Follow Me: A chilling, thrilling, addictive crime novel

by Angela Clarke

  She let her eyes drop to her phone and watched as Apollyon’s latest message spread. Retweeted across Twitter. Reproduced on Facebook. Quoted on newspaper sites. Dissected on blogs. Another clump of tweets uploaded. She sat down at a free chair and pulled her charger from her bag, automatically connecting her phone. Keeping the battery going. Keeping the story alive. Around her the room pulsated with energy.

  She borrowed a laptop from a nearby desk and started to research Mark Hamlin. He’d attended a grammar school in Kent. Then gone on to Bristol University. There was a piece he’d written for the university’s student newspaper on ornithology, the face of the man Freddie had seen pulled from the tower block – young, plump, healthy – in his byline photo. His name cropped up on a few birdwatching blogs. An obituary for his late father, Rupert Hamlin, in the Kent Messenger, mentioned he was survived by his wife Lillian, and son Mark. Another life before his current desolate one. Blips started to appear. Recorded episodes of mental unrest. A university log of a complaint from a room mate. A research paper by a psychiatrist at Bristol Royal Infirmary contained a reference to an M. Hamlin, but she could only see the Google search result and couldn’t find the correct paragraph in the verbose PDF file. A touching blog by a local birdwatching charity talked of a Lillian Hamlin who had been struck down by Alzheimer’s. Freddie caught snatches of information being fed back around her.

  ‘He was registered as living with his mother, a Mrs Lillian Hamlin,’ said Jamie. ‘Until he was in his twenties, sir.’

  As Lillian Hamlin faded so had Mark’s apparent last connection with reality. Somewhere in the last ten years he’d vanished from the system. With one ear on what was going on around her, Freddie scanned her Twitter timeline: a pattern was emerging. ‘Er…DCI?’ What was she supposed to call him? Definitely not sir. Never sir.

  ‘What?’ Moast looked up from the papers he had spread over his desk, something close to fear on his face.

  ‘I think there’s a Twitter-storm brewing.’ Her eyes flickered over the tweets.

  ‘A what?’ Nasreen was sat behind her; Freddie hadn’t noticed her there.

  ‘It’s like a reaction. A mob. They’re responding to Sophie’s death, or the photo of her.’ Freddie’s updates were coming so quickly she could barely read them before the screen refreshed. Freddie began to read the messages aloud: ‘Dan The Man says, “This is not funny anymore @Apollyon. This is fucked up.” Cary Frome says, “This is outrageous. Shut ‘Apollyon’ down.” Colin Banks says, “Stop tweeting about A******n you’re just giving him what he wants.”’

  ‘Who are these people?’ Tibbsy was at Moast’s shoulder, his face sagged like he couldn’t hold it up anymore.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Freddie. ‘Just people online, but it’s gathering pace. They’re sharing the photo of Sophie.’ Her generous smile spilled like sunlit raindrops over her timeline. ‘Gerry Hedel says: “What the hell is this?! This girl’s been murdered.” He’s hashtagged it: For Sophie.’ #ForSophie trickled through Freddie’s timeline, first the odd drip, then a torrent. ‘Someone called Justified Amy has set up a Change petition online calling for @Apollyon to be blocked from Twitter.’ Freddie’s screen was painfully slow updating…moving between the two. ‘There’s already a few thousand signatures on there. They’re suggesting people report him for spam.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Moast said.

  ‘If enough people do it, Twitter are likely to suspend the account. I think it’s based on a logarithm or something. Like an automatic default.’ Freddie’s screen flickered. Tweets cannot load right now. ‘Bugger, I’ve lost signal.’

  Moast twisted the other way. ‘Tibbsy, get on the phone to press liaison. I want a statement out there right now telling people not to report the account.’

  Freddie held her phone up, switched airplane mode on and off. ‘The system must be overloaded. Got it! Shit. Paige Klinger’s tweeted!’

  ‘Has she?’ Moast sounded surprised.

  ‘What’s she said?’ Nasreen pushed her chair back, joining Moast in hovering above her.

  ‘She says: “#RIP @SophieCat111. @Apollyon go fuck yourself.”’

  ‘Punchy,’ said Nas.

  ‘No.’ Freddie exhaled. Blinked. ‘She’s tweeted the link to the petition. She’s hashtagged it “For Sophie”. She’s asked them all to report Apollyon. It’s going crazy. It’s going viral.’

