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