The Final Mile: A SAM POPE NOVEL

by Enright, Robert

  By eight thirty, the national news was broadcasting the sensational story of a drugs bust in a meat packing plant and how the Metropolitan Police had, years after his incarceration, finally felled the mighty drug empire of Harry Chapman.

  It was sensational stuff and Singh knew she was too exhausted to face the media. Having been the one to bring Sam to justice, this was only going to launch her further into the public eye, a place she despised.

  Whether it was lucky or not, she knew someone who would jump at the opportunity.

  Singh turned her focus back to the ongoing raid, watching with amazement at the vast supplies of drugs that were seized from the property. Behind the front of the meat packing plant, there were two well concealed drug labs, their work disguised by the overpowering stench of raw meat. The ‘cooks’ were brought out in cuffs, all of them resigned to their fate of a lifetime behind bars.

  It had been a hell of a morning, piled on top of a day filled with confusion and Singh needed to get her head down. Ashton begrudgingly congratulated her on another incredible piece of work, but her mood increased when Singh asked her to cover the media duties.

  Ashton was never one to shy away from the spotlight, not when she could align the bust with her own agenda.

  Singh made her way to her car, dropped into the driver’s seat, and reversed out. Driving carefully through a small gaggle of reporters, clambering over each other for a quote like a horde of zombies on the hunt for fresh meat, she hit the open road and put her foot down.

  Etheridge had just handed her one of the biggest wins of her career on a platter, but she couldn’t muster a smile.

  Not because she was so tired.

  Because she still didn’t have a clue what the hell was going on.

  Singh headed back towards London, knowing that the relentless call of sleep needed attending to before she spoke to Etheridge himself.

  * * *

  With the cameras flashing as she took her seat behind the desk, Ashton couldn’t help but smile. The Metropolitan Police logo was proudly displayed on the board behind her and she gently flattened her immaculate tunic as she took her seat.

  As Deputy Commissioner of the organisation, she was a well known and for the most part, well-respected figure among the press, with many of them already correctly predicting she’d be the next incumbent of the top job.

  Ashton wasn’t going to correct them should they make such a claim, especially as Commissioner Stout had already told her the wheels were in motion.

  As she looked out at the eager journalists, all of them fiddling with their phones, laptops, and notepads, she took a brief moment to reflect on her success.

  Sam Pope was behind bars.

  They had just shut down the biggest drug operation in the history of the UK, a feat that nobody had been able to in over three decades.

  All of it under her command.

  It would take something spectacular to stop her ascension now.

  With an understandable degree of confidence, she pointed at a journalist to begin the questions.

  ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ the young journalist began. ‘First, congratulations on an incredible day for the Metropolitan Police. Can I ask, how did the information about the location of the laboratory come about?’

  Ashton offered a warm smile, a well-rehearsed move that made her a pro at her job.

  ‘Thank you, John. We received an anonymous tip in the early hours of the morning. While we are investigating the source from where it came, I never doubted its legitimacy. Once we were able to secure the warrants to search the premises, we ensured that due care was taken to ensure a successful raid.’

  Her response was met with a flurry of activity, with fingers clicking across keypads and pens scratching notebooks. Despite not actually answering the question in-depth, Ashton knew she had them in the palm of her hand. She waited a few more moments, before pointing towards a bespectacled woman in the second row.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Thanks, ma’am. Original estimates place the value of the drug empire that you’ve brought down to be in the millions, some even saying over a hundred million. Is this the case and if so, is this the most lucrative bust the Metropolitan Police has ever had?’

  ‘Well, until we have the full facts and figures, we won’t know for sure, but considering the lab is linked to the biggest drug ring within the UK, we estimate the value at the highest end of the scale. Without a doubt, this is a glorious day for our country, as by working diligently, we can reduce the amount of drugs and money illegally running through it.’

  As Ashton smiled warmly, she took another question.

  ‘Ma’am, are the reports linking this drug factory to the notorious Harry Chapman true? And a follow up question if I may, if this is the case, how was he able to operate and control an entire operation when he has been incarcerated for over a decade?’

  Ashton shuffled uncomfortably, a slight sneer of agitation creeping across her well-trained smile.

  ‘Crime will never go away,’ she said dramatically. ‘As we are aware, there are people who dedicate their lives to it and taking Chapman off the streets was a momentous achievement for this organisation. But crime doesn’t stop with him and the fact that now, despite the length of time, we’ve cut off the supply line that created his empire, we should be celebrating a job well done as opposed to questioning it.’

  The reporter shook his head slightly and flustered, Ashton turned to another sea of raised hands. She nodded and awaited the question.

  ‘Ma’am, since the trial of Sam Pope concluded, there has been no update on his condition, nor any official word from yourselves or HMS Pentonville. Are you able to update us on Sam Pope’s condition?’

  Ashton’s eyes flickered with a furious envy. Insulted that the press were still focused on Sam as opposed to her, she snapped her response.

  ‘As far as I’m concerned, Sam Pope is no longer an issue that the press or the public need to worry about.’

  ‘But ma’am, considering the public interest in Sam’s trial, and the split belief among them that he was a hero, do you not think that they deserve to know?’

