‘We’ve got to tell Moast,’ Nas said. ‘Now.’
Freddie managed to nod and followed Nas out of the room. The floor was spongy under her feet. They found Moast in his office, a small beige rectangle of a room. No external windows, just a glass panel into the corridor covered with a lowered blind. Freddie hadn’t been in here before.
‘Sit down, Freddie,’ Nas said, signalling at one of the two chairs that faced Moast’s desk. She still had hold of her phone.
‘You all right, Venton? You worried me a bit there?’ Moast said. The overhead strip lighting bleached any remaining colour from Moast’s cheeks. He looked dead.
‘Freddie has had communication from Apollyon, sir.’ Nas held the phone toward him. Freddie tried to nod.
‘What? On Twitter?’ Moast reached for the phone. ‘What did he say?’
‘Er…“and what are you with your red fucking fake hair going to do?”’ Nas said.
‘Wait,’ Moast was tapping his biro against the desk. ‘Did you tweet him?’
‘Yes,’ Freddie managed.
‘Show me.’
‘See here, sir.’ Nas reached across the desk.
Moast whistled like a plumber assessing a broken boiler. He was up and pacing now. He took the phone. Read it. Handed it back to Nas. Freddie realised she was still shaking. Moast was tapping his finger against his mouth.
‘Sir?’ said Nas.
‘I’m thinking.’
‘What should we do?’ asked Nas.
Moast came round to their side of the desk and leant against it. ‘The way I see it, this could be good,’ he said.
Freddie was surprised. Nothing about this felt good.
‘If this communication is genuine we could gain something from it. Draw him out. See if we can learn more about him. What did you say to get him to respond?’ Moast looked at Freddie.
‘I called him a fucktard.’
‘Okay. So you angered him, you’ve pierced his ego. This is good.’ Moast shook his biro between his thumb and forefinger. Nas nodded.
How was it a good thing to piss off a serial killer?
‘Yes,’ said Nas. ‘Display arrogance, that’s what you need to do. He clearly thinks Freddie is no match for him.’
‘I’m not,’ Freddie’s voice came out in a squeak. One day that temper of yours will get you into real trouble. Her mum’s prophecy rang through her head. She looked at the certificates of training Moast had hanging on the wall.
‘We could get her to do it again, sir. See if he bites.’ said Nas.
‘Now wait a minute…’ said Freddie.
‘If she can wind him up sufficiently, then he may reveal something, is that what you’re thinking?’ Moast looked at Nas intently.
‘Now wait, seriously guys. The first time I was angry. I don’t want to be on his radar,’ Freddie said. Moast had three used mugs on his desk.
‘This is the first time he’s interacted with anyone…well, anyone who wasn’t already dead.’ Moast was still looking at Nas. The two locked in an excited conversation, caught by the idea this might be the long-awaited breakthrough. Freddie’s throat slammed shut.
‘Do it again, Venton,’ Moast said. ‘I know you know how to get on someone’s nerves.’
‘You do it,’ Freddie wheezed.
‘I haven’t got a Twitter account. Besides, he’s responded to you once,’ Moast said. ‘You’re in his sights.’
‘Like prey?’ This couldn’t be happening, Freddie thought.
‘You’re sitting in the middle of a police station, nothing’s going to happen to you,’ said Moast.
‘Ha!’ she scoffed. ‘And what about when I go home? Or do you envisage me living in the canteen till you catch this psycho. If you catch this psycho.’
‘Venton, there’s nothing to suggest you’re a target of his. It doesn’t fit with his previous pattern of behaviour. He’s followed people he’s killed, but never tweeted anyone.’ Moast held out her phone to her. ‘If it makes you feel better I’ll have officers escort you to your door and back again.’
She nodded. Apollyon hadn’t followed her. She wasn’t in danger, she told herself.
‘We will get this guy,’ Moast said.
‘What happened to making promises you couldn’t keep?’ she asked.
Nas put an arm round her shoulder. ‘I think it’ll really help, Freddie. We could get him with this. People make mistakes when they’re angry.’ Her voice was soft, convincing.
‘Don’t I bloody know it,’ she said.
‘Either you do it or I will.’ Moast pulled the phone back.
