Page 6 of Worth the Wait
“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’tbe. 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.
