Follow Me: The bestselling crime novel terrifying everyone this year. Angela Clarke
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.’
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: