‘What did Hamlin have to say?’ Nasreen could sense the tension in the room. She guessed other things had upset the DCI this morning.
‘Gibberish, mostly,’ said Tibbsy, reaching forward for a mug of coffee and downing the dregs. ‘He’s either putting on one hell of a show or something’s spooked him.’
‘Do you reckon it’s shock?’ Nasreen took the chair opposite the DCI.
‘Hard to say,’ said Tibbsy.
‘I want to talk to his doctor. See if they think he’s faking. You saw the coins in the flat?’ Moast looked tired.
Nasreen nodded. ‘Just like the ones in Sophie Phillips’ flat.’
‘I like him for this. The stuff on the Internet, the verbal assault of Mardling. It’s starting to add up.’ He met her eyes. ‘Have IT turned up anything?’
‘It’s definitely the computer from which the chat room messages to Sophie Phillips were sent, guv,’ she said.
‘I knew it!’ Moast clenched his fist. His skin whitening over his knuckles.
‘It’s not all good news, sir.’ She took her notepad from her pocket. She wanted to make sure she got this right. ‘There’s nothing that the lads have found so far that links it to the @Apollyon account.’
‘He could have used another machine though, a phone or something. Have they found anything at the flat?’ Moast rested both his palms on his knees.
‘Not so far. And there’s something else, sir. The laptop.’ She paused.
‘Yes?’ Moast said.
‘The outside of it was also bleached clean. No DNA. No fingerprints. The same generic supermarket brand of bleach as before,’ she said.
Tibbsy put his mug down. ‘Surely that confirms it – this is our guy?’
Nasreen was unsure. Why would you wipe down your own machine? Unless he’d heard them coming. Done it at the last minute. But then where was the bleach? Hardly the sort of place you’d expect to find cleaning products. Hardly the kind of man you’d expect to act so coolly. ‘Do you think it’s an act, sir – all this?’ She thought about the screaming. He could have staged it. To throw them off.
‘It’s possible,’ Moast said. ‘Let’s see if we can get any sense out of his doctor.’
All three of them stood, Nasreen waited for Tibbsy to pass her. ‘It’s not enough is it though, to hold him, I mean?’
Moast paused, his hand on the silver nickel door handle. He looked up, as if at the posters offering help for those who wanted to quit smoking. ‘No. It’s circumstantial. Unless we can get him to confess or we turn up anything else, like a murder weapon, or evidence he took those photos of the crime scenes, we can’t hold him. We’ll have to let him go. We need to find his phone.’
Nasreen nodded. She already knew this was the case, but she needed the DCI to say it. The man she’d put in recovery yesterday didn’t strike her as strong enough, physically nor mentally, to restrain someone. Let alone kill anyone. She felt DCI Moast and Tibbsy pulling in the other direction. DCI Moast had years of experience. Hard graft had built his reputation. He knew what he was doing. As she followed him and Tibbsy out the room, Nasreen was reminded of the joke Freddie had made about Bruce Willis. With his name and team all over the papers, just how desperately did the DCI want to close this case?
‘Dr Powell? DCI Moast. Could we have a quick word?’ Moast asked as the doctor came out of Hamlin’s room.
Dr Powell, a tall pinched brunette of possibly Spanish descent, held Hamlin’s clipboard to her chest and gave them a tight smile. Thick-framed square glasses rested on her nose. Nasreen wondered how many times they got knocked off dealing with patients like Hamlin.
‘This is Sergeant Tibbsy and Sergeant Cudmore, we’re conducting a murder enquiry and would like to ask you some questions about Mark Hamlin.’ Moast signalled for PC Slade to wait inside Hamlin’s room. The officer obliged, disappearing into the room, where beeping could be heard.
‘DCI Moast, I have a lot of very sick people needing my attention, and as you know full well, patients have complete confidentiality. I am not at liberty to discuss Mr Hamlin’s health with you.’ Dr Powell had the world-weary look of someone who’d faced down tougher people than them.
‘I just want to know if you’ve treated Mr Hamlin before, Dr Powell?’ DCI Moast opened his arms wide as if welcoming her confession.
‘I believe the patient was in the Community Care programme but they lost contact with him a number of years ago. Today is my first day on the ward,’ Dr Powell said.
