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

was something disturbing about the way the man’s throat had been cut: too…sacrificial. The flask felt warm in her pocket – DCI Moast could wait a minute while she took another quick look at the body.

      Nasreen took the stairs two at a time. She could hear people moving around, one of the forensics team must still be here. She reached the bedroom door and froze. But she wasn’t staring at the blood, she was staring at the person in front of it.

      Was she a scene of crime officer? No. Ridiculous. She was just at Espress-oh’s. How’d she…? Where’d she…?

      ‘Freddie Venton, what the hell are you doing here?’

      Freddie – and it was definitely Freddie with that bizarre red streaked hair and dark kohl circles round her eyes – dipped her chin, then her eyes rolled back and she crumpled.

      Instinctively Nasreen rushed forwards, arms open, but someone got there first. She shuddered to a halt, before she ploughed into the uniformed back, the crown on the epaulette. It couldn’t be…‘Superintendent, sir!’ She stood straight. Heels together. Hands by her side. Palms sweating.

      Superintendent Gray, his salt-and-pepper trimmed eyebrows meeting at the exertion, turned to face her. The rag doll Freddie in his hands. ‘Sergeant, do you know this officer?’

      ‘I…er…sir…I…’ How was this happening? What was he doing here? He must have responded to the call-out. Like them. Staff shortages.

      ‘Spit it out, Sergeant.’ Superintendent Gray’s hands, smooth from deskwork, with neat clipped nails, gripped Freddie’s shoulders.

      ‘We studied together.’ The words were out before she could stop them. Her cheeks burned red. She’d lied to the Superintendent. Her training kicked in. Counter the epinephrine. Frame the situation. Respond. ‘I’ll take her outside, sir, get her some air.’

      ‘Nas?’ Freddie’s voice was hoarse.

      The Superintendent looked down at Freddie, his hair parting was ruler-straight. ‘Freddie, the Superintendent and I know it’s your first active crime scene. I’ll take you outside for some air.’ She tried to convey the severity of the situation with her eyes. Play along. Good grief, the girl was using the Superintendent’s arm to push herself up.

      Nasreen had gotten onto the Fast Track Programme. She’d put up with her colleagues’ inappropriate cracks. She’d faced down gang members, and once a man wielding a machete, she was damned if Freddie Venton was going to be her undoing. ‘I really think you…’

      Freddie pulled her arm away from Nas. She felt shaky, but there was no way she was leaving. She had to stay and get the story. Even with that there in the room. ‘Odd, isn’t it…’ Freddie’s words came out in a gasp. Fear ripped through her body like the knife through the dead man. She looked away from the gore. Must bear witness. Glimpses of a T-shirt and boxer shorts made it through the red. The thing – once a living breathing man – looked like it was dressed for bed. A hand still lay on the computer mouse. ‘Odd, isn’t it…that…this…happened at the computer?’

      ‘Plenty of people spend their free time on the computer.’ Nasreen seemed to have a problem controlling her eyebrows.

      Freddie focused on them going up and down. Up and down. Her breathing slowed. She gestured toward the desk, and then dropped her arm when she saw it shaking. Focus on something else. ‘Was he looking at porn?’ Porn Addiction: A Very Modem Problem.

      ‘You noticed his hand then?’ said the uniformed cop who’d caught her.

      Freddie located the shoulder – carefully avoiding the neck area. Think about something else. His other arm was lowered, elbow bent, his hand was…‘It’s in his boxers! Oh my God! He was knocking one out – what a way to go!’

      The copper gave a little chuckle.

      Think about something else. ‘It’s not kiddie porn is it?’ Paedophile Butchered in Revenge Attack.

      Nasreen tersely replied, ‘There’s nothing to suggest…’

      ‘Let’s take a look.’ The uniformed copper pulled a latex glove from his pocket and picked his way toward the desk.

      Freddie ignored the expression of incredulity on Nasreen’s face and looked straight ahead at the screen. Taking a pen from his pocket, the copper gently nudged the mouse. The monitor hissed with static and blinked into life. Not porn. Not a video. But a background of skull and crossbones images, overlaid with text boxes. Familiarity soothed Freddie.

      The uniformed copper peered at the computer. ‘Is that Twitter? That site where people talk about what they had for lunch?’ he said.

      Freddie clung to the normality of it. ‘It’s a microblogging site, good for keeping abreast of the zeitgeist, gathering ideas, and building work contacts.’ Don’t stop. Her mind and mouth babbled in panic: ‘I wonder why he was spanking the monkey while looking at Twitter? I’ve heard of people checking their phones during sex, but this is like dissing yourself.’

      ‘What do all these @ signs mean?’ The uniformed copper was still peering at the screen.

      If she could keep him talking for a few more minutes, she might get more info for her pitch. Freddie stepped forward.

      Nasreen audibly inhaled. ‘Be careful not to touch the victim or disturb any of the evidence.’

      ‘I’m sure Miss Venton knows what she’s doing, Sergeant,’ the copper snapped.

      Freddie was thankful his tone obliterated the word victim that seemed to hang in the air.

      ‘Twitter is a social media site. Each user has a “Twitter Handle”, which is unique to them. They all start with an @ symbol. Mine is @ReadyFreddieGo. They’re also called “@names”.’

      ‘I see,’ said the copper.

      In order to read the tweets on the computer, Freddie had to lean over the body. She could hear it dripping. She focused on the screen: Alun Mardling. That is…was…his name. ‘So this is the account of Alun Mardling. His Twitter Handle is @MaddeningAlun23.’ She turned away from the computer and the body to look at the copper. ‘You can follow people, other users, from your Twitter account. Their tweets – what they’ve posted online – appear in what’s called your “timeline” in real time.’ The copper’s brow furrowed. ‘For example, if I’ve followed Nasreen on Twitter and she tweets to say she is at Espress-oh’s in St Pancras, it will appear on my “timeline” when she tweets it.’ Nas scowled at her. Freddie pushed on. This was allowing her head to clear and her stomach to settle. ‘I can re-post Nasreen’s tweet, or share it, so it is seen by my followers in their timeline by doing what’s called “retweeting”.’

      ‘Do you invite people to follow you and accept invitations like they do on LinkedIn?’ The copper looked thoughtful.

      ‘No,’ said Freddie, focusing on him and not the body. ‘You can follow anyone on Twitter and you can also send anyone a message by using their @name. By looking up an account, say Alun Mardling’s @name, I would be able to read what he’s posted without following him. I would also be able to talk to him by using his @name in a tweet. This would then appear on his notifications.’

      ‘So anyone can talk to anyone else on Twitter?’ Nas asked.

      ‘Exactly, that’s what makes it popular. Like, I could directly communicate with my favourite author Margaret Atwood, or a pop star like Taylor Swift. Most famous people and journalists are authenticated by Twitter with a blue tick that shows on their account bio.’ She pulled her phone out of her pocket and looked up Taylor Swift’s account. ‘See the blue tick here?’ Nas and the copper nodded. ‘You can also see how many people they are following, and how many people are following them.’

      ‘Wait.’ Nas pointed at Freddie’s phone. ‘Over sixty-one million people follow Taylor Swift?’

      ‘Yup,’