Follow Me (22 page)

14:17

Wednesday 4 November

2 FOLLOWING 123,402 FOLLOWING

Nas powered down the steps, Freddie tried to keep up. Turning round the corners, peering down the staircase she caught flashes of Moast and Tibbsy and Hamlin. What was going on? Was there another victim? No, the sound was coming from Hamlin. Moast had him by the arms. He was kicking his legs, flailing up and away from him. Moast was trying to balance them. They were dangerously close to the edge of the stairs.

Nas was below her. Closer to them. She heard her shout, ‘What happened, Jamie?’

Freddie saw flashes of the top of Jamie’s sandy head as she turned down the stairs, trying to catch up. ‘I…I…don’t know!’ he said.

Nas was past him. ‘We need backup now, all units, the north stairwell in Tower B.’ Nas’s radio crackled as she called it in.

‘Try to calm down, Mark!’ Moast shouted.

Hamlin was still screaming. The sound cut through her; it was pure terror. Freddie stopped running and hung over the rail, watching the scene below. Jamie was one floor below her. Moast had Hamlin in a corner, the floor below that. A monster of arms and legs and flailing cloth. It was hard to see who was who.

‘I can’t hold him!’ Moast shouted as Hamlin broke free and bolted toward the balcony.

Tibbsy made a grab for him and was thrown off. Hamlin careened into the railings. ‘Jesus, he’s going to fall.’ Tibbsy sounded panicked.

‘Mr Hamlin, if you do not calm down I will be forced to taser you.’ Moast’s voice could just be heard over Hamlin’s screaming. Tibbsy scrambled and got Hamlin round the waist. Hamlin’s head ricocheted back into Tibbsy’s face, sending him stumbling backwards. Freddie winced. Hamlin bolted for the railings. ‘Clear!’ shouted Moast.

The wire hummed and shot out. The prongs stuck into Hamlin and he fell rigid to the ground. His body convulsed. Freddie clamped her hand over her mouth and turned away.

‘Sir! He’s foaming at the mouth.’ Nas’s voice had an unaccustomed note of alarm. ‘Switch it off!’

Twisting back, Freddie saw Nas on the floor next to Hamlin’s body, checking his pulse.

‘Shit,’ she heard Jamie say.

‘We need paramedics on north stairwell of Shadwell estate Tower B.’ Nas spoke into her radio as she moved Hamlin into the recovery position. ‘Repeat: suspect unconscious, we need medical support north stairwell Tower B, Shadwell estate.’

‘Did he bang his head?’ Moast asked. ‘What happened?’

‘Ambulance on standby. Paramedics on the way up, ma’am,’ Nas’s radio crackled in response.

Freddie turned away, took a step back. She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against the cold concrete wall, listening to the pitter-patter of the paramedics’ shoes on the concrete steps below getting closer.

The ambulance was long gone by the time the team took their vests off and loaded them into the van. Freddie watched as a number of uniformed officers took witness statements from neighbours, and yet more officers loaded up evidence, including Hamlin’s laptop. The forensics had set up a cordon, and the public clumped around it wondering when they’d be allowed back into their home for dinner.
The public.
Freddie was no longer one of them. She looked at Nas and Moast and Tibbsy, calmly talking in a huddle. But not one of them either. Who was she? She knew it must be cold: it was growing dark, and people were bundled up in scarves and hats and blankets, but she couldn’t feel it. She leant against Jamie’s car trying to make sense of everything. She’d seen a man tasered. She’d felt sorry for him. But he might be the Hashtag Murderer. She thought of the coins stacked up in Sophie’s bedroom and the link they’d established between the two victims. He
could
be the Hashtag Murderer. If Mark Hamlin was @Apollyon, then she’d felt sorry for @Apollyon. He was clearly mentally unwell. It looked like no one – family, the state – cared for him. He lived in filth and squalor. And the terror, the fear in his eyes. The sounds of his screams. But what had he possibly done to Mardling and Sophie? What about their screams? That couldn’t be excused. Explained, yes: he was not well. But not forgiven. How do you deal with a man like Mark Hamlin? How do you find justice in a situation like this?

Nas and Moast walked toward her. She stood up and off the car. Like she was at school and had been caught slouching. They were the teachers: grown-up, responsible, weary. ‘Will he be okay?’

