The Takers

by Robert Enright

  He had a potential van location and a fake company’s bank account.

  It was enough.

  The memories of Jamie had added fuel to the fire inside of Sam to ensure another child wasn’t lost to the cruel world.

  Armed with a handgun and enough information to start bringing down another criminal empire, Sam headed for the front door, knowing exactly who he needed to see for help.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Adrian Pearce sat at his desk, staring at the blank screen of his computer. From the glare he could make out his vague reflection, the dark skin trimmed with grey tinted hair cut close to the scalp. His beard, also frosted with age, ran neatly across his jaw. Despite reaching a half century, Pearce was in good shape and regularly passed gentlemen half his age on the local running track.

  Within the Met, he was known as a tenacious detective, willing to bring down his fellow officer in the name of the law. It had earned him a fearful reputation but also had ostracised him. He didn’t care, as far as he was concerned, he would rather not make friends with bent coppers.

  The small, cramped office mockingly enveloped him, a reminder for what happened last time he rattled the wrong cage. When several convicted criminals had turned up beaten half to death, it took Pearce a little over three hours to piece together the common denominator.

  Sam Pope.

  It was what made Pearce such a valuable asset to the Met, but such a terrifying prospect for any police officer on the take. Not only could he find discrepancies, but he noticed patterns, could decipher facial tics, and was biologically programmed to ask the most infuriatingly intrusive question at the optimum moment.

  When Pearce sat opposite Sam Pope over six months ago, he couldn’t have imagined how drastically his life was about to change. Bit by bit, Sam Pope began to uncover irregularities in the supposed terrorist bombing that had shattered the London Marathon earlier that year. The loss of five civilians and a young police officer had hurt the city, with the Met promising to bring those responsible to justice.

  Sam made the same promise and soon uncovered an inside job, led by superior officers with superior greed. With those in charge of the police in bed with those they were trying to stop, it put the lives of Adrian, Sam, and an innocent psychiatrist and her husband in jeopardy. Pearce had made brief contact with Amy Devereux after she’d moved away from London, wishing her well and telling her he was always free for a coffee should she ever return to the city.

  He had never received a call.

  Now, glancing into the blank screen, Pearce recounted how he had placed his faith in Sam Pope, stepping beyond the line he had stuck to like glue. Willingly leading Sam into the station and assisting his escape was bad enough but allowing him to walk free after he had unloaded an entire gun into one of London’s most notorious criminals would be the straw that broke the camel’s back. It had been a whirlwind few days back in spring, ending with Pearce holding Sam at gun point in a tower block in London, with a police inspector begging for his life.

  Now, as Pearce glanced around his tiny, hidden office, he realised it was worth it. He may have earnt even more disdain from his colleagues, but he took heart that he, like Sam Pope, knew why they’d acted the way they had done.

  Why they’d ventured down the unreturnable pathways.

  It was the right thing to do.

  Pearce sighed, giving his stretched, vague reflection one final glance before pushing himself from his desk and headed towards the door. He chuckled, realising that the only use he had for his computer was for a dodgy mirror. Throughout the years, Pearce had preferred to do things the old-fashioned way, ignoring the digital world as it slowly seeped into the Met. Then, out of nowhere, technology leapt forward and suddenly Pearce was being asked questions about cloud storage and online records.

  He wasn’t much of a computer person. And he preferred it that way. As far as he was concerned, the world was so entrenched in the internet nowadays, that a one-day outage would bring half the city to a standstill. He had read recently that the bus stop time tables run off an internet source provided by a leading phone company.

  The thought of that terrified him, especially if the phone company went the way of the train companies and decided to hold the city to ransom whenever they wanted a pay rise.

  Meandering through the corridors, Pearce soon pushed the doors open to the Scotland Yard building, the rain instantly slapping him in the face with a cruel, freezing hand and he pulled his coat tight to his body. He passed the iconic spinning logo and headed across the street to the local Starbucks, the idea of piping hot caffeine had assumed dominance over his brain.

