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02:18

Sunday 1 November

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Freddie had been sat in the interview room alone for two hours now. Her phone had died. The pale-faced PC had brought her another scalding coffee and something that was supposed to be an egg and bacon bap. 23 Things You Eat That Can Kill You.

Rocking back on her chair legs, she wondered how long they’d drag this out for. Everyone had jumped up after she’d said about @Apollyon having an audience and she was asked to wait here. Asked or told? She was too tired to be angry. She just wanted to go home.

The door opened and the burble of noise and movement bled into the room. Nasreen stood in the doorway.

‘Follow me, Miss Venton.’ She turned and Freddie jumped up.

Miss Venton? I thought we were past all that nonsense? ‘So, Nas, bet you never thought we’d meet like this, hey? How you been?’

Nasreen ignored her and clicked down the hallway. Freddie noted she’d changed out of her flat boots into black high heels. Let her hair down.

‘Wait here.’ Nasreen tapped briskly on a door.

‘Come!’ said a male voice inside.

Nasreen smoothed her hair and tugged at her shirt’s hem to straighten it. She wanted to look smart. Correct. Her suit was her armour. Except this situation was a hundred times worse than a job interview. Being summoned to the guv’s office like this was bad news. She knew he’d been informed after the Twitter situation broke, journalists were already inundating the station with calls. DCI Moast was shouting about containment. It was a PR disaster. The guv shouldn’t even be here – he’d come in on his night off to ‘limit the damage’. She’d never been called to see him before. Never. She’d already been hauled over the coals for not outing Freddie immediately by DCI Moast. Inappropriate conduct. Endangering the investigation. She hated being told off. Her cheeks burned. She felt guilt and shame and wanted to fix it. She’d been a well-behaved child, only really getting in trouble if she went along with one of Freddie’s more crazy schemes. Finding a pot of paint outside a pub and painting one of the building’s walls pink. Grounded. Going further from home than she was allowed because Freddie had seen a kitten with an injured leg they had to help. No television for a week. It was always Freddie who’d led her astray. And now this? If Nasreen was to be suspended, she wanted to hold it together. She would not cry. No matter how much it hurt. No matter how upset or angry she was. Not in front of her colleagues. She wouldn’t lose their respect as well as everything else.

Freddie’s story about being a journalist was true, so why on earth was she wasting her time at Espress-oh’s if she worked for The Post? That just showed how different they were. Anything they’d had before – any common ground they’d shared in the past – was gone. She probably did it for free paninis. In a few short hours Freddie had seemingly taken a wrecking ball to Nasreen’s life. Her career. Everything she valued. Nasreen felt the wrench of despair as she thought of Freddie confessing to entering the crime scene under false pretences. Why hadn’t she raised the alarm when she’d seen Freddie at Blackbird Road? She was complicit in Freddie’s offence. And now the suspect, the real one on Twitter, had hours on them and it was Nasreen’s fault they’d missed the Golden Hour. The crucial period immediately after a crime when material is readily available to the investigating team. They’d lost it to interviewing Freddie. A false lead. A distraction. A confusion. DCI Moast had talked about creating slow time – trying to regroup, but Nasreen knew her deception about Freddie had lost them valuable ground. At best, Nasreen would be demoted. She tried to make that a reassuring thought, but anxiety overpowered her. How was she going to keep up the mortgage repayments on her home? What would her parents say if she was fired? She’d let everyone down. And all because seventeen years ago she’d gone for fish fingers at Freddie Venton’s house.

In front of Freddie, Nasreen opened the door. It was an office, and sat at a large MDF desk was the grey-haired copper who’d caught her when she’d fainted at the crime scene. In front of him a plaque read: Superintendent Gray. Oh shit.

‘Sergeant Cudmore. And we haven’t been formally introduced, Ms Venton.’ The Superintendent held his hand out.

