I’m old, lass?’ Chips chuckled.
‘No, not that. You’re not old. I …’ The chance of getting Freddie’s help was slipping through her fingers. She couldn’t tell any of the team she was the link between the two victims. Not until she knew it wasn’t some ghastly coincidence. But she could tell Freddie. Freddie could help. ‘I just want to find Lottie. Safe.’
‘We’re already treading a fine line, lass, having Burgone stay. Saunders is jumpy. He likes doing things by the book.’ He paused. ‘Then again, I thought you did too.’
Her face coloured again. ‘I do. I really believe Freddie could help. I’m not asking for her to be brought onto the team. I can show her the intelligence on the notes, see what she makes of it. If this is a copycat, then it’s a copycat of a serial killer.’
His face clouded. ‘Then this might just be the start.’
The threat hung in the air between them.
‘Okay,’ he relented. ‘She can look at what we’ve got, but it’s got to be off record: there’s no budget for this. She can’t be expecting money.’
‘Not a problem.’ She hoped. Freddie may come off rough round the edges, but she had a big heart.
‘This stays between you and me. No mention to Saunders, no mention to the guv, okay?’
‘Yes, sir.’ She reasoned she was merely protecting her source: Freddie.
‘I don’t want any difficult questions from the CPS. Got it?’
She nodded.
‘If we were talking about anyone other than Jack’s sister I wouldn’t be authorising this.’ Chips thrust the notes back her. His face was closed, stern. He was angry she’d put him in this position.
‘If it was anyone other than the guv’s sister, I wouldn’t be asking.’ That was the truth. If Nasreen was the link between the two girls then one person was already dead because of her. She had to follow this lead, no matter where it led. Saunders and Burgone couldn’t find out about Freddie. Saunders was itching to find fault with her. If he knew about Freddie he might start digging, and then how long would it be before he uncovered that she, Freddie and Gemma had all gone to school together? That they had been the best of friends. That Freddie and she had nearly driven Gemma to her death. She had no doubt he’d use that to leverage her out. It had to stay a secret for her own safety too.
Chips looked at his watch. ‘You’ve got three hours. Max. Make it count, Cudmore.’ Three hours to speak to Freddie. Three hours to interview Chloe’s friends. Three hours to work out if she really was the link. Three hours to work out if she was to blame for Lottie’s predicament. She could hear Chips’s watch ticking as she hurried away. This is it. No room for error. 10.55 a.m. T – 22 hours 25 minutes. Make it count.
11:45
T – 21 hrs 45 mins
Freddie Venton stared at the ceiling of her childhood bedroom. A hairpin crack ran from the top of the rose-patterned wallpaper (her mum’s choice) and slithered across the ceiling. Mum had been at the doctors for her blood pressure, she was going into the school late today. Freddie could hear the sound of her work pumps moving across the hallway. She shut her eyes and slowed her breathing, like she used to when she was young, reading late under the covers.
‘Love?’ her mum whispered. ‘Are you awake?’
Yes, I’m awake! I’ve been awake since blood poured into my eyes. Since sleeping meant the dreams came. And they couldn’t come. She couldn’t relive it. She couldn’t sleep. So she pretended. Her mum had enough on her plate with her dad’s antics; she didn’t need any more worry.
There was a rattle as her mum put a tray down, not wanting to intrude, but not wanting her daughter to starve either. Freddie could sense her standing there. A broken husband and a broken child – life had not been kind to Mrs Venton. ‘Happy birthday, love,’ she whispered, pulling the door gently to.
Not long now. Freddie heard the gruff grunt of her father, his articulation lost to the alcohol.
‘Do you think we should try the doctor again?’ her mum stage-whispered.
Another grunt.
‘It’s been weeks. She’s barely eating. She hasn’t said more than a few words.’ Freddie heard the worry in her mum’s voice. She wanted to tell her it was all going to be all right. But she couldn’t. Instead, she began to count the roses on the wall again. ‘This can’t go on,’ her mum was saying. Twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one …
The front door opened and closed, and Freddie heard her mum’s Corsa start. She listened for the jingle of the keys. A whistle for the dog. The door opened – Dad was leaving for the pub. She waited in case he’d forgotten anything. One minute, two minutes, three minutes … Then she threw the duvet off, shuffling across to the tray. Sandwiches. Marmite and cucumber: her favourite when she was little. There were a couple of cards tucked under a present. Freddie picked up the small weighty rectangle, the wrapping paper covered in birds, and read the tag:
Thought I’d get this fixed for you.
Happy Birthday, love Mum and Dad xxx
She knew what it was. Placed it unopened on the tray.
She padded downstairs and into the room at the back of the house. Her father’s den: a boxy room, with a raised, jutting windowsill, as if the builder had forgotten to put the bottom part of the wall in. The blue curtains were drawn. Mum didn’t come in here. Freddie didn’t come in here. The small coffee table and the blue sofa bed were covered in used glasses. Dad slept in here sometimes, when Mum couldn’t take it anymore. It smelled stale. Sour. Sitting on the sofa, she stroked the grooves where her dad sat. Closed her eyes. Tried to remember what he was like before. The good memories were fainter now. Him swinging her round in the garden, her giggling uncontrollably. Her and Nas cycling up and down the path outside their house. A trip to Thorpe Park. She tried to remember what happiness felt like. But a heavy blanket had settled over Freddie the day she was attacked; she’d felt nothing but thrumming anxiety since.
The doorbell sounded. She froze, as if they could see what she was doing. The guilt of the emptiness.
The doorbell rang again. Longer. More insistent. ‘Hang on!’ she shouted. When did she last speak that loud? She ran to the door. The dark blur of the person standing behind it was fractured by the geometric glass pattern. She opened it. Fought the urge to dissolve into tears. There on the doorstep in her smart black trouser suit was Nasreen Cudmore.
‘Hello, Freddie.’
12:20
T – 22 hrs 10 mins
‘You going to invite me in?’ Nas’s face looked as it always had: high cheekbones carved into flawless skin, brown eyes sparkling, dark hair hanging in a velvet tuile from her hairband. Beautiful, but detached. There was something new in her eyes: a nervousness, a quick sweep from one side of the room to the other, as if she was scanning the horizon, checking the exits. Then it was gone, replaced with the face Freddie knew