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