‘Probably. Doctor said it was a seizure. Probably caught his head on the way down.’ Nas had her hands in the pockets of her long black coat. ‘There’s an officer with him now. He was only out for a few minutes. They’ve given him a sedative. He’s on the observation ward. We’ll be able to question him in the morning.’

Moast was unstrapping his stab vest and pulling a fleece on.

Freddie thought of Hamlin curled up in the stairwell. ‘He seemed so…pathetic.’

‘Can’t count on anything, Venton.’ Moast pulled his puffa jacket over his top and rested his stab vest on the car. ‘He could be a psychopath acting up. Different persona. They can do that.’

‘Or schizophrenic,’ said Nas. ‘If he’s had a breakdown, it might have triggered an episode. He could be suffering from delusions.’

‘We don’t know what we’re dealing with yet.’ Moast picked up his vest and went back to the van.

Freddie watched him go. ‘Do you think he feels any remorse?’

‘We don’t know for sure if he did it yet,’ said Nas, undoing her ponytail and retightening it.

‘I meant Moast,’ Freddie said.

‘He just did his job. The suspect was in danger of hurting himself. This is what it’s like. You have to make decisions in the heat of the moment.’ Nas cupped her hands and blew warm air onto them.

‘Would you have done it? Tasered him?’ Moast’s bravado reminded Freddie of American cop shows, but then she’d pushed people aside to get up there. Who was to say what was right and what was wrong from all this?
How I Lost Myself In A Tower Block in East London.

‘DCI Moast took the best decision he could based on his assessment of the situation.’ Nas sounded like she’d been briefed.

Freddie looked at her. ‘You don’t reckon he harbours secret fantasies about being Bruce Willis in Die Hard then? I saw that tight white T-shirt he was wearing on the night of Mardling’s murder.’

Half a smile trickled across Nasreen’s lips.

She could
still
make her laugh. ‘Today’s been nuts. I’m not sure I believe it all myself, and I was here to watch it.’ The feelings she’d had for Nas, their friendship, that bond, she was too raw to hide it now. It had flooded through her. Their den in the meadow behind Nas’s house. Scary stories and stupid torch faces at Brownie camp. Lounging on the old blue sofa cushions in the garden. Covering everything with glue and glitter at Christmas. Nas giving her her ice cream when Freddie dropped hers. Their first taste of alcohol – gin and lemonade pilfered from her parents’ drinks cabinet. Friendship bracelets. The first swell of their teenage years, of who they would grow up to be. She still wanted Nas in her life. She wanted to be her friend. They shared something. Something that wasn’t easily found. She didn’t want this moment to end. She floundered for something to say. ‘So you still living out in Pendrick? I heard Jamie ask about your commute in.’

‘Yeah, helps keep it separate. Plus I like being close to mum and dad.’ Nasreen buttoned her coat up.

Freddie nodded. She’d often thought about Nas’s mum, Afnan: small, petite, a temper as fiery as her cooking. Nas had her eyes and hair. And soppy Don Cudmore, who worshipped the ground on which his daughters walked. ‘Got a flat?’

‘No, a Victorian terrace. Just off the high street. It’s still got the original fireplace.’ Nas’s face softened as she spoke of her home, morphing briefly into the girl Freddie used to know.

‘Nice,’ Freddie nodded. She felt no jealousy. Nasreen deserved somewhere nice to go back to after all this every day. She watched Moast who had stopped by a young mother and a small dark-haired girl, who looked bewildered, clinging to the edge of her mum’s cardigan. Barely up to her mother’s knee. What had that little girl seen, living somewhere like this? She watched as Moast bent down and produced a coin from the little girl’s ear and held it out to her. A huge smile cracked across the girl’s face as she turned her new-found treasure over in her fingers.

Nasreen followed her eyeline. ‘He’s not as bad as you think,’ she said.

Freddie didn’t know what she thought anymore. Who was good and who was bad? Whose side was she supposed to be on. ‘What happens now?’

‘Debrief. Back at the station. We won’t be able to question Hamlin till tomorrow. They may opt to keep him in hospital.’ Nasreen opened the back door for Freddie. Unlike a few days ago, when the world was very different and she was angry about things that didn’t seem to matter anymore, Freddie got gratefully into the back of the car.

