Never underestimate the power of a police badge.
Pearce made his way towards the office, noticing the heads that swivelled as he walked by. In an office full of slick haircuts, casual clothes, and trainers, he stood out like a sore thumb. His grey suit was tailored to fit his athletic body, his fitness levels were a source of pride ever since he had passed his fiftieth birthday. His short, grey tinged hair was always well cropped, along with the neat, grey beard that framed his face.
He looked like a detective and he was proud of it.
The door to Nigel Aitkin’s office was ajar, his name printed on the plaque, along with his title of ‘Chief Editor’ was proudly displayed.
Pearce knocked as he entered.
‘Detective,’ Nigel said warmly, rising from his desk with an outstretched hand. Pearce had done his homework once Assistant Commissioner Ashton had given him this errand to run. Nigel had worked as a chief writer for a number of respected newspapers, with a keen eye for a story and a sharp wit to go with it. He was widely liked by the journalist community and some of his insightful exposes on the poverty within the UK had won him awards.
He had started his own online press just over three years ago and while Pearce admired the man for striking out on his own, he wondered if Nigel regretted the type of content his writers were pumping out.
If he did, it didn’t show. A large smile was plastered across his face, his glasses balancing on a thin, pointed nose that suited his sharp face. Thinning brown hair flopped across his forehead and for a man in his mid-forties, he seemed full of energy. Unlike his employees, Nigel still dressed smartly, although the suit had been downgraded to a shirt, chinos, and a smart Chelsea boot.
Pearce took the hand graciously.
‘Mr Aitkin,’ Pearce replied.
‘Please, call me Nigel.’ He motioned to the seat as he returned to his own. ‘Please sit. Can I get you a drink? Tea? Coffee?’
‘Coffee would be great. Thanks.’
As Nigel buzzed his receptionist and requested two coffees, Pearce scanned the room. It was ingrained in him.
Every detail would be absorbed, filtered, and then if necessary, stored.
The price of being a detective.
He never switched off. It’s what made him so damn good at his job but what had wrecked his private life.
But he wasn’t here to dwell on his divorce, he was there on police business. As he returned his gaze to Nigel, he was greeted with another warm smile.
‘First off, welcome to The Pulse,’ he said proudly. ‘It’s not often we get the boys in blue here.’
‘Well, you’re obviously doing something right, then,’ Pearce responded with a nod.
‘I’d like to think so,’ Nigel said with a deep sigh. ‘The day when the newspaper was a source of truth has long since died. Now, with social media infecting everyone’s phone, the reliance on the press to hammer through real news is as strong as ever. I like to think that we do our job and do it well.’
‘That’s very noble of you,’ Pearce said, interrupted by the reappearance of the receptionist, who looked less than thrilled to be bringing in two cups of coffee. Pearce nodded politely and then hid his disdain at the foul-tasting drink provided. As she left, he turned back to Nigel, who regarded him carefully.
‘How can I help you, detective?’
‘I’m here to talk with one of your contributors…’
‘Journalists,’ Nigel corrected.
‘Journalists…Helal Miah.’ Judging from the slight shake of the head, Pearce felt the tension. After a few moments and a small sigh, Nigel lifted his mobile phone. This was a modern office and the idea of a desk phone was laughable. As Nigel sent a text message, Pearce thought about the clunky device on his desk. He still didn’t know how to put someone on hold. After a few more taps of the screen, Nigel dropped the phone on his desk. He looked slightly perturbed and Pearce decided to press a little harder.
‘Is everything okay?’
‘I had a feeling a day like this would come.’ Nigel shook his head. ‘I’ve told Helal a few times that his pieces are becoming too provocative and…here he is now.’
The door to the office opened and Pearce stood. Helal walked in with a true sense of confidence, his head high, he shoulders straight. With his neatly cut, slicked hair and neatly trimmed beard, he was well groomed. The denim shirt, black chinos, and Converse shoes completed the outfit of a man completely comfortable in the modern world. While not the tallest, Helal’s firm handshake told Pearce he feared nothing.
It was an admirable quality.
One which would make this difficult.
‘How can I help?’ Helal shrugged, casually walking to the wall and leaning back against it, his arms folding across his chest.
‘Helal, this is DI Adrian Pearce from the Metropolitan Police.’ Nigel formally introduced him. ‘He has requested to speak to you.’
‘Oh really?’ Helal’s brown eyes flickered with excitement. ‘Are you here for an interview?’
‘Excuse me?’ Pearce said, taking his seat.
‘I know you. You’re the Sam Pope detective. I’ve mentioned you a few times in my articles. You were the one who exposed Mark Harris, weren’t you?’
‘Mr Miah, I am not here to grant you an interview, nor do I want to be involved in any pieces you are writing.’
‘That’s a shame.’ Helal looked around the office, pondering when the day would come when it would be his. Born and raised in London to Indian parents, Helal loved the city as much as he loved putting his fingers to the keyboard. Through his years of investigative journalism, he knew that powerful organisations worked hard to keep things behind closed doors. The fact that a detective had shown up, a mere day after he’d published an article questioning the Met’s ability to police safely wasn’t a coincidence.
It was a confirmation.
