Venton says she’s fine. And I for one am really looking forward to how she’s going to explain all this!’ Moast said.
‘Explain what? There’s nothing to explain.’ Freddie stood, a little shakily, opposite him. She wouldn’t sit first, Lego man.
‘Answer the question: where were you between 1am and 5am today?’ he said.
‘I was working the night shift at Espress-oh’s.’ She had to keep calm. ‘Except for when I was talking to Nasreen in St Pancras station. You were there.’
‘Sit down!’ he barked.
She sat. Her cheeks burning. ‘This is harassment!’
‘Freddie, look, I don’t know who you’ve got yourself involved with, life has clearly not gone the way you planned it,’ Nasreen nodded at her Espress-oh’s shirt.
‘I’m a journalist!’ She had to make them understand.
Moast scoffed, ‘You just told us you work at Espress-oh’s? Now you’re claiming you’re a journalist?’
‘I am a bloody journalist,’ Freddie said.
‘Don’t take that tone with me, Missy,’ he snarled. ‘You’re giving it all that about calling you Ms. What kind of a name is Freddie for a girl, anyway? Do you have a problem with men? Did you want to silence Alun Mardling?’
Freddie looked from Moast to Nas. ‘I didn’t even know who he was till this morning.’ Freddie tried to remember what she’d said in her voicemail.
‘Freddie, you’re entitled to legal advice. Are you sure you don’t want a lawyer present?’ Nas said. Moast glared at her.
‘I don’t need a lawyer, I’ve done nothing wrong!’ said Freddie.
‘We spoke to your manager.’ Moast pulled a notepad from his back pocket and flicked through it. ‘A Mr Daniel Peterson. He says you have some anger issues?’
Freddie’s mum always warned her daughter: one day that temper of yours will get you into real trouble. Pleading with her to think before she spoke. Unfortunately, the mention of her gossiping boss and the stone-cold reality of being arrested for murder meant Freddie returned to type. ‘The lying cunt!’
‘He said that you seemed very – and I quote – “agitated”.’
‘A word with four syllables! I’m surprised he managed it.’ Freddie could just imagine how much Dan relished dishing the dirt on her.
‘Mr Peterson said you left early.’
This was getting ridiculous. ‘I did: to follow you guys. Tell him why I was there, Nas! Tell him about the paper!’
‘You didn’t say anything about any paper, Freddie.’ Nasreen looked at her hands. How My Best Friend Became My Best Frenemy.
‘The suspected murder weapon is visible in the photo you sent Sergeant Cudmore.’ Moast slapped an enlarged version of the screenshot onto the table.
Winded from the blood, Freddie turned away.
‘The knife is no longer at the scene, because you took it with you after taking this photo,’ he said
‘No. You’ve got it all wrong.’ She had to make them listen. This was insane.
‘Did it make you feel good cutting him?’
Her stomach turned. ‘Stop it! Listen! I know about the murder weapon. I mean, about it being in the photo. That’s why when I saw it on Twitter I sent it to Nas.’
‘On Twitter? The photo was on Twitter?’ Nas cut in.
‘Lies!’ Moast slammed his hand down on the table. The cup of cold coffee spluttered. ‘Mr Peterson said you take antidepressants.’
‘What the hell! That’s private. They’re for anxiety!’ Horrible Bosses: The Reality.
‘I think you’re a fantasist, Ms Venton.’ Moast leant toward her. ‘Built this whole thing up in your head. Mardling came to your cafe. You took a dislike to him. Found him and killed him. This Twitter rubbish is a distraction. You screwed up: you got cocky, sent this photo to Sergeant Cudmore. And now we’ve got you.’
‘Wait…wait…’ Freddie tried to sort things in her head. ‘You’ve had me in here all this time, and you haven’t been looking for the sick freak who put that up online?’
‘Stop it with the lies, Venton.’ Moast stood, slamming his chair into the wall. Nas and Freddie jumped. Bully-boy tactics. There was a knock at the door, which broke the tension in the room. Freddie heard Nas exhale.
Moast stormed across and swung the door open to reveal the nervous-looking copper who’d been sick at the crime scene. ‘I’m trying to conduct an interview in here, PC Thomas!’ Freddie’s heartbeat roared through her body.
‘Sorry, guv,’ the copper stuttered. ‘I need a word.’ He glanced at Freddie. ‘It’s about the case.’
‘Interview suspended at eleven forty-seven pm. Cudmore, outside. Now!’ Moast’s voice shook the room.
Nas clicked the tape recorder off and jumped up and all three of them disappeared behind the slamming door. Freddie looked at the dent the door handle had made in the wall and realised she was gripping her chair so hard her nails were cutting into the plastic underside. She didn’t realise she was so easily intimidated. This guy was a prick.
There was the noise of squeaking footsteps and a very audible ‘Fuck’ from outside. The door opened and Freddie tried to see out into the hallway, but only caught sight of another grubby, once white wall. Nasreen and Moast came back in, he running his hand over his cropped hair, she carrying a newspaper.
‘Give me that.’ He took the paper from Nasreen. ‘Interview with Freddie Venton, Thirty-first of October, continuing at eleven fifty-two pm.’ Moast tapped the tape recorder. ‘It seems you weren’t lying about being a journalist.’
The Post, still folded, thudded onto the table between them. Emblazoned across the front was: ‘#Murder: Troll Hunter Death Link to Twitter.’
‘The splash!’ Freddie reached for it.
Moast pulled it away. ‘This changes nothing. You’re not off the hook.’
‘You think I bumped off some guy for the story?’ Seriously, where did this guy get off?
‘Do you deny you entered an active crime scene under false pretences?’ Moast stabbed at the newspaper, threatening to tear a hole in it.
‘No, but…’
‘And while you were there you impersonated a policeman?’ Stab, stab, stab.
‘I never said I was a copper, I just showed up in one of those CSI suits and your bloke let me in.’ She couldn’t keep her eyes from the newspaper. This should have been one of the happiest moments of her
