Chapter One Clear and Present Danger #2
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 bloody forms 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. Talk to 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. There when something kicks off. When someone needs you. It feels real.”
“And personal.”
Yeah. It was.
Really fucking personal. This was his town.
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.
The dread . 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.”
He grabbed the radio mic. “Delta Two One—received. Show us en route.”
Becca swung the Astra around at the next junction, tyres crunching over loose gravel as she switched on the blues. The flashing lights tore through the sea mist, scattering a few lingering gulls.
“Better not be some kid pissing about with a scooter.” Becca tutted, already scanning the grey sprawl of the promenade.
Freddie stayed quiet.
Because his gut, the one that hadn’t let him down yet, said this wasn’t just a fight.
Not today.
Not with Radley’s shadows creeping closer to the kids who couldn’t defend themselves. And if he was right? Then whoever was about to get their name written up in Freddie’s notebook wasn’t only a teenage thug looking to score points.
They were a spark.
And the whole bloody town was soaked in petrol.
The skatepark hunched at the edge of the promenade like a broken tooth.
Concrete bowls tagged with graffiti, bins overflowing, the air heavy with stale weed.
Becca swung the car in hard, tyres squealing a warning.
Freddie was out before it stopped fully, boots slamming onto cracked tarmac, scanning.
Movement. Voices. The distinct edge of a scuffle behind the far ramp.
He sprinted towards it, Becca on his heels .
Two lads legged it across the grass. Skinny, fast, and gone before Freddie could even get a shout out. Another kid remained on the ground, hands up over his head, trying to shield himself from the blows raining down from a feral teenager above him.
“Oi!” Freddie shouted, closing the gap.
The aggressor looked up, then ran .
Down the far side of the bowl, up the concrete bank, slipping on wet grit, and tearing off across the park in a jagged sprint.
Freddie launched after him.
“Whitmore foot chase,” he shouted into his radio. “Male, mid-teens, grey hoodie, black joggers. Heading east, towards the seawall.”
The wind tore past his ears as he pounded after the boy, closing the gap with every stride. The kid was fast, no question, but running scared, making mistakes. Cutting across open ground. Glancing back.
Freddie saw his moment.
He lunged forward, arms out, and tackled him. They both hit the ground in a tangle of limbs and grit. The teen squirmed, kicked, thrashed like a cornered animal, but Freddie rolled with it, locked a forearm across his chest, got a knee into the small of his back.
“Stay down!” he barked.
The kid wriggled, shoving back hard, until he saw the uniform over his shoulder.
“Calm down. Now!” Freddie gripped the kid’s arm while pulling a set of cuffs free. “What’s your name?”
The boy didn’t answer.
“I said, name!”
The lad’s eyes snapped towards him. “They started it!”
“Started what?”
No answer except for a spit on the gravel .
Freddie hauled him up to his feet. “You have anything on you? Knife, blade, anything I need to be aware of?”
Knife incidents had crept up in towns like Worthbridge.
They weren’t only city problems anymore.
Gangs didn’t care if a place had bunting and ice cream vans in summer.
They saw bored kids, no prospects, no one watching.
Then moved in. Targeted the vulnerable. Offered cash and power in exchange for loyalty and silence.
And it worked.
Small towns were ripe for the picking.
Freddie had seen it too many times. How fast a schoolyard punch-up could turn into something you didn’t walk away from.
The boy stiffened, eyes darting sideways, then looked back at Freddie with a mix of fury and panic.
“They were—” He stopped. “Forget it.”
Freddie’s instincts buzzed. That wasn’t nothing.
And it sure as hell wasn’t over.
“You’re being detained under Section Five of the Public Order Act. Disturbing the peace and suspected assault. You don’t have to say anything, but it may harm your defence…”
Freddie delivered the caution. Words he’d said a hundred times before. To youths as young as, if not younger than, the one in front of him. But as he spoke, he watched the boy’s face change. Not in fear. Not in guilt. But… harden. As if he’d slipped a mask on.
Then Freddie caught his eyes.
Angry. Rabid. Almost feral.
But blue. Deep and startling, a bright clash with the shadow of his dark hair, damp and curling beneath the edge of his hoodie. Freddie jolted. He’d seen eyes like those before. And it twisted in his memory bank like a faulty bulb refusing to switch fully on. He shoved it down to do his job.
Before walking him back to the car, Freddie gave the standard instruction. “I’m going to search you now under Section One of PACE. Anything sharp I need to know about?”
The boy said nothing.
So he patted the kid down, checking pockets, waistband, shoes. Nothing. No weapons, no phone, no sign of drugs. Just a skate tool and a scrap of paper with a half-smudged number on it.
He shoved it all into a clear evidence bag, more for process than concern.
Then, as they made their way to the car, the kid muttered under his breath, “Should’ve let me finish it. Would’ve done you a fucking favour.”
Freddie glanced sideways but didn’t bite. “Yeah? How so?”
Kid clammed up again. Probably wise.
Becca joined them, wiping her hands on a tissue. “Other kid’s banged up but conscious. Says he doesn’t want to press charges.”
“Doesn’t mean we don’t log it,” Freddie said. “Get his name?”
“Yeah. He’s known to us. Low-level stuff. Shoplifting, pushing boundaries, usual teenage crap. The two that fled are the interesting ones.” Becca returned to Freddie’s side. “This one, though,” she tilted her head towards the cuffed teen, “new face.”
The kid glared at her.
“Proper lost his rag. Other kid reckons he flipped.”
