The Final Mile: A SAM POPE NOVEL

by Enright, Robert

  Glen sat quietly, working his way through another packet of cigarettes as he thumbed his way through a pointless game on a cheap, throwaway phone that Chapman had provided. A few inmates were brought to Chapman, offering up whatever valuables they had or favours they could offer in exchange for a phone call or a fix. Once agreed, Glen would fetch their request from the cupboard and send them scurrying.

  After a relatively quiet meal, Sam spent the rest of his evening lying on his cell bed, devouring his book and appreciating the lack of interruptions. The one time he saw Sharp, stood stoically in the corner of the canteen, the deputy warden refused to make eye contact with him.

  The following day was much the same, with a morning spent reading in Chapman’s cell, listening as he barked orders and threats into his phone, while demanding a fresh coffee from the guard who went scurrying away like a bumbling waiter.

  After another delicious lunch, Sam found himself with the freedom of the exercise section of the courtyard and despite the snide comments from Glen, he put himself through his paces. The stiffness in his shoulder had all but gone and although his back gave him the odd flicker of pain, he found himself feeling revitalised after a good workout.

  As the other prisoners filtered out into the courtyard for their own hour of fresh air, Sam slowly made his way back to Chapman’s side, ready for another peaceful afternoon of reading. As he sat down beside Chapman, dabbing at his sweaty brow with a rag, Sam noticed Glen had disappeared.

  ‘Where’s Glen?’

  ‘Working,’ Chapman replied coldly, his eyes fixated ahead. Sam followed the gaze and saw Glen calmly talking to a clearly terrified inmate. The man, a chubby, balding man in his mid-fifties, was pleading with Glen but the cruel smirk on Glen’s face told Sam it wasn’t going to work. Resound to his fate, the prisoner slowly followed Glen back towards the bench where Sam and Chapman sat, his head lowered in defeat. As he approached, Chapman snapped into action.

  ‘Jimmy.’ He spoke in a condescending tone. ‘You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you?’

  ‘Please, just give me another week.’ Jimmy was shaking with fear, trying his best to maintain his composure. ‘I’m good for it.’

  ‘But you’re not, are you? Look at me when I’m talking to you.’

  Jimmy did as he was told, and Sam shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. A group of inmates were watching on with interest. The guards had all turned away.

  ‘Please…’ Jimmy’s voice trailed off.

  ‘Three bets over the last six months, none of which you’ve been able to pay. You know the rules.’

  Chapman motioned to Glen, who launched forward, wrapping his arm around Jimmy’s throat locking him in place. Glen thrust a knee into the back of Jimmy’s legs, dropping him to his knees before slamming the man’s hand down on the bench, locking it in place with a firm grasp of his wrist. An audible wave of excitement weaved through the watching crowd and Sam shook his head.

  ‘Now…I’ll go easy on you. Just the one.’

  Chapman held up a finger on his left hand, but with his right, he theatrically slid the blade up on his box cutter. Jimmy squealed in terror, but a sharp knee to the spine stopped his squirming. Chapman then turned to Sam, offering him the box cutter.

  ‘Take his pinky.’

  Sam stared at Chapman in disbelief, his instinct to take the man down overshadowed by the dire situation he was in. He needed to gain Chapman’s trust, to be part of the gang and a refusal to fall in line would undercut the reputation he’d already established with the other prisoners.

  It would also see him struck from the group and undoubtedly be put back in Sharp’s firing line.

  Do what you can to survive.

  Harris’s words echoed in his mind and reluctantly, Sam took the blade, offered the terrified man an apologetic look and in one swift movement, sliced through the man’s bone. He screamed in agony before passing out, the myriad of pain and shock rendering him unconscious. The guards swiftly moved in, hoisting the prone inmate away for medical attention.

  A terrified silence swept across the courtyard, only interrupted by the click of Glen’s lighter as he partook in a celebratory smoke.

