Paul Etheridge’s house.
Singh didn’t know why she’d driven there and told Etheridge as much when he answered the door. Despite her confusion, Etheridge had welcomed her in with a smile and led her through to his kitchen. Six months before, the house had been overly opulent, with the millionaire tech mogul living the lavish lifestyle his salary could dictate. Singh recalled sending an Armed Response Unit in to extract Sam, only to hear the gunfire and later find her team incapacitated.
Sam had never shot to kill.
Each of his shots had been pinpoint to the legs of her team, and although they all suffered immense pain, none of them experienced anything other than flesh wounds.
The shots were meticulous.
Innocent people didn’t suffer at the hands of Sam Pope.
Not directly, anyway.
Etheridge could attest to that. A few weeks after Sam had disappeared to Europe, Singh had sought his help, along with her then trusted ally, DI Adrian Pearce. They had found Etheridge beaten, tortured, and losing blood. While they’d saved his life, Singh knew that Etheridge’s ordeal was due to his links to Sam.
A man in black.
The same description Aaron Hill had given after he’d been threatened by the man hoping to find Sam.
Whoever the man was, he was dangerous, and Singh had wondered if the brutish Farukh, whom she’d helped Sam fight, was the man beneath the balaclava.
She wondered.
She hoped.
Since that night, Etheridge seemed to have changed. While he walked with a limp, he walked with purpose. His previously chubby physique had been trimmed down. The house, once perverse in its expensive tastes, was now threadbare.
There was no sign of his wife.
No sign of anything.
The metal brace that wrapped around Etheridge’s knee would most likely be permanent; the bullet that was fired point blank into his kneecap had shattered the bone beyond repair. While Etheridge had the resources to ensure his life was always comfortable, he would be permanently disabled by the injury.
Innocent people didn’t suffer at the hands of Sam Pope.
Not directly.
Now, as she sat on the same patio where she’d first encountered Sam, she listened as the rain clattered against the roof of the gazebo that was protecting them from the water but not the chill of the wind. Etheridge meandered through the open glass door, two bottles of beer in his hand and a smile on his face.
‘Here you go.’
He handed a bottle to Singh with a smile. His original offer of a tea or coffee had been rebuked. Singh’s mind was on the trial that afternoon and she needed something stronger. As he handed her the cold beer, she wondered if her reliance on alcohol was becoming a problem.
‘Thanks,’ she said meekly, taking the bottle and immediately lifting it to her lips. Etheridge lowered himself down onto the step next to her with a grunt and held his bottle out.
‘To Sam.’
Singh nodded and clinked the bottle and both of them took a swig. The wind picked up, rustling through the overgrown garden and the sad silence that sat between them. Etheridge took another sip of his beer before speaking.
‘I never got to thank you for saving my life.’ He shook his head. ‘If you guys hadn’t found me, I’d have bled out.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ Singh said, almost embarrassed. ‘I guess you returned the favour, huh?’
‘How so?’
‘You helped Sam, right? When I got taken by Wallace.’
‘I just sat here and ran surveillance. It was Sam who saved you,’ Etheridge said humbly. ‘Sam and Pearce.’
‘Pearce?’ Singh exclaimed, her eyebrows raised.
‘Did you not know that?’
‘Pearce went behind my back to Ashton and had me suspended. Told me it was for my own good or some bullshit like that.’
Etheridge chuckled, shaking his head.
‘You know, when Sam came back, he went to see Pearce. Thanked him for saving me and what not. Do you know what Pearce told him? He told Sam to keep you out of it, that you had a career and a life that was going places. And then, when you were taken, Sam leant on Pearce to help get you back.’
‘What do you mean?’ Singh could feel the guilt building up inside her, threatening to break through in one of her rare and hated displays of weakness.
‘Who do you think drove the car after the ambush?’ Etheridge shrugged and looked at his knee. ‘Sure as hell wasn’t me.’
Singh felt sick.
Her burgeoning friendship with Pearce had been one of the few shining lights during her entire ordeal with Sam, but she’d cut him off due to his apparent treachery. To hear that he’d risked his own career, even his life, to help Sam save her hit her like a sledgehammer to the gut.
Pearce had recently retired, quietly making his way out through the backdoor after a distinguished career as one of the good guys. She’d treated him with such contempt.
But he’d done it all for her.
To keep her safe.
Singh raised her hand to her eye and dabbed away a tear. Etheridge awkwardly reached out and rested a hand on her shoulder. While he had an effortless charm a crying woman had always been one of his biggest fears.
‘Hey, don’t beat yourself up about it.’
‘I was so horrible to him.’
‘The guy spent thirty years on the force, many of those investigating his own colleagues. I’m pretty sure he’s heard worse.’ Etheridge offered her a smile.
Singh took a deep breath and composed herself. She cursed herself for getting upset.
‘How the hell did we get here?’
‘I’m pretty sure you drove, didn’t you?’
