Follow Me: A chilling, thrilling, addictive crime novel

by Angela Clarke

  A lump formed in Freddie’s throat. She blinked repeatedly. She looked round the room. The guy who’d delivered the news was slumped in a chair near the front – his tie and shirt collar loosened. Jamie sat next to him, hands clasped in his lap, head nodded forward, almost in prayer. The faces of the older uniformed officers grouped to the right of her were set in grim determination. She guessed they’d been here before. The moment when all hope has gone.

  Nasreen stood quietly at the front, to the side of Moast, her hands clasped behind her back and her head dipped. To everyone else she looked respectful, but Freddie saw something glint in her eyes: anger. Freddie wanted to tell her it was all right. That they would get the sicko who’d done this. But she realised her words would be hollow. These officers, these people, Nas, they did this day in and day out. They faced the darkest parts of society and they kept going. These weren’t institutional bullies; they weren’t jumped-up security guards drunk on the power of a uniform. They were on the front line of humanity. And she knew, no matter what, that she could never be one of them. She wasn’t strong enough. How I Came To Change My Mind About The Police.

  Moast sounded composed: ‘Look at Sophie Phillips’ friends and family, her work colleagues. I want to know her habits, her routines, how she spent her free time. Cross-reference with everything we know about Alun Mardling. If there is anything that links the two, I want to know about it. For now all leave is cancelled. I want everyone on this until we turn something up. Don’t eat, don’t sleep, don’t breathe, till we’ve got this bastard.’

  Freddie found herself nodding to his words. People started to stand. Chairs were scraped back along the floor. Groups formed. Nasreen instructed the officers: ‘Speak to the local force and get a list of all Sophie’s acquaintances. PC Boulson, keep on at forensics. Particularly anything that might link the two murders.’

  Jamie was stood to her right, frantically scribbling down notes. ‘We have to get this guy. Have to,’ he said over and over.

  The room emptied out. Freddie stood. She wanted to help but she didn’t know what to do. Instinctively she took out her phone: nothing. Nothing from @Apollyon. No apparent mentions of Sophie Phillips or the #Murderer. Nothing but the jokes and frightened retweets of before. Twitter didn’t know about the body. The dark secret was contained. For now.

  ‘Put that down, Venton.’ Moast sounded tired. ‘You do not speak to the press about this, and you do not post anything online.’ Moast ran his hands over his hair, puffing resignation out of his mouth.

  Freddie stared at him. ‘I wouldn’t. Not about this. I was just…’

  ‘Put the phone down, Freddie.’ Nas sounded detached.

  Freddie looked at Tibbsy, grey shadows hung under his impassive eyes. ‘Seriously, guys, I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t post about Sophie. That’s fucked up.’

  ‘Shut up, Venton.’ Moast’s hand had run all the way over his scalp and was gripping the back of his neck, as if he was holding himself up.

  ‘What’s your thinking, sir? On the team, I mean,’ asked Nas.

  It was like Freddie wasn’t there.

  ‘I’ve asked one of the lads to place a couple of squad cars on standby,’ said Tibbsy. ‘We could get there within the hour, if the traffic’s all right. The morning rush hour’s almost over.’

  Freddie looked at the time on her phone: 9:17am. So much had happened already.

  ‘You,’ Moast pointed at Tibbsy, ‘Cudmore and I are going. Thomas to drive.’

  ‘Guv,’ nodded Tibbsy. ‘What about Miss Venton?’

  Nasreen looked like she was going to add something, then covered her mouth and coughed.

  Did Tibbsy just ask about her going to the crime scene? She wanted to help.

  Moast seemed startled by Tibbsy’s suggestion. ‘We don’t know for sure Apollyon – this social media stuff – is a link between these two cases. Yet. Besides, she’s a liability. This newspaper stunt is in complete violation of procedure.’

  ‘Yes, but the paper article did, well, it led to the tip-off phone call and the discovery of the body.’ Tibbsy looked at Freddie, as if asking for her help. She stared back. ‘And she did…’ he stopped again. The room quiet, Freddie could hear a phone ringing down the hallway.

  ‘Miss Venton does seem to interpret the tweets in an effective way,’ said Nas. ‘Assuming they’re relevant, I mean.’