07:30

Thursday 5 November

2 FOLLOWING 123,908 FOLLOWERS

Nasreen had always disliked hospitals, and now the sickly smell of bleach reminded her of the morgue. Never a good association. The long, spongy grey and blue corridors of the hospital could be a police station, were it not for the nurses and doctors in their scrubs coming and going. Blank-faced visitors clogged up the place, unsure of what to do. Who to pray to. The DCI and Tibbsy had come straight in when Hamlin had come round. She knew the drill, he’d be kept in for observation for 24 hours following head trauma. Even if it was slight. She glanced at the signs screwed to the wall, turned down another corridor. The hospital, a huge glass monolith from outside, like Duplo blocks constructed by a child, inside was like a maze. She hoped Hamlin wouldn’t be a bolter. Nightmare running anyone down in here.

She rounded another corner and the high-vis jacket of the officer standing guard outside Hamlin’s room informed her she’d finally arrived. Six foot two, Caucasian, neat, clipped brown hair, mouth that turned down. She’d encountered him a few times. He was from the Whitechapel force. It was PC Slade, she thought. Must have been brought in. The manpower was increasing on this one. The whole force itching to get the perp locked up.

‘Morning, ma’am, the guv’s through there.’ Slade pointed at a door across from him.

‘With the suspect?’ she asked.

‘No, he’s in here.’ He signalled with his thumb behind him. ‘Nurses gave them that room. Family liaison usually, I think. Bit of privacy, eh?’ Slade’s lips bounced up and down as he spoke. A face like rubber.

Nas knocked on the door, before opening and going in. The DCI and Tibbsy were sat on low, square, foam chairs, both leaning forward resting their forearms on their knees, gathered round a low table. ‘Morning, sir.’

‘We made the papers again.’ DCI Moast flicked a copy of The Mirror over on top of the table. A grainy photo, presumably taken by a witness, showed one of special ops, gun up, edging toward Hamlin’s flat. Nasreen could just make out another newspaper under that, the words Hashtag Murderer visible above a photo of smoke pouring from the Shadwell estate tower.

‘What did Hamlin have to say?’ Nasreen could sense the tension in the room. She guessed other things had upset the DCI this morning.

‘Gibberish, mostly,’ said Tibbsy, reaching forward for a mug of coffee and downing the dregs. ‘He’s either putting on one hell of a show or something’s spooked him.’

‘Do you reckon it’s shock?’ Nasreen took the chair opposite the DCI.

‘Hard to say,’ said Tibbsy.

‘I want to talk to his doctor. See if they think he’s faking. You saw the coins in the flat?’ Moast looked tired.

Nasreen nodded. ‘Just like the ones in Sophie Phillips’ flat.’

‘I like him for this. The stuff on the Internet, the verbal assault of Mardling. It’s starting to add up.’ He met her eyes. ‘Have IT turned up anything?’

‘It’s definitely the computer from which the chat room messages to Sophie Phillips were sent, guv,’ she said.

‘I knew it!’ Moast clenched his fist. His skin whitening over his knuckles.

‘It’s not all good news, sir.’ She took her notepad from her pocket. She wanted to make sure she got this right. ‘There’s nothing that the lads have found so far that links it to the @Apollyon account.’

‘He could have used another machine though, a phone or something. Have they found anything at the flat?’ Moast rested both his palms on his knees.

‘Not so far. And there’s something else, sir. The laptop.’ She paused.

‘Yes?’ Moast said.

‘The outside of it was also bleached clean. No DNA. No fingerprints. The same generic supermarket brand of bleach as before,’ she said.

Tibbsy put his mug down. ‘Surely that confirms it – this is our guy?’

Nasreen was unsure. Why would you wipe down your own machine? Unless he’d heard them coming. Done it at the last minute. But then where was the bleach? Hardly the sort of place you’d expect to find cleaning products. Hardly the kind of man you’d expect to act so coolly. ‘Do you think it’s an act, sir – all this?’ She thought about the screaming. He
could
have staged it. To throw them off.

‘It’s possible,’ Moast said. ‘Let’s see if we can get any sense out of his doctor.’

All three of them stood, Nasreen waited for Tibbsy to pass her. ‘It’s not enough is it though, to hold him, I mean?’

Moast paused, his hand on the silver nickel door handle. He looked up, as if at the posters offering help for those who wanted to quit smoking. ‘No. It’s circumstantial. Unless we can get him to confess or we turn up anything else, like a murder weapon, or evidence he took those photos of the crime scenes, we can’t hold him. We’ll have to let him go. We need to find his phone.’