‘Wait! Stop! I’ll do it.’ She had to keep control of the situation. Freddie took the phone from Moast. Closed her eyes: imagined herself in a small dark room, facing a shadowy figure. She would make him talk. She typed and showed Moast and Nas the message:
@Apollyon You think you’re such a big shot? You’re nothing but a dumbfuck wank smear.
They nodded and she pressed send. They all watched it go, bent over the phone, their three heads almost touching. Freddie closed Twitter and reopened it. She put the phone on standby and restarted it. She shook it. Nothing.
A beep from Moast’s phone on his desk made all three of them jump. ‘Fuck!’ Moast grabbed it. ‘Bloody pizza company text: Two for one.’
Freddie tried to slow her heartbeat. Willing it to settle. She couldn’t spend every waking minute like this. Strung out. Thrumming with anxiety. ‘I don’t think it’s worked.’
‘It’s sent, right?’ asked Moast.
Nasreen leant back in her chair: ‘Yes, but he hasn’t replied. Oh well. It was worth a shot.’
They sat for another minute in silence. Freddie willing her phone to vibrate. To tell them something. Send up a tiny flare they could trace.
Moast exhaled. ‘Perhaps you weren’t offensive enough?’
‘What would you suggest,’ Freddie snapped, ‘I tell him I fucked his mother?’
‘Maybe,’ said Moast.
‘This is ridiculous. I’m not doing that. It doesn’t even make sense. It was obviously a one-off. A freak occurrence.’ Freddie tried to reassure herself. ‘Maybe he has two phones? Or two accounts and he posted it on this one by accident?’
‘No,’ Nas shook her head. ‘That was no accident. That was taunting. Apollyon wants us to know he’s always one step ahead.’
‘Well he is!’ Freddie closed the screen on her phone.
‘Okay, calm down. It’s been a stressful day,’ said Moast.
Freddie snorted.
‘Let’s regroup.’ Moast ran his hand over his scalp. ‘Do we think there’s anything in Hamlin’s, Klinger’s or Richards’ personalities that aligns with this? Any telltale signs?’
‘Paige Klinger’s privileged, expects special treatment – she could have a God complex?’ Nas suggested.
‘Richards is certainly delusional. He’s obsessed with Paige,’ Moast said. ‘Where’s Tibbsy?’
‘Not sure, sir,’ said Nas.
‘It’d be good to get his input on this,’ Moast said. ‘Let’s compare what Apollyon tweeted to Venton with his other tweets. See if there’s any pattern.’
Freddie shook her head as if trying to dislodge it all. Paige Klinger. Noel Richards. Mark Hamlin. Moast was looking at her.
‘Okay, I think you’ve had enough for today. Cudmore, have someone take Venton home, make sure she gets there safe. We’ll pick this up again tomorrow. With Tibbsy as well. We’re all tired. We all need sleep. I need to think.’
Nas smiled at Freddie as if she were a child. ‘Yes, sir,’ she said.
Nasreen cupped the vending machine tea in her hands. A quick five-minute break and then she’d crack on. DCI Moast was coming out of his office, pulling his coat on.
‘You still here, Cudmore?’ he said, zipping his puffa up.
‘Just wanted to run over a few things again, guv.’ There must be something they’d missed about Alun Mardling, Sophie Phillips and Dr Grape. Some thread that tied them to Paige Kli
nger, Noel Richards or Mark Hamlin. She could sense it, the hole in the jigsaw puzzle.
DCI Moast pulled his leather gloves on. ‘Did Venton get off all right?’
‘Yes, Tibbsy is giving her a lift home. She’s a bit shaken up.’ Nasreen was relieved Freddie had left, she was so jittery it was distracting.
‘This case is getting to us all,’ Moast frowned.
He looked shattered. ‘We’ll get there, sir,’ she said. ‘We have to.’
Nasreen watched Moast walk out into the car park and thought about calling it a day too. She longed to curl up on her sofa with a glass of Malbec and iPlayer. Put all this out of her mind. But she knew it didn’t work like that. She wouldn’t be able to let the case go until it was resolved. She was knackered, but that could work for her. Nasreen often found there was clarity when her mind was slowed by tiredness. When her rushing thoughts were stilled. That was when the truth might float to the surface.
The incident room was empty. Nasreen stood in front of the boards, reading again everything she already knew. Everything she’d read a thousand times before. Why had Paige Klinger sent her lawyers to free Richards? It did suggest she was trying to protect him. Had she instigated the attacks? Insisted Richards do it, possibly paid him? She was rich, influential and a known drug user, did she feel entitled to snub out those who got in her way? Both Mardling and Grape had publicly abused her.
But then there was Mark Hamlin. He’d seemed frightened, weak to Nasreen. But Apollyon’s tweets had stopped while Hamlin was in custody. And they started up when he was released. It seemed an unlikely coincidence. Nasreen thought of the piles of fifty pence pieces and pound coins on Sophie Phillips’ dresser: just like all those found in Hamlin’s flat. And where was Hamlin? Since the tail had lost him he’d not resurfaced. Hamlin had met Alun Mardling. Mardling had thrown him out of the bank. But they’d found nothing to link Hamlin to Dr Grape.
Nasreen looked again at the photo of Sophie’s body on her bed. It was largely unmarked compared to the violence meted out to Mardling and Grape. Nasreen had double-checked all of Sophie’s work colleagues’ statements: no one remembered her mentioning a cat. It didn’t fit. Something wasn’t right. They’d still not found the device Sophie Phillips had used to post online. Locating that might provide some answers. Alert them to someone in Sophie’s life they’d missed.
There were links between Paige Klinger, and possibly Noel Richards, with Mardling and Grape, but not Sophie. There were links between Mark Hamlin and Mardling and Sophie, but not Dr Grape. Was it possible they were looking at two different culprits? Or was the perpetrator genuinely selecting victims at random from Twitter. It was an alarming thought. With no links, no patterns, and with arbitrarily selected vics, how would they narrow their search down?
There was a knock at the door. ‘Come in!’ Nasreen shouted. The robust figure of PC Boulson leant into the room. ‘All right, constable?’ she said.
‘Sorry, I was looking for the guv.’ Boulson’s teeth shone white against his skin.
‘He’s left for the night. Anything I can help with?’ She didn’t want to get stuck here, but Boulson was a nice guy. A good cop.
‘I’ve got this woman on the phone. Says she’s a friend of your Sophie Phillips,’ he said.
‘From the council?’ Nasreen said.
‘No, before that. From university,’ he said.
Nasreen tucked the pen she was holding behind her ear. ‘But Sophie didn’t go to university. We have no record of that.’
‘That’s what she says. Probably a wind-up merchant. Seen all the fuss about this in the press, like,’ he shrugged.
Nasreen sighed. She could do without this. ‘Yeah, all right. Put her through.’
‘Hello?’ said a female voice on the other end. ‘I want to speak to someone about Sophie Phillips.’
‘Yes, ma’am. I can help you with that.’ Nas sat at the desk and slid her bag toward her with her foot. She’d get this over with and call it a day. ‘I understand you claim you went to university with Sophie Phillips?’
‘That’s right. We were at Brighton together. Except she wasn’t called Sophie then, she was called Imogen Leatherby.’
‘You knew Sophie under a different name?’ Why would she be using a different name?
‘Yeah, I always wondered what happened to her. She’s changed her hair and that, but I’d recognise that face anywhere.’
‘Sorry ma’am, what did you say your name was?’ Nas looked up at the smiling photo of Sophie from the newspaper that was pinned to the board.
‘Mel. Melanie Cole,’ she said. ‘Was it him – that killed her?’
He? ‘Who?’ Nas asked. The woman seemed calm. The slight hint of upset when she said Imogen. She didn’t sound like she was lying. Nasreen wished she could see her body language.
‘I can’t remember his name. It must be nearly ten years since I saw her. But I always thought it was down to him that she left,’ Mel said.
‘She left?’ Nas was writing all this down.
‘Sorry,’ Mel said. ‘I’m not making myself very clear. It was a bit of a shock. I’ve just seen the photo in the paper. In the pub. It’s a few days old.’
‘Yes,’ said Nas. Perhaps this was a time-waster after all. Some lonely woman who wanted to talk.
‘I met Imogen at university. Nice girl. Quiet. Bit of a sad home life: she was raised by her Auntie. Emma I think she was called,’ Mel said.
