The only photos were of her parents.
Singh didn’t have the time for a relationship, nor did she harbour any desire for one. It had been a bone of contention for her first few years in the Met, a number of male officers assuming she was a lesbian due to her tough demeanour and lack of reciprocation to their advances. When she made it clear she just found them pathetic, they soon backed off. The married officers, especially the female ones, also looked at her with a raised nose, as if her life choices were selfish.
As a thirty-two-year-old woman, she was just fine on her own.
There had been the odd one-night stand, usually some unsuspecting colleague who thought they’d hit the jackpot. Singh knew she was attractive, her exotic looks complimenting her feisty attitude. But once they realised they were nothing more than a pastime, they soon left.
She didn’t need anyone to validate her.
Amara Singh didn’t fail.
It was that notion, repeated through her head that had got her through her original training at Hendon Police College. When they’d sprayed her with CS gas to see how she would react, she took long deep breaths through the pain, imploring herself to get through.
When they taught her self-defence, rough handling her to the mat, she told herself to get up.
Then, out on the job, when her and her partner, a PC Jack Wilson, were staring down a seven on two fight with a gang in Hackney, she told herself never to back down.
Every door she broke down, every rifle she’d raised with the intent to fire.
Every pair of handcuffs she’d slapped on a criminal.
Every step of her career.
She had told herself that she would not – could not – fail.
As it echoed in her mind again like a haunting memory, it drove her to change into a pair of jeans and a hoody, wrap up inside her puffer jacket, and head for the front door, car keys in hand and tapping in the address for a youth centre in Bethnal Green on her phone. There were a few missed calls, both of them from Mark Harris’s assistant, Carl Burrows.
She ignored them. The last thing she wanted to face was a smarmy politician leering at her and demanding a report.
In the pocket of her jacket was the device. She had demanded it after yesterday’s failure and was pretty sure Assistant Commissioner Ashton would be on-board despite circumventing the usual procedure for checking it out from the surveillance team.
She had a plan.
They needed a result. She needed a result.
Amara Singh didn’t fail.
It was time to start taking some steps to ensure that remained the case.
The front door closed behind them and Aaron shuffled through past Sam, his coat dripping with rain, rushing to the kitchen for a glass of water and a paracetamol. While Aaron scooted by, Sam slowly removed his jacket, droplets of rainwater dotted over the wooden flooring. Sam folded the jacket over his arm and then tucked it over the bannister, the carpeted stairs led to what he assumed was a spacious first floor, which housed three bedrooms and a bathroom.
Taking in the surroundings, he looked over the small hallway table that was decorated with photos. A few of them were of a beautiful woman with olive skin and jet-black hair.
Sam had clocked the ring on Aaron’s finger, which led him to believe it was his wife. Small details about people and places leapt out at him. It was what he was trained to do. Assess and store.
He already knew that it would take him twelve steps to reach the front of the garden.
The door had a double lock, which Aaron had neglected to activate.
Aaron himself was just under six feet tall, about thirteen stone, of which wasn’t muscle, and by the way he opened the door, was left handed.
Sam knew that the majority of those details would be insignificant at that moment in time. He had already scoped the street before blindsiding the terrified dad, ensuring that there was no police tail. But his training was so ingrained in his mind, he was a walking fact finder.
The sound of crockery clinging together and the low gurgle of a kettle filled Sam with warmth, the bitterness of the outside world still drilling through his bones. Careful not to leave any finger prints, he pulled the cuff of his jumper over his hands and picked up a photograph.
Next to the beautiful smile of Aaron’s wife, was a smaller, almost identical version of her, her face beaming with innocence and hope. The care free existence of a young adult.
Sam found himself smiling at the radiant photo, the love that emanated from both sets at eyes at the man with the camera.
A family filled with love.
His mind flashed to a memory, a summer day spent at the park. Lucy, her wedding ring proudly latched to her finger, sat reading, her feet up on the bench as the sun fell upon her. The park was full, families and groups of friends all basking in the sunshine.