  With his hands covered in blood, Sam handed the cutter back to an approving Chapman, swallowing his own nausea at the barbaric act. Reminding himself that the man he’d disfigured was a violent criminal, Sam stared at the blood on his hands and wondered how long he would be to keep this up.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Getting a meeting with Police Commissioner Michael Stout was one of life’s hardest tasks. As head of one of the world’s leading police institutions, the man was constantly on the move. A number of his scheduled appointments were more political than anything else, as a man of his power and status needed to be seen in the right rooms with the right people. Despite a glistening career that had spanned almost three decades, he was not entrusted with his own words. Reporting directly to the Home Secretary, every public speech was carefully crafted by a team of highly literate professionals, all to ensure that the public message was clear and concise.

  It was a high-pressure role that Singh had no desire to fill.

  The fact Ashton would soon be sitting in the seat filled her with a sense of dread, but considering the political game she relished, Singh had to admit she would be a good fit.

  There was enough steel in Ashton to take the inevitable criticism of the public, but after her shocking revelation the day before about Sam’s transfer, there was also a perverse side that Singh knew a position of that magnitude needed.

  Ashton played her own games, focused on what she wanted, and she did so seemingly within the confines of the rules.

  But Singh needed to know exactly what Ashton had put in motion.

  After spending the entire day calling Commissioner Stout’s PA, requesting an urgent meeting, she’d finally managed to attain a five minute window at the end of the day, just before he was due in a cabinet meeting at Westminster.

  Stout’s office took over a quarter of the top floor of New Scotland Yard, the views from the window offering a tremendous view of the city he protected. Sat in the PA’s office, Singh thumbed through her phone, trying her best to research government facilities but they were either general articles or off limits.

  Although her status as the Met’s shining star had granted her an audience with Stout, she still had access permissions in line with her paygrade.

  On the other side of the lavishly decorated room, Stout’s PA, Marie, was frantically typing away on her keyboard, all the while juggling phone call after phone call. Singh chuckled at the thought that she was as busy as the commissioner himself. She’d arrived fifteen minutes before her allotted time, agreeing to wait patiently as Stout was currently in a budget meeting. The thought of overseeing the organisation finances was just another reason why Singh never wanted to climb that high.

  As the clock affixed to the wall ticked past her appointment time, she fidgeted on her chair, drawing a wry smile from Marie.

  ‘These meetings tend to overrun, I’m afraid.’

  Singh nodded politely, doing her best to hide her agitation. Another minute fell from her small window of opportunity and just as she was about to remonstrate with Marie about the commissioner’s time keeping, the door flew open. A bespectacled man carrying a laptop and a few folders bounded out towards the stairs looking as if he’d just been tied to a chair and beaten. Commissioner Stout followed swiftly, sliding his arms into his jacket as he closed the door behind him.

  He didn’t even notice Singh.

  ‘Marie, ask Mohit to bring the car around.’

  Without thanking her, he strode towards the door and Singh leapt from her chair.

  ‘Commissioner Stout?’

  He turned, clearly in a hurry.

  ‘Detective Inspector. Wonderful to see you as always.’ Singh nodded and she saw the confusion on her his face. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I have an appointment with you, sir.’
/>   ‘Well, we’ll have to take it on the road. Walk with me.’

  Without waiting for her response, he pushed open the door and left the office with Singh scurrying behind. As he descended the steps at a pace that made a mockery of his advancing years, all the officers he passed stopped and saluted. A man of the people, he acknowledged every one of them, much to Singh’s annoyance.

  ‘Sir, I need to speak to you about Sam Pope.’

  ‘Yes, quite. A fantastic piece of work there, Detective. I did ask for Deputy Commissioner Ashton to pass on my praise.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. But I’m not here to pander my ego.’

  Stout chuckled out loud, appreciating the straight talking of a prominent detective with a reputation for her bullish nature. He stepped off the bottom step and headed towards the door where a large, Mercedes C class was waiting.

  ‘Anyway, you can put that matter to bed now. Sam Pope is behind bars thanks to your sterling work.’

  ‘But, sir, I need to follow up my investigation with him but I can’t get access to him.’

  With the automatic door to the building opening before him, Stout stopped and turned to her. A gust of wind flew through the reception, a sprinkling of rain on its coat-tails. He raised an eyebrow at her.

