Читать книгу Follow Me: The bestselling crime novel terrifying everyone this year - Angela Clarke, Angela Clarke - Страница 13

19:26

Saturday 31 October

Alun Mardling’s face, his eyes wide and bloodshot, loomed. His hand, bloody and cold, reached for hers. There was a thud. Freddie jolted. It was dark. She was sweat-soaked. Fabric was wrapped around her, a shroud. Her eyes struggled to focus. Where was she? Freddie could hear Mardling’s blood dripping onto the floor. No! No, it was the kitchen tap. She was home. Alone. Another boom shook through her skull. Ajay? They’d left the bar. There’d been a bottle of wine in the park. Some cans. How’d she got home? She groped for her glasses. Her head reverberated with another bang. The door. Someone was hammering on the door. Ajay? Her flatmates? She stumbled out of bed, grabbed the nearest thing: her H&M Espress-oh’s shirt, still half-buttoned, she pulled it over her head. Dizzying herself with the effort.

Her eyes were stuck at the corners, she followed the crystallised salt tracks with her fingers. Peeling her Sellotaped tongue from the roof of her mouth, she managed: ‘Coming!’ The word was wet, sodden, heavy, though her mouth was dry. Everywhere was darkness. Another thud landed on her like a punch. How much sleep? Still drunk. Boom: her mind shook with fragments of memory. She tried to rub the image of Mardling’s body from her eyes with her fingers. Would a murderer knock?

‘Freddie Venton!’ a male voice shouted from the other side. Bailiffs? Like before. She tried to formulate her thoughts, sort them into order. What was she to say? The Mac was P-something’s. A flatmate’s. They couldn’t take it.

‘Freddie Venton, open up!’ The noise crashed like thunder over her head. Stumbling, she got a hand on the lock, pulled.

Light from the hallway sent her reeling back.

Nas was there, in a black trouser suit, white shirt. Her dark hair swept up away from her face. Chocolate eyes flashing in creamy whites. She had chunky boots on. Next to her: the blue puffa jacket guy who’d been with her at St Pancras. Up close, Freddie could see his blonde hair was silvering, thinning, probably why he had it shaved to a bristly number one. Unfortunately his close-cropped hair accentuated the square shape of his head. He looked like a Lego man. He was in pale pink shirtsleeves, jeans, glowing white trainers: ready to pounce. She could see their mouths open and close like fish. The air pressed upon her, heavy, as if she were underwater, words bubbled toward her. Don’t. Be. Sick.

‘Venton…you…connection…harm…defence.’ Their fish words didn’t fit together.

‘Nas?’

What was puffa saying? Concentrate on breathing. Don’t. Be. Sick. In. Out. In.

Nas’s hands gripped her shoulders. Anchoring her. ‘Freddie? Do you understand? You have to come with us?’ Freddie nodded. Her brain shrank away from her skull, dehydrated, a husk. Nasreen’s face came into focus. She looked older. Colder. Distant. ‘Put some trousers on,’ Nasreen said.

Freddie looked down. She was wearing her Little Mermaid pants. Tufts of mousey pubic hair curled round the edges.

What was going on? They walked in close formation down the stairs. In silence. Each step an earthquake in Freddie’s body. She needed a Coke. A bacon sandwich. Her stomach tidal-waved. No, no food yet. In. Out. In. Out.

Outside was a waiting police car. Nasreen held open the back door for her. Nasreen’s patronising hand guided the top of her head. At the edges of her consciousness something flickered. A warning. Freddie leant her head against the cool glass of the window, closed her eyes and willed herself not to vom. She was thankful they travelled in silence.

They were at Jubilee police station, the aging 1970s jewel in the Tower Hamlets policing borough, a clusterfuck of concrete and white metal-framed windows. She recognised it from the TV news. Nas held the door for her again. Freddie took some steadying gulps of air. The street lights hurt her eyes. The puffa guy strode off. Nas looked pissed.

Freddie’s mouth moistened enough to speak. The words disjointed. ‘This about the dead dude?’

‘Sergeant Byrne will check you in.’