Freddie tightened his grip on the lad’s arm. “You might have picked a fight with the wrong people. ”
“Couldn’t give a fuck who they are!” the lad shouted over his shoulder.
Across the park, the other teen held up two fingers to his mouth, waggling his tongue between them. Real mature.
Freddie felt the tension roll through the cuffed boy and prepared for him to launch a counterattack. “Oi. That’s not gonna help anyone.”
He opened the back door and guided the lad into the car. The kid didn’t resist, but he vibrated with fury. Shoulders tight, breath shallow. Controlled chaos. The usual shit. Freddie slid into the driver’s seat, adjusted the mirror, and watched him through it.
“You gonna tell me your name?”
Nothing.
Freddie turned halfway, resting one arm on the seat. “Right. Listen. If you’re under eighteen and you refuse to ID yourself, we’ll have to bring in Social and a responsible adult to sit with you at the station. And until we know who you are, we can’t let you go. That’s the law.”
Lad clearly thought he could stare his way out of this.
“I’ve got all day, mate.” Freddie widened his eyes. “You?”
Still nothing.
Freddie clucked his tongue, turning back to face the road.
The kid didn’t look scared. He looked braced.
As if whatever was waiting for him at the end of this was worse than anything he or the station could offer.
That was the part that got to Freddie. The silence screaming louder than any teenage bollocking.
He knew that look. Had seen it too many times before in kids dragged in from rough homes, from estates run by gangs, from families where trust was a foreign language.
But something about the shape of the lad’s jaw, the stubborn tilt of his chin…it snagged on Freddie’s memory .
“Control’ll love us bringing in a no-name on a Sunday.” Becca got back into the passenger side.
Freddie drove.
Something told him this wouldn’t be another quick tick-box caution and release.
Because despite Becca’s best efforts to build a rapport with the lad on their way to the station, he remained mute.
So when they arrived, Freddie guided him out of the car, through the secure doors, nodding to the sergeant behind the desk.
Becca followed, filling in the details on the tablet, already ticking boxes and logging the time of arrival.
“Male, mid-to-late teens,” she said. “Brought in under Section five, suspected common assault and disturbing the peace. No ID given.”
Mick, the custody sergeant built like a wardrobe with the patience of a saint, arched a brow. “No name, huh?”
“He’s not talking.” Freddie stepped back.
Mick leant on the counter. “Alright, son. One last chance. What’s your name?”
The boy stared dead ahead. Not angry. Blank. Silent.
Mick sighed and gestured to the back. “Cell Two. He’s under eighteen by the look of him, so I’ll get Youth Services in. Can one of you pull a photo from school records or Missing Persons, see if we can get an ID?”
Becca nodded, already scrolling through the tablet.
Freddie lingered for a second, a tug at the back of his mind not letting him move on. But eventually, he turned and headed back out into the corridor. Statements needed taking. Paperwork needed drowning in.
Which he did for the next hour and was halfway through writing up the incident report when the door creaked open, and DS Bowen stuck her head in .
“Webb. Interview room two. We’ve ID’d the lad from this morning. Minor. His appropriate adult’s arrived. You were the arresting officer, so I want you in there.”
Freddie rubbed his eyes, groaning inwardly. “Alright. Gimme a sec to log off.” He closed the report mid-sentence and stood, stretching the knot out of his shoulders. “Is he talking yet?”
Bowen shook her head. “Not a peep. Maybe having you in there’ll jog something loose. Name’s Alfie Carter.”
Freddie froze. The name snagged in his brain like a thorn catching in cloth.
“Alfie Carter?”
The words echoed, meaningless at first. Until something clicked. A long-forgotten connection tugging at the edges of memory. It made little sense. Couldn’t be. But the feeling had already settled deep in his gut, crawling under his skin.
He followed Bowen down the corridor, the world narrowing to the tunnel of strip lights and the hollow hum of the station. The distant voices faded. Even his own breath felt far away.
They approached Interview Room Two, and Bowen reached for the door. But before they went in, Freddie peered in through the reinforced glass.
Fuck.
There was no other word for it, and it slammed through his skull with the force of a dropped weight.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
His heart kicked hard, each beat thudding out those curse words in synch. Because sitting in that room, to the left of the boy he’d arrested, was Nathan Carter.
Freddie hadn’t seen him in over a decade. Fifteen years, give or take, since everything had collapsed. Since promises had cracked beneath the pressure of real life, fear, and timing that was never quite right. And yet, in one glance, it was as if no time had passed at all.
Nathan’s lighter hair was cropped shorter now, almost a buzz cut.
Or growing out of one. His shoulders broader.
Still built as though he carried the weight of everyone else before his own.
That same posture. Tight. Guarded. Composed.
He hadn’t changed. But there was a shift now.
A break in the armour. And as he sat hunched, bouncing one leg beneath the table, hands clenched in his lap, he looked worried.
No, scared .
The crack in Freddie’s chest, the one he’d papered over with work and quick fucks, split wide open as if it hadn’t ever healed.
Bowen paused at the threshold, nudging the door with her shoulder. “You coming in?”
Freddie didn’t move at first. Couldn’t. His body felt like stone, held together by instinct and uniform alone. For a second, he wasn’t a copper. Wasn’t anything. Just a man standing outside a room that had cracked open a past he wasn’t ready to face.
Then Nathan looked up.
Fifteen years of silence shattered in that glance. And the breath Freddie had been holding slipped quietly from his lungs.