what he tasted like, what he felt like, how he’d made her feel. He’d talked to her, listened to what she’d had to say. Or she thought he had. Was it a trick of the alcohol? Had she wanted to believe he thought she was smart? He could’ve just been being polite to a new member of his team. But when they’d stood outside the pub, laughing in the rain, she’d seen it in his eyes: lust. He’d felt the connection too. She couldn’t be on her own with him here in the office. Not yet. She needed to get things straight in her head. She stood, knocking her chair into the table behind. She walked fast to catch up with Chips as he and Saunders reached their open plan office, aware the DCI was just behind her. Her phone beeped. At first she thought it was an echo, but the others’ phones all sounded at the same time. A cacophony of beeps.
‘What the?’ Chips frowned. ‘Which one of you silly buggers is sending Snapchat photos now – I thought we’d had enough of that last night.’
Saunders grimaced, turning his phone over in his hand. The DCI pulled his from his suit pocket. Now was not the time for PPI insurance junk mail. Nasreen swiped the screen of her phone and it opened on her new Snap. It was from a number she didn’t recognise. Time to change her security settings. The timer in the top right-hand corner was ticking down. Six seconds, five seconds. It was a photo of a typed note, overlaid with a text banner. Nasreen’s breath caught in her throat.
‘Holy shit!’ Chips said.
‘Is that another suicide note?’ Saunders asked. ‘How the hell did they get my number?’
‘And mine!’ Chips grunted.
Nasreen scanned the words, the name at the bottom: Lottie Burgone. ‘It’s my sister’s number.’ The DCI frowned. ‘Is this a joke? Did one of you send this?’ He glared at her.
‘No.’ Nasreen looked round. They were all shaking their heads. Alarm flickered in Saunders’s eyes. She looked at the photo:
A pointless opulent life leads you onto nothing.
I can’t go on. Lottie Burgone
‘Get her on the phone – now. Call her, Jack,’ Chips was saying. Nasreen stared at the words in the caption that overlaid the note:
You have 6 seconds to read this and 24 hours to save the girl’s life.
Her brain crackled. This wasn’t a wind up. This was a threat. Her fingers flew. Four, three, two … She screenshot the image, taking a photo of it half a second before it disappeared forever.
09:31
T – 24 hrs
‘I’m calling the number.’ Saunders had his phone to his ear. ‘Straight to voicemail. It is her number, yeah, your sister’s, sir?’
‘Yes. My phone recognises it. I don’t understand … Why would she send this?’ The DCI was holding his phone in both hands. Nasreen thought he was shaking it, then she realised he was shaking.
‘Do you have another contact for her, sir?’ Nasreen reached over her desk for the landline.
‘What’s her address?’ Chips ran round to his computer.
‘She lives in Greenwich. She’s a student at the university,’ DCI Burgone stuttered.
‘Undergraduate?’ said Nasreen. ‘How old?’
‘Sociology. Eighteen. She’ll be nineteen next month.’
Three years age difference to Chloe Strofton. A similar demographic. Young teenage woman. Student. Could she have seen the fuss around Chloe’s suicide online? Was this a contagious suicide attempt? ‘Any other telephone number, sir?’
‘Zero, two, zero, three …’
Nasreen wrote the number down as the DCI said it.
‘That’s her flat number.’ He blinked. Held his mobile to his ear. Nasreen heard the tinny sound of the girl’s voicemail message. ‘She lives in halls. There are five other flatmates. All girls. I think. I usually take her out for dinner. We meet at the restaurant.’
‘I’m sure there’s some innocent explanation,’ Chips said. ‘The lassie or one of her pals mucking about.’ Nasreen saw Saunders give him a look. The line rang in her ear.
‘Does she have any history of mental illness, sir?’ asked Saunders.
‘No, of course not,’ snapped Burgone. ‘Sorry. I know you’re just … following procedure.’ The words sounded cold. Callous.
Saunders cleared his throat. ‘And does she have any history of trying to harm herself?’
‘No. She’s happy. She’s really into running. Fitness. This isn’t her. She wouldn’t …’ His face paled. ‘I’ll send her a WhatsApp message. Sometimes it’s easier to contact her that way.’
The phone at the other end of Nasreen’s call was picked up. A woman – young, breathless, anxious – answered. ‘Lottie?’
She had been waiting for her call. Lottie wasn’t there. Had this flatmate received the same frightening Snapchat? Nasreen’s stomach fell away. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Nasreen Cudmore. Is Lottie – Charlotte …’ She looked at the DCI; he nodded his affirmation. She tried to keep her face neutral. ‘Is Charlotte Burgone there, please?’
‘Has something happened to Lottie?’ The girl sounded panicked.
‘Can I ask your name, please, miss?’ She looked straight ahead at her computer, away from the DCI.
‘Yes. Sorry. It’s Bea. Beatrice Perkins. I’m Lottie’s friend. Her flatmate.’
‘And is Lottie there, Bea?’ Nasreen felt the eyes of the room on her. Chips had paused from typing on his computer.
‘No. She’s gone. I mean, she went for a run this morning. But she never came back. I tried her phone but she didn’t answer. And I got this weird Snap. And oh god – have you found her? Is she okay?’ The girl’s words fell over themselves – fast, frantic. Nasreen looked up at DI Saunders and shook her head.
‘I’ll get on to the university.’ Saunders picked up his phone.
‘Christ.’ The DCI was staring at his mobile. ‘She hasn’t picked up the WhatsApp message yet. It says she hasn’t seen it. But if she’s running then …’
‘And at what time did she go for her run, Bea?’ Nasreen noted the times on her pad – the timeline of a missing person.
‘Six a.m. She always goes at the same time. She’s a morning person. Dani – our flatmate – she saw her leave. She was up to get to the library early. She’s got coursework due.’ The girl was babbling. They’d need to speak to the other flatmate. ‘Lottie always wakes me when she gets back. She’s always back at seven thirty. Always. But she didn’t come back today. I didn’t realise until after nine. I slept through. I missed my lecture.’
‘Does Lottie run alone?’
‘Yes. No one else can get up at that time each day. She’s a machine,’ Bea said. ‘I mean in a good way. Oh god. This is awful.’
‘Take a deep breath for me, Bea, you’re doing great.’ Nasreen kept her tone even. ‘Does Lottie ever go anywhere else straight from her run? The library? Another friend’s perhaps? A boyfriend’s?’
‘No. She comes home to shower. She wouldn’t go anywhere else before that. She likes her hair to be done.’ Bea sounded small, far away. Nasreen wished she could put