  The past few days had been a blur. Sam Pope had been working diligently for the last six months, knocking off known criminal safe houses and sending a number of the police’s most wanted to hospital. From there, it was a relatively easy process to steer them towards a prison cell. But over the past few days, something had changed and attacking these gangs had led to killing, with three confirmed kills in the abandoned factory in Shepherd’s Bush and the brutal torture of Leon Barnett.

  As Pearce had suggested to Singh, it appeared that Sam Pope now had a time limit.

  Singh had agreed, and Pearce found himself thinking of the young DI. She had made quite the impression the first time she’d barged into his office, making wild demands and treating him with the same lack of respect as her peers. But, as the scope of her task became clear, she’d humbly asked for his help and as far as Pearce could tell, had begun a friendship with him.

  As far as he was concerned, if anyone could stop Pope, it was probably her.

  What concerned him more, was he wasn’t sure if he wanted her to.

  Pearce ordered his double-shot latte and waited to the side of the counter, wondering what bizarre way they would try to spell his name on the cup. He enjoyed a Starbucks coffee, but their nonsensical way of marking up orders always baffled him. Pearce stood still, his eyes closed, taking in the hustle and bustle around him, the hum of the machines, and the gossip of the young women behind him.

  The rich smell of coffee filled his nose.

  Pearce felt, for a moment, at peace.

  ‘Aidan?’ The barista called out, her impatient eyes scanning the room. Pearce, realising their mistake smiled warmly and took the cup, the piping hot coffee instantly warming his hand. He strode to the small unit that held the sugar sachets and as he selected two small packs of brown sugar, he felt the presence behind him.

  A recognisable voice quickly invaded his ears.

  ‘I never pegged you as a sugar man.’

  Pearce’s entire body tightened. His spine stiffened as if an ice cube had just been slid down the back of his crisply ironed shirt. His hand tightened around the Styrofoam cup, threatening to crush it entirely and spray the coffee shop in its own juices. It wasn’t the voice itself that had caused the shock. In some ways, he had been expecting it for a while now.

  It was because it was in the coffee shop opposite the busiest police building in London. The same building that was the headquarters for the task force set up in the man’s honour. Pearce took a moment, gathered his thoughts, and recomposed. Then, with a wry smile across his face, he turned and faced Sam Pope.

  Pearce couldn’t help but offer a warm smile.

  ‘Why? Am I sweet enough?’

  Sam nodded and his lips quivered, threatening to break into a smile of their own. Pearce admired how casually Sam stood, a stone’s throw away from the building that he once worked in.

  That now offered him nothing but confinement.

  Sam sipped from his own coffee, his leather bomber jacket still slick from rain and the hood of his under layer flapping over the collar. His hair was cut shorter than six months ago, but Pearce doubted that regular trips to a hair dresser were top of Sam’s to-do list.

  The man was a soldier.

  Fashion wasn’t a priority. Only the mission. Pearce quickly glanced around, looking for any colleagues. Sam noticed, leaning forwa
rd for a napkin.

  ‘Relax, I’m just a handsome man getting some coffee.’

  Pearce smirked.

  ‘Same here.’ He turned to the stand, reaching for a stirrer and swirling it into his coffee. He scouted the place once more, refusing to look at the most wanted man in the City. ‘It’s good to see you, Sam.’

  ‘Likewise,’ Sam said, taking a sip. ‘I hear they didn’t promote you after you brought in the head of the snake.’

  ‘Well, not exactly,’ Pearce replied dryly. ‘I did get a new office.’

  Sam nodded, his trained eyes flicking around the Starbucks, taking in every detail for the umpteenth time. There were seventeen customers seated around the premises, three of which could potentially be police officers based on their disposition. There were eight steps to the front door, a further fifteen to the back. Four members of staff on shift and a cleaner currently in the disabled toilets.