Nasreen gripped the pen. The photograph of the older woman they’d found in Sophie’s room had said Auntie Em, Brighton Pier on it. ‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Imogen wasn’t really up for going out drinking and it got worse after she met this guy,’ Mel said. ‘He worked for the university. Did the computers.’ Computers. The Internet. Twitter. Was this the breakthrough they were looking for? ‘Well I never liked him. Creepy he was,’ Mel said. ‘The jealous type. He didn’t like Imogen seeing us. I started to notice bruises on her arms. A black eye once. She said she was clumsy…’ she trailed off.
‘Go on,’ Nasreen said, scribbling down every word Mel said.
‘I kept trying to see her. To reach her. But it got harder and harder. She dropped out of university in the end. I never saw her after that,’ Mel said.
‘And you can’t remember the name of Imogen’s partner?’
‘No, sorry. I only saw him once or twice. In the computer labs. He didn’t want to talk to us.’
‘And do you have any proof that Imogen Leatherby is Sophie Phillips – any photos?’
‘I might do. Back at my flat. I’ll have to look. She had red hair back then,’ Mel said.
‘Great. Could you do that? Email it over to me as soon as possible. And what year was this – when Imogen was at Brighton University?’ Nas typed Imogen Leatherby into the police database. Zero results. She’d never been involved with the police then. Never reported a crime.
‘2005,’ Mel said.
As soon as she was off the phone Nasreen Googled ‘Imogen Leatherby Brighton University 2005’. An article in the Brighton & Hove newspaper was the first result: University Computer Club Receive New Equipment. A photo at the top of the page showed a group of students smiling in their new lab. Nasreen gasped. There in the front was Sophie Phillips with long red hair. Sophie Phillips was Imogen Leatherby. She printed the photo from the newspaper. Holding it up against the photo of Sophie Phillips on the incident board. Her hair had been cut and dyed blonde, but it was clearly the same girl. No doubt about it. It was then that Nasreen saw another face that she recognised in the photo. Toward the back. Almost hidden by the others. It couldn’t be? ‘Holy shit!’ Computer club. Imogen Leatherby. What had Melanie Cole said? I always wondered what happened to her. Was it him – that killed her? Nasreen’s eyes took in the whole incident board. Auntie Em Brighton Pier 2003. Sophie wasn’t a cat lover selected at random from Twitter by Apollyon. No wonder nothing seemed to feel right or fit with Sophie’s murder compared to the others. There was no cat. There was no devi
ce. She wasn’t a cat lover at all. Sophie Phillips was Imogen Leatherby. And the missing piece clicked into place.
Freddie took two attempts to undo her seatbelt as Tibbsy stopped the car outside her flat. The pub glowed warm and inviting in the dark. It was rammed. It reminded her of meeting Brian at The Bearded Mole. Of her posting her location online. Had he sought her out that night? Was he the Hashtag Murderer? She couldn’t bear the thought that the hands that had done that to Grape had been on her, inside her. No, it was nonsense. She was paranoid. Cracking up. She shivered at the thought of Apollyon’s tweet again. What an idiot she’d been.
‘Need me to walk you to the door?’ said Tibbsy.
Freddie hesitated for a second. Apollyon hadn’t replied though, had he? He wasn’t genuinely interested in her. He was probably having a bad day – trouble at t’ kill, she thought wryly. He’d just lashed out. Then she felt the guilt trickle through her veins. It was no laughing matter. She had to pull herself together. ‘No, it’s cool. I’ll be fine.’
She slammed the car door behind her and gave a little wave. No sign of any of her flatmates enjoying a post-work pint in the concrete garden of the Queen Elizabeth pub. A group she didn’t recognise was huddled under one of the outdoor heaters. The football was on tonight, wasn’t it? Great: no early night for her. Steam rose from a mulled wine glass one of the women was cradling in her hand. Her hair was dyed with chalk like hers had been. But better. She would’ve liked to ask what brand it was, but she couldn’t bring herself to talk to anyone. The thought of small talk mortified her. Now was not the time to think about bloody hair dye.
Freddie reached the door and put her key in the lock. As it turned, it hit her: you with your red fucking fake hair. How the hell did Apollyon know she’d dyed her hair a fortnight ago? The significance trickled over her like icy water. Whoever Apollyon was he must have seen her. Up close. In person.
Chapter 40
PDA – Public Display of Affection
21:47
Tuesday 10 November
Follow Me: A chilling, thrilling, addictive crime novel Page 29