‘New job?’ The DCI was going for the small talk approach.
‘I’m on rotation, DCI.’ Dr Powell’s eyes narrowed.
‘Is it possible to speak to his previous doctor then? I understand the suspect, I mean the patient, was previously detained under section 136 of the Mental Health Act. Some officers brought him in for his own safety?’
‘He is unlikely to have been seen by the former Senior House Doctor if that was the case, anyway.’ Dr Powell tapped the toe of her kitten heel against the floor. Nas tried to smile at her warmly. Communicate that she understood: it was tough making it in a male-dominated world.
DCI Moast tried again. ‘Well perhaps I could have a quick word with that doctor just to check?’
‘If you insist, I can have someone find out where their rotation sent them next. Though you do understand that may very well be another hospital?’ Dr Powell gave Nasreen an empty stare.
‘I thought you got a job and stayed within the same hospital?’ DCI Moast was floundering. Tibbsy shifted his weight back against the wall.
‘That would be nice. It would certainly make things easier. No, we belong to a district that can cover several hospitals, several hours apart.’
‘You mean the last person who saw Mark Hamlin isn’t even in this building?’ Moast’s eyebrows stretched up toward his new grey patch.
‘It seems I am not the only one who has had my time wasted, DCI. If you’re done I have many pressing things to be getting on with,’ Dr Powell snapped.
They were losing her. ‘Just one last quick thing, Dr Powell.’ Nasreen put a hand out onto her arm. Reassuring. Looked into her eyes. Trusting. We’re trying to help. ‘In your opinion, with cases like Mark Hamlin, is he likely to be violent? Hypothetically speaking.’
Dr Powell sighed and pushed her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. ‘Hypothetically speaking, I would say the chances are slim. Patients like Mr Hamlin are more at risk of self-harm. But, of course, you can never be one hundred per cent sure.’
‘Thank you, doctor,’ Nasreen said. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’
They watched as Dr Powell walked down the corridor, the soles of her kitten heels flapping up against her feet.
‘Nicely done, Cudmore,’ DCI Moast said. ‘Though I don’t know how relevant it’ll prove. I get the feeling Dr Powell doesn’t like us very much.’
‘Another one who thinks we’re the enemy, hey boss?’ Tibbsy said. But Nas wasn’t listening, she was enjoying the warm glow of praise. The DCI hadn’t said anything positive about her since Freddie crashed back into her life. But perhaps she could still get her standing at the Jubilee back; it was salvageable.
‘Back to the station. Let’s see what else we can get on this bugger,’ said Moast.
Chapter 28
MT – Modified Tweet
08:30
Thursday 5 November
2 FOLLOWING 124,666 FOLLOWERS
Freddie stared at the photo of Sophie Phillips on the front page of The Family Paper. She looked different. Her wavy bobbed blonde hair looked like sunshine glowing round her face. She was pale, yes, but apples of red bloomed on her cheeks. She was laughing. Her green eyes sparkling. Behind her, the glass of an office window smudged the bright blue sky. It was like a toothpaste ad. She looked so…alive. ‘I don’t understand how they got a photo before us?’ She looked at Nasreen, sat across from her in the echoing canteen, folding her Marmite toast in half before tearing it into triangles, like she’d done when they were little.
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br /> ‘Apparently they got it from a work colleague. They had it on their Facebook account and they forgot.’ Nasreen bit into the toast.
‘More like they turned it over for a hefty fee. Bloodsuckers,’ she said, only the faint edge of her bristling at her hypocritical words. But The Family Paper had turned against her. She was outside again. Journalists were supposed to be on the front page because of their stories, not because they were the story. Freddie dropped the paper onto the wipe-clean table and flicked through the pile of newspapers that were next to her. She skimmed the headlines: Hashtag Murderer Strikes Again. Fears of a Serial Killer Grow. She held up a tabloid: No One Online is Safe Warn Crime Experts. ‘Just so you know, they didn’t get that from me.’
Nas gave a little laugh. ‘There’s growing alarm. The guv wants this case resolved and closed as soon as possible. Understandably.’
Around them, those coming in from the night shift were getting one more caffeine hit for the road or a bacon bap to help block out the memories of last night. Freddie was beginning to adjust to the rhythms of the station.
