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08:45

Sunday 1 November

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The alarm on her phone woke Freddie. Unconsciously she put her glasses on and held the glowing screen toward her face, checking her email, texts, WhatsApp. Blinking away the sleep, she looked at Twitter.

She sat bolt upright. Her mouth dry.

She tried to swear but all that came out was a croak. Her fingers shook as she scrambled onto the windowsill to make the call.

‘Nas, it’s me,’ Freddie said quickly. ‘You guys need to see this. Now. I’m coming in.’ She grabbed yesterday’s jeans, sniffed a jumper from the floor before pulling it on, and squashed a beanie over her hair. All the while her mobile vibrated as more and more people retweeted and shared the same message on Twitter:

Apollyon @Apollyon • 57m

For whom the bell trolls. #murderer

Freddie felt like she’d only left the Jubilee a few minutes before. Everything happened so fast. Nas sent the pale sandy-haired uniformed copper Jamie – PC Spew – to collect her from the front desk. Freddie was wearing her new lanyard that proclaimed she was Social Media Adviser, and she, Jamie and Nas were sat in the assigned incident room with some other uniformed officers. The once white room, like most of the station, looked like it needed a good clean or a new coat of paint. Windowless and smelling of stale fags and musty men (Freddie’d only seen two other female cops apart from Nas, and neither of them seemed to be on this case), the room was set up like a classroom. White boards lined one wall. Rows of tea-ring-stained MDF tables, with yet more grey plastic chairs, all faced the teacher at the front: DCI Moast. It reminded Freddie a bit too much of her and Nas’s old maths Portakabin classroom. The only door – a blue-painted one, dirty fingermarks smudged on it – was closed. The noise of the rest of the station, outside in the corridor, spiralling off the metal staircase, was blocked out. A photo of Alun Mardling’s brutalised body was pinned to a board. Freddie didn’t look at it. Instead she focused on the words from @Apollyon’s tweet that were written next to it.

The door opened and a copper came in: another plain-clothes guy, his tall, gangly frame barely fitting into his black suit. Paisley tie dangling down too long. Muddy brown hair flopping onto his face. Freddie watched him report straight to Moast. ‘Sir.’

‘Sergeant Cudmore, you know Sergeant Tibbsy,’ Moast sounded angry. ‘I don’t know what impression you’ve been given by Gray, but Tibbsy here is my number two. As usual.’

‘Sir,’ Nas nodded. ‘Nice to see you again, Kevin.’ She shook the gangly guy’s hand. ‘You know PC Thomas?’

‘Jamie,’ Tibbsy nodded at the pale copper who was sat in the corner.

‘Sir, good to be part of the team.’ Jamie stood, beaming.

‘All right, lad,’ Moast said.

‘And I’m Freddie.’ She held her palm up.

‘We’ve met a couple of times now.’ Jamie nodded at her. ‘At Blackbird Road.’

She raised her eyebrows at him. Probably best not to bring that up! He dropped his eyes from hers, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his skinny, pale neck as he swallowed. Superbrain this one.

Nas stared at the incident board. Tibbsy gave Freddie a half smile, before standing next to Moast. ‘This is the message then?’ he said.

‘I found it on Twitter. Again,’ Freddie said to their backs. Why the hell did she keep spotting these things before them? It was as if they were all looking the other way while things were starting to unfold online. Nobody responded. Fine, whatever.

‘Have the IT bods turned anything up on the owner of this account?’ Moast asked Tibbsy.

‘They’ve drawn a blank, sir,’ Nasreen said. ‘Whoever’s done it knows what they’re up to. They’re using Tor.’

‘The encryption software that bounces your signal through a series of computers around the world?’ Freddie asked.

‘Yes.’ Nas turned to look at her. ‘How do you know that?’

Freddie shrugged. ‘I use it to watch American TV shows before they’re released over here.’

Nas tutted. ‘Well, it means we’re unable to locate who and where the photo was posted from. We can’t find them that way.’

‘Can we get anything from the photo itself?’ said Moast. ‘Get it blown up: I want to identify that knife – the suspected murder weapon. Find out where it’s from.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Nas.

You might make some ground if you actually followed the account, thought Freddie.

‘What does it mean – for whom the bell trolls?’ Tibbsy ran his finger under the words on the board.

‘My guess is nothing. Just a nutjob spouting crap,’ Moast said.

‘It’s a pun on “for whom the bell tolls”, a line used in a John Donne poem.’ Freddie couldn’t help herself. ‘It’s also the title of an Ernest Hemingway book.’

