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21:29

Tuesday 10 November

3 FOLLOWING 127,392 FOLLOWERS

Freddie watched as Tibbsy grew more animated. ‘What? Why? How?’ he said.

‘Klinger’s fancy-pants lawyer just came down here and tied us in legal knots,’ Moast said. ‘Seems Richards has a history of mental illness, we violated some EU human rights directive in bringing him in without a guardian.’

‘What? Paige’s lawyer?’ Freddie was trying to piece this together.

‘She’s just released a statement to the press praising Richards for his loyalty and love,’ Nas said. ‘She’s paid his legal fees.’ They stood, the four of them facing each other in the middle of the room. Freddie looked from Moast to Nas to Tibbsy and back again. ‘Can she do that?’

‘She can and she did,’ said Nas. ‘We can’t hold him till we get more. We need to turn something up.’

‘Did she actually say loyalty and love?’ Freddie’s head was spinning. ‘That’s like something off a TV show: like a Queen to a subject.’

‘Yup, and all to the press,’ said Nas, dropping down to sit on the edge of the nearest table. Tibbsy looked stunned.

‘It’s weird. That she’s doing this?’ Freddie was talking with her hands. Each disbelieving word accompanied by a pitch and swoop. ‘Almost like she doesn’t want him here in case he says something?’ She thought of Paige’s performance on the YouTube video. She was believable. Very believable. How many people could be won over by somebody like that? Was this all orchestrated by her? Money and fame making her invincible. Twisting her self-value to make her void of morals? Building a literal army of fans. It’d make a hell of a story.

Moast seemed to recover all of a sudden. ‘Right. I want everything we’ve got on Richards. I want to speak to everyone who knows him. We need to pin down where he was on those three dates. If he was so much as in the same postcode as any of these victims, I want him back in.’

‘Guv,’ Tibbsy practically whispered. Nas had her phone out and was looking at it. Freddie was full of nervous energy, she was walking up and down on the same one-metre spot.

The door opened and they all turned at once to face a frightened-looking Jamie.

‘What is it, Thomas?’ Moast snapped. Freddie tried to smile reassuringly at Jamie. It wasn’t his fault this was happening.

‘Sorry, sir, I just, it’s just…’ Jamie trailed off. Looked at his big feet.

‘Spit it out, man!’ Moast said.

‘There’s been another post,’ Jamie said to the carpet tiles.

‘What?’ Freddie’s phone hadn’t buzzed. ‘On Twitter?’

Jamie looked up, his thin lips stretched into an almost straight line. ‘On Facebook. Sergeant Patel in IT just called me.’

Freddie sat down on the table next to Nas.
Branching out. New forums
.
Spreading the brand
.

‘It’s definitely from Apollyon – they’re sure?’ Moast said. He had his back to Freddie but she saw his hands clench into fists.

‘It’s a video, sir.’ Jamie’s eyes swam.

‘Of what?’ Moast’s words shuddered through Freddie. She felt Nas tense.

‘It’s a video of Michael Grape’s murder.’ Jamie’s voice cut through the silence. Red ribbons.

‘Oh my God,’ Freddie whispered.

‘Richards is out there. He could have done this,’ Tibbsy said.

‘It could be preloaded,’ said Freddie. It was spreading. An epidemic. A virus. They couldn’t control it.

‘Why’s he changed platform?’ asked Nas.

‘Or Hamlin,’ said Moast. ‘He could have done this too. Don’t suppose Patel has got a trace on the account holder has he, Thomas?’

‘No, sir, it’s been rerouted, or whatever they call it, again,’ said Jamie.

‘Fucking hell!’ Moast screwed up the papers in his hand and threw them at the wall. Freddie winced.

‘Get someone from the Gremlin IT task force down here. I want the video up. I want them to run sound analysis, whatever. Look in every glass surface. Every windowpane. For a reflection. I want something, anything, that can identify who this murderer is,’ Moast shouted.

Jamie bolted out of the door. Tibbsy and Nas followed. Freddie was shaking. Moast put his hands on the back of a chair, leaning into them, flexing his fingers and gripping. Flexing and gripping. ‘We’re not going to catch him are we?’ Freddie said quietly.

