Free Follow Me by Angela Clarke Page B

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