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

everyone can see the @name messages you send to other people?’ The copper ran his gloved finger over her mobile screen.

      ‘Correct,’ said Freddie. ‘But if you follow another user and they follow you back, then you can send a “Direct Message”, which is private.’

      Fury bubbled through Nasreen. For the last two years she’d tried to find a way in with Superintendent Gray. She’d managed six words: Good morning, sir, and good evening, sir. And now here he and Freddie were, acting like Starsky and Hutch. It was well known the Superintendent didn’t like social media websites. He’d had to let a good officer go last year after he revealed sensitive information about a case on Facebook after a pint or two. It’d been picked up by the press. These websites could not be trusted. She watched as the Superintendent and Freddie turned back to look at the vic’s computer. Freddie’d disturb the evidence. DCI Moast was downstairs, oblivious to the fact his case was being destroyed by an Espress-oh’s waitress. Forget anything that had been between them in the past, she had to stop this before it went too far. She had to say something.

      ‘He’s a troll!’ Freddie suddenly stabbed toward the screen with her finger.

      ‘What?’ Nasreen recognised excitement in Freddie’s voice, for a second they were back, joyfully awaiting the start of her eighth birthday party.

      ‘Trolling – hurling abuse at someone over the Internet. You must have heard of it?’

      ‘Keep up, Sergeant.’ Superintendent Gray didn’t turn around. ‘There was a training course last year. Growing concern for the force: online harassment. Everyone was scheduled to attend.’

      ‘I was there, I attended, sir, I know what a troll is. Of course…’

      ‘Jesus!’ Freddie still had her finger dangerously close to the screen. ‘He really bloody loves it. It’s all at Paige Klinger.’

      ‘The model? The one with the lips?’ Nasreen leant forward so her face was alongside Freddie’s. She smelt vaguely of stale cigarettes.

      Nasreen scrutinised the tweets: a jumble of @ signs and hashtags. ‘What does it say?’

      ‘Here,’ Freddie pointed at one of the boxes. ‘This @PaigeKlinger is him talking to her.’ Freddie ran her finger underneath the words:

      Alun Mardling @MaddeningAlun23 • 1s

      @PaigeKlinger u deserv fuckin wiv a barbed wire dildo u stuck up whore. in front of ur famly ho.

      Superintendent Gray pushed air out through his teeth. ‘Is that English?’

      ‘Barely,’ Freddie said. ‘Plus I guess he was typing one-handed.’

      Nasreen followed her sightline to the blood drying on the vic’s hand.

      ‘The bloody wanker,’ Freddie said.

      Nasreen ignored Freddie. ‘This is pretty strong, sir. Threats of rape. Murder. Why hasn’t she come forward?’

      ‘Happens all the time,’ Freddie said.

      ‘Sir, if he’s threatened her and her family like this, I would say that’s pretty good motive.’

      ‘Hmmm,’ Superintendent Gray folded his arms. ‘Nasty business.’

      Freddie’s mind was in overdrive. Everything was taking on vivid colours. She could see the article she was going to write already. She could imagine the pay cheque. ‘It’s definitely murder, right? Not suicide?’

      ‘No weapon. Indicates someone took it with them. Foul play.’ Nasreen was still looking at the tweets.

      ‘Great!’ Man Who Trolled Paige Klinger Murdered.

      ‘Great?’ The copper turned to look her in the face. ‘What did you say your name was again, officer?’

      Police declined to give a statement. Time to leave. ‘I’m feeling woozy again.’ Freddie took a step back away from the body. And then realised she wasn’t lying.

      ‘She doesn’t look good, sir.’ Nasreen grabbed hold of Freddie’s arm. ‘Better get her outside. Right now. Looks like she might be sick.’ This time Freddie let herself be pulled from the room.

      Nasreen’s heart was beating hard. Please let DCI Moast and the others be outside. No sign of anyone. She glanced back to see Superintendent Gray still looking at the computer. With her free hand she grabbed Freddie’s SOCO suit hood and pulled it up over her hair.

      ‘Hey, watch it!’ Freddie tried to squirm away from her.

      Nasreen silenced her with a stare. Did she want to get arrested? Was this all some elaborate plan to ruin her career? Vengeance for what happened eight years ago? That would be ridiculous, but then this was Freddie Venton. She dragged her across the entrance hall and opened the front door.

      PC Jamie Thomas turned to face them. His skin taking on the blue tinge of the sky. ‘You all right there, ma’am,’ he indicated at Freddie, who was now leaning against her, seemingly in a bid to trip her up.

      ‘Just going out for some air. Seen DCI Moast?’

      Jamie shook his head as he spoke, ‘He hasn’t been this way for twenty minutes or so.’

      He was a nice guy, she felt dreadful lying to him. ‘Okay, thanks.’ Nasreen pushed Freddie in front of her, circumnavigating the vomit on the path.

      ‘Do you think the team’ll go for a drink after this, Nasreen?’ Jamie called after her. ‘I could do with something to steady my nerves.’

      ‘Not for me. Thanks, Jamie,’ she kept her voice upbeat. Then put her face close to Freddie’s as they passed under the incident tape. ‘Don’t say a word,’ she hissed.

      There were still civilians standing outside watching the scene. Where were the constables who were supposed to be interviewing the neighbours? Curtains were twitching. Early-morning commuters in suits were appearing. They were close to Canary Wharf – when did the financial markets open? Soon there would be more people staring. Five doors down, Nasreen spotted an alley and took it.

      As the walls of the houses either side rose up around them, Freddie shook herself free.

      ‘Oh my God! All the blood and…Let me get my breath…God! I can’t believe that.’ Freddie leant forward spitting phlegm onto the ground. ‘Thought I was going to hurl like that bloke on the door.’

      ‘What the hell are you doing here, Freddie? I haven’t seen you in eight years – we haven’t spoken – and suddenly you’re at St Pancras station and now at a crime scene? Don’t tell me that’s a coincidence.’ This couldn’t be happening. She checked no one had followed them.

      ‘That copper on the door. The one who spewed. I’m guessing he could get in a lot of trouble for letting me in.’

      Nasreen looked at Freddie Venton, the girl she’d idolised as a child, the girl she’d wished was her sister for years, as she struggled to free her arm from her stolen SOCO suit. ‘Do you have any idea what you’ve done? What I’ve just done. You could’ve cost PC Thomas his job. You’ve contaminated the crime scene. What do you think you’re playing at?’

      Freddie didn’t look up. ‘You sound like your mum that time she busted us for eating all the chocolate digestives.’

      ‘This is serious. What are you doing here? I could lose my job. You’ve put me in a very difficult position.’

      ‘Don’t flatter yourself, I would’ve got out of there without your help.’

      Nasreen exhaled. ‘That’s not what I meant. I could arrest you for breaking and entering, contaminating a crime scene, impersonating a forensics officer!’ This was unbelievable.

      ‘Oh yeah.’ Freddie rolled the SOCO suit down her legs and over her shoes. The colour back and fiery in her cheeks. ‘Then why don’t you?’