Others portrayed Sam as a hero for the people, hunting down the criminal underworld that had plagued the city. The unravelling of police corruption, sex trafficking, and even global terrorism proved this.
The trial would have stepped through his life in meticulous detail and journalists and editors alike were rubbing their hands at the word counts and potential pay hikes. Some even callously played upon the hideous murder of Helal Miah, who had died in the midst of bringing Sam’s fight to life. He had been found beaten and hanged in his apartment, killed by a barbaric terrorist who had been hired by the now disbanded Blackridge.
They had martyred him, using his name as almost a badge of honour for how dangerous their profession was and that the world needed to know the truth about Sam Pope, lest his death be in vain.
It had turned Singh’s stomach, as she’d been the one who had brought Miah into the chain of events that had eventually ended in his untimely death.
The whole situation made her feel sick.
As she walked around the corner and stepped onto Battlebridge Lane, she saw the impressive building, the sun shimmering off the large, glass windows. She’d been here before, displayed on the stand to recount the events of an arrest where she’d put a serial rapist behind bars. As the defence attorney had tried to assassinate her character in front of the jury, she’d felt a rising contempt for those who do their best to keep the scum out of jail.
She’d never condoned Sam’s actions, but she knew he didn’t belong with them.
Back then, Singh had worn her police tunic with immense pride, whereas today, she’d settled on just a suit. While she still protected the city with the same ferocity as before, her pursuit of Sam had caused the lines to blur.
Possibly for good.
As she watched the herd of reporters swarming anyone who approached the building, she stopped and looked up to the sky. The English weather always held the fate of the day in its untrustworthy grip but the rain that had fallen earlier that afternoon had since vanished. It drew a smile from her, as she was happy for the small mercy.
She was still angered by her trip to see Etheridge.
While he’d undoubtedly played a part in saving her life, his refusal to show any support to Sam before he was sent down didn’t sit right with her.
As did his final remark.
‘There is always a plan.’
Singh had become a damn fine detective due to her curiosity and having something as vague as that dangled before her was already eating away at her. There was no plan.
How could there be?
Sam had been beaten to within an inch of his life and was now awaiting a life sentence. There was no plan.
There was no way back.
‘Lovely day for a sentencing, eh?’
The familiar voice broke Singh’s concentration and she spun on her heel to come face to face with the warm smile of Adrian Pearce. The retired detective was as casual as she’d ever seen, with his usual resplendent suit replaced with a shirt, chinos, and shoes. He had a jacket slung over his shoulder, the warm breeze removing its necessity. A flurry of thoughts and feelings raced through her body like a shot of adrenaline and she tried her best to wrestle back control. She’d been adamant that Pearce had betrayed her when Sam disappeared to Europe, only to discover today that he’d tried to save her.
With his final act as a member of the Metropolitan Police, Pearce had helped Sam stage a dangerous assault on Wallace’s motorcade and sent the police to bring her back.
It may have seen Sam leave in cuffs, but he’d done it to save her.
Without thinking any further, Singh flung her arms around Pearce’s shoulders and pressed herself against his solid frame. For a man in his fifties, Pearce had always kept fit and he took the brunt of her weight without shifting, before embracing her in their mournful hug. They stood for a few moments, their sadness for Sam and their reborn bond tightening their embrace.
‘I’m so sorry, Pearce,’ Singh eventually said as she pulled back, trying hard to mask the tear forming in the corner of her eye.
‘You don’t have to apologise,’ Pearce said warmly, reaching up and wiping it away. ‘And please, just call me Adrian.’
‘Adrian?’ Singh scrunched her face. ‘That sounds weird.’
‘You can blame my mother.’ Pearce looked over to the mob of reporters, haranguing anyone who dared step foot near the court. ‘I see the cockroaches are back.’
‘I know. It’s a shame we can’t move them on.’
‘Well, I couldn’t even if I wanted to.’
‘How’s retirement?’ Singh asked, her eyes still locked on the mob at the end of the road.
‘Different. But I guess anything would be. It’s not like the last year is something you would get used to.’
They stood in silence for a few moments, their attention drawn to a black Mercedes which rolled past them, the windows tinted black. Behind, a police car followed. They watched as it slowed to a stop in front of the building, the press swarming like a horde of zombies. To a burst of flash photography and a litany of boom mics, the driver stepped out, rudely shepherding the intrusion to the side before pulling open the door.
Assistant Commissioner Ruth Ashton stepped out.
A smile, as smug as a Cheshire cat, was across her face, which she’d accentuated with make-up. Singh had never seen the woman wear anything more than a flick of mascara, but with her impending promotion to the top seat rumoured, she was certainly ready for her moment in the spotlight. Out of ear shot, they both watched as Ashton gave a few rehearsed words to the eager journalists, no doubt commending Singh herself for bringing Sam in.
But Ashton would be sure that they knew it had been on her watch.
This was her moment.
For all the good Ashton had done in a stellar career, her movements behind the scenes had been just as important. Her fine police work had always felt arbitrary to her desire to climb the ladder, and it boiled Singh’s blood that she was being lauded as a hero on the same day Sam would be convicted as a dangerous criminal.
