Very rarely was Singh lost for words, but the revelation that Sam had been swept off the radar hit her like a freight train. A cocktail of fury and fear shook inside her and she took a long, deep breath. Ashton peered up from her desk, a wry smile across her face.
‘Is that all, detective?’
Singh opened her eyes, regarded Ashton with a look of clear frustration and nodded.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
As she angrily wrenched open the door to the office, Ashton sat back in her chair, victorious.
‘As I said, I consider this entire ordeal over. Is that understood?’
Singh slammed the door, ignoring her senior officer’s question and she headed straight for the stairwell, her body clambering for a hit of fresh air and the chance to clear her thoughts. As Singh stepped out into the brisk wind, a gentle splattering of drizzle greeted her. Outside one of the entrances, a few officers were chatting over a cigarette. She walked across the Embankment, looking out across the river once again, regarding the dull, grey city that transformed overnight into a magnificent skyline.
Sam was gone.
He had forfeited his freedom for her and now he was locked away in a place worse than prison. She owed it to him to find out where, to ensure he was okay, and possibly have the decision reversed.
But if Deputy Commissioner Ashton wasn’t willing to talk, then Singh knew there was only one more step up the rung she needed to climb to find the truth.
* * *
When the door to his cell opened the following morning, Sam wasn’t surprised to see Warden Harris. With his hands on his hips and an apologetic smile, the Warden looked like he’d had a rough morning. With his crippling disease increasingly dominating his body, Harris was facing a very real possibility of stepping down from his role.
Either that or he would be pushed.
Sam had enjoyed the peaceful night in solitary. Despite the lack of bed or anything remotely resembling a human touch, he’d regulated his heart rate after the electric shock and soon found himself drifting off into a dreamless sleep.
Most nights, he was haunted by heartbreaking images of his son, his innocent smile beaming towards him. But ever since he’d buried the ghosts of his past and found out the truth about Project Hailstorm, he found he was sleeping easier.
What worried Sam most, was the less he dreamt of Jamie, the further from that life he ventured.
Harris shuffled in, trying his best to hide his discomfort, his left foot barely leaving the ground as he entered the cell, the light from the corridor illuminating his path.
‘You don’t look so good?’ Harris offered.
‘I could say the same thing.’
Harris chuckled and extended his hand, which Sam took. Sam hauled himself up on his own, not wanting the warden to exert any more effort than was needed.
‘Let me guess. You were misbehaving again?’ Harris asked dryly, not believing his own words.
‘If you call being chained to and forced to fight a violent inmate for the entertainment of the prison, then yeah. I was misbehaving.’
‘Christ,’ Harris uttered, to himself more than anyone. He shot a glance over his shoulder, where Sharp stood calmly in the corridor. ‘Not this again?’
‘Oh, I’m not surprised it’s happened before.’
‘Would you be surprised if I told you that we had an issue with our security camera feed last night? For a few hours, we lost all transmission from every camera within the facility.’
Sam shook his head, looking beyond the distraught warden to Sharp, who fixed him with a mean glare.
‘Computer’s, eh?’ Sam shrugged. ‘I’m sure Sharp knows what happened?’
Harris turned to face Sharp once again, who stepped forward to attention.
‘Sir, Pope lashed out at an inmate and shattered his arm. I thought an electric shock was a more than justified approach to restraining him.’ Sharp raised his eyebrow. ‘After all, he did tell us he was dangerous.’
Harris furiously squeezed the bridge of his nose and then walked out of the cell. Sharp smirked at Sam, motioned for him to follow and the three of them headed towards the stairwell. After a few steps, Sharp shoved Sam in the back, drawing a heavy sigh from Harris, who stopped.
‘Sharp, please wait for me in my office.’
‘Sir?’ Sharp protested.
‘Get out of my sight.’ Harris’s change in tone caught Sam by surprise. Behind the deteriorating body, the fire that had seen him entrusted with the most dangerous prison in the UK still remained. ‘I’ll deal with you shortly.’