Freddie shook it firmly. Taking in the certificates of excellence on the wall. The plant on top of the metal grey filing cabinet. This guy was a big deal. ‘How much trouble am I in?’ How was she going to explain this to her mum? Nasreen emitted a high-pitched squeak.

‘Interfering with police work, wasting police time…’

‘You’re the ones who wrongly arrested me – you wasted your own time.’ Freddie watched as a look passed over Superintendent Gray’s face. A shadow shifted underneath his skin. Was it anger? Disappointment? Freddie settled on disgust.

‘I meant your performance at the crime scene.’ The Superintendent sat down, stiff and upright.

Freddie took it as her cue to do likewise and flopped onto a chair in front of his desk. ‘Yeah, sorry about that.’ Nasreen was still standing, hands clasped behind her back. ‘Journalistic intuition.’

‘I read your piece in The Post, Ms Venton,’ Gray said. ‘Thank you for leaving Sergeant Cudmore and her colleagues out of it.’ Another small squeak leaked from Nasreen. Freddie gave her a look: man up.

Superintendent Gray continued, ‘The way you identified those tweets, made the link to the trolling, and then found @Apollyon was quite…extraordinary’.

Not if you know how to use Twitter, Freddie thought. Nasreen’s shoes creaked against the floor.

‘The Gremlin Taskforce are our specialists who tackle social media related investigations; there are three of them. Their brief is focused on educating young people about the risks of online bullying,’ Gray said. Freddie glanced at the photo frame on his desk: wife, two kids. How very white picket fence. ‘They do a lot of work in schools.’ The Superintendent sighed, ‘I’m sure you’re aware, Ms Venton, that the government have slashed our funding. 17,000 police officers have been cut from the force over the last five years, and we’re all under pressure to keep costs low. After a number of demand-intensive cases recently, I don’t have the budget at my disposal to bring in Gremlin officers on this. So I would like to ask you to work with us, Ms Venton.’

‘What?’ squeaked Nasreen.

‘What?’ Freddie sat up and looked at him. ‘Are you crazy?’ She couldn’t imagine anything worse than working with these establishment dinosaurs.

‘I would like you to act as our Social Media Adviser.’

‘That sounds like one of those idiot Twitter accounts that promise to get you ten thousand new followers, despite only having twenty-seven themselves. No thanks.’

Superintendent Gray looked at the woman in front of him. Scruffy, nonchalant, slapdash, but she had an insight into the online community his officers lacked. From what he’d seen at the crime scene, he inferred Twitter was the same as a religion or race, with its codes of conduct and language. Far quicker to use a translator than risk unintentionally upsetting the natives and closing off communication. She could bridge the gap. ‘I have looked into your record, Ms Venton.’

‘What record?’ Freddie said.

Superintendent Gray opened a file on his desk and began to leaf through. ‘I see you provided a witness statement that disparaged the attending officer, for a theft charge involving a Mr Robert Venton.’

‘That was a misunderstanding, my dad had just had one too many and accidentally stole a box of melons. Melons. They must have been worth five quid at the most. But your lot came in heavy-handed, it was unfair.’

‘You describe the police officer involved as “part of a corrupt hegemony”. I’ve also read the blog post you wrote about the London riots, entitled “Boil the Kettled”, during which you describe the police as, and I quote, “brutal fascist overlords who meted out unjust abuse and violence to innocent children”.’

Sergeant Cudmore turned to stare at the girl.

‘Thousands were unlawfully detained. Women were forced to pee on the side of the street,’ Freddie said.

