Angela Clarke - Trust Me

The water was running over his face, his clothes. He hadn’t turned the bathroom light on. Hadn’t wanted anyone to wake up. But it was never dark here. Street lamps and tower lights shone through the bathroom window. Could they see him? He felt like he was glowing. He crouched down, leant against the tiles. He hugged his knees tightly. The water was red. A Lynx shower gel bottle tumbled from the side and clattered against the floor of the shower. He held his breath. Please don’t wake up.

Her hair had wrapped round his arms when he’d pushed her up. Clung to him, wanting him to stay. Oh God. He didn’t want to think about this. He squashed his palms against his head. Wanted to push it all out. One minute they were partying, and then she’d thrown the punch. If only she hadn’t done that. If only she’d just stayed quiet. Her arms had felt small. Tiny, like his younger brothers’. He could close his whole hand round her wrist. Easily snapped. The clothes had thrown him. The skirt had buttons and zips and everything was backwards. Mixed up. And they were softer than boys’ clothes. Her top had been almost slippery. He wanted to tell Simon tomorrow. But he couldn’t do that. Couldn’t tell anyone. Couldn’t cause any more trouble.

Water was working into his mouth now. There could be blood and hair and stuff in it. He scrubbed at his face. Spat. Spat again. Leant forwards, his head on the shower tray. He could smell the bleach down here. Water bubbling up around his nose and mouth. He was blocking the plug. He could just stay here. Let the water cover him. Drown. Forget about her.

And then he realised what he was doing. Oh God: he had to get it off him. Retching, he stood up. Fell forward, wincing, to turn the tap off. He ripped at his clothes. Until they were in a soggy pile on the floor. He was naked. Wet. Oh God. He pulled for a towel, scrubbed it from him. Rubbing harder, harder, as if he could scrub it off. His skin was raw. He deserved the hurt. He rubbed again. He would be grazed in the morning. Sore. Good. Then he used the towel to wipe out the shower. He kept going. Didn’t know what time it was now. Wiping the floor. Wrapping his clothes up tight in the towel. Tying it in a knot. He’d have to get rid of them. His favourite jeans. How was he going to explain that? His favourite…

He froze. His teeth mid-chatter. Her hat. She’d been wearing a hat when she’d arrived. Evidence. That would be evidence. Where was it? He couldn’t remember when he’d last seen it. When she was dancing? He had to find it. He was responsible. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t mean to do it. He crumpled to the floor. I didn’t mean to do it.

She had to show Nas the messages on Amber’s Facebook page. Did the people who’d posted them know something they didn’t? Could the fifteen-year-old be dead?

‘Nas?’

‘I’ve got started on Amber Robertson.’ Nas cut her off, without looking up from her computer. ‘I wanted to know who she stayed with when her dad was inside, given her mum’s dead.’

‘Right, good thinking.’ Freddie nodded, aware Burgone was following her out of his office.

‘Social services placed her with her grandmother – Paul’s mum,’ Nas continued.

That must be a good sign, she was probably worrying about nothing. Amber could be with her nan. ‘So she could be there now?’

‘The grandmother passed on three years ago, and there’s no listing anywhere for her own mum’s family. Looks like they’re mostly abroad,’ Nas said.

Freddie swallowed. ‘I think you should see her Facebook account…’

‘Guys,’ Burgone interrupted them from behind.

Nas immediately turned to face him. Freddie stared at the posts on her phone: was she overreacting? They were just words. They could even be posted by trolls winding up Amber’s friends?

‘I’ve got an announcement to make.’ The others looked up from their desks as Burgone cleared his throat. ‘Congratulations are in order. Freddie has been promoted, and now, as well as providing intelligence analysis for the team, she will also be working as a Civilian Investigator.’

What? Promotion was pushing it somewhat. Nas looked shocked, then slightly horrified. Freddie felt her spine stiffen.

‘A Civilian Investigator?’ Saunders made the words sound like swears. ‘That’s worse than the bloody plastic PCSOs.’

She’d expected hostility from outside the team, but not from within. ‘You worried about the competition?’ she snapped at him.

Nas inhaled next to her.

‘It was at my recommendation, Pete,’ Burgone said. ‘Freddie will be a great asset for interviewing. Keep you guys free to focus on managing investigations.’

He wasn’t mentioning the budget cuts, or that she’d nearly lost her job.

‘It’s policing on the cheap.’ Saunders looked past her at Burgone.

‘It’s happening.’ Burgone’s tone shifted.

‘You’ve got to be kidding, guv?’ said Saunders.

Freddie waited for Chips to back her up, but he was staring at his shoes, frowning.

‘Freddie will receive proper training: she’ll be attending a course at the Jubilee Station today, and Cudmore will be giving her in-house instruction during the Amber Robertson search,’ Burgone said.

Nas’s eyes widened. Freddie couldn’t believe none of them had a good word to say about it. She’d found them the Spice Road–THM link: she knew what she was doing.

‘Assuming that’s okay?’ Burgone added forcefully.

‘Yes, sir,’ Nas said, not looking at Saunders.

Freddie looked at Green, who managed a measly smile back. You could cut the atmosphere with a Post-It note. What did they think she was – just some stupid secretary banging out bloody spreadsheets?

‘Well done again, Freddie.’ Burgone released his Hollywood superstar smile. ‘The Gremlin team are behind you one hundred per cent on this.’

Yeah, waiting to trip me up.

Burgone paused as if they might applaud. No one moved. ‘Right, crack on then,’ he said.

Green made a show of picking up the phone and requesting to be put through to some woman. Saunders’s face was set in a scowl, and he slammed into his chair and started moving files noisily round his desk. Chips still hadn’t said anything.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Nas hissed at her side.

‘I only just found out myself.’ She didn’t feel like confessing this was all a clever ploy to keep her in full-time employment. Burgone had gone with the promotion line: she would too. ‘I’m not gonna tread on anyone’s toes – don’t worry.’

‘Right. So you’re off to the Jubilee for the rest of the day then?’ Nas had her chewing-a-wasp face on.

‘Actually, I was about to show you this.’ Freddie thrust her phone at Nas.

‘Show me on the way,’ Nas turned her back on her to grab her own phone.

‘You what?’ She caught Green looking at them and shot her an evil. Could no one in this bloody office bring themselves to say congrats?

Nas shoved an intelligence report at her so forcefully it folded against her top. ‘I was about to say before the guv came in –’ Nas’s voice wavered slightly over the word ‘guv’, and, forgetting her anger for a second, Freddie had a sudden urge to whisk her old friend out of here and away from the others. ‘The last officers to speak to Paul Robertson before he went to ground: guess who? Tibbsy and Moast.’

Freddie let go of the paper. ‘Shit,’ she muttered, then went to catch it quickly. DCI Moast and DS Tibbsy. Nas’s old team. It was like going back to the beginning: the first case that had thrown them all together. ‘The gang’s all back together, hey?’ Freddie hoped her voice sounded jokey.

‘You can go to training after we’ve found out if there’s anything else they know about Paul Robertson.’ Nas swung her handbag over her shoulder and stalked out.

‘Better catch up with teacher,’ Saunders 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 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? S o 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.