  ‘Singh, if you need access to the prisoner, you need to go through the necessary channels.’

  ‘That’s the thing, sir. I need to know which prison you transferred him to.’

  Stout laughed, shaking his head.

  ‘I signed the papers to lock him away in Pentonville,’ Stout said, clueless. ‘I was told you were at the trial?’

  ‘You didn’t sign any others?’

  Stout regarded her with a fleck of irritation in his eye.

  ‘Is there a problem here, Singh?’

  It was clear to Singh that the commissioner had no idea what had happened. Whatever transfer papers had been signed by the commissioner hadn’t come from his office. Which meant that either Ashton had forged them, or someone wanted Sam locked away from the world.

  After a few seconds of contemplation, Stout’s tone stiffened.

  ‘Detective, I asked if there was a problem?’

  ‘No, sir. No problem.’

  Stout nodded his head firmly, pulled his coat tight, and stepped out into the spring shower, darting to the back door of the car which was held open for him by the driver. As the car pulled away, Singh watched with her hands on her hips, wondering what the hell was going on.

  * * *

  As they sat for dinner that evening, the entire canteen was silent. There were no hushed conversations or empty threats exchanged between the inmates. Even the guards, usually keen to assert their authority, were uncharacteristically subdued. It was if Sam’s act of debt collection and solidification as Chapman’s muscle had ushered in a new reign of fear.

  Sam sat quietly, picking at the mash potato on his plate, his appetite long evaporated.

  Chapman was basking in his achievement. Having Sam under his command had once again elevated his control over the facility and he made no effort to hide the grin across his face.

  When the door opened midway through the meal and Ravi hobbled in, there wasn’t even a murmur. With his arm covered in a cast, Chapman’s henchman glared at Sam, but took his seat alongside him at the table. Sam shrugged, pushed his plate away, and headed back to his cell, hoping that an evening reading would take his mind off the situation.

  It didn’t help, despite two hours of staring at the pages.

  He had promised his son he would read more and as a way to cope with the grief of losing him, Sam had absorbed many books during his absence.

  Lucy would have been proud, knowing that Sam was keeping a promise to their son. The fact he’d broken his other and had killed numerous criminals only underlined how correct she was to leave him.

  During the few weeks before his transfer, he heard that she’d given birth to a baby girl. Happily remarried to a man named Jason, Sam always felt his heart break whenever he thought of her.

  Although she’d moved on, she’d never recovered from what had happened to their son.

  To their life together.

  They had been wildly in love from the moment they’d crossed paths in a club, with Sam enthralled by the combination of her wit and her beauty.

  They built a wonderful life together, living in a quaint house in Ruislip just outside of London and when they welcomed Jamie into their lives, Sam felt complete. He had been discharged from the army after the horrors of Project Hailstorm and had a real future worth fighting for.

  But by failing to protect their son, he’d lost everything.

  Now, as he sat in his tiny cell, in a prison only those in a privileged position knew about, he wondered how she rebounded from the devastation in a way so drastically different to him.

  It was a loaded question; one which Sam already knew the answer to.

  He was a born killer.

  But through it all, Sam had always carried a sense of nobility. Whether he was staring through the scope of his sniper rifle in the middle of a tour, or wiping out a criminal empire, it was always for the greater good. Now, as he recounted Jimmy’s howls of anguish, he tried to trace back to where he finally crossed the line that kept him from the other inhabitants of Ashcroft.

  Before his thoughts could lead him any further down the depressing rabbit hole, a metal baton clattered against his cell door, breaking his train of thought. Moments later, the door opened, and a guard poked his head in.

  ‘Guvnor wants to see you.’

  Sam sighed.

  He was being beckoned. Like a lap dog.

  Sam lifted himself from the bed, nodded his thanks to a nervous guard, and then walked through the empty corridor. As he headed towards Chapman’s makeshift office, he could feel the envious eyes of the other inmates peering through the small peephole of their cells. Approaching the door, Sam could hear Chapman on the phone.

