Chapter Seven Keep It Brief #2
Naomi tilted her head, amused. “You should try it. There’s more to life than the job, y’know.”
“I know.” Warren looked at her then. “I had that. Once.”
She held his gaze. “No, Warren. You kept doing the job. Even when the cover ended.” She squeezed his arm.
Gentle, brief, already halfway gone. “We both know you did. And we both know I never needed protecting me and you can’t stop looking for the ones that do.
” She turned then, umbrella up, heels tapping along wet tarmac as she disappeared into the rain.
Warren watched her go, knowing she had a point.
But he slipped into the MG as the sky opened properly. Fat, unrelenting rain hammering the windscreen, thankfully drowning out the noise in his head. He switched the wipers to high and sat for a second, engine humming low beneath him.
He still wasn’t sure what passed for normal in a town like Worthbridge on weekends.
Pub? Chippy? Maybe a windswept walk along the beach if the rain didn’t come in sideways.
But normal wasn’t a luxury he’d held onto in years.
So instead, he did what any decent embedded officer would do: he drove back to the tow and mapped the terrain.
Laid foundations. Checked on the identified soft spots.
He hit the high street first where nothing much was happening.
The usual pensioners queued outside Greggs, teenagers loitered near the arcade hoping something exciting might fall out of it.
Then a few streets over, he found a gym.
A no frills, scuffed mats, sweat-stained benches place with a hand-written whiteboard behind reception listing emergency services leaderboards: push-ups, squats, deadlifts.
A veteran discount pinned to the corkboard.
A place for people who used their bodies for work, not aesthetics.
Perfect for him.
Both physically and for the job.
He signed up. Scanned in. Got changed.
Thirty minutes later, he was in the free weights section, chalk dust on his palms and sweat bleeding through his T-shirt. The white bloke next to him was tall, broad, and covered in tattoos looking as though they came with stories. He curled heavy and made it look like warm-up.
They nodded a silent gym-greeting.
Turned out, his name was Reece. Fire service. Warren figured it was dumb luck at first. Then the dots started lining up.
“Stationed local?” Warren asked between sets, wiping down a barbell.
“Yeah,” Reece said. “Worthbridge. Red Watch.”
“Long time in?”
“Ten years next March.” He grinned, pride sneaking in under the sweat. “Still not bored of it.”
They fell into rhythm with no need to speak.
Spotting, counting reps, swapping the occasional bit of praise between sets.
A gym-floor camaraderie coming easy enough when they clearly both knew their limits and respected them.
Then, as Reece racked the bar again and reached for his towel, Warren steered the conversation.
“Heard about the fire at the school.”
Reece exhaled, deep and tired. “Yeah. That one’ll stay with me.”
“You there?”
“First crew in. Pulled a teacher and a kid out.” He dragged the towel across the back of his neck. “Science block, third floor. Place was caving by the time we got to ‘em.”
Warren gave it a beat, casual. “The teacher. Ellison, right?”
Reece nodded. “Jude. Yeah. You know him?”
“Starting to. I’m the new PE teacher.”
“Ah.” Reece grinned. “Good. That place needed someone who actually gave a shit about sport. Last bloke looked allergic to sweat.”
Warren smirked, thinking of Stanmore and his secret stash of pastries. “What’s he like? Jude. You know him well?”
Reece shrugged one shoulder. “Nice guy. Quiet. Bit intense. Not local, I don’t think.” Then he met Warren’s eye with a flash of something playful. “I know most the original Worthbridge gays.” He winked.
Warren felt that like a jolt to the sternum. “Right. Yeah. I figured.”
“You interested?” Reece asked bluntly, giving him a once-over, more appraisal than judgment.
Warren gave a soft, practiced laugh. “He’s a colleague.”
“Colleagues fuck, mate. That’s how I met my man.”
Warren raised a brow. “Oh yeah? You’re… with another firefighter?”
“Paramedic.” Reece switched out for a heavier set of weights, then moved straight into bicep curls without missing a beat. “But if you want to know more about Ellison…” He nodded towards the mirrored wall, directing Warren’s attention to the treadmills behind them.
Warren followed the line of sight to a runner.
Lean build, fast pace, dark hair and neat beard, jaw set as if running from something only he could see.
Freddie Webb. Warren recognised him from the staff training day, and from his name popping up in the Radley case files at multiple intersections.
Arresting officer of Alfie Carter. First on scene at the warehouse fire last term.
Local. Known. Respected. Warren had noticed his easy rapport with Jude at the training day.
“So…” He turned back to Reece. “He and Ellison…?”
Reece nodded, mid-rep. “Had a thing. Didn’t last long. Rebound for Webb. Then Webb’s one-that-got-away walked back into his life, and now he and Carter are house-hunting and planning dog ownership like they’re reinventing love.”
“Carter?”
“Nathan Carter. Owns Carter Cars. Big bloke. Used to be army. Now a mechanic. Give you a discount on your next service.”
“Son called Alfie?”
“That’s the one. Kid Ellison stayed behind to save during the school fire.”
Warren adjusted his grip on the bar. “Sounds like a hero.”
“Yeah.” Reece finished his set. “Is in my book.”
Warren stayed for another few rounds, keeping the chat casual before giving Reece a quick nod and a fist bumped, then meandering towards the treadmills. He stepped up onto the one beside Freddie. Matched his pace. Didn’t crowd.
Freddie noticed him within a few strides, and he flipped out an earbud to offer a nod. “New PE teacher, right?”
