Follow Me by Angela Clarke Page A

dude?’
    ‘Sergeant Byrne will check you in.’
    They were stood inside the entrance hall of the station – it looked nothing like
Heartbeat
, the ancient cop show her mum was always re-watching. Scratched wooden-framed glass doors, which reminded Freddie of her old school maths classrooms, were at each end of the room. The geometric pattern of green shatterproof glass filled every available pane, blocking out all hope of natural light. Posters warning of car theft and pickpockets barely clung to the walls. Fluorescent strip lighting finished off the effect: everything had a cold blue tinge to it. It was as comforting as being inside an ice cube. Sergeant Byrne, a fat man in his fifties, leant against the desk like he couldn’t support his own weight.
    Booked in?
What was this?
    ‘Please empty all your pockets into the tray,’ the Duty Sergeant’s voice was heavy with contempt. Either that or he had a nasty sinus infection, Freddie thought.
    Nas stood wordless.
    The contents of Freddie’s hastily pulled on jeans pockets and jacket were documented and placed in individual plastic bags: ‘One iPhone, one wallet; contents: a Hackney library card, a Visa debit card, two Visa credit cards, one receipt from Vacate bar, fifty-seven pence in loose change. One set of keys. Two unopened banana-flavoured condoms.’
    ‘It’s easier to get into the airport than in here!’ Freddie said. No one laughed.
    The copper pulled a small white powdery triangle out of her pocket and held it up to her.
    ‘It’s a Smint,’ her eyes were too gritty to roll. ‘No one has time to do drugs.’
    He sniffed it. ‘One fluffy mint.’ The Sergeant dropped it into a bag and plunged his hand back into her jacket pocket.
    ‘You can chuck that if you want,’ Freddie nodded at the empty sanitary towel wrapper he pulled out. He dropped the wrapper into its own sealed plastic bag and placed it on top of her other belongings in the tray.
    ‘Remove the laces from your shoes.’ He took a sip from a vending machine plastic cup of coffee he had under the desk.
    Her synapses crackled, her neurotransmitters jump-started. ‘What? This is a fucking joke, right? I’m being punked?’
    ‘Mind your language.’ He spoke like her dad.
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    ‘Dude, these are DMs, it’ll take me half an hour.’
    ‘Now,’ he said. His small piggy eyes disappearing into the fat of his face.
    Freddie looked at Nasreen who was staring straight ahead. Her stomach settled into a hollow feeling of dread. What had Nas and that guy said to her when they picked her up from her flat? She flopped onto a plastic bench that was bolted to the ground.
100 Everyday Objects That Can Kill You.
    ‘There,’ she slapped the laces onto the counter. ‘I’ll never get them back the way they were. Happy?’
    ‘This way, Miss Venton.’ Nasreen pushed a button to release the interconnecting door.
    Miss Venton?
‘When can I have my phone back? I need to let my boss know I’ll be late.’ Freddie followed Nasreen’s silent back; her boots flapping round her ankles with each step. ‘Seriously, Nas, what the hell is going on? I’m sorry ’bout what I said earlier. About you sounding like your mum, and that.’ She limped behind Nas as they passed offices with blinds pulled down and closed blue-painted MDF doors. ‘I didn’t mean any harm. I was just doing my job.’
    Nasreen stopped and spun round, her nostrils flaring. Then she turned and set off again even faster.
    ‘This isn’t funny anymore,’ Freddie called after her as she wrenched her lace-less Dr Martens off and tucked them under her arm. Her feet, damp from sweat, left tiny prints on the mottled grey wipe-clean floor.
    Nasreen stopped and held open a door. ‘In here, Miss Venton.’
    Freddie peered into the room: a table, three chairs. An empty interview room. ‘How long is this going to take?’
    Nasreen closed the door on her. She went to get her phone from her pocket before