Angela Clarke - Trust Me

‘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?’

‘I’ve come to pick your brains, if you’ve got five minutes? It’s regarding a stop-and-search you and Tibbsy carried out last June.’ Nas had her game face on: sucking up.

‘Sure thing. We’ll get Venton here to make us all a nice drink and we’ll have a chat,’ he said as they walked towards the propped-open fire exit of the station.

‘I’m not a sodding barista,’ Freddie said. She wanted to know why Nas had looked so freaked out.

‘Ah, yes, but you were.’ Moast stood back to let Nas enter the building before him. Then he stopped, turning to block her way. ‘And you always will be to me.’

Great.

‘You nearly cost me my job back then,’ he said menacingly.

‘And your management of the case nearly lost me my life.’ She pointed at the scar on her forehead: the permanent chewed reminder of just how badly he’d screwed up on the Apollyon case.

He laughed. ‘I’d watch your mouth if I were you. You’ve got to pass this afternoon’s session to get your new job, and guess who gives the marks?’

‘Father Christmas?’

He tutted and shook his head. ‘Still not learnt any respect, I see, Freddie .’

‘Guv?’ a voice from behind them called. She turned to see the rangy frame of Tibbsy lumbering through the car park carrying an M&S sandwich. Maybe she and Nas could lose these guys and talk in the Ladies?

Moast swung an arm over her shoulder. ‘Look what the gods have gifted us, Tibbs. We’re going to have some fun this afternoon!’

Who was the guy calling himself Corey Banks, and why had Nas looked so scared when she’d seen his photo? As they trooped inside, sweat prickled on Freddie’s brow. Ignoring the chatter around her, she focused on the hard, sharp question that was cutting through the noise: and what did that mean for Amber?

‘I don’t want to keep you,’ Nasreen said. Tibbsy had joined Moast and Freddie in the Jubilee’s polystyrene-ceiling-tiled hallway. She needed to get back to the office and confirm her suspicions about what she’d seen on Amber’s Facebook. This could potentially change the whole direction of their investigation.

‘Still sprinting ahead, hey, Nas?’ Tibbsy enveloped her in a hug, pressing her face into his white shirt. She could feel his collar bone against her cheek. He smelt vaguely of shower gel and sun cream. ‘You back to stay?’

She laughed. It had been such a long time since anyone had seemed so pleased to see her. Again she wondered if she’d made a mistake in leaving. Tibbsy was a good partner.

‘’Fraid not. This is a flying visit. Wanted to ask you and the guv about a stop-and-search you did last June. Paul Robertson – the Rodriguezes’ drug runner?’

‘Ha! I remember that.’ Moast signalled for them to duck into his office.

Tibbsy’s face had flushed pink. ‘Not my finest hour.’

‘Why’s that then?’ Freddie asked, as they squeezed into the room. The plant in the corner had died since she’d left. Nasreen wondered if anyone else had watered it. Or even noticed the brown leaves.

‘Bit of a cock-up, wasn’t it, Tibbs?’ Moast grinned.

‘Yeah, well, I didn’t know who he was, did I?’ Tibbsy rubbed his hand across the back of his neck, and looked at the floor.

‘He got a right royal bollocking from the Drugs lads: they had surveillance on Robertson, when this lunk walked right up and started asking questions. I’d only popped into the office to get some gum. Can’t leave him unattended: he’s like a bloody big kid.’

‘Why did you talk to him if you didn’t know who he was?’ Nasreen said. Freddie was stood in the doorway, her arms folded over her chest. It wasn’t like her to sit on the sidelines.

Tibbsy glanced up quickly before looking back down at his shoes. ‘He just seemed like trouble.’

‘Don’t give me that,’ Moast said. ‘He was doing his whole knight-in-shining-armour bit.’

‘He was shouting at some girl,’ Tibbsy said nervously. ‘I just didn’t like the way he was going off at her.’

‘What did she look like?’ Freddie asked.

Tibbsy shrugged. ‘I dunno.’

‘Liar. He only noticed ’cause she was fit,’ Moast said with a laugh. ‘So he wades in with his badge out, breaking up a fight between one of London’s most notorious gangsters and his missus. Lucky he wasn’t packing heat.’

‘You know that for sure?’ Nasreen said. There were rumours Paul Robertson had been involved in the fatal shooting of an officer twenty years ago, but nothing had ever been proved.

‘He backed right down. Said he was sorry for the fuss,’ Tibbsy said, turning pale. He’d obviously since learnt of Paul’s reputation.

‘What colour hair did she have?’ Freddie said.

Tibbsy shrugged again.

‘Long and dark,’ said Moast. ‘She was a right stunner. Shut her mouth as soon as this one walked up to her. You’ve got that effect on women, don’t ya, lad?’ Moast was enjoying Tibbsy’s embarrassment.

‘What were they arguing about?’ Nasreen asked.

‘How old was she?’ Freddie said.

‘I dunno. Young. Twenty. They were just going at each other in the street.’

‘She had some balls on her,’ Moast said. ‘Not many people would speak to Robertson like that. I thought I was going to have to radio for backup when I saw Tibbs striding over there. Left my debit card in the shop and everything.’

‘What happened?’ said Nasreen. Freddie was frowning, pulling her phone out of her pocket.

‘He said he didn’t want no trouble. She said she was fine and we left it at that,’ Moast said. ‘Didn’t really want to push Robertson without backup. And I’d seen his name on intelligence reports: I knew we probably weren’t alone.’