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.’
23:13
Saturday 31 October
For a blissful second Freddie thought she was in bed. Then the concerned face of Nasreen came into focus, haloed by a yellow ceiling stain.
‘Take your time, don’t rush up,’ she said.
‘Is she okay? Jesus this is all I need: the paperwork!’ Moast’s square head came between her and the overhead strip lighting. His cropped blonde hair glowing.
‘I’m okay.’ Freddie pushed against the floor. Sticky.
‘Someone should take a look at you,’ Nas said.
‘No.’ The shock of the accusation sharpened everything. Freddie took in the dirty white box of a room. The pitted table. The grey plastic chairs. ‘You can’t really think I’m a murderer?’
‘Where were you between 1am and 5am this morning, Miss Venton?’ Moast was leaning on the table, his knuckles white from the pressure.
‘Sir, I really think we should give her a minute.’
She