  ‘Have you two been talking?’ Moast looked between Nas and Tibbsy.

  ‘No, sir.’ The tops of Nasreen’s ears coloured.

  There was a knock at the door. They all turned: Jamie entered. ‘Sorry to interrupt, sir. Superintendent Gray has asked to see you and Fred…I mean Miss Venton.’

  ‘Looks like the decision’s already been made.’ Moast pushed himself up from the table. ‘Bring all your crap, Venton. You’ll not be back after this.’

  Freddie glanced at The Post still on the table beside her. It was only two years ago, but Freddie knew she’d never feel the same as the carefree girl in that photo again. She closed her eyes and willed herself back there: drunk, hooting, singing along to Bucks Fizz with Vic. It felt like a film. Not her. Not real. As if she could only be a spectator to that world now. Death had come near before, but this time it struck home. She was marked. Inside. Somewhere it’d never fade. Was she going to be arrested? Charged? It no longer mattered. Somewhere, in a flat in Leighton Buzzard, lay the body of a young woman. Sophie Phillips. Cold. Dead. Gone. Despite everything Freddie had done and tried, she was too late to save her.

  Chapter 20

  FOMO – Fear Of Missing Out

  09:22

  Tuesday 3 November

  1 FOLLOWING 86,639 FOLLOWERS

  Freddie struggled to keep up with the taller Moast, who was walking at speed along the corridor. ‘I didn’t want this, you know?’ she said. He didn’t react. ‘I mean, I really didn’t want what happened to the Sophie lady to happen.’ She couldn’t make herself clear. ‘I mean, I’m sorry if I got you in trouble or anything over the newspaper thing. You guys do a…very hard job. I just wanted to…’

  Moast stopped at the Superintendent’s door. He looked at her, his eyes narrowing slightly. Then he tightened his navy tie, buttoned his jacket, and pulled it down. ‘Ready?’

  Had he heard what she’d said? ‘I just didn’t want anyone to get hurt.’ Moast rapped his knuckles on the door.

  ‘Come!’ said the Superintendent’s voice. Freddie took a deep breath in. Here goes. She looked down at her wool jumper. Lamb to the slaughter.

  Freddie hadn’t noticed the first time she’d visited this room how neat it was compared to the rest of the station. The desk, the cabinets, the certificates framed on the wall: everything was sharp-edged and gleaming. Even the rubber plant in the corner looked as if it was polished. There was something about the Superintendent’s neatly manicured hands resting on the desk that hinted toward the anal. It unnerved Freddie. Everything was the same as before, apart from the latest edition of The Post in front of him. She swallowed. How To Cope When You’re Sacked.

  ‘DCI Moast. Miss Venton.’ The Superintendent did not stand to shake her hand this time. Freddie stood next to Moast. He with his hands clasped behind his back, she shifting her weight from one leg to the other. She needed a wee.

  ‘I think we need to have a little chat,’ said the Superintendent, looking down his nose at Freddie. ‘DCI Moast,’ he turned his attention to Moast. Freddie kept her eyes forward. ‘I understand another victim has been found.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Moast’s voice was void of emotion. Freddie doubted she’d sound so calm. Did she want out or in? ‘A young woman believed to be one Sophie Phillips of,’ he faltered slightly, ‘Baker Street, Leighton Buzzard.’

  ‘I see.’ The Superintendent dropped his eyes to The Post and leant back in his chair. ‘And do we know if there is a link to the Mardling case?’

  ‘Circumstantial evidence at this stage, sir, but yes, I do suspect the two cases are linked,’ Moast said.

  ‘Bas
ed on Miss Venton’s analysis of the tweets from the person calling themselves @Apollyon,’ Gray said.

  Analysis? She hadn’t analysed anything. Could you tell if the same person sent a number of tweets? Were there patterns, like with handwriting? Your Online Fingerprint: How Your Posts Can Identify You. Freddie cursed herself for not thinking of it sooner. There must be someone online who could give them an insight into if the tweets were from the same person. How would they look if you compared them to Paige Klinger’s? She resolved to do it the moment she got out of this room.

  ‘Partially, yes, sir,’ said Moast.

