‘I made some calls while I was waiting,’ Nasreen said. She had the engine running as Freddie slid into the car. She wanted to forget about Kate and the film she had seen. And she didn’t want to row with Freddie about it.
‘I found Amber’s Facebook account – she hasn’t posted since the night before they disappeared. It looks like a goodbye – she says she’s sorry and loves them all,’ Freddie said, a pen tucked behind her ear.
Could Amber have known they were running away? ‘I spoke to the head teacher at her school,’ Nasreen said. ‘He confirmed she didn’t show up the day her dad disappeared, and they received no telephone call or letter in relation to her absence.’ Amber’s former teacher had obviously run through this before, and had given an emotion-free, inclusive account of what had happened. ‘They tried to contact both Paul Robertson and Amber, but both phones had been switched off, as we know.’
‘There’s a load of comments under her last post – the friends on here didn’t look like they knew it was coming,’ Freddie said, lowering her window as they drove through Westminster.
Nasreen wanted to look at the posts, but she knew she’d feel sick in the car. ‘All the statements taken from her friends at the time suggest they were surprised.’
‘They could be lying – you know what teens are like,’ Freddie said.
Nasreen didn’t like to think about lying teens; it reminded her of what she and Freddie had done when they were that age. The lasting pain they’d caused. Nasreen indicated and pulled onto Lower Thames Street. The river twinkled next to them in the sunshine, the pavements clogged with groups of lacklustre tourists licking ice-creams.
Freddie shifted in her seat. ‘Some of them have written RIP under her message.’
Rest in peace – why would they do that? ‘Probably just a teen thing.’
‘You don’t think they know something we don’t?’ Freddie said.
‘Make a list of everyone on there – see if we can find out who they are, and if they were close to Amber. Could just be randoms,’ she said.
‘Or trolls.’ Freddie leant back and rested her flip-flopped feet on the glove compartment.
‘Feet down, please. This is police property.’
‘You need to chill out, Nas.’ Freddie left her feet where they were.
Was this about not being able to help her friend Kate? ‘You okay?’
Freddie kept her eyes fixed on the road. ‘Why didn’t you say congrats about my promotion?’
Oh God: she’d been so preoccupied with what it meant that Burgone had promoted Freddie whilst dumping her training on her that she hadn’t thought about Freddie at all. She winced. ‘I’m sure I did.’
‘You agree with Saunders then?’ Freddie shifted in her seat so she was facing her accusingly, all bare legs and arms.
What had Saunders said? ‘Of course not,’ she said, flustered.
‘Well, you don’t sound thrilled about it. Only Green’s said anything nice.’ Freddie was developing a sulk.
Despite her bolshie attitude, Freddie’s ego was fairly fragile. She’d worked hard since she’d started with the team, harder than Nasreen had thought she would, if she was honest. And she’d turned up some pretty good results: making the link between the Spice Road and Paul Robertson was impressive. She deserved this accolade.
‘I’m happy for you,’ Nasreen said. And she was. Wasn’t she? She just had this irrational jealousy that somehow Burgone thought Freddie was a stronger asset to the team than her. That he’d written her off because of what had happened in the past. She was acting crazy: she knew it. She had to shake off this stupid analysis of everything Burgone did and said. Otherwise it was going to sabotage her work.
She realised Freddie was staring at her. How long had she left her hanging?
‘Convincing,’ Freddie said drily.
‘Congratulations,’ Nasreen said.
‘Cheers,’ Freddie said sarcastically.
Well, that went well. The flat-fronted textile shops and redbrick office blocks of Whitechapel Road bordered them. The minaret-style sculpted silver tower at the side of the Brick Lane Mosque glinted sunlight across the windscreen. Nasreen cleared her throat. ‘Still looks the same round here.’ When she’d started at the Jubilee after her fast-track training, she’d hoped joining the flagship East End force would springboard her career. She would never have guessed it would catapult her straight to the top: to Special Ops. Perhaps it was too fast? Perhaps she should have stayed here. But then she’d never have met Burgone at all. And despite everything that it had cost her, that would have been worse.
‘They closed down The Grapes,’ Freddie said.
‘The station’s local? No. How do you know that?’ Had she missed a get-together with the old team? Had they frozen her out as well?
‘Night out a few months ago. Seeing uni mates.’ Freddie looked up from her phone. ‘We’re here.’
The Jubilee Station, the ageing 1970s jewel in the Tower Hamlets policing borough, loomed before them. All concrete and white-metal-framed windows.
‘It’s such a clusterfuck,’ Freddie said as Nasreen signalled and turned into the place it had all started.
She’d nearly blown it then. Practically told Nas she’d been back here, because she was focusing on Amber. She was just a normal kid. Did she know what her dad was up to? Did it matter? Paul Robertson was part of THM. The Rodriguez Brothers didn’t limit their empire to drugs, they were linked to people trafficking. After working through intelligence reports in the last few months, Freddie understood more about what these gangs did than she ever had before. Women and girls forced into the sex trade. Abuse. The territory wars. People were tortured, killed. She thought of those she knew in journalism, who insisted everything they owned or ate was fair trade, who boycotted Starbucks and Apple because they disagreed with their aggressive retail strategies, or because they used sweatshop workers to make their shiny products, but who had no problem shoving coke up their noses. Drugs were linked to abuse and death. She didn’t think she’d ever be able to smoke hash again.
On Amber’s Facebook she was beginning to see a pattern. ‘I think I’ve got something.’
Nas pulled into a space in the square concrete carpark out the back of the Jubilee Station and cut the engine. A wave of heat rolled over the car. ‘What is it?’
‘This Corey Banks guy appears, and then reappears. He’s all over her feed by the end. In December 2015 it states they’re in a relationship. She had a boyfriend.’
‘Maybe she still does. Find him and we might find her.’ Nas took the phone from her. Her face turned pale. ‘Oh God.’
‘What? What is it – do you recognise him?’
‘Yes. And his name’s not Corey Banks.’
‘Freddie Venton!’ A shout from outside made them both jump, as DCI Moast’s hand slammed onto the top of the car. Nas dropped her phone. ‘And Cudmore.’ He squatted down next to her open window, so his Lego head was on a level with hers. His leering face had lost none of its charm.
‘Sir,’ Nas said, scrabbling for the phone.
‘Just had a call to make my day,’ he said, grinning at Freddie. ‘I hear you’re going to be in my class this arvo.’