Pearce sat still for a few moments, his eyes flicking to the mirror, knowing full well Howell would be applauding that speech. What frustrated him most was the complete calm that Samuel Pope had maintained throughout.
The man was well trained.
‘I’m not looking for someone to blame, Pope. I’m looking for the man who is responsible.’
‘And I fit the bill, right?’
‘Well...’ Pearce began. ‘You have the necessary training. The necessary access. Your “personal reasons”. I’d say you wrote the damn bill, son.’
Sam stared at him blankly before also casting an eye at the mirror. ‘Can I go?’ he eventually asked.
‘Absolutely. I won’t stop you,’ Pearce said, lifting himself off his chair and motioning to the door. ‘Somewhere to be?’
‘Yeah, my job.’ Sam stood as Pearce approached. Pearce was an inch or two shorter than Sam, with a slowly forming gut that threatened to ruin a trim physique. ‘Maybe you should start doing yours, sir.’
‘I’ll be seeing you,’ Pearce uttered quietly as he extended a hand. ‘Soon’.
‘Can’t wait,’ Sam responded, ignoring the handshake and yanking open the door. The brightness of the corridor crashed in like a wave and Sam ventured out into the busy office. Pearce sat on the edge of the table, a smile slowly wrestling control of his face. A shadow loomed from the hallway as Howell stood, hands on hips.
‘Well, that was embarrassing.’
‘Did you know about him? About Pope?’ Pearce asked from his seated position.
‘I knew he was ex-army but just figured he was a little bit PTSD is all.’
‘Personal reasons?’ Pearce flicked his eyebrows up in a show of frustration.
‘Did you not read his full file?’ Howell asked with surprise.
‘I only had his army record and his police training file. HR wouldn’t let me have any more until it became more prominent.’
‘Well I can see why with him.’ Howell shook his head.
‘The PTSD?’ Pearce asked with interest, pulling his pad from his pocket.
‘It’s not my place to say,’ Howell responded sadly. ‘Mrs Devereux has pages on him.’
Pearce scribbled down the name and was sure it was riddled with spelling mistakes. Suddenly he could feel his instincts tingling; his gut, which had served him well on a number of cases, was telling him that there was more to Samuel Pope than he was seeing.
Howell let out a dejected sigh, shaking his head sadly as he turned to head back to his office.
‘Sir?’ Pearce asked, getting his attention.
‘What is it, Detective Pearce?’
‘Is there something I should know?’ Pearce stood, knowing he was treading on thin ice. The scowl that now greeted him told him it was close to breaking.
‘There are some things that people, even those who have done and seen what Samuel Pope has, just can’t come back from.’ Howell shook his head one last time, a combination of sadness and anger. ‘My advice, Detective Pearce. Leave that man alone.’
With that, Howell stomped out of the interview room and was swallowed by the brightness. Pearce slowly sat back down on the edge of the desk, circling the incorrectly spelt name that he hoped would provide him some answers. He turned slightly, lifting the manila envelope and thumbing through its contents. An exemplary military record along with top marks in his police training.
A man who was heavily trained in combat, both hand to hand and from devastating range. A man who was discharged after two close-range bullets were put through his chest.
A man whose marriage and life had evaporated in the last few years.
As always, his gut was telling him there was more to it, especially as those years corresponded with the recent attacks. The last thing the Metropolitan Police Department needed was a rogue vigilante, with more tactical nous than the entire armed response put together.
With a firm sigh, he packed up the folders and left the interview room, marching back through the office and a sea of sceptical eyes and muttered cursed words. Howell’s final words echoed in his mind.
‘Leave that man alone.’
Sadly, after years of hunting down dark parts of the Met, Pearce knew that he couldn’t do that.
CHAPTER SIX
The streets of London were bursting at the seams, like an overstuffed scarecrow. As the civilians lined the concrete jungle, their pathways were blocked by the mapped-out fences that laid out the path of the marathon. A yearly event that drew the eyes of the watching world, over forty thousand runners would take to the streets, finally seeing the results of their training plans.
Each barrier was covered with an advertisement banner, a highly paid advert for a company sponsoring the event in the hope of gaining a few more clicks to their website. Behind each metal railing, people crammed their way to the front, some of them cheering and supporting friends and family members, many others just taking in the carnival atmosphere.
Some of the most successful long-distance runners in the world were participating, with the UK’s champion one of the few heading the pack, miles ahead of the struggling crowd of office workers who had been duped into running the marathon on behalf of a charity. As they reached the halfway point and their bodies were near breaking point, they were all probably willing to just donate the total sponsorship themselves. But the streets were lined with eager civilians, many of them with their homemade banners, cheering on their loved ones for this life-changing moment. At various checkpoints throughout the city, popup food stands eagerly hoovered up the extra custom as several musical acts took advantage of the self-promotion, entertaining the people of the great city.
Derek Earnshaw was approaching mile seventeen when he felt the first twinges of fatigue, his body willing him to give in to the tiredness. As the Head of City Planning, he was one of the few government officials actually running the race, which had become as ingrained in British culture as afternoon tea and crumpets. At fifty-seven years of age, Derek had been on a rigorous training regime, using his substantial salary to pay for a personal trainer and top-of-the-line running gear. Running for a charity dedicated to helping the homeless, he couldn’t help but see the irony.
