Page 1 of Worth the Wait
Chapter One
Clear and Present Danger
Worthbridge always looked prettier from a distance.
Up close, the cracks showed. Empty shopfronts. Kids with their hoods up and nowhere to be. The wrong vans pulling into the wrong lockups at the wrong time of night. And PC Freddie Webb had spent the last six months watching it get worse.
Taking a reluctant sip from his battered travel mug, he grimaced. “Jesus, that’s vile.” He screwed the lid on tight. Not that he was trying to preserve it, more contain the damage. It tasted like tar scraped off his boots after a rainy shift. “You trying to off me, Becks?”
Behind the wheel, PC Becca Lambert smirked. “Brewing anything drinkable with that urn’s like raising the Titanic with a teaspoon. Be grateful you’re still alive.”
“Pretty sure that kettle predates the Bronze Age.”
“Like Tony in Custody.”
“The one with the pager?”
“Vintage chic, mate.”
Freddie snorted and slouched lower in his seat. The patrol car hummed along Worthbridge’s narrow back lanes, tyres whispering over damp tarmac. The Sunday morning shift always brought a peculiar hush. Not quite peace, not quite quiet. It was the town catching its breath after a long Saturday night. This morning was no exception. The April sky hung low and sulking, a thick blanket of cloud turning the sea into a sheet of dull metal. April showers were getting ready to wash the town away while the gulls shrieked overhead, wheeling in lazy circles as if they had grievances to air. They shouldn’t. They’d already hoovered up the scraps from Saturday night’s takeaway benders.
The air smelt like brine, damp concrete and leftover chips.
And…home.
Yeah. It smelt likehome.
Because for Freddie, this scruffy little Essex seaside townwashome. The place that raised him, roughed him up, and, at least once, nearly choked the life out of him.Literally.
Stretching out his legs, he relished the lull. Mornings like this were rare. No drama yet. No one screaming down the phone about stolen bikes or domestics. Not even any drunken lads spoiling for a fight. The shops were only just stirring, shutters rattling up like yawns, and the pubs hadn’t rubbed their eyes open yet.
For a moment, it was the sea, wind, and the quiet hum of the car.
“How’s it going with the history teacher?” And Becca’s too personal questions.
That was the thing about sharing shifts with Becca. She came armed with shit tasting caffeine, boatloads of sarcasm, and an endless supply of personal questions.Prying ones. Ones that made him want to crank the window down and roll himself out onto the A-road.
Scrubbing a hand over his face, Freddie tipped his head back with a groan. To buy time, he took another sip of the coffee, immediately regretted it, then leant out the open window to spit it out onto the tarmac.
“Oi!” Becca barked, eyes still on the road but tone filled with mock outrage. “That’s a criminal offense!”
Freddie fastened the lid shut on his travel mug. “The gulls’ll clean it up before you even dig out your ticket pad.”
She snorted. “Did you spit on the history teacher, too?”
He shifted in his seat, suddenly fascinated by the scuffed trim on the dash.
“Swallowed?”
He side-eyed her. “Christ, Becca. I know I ain’t your superior by rank, but can we roll with the pecking order, anyway?”
“You don’t like him then.”
“I do. He’s…sweet.”
“Knew it.” She grinned, triumphant. “Youdon’tlike him.”
“Idolike him,” Freddie said, far too quickly for Becca not to pick up the subtext. “I said he’s sweet.”