Singh chuckled. Etheridge was a good man, and there was something about him that made her feel safe.
He was one of the good guys.
The world could use more of them, especially as one had recently stepped away from his career and the other was facing life behind bars.
‘My whole career, I was so hellbent on being the best. I was top of my class in everything I did, and I had a very firm grip on what was right and what was wrong.’ Singh stared out into the downpour as she spoke. ‘But then I was tasked with bringing Sam in, to stop a violent vigilante from haunting the city. But the further I delved the blurrier things got.’
‘Sam can do that to you.’ Etheridge scoffed. ‘The prick.’
Singh smiled again.
‘It just doesn’t feel right, you know? What Sam did, taking the law into his own hands, is wrong. But what he was doing it for…I don’t know. I guess sometimes people do bad things for the right reasons.’
‘I’ll drink to that.’
Etheridge and Singh clinked their bottles once more and took their final swigs. Singh placed her empty bottle on the cold, concrete step and stood up, dusting off her trousers.
‘Do you need a lift to the trial?’ She offered, looking back into the house.
‘I’m not going.’
‘What?’ Singh’s eyes snapped back to Etheridge who understandably, hadn’t attempted to get up. ‘Sam needs our support.’
‘I can’t go. You’re the only person who knows I still live here. As far as the Met and the government are concerned, I sold up and moved abroad after my divorce. A way to deal with the heartbreak and the trauma I was put through. If I turn up at the trial, I’ll get nabbed. You and I both know they’re investigating who helped Sam.’
‘So you’re hiding?’
‘Yup,’ Etheridge replied proudly. ‘Because that’s what’s needed right now.’
Singh shook her head in disappointment and headed back towards the door. As she was about to step back into the sparce kitchen area of the house, she turned back to Etheridge, who was staring out over the garden. The rain and wind were dancing in unison through the overgrowth.
‘What Sam needs right now is our support. He sacrificed everything to help those who needed it. I know you have your reasons, Paul, but Sam i
s going to prison for the rest of his life. The least we can do is be there. What else can we do?’
Etheridge sighed and turned to face her.
‘There’s always a plan, Singh.’ He turned back to look out over the garden. ‘There is always a plan.’
Singh pondered for a moment, with Etheridge’s cryptic response sending a bolt of uncertainty shooting through her body like lightning. She opened her mouth to respond but thought better of it. In her eyes, Etheridge was hiding from his responsibility and it hurt her to second guess him. With a resounding feeling of defeat, she walked back through the house and out through the front door. As she headed towards her car, the rain crashed against her, chilling her to the bone.
With a sense of dread, she hopped into her car, pulled away from the curb, and headed back to London.
* * *
With a degree of frustration, Assistant Commissioner Ruth Ashton grappled with her cravat. The black and white chequered garment was a part of her tunic, which she was required to wear on court visits. As one of the most senior and powerful officers within the Met, she knew she needed to look pristine for the photographers who would be swarming around the crown court like vermin.
She hated the press, especially after they’d assassinated Wallace’s credibility in the aftermath of his death.
But it was all part of the job and she needed to look as in control and as professional as possible on what was the biggest day of her career.
Despite the detail behind Sam’s capture, and the irrefutable evidence that Wallace wasn’t who he seemed, she’d still been tasked with bringing the vigilante to justice.
She’d succeeded.
While the news outlets had painted Singh as the superstar who finally absolved the city of Sam Pope, the higher ups were quick to slap her on the back for the part she’d played.
Her ascension to the top job in the Met was somewhat of a formality.
But now, as she struggled with her neckwear, she felt nothing but disgust.
The sound of knuckles rapping on her door broke her concentration and she turned in frustration. Just as she was about to launch a venomous tirade at her intruder, the door opened and she stood to attention, her cravat flopping lifelessly around her shirt.
Commissioner Michael Stout stepped in.
Carrying himself with the assuredness that came with power, he was dressed immaculately. His grey hair was neatly combed to the side, still thick despite approaching his sixtieth birthday. While not a tall man, he cut an imposing figure, his broad shoulders were straight, and he walked with the posture and physical fitness of a man half his age. Commissioner Stout had a distinguished career, from his glory days as a tough bastard on the beat to his phenomenal grasp of office politics.
Many had tried, but nobody had been able to stop his rise to the top of the Met Police, and although he had an air of arrogance from the power he wielded, he commanded respect from every room he entered.
‘Ruth.’ He greeted her with a firm handshake.
‘Sir.’
‘Today is a big day,’ he began, immediately taking his gaze away from her to study the framed achievements that hung from the wall of her New Scotland Yard office. It was a tried and trusted tactic of his, to make the person work for his attention.
‘A great day.’ She corrected, before scorning herself immediately.
‘Quite.’ He shot her a look. ‘I’m not here to heap praise on you for a job well done, as I feel that goes without saying. Getting Sam off our streets was our number one priority and you delivered, albeit with significant collateral damage.’
