‘Just a bit of sightseeing,’ Sam replied and then quickly added, ‘Sir.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
‘Goddamn it.’
Pearce cursed loudly before reaching out and slapping the side of his computer monitor. He was a self-confessed technophobe and whenever a program he was using gave him the ill-fated white screen and ‘not-responding’ message, he yearned for the good old days of pen and paper. After slapping the screen, he took a moment, chuckling at himself for becoming his father. His dad had eked out a living selling old vinyl records in a small store just outside of Walthamstow.
Spinnin’ Sessions.
Pearce could remember the smell of the shop, the incense his father burned as the speakers pumped out the likes of Marvin Gaye and Bob Marley. His father was a traditionalist, always wanting to preach about how his days where the ‘good old days’ and how his era of everything was better than the current. It was a conversation Pearce found himself having with the kids down at the youth club, finding his own soap box to talk about how the music he listened to in the seventies and eighties was so much better than the current shit on the radio.
It was a ridiculous circle that would be repeated by every generation, with the previous one lamenting the constant need for upgrading, always feeling like their time in the sun was the peak of humanity.
While he hated technology, he did understand the vast improvements it had made to his own detective work, the video cameras, mobile phones, even social media had all played a part in helping him uncover dodgy cops.
Move with the times or be consigned to the past with the other relics.
That’s what Pearce told himself, although the fact he sat in nothing short of a broom cupboard told him the Metropolitan Police were keen to see him put out to pasture.
It was a price he gladly paid for doing the right thing and exposing the corruption that had infiltrated the veins of her Majesty’s police service like a cancer and was killing it from within. He would gladly be shunted to the derelict toilets in the basement if it meant he could hold his head up high and say he did the right thing. After nearly thirty years of distinguished service, he knew when to push back and when to let the powers that be feel in control.
With age came wisdom and that would carry him through.
He feared for Singh.
He sat back in his chair and lifted his mug to his lips, recoiling at the stone-cold coffee that greeted him. Pearce was fond of Singh, enthralled with her persistence and clear distinction of right and wrong. Her record and reputation spoke for itself and he saw a lot of himself in her. She would make a fine internal investigator and he would have no qualms in handing over the Department of Professional Standards over to her.
But the rate she was going, she wouldn’t make it beyond her current post. They’d already ostracized her for the Kovalenko scandal and as she ran headfirst into a collision with a powerful military function shrouded in mystery, he couldn’t help but worry.
She was like him. Heart in the right place.
She was like Sam. Wanting to do the right thing.
Pearce knew he couldn’t stop Singh from her mission but the least he could do was keep an eye on her. Be there for her and to help where he could. He thought of Theo Walker, Sam’s friend who sacrificed himself to save a couple he’d just met for no other reason other than he was a hero.
He was a good man.
Pearce had tried to honour his legacy by continuing to run the Bethnal Green Youth Club and was petitioning to rename it in Theo’s memory. It was the least he could do and while he knew Theo died for the right reason, he didn’t want Singh to end up doing the same thing.
Some fights were not winnable.
A knock on the door snapped Pearce back into the room and he noticed his Word document had finished loading, reminding him that patience was a virtue.
‘Come in,’ he bellowed out, trying to look busy by arranging the stack of papers that polluted his desk, the tiny room looking more cluttered than ever. The door swung open, colliding with the edge of his desk with a mighty thud and in stepped Assistant Commissioner Ashton. Pearce immediately stood, the respect of rank as natural as breathing.
‘Adrian, please. Sit.’
Pearce frowned in confusion, slowly lowering himself back into his leather chair. Ashton was a respected senior officer, known for her tenacity and cut-throat approach. The idea of her being cordial was unsettling.
‘How can I help you, ma’am?’ Pearce asked calmly, eyeing his superior with an uneasy glare. Ashton was in her late forties with sharp features. Her nose was thin and pointy, set between two fierce cheekbones. Her dark eyes burrowed into her small face, giving off a slightly gaunt look. Her short, dark hair rested messily atop her head as she clutched her hat tightly under her arm. AC Ashton was impeccable, the perfect senior officer but manners and friendly banter was not her forte.
‘Oh, Adrian. Please, call me Ruth.’
Again, Pearce smiled, his stomach knotting with unease at the situation. Although he would never disrespect a senior officer unless he had due reason, he couldn’t help but want this conversation over as quickly as possible.
‘Forgive me, ma’am.’ She shot him a look. ‘Ruth. What can I you for?’
Ashton ventured into the tiny office, unable to mask her disdain at the compact mess Pearce called his office. She took a couple of steps to the plastic chair wedged up against the wall.
‘Adrian, how long have we known each other?’
Again, the question sat uneasily with Pearce.
‘Many years.’
‘Exactly, and in that time, I would like to think we know each other well enough to know, we give a damn.’
‘Okay,’ Pearce said, his eyes narrowing, waiting for her motive.
‘Your reputation precedes you, Adrian and trust me, I’m doing all I can to get you out of this closet and away from this busy work.’ She offered him a warm smile. ‘You’ve never been big on the politics of this place, have you?’
