at her, his manicured stubble casting a five o’clock shadow over his skin. Cartoon dog ears and a tongue added to the surreal effect. A timer in the corner of the photo wound down from eight seconds, after which the image would disappear. If only she could do that with last night. Snapchat’s USP was that images or videos were only viewable for a time dictated by the sender. Then they vanished. You couldn’t see them again. Why? Some people – other people – sent sexy photos of themselves to lovers. A glimpse of her lacy peach knickers crashed through her head. And black boxer shorts. Hair flopping forwards into those penetrating blue eyes. Lips on lips. Skin on skin. The lift door opened onto the spotless, cream-walled, grey-carpeted corridor. Her floor.

      Chips looked up as she let herself into the designated meeting room. He had a kindly, line-riven face, and the red, mottled cheeks that come from a career spent indulging in Scotch on the difficult days. Like Father Christmas, if Santa had spent years locking up sex offenders. A paper bag split open to reveal a bacon roll – with a bite taken out – was on the chair next to him. He knew how to handle his hangover, as he knew how to handle his drink. He would never lose control like she had.

      ‘You’re late, Cudmore.’ The tap of Saunders’s biro against his silver chain-link watch rang through her like a gunshot. He sat with one ankle resting on the other knee. His pumped biceps were barely contained by his starched pale blue shirt.

      She felt scruffy. ‘I’m sorry, I … The train …’

      ‘Let’s get on with it, shall we?’ DCI Burgone spoke softly. She feared she might laugh. Burgone’s black hair had been forced into waves of submission. Whereas Saunders might be considered ruggedly handsome, Burgone was beautiful. He had an elegance to his features and a confidence in his movements that highlighted his patrician nature. His nickname in the force was Jack the Lad, a knowing joke given that he was a consummate pro, and anything but flashy. Nasreen grabbed the nearest chair, looking away from her boss’s questioning gaze.

      Who’d left the pub first last night? The whole floor had been out to welcome the new receptionist, Lorna. Anyone could have seen them. Superintendent Lewis was explicit about relationships between colleagues: not on her watch. It was instant transfer. If anyone found out, Nasreen would be gone. She’d only said yes to the first glass because she was irritated no one had organised welcome drinks for her. And then it all went wrong. She’d left him sleeping under the duvet, mortification powering her home. Frantically sending that email. Damage control. Still drunk. She was zealous at stamping on accusations she’d slept her way to the top. If anyone said anything suggestive she told them where to stick it – loudly. She avoided being alone with male colleagues in social situations. If there were two of them left at the bar, she’d head for a group or call someone else over. Nothing that could fuel the fire. And now what? She’d poured petrol all over it and handed round the matches. Her career was smouldering. If only she could work out who knew what.

      The DCI opened the file on his desk. ‘Thank you all for coming in this morning.’

      ‘Urgh,’ said Chips. ‘I feel like I’ve licked a badger’s arse.’ Nasreen thought she might be sick.

      ‘Thank you for that delightful image, Chips,’ the DCI smiled. ‘As discussed last night, we’ve had a request from the Hertfordshire Constabulary for some educational support. A fifteen-year-old girl from St Albans took her own life after sharing her suicide note on Snapchat.’

      Suicide? She must have missed that bit when she was at the bar. Nasreen hated suicide cases. Especially teen suicides. Abruptly, she felt like she was fourteen again. Hearing the phone ring late at night. Her parents waking her to say her friend Gemma was in hospital. That she’d slashed her wrists. That the note blamed Nasreen and her best pal, Freddie.

      ‘The photo of the typed suicide note was circulated among her friends and sisters, and primed to vanish after six seconds.’ The DCI’s voice dragged her back to the present. He held up a printout: a photo of a typed note, overlaid with a text banner. ‘The local force didn’t have access to it at the time of the investigation, but what we assume is a screenshot copy of it has been leaked from someone and is being shared online. Several parents have contacted the school to say their children have been sent the note over WhatsApp. The local force and the school are worried.’

      ‘The СКАЧАТЬ