Follow Me: A chilling, thrilling, addictive crime novel

by Angela Clarke

  Freddie wondered where else Alun Mardling might pop up online. She took her phone out and Googled him.

  Moast took a step closer to the board. ‘Right let’s go over what we’ve got again.Victim Alun Mardling. Linked to Paige Klinger – who may or may not have been aware of the abuse he was sending her. Who links to unknown fans – who may or may not have acted in revenge on behalf of Miss Klinger. Apart from a historic incident of harassment – committed by the victim – there’s nothing else that flags in his personal life. Anything unusual happen at work recently?’

  ‘I spoke to the branch deputy at the bank Mardling worked at.’ Nas read from her notebook, ‘A Mrs Rose Attwood, she said there was a woman a few weeks ago who got very upset when Mardling didn’t agree her overdraft. Apparently she had a young kid and she couldn’t afford her rent, ended up getting evicted.’

  ‘What a charmer,’ Freddie muttered. You’d think the banks’d be a bit more lenient to the little people, after they had to be bailed out of their own screw-up.

  ‘The woman, called Charlene Beeson, had to be removed by security after she dumped a bag of used nappies on Mardling’s desk,’ Nas said.

  Freddie laughed. You go, girl!

  ‘Alibi?’ said Moast.

  ‘She and her daughter were staying in the Women’s Refuge Shelter on Barnard Street, sir. They lock the door at night and the CCTV confirms she never left.’

  Freddie scrolled through Google. Alun Mardling’s Twitter feed came up first. Then a link to his Facebook. After that there was a mention in a write-up about a charity fundraiser in the local E14 paper, The Wharf, and then other Alun Mardlings. Not the one they were interested in. She clicked onto iBooks and selected a John Donne poetry collection and Hemingway’s For Whom the Bell Tolls to download. Jesus: £5.99? She thought dead authors were supposed to be cheap! No harm brushing up anyway, they might provide further illumination on these weird tweets. She clicked through to Twitter. The politician Charles Vass had tweeted his own name – Charles Vass. That was all. It flickered through her timeline. Then her breath caught in her throat. The Times columnist Victoria Ducane was the first, but soon everyone was sharing it. ‘He’s tweeted.’

  ‘Apollyon?’ Nasreen turned.

  ‘What does it say?’ said Tibbsy.

  ‘Read it out,’ Moast said, pen poised over the whiteboard.

  Freddie swallowed. ‘It says: Who’s next? #murderer.’ She watched the colour drain from Nasreen’s face.

  ‘What, what does it mean?’ Tibbsy tripped over his words.

  Freddie put her phone down on the table in front of her. She didn’t want to touch it. ‘It means there’s a serial killer on Twitter.’

  Chapter 13

  SMH – Shake My Head

  12: 50

  Sunday 1 November

  1 FOLLOWING 47,001 FOLLOWERS

  ‘We have no proof of that,’ Moast snapped.

  ‘We have @Apollyon’s tweets.’ Freddie was pacing, watching the message waterfall through her Twitter feed.

  ‘We don’t even know if this Apollyon is responsible for Alun Mardling’s death,’ said Nas.

  ‘Then how do you explain the knife in his profile photo? The one right next to the dead bloody body?’ She couldn’t believe they were so calm.

  ‘Circumstantial,’ said Tibbsy.

  ‘Can you just stop jumping about and show me that message, Venton.’ Moast held out his palm.

  ‘Here take mine, sir,’ Nasreen produced her phone from her pocket.

  ‘Cudmore?’ Moast stared at her.

  Nasreen blushed. ‘I know we’re heavily dissuaded from using social media – that the Superintendent doesn’t like it, sir – but I thought it was relevant to the case. I can delete the app if you think it’s best?’

  ‘No. Good initiative,’ said Moast. He bent over Nas’s mobile.

  ‘So you accept this is playing out on Twitter then!’ Freddie waved her phone in front of them.

  ‘It’s an avenue of enquiry – that’s all, Freddie.’ Nasreen tapped her screen. ‘I haven’t posted anything and I have no intention of doing that, sir. I just follow @Apollyon. See, here’s his tweet.’

  ‘The tweet of a serial killer!’ Freddie said.