  ‘And can you explain to me how Ms Venton, who is part of your team,’ the Superintendent’s voice hardened, ‘came to write an unsanctioned article revealing intimate case details?’ Freddie heard Moast swallow.

  Moast wetted his lips. ‘With all due respect, sir, Ms Venton is a civilian with no training or experience in standard procedures. In my opinion she is ill-equipped for active casework: she’s impulsive, confrontational…’

  ‘Hey!’ Freddie snapped.

  ‘Do you have something to add, Ms Venton?’ The Superintendent locked her in his sight.

  Bugger. ‘I…well…I just didn’t want anyone to get hurt.’ She looked at the floor.

  The Superintendent sighed. ‘This case is not progressing as I had anticipated. As I understand it, we received the tip-off about the second possible victim in response to Ms Venton’s article – is that right, Moast?’

  Moast cleared his throat. ‘Along with the countless time-wasting calls we received in response to Ms Venton’s little stunt, yes, we did take a call that led to the discovery of a body. It could be circumstantial, though.’ He rocked forward and back on his feet.

  Freddie felt no victory. How had she ended up embroiled in a murder investigation? No one had said the words yet but she sensed them hovering between the three of them: serial killer. There couldn’t be more. They had to stop it.

  ‘I see,’ said the Superintendent. ‘DCI, how confident are you that this second victim, this Sophie Phillips, is the responsibility of the first perpetrator? Leighton Buzzard is a fair distance from the Docklands.’

  Was it someone who travelled? Freddie thought. Wasn’t there an infamous murderer who was a lorry driver, or was that a film? Was the Hashtag Murderer trying to recreate that celebrity? Was that a motive? She tried to think of what she’d read in the papers. What she knew about other crimes. Nothing. Flickers. Images. But she knew the Internet: a vast sprawling online world full of trolls, cat lovers. The Internet didn’t need a motorway or a train link. The Internet was everywhere.

  ‘I’ll hope to know more once I’ve visited the crime scene, sir. It may be the Apollyon online thing is some kind of hoax or that this is a copycat of the first murder. Because of the publicity, sir.’ Moast looked at Freddie.

  Freddie felt her cheeks colour: was she responsible for the second death? She felt sick at the prospect. Guilt washed over her like dirty rainwater, clinging to every fibre of her being. Traces of it here and there she knew she wouldn’t be able to shake. She’d felt like this once before. She thought of Nasreen’s stoic approach to this job – was she seeking absolution for their past actions?

  Superintendent Gray sat up straight, his voice clipped. ‘I want a line drawn under this quickly, Moast. Now, Ms Venton. I cannot condone your going to the press outside of the parameters we had previously agreed, but it seems to me that this case is progressing in a number of unexpected ways,’ Gray said. ‘I would like to make some alterations to our existing partnership.’

  This was it: she was going to be charged. She imagined her mum being pulled out from teaching her class of eight-year-olds to take the call about her wayward daughter. No good, just like her father, people would whisper. She’d be humiliated afresh.

  ‘Your flagrant disregard for the terms under which we agreed you could publish articles relating to this case has demonstrated you can’t be trusted in that area.’ The Superintendent sounded like her old headmaster. Detention. Suspension. Exclusion. ‘For the duration of this case you will no longer write or publish anything in your name or under another.’

  ‘Duration of the case, sir?’ Moast voiced the same words that were swimming round Freddie’s head.

  ‘Whether I approve of her methods or not, it does seem that Ms Venton’s insights into this case have proven to be useful.’ The Superintendent rested his hands palm down on The Post in front of him. Someone must have spoken to him. Tibbsy? Nas? Who was an ally and who was an enemy?

  Moast’s hands flew out from behind his back. ‘But, sir, she…’

  ‘This is not up for debate, DCI. Ms Venton’s understanding of the online community means she is a valuable asset,’ the Superintendent continued.

  Did this mean she wasn’t going to get charged with wasting police time, impersonating a forensics officer, and everything else they’d threatened her with?

  ‘As the officer in charge of this investigation, Moast, it is your responsibility to ensure Ms Venton stays within the parameters of her role.’

  Freddie looked from Gray to Moast, the latter’s eyes bulging.