  ‘If he doesn’t want to cook, offer him more money. That prick may be a smart-arse, but he makes the purest fucking meth in the country.’ Sam waited just outside of the door as Chapman continued his conversation. ‘I don’t give a fuck, Dom. Get him onside or put a bullet in your own fucking skull.’

  Chapman tossed the phone down on the desk, giving Sam his cue to enter. As he stepped into the doorway, Chapman was leant forward, elbows on the tables, and massaging his temples in anger.

  ‘Everything okay?’

  ‘Sam.’ Chapman snapped out of it, looking somewhat embarrassed by losing his cool. ‘Come in.’

  Sam stepped in anxiously. Without Glen hankered down in the corner, surrounded by a cloud of cancerous smoke, the cell looked a little bigger. Although he wondered how they would all fit inside now Ravi had returned and something told Sam that Ravi wouldn’t be too keen sitting on the floor. As he lowered himself onto the leather cushion of the bench, Chapman reached under the desk and pulled out a bottle of whisky. He shook it proudly at Sam, then retrieved two mugs from the shelf above.

  ‘I thought we could have ourselves a little drink,’ Chapman said, pouring two generous helpings and handing one to Sam. ‘To a job well done.’

  Reluctantly, Sam clinked his mug and took a sip. Never one for a whisky, Sam was surprised how nice the burning sensation was as it slid down his throat. In a place where luxury was prohibited, being afforded one certainly added to the flavour.

  ‘You wanted to see me?’

  ‘I thought it would be a good idea to get to know each other a little better. What do you think?’ Chapman smirked.

  ‘I’ve heard better ideas.’

  ‘That’s the spirit.’ Chapman chuckled and took a sip. ‘Your dry sense of humour will keep you sane in here a lot longer than snorting any of my shit up your nose, I’ll tell you that for nothing.’

  ‘Then why do it?’ Sam asked, coughing slightly at the extreme heft of the drink. ‘Why give them the option?’

  ‘Because I can. Because I run this fucking pla
ce. I know you have this moral code that paints you like a martyr, but the harsh reality is this place needs someone like me. I keep the inmates in line a shite sight better than the guards do and the poor fuckers in their cells get to block out the horrible truth of their existence.’

  ‘And you? What do you get out of it?’

  ‘Jesus. Fucking twenty questions. I get what I always have. Power. They can put me in this place, throw away the fucking key, and I still have every fucker in here dancing on command. Guards, inmates…hell, even the legendary Sam Pope.’ Chapman finished his drink and poured another, reaching over and topping up Sam’s mug. ‘So, answer me this, Sam. How the fuck did you end up in here, anyway?’

  Sam baulked at the question, taking his time to find the right words. There was something unnerving about Chapman, a strong sense of intimidation underpinning his charm. Sam could see how a man like him could rise to the top of the underworld.

  ‘Same reason we all did, right? I broke the law.’

  ‘Don’t give me that shit.’ Chapman’s words carried a slight inebriation. ‘You’re the hero of the country. You were taking down drug dens, killing foreign pimps. Hell, they even said you exposed a global terrorism unit.’

  ‘Guilty.’ Sam smiled. ‘Hence why I’m in here. It doesn’t matter why we do the things we do. Eventually, we all have to face the consequences of our actions, this side or the other.’

  ‘Wow. That’s some deep thinking.’ Chapman shook his head and then looked at Sam with a pitiful frown. ‘I guess we’re not that different after all.’

  ‘Oh, we are very different.’

  ‘Are we?’ Chapman topped up his drink. ‘I read all about you in the papers when you were on trial. They were fascinated by you. Some of them pegged you as a crazed soldier, unable to step away from the war and blah blah blah. Others said you were doing it because your son was killed, and the law did nothing.’

  Sam shifted uncomfortably on his seat, staring at his drink. Chapman continued.

  ‘I’m sorry that happened to your boy. When I was younger, my brother, Mike, was killed by a local drug dealer. Being a scummy family from an East End estate, the police did nothing. Chalked it off as just the rats eating each other. There was no justice for Mike, so I made damn sure the fucker responsible got what was coming to him. The rest, as they say, is history.’