Ashton felt a twinge of sadness. Wallace, despite what had come to light, had been killed and her affection for the man had seen her end up in his bed occasionally.
‘A regrettable necessity,’ she said, forcing herself to stay as stoic as possible. ‘But we do not deal with failure, sir.’
‘I must say, I have been alarmed by the information that has been made public over the last two weeks. It would seem that perhaps Sam wasn’t the biggest threat to this country’s safety.’
Ashton knew where he was going but refused to rise to the comment. She waited patiently for him to continue, as he slowly patrolled the office.
‘I’ll cut the bullshit, Ruth.’ His candour surprised her. ‘General Wallace endorsed you to take my seat a few days before he was killed. Now, what with the recent revelations about the man, there have been murmurings about whether his word carries any merit. The last thing we need, Ruth, is another scandal. Last year, it was Howell. I need to know, right now, whether there is anything about your relationship with Wallace that could harm this organisation.’
A trickle of sweat ran down the back of Ashton’s neck and she willed herself to show no emotion. Although acting wasn’t her strongest asset, she gave a quick thought and then shook her head.
‘No, sir,’ she replied. ‘He had a keen interest in the Sam Pope task force and seemed pleased with the progress we made. His interest is now apparent, but it shouldn’t detract from the sublime work of my team.’
Stout regarded her with a ferocious stare, searching for any hint of hesitancy. Seemingly pleased, he nodded.
‘Good. Because I echo his sentiments.’
‘Sir?’
The Commissioner gave a deep sigh and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his gloved hands.
‘I’ve been doing this too long, Ruth. There comes a time when every leader has to take stock and decide whether it’s time to hand over the reins.’
Ashton could feel her legs begin to shake with excitement.
‘I think you’ve done a sterling job leading this organisation through tough times. I’ve been proud to serve under you.’
‘Well, I’m not out of the door just yet. But the ball is rolling, and I shall be retiring in two months. The idea of spending this summer worrying about the world was the straw that broke the camel’s back. No, now that the kids are settling down, Cathy and I have decided the time is right to enjoy our twilight years without the stress and the long hours.’
Ashton nodded politely, caring little for the Commissioner’s home life. He hadn’t seemed to notice, and his candour had caught her a little off guard.
‘It will be announced within the next week or so. Make sure you’re ready for the call. I’m sure you will make a fine Commissioner, Ruth. But a word to the wise, whatever rumours are flying around about DI Singh, extinguish them. The powers that be want her front and centre. In their mind, you’ve mentored her and she has fast become a beacon of light for this place.’
As Commissioner Stout headed towards the door, Ashton felt her fist clench in frustration. Despite bringing Sam to justice, Ashton didn’t trust Singh at all. There was undeniable proof that she’d aided and abetted the man on his mission, one which had claimed the life of the man she’d potentially loved.
But the greater good was at stake and she knew Stout was right. If she wanted to sit in his throne, she needed to play the game just as well as he did.
Personal preference was not a route she could take, nor could she allow her feelings to override her thought process.
Singh was a valuable commodity.
If she couldn’t remove her from the equation, she could at least exploit her.
‘In less than two hours time, Sam Pope will be on his way to his retirement home in Pentonville.’ Stout smiled at his attempt at a joke. ‘Make the most of this opportunity.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And for Christ’s sake, sort out your cravat.’
Stout exited the room and Ashton dropped into her comfortable, leather seat. Her exasperation at the conversation threatened to overwhelm her. The past few weeks had been the most trying of her life and having to mourn a man who had been accused of such villainous treachery had almost broken her.
But she’d made it through to the other side.
One that would see her finally take the top chair at the table and become the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Poli
ce. After taking a moment to recollect herself, Ashton stood, approached the mirror that was affixed to the wall, and began tackling her cravat once more, doing her level best to stop the smile that was spreading across her face.
Chapter Four
With the spring showers clearing just in time for the afternoon’s attraction, the sun bathed the Crown Court Southwark in a glorious beam of light. The large, beige building stood on the south bank of the famous River Thames and was made up of over fifteen separate court rooms. While numerous magistrate’s courts were dotted across the capital, the proud building was only one of three crown courts still functioning within the city.
It took a serious offence to wind up on trial within the confines of the building, and the deluge of press vehicles stationed around the front of the building was testament to the severity of Sam’s case.
While the country had been gripped by his arrest ten days before, there had almost been a sense of betrayal in his guilty plea.
The papers wanted the ‘trial of the century’, for a man who had been painted as both hero and villain to have his story told in painstaking detail. Here was a man who had suffered untold heartache, who due to his own sense on injustice, had used his deadly skills to clean up the streets of London. While a number of publications did their best to stay impartial, they all ended up swaying one side or another.
Many vilified him for his actions, despite the people he’d saved and the criminals he’d brought to justice. It went against the very fabric of the country he’d sworn to protect and while his intentions may have been noble; they were also murderous.
The Final Mile: A SAM POPE NOVEL Page 3