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16:30

Thursday 5 November

2 FOLLOWING 17,002 FOLLOWERS

Freddie was aware of a low hum. A whine. Where was it coming from? She looked around in panic. She, Nas and Tibbsy were strapped into the back. Moast was next to the helmeted pilot, up front. The nose dipped forwards. She grabbed Nasreen’s hand. Nas flinched. She was saying something. She couldn’t hear it. This was it. She gripped Nas’s hand tighter. Closed her eyes. The helicopter hovered into the air. Oh my God. Then she realised the noise was coming from her. The low guttural moan was fear. She clamped her mouth shut. Then opened it again so she could pant furiously as if she were going to give birth. London was a blur below. The suburbs like a child’s road rug rolled beneath them. Don’t look down. She clamped her eyes shut.
Think of the girl
. They
must
save the girl. She thought of that smooth soft-looking skin, the crinkle-free eyes. They must save the child.

Freddie was still trembling when the helicopter landed on farmland near where the phone signal had been traced. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled to Nas. Her legs shaky as she followed Tibbsy out the door. The blades slowing overhead. Freddie’s feet hit the grass mounds and she fell to her hands and knees, gripping great big handfuls of earth.

‘You all right?’ Nas dropped beside her. One hand on her back, the other brushing Freddie’s hair away from her face. Freddie missed the feel of her. Sitting under a duvet on the sofa watching films. Falling against each other in fits of giggles. Hugs hello and goodbye. ‘Still not keen on flying, then?’ Nas said.

She
did
remember. Freddie nodded. ‘I’m okay. We’re here for a reason.’ Nas helped her up and they joined Moast and Tibbsy who were talking to the barrel-chested local copper who was waiting for them next to an unmarked Land Rover. As the helicopter lights dimmed behind them, Freddie realised there were no street lights. Nothing for miles. She traced the dark outlines of mountains, looked up to see a pregnant moon hovering low in the sky. She held her hand in front of her. A grey lunar outline hugged each of her fingers. They were going in under cover of darkness.

‘PC Gwillim, this is Sergeant Cudmore and Miss Venton, an adviser who’s working on this case with us.’ Freddie waved her glowing hand as Moast signalled at her. ‘Miss Venton will be staying in the car with you.’

‘We’ll be wearing cameras. These are two-way mics so you’ll be able to hear us and vice versa.’ Tibbsy was handing out stab vests, and what looked like riot helmets.

‘You boys got some good kit down in London, eh, sir?’ said PC Gwillim, holding Moast’s coat while the DCI pulled his stab vest on and fastened it.

‘We’ll ask that you and Freddie restrict communication to that which is necessary when we’re in there,’ Tibbsy added. He nodded at Freddie, his hair glowing by the tracing moonlight. ‘Let us know if anything comes up on Twitter, Freddie. That we need to know about, yeah?’

Freddie looked at her phone, the backlit screen instantly stunning her eyes and plunging everything around it and her into soupy black. There was signal.
It was a miracle.
‘Yes, Tibbsy,’ she said, holding the phone against her chest to block the glow. Her eyes adjusted and their figures, edged in silvery moonlight, came into view again.

‘We’ve got two boys down there, sir,’ PC Gwillim said as they walked to the Land Rover. ‘They think there’s two people inside: the suspect and the girl. The cottage belongs to the Kemble Farm. It’s been uninhabited these last two generations. Just a stone shell now. It’s pretty remote and you can’t see it from any road. No power or water.’ Freddie’s trainers slipped and twisted between clumps of long clingy grass, the leaves sharp like paper cuts through her socks.

‘Soz to ask a stupid question, but where are we?’ The helicopter had left Freddie disorientated.

‘Black Mountains, love,’ said PC Gwillim. He wasn’t much taller than her. ‘Golden Valley to be precise. Hereford’s about 45 that way, Abergavenny 45 that.’

Did he mean miles or minutes? Or something else? Did they use the metric system in Wales? ‘It can’t be Hamlin then, he’d never have made it up here in time,’ Freddie said. ‘I doubt he’s got a helicopter at his disposal.’

‘The pile of coins at Sophie Phillips’ flat and that online rant at her seem like more than a coincidence,’ said Tibbsy as he zipped up his jacket. ‘Besides, Apollyon went quiet while we had Hamlin in custody, and then he started tweeting again when he was released.’