Superintendent Gray interlaced his fingers in front of him, glancing at the file resting in his in-tray: a ticking bomb. Notice arrived from the lawyers last week. A former officer who was of African descent had filed a sexual harassment case against a boisterous team of officers. Superintendent Gray knew the press would have a field day with the accusations of sexism and racism. He could see it now: acres of bleeding-heart liberal editorial on how institutionalised the force was, how out of touch they were. He’d been looking for the best way to counter, and now here was this mouthy woman with media contacts and a history of questioning police behaviour. And a seemingly large online presence. If she was presented as onside: a former objector to the force – young, female, alternative, left wing – who’d been ‘won over’ by her work with their boys, then it would take the sting out of the sexual harassment claims. People would believe her because she’d been so open with her condemnation in the past. He looked at Sergeant Cudmore, nice-looking girl, polite like most Asians: she’d look perfect standing alongside Miss Venton. That would tick the race box. The optimum public relations campaign to distract from the lawsuit. A female-dominated mixed-race press conference: pleasing. The case would be tied up quickly, once the IT bods had traced the perpetrator. In the meantime Freddie Venton would simply need to be satisfactorily controlled.

‘Ms Venton, I’m offering you a way out: join our team as a Social Media Advisor on this case, and you can avoid prosecution. It helps nobody if you’re charged with trespassing, breaking and entering, impersonating a police officer, and wasting police time.’

Freddie couldn’t speak. She couldn’t go to prison. Couldn’t do that to mum. Dad’s most recent accident – falling backwards off a bar stool – had left him unconscious. She’d rushed home to hold mum’s hand in A&E and distract her from the pitying looks from the nurses. She couldn’t leave her on her own to deal with all that crap.

‘We will of course compensate you for your time, and it will only be for the duration of this case,’ the Superintendent said.

Freddie shook her head, trying to order her thoughts. What about her career? After working so hard to get into print in the nationals, serving her time on the free or pathetically paid online sites and publications, she deserved this. Her moment of glory. A real shot at making it as a journalist. One that actually paid the bills. Finally she might be able to write about things she cared about, instead of gif-littered quick-read pieces. Now was the time to solidify her career, not dick around with the police. The flood of wannabe journalists would soon render her byline a distant and then forgotten memory. She had to capitalise on this now.

‘Funding is tight,’ Gray continued. ‘But I’m sure we can reach the same wage as you were earning at Espress-oh’s.’

‘Sir, I really don’t think…’ Nas said. Freddie had forgotten she was still there.

‘You have no grounds to think anything, Sergeant Cudmore. As I’m sure you’re aware you’ve breached protocol and jeopardised this case with your actions.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Nasreen’s head hung forwards.

‘You will work with DCI Moast to detain this Hashtag Murderer swiftly, and you and Ms Venton will deliver updates to the media.’

Freddie caught the word media. What about all the interview and article requests on her mobile? A chance to keep hold of her dream job materialised. ‘Can I still write?’ Nasreen looked at her open-mouthed.

‘As long as you don’t reveal active details of the case, then we would be delighted for you to interact with the media,’ Gray said.

Yes! Freddie internally air-punched. She could work with this. Build relationships up. As soon as this was over she’d be back. Picking up where she left off, and who knew, maybe she’d get something truly juicy out of working with the police. The Secret Policewoman. #longread

‘Sir, surely a non-police officer shouldn’t be commenting on cases to the press?’ Nasreen said.

‘Ms Venton here is the press, Cudmore,’ Gray said. ‘And we will make sure she’s briefed fully by our public relations team on what can and cannot be talked about.’

‘Don’t worry, Cudmore,’ Freddie smirked. ‘I know how to do my job.’

‘Yes,’ said Gray. ‘And Ms Venton won’t wish to bring the force into disrepute, because that may alter the way we view those possible charges.’

Freddie saw Nasreen’s chin jut forward.

‘Sergeant Cudmore will be responsible for ensuring you don’t endanger the investigation or bring our officers into disrepute. You two will add a fresh note to the image of the Met.’ Superintendent Gray stood, his jacketed form looming over the desk, and extended his hand to Freddie.

‘This is blackmail, you know that, right?’ Freddie stared into his cold grey eyes.

‘You can take it or leave it, Ms Venton. I look forward to working with you.’