‘I’m here about the article you wrote.’
‘Who’s watching over us now?’ Helal interrupted, drawing a scowl from his boss. ‘Quality, wasn’t it?’
‘I didn’t read it.’ Pearce lied, knowing he needed to tip the balance of power. ‘But some people did and…’
‘Let me guess…’ Helal cut him off again. ‘Certain higher-ups are upset that the truth is coming out.’
‘Truth?’ Pearce raised his eyebrows. ‘I wouldn’t call sensationalist pieces supporting the work of a vigilante as truth. I’d call it click bait.’
‘Not according to my sources.’
Pearce smiled to himself and slowly pushed himself out of his seat. He towered over the journalist and locked his eyes onto him. He had been in enough interview rooms to know that his stare could be quite unnerving. This time however, Helal rolled his eyes and turned to his boss.
‘Am I in trouble?’
‘I don’t know,’ Nigel said. ‘But I did tell you that this article could land you in the shit.’
‘It’s a free fucking press.’ Helal spat, his arms out in dismay. ‘If we let the police dictate what we can and can’t write, what the hell happens to free speech?’
‘Save me the crusade,’ Pearce said firmly. ‘I’m not here to slap your wrist or to tell you what you can or can’t write, despite what some of my superiors would like. I’m here to tell you to be careful.’
‘Are you threatening me? Because believe me, I get threatened an awful lot.’
‘I don’t doubt that.’ Pearce smiled. ‘But your article has rattled some cages that are best left alone.’
‘Never,’ Helal said defiantly. ‘If I’ve got certain people pissing in their pants, it’s because I’ve written something close to home. It’s what I do.’
Pearce took a step towards Helal, who readjusted his feet, doing his best to stand straight. The man had a backbone, that was for sure, and Pearce couldn’t help but admire that. But accompanying that with a smart mouth was a recipe for trouble. Sat behind the desk, Nigel had his head in his hands, as if the whole interaction was a personal slight on his company.
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‘Just be careful,’ Pearce said calmly. ‘Otherwise the next person who comes to see you might not be as accommodating.’
‘Are we done?’ Helal asked dismissively. ‘Because I’ve got a hot date with a cute source.’
‘I mean it,’ Pearce said coldly. ‘There are some stones certain people don’t want overturned.’
Helal took a step closer to Pearce.
‘Then they shouldn’t hide things. I don’t write these stories for the glory. I write it because people we trust to serve and protect us have a hell of a lot of skeletons in the closet. Now, I don’t condone Sam Pope or any act of violence but if he’s prepared to risk it all to do the right thing, then so am I.’ Helal looked at his boss, who had a face like thunder. ‘The world could use more truth. Then maybe I wouldn’t have to write these pieces in the first place.’
Pearce stopped himself from responding. Despite the sensationalist way he saw himself, Helal was right. Powerful people did things in the dark and all he was doing was a shining a light on it.
And potentially painting a target on his back.
‘Just think about it,’ Pearce finally said, before turning to a desperate looking Nigel. ‘Thanks for the coffee. I’ll see myself out.’
Pearce shot one final glance at Helal, who gave him an empty smile. As he stepped back into the office, he looked out at the rest of The Pulse reporters, whose heads poked up from their screens like startled meerkats. As he scanned the room, each one dropped their glance as his eyes rested on them.
The power of the police badge.
Leaving Nigel to read Helal the riot act, Pearce headed for the door, wondering how long it would before Mr Miah penned an article about police intimidation.
Chapter Eight
Amara Singh had failed.
With a resounding sigh, she lifted herself from the leather sofa that took centre stage of her living room and stretched out her back. The feeling of uselessness flowed through her like a current and she wondered once again if she should take up her parents’ offer of therapy. For years, she’d always seen the idea of seeking help as a sign of weakness. But now, with her life crumbling around her, she wondered if maybe it would help.
It certainly couldn’t hurt?
As she trudged across her flat, she rolled her eyes at the mess. It used to be immaculate, with everything neatly stored away, the shelves sparkling and the only evidence of a human came when she passed through. Now, as she sat at home most days, she’d allowed her standards to slip.
Everything had slipped.
It was nearly five o’clock in the evening and she was still lounging in her pyjamas. Her usual routine of going to the gym, keeping herself in peak physical condition, had fallen by the wayside two months ago, when her superiors enforced an ‘extended period of absence.’
They were doing their best to push her out of the Metropolitan Police Service.
This was not how her life was supposed to go.
Six months before, she was seen as the rising star of the organisation. While her aptitude tests, arrest record, and performance as an Armed Response Officer were off the charts, she knew her gender and race had opened doors that had caused resentment from others. But she’d never allowed the snide comments or the sexist remarks stop her.
She’d been focussed.
She’d achieved.
She did not fail.
Then, in the midst of Sam Pope’s one-man war on organised crime, she was put in charge of the task force created for the sole purpose of bringing him in. It was an opportunity she’d jumped at, personally recommended by the Assistant Commissioner herself. It was an honour, one bestowed upon a prodigy that should have been her crowning moment.
But somewhere along the way, the lines began to blur.