Somewhere along the line, the memory had lost any detail, with every face a smooth, blank patch of skin.
Except for Lucy.
Except for Jamie.
Sam stood to the side of his memory, everything tinged with bronze as the colours faded from his subconscious. He watched himself meandering slowly through the throngs of people alongside his son, his three-year-old legs gamely keeping pace as they searched for stones.
It was a cherished memory.
But as the colours of trees and the faces of those around them faded, he realised it was a memory slowly ebbing away from him.
Sam closed his eyes, and a voice brought him back to the hallway of a desperate man’s house.
‘That’s her,’ Aaron said, nodding towards the photo in Sam’s hand. ‘My Jasmine.’
Sam looked at Aaron, his blood-shot eyes a cocktail of hangover, a bad night’s sleep, and genuine terror for his daughter’s safety.
‘She’s beautiful,’ Sam said. ‘They both are.’
‘Yeah, her mum was quite the looker. What she ever saw in me, I don’t know.’
‘Was?’ Sam asked, immediately regretting it.
‘She, err … she died. A few years back.’ Aaron’s voice cracked slightly, the painful memory still a gaping wound in his chest. He handed Sam a warm mug, a Game of Thrones logo emblazoned on the side. Sam took it carefully, ensuring the sleeve of his jumper still covered his fingers.
‘I’m sorry.’
Aaron nodded his appreciation before turning and heading back through to the kitchen, signalling the end of that conversation. Sam understood, following through, past the richly decorated living room and into the large, open-plan kitchen. Scouting the room, Sam couldn’t help but be impressed. The room was lined with spotless cabinets, all of them a rustic grey. The marble work tops were also dark, framing the kitchen nicely. In the middle, a large island with an inbuilt sink stood proudly, the rest of the top also marble and a few breakfast stools set up against it.
Despite the gloomy weather, the floor to ceiling windows that opened onto a large garden bathed the kitchen in light.
It was welcoming.
A home.
‘Nice place,’ Sam offered, watching with pity as Aaron tried to hide the empty bottle of Jack Daniels from the work top. Sam caught his eye. ‘That stuff isn’t going to help.’
‘I know,’ Aaron muttered, shaking his head. ‘I just, I didn’t know what to do.’
‘I’ll be honest with you, pal. Running head first into a gun fight with known criminals is probably the last thing you should be doing.’
Sam offered Aaron a smile but received nothing back. The man was clearly hurting, terrified at the thought of what his daughter was going through. If she was even alive?
‘I went to the police, but they told me she hadn’t been missing long enough for her to be reported missing.’ Aaron took a sip of his piping tea, a scowl on his face. ‘They said that most teenage girls stay out late.’
‘Is it possible she is with a friend?’
‘Not without letting me know.’
‘Maybe she forgot or she had a drink or…’ Sam offered, bu
t Aaron snapped angrily.
‘Not my Jasmine.’ He shook his head. ‘Ever since her mother died, it’s been difficult. I mean, she’s a teenage girl. Her body is changing and she is experiencing things that she needs her mother for. I try, and my sister is pretty close with her, but she’s still hurting. We both are. And while she finds the things we used to do together lame or boring, she has never left me in the lurch as to where she is. If she gets stuck or is upset or anything, she calls me. Day or night.’
Aaron’s voice trailed off as he choked back tears and Sam finished his tea with a satisfying sigh and placed the mug down on the marble. The kitchen put his grubby little flat to shame.
But then life pulled people in many different directions.
Whatever had driven Aaron to that building, it had caused his path to cross with Sam’s.
He couldn’t walk away.
He had to help.
Sam looked at Aaron who slowly sipped his tea, his movements were laboured, and the panic had reduced a loving father to a desperate man.
Sam knew desperation.
