Sam was aware of a public uproar when a popular social media site was found to have allowed a vast amount of data to be sold. Not one for social media, Sam wasn’t too bothered, but it had made him chuckle at the fear it struck into the people who really didn’t understand just how deep those websites had their claws in their lives. The world existed online. People ordered food online, read books on tablets, and posted every intimate detail of their lives in a bizarre quest for social acceptance.
It came at a cost.
And that cost worked to Sam’s benefit as he found Derek Earnshaw’s home address within five minutes before wandering onto a nearby estate and selecting the oldest-looking car he could find. Under the flickering light of the estate, he found himself a lot calmer than under the incoming fire all those years ago. The newer cars had fail-safes that would prevent a hotwiring, but the door to the Renault Clio popped easily, and within moments the engine was illegally purring.
Now, as he passed through the quiet residential streets of Balham, he thought about Pearce. Sam was confident that the armed team that swarmed the room moments before he plunged into the Thames wouldn’t hurt Pearce. He was a high-ranking officer, after all. But there was no way Mayer or anyone else on the take would stand for his intervention. Now, with a city-wide manhunt underway for him, Sam knew he wouldn’t be able to return to his old life.
There would be no more trips to the archive office—especially as his last visit had resulted in a dead body.
No more ‘night shifts’.
As he passed Wimbledon train station, slowing to allow the drunken arrivals to stumble across the road, he realised that none of his old life mattered. An empty flat, a soulless room where he pined for his wife and son. A job he had taken to ‘serve’ after he had quit his police training.
None of it mattered. Not anymore.
Now he had a purpose, a reason to protect, and knew he was on the verge of bringing down a major gangster and the crooked cops he had in his pocket.
He just had to connect the dots.
Fifteen minutes later, he slowed the car to a stop across the road from Earnshaw’s impressive five-bedroom, three-storey house. As head of city planning, Earnshaw was not only a highly regarded member of the government, but was also well remunerated. As Sam exited the stolen car, he scanned the street quickly; the middle class were all tucked up in their pristine homes, and the silence of suburbia hung over the street like a cloud. With no one in sight, Sam approached the steel gates that split the stone wall, reaching up and pulling himself over with discomfort, the pain of the stab wound in his shoulder rocketing through his body like a space shuttle.
He dropped down on the other side, half expecting a pack of wild dogs to be released to chase him away, but all he was greeted with was silence. There were no lights on at all, and as Sam approached the front of the house, he noticed that they hadn’t installed a ramp yet.
Earnshaw had lost a leg during the blast, but from the quick search Sam had done to find his address, he had read an article about how it might propel Earnshaw to be the next mayor of London.
Quietly pressing himself against the side of the house, he followed the brickwork through a side gate and to the back door. The patio before him was covered with expensive-looking garden furniture, a two-tier barbecue, and a swinging hammock chair.
All the ingredients for a garden party.
Sam then noticed the broken glass on the back door, the shards piled carelessly on the inside of the door. Sliding his hand into the ill-fitting shirt he had stolen on the party boat, he pulled the handle down and the door opened.
Someone had been there.
Carefully, Sam pushed the door open, stepping over the glass and into the plush kitchen. The marble counters were clear of any clutter, with top-of-the-range appliances placed strategically around the open room. In the centre, a breakfast bar stood proudly, the stools on one side moved for Earnshaw’s recent disability. With slow, measured steps, Sam moved into the hallway, the wooden floor creaking slightly under each step. He checked the living room and the dining room; both were empty, both furnished with high-quality furniture. The TV in the front room was almost the size of the wall.
With the downstairs clear, Sam made his way up the stairs, the only light from the moon filtering in through the windows in sharp strokes. The wall of the staircase was lined with photos of Earnshaw and his wife at various stages of their life. Their wedding. His first day on the job. A few holidays.
No kids, Sam noted, a twinge of pain hitting him as he wished to see his son.