‘You getting any sleep?’ Nasreen wiped her fingers with one of the small plasticky napkins the dinner lady handed over with your grub.
‘Not much.’ Not at all. She shrugged.
‘It gets worse I’m afraid,’ Nas said. She’d come straight from the hospital this morning. Hamlin had been kept in overnight. And now here was a heartbreakingly intimate photo of Sophie Phillips to greet her: no wonder she’d decided to take five, Freddie thought. ‘Hamlin’s been discharged,’ Nas said.
‘You’re bringing him in?’ Freddie watched Nasreen run her tongue over her teeth for stray crumbs, poke between the front two with her nail. It was as if all her barriers had come down. Had she felt it yesterday? Their connection sparking again?
‘No,’ said Nas.
‘What?’ Freddie was momentarily confused. Had she spoken out loud?
‘We can’t hold him for longer than twenty-four hours without charge. We haven’t got enough evidence. The police guard at the hospital puts us in a grey area. We can’t really claim we were protecting him.’ Nas’s eyes fell onto the photo of smiling Sophie.
Freddie tried to make all the pieces fit in the puzzle. ‘Do you think he did it? I mean, the coins, and the chat room, and…I don’t know. He seemed so incapable.’ How did you tell who was guilty and who was not? Surely there was a way. A way to know for sure. Freddie thought about all the guys she thought were cool when she first met them. She thought about Brian.
‘We’ve got a tail on him. We’re looking into him further. I’m not sure. I agree he doesn’t seem the type.’ Nas scrunched her napkin onto her paper plate. ‘Ready?’
Freddie took a deep breath. Were they any closer to the truth? ‘Sure.’ As they left the canteen Nas’s phone began to ring.
‘Sergeant Cudmore,’ she answered. Freddie strained to hear the other voice: small, tinny, far away. It sounded like a woman. ‘Mrs Crabtree, thank you for calling me back. I understand you’ve already spoken to one of the Leighton Buzzard force – PC Grigg?’
Freddie raised her eyebrows at her.
Nas pointed at the phone and mouthed ‘Sophie’s work colleague.’
Was she going to rip Mrs Crabtree a new one for giving that photo to the police? Nas continued into her phone: ‘Yes, I understand you told PC Grigg that Twitter and the other social media sites are blocked on your office computers?’ Freddie stopped walking, her shoe squeaking to a halt on the rubberised floor.
Social media sites were blocked on Sophie’s office computers? With no smartphone, no Internet access at home and none in the office, how the hell did Sophie tweet about her cat or message Hamlin in that chat room?
‘Do you know if she had an iPad, a tablet of some sort, something she could have left at work?’ Nasreen was saying. ‘Sophie posted a number of things online, and we’d just like to know from where and when – to help us build up a picture of her last few days.’ Nasreen paused about a metre in front of Freddie. As she spoke she gestured with her free hand and nodded and shook her head as if Mrs Crabtree were in front of her. ‘I see. Yes. Thank you. That’s very helpful. If you remember anything else you think might be relevant, anything out of character, anything Sophie might have been upset about, anything at all, please give me a call.’ Nasreen hung up.
‘Social media sites are blocked on her office computers?’ Freddie said.
‘I wondered,’ said Nas, still staring at her phone. ‘She worked for the local council; public services often ban Twitter and that from their computers. Like they do here.’
‘So, did she have a tablet?’ Freddie’s mind was trying to connect the dots. The chat room messages Mark Hamlin sent to Sophie could be traced to the laptop found at his flat. The IP address of the messages sent from Sophie were traced to Leighton Buzzard, but as of yet they hadn’t found the device.
‘No,’ said Nas. She started to walk again, Freddie kept stride. ‘And more than that, Mrs Crabtree said Sophie was anti-social media.’
‘What – that makes no sense?’
‘Apparently she said more than once that she didn’t trust sites like Facebook.’ Nas was looking ahead, her forehead scrunched in thought.
‘Why would she say that to her friend and then join Twitter? Were they close, Sophie and this woman? I suppose she could’ve changed her mind. My mum was well reluctant to join Twitter.’
‘Your mum’s on Twitter?’ Nas stared at her. ‘I can’t imagine your mum doing that. Remember when we tried to teach her to email?’
