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‘We could arrest them for drugs possession and bring her in?’ Nas offered.

‘Better to talk to her assistant.’ Moast flicked through his notepad, ‘Marni, wasn’t it? I bet she won’t be ring-fenced by a load of expensive lawyers.’

The pink-haired cutie behind the desk pointed them in the direction of the local pub. Freddie was thinking about Twitter. Paige’s account was verified, and it was
her
, but it wasn’t her. Freddie wasn’t naive, she knew people pretended to be other people online all the time, but the ease with which one person conned over two million had her thinking. Freddie knew how social media worked. Prided herself on trying out each new trend, each new development, each new app. She would never think she could get tricked so easily. People did – all the time. Idiots giving their bank account details to fabricated Nigerian Princes who promised them a cut of the twenty-six million quid they just needed to transfer into the UK. Or getting cloned after posting their birthdate on Facebook. She thought about Moast and Tibbsy, they seemed clueless about the whole online world. But she too had thought Paige
was
Paige online. Bought into the myth. If she could be tricked by some work experience kid, then what else could she be tricked about? And what about the other people, the ones already disadvantaged by lack of experience or lack of brain cells? Something shifted inside of Freddie: she’d always been cynical, but now she felt out and out paranoid. What was real and what was phoney? Just who could you trust? Who could she trust?
No Matter How Internet Savvy You Think You Are, You Can Still Get Fooled.

12:06

Sunday 1 November

1 FOLLOWING 39,435 FOLLOWERS

The Rusty Needle, the height of kitsch cool, was modelled on a classic 1970s pub. Harking back to a golden age of drinking – with racist, homophobic and sexist undertones – the fashion waifs simply adored the ironic styling. They chuckled to themselves over the witty mouldy pork scratchings on the bar and the rat bait boxes in the toilets. (All of which bore a striking resemblance to its former incarnation, The Nelson, which landlord Jimmy had bought at a knock-down price from a bankrupt brewery.)

Freddie eased herself into the carpeted main bar, behind Nas, Moast and Tibbsy. They looked incongruous in their crow-dark suits. Jamie, in his uniform, had been told to wait outside. Perched on faux-leather stools and leaning against walls covered in decorative brass wall plaques, the studio crew seemed to have doubled in size.

‘Which ones are girls and which ones are boys?’ Moast pushed the front of his jacket back and rested his tanned hands on his belted hips.

‘Is Marni a girl or a boy’s name?’ Tibbsy looked especially ridiculous stooping under the low plaster rose-covered ceiling.

‘Er…not sure.’ Nas scanned the room of fashion peacocks. She was the only one who pulled off the smart attire they wore, Freddie thought. Her legs looked long and slim in those trousers and her tailored jacket flattered her waist.

Freddie undid the zipper on her blue duffel coat and called up Paige’s Twitter account on her phone. The last post was of Paige with her arm round Kenny, both raising their eyebrows at the camera in a goofy smile. The caption merely read, ‘Oh yes!’ It had been retweeted 4,227 times and liked 6,543 times. Freddie replied to the tweet. A phone buzzed. A small girl with glossy dark hair cut into 1990s-style curtains picked it up off the lacquered table. ‘That’s her.’ Freddie pointed with a chewed fingernail.

‘Marni?’ Nasreen stepped toward the girl.

The rest of the room ceased talking and turned to look.

‘Sup?’ Marni shook her hair from her eyes.

‘Could we have a word?’ Nas signalled over her shoulder.

As they stepped out, Freddie heard the urgent gossipy whispers of those left in the pub.
Can You Ever Be Friends With Your Work Colleagues?

Outside, leaning against the wall of a urine-spritzed side alley, alternating between smoking and pushing her hair out of her eyes, Marni talked. ‘I seen those messages. Proper messed up. She gets loads. I block ’em. Sometimes I miss ’em. It’s constant, all them fans talking at once.’

Fascinated that this unknown twenty-four-year-old with bags under her eyes
was
Paige Klinger online, Freddie couldn’t help butting in. ‘Who do you decide to follow back?’

Moast sucked in his breath. ‘I don’t see how that’s relevant.’

‘It’s random. Every week or so I just go in and follow a couple. You’ve got to be careful: crazy fans can bombard you with DMs.’ She scrubbed one cigarette under her leopard print trainer and lit another.

‘You don’t recognise the name Alun Mardling at all? Freddie, could you show her the account?’ Nas said. Freddie turned her phone to show Marni. It glowed in the gloom.

‘Oh yeah. Now I seen his profile picture, I know who you mean.’ She tapped the side of her head, her fag still between her fingers. ‘Visual I am. That’s why I’m in this job. Utilises my creativity. That’s one crazy dude. The volume of crap he was sending. I’d block him and he’d just open up a new account.’

‘Did Miss Klinger know?’ Moast tapped Freddie’s phone, causing it to zoom in on the nostril of the skull profile picture.

Marni looked worried. ‘God, hope not. She don’t have a clue what’s going on. I only tell her if it’s important, like, when Madonna tweeted her.’

