Page 3 of Worth the Wait
But Freddie had spent too long chasing ghosts to be dazzled by high-gloss charity work. The real Radley estate wasn’t made of bricks and ribbon-cuttings. It was made of silence.
The East Docks moved at night. Vans in by five, out by six. No names. No cargo manifests. No CCTV that couldn’t be explained away. Cash passed in corners. Girls from the estate disappearing for days, coming back quieter. Some didn’t come back at all. Drugs flooding the estates, but never in Radley hands. Always some teenage runner who “couldn’t say” where it came from.
And everyone was too bloody afraid to say the word out loud.
Trafficking.
Because saying it meant admitting it was real. That it wasn’t just happening in cities or headlines, but here, in Freddie’s hometown. In alleyways he used to ride past on his bike. Behind doors marked with Radley logos. In the silence between neighbours who knew better than to ask.
Becca had been there the night they pulled that girl from the van behind Whitmore garages, too. Seventeen, half-starved, wearing a men’s coat three sizes too big. She hadn’t said a word.
Radley’s name wasn’t on the van.
It never was.
“We’re running out of time,” Freddie said, more to himself than her.
Becca drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “Maybe. But Carrick wants more. Wants them caughtin the act.”
“Yeah, well, while we sit on our hands, more kids get chewed up and spat out.”
Becca didn’t argue. There was nothing to say.
Freddie stared out at the low tide, the black slick of sand glittering like oil under the gulls. He thought about his niece, Tilly. Six years old. Fairy wings, glitter pens, boundless trust in the world. It made his stomach twist to think of what could happen to kids like her if they didn’t move fast enough.
A beat passed. Then, quieter, Becca asked, “You ever thought about going for the detective pathway?”
“Thought about it. Loads of times.”
“You’d walk it. You’ve got the instincts, and the way you read people? That’s half the job already.”
He shrugged. “Maybe. But it’s not just about instincts, though, is it? It’s all politics. Exams. More desk time than I can stomach. Then there’s the paperwork. Endless bloodyforms and sitting in briefings where half the room couldn’t find their own arse with both hands.”
“You already sit in those. And I know you have no problem locating your arse, or anyone else’s, for that matter.”
“Ha fucking ha. But at least I get to chase down scrotes in the rain.Talkto people. Be on the ground. You go down the CID route, and suddenly you’re buried in case files and red tape.”
“You say that like you wouldn’t be bloody brilliant at it.”
Freddie was quiet for a moment. Then: “I don’t know. There’s something about being in uniform. Visible.Therewhen something kicks off. When someone needs you. It feels real.”
“And personal.”
Yeah. It was.
Really fucking personal. This washistown.
Freddie glanced back at the skatepark. The teens had moved on, but the image lingered. Young, stupid, vulnerable. All it took was one of them getting in too deep. One bad choice. One promise of easy money. And that was the part he never talked about with any of his casual flings. Certainly not history teacher Jude. The man he’d been dating for a few weeks, whose conversations with remained surface level and flirtations ended with a goodnight kiss. He wouldn’t understand. The not knowing. Thedread. The gut-deep fear of what might happen just out of reach. Or what could happen if he didn’t move fast enough.
“Quiet one today, though.” Becca tempted fate with that.
As if on cue, the radio crackled to life.
“Control to Delta Two One, report of a disturbance at the seafront skatepark. Multiple youths involved. Possible assault in progress.”
Freddie shot Becca a look.
She winced. “Yeah, I know, I jinxed it.”