As soon as he got to the landing, he tensed up. A faint, ominous smell was creeping under the door at the far end of the hallway. It was a weak but unmistakable smell.
One that he had smelt a number of times.
A dead body.
Cautiously, Sam approached the door, nudging it open with his shoulder and immediately looking away.
Hanging from the doorframe to the en suite bathroom was Derek Earnshaw. The belt, strapped to his neck, was attached to a chin-up bar that was fixed to the inner frame. The leather strap was already ripping into the skin of his neck, dried blood crisping over the side like a burnt pie. His eyes were open, completely bloodshot from the strain of choking to death, his body doing everything to fight the apparent suicide.
His one leg hung loosely; the other, missing, was covered by the folded leg of his trousers. His skin had faded, almost to a translucent shade, and the aroma was pungent, a warm, bitter smell of finality.
It was the tiny river of blood in the doorway to the en suite that caught Sam’s eye, and as he moved into the room and peered past the swinging body of his intended visit, he saw his wife.
She was slumped in the bath, back against the white tiles. The bath was filled with blood, almost to her waist. The deep vertical gashes that ran vertically from her wrists to her elbow joints had long since emptied and her vacant eyes felt like they were locked on him.
Another apparent suicide.
A proud man, handicapped by a senseless act of terrorism, couldn’t stand to live his new life. His wife, heartbroken, helped him to commit suicide and then, with the guilt and loss too much to bear, she took her own life.
A tragedy.
That was how they would spin it.
Sam knew, after what they had attempted with Amy, that this was the work of the Gent and was designed to close the case early. Undoubtedly the responsibility would fall to someone like Mayer, a police officer who had long since stepped away from the thin blue line. They would make the mess go away and the Gent would make their dreams come true.
A note was placed on the closed lid of the porcelain toilet, but Sam didn’t bother to read it. It would have been a crudely written suicide note, just to underline it all. Careful not to touch anything, Sam backed out of the room, retracing his steps to the hallway. With the two dead bodies slowly decomposing, the house had taken on a more haunted quality. This spaciousness had turned to emptiness.
The darkness permanent.
Sam ducked his head through the other doors, finding the grandiose main bathroom, with a walk-in shower and two sinks. A white Caitlyn bath sat in the centre of the room. Two of the other doors led to guest bedrooms, with Sam guessing another two were up on the third floor. Each room had a double bed, immaculately made, with an assortment of desks, cupboards, and decorations that put his empty flat to shame. Despite the effort and expense put into each room, Sam still preferred the simplicity of nothing.
Perhaps it was the years in the army, where trivial things like the colour of bedsheets or the assortment of photo frames didn’t play a part.
All it was about was the mission. About following the orders and protecting the innocent.
That’s what he was doing there, the fundamental reason he had saved Amy’s life, breaking his promise to his son and putting three men in the ground. That was why he was now the most wanted man in London.
Because innocent people had been killed or threate
ned and someone had to protect them.
As his mind wandered, he opened the final door, the moon bathing the neat office in a pale glow. The desk was a thick oak, with a Macbook placed on top. A stack of files were neatly placed to the side and a photo of Earnshaw’s wife gazed longingly out of its frame. There was a card on the desk, interspersed with a few others and recent pamphlets for dealing with disabilities.
It was Inspector Michael Howell’s card.
Sam picked it up straight away, scanning his eyes over the name and the accompanying mobile phone number. Howell had been signed off with grief after the death of his nephew, but it was known that he had made it a priority to visit every family that had been damaged by the bombing.
A bombing that Sam was sure had been carried out by Howell’s subordinates, all in the vile act of lining their own pockets and those of the very people they were supposed to stop.
He took a deep breath, feeling the rage building inside him. He had risked his life for years to ensure the protection of not just his own country, but for all people who were subjected to the horrors of the world. He had fought the Russians, the Taliban, Isis.
But this one hurt the most.
The Metropolitan Police.
