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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.

‘Based 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.

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:

‘He followed her. Her account. Almost immediately after we received the tip-off about the body,’ she said. Sophie Phillips’ Twitter account was littered with cat gifs, videos of cats, even her own profile picture was a cat on – presumably – her lap. Freddie tried not to think of those legs. The pale white feet with red-painted toenails on the sofa. What did those legs look like now?

‘Apollyon was following only Alun Mardling’s account and now Sophie Phillips’ account,’ said Nasreen.

‘Surely Twitter must shut it down now? Apollyon. No one can condone this,’ Freddie said.

‘At this moment in time, it’s the only solid link we have between Alun Mardling and Sophie Phillips,’ Tibbsy said.

‘Have there been any more photos posted? Of the victim’s body or the scene?’ Moast slid his pad and pen into his back pocket.

‘Not yet, sir,’ Nasreen said.

Not yet,
Freddie thought.

‘Venton, make yourself useful: find out what you can about this Sophie Phillips online,’ Moast said. ‘How long has she been using Twitter for? Has she ever interacted with Mardling? Are there any patterns to her online behaviour? You got that?’

She nodded.
Anything to help.

‘How long before you can build me a basic picture of her online habits?’ Moast grabbed his body warmer from the back of his chair.

‘Erm,’ Freddie stuttered. ‘I can see how long she’s been on Twitter for, see if she’s on Facebook, stuff like that, and, er, have a basic overview in ten to fifteen minutes.’

‘Good. You can do it on the way.’ Moast slipped his body warmer on. ‘Right. Let’s take a look then. Dorant, keep me updated. I want to know as soon as forensics are done. Tibbsy, Cudmore, Venton, Thomas: road trip.’ Moast and the team filed out. Freddie, gripping her phone, followed.

Freddie sat in the back of the unmarked police car, squashed against the window as they drove along the North Circular. The promised bright winter sun of this morning had failed to materialise. Heavy grey clouds closed in, and Freddie watched as lights blinked on in the windows of tower blocks, houses, offices, like thousands of tweet alerts flickering on a phone. Then they gave way to the surrounding fields of the motorway. They were hurtling toward Sophie Phillips. Or what was left of her. Her phone rested on her lap.

Nasreen was in the middle, Tibbsy the other side of her – his knees folded up toward his chest to fit his long legs in. Moast was in the front passenger seat, talking on his phone intermittently as updates came through from the station. Freddie could see Jamie’s sandy hair bordering the headrest. His eyes reflected in the rear-view mirror – snatching glances at Nasreen, who had her eyes closed from motion sickness. She shouldn’t really ride in the back, Freddie thought. She remembered the time her mum had had to pull over on the way to her ninth birthday party at Chessington World of Adventures so Nas could be sick at the side of the road. She could hear Nas rhythmically breathing: fighting it. Inhale, one, two, three, exhale, one, two, three. It was making Freddie feel sleepy. She looked at her phone, her 3G reception was patchy. News of Apollyon following Sophie on Twitter had travelled quickly. Someone must have leaked it to the press, because ‘breaking news’ of ‘unconfirmed’ reports of a woman called Sophie Phillips being found dead in Leighton Buzzard were circulating. Freddie was relieved she hadn’t stopped to use the bathroom on the way out. She hadn’t once been alone. There was no way they could think this one was on her.

‘What can you tell me, Venton?’ Moast didn’t turn round to face her.

‘Sophie Phillips, or @SophieCat111 as she’s known on Twitter, has had an account for a few months,’ Freddie’s mouth was dry. ‘It was activated in June. She doesn’t post much. Cat gifs. Cat memes. A few photos of what I guess could be her tabby cat. She posts about once a month.’

‘Any photos of the suspected victim?’ asked Moast.