‘Paige Klinger feasibly might have access to a helicopter,’ said Nas. ‘She’s got motive for Mardling.’

‘They could have teamed up?’ Tibbsy suggested.

‘How would they have met? I can’t imagine Hamlin hanging out with Paige’s fashion crowd,’ said Freddie. None of this made sense.

‘We could be looking at an accomplice,’ said Moast. ‘Someone who is working with the killer.’

Freddie shivered. Could there really be more than one person doing this?

‘Any signs of trouble?’ Moast turned to PC Gwillim. ‘Any idea who the girl might be?’

‘No reports of anyone missing up here, sir.’ PC Gwillim opened the Land Rover back door. Freddie steadied her hand against the roof of the car and pulled herself up and in. A dim overhead light gave a gentle yellow wash to the vehicle. It smelt of dogs.

‘He could have brought the vic with him, sir,’ Nas said, following her in.

‘We know he’s travelled before.’ The car rocked as Tibbsy climbed in. The front doors opened and PC Gwillim and Moast pulled the doors behind them. Freddie fastened her seatbelt.

‘Any sign of transport at the scene, PC?’ Moast asked.

PC Gwillim started the car, the lights dipped, he rested his hand on Moast’s seat back, looked past them and reversed. ‘Nothing that we’ve seen, sir. You’d need a car to get up here. No trains, laddie. I’ll turn the lights off when we get close.’

The car rocked as they reversed. Freddie saw the crests of grass rise and fall in the dipped headlights, then they were on a road, mountains fanned away from them, bordering the view, the sky so big she felt they were floating beneath it. Tiny. Obscure. No one would find you up here. No one would hear you scream.

Her phone vibrated. ‘Another one; he’s tweeted,’ she said.

‘What does it say?’ Moast asked, their voices loud against the expanse of nothing sky.

Freddie reminded herself this was why she was here. To alert them. To bear witness. To save the girl. ‘It’s another photo,’ her voice quivered as she clicked to view the Instagram.

The car turned off the road onto a bumpy track, trees snagged at the car as it rocked over the uneven ground. ‘It’s down here, sir. I’ll kill the lights. Best to go the last bit by foot,’ PC Gwillim said.

‘What is it, Freddie?’ Tibbsy asked.

‘It’s loading. I don’t have great signal.’ Freddie half didn’t want the image to open.

They sat in the silent car. Freddie could hear them all breathing. Imagined what they were all thinking. The photo opened. She shored up her shaking hand with her other.

‘Christ,’ Nas said, peering over her shoulder.

‘What is it?’ Moast twisted round, leant back between the front seats.

Freddie couldn’t turn the phone. Couldn’t get the words to form. Couldn’t move. She was locked on it like a buffering screen. A sepia Instagram showed an array of knives, pliers, claw hammers and rusty bolt cutters neatly lined up on what looked like a table. The shot was angled so in the background you could see the back of a young girl sat on a chair, her arms bound behind her, her head lolled forward.
Cut, pull, smash, snip. Were they too late?

18:47

Thursday 5 November

2 FOLLOWING 30,438 FOLLOWERS

Freddie stood next to the car as Moast instructed the team in whispers. ‘Cudmore and I will go in, Tibbsy and you guys man the three exits to the building.’

Freddie shivered; was it cold or fear? She didn’t like being outside of London at the best of times, it reminded her of Pendrick. Of what she’d left behind.

‘Constable Gwillim, you and Miss Venton stay by the car. As we’re aware, there are two people inside. One unknown vic: an apparent young Caucasian girl, approximately thirteen years of age. Name unknown. And the unknown perpetrator calling himself Apollyon,’ Tibbsy said.

‘There’s been no screams or sounds of distress heard since we’ve been staked out here,’ said PC Gwillim.

‘The perpetrator has a history of sedating victims with roofies,’ Nas said.

Freddie thought of Sophie Phillips lying unconscious while the killer loomed over her. For a moment nobody said anything. Trees rustled behind them, something she hoped was an owl screeched. She took a step closer to Nas. She felt like she’d lost all her bravado.

‘We have the advantage: he doesn’t know we’re here.’ Moast spoke in a hushed tone. ‘Let’s go in clean and quiet, and get this sorted quickly. Cudmore and I will take the perp, hopefully with minimal force.’

