Follow Me: A chilling, thrilling, addictive crime novel Page 2

  Neil laughed. ‘Okay, then you’ll have to try the old-fashioned way. Keep getting your name in print, and with a bit of luck you’ll land a contract.’

  She felt all the air go out of her. ‘How’d you do it?’

  ‘Wrote small pieces for a local newspaper and worked my way up till I was on the nationals. I was an apprenticeship lad.’

  An apprenticeship: so scarce it’d be easier to book onto a plane that was going to crash. There was silence for a moment.

  ‘You could always consider another career, I pay my accountant a fortune?’ Neil sounded like he was only half joking.

  ‘Thanks. I mean, for the advice and that.’

  ‘Anytime, good luck.’ He sounded sad. Or guilty. ‘You’ve just got to seize the story, Freddie. Push yourself into uncomfortable situations. Keep your eyes and ears open.’ He was trying to be encouraging.

  ‘Sure,’ she tried to sound upbeat. ‘Something’ll turn up.’

  After the phone call, Freddie lay looking at the nicotine-stained ceiling. Replaying Neil’s words over in her head. You’ve just got to seize the story. If she called her mum she’d only have to fend off her soft pleading to give up this ‘London madness’ and return to Pendrick, the commuter market town she’d left behind. Her mum didn’t understand she wanted to do more than try for a job at Pendrick’s local council. She wanted to make a difference. Bear witness. Maybe one day be a war correspondent. She sighed. It was half past four and already getting dark. The night was winning the fight.

  Chapter 2

  YOLO – You Only Live Once

  20:05

  Friday 30 October

  No tattoos or unnatural piercings are to be visible. Freddie rolled the sleeves of her black shirt up, stopping just below the feet of her Jane and the Dragon tattoo. Partners are free to wear any black collared shirt and pants they choose, with many proud employees purchasing those bearing Espress-oh’s logo from the company store. She tucked the ends of her H&M shirt into her trousers. All partners are supplied with Espress-oh’s world-famous apron and hat to wear with pride. Freddie tightened the yellow apron strings round her waist. As if dealing with douches who wanted extra caramel syrup wasn’t enough, they made you dress like a freaking banana.

  ‘Turn that frown upside down!’ Dan, the manager of Espress-oh’s St Pancras branch, appeared in the hallway they called the staffroom. His fake-tanned skin an alarming orange next to his yellow Espress-oh’s uniform. He resembled a Picasso fruit bowl.

  Freddie punched down the overstuffed bin bags that were shoved under the tiny kitchen surface. Ten Signs You Hate Your Boss (mental note: look for amusing gifs to accompany pitch). She lifted the bag she knew contained the expired best-before-date produce. ‘Bin’s full, Dan,’ she said. ‘I’ll just pop this one in the wheelie outside.’

  ‘Quick, quick, customers to bring joy to,’ Dan said without looking up from his stocktake clipboard.

  All Espress-oh’s food waste is to be incinerated. Clutching the bag, Freddie left through the staff-only station exit and stood in the underground area that housed the bins and a healthy population of rats. She let her eyes adapt to the dim light and whistled. There was slight movement from the far corner. ‘Kath, that you?’ she called.

  An elderly woman in the remains of a tattered skirt and layered jumpers, her hair matted and grey down her shoulders, edged into the light. She smiled a yellowing grin at Freddie. ‘Nice evening for it.’

  ‘Bit colder than when we met in July, hey? Do you remember?’ Kathy was getting increasingly confused, and Freddie had read with senility cases it was important to reiterate reality.

  ‘Course I do,’ said Kathy. ‘Me and Pat asked for one of your cigarettes.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Freddie. ‘I was on my break. And what did you tell me about the old days?’ She glanced over her shoulder to check no one was following her out.

  ‘Oh! All the fun we used to have! The girls and I. This was our patch,’ Kathy smiled.

  ‘That’s right’ said Freddie. Until the regeneration tidied up the safe spots where you and the other ex-sex workers slept rough, and turned them into crowdfunded hipster coffee shops. She couldn’t write about Kath and the others and risk alerting the private security guards to their whereabouts, but she could recycle food that was destined for the bin. ‘Here you go.’ She held the bag out. There was a nasty cut on Kathy’s hand. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Just some drunk kids. They took my sleeping bag.’ Kathy rooted through the packets. ‘Any of those funny cheese and grape ones today? They’re my favourites.’