Throughout his life, through all his tours of Iraq and Afghanistan. When he had faced down several men on his own, bullets spraying around him, he never panicked. When he took down the High Rise six months before, he never questioned himself. Training took over and he became the weapon the UK Government had spent a lot of money turning him into.
But that summer’s night over three years before, on his knees in the middle of the road, staring into the lifeless eyes of his son, he had never felt so helpless.
As he watched Aaron fumble with his mug in the sink, dabbing at his eyes with his sleeve, Sam realised that he had a new mission.
He needed to bring Jasmine home.
Stepping forward, Sam placed a reassuring hand on Aaron’s shoulder, causing the man to stop dead. It was the feeling of comfort, that he wasn’t alone, that suddenly caused the tears to flow fully, drenching his cheeks in seconds.
‘I’ll bring her home,’ Sam said stoically. ‘I promise.’
Aaron nodded, refusing to face him. Not wanting anyone to see him cry under the bizarre notion that it would embarrass him. Sam took a deep breath before continuing.
‘Why were you at the factory last night?’
‘I have an app on my phone that tells me her location.’ Aaron spoke with a new-found vigour as he reached into his pocket. ‘It tells me how much battery she has, where she is, and so on. The last location it was switched on was the factory. Look.’
Aaron turned the phone to Sam, who stared intently at the bright screen. It was a map of Shepherd’s Bush and sure enough, a little photo of Jasmine was pasted over the factory.
‘I took a screen shot of it,’ Aaron offered. ‘I thought it might help.’
‘It does,’ Sam verified. ‘What was she doing there?’
‘That’s the thing, she wasn’t supposed to be there. She was at a friend’s party in Perivale, but like I said, she keeps in contact. So I don’t know what her phone was doing there.’
‘That’s what we need to find out,’ Sam said, typing his number into Aaron’s mobile phone and sending the picture across to himself.
‘Find out?’ Aaron said in exasperation. ‘Last time I saw you, you were armed with a fucking rifle, shooting fucking criminals. You don’t need to find out, you need to do what the papers say you do and scare the living shit out of these people.’
‘Look, I know you’re scared, but I need you to be calm.’
‘Calm?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know what it’s like to lose a fucking child?’ Aaron spat, his face turning red with fury. Sam stared at him before responding calmly.
‘Just over three years ago, my son was killed by a drunk driver who got off on a technicality. So yes, I know how it feels to lose a child and to feel like the law isn’t on your side.’ Sam saw the horror on Aaron’s face. ‘It’s why I do what I do. A sense of justice or whatever the hell people are calling it. I don’t know. But all I know is, there are bad things happening to good people and sometimes, they need someone else to stop them.’
Silence hung heavy in the room like a morning fog, Aaron’s embarrassment eating at him like a cancer. After a few more beats, he spoke.
‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t know.’
‘You wouldn’t have. Don’t be sorry, be helpful. And by that, I mean stay calm and don’t do anything stupid.’
Aaron took a deep breath and nodded.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘We are going to go and find out why your daughter’s phone was at the factory. And I know just where to start. Grab your coat.’
Sam headed back out of the kitchen, back through the well-lit hallway and the shrine to Aaron’s wonderful family. He picked his coat from the bannister and smoothly swung it around, his arms sliding into it with ease. The coat hung down below his buttocks, nicely covering the bulge from the back of his jean’s waistband.
Aaron hadn’t noticed the Glock tucked safely against his spine. He carried it so often that Sam forgot it was there.
It had almost become an extension of him.
As they headed to the door and the teeth-chattering cold of the outside world, Aaron took one more moment in the sanctity of his home to ask a question.
‘Why are you doing this, Sam?’ he asked thoughtfully. ‘Why are you helping me?’
Sam slid a glove over his hand, reached for the door knob, twisted and pulled it open. A blast of cold, wet wind flapped in like a rogue curtain. Sam turned, looking at Aaron and realising he was his only hope.
Jasmine’s only hope.