As a deplorable mayoral candidate pressured her to find Sam, her obsession to catch him had blinded her from the reality.
Sam Pope was not a bad guy.
He was a criminal and she would never waver from the belief that someone should never take the law into their own hands. But while her superiors were concerned with the negative press, he was out, hunting for missing teenagers who were being shipped abroad into the sex trade.
The lines definitely blurred.
As she thought about that harrowing night in the Port of Tilbury, she remembered how close she’d been to death. Set upon by two of Andrei Kovalenko’s thugs, she’d fought valiantly, throwing well-trained punches, and dished out as good as she gave. But she soon found herself on her knees, the rain lashing against her as a gun was pressed against her forehead.
As she remembered the feeling of accepting death, Singh felt her knees weaken.
She’d been seconds from the death, the thug had wrapped his finger around the trigger.
But Sam Pope had saved her.
Without hesitation, he’d killed both men, before telling Singh exactly where to find the missing girls. That was the moment when it clicked for her.
Sam Pope was not a bad guy.
With an army of armed henchmen baying for blood, Sam ran back into the war zone, doing his best to draw them away. His life or freedom weren’t his priority. The safety of the innocent was.
Singh steadied herself against the kitchen unit, looking with disgust at the mountain of dirty dishes and mugs that decorated her sink. She knew she would need to pull herself up, get her life back together at some point, but right now that felt a long way off.
In the aftermath of the Kovalenko empire falling, Singh found herself on the outside. Rumours were rife that she’d helped a known vigilante disappear and her loyalty to the badge was thrown into doubt.
How could they focus on Sam when he’d just saved those girls from a fate worse than death?
As the investigation began on her own conduct, she’d formed a bond with another ostracised detective, DI Pearce. A man who she’d warmed to and thought of as a friend. As her investigations in Sam Pope’s past intensified, Pearce had begged her to be careful.
She knew she should have listened.
In hindsight, she should have sat quietly for a few weeks, been an obedient little lap dog and soon all would have been forgiven. Her career may have stalled but another opportunity would have come her way.
But she’d kept digging.
Redacted file after redacted file had turned up nothing on Sam’s military past until an errant scribbling on one sheet of paper would paint a target on her back.
Project Hailstorm.
Singh took a bottle of water from her bereft fridge and unscrewed the cap, taking a calming sip as she remembered the midnight visit of General Ervin Wallace. Singh had prided herself on fearing no one. She’d burst into dangerous situations with a calm and authoritative manner, taken out armed criminals, and faced death.
But the menace the man had exuded had been palpable.
His large bulk, piercing stare, and dominating nature had told her from the moment he’d entered her flat that she’d rattled the wrong cage. His thinly veiled threat had been obvious. Whatever connection the man had to Sam, it was a dangerous one and despite Pearce’s protests and every warning triggering in her head, she had to know.
She had to know exactly which side of the blurred line her loyalties lied.
It had cost her everything.
Pearce had betrayed her, going above her head to Ashton who had promptly suspended her. A known associate of Sam, Paul Etheridge, had been brutally tortured in his own home.
And her own safety had been put in jeopardy.
Her flat had been ransacked and ever since then, she knew she was being followed.
Whatever reach Wallace had, it was vast. Singh knew she was under the microscope and her extended absence was most likely a request of his.
Whatever she’d found, the man wanted it to stay hidden.
Every rational thought in her mind told her to step away, that the rabbit hole she’d been tumbling down would only get deeper.
It had almost certainly cost her
career.
Her friendship with Pearce was dead.
And now her mental health was suffering.
Despite all that she’d lost, she knew she couldn’t step away. Not when she’d seen what Sam was willing to sacrifice for the good of the innocent. From what she’d pieced together, General Wallace was hiding behind his iron fist, abusing his power, and influencing an institution created for the safety of the public.
If she couldn’t bring him down through the legal channels that he controlled, then she would do it on her own.
As she thought about the repercussions of what she was putting into action, she could feel her hand shaking, the bottle of water sloshing wildly and spilling.
After this evening, there would be no going back.
Singh hopped into the shower, the warm water crashing against her toned body and immediately relieving the tension that had a stranglehold of her muscles. She stood for a few moments, allowing the water to engulf her entire body, the sound of the water hitting the tiles drowning out the worries that were dominating her mind.
After a few more minutes, she turned the water off and wrapped a towel around her body and headed for her bedroom. It had been a while since she’d shared her bed with anyone. With her unsociable hours and relentless drive, a steady boyfriend had never been a priority. To her parents’ dismay, she had little interest in the family life. While her sister had provided them with the grandchildren they craved, they’d never understood her refusal to follow suit.
They had respected her career, but since the turn of the year, while she was being ushered towards the door, she could see feel the disappointment in their voices when they spoke.
Amara Singh had failed.
Half an hour later and Singh was walking towards the front door of her flat, her small heels clicking across the wood flooring. She had on fitted jeans and a nice, black button up top, wrapped in a leather jacket. Her hair was straight and the minimal make-up she’d applied would certainly turn heads. She was as attractive as she was tough but she hated the idea of being thought of as a pretty face,
Too Far Gone (Sam Pope Series Book 4) Page 6