Moast exhaled. ‘First thing they teach you in training, Venton: never make promises you can’t keep,’ he said.

Sergeant Patel introduced a sour-faced woman in her thirties, with straight bobbed black hair, wearing a black wrap dress and black tights. ‘This is Caroline Arnold, from Digital Forensics.’

‘Caroline, I’m DCI Edwin Moast.’ Moast held out his hand to shake before indicating each person in turn. ‘This is Sergeant Kevin Tibbsy and Sergeant Nasreen Cudmore from my team. And this is Freddie Venton, she’s acting as a Social Media Adviser on this case.’

Caroline looked at Freddie. ‘You’re the one who’s been translating Twitter,’ she said, like it was an accusation.

‘I didn’t ask to be dragged into all this,’ Freddie said. ‘I’d much rather leave it to you lot, believe me.’

Caroline Arnold’s nose crinkled.

Moast shot Freddie a warning look. ‘Excuse Miss Venton, it’s been a trying case.’

‘I can see that,’ said Caroline. ‘Shall we get on with this?’ She turned to the desk on which Sergeant Patel had opened a laptop. ‘This footage was loaded approximately one hour and thirty-seven minutes ago.’

Approximately?
Freddie could just imagine Caroline Arnold ordering all her black outfits into
approximate
tonal order.

‘The name of the group flagged on the search algorithm we utilise.’ Caroline’s fingers flew over the keys as screens of code scrolled down.

Moast looked like he was concentrating so hard Freddie worried he might have a stroke.

‘The source of the account has been rerouted and sent via Tor,’ said Caroline.

Nas leant forward to look at the screen. ‘The anonymity software? Like he used to block us tracing the Twitter account.’

‘Precisely,’ said Caroline. ‘Originally launched as a tool to evade censorship, Tor has mutated and allows anyone to hide from whoever they like online.’

I said this on the first day, thought Freddie.

‘So we still can’t find who bloody uploaded this?’ asked Moast.

‘No,’ said Caroline. ‘Whoever has set up these accounts, both Twitter and Facebook, knows what they are doing. We’ve tried almost everything we can. We’re unable to trace them.’

Try harder
, thought Freddie.
This is life or death
.

‘I’ve extracted the video to see if we can find any other digital footprints on it, and I understand you want copies to test for sound or caught images?’ Caroline continued.

‘Yes,’ said Moast.

‘Okay. Well here it is. I warn you, it is not easy viewing.’ Caroline clicked a key and the screen was filled with a video.

Freddie gripped the back of the chair in front of her. They watched in silence. The footage was shaky. Soundless. A handheld device. Probably an iPhone. The doctor was tied to a chair in his lounge. The background was dark but you could make out a smashed jug on the floor. The camera came closer and closer. He was gagged, hands tied behind his back, his hair was matted with blood. His eyes grew wide. Panicked. He began to squirm violently. A knife appeared, held in a black-gloved hand. The doctor’s attempts to free himself grew more desperate. As the hand came down and the knife flashed, Freddie instinctively closed her eyes.

‘It’s all there: two minutes and thirteen seconds of a man tortured to death,’ said Caroline Arnold.

Freddie felt sick, she kept her eyes away from the screen. The final shot, a bloodied Michael Grape: frozen. Her insides foamed.

‘I reported the video to Facebook immediately,’ said Caroline. ‘Unfortunately they have decided not to take it down.’

‘What – how can they do that?’ Nas looked incredulous.

‘They sent a standardised reply stating it was not in violation of their community standards,’ Caroline said.

Freddie’s body shook. Silent, mirthless laughter.

‘What the hell does it take to fall foul of their community standards?’ Tibbsy said.

‘Nipples,’ Freddie gasped as the word came out, shaking like salt over chips.

‘What?’ Nas turned to look at her. ‘Are you all right, Freddie?’

