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
FWP – First World Problems
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. Her trademark. Its toothy grin all over Instagram. Her brand, part of what the fashion bloggers call ‘Klinger’s kookiness’. A modern-day Cinderella, and Twitter is her fairy godmother (as described by Vogue). She makes Twitter, and Twitter makes her. She had been doing all right: one or two campaigns. But the Internet changed everything. Posting off-duty snaps of her and her hot friends catapulted her to the top in a volley of likes, heart emojis, and retweets. Thanks to her fans – the affectionately named Klingys – she gorges on campaigns, rolls in money, parties like she can’t believe this is her life: on yachts, in mansions, aboard private jets. They’re having to shoot on the weekend just to cram it all in. And she Instagrams it all. Her Klingys gave her this lifestyle, she will live it to the full for them. Fulfil their hopes and dreams with each bottle of champagne. With each diamond-studded grill. With each shopping marathon. With each tattoo. She lives for them and she shares it all online.
The lights are hot and white, and round the edges are dark shadows within which the team move. Hair, that stupid make-up artist, the one she doesn’t like, the stylist, the magazine editor, and Kenny. Kenny occasionally steps into the white, his characteristic black T-shirt, jeans and glasses silhouetted against the light. He doesn’t remember the first time they met. When she was no one. When she was still getting used to her new name: no longer plain old Paige Williams, now she was Paige Klinger – model. Her first VIP room. Taken by her booker to meet the iconic photographer Kenny Reynolds. There were girls with their tits out jumping up and down on the sofas, molehills of coke on the glass tables. Kenny and the only other man in the room were drinking beer in their Y-fronts, their trainers and socks still on.
‘Kenny this is Paige, new girl,’ her booker said.
‘Nice titties,’ he’d replied and licked his beer bottle.
She’d averted her eyes, only to find them resting on his hand, which was slowly stroking the bulge in his pants. She’d never seen an erection before. She must have jumped, or made a noise. They all laughed.
Someone handed her a drink. It burnt her throat. She didn’t want to be the young kid everyone laughed at. She wanted to be cool.
Her booker spoke to another booker who’d just arrived. Another model. She’d seen her at castings. Long brunette hair, skinny jeans. Anya was her name. Kenny beckoned Anya over.
‘Let’s see your nips then.’ He mimed for her to take off her top.
With a slow blush creeping up her face, Anya took off her top and folded her arms over her bare chest.
Kenny shouted something at the girl’s booker, but it was lost as the other guy sprayed a bottle of champagne over four topless screaming girls on the couch. They opened their mouths to the spray. Poured champagne over their naked breasts. Everyone was looking in their direction, apart from Paige. She saw Kenny beckon Anya closer. He said something. She bent to hear him, and in that moment he put his hand on the back of her head and forced her face down into his lap. Anya struggled, his cock came free and he ejaculated into her face.
The other guy began to whoop and the girls and the bookers clapped and cheered. Anya staggered back, clawing her face, wiping spunk from her eyes.
Paige ran. She was fourteen.
Older now, she can barely remember what it was like to have never tasted alcohol. To have felt shock – was it cold? ‘I need more! I’m coming down,’ she shouted into the darkness.
The photographic assistant brought a white dinner plate with pre-chopped lines. Paige inhaled the white powder. The lights grew brighter still. The dark edges disappeared.
Kenny grinned at her. He licked his fingers and tweaked her nipples. ‘You hot slut, let’s do this!’
She shrieked and jumped, her arm up, her tattoo aloft, riding the inflatable banana like it was a rodeo bull. Her hair flared up and around her face. White light shone from her skin. They would make the cover.
A prefab photographic studio squatting under the Hammersmith flyover didn’t strike Freddie as a particularly glamorous place for a fashion shoot.
Nasreen and Tibbsy were stood either side of Moast, and Jamie was bringing up the rear. A unit. A team. All dressed in suits, and Jamie in his PC Plod uniform, they looked ridiculous in this urban setting as trance music blared from every speaker.