But the mayor had been adamant that they were shown to be caring, putting themselves through four or five hours of pain to help those who spent a lifetime in it. But as he rounded another corner he saw signs for Canary Wharf, the money-making centre of his great city. The beautiful roads were lined with tall, shimmering glass buildings that burst with light on the cool spring morning. As he passed the large HSBC building, he turned down one of the shut off roads, passing the Tube station as he did.
The watching crowds all cheered.
He smiled, knowing that he did everything he could to make this city better for them. As the pain of fatigue began to bore into his side like a termite, he thought back to the meeting he had had three weeks previously: the angry gentleman who wanted to erect two more high-rises in the centre of the city, one of them right in the heart of Canary Wharf.
With his reasoning suspicious and details at a premium, Derek had rejected the proposal, arguing that he didn’t feel the intentions were as innocent as they appeared. The next evening, as he had walked through a dark car park to his car, a masked man had approached him, threatening him with physical violence if he didn’t relent. After scaring Derek almost to tears, the masked attacker shoved him to the ground and took a piss on his briefcase.
As he had cowered in the dark, listening to his personal possessions being sullied, he noticed the four separate knives that stuck out of each tyre.
That was when he had informed the police, who had taken an interest in the case, assigning a keen young officer to begin digging into the shell company that had originally approached him. As he tried to regulate his breathing and his pace, he made a mental note to check in with the young officer when he was back in the office, to discuss the progress.
‘Keep up, Derek.’ A playful voice broke his
concentration.
He spun his head to the right to be met by the joyful smile of Chris Bolton, one of the few other high-ranking city officials running the iconic race. Chris was a big man, who had lost over three stone training for the marathon alongside him. Chris was a high-ranking judge who specialised in property law. Apparently the very same people had approached Chris after Derek had shot them down, with an envelope of cash and promises of future benefits should he rule in their favour.
Unluckily for them, Chris Bolton was as straight as they came, with his dedication to the law seeing the two men being ejected rapidly. Despite their threats of retaliation, Chris was fortunate enough not to have faced the same humiliation as Derek.
‘I’m flagging,’ Derek admitted, sweat bouncing off his head.
‘Just stay with me, mate.’ Chris beamed, his cockney accent sneaking through. ‘We’ll go at a slower pace.’
Derek smiled thankfully as they slowed their pace slightly, watching as a few super-fit youngsters shot by, their bodies tighter than their apparel. They turned left, breaking onto a long road that headed back out of Canary Wharf and back down towards London Bridge. The pavement was a sea of colour, bright T-shirts and waving hands as the public roared them on. As the tall buildings slowly began to pass them by, the sun burst down upon them, bathing them both in a warm glow. The city twinkled before them.
Chris sighed appreciatively.
‘Hell of a city, eh?’ he offered, his flabby body bouncing with each heavy step that slapped the concrete.
‘It sure is,’ Derek replied. And he meant it.
Despite the pain that was shaking through his legs with each step, and the constant screaming of his lungs, he realised how much he loved the city of London. How it filled him with pride to not only be running through it for a cause that could help the less fortunate, but how he served it every day, ensuring the safety and integrity of the city.
As he ran side by side with someone who felt the exact same way, Derek felt a second wind channel through his body, a newfound determination to keep going.
To continue to serve the city with pride.
Just as he was about to turn and tell his friend that it was almost the perfect morning, he saw a bright flash as the approached London Bridge Station, followed by a horrifying roar. As the bomb went off, Derek heard some terrified screams before everything went black.
PC Jake Howell watched with great interest as the runners raced past. With his hands comfortably tucked into the front of his met vest, he smiled at the arse-kicking he would have received back at Hendon. During his training, the supervising officer had drilled into all of them that they shouldn’t get caught with their hands in the front of the met vest, as it left them susceptible to an attack.
As Jake watched the kids reaching out for high fives from the runners, cheerful people making new friends as they cheered on the selfless runners, and the sun washing all of it in a soft warmth, he couldn’t have felt further from danger.
His fiancée, Cheryl, has been annoyed that he had signed up for the extra shift, complaining that she hardly ever got to see him and that it felt like she was planning the wedding on her own. When he told her how much the overtime came to, he joked that he would be paying for it on his own. She had laughed and they had made love not long afterwards, their passion still as hot as ever, even after six years together.
He had met her in his early twenties, much to the constant jibes of his friends, who rubbed their promiscuous lives in his face every chance they got.
It didn’t bother him in the slightest. He pitied them.
Whilst they went out every weekend, trying their level best just to get a woman to talk to them, he was usually snuggled up on the sofa, his arms around the most beautiful woman he would ever have the luck of meeting.
He couldn’t wait to marry her.
His radio crackled, HQ with their routine check-in. He gave them the all-clear and went back to watching the city move together, with the runners in sync with the cheers of those on the sidelines. He knew his uncle had worked this shift countless times, and it was one of the reasons he had wanted to be selected for it.