‘Not one bit.’ He shook his head. ‘As far as I’m concerned, the law’s the law and we are all pushing for the same thing. Playing the game, dicking people over to climb another rung up the ladder, it’s something that we, as police officers, should be above. But, that’s just my take on it.’
‘No, a completely valid point and to be honest, if we had more people with your integrity wearing the uniform, we wouldn’t need a Department of Professional Standards.’
The compliment caused a little smile to creep across Pearce’s face and Ashton noted it. Pearce linked his fingers together and dropped his hands onto his lap.
‘What can I do for you, ma’am?’
Ashton tutted, annoyed by his refusal to drop the formalities.
‘I have reason to believe that DI Singh is investigating sensitive, military information that she should not be privy to. Now, as I’m sure you of all people know, reputations can be ruined pretty quickly, especially in conjunction with Sam Pope.’
Pearce sat forward, placing his hands on his desk.
‘You want me to warn her off, is that it? Use my own shitty experience as a deterrent?’
‘No, Pearce. Not at all.’ Ashton stood. ‘I want you to do what you do best. I want you to find something, anything we can pin on Singh so we can push her towards the exit.’
‘Excuse me?’ Pearce stood up, hands firmly on hips.
‘Look, Pearce.’ Ashton had dropped the niceties. ‘You’re in this situation because no one trusts you. Now Singh, she is starting to cause some people some problems. You bring me something that I can use to fix those problems, then those people will be very grateful. Like I said, you shouldn’t be in this cupboard.’
Pearce shook his head, smiling at the audacity of the woman whose stare bore through him like a laser beam.
‘And if I don’t?’ he said curtly.
‘Well, let’s just say Singh won’t be the only problem I’ll be finding a solution for.’
With that, A
shton took the few steps back to the door and let herself out, slamming it behind with just enough force to underline her point. Pearce sighed deeply, his anger at the political game sucking him was palpable and he launched his mug against the wall. The porcelain shattered, raining shards and ice-cold coffee onto his floor.
He dropped into his chair and massaged his temples.
He needed to help Singh.
But how?
Ashton marched through the New Scotland Yard office, appreciating the respect shown to her by her subordinates. She ruled with an iron fist, but she wasn’t in the Met for popularity points. She was ruthlessly climbing the ladder, and the failure of the Sam Pope task force could be quite the stumbling block.
What mattered now was passing the buck, to pin it onto Singh as an overeager upstart who’d run before she could walk. Despite all of Ashton’s guidance, Singh’s reluctance to follow the chain of command was what had allowed Sam Pope to disappear.
It was an easy picture to paint and Ashton had already filled her pallet.
As she marched through the centre of the office, she shot a glance towards the task force incident room, the large board outlining all of Sam’s armouries and safe houses rested proudly on the wall. It had been a great collar by one of her task forces, one which she would gladly take credit for. They were in the process of disarming Pope, cutting off his access to weaponry.
After that, they would tighten the net until they caught him then she would parade her catch as publicly as possible.
The public would adore her.
She would be a shoe in for the next Commissionership.
As her heels clicked across the laminate floor, she approached her office door, pushing it open and greeting her guest with a large grin.
‘Consider Amara Singh taken care of,’ Ashton said cheerily, striding across her neat, immaculate office to the drinks cabinet. A large decanter sat next to a few glass tumblers and she poured the whisky into two of them.
‘Excellent.’
Ervin Wallace flashed his polished grin at her and graciously accepted the drink. Both of them admired the other’s craving of power and their relentless quest for it. They both terrified any room they walked into and both of them knew, that breaking eggs was only the first step of the omelette.
‘Give it a couple of days, and I’ll have enough shit to bury her under, she’ll need a goddamn ladder to come up for air.’
They clinked their glasses.
‘Ruth, that is very pleasing to hear.’ Wallace took a sip. ‘Consider my help on the Sam Pope situation already underway.’
‘Thank you, General.’ Ashton sipped her drink, before taking her seat. ‘I also trust, that when the time comes, I can count on your respected opinion to sway people to my direction.’
Wallace finished his drink and then flashed his grin again. His suit was tightly wrapped around his impressive, bulky frame.
‘Ruth, if those idiots need me to point out that you’re the only candidate to take the reins, then you have a hell of a job when it comes your way.’
They both raised their glasses again and Wallace placed his empty glass down. As Ashton sipped hers, Wallace’s inside pocket vibrated and he whipped the phone out. It looked tiny in his meaty hand.
‘Hello?’ Wallace’s face dropped immediately. ‘I see. I’ll be on the first flight out.’
He clicked his phone off and stuffed it back into his pocket before turning to Ashton with a faux look of regret.
‘Apologies, Ruth. I have to run. Something very important has come up.’
‘Oh?’ Ashton offered, hoping pathetically for the inside scoop. It didn’t arrive. Wallace marched through the door to the corridor, walked at pace towards the exit. His phone buzzed again and this time the message simply said, Am here.
Wallace grinned sadistically, knowing full well what he was setting in motion. With his large fingers, he typed as he walked, arrogantly barging past the officers who passed him in the hallway.
He typed three words.
Do whatever’s necessary.
Another evening alone.