‘We’re looking for Miss Paige Klinger – we understand she’s working here today?’ Moast asked a cute boy with pink quiffed hair and bolt earrings behind the desk.
Freddie caught the look of disdain Moast gave the boy. It was the same look he gave her charity shop checked jumper. What the hell was she doing here?
Moast knocked on the studio door, but she heard nothing over the pulsating music. He opened it and the big white space illuminated the concrete corridor they were in. Against the back wall, Paige Klinger was posing.
‘Oh my God,’ breathed Nas. Tibbsy started to giggle.
‘Never seen breasts before, Tibbsy?’ Freddie said, but it was lost in the noise. They edged into the room. A group of people clad in what passed as achingly cool clothes gathered round a camera connected to a laptop. Looking intently at the images of Paige that flashed up on screen, none of them noticed their arrival. Moast, Nasreen, Tibbsy and Jamie stood transfixed in the doorway. Pills, powder and bottles of Scotch were easily visible. Freddie knew there’d be no chance of her securing a Paige exclusive if this got ugly. She sidestepped Tibbsy, who was now furiously blushing and looking anywhere but at Paige Klinger’s tits, and stood in an empty open-plan kitchen area. Obscene amounts of sushi sat on the work surface. She popped a tuna sashimi in her mouth. She was bloody starving. Besides, these fashion clowns were too high to eat.
Moast gave up waiting for someone to notice them and approached Paige Klinger. ‘Excuse me, Miss.’
‘What the fuck! Get out of my shot! Who are you! This is a closed set! Stefan! Stefan!’ the photographer, who Freddie now recognised as Kenny Reynolds, started shouting.
Paige looked wide-eyed. An inflatable banana fell from between her legs. A young hipster kid in a flannel-neck shirt, who Freddie assumed was Stefan, ran at Moast in a rugby tackle move. Moast swung his leg and arm round. Stefan went up into the air, a flailing flannel bird, and landed on his back with a sickening thud.
> Shit!
Paige Klinger screamed. Hands in front of her face. She was shaking. Her tiny rose-pink breasts bobbing. Jesus! Freddie’s heart was beating in time with the frenetic music. Nas sprinted to grab Kenny Reynolds’ upper body in a bear hug as he swung his camera down at Moast’s gelled head. Freddie took a photo on her phone. This is insane!
Moast, pinning the whimpering Stefan down with one knee and one hand, wrenched his identification from his pocket. ‘I’m DCI Moast, with the Metropolitan Police. Stop struggling.’
Stefan went limp.
‘Christ,’ said Kenny, still held tight in Nas’s grip.
‘Someone get my agent on the phone!’
‘Ma’am, please calm down.’ Nas locked onto Paige’s eyes. ‘You’re safe. No one is going to hurt you.’
Paige’s mouth clamped shut. Her arms fell down by her side. Her tiny frame shook. ‘Is this about the gak?’
‘No, ma’am, this isn’t about the drugs.’ Nas spoke as if only she and Paige were here, and not as if she had one of the world’s most famous photographers in a vice grip. Freddie was impressed. She took another photo.
‘Okay, sir?’ Nas said to Kenny. He slackened. Nodded. Nas released him.
Moast relinquished his pressure on Stefan. ‘You okay, son? Need an ambulance?’
Stefan struggled onto his elbows, dazed. ‘I’m ’kay.’
‘Good lad.’ Moast clapped him on his shoulder and Stefan winced.
Moast stood up, his face momentarily level with Paige’s naked breasts. He had the decency to avert his eyes. Tibbsy and Jamie stood in the doorway like two useless, gangly bouncers. Freddie shoved the phone back in her pocket.
‘Miss, we need to talk to you about a police matter. I would suggest we do this privately.’ Moast aimed the last comment in the direction of Kenny, who looked like he was trying to edge away.
‘Fine by me,’ Kenny said. ‘Pub!’ he shouted to the others.
Follow Me: A chilling, thrilling, addictive crime novel Page 8