‘No, no selfies. She hasn’t liked or retweeted any other Twitter users, and there’s no visible interaction between her and Mardling. Or with Apollyon,’ Freddie tried to stay clinical. Sophie must be an observer on Twitter, mostly watching others. She followed a few cat-themed tweeters, Stephen Fry and the BBC news. Only 19 people followed her, most were spambots, and of course Apollyon. ‘There are loads of Sophie Phillips coming up on Facebook, but without a photo I can’t really tell if any are her. It’s the same with Instagram. I’ve searched for blogs by Sophie Phillips, using cats and Leighton Buzzard in the search, but nothing’s cropped up.’ Freddie sighed. ‘I’m not sure that’s much help.’ Once she knew what Sophie Phillips looked like she might be able to get somewhere.

‘Least the traffic’s not bad.’ Jamie sounded like he was trying to cheer everyone up. ‘The motorway can be a nightmare. We’ve all been there, right? Stuck at the wrong moment. My gran used to say it was sod’s law. When I joined up she called me the law’s sod. As a joke, like,’ he laughed. ‘She was so proud when I told her I was working with the best in the force.’

‘Can’t you get there any quicker, Thomas?’ Moast interrupted.

‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I’ll try the back route,’ Jamie squeaked. The car lurched to the left as they abruptly changed lane. Nas steadied herself with her hand against Freddie’s arm. Instinctively Freddie placed her hand on hers to comfort her.

Moast, almost to himself, said, ‘Everyone makes mistakes. Sooner or later he’ll trip up. And then we’ll get him.’

Freddie wasn’t convinced. With no further tweets from @Apollyon they had nothing. She looked at Nasreen: inhale one, two, three. They may as well all have their eyes closed, they were as good as blind.

Off the motorway, over roundabouts, the roads led to houses. Estates of red 1960s and 1970s squat brick homes. Indiscriminate. Ugly. Handkerchiefs of grass etched between them. It reminded Freddie of her childhood home: three-bed, link attached, her room over the driveway. Before they’d had to move to somewhere more remote, her mum tired of facing the constant snipes from the neighbours about Dad’s drinking. About what had happened at Pendrick High. Did these houses remind Nas of then too? She often dreamt she was back there, desperately late for exams she’d inexplicably not studied for. In reality, their old house had been sold to a man and his mother. She’d heard the man had grown so obese that when he had a heart attack in bed, they had to crane him out the top window. She’d written an op-ed piece about it.
£70: thank you.

The car slowed, pulling into a concrete bay alongside some anaemic yellow-bricked 1970s flats. White wooden slat fronts made a sad attempt at what once must have been thought of as Scandinavian. Or cheap. Nas started, as if she’d been asleep, pulling her hand away from Freddie. Freddie swallowed; she would have liked to have held on for this bit. A clutch of officers in yellow high-vis jackets, their breath coming out like slow smoke as the evening set in, signalled they’d arrived. Jamie cut the engine. Moast and Tibbsy opened their doors. Freddie stepped out, pulling her duffel coat tight around her. She took in the ‘no ball games’ sign screwed to the wall. A group of kids in hoodies loitered on the corner, a volley of shouts and laughter erupting from them.

‘Clear off or I’ll have you arrested!’ Moast shouted in their direction.
Strutting, marking his territory,
Freddie thought.

‘Bit nippy isn’t it? No clouds. Nothing to insulate us. You cold?’ Jamie asked, his own nose pink from the chill air.

‘Bit.’

‘Might be shock. Took me ages to get used to…well, this.’ He pointed at the police incident tape. ‘I’ve got a fleece in the car if you want it?’

She nodded gratefully. Shock already? She hadn’t seen the body yet.
Yet
. She thought about Gray’s assurances. Looking up at the darkening sky, the empty space, where the towers and constant light of London hung, stretched on forever here. Jubilee station felt a long way away. The car boot slammed. Jamie walked toward her, his skinny frame barely filling his uniform, a dark black fleece in his hand. ‘Here,’ he held it out. ‘Want me to see if I can rustle up a cup of tea? Perhaps the guv’ll let me do a coffee run or something? We passed a petrol station not too far back. They might have a machine. Might make you feel a bit better?’