Sharp held his tongue, shot Sam a look as if it was his fault and then stomped towards the stairwell like a petulant kid. Sam watched him leave before turning back to the Warden.
‘You do realise he thinks he runs this place?’
‘The higher ups see him as a model employee. Tough on the prisoners, but no offence, our guest list is hardly the pride of the country.’
Harris leant forward, pressing his hand against the wall and he gritted his teeth in agony. Struggling to steady himself, Sam reached out to provide some stability.
‘You okay, sir?’
Sam’s kindness took Harris by surprise and he uncomfortably nodded.
‘I’m fine. Thank you. My body just can’t keep doing this.’ Harris straightened up. ‘For what it’s worth, Sam, I don’t think you belong here.’
‘I’ve done a lot of bad things, sir,’ Sam said ruefully. ‘No matter why I did them, I still broke the law. I put a lot of people in the ground. I don’t regret doing it, but I don’t blame the government for putting me here.’
‘Well, if it’s any consolation, I’ve asked them to investigate why your transfer was so last minute. Usually, these things take a few weeks to process.’
Sam shrugged.
‘I guess somebody wanted me in here.’
Harris stood up straight and then motioned for them to continue. As they approached the door, Sam held it open for Harris, who was once again perplexed by the man’s integrity.
He was a soldier. Not a criminal.
As they stepped onto the prison floor, they were greeted by two guards, both of whom Sam recognised from the baiting crowd and both of whom were sheepishly looking at the floor. They were to accompany him back to his cell but before they did, Harris rested a comforting hand on Sam’s shoulder.
‘Until I find out how it happened, do me a favour?’ Harris leant in, speaking quietly to alienate the guards. ‘Just do whatever you can to survive.’
Sam nodded and the warden patted him, before hobbling in the opposite direction, heading towards the lift. Sam knew Harris’s reprimand would fall on Sharp’s deaf ears and most likely, the repercussions would fall squarely at his cell door. After a few hours resting on his bed, he was called to stand, before being escorted to the canteen for the evening meal. The entire room fell silent as he stepped in, a wave of fear washing across the inmates after Sam’s quick and ferocious victory over Ravi.
Sam ignored it, walking calmly to pick up his tray of food before scanning the room for a seat. With Harris’s plea for survival echoing in his mind, Sam took a deep breath and strode across the room. He felt the tension rise in the room, quickly followed by a few terrified murmurs as he approached Chapman’s table.
Sat with a giant grin on his face, Chapman ushered Sam to take a seat. With Ravi in the infirmary, Glen sat silently beside his boss, refusing to meet Sam’s glare.
Sam dropped the tray on the table, the clang of metal echoing through the canteen. Everyone went back to their meals, a new sense of terror running through them. Slowly, Sam dropped onto the chair opposite Chapman and through gritted teeth, realised what he had to do.
‘You win,’ Sam said quietly.
Chapman leant forward, reached across the table, and took a potato from Sam’s plate.
‘I always do.’
In a needless show of power, he crushed the potato in his hand, before wiping it on Glen’s sleeve. Sam lowered his h
ead, focusing on his meal.
He hated himself for doing it, but Harris was right. Sam needed to survive his stay in prison and to do what was necessary, he needed to gain Chapman’s trust.
Chapter Sixteen
That evening, Sharp had watched with glee as Harris had gingerly lowered himself into the back of his car. The driver knew the routine and rolled to a stop at each gate before taking the immobilised warden back to his house.
Harris’s health was in steep decline and it was unlikely he would be back for a few days. A twinge of guilt sat uncomfortably in Sharp’s gut, his actions clearly adding to the warden’s stress, but he would soon forget about it the next time he visited Kayla and paid her to fulfil his darkest desire.
As he bounded out of the office, he mused upon how he could reassert his dominance over Sam.
Breaking the imperious soldier down would be his crowning victory and once he’d proven to the prison that even a man as untouchable as Sam Pope feared him, they would all do the same.