  Ashton slammed her hands down on the table, a gasp echoing from the watching reporters. The Deputy Commissioner was renowned for her composure and seeing a clear act of annoyance would be worth a few lines itself. Embarrassed, Ashton readjusted her cravat, cleared her throat, and leant forward to the mic.

  ‘The Sam Pope situation has been concluded, as has this press conference. Thank you for your questions.’

  Ashton stood, bringing an abrupt and regrettable conclusion to the proceedings. As the reporters called out in the hope of a final question, Ashton marched towards the door, trying her best to keep her cool. Once she’d made her way through the small PR team who offered her praise, she entered her office and slammed the door shut.

  As she sat her desk, she took a few deep breaths. As far as she was concerned, Sam Pope was a non-issue and the sooner the country forgot about his pathetic mission the better. Reaching for the bottle of Scotch in her locked cabinet, she poured herself a celebratory drink and toasted to her own future, knowing that as long as she kept a lid on Sam’s incarceration, she’d soon be sat where she belonged.

  * * *

  Four hours sleep was more than enough for Singh to recharge her batteries and she awoke on top of her covers, still dressed in her shirt and trousers. The previous few days had been exhausting and she pushed herself off the bed, stripped off, and stepped into her shower.

  As the water crashed over her, she felt her energy levels return. For ten minutes, she let the water pour over her, running her hands through her thick, black hair and gave herself a few moments to think. With another high-profile success against her name, she was well aware that doors would open for her. Despite their personal animosity, Ashton would soon be the most powerful person in the Met and Singh was her golden goose.

  She should have been thrilled, but the thought of being used by the woman as
a political tool turned her stomach.

  But that wasn’t the real reason for her unease.

  Singh stepped out of the shower, dried herself off, and dressed herself in jeans and a hooded jumper before heading towards her increasingly valuable coffee machine. The caffeine hit her like a bolt of lightning, and she checked the time. It had just gone one o’clock and she turned on the TV, watching as Ashton settled down behind the desk, a victorious grin across her face. With interest, she watched as Ashton fielded the questions, impressed with the command and ease that the Deputy Commissioner handled the room.

  Singh couldn’t help but smile at the clear irritation Ashton felt at being questioned about Sam and watching her lose her cool at a journalist’s insistence was a welcome treat.

  But Ashton wasn’t the only one irritated by the Sam Pope situation and taking it as a cue, Singh made her way to her car and headed towards Farnham, determined to get the answers that her very sanity rested upon.

  The drive around the M25 was relatively easy, only hitting traffic near Heathrow airport and as Singh turned off at the junction leading towards her destination, she took a moment to appreciate the beautiful countryside. The vast, sprawling green fields were the personification of freedom and she worried about Sam.

  Where was he?

  How was he?

  She would soon find out.

  With a sprinkle of rain dotting her windscreen, she pulled up in front of Etheridge’s house and she stepped out, approaching the locked gate with purpose. Despite the records showing that he’d sold the house and was living in Tenerife, she knew otherwise and she scaled the gate impressively, her daily workouts giving her surprising upper body strength.

  Not caring if she’d been seen or not, she approached the front door which Etheridge pulled open with a smile on his face.

  ‘Amara,’ he said joyfully. ‘Lovely to see you.’

  ‘We need to talk,’ Singh said firmly, marching past Etheridge, who ushered her in like a maître d’. Singh stepped into the hallway, once again impressed by its size. Her modest two-bedroom flat could fit in the living room, especially as Etheridge no longer had any furniture. With his prominent limp, Etheridge led her to the kitchen, and she was reminded of the pain that the man had gone through.

  He had given himself to Sam’s cause as much as she had.

  The kitchen was just as derelict as the front room, with nothing hanging from the walls and the large, marble work tops empty apart from a cheap kettle and toaster. Etheridge pulled open the fridge with a strong arm and pulled out two bottles of beer, opened them on the fridge mounted opener and handed her one.

  Hesitantly, she took it, her brain warning her of her weakness.

  ‘It’s good to see you,’ Etheridge began, taking a sip. ‘I felt bad about how things were left when we last spoke…’

  ‘I need to know what the hell is going on,’ Singh blurted, putting her untouched drink down on the side and walking to the back door, peering out over the garden. ‘Sam is missing, and I feel like I’m going insane talking about it. No one has the answers and then suddenly out of nowhere, you call me with the tip of the century—’

  ‘You’re welcome by the way,’ Etheridge interrupted with a wry smile. Singh turned to him, her eyes watering with concern.

  ‘I just don’t know what’s going on.’

  Etheridge placed his drink down and took two steps towards the detective and placed a caring hand on her shoulder.

  He offered her a warm smile.

  ‘Like I said before, Amara. There is always a plan.’

  Chapter Twenty

  THREE WEEKS AGO…

  ‘What choice do I have?’

  Sam stood in Etheridge’s office, the walls lined with screens offering a selection of security footage, spreadsheets, and nondescript coding. Moments before, Sam had discovered the horrifying truth of his past. Project Hailstorm had hung over him like a dark cloud and his mind had tried to piece together the fragments of the fateful night when he’d nearly been killed.