Was it really Madonna, or just another intern?

‘So she didn’t know Mardling was threatening her?’ Moast tugged at his white shirt collar.

‘It’s not possible she went into her account at all?’ Nasreen added.

Marni took a drag on her cigarette. Her nails were painted in different rainbow colours. ‘I suppose it’s possible. It is on her phone. She does go on sometimes – she could have seen it. But I wouldn’t like to say.’

‘Thank you, Marni. Could you give your full name and contact details to PC Thomas in case we need to ask you any further questions.’ Moast took a card from inside his jacket. ‘And if you think of anything that could be relevant at all, don’t hesitate to call me.’

‘There is one thing,’ Marni ground the butt under her trainer, next to her previous one. ‘I’m sure it doesn’t matter but…’ she trailed off.

Nasreen fixed her with a warm and welcoming smile. ‘Often it’s the things that don’t seem important that turn out to be leads.’

‘Well, there are a number of, well, mental cases.’

‘Other trolls?’ said Freddie.

‘Yeah, but the opposite too, you know?’

‘What?’ Moast’s forehead creased.

Freddie remembered the time she’d called Justin Bieber a pouting melted Walnut Whip in basketball shorts. ‘Of course! The fans! I once wrote a joke about Justin Bieber in a feature, and I was seriously trolled. Hundreds of teen girls threatening to kill me for slagging off their idol,’ Freddie said.

‘That’s it,’ Marni pointed at her. ‘The Klingys are just as bad. They really go for anyone who lays into Paige. You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff these young kids say.’

‘Could you give us a list of these Klingys?’ asked Nasreen.

‘There’s hundreds of them. I wouldn’t know where to start. But I could screenshot them? I mean, if I spot any. They often @name Paige. I guess so she knows they’ve got her back or something.’

‘Thank you, Marni, you’ve been very helpful.’ Moast held out his hand for her to shake.

Freddie walked with the others back to the car, while Jamie took Marni’s details outside the pub.

‘Can you spell Marni, as it’s listed on your passport and identification please?’ she heard him say.

‘S. U. S. A. N,’ Marni said. ‘Marni’s for work. Better, like.’

Freddie smiled: an intern called Susan, pretending to be Marni, pretending to be Paige.
Classic
.

‘You thinking what I’m thinking, sir?’ Tibbsy said to Moast.

‘We’re all thinking it,’ said Freddie. ‘Was Alun Mardling bumped off by a crazed fan of poor sweet little Paige?’

‘Surely fourteen-year-old schoolgirls aren’t capable of killing forty-eight-year-old men?’ Moast put his hands in his pocket, stretching his jacket tight over his broad shoulders.

‘You’d be surprised by what fourteen-year-old girls can do, sir,’ Nasreen said. Moast and Tibbsy didn’t seem to notice, but Freddie felt it like a slap. As Nasreen spoke, she looked directly and unswervingly at Freddie.

Back in the incident room at the Jubilee, Jamie handed Freddie a cup of coffee. ‘Cheers,’ she said, looking at the brown water. Better than nothing.

‘Black, two sugars, just as you like it, Nasreen,’ Jamie handed a cup to Nas who was sat on the desk next to her.

‘Thank you, Jamie. Perfect.’ Nas didn’t take her eyes from the words Moast was writing up on the whiteboard. A spotty PC in uniform walked past and Nas reached out a hand toward him. ‘PC Malcolm, did you get my email?’

He rolled his eyes and walked away from her. Someone hissed ‘Traitor!’ behind them, Freddie spun round to see several uniformed cops barely disguising their sneers.
What was going on?
Nas’s cheeks flamed and she busied herself with her notebook. Moast didn’t look up.

Jamie looked agitated. Tibbsy had the good grace to look abashed. ‘We should’ve grabbed a pint when we were questioning Marni, hey, guv?’ Tibbsy said, gulping the tea Jamie had got him. Moast chuckled in return.

‘Are you going to come to the pub after work, Sergeant?’ Jamie’s eyes were wide and hopeful as he spoke to Nas.

‘We’ll see.’ Nasreen was still staring at her notepad. ‘Will you be going, guv?’

Moast shrugged without turning around. Freddie noticed Nasreen’s shoulders drop. She couldn’t possibly care what this lug thought, could she? Freddie blew on her coffee.

‘I’m in, Jamie lad.’ Tibbsy clapped Jamie on the back and almost sent him flying.

Jamie grinned at Tibbsy and then turned back to Nas. ‘Perhaps next Friday then?’ He tugged at his uniform collar. ‘Sergeant Cudmore’s not been out with the whole team?’

You’ve not asked me
, thought Freddie.
Or do I not count as part of the team?

Nasreen put her notes down next to her on the desk and grinned at Tibbsy and Jamie. ‘Have they got any decent red in this pub?’

‘Right,’ Moast took his suit jacket off and draped it over a chair back. ‘Can we focus on the case please?’

