‘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 looked up at Moast. ‘I’m fine. Let’s get this sorted,’ Freddie adopted her customer service voice: the one she used when she was at a job interview or trying to get a doctor’s appointment. How Changing Your Tone Can Change Your Life.
‘Miss 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