  ‘Did you get the sleeping bag back?’ Freddie tried to get her to concentrate.

  ‘Nah,’ she hooked out a sandwich and put it in her pocket.

  It was bitterly cold out: what was Kathy sleeping under? ‘Did you report it to the police?’

  Kathy laughed. ‘They don’t care ’bout likes of me, dearie. No bother, though. I’m just A-okay.’ She squeezed Freddie’s arm, and Freddie felt how thin her fingers were. ‘I’ll make sure the other girls get their share.’ She bundled the bag up.

  Kathy shuffled back toward the fire escape door Freddie propped open on her way into work. Freddie resolved to find a sleeping bag on Amazon and bring it in for her. She’d roped in her sympathetic work colleague, Milena, and they took it in turns to make these illicit drops. ‘Me or Milena will see you tomorrow,’ Freddie said. ‘If Dan’s out the way, I’ll try and get you some hot drinks, yeah?’

  The old lady held up her hand to signal goodbye.

  ‘Here, Kathy, hang on,’ she jogged over to press the last of her fags into the old lady’s hand.

  ‘Pat’ll be pleased,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ nodded Freddie, though she knew Pat had been found dead of exposure at the end of September. The authorities weren’t interested: the NHS and homeless charities she’d spoken to were too stretched to come here and hunt out one elderly, senile woman. Kathy had far outlived the average age a homeless person was expected to reach. She was a tough old bird. ‘Try and keep warm, yeah?’ Freddie turned and headed back toward work. A Terrible Waste: how food destined for the bin could save lives.

  Out on the floor she nodded at Milena, whose pony-tailed long dark hair and high Bulgarian cheekbones incredulously worked with Espress-oh’s uniform. Would she agree to an interview? An Immigrant Truth: two jobs, business school, and sharing a room with three others – how London betrayed its silent workforce.

  ‘Freddie?’ Dan had fixed her in his sights. He hadn’t seen anything had he?

  She watched as he dug his hand into the dusty beans that formed an interactive display along the till.

  ‘Never forget, these are magic beans.’

  Nope. He just wanted to share some more inane motivational drivel. Behind him, as the customers inspected the soggy sandwiches, Milena smacked the palm of her hand repeatedly against her forehead.

  20:19 Nine hours and forty-one minutes to go. How Childhood Fairy Tales Set Generation Y Up To Fail.

  04:43

  Saturday 31 October

  Eight Times People Actually Died of Boredom. A WhatsApp chat alert flashed on Freddie’s phone, which was under the till out of the sight of customers.

  A white speech bubble from Milena, who was outside taking a fag break, read: ‘Dan is’, and then there was a series of smiling poo emojis.

  Freddie typed back: ‘Espress-woes.’

  ‘Are you in charge?’

  Shoving her phone into her pocket, she looked up to find a drunk in a pinstripe suit, swaying in front of her. His eyes pink.

  ‘Look!’ He prodded at the fruit toast he’d placed on the counter. ‘This slice has no raisins. This one all the raisins.’

  She waited…

  ‘Is not right,’ he stabbed again, catching the edge of the paper plate and flipping one of the half-eaten slices onto the Almond Biscottis they were pushing this month.

  You’ve got to be kidding? As she reached out to retrieve the to
ast, his hand – cold and damp – grabbed hers and she was pulled across the counter toward him.

  ‘Or yous could give me your number?’ His stale beer breath buffeted her face.

  She scanned the cafe for help. A Japanese couple, heads down, earphones in, oblivious. The gossipy women who’d been here for hours had left. Dan was in the stockroom. She was on her own.

  ‘Giz a kiss,’ the drunk lunged.

  Shame burned up her body and then ignited into anger. Wrenching her hand free, she sent the fruit toast flying toward him. ‘Get lost!’

  Alerted by the disturbing sound of an employee raising their voice, Dan bustled into the cafe, oozing toward the drunk. ‘Sir, I’m so sorry. There’s obviously been a misunderstanding. I’m sure Freddie here can help.’

  What the…‘Are you suggesting I prostitute myself for a piece of sodding fruit toast?’

  Milena swung through the glass door – had she seen?