What made it even worse was Singh would have to face the same questions and despite her resentment, she’d have to tow the same line.
It was almost as if Pearce could read her thoughts.
‘Come on, superstar. Let’s get this over with.’
Pearce chivalrously offered his arm, drawing a smile from Singh which relaxed her. She graciously turned it down, straightened her back, let out a deep breath, and marched towards the excited crowd ahead, with Pearce following behind her.
* * *
The inside of the courtroom was eerily quiet. Despite the maximum capacity, everyone was waiting with bated breath. Running down the side of the room was a portioned off section, with the seats behind the wooden fence filled with eager journalists, all of them prepping for their biggest scoop of the year. On the other side of the room, where the jury would have been seated, Ashton took her seat along with a number of other high-ranking officials. Many of them were there to witness her crowning moment. Others were there on behalf of the military, eager to ensure that General Wallace’s killer was brought to justice, despite the overwhelming evidence.
Singh had been ordered by Ashton to sit among them, wanting the world to see that they’d worked in tandem and that she, as the papers had stated, was her protégé. The idea had made her skin crawl, but she towed the line.
Sam had sacrificed his freedom for her. She wouldn’t allow him to go to prison for her to then throw it away.
In the far corner, a small, seated section had been reserved for the public and she noticed Pearce had managed to squeeze through, and he sat calmly, his eyes wandering around the grand chambers.
In the middle of the room, the prosecution team were foraging through their paperwork, their white wigs attached firmly to their heads and cascading down the back of their necks in ridiculous curls.
The traditional attire had always caused Singh an element of amusement and there had been
times where she’d had to stifle a smirk when addressed by a bloodthirsty defence advocate.
But today, the levity of their outfits had no effect on her.
A large, oak desk sat atop an elevated platform at the front of the court room, with an empty leather chair sat behind it like a throne. It would grant the judge a clear view of the entire room, and its current vacancy only heightened the tension. To the side was the witness stand, sectioned off with a thin, wooden partition that wasn’t required for today’s case.
Just in front of Singh, a middle-aged woman sat, her fingers gently gliding over the keys of her stenographer like a concert pianist.
At the far end of the room, a balcony hung, framed with plexiglass. Sam would be led into the room through the door behind it, put on show for the world to see like a dangerous animal at the zoo. With his plea of guilty, there was no need for any representation and Singh was sure that he would take his sentence with dignity.
As the tension in the room began to reach boiling point, the large clock on the wall struck three, and the court officer’s booming voice shook the room. He demanded silence and for the room to rise in respect for the judge. Instantly, the door to the judge’s chamber opened, the honourable Judge Alan Barnes made his entrance, the court room obliging him as they stood. While his position commanded the silence of the room, his stature did not. Short and portly, he shuffled towards the large chair, slightly dipping his head so he could peer out over the top of his frameless glasses. All eyes were locked on him and he did his best to return the gaze with authority. He lowered himself into his chair, grunting as he landed, and he made a show of shuffling the documents before him.
Every movement felt like it took forever and seemingly pleased to begin, Judge Barnes peered over his spectacles once more and deliberately cleared his throat.
‘Court is now in session. Please, bring in the accused.’
Chapter Five
‘But I didn’t do anything.’
Jamie’s protests of innocence were bordering on laughable and Sam had always struggled when it came to disciplining his son. Despite his regimented, military upbringing, and legendary career within the armed forces, there was still something about a child’s naïve understanding of the world that melted his heart. There had been countless times when Sam had needed to mask a grin or stifle a chuckle, because giving a child an inch would mean you were already miles behind.
‘Look, Jamie,’ Sam said, forcing the sternness to his words. ‘Your mum told you not to go out the front when neither of us are with you and you didn’t listen. That’s wrong isn’t it?’
Jamie’s eyes were red from tears, the tantrum of being marched to his room may have faded but Sam knew they were walking a tightrope. Lucy, his loving wife, was downstairs in the living room, her headset affixed to her head and her laptop rested on her lap. Her career as a Marketing Manager meant an awful lot to her, but she’d negotiated two days a week where she worked from home, even when Sam was there. All that would change once Sam began his training to join the Metropolitan Police, but that wasn’t happening for a few more weeks.
For now, Sam was playing the parent and he knew he couldn’t let his wife down.
By proxy, he would let his son down, too. While Sam idolised his son, Jamie had broken a clear rule set by his parents.
Sam appreciated the sanctity of orders, even if he had broken one or two in the heat of the moment.
It had saved lives.
But now, Sam waited a few more moments before asking again.
‘That’s wrong, isn’t it?’
Jamie was lying face down on his bed, the frame of which was built to look like a race car. His blonde hair, which flopped over his forehead, was splayed out across the pillow, while the rest of his body was outstretched like a starfish. The room was strangely neat for a five-year-old, and Sam commended Lucy for installing a neat and tidy attitude within their son. As Sam looked around the room, he finally settled on the growing number of books on the bookcase.