They were stood inside the entrance hall of the station – it looked nothing like Heartbeat, the ancient cop show her mum was always re-watching. Scratched wooden-framed glass doors, which reminded Freddie of her old school maths classrooms, were at each end of the room. The geometric pattern of green shatterproof glass filled every available pane, blocking out all hope of natural light. Posters warning of car theft and pickpockets barely clung to the walls. Fluorescent strip lighting finished off the effect: everything had a cold blue tinge to it. It was as comforting as being inside an ice cube. Sergeant Byrne, a fat man in his fifties, leant against the desk like he couldn’t support his own weight.

Booked in? What was this?

‘Please empty all your pockets into the tray,’ the Duty Sergeant’s voice was heavy with contempt. Either that or he had a nasty sinus infection, Freddie thought.

Nas stood wordless.

The contents of Freddie’s hastily pulled on jeans pockets and jacket were documented and placed in individual plastic bags: ‘One iPhone, one wallet; contents: a Hackney library card, a Visa debit card, two Visa credit cards, one receipt from Vacate bar, fifty-seven pence in loose change. One set of keys. Two unopened banana-flavoured condoms.’

‘It’s easier to get into the airport than in here!’ Freddie said. No one laughed.

The copper pulled a small white powdery triangle out of her pocket and held it up to her.

‘It’s a Smint,’ her eyes were too gritty to roll. ‘No one has time to do drugs.’

He sniffed it. ‘One fluffy mint.’ The Sergeant dropped it into a bag and plunged his hand back into her jacket pocket.

‘You can chuck that if you want,’ Freddie nodded at the empty sanitary towel wrapper he pulled out. He dropped the wrapper into its own sealed plastic bag and placed it on top of her other belongings in the tray.

‘Remove the laces from your shoes.’ He took a sip from a vending machine plastic cup of coffee he had under the desk.

Her synapses crackled, her neurotransmitters jump-started. ‘What? This is a fucking joke, right? I’m being punked?’

‘Mind your language.’ He spoke like her dad. Why Is a Young Woman Swearing So Offensive to Men?

‘Dude, these are DMs, it’ll take me half an hour.’

‘Now,’ he said. His small piggy eyes disappearing into the fat of his face.

Freddie looked at Nasreen who was staring straight ahead. Her stomach settled into a hollow feeling of dread. What had Nas and that guy said to her when they picked her up from her flat? She flopped onto a plastic bench that was bolted to the ground. 100 Everyday Objects That Can Kill You.

‘There,’ she slapped the laces onto the counter. ‘I’ll never get them back the way they were. Happy?’

‘This way, Miss Venton.’ Nasreen pushed a button to release the interconnecting door.

Miss Venton? ‘When can I have my phone back? I need to let my boss know I’ll be late.’ Freddie followed Nasreen’s silent back; her boots flapping round her ankles with each step. ‘Seriously, Nas, what the hell is going on? I’m sorry ’bout what I said earlier. About you sounding like your mum, and that.’ She limped behind Nas as they passed offices with blinds pulled down and closed blue-painted MDF doors. ‘I didn’t mean any harm. I was just doing my job.’

Nasreen stopped and spun round, her nostrils flaring. Then she turned and set off again even faster.

‘This isn’t funny anymore,’ Freddie called after her as she wrenched her lace-less Dr Martens off and tucked them under her arm. Her feet, damp from sweat, left tiny prints on the mottled grey wipe-clean floor.

Nasreen stopped and held open a door. ‘In here, Miss Venton.’

Freddie peered into the room: a table, three chairs. An empty interview room. ‘How long is this going to take?’

Nasreen closed the door on her. She went to get her phone from her pocket before she remembered it wasn’t there. Behind her a wall clock ticked toward ten to nine at night. What time had they left the flat? What time had she got home? She struggled to piece together the last sixteen hours. Everything had twisted after she’d seen the dead body. It must be shock. She shivered in the empty room. Ten to nine. She’d be fired for sure.

Three hundred people had applied for her job. She’d spun Dan the corporate line he loved, but she knew it was down to Milena that she’d got it. Milena had a little boy. Probably two, she guessed from photos. He was back in Bulgaria, with Milena’s mother. A shortlisted eight had worked an unpaid ten-hour test shift as part of the interview process. On the night of Freddie’s trial, Milena’s son was rushed to hospital. Milena was distraught and out of phone credit. Skype and FaceTime wouldn’t connect. Freddie lent Milena her phone, trying not to think about how expensive an international call would be. Her little boy was going to be okay. And so was Freddie: Milena recommended her as the best candidate. She wouldn’t be so lucky again. How would she pay her rent now? ‘This isn’t funny, guys.’ Her voice sounded small. If anyone heard her they didn’t reply.

Was she locked in? She stormed over to the door and forcefully tried the handle. It swung open with ease, sending her off balance. The back of the policeman outside turned to face her. It was the kid who’d been sick at 39 Blackbird Road. ‘Are you chief of door guarding? That your sole bleedin’ job?’ His forehead crinkled. The freckles spattered across his nose made him look quite cute. He had that whole little boy lost thing going on that made some women go gaga. Not her type, though. ‘Sorry, mate. Just wondered how long I was going to be in here for?’

He shrugged and pressed his lips together, making them even thinner. ‘I can get you a drink if you like?’

‘Suppose a double vodka and Coke is out?’ His lips disappeared completely.

‘Coffee?’ She remembered the piss-poor excuse for caffeine the Duty Sergeant had been drinking. ‘I’m having the shittiest hangover.’

‘Yes, Miss. If you take a seat I’ll bring you one.’

She scraped one of the chairs at the table back, her eyelids fluttering at the noise. She hadn’t showered since she’d had sex. She sniffed the underarm of her shirt: funky.

The door opened and the freckled copper came in with a beige plastic cup. ‘Sorry – the milk’s off.’ He placed the cup and a pile of sugar sachets on the table.

‘Cheers.’ She tore open four sachets and emptied the lot into the liquid. He gave her half a smile and then retreated, closing the door behind him.

The sides of the cup were too hot to touch. She got up and paced. The gnawing feeling in her stomach wouldn’t go away. She thought of Nas’s cold stare. Her tongue niggled against something stuck between her front two teeth. It better not be a pubic hair. Working the gap with her fingernail, she sat back down at the table. The coffee was still too hot. It was gone 9pm now. She rested her head on her arms and closed her eyes. Too tired to think straight.

The door handle clicked and she straightened up. How long had she been asleep for?

‘Not boring you are we?’ The puffa jacket man from earlier entered, with Nas trotting behind him.

‘Hey what’s the idea, keeping me waiting in here?’ Her mouth was made of carpet again – she took a gulp of the now cold coffee. Rancid.

Nas and the puffa jacket guy took the two seats opposite her. What did he say his name was? Moist? Toast?

Nas pressed a button on the device on the table.

‘Interview with Freddie Venton, Thirty-first of October, commencing eleven zero nine pm.’ The man spoke. ‘Officers present: DCI Edwin Moast.’

That was it!

‘And Sergeant Nasreen Cudmore.’

This was bullshit. ‘Can I get a fresh coffee?’ Freddie asked.

Moast exchanged a look with Nasreen. ‘Miss Venton, I don’t think you appreciate the seriousness of…’

‘What is it with all the “Miss’’ stuff? I’m not a bloody schoolteacher. Besides, it’s Ms Venton.’

‘Miss Venton…I don’t think…’

‘Ms. As I said. I prefer Ms.’ You waste my time and I’ll waste yours, bucko, Freddie thought.

‘Freddie.’ Nas leant toward her, looking concerned.

As the last of the alcohol passed out of her bloodstream, as the few hours of sleep worked their magic on Freddie’s twenty-three-year-old body, she felt bruised but alert. Moast’s earlier words drifted back. Slotting into place. You do not have to say anything. However, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court…She started to shake. Her stomach twisted away from her sides. No. They can’t think…

‘This is serious,’ Nas said.

Black dots spread like ink droplets in water across Freddie’s vision, obscuring Nasreen’s face. She focused on her voice. On the sickening words.

‘Freddie, you are accused of the murder of Alun Mardling.’