The power he would wield would be unstoppable.
As he made his way back through the prison, a guard informed him of the events at dinner. Stammering his words through fear of repercussion, Sharp could feel his hand shake at the news.
Moments later, a guard informed him that Chapman had requested his presence at his cell.
On his way, Sharp stopped in the bathroom, locked the door, and thumped the glass mirror until it cracked. Despite everything he’d done, he was still not in control.
Harris, for the time being, sat in the office.
Chapman still sat on the throne.
Sharp quickly collected himself, straightened his shirt, and tried his best to control the seething fury that was jack-knifing through his body. There were no guards standing outside the cell, usually on hand to answer any of Chapman’s requests like a highly trained, armed butler.
It was just Sharp and Chapman.
To try to gain a measure of control of the situation, Sharp didn’t knock. He stepped through the door, catching Chapman by surprise. Sat at his small side table, Chapman lowered his head, peering over his reading glasses and sighed. He placed a bookmark into the novel he was reading and turned to face the deputy warden.
‘Sharp. Do come in.’
‘What the hell is going on?’ Sharp demanded, abandoning the calm approach he’d practiced on his journey.
‘I’ve just got to a really good bit, actually.’ Chapman flippantly responded, motioning to his book.
‘Not your fucking book, old man. What the hell is the deal with Pope?’
Chapman exuded menace. Every small mannerism had been carefully crafted over decades of being one of the most powerful criminals the country had ever seen. With a calm that forebode the imminent danger Sharp was in, he slowly removed his glasses, folded them, and then rested them on the book. With his only weakness being his age, Chapman groaned slightly as he stood. He was an inch shorter than Sharp, and father time had relaxed most of his body.
But he stood straight.
His eyes were fixed on Sharp.
They both knew who was in charge in the room.
‘With Ravi out of commission and the considerable damage he has done to my empire, I offered Sam a more amicable way to wipe the slate clean. Or, worded slightly differently, I don’t have to tell you a fucking thing.’
Chapman’s hand shot forward, like a cobra snapping at its prey, and he tightly gripped Sharp by the throat. Shocked, Sharp stumbled backwards and Chapman pinned him to the wall, his fingers digging deeply into the deputy warden’s throat. A trickle of blood emerged from the pressure of Chapman’s nails against his windpipe.
‘Listen here, Sharp.’ Chapman spoke slowly. ‘This is my fucking prison. So, when I tell you right now, that Sam Pope is off limits, what do you say?’
Gasping for breath, Sharp struggled to speak. Through short intakes of air, he spluttered his response.
‘Off limits.’
Chapman relinquished the hold and then gently patted the side of Sharp’s red face.
‘There’s a good boy.’ Chapman turned and stepped back to his seat. ‘Now fuck off, will you? Like I said, I’ve just got to a good bit.’
Sharp stayed pressed against the wall for a few moments, gathering his breath and calming his anger. The thought of grabbing the back of the old man’s head and slamming it against the brick wall until it was nothing but paste crossed his mind.
But he would certainly find himself dead within days.
Realising where the true power sat, Sharp straightened his shirt, marched out of the room, and headed towards the guard quarters, hoping beyond hope that one of his men would speak out of turn so he could offload the fury encaged within.
* * *
Sam felt sick to his stomach.
It had been two days since he’d taken his seat at The Guvnor’s table. By effectively kissing the ring, he’d allowed the entire prison to see that he was not above corruption. Every inmate had targeted Sam upon his arrival at The Grid, many of them eager to tear the criminal killer apart. While some of them had accepted their incarceration and had dedicated themselves to a quiet, peaceful existence behind the fortified walls, there were still a number of exceedingly dangerous criminals vying for his blood.
Because he wasn’t one of them.
But now, having hitched his wagon to Harry Chapman, he’d shown them all that he was no better than they were.
Chapman had maintained his calm, but Sam was certain he couldn’t have been happier. For a man who wielded such power, on this side and the other, having broken the unbreakable and forced him to bend to his whim would have been his greatest triumph.