  ‘Our Freddie, ever the joker!’ Dan laughed like a screaming kettle.

  ‘Sir, I make you some new toast, please, have a seat. I bring it over.’ Milena’s megawatt smile blindsided the pink-eyed man.

  ‘Sure,’ he swayed.

  ‘The customer is always right,’ Dan glared at Freddie.

  How the hell was this her fault? ‘But he…’

  ‘I don’t care, Freddie. You need to see the positives in all customers. Visualise them as your close personal friend.’

  ‘That’s what I was sodding worried about!’

  ‘Espress-oh partners don’t use language they wouldn’t feel comfortable saying in front of their mothers,’ Dan stage whispered.

  Flinging her arm in the direction of the drunk who was now face down asleep on the counter, a puddle of drool spreading toward the discarded fruit toast, Freddie screamed: ‘If my mum was here she’d tell that dirty bastard to fuck off!’

  ‘Enough! Take your break! Now!’

  Furious, she smacked her palms hard against the glass door and powered toward the train platforms. A few hardy souls were bundled, with suitcases, on the cold metal benches, waiting for the first Eurostar. All this money regenerating the station and they forgot to put doors on? Yet another deterrent to Kathy and her homeless mates. Barely more appealing than metal spikes. She was heading to the taxi rank where she could bum a cigarette off a cabbie, when she saw her: Nasreen Cudmore.

  They’d played together virtually every day since they were six, until…she couldn’t deal with thinking about that now. Eight years ago. Must be.

  Nasreen looked the same. No, different. There was no puppy fat, and she was tall too, like her dad. Five foot eight, at least. She’d cut that ridiculous waist-length black hair. It now hung in a sleek curtain to her shoulders. Perfect against her milky coffee skin. With both pride and pain, Freddie acknowledged Nasreen Cudmore had grown into a beautiful woman.

  What the hell was she doing here at this time in the morning? Wearing a hoodie and jeans, Nasreen was stood with a group. All dressed casually. Most looked to be in their twenties or thirties. One guy, slightly older, early forties, broad shoulders, Bruce Willis buzz cut, was wearing a blue down puffa jacket zipped up over a tight white T-shirt. Friends’ night out? One of those godawful-sounding corporate away-days?

  Freddie remembered seeing Fiona Cogswell at a pop-up Shoreditch tequila bar. Among the inane drivel about what every Pendrick High alumnus was now doing – mostly out of work management consultants, or pursuing worthless PhDs until the economy recovered – there’d been one lime wedge of interest: Nasreen Cudmore had joined the police.

  She looked again at Nasreen’s group: men, all with regulation-neat haircuts. Police. Undercover? A bust? Seize the story. Neil’s advice echoed in her head. Behind her, Dan was waiting for a grovelling apology. A plan formulated in Freddie’s mind.

  Thrusting her cap into her back pocket, she approached her old school friend. ‘Nasreen! Oh my God! It is you!’

  Nasreen startled, turned toward her, taking in the yellow apron and the red hair. ‘F…Freddie?’

  Feeling awkward and teenage again, Freddie kept smiling. Up close she could see a new hardness in Nasreen’s face.

  ‘Cudmore?’ The older guy with the puffa body interrupted. He clearly didn’t want Freddie here. She was onto something.

  ‘Sorry, can’t stop.’ Nasreen looked embarrassed.

  Oh no you don’t. ‘Are you on Facebook, or Twitter?’

  ‘Er…no.’

  Because you’re a policewoman. ‘Gmail? Google Plus – you on Google Plus?’

  ‘Yes. I think.’ Nasreen looked over her shoulder as the body-warmer guy grunted.

  ‘Awesome: what’s your email? Give me your phone so I can type mine in?’ She had one shot to get this right.

  Nasreen, looking increasingly peeved, handed over her iPhone.

  ‘Here, you write yours in mine.’ Freddie pulled her phone from her back pocket, knocking her cap to the floor. Passing her phone to Nasreen, she turned to retrieve her baseball cap. At the same time, she opened up Nasreen’s Google+ app, clicking through: Menu > Settings > Location Sharing On. Years of following exes round the Internet was paying off. She clicked into contacts as she turned back: adding her name, number and email. She pressed call.

  Her phone, which was in Nasreen’s hand, vibrated.

  ‘Now I’ve got your number.’ She beamed at Nas as she held the phone out to swap.