A twig snapped under Freddie’s foot and she jumped. It took everything she had not to cry out.

Moast continued, ‘Tibbsy, be ready to retrieve the victim. Gwillim, you guys have got the air ambulance on standby, you said?’

‘Sir.’ The dark shadow of Gwillim nodded.

‘Okay. Quiet, calm, clean. Let’s keep this contained.’ Moast signalled with his hands for them to take their places.

Freddie climbed as noiselessly as possible back into the car. Gwillim followed, slowly and carefully closing the door after him. He sat next to her in the dark as they watched the disappearing shadows of Moast and Nas creep toward the stone farmhouse. She could smell the cigarettes Gwillim had been smoking. She really wanted a bloody fag right now. Gwillim turned on the small black and white screen. The live video feed from Moast showed his feet walking over the stony mud path.

Gwillim silently held out a headphone for her. They wore one each. Freddie watched as the rough stone-built cottage, half its roof gaping like broken wooden teeth screaming at the sky, swallowed up the shadows of Moast and Nas.

Moast’s grainy black and white video feed showed they had reached the back door. Peering inside, the camera took a moment to focus. The remains of a table and chairs. A fireplace. The camera panned round, taking in plants and limbs of trees that had punctured walls and the floor, clawing back what had once been a kitchen to the wild natural land. How did people live up here? It was so dark. So hidden. She bet you couldn’t get sushi.

The camera settled on a sturdy wooden door, under which the sickeningly familiar blue glow of tech could be seen through the splinted wooden planks. The camera moved toward it, flicking down as Moast’s feet traversed the uneven stone floor. He caught a piece of wood – part of a bucket? There was a scrape. The camera froze. They could see it pitch up and down as Moast breathed hard, obviously trying to calm himself. Freddie caught sight of Nas, moving silently and quickly in front of Moast, standing ready to the side of the door. Freddie fought the urge to scream:
Get out! Run!
Behind the door was the victim, and the torture tools, and the man who’d slashed through Mardling’s body, turning it to meat, the man who’d squeezed the life out of Sophie Phillips like she was ripe fruit. Freddie grabbed hold of PC Gwillim’s arm. She could feel him shaking.

There was a sound. Movement. Moast froze, the camera not turning from the door.

‘Who’s there?’ A muffled voice, barely picked up by the mic.
They knew they were there.

The camera suddenly swerved, Moast took two strides to be alongside Nas; his voice came loud into Freddie’s ear: ‘This is the police. The property is surrounded. Come out with your hands up.’

Silence.

Freddie looked at Gwillim, his gaze fixed on the screen. The door swung toward the camera. There was a flash of light and the camera feed went white. A girl was screaming in Freddie’s ear, in her head, coming from the cottage, filling up the silence. She looked up as the shadows of Tibbsy and the two local cops dashed toward the cottage. PC Gwillim wrenched open the car door and jumped down.

‘Stop! Don’t shoot!’ Freddie heard Nas shout.

Someone ran at the camera. The camera – Moast – fell to the ground. A gunshot rang out. Echoed. Unmistakable. Birds flew up from quaking trees and bushes. Fear ripped through Freddie. She was out of the car. Pulling her headphone out. Wings beat. ‘It’s Nas, she’s been shot!’ she screamed.

PC Gwillim was sprinting toward the cottage: ‘All units assist, assist!’ he screamed into his radio. ‘Code zero. Officer down, officer down.’

Freddie’s breath hammered out of her. She heard the crackle of static. Voices. Shouts. Screaming. A woman was screaming.
Nas? Please, no.
The two cops round the front of the house vaulted what was left of the wall.
Don’t leave me.
Freddie’s foot slipped on the wet mud, plunging her knees and hands down. A stone gouged her palm.
Stupid trainers. Stupid urban girl.
Her heartbeat ricocheted round her ears. She forced herself back up. Running. Panting. Jumping. She had to get to Nas. She couldn’t be…Had to reach her before she…She had to say sorry. Had to tell her it was all her fault.
Don’t leave me.

PC Gwillim disappeared through the door, into the kitchen. Freddie’s breaths were machine gun puffs of condensation in front of her. The blood of Mardling coated her vision. The memory of the torture tools cut her. Her hand throbbed. Her heart ached.
Don’t leave me.
Every molecule of her body ran toward Nas. She followed Gwillim. The chairs, the table, the fireplace…there it was: the door, the noise. Commotion.

