Читать книгу Follow Me: The bestselling crime novel terrifying everyone this year - Angela Clarke, Angela Clarke - Страница 10

05:36

Saturday 31 October

Dropping down to the ground from the back of the police van, Nasreen tucked the flask of tea into her hoodie pocket and headed back. Sent for the DCI’s tea again. This wasn’t what she’d had in mind when she’d requested to be assigned to Detective Chief Inspector Moast’s team. She wanted to prove herself on a major investigation, not fetch beverages. Perhaps there’d be a chance to make a real difference on this case. It was a particularly grim one. The body of Alun Mardling, slumped over his computer with his throat cut, had been found by his mother at around 4.30am, when she had returned from her night shift at St Thomas’ Hospital. Mrs Lucy Mardling had a job cleaning surgical instruments, but Nasreen couldn’t imagine any amount of blood and tissue would prepare you for this.

Closing her eyes, she was back in the hallway with DCI Moast, breathless from suiting up before the others. She replayed the scene in her mind.

‘Sergeant Nasreen Cudmore, this is Dr Jim Fisher.’ DCI Moast, his blue puffa jacket and jeans covered by his protective full body suit, signalled at the pathologist. ‘Nasreen is new to the team. Fresh blood.’

She nodded as Dr Fisher stood back to let them enter the room. At just over six foot, he was taller than Nasreen and the DCI, with smiling crinkly eyes behind thin wire glasses, and thick grey hair she could glimpse under his hood.

‘Glad to see you’ve finally got someone who knows what correct practice is, Ed.’ The doctor pointed at the disposable face mask Nasreen was wearing. She blushed. She didn’t want to get the DCI in trouble.

‘I’ve got my shoes and my bonce covered, Jim, what more do you want?’ The DCI’s grizzled jaw broke into a white grin. With his hood up over his cropped hair, he resembled a cotton bud. ‘You bods are finished anyway,’ he continued. ‘I just want to see the body in situ.’ They stepped into the small bedroom at the front of the house. ‘My, my, this is a mess isn’t it? You going to be all right with this, Sergeant Cudmore?’

Nasreen steeled herself to assess the scene. ‘Yes, sir. I’ve worked homicides before.’

‘Righto.’ DCI Moast pulled his notebook from his pocket. ‘The victim is Alun Mardling, aged forty-eight, a local bank manager at Canary Wharf.’

With her own suit hood up, Nasreen had to turn her head to take in the small room. The blue seventies-style curtains were drawn. The orange glow of the street lamp outside could be seen through them. A dusty lampshade with faded red and yellow cars on it hung from above. There was a desk, a chair and a computer, at which the body was slumped. The victim’s blood was splattered up and over the wall. Nasreen felt her gut contract and tears threaten at the back of her eyes. She reminded herself to stay clinical. Break it down into small manageable sections. The best thing she could do for the victim and his mother was help find who did this.

Blood was everywhere. Doused. Splashed. Flung. The room contained a slim pine wardrobe, with what she presumed was Mardling’s work suit hung on the outside. There was a matching compact pine bedside table, with Top Gear magazines and a box of tissues piled on it, and barely enough room for them to stand in here. Everything was covered in sprays of livid red. ‘Single bed, almost like this was a child’s room, sir?’ She looked at the faded blue checked duvet that was crumpled across the mattress. ‘No photos or pictures.’ She looked at the drab walls.

‘Apparently Mrs Mardling’s son, Alun here, moved back in with his mum after his marriage fell apart,’ DCI Moast said. ‘He was based in Manchester before that.’

‘Recently?’ asked Nasreen. This was a sad bachelor room.

‘About four years ago,’ said Moast.

‘Doesn’t look like he’s moved on much, does it?’ Dr Fisher said from the doorway.

The victim was dressed in a T-shirt and shorts, his head and body slumped forward over his computer. His blood looked as if it had been dashed against the desk and the walls, indicating it had come out in high-velocity gushes. It was concentrated on the computer, desk and wall Mardling had been facing. ‘Was he attacked from behind?’ Nasreen asked.

‘Correct,’ said Dr Fisher. ‘His neck was cut with a sharp implement, probably a knife. I’ll know more when we’re back at the lab.’