Paul Etheridge sat the kitchen counter in his pristine kitchen, pathetically pouring himself a glass of MacMillan scotch. Usually, the thought of having such an expensive and luxurious drink would have filled him with an empty sense of pride, but now it just felt redundant. As a multi-millionaire who ran his own successful data security software company, the last few weeks had been surprisingly empty. Large, international organisations were frantically knocking on his door, begging him to sell them his game changing software at whatever price he demanded.
Somehow, after five years, the novelty of being a rich, flashy entrepreneur had worn off.
Etheridge knocked back the scotch and quickly lifted the bottle again, the warm, gold liquid crashing into the crystal glass with a gentle splash. Just over two weeks had passed since Sam Pope had turned up on his door, asking him for his help.
It had been a long time since Etheridge had served alongside Sam in the army, a role he wasn’t cut out for but one that he still held proudly. One night, in the hot, mountainous terrain of Sudan, Sam had saved Etheridge’s life after a routine mission nearly went awry. Etheridge had always been eternally grateful for that moment, as it was the catalyst for him to leave the army and make his millions in cyber security.
But when Sam had come knocking, urgently needing assistance to find a missing girl and bring down a sex trafficking rink, Etheridge had finally found a sense of purpose he’d long been lacking. The police had questioned him continuously, demanding he tell them where Sam was. Considering Sam had incapacitated an entire Armed Response Unit in Etheridge’s house, he didn’t fancy their chances when they found him.
Etheridge lied, told them Sam had held a gun to his head and made him hack a few security cameras. He omitted building Sam a new identity, buying him a multitude of open tickets to Europe and to manipulating the airport security systems to ensure Sam could safely transport his weapons to Ukraine.
Sam was going to war, and Etheridge had felt a sense of purpose for a long time, a feeling that stood high and proud above the materialistic life he’d forged for himself.
Regrettably, Kayleigh had filed for divorce. His second wife was twenty years his junior, and while he was under no illusion that his money was the magnet that had lured her in, they’d enjoyed a few rather passionate years together. In his early forties, Etheridge was no George Clooney, but he’d hoped their time together had changed her motive.
When her divorce demands had landed on his doorstep earlier that day, he realized he was wrong.
Now, sat at his kitchen counter, he’d decided he was going to drink the night into a fuzzy oblivion, and then dedicate the next day to finding and helping Sam. The business would take care of itself, the share prices doubling each quarter and the fortune he sat upon would only grow.
It was time for Etheridge to do the right thing.
He could help Sam properly, use his expertise to equip Sam with the information that was just as vital as his own combat skills.
Together, they would be unstoppable.
The ringing of the doorbell cut through Etheridge’s new-found focus like a knife through butter and, slightly perplexed, he looked at his watch. It was a little after eight in the evening, the winter darkness falling hours earlier. Etheridge couldn’t recall ordering a takeaway and then begrudgingly walked across his impressive mansion to the front door, annoyed that the police were bothering him again. As he reached for the handle, he realized the buzzer for his gate had not been pressed and he regretted pulling the door from its latch.
A boot collided with the solid oak door, driving the sharp edge into his face and splitting his eyebrow on impact. As he fell back onto the marble floor of his hallway, his vision blurred, and he felt a rising panic in his chest. He pushed himself up to a seated position, squinting through the pain and blood as a figure stepped through the door, backlit by his security light and framed by the f
alling sleet.
The man was tall, well-built, and decked out entirely in black, his long coat dripping cold water onto the floor.
On his face, he wore a black balaclava.
In his gloved hand, he held a gun.
Etheridge held his hands up in surrender, the blood trickling down his cheek.
‘Look, take whatever you want, okay?’
The man took a few ominous steps towards him and then squatted down, meeting him at eye level. Etheridge could see the scarring around the man’s eye, the lifeless pupils staring back at him. With a thick, Manchurian accent, the man in black spoke.
‘Where can I find Sam Pope?’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Ten Years Earlier…
The repetitive thud of the helicopter propellers was as welcoming as it was hypnotic, and Sam fell to his knees as they approached. The heat was unbearable, the unprotected sun relentless beating down upon the small village of Chakari, in the Kabul Province of Afghanistan. Around him, the seven dead bodies of the Taliban soldiers lay scattered, all of them slowly rotting in the baking sun. Sam had been trapped behind enemy lines, the shrapnel removed from his leg and waist by a local doctor, a man who had given his life to save him.
Through the pain and the searing heat, Sam’s recollection of events was hazy.
There had been an explosion.
He’d lost someone close to him.
Sam had been left for dead.
As he tried to clear the fog that had settled over the last few days, he smacked his lips, trying to find hydration. His body ached, the bandages wrapped around his midriff were stained with blood. He felt a constant throb in his leg, and he thought of Lucy.
He’d almost died out here.
Alone in the heat.
The Taliban would never have returned his body to her, she would never have known what had happened. All she would have got was a knock on the door from Marsden, an apology and a cheque.
But Sam had refused to die, fighting through the pain barrier and eventually, the local Taliban unit that had been terrorizing the village.
Long Road Home: A pulse racing action thriller you won't want to put down. (Sam Pope Series Book 3) Page 12