Nasreen nodded. She already knew this was the case, but she needed the DCI to say it. The man she’d put in recovery yesterday didn’t strike her as strong enough, physically nor mentally, to restrain someone. Let alone kill anyone. She felt DCI Moast and Tibbsy pulling in the other direction. DCI Moast had years of experience. Hard graft had built his reputation. He knew what he was doing. As she followed him and Tibbsy out the room, Nasreen was reminded of the joke Freddie had made about Bruce Willis. With his name and team all over the papers, just how desperately did the DCI want to close this case?

‘Dr Powell? DCI Moast. Could we have a quick word?’ Moast asked as the doctor came out of Hamlin’s room.

Dr Powell, a tall pinched brunette of possibly Spanish descent, held Hamlin’s clipboard to her chest and gave them a tight smile. Thick-framed square glasses rested on her nose. Nasreen wondered how many times they got knocked off dealing with patients like Hamlin.

‘This is Sergeant Tibbsy and Sergeant Cudmore, we’re conducting a murder enquiry and would like to ask you some questions about Mark Hamlin.’ Moast signalled for PC Slade to wait inside Hamlin’s room. The officer obliged, disappearing into the room, where beeping could be heard.

‘DCI Moast, I have a lot of very sick people needing my attention, and as you know full well, patients have complete confidentiality. I am not at liberty to discuss Mr Hamlin’s health with you.’ Dr Powell had the world-weary look of someone who’d faced down tougher people than them.

‘I just want to know if you’ve treated Mr Hamlin before, Dr Powell?’ DCI Moast opened his arms wide as if welcoming her confession.

‘I believe the patient was in the Community Care programme but they lost contact with him a number of years ago. Today is my first day on the ward,’ Dr Powell said.

‘New job?’ The DCI was going for the small talk approach.

‘I’m on rotation, DCI.’ Dr Powell’s eyes narrowed.

‘Is it possible to speak to his previous doctor then? I understand the suspect, I mean the patient, was previously detained under section 136 of the Mental Health Act. Some officers brought him in for his own safety?’

‘He is unlikely to have been seen by the former Senior House Doctor if that was the case, anyway.’ Dr Powell tapped the toe of her kitten heel against the floor. Nas tried to smile at her warmly. Communicate that she understood: it was tough making it in a male-dominated world.

DCI Moast tried again. ‘Well perhaps I could have a quick word with that doctor just to check?’

‘If you insist, I can have someone find out where their rotation sent them next. Though you do understand that may very well be another hospital?’ Dr Powell gave Nasreen an empty stare.

‘I thought you got a job and stayed within the same hospital?’ DCI Moast was floundering. Tibbsy shifted his weight back against the wall.

‘That would be nice. It would certainly make things easier. No, we belong to a district that can cover several hospitals, several hours apart.’

‘You mean the last person who saw Mark Hamlin isn’t even in this building?’ Moast’s eyebrows stretched up toward his new grey patch.

‘It seems I am not the only one who has had my time wasted, DCI. If you’re done I have many pressing things to be getting on with,’ Dr Powell snapped.

They were losing her.
‘Just one last quick thing, Dr Powell.’ Nasreen put a hand out onto her arm. Reassuring. Looked into her eyes. Trusting.
We’re trying to help.
‘In your opinion, with cases like Mark Hamlin, is he likely to be violent? Hypothetically speaking.’

Dr Powell sighed and pushed her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. ‘Hypothetically speaking, I would say the chances are slim. Patients like Mr Hamlin are more at risk of self-harm. But, of course, you can never be one hundred per cent sure.’

‘Thank you, doctor,’ Nasreen said. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’

They watched as Dr Powell walked down the corridor, the soles of her kitten heels flapping up against her feet.

‘Nicely done, Cudmore,’ DCI Moast said. ‘Though I don’t know how relevant it’ll prove. I get the feeling Dr Powell doesn’t like us very much.’

‘Another one who thinks we’re the enemy, hey boss?’ Tibbsy said. But Nas wasn’t listening, she was enjoying the warm glow of praise. The DCI hadn’t said anything positive about her since Freddie crashed back into her life. But perhaps she could still get her standing at the Jubilee back; it was salvageable.

‘Back to the station. Let’s see what else we can get on this bugger,’ said Moast.