Howell deserved to know the truth about what was happening in his absence and why his young nephew wouldn’t get to follow in his footsteps anymore.
Sam pulled up the phone that sat on the edge of the desk and punched in the number.
After a few rings, a tired voice echoed through the receiver.
‘Howell.’
‘Sir, it’s Sam Pope.’
‘Pope?’ Howell questioned, the sleep still clinging to his brain like a sloth. A moment later, clarity sprang into his voice. ‘Pope. Jesus, what the hell has been going on?’
Howell had obviously been kept in the loop, and if Sam was right about what was going on, that loop would have him pegged as public enemy number one.
‘Sir, I need to speak with you.’
‘You need to come in.’
‘Sir, it’s about your nephew.’
‘Jake?’ Howell suddenly sounded vulnerable.
Sam felt his pain. Grief was a horrible companion. ‘Yes sir. I know who killed him,’ Sam said firmly. ‘And, I know why.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The crystal glass shattered against the white wall of the penthouse, the remnants of the expensive whisky spraying across the paint work in chase of the glass fragments. Frank Jackson knew this would be the reaction and had lightened his usual almost tyrannical insistence on manners as he broke the news to Mark Connor.
His best friend, Brian Stack, had been found dead.
There was no denying what had happened. Brian had confronted Sam Pope in the archive room and, judging by the bruising to the face, body, and his own knuckles, had engaged him in a hand-to-hand fight to the death. A fight he had lost. The knife embedded in his throat had been the exclamation point and had brought an end to the Mitchell Brothers.
Now, as a triumphant Mark had returned to the High-Rise with a smug look on his face, pleased with the destruction of Theo Walker’s house, Frank had told him of his friend’s demise.
That Sam Pope, the man who had shot to the top of every wanted list in the city, had executed him.
Mark had taken the news in a stoic anger, calmly pouring himself an expensive drink from the drink table that sat atop an old, rustic trolley in the corner of the room. Floor-to-ceiling windows on the sixth floor of the High-Rise gave a breathtaking panoramic view of the city, even in the midst of a storm. After calmly downing the entire drink in one swig, Mark had furiously hurled the glass at the wall, screaming profanities as the news began to sink in. Although Mark was as cold and as ruthless as anyone the Gent had ever met, he was a human being who had just been informed of his friend’s murder.
A fist followed soon after, Mark’s worn knuckles colliding with the solid concrete, the anger pummelling the wall like a jackhammer.
After a few more thunderous right hands, he withdrew his hand, the knuckles cracked and his blood dripping over the spotless wooden floor panels. On any other occasion, Frank would have insisted on a punishment for such disregard for the cleanliness of his luxury suite, but he allowed Mark to grieve.
He knew what was coming next.
‘I want his head,’ Mark eventually spat, his teeth gritted and his eyes burning with fury.
‘I know.’ Frank nodded, resting a reassuring hand on Mark’s shoulder. ‘And like I say to all my clients, your wish is my command.’
‘This isn’t some bent copper looking for a pound of Charlie and a hooker, boss. I want him alive and I want to take him apart.’
Frank smiled, allowing the backtalk to slide due to the situation. He prided himself on being able to provide whatever his customers wanted. Right now, despite Mark always having been an employee, he knew he needed to provide something for Mark. His most loyal man, an attack dog who had maimed and killed without question for over a decade. Frank Jackson might have been one of the most terrifying criminals in London, but he was also a friend. He watched as Mark stood, staring into nothingness and letting his anger convulse through him like an electric current. The man’s black jacket was tight to his stocky frame. His knuckles were smeared with blood.
Frank thought he could see the hint of a tear forming in Mark’s eye.
‘Follow me,’ Frank said with authority, turning on the heel of his expensive shoes and marching across the living room to the door, pulling it open and stepping into the hallway.
Mark took a deep breath before following, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapping it around his broken knuckles. They passed a few doors to the other suites, one of them currently occupied by a high-ranking politician and the underage boy he had paid thousands for. The Gent never judged what the requirements were.