  It would be an easy escape if he needed to.

  But he needed something else. Sam took another sip, waited for Pearce to stop stirring his coffee and give him his attention.

  ‘I need your help.’

  Pearce took his own sip, deliberately swashing the coffee in his mouth.

  ‘Last time you asked for my help, you ended up thumping me in the face and diving into that river over there.’ Pearce nodded through the rain-soaked window to the restless Thames beyond. ‘I’m in.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘But…’ Pearce turned to Sam, locking onto him with his dark eyes. ‘You need to tell me what the hell is going on.’

  ‘I don’t have time, I need…’

  ‘Make time,’ Pearce demanded. ‘You went from delivering criminals on a silver platter to sticking them in the goddamn morgue. They have an entire task force up there, dedicated to bringing you in. Hell, they have even given you a nickname. Do you know what that is? It’s the Watchdog!’

  Sam scoffed, mulling it over.

  ‘I like it.’

  ‘Yeah, well you won’t like the woman in charge. DI Singh. She’s a storm in a tea cup and she’s got a real hard on for you. If she knew I was talking to you, she’d throw us both in a hole for the rest of our lives. So if you want me to go further down this rabbit hole with you, then I deserve the goddamn truth.’

  Sam knew he was right. He sighed, turning so he and Pearce both leant against the stand, both of them facing the large counter, where two Japanese tourists were ordering their lunch.

  ‘Just before I took down Elmore Riggs, a man was brought in at gunpoint. He had no business being in that room with those men. Turns out, he’s a dad whose daughter went missing and that was her last known location.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Pearce was already stroking his beard in frustration.

  ‘The guys who took her, they snatch teenage girls off of our streets, dump them in a truck, and get paid five fucking thousand pounds.’ Sam gritted his teeth in anger, his fists clenching. ‘The name Leon Barnett mean anything to you?’

  ‘You mean the mutilated man you sent our way this morning? Yeah, he was the head of The Acid Gang.’

  ‘That was them. The people who took her. Who take all of them,’ Sam spat. ‘But who pays them, that’s where I need your help.’

  Pearce stared vacantly ahead, a blur of shoes passed his vision as customers passed his line of sight. He took a final swig of his coffee and thought about the choice he had to make. He was already being managed towards the exit, that much was obvious. The police couldn’t sack him for bringing down a superior officer. He should have received a medal. But the ‘rich boys’ club’ that scratched each other’s backs with fifty-pound notes had made it quite clear he would never get a sniff of their arses again. Tucked away in a cupboard and given busy work until a mind as capable as his couldn’t take it anymore.

  They had pushed him into a corner.

  Literally and figuratively.

  If his access to police resources was dwindling, then he was going to use it to do some good.

  ‘What do you need?’ he finally said with a sigh.

  ‘Leon told me everything he knew. I didn’t really give him much choice,’ Sam said coldly. ‘He didn’t do the snatch or drop himself, but he said that she was dumped in a van behind KFC by the stadium. So any access you can get to CCTV would be…’

  ‘That’s going to take at least two days to get the clearance to footage and…’

  ‘Pull some strings,’ Sam demanded, frowning.

  ‘Listen, son, I don’t have strings to pull anymore. Do you understand? Ever since you cleaned up the High Rise and put Howell behind bars, I’ve been shunted so far down the fucking ladder I need a whole new one just to reach the first rung.’

  ‘I have a bank account too,’ Sam said hopefully.

  ‘Now that, I can run with,’ Pearce said, appreciating Sam’s frustration. The man was hard wired to protect people and the idea of a teenage girl being sold into European sex slavery made his stomach flip. Pearce had never been a father, but he knew how personal this would be for Sam.

  Protecting a child from harm.

  Sam’s horrible past came back to Pearce and he looked at the man before him. Despite his tough exterior and deadly training, Pearce knew that Sam was broken. The loss of his son had caused him to withdraw from the world, losing his wife and eventually the line between right and wrong. But since he had embarked on his quest for justice against organised crime, Pearce could appreciate how easy that line was to blur.