  ‘Jackie, this is Sergeant Tibbsy, I need to get a message onto our Twitter account urgently,’ Tibbsy was saying into his phone.

  ‘I’ve lost signal, again.’ Freddie’s fingers flickered over her phone. Come on. ‘Get out my way, you might be blocking it.’ She stood and raised her phone up.

  ‘Someone get me Twitter on a laptop right now?’ Moast shouted.

  ‘The station server must be down. I can’t get Wi-Fi.’ Nas had her phone out.

  Freddie closed Wi-Fi. The tiny 3G symbol appeared on her phone. ‘Got it!’

  She slid between screens. ‘It’s up! @JubileePolice has tweeted: “Pls do not report @Apollyon. It’s part of an ongoing police investigation. If you have concerns, contact your local station on 101.”’

  ‘The guys on the switchboards are going to love that,’ Tibbsy said

  Freddie felt her shoulders drop. ‘It’s not working.’ Twitter was responding as she would have just last week. ‘They don’t trust you guys.’

  ‘Now what?’ Moast pulled Nas’s phone toward him.

  ‘I can’t see it,’ said Nas.

  Stupid idiots. ‘They’re saying things like: “Oh yeah coz you’re all over it @JubileePolice? #ForSophie (David Frome @DavidBigBae). Erm, and: “We got to sort this shit. Pigs doing nothing. Let’s take this mo fo down. #ForSophie” (Big Girlz @BigGirrrl).’

  ‘Great!’ Moast threw his hands in the air.

  Freddie tapped between streams. ‘It’s trending: #ForSophie.’ She clicked on the first message that mentioned @Apollyon, clicking on the link. ‘Shit. It’s gone. “This user is currently unavailable.” Fuck. Guys, Twitter have taken it down. Apollyon’s been suspended.’

  ‘Slower, Freddie,’ Nas placed a hand on her arm, looked directly at her eyes. ‘What does that mean – suspended?’

  Freddie swallowed. ‘It means they can’t tweet. We can’t see Apollyon’s account or their tweets.’

  ‘Our only lead.’ Moast collapsed onto a chair and kicked the desk leg in front of him. ‘I want a photo of Hamlin circulated to all units. We need eyes on him.’

  Freddie stared at her phone. As tweeters celebrated suspending @Apollyon’s account. As if erasing him from Twitter erased him from the world. Just because you couldn’t see him, didn’t mean he wasn’t there. There, or where? In the space of an hour they’d lost sight of both Hamlin and Apollyon. Or maybe just one person: the Hashtag Murderer. Moast’s elbows rested on his knees, his head in his hands. Tibbsy was pacing. Freddie looked to Nas. For the first time since she’d walked back into her life after eight years, Freddie saw panic in Nasreen’s eyes.

  Chapter 29

  C&B – Crash and Burn

  11:30

  Thursday 5 November

  Account Suspended

  Freddie had gone for a walk under the pretence of getting some air. She’d watched as Moast, Tibbsy, Nas and the team went into lockdown. Everyone was head down, working. Searching. Hunting. Looking for anything that would lead them to Apollyon. It all spun round her head. Was it a coincidence that Paige Klinger had cropped up again, her tweet arguably leading to the suspension of the Apollyon account? She had a beef with Mardling, but nothing that they could ascertain with poor quiet Sophie Phillips. She’d paced up and down the parade of shops that flanked the 1970s monstrosity that was Jubilee police station. But the clutter and sounds of London, which had always soothed her in the past, offered no relief now.

  With the pile of coins and his timely disappearance, Hamlin could be Apollyon. But Freddie couldn’t shake the image of the petrified frail man she’d seen forcibly arrested. Could tha
t person be the same one who’d slashed Mardling and closed his hands round Sophie’s neck? Their dead faces looked at Freddie accusingly. She heard the voices of all those who’d ever taunted her online. What gives you the right to comment on this? Call yourself a journalist: my three-year-old could do this. Who is Freddie Venton and why should I care what she thinks? Stupid whore. Idiot slut.

  This wasn’t helping anything. She pushed back into the warmth of the station, squeezing a half-smile for the fat Duty Sergeant who’d processed her when she’d been arrested. He released the door for her. Process. That word again. They were obsessed with it. It had got them about as far as her instinct had.