The High-Rise was a place for every fulfilment.
Eventually they came to the door to the stairwell. Frank opened the door, living up to his nickname as he offered Mark to pass first. He did, and they soon found themselves descending the staircase, their footsteps echoing up through building. Eventually they came to a stop and Frank marched to the door, unlocking it and pushing it open. The previous day it had been the final room Nathaniel Burridge had entered before he was strung up and hacked apart by the furious man by Frank’s side. As Frank pushed the door open, they were greeted by nothing but darkness.
‘Mark, I know how close you and Brian were, and I am truly sorry for your loss. I promise you, we will do everything we can to kill Samuel Pope.’
‘Okay,’ Mark grunted, his fists clenching at the very mention of the name.
‘But whilst I can’t give you him right now, I do have something to maybe take the edge off.’
Frank reached into the door and flicked the light switch, the halogen lights bursting into life with a continuous hum. The room was once again covered in clear plastic sheets from corner to corner. To the side was the usual table, rows of tools and blades laid out like a display cabinet.
The wheeled seat sat next to it, which Mark had sat on and watched as Nathaniel had bled to death. All of that had been cleared away; the remnants of his body had been dropped off at the docks, where it would be placed in an acidic vat, melted to nothing, and dropped into the ocean within the next week.
The room was squeaky clean.
Except for the mixture of sweat and piss that had pooled beneath the man that hung, nude and upside down, from a meat hook in the centre of the room. His ankles and wrists were chained and a strip of tape had been slapped across his mouth.
His eyes, red from crying, were wide with fear.
DS Mayer.
‘He’s all yours,’ Frank said, patting his friend on the back before heading back to the stairs, the muffled cries for mercy blocked out as the door slammed shut. And just as Frank approached the top of the staircase, he could hear the brutal impact of a right hook.
Pearce took a deep breath and r
ecomposed his thoughts, the tiredness reaching up to him like a needy child. The bags under his eyes were heavy and he looked at the clock on the dashboard of his car. It was just after three in the morning and it had been a hell of an evening. He had marched Sam Pope into the station and had helped him steal a file and escape, incurring the wrath of the captain of the armed response unit, who had burst into the room just as Sam had leapt to the Thames.
It was a hell of a jump and Pearce found himself admiring the man. He had been right, of course: Sam was the vigilante who had been assaulting the ‘innocent’ men, even admitting to the brutal maiming of Chris Morton a few weeks before.
The man was a dangerous criminal.
Yet, as he sped through the downpour that had decided to invade the night sky, Pearce couldn’t help but feel they were on the same side. He had spent the majority of his career hunting down corrupt policemen, which had alienated him from the usual lifestyle of a police officer. When he had first joined the force, his aptitude and calmness had led him to be fast-tracked to the armed response unit, which he had served on with distinction for over four years. After that he had moved to CID, where he became known for his diligence and his integrity.
He soon found himself opposing his colleagues, who weren’t adverse to the odd bribe to look the other way. Yet when he had finally reported it, he was ostracized and pushed to a desk job.
Swept under the rug.
When he finally joined the Department of Professional Standards, he was chomping at the bit to bring down the parts of the thin blue line that had become discoloured. It hadn’t been easy. The Met, despite being one of the finest police services in the world, were happy to let him off the leash but never to see it through. Those who he eventually brought to justice never saw jail time.
The majority were given a slap on the wrist.
The worst were given a golden handshake.
But Sam Pope wasn’t playing by the same rules. The man had served his country for a decade, with a personal cost that had been huge. His wife had left and he never got to see his child. That loneliness, mixed with a lifetime of killing, had resulted in his ‘night shifts’. But the man was a soldier and Pearce had seen, as Sam had turned back from the window before he leapt to the cold waters below, that he would see this through to the end.
The Night Shift: A high octane thriller that will have you gripped. (Sam Pope Series Book 1) Page 17