‘Get down! Down on the ground, hands up!’ Tibbsy was shouting.

‘Holy Mother of Mary!’ Gwillim said.

Freddie ran forwards. The moon disappeared behind a cloud. There were shapes. Someone was on the floor. A torch shone in her eyes. Glinted off her glasses. She held her hands up. There was sobbing.
Please, God, please.

The torch was coming from Moast’s helmet. He was crouched down, leaning over someone.
Nas! Oh my God, no. Please, no. She can’t be gone. Can’t be.
Freddie ran forwards, pulled at his shoulder. His arm shot toward her face. ‘What the fuck, Venton!’ His light flicked in her eyes: blinded. Freddie lost her balance, stumbled, landed on her arse, her hand bent the wrong way. Agony. Her body shaking with terror.
She couldn’t lose her. Not now
. Not after they’d found each other again. She tried to blink the blue dots of light from the torch from her eyes. In the pool of Moast’s light, resting under his large hand, was a young girl, no more than thirteen years old, her wrists handcuffed behind her back.

‘Freddie!’ She looked up at the voice. A strong silhouette, carved from the torchlight. Legs hip-width apart, feet firmly on the ground, the arc of her hip, hair pulled back from her cheekbones. Nas.
Alive
.

‘I…I…thought you’d been shot. I thought you were…’ Freddie let the words fall away as relief engulfed her. A tear collapsed from her blinking eyes.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

‘Venton, Christ, what are you playing at?’ Moast kept his knee and hand on the back of the girl on the floor. Lying as if it had been kicked across the floor, Freddie saw a rifle. ‘This is an active crime scene! I nearly took you out. Why are you incapable of staying in the bloody car?’

Torches flicked on, beams of light from Tibbsy and Gwillim. One of the cops, bent down and fiddling on the floor, managed to turn on a small portable blue plastic lantern that was there. The room glowed blue. Nas was helping another young girl, the child from the Instagram pictures. Same dress. The girl was crying. Were there two victims? Freddie tightened her hand around her jumper in front of her chest. Holding onto reality. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘The property’s secure, guv,’ Tibbsy switched his torch off as the power-saving light bulb in the lantern warmed up. ‘There’s no one else here. Two pedal bikes out the back. Reckon that’s how they got here.’

Freddie’s gaze flicked from one to the other, returning again and again to Nas as if to reassure herself she was okay. She could feel every squeeze of her heart, jettisoning emotion round her body. Her mind unable to keep up.
She’s alive, she’s alive
,
her heart beat.

‘It was just a joke! We didn’t mean any harm,’ snivelled the pale ginger girl being half hugged, half held up by Nas.

‘Get off me,’ kicked the girl on the floor. ‘You’re violating my human rights! This is against the Geneva Convention!’

‘Okay, we all need to calm down,’ Nas said, looking at Freddie, then bending her head to the girl in her arms. ‘What’s your name, sweetheart?’

‘Don’t tell her, Mandy!’ screamed the girl on the floor. ‘Take the fifth!’

‘That’s in America, love. Not here.’ Moast pulled off his helmet, wiping his brow. Freddie felt her own: soaked in sweat.

‘Mandy,’ Nas said quietly to the crying young girl. ‘Short for Amanda?’

The girl sniffed and nodded. ‘Amanda Rose. And that’s Shell. Shellena Jones. Sorry, Shell.’

‘Paul Jones’ girl?’ Gwillim sounded shocked.

Shell, who’d still been kicking, at that point grew limp on the floor. ‘You muppet.’ Mandy started snivelling again.

‘He’s a farmer. Jones. A mechanic,’ Gwillim said. ‘That where you got all of them torture tools from?’

‘Yeah,’ Mandy managed through her sobs. ‘We were gonna give them back.’

‘Well this is a fine mess isn’t it?’ Moast sat back on his heels. Freddie steadied herself against the rough cold floor. Her breath slowing, the situation coming into focus. These girls weren’t Apollyon. They were hoaxers. A dedicated spoof. Which meant the Hashtag Murderer was still out there, while they were miles away chasing a dead-end lead in the Welsh mountains.