Freddie laughed. They’d spent a whole afternoon during one Easter holiday eating chocolate eggs and trying to explain that email addresses weren’t case-sensitive to her mum. ‘God, when was that?’
‘We must’ve been, what, eleven?’ Nasreen smiled.
‘Yeah, everything she sent was in capitals. Do you remember?’ Freddie thought of how she and Nas threw screwed up foil wrappers at each other behind her mum’s back. They were in the lounge, all sat on the tan sofa, her mum squinting through her glasses at the laptop screen in front of her.
‘Yes! It was like she was permanently shouting at us!’ Nas steadied herself on Freddie’s arm as she laughed.
Freddie felt the contact like electricity. Should she pull her in for a hug? Place her hand over hers? She looked at Nas’s warm open face.
‘It can’t have been long after we started at Pendrick High.’ Nas stopped laughing. She let go of Freddie’s arm. An empty feeling washed over Freddie. She wondered for a moment if she’d imagined it. That warmth. That connection. Somehow willed it into being. They walked in silence.
As they neared the incident room, Freddie heard the noise. Too many voices could be heard. ‘What’s happened?’
Nasreen’s face had now hardened into that of the purposeful grown woman. They could hear Moast shouting. ‘What the fuck? How did you manage to lose him? He’s been out for what, twenty fucking minutes?’
Freddie let Nasreen go in first, a deep unease gathering in her stomach. ‘Cudmore!’ Moast threw the papers in his hand up into the air. ‘Have a nice breakfast?’ Tibbsy looked pale behind him.
‘Sir,’ said Nas. Her hands dangling at her side, fingers flexing: ready.
‘Great! ’Cause I’ve got some great news. Fucking constable Slade managed to lose Hamlin.’ Moast slammed his hand down onto the desk, shaking the paper on it and the people around him. ‘Twenty minutes. Twenty fucking minutes and he shakes him. Our prime fucking suspect. I want all teams out looking for him. I want to know everything we’ve got on him. Where he goes. Where he gets money from. Any known accomplices. Where he gets his drugs from. Do any of his doctors know where he is? I don’t give a fuck about confidentiality. Get a warrant. Get onto the Superintendent. I want this fucker traced.’
Freddie steadied herself against the door frame. How could they lose him? How could a person just disappear? And then she thought of laughing Sophie Phillips on the front of the newspaper.
She disappeared. She vanished.
‘Where did they lose him?’ Nas was asking.
The phone in the pocket of Freddie’s denim shorts vibrated against the wood of the door frame.
Nasreen spun to look at her. ‘That’s him, isn’t it?’ Freddie squeezed it from her jeans. ‘What does it say?’ Nas fired at her. Moast and Tibbsy hovering over her shoulders, like a scowling Greek chorus.
Freddie blinked and looked at the screen. ‘Apollyon says: stay tuned there’s more to come folks!’
‘Ha!’ Tibbsy ran his hand back through his limp hair, the other resting on his hip.
A terrible thought formed in Freddie’s mind. Where once her brain was wired to filter the news, the headlines, television shows, trends, fads, waves of interest, into the essence of the zeitgeist, into a pitch, now it pulled together the threads of Sophie and Mardling’s story. The front pages, the online jokes, the photos, the hashtags, the foreboding clues. ‘It’s the first time he’s tweeted since he said, “Here’s Johnny!”’ Tibbsy was shaking his head, looking away, but Moast and Nas had her locked. She saw it register on their faces. Freddie forced the words out: ‘Apollyon didn’t tweet all the while Mark Hamlin was detained.’ They’d had the Hashtag Murderer and they’d let him slip through their fingers.
‘Go back over all known Internet communication from Hamlin,’ Moast said. ‘I want it cross-referenced with everything that’s been tweeted by Apollyon. Cudmore, get onto the IT lads. Get them to look again at Mardling’s, Phillips’, and Hamlin’s devices. If there is anything they have missed, I want to know about it. Get them to try and trace Apollyon again. He’s got to trip up sooner or later.’ Freddie watched as Moast turned his face away from the room and ground his palms into his eye sockets. ‘Everyone makes mistakes,’ he said. Freddie couldn’t tell if he was talking to himself or the rest of them.
Follow Me: A chilling, thrilling, addictive crime novel Page 22
