one you’ve been waving in my face for the last hour!’
Nas dropped into a chair and shuffled forwards. Dipping her chin like Princess Diana, looking up through her dark lashes. ‘Tell me about the photo you sent me, Freddie? You’re saying you didn’t take it?’
‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you: some freakazoid has set up an account under the name of Apollyon…’
‘Apol-what?’ Moast interrupted.
Freddie kept eye contact with Nas. Believe me. ‘…and posted the photo of that guy’s body online. Nas, you must find this twisted freak.’
Nas looked up at Moast. ‘Sir, I think we should at least take a look.’
Moast slumped into the chair and pushed his hand up over his face. ‘Okay. So you’re saying that there’s someone who has put this photo on Twitter.’
‘Yes,’ nodded Freddie. Finally.
Moast looked at Nas. Something passed between them.
Nas leant forward and pressed a button on the tape recorder: ‘Interview suspended at twelve oh one am. 1st November.’
‘Pinch punch first of the month,’ Freddie said. What a way to start November.
Moast leant toward Nas, speaking quietly, ‘Do you have a phone with Twitter?’
‘No, sir. Of course not. The guv actively discourages us from using social media.’
‘Me either. It’s blocked on all the station machines. And we won’t be able to get anyone from computer services in until the morning and the paperwork’s been completed. I’ve seen my nephew’s Facebook. It can’t be that different.’
‘In case you two forgot, I’m still here. Being held under false pretences.’ Freddie waved at them.
Moast glared at her.
Freddie held up her hands in surrender. ‘Just trying to help. If you give me my phone, I can show you Twitter and the account straight away.’
‘It’s worth a shot, sir. She did alert us to the photo, and having seen this site at the crime scene I’m not confident I could navigate it,’ said Nas. Thank you, thought Freddie.
Moast exhaled. ‘Fine, get PC Thomas to fetch it from the Duty Sergeant.’
When Nas opened the door, Freddie heard voices. Chatter. Laughter. A guy in uniform walked past clutching a copy of The Post. Her copy of The Post. ‘Don’t suppose I could…’ she pointed at the newspaper.
Moast slapped a hand on it and pulled it toward him.
‘Fine. Just asking.’ This was ridiculous. They’d arrested and falsely accused her of murder, almost certainly got her fired from Espress-oh’s, and now they wouldn’t even let her look at her first ever front page national scoop. ‘Can I get something to eat or is that not allowed either?’
Moast ignored her as Nas came back carrying Freddie’s phone in a plastic bag. Relief flooded through Freddie as she took hold of her phone. She was in control again. She could call someone. Text. Read the news. Work out precisely where she was. Could You Last Twenty-Four Hours Without Your Mobile? Nas coughed.
‘Can I take it out – the touch screen won’t work through this?’ Freddie said.
Moast nodded.
Unlocking her phone, Freddie stopped: that was odd. The front flickered with Twitter updates. Had something she posted gone viral? An angry red spot denoting eleven missed calls pulsed on her phone icon. ‘19% battery – guys, you could’ve plugged it in.’
‘Just show us the Twitter,’ Moast said.
Five thousand six hundred and fifty-seven notifications – must be a glitch. She searched for Apollyon’s account. The thumbnail image of the body was easier to bear. Wait…that can’t be right: ‘He has over 10,000 followers already?’
They huddled round the phone like smokers round a match. ‘Is that unusual?’ Nas asked.
‘Yes, unless he’s famous or gone viral. This morning he had no followers, what happened?’ She pulled the newspaper from under Moast’s arm. ‘I’m sure I didn’t.’ She speed-read her copy. Virtually word for word hers. ‘I didn’t mention @Apollyon at all…how’d all these people find out about him?’
‘You keep saying “he”,’ Nas said.
‘Yeah, yeah, gender neutrality, et cetera, et cetera. Slip of the tongue.’ She hit notifications. The screen blurred: there were tens of them. Hundreds. Thousands.
‘PC Cudmore is insinuating you know who this Apollyon is?’ Moast peered over her phone.
‘You idiots.’ She looked up.
‘What?’
It was right there, the same tweet from the Jubilee Police, retweeted, shared over and over:
We can neither confirm nor deny that @Apollyon is the #Murderer or the #TrollHunter as mentioned in @ReadyFreddieGo’s article.
‘You tweeted it! Here: see, this is a message from the Jubilee Police. You tagged @Apollyon, and me, and hashtagged murderer and troll hunter. You just told the world @Apollyon is the one who posted the gruesome photo online. It means everyone knows he’s the one I referred to as the troll hunter. It means you just called him The Hashtag Murderer. Whoever wrote this tweet has told the world this guy exists. It’s gone mental. The cat’s out of the bag. The genie’s out of the bloody bottle. Who wrote this?’
Moast looked flustered. ‘Sergeant?’
‘We outsource our PR accounts. There was a social media advisor at that training course, Jackie Whitley,’ Nas said. ‘She’s something big in PR, described herself as a thought leader. I remember that. They run all station campaigns and accounts, sir.’ Nas bit her bottom lip.
‘Nobody cares about this kind of nonsense. It’s not important,’ Moast said.
‘Not important? Mate, you’re trending.’ Freddie couldn’t believe they’d be so stupid. ‘It’s showing up as one of the most talked about things on Twitter right now.’
‘A load of stupid kids pissing around online…’ Moast tapped his fingers on the table.
‘Try fifteen million users in the UK. You don’t get it. This is big. Look here – this is Mari Blagg from the Guardian, this is Charlie Webdale from the Indy. This is going to be all over the nationals – they want to talk to me.’ Freddie couldn’t keep the excitement from her voice. Sorry, dead dude.
‘Press? Why do they want to talk to you – it’s my case. I should contact them. Send a message to all the journalists saying I will host a press conference.’ Moast’s chest puffed up. ‘I’m investigating the Hashtag Murderer.’
The word murderer reverberated through Freddie. An unease flowered
