Page 122 of Worth the Wait
“Seriously, though. Didn’t get to ask earlier. The shift? All okay?”
“Dull as dishwater.”
Nathan kissed him. “Good. I hope it stays dull.”
Freddie searched his face. The subtle tension in his brow, and the quiet press of worry behind his eyes. Hisdon’t-go-getting-hurt-on-my-watchface. So Freddie brought it up again for what felt like the hundredth time.
“You thought any more about what we talked about?”
Nathan tilted his head. “You mean me joining the force?”
“Yeah.” Freddie nodded toward the window, where the gold Range Rover disappeared down the road. “Reckon that’d rattle Radley.”
“As much as I’d love to help you lot kick in his doors and drag him out by the teeth… Alfie’s the priority right now. The garage keeps me close. Keeps my eyes on him.”
Freddie nodded, respect simmering under the disappointment. “Yeah. Fair.”
Since Alfie had given his statement, things had moved fast. With his testimony and the physical evidence recovered from the house, the case had finally cometogether. Arrests were made up and down the county. Runners, enforcers, low-level organisers whose names had hung over Worthbridge like a storm cloud for years. Now they were sitting behind bars, awaiting trial.
The CPS confirmed charges. Case files stacked thick enough to choke a solicitor. The trial date was set for winter.
But Graham Radley?
Still clean.
Still untouchable.
His name didn’t appear once in the formal charges. No direct evidence. No paper trail. Just silence, polished shoes, and a thousand layers of plausible deniability. Oh, and a nice donation to the charitable arm of the Worthbridge Police Force as a public thank you for keeping the streets clean.
The irony choked Freddie.
Because he, when he’d been stuck on desk duty pending the outcome of the Professional Standards review, had to watch it all unfold from the sidelines. Reports, interview transcripts, case logs passing through his hands like paper ghosts of the job he wasn’t allowed to do.
And yet… there was relief. Alfie was safe. The streets were cleaner. The town, for the first time in years, felt as if it could breathe. And Worthbridge had a chance to start over. But Freddie had been in this job long enough to know better.
Someone would fill the gap. Someone always did.
And as long as Radley was still out there—smiling for cameras, funding playgrounds, hosting charity brunches—the rot wasn’t gone. It had just gone quiet.
For now.
But everyone knows what comes after the quiet.
“Oh, fuck,” Freddie said out of the corner of his mouth as the curtains at the back of the makeshift stage rustled theatrically. “Sorta glad you’ve already met my mum. Cause you’d dump me in heartbeat otherwise. Utter fruitloop.”
“Apple don’t fall far.”
“Your dad’s an arsehole.”
Nathan chuckled.
Dressed head to toe in supermarket clairvoyant chic, in a deep purple velvet shawl with stars embroidered in gold thread, layered necklaces with chunky stones clicking together, and a sweeping black maxi dress, Colette Webb made her grand entrance. Freddie groaned. She looked as though she was about to read someone’s aura or curse an ex. All that was missing was a crystal ball. Or maybe a fog machine.
“Jesus Christ.” Freddie drank more of his pint to dull the pain.
Colette scanned the room as if she was about to read every soul in it, then spotting Freddie, she stepped down from the stage and made her way over.
“Mum,” Freddie greeted. “Take it you had a good time on the Isle of Wight?”