Warren upped the gradient, eased into a jog. “Yeah. Warren. Or Mr Bailey if you need the official.”
“Alfie says you’re alright,” Freddie said, breath catching with exertion. “Apparently, you’ve got him enjoying football again. That’s not nothing.”
“Alfie? Your stepson?”
Freddie let out a short laugh. “Not officially. But for ease, yeah. I’m with his dad.” He glanced sideways. “How come you’re not using the school gym?”
“You think I want to work out in a place crawling with parents and over-friendly PTA types?”
Freddie chuckled. “Fair point.”
Warren kept pace, matching Freddie stride for stride.
He wasn’t trying to outrun him or show off but let the rhythm settle between them.
Freddie was a solid runner. Had to be, working front-line policing.
In another context, Warren might’ve said something.
Given a hint that he was police too. Traded war stories. Freddie would’ve had to call him Sarge.
But this wasn’t that time.
So he ran. Waited.
Then went straight for the jugular.
“Heard you and Jude Ellison used to be a thing.”
Freddie shot him a glance. “For about five minutes.”
Warren nodded like that tracked. “What’s he like outside the classroom?”
That made Freddie pause.
He tapped the treadmill screen, brought the speed down to a walk, then stepped off entirely. He flipped his towel over his shoulders, sweat gleaming from his brow, then dried his face, eyes lingering on Warren a second too long for him to feel the weight of it.
“Why’re you asking?”
It was instinct. That subtle shift in tone.
The tilt of the head, the narrowing of focus.
A copper’s radar kicking in. Warren had seen it a hundred times.
Used it himself. It was the look of someone scanning for motive without needing a reason yet.
Warren didn’t break stride, though. Didn’t look over.
He ran. Because the first rule of UC work was ironclad: No one local gets the truth.
Not the fire crews. Not the community coppers.
Not even the ones who looked trustworthy on paper and made his gut say maybe.
Because it only took one slip. One badly timed word.
One whisper in the wrong pub. One burner phone with his name on it tucked into someone else’s pocket.
And in a place like Worthbridge, where grief hung in old reports and the Radley name still echoed down alleyways and courthouse steps, slips could get him burned. Or buried.
So Warren thought fast.
He glanced across the gym floor where Reece was lifting, eyes on his form in the mirror.
Until a blond bloke snuck up behind him, wrapped him in a backwards hug and licked his neck.
That had to be the paramedic. Their relationship wasn’t subtle.
No interest in hiding how gone they were for each other.
Especially when Reece laughed, let the weights thud to the floor, and turned to scoop the bloke clean off his feet.
Warren watched. Took in the moment. Used it.
Still looking that way, he said, “I like him.”
Freddie’s posture shifted. Curiosity gave way to guardedness. Copper instinct replaced by something quieter. Personal.
“He’s a good bloke,” Freddie said, voice calm but edged. “Deserves someone who sees that and isn’t just looking for a quick fuck.”
Warren kept running, letting the silence hang for an open door.
Freddie folded his towel in half. “He doesn’t do casual. Doesn’t fall into bed because someone flashes a look and a nice smile. He’s cautious. And that comes from somewhere.” He glanced at Warren. “Wherever that reason is—it’s his. Not yours to dig into. Not through his friends. Not through me.”
Warren kept running.
Freddie held his stare. “If you’re after a quick fuck, go to the Lighthouse.
Plenty there who’ll climb you like a tree.
You want something real? Then Jude’s one of the good ones.
So take your time. Earn it. But if this is some fishing expedition, or a game, walk away.
I mean it.” He grabbed his water bottle.
“Because I’m police. And more than that?
I look out for the people I care about. And I don’t let them get fucked over. Not anymore.”
A beat.
Warren nodded once. “Fair enough.”
“Good.”
Freddie slung the towel over his shoulder and walked off, leaving Warren with a truth he couldn’t shake. That hadn’t sounded like a threat. It sounded like a line in the sand.
And Warren had to decide what side of that line he was on.
So he ran some more. Let the pounding feet and sweat drag his thoughts into order.
Then he hit the showers, left the gym, and climbed into his car.
He drove along the length of the seafront.
Past empty benches, shuttered cafés, and the lingering scent of wet salt and chip oil.
Rain had thinned out the tourists. Just a few die-hard joggers braved the pavement in damp neon, heads down, earbuds in, running as if the weather couldn’t touch them.
Under the skate park canopy, a group of teenagers loitered.
Five of them. Four lads and one girl. Hoods up.
Weed smoke curling even through the drizzle.
Warren slowed, watched. Movement. Eye contact.
Hierarchy. One kid flicked a cigarette into a puddle.
Another leaned in, rolling something tighter.
But they weren’t working. They were local.
Bored. Stoned. Killing time before curfew.
Warren rolled on.
Two pubs were lit along the high street.
Both had police posted outside. Uniformed, visible, already dealing with Saturday night fallout.
Warren let them handle it. Swung through the drive-thru Costa instead.
Grabbed a toasted sandwich and a coffee, half out of habit, half for something to do with his hands.
Then without fully meaning to, he ended up back on Jude’s street.
Parked three cars down.
And he sat watching the soft glow of house lights through half-drawn curtains. He ate the sandwich one-handed, logged the time Jude’s living room light switched on, what window glowed next, how still the place seemed.
Because for a man who’d been a walking question mark since Warren first opened his file… Jude Ellison didn’t seem to do much of anything on a Saturday night.
Just silence.
Stillness.
And shadows behind glass.