  The incident room was unnervingly quiet. Half-empty as calls were made, house calls, follow-ups, favours, forensics. All process. She sat back down at an empty computer. There must be something she was missing. Again she typed in Mark Hamlin. Then added Bristol. Then Kent to his name. The mention of Sevenoaks Grammar School caught her eye. She clicked through to a page that announced it was the password-protected records of Sevenoaks Grammar School, available for ex-students and teachers to view. She clicked password and typed: Password. Worth a try. Password incorrect. She tried again: Password1. Password incorrect. Come on, think, Freddie. She typed: 7evenoaks. Bingo! The file directory opened. She typed in Mark Hamlin. Mark Hamlin: Year 1 to 7 appeared. She opened it. The first years were very standard and sweet: ‘Mark plays well with others in class.’ ‘Mark is good at sharing.’ But then they shifted. ‘Despite being diagnosed with dyspraxia, Mark has sought to remain a hard-working and happy boy.’ Freddie looked up and waved at Nas. ‘Look at this.’ She beckoned her over.

  Nas read over her shoulder. ‘How’d you get into this? On second thoughts, don’t tell me,’ she said. ‘Google dyspraxia.’

  Freddie pulled up the first result, running her finger under the text: Children with dyspraxia may present with difficulties with self-care. ‘Well that fits, think of the state of Hamlin and his flat,’ she said.

  ‘What else does it say?’ Freddie continued running her finger under the text. Children with dyspraxia may also present with difficulties with typing and writing. These difficulties may continue into adulthood.

  ‘Wait.’ Freddie’s fingers flew over the keyboard. ‘Let me Google that.’ She typed in: Mark Hamlin Dyspraxia Bristol Uni, and scanned the results. ‘There, look.’ She clicked through to a student newspaper article about a yearly Summersby Prize:

  Shortlisted Mark Hamlin, a gifted student and sufferer of dyspraxia, wished to make a special note of thanks to Leonie Parsons, his full-time Learning Support Officer, who types up Mark’s research and assignments.

  ‘Could someone who was that dyspractic have typed up those clues?’ Freddie said.

  ‘I’m not sure, but I’m thinking there’s a strong chance the answer is no.’ Nasreen leant forward and read the computer screen again.

  ‘But that would mean Hamlin isn’t the Hashtag Murderer?’ Freddie said.

  ‘Possibly. It’s not conclusive proof, but a reasonable doubt,’ said Nasreen.

  ‘You’ve got to tell Moast.’ Freddie gripped her arm. ‘Seriously, Nas, if this is right then we’re looking in the wrong place.’

  ‘We need more. Could we, I don’t know, search Twitter for any mentions of Mark Hamlin. I don’t know what we’re looking for, but maybe something will pop?’

  Freddie didn’t want to break it to her that she’d already done that. Yesterday. Before they’d even got to the Shadwell estate. There was nothing on Mark Hamlin; just some guy in Ohio who’d tweeted once in 2006. ‘Sure.’ No harm trying again. So far Twitter was the only thing that had turned up solid leads.

  The white Twitter bird paused and then lunged toward her, opening up into the white background of her account. The photo caught her like a left hook. That all too familiar photo of Mardling’s dead body. Apollyon’s profile picture. But it wasn’t Apollyon. Couldn’t be, the account was suspended. A yelp escaped her mouth; she clamped her hand over it.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Nasreen’s hands steadied her as she rocked back in her chair.

  ‘He’s back,’ her voice came out loud.

  Moast looked up. Tibbsy turned.

  ‘@Apollyon?’ Nas said.

  Freddie stared at the profile picture, the words ‘guess who’s back?’ A new account. A replacement. ‘No. @Apollyon2.’

  ‘Is it them?’ Moast was coming toward them.

  ‘Could be an impersonator?’ said Nas.

  Tibbsy was grabbing his phone. How many of the police force were now on Twitter?

  ‘Same photo. Same bio. Same name. Almost. Could be Apollyon. Looks like it.’ Freddie watched as @Apollyon2’s tweet spread through Twitter.

  ‘What have they said?’ Moast asked.

  ‘Just: “guess who’s back?”’ Did it mean anything? thought Freddie.

  ‘Is it a clue?’ Nas said.

  ‘I…I don’t know.’ Freddie scrolled through the replies. Other Twitter users were asking the same question. Guessing. Is ‘back’ a place? Perhaps it’s to do with a chiropractor? ‘Could be. I’m not sure.’

  ‘Tibbsy, get onto IT, get them to get a trace on this new account,’ Moast said. Tibbsy disappeared out of the room.

