Follow Me: The bestselling crime novel terrifying everyone this year

Follow Me: The bestselling crime novel terrifying everyone this year Angela Clarke **'We've been waiting for a novel that shows just how creepy and scary social media actually is and this is it. Angela Clarke knows exactly which buttons to press. #creepedmeout’ TANIA CARVER**LIKE. SHARE. FOLLOW . . . DIEThe ‘Hashtag Murderer’ posts chilling cryptic clues online, pointing to their next target. Taunting the police. Enthralling the press. Capturing the public’s imagination.But this is no virtual threat.As the number of his followers rises, so does the body count.Eight years ago two young girls did something unforgivable. Now ambitious police officer Nasreen and investigative journalist Freddie are thrown together again in a desperate struggle to catch this cunning, fame-crazed killer. But can they stay one step ahead of him? And can they escape their own past?Time's running out. Everyone is following the #Murderer. But what if he is following you?ONLINE, NO ONE CAN HEAR YOU SCREAM …**Amazon RISING STAR Debut of the Month in January 2016!**Readers everywhere can’t stop talking about FOLLOW ME:‘Written in the sharpest style, the story races along … there’s a verve to it that’s impossible to resist. Clarke is certainly someone to watch!’ DAILY MAIL‘A disturbing narrative … a very contemporary nightmare, delivered with panache’ INDEPENDENT‘An original idea…Freddie is a magnificently monstrous character’ SATURDAY REVIEW, BBC Radio 4‘Slick and clever’ SUN‘A chilling debut’ HELLO!‘Compelling, a proper page-turner’ EMERALD STREET‘Smart, snappy and addictive: Angela Clarke is #killingit’ Holly Williams, INDEPENDENT ON SUNDAY‘An appealing flawed female lead readers who enjoyed THE GIRL ON THE TRAIN … with a dark and filthy wit.’ CRIME SCENE MAGAZINE'Pacey, gripping, and so up-to-the-minute you better read it quick!’ CLAIRE McGOWAN‘Follow Me is literally gripping – the tension levels were forcing me to clutch the book so hard that my hands hurt!’ Daisy Buchanan, GRAZIA‘Clarke brings dazzling wit and a sharp sense of contemporary life to a fast-paced serial killer novel with serious style’ JANE CASEY ANGELA CLARKE Follow Me The Social Media Murders Copyright (#u5c20aa98-3995-5be9-9287-637e3e73bd95) Published by Avon An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd The News Building 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2015 Copyright © Angela Clarke 2015 Angela Clarke asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Source ISBN: 9780008165437 Ebook Edition © December 2015 ISBN: 9780008160838 Version: 2017-01-10 Praise for FOLLOW ME by Angela Clarke (#u5c20aa98-3995-5be9-9287-637e3e73bd95) ‘Follow Me doesn’t just throw in token references to the internet – its gripping plot hinges on modern technology at every breathless turn. Smart, snappy and addictive: Angela Clarke is #killingit’ Holly Williams, The Independent on Sunday. ‘Clarke turns social media into a terrifyingly dark place. You won’t look at your accounts the same way again. I was hooked and couldn’t stop turning the pages. With a memorable and unique protagonist, Clarke explores the phenomenon of (social media) celebrity while tapping into your fears.’ Rebecca Bradley, author of Shallow Waters ‘Smart, fast paced, fresh and frightening. Follow Me is a gripping debut.’ Rowan Coleman, author of The Memory Book ‘In Follow Me, Clarke creates a completely compelling world, and a complex heroine. Freddie is refreshing and fascinating – a credible addition to the crime canon and a great alternative for anyone who has grown frustrated with the male dominated world of the whodunnit. Follow Me is literally gripping – the tension levels were forcing me to clutch the book so hard that my hands hurt!’ Daisy Buchanan, Grazia ‘Follow Me is a well written, taut, absolutely fascinating and scarily good crime novel that is too true to life…It will certainly make you look at social media and Twitter in particular with the utmost scepticism and horror. Outstanding! Clearly the start of a wonderful series, superbly written. I definitely want more.’ Ayo Onatade, Shots magazine ‘Original, inventive & gripping’ Danny Smith, West Herts Drivetime ‘We’ve been waiting for a novel that shows just how creepy and scary social media actually is and this is it. Angela Clarke knows exactly which buttons to press. #creepedmeout’ Tania Carver, author of the Brennan and Esposito series ‘A fascinating murder mystery and a dark, ironic commentary on modern social media. Very about today.’ Paul Finch, author ofStalkers ‘Pacey, gripping, and so up-to-the-minute you better read it quick!’ Claire McGowan, author of The Fall, The Lost and The Dead Ground ‘Angela Clarke brings dazzling wit and a sharp sense of contemporary life to a fast-paced serial killer novel with serious style.’ Jane Casey, author of the Maeve Kerrigan series ‘Fast-paced, tense and playfully witty…A chillingly satirical take on a classic mystery formula. #ReadIt’ Graeme Cameron, author of Normal For the authentically badass Amy Jones Contents Cover (#ua63bf555-0082-5bee-9200-937ca2183f28) Title Page (#u357d5965-3854-5311-ae8d-5d604fab2925) Copyright (#ua88338b8-de3c-5b15-a46e-814a950e33aa) Praise for FOLLOW ME by Angela Clarke (#ue14c4802-57bd-5b6e-990c-00e3c1fa689f) Dedication (#u39a4e955-7902-5c4d-8d24-3903b904907a) Chapter 1 FML – Fuck My Life (#u094ce8b0-9793-57b0-a8d7-941f8d3e7e5d) Chapter 2 YOLO – You Only Live Once (#u16b3609b-7c13-57d1-9ab3-da03ac2f1e13) Chapter 3 #FF – Follow Friday (#u4f4c4208-dc05-502e-8192-988f7499ecde) Chapter 4 BFF – Best Friends Forever (#u06e0af5f-ad36-5823-8c8c-17308a7c341e) Chapter 5 OMG – Oh My God (#uf7726a3a-abda-5f92-8f3c-a844b2279b04) Chapter 6 DTF – Down to Fuck? (#u47a5e08a-996e-525f-b7e8-ceecd8ffbc99) Chapter 7 IDK – I Don’t Know (#u813f591c-02f0-5548-bd8a-f27f662e307a) Chapter 8 FFS – For Fuck’s Sake (#u8fcda82d-419c-5f6d-8591-5b40be7414c6) Chapter 9 STBY – Sucks To Be You (#u070eb9ae-e362-59de-bde0-c5ba46167739) Chapter 10 FWIW – For What It’s Worth (#u0528bbf6-811e-5113-bd78-bc8b828eeeaa) Chapter 11 FWP – First World Problems (#u7b1fe150-9e7b-5ff3-9cda-69e7a45c1e98) Chapter 12 BTW – By The Way (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 13 SMH – Shake My Head (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 14 NSFW – Not Safe For Work (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 15 ICYMI – In Case You Missed It (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 16 RTFM – Read The Fucking Manual (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 17 IKR – I Know, Right? (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 18 EOT – End Of Thread (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 19 SITD – Still In The Dark (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 20 FOMO – Fear Of Missing Out (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 21 L8R – Later (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 22 IRL – In Real Life (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 23 GR8 – Great (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 24 RT – Retweet (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 25 ISO – In Search Of (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 26 VBD – Very Bad Date (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 27 BTDT – Been There Done That (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 28 MT – Modified Tweet (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 29 C&B – Crash and Burn (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 30 TBC – To Be Continued (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 31 JK – Just Kidding (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 32 TMI – Too Much Information (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 33 B/C – Because Eight years earlier (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 34 WUBU2 – What You Been Up To? (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 35 CU – See You (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 36 TBA – To Be Announced (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 37 AKA – Also Known As (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 38 WTF – What The Fuck? (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 39 DIY – Do It Yourself (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 40 PDA – Public Display of Affection (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 41 WTAF – What The Actual Fuck? (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 42 BRB – Be Right Back (#litres_trial_promo) Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo) Author Q&A (#litres_trial_promo) Are You Awake (#litres_trial_promo) Little Girl Gone (#litres_trial_promo) Further reading (#litres_trial_promo) Angela Clarke (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 1 (#u5c20aa98-3995-5be9-9287-637e3e73bd95) FML – Fuck My Life (#u5c20aa98-3995-5be9-9287-637e3e73bd95) 05:35 Saturday 31 October From where she stood in the doorway of the bedroom of 39 Blackbird Road, London, E14, Freddie could see blood. A lot of blood. The plastic overall she was wearing rustled in time with her clipped, panicked breaths. The blue walls were splattered with red, as if a food fight had taken place with thin, runny Lidl ketchup. But it wasn’t tomato sauce. She could taste it: metallic. It was coating her tongue. Sweat stuck clumps of her thick frizzy hair to her forehead, loosened her glasses on her nose, and opened her pores to the gore. She was absorbing it. Dread pinpricked her skin. The source was to her right, shielded by the open room door. There was still time to leave. To turn back. To run. She could be home in thirty; pretend none of this had happened. Heavy footsteps fell on the stairs behind her. More people were coming. She had to decide. Seize the story. It was now or never. Opportunity follows struggle. Fear makes you braver. Despite deriding the inspirational quotes that appear over photos of sunsets and the ocean on Facebook, Freddie was disappointed to discover that when she reached her own life crossroads her brain filled with nothing but clich?s. To shut herself up, she stepped forward. Reassuring herself: it was just like the movies. You’ve seen it all before. (The time she’d had to lie down after watching a beheading video online didn’t count. This was different. She was prepared.) She turned. The floor undulated under Freddie’s feet. The body of what had once been a man was slumped over a desk, his neck cut like deli salami, blood pooling round his bare feet. A computer, its wormhole screensaver winding over the monitor seemed to propel blood toward her. The last thing she heard before the dark red obliterated everything was her childhood friend Nasreen Cudmore’s voice. ‘Freddie Venton, what the hell are you doing here?’ Fifteen hours earlier 14:32 Friday 30 October Sat on the windowsill, trying to block out the late lunch drinkers in the Queen Elizabeth pub below, Freddie pressed her phone to her ear. How, in Dalston, in the middle of the country’s capital, could this be the only place to get signal in her room? Her new flatmate – what was his name, short guy, wore glasses, worked in ad sales, always out drinking after work. Pete? P – something. Edged into her room, en route to the kitchen, mouthing, ‘Sorry’. Must be his day off. She nodded. Three people in one pokey two-bed flat had seemed a great money-saving plan. But that was five flatmates ago, when she’d actually known the two girls she shared with. Now she slept in the lounge, the sofa claimed as a bed, and all and sundry crossed her room to get their breakfast cereal. Privacy and mobile reception were for other people. Freddie gurned at her reflection in the seventies mirror above the faux thirties fireplace opposite. Her brown hair, cut by a mate with kitchen scissors, sprang away from her shoulders like she’d been shocked. Flashes of red hair chalk zigzagged toward her DIY fringe. Her legs, stubbornly plump despite working on her feet and taking more than the recommended 10,000 steps a day, poked out from beneath her nightshirt (a T-shirt that had belonged to a long-forgotten one-night stand). Unless she squished herself in with her hands or a belt, she never looked like she had a waist. Her torso, like her mum’s, was square, with the addition of breasts that practically needed scaffolding to restrain them. She wiggled her black plastic rectangular-framed glasses. Not traditionally beautiful. The line in her ear clicked, and the noise of the busy newsroom came through. ‘Freddie.’ Sandra, the deputy editor of The Family Paper online, sounded tense and tired. Business as usual. ‘Is there a problem with this week’s copy?’ ‘No. No problem.’ Freddie pushed her back into the cold glass, willing the signal to hold. ‘It’s just I’ve been writing the Typical Student column for three years now…’ ‘Time flies when you’re having fun.’ Freddie thought of the two years she’d spent on the dole, clawing her way into glass collecting jobs, churning out pitches, unpaid articles and free features during the day – a blur of coffee, cigarettes and unpaid bills since she graduated. ‘Yes, it is fun. And popular. Didn’t I get over 90,000 hits last week?’ Sandra didn’t deign to confirm or deny this figure. ‘Well I was wondering if, given the column’s popularity, I might get paid for writing it?’ There was silence on the other end. Only the sound of the UK’s busiest and most hated newsroom could be heard. The clamorous grind and grunt as the newspaper was conceived in a hail of profanities all journalists told you was the best-paid gig. The one that Freddie had written one hundred and fifty-six eight-hundred-word columns for, and been paid precisely nothing by. ‘Sandra?’ ‘We don’t have the budget. If you could get the column into the print edition then you’d be paid,’ Sandra sighed. Freddie noticed it was more from annoyance than shame. ‘How do I do that?’ Surely you could do that for me, you lazy cow. ‘I’ll think about it. I’ll send you some emails.’ Unlikely. ‘Didn’t we try this before?’ Sandra sounded on the verge of dozing off. We? There’s no we in this, Sandra. You go off with your monthly pay packet, and I sit in my lounge bedroom trying to work out how I’m going to afford to eat this month. ‘Yes.’ ‘What did they say?’ ‘The student focus was too young for the main paper.’ Snotty baby-boomers. ‘The online readers enjoy your stories of debauched students, Freddie. They really go for it.’ They really go for hating on it. Last week she’d written about getting wasted the night before an exam. Total fabrication. Her and her mates had sat in night after night working in fear, as they watched the collapsing economy swallow everything around it like a dead star: paid internships, graduate schemes, jobs, benefits. She might as well have spent her time downing pints of vodka. ‘I graduated two summers ago, I’m not even at university anymore.’ ‘It’s up to you, it’s all good experience.’ Experience. Everything was good experience: writing articles for free for a national newspaper, landing a job in Espress-oh’s coffee chain to pay her bills, pitching, publishing, pumping out all her words for no reward. When was this experience supposed to pay off? When would she have enough experience? ‘I’ll send the copy over now.’ ‘Let’s do drinks soon.’ They wouldn’t. That was what people with paid jobs said to get rid of you. They didn’t need contacts. They didn’t need any more drags on their time. When they were done, they wanted to go home and wank off in front of their latest box set. Drinks were for those who needed a way in. Drinks were fucking fictional. Freddie left the phone on the windowsill. She should sleep. What had she managed? Her shift finished at 6.00am. She’d brainstormed ideas on the way home on the Ginger Line. 9.30am first commission came in. There were three in total today, all wanted them filed within a couple of hours, all under a thousand words, only one of them was paid. Thirty pounds from a privately funded online satire site. Gotta love the rich kids. Awash with their parents’ money, they didn’t have enough business sense to demand that their contributors work for experience. She clicked refresh on her Mac mail. No new emails. Then she clicked refresh again. Then she did the same on Twitter, Facebook, WhatsApp and Snapchat. Round and round. Waiting. For what? Something. Something big. She placed her glasses on the coffee table, closed her eyes, and pulled her duvet up. She’d been awake for nineteen, nearly twenty hours. Her flatmate, Pete, whatever, moved quietly through the room, only ruining it when he spilt hot tea on his thumb and swore. She liked him. Good egg. The tug of sleep came easily. Her head was shaking. No, vibrating. Her hand had the phone and she was answering before her brain caught up. ‘Freddie, it’s Neil here. Neil Sanderson.’ Neil Sanderson. The Post. Broadsheet. She’d met him at the industry awards she’d blagged a ticket to. Built the relationship on Twitter. ‘Neil, hi,’ she gulped from a cold coffee as she climbed up onto the windowsill. Work brain, work. ‘I’ve taken a look at the stuff you’ve sent me and it’s great.’ Fuck! ‘The writing is sound, the points salient and well argued,’ he continued. Fuck, fuck! ‘But I can’t use it.’ Fuck. ‘Why?’ ‘The thing is, Freddie, you’re a great writer, but that’s not enough these days. The world’s full of great writers and the Internet’s only made it easier to find them. You need that extra something to stand out.’ ‘Like what?’ She wasn’t sure she had much left to give. ‘Did you see Olivia Williams’ piece on being kidnapped by Somali pirates? Laura McBethan’s blog on surviving the Air Asiana plane crash? Or Gaz Wagon’s real-time microblogging from the London riots? All excellent reporting. All game changers. All propelled to stardom now.’ ‘So I need to get kidnapped, or embroil myself in a riot? I’ll get right onto it.’ Neil laughed. ‘Are you working class?’ She thought of her parents, her mum a dedicated junior school teacher, and her dad a local council worker (retired early, following one too many dazed and confused moments at work), in their leafy suburban home. ‘Er, no.’ ‘Shame, that’s quite in at the moment. Not landed gentry?’ What was this, an UsVsTh3m online game – What Social Class Are You? Neil continued, ‘Because of Made in Chelsea, people are obsessed with the posh.’ ‘I’m middle class.’ ‘Middle class like Kate Middleton?’ ‘Nobody is middle class like Kate Middleton.’ My career’s over at the age of twenty-three, condemned by my parents’ traditional jobs and the good fortune not to have been caught in a natural disaster, thought Freddie. ‘And you’re not black…’ Did he even remember meeting her? ‘I don’t see how that’s relevant.’ ‘Just looking for a unique angle.’ ‘Being black is a unique angle?’ ‘Pieces written about the ethnic experience are very popular with readers.’ ‘I’ll tell my Asian mates who lived in the same street as me, went to the same school, studied at the same university, and get paid the same as me, to give you a call to share their ethnic experience.’ Neil laughed. ‘Okay, then you’ll have to try the old-fashioned way. Keep getting your name in print, and with a bit of luck you’ll land a contract.’ She felt all the air go out of her. ‘How’d you do it?’ ‘Wrote small pieces for a local newspaper and worked my way up till I was on the nationals. I was an apprenticeship lad.’ An apprenticeship: so scarce it’d be easier to book onto a plane that was going to crash. There was silence for a moment. ‘You could always consider another career, I pay my accountant a fortune?’ Neil sounded like he was only half joking. ‘Thanks. I mean, for the advice and that.’ ‘Anytime, good luck.’ He sounded sad. Or guilty. ‘You’ve just got to seize the story, Freddie. Push yourself into uncomfortable situations. Keep your eyes and ears open.’ He was trying to be encouraging. ‘Sure,’ she tried to sound upbeat. ‘Something’ll turn up.’ After the phone call, Freddie lay looking at the nicotine-stained ceiling. Replaying Neil’s words over in her head. You’ve just got to seize the story. If she called her mum she’d only have to fend off her soft pleading to give up this ‘London madness’ and return to Pendrick, the commuter market town she’d left behind. Her mum didn’t understand she wanted to do more than try for a job at Pendrick’s local council. She wanted to make a difference. Bear witness. Maybe one day be a war correspondent. She sighed. It was half past four and already getting dark. The night was winning the fight. Chapter 2 (#ulink_4f9800f0-5644-5bcf-b469-2e7b009b6882) YOLO – You Only Live Once (#ulink_4f9800f0-5644-5bcf-b469-2e7b009b6882) 20:05 Friday 30 October No tattoos or unnatural piercings are to be visible. Freddie rolled the sleeves of her black shirt up, stopping just below the feet of her Jane and the Dragon tattoo. Partners are free to wear any black collared shirt and pants they choose, with many proud employees purchasing those bearing Espress-oh’s logo from the company store. She tucked the ends of her H&M shirt into her trousers. All partners are supplied with Espress-oh’s world-famous apron and hat to wear with pride. Freddie tightened the yellow apron strings round her waist. As if dealing with douches who wanted extra caramel syrup wasn’t enough, they made you dress like a freaking banana. ‘Turn that frown upside down!’ Dan, the manager of Espress-oh’s St Pancras branch, appeared in the hallway they called the staffroom. His fake-tanned skin an alarming orange next to his yellow Espress-oh’s uniform. He resembled a Picasso fruit bowl. Freddie punched down the overstuffed bin bags that were shoved under the tiny kitchen surface. Ten Signs You Hate Your Boss (mental note: look for amusing gifs to accompany pitch). She lifted the bag she knew contained the expired best-before-date produce. ‘Bin’s full, Dan,’ she said. ‘I’ll just pop this one in the wheelie outside.’ ‘Quick, quick, customers to bring joy to,’ Dan said without looking up from his stocktake clipboard. All Espress-oh’s food waste is to be incinerated. Clutching the bag, Freddie left through the staff-only station exit and stood in the underground area that housed the bins and a healthy population of rats. She let her eyes adapt to the dim light and whistled. There was slight movement from the far corner. ‘Kath, that you?’ she called. An elderly woman in the remains of a tattered skirt and layered jumpers, her hair matted and grey down her shoulders, edged into the light. She smiled a yellowing grin at Freddie. ‘Nice evening for it.’ ‘Bit colder than when we met in July, hey? Do you remember?’ Kathy was getting increasingly confused, and Freddie had read with senility cases it was important to reiterate reality. ‘Course I do,’ said Kathy. ‘Me and Pat asked for one of your cigarettes.’ ‘That’s right,’ said Freddie. ‘I was on my break. And what did you tell me about the old days?’ She glanced over her shoulder to check no one was following her out. ‘Oh! All the fun we used to have! The girls and I. This was our patch,’ Kathy smiled. ‘That’s right’ said Freddie. Until the regeneration tidied up the safe spots where you and the other ex-sex workers slept rough, and turned them into crowdfunded hipster coffee shops. She couldn’t write about Kath and the others and risk alerting the private security guards to their whereabouts, but she could recycle food that was destined for the bin. ‘Here you go.’ She held the bag out. There was a nasty cut on Kathy’s hand. ‘What’s that?’ ‘Just some drunk kids. They took my sleeping bag.’ Kathy rooted through the packets. ‘Any of those funny cheese and grape ones today? They’re my favourites.’ ‘Did you get the sleeping bag back?’ Freddie tried to get her to concentrate. ‘Nah,’ she hooked out a sandwich and put it in her pocket. It was bitterly cold out: what was Kathy sleeping under? ‘Did you report it to the police?’ Kathy laughed. ‘They don’t care ’bout likes of me, dearie. No bother, though. I’m just A-okay.’ She squeezed Freddie’s arm, and Freddie felt how thin her fingers were. ‘I’ll make sure the other girls get their share.’ She bundled the bag up. Kathy shuffled back toward the fire escape door Freddie propped open on her way into work. Freddie resolved to find a sleeping bag on Amazon and bring it in for her. She’d roped in her sympathetic work colleague, Milena, and they took it in turns to make these illicit drops. ‘Me or Milena will see you tomorrow,’ Freddie said. ‘If Dan’s out the way, I’ll try and get you some hot drinks, yeah?’ The old lady held up her hand to signal goodbye. ‘Here, Kathy, hang on,’ she jogged over to press the last of her fags into the old lady’s hand. ‘Pat’ll be pleased,’ she said. ‘Yes,’ nodded Freddie, though she knew Pat had been found dead of exposure at the end of September. The authorities weren’t interested: the NHS and homeless charities she’d spoken to were too stretched to come here and hunt out one elderly, senile woman. Kathy had far outlived the average age a homeless person was expected to reach. She was a tough old bird. ‘Try and keep warm, yeah?’ Freddie turned and headed back toward work. A Terrible Waste: how food destined for the bin could save lives. Out on the floor she nodded at Milena, whose pony-tailed long dark hair and high Bulgarian cheekbones incredulously worked with Espress-oh’s uniform. Would she agree to an interview? An Immigrant Truth: two jobs, business school, and sharing a room with three others – how London betrayed its silent workforce. ‘Freddie?’ Dan had fixed her in his sights. He hadn’t seen anything had he? She watched as he dug his hand into the dusty beans that formed an interactive display along the till. ‘Never forget, these are magic beans.’ Nope. He just wanted to share some more inane motivational drivel. Behind him, as the customers inspected the soggy sandwiches, Milena smacked the palm of her hand repeatedly against her forehead. 20:19 Nine hours and forty-one minutes to go.How Childhood Fairy Tales Set Generation Y Up To Fail. 04:43 Saturday 31 October Eight Times People Actually Died of Boredom. A WhatsApp chat alert flashed on Freddie’s phone, which was under the till out of the sight of customers. A white speech bubble from Milena, who was outside taking a fag break, read: ‘Dan is’, and then there was a series of smiling poo emojis. Freddie typed back: ‘Espress-woes.’ ‘Are you in charge?’ Shoving her phone into her pocket, she looked up to find a drunk in a pinstripe suit, swaying in front of her. His eyes pink. ‘Look!’ He prodded at the fruit toast he’d placed on the counter. ‘This slice has no raisins. This one all the raisins.’ She waited… ‘Is not right,’ he stabbed again, catching the edge of the paper plate and flipping one of the half-eaten slices onto the Almond Biscottis they were pushing this month. You’ve got to be kidding? As she reached out to retrieve the toast, his hand – cold and damp – grabbed hers and she was pulled across the counter toward him. ‘Or yous could give me your number?’ His stale beer breath buffeted her face. She scanned the cafe for help. A Japanese couple, heads down, earphones in, oblivious. The gossipy women who’d been here for hours had left. Dan was in the stockroom. She was on her own. ‘Giz a kiss,’ the drunk lunged. Shame burned up her body and then ignited into anger. Wrenching her hand free, she sent the fruit toast flying toward him. ‘Get lost!’ Alerted by the disturbing sound of an employee raising their voice, Dan bustled into the cafe, oozing toward the drunk. ‘Sir, I’m so sorry. There’s obviously been a misunderstanding. I’m sure Freddie here can help.’ What the…‘Are you suggesting I prostitute myself for a piece of sodding fruit toast?’ Milena swung through the glass door – had she seen? ‘Our Freddie, ever the joker!’ Dan laughed like a screaming kettle. ‘Sir, I make you some new toast, please, have a seat. I bring it over.’ Milena’s megawatt smile blindsided the pink-eyed man. ‘Sure,’ he swayed. ‘The customer is always right,’ Dan glared at Freddie. How the hell was this her fault? ‘But he…’ ‘I don’t care, Freddie. You need to see the positives in all customers. Visualise them as your close personal friend.’ ‘That’s what I was sodding worried about!’ ‘Espress-oh partners don’t use language they wouldn’t feel comfortable saying in front of their mothers,’ Dan stage whispered. Flinging her arm in the direction of the drunk who was now face down asleep on the counter, a puddle of drool spreading toward the discarded fruit toast, Freddie screamed: ‘If my mum was here she’d tell that dirty bastard to fuck off!’ ‘Enough! Take your break! Now!’ Furious, she smacked her palms hard against the glass door and powered toward the train platforms. A few hardy souls were bundled, with suitcases, on the cold metal benches, waiting for the first Eurostar. All this money regenerating the station and they forgot to put doors on? Yet another deterrent to Kathy and her homeless mates. Barely more appealing than metal spikes. She was heading to the taxi rank where she could bum a cigarette off a cabbie, when she saw her: Nasreen Cudmore. They’d played together virtually every day since they were six, until…she couldn’t deal with thinking about that now. Eight years ago. Must be. Nasreen looked the same. No, different. There was no puppy fat, and she was tall too, like her dad. Five foot eight, at least. She’d cut that ridiculous waist-length black hair. It now hung in a sleek curtain to her shoulders. Perfect against her milky coffee skin. With both pride and pain, Freddie acknowledged Nasreen Cudmore had grown into a beautiful woman. What the hell was she doing here at this time in the morning? Wearing a hoodie and jeans, Nasreen was stood with a group. All dressed casually. Most looked to be in their twenties or thirties. One guy, slightly older, early forties, broad shoulders, Bruce Willis buzz cut, was wearing a blue down puffa jacket zipped up over a tight white T-shirt. Friends’ night out? One of those godawful-sounding corporate away-days? Freddie remembered seeing Fiona Cogswell at a pop-up Shoreditch tequila bar. Among the inane drivel about what every Pendrick High alumnus was now doing – mostly out of work management consultants, or pursuing worthless PhDs until the economy recovered – there’d been one lime wedge of interest: Nasreen Cudmore had joined the police. She looked again at Nasreen’s group: men, all with regulation-neat haircuts. Police. Undercover? A bust? Seize the story. Neil’s advice echoed in her head. Behind her, Dan was waiting for a grovelling apology. A plan formulated in Freddie’s mind. Thrusting her cap into her back pocket, she approached her old school friend. ‘Nasreen! Oh my God! It is you!’ Nasreen startled, turned toward her, taking in the yellow apron and the red hair. ‘F…Freddie?’ Feeling awkward and teenage again, Freddie kept smiling. Up close she could see a new hardness in Nasreen’s face. ‘Cudmore?’ The older guy with the puffa body interrupted. He clearly didn’t want Freddie here. She was onto something. ‘Sorry, can’t stop.’ Nasreen looked embarrassed. Oh no you don’t. ‘Are you on Facebook, or Twitter?’ ‘Er…no.’ Because you’re a policewoman. ‘Gmail? Google Plus – you on Google Plus?’ ‘Yes. I think.’ Nasreen looked over her shoulder as the body-warmer guy grunted. ‘Awesome: what’s your email? Give me your phone so I can type mine in?’ She had one shot to get this right. Nasreen, looking increasingly peeved, handed over her iPhone. ‘Here, you write yours in mine.’ Freddie pulled her phone from her back pocket, knocking her cap to the floor. Passing her phone to Nasreen, she turned to retrieve her baseball cap. At the same time, she opened up Nasreen’s Google+ app, clicking through: Menu > Settings > Location Sharing On. Years of following exes round the Internet was paying off. She clicked into contacts as she turned back: adding her name, number and email. She pressed call. Her phone, which was in Nasreen’s hand, vibrated. ‘Now I’ve got your number.’ She beamed at Nas as she held the phone out to swap. ‘Great,’ Nasreen mustered a weak smile. ‘Who was that?’ the body warmer asked Nasreen as Freddie walked away. ‘No one. Just someone I used to know…’ Sorrow settled under Freddie’s hat as she pulled it on. She was nothing to Nasreen anymore. Perhaps that made it easier? Unlocking her own phone, she opened Google+. Little thumbnails of her friends appeared on the map. There was Milena, pinpointed in St Pancras station, and there, squashed up against her, was a new blank profile picture: Nasreen Cudmore. Gotcha! Chapter 3 (#ulink_ecd5a180-ea9b-527f-978c-c8286bc8bc69) #FF – Follow Friday (#ulink_ecd5a180-ea9b-527f-978c-c8286bc8bc69) 04:59 Saturday 31 October Freddie slowed her pace and rubbed her eyes, hoping her mascara would smudge. Could you think yourself pale? One arm across her stomach, she half fell through Espress-oh’s door. Dan and Milena looked up. ‘You okay?’ Milena put down the hot panini tongs. ‘I know why I lost my temper. Not feeling great.’ In the corner of her eye she saw Nasreen and her colleagues exit the station and head to an arriving police van. Dan’s face was a hesitant scowl. ‘Pretty sure it’s just my period, but I’ve been sick, everywhere…’ Three…two… ‘Sick!’ Dan bowled toward her. ‘You don’t think it’s like that norovirus case you told us about from the Kuala Lumpur branch?’ she slurred into his panicked face. Dan was surprisingly efficient when under pressure. He had her, and her coat, out the cafe in under a minute. ‘Not sure I can walk.’ Freddie bent double, as Dan tried to stuff her apron under her jacket. He kept glancing round, as if a health and safety inspector might leap out from behind one of the trees lining the station approach. Beads of sweat ran in orange rivulets over his forehead. ‘I’ll get you a taxi!’ he stage whispered. ‘I’m broke.’ ‘Here!’ Dan pulled notes from his wallet and thrust them at her. ‘We have to get you away from here. I mean home.’ He stuck his arm out as a black cab drove toward them and scooped her into the back. ‘Dalston, she lives in Dalston.’ Dan, thankful disaster had been averted, watched as the taxi disappeared past the lights. Freddie saw him take his sanitizer bottle from his pocket and squirt his hands. You could never be too safe. Inside the cab, Freddie pulled her phone from her pocket and followed the flashing Nasreen Cudmore as she leapfrogged across London. ‘Actually, mate, looks like we’re heading toward The City, no, past that, Canary Wharf. Can you take me there? Cheers.’ Bright coloured lights danced across the Thames, as the night sky airbrushed out the churning grey filth of the river. Freddie didn’t look up. She kept her eyes on the faceless silhouette that represented Nas. It had stopped. Had she lost connection? They wound past the glowing phallic towers of Canary Wharf. Cranes, anchors, and industrial cogs – ghostly reminders of the docks’ past – punctuated the new gated developments covering the area. They were almost upon the symbol. Freddie looked up as the flats gave way to rows of dockers’ cottages. ‘Think it’s the next right, mate.’ She needn’t have worried. The taxi turned into a street of Victorian houses ablaze with activity. A police van, that had presumably carried Nas and her team, was parked behind a police car blocking the road. ‘Can’t go any further than this, love,’ said the cabbie. ‘This is fine. Cheers.’ She passed Dan’s banknotes through the window. There was no sign of Nas, or any of her plain-clothes colleagues. ‘What road’s this, mate?’ Freddie pocketed the change. That’d get her a drink in the pub later. ‘Blackbird Road.’ The cabbie turned to reverse back the way they’d come. A white tarpaulin canopy was erected over the entrance of one of the houses. Incident tape flapped in the breeze. People were stood in dressing gowns, and in coats over pyjamas, phones up taking photos. Residents of a quiet Docklands street were shocked to discover that…What was this? Break-in? Domestic? A uniformed policeman, early fifties, balding, guarded the door. A white van was parked opposite. Freddie watched as a man plucked a plastic boiler suit from the back and pulled it over his trousers and shirt. Forensics. ‘What the…?’ the door policeman shouted. Freddie looked up to see a sandy-haired, skinny policeman, a few years older than her, stumble out of the property and spew all over the path. ‘Heavy night?’ shouted a voice. The growing crowd of onlookers laughed. Are Millennials Just Not Cut Out For Work? The forensics guy tutted, before ducking under the police tape, sidestepping the puking copper, and walking into the house. No badge, no questions, no problem. Seize the story. Push yourself into uncomfortable situations. Freddie walked with purpose to the white van and peered inside. Voila! She took a plastic-wrapped boiler suit from a box in the back and pulled it over her clothes. Disposable Jumpsuits: the Ideal Freelance Uniform? ‘You stay out here and I’ll get something to clean this up,’ the older cop said as he hauled the pale young lad to his feet. He disappeared inside as Freddie reached the gate. She just needed to get past PC Spew. His pale blue eyes focused on her as she ducked under the tape. She felt him take in the rustling plastic boiler suit and stop…on her dyed red hair. Shit. Bloody hair chalk. She kept going. Imagining she was walking into a nightclub, like she had for years as an underage teenager. Behind The Incident Tape: Inside an Active Crime Scene. ‘Evening, ma’am,’ PC Spew said. ‘Evening.’ She stopped in front of him. Nerves rippled through her body. ‘Cold night for it?’ ‘Yes, ma’am.’ He looked like he might be about to say something else, and then he nodded and stood aside. ‘You must be on the new computer team, ma’am. It’s upstairs.’ ‘Thank you.’ She avoided his gaze. The door closed behind her and she was alone in a small laminated-floor hallway. In front of her a patterned glass door made a collage of the people behind it. The sound of a kettle boiling. The stir of a teaspoon in a cup. Someone crying? Must be the kitchen. Black coats hung on hooks at the bottom of the stairs. It was like the man said: what she wanted was upstairs. In the early hours of Friday morning a dawn raid was carried out… There was movement above. She figured she didn’t have long. In and out. That was the plan. Chapter 4 (#ulink_7f43baac-2fa2-5a3e-bd38-2bcb38016801) BFF – Best Friends Forever (#ulink_7f43baac-2fa2-5a3e-bd38-2bcb38016801) 05:36 Saturday 31 October Dropping down to the ground from the back of the police van, Nasreen tucked the flask of tea into her hoodie pocket and headed back. Sent for the DCI’s tea again. This wasn’t what she’d had in mind when she’d requested to be assigned to Detective Chief Inspector Moast’s team. She wanted to prove herself on a major investigation, not fetch beverages. Perhaps there’d be a chance to make a real difference on this case. It was a particularly grim one. The body of Alun Mardling, slumped over his computer with his throat cut, had been found by his mother at around 4.30am, when she had returned from her night shift at St Thomas’ Hospital. Mrs Lucy Mardling had a job cleaning surgical instruments, but Nasreen couldn’t imagine any amount of blood and tissue would prepare you for this. Closing her eyes, she was back in the hallway with DCI Moast, breathless from suiting up before the others. She replayed the scene in her mind. ‘Sergeant Nasreen Cudmore, this is Dr Jim Fisher.’ DCI Moast, his blue puffa jacket and jeans covered by his protective full body suit, signalled at the pathologist. ‘Nasreen is new to the team. Fresh blood.’ She nodded as Dr Fisher stood back to let them enter the room. At just over six foot, he was taller than Nasreen and the DCI, with smiling crinkly eyes behind thin wire glasses, and thick grey hair she could glimpse under his hood. ‘Glad to see you’ve finally got someone who knows what correct practice is, Ed.’ The doctor pointed at the disposable face mask Nasreen was wearing. She blushed. She didn’t want to get the DCI in trouble. ‘I’ve got my shoes and my bonce covered, Jim, what more do you want?’ The DCI’s grizzled jaw broke into a white grin. With his hood up over his cropped hair, he resembled a cotton bud. ‘You bods are finished anyway,’ he continued. ‘I just want to see the body in situ.’ They stepped into the small bedroom at the front of the house. ‘My, my, this is a mess isn’t it? You going to be all right with this, Sergeant Cudmore?’ Nasreen steeled herself to assess the scene. ‘Yes, sir. I’ve worked homicides before.’ ‘Righto.’ DCI Moast pulled his notebook from his pocket. ‘The victim is Alun Mardling, aged forty-eight, a local bank manager at Canary Wharf.’ With her own suit hood up, Nasreen had to turn her head to take in the small room. The blue seventies-style curtains were drawn. The orange glow of the street lamp outside could be seen through them. A dusty lampshade with faded red and yellow cars on it hung from above. There was a desk, a chair and a computer, at which the body was slumped. The victim’s blood was splattered up and over the wall. Nasreen felt her gut contract and tears threaten at the back of her eyes. She reminded herself to stay clinical. Break it down into small manageable sections. The best thing she could do for the victim and his mother was help find who did this. Blood was everywhere. Doused. Splashed. Flung. The room contained a slim pine wardrobe, with what she presumed was Mardling’s work suit hung on the outside. There was a matching compact pine bedside table, with Top Gear magazines and a box of tissues piled on it, and barely enough room for them to stand in here. Everything was covered in sprays of livid red. ‘Single bed, almost like this was a child’s room, sir?’ She looked at the faded blue checked duvet that was crumpled across the mattress. ‘No photos or pictures.’ She looked at the drab walls. ‘Apparently Mrs Mardling’s son, Alun here, moved back in with his mum after his marriage fell apart,’ DCI Moast said. ‘He was based in Manchester before that.’ ‘Recently?’ asked Nasreen. This was a sad bachelor room. ‘About four years ago,’ said Moast. ‘Doesn’t look like he’s moved on much, does it?’ Dr Fisher said from the doorway. The victim was dressed in a T-shirt and shorts, his head and body slumped forward over his computer. His blood looked as if it had been dashed against the desk and the walls, indicating it had come out in high-velocity gushes. It was concentrated on the computer, desk and wall Mardling had been facing. ‘Was he attacked from behind?’ Nasreen asked. ‘Correct,’ said Dr Fisher. ‘His neck was cut with a sharp implement, probably a knife. I’ll know more when we’re back at the lab.’ ‘So far we’ve found no murder weapon,’ said DCI Moast. ‘I’ve got the lads outside searching.’ Nasreen had seen something similar once after a gang hit. ‘The blood spatter is fairly aggressive,’ she said. ‘Like spurts. Did the perp cut the carotid artery, doctor?’ ‘Very good, Sergeant.’ Dr Fisher pointed at the sliced neck. ‘He would have lost consciousness pretty instantly and bled out in minutes.’ What a horrible, violent end to a life. ‘Well, at least it was quick,’ said Nasreen. ‘Do you think the perp knew what he was doing?’ ‘It looks like a precision cut,’ said the doctor. ‘So either he knew his anatomy, or he got lucky.’ DCI Moast nodded and wrote something in his notebook. ‘And presumably the perp’s clothes would be covered too?’ said Nasreen. ‘I’ve told the lads to look for discarded clothing as well,’ said the DCI. ‘She’s a sharp one this one: I’d keep hold of her if I were you, Ed.’ Dr Fisher winked at Nasreen. ‘She’s too young for you, Jim,’ Moast said. Nasreen felt herself blush again. And then she’d been sent to fetch the DCI’s tea. Had she spoken out of turn? Did the DCI think she couldn’t cope with the rigours of a ghoulish crime scene? No, she was sure DCI Moast made all his sergeants run round after him. Perhaps he drank sweet tea to help combat shock, keep his mind clear? They all did what they had to to cope with a crime scene like this. She understood sacrifices needed to be made. She’d better text Claire and cancel their planned cinema trip tomorrow. Claire had ditched her plenty of times to work late in her bid to make partner at her law firm. That’s why their friendship worked so well: they both knew the job came first. Members of the public were gathering outside the crime scene tape, peering up at the terraced house. What was PC Thomas doing on the door? Where was PC Folland? This wasn’t protocol. ‘Mind your step, ma’am.’ Spindly Jamie’s usually pale face looked positively drained. The toe of her boot nudged a puddle of sick on the floor. ‘Oh, Jamie. And inside the cordon.’ ‘I couldn’t help it. It just…Do you think there’ll be a disciplinary, ma’am?’ He looked stricken. She still wasn’t used to being called ma’am. It made her feel old. She’d paused too long now. ‘I bet Dr Fisher loves you!’ Jamie’s mouth turned down. Drat, she’d meant that to be light-hearted. She tried to give him a reassuring smile. ‘I best go find the guv.’ ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Jamie held the door for her. Inside she gathered her thoughts. She needed to speak to the victim’s mother – she was with the relationship officers now. The SOCOs were out back looking for evidence of how the perpetrator gained access. DCI Moast favoured the alley that ran along the back of the houses. It wouldn’t be hard to vault the fence and enter through the garden. A robbery gone wrong? Perhaps. The perpetrator could have assumed everyone was asleep, come across Alun Mardling and, in the panic, killed him. There were no immediate signs of anything missing. Little sign of struggle. No evidence of forced entry. But she felt there was something disturbing about the way the man’s throat had been cut: too…sacrificial. The flask felt warm in her pocket – DCI Moast could wait a minute while she took another quick look at the body. Nasreen took the stairs two at a time. She could hear people moving around, one of the forensics team must still be here. She reached the bedroom door and froze. But she wasn’t staring at the blood, she was staring at the person in front of it. Was she a scene of crime officer? No. Ridiculous. She was just at Espress-oh’s. How’d she…? Where’d she…? ‘Freddie Venton, what the hell are you doing here?’ Freddie – and it was definitely Freddie with that bizarre red streaked hair and dark kohl circles round her eyes – dipped her chin, then her eyes rolled back and she crumpled. Instinctively Nasreen rushed forwards, arms open, but someone got there first. She shuddered to a halt, before she ploughed into the uniformed back, the crown on the epaulette. It couldn’t be…‘Superintendent, sir!’ She stood straight. Heels together. Hands by her side. Palms sweating. Superintendent Gray, his salt-and-pepper trimmed eyebrows meeting at the exertion, turned to face her. The rag doll Freddie in his hands. ‘Sergeant, do you know this officer?’ ‘I…er…sir…I…’ How was this happening? What was he doing here? He must have responded to the call-out. Like them. Staff shortages. ‘Spit it out, Sergeant.’ Superintendent Gray’s hands, smooth from deskwork, with neat clipped nails, gripped Freddie’s shoulders. ‘We studied together.’ The words were out before she could stop them. Her cheeks burned red. She’d lied to the Superintendent. Her training kicked in. Counter the epinephrine. Frame the situation. Respond. ‘I’ll take her outside, sir, get her some air.’ ‘Nas?’ Freddie’s voice was hoarse. The Superintendent looked down at Freddie, his hair parting was ruler-straight. ‘Freddie, the Superintendent and I know it’s your first active crime scene. I’ll take you outside for some air.’ She tried to convey the severity of the situation with her eyes. Play along. Good grief, the girl was using the Superintendent’s arm to push herself up. Nasreen had gotten onto the Fast Track Programme. She’d put up with her colleagues’ inappropriate cracks. She’d faced down gang members, and once a man wielding a machete, she was damned if Freddie Venton was going to be her undoing. ‘I really think you…’ Freddie pulled her arm away from Nas. She felt shaky, but there was no way she was leaving. She had to stay and get the story. Even with that there in the room. ‘Odd, isn’t it…’ Freddie’s words came out in a gasp. Fear ripped through her body like the knife through the dead man. She looked away from the gore. Must bear witness. Glimpses of a T-shirt and boxer shorts made it through the red. The thing – once a living breathing man – looked like it was dressed for bed. A hand still lay on the computer mouse. ‘Odd, isn’t it…that…this…happened at the computer?’ ‘Plenty of people spend their free time on the computer.’ Nasreen seemed to have a problem controlling her eyebrows. Freddie focused on them going up and down. Up and down. Her breathing slowed. She gestured toward the desk, and then dropped her arm when she saw it shaking. Focus on something else. ‘Was he looking at porn?’ Porn Addiction: A Very Modem Problem. ‘You noticed his hand then?’ said the uniformed cop who’d caught her. Freddie located the shoulder – carefully avoiding the neck area. Think about something else. His other arm was lowered, elbow bent, his hand was…‘It’s in his boxers! Oh my God! He was knocking one out – what a way to go!’ The copper gave a little chuckle. Think about something else. ‘It’s not kiddie porn is it?’ Paedophile Butchered in Revenge Attack. Nasreen tersely replied, ‘There’s nothing to suggest…’ ‘Let’s take a look.’ The uniformed copper pulled a latex glove from his pocket and picked his way toward the desk. Freddie ignored the expression of incredulity on Nasreen’s face and looked straight ahead at the screen. Taking a pen from his pocket, the copper gently nudged the mouse. The monitor hissed with static and blinked into life. Not porn. Not a video. But a background of skull and crossbones images, overlaid with text boxes. Familiarity soothed Freddie. The uniformed copper peered at the computer. ‘Is that Twitter? That site where people talk about what they had for lunch?’ he said. Freddie clung to the normality of it. ‘It’s a microblogging site, good for keeping abreast of the zeitgeist, gathering ideas, and building work contacts.’ Don’t stop. Her mind and mouth babbled in panic: ‘I wonder why he was spanking the monkey while looking at Twitter? I’ve heard of people checking their phones during sex, but this is like dissing yourself.’ ‘What do all these @ signs mean?’ The uniformed copper was still peering at the screen. If she could keep him talking for a few more minutes, she might get more info for her pitch. Freddie stepped forward. Nasreen audibly inhaled. ‘Be careful not to touch the victim or disturb any of the evidence.’ ‘I’m sure Miss Venton knows what she’s doing, Sergeant,’ the copper snapped. Freddie was thankful his tone obliterated the word victim that seemed to hang in the air. ‘Twitter is a social media site. Each user has a “Twitter Handle”, which is unique to them. They all start with an @ symbol. Mine is @ReadyFreddieGo. They’re also called “@names”.’ ‘I see,’ said the copper. In order to read the tweets on the computer, Freddie had to lean over the body. She could hear it dripping. She focused on the screen: Alun Mardling. That is…was…his name. ‘So this is the account of Alun Mardling. His Twitter Handle is @MaddeningAlun23.’ She turned away from the computer and the body to look at the copper. ‘You can follow people, other users, from your Twitter account. Their tweets – what they’ve posted online – appear in what’s called your “timeline” in real time.’ The copper’s brow furrowed. ‘For example, if I’ve followed Nasreen on Twitter and she tweets to say she is at Espress-oh’s in St Pancras, it will appear on my “timeline” when she tweets it.’ Nas scowled at her. Freddie pushed on. This was allowing her head to clear and her stomach to settle. ‘I can re-post Nasreen’s tweet, or share it, so it is seen by my followers in their timeline by doing what’s called “retweeting”.’ ‘Do you invite people to follow you and accept invitations like they do on LinkedIn?’ The copper looked thoughtful. ‘No,’ said Freddie, focusing on him and not the body. ‘You can follow anyone on Twitter and you can also send anyone a message by using their @name. By looking up an account, say Alun Mardling’s @name, I would be able to read what he’s posted without following him. I would also be able to talk to him by using his @name in a tweet. This would then appear on his notifications.’ ‘So anyone can talk to anyone else on Twitter?’ Nas asked. ‘Exactly, that’s what makes it popular. Like, I could directly communicate with my favourite author Margaret Atwood, or a pop star like Taylor Swift. Most famous people and journalists are authenticated by Twitter with a blue tick that shows on their account bio.’ She pulled her phone out of her pocket and looked up Taylor Swift’s account. ‘See the blue tick here?’ Nas and the copper nodded. ‘You can also see how many people they are following, and how many people are following them.’ ‘Wait.’ Nas pointed at Freddie’s phone. ‘Over sixty-one million people follow Taylor Swift?’ ‘Yup,’ said Freddie. ‘Staggering,’ the copper said. ‘Doesn’t she get inundated with these @name messages?’ ‘Almost certainly,’ said Freddie. ‘Though you can block people who are causing trouble.’ ‘And everyone can see the @name messages you send to other people?’ The copper ran his gloved finger over her mobile screen. ‘Correct,’ said Freddie. ‘But if you follow another user and they follow you back, then you can send a “Direct Message”, which is private.’ Fury bubbled through Nasreen. For the last two years she’d tried to find a way in with Superintendent Gray. She’d managed six words: Good morning, sir, and good evening, sir. And now here he and Freddie were, acting like Starsky and Hutch. It was well known the Superintendent didn’t like social media websites. He’d had to let a good officer go last year after he revealed sensitive information about a case on Facebook after a pint or two. It’d been picked up by the press. These websites could not be trusted. She watched as the Superintendent and Freddie turned back to look at the vic’s computer. Freddie’d disturb the evidence. DCI Moast was downstairs, oblivious to the fact his case was being destroyed by an Espress-oh’s waitress. Forget anything that had been between them in the past, she had to stop this before it went too far. She had to say something. ‘He’s a troll!’ Freddie suddenly stabbed toward the screen with her finger. ‘What?’ Nasreen recognised excitement in Freddie’s voice, for a second they were back, joyfully awaiting the start of her eighth birthday party. ‘Trolling – hurling abuse at someone over the Internet. You must have heard of it?’ ‘Keep up, Sergeant.’ Superintendent Gray didn’t turn around. ‘There was a training course last year. Growing concern for the force: online harassment. Everyone was scheduled to attend.’ ‘I was there, I attended, sir, I know what a troll is. Of course…’ ‘Jesus!’ Freddie still had her finger dangerously close to the screen. ‘He really bloody loves it. It’s all at Paige Klinger.’ ‘The model? The one with the lips?’ Nasreen leant forward so her face was alongside Freddie’s. She smelt vaguely of stale cigarettes. Nasreen scrutinised the tweets: a jumble of @ signs and hashtags. ‘What does it say?’ ‘Here,’ Freddie pointed at one of the boxes. ‘This @PaigeKlinger is him talking to her.’ Freddie ran her finger underneath the words: Alun Mardling @MaddeningAlun23 • 1s @PaigeKlinger u deserv fuckin wiv a barbed wire dildo u stuck up whore. in front of ur famly ho. Superintendent Gray pushed air out through his teeth. ‘Is that English?’ ‘Barely,’ Freddie said. ‘Plus I guess he was typing one-handed.’ Nasreen followed her sightline to the blood drying on the vic’s hand. ‘The bloody wanker,’ Freddie said. Nasreen ignored Freddie. ‘This is pretty strong, sir. Threats of rape. Murder. Why hasn’t she come forward?’ ‘Happens all the time,’ Freddie said. ‘Sir, if he’s threatened her and her family like this, I would say that’s pretty good motive.’ ‘Hmmm,’ Superintendent Gray folded his arms. ‘Nasty business.’ Freddie’s mind was in overdrive. Everything was taking on vivid colours. She could see the article she was going to write already. She could imagine the pay cheque. ‘It’s definitely murder, right? Not suicide?’ ‘No weapon. Indicates someone took it with them. Foul play.’ Nasreen was still looking at the tweets. ‘Great!’ Man Who Trolled Paige Klinger Murdered. ‘Great?’ The copper turned to look her in the face. ‘What did you say your name was again, officer?’ Police declined to give a statement. Time to leave. ‘I’m feeling woozy again.’ Freddie took a step back away from the body. And then realised she wasn’t lying. ‘She doesn’t look good, sir.’ Nasreen grabbed hold of Freddie’s arm. ‘Better get her outside. Right now. Looks like she might be sick.’ This time Freddie let herself be pulled from the room. Nasreen’s heart was beating hard. Please let DCI Moast and the others be outside. No sign of anyone. She glanced back to see Superintendent Gray still looking at the computer. With her free hand she grabbed Freddie’s SOCO suit hood and pulled it up over her hair. ‘Hey, watch it!’ Freddie tried to squirm away from her. Nasreen silenced her with a stare. Did she want to get arrested? Was this all some elaborate plan to ruin her career? Vengeance for what happened eight years ago? That would be ridiculous, but then this was Freddie Venton. She dragged her across the entrance hall and opened the front door. PC Jamie Thomas turned to face them. His skin taking on the blue tinge of the sky. ‘You all right there, ma’am,’ he indicated at Freddie, who was now leaning against her, seemingly in a bid to trip her up. ‘Just going out for some air. Seen DCI Moast?’ Jamie shook his head as he spoke, ‘He hasn’t been this way for twenty minutes or so.’ He was a nice guy, she felt dreadful lying to him. ‘Okay, thanks.’ Nasreen pushed Freddie in front of her, circumnavigating the vomit on the path. ‘Do you think the team’ll go for a drink after this, Nasreen?’ Jamie called after her. ‘I could do with something to steady my nerves.’ ‘Not for me. Thanks, Jamie,’ she kept her voice upbeat. Then put her face close to Freddie’s as they passed under the incident tape. ‘Don’t say a word,’ she hissed. There were still civilians standing outside watching the scene. Where were the constables who were supposed to be interviewing the neighbours? Curtains were twitching. Early-morning commuters in suits were appearing. They were close to Canary Wharf – when did the financial markets open? Soon there would be more people staring. Five doors down, Nasreen spotted an alley and took it. As the walls of the houses either side rose up around them, Freddie shook herself free. ‘Oh my God! All the blood and…Let me get my breath…God! I can’t believe that.’ Freddie leant forward spitting phlegm onto the ground. ‘Thought I was going to hurl like that bloke on the door.’ ‘What the hell are you doing here, Freddie? I haven’t seen you in eight years – we haven’t spoken – and suddenly you’re at St Pancras station and now at a crime scene? Don’t tell me that’s a coincidence.’ This couldn’t be happening. She checked no one had followed them. ‘That copper on the door. The one who spewed. I’m guessing he could get in a lot of trouble for letting me in.’ Nasreen looked at Freddie Venton, the girl she’d idolised as a child, the girl she’d wished was her sister for years, as she struggled to free her arm from her stolen SOCO suit. ‘Do you have any idea what you’ve done? What I’ve just done. You could’ve cost PC Thomas his job. You’ve contaminated the crime scene. What do you think you’re playing at?’ Freddie didn’t look up. ‘You sound like your mum that time she busted us for eating all the chocolate digestives.’ ‘This is serious. What are you doing here? I could lose my job. You’ve put me in a very difficult position.’ ‘Don’t flatter yourself, I would’ve got out of there without your help.’ Nasreen exhaled. ‘That’s not what I meant. I could arrest you for breaking and entering, contaminating a crime scene, impersonating a forensics officer!’ This was unbelievable. ‘Oh yeah.’ Freddie rolled the SOCO suit down her legs and over her shoes. The colour back and fiery in her cheeks. ‘Then why don’t you?’ Nasreen thought of Freddie’s mum, Lorna Venton, was she still in her neat little house trying to keep it together while her husband was off drinking? Was Freddie’s alcoholic father still alive? How would the gentle woman, who used to give her an ice lolly if she grazed her knee, cope if her daughter was arrested as well? ‘I won’t. But only to spare your mum the shame.’ Freddie turned to look behind her, her attention already shifted. ‘Is the DLR that way?’ ‘What?’ ‘The Docklands Light Railway, or is public transport too good for you now you’re a copper, Nas?’ All those years mourning the loss of their friendship, but instead of the warm-hearted fearless girl she remembered, here was an entitled loud-mouthed stranger. What an idiot she’d been. Nasreen’s cheeks flamed. ‘The station’s that way.’ ‘See you later, Sergeant Cudmore.’ Freddie gave a fake salute. Nasreen closed her eyes. It was like a bad dream. When she opened them Freddie was gone. She headed back to 39 Blackbird Road. DCI Moast’s flask of tea cold in her pocket. She never wanted to see Freddie Venton ever again. Chapter 5 (#ulink_a7d9f743-5873-537f-9202-9589b6fa28e6) OMG – Oh My God (#ulink_a7d9f743-5873-537f-9202-9589b6fa28e6) 06:06 Saturday 31 October ‘Neil, it’s Freddie Venton here. Give me a call as soon as you get this. I booked myself onto that Asiana flight.’ Freddie heard the screech and rumble of an approaching DLR and picked up pace. It was the first dead body she’d seen. And it turned out adrenaline was more effective than espresso. She easily caught the 6:08. A ride on the DLR would normally mean sitting in the front, driverless carriage and pretending to steer, but there wasn’t time for that today. Away from the body she was fine. She was fine. The Citymapper app on her phone confirmed she could pick up the 277 bus at Westferry. She pulled up Alun Mardling’s Twitter account: what else could she find out about him? She read his bio: ALUN MARDLING @MaddeningAlun23 This is my cage for when I’ve been naughty and they’ve closed my other account down. Saying it like it is. London. Dick. 167 followers. Hardly any followers at all, at least that was something. They were still all shitbags. What kind of idiots follow this kind of abusive drivel? Freddie clicked onto his followers list. More skulls and crossbones. Original. More old white dudes giving the bird. Oh yeah, subversive. She scanned the names: Stephen Anderson (@Stalker77), Vernon Jones (@MenzRites), Dave Injustice (@TruthNBalls). A twat clique. A twique. She clicked through their tweets discussing 16-year-old Paige Klinger. From @Stalker77 (37-year-old schoolteacher, head of department, married, one daughter aged 2, real name: Andrew): @TheDestroyer76 u told that skanky ho. Stuck up rich girls get on my fucking dick. Whining on. Rape is least of her worries. From @TheDestroyer76 (suburban bank manager, divorced, 42, sits on local hospice board, real name: Richard): @Stalker77 left-wing cock sucking slut should work for a fucking living. Death to whores!!!!! From @BurnyMe (19-year-old Economics student, single, real name: Emily): @Stalker77 @TheDestroyer12 Fuckin cunts don’t deserve rape. Burn the mother fuckerz flesh of. Nice guys, real friendly. Kind you’d take home to your mum. She scrolled through the rest of Alun Mardling’s followers: more of the same. Then something caught her eye. The train jolted, the phone shook in her hand, air caught in her throat. She must have made a mistake. She refocused on the screen. Looked again at the list of followers: at one particular follower. Freddie felt her stomach fall away. With a shaking hand, she clicked on the follower’s profile picture. The screen went black, a white line scrolling painfully slowly across it. Come on. Come on. The photo appeared. Enlarged. She let out a yelp, clamping her hand to her mouth. It was Alun Mardling. Or what was left of him. His neck cut, his head lolling forward onto the keyboard. Blood. How’d the picture get online? Who’d taken it? The account had no followers. It was only following one person: Alun Mardling. The name of the account was Apollyon. @Apollyon. The bio said: Trick or treat? Everywhere. ‘No.’ She was going to be sick. The man in a suit opposite looked at her, rustling his paper. Instinctively she clutched the phone to her chest. She had to get help. Nasreen. She had to get hold of Nasreen. ‘This train is for Bank. The next station is Westferry,’ the pre-recorded electronic female voice boomed into the carriage. Freddie lurched up as the train came to a stop, hitting the door button with her free hand. Don’t vomit. Saliva pooled in her mouth. Recent calls > Nasreen > Call. Voicemail. ‘Nas, it’s Freddie. There’s a…’ She looked up at the commuters bottlenecking in front of her, a small child, in a duffel coat and knitted bobble hat, clung to her mum’s hand. She couldn’t say the words in front of an innocent kid. ‘…Something on Twitter. It’s urgent. Call me.’ She looked at the profile picture of @Apollyon again. It was definitely Mardling. Definitely the crime scene. She stumbled down the stairs and steadied herself against the ticket machine. Keep swallowing. Keep breathing. There, next to Mardling’s hand, on his Ikea desk, was a knife. Dripping with blood. What had Nas said? No weapon. Someone took it with them. She had to get hold of her. She tried again: her phone went straight to voicemail. She nearly screamed. She took a screenshot of the image and texted it to Nas, typing: Call me. The murderer could be anyone. Once, at the Southbank centre, she’d tweeted and watched her post appear on the phone of the stranger sat in front of her. All the people she let into her world. You could feel like you knew them, but you didn’t. It was so easy for people to catfish – to pretend to be someone else online. @Apollyon could be anyone. What if the killer had been in the same carriage as her? What if they’d seen her open their tweet? A man came toward her. His face ghostly, his eyes two black holes in his face. She flinched. He passed and continued up the stairs. She was acting crazy. Why would the murderer be here on the train? She pulled her coat tight and walked with her head down. Besides, she didn’t know what a real criminal would look like. Her head was full of pap shots of penitent American celebs in orange jumpsuits. Justin Bieber’s grinning mugshot that launched a thousand gifs. Lindsay Lohan up for a DUI. Britney’s meltdown. But they weren’t serious felons. The 277 came toward her. She ran for it. Jumping on between the hissing open doors, Freddie swiped her Oyster card and scanned the other passengers. A woman in a hijab, a tiny child with curly dark hair in a buggy in front of her. An old man with a walking stick. A woman wearing large pink Sony headphones, staring out the window. Could any of these people be killers? Surely not. Normal people don’t go around slitting people’s throats. What about the model Paige Klinger? Could she have butchered Alun Mardling? She Googled Apollyon. Greek for the destroyer. In Hebrew, Abaddon, meaning the land of the dead. Apollyon appears in the Bible as a place of destruction. Not your average idiot troll name. Who murders someone and posts a photo of it online? The bus climbed toward Dalston, swung over canals, past shops, their shutters opening like eyes. What did it mean? Freddie watched as the dark blue clouds of the night transitioned into apocalyptic shades of orange, pink and red. The destroyer. The avenging angel. Troll hunter.The Revelation. This was one hell of a story. Nasreen, still at the crime scene, police helicopter buzzing overhead, the search party combing for evidence, looked at the missed call on her phone: Freddie. She didn’t want to hear her apology, or justification, or whatever it was she wanted. If she could forget the whole thing – focus on the job in hand – then perhaps she’d get away with the security breach that happened this morning. No more Freddie. No more games. Without listening to it, Sergeant Nasreen Cudmore deleted the voicemail message. Chapter 6 (#ulink_716b342c-b539-57da-b5ef-dbd76a1c6b6e) DTF – Down to Fuck? (#ulink_716b342c-b539-57da-b5ef-dbd76a1c6b6e) 06:57 Saturday 31 October The front door banged behind Freddie, making her jump. She was buzzing. High on adrenaline. She could hear her flatmate Anton getting ready to leave for his job in The City. Freddie found it ironic that someone who worked in HR could be so void of communication skills. Unless you were talking about cycling he wasn’t interested. Least he paid his rent on time, and he’d sourced the new guy, who was apparently a friend of his cousins, when their last flatmate moved out. Anton was dredging his throat of phlegm in the bathroom. A ritual cleansing necessitated by the flat’s wall mould. Freddie had grown accustomed to it. Her snot was no longer grey. Spores and pollution colonised her respiratory system. Emphysema or lung cancer, or some other mincemeat maker of her lungs, would no doubt kill her. Death felt close. She’d leant over Alun Mardling’s stiffening body. The world had a new intensity. Riffling through her bedding, she located her Mac. Freddie, adrenaline setting the tempo of her heart, her fingers firing Gatling gun words across the page, typed: The blood-splattered body of a man was discovered in the early hours of this morning in the East End. Bent over a computer, his lifeless hand still gripping the mouse, the victim had been trolling at the time he was slaughtered. A growing number of cases of online abuse, often of a threatening, violent and graphic sexual nature, have been brought to light recently. Social media sites, like Twitter and Facebook, have been criticised for their lack of response to complaints of misogynistic language, threats of rape and violence, and online bullying. Campaigners have called for an end to the rape culture that is prevalent online. As police seem ill-informed, ill-equipped and ill-inclined to deal with this growing epidemic of online abuse, has someone decided to take the law into their own hands? Is there a Troll hunter out there? Maybe slaughtered was too much? Slayed? Butchered? Exterminated? Unconfirmed reports suggest the murder suspect has tweeted a photo of the crime scene. As the popularity of social media sites like Twitter grow, and society strugglesto fashion new moral structures to keep pace with increasing technology developments, have we reached a threshold: is this the first #murder? Freddie was finishing editing when her phone rang. ‘Freddie, it’s Neil Sanderson, what have you got? Some It girl have a fight in the coffee shop you work in?’ ‘Try trolling, Paige Klinger, revenge and a tweeting murderer.’ Freddie heard the pleasing clunk of Neil’s coffee mug as he put it down on his desk. ‘An Internet troll who was hurling online abuse at the model Paige Klinger has been murdered. And a photo of the dead bloke has turned up on Twitter. It looks like whoever took it was the same sicko who bumped this guy off.’ ‘Is this verified? Have you got quotes from witnesses?’ ‘Better than that,’ said Freddie. ‘I was there. Saw it with my own eyes. The tweets. The body. The lot.’ Neil exhaled. ‘Attagirl. How long till it’s ready?’ ‘Emailing it over now.’ There was a momentary silence in which Freddie guessed (correctly) that Neil impatiently clicked refresh on his inbox. ‘Got it. I’ll call you back.’ Freddie hung up. The flat was silent. Anton and Pete had both left for work, the kitchen tap dripped into a sink of dishes. She thought of Alun Mardling’s blood dripping onto the floor and shuddered. She was back in that room: the rustling of the plastic overalls, the taste of metal and the unnerved look in Nasreen’s eyes. She rubbed at her face. She was stained. She stood under the hot shower until the water ran red from her hair chalk, and then clear. Only then did she feel like she’d washed all the blood off. She towelled her hair while she read an email from Neil: Great story. Well done. Will be in touch with edits. She was going to get paid. Properly. She’d be in print: it might be in the hundreds. She could take a chunk out of her phone bill, the electricity bill – she still owed her flatmates for the council tax. There was a hole in her Converse trainers – she should look for a new pair of those in Oxfam. Anything left over could reduce her overdraft, stop its slow, steady growth. Multiplying with each basic need, as her pitiful two-pound boxes of cereal and forty-nine pence pints of milk fed the overdraft fees. Burgeoning. Would there be enough left for a few drinks? The warning letters, the overdue bills, the exceeded limits, the stopped cards, swam through Freddie’s mind making her feel at once angry and sick. Perhaps she could wring a few more stories out of this? A few more big paydays and the river of debt might slow, subside, trickle. She tried to relax her shoulders. Her right index finger drummed against her phone. A siren sounded outside and she flinched. She needed a release. Her phone said it was 09:02. Vacate Bar on Kingsland would be serving. She scrolled through her messages: there he was. Ajay, a local Tinder find. Didn’t he work night shifts? They’d messaged enough during the day. Struggling to do up her size 12 skinny jeans, she typed with her thumb: ‘Rough night. Fancy a drink? 15mins in Vacate?’ Freddie pulled the plaid shirt she’d pinched from her dad’s wardrobe over her head and adjusted her glasses. She poked her moon-shaped face. Her skin looked sallow. When was the last time she’d eaten vegetables? Her hair, having dried naturally, was almost spherical, in a brown halo round her head. Scraping the remnants from a tub of hair wax, she attempted to flatten it. Mission unsuccessful. Coat, mobile, wallet, keys. Her phone beeped. Ajay replied: ‘C u in 20.’ Freddie paused at the top of the stairs, undid one more button on her shirt, reached into her bra and hoisted her breasts up and together. No harm in maximising her best asset. Clattering down the shared stairs and out onto the private pathway that ran alongside the Queen Elizabeth pub, which was under their flat. The Elizabeth’s garden – a concrete square strung with half-broken fairy lights – was empty. It didn’t open till 11am. Freddie punched the code into the security gate at the end of the path and walked the back roads to Vacate. The wet pavement was pockmarked with chewing gum. Takeaway cartons blew into her shins. Her fellow Londoners walked with their heads down, bent against the weather or looking at their phones. Cyclists streamed past. Everything and everyone was on the move. She passed the industrial Dalston Department Store. The pop-up boutiques and restaurants. The try-hards. The wannabes. The sky was grey and oppressive, like a Tupperware lid pressing down onto the tops of the buildings. Vacate was mostly empty; there was a group of bearded men and childlike girls in polyester housecoats discussing their latest free-form art installation. Freddie caught snippets of their conversation. ‘I’m really pumped over this.’ ‘Daryl’s PR is sick.’ ‘Is this muesli hand-milled?’ How did they afford to live? Crossing the stripped floorboards, navigating the reclaimed crates that doubled as chairs, Freddie reached the concrete bar. A man with a beard shaped into a squirrel stood polishing baked-bean cans – which were used for glasses. Freddie rolled her eyes. ‘I’ll have a beer please, mate?’ ‘Any particular brand – we’ve got some excellent local-brewed, microbiotic, carbon-neutral ales?’ ‘Just a beer. In a bottle. The cheapest one. Thanks.’ When she blinked she could see Alun Mardling’s body, except now it was in tweet form. A digital image. Her brain was so used to seeing images framed by her phone, it stored it in her memory alongside Beyonc? memes and artful Instagrams of avocado on toast. She couldn’t shake it. @Apollyon. ‘Freddie?’ The lad looked close enough to Ajay’s profile picture: dark hair, which hung in a long asymmetric fringe over his face, kicking out on the ends like he’d used hair straighteners. ‘Ajay?’ ‘Sup?’ He kept flicking his head to keep his hair out of his eyes. Like a shampoo advert gif. ‘Nice jumper.’ She signalled at his 80s knit decorated with elephants and paisley. Didn’t matter. She’d seen what was underneath. ‘Fancy a beer?’ ‘Sure, why not,’ he shrugged. They took their drinks to a small round vinyl-topped table. ‘Thanks for coming out.’ Flick. ‘No problem.’ ‘It’s good to meet in person after…’ Freddie thought about the last Snapchat video he’d sent of him masturbating his hard cock. ‘Er…talking so much.’ Flick. ‘Sure.’ ‘You work in a bar, right?’ Flick. ‘Yeah. Worked last night. Only had a couple of hours’ kip when you messaged.’ Flick. ‘Couldn’t pass up the chance to see you.’ Flick. Freddie laughed. Flick. ‘What was up with your night?’ ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told ya.’ She pulled a strip from her bottle’s label. Flick. ‘I can imagine. We get all kinds of nutters in the bar I work in.’ She nodded. Flick. ‘I’m the manager actually. Spend most of my time out back.’ Flick. ‘Working on rotas and shit.’ ‘Mmmm.’ She tried to shake the image of her boss Dan from her mind. Flick. ‘You should come by sometime. I’ll shout you a couple of…’ ‘I’m not looking for a relationship right now, just to be up front with you,’ she interrupted him. She didn’t need some boy expecting her to spend all their time together. She needed to focus on work. Flick. ‘That’s cool, I’m easy.’ ‘Ajay?’ Blinked stills of Dan and Alun Mardling vied for her attention. She had to shake this off. She gulped from her bottle. Flick. ‘Yeah?’ His beer hovered by his lips. His dark eyes looked straight at her. ‘You ever done it in a disabled toilet?’ His face cracked into a huge smile. Flick. ‘Meet me there in a minute. Knock twice.’ She downed the rest of her drink. Just before she reached the hallway she looked back and winked at Ajay. Cheesy, Freddie, cheesy. Whatever. She wasn’t looking for The One. There wasn’t enough time for a relationship. But why shouldn’t she have a release? Some fun? The disabled toilet was thankfully clean. The smell of bleach gave a sort of swimming pool vibe. A long mirror ran down one wall at right angles to the sink. She practised a couple of poses. Duck face. Leaning over the sink, she could turn back and see the reflection of him behind. Two knocks sounded on the door. She opened it a crack. Flick. Ajay squeezed through the door and they both fell against the inside giggling. ‘Shusshhhh!’ She placed a finger against his lips. He pulled her into him, his hair falling over both their faces. She pulled his T-shirt up and ran her hands over his smooth chest. He was fiddling with her jeans. She yanked them and her knickers down as he turned her and lifted her up onto the sink. She inhaled sharply as she saw her reflection in the mirror. Heck, this could work too. Her shirt was open and Ajay was kissing down, over her breasts, her stomach. He pulled her jeans down further. Kissing up from her knees, the inside of her thighs. She watched his head get closer. Flick. She clamped her hand over her mouth to stifle the moan. Chapter 7 (#ulink_ca4d56dd-a154-5824-bab9-0a65f4230f52) IDK – I Don’t Know (#ulink_ca4d56dd-a154-5824-bab9-0a65f4230f52) 19:26 Saturday 31 October Alun Mardling’s face, his eyes wide and bloodshot, loomed. His hand, bloody and cold, reached for hers. There was a thud. Freddie jolted. It was dark. She was sweat-soaked. Fabric was wrapped around her, a shroud. Her eyes struggled to focus. Where was she? Freddie could hear Mardling’s blood dripping onto the floor. No! No, it was the kitchen tap. She was home. Alone. Another boom shook through her skull. Ajay? They’d left the bar. There’d been a bottle of wine in the park. Some cans. How’d she got home? She groped for her glasses. Her head reverberated with another bang. The door. Someone was hammering on the door. Ajay? Her flatmates? She stumbled out of bed, grabbed the nearest thing: her H&M Espress-oh’s shirt, still half-buttoned, she pulled it over her head. Dizzying herself with the effort. Her eyes were stuck at the corners, she followed the crystallised salt tracks with her fingers. Peeling her Sellotaped tongue from the roof of her mouth, she managed: ‘Coming!’ The word was wet, sodden, heavy, though her mouth was dry. Everywhere was darkness. Another thud landed on her like a punch. How much sleep? Still drunk. Boom: her mind shook with fragments of memory. She tried to rub the image of Mardling’s body from her eyes with her fingers. Would a murderer knock? ‘Freddie Venton!’ a male voice shouted from the other side. Bailiffs? Like before. She tried to formulate her thoughts, sort them into order. What was she to say? The Mac was P-something’s. A flatmate’s. They couldn’t take it. ‘Freddie Venton, open up!’ The noise crashed like thunder over her head. Stumbling, she got a hand on the lock, pulled. Light from the hallway sent her reeling back. Nas was there, in a black trouser suit, white shirt. Her dark hair swept up away from her face. Chocolate eyes flashing in creamy whites. She had chunky boots on. Next to her: the blue puffa jacket guy who’d been with her at St Pancras. Up close, Freddie could see his blonde hair was silvering, thinning, probably why he had it shaved to a bristly number one. Unfortunately his close-cropped hair accentuated the square shape of his head. He looked like a Lego man. He was in pale pink shirtsleeves, jeans, glowing white trainers: ready to pounce. She could see their mouths open and close like fish. The air pressed upon her, heavy, as if she were underwater, words bubbled toward her. Don’t. Be. Sick. ‘Venton…you…connection…harm…defence.’ Their fish words didn’t fit together. ‘Nas?’ What was puffa saying? Concentrate on breathing. Don’t. Be. Sick. In. Out. In. Nas’s hands gripped her shoulders. Anchoring her. ‘Freddie? Do you understand? You have to come with us?’ Freddie nodded. Her brain shrank away from her skull, dehydrated, a husk. Nasreen’s face came into focus. She looked older. Colder. Distant. ‘Put some trousers on,’ Nasreen said. Freddie looked down. She was wearing her Little Mermaid pants. Tufts of mousey pubic hair curled round the edges. What was going on? They walked in close formation down the stairs. In silence. Each step an earthquake in Freddie’s body. She needed a Coke. A bacon sandwich. Her stomach tidal-waved. No, no food yet. In. Out. In. Out. Outside was a waiting police car. Nasreen held open the back door for her. Nasreen’s patronising hand guided the top of her head. At the edges of her consciousness something flickered. A warning. Freddie leant her head against the cool glass of the window, closed her eyes and willed herself not to vom. She was thankful they travelled in silence. They were at Jubilee police station, the aging 1970s jewel in the Tower Hamlets policing borough, a clusterfuck of concrete and white metal-framed windows. She recognised it from the TV news. Nas held the door for her again. Freddie took some steadying gulps of air. The street lights hurt her eyes. The puffa guy strode off. Nas looked pissed. Freddie’s mouth moistened enough to speak. The words disjointed. ‘This about the dead dude?’ ‘Sergeant Byrne will check you in.’ They were stood inside the entrance hall of the station – it looked nothing like Heartbeat, the ancient cop show her mum was always re-watching. Scratched wooden-framed glass doors, which reminded Freddie of her old school maths classrooms, were at each end of the room. The geometric pattern of green shatterproof glass filled every available pane, blocking out all hope of natural light. Posters warning of car theft and pickpockets barely clung to the walls. Fluorescent strip lighting finished off the effect: everything had a cold blue tinge to it. It was as comforting as being inside an ice cube. Sergeant Byrne, a fat man in his fifties, leant against the desk like he couldn’t support his own weight. Booked in? What was this? ‘Please empty all your pockets into the tray,’ the Duty Sergeant’s voice was heavy with contempt. Either that or he had a nasty sinus infection, Freddie thought. Nas stood wordless. The contents of Freddie’s hastily pulled on jeans pockets and jacket were documented and placed in individual plastic bags: ‘One iPhone, one wallet; contents: a Hackney library card, a Visa debit card, two Visa credit cards, one receipt from Vacate bar, fifty-seven pence in loose change. One set of keys. Two unopened banana-flavoured condoms.’ ‘It’s easier to get into the airport than in here!’ Freddie said. No one laughed. The copper pulled a small white powdery triangle out of her pocket and held it up to her. ‘It’s a Smint,’ her eyes were too gritty to roll. ‘No one has time to do drugs.’ He sniffed it. ‘One fluffy mint.’ The Sergeant dropped it into a bag and plunged his hand back into her jacket pocket. ‘You can chuck that if you want,’ Freddie nodded at the empty sanitary towel wrapper he pulled out. He dropped the wrapper into its own sealed plastic bag and placed it on top of her other belongings in the tray. ‘Remove the laces from your shoes.’ He took a sip from a vending machine plastic cup of coffee he had under the desk. Her synapses crackled, her neurotransmitters jump-started. ‘What? This is a fucking joke, right? I’m being punked?’ ‘Mind your language.’ He spoke like her dad. Why Is a Young Woman Swearing So Offensive to Men? ‘Dude, these are DMs, it’ll take me half an hour.’ ‘Now,’ he said. His small piggy eyes disappearing into the fat of his face. Freddie looked at Nasreen who was staring straight ahead. Her stomach settled into a hollow feeling of dread. What had Nas and that guy said to her when they picked her up from her flat? She flopped onto a plastic bench that was bolted to the ground. 100 Everyday Objects That Can Kill You. ‘There,’ she slapped the laces onto the counter. ‘I’ll never get them back the way they were. Happy?’ ‘This way, Miss Venton.’ Nasreen pushed a button to release the interconnecting door. Miss Venton? ‘When can I have my phone back? I need to let my boss know I’ll be late.’ Freddie followed Nasreen’s silent back; her boots flapping round her ankles with each step. ‘Seriously, Nas, what the hell is going on? I’m sorry ’bout what I said earlier. About you sounding like your mum, and that.’ She limped behind Nas as they passed offices with blinds pulled down and closed blue-painted MDF doors. ‘I didn’t mean any harm. I was just doing my job.’ Nasreen stopped and spun round, her nostrils flaring. Then she turned and set off again even faster. ‘This isn’t funny anymore,’ Freddie called after her as she wrenched her lace-less Dr Martens off and tucked them under her arm. Her feet, damp from sweat, left tiny prints on the mottled grey wipe-clean floor. Nasreen stopped and held open a door. ‘In here, Miss Venton.’ Freddie peered into the room: a table, three chairs. An empty interview room. ‘How long is this going to take?’ Nasreen closed the door on her. She went to get her phone from her pocket before she remembered it wasn’t there. Behind her a wall clock ticked toward ten to nine at night. What time had they left the flat? What time had she got home? She struggled to piece together the last sixteen hours. Everything had twisted after she’d seen the dead body. It must be shock. She shivered in the empty room. Ten to nine. She’d be fired for sure. Three hundred people had applied for her job. She’d spun Dan the corporate line he loved, but she knew it was down to Milena that she’d got it. Milena had a little boy. Probably two, she guessed from photos. He was back in Bulgaria, with Milena’s mother. A shortlisted eight had worked an unpaid ten-hour test shift as part of the interview process. On the night of Freddie’s trial, Milena’s son was rushed to hospital. Milena was distraught and out of phone credit. Skype and FaceTime wouldn’t connect. Freddie lent Milena her phone, trying not to think about how expensive an international call would be. Her little boy was going to be okay. And so was Freddie: Milena recommended her as the best candidate. She wouldn’t be so lucky again. How would she pay her rent now? ‘This isn’t funny, guys.’ Her voice sounded small. If anyone heard her they didn’t reply. Was she locked in? She stormed over to the door and forcefully tried the handle. It swung open with ease, sending her off balance. The back of the policeman outside turned to face her. It was the kid who’d been sick at 39 Blackbird Road. ‘Are you chief of door guarding? That your sole bleedin’ job?’ His forehead crinkled. The freckles spattered across his nose made him look quite cute. He had that whole little boy lost thing going on that made some women go gaga. Not her type, though. ‘Sorry, mate. Just wondered how long I was going to be in here for?’ He shrugged and pressed his lips together, making them even thinner. ‘I can get you a drink if you like?’ ‘Suppose a double vodka and Coke is out?’ His lips disappeared completely. ‘Coffee?’ She remembered the piss-poor excuse for caffeine the Duty Sergeant had been drinking. ‘I’m having the shittiest hangover.’ ‘Yes, Miss. If you take a seat I’ll bring you one.’ She scraped one of the chairs at the table back, her eyelids fluttering at the noise. She hadn’t showered since she’d had sex. She sniffed the underarm of her shirt: funky. The door opened and the freckled copper came in with a beige plastic cup. ‘Sorry – the milk’s off.’ He placed the cup and a pile of sugar sachets on the table. ‘Cheers.’ She tore open four sachets and emptied the lot into the liquid. He gave her half a smile and then retreated, closing the door behind him. The sides of the cup were too hot to touch. She got up and paced. The gnawing feeling in her stomach wouldn’t go away. She thought of Nas’s cold stare. Her tongue niggled against something stuck between her front two teeth. It better not be a pubic hair. Working the gap with her fingernail, she sat back down at the table. The coffee was still too hot. It was gone 9pm now. She rested her head on her arms and closed her eyes. Too tired to think straight. The door handle clicked and she straightened up. How long had she been asleep for? ‘Not boring you are we?’ The puffa jacket man from earlier entered, with Nas trotting behind him. ‘Hey what’s the idea, keeping me waiting in here?’ Her mouth was made of carpet again – she took a gulp of the now cold coffee. Rancid. Nas and the puffa jacket guy took the two seats opposite her. What did he say his name was? Moist? Toast? Nas pressed a button on the device on the table. ‘Interview with Freddie Venton, Thirty-first of October, commencing eleven zero nine pm.’ The man spoke. ‘Officers present: DCI Edwin Moast.’ That was it! ‘And Sergeant Nasreen Cudmore.’ This was bullshit. ‘Can I get a fresh coffee?’ Freddie asked. Moast exchanged a look with Nasreen. ‘Miss Venton, I don’t think you appreciate the seriousness of…’ ‘What is it with all the “Miss’’ stuff? I’m not a bloody schoolteacher. Besides, it’s Ms Venton.’ ‘Miss Venton…I don’t think…’ ‘Ms. As I said. I prefer Ms.’ You waste my time and I’ll waste yours, bucko, Freddie thought. ‘Freddie.’ Nas leant toward her, looking concerned. As the last of the alcohol passed out of her bloodstream, as the few hours of sleep worked their magic on Freddie’s twenty-three-year-old body, she felt bruised but alert. Moast’s earlier words drifted back. Slotting into place. You do not have to say anything. However, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court…She started to shake. Her stomach twisted away from her sides. No. They can’t think… ‘This is serious,’ Nas said. Black dots spread like ink droplets in water across Freddie’s vision, obscuring Nasreen’s face. She focused on her voice. On the sickening words. ‘Freddie, you are accused of the murder of Alun Mardling.’ Chapter 8 (#ulink_683762d4-b374-5d23-9dcb-3572e80d59fd) FFS – For Fuck’s Sake (#ulink_683762d4-b374-5d23-9dcb-3572e80d59fd) 23:13 Saturday 31 October For a blissful second Freddie thought she was in bed. Then the concerned face of Nasreen came into focus, haloed by a yellow ceiling stain. ‘Take your time, don’t rush up,’ she said. ‘Is she okay? Jesus this is all I need: the paperwork!’ Moast’s square head came between her and the overhead strip lighting. His cropped blonde hair glowing. ‘I’m okay.’ Freddie pushed against the floor. Sticky. ‘Someone should take a look at you,’ Nas said. ‘No.’ The shock of the accusation sharpened everything. Freddie took in the dirty white box of a room. The pitted table. The grey plastic chairs. ‘You can’t really think I’m a murderer?’ ‘Where were you between 1am and 5am this morning, Miss Venton?’ Moast was leaning on the table, his knuckles white from the pressure. ‘Sir, I really think we should give her a minute.’ She looked up at Moast. ‘I’m fine. Let’s get this sorted,’ Freddie adopted her customer service voice: the one she used when she was at a job interview or trying to get a doctor’s appointment. How Changing Your Tone Can Change Your Life. ‘Miss Venton says she’s fine. And I for one am really looking forward to how she’s going to explain all this!’ Moast said. ‘Explain what? There’s nothing to explain.’ Freddie stood, a little shakily, opposite him. She wouldn’t sit first, Lego man. ‘Answer the question: where were you between 1am and 5am today?’ he said. ‘I was working the night shift at Espress-oh’s.’ She had to keep calm. ‘Except for when I was talking to Nasreen in St Pancras station. You were there.’ ‘Sit down!’ he barked. She sat. Her cheeks burning. ‘This is harassment!’ ‘Freddie, look, I don’t know who you’ve got yourself involved with, life has clearly not gone the way you planned it,’ Nasreen nodded at her Espress-oh’s shirt. ‘I’m a journalist!’ She had to make them understand. Moast scoffed, ‘You just told us you work at Espress-oh’s? Now you’re claiming you’re a journalist?’ ‘I am a bloody journalist,’ Freddie said. ‘Don’t take that tone with me, Missy,’ he snarled. ‘You’re giving it all that about calling you Ms. What kind of a name is Freddie for a girl, anyway? Do you have a problem with men? Did you want to silence Alun Mardling?’ Freddie looked from Moast to Nas. ‘I didn’t even know who he was till this morning.’ Freddie tried to remember what she’d said in her voicemail. ‘Freddie, you’re entitled to legal advice. Are you sure you don’t want a lawyer present?’ Nas said. Moast glared at her. ‘I don’t need a lawyer, I’ve done nothing wrong!’ said Freddie. ‘We spoke to your manager.’ Moast pulled a notepad from his back pocket and flicked through it. ‘A Mr Daniel Peterson. He says you have some anger issues?’ Freddie’s mum always warned her daughter: one day that temper of yours will get you into real trouble. Pleading with her to think before she spoke. Unfortunately, the mention of her gossiping boss and the stone-cold reality of being arrested for murder meant Freddie returned to type. ‘The lying cunt!’ ‘He said that you seemed very – and I quote – “agitated”.’ ‘A word with four syllables! I’m surprised he managed it.’ Freddie could just imagine how much Dan relished dishing the dirt on her. ‘Mr Peterson said you left early.’ This was getting ridiculous. ‘I did: to follow you guys. Tell him why I was there, Nas! Tell him about the paper!’ ‘You didn’t say anything about any paper, Freddie.’ Nasreen looked at her hands. How My Best Friend Became My Best Frenemy. ‘The suspected murder weapon is visible in the photo you sent Sergeant Cudmore.’ Moast slapped an enlarged version of the screenshot onto the table. Winded from the blood, Freddie turned away. ‘The knife is no longer at the scene, because you took it with you after taking this photo,’ he said ‘No. You’ve got it all wrong.’ She had to make them listen. This was insane. ‘Did it make you feel good cutting him?’ Her stomach turned. ‘Stop it! Listen! I know about the murder weapon. I mean, about it being in the photo. That’s why when I saw it on Twitter I sent it to Nas.’ ‘On Twitter? The photo was on Twitter?’ Nas cut in. ‘Lies!’ Moast slammed his hand down on the table. The cup of cold coffee spluttered. ‘Mr Peterson said you take antidepressants.’ ‘What the hell! That’s private. They’re for anxiety!’ Horrible Bosses: The Reality. ‘I think you’re a fantasist, Ms Venton.’ Moast leant toward her. ‘Built this whole thing up in your head. Mardling came to your cafe. You took a dislike to him. Found him and killed him. This Twitter rubbish is a distraction. You screwed up: you got cocky, sent this photo to Sergeant Cudmore. And now we’ve got you.’ ‘Wait…wait…’ Freddie tried to sort things in her head. ‘You’ve had me in here all this time, and you haven’t been looking for the sick freak who put that up online?’ ‘Stop it with the lies, Venton.’ Moast stood, slamming his chair into the wall. Nas and Freddie jumped. Bully-boy tactics. There was a knock at the door, which broke the tension in the room. Freddie heard Nas exhale. Moast stormed across and swung the door open to reveal the nervous-looking copper who’d been sick at the crime scene. ‘I’m trying to conduct an interview in here, PC Thomas!’ Freddie’s heartbeat roared through her body. ‘Sorry, guv,’ the copper stuttered. ‘I need a word.’ He glanced at Freddie. ‘It’s about the case.’ ‘Interview suspended at eleven forty-seven pm. Cudmore, outside. Now!’ Moast’s voice shook the room. Nas clicked the tape recorder off and jumped up and all three of them disappeared behind the slamming door. Freddie looked at the dent the door handle had made in the wall and realised she was gripping her chair so hard her nails were cutting into the plastic underside. She didn’t realise she was so easily intimidated. This guy was a prick. There was the noise of squeaking footsteps and a very audible ‘Fuck’ from outside. The door opened and Freddie tried to see out into the hallway, but only caught sight of another grubby, once white wall. Nasreen and Moast came back in, he running his hand over his cropped hair, she carrying a newspaper. ‘Give me that.’ He took the paper from Nasreen. ‘Interview with Freddie Venton, Thirty-first of October, continuing at eleven fifty-two pm.’ Moast tapped the tape recorder. ‘It seems you weren’t lying about being a journalist.’ The Post, still folded, thudded onto the table between them. Emblazoned across the front was: ‘#Murder: Troll Hunter Death Link to Twitter.’ ‘The splash!’ Freddie reached for it. Moast pulled it away. ‘This changes nothing. You’re not off the hook.’ ‘You think I bumped off some guy for the story?’ Seriously, where did this guy get off? ‘Do you deny you entered an active crime scene under false pretences?’ Moast stabbed at the newspaper, threatening to tear a hole in it. ‘No, but…’ ‘And while you were there you impersonated a policeman?’ Stab, stab, stab. ‘I never said I was a copper, I just showed up in one of those CSI suits and your bloke let me in.’ She couldn’t keep her eyes from the newspaper. This should have been one of the happiest moments of her life. ‘Don’t you think the public have the right to know if there’s a crazed killer going around bumping off trolls and posting pictures of it online?’ ‘What picture?’ Moast’s finger stayed ground into the paper. ‘The one you’ve been waving in my face for the last hour!’ Nas dropped into a chair and shuffled forwards. Dipping her chin like Princess Diana, looking up through her dark lashes. ‘Tell me about the photo you sent me, Freddie? You’re saying you didn’t take it?’ ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you: some freakazoid has set up an account under the name of Apollyon…’ ‘Apol-what?’ Moast interrupted. Freddie kept eye contact with Nas. Believe me. ‘…and posted the photo of that guy’s body online. Nas, you must find this twisted freak.’ Nas looked up at Moast. ‘Sir, I think we should at least take a look.’ Moast slumped into the chair and pushed his hand up over his face. ‘Okay. So you’re saying that there’s someone who has put this photo on Twitter.’ ‘Yes,’ nodded Freddie. Finally. Moast looked at Nas. Something passed between them. Nas leant forward and pressed a button on the tape recorder: ‘Interview suspended at twelve oh one am. 1st November.’ ‘Pinch punch first of the month,’ Freddie said. What a way to start November. Moast leant toward Nas, speaking quietly, ‘Do you have a phone with Twitter?’ ‘No, sir. Of course not. The guv actively discourages us from using social media.’ ‘Me either. It’s blocked on all the station machines. And we won’t be able to get anyone from computer services in until the morning and the paperwork’s been completed. I’ve seen my nephew’s Facebook. It can’t be that different.’ ‘In case you two forgot, I’m still here. Being held under false pretences.’ Freddie waved at them. Moast glared at her. Freddie held up her hands in surrender. ‘Just trying to help. If you give me my phone, I can show you Twitter and the account straight away.’ ‘It’s worth a shot, sir. She did alert us to the photo, and having seen this site at the crime scene I’m not confident I could navigate it,’ said Nas. Thank you, thought Freddie. Moast exhaled. ‘Fine, get PC Thomas to fetch it from the Duty Sergeant.’ When Nas opened the door, Freddie heard voices. Chatter. Laughter. A guy in uniform walked past clutching a copy of The Post. Her copy of The Post. ‘Don’t suppose I could…’ she pointed at the newspaper. Moast slapped a hand on it and pulled it toward him. ‘Fine. Just asking.’ This was ridiculous. They’d arrested and falsely accused her of murder, almost certainly got her fired from Espress-oh’s, and now they wouldn’t even let her look at her first ever front page national scoop. ‘Can I get something to eat or is that not allowed either?’ Moast ignored her as Nas came back carrying Freddie’s phone in a plastic bag. Relief flooded through Freddie as she took hold of her phone. She was in control again. She could call someone. Text. Read the news. Work out precisely where she was. Could You Last Twenty-Four Hours Without Your Mobile? Nas coughed. ‘Can I take it out – the touch screen won’t work through this?’ Freddie said. Moast nodded. Unlocking her phone, Freddie stopped: that was odd. The front flickered with Twitter updates. Had something she posted gone viral? An angry red spot denoting eleven missed calls pulsed on her phone icon. ‘19% battery – guys, you could’ve plugged it in.’ ‘Just show us the Twitter,’ Moast said. Five thousand six hundred and fifty-seven notifications – must be a glitch. She searched for Apollyon’s account. The thumbnail image of the body was easier to bear. Wait…that can’t be right: ‘He has over 10,000 followers already?’ They huddled round the phone like smokers round a match. ‘Is that unusual?’ Nas asked. ‘Yes, unless he’s famous or gone viral. This morning he had no followers, what happened?’ She pulled the newspaper from under Moast’s arm. ‘I’m sure I didn’t.’ She speed-read her copy. Virtually word for word hers. ‘I didn’t mention @Apollyon at all…how’d all these people find out about him?’ ‘You keep saying “he”,’ Nas said. ‘Yeah, yeah, gender neutrality, et cetera, et cetera. Slip of the tongue.’ She hit notifications. The screen blurred: there were tens of them. Hundreds. Thousands. ‘PC Cudmore is insinuating you know who this Apollyon is?’ Moast peered over her phone. ‘You idiots.’ She looked up. ‘What?’ It was right there, the same tweet from the Jubilee Police, retweeted, shared over and over: We can neither confirm nor deny that @Apollyon is the #Murderer or the #TrollHunter as mentioned in @ReadyFreddieGo’s article. ‘You tweeted it! Here: see, this is a message from the Jubilee Police. You tagged @Apollyon, and me, and hashtagged murderer and troll hunter. You just told the world @Apollyon is the one who posted the gruesome photo online. It means everyone knows he’s the one I referred to as the troll hunter. It means you just called him The Hashtag Murderer. Whoever wrote this tweet has told the world this guy exists. It’s gone mental. The cat’s out of the bag. The genie’s out of the bloody bottle. Who wrote this?’ Moast looked flustered. ‘Sergeant?’ ‘We outsource our PR accounts. There was a social media advisor at that training course, Jackie Whitley,’ Nas said. ‘She’s something big in PR, described herself as a thought leader. I remember that. They run all station campaigns and accounts, sir.’ Nas bit her bottom lip. ‘Nobody cares about this kind of nonsense. It’s not important,’ Moast said. ‘Not important? Mate, you’re trending.’ Freddie couldn’t believe they’d be so stupid. ‘It’s showing up as one of the most talked about things on Twitter right now.’ ‘A load of stupid kids pissing around online…’ Moast tapped his fingers on the table. ‘Try fifteen million users in the UK. You don’t get it. This is big. Look here – this is Mari Blagg from the Guardian, this is Charlie Webdale from the Indy. This is going to be all over the nationals – they want to talk to me.’ Freddie couldn’t keep the excitement from her voice. Sorry, dead dude. ‘Press? Why do they want to talk to you – it’s my case. I should contact them. Send a message to all the journalists saying I will host a press conference.’ Moast’s chest puffed up. ‘I’m investigating the Hashtag Murderer.’ The word murderer reverberated through Freddie. An unease flowered in her stomach and spread through her body. ‘You haven’t only told the world that @Apollyon is the hashtag Murderer,’ she swallowed. Nas heard the apprehension in her voice. She placed a hand on Moast’s arm, a gentle silencer. ‘Freddie – what is it?’ ‘You’ve also told @Apollyon the world knows he’s the hashtag Murderer.’ She could be wrong. @Apollyon might not care – but then why post the photo? Why the dark connotation of his name? They obviously wanted to be noticed. She took in Moast’s puffed chest – why the bravado? Reach. Klout. Impact. People fed off that. Notoriety. People acted up for attention. The performance was part of the game; she shivered. What would someone who’d killed Mardling like that – so brutally – do if they knew people were watching? They’d already posted a photo of a dead man. What else would they be capable of? Dread pooled in her gut: ‘You’ve given the murderer an audience.’ Chapter 9 (#ulink_f031d2f5-daf1-5bbe-9572-d9df7c3bdc0b) STBY – Sucks To Be You (#ulink_f031d2f5-daf1-5bbe-9572-d9df7c3bdc0b) 02:18 Sunday 1 November 1 FOLLOWING 10,554 FOLLOWERS Freddie had been sat in the interview room alone for two hours now. Her phone had died. The pale-faced PC had brought her another scalding coffee and something that was supposed to be an egg and bacon bap. 23 Things You Eat That Can Kill You. Rocking back on her chair legs, she wondered how long they’d drag this out for. Everyone had jumped up after she’d said about @Apollyon having an audience and she was asked to wait here. Asked or told? She was too tired to be angry. She just wanted to go home. The door opened and the burble of noise and movement bled into the room. Nasreen stood in the doorway. ‘Follow me, Miss Venton.’ She turned and Freddie jumped up. Miss Venton? I thought we were past all that nonsense? ‘So, Nas, bet you never thought we’d meet like this, hey? How you been?’ Nasreen ignored her and clicked down the hallway. Freddie noted she’d changed out of her flat boots into black high heels. Let her hair down. ‘Wait here.’ Nasreen tapped briskly on a door. ‘Come!’ said a male voice inside. Nasreen smoothed her hair and tugged at her shirt’s hem to straighten it. She wanted to look smart. Correct. Her suit was her armour. Except this situation was a hundred times worse than a job interview. Being summoned to the guv’s office like this was bad news. She knew he’d been informed after the Twitter situation broke, journalists were already inundating the station with calls. DCI Moast was shouting about containment. It was a PR disaster. The guv shouldn’t even be here – he’d come in on his night off to ‘limit the damage’. She’d never been called to see him before. Never. She’d already been hauled over the coals for not outing Freddie immediately by DCI Moast. Inappropriate conduct. Endangering the investigation. She hated being told off. Her cheeks burned. She felt guilt and shame and wanted to fix it. She’d been a well-behaved child, only really getting in trouble if she went along with one of Freddie’s more crazy schemes. Finding a pot of paint outside a pub and painting one of the building’s walls pink. Grounded. Going further from home than she was allowed because Freddie had seen a kitten with an injured leg they had to help. No television for a week. It was always Freddie who’d led her astray. And now this? If Nasreen was to be suspended, she wanted to hold it together. She would not cry. No matter how much it hurt. No matter how upset or angry she was. Not in front of her colleagues. She wouldn’t lose their respect as well as everything else. Freddie’s story about being a journalist was true, so why on earth was she wasting her time at Espress-oh’s if she worked for The Post? That just showed how different they were. Anything they’d had before – any common ground they’d shared in the past – was gone. She probably did it for free paninis. In a few short hours Freddie had seemingly taken a wrecking ball to Nasreen’s life. Her career. Everything she valued. Nasreen felt the wrench of despair as she thought of Freddie confessing to entering the crime scene under false pretences. Why hadn’t she raised the alarm when she’d seen Freddie at Blackbird Road? She was complicit in Freddie’s offence. And now the suspect, the real one on Twitter, had hours on them and it was Nasreen’s fault they’d missed the Golden Hour. The crucial period immediately after a crime when material is readily available to the investigating team. They’d lost it to interviewing Freddie. A false lead. A distraction. A confusion. DCI Moast had talked about creating slow time – trying to regroup, but Nasreen knew her deception about Freddie had lost them valuable ground. At best, Nasreen would be demoted. She tried to make that a reassuring thought, but anxiety overpowered her. How was she going to keep up the mortgage repayments on her home? What would her parents say if she was fired? She’d let everyone down. And all because seventeen years ago she’d gone for fish fingers at Freddie Venton’s house. In front of Freddie, Nasreen opened the door. It was an office, and sat at a large MDF desk was the grey-haired copper who’d caught her when she’d fainted at the crime scene. In front of him a plaque read: Superintendent Gray. Oh shit. ‘Sergeant Cudmore. And we haven’t been formally introduced, Ms Venton.’ The Superintendent held his hand out. Freddie shook it firmly. Taking in the certificates of excellence on the wall. The plant on top of the metal grey filing cabinet. This guy was a big deal. ‘How much trouble am I in?’ How was she going to explain this to her mum? Nasreen emitted a high-pitched squeak. ‘Interfering with police work, wasting police time…’ ‘You’re the ones who wrongly arrested me – you wasted your own time.’ Freddie watched as a look passed over Superintendent Gray’s face. A shadow shifted underneath his skin. Was it anger? Disappointment? Freddie settled on disgust. ‘I meant your performance at the crime scene.’ The Superintendent sat down, stiff and upright. Freddie took it as her cue to do likewise and flopped onto a chair in front of his desk. ‘Yeah, sorry about that.’ Nasreen was still standing, hands clasped behind her back. ‘Journalistic intuition.’ ‘I read your piece in The Post, Ms Venton,’ Gray said. ‘Thank you for leaving Sergeant Cudmore and her colleagues out of it.’ Another small squeak leaked from Nasreen. Freddie gave her a look: man up. Superintendent Gray continued, ‘The way you identified those tweets, made the link to the trolling, and then found @Apollyon was quite…extraordinary’. Not if you know how to use Twitter, Freddie thought. Nasreen’s shoes creaked against the floor. ‘The Gremlin Taskforce are our specialists who tackle social media related investigations; there are three of them. Their brief is focused on educating young people about the risks of online bullying,’ Gray said. Freddie glanced at the photo frame on his desk: wife, two kids. How very white picket fence. ‘They do a lot of work in schools.’ The Superintendent sighed, ‘I’m sure you’re aware, Ms Venton, that the government have slashed our funding. 17,000 police officers have been cut from the force over the last five years, and we’re all under pressure to keep costs low. After a number of demand-intensive cases recently, I don’t have the budget at my disposal to bring in Gremlin officers on this. So I would like to ask you to work with us, Ms Venton.’ ‘What?’ squeaked Nasreen. ‘What?’ Freddie sat up and looked at him. ‘Are you crazy?’ She couldn’t imagine anything worse than working with these establishment dinosaurs. ‘I would like you to act as our Social Media Adviser.’ ‘That sounds like one of those idiot Twitter accounts that promise to get you ten thousand new followers, despite only having twenty-seven themselves. No thanks.’ Superintendent Gray looked at the woman in front of him. Scruffy, nonchalant, slapdash, but she had an insight into the online community his officers lacked. From what he’d seen at the crime scene, he inferred Twitter was the same as a religion or race, with its codes of conduct and language. Far quicker to use a translator than risk unintentionally upsetting the natives and closing off communication. She could bridge the gap. ‘I have looked into your record, Ms Venton.’ ‘What record?’ Freddie said. Superintendent Gray opened a file on his desk and began to leaf through. ‘I see you provided a witness statement that disparaged the attending officer, for a theft charge involving a Mr Robert Venton.’ ‘That was a misunderstanding, my dad had just had one too many and accidentally stole a box of melons. Melons. They must have been worth five quid at the most. But your lot came in heavy-handed, it was unfair.’ ‘You describe the police officer involved as “part of a corrupt hegemony”. I’ve also read the blog post you wrote about the London riots, entitled “Boil the Kettled”, during which you describe the police as, and I quote, “brutal fascist overlords who meted out unjust abuse and violence to innocent children”.’ Sergeant Cudmore turned to stare at the girl. ‘Thousands were unlawfully detained. Women were forced to pee on the side of the street,’ Freddie said. Superintendent Gray interlaced his fingers in front of him, glancing at the file resting in his in-tray: a ticking bomb. Notice arrived from the lawyers last week. A former officer who was of African descent had filed a sexual harassment case against a boisterous team of officers. Superintendent Gray knew the press would have a field day with the accusations of sexism and racism. He could see it now: acres of bleeding-heart liberal editorial on how institutionalised the force was, how out of touch they were. He’d been looking for the best way to counter, and now here was this mouthy woman with media contacts and a history of questioning police behaviour. And a seemingly large online presence. If she was presented as onside: a former objector to the force – young, female, alternative, left wing – who’d been ‘won over’ by her work with their boys, then it would take the sting out of the sexual harassment claims. People would believe her because she’d been so open with her condemnation in the past. He looked at Sergeant Cudmore, nice-looking girl, polite like most Asians: she’d look perfect standing alongside Miss Venton. That would tick the race box. The optimum public relations campaign to distract from the lawsuit. A female-dominated mixed-race press conference: pleasing. The case would be tied up quickly, once the IT bods had traced the perpetrator. In the meantime Freddie Venton would simply need to be satisfactorily controlled. ‘Ms Venton, I’m offering you a way out: join our team as a Social Media Advisor on this case, and you can avoid prosecution. It helps nobody if you’re charged with trespassing, breaking and entering, impersonating a police officer, and wasting police time.’ Freddie couldn’t speak. She couldn’t go to prison. Couldn’t do that to mum. Dad’s most recent accident – falling backwards off a bar stool – had left him unconscious. She’d rushed home to hold mum’s hand in A&E and distract her from the pitying looks from the nurses. She couldn’t leave her on her own to deal with all that crap. ‘We will of course compensate you for your time, and it will only be for the duration of this case,’ the Superintendent said. Freddie shook her head, trying to order her thoughts. What about her career? After working so hard to get into print in the nationals, serving her time on the free or pathetically paid online sites and publications, she deserved this. Her moment of glory. A real shot at making it as a journalist. One that actually paid the bills. Finally she might be able to write about things she cared about, instead of gif-littered quick-read pieces. Now was the time to solidify her career, not dick around with the police. The flood of wannabe journalists would soon render her byline a distant and then forgotten memory. She had to capitalise on this now. ‘Funding is tight,’ Gray continued. ‘But I’m sure we can reach the same wage as you were earning at Espress-oh’s.’ ‘Sir, I really don’t think…’ Nas said. Freddie had forgotten she was still there. ‘You have no grounds to think anything, Sergeant Cudmore. As I’m sure you’re aware you’ve breached protocol and jeopardised this case with your actions.’ ‘Yes, sir,’ Nasreen’s head hung forwards. ‘You will work with DCI Moast to detain this Hashtag Murderer swiftly, and you and Ms Venton will deliver updates to the media.’ Freddie caught the word media. What about all the interview and article requests on her mobile? A chance to keep hold of her dream job materialised. ‘Can I still write?’ Nasreen looked at her open-mouthed. ‘As long as you don’t reveal active details of the case, then we would be delighted for you to interact with the media,’ Gray said. Yes! Freddie internally air-punched. She could work with this. Build relationships up. As soon as this was over she’d be back. Picking up where she left off, and who knew, maybe she’d get something truly juicy out of working with the police. The Secret Policewoman. #longread ‘Sir, surely a non-police officer shouldn’t be commenting on cases to the press?’ Nasreen said. ‘Ms Venton here is the press, Cudmore,’ Gray said. ‘And we will make sure she’s briefed fully by our public relations team on what can and cannot be talked about.’ ‘Don’t worry, Cudmore,’ Freddie smirked. ‘I know how to do my job.’ ‘Yes,’ said Gray. ‘And Ms Venton won’t wish to bring the force into disrepute, because that may alter the way we view those possible charges.’ Freddie saw Nasreen’s chin jut forward. ‘Sergeant Cudmore will be responsible for ensuring you don’t endanger the investigation or bring our officers into disrepute. You two will add a fresh note to the image of the Met.’ Superintendent Gray stood, his jacketed form looming over the desk, and extended his hand to Freddie. ‘This is blackmail, you know that, right?’ Freddie stared into his cold grey eyes. ‘You can take it or leave it, Ms Venton. I look forward to working with you.’ Nasreen was deep breathing in the ladies’ loos. Ever since her parents had pulled her out of school and out of Freddie’s life, she’d been trying to forget her old friend. At first she’d been distraught, arguing with her parents, but as an adult she knew they were right. Freddie Venton was bad news. She was unpredictable, irresponsible, and, she thought bitterly, capable of ruining people’s lives. Her guts turned into knotted snakes. Now they were working with each other? Worse than that, she was answerable for Freddie’s actions. Her career hung from a thread and Freddie was tugging it. Would she ever be allowed to forget the past? Could she ever compensate for what she and Freddie had done? Nasreen tried to ignore the thought that this was somehow punishment for their actions eight years ago. She had to stay focused, keep Freddie on the straight and narrow. No more tricks, no more lies, no more games. Somehow, and she didn’t quite know how, Nasreen had been given another shot. She hadn’t been suspended. She was still here. Her dream job. Her purpose. This was her last chance: she would prove to the guv, to DCI Moast, to the team, that she could be trusted. She’d failed once, when she hadn’t immediately confessed to knowing Freddie was trespassing the crime scene. That wouldn’t happen again. She couldn’t let Freddie trip up. One false step from her and Nasreen knew they’d both be out. Fired. That couldn’t happen. She would fight it every step of the way. The knotted snakes took up home: a heavy writhing nest in her stomach. In his office, Superintendent Gray was applying lavender hand cream. He always did this when he was pleased, leading his officers to refer to good days as lavender days. Lavender days were when you asked for a raise or time off. As Superintendent Gray massaged his cuticles, he congratulated himself on a job well done. This would see off any nonsense about sexism or racism. The Hashtag Murderer case was just what he needed to deflect attention. The press would be looking the other way: cases involving social media gave them scope to get worked up about the growing corruption of young people. This Hashtag Murderer case really couldn’t have come at a better time. Freddie let herself into her flat and plugged her phone in. It buzzed to life. It was just gone 4am, on Sunday 1st November. She’d spent nearly forty-eight hours in the same shirt. She needed a shower, and she needed sleep, but first she wanted to reply to the interview and article requests. She reasoned, with a couple of shots of espresso inside of her, she could get some pieces written and filed before she had a kip and had to get back to the station. No point turning down money. And she was looking forward to cultivating these new contacts. This Mickey Mouse job wouldn’t last long, but it didn’t matter. Freddie’s journalist career was launched. Scrolling through her phone, Freddie found her manager Dan’s number and pressed call. She smiled while she listened to his inane answerphone message: ‘You’ve reached Dan, Espress-oh’s Branch Manager at St Pancras Station, London. I can’t come to the phone right now as I’m whipping up delicious coffee for our customers, so please leave a message after the tone. Have a great day!’ She was going to enjoy this. She waited for the beep. ‘Hey Dan, it’s Freddie. Thanks so much for telling the police I had anger management issues and take antidepressants. Your little smear campaign didn’t work though, they’ve hired me as a Social Media Adviser. Yes, that’s right. I’m working with the police now. And if I hear that you let Milena, or any other member of staff, be touched inappropriately by a customer, like you did me on Friday night, I’ll get my new mates in uniform to come by for a chat. Management won’t like that, will they? Oh yeah, and in case you hadn’t guessed, this is my formal resignation. See ya!’ That’d put the wind up him. She fired off a quick WhatsApp message to Milena, filling her in and letting her know she’d have to do the illicit food drops to Kathy and the other homeless women on her own. She’d get that sleeping bag and swing by to see them as soon as she could. Job done. Freddie was sorry for the woman sobbing in the kitchen of the murder scene, the mother, but Alun Mardling’s death had worked out well for her. Online, servers and elements flashed, gathering speed through cables and fibre optics, transmitting through radio waves and wireless, 3G, 4G, mobiles, tablets and computer screens hummed with posts, statuses, messages, words. Thousands of them, spilling across the world like blood. Seeping into lives, filling the dark corners, becoming consciousness, becoming truth and meaning, and real. @Apollyon started to type. Chapter 10 (#ulink_1524d8db-bd90-527c-a149-a5086f7077f1) FWIW – For What It’s Worth (#ulink_1524d8db-bd90-527c-a149-a5086f7077f1) 08:45 Sunday 1 November 1 FOLLOWING 16,877 FOLLOWERS The alarm on her phone woke Freddie. Unconsciously she put her glasses on and held the glowing screen toward her face, checking her email, texts, WhatsApp. Blinking away the sleep, she looked at Twitter. She sat bolt upright. Her mouth dry. She tried to swear but all that came out was a croak. Her fingers shook as she scrambled onto the windowsill to make the call. ‘Nas, it’s me,’ Freddie said quickly. ‘You guys need to see this. Now. I’m coming in.’ She grabbed yesterday’s jeans, sniffed a jumper from the floor before pulling it on, and squashed a beanie over her hair. All the while her mobile vibrated as more and more people retweeted and shared the same message on Twitter: Apollyon @Apollyon • 57m For whom the bell trolls. #murderer Freddie felt like she’d only left the Jubilee a few minutes before. Everything happened so fast. Nas sent the pale sandy-haired uniformed copper Jamie – PC Spew – to collect her from the front desk. Freddie was wearing her new lanyard that proclaimed she was Social Media Adviser, and she, Jamie and Nas were sat in the assigned incident room with some other uniformed officers. The once white room, like most of the station, looked like it needed a good clean or a new coat of paint. Windowless and smelling of stale fags and musty men (Freddie’d only seen two other female cops apart from Nas, and neither of them seemed to be on this case), the room was set up like a classroom. White boards lined one wall. Rows of tea-ring-stained MDF tables, with yet more grey plastic chairs, all faced the teacher at the front: DCI Moast. It reminded Freddie a bit too much of her and Nas’s old maths Portakabin classroom. The only door – a blue-painted one, dirty fingermarks smudged on it – was closed. The noise of the rest of the station, outside in the corridor, spiralling off the metal staircase, was blocked out. A photo of Alun Mardling’s brutalised body was pinned to a board. Freddie didn’t look at it. Instead she focused on the words from @Apollyon’s tweet that were written next to it. The door opened and a copper came in: another plain-clothes guy, his tall, gangly frame barely fitting into his black suit. Paisley tie dangling down too long. Muddy brown hair flopping onto his face. Freddie watched him report straight to Moast. ‘Sir.’ ‘Sergeant Cudmore, you know Sergeant Tibbsy,’ Moast sounded angry. ‘I don’t know what impression you’ve been given by Gray, but Tibbsy here is my number two. As usual.’ ‘Sir,’ Nas nodded. ‘Nice to see you again, Kevin.’ She shook the gangly guy’s hand. ‘You know PC Thomas?’ ‘Jamie,’ Tibbsy nodded at the pale copper who was sat in the corner. ‘Sir, good to be part of the team.’ Jamie stood, beaming. ‘All right, lad,’ Moast said. ‘And I’m Freddie.’ She held her palm up. ‘We’ve met a couple of times now.’ Jamie nodded at her. ‘At Blackbird Road.’ She raised her eyebrows at him. Probably best not to bring that up! He dropped his eyes from hers, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his skinny, pale neck as he swallowed. Superbrain this one. Nas stared at the incident board. Tibbsy gave Freddie a half smile, before standing next to Moast. ‘This is the message then?’ he said. ‘I found it on Twitter. Again,’ Freddie said to their backs. Why the hell did she keep spotting these things before them? It was as if they were all looking the other way while things were starting to unfold online. Nobody responded. Fine, whatever. ‘Have the IT bods turned anything up on the owner of this account?’ Moast asked Tibbsy. ‘They’ve drawn a blank, sir,’ Nasreen said. ‘Whoever’s done it knows what they’re up to. They’re using Tor.’ ‘The encryption software that bounces your signal through a series of computers around the world?’ Freddie asked. ‘Yes.’ Nas turned to look at her. ‘How do you know that?’ Freddie shrugged. ‘I use it to watch American TV shows before they’re released over here.’ Nas tutted. ‘Well, it means we’re unable to locate who and where the photo was posted from. We can’t find them that way.’ ‘Can we get anything from the photo itself?’ said Moast. ‘Get it blown up: I want to identify that knife – the suspected murder weapon. Find out where it’s from.’ ‘Yes, sir,’ said Nas. You might make some ground if you actually followed the account, thought Freddie. ‘What does it mean – for whom the bell trolls?’ Tibbsy ran his finger under the words on the board. ‘My guess is nothing. Just a nutjob spouting crap,’ Moast said. ‘It’s a pun on “for whom the bell tolls”, a line used in a John Donne poem.’ Freddie couldn’t help herself. ‘It’s also the title of an Ernest Hemingway book.’ They turned and looked at her. ‘Don’t you people read?’ Freddie said. ‘No one’s got time for that,’ Moast said. ‘Better to wait till the movie comes out,’ Tibbsy added, and he and Moast snickered. ‘It was a film.’ Freddie approached the board. ‘It’s a phrase that portends to death. “Never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”’ Moast’s brow was furrowed. Tibbsy’s mouth hung open. ‘It’s about solidarity in humanity, right? We’re all in this together,’ she continued. ‘We’re all going to die. Alun Mardling the troll dies and a bit of us all dies.’ ‘This is a murder investigation not a sodding book club.’ Moast stood between her and the board. Freddie gritted her teeth. She hadn’t asked to be here, and so far she was the only one who seemed to have a clue as to what was going on. ‘Really? Because this “nutjob”,’ she made quotation marks in the air, though only Jamie could see her, ‘has just made an awesome pun, which feels very much like a threat. Or as if they’re laughing at you.’ Moast’s shoulders tensed. ‘I don’t take profiling advice from the tea girl.’ ‘Tea girl! Good one, guv,’ Tibbsy guffawed. Idiots. Freddie eyed Nas. ‘You’re quiet, Nas, what do you reckon?’ Nasreen’s eyes flicked between the tweet and the photo of Mardling. ‘We should talk to Paige Klinger, sir. She has motive after Mardling sent those threatening messages. She’s the strongest current lead.’ Were they just going to ignore this message? The door opened and Superintendent Gray appeared, his uniform a black exclamation point in the doorway. ‘Progress report, DCI Moast?’ They all stood up straight, Jamie smacking his legs into a desk in his haste. This was like being in school again. She looked at Nasreen, upright, prim, a look of what was that – pride? – in her eyes. Just like she used to stand in assembly every morning. ‘I’m going to interview Paige Klinger, guv. As so much of the abuse was aimed at her, it’s conceivable there’s a link. This could be a possible revenge attack,’ Moast said. The dirty bastard’s shafting Nas! He’s pinching her idea, thought Freddie. Taking the credit. The conniving little… ‘Good plan. Take the team with you.’ Superintendent Gray nodded round the room. ‘Tibbsy and I can manage, sir,’ Moast said. Bristling like his cropped hair. ‘And Sergeant Cudmore and Ms Venton, they may be of help with the technical side of things,’ said the Superintendent. ‘My daughters are obsessed with Paige Klinger. A model, I believe. There could be paparazzi. So far this case has been a PR disaster, I think it’s best if any photos taken reflect a well-rounded and concerted-looking unit.’ ‘Sir, with all due respect, I don’t think it’s wise to take a civilian to an interview. We don’t want to draw undue attention to ourselves, and she doesn’t have the required training,’ Moast wheedled. ‘That’s an order, DCI.’ The Superintendent walked out. Freddie smiled. She couldn’t give two figs about attending an interview, but meeting Paige Klinger was another deal all together. The Model Killer. Even if she didn’t do it, it’d be a great contact. She could get an article out of this, possibly a book. Paige Turner: The true story of Paige Klinger’s rise to fame. Moast looked furious. Freddie almost laughed. It was good to get one over on him as well, after that stunt he just pulled with Nas’s idea. Moast grabbed his jacket and stormed out. Tibbsy, desperate to keep up, caught the edge of the table and nearly went flying. Freddie looked at Jamie as he squashed one toe of his shiny shoe under the other. Britain’s finest. Nas was still looking at the board. ‘Well, that was awkward. Is he always such a prick?’ Freddie asked. ‘DCI Moast is a professional. We’re all finding this situation difficult,’ she said, before also striding out the room. ‘Come on then, Jamie, looks like you’re giving me a lift.’ Freddie looked at her phone. ‘For whom the bell’ was now trending in the UK. The smile fell from her face. Trepidation spread from the touch screen through her fingers, chill and juddering into her bloodstream. Trending? How big was this freak’s audience? She clicked through to @Apollyon’s account: he was up to nearly 17,000 followers. Jesus. That’s a lot of people watching what he’s doing. His audience was growing. How far would his message spread? Was this a performance? An act? What was he trying to do? There were no good answers to any of the questions raging through Freddie’s mind. And the biggest one yet, the one question she didn’t want to voice, hung over them all: what would happen next? Freddie wasn’t sure she was ready for the answer. Chapter 11 (#ulink_122dd8af-e759-566d-86e5-065d48368cf0) FWP – First World Problems (#ulink_122dd8af-e759-566d-86e5-065d48368cf0) 11:45 Sunday 1 November 1 FOLLOWING 36,221 FOLLOWERS Paige Klinger opens her eyes. Everything is white. The colourama paper backdrop that lolls down and away from the wall like a tongue is white. She stands on it, a large white inflatable banana between her legs. Her skin is white. Her hair is white blonde. The pair of briefs she has on are white. The only colour comes from her Mexican skull bracelet tattoo – her calavera Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/angela-clarke/follow-me-the-bestselling-crime-novel-terrifying-everyone-th/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. 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