  ‘Freddie, we don’t use that phrase, it makes people panic,’ Nasreen said.

  ‘Too bloody right, I’m panicked!’ Mardling’s butchered body flashed in front of her eyes. ‘Can’t you just ask Twitter who owns the account?’

  ‘Requesting information from Twitter pretty much counts as communications interception, we’d have to apply for a court order under the Regulation of Investigatory Powers Act. It’d take a lot of paperwork,’ Nasreen said.

  ‘Even then there’s not much hope,’ added Moast.

  ‘What do you mean there’s not much hope?’ Freddie’s palms were wet with sweat – she nearly dropped her phone.

  ‘I spoke to the boys in the Gremlin Taskforce – they’ve experience of this,’ Moast said. ‘Twitter is an American-owned company, they don’t have to comply with a UK court order.’

  ‘We’re talking about a murderer – surely they’ll just hand it over!’ Freddie rubbed her hand against her jeans.

  ‘There’ve been other cases: bomb threats, people boasting online about sexual assaults.’ Moast clenched and released his fists. ‘Because of a treaty that exists between us and the US, Twitter can easily decline to answer our questions. In fact they often don’t reply at all. Typical Yanks.’

  They all stared at Moast. A drop of sweat fell from Freddie’s hand onto the floor. ‘That’s globalisation for you,’ said Freddie.

  ‘What?’ Nas asked.

  ‘The technique by which companies or organisations develop international influence to fuck us all,’ she snapped. From what she’d seen of the police’s involvement with technology, she wouldn’t be surprised if they’d just emailed it to info@Twitter.com.

  ‘This is no time for loony left-wing crap.’ Moast leant against the desk.

  ‘It could just be a hoax, sir.’ Tibbsy folded his lanky frame next to him.

  ‘Not sure Alun Mardling would find it funny.’ Freddie was pacing again. It was getting really hot in here.

  ‘I mean an empty threat. Toying with us,’ Tibbsy said.

  ‘Sit down, Venton.’ Moast’s voice was firm.

  Freddie wiped her forehead. The air was heavy. She sat on a chair. Tugged at her jumper’s collar.

  ‘Or plausibly an accomplice?’ Tibbsy said.

  ‘Try to breathe slowly, Freddie.’ Nasreen crouched in front of her.

  Sweat trickled down her neck. It was Mardling’s blood. She was breathing it in. She was drowning.

  ‘I knew this would happen – a civilian shouldn’t be anywhere near this investigation.’ Moast placed his hand on her head. ‘Head between your knees. Tibbsy, get her a sugary tea – she’s having a panic attack.’

  Freddie’s face was pressed into her phone. Twitter filled her eyes. There were more.

  Sandra Barnes @SandyBitch • 2m

  Anyone else creeped out by this? >>> RT @Apollyon Who’s next? #murderer

  Flash Heart @Flasheart • 1m

  F**cked up. RT @Apollyon Who’s next?

  #murderer

  Will Horton @Willy67 • 50s

  NOT for whom the bell lolz. *hides under bed*

  #murderer

  She fought to get her breathing under control. ‘They all think it – everyone on Twitter – there’s going to be another murder!’

  ‘You’re just panicking, Freddie,’ Nasreen said.

  ‘So is everyone else! Look!’

  Moast held her hand still so he could see the screen. Nasreen fiddled with her mobile. ‘She may be right, sir.’

  ‘Shit.’ Moast ran his hand up and over his face and through his hair. ‘This is all we need. Call a press briefing – three o’clock this afternoon. We need to get this under control. We don’t want the public anxious.’

  ‘Sir.’ Nasreen disappeared ou
t the door. Freddie’s body shook as it forced oxygen round.

  Tibbsy crouched to give her a tea. ‘All right?’ His eyes were wide and shiny with worry.

  She smiled weakly at him. As she took a sickly gulp, the words serial killer spread like mould across her feed. It was breaking news on BuzzFeed, The Metro. It was a virus. There was no getting this under control. There was no damage limitation. Freddie thought grimly, The Meany is Out of the Bottle.