She was sick with laughter now. Hysteria rupturing her. It was absurd. There was a madman making snuff videos and circulating them online, and there was nothing they could do. ‘Nipples. The American conservative equivalent of the Anti-christ.’ Moast was looking at her strangely. ‘Breastfeeding, mastectomy scars, they’ll all get you suspended.’

‘She’s right,’ Caroline Arnold added without turning around.

That was it: a stupid patronising woman in black was the last straw. Freddie burst out laughing. Halfway through the second peal something snapped and it turned into a sob.
Poor Michael Grape. Poor beautiful Sophie.

‘I thought Facebook was photos of kids and Candy Crush,’ Moast was saying.

‘Freddie, try to breathe slower.’ Nas had a hand on her shoulder.

Freddie watched as a tear plummeted onto the carpet tiles. Rage erupted up through her. ‘Don’t you see? He’s turned us all into an audience. This’ll spread like wildfire.’

‘Take a breath, Venters.’ Tibbsy reached out to touch her.

She swatted him away. ‘He’s already got 16,000 Facebook followers,’ she screamed. ‘And there’s nothing we can do.’ It hurt. As if someone had reached inside her and squeezed. Ripped part of her out. Thrown it away. Freddie had only felt like this once before: when Gemma had tried to kill herself and Nasreen Cudmore disappeared from her life. A broken heart.

‘You need to calm down, Freddie.’ Nas was in front of her.

‘Get away!’ Freddie pushed past her. Past Moast. Out. She had to get out. Red ribbons. Red ribbons all over the Internet. There were faces. People. A voice. Jamie’s? She kept going. Slamming into the fire escape bar released her into the car park; she felt the cold air wrap round and cup her, pain pouring out. She had her phone. Was typing. Blinking. The words blurry:

This was bullshit.
Bullshit
. Bubbles were coming out of her nose. She wiped at her face. Anger subsided. Bigger gaps between the aftershocks. Her vision cleared. Her breathing slowed. The icy air was making her shake. Her mother always said she had to work harder to control her temper. She swallowed the remnants of tears and snot, as what she’d done settled into her stomach.
It was okay
, she told herself.
It was okay
. Other people had tweeted @Apollyon. But she knew this was different. She was the girl on the front of the newspapers. She was the hashtag ho. She closed her eyes.

Her mobile vibrated in her hand.

Apollyon had replied.

21:34

Tuesday 10 November

3 FOLLOWING 127,402 FOLLOWERS

Freddie read the words over and over.

Over and over. She had to get help. She managed to open the station door. Head down, walking. Reading her phone. Over and over. Wishing it was a mistake. Wishing she’d misread it.

‘Hey! Watch where you’re going!’ a policewoman snapped at her.

Freddie veered out the way, catching site of a uniform and blonde hair. ‘Sorry.’ Had to get to the incident room. Had to get help. Over and over. The door was open. Caroline Arnold was gone. The room was empty apart from Nas, who looked up from the laptop Caroline Arnold had left behind.

‘Freddie, are you all right? Tibbsy went to look for you.’

‘I…I…’

‘Can I just say, I’m sorry that you had to see that. I think we should have pre-screened it. It was…awful.’ Nas was straightening folders around the laptop.

Over and over. ‘I…I…’

‘You should probably go home for tonight. Have some sweet tea and take a rest.’ Nas was pulling Freddie’s coat from the chair at the back of the room. Scooping her bag out from under the desk with her foot. ‘I’ll square it with the DCI. He was worried about you. I’m sure of it.’

‘He tweeted me,’ she forced the words out.

‘What?’ Nas stopped. ‘The DCI?’

‘No. Apollyon.’ Freddie held the phone up with her shaking hand.

The colour drained from Nas’s cheeks. ‘Let me see?’ She left Freddie’s bag and coat on a table and took the phone from her outstretched hand, tapping the screen. ‘Oh my God, Freddie, what have you done?’

‘I…I…was angry,’ Freddie said.

‘Jesus, Freddie!’ Nas sounded uncharacte‌ristically frightened.

‘I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean for this to happen.’
Please don’t look worried. Please tell me it’s going to be okay.

‘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:

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 Klinger, 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.