Chapman had the control.
Always had. Always would.
The first day, Sam’s cell door was opened at nine o’clock in the morning and to his surprise, there was no guard to greet him with a snide comment or an errant baton to the stomach. Afforded the freedom on the prison floor, Sam was guided by uncomfortable guards to Chapman, who had been allocated two cells. One was his personal quarters, which was strictly off limits to everyone, including the guards. Such a statement made Sam scoff in disbelief, but when the occupant had the power and resources to eradicate your family from the face of the earth, you towed the line.
Chapman, however, didn’t take the violent route. The guards were handsomely rewarded for their obedience and Chapman lived a comfortable existence within Ashcroft. The cell which Sam entered was decked out like a small office, with Chapman sat in a leather chair next to a side table. A storage cupboard was pushed into the corner to the side of the door and a bench ran along the opposite wall. It was a tight squeeze, but Sam appreciated the leather cushion that met his rear as he sat down. Glen didn’t seem too keen on his arrival and seemed even less impressed when Sam turned down his offer of a cigarette.
‘It’s fine.’ Chapman encouraged. ‘You work for me, now.’
The implication was clear.
Now that Sam had bent the knee, the guards would no longer focus their attentions on him.
Chapman had nonchalantly told him that Sharp would no longer be a problem.
Sam wished he’d been a fly on the wall when that conversation happened, but he just shrugged and sat quietly while Chapman went about his business. Throughout the morning, The Guvnor took a number of phone calls on his mobile phone, as if he were sat in a London office as opposed to a maximum-security prison. As he barked out orders to his men on the outside, he ended every call by telling Glen and Sam how incompetent criminals were these days.
Although he didn’t disagree, Sam didn’t say anything. He hadn’t agreed to Chapman’s demands to enjoy light banter about the inner workings of a criminal empire.
It was out of necessity.
Just after eleven, a prison guard arrived with three mugs of tea and Sam couldn’t help but smile at the pathetic team in charge of the prison. Harris was in no fit state to change anything, but Sam wondered just how much the warden kn
ew about Chapman’s set up. Despite his disgust that the men put in charge of the criminals were bending over for Chapman, the tea was a wonderful treat.
Sat on a leather chair with a cup of tea was a world away from lying on the cold floor of solitary confinement. The comforts didn’t outweigh the fact he had to spend time with Chapman or inhale a continuous stream of second-hand smoke.
There was little in the way of conversation and Chapman returned to reading his novel while Glen shuffled a pack of cards. Catching Sam eyeing the stack of books atop the cupboard, Chapman encouraged Sam to help himself. The small pleasure of reading was welcomed, and he sat down with a copy of I Am Pilgrim, a thick book that Sam had never heard of. After a few pages, he was engrossed.
A well-prepared lunch was brought to the cell, and Sam understood why every inmate was falling over themselves to find their way into Chapman’s good books. The usual lunchtime meal was a bowl of porridge of questionable quality and temperature, which made biting into the cheese baguette something of a luxury.
Don’t get drawn in, Sam told himself, as he polished off the sandwich and followed Chapman and Glen to the outside courtyard for a private exercise session. Chapman and his confident took a seat in the shade, while Sam took advantage of a vacant weight bench to work out. Slowly, more prisoners ventured into the opening, their hour would be monitored strictly.
Throughout the hour, Chapman kept his eyes on the inmates, intermittently telling Sam to stare at a certain inmate as a thinly veiled threat. He didn’t like it, but Sam followed orders.
He was a weapon at Chapman’s disposal, and after his dismantling of Chapman’s previous heavy, Sam knew he was feared by the rest of Ashcroft’s population, on both sides of the cell door.
The rest of the day was spent reading the book, with Sam finding himself engrossed. Despite falling deeper into the story, he kept his ears tuned to Chapman whenever he took a call.
The Final Mile: A SAM POPE NOVEL Page 13