Trust Me. Angela Clarke

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       Freddie

      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. СКАЧАТЬ