As she passed a few officers who respectfully nodded at her, Singh continued downwards, heading for the freedom of the cold, bitter day and to allow the crisp air to clear her head.
She was going to catch Sam Pope.
That was what she’d been tasked to do, and she was damn sure going to do it. Pearce had been right when he’d pointed out the shit she’d been through. She knew that a lot of her male colleagues saw her promotion as nothing more than a tick in the diversity column and she was determined to prove them wrong.
Yes, she was female.
Yes, she was Indian.
Yes, she was attractive.
But she was damn good at her job too and she’d underline that when she pulled Sam Pope in through the doors she was rapidly approaching, with his hands in cuffs. And after his non-compliance, she wondered if maybe she could do the same to Adrian Pearce, too. Singh pushed open the doors to the reception area and marched past the reception desk, shaking her head in pity as the young officer sat patiently in front of a distressed man, tears streaming down his face as he berated him.
‘Please,’ the man cried, his fist clenched. ‘They have my girl and no one will help me.’
Singh could smell the booze emanating from the man from a few yards away and she strode with purpose towards him.
‘Excuse me,’ she said firmly. ‘But unless you have a real problem, the only one here is you. Kindly leave so this man can do his job.’
The young officer smiled thankfully as the man turned to her. He was in his mid-forties, white with thinning, wiry blonde hair. His blue eyes were bloodshot, the bags beneath them evidence of a sleepless night. His face was covered in stubble and he looked the picture of someone going through a traumatic experience.
Judging by the stench of alcohol surrounding him, she imagined it was to do with needing another drink.
‘Please,’ the man repeated, his voice cracking with desperation. ‘I don’t know what else to do.’
Singh shook her head in disappointment, stomping towards the outside world and the chance to regather her thoughts. As she approached the automatic door, she called back to the drunken gentleman.
‘Go home, sir,’ she said without looking back. ‘Get a good night’s sleep and stop wasting police time.’
As the door slid shut behind her, Singh headed towards the Thames, wrapping her arms around her petite frame to shield herself from the bitter cold. Approaching the metal railing, she watched with a sense of victory as the drunk man stumbled out of the station, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and hurried up the road. Singh watched him disappear around the corner, not realising that his desperate pleas were the truth and that he would become more important to her task than she could imagine.
Chapter Five
‘Like I said, that motherfucker wants to step to me, I’ll put him six feet deep.’
Elmore Riggs flashed his usual grin, the gold tooth gleaming among the pearly whites. His dark skin, courtesy of his Ghanaian family, was covered in faded tattoos, many of them from the gangs he had rolled with during his youth, or the seven years he’d spent behind bars for blinding a man during a gang attack. His hair, tied into thin corn rows, was pulled back into a ponytail, the intricate plaits slapping against his broad back.
His body was well toned, the ink work wrapping over a defined torso that was bare, beyond the gold chain that hung from his neck and the gun holster he still had strapped across his chest. Stood on the top floor of the ‘new’ High Rise, he glared at Sean Wiseman, who shook his head in fury. The makeshift building wasn’t a patch on the old High Rise, which they’d been invited to enjoy by