Jamie loved to read.
It was a love Sam had begun sharing with his son and one which Sam had neglected for years. He had always been so focused on his military career, that spending time losing himself in other adventures seemed moot.
But watching his son devour page after page, Sam had decided to show a keen interest in the written word. When he’d asked his son for a recommendation, his son made him promise to read more.
Sam had agreed.
His son had also made him promise to not kill anyone ever again.
Back then, it had been an easy promise for Sam to make.
Eventually, Jamie pushed himself up from his mattress, rubbed his blue eyes, and stared at Sam.
‘I was just trying to help.’
Sam stepped into the room; his brow furrowed in confusion.
‘Help? What do you mean?’
‘I was trying to help the bird.’
Jamie glanced towards the window of his bedroom, and Sam walked across and peered out. On the grass verge outside their house, the carcass of a small bird was buried among a pile of feathers and blood. A cat was pawing at it, approaching the end of its attack.
Sam felt his heart sink.
While he’d been tasked with setting his son straight, he couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of pride. A defenceless animal had been set upon by a bigger, bloodthirsty attacker and Jamie had broken the strict rules of the house to try to come to its aid. Guilt hung from Sam’s neck like a lead chain and he pulled the curtains together to protect his son from the sight.
‘Well, it looks like it worked.’
‘It did?’ Jamie’s eyes lit up and his shoulders straightened. Sam stepped forward and ruffled his son’s hair.
‘It sure did, kiddo. That bird has flown away. It’s probably gone home.’
‘Birds don’t live in a home.’ Jamie giggled. ‘They live in a nest.’
‘Is it as big as our nest?’
Sam reached out, grabbing Jamie under the arms and began tickling, his son contorting in a fit of laughter. It echoed downstairs, and Sam knew he would have some convincing to do regarding his disciplinary technique. But as his son laughed and cuddled into him, Sam didn’t care.
After a few more moments, Sam stopped, stood, and walked to the door.
‘I’ll go and tell Mum that you are sorry, but how about you come down and tell her too?’
Jamie smiled.
‘Okay, Dad.’
‘Good lad. Love you.’
‘Love you too.’ The words sent a jolt of happiness through Sam. ‘Dad, is it really wrong to do the wrong thing if it’s helping?’
Sam took a moment, carefully considering his next words. He looked down at the hopeful expression on his son’s face and smiled.
‘You should always do the right thing.’ Sam nodded. ‘But if you break the rules, you need to be ready to face the consequences.’
Sam believed every word of it, gave his son a playful wink, and then hurried downstairs to remove the body of the bird and to save his son from crushing disappointment.
If Sam had known that just a few months later, his son would be killed, he would have reached out, held him tight, and never let him go.
* * *
Sam shook away his treasured memory of his son as the door to his holding cell creaked open. The court officer, a broad man with thinning dark hair grunted at him.
It was time.
Taking a deep breath, Sam stood and obligingly held his hands out, wrists placed together. The officer stepped in, flanked by another, and he roughly secured the handcuffs, jolting them needlessly and sneering at Sam. Without breaking his stare, or even twitching in pain, Sam smiled at the man, nodded, and then headed to the door. The other officer, who didn’t offer nearly as much attitude, tried to hide his smile at Sam’s response. The other officer shoved Sam in the back.
‘Keep moving.’
Sam refused to respond. He knew that there were a number of police officers
who despised him for his actions, taking his betrayal of law enforcement as a personal attack on their loyalty. He understood and respected it. While he wasn’t ashamed of his actions, he knew there would be eventual consequences and he planned on facing them head on.
He had been brought from his cell at West Hampstead Police Station to Crown Court Southwark in an armoured van, flanked by a police motorcade. While he had no visibility of the streets as they passed them, he’d been sure that it would have attracted attention. From the kinder officers at the station, he’d been informed that he’d become a celebrity, and that his impending sentencing was headline news.
It had disappointed Sam that his capture, and the bizarre cult of celebrity that had consumed the country was seen as more important than the truth about General Wallace and his vile acts of terrorism.
It was why he’d been needed.
To set the world straight.
As he approached the door to the courtroom, the antagonistic officer reached out and gripped his shoulder, making the extra effort to dig his nails in. They crunched down into Sam’s skin, pressing his navy jumpsuit tight against the skin and Sam felt a sharp pain in his shoulder.
A few months earlier, it had been shattered by a bullet. This was nothing but a lame attempt of intimidation.
‘Time to face the music, you prick,’ the officer whispered, as the door opened and Sam was led through.
The entire courtroom fell into an eerie silence and Sam felt the eyes of everyone zoom in on him as he stepped through into the glass balcony that overlooked the courtroom. Transfixed, journalists began to write in their pads, no doubt jotting down the bruises that covered his face and the bandage around his broken hand. Sam looked across to the section where the public were seated, locking eyes with Assistant Commissioner Ashton who shook her head in disgust.
The Final Mile: A SAM POPE NOVEL Page 4