It had been one of the best days of his life when his uncle had told him that he had personally seen to it that he would be on shift for the London Marathon. Although he had been partnered with PC Harding, the party atmosphere and beautiful weather had more than made up for it. Besides, Harding had made it clear he wasn’t fussed about spending time together, having walked off to ‘grab a coffee’ some half hour ago. Jake was sure he would find him in a bar somewhere, chatting to a young lady and feeding her line after line of bullshit.
He could never be like Harding—not when he had his uncle’s reputation to live up to.
Jake smiled as he took a few steps forward. Knowing that his uncle had taken an interest in his career filled him with pride. He knew where he wanted to end up: working cases for CID and becoming a highly decorated detective just like his uncle. He also wanted to get married and have a few kids, hoping one of them would grow up wanting to emulate him just as he had his uncle. A big cheer pulled him back to his duty; a smiling runner, drenched in sweat, waved as a big banner was unfolded by those nearest the railing, the name ‘DANIEL’ painted on a big sheet.
Jake smiled.
He loved this city.
Keeping it safe was the best thing he had ever done with his life.
As he began to wonder what life would have been like if he had accepted the chance to undertake a degree in media technology at Kingston University, his eyes met those of a hooded man about ten people back. Not wanting to racially profile, Jake couldn’t help but be alarmed by the quickness of the man’s turn and hurried dash into a nearby alleyway. Whilst reprimanding a young black man on the grounds of ‘being shifty-looking’ was likely to see him end up attending a cultural diversity lecture, Jake remembered the vow he had taken to protect the city and the people who inhabited it.
Being accused of racism was a price he was willing to pay to ensure their safety. Careful not to raise alarm, he slid his hands back into his met vest and casually headed towards the alleyway, smiling politely at the locals who let him through. One young child looked at him with complete awe, causing Jake to blush slightly in the cheeks.
He remembered looking at his uncle in the same way when he had arrived at his school wearing his full uniform. Jake had been the coolest kid in his class after that.
He smiled and tipped his hat to the young boy, making a note to return and speak to the young boy’s parents, hopefully making a lasting impression too. As another batch of runners struggled past, PC Jake Howell entered the alleyway, scanning his eyes over the faded brickwork of the adjoining buildings.
A few large metal bins stood to one side, surrounded by black bags and an appalling stench. Bright letters ran across the walls, the local graffiti artists tagging their names on the brickwork, foolishly thinking it bought them any kind of status other than ‘criminal’. Jake began to wonder if he should have radioed Harding, the idea of entering the alleyway alone was starting to seem potentially foolish.
He soon breathed a sigh of relief.
The man had gone.
As PC Jake Howell turned, he suddenly came face to face with the hooded man, whose wide eyes relayed pure fear.
‘I’m sorry,’ he begged, his eyes watering.
‘Sorry?’ Jake repeated, trying his best to maintain his calm demeanour.
‘They made me.’ The young man’s voice trailed off silently, as the scuffing of shoes echoed from behind him as the group approached. They were the last words PC Jake Howell would hear, as he would be discovered as one of the fatalities of the bomb that obliterated the London Marathon.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The next forty-eight hours became a blur.
The fallout of the bombing shook every layer of the British economy. The media whipped the country into a frenzy, with the idea that a family day out could be targeted enough to ensure panick
ed parents pulled their kids from schools. Companies saw a drastic increase in absence for the following Monday and Tuesday—especially those who were based in the capital. Each paper, regardless of political standing, hammered home that the UK was a country under attack, that every action should be treated with extreme suspicion.
Angry civilians protested out the front of Westminster, signs demanding that the government retaliate and putting ever-growing pressure on the Prime Minister to stand up to the extremists.
The blame was of course laid at the doorstep of ISIS, the terrorist cell who were all too happy to accept the offer, their reign of terror ever increasing as the world watched in horror. Sure enough, social media played its part, with videos of people in the crowd showing the harrowing moment the bomb exploded, with many of them not realising the irony in their pleas for people not to panic.
The police commissioner gave a damning statement, declaring she would find those responsible and bring them to justice, a rallying cry that would no doubt only help her tenure.
The world needed to hear those words.
The British public demanded action.
On Wednesday morning, three days after the country was subjected to what the rags were insensitively calling the ‘Marathon Massacre’, Sam found himself shaking his head at the vile newspaper. With their usual class and dignity, they had laid out a number of gut-wrenching photographs, including one of a young girl crying in her father’s arms, with blood splattered across her face. Another image they had posted, to the usual uproar in the oversensitive world of social media, was of a young man strapped to a hospital stretcher, his right leg missing.
Sam had seen similar during his lifetime, remembering the night when Private Eldridge lost his leg to a car bomb on the streets of Kirkuk. The smell of burning flesh was as clear to him that morning, stood in the archive room, as it was on the sandy streets of the Afghan city, the screaming from the public as the vehicle exploded, wiping four people off the earth instantly and changing the lives of seven others.
The Night Shift: A high octane thriller that will have you gripped. (Sam Pope Series Book 1) Page 5