  Shot twice and left for dead in the wastelands of Afghanistan, Sam had soon discovered that the bullets were from Wallace’s gun. His commanding officer had left him to die as Sam had stumbled upon the truth. Their target was not a known terrorist, but in fact a young man trying to protect his family. A man who had discovered the reality of Wallace’s operation and in doing so, had marked himself for death.

  The files they’d trawled through painted a bleak picture.

  Project Hailstorm had been brought together by Wallace, recruiting the very best soldiers to eliminate what Sam thought were wanted criminals.

  They were never briefed.

  They were given a name and a location, and they would eliminate the target.

  In effect, they’d been a hit squad, spilling the blood of anyone who dared step in the way of Wallace’s domination.

  Blackridge had been the afterbirth, born out of Wallace’s decision to shut down the project and Sam was shipped back to the UK on death’s door. Lucy had lovingly stayed by his side and they’d started a family, one which had cruelly been ripped away from them.

  But after dealing with the truth and accepting the blood on his hands, Sam turned back to the task at hand. He was in possession of a USB stick that incriminated Wallace and every other high-ranking official who had links to the project. Carl Marsden, Sam’s mentor and friend, had been killed for it.

  He had been willing to die for it.

  Sam wasn’t going to let that be for nothing.

  He had to fight for something.

  Etheridge took a sip of his coffee and let out a deep sigh.

  ‘Going after Wallace, not much of a choice.’

  Sam grunted, the stakes had been changed. Moments before, they’d received a call from Wallace himself, boasting about how he’d abducted DI Amara Singh and he now held the winning hand. He demanded Sam hand over the files and himself, otherwise the young detective would die.

  Both Etheridge and Sam knew it wasn’t a bluff, nor was it the truth.

  There was no way Singh would be left alive.

  Wallace would bury her with Sam and there would be no enquiry. The man wielded unprecedented power and the only option they had was to fight back. Sam had stormed out of the house, barking orders at Etheridge to feed him the information he needed to locate his guns and to cut Wallace’s motorcade off. Etheridge had managed to pull Sam back into the house to discuss strategy.

  Sam was a fighter.

  But Etheridge, while not as skilled with a gun, had the brain to formulate a plan.

  They had five hours until Wallace’s motorcade would pass London Bridge, which gave Etheridge minutes to relay his thinking to Sam. With the sand falling in their hourglass, Etheridge had begged Sam for five minutes to run him through it.

  Now, relaying the consequences to him, Etheridge was impressed with how little fear it held to him.

  ‘And you can make this happen?’ Sam asked, turning away from the whiteboard where Etheridge had collated his information. ‘Isn’t Ashcroft the most secure prison in the world?’

  ‘It might be, but there is something you should know.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  Etheridge smiled.

  ‘I built their system for them.’

  Sam’s eyes lit up.

  While he’d been recuperating in Italy after his attack from the mysterious man in black, Etheridge had gotten to work. Sam had been impressed by his newfound focus, stripping away his body fat and giving up his life of luxury. By building an intricate web of lies, Etheridge had convinced the world he’d retired to Tenerife, selling off his company and living a comfortable life under the exotic sun.

  But he hadn’t.

  He had been working.

  After Sam had taken down the High Rises and raged war with the Kovalenkos, Etheridge dug deeper into the records. After quickly finding a link between them, he followed the trail back to Harry Chapman, the notorious crime boss who had been arrested ove
r a decade ago. Now situated behind the secure walls of Ashcroft, he was untouchable. With his resources limitless, Chapman had assumed control of the facility, paying off the guards and still running his empire from the inside.

  The only piece of information not on the board was the one bit that would bring it all down.

  The final domino that would send it crumbling.

  His drug lab.

  Despite Etheridge’s skills, there had been no hint of a location, not enough for him to take to the police. There were numerous possible locations, which Sam could investigate himself.

  But taking down Wallace meant it was a one-way mission and they’d spoken about the outcome being Sam being carted away in cuffs.

  Sam knew it was the only outcome and if he could save Singh’s life, if she was still alive, then he could clear her name and also be put on the road to Chapman.

  Two birds with one stone.

  ‘You do know that once you’re in there, I can’t literally open doors for you,’ Etheridge warned. ‘It would raise alarm bells and they would shut it down and you’ll be in there forever.’

  ‘I know,’ Sam said, not wavering his eyes from the board.

  ‘Ashcroft has the worst of the worst in its roster and a lot of them don’t like you.’ Etheridge hobbled across the room and stood next to his friend. ‘You’ll have to do everything you can to survive.’

  Sam offered him a rare smile.

  ‘That’s what I do.’

  ‘Okay then. Getting the transfer there won’t be difficult. Forging documents is child’s play.’

  Etheridge limped back towards his chair, dropping into the fine leather and taking the pressure off his damaged knee.

  ‘You know, you would make one hell of a criminal.’

  ‘We are criminals, Sam.’ Etheridge chuckled. ‘Now you need to get going if you’re going to do this.’

  Sam nodded firmly, threw his arms through the sleeves of his jacket again and headed for the door. Before he left, he turned to Etheridge.