  The right thing to do wasn’t always the lawful thing to do.

  That much was becoming clear.

  ‘What’s the account?’ Pearce finally asked.

  ‘Burn Group Inc.’ Sam shook his head in disgust. ‘They get payments of five grand into that account. Whatever you can find, whatever you can trace.’

  ‘Okay. Wait … how do I contact you?’

  ‘You don’t.’ Sam quickly glanced around ensuring no one was in ear shot. ‘Tomorrow. The one place I’ll never be scared to go.’

  Pearce nodded his understanding and Sam reciprocated. Sam looked around once more before pulling his hood over his head and stuffing his hands into his pockets. He offered a friendly smile as he headed for the door.

  ‘Thank you, Pearce. I owe you one.’

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ Pearce muttered. ‘What about the CCTV?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Sam said, not turning back. ‘I know a guy.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  The sterilised aroma of the hospital bought back horrible memories for Singh as she charged through the corridor, remembering watching her dying grandad fade away from her when she was sixteen years old. Despite her strict Hindu upbringing, Singh’s grandfather had always told her to follow her own path in life. He used to tell her that fate held something else for her, something which she would be able to wear with pride.

  Her Metropolitan Police Badge was testament to that.

  Once he had died, she felt even more pressure from her family to fall in line with the life they’d chosen for her, which caused her throw herself into Mixed Martial Arts and a career on the front lines.

  Singh was tough. Physically, mentally, and emotionally.

  But as she stepped through another set of doors, she couldn’t help but feel a slight flicker of pain, remembering the sixteen-year-old girl who held onto her grandfather as he slipped away from the world, tears rapidly sliding down her cheeks.

  She could be whoever she wanted to be.

  Do whatever she wanted to do.

  That’s what he had told her.

  Now, as she barged her way towards the nurse’s station on the fourth floor of Central Middlesex Hospital and with the pressure of Sam Pope’s one-man crusade against every gang in London, she wanted to speak to the one man who might be able to make sense of it.

  As she knocked impatiently on the desk, a senior nurse scowled over the top of glasses, her Irish accent as thick as her ginger bob that framed a wrinkled face.

  ‘Manners don’t co
st you a penny, my dear.’

  Singh held up her badge.

  ‘Detective Inspector Singh, Metropolitan Police.’

  ‘Ma’am.’ The nurse stepped forward, clearly regretting her curtness earlier. ‘I’m Sister Conway. How can I help?’

  ‘Thank you, sister.’ Singh noted the smile from the woman who clearly believed in respect. ‘A young man was brought in here not too long ago, I believe. Severe injuries to his hands and face.’

  ‘Ah, the poor young man.’

  ‘I need to speak with him.’

  ‘Follow me.’

  The sister stepped out from behind the desk, beckoning Singh to follow. As they stepped through the ward, Singh noticed the plethora of rotas and signs adorning the walls, each one of them filled with countless pieces of information. The corridors were filled with trolleys of medicines and supplies, the nurses working at double speed to get round to all of their patients. Each room was split into four-quarters, each one containing a bed and an unfortunate occupant. Their only sliver of privacy was a thin, blue curtain affixed to a curved rail that slithered across the ceiling.

  One man was hunched forward, coughing violently while a nurse rubbed his back. A few others lay motionless, staring numbly into space.

  As they passed another room, Singh was treated to the same view, watching as one nurse scurried between beds to helpless patients, understanding the charts that sat at the end of their beds and the notices placed on the walls above. Singh watched with admiration as the young nurse smiled a beautiful smile at a cantankerous old man and calmly approached him.

  The NHS had been fighting a losing battle for years, the government doing its best to bleed it dry before Americanising the healthcare system. Until then, Singh could only applaud the people keeping it ticking over, despite the barriers in their way.