  The Superintendent folded his hands onto the desk again. ‘I don’t want any more cock-ups on this. I assume that as of yet the press are unaware of this latest victim?’

  ‘Yes. I mean no. I haven’t told anyone. It hasn’t broken on Twitter yet,’ Freddie managed.

  Moast quietly snorted.

  ‘DCI Moast, let us not underestimate again the apparent power of the Internet on this case. Take your team, including Miss Venton, to Leighton Buzzard, and for God’s sake get this case wrapped up.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ Moast turned on his heel and opened the door, standing in the hall waiting for her, his face clouded with undisguised anger.

  Freddie stared at the Superintendent. ‘I’m worried about seeing another…’ – she whispered the last word, frightened by its very significance – ‘…body.’ Mardling’s dripping neck blinked in front of her eyes. She reached a hand out to steady herself against Gray’s desk.

  ‘I appreciate this must be very traumatic for you, Miss Venton,’ the Superintendent’s voice softening to somewhere near fatherly. ‘Where possible, DCI Moast and the team will shield you from the more unpleasant elements of the investigation.’

  Freddie swallowed. How could Nasreen go through this repeatedly? ‘Thank you,’ she managed.

  ‘I would like you to stay with the team though, on this one. You may spot something on the victim’s computer, for example, that we would otherwise have to wait for the IT boys to pick up.’

  More likely on Sophie Phillips’ phone, she thought. Most people fired off quick updates while they were waiting for the kettle to boil. Or while they were feeding the cat. She nodded.

  ‘Good,’ Gray said. ‘DCI Moast will ensure you have a few sessions booked with the counsellor associated with the station. She will ensure you are coping with all this.’

  Freddie padded out the room in a daze. Moast shut the door on the Superintendent’s office. She followed him along the hall. Halfway back to the incident room he stopped and lowered his face to hers. ‘Look, Venton, stay in my sight, but stay out of my way and we might just get through this. No more games. No more of your hack tricks. I’ll catch this bugger and then you and I need never see each other again. Capiche?’

  Freddie nodded. She watched Moast walk to the incident room, the noise of the team inside dying down as their Chief Officer opened the door. Part of Freddie wanted to run back to the Superintendent: crying, fling herself on his desk, beg to be released from the case. Part of her wanted to rip through Twitter, computer files, phone records, whatever it took to find this maniac and stop him. Standing in the empty corridor of Jubilee police station, she didn’t know which would win.

  As she closed her eyes her mobile vibrated with a new notification.

  Apollyon had decided for her.

  She couldn’t leave now.

  Chap
ter 21

  L8R – Later

  11:38

  Tuesday 3 November

  2 FOLLOWING 92,185 FOLLOWERS

  In the Family Paper offices, Freddie’s Typical Student column editor Sandra swiped The Post off her desk and into the bin. She was still shaken from this morning’s meeting. Arthur Decimus, the editor, had torn her apart for dropping the ball on this. The biggest scoop of the year: inside the #Murderer case, and Freddie-bloody-Venton had given it to The Post. After everything Sandra had done for her.

  Sandra poured the remnants of her coffee over the paper, watching it obliterate Freddie’s face. The Family Paper was the biggest-selling newspaper in the country. The most read newspaper online in the English-speaking world. Sandra’s feature about the woman who’d only hire obese au pairs had got 128,000 hits in one hour this morning. How the hell had Freddie done it? The one time they’d met in person there was dirt under the girl’s fingernails. That fat little cow did not deserve the splash.

  She’d had Freddie in mind for a piece about loving your body like Lena Dunham, complete with photos of Freddie in her – no doubt – shabby underwear. The fugly ones who said they were happy with their looks always generated the most comments. Poor girl. She’d missed out on the wake-up call she needed: join a gym, get a decent haircut, ditch the unflattering clothes. Never mind. Plenty more fat fish in the sea. Sandra squeezed her pelvic floor, centred herself. She could work with this. She took a sip of her coconut water and looked up Freddie Venton’s Facebook account: welcome to the nationals, my dear.

  Freddie watched as Nas wrote Apollyon’s latest words, tweeted three minutes ago, on the board in the incident room at the Jubilee station: