Читать книгу Trust Me - Angela Clarke, Angela Clarke - Страница 18

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.’