Follow Me: A chilling, thrilling, addictive crime novel

by Angela Clarke

  ‘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

  OMG – Oh My God

  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 tod
ay. 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

  DTF – Down to Fuck?

  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, i
ll-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 struggles to 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.’