As he answered, he realised it was the same reason for everything meaningful he had ever done in his life. The same reason he was now one of the UK’s most wanted men.
He offered Aaron a warm, reassuring smile.
‘It’s the right thing to do.’
Chapter Eleven
The thick, grey clouds hung over London, bathing the entire city in a dull shadow. With the continuous downfall of rain, the buildings took on a pitiful, damp look that only added to the depressing weather. Winter had arrived, and as usual, it hadn’t entered to a jolly Christmas song or in a picturesque snow storm.
All it had brought was dark clouds and freezing rain.
Pearce looked out of the window, the rain pelting the city and felt its pain. The last six months had been relentless, ever since he had begun to look into Sam Pope. When Chris Morton, a man who was cleared of rape, was found beaten to a bloody and broken pulp, Pearce had delved into all the data. It was what had made him such a revered yet reviled detective.
When it came to investigating their own, most coppers didn’t want to delve too deep. There was an unwritten rule.
They were all in it together.
As far as Pearce had been concerned, through his thirty-year career that had seen him run an Armed Response unit, as well as solve over fifty murder cases, the only way you could go into a no-win situation with a fellow officer was if you knew they weren’t going to leave you behind.
You had to trust them.
It was that unrelenting commitment to the truth and the justice system that had lead him to becoming an outstanding detective for the Department of Professional Standards and also one of the most hated officers within the Metropolitan Police. But it was also that unrelenting commitment to the truth that caused him to question the justice system. When Sam Pope took a stand against the corrupt police who, along with one of the most fearsome criminals in London, bombed the London Marathon, Pearce soon found himself doing the one thing he swore he wouldn’t.
He broke the law.
He allowed Sam Pope access to files while under arrest, aided his escape from custody and then, with the man being held at gun point and the net tightening, he allowed a vigilante to disappear, to continue his war against the cancerous crime that was eating the city from the inside.
It had been the right thing to do.
Si
nce then, Pearce had barely slept. The constant, nagging voice questioning his hypocrisy kept him from more than a few stop-start hours every night. When you spend over fifty years of your life, committing yourself so vehemently to an ideal to the point that it costs you your marriage and any chance of a family, but then go against it, it shakes you to your core.
That’s why he had taken over running the youth club every weekend. As he stood, staring out of the window of the Bethnal Green Youth Centre, he realised that the young men and women who walked through those doors were the only things keeping him sane.
‘Sam. You crazy bastard,’ Pearce muttered with a shake of the head, knowing that the man he had let go now had the whole city in a panic. What Pearce found most amusing was that it wasn’t the general public who were scared. By and large, whenever one of the papers went to the people, the general consensus was they were rooting for him. They didn’t agree with breaking the law, but the majority saw a capable man fighting for the good of the people.
Like a modern-day Robin Hood.
Their Watchdog.
It was the police, being shown up as corrupt and unable to stop a rogue soldier that were panicking most, along with the politicians who claim to back every task force possible just to bring him to his knees. Pearce didn’t need to be a detective to know that those who wanted Pope stopped, were undoubtedly the ones with the most skeletons in their closets.
It was why he didn’t trust Harris and it was why he wasn’t surprised to see a black Audi A3 pull up outside the Youth Centre. Folding his arms across his broad chest, Pearce watched with intrigue as DI Singh stepped out of the driver’s side, slammed the door shut and hastily made her way through the gate. Pope was becoming a major priority for more than one party and Pearce actually felt a twinge of sympathy for the young, talented lady.
The pressure being stacked on her slender shoulders was enormous, but Pearce admired how she carried it. Shoulders wide, back straight, she commanded attention as she marched through the gate. Pearce was sure the younger officers also gave her attention for other reasons, but the memory of his marriage still haunted him like an echo. Denise had moved on, but somewhere among his commitment to the job and fear of being hurt again, Pearce hadn’t.
The Takers Page 8