Nasreen was deep breathing in the ladies’ loos. Ever since her parents had pulled her out of school and out of Freddie’s life, she’d been trying to forget her old friend. At first she’d been distraught, arguing with her parents, but as an adult she knew they were right. Freddie Venton was bad news. She was unpredictable, irresponsible, and, she thought bitterly, capable of ruining people’s lives. Her guts turned into knotted snakes. Now they were working with each other? Worse than that, she was answerable for Freddie’s actions. Her career hung from a thread and Freddie was tugging it. Would she ever be allowed to forget the past? Could she ever compensate for what she and Freddie had done? Nasreen tried to ignore the thought that this was somehow punishment for their actions eight years ago. She had to stay focused, keep Freddie on the straight and narrow. No more tricks, no more lies, no more games. Somehow, and she didn’t quite know how, Nasreen had been given another shot. She hadn’t been suspended. She was still here. Her dream job. Her purpose. This was her last chance: she would prove to the guv, to DCI Moast, to the team, that she could be trusted. She’d failed once, when she hadn’t immediately confessed to knowing Freddie was trespassing the crime scene. That wouldn’t happen again. She couldn’t let Freddie trip up. One false step from her and Nasreen knew they’d both be out. Fired. That couldn’t happen. She would fight it every step of the way. The knotted snakes took up home: a heavy writhing nest in her stomach.

In his office, Superintendent Gray was applying lavender hand cream. He always did this when he was pleased, leading his officers to refer to good days as lavender days. Lavender days were when you asked for a raise or time off. As Superintendent Gray massaged his cuticles, he congratulated himself on a job well done. This would see off any nonsense about sexism or racism. The Hashtag Murderer case was just what he needed to deflect attention. The press would be looking the other way: cases involving social media gave them scope to get worked up about the growing corruption of young people. This Hashtag Murderer case really couldn’t have come at a better time.

Freddie let herself into her flat and plugged her phone in. It buzzed to life. It was just gone 4am, on Sunday 1st November. She’d spent nearly forty-eight hours in the same shirt. She needed a shower, and she needed sleep, but first she wanted to reply to the interview and article requests. She reasoned, with a couple of shots of espresso inside of her, she could get some pieces written and filed before she had a kip and had to get back to the station. No point turning down money. And she was looking forward to cultivating these new contacts. This Mickey Mouse job wouldn’t last long, but it didn’t matter. Freddie’s journalist career was launched.

Scrolling through her phone, Freddie found her manager Dan’s number and pressed call. She smiled while she listened to his inane answerphone message: ‘You’ve reached Dan, Espress-oh’s Branch Manager at St Pancras Station, London. I can’t come to the phone right now as I’m whipping up delicious coffee for our customers, so please leave a message after the tone. Have a great day!’ She was going to enjoy this.

She waited for the beep. ‘Hey Dan, it’s Freddie. Thanks so much for telling the police I had anger management issues and take antidepressants. Your little smear campaign didn’t work though, they’ve hired me as a Social Media Adviser. Yes, that’s right. I’m working with the police now. And if I hear that you let Milena, or any other member of staff, be touched inappropriately by a customer, like you did me on Friday night, I’ll get my new mates in uniform to come by for a chat. Management won’t like that, will they? Oh yeah, and in case you hadn’t guessed, this is my formal resignation. See ya!’

That’d put the wind up him. She fired off a quick WhatsApp message to Milena, filling her in and letting her know she’d have to do the illicit food drops to Kathy and the other homeless women on her own. She’d get that sleeping bag and swing by to see them as soon as she could. Job done. Freddie was sorry for the woman sobbing in the kitchen of the murder scene, the mother, but Alun Mardling’s death had worked out well for her.

Online, servers and elements flashed, gathering speed through cables and fibre optics, transmitting through radio waves and wireless, 3G, 4G, mobiles, tablets and computer screens hummed with posts, statuses, messages, words. Thousands of them, spilling across the world like blood. Seeping into lives, filling the dark corners, becoming consciousness, becoming truth and meaning, and real. @Apollyon started to type.