‘So far we’ve found no murder weapon,’ said DCI Moast. ‘I’ve got the lads outside searching.’

Nasreen had seen something similar once after a gang hit. ‘The blood spatter is fairly aggressive,’ she said. ‘Like spurts. Did the perp cut the carotid artery, doctor?’

‘Very good, Sergeant.’ Dr Fisher pointed at the sliced neck. ‘He would have lost consciousness pretty instantly and bled out in minutes.’

What a horrible, violent end to a life. ‘Well, at least it was quick,’ said Nasreen. ‘Do you think the perp knew what he was doing?’

‘It looks like a precision cut,’ said the doctor. ‘So either he knew his anatomy, or he got lucky.’

DCI Moast nodded and wrote something in his notebook.

‘And presumably the perp’s clothes would be covered too?’ said Nasreen.

‘I’ve told the lads to look for discarded clothing as well,’ said the DCI.

‘She’s a sharp one this one: I’d keep hold of her if I were you, Ed.’ Dr Fisher winked at Nasreen.

‘She’s too young for you, Jim,’ Moast said. Nasreen felt herself blush again. And then she’d been sent to fetch the DCI’s tea.

Had she spoken out of turn? Did the DCI think she couldn’t cope with the rigours of a ghoulish crime scene? No, she was sure DCI Moast made all his sergeants run round after him. Perhaps he drank sweet tea to help combat shock, keep his mind clear? They all did what they had to to cope with a crime scene like this. She understood sacrifices needed to be made. She’d better text Claire and cancel their planned cinema trip tomorrow. Claire had ditched her plenty of times to work late in her bid to make partner at her law firm. That’s why their friendship worked so well: they both knew the job came first.

Members of the public were gathering outside the crime scene tape, peering up at the terraced house. What was PC Thomas doing on the door? Where was PC Folland? This wasn’t protocol.

‘Mind your step, ma’am.’ Spindly Jamie’s usually pale face looked positively drained.

The toe of her boot nudged a puddle of sick on the floor. ‘Oh, Jamie. And inside the cordon.’

‘I couldn’t help it. It just…Do you think there’ll be a disciplinary, ma’am?’ He looked stricken.

She still wasn’t used to being called ma’am. It made her feel old. She’d paused too long now. ‘I bet Dr Fisher loves you!’

Jamie’s mouth turned down.

Drat, she’d meant that to be light-hearted. She tried to give him a reassuring smile. ‘I best go find the guv.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Jamie held the door for her.

Inside she gathered her thoughts. She needed to speak to the victim’s mother – she was with the relationship officers now. The SOCOs were out back looking for evidence of how the perpetrator gained access. DCI Moast favoured the alley that ran along the back of the houses. It wouldn’t be hard to vault the fence and enter through the garden. A robbery gone wrong? Perhaps. The perpetrator could have assumed everyone was asleep, come across Alun Mardling and, in the panic, killed him. There were no immediate signs of anything missing. Little sign of struggle. No evidence of forced entry. But she felt there 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,’ said Freddie.

‘Staggering,’ the copper said. ‘Doesn’t she get inundated with these @name messages?’

‘Almost certainly,’ said Freddie. ‘Though you can block people who are causing trouble.’

‘And 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?’

Nasreen thought of Freddie’s mum, Lorna Venton, was she still in her neat little house trying to keep it together while her husband was off drinking? Was Freddie’s alcoholic father still alive? How would the gentle woman, who used to give her an ice lolly if she grazed her knee, cope if her daughter was arrested as well? ‘I won’t. But only to spare your mum the shame.’

Freddie turned to look behind her, her attention already shifted. ‘Is the DLR that way?’

‘What?’

‘The Docklands Light Railway, or is public transport too good for you now you’re a copper, Nas?’

All those years mourning the loss of their friendship, but instead of the warm-hearted fearless girl she remembered, here was an entitled loud-mouthed stranger. What an idiot she’d been. Nasreen’s cheeks flamed. ‘The station’s that way.’

‘See you later, Sergeant Cudmore.’ Freddie gave a fake salute.

Nasreen closed her eyes. It was like a bad dream. When she opened them Freddie was gone. She headed back to 39 Blackbird Road. DCI Moast’s flask of tea cold in her pocket. She never wanted to see Freddie Venton ever again.