Chapter Twenty-One Conflict of Interest
Chapter twenty-one
Conflict of Interest
Freddie had no idea what time it was when he finally blinked awake, and his chest flooded with that familiar, stomach-clenching panic.
Shit. Had he slept straight through? Missed roll call? Lost his job?
He flailed, smacking the bedside table. He hit his phone. Wait, when the hell did that get there? The screen lit up with a string of messages and missed calls. One that made his heart stutter. Cause it had the contact as, N8 (football emoji).
His smile spread before he could stop it, wide and unfiltered, and he grabbed the phone to sit up against the headboard, raking a hand through his sleep-ruined hair. At least he hadn’t slept through to the next night. A glance at the clock confirmed it. Three oh-seven p.m .
And as such, had a text from Piper, too.
I’m late, they’re gonna fucking bollock me! Why didn’t you answer?!
He smirked and fired back,
Coz I passed out after getting utterly railed by the hottest and biggest top in Worthbridge.
Her reply was instant.
Disgusting .
Freddie chuckled, then hovered his thumb for a second before tapping open Nathan’s message.
You still look cute when you sleep. Call you later x
Freddie groaned, flopping back onto the pillows, unable to stop the ridiculous grin stretched across his face.
Fuck. Fuck, and more fuck.
He was screwed . Completely, totally fucked.
Because he was in love with Nathan Carter.
Again .
Hopelessly. Stupidly. All-consuming, fifteen-years-too-late in love.
And yet, life had the nerve to go on. The world didn’t stop because Freddie wanted to lie in bed all day, roll around in the scent Nathan had left behind on the sheets, and grin like a lovesick teenager. Didn’t anyone realise he’d waited fucking years to get shagged by Nathan Carter?
But he forced himself upright, peeling the covers off with a groan and rolling out of bed like a man thirty years older than he was. His thighs ached. His lower back twinged in ways that felt both humiliating and very satisfying. And his arse? Well, that didn’t need mentioning.
“Jesus, Carter.” He staggered to the bathroom, massaging his buttocks. “Could’ve at least left a warning label. ”
In the bathroom, he glimpsed himself in the mirror.
Hair like a bird’s nest. A fading red mark on his collarbone.
Eyes soft in a way that felt too private for daylight.
He brushed his teeth, showered off, and tried to piece himself back together bit by bit.
It was nearly time to get back into uniform.
Back into Freddie-the-constable. The man who answered calls, broke up fights, filled out forms. Not the one who’d fallen asleep wrapped around the man he used to dream about and who he’d taken to his superiors, cuffed and cautioned yesterday.
Yeah. That was a mess.
By six, Freddie was in the gym. A windowless, echoey room tucked at the back of the industrial estate where the air smelt of rubber mats, metal, and tired ambition.
It was the usual pre-shift crowd. Mostly night shift emergency services shaking off the day, stretching out sore backs, burning stress before the chaos rolled in.
Reece was on the free weights, muscle vest damp with sweat, headphones in, but he gave Freddie a chin-lift of acknowledgment between reps. Freddie headed for the treadmills and started a slow jog when someone dropped into the machine beside him, slapping the start button.
“Alright, Freddie?” Trent, the paramedic, stepped onto the treadmill beside him, tapping in the incline.
Freddie knew that look. “Tough shift?”
“Yeah. Stabbing. It’s getting worse round here.”
“Jesus. Yeah. I know.” Didn’t he just?
“Looking forward to my four days off.” He glanced at Freddie, adjusting his pace without breaking stride, blond curls bouncing with each step, and he cocked his head. “You look…happy?”
Freddie let out a breathless chuckle, already feeling the burn in his legs. And his arse. “That obvious? ”
“It’s part of the gaydar. We can also tell when one of our own is in love.” Trent raised an eyebrow, all faux-innocence and knowing smirk. “So…you and Jude, then?”
Freddie winced. “Ah. No. That didn’t work out.”
Trent glanced towards the weights section, where Reece was dead lifting as if the world owed him applause, his full sleeve tattoo on display, a bold sweep of black and grey ink twisting over muscle, sharp lines and shadowed shapes barely contained by his vest. Trent cocked his head, not even trying to be subtle. “Right. So… back with him , then?”
Freddie followed his line of sight. “No. No, no, and, for clarity, nope .”
Trent didn’t respond right away, so Freddie felt the need to explain.
“You know it was just sex with me and Reece, right?”