  14:55

  Sunday 1 November

  1 FOLLOWING 49,341 FOLLOWERS

  Nasreen tried to smile confidently at Moast. She’d pick a one-to-one with a violent perp any day over this. A press conference. Cameras. Microphones. Questions. She felt sick to her stomach. She had to pull herself together. If she wanted to get promoted to a DCI, then she’d have to get over this babyish fear. She cleared her throat. Again. She looked at Freddie: she was picking at a bit of skin on her fingernail. She hadn’t even brushed her hair. This stuff had never bothered her, even when they were little. Nasreen remembered the humiliation of the school nativity play. Her parents were so proud she’d been given the starring role. ‘First Indian Mary there’s ever been,’ her mum would say. She had one line. The line. ‘And lo, the baby Jesus is born.’ When it came to say it, Nasreen was dumbstruck from all the expectant faces. Everyone was staring at her. Mrs Allen, their teacher, hissing prompts from the sidelines. She opened her mouth but nothing happened. People started to laugh in the audience and she’d looked around desperately for help. And then up jumped Freddie, dressed as a sheep, and shouted, ‘Lo, the baby Jesus is born. Baaa!’ Everyone cheered. Nasreen nearly ran across the stage and hugged her, she was so thankful. But things changed. By the time they were teenagers Freddie would do anything to be centre of attention. Anything, she thought bitterly.

  ‘If they ask you a direct question, let me answer.’ Moast took a sip of water from the glasses provided in the Premier Inn’s side room.

  Nasreen nodded. And tried again to smile confidently. The conference room next door had been prepped. Interest in the Hashtag Murderer case was fevered. She could hear the journalists gathering: a threatening hum of voices.

  ‘I don’t understand why I have to do this if I can’t say anything?’ Freddie picked up a Premier Inn pencil from the small table that held the water glasses and put it in her pocket.

  ‘Put that back,’ Moast said. ‘Me neither. But the Superintendent feels it’s good for community relations if you – an Internet person or whatever – are visible at the media briefing. He insisted both you and Cudmore were here. Orders are orders. And as we’ve got nothing concrete, I don’t want you revealing anything to those people.’

  ‘Those people are me, mate. I’m a journalist. Maybe if you were a bit more transparent.’

  ‘Please, Freddie,’ Nas’s voice came out more desperate than she wanted it to. ‘Not now.’

  Freddie looked at her peculiarly. ‘Not still frightened of public speaking, Nas?’

  ‘This isn’t the time for a bleeding chinwag, will you both shut up. Neither of you are to say a word. Let’s just get in there, read the statement and get back out.’

  Nas felt the sting of Moast’s words. He’d completely cooled toward her since Freddie had been foisted onto his investigation team. Nothing in her training had prepared her for this level of internal politics. She wished she’d never gone upstairs at 39 Blackbird Road, then none of this would have happened. She was being frozen out. The rest of the team stopped talking as soon as she walked in the room. There were pointed whispers as she passed groups in the corridor. And that humiliating stunt from PC Malcolm at this morning’s briefing. She needed to get the situation under control. She’d stayed up all night learning how to use Twitter, going back over what they knew about Alun Mardling. He was a bank manager who’d had a messy divorce and now lived with his mother. His social life was non-existent. There were no significant others, and apart from his penchant for trolling and the one accusation of harassment in 2003, there was nothing unusual in his life. Then she’d read everything she could find on Paige Klinger, seemingly endless pointless articles about what she wore and ate. There was nothing new there either. Then she’d ploughed through everything they had on Mardling’s colleagues, his former wife, his mother, there had to be something somewhere, some link that they had missed, some hairline crack that would open the whole case up. If she could just find that then she could prove to Moast she was on his side. Not Freddie’s.

  ‘Sir,’ she said.

  ‘Right, let’s do this.’ Moast straightened his navy tie, picked up the statement from the table and opened the door. The flashbulbs started immediately. Nasreen forced herself to follow him, willing herself to relax. How did Paige Klinger cope with this every day of her life? Maybe she didn’t? Maybe she’d cracked?

  ‘Detective Inspector, can you tell us if the Hashtag Murderer is going to kill again?’

  ‘Can you confirm that @Apollyon is the murderer?’ The questions came fast. ‘Is Paige Klinger’s PA responsible for this death?’

  Where did they get their information from? Nasreen ignored the shouts. Moast took the middle seat in front of the boards bearing posters of a smiling Alun Mardling. Nasreen squeezed past to the chair the other side. They were so close her left knee was touching Moast’s under the table. Freddie dragged the remaining chair out, causing the microphones to squeal in feedback. ‘Hey!’ a few people shouted good-naturedly.

  ‘Sorry, guys.’ Freddie leant into the mics. People laughed. Moast signalled at Freddie to zip it. Nasreen kept her eyes down, fixed on the bouquet of microphones in front of her. A mass of suited individuals in her peripheral vision. She took a gulp of the water glass in front of her, wishing it was wine.

  Moast gripped his script in both hands, ‘Gentleman, thank…’

  ‘And ladies,’ said Freddie, her voice overpowering the room.

  ‘Hear, hear!’ yelled a female from the crowd. They laughed.

  Moast gripped his speech tighter and swallowed. ‘Ladies and gentleman, thank you for joining us here. My name is DCI Edwin Moast and I am leading the investigation into Alun Mardling’s death.’

  Nasreen was aware of phones being held up, cameras, her stomach fell away. Don’t think about it.

  ‘We would like to speak to anyone who was in the vicinity of Blackbird Road, E14, in the early hours of October 31st.’ Moast coughed. The audience bridled. ‘We would also ask that the press exercise professional restraint when mentioning the Twitter account known as @Apollyon.’ A murmur went through the crowd. ‘We would like to assure the public that there is no need for alarm regarding this case. We have no reason at this stage to suspect that we are dealing with anything more than an isolated incident. If anyone has any information on @Apollyon, then please call the incident room in confidence. Thank you for your attendance today.’

  A roar rose as the crowd surged forwards. Nasreen gripped the table.

  ‘Your press statement claims Miss Venton has been hired as a consultant on this case. We’ve read her work for The Post – was Miss Venton hired because she uncovered the @Apollyon Twitter account?’ cried a blonde woman at the back.

  ‘Don’t you think the public have a right to know if there’s a serial killer on Twitter?’ Another woman with a sleek black bob stepped forward.

  ‘DCI, I’m with the BBC: are you doing enough to tackle online abuse?’ A guy in a navy blazer stood up.

  ‘Can you confirm the photo used in @Apollyon’s Twitter account is of the crime scene?’ A female voice – somewhere. Nasreen’s eyes darted between the bobbing heads of the press.

  ‘That’s all, thank you. No questions.’ Moast could barely be heard.

  ‘Sergeant Cudmore, is it true that you used to go to school with Miss Venton?’ A journalist with side-swept brown wavy hair and loosely knotted red tie pointed his phone at Nasreen.

  ‘How do you know that?’ Nasreen gasped.

  ‘Google, ma’am,’ the guy said, his pen hove
ring. ‘You left though – Pendrick High. I can’t find any mention of you at another school – were you homeschooled? Why was that? Are you and Miss Venton still close?’

  What else do they know? Nasreen’s voice caught. They couldn’t know about what they’d done – back then, at school. When her life had changed forever. Their secret. They couldn’t. No one knew. Except she and Freddie. And one more person. Nasreen looked at Freddie who was staring at the guy with the pen. Panic bubbled up Nasreen’s throat. ‘I…I…’

  Moast glared at her and pushed his chair back to stand.

  ‘Miss Venton, was your coverage of this case designed to smoke the culprit out, or is this just a case of nepotism?’ A man with rimless glasses thrust a Dictaphone forwards.

  ‘Hey, I got that splash fair and square,’ Freddie said. ‘You’re at The Family Paper, aren’t you?’

  ‘Miss Venton,’ hissed Moast.

  ‘An unknown journalist.’ The man’s glasses glinted. ‘Seems unlikely.’

  Freddie pointed at herself. ‘I’m the one who found @Apollyon and his photo of Mardling in the first place!’

  The guy with the glasses twisted, so he was pushed closer by the crowd, jousting his Dictaphone at Moast. ‘Detective Inspector, is this your case or are you relying on a twenty-four-year-old girl to run it for you?’

  ‘I’m not a girl, buddy, and I’m only twenty-three!’ Freddie shouted.

  Moast bent toward the table. ‘No further comment. Turn the mics off. Off!’