  ‘Great,’ Nasreen mustered a weak smile.

  ‘Who was that?’ the body warmer asked Nasreen as Freddie walked away.

  ‘No one. Just someone I used to know…’

  Sorrow settled under Freddie’s hat as she pulled it on. She was nothing to Nasreen anymore. Perhaps that made it easier? Unlocking her own phone, she opened Google+. Little thumbnails of her friends appeared on the map. There was Milena, pinpointed in St Pancras station, and there, squashed up against her, was a new blank profile picture: Nasreen Cudmore.

  Gotcha!

  Chapter 3

  #FF – Follow Friday

  04:59

  Saturday 31 October

  Freddie slowed her pace and rubbed her eyes, hoping her mascara would smudge. Could you think yourself pale? One arm across her stomach, she half fell through Espress-oh’s door.

  Dan and Milena looked up.

  ‘You okay?’ Milena put down the hot panini tongs.

  ‘I know why I lost my temper. Not feeling great.’ In the corner of her eye she saw Nasreen and her colleagues exit the station and head to an arriving police van. Dan’s face was a hesitant scowl. ‘Pretty sure it’s just my period, but I’ve been sick, everywhere…’ Three…two…

  ‘Sick!’ Dan bowled toward her.

  ‘You don’t think it’s like that norovirus case you told us about from the Kuala Lumpur branch?’ she slurred into his panicked face.

  Dan was surprisingly efficient when under pressure. He had her, and her coat, out the cafe in under a minute.

  ‘Not sure I can walk.’ Freddie bent double, as Dan tried to stuff her apron under her jacket. He kept glancing round, as if a health and safety inspector might leap out from behind one of the trees lining the station approach. Beads of sweat ran in orange rivulets over his forehead.

  ‘I’ll get you a taxi!’ he stage whispered.

  ‘I’m broke.’

  ‘Here!’ Dan pulled notes from his wallet and thrust them at her. ‘We have to get you away from here. I mean home.’ He stuck his arm out as a black cab drove toward them and scooped her into the back. ‘Dalston, she lives in Dalston.’

  Dan, thankful disaster had been averted, watched as the taxi disappeared past the lights. Freddie saw him take his sanitizer bottle from his pocket and squirt his hands. You could never be too safe.

  Inside the cab, Freddie pulled her phone from her pocket and followed the flashing Nasreen Cudmore as she leapfrogged across London. ‘Actually, mate, looks like we’re heading toward The City, no, past that, Canary Wharf. Can you take me there? Cheers.’

/>   Bright coloured lights danced across the Thames, as the night sky airbrushed out the churning grey filth of the river. Freddie didn’t look up. She kept her eyes on the faceless silhouette that represented Nas. It had stopped. Had she lost connection? They wound past the glowing phallic towers of Canary Wharf. Cranes, anchors, and industrial cogs – ghostly reminders of the docks’ past – punctuated the new gated developments covering the area. They were almost upon the symbol. Freddie looked up as the flats gave way to rows of dockers’ cottages. ‘Think it’s the next right, mate.’

  She needn’t have worried. The taxi turned into a street of Victorian houses ablaze with activity. A police van, that had presumably carried Nas and her team, was parked behind a police car blocking the road.

  ‘Can’t go any further than this, love,’ said the cabbie.

  ‘This is fine. Cheers.’ She passed Dan’s banknotes through the window. There was no sign of Nas, or any of her plain-clothes colleagues. ‘What road’s this, mate?’ Freddie pocketed the change. That’d get her a drink in the pub later.

  ‘Blackbird Road.’ The cabbie turned to reverse back the way they’d come.

  A white tarpaulin canopy was erected over the entrance of one of the houses. Incident tape flapped in the breeze. People were stood in dressing gowns, and in coats over pyjamas, phones up taking photos.

  Residents of a quiet Docklands street were shocked to discover that…What was this? Break-in? Domestic? A uniformed policeman, early fifties, balding, guarded the door. A white van was parked opposite. Freddie watched as a man plucked a plastic boiler suit from the back and pulled it over his trousers and shirt. Forensics.

  ‘What the…?’ the door policeman shouted.

  Freddie looked up to see a sandy-haired, skinny policeman, a few years older than her, stumble out of the property and spew all over the path.