Angela Clarke - Trust Me

‘There’s a load of comments under her last post – the friends on here didn’t look like they knew it was coming,’ Freddie said, lowering her window as they drove through Westminster.

Nasreen wanted to look at the posts, but she knew she’d feel sick in the car. ‘All the statements taken from her friends at the time suggest they were surprised.’

‘They could be lying – you know what teens are like,’ Freddie said.

Nasreen didn’t like to think about lying teens; it reminded her of what she and Freddie had done when they were that age. The lasting pain they’d caused. Nasreen indicated and pulled onto Lower Thames Street. The river twinkled next to them in the sunshine, the pavements clogged with groups of lacklustre tourists licking ice-creams.

Freddie shifted in her seat. ‘Some of them have written RIP under her message.’

Rest in peace – why would they do that? ‘Probably just a teen thing.’

‘You don’t think they know something we don’t?’ Freddie said.

‘Make a list of everyone on there – see if we can find out who they are, and if they were close to Amber. Could just be randoms,’ she said.

‘Or trolls.’ Freddie leant back and rested her flip-flopped feet on the glove compartment.

‘Feet down, please. This is police property.’

‘You need to chill out, Nas.’ Freddie left her feet where they were.

Was this about not being able to help her friend Kate? ‘You okay?’

Freddie kept her eyes fixed on the road. ‘Why didn’t you say congrats about my promotion?’

Oh God: she’d been so preoccupied with what it meant that Burgone had promoted Freddie whilst dumping her training on her that she hadn’t thought about Freddie at all. She winced. ‘I’m sure I did.’

‘You agree with Saunders then?’ Freddie shifted in her seat so she was facing her accusingly, all bare legs and arms.

What had Saunders said? ‘Of course not,’ she said, flustered.

‘Well, you don’t sound thrilled about it. Only Green’s said anything nice.’ Freddie was developing a sulk.

Despite her bolshie attitude, Freddie’s ego was fairly fragile. She’d worked hard since she’d started with the team, harder than Nasreen had thought she would, if she was honest. And she’d turned up some pretty good results: making the link between the Spice Road and Paul Robertson was impressive. She deserved this accolade.

‘I’m happy for you,’ Nasreen said. And she was. Wasn’t she? She just had this irrational jealousy that somehow Burgone thought Freddie was a stronger asset to the team than her. That he’d written her off because of what had happened in the past. She was acting crazy: she knew it. She had to shake off this stupid analysis of everything Burgone did and said. Otherwise it was going to sabotage her work.

She realised Freddie was staring at her. How long had she left her hanging?

‘Convincing,’ Freddie said drily.

‘Congratulations,’ Nasreen said.

‘Cheers,’ Freddie said sarcastically.

Well, that went well. The flat-fronted textile shops and redbrick office blocks of Whitechapel Road bordered them. The minaret-style sculpted silver tower at the side of the Brick Lane Mosque glinted sunlight across the windscreen. Nasreen cleared her throat. ‘Still looks the same round here.’ When she’d started at the Jubilee after her fast-track training, she’d hoped joining the flagship East End force would springboard her career. She would never have guessed it would catapult her straight to the top: to Special Ops. Perhaps it was too fast? Perhaps she should have stayed here. But then she’d never have met Burgone at all. And despite everything that it had cost her, that would have been worse.

‘They closed down The Grapes,’ Freddie said.

‘The station’s local? No. How do you know that?’ Had she missed a get-together with the old team? Had they frozen her out as well?

‘Night out a few months ago. Seeing uni mates.’ Freddie looked up from her phone. ‘We’re here.’

The Jubilee Station, the ageing 1970s jewel in the Tower Hamlets policing borough, loomed before them. All concrete and white-metal-framed windows.

‘It’s such a clusterfuck,’ Freddie said as Nasreen signalled and turned into the place it had all started.

She’d nearly blown it then. Practically told Nas she’d been back here, because she was focusing on Amber. She was just a normal kid. Did she know what her dad was up to? Did it matter? Paul Robertson was part of THM. The Rodriguez Brothers didn’t limit their empire to drugs, they were linked to people trafficking. After working through intelligence reports in the last few months, Freddie understood more about what these gangs did than she ever had before. Women and girls forced into the sex trade. Abuse. The territory wars. People were tortured, killed. She thought of those she knew in journalism, who insisted everything they owned or ate was fair trade, who boycotted Starbucks and Apple because they disagreed with their aggressive retail strategies, or because they used sweatshop workers to make their shiny products, but who had no problem shoving coke up their noses. Drugs were linked to abuse and death. She didn’t think she’d ever be able to smoke hash again.

On Amber’s Facebook she was beginning to see a pattern. ‘I think I’ve got something.’

Nas pulled into a space in the square concrete carpark out the back of the Jubilee Station and cut the engine. A wave of heat rolled over the car. ‘What is it?’

‘This Corey Banks guy appears, and then reappears. He’s all over her feed by the end. In December 2015 it states they’re in a relationship. She had a boyfriend.’

‘Maybe she still does. Find him and we might find her.’ Nas took the phone from her. Her face turned pale. ‘Oh God.’

‘What? What is it – do you recognise him?’

‘Yes. And his name’s not Corey Banks.’

‘Freddie Venton!’ A shout from outside made them both jump, as DCI Moast’s hand slammed onto the top of the car. Nas dropped her phone. ‘And Cudmore.’ He squatted down next to her open window, so his Lego head was on a level with hers. His leering face had lost none of its charm.

‘Sir,’ Nas said, scrabbling for the phone.

‘Just had a call to make my day,’ he said, grinning at Freddie. ‘I hear you’re going to be in my class this arvo.’

‘It was sprung on me.’ She reached for her phone, taking in the little shake of Nas’s head about the guy calling himself Corey Banks: don’t mention it. This whole police practice of only saying stuff on a need-to-know basis was balls. Surely if they all knew what was going on, they’d stand more chance of figuring stuff out? For all they knew, Moast had relevant information. ‘I’d rather stay out here with the bins, to be honest.’

‘Venton, Venton, Venton,’ Moast said, opening her door and standing back. ‘Don’t be like that.’ She sighed and swung her legs out. Timing, as ever, was not Moast’s strong point. ‘Besides –’ he grabbed her arm and put his face right up against her ear ‘– now you officially work for the Met I’m your superior. You’ve got to do what I say.’

‘Get off.’ She shook her arm free.

Nas slammed the car door behind them. Moast turned and grinned at her with his marble tombstone teeth. ‘And if it isn’t the Met’s finest rising star. Hope you tell all the adoring top brass that it was me who taught you everything you know, Cudmore.’

Moast had clearly not heard about Nas’s slip-up a few months back. Nas walked over and held her hand out. ‘Good to see you, sir. How are you?’

‘Same shit, different day, Cudmore,’ he said, aggressively pumping her hand. Still a posturing asshole. This afternoon was going to be torturous. ‘You just dropping your kid off at nursery, or have you come to learn something they can’t teach you over at Special Ops?’