‘Thanks, mate. But don’t worry, I’ll be all right.’ Freddie slipped her duffel off, holding it between her knees, pulling the jumper on, holding the ends of the soft fabric between her fingers and palm as she pulled her coat back over the top. Her arms felt restricted, but she felt warmer; a barrier had been erected between her and the night. ‘Cheers though, Jamie.’ He gave her one of his watery smiles and looked at the ground while he scuffed a stone with his shoe.

Nas and Moast were talking to some men she assumed were local cops, as they pulled on the same forensic suits Freddie had worn that first day at Alun Mardling’s house. She felt sick at the memory. She stepped closer to listen to their conversation.

‘Lived alone. Went to work. Came home. Fifteen minutes on the bus. Worked in the finance department at the local council. Kept herself to herself. Not one for socialising. Moved to the area a couple of years ago. No apparent family. No real friends,’ one of them said.

A loner, then. Like Mardling. Was the Hashtag Murderer a loner too? Picking off his kind to – what? To make himself feel better? Did Mardling and Sophie represent something about himself that the Hashtag Murderer needed to snub out? Or did he get a kick from it? Freddie’s mind fizzed with awful possibilities, but nothing seemed to click into place. She looked up at the blank face of the flats. Poor Sophie. She wondered if she was lonely. Perhaps there was a wealth of friends away from work her colleagues didn’t know about. It made it easier to think Sophie’s life had been happy.

‘Venton,’ Moast turned. ‘DCI Bradbury says the crime scene is largely contained to the bedroom.’ He means
the body
, she thought. ‘Are you up to looking at the rest of the flat?’

She nodded. Either Moast had taken Superintendent Gray’s order on board, or he was less cocky about just how much this was, or wasn’t, to do with the Internet.

‘You sure you’re up to this?’ Nas handed her a jumpsuit. Freddie struggled to pull it over her layers. The smell of the plastic transported her back to Mardling’s bedroom. To the sight of his mangled body. Nas’s eyes were straight ahead. This wasn’t friendly concern, thought Freddie: this was business. She nodded, pulled her hood up, positioned the face mask Nas had given her over her nose and mouth and followed Nas toward the flats. Nas lifted the police incident tape with her gloved hands for Freddie to pass under.

‘What was it like the first time you saw a body?’ This’d make a good feature, she thought. Then reminded herself she was banned from writing. For now. It was comforting to think of a time after this. Of things being normal again. Perhaps she could get a book out of it?
A Civilian In The Line Of Fire.
Civilians: jeez, now she was thinking like them.

‘It wasn’t on the job. It was before that,’ Nas said. ‘Jogging at university. There was a tramp in the bushes. Don’t quote me on that,’ she added coldly.

‘I wouldn’t,’ Freddie was stung. ‘Not without your permission, anyway.’

Nas nodded to the uniformed PC on the door, his face enfolded in a black scarf to keep the cold out. The white PVC door was heavy. Inside, the hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and disinfectant. Council accommodation.

‘I heard you went to York uni,’ said Freddie. ‘I was at Loughborough. Lots of sports nuts, but it gave me a break from dad’s antics, you know?’

‘It’s the next floor up.’ Nas headed to the stairs.

Freddie bunched her fists into her sleeves. She could see the white powder used to dust for fingerprints along the painted banister. ‘Did you know he was dead – the tramp in the bushes?’ Freddie asked.

‘Yes.’ Nasreen was a step ahead of her.

‘How?’ Freddie’s plastic shoe covers suctioned to the sticky floor.

‘You just know.’

Freddie felt a flash of irritation. Was she patronising her?

A policeman with clipped red hair, his high-vis vest clashing with the green front door he was guarding, held it open for them. ‘Ma’am,’ he nodded at Nasreen.

Freddie soon forgot her anger at him ignoring her when she stepped into the flat. She’d let Nasreen lead. She tried to prepare for the smell this time. But it wasn’t meaty like before. It was sickly, syrupy: vanilla. ‘It’s cold,’ Freddie said.