Trust Me - Angela Clarke

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said without looking up.

      ‘What’s wrong with you? Get out the wrong side of the rowing machine this morning?’ she shot back.

      She heard Green snort as she pegged it after Nas. She needed her to read the condolence messages on Amber’s Facebook feed. She needed to start on the cellsite analysis – looking at who Paul and Amber called and texted before they disappeared. And she one hundred per cent needed Nas to not rock up at the Jubilee before Freddie could do some damage limitation post the L word bomb this morning. ‘I’ll meet you in the car park,’ she called to Nas’s back, as she neared the lift. ‘I’ve got to grab something from the shop!’

      Before her friend could turn around, Freddie bolted for the stairs. She just needed a minute to think. To send a message: contain this morning’s fallout. Jesus, she hadn’t even had time to change her clothes since then. In her palm, the smiling photo of Amber on her phone bounced up and down as she ran down the steps. Maybe she was overreacting, but those messages had unnerved her. She knew Nas would likely dismiss it as conjecture, or her overactive imagination, so she needed more. She needed to build up a picture of Amber Robertson’s life. Rest In Peace. She couldn’t let anything else get in the way of this investigation. They needed to find the dark-haired girl.

       Freddie

      Freddie walked quickly through the air-conditioned reception of the anonymous Westminster office building that housed them and the other Special Ops teams. Perhaps she could call him? And say what? So you know you said you loved me and I ran away? Now me and Nas are headed to your station, and, well, funny story: I haven’t told her about you. She probably couldn’t cover that in a two-minute call, and she probably couldn’t cover it in a text either. She felt the heat of the sun as soon as the door opened: her skin prickled with the shock of going from cold to hot. Her vision quivered at the sides.

      ‘Ms Venton, Freddie!’ The voice made her jump. A tall woman in a purple sleeveless top and patterned cotton wide-legged trousers was coming down the street. ‘Freddie Venton? It is you, isn’t it?’

      She recognised her. Beads woven into her braided bob glinted in the sunlight. She’d interviewed her for an article she was writing about the student protests. She was a teacher – very good on the impact of rising fees on working-class kids. What was her name?

      ‘Hi.’ She waved and started for the other side of the road. She didn’t need an audience while composing this message. Nas had already got her knickers in a twist over her new job, she didn’t need more aggro for keeping her waiting.

      ‘I don’t know if you remember me?’ The teacher reached her side, puffing slightly.

      Freddie pasted a smile on her face. ‘Student protests, right? I’m in a rush, good to see you though.’

      ‘I’ve been looking for you.’ The woman glanced over her shoulder as if someone might be following her.

      She was clutching her handbag strap so tight her knuckles were white. She looked spooked. ‘You all right?’ Freddie followed her gaze; the street was empty.

      ‘You’re a policewoman now, aren’t you?’

      Freddie recognised the edge in her voice. Oh, great. She should have kept walking. ‘I’m not actually a police officer, no.’ Being berated for selling out to the police wasn’t on her fun things to do list.

      ‘But I saw you on the news? A few months ago, here. I found the pictures online.’ She grabbed hold of Freddie’s arm.

      This was getting weird. Was she some kind of stalker? What would Nas do in this situation? Smile? Back away slowly? Arrest her?

      Before Freddie could do anything the woman spoke again. ‘There’s a girl and you’ve got to help her.’ The hairs on Freddie’s neck stood up. The woman’s eyes were pressing, urgent, but she didn’t look nuts. Or like she was lying. She looked scared. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk? Please, Ms Venton.’

      Freddie’s phone blared out the opening lyrics to KRS-One’s ‘Sound of da Police’: her personalised ring tone for Nas. She sent Nas to voicemail. ‘Café over there?’

      ‘Thank you.’ Relief sounded in the teacher’s voice. ‘You’re a good person.’

      ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’ Freddie’s nerve endings crackled. What was this about? ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t remember your name?’ Freddie headed to the indie greasy spoon on the corner.

      The woman’s voice and demeanour was still tense. ‘It’s Kate.’

       Nasreen

      She couldn’t believe Burgone had just forwarded her the training manual for Freddie’s new role as Civilian Investigator without another word. It was a blank email. Not even an FYI. He’d promoted Freddie while he was ignoring her. Did he feel the same as Saunders: that she was now the team member you gave the rubbish jobs to?

       You’re just being paranoid. You’re reading too much into this. It’s just a task, like any other. Look at it another way: he trusts you to train Freddie.

      Or he thinks you’re the only one she’s likely to listen to. Perhaps taking one for the team – training Freddie – would help her get back in everyone else’s good books? And where the hell had Freddie got to anyway? They could have been on the road ages ago. She tried to wind the window down more; the pool car smelt like cheesy feet. She reread the scant intelligence report DCI Moast had filed about his stop and search on Paul Robertson. It had taken place last June, a month before Robertson and his daughter had disappeared. The last official interaction between the force and Robertson.

      Her mobile beeped: Freddie’s name flashed up. Opening the message, Nasreen started with shock:

      911. Meet me in the café on the corner.

      911? Urgent? Her pulse quickened; she flung open the car door and took the stairs up to the street two at a time. Giulia’s Café was on the east corner. Freddie was sat in the window, talking to a casually dressed older black woman she didn’t recognise. Nasreen slowed. What was the emergency?

      Freddie beckoned her in. ‘Nas – over here.’ She pulled over a red vinyl chair. ‘This is Kate: I worked with her when I was at the Guardian.’

      Oh, no: press. She didn’t move towards the seat Freddie had positioned. ‘We’ve got an appointment we need to be getting to.’ How could Freddie imply this was a crisis?

      Freddie lowered her voice. ‘Kate needs our help.’

      ‘I’m not talking to the media,’ Nasreen hissed back. They could be with Moast and Tibbsy now, making progress on a proper case. One she needed to deliver on.

      Freddie’s eyebrows furrowed. ‘Kate’s a teacher. She’s seen a violent rape.’

      ‘What?’ A rape? Neither of them looked like they were joking. Nasreen hung her jacket on the back of the chair, sat down and extended a hand to the woman. ‘I’m DS Nasreen Cudmore.’

      ‘Thank you for agreeing to talk to me,’ Kate said.

      She hadn’t really been given a choice. Freddie took a swig from her bottle of water.

      ‘Go back to the beginning,’ Nasreen said. ‘When was this? Where did you see it?’

      ‘I wrote down everything.’ Kate opened the black handbag that was on her lap and took out an A4 jotter. Nasreen could see paragraphs of neat blue writing. Dates. Times. Notes. And then she told them what had happened.

      Nasreen studied Kate’s face as she

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