Trent’s answer was quick, cool. “Couldn’t care less.”
Freddie snorted. As if.
But Trent kept running, gaze trailing over to Reece when he thought no one was watching, and they ran in companionable silence for a while, the thrum of feet and low grunts from the weights corner forming a rhythm all their own.
By seven, Freddie was back in uniform. Back at the station.
But something felt off. The briefing in the muster room was routine on the surface.
Intel passed down from day shift, notes on a rise in catalytic converter thefts around the estate, and a warning about a volatile domestic on Drake Street that had already triggered two call outs this week.
Freddie kept his expression neutral, logged the call signs, and collected his usual beat paperwork.
Becca barely looked at him. That should have been his first clue.
By eight, Freddie was out on foot. He’d been in the car the last three shifts, but Carrick had reassigned him to high-vis foot patrol. Friday night forecast: drink, drama, and a lot of bad decisions. The usual.
He was halfway through checking on a lock-up behind the Co-op when his radio crackled. “PC Webb, return to base. DI March requests your presence. Now.”
Freddie’s stomach dropped like lead, but he clicked the radio. “Received.”
DI March. Professional standards.
Fuck .
The cold didn’t touch him on the walk back to the station. He felt little of anything. Only the acute awareness of every step echoing a little louder than it should. Every beat of his pulse a little too fast. He knew what was coming and he should have expected it.
Becca .
She was a probationer. Senior officers and Professional Standards must have cornered her.
She’d have been under pressure to recount what happened at the raid and since.
He knew what that looked like. He’d done it himself.
Still, knowing didn’t stop the knot tightening in his gut as he approached the station doors.
Didn’t stop the bitter sting of betrayal tucked beneath the understanding.
Inside the front desk area, he nodded at the civilian staff on duty. Tried to keep his face unreadable. Tried not to look as if he was a man walking into a trap he’d set for himself.
Sergeant Lawson met him in the corridor outside the briefing room. She didn’t smile. “DI March is waiting in Interview Room Two. Leave your radio and locker key with me. No PNB, no kit.” She held out her hand. “You won’t be needing them right now.”
Freddie unclipped his radio, handed over the keys, and followed the corridor down to the internal interview rooms where Interview Room Two was already open.
DI March was seated inside, a closed folder in front of her.
DI Carrick and DS Bowen flanked her, both in plainclothes but every inch the chain of command.
Freddie stood in the doorway long enough for March to glance up.
“Take a seat, PC Webb.” She gestured to the chair in front of her. “We have some things we need to discuss.”
Freddie entered the room and took the seat opposite them.
March opened the folder in front of her. “We’ve reviewed your conduct during the execution of the operation echelon warrant. Several concerns have been raised.”
Carrick folded his arms. “Specifically, that you knowingly failed to declare a personal connection to Mr Nathan Carter, who was present during the operation and is the father of one of the juveniles involved, whom you previously arrested and interviewed under caution.”
“I didn’t know Alfie Carter was his son until I walked into that room.”
March looked up from behind her laptop. “But you know Nathan Carter?”
“Yes, ma’am. We grew up together. But we lost contact when he enlisted. I hadn’t seen or spoken to him in over fifteen years. Not until I walked into the interview room that day.”
“Why didn’t you declare it then?”
Freddie dropped his gaze. “I… was in shock. Like I said, I hadn’t seen him in years. We…our friendship ended badly and…”
Christ, it sounded worse out loud.
Fifteen years or not, the personal connection was there, and he’d said nothing.
Not at the scene, not in his statement. Any decent solicitor would have a field day with that.
Bias. Influence. Improper conduct. He might as well have gift-wrapped the defence an argument to throw the entire case out.
It didn’t matter that he hadn’t meant to cause harm.
That he hadn’t touched the paperwork or pushed the process. In policing, perception was everything.
And right now, it looked like he’d bent the rules for an old flame.
He closed his eyes for a breath, jaw tight. You should’ve declared it the second you recognised his voice, you idiot.
“But you were aware there was a conflict of interest?” Marsh arched a brow.
Freddie’s throat tightened. “I didn’t process it as a conflict at the time. I was focused on the child. On Alfie. Once I realised who Nathan was, I should’ve flagged it. That’s on me.”
March tapped a few keys. “Under Regulation 9 of the Code of Ethics, you have a duty to act with transparency and declare any potential conflicts, perceived or actual. Even if contact was historic.”
Freddie nodded. “Yes, Ma’am.”