  Freddie set her phone to vibrate if Apollyon2 tweeted. Maybe it wasn’t the real Hashtag Murderer? It could be a spoof account. A tasteless joke. Her mobile vibrated.

  Apollyon2 had posted an Instagram photo. Freddie opened the image: a close-up of a pair of young blue eyes, wide with fear, the edge of tape could just be seen cutting into the skin over the mouth. Freddie dropped her phone.

  ‘What is it? Show me.’ Moast grabbed it from the floor.

  Freddie was shaking. She couldn’t get her words out. Couldn’t get enough air.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Moast said.

  ‘What is it, guv?’ Nas rested her hand on Freddie’s shoulder.

  Freddie watched as all the colour drained from Moast’s face. Silently he turned the phone toward them. The terrified eyes peered out at them. Mayfair filter.

  Freddie felt Nas’s grip tighten on her shoulder. ‘She can only be, what, thirteen?’ Nas said.

  Barely a teen. An innocent. Almost the same age as she and Nas had been when it had all gone wrong. ‘Is she alive?’ The words gushed out of Freddie.

  ‘When the photo was taken, yes,’ said Moast.

  None of them wanted to acknowledge the implication in his words. When the photo was taken. Was the young girl alive now? Only @Apollyon2 could answer that.

  ‘Guv!’ Tibbsy flung open the incident room. His mobile in his hand. ‘We’ve got the bastard.’

  Moast and Nas turned. Freddie gaped at him.

  ‘IT have got him. The bastard slipped up. The metadata on the Instagram shot is still live. We’ve got his coordinates. We’ve got him.’

  Nas was already halfway into her jacket. ‘Where?’

  ‘Welsh border. Near a small village: Abbey Dore.’

  ‘What is he doing there?’ Freddie said.

  ‘Get onto the local force, tell them to stand by. Cudmore, radio in a call for the helicopter. You, me, Tibbsy and Venton are going. I want you there in case he tweets again,’ Moast said to Freddie. ‘You can watch the account in real time. I’ll clear it with Gray. Good work, team.’

  Freddie’s stomach flipped. Helicopter?

  ‘The Welsh border,’ Nas was saying. ‘It can’t be Hamlin: he’d never have made it up there in time.’

  Helicopter. Why wasn’t Nas helping her? Aviophobic. A.V.I.O.P.H.O.B.I.C. Freddie’s stomach contracted, threatening to fold her in half. Always travel by train. Or boat. So much better for the environment. Too broke to go abroad. The cheerful voice she’d used to get out of flying in the past wasn’t going to wash now. The last time she’d flown it had been on a big plane. Huge. It’d had still taken three gins and a Valium her uni mate had brought back from India. Now there was no Valium. No gin. No large sturdy aircraft.

  ‘Com
e on, Freddie.’ Nas placed a hand on her back, shoving her forward.

  Did she not remember?

  Jamie drove them at speed, blue lights flashing, to the airfield. ‘You’ll like this, Freddie. The Met’s helicopters have their own Twitter account,’ he was saying. ‘Over 100,000 followers.’

  ‘Any more tweets?’ Nas asked.

  Freddie shook her head dumbly. She was doing this for the young girl. Those haunted blue eyes. They had to get there in time. Had to. She could see Moast’s face set, determined, reflected in the windscreen. Did he think they were already too late?

  Tibbsy, shifting in his seat, seemed to be fighting his earlier beaten posture. He was relentlessly upbeat, but she couldn’t tell for whose benefit. ‘All the pilots are ex-military. No need to be nervous! We’ll be in good hands,’ he said.

  Freddie closed her hands tight round her phone. No more tweets must be a good sign, right? Unless they were busy…doing…She let the thought go. Flipped her attention back to the impending flight. Had Nas really forgotten? But then they’d never flown together. Too young for that kind of holiday before they’d been split up. This was just like her: so focused it never crossed her mind that someone else might be weaker. The car drove out onto the airstrip; she could see it. Blue and yellow, like an angry bee, its blades sharp, like knives turning.

  ‘The mountain force have closed the signal in on a deserted farmhouse. We’ll be able to get pretty close, and then do the last bit in an unmarked vehicle so as not to alert them.’ Moast twisted back to them.

  ‘I’m frightened,’ she managed.

  ‘Nothing to worry about, Venters. We’ve got the bastard now,’ Tibbsy said. She followed him out. The downdraught whipping her hair up and away from her face. She could do this.