‘Yes, guv.’ Jamie stood up straight as if he were about to salute. Nas blushed again and scooped her notes back up.
Dick
, thought Freddie.

Tibbsy took his place at Moast’s side. Moast rolled his shirt-sleeves up as he spoke, revealing striated muscly forearms: ‘If it is a revenge-obsessed fan, then how did they find Mardling, that’s what I want to know?’ Tibbsy nodded. ‘I’m not convinced this has anything to do with Twitter,’ Moast continued.

Freddie picked at the lip of her plastic cup. If there wasn’t a link to Twitter, then why did they need a Social Media Adviser? Surely she could go home and get on with her life if this was nothing to do with the Internet?

‘Has anything shown in his personal life?’ Moast said. ‘Have we built up a clear picture of his regular movements, his habits? Did he do anything out of the ordinary in the last few weeks or months? Any irregularities in his bank accounts? Any unknown numbers he suddenly started to call?’

Nas checked her notepad. ‘Single. He lived in Manchester until he and his wife divorced, then he came back down and moved in with his mother. Last long-term relationship – according to her – was eight months ago: he took an estate agent out for a few dates. Apparently she broke it off. There was an incident in 2003, when the ex-wife reported him for harassment after he sat outside her house crying for four days when she broke it off. But no charges were brought. The matter seemed resolved.’

Freddie took a sip of her bitter coffee. ‘Yeah, he just took all that hurt and anger and turned it on anyone with a vagina.’ Tibbsy choked on his coffee. Nasreen tutted. ‘Dude needed a counsellor, that’s all I’m saying.’ She held her hands up.

‘Much as your insights are
fascinating
, Venton, I think it’s best you leave the police work to us. What you got, Tibbsy?’

‘His bank accounts show no unusual activity. Logs from his Oyster card, and use of credit and debit cards, show a fairly familiar pattern: he went to work at his branch in Canary Wharf Monday to Friday 8.30am to 7pm, and every second Saturday 10am to 5pm. He had the occasional drink in The Cat and The Canary after work with colleagues. Bought microwave meals and beer from Tesco most days on his way home. And ordered takeaway – pizza seems to have been his favourite – most Friday nights. He often paid for streamed movies, which I’m guessing he watched on his computer. No sign of online dating or otherwise. Everything we’ve got from his mum and staff supports all of this. He didn’t have mates outside of work, and no one remembers him talking about anyone new in his life in the last few months.’

Freddie wondered where else Alun Mardling might pop up online. She took her phone out and Googled him.

Moast took a step closer to the board. ‘Right let’s go over what we’ve got again.Victim Alun Mardling. Linked to Paige Klinger – who may or may not have been aware of the abuse he was sending her. Who links to unknown fans – who may or may not have acted in revenge on behalf of Miss Klinger. Apart from a historic incident of harassment – committed by the victim – there’s nothing else that flags in his personal life. Anything unusual happen at work recently?’

‘I spoke to the branch deputy at the bank Mardling worked at.’ Nas read from her notebook, ‘A Mrs Rose Attwood, she said there was a woman a few weeks ago who got very upset when Mardling didn’t agree her overdraft. Apparently she had a young kid and she couldn’t afford her rent, ended up getting evicted.’

‘What a charmer,’ Freddie muttered. You’d think the banks’d be a bit more lenient to the little people, after they had to be bailed out of their own screw-up.

‘The woman, called Charlene Beeson, had to be removed by security after she dumped a bag of used nappies on Mardling’s desk,’ Nas said.

Freddie laughed.
You go, girl!

‘Alibi?’ said Moast.

‘She and her daughter were staying in the Women’s Refuge Shelter on Barnard Street, sir. They lock the door at night and the CCTV confirms she never left.’

Freddie scrolled through Google. Alun Mardling’s Twitter feed came up first. Then a link to his Facebook. After that there was a mention in a write-up about a charity fundraiser in the local E14 paper,
The Wharf
, and then other Alun Mardlings. Not the one they were interested in. She clicked onto iBooks and selected a John Donne poetry collection and Hemingway’s
For Whom the Bell Tolls
to download. Jesus: £5.99? She thought dead authors were supposed to be cheap! No harm brushing up anyway, they might provide further illumination on these weird tweets. She clicked through to Twitter. The politician Charles Vass had tweeted his own name – Charles Vass. That was all. It flickered through her timeline. Then her breath caught in her throat.
The Times
columnist Victoria Ducane was the first, but soon everyone was sharing it. ‘He’s tweeted.’

‘Apollyon?’ Nasreen turned.

‘What does it say?’ said Tibbsy.

‘Read it out,’ Moast said, pen poised over the whiteboard.

Freddie swallowed. ‘It says: Who’s next? #murderer.’ She watched the colour drain from Nasreen’s face.

‘What, what does it mean?’ Tibbsy tripped over his words.

Freddie put her phone down on the table in front of her. She didn’t want to touch it. ‘It means there’s a serial killer on Twitter.’