Follow Me: The bestselling crime novel terrifying everyone this year. Angela Clarke

the door open to reveal the nervous-looking copper who’d been sick at the crime scene. ‘I’m trying to conduct an interview in here, PC Thomas!’ Freddie’s heartbeat roared through her body.

      ‘Sorry, guv,’ the copper stuttered. ‘I need a word.’ He glanced at Freddie. ‘It’s about the case.’

      ‘Interview suspended at eleven forty-seven pm. Cudmore, outside. Now!’ Moast’s voice shook the room.

      Nas clicked the tape recorder off and jumped up and all three of them disappeared behind the slamming door. Freddie looked at the dent the door handle had made in the wall and realised she was gripping her chair so hard her nails were cutting into the plastic underside. She didn’t realise she was so easily intimidated. This guy was a prick.

      There was the noise of squeaking footsteps and a very audible ‘Fuck’ from outside. The door opened and Freddie tried to see out into the hallway, but only caught sight of another grubby, once white wall. Nasreen and Moast came back in, he running his hand over his cropped hair, she carrying a newspaper.

      ‘Give me that.’ He took the paper from Nasreen. ‘Interview with Freddie Venton, Thirty-first of October, continuing at eleven fifty-two pm.’ Moast tapped the tape recorder. ‘It seems you weren’t lying about being a journalist.’

      The Post, still folded, thudded onto the table between them. Emblazoned across the front was: ‘#Murder: Troll Hunter Death Link to Twitter.’

      ‘The splash!’ Freddie reached for it.

      Moast pulled it away. ‘This changes nothing. You’re not off the hook.’

      ‘You think I bumped off some guy for the story?’ Seriously, where did this guy get off?

      ‘Do you deny you entered an active crime scene under false pretences?’ Moast stabbed at the newspaper, threatening to tear a hole in it.

      ‘No, but…’

      ‘And while you were there you impersonated a policeman?’ Stab, stab, stab.

      ‘I never said I was a copper, I just showed up in one of those CSI suits and your bloke let me in.’ She couldn’t keep her eyes from the newspaper. This should have been one of the happiest moments of her life. ‘Don’t you think the public have the right to know if there’s a crazed killer going around bumping off trolls and posting pictures of it online?’

      ‘What picture?’ Moast’s finger stayed ground into the paper.

      ‘The one you’ve been waving in my face for the last hour!’

      Nas dropped into a chair and shuffled forwards. Dipping her chin like Princess Diana, looking up through her dark lashes. ‘Tell me about the photo you sent me, Freddie? You’re saying you didn’t take it?’

      ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you: some freakazoid has set up an account under the name of Apollyon…’

      ‘Apol-what?’ Moast interrupted.

      Freddie kept eye contact with Nas. Believe me. ‘…and posted the photo of that guy’s body online. Nas, you must find this twisted freak.’

      Nas looked up at Moast. ‘Sir, I think we should at least take a look.’

      Moast slumped into the chair and pushed his hand up over his face. ‘Okay. So you’re saying that there’s someone who has put this photo on Twitter.’

      ‘Yes,’ nodded Freddie. Finally.

      Moast looked at Nas. Something passed between them.

      Nas leant forward and pressed a button on the tape recorder: ‘Interview suspended at twelve oh one am. 1st November.’

      ‘Pinch punch first of the month,’ Freddie said. What a way to start November.

      Moast leant toward Nas, speaking quietly, ‘Do you have a phone with Twitter?’

      ‘No, sir. Of course not. The guv actively discourages us from using social media.’

      ‘Me either. It’s blocked on all the station machines. And we won’t be able to get anyone from computer services in until the morning and the paperwork’s been completed. I’ve seen my nephew’s Facebook. It can’t be that different.’

      ‘In case you two forgot, I’m still here. Being held under false pretences.’ Freddie waved at them.

      Moast glared at her.

      Freddie held up her hands in surrender. ‘Just trying to help. If you give me my phone, I can show you Twitter and the account straight away.’

      ‘It’s worth a shot, sir. She did alert us to the photo, and having seen this site at the crime scene I’m not confident I could navigate it,’ said Nas. Thank you, thought Freddie.

      Moast exhaled. ‘Fine, get PC Thomas to fetch it from the Duty Sergeant.’

      When Nas opened the door, Freddie heard voices. Chatter. Laughter. A guy in uniform walked past clutching a copy of The Post. Her copy of The Post. ‘Don’t suppose I could…’ she pointed at the newspaper.

      Moast slapped a hand on it and pulled it toward him.

      ‘Fine. Just asking.’ This was ridiculous. They’d arrested and falsely accused her of murder, almost certainly got her fired from Espress-oh’s, and now they wouldn’t even let her look at her first ever front page national scoop. ‘Can I get something to eat or is that not allowed either?’

      Moast ignored her as Nas came back carrying Freddie’s phone in a plastic bag. Relief flooded through Freddie as she took hold of her phone. She was in control again. She could call someone. Text. Read the news. Work out precisely where she was. Could You Last Twenty-Four Hours Without Your Mobile? Nas coughed.

      ‘Can I take it out – the touch screen won’t work through this?’ Freddie said.

      Moast nodded.

      Unlocking her phone, Freddie stopped: that was odd. The front flickered with Twitter updates. Had something she posted gone viral? An angry red spot denoting eleven missed calls pulsed on her phone icon. ‘19% battery – guys, you could’ve plugged it in.’

      ‘Just show us the Twitter,’ Moast said.

      Five thousand six hundred and fifty-seven notifications – must be a glitch. She searched for Apollyon’s account. The thumbnail image of the body was easier to bear. Wait…that can’t be right: ‘He has over 10,000 followers already?’

      They huddled round the phone like smokers round a match. ‘Is that unusual?’ Nas asked.

      ‘Yes, unless he’s famous or gone viral. This morning he had no followers, what happened?’ She pulled the newspaper from under Moast’s arm. ‘I’m sure I didn’t.’ She speed-read her copy. Virtually word for word hers. ‘I didn’t mention @Apollyon at all…how’d all these people find out about him?’

      ‘You keep saying “he”,’ Nas said.

      ‘Yeah, yeah, gender neutrality, et cetera, et cetera. Slip of the tongue.’ She hit notifications. The screen blurred: there were tens of them. Hundreds. Thousands.

      ‘PC Cudmore is insinuating you know who this Apollyon is?’ Moast peered over her phone.

      ‘You idiots.’ She looked up.

      ‘What?’

      It was right there, the same tweet from the Jubilee Police, retweeted, shared over and over:

      We can neither confirm nor deny that @Apollyon is the #Murderer or the #TrollHunter as mentioned in @ReadyFreddieGo’s article.

      ‘You tweeted it! Here: see, this is a message from the Jubilee Police. You tagged @Apollyon, and me, and hashtagged murderer and troll hunter. You just told the world @Apollyon is the one who posted the gruesome photo online. It means everyone knows he’s