They turned and looked at her.

‘Don’t you people read?’ Freddie said.

‘No one’s got time for that,’ Moast said.

‘Better to wait till the movie comes out,’ Tibbsy added, and he and Moast snickered.

‘It was a film.’ Freddie approached the board. ‘It’s a phrase that portends to death. “Never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”’ Moast’s brow was furrowed. Tibbsy’s mouth hung open. ‘It’s about solidarity in humanity, right? We’re all in this together,’ she continued. ‘We’re all going to die. Alun Mardling the troll dies and a bit of us all dies.’

‘This is a murder investigation not a sodding book club.’ Moast stood between her and the board.

Freddie gritted her teeth. She hadn’t asked to be here, and so far she was the only one who seemed to have a clue as to what was going on. ‘Really? Because this “nutjob”,’ she made quotation marks in the air, though only Jamie could see her, ‘has just made an awesome pun, which feels very much like a threat. Or as if they’re laughing at you.’

Moast’s shoulders tensed. ‘I don’t take profiling advice from the tea girl.’

‘Tea girl! Good one, guv,’ Tibbsy guffawed.

Idiots. Freddie eyed Nas. ‘You’re quiet, Nas, what do you reckon?’

Nasreen’s eyes flicked between the tweet and the photo of Mardling. ‘We should talk to Paige Klinger, sir. She has motive after Mardling sent those threatening messages. She’s the strongest current lead.’

Were they just going to ignore this message?

The door opened and Superintendent Gray appeared, his uniform a black exclamation point in the doorway. ‘Progress report, DCI Moast?’

They all stood up straight, Jamie smacking his legs into a desk in his haste. This was like being in school again. She looked at Nasreen, upright, prim, a look of what was that – pride? – in her eyes. Just like she used to stand in assembly every morning.

‘I’m going to interview Paige Klinger, guv. As so much of the abuse was aimed at her, it’s conceivable there’s a link. This could be a possible revenge attack,’ Moast said.

The dirty bastard’s shafting Nas! He’s pinching her idea, thought Freddie. Taking the credit. The conniving little…

‘Good plan. Take the team with you.’ Superintendent Gray nodded round the room.

‘Tibbsy and I can manage, sir,’ Moast said. Bristling like his cropped hair.

‘And Sergeant Cudmore and Ms Venton, they may be of help with the technical side of things,’ said the Superintendent. ‘My daughters are obsessed with Paige Klinger. A model, I believe. There could be paparazzi. So far this case has been a PR disaster, I think it’s best if any photos taken reflect a well-rounded and concerted-looking unit.’

‘Sir, with all due respect, I don’t think it’s wise to take a civilian to an interview. We don’t want to draw undue attention to ourselves, and she doesn’t have the required training,’ Moast wheedled.

‘That’s an order, DCI.’ The Superintendent walked out.

Freddie smiled. She couldn’t give two figs about attending an interview, but meeting Paige Klinger was another deal all together. The Model Killer. Even if she didn’t do it, it’d be a great contact. She could get an article out of this, possibly a book. Paige Turner: The true story of Paige Klinger’s rise to fame.

Moast looked furious. Freddie almost laughed. It was good to get one over on him as well, after that stunt he just pulled with Nas’s idea. Moast grabbed his jacket and stormed out. Tibbsy, desperate to keep up, caught the edge of the table and nearly went flying. Freddie looked at Jamie as he squashed one toe of his shiny shoe under the other. Britain’s finest. Nas was still looking at the board.

‘Well, that was awkward. Is he always such a prick?’ Freddie asked.

‘DCI Moast is a professional. We’re all finding this situation difficult,’ she said, before also striding out the room.

‘Come on then, Jamie, looks like you’re giving me a lift.’ Freddie looked at her phone. ‘For whom the bell’ was now trending in the UK. The smile fell from her face. Trepidation spread from the touch screen through her fingers, chill and juddering into her bloodstream. Trending? How big was this freak’s audience? She clicked through to @Apollyon’s account: he was up to nearly 17,000 followers. Jesus. That’s a lot of people watching what he’s doing. His audience was growing. How far would his message spread? Was this a performance? An act? What was he trying to do? There were no good answers to any of the questions raging through Freddie’s mind. And the biggest one yet, the one question she didn’t want to voice, hung over them all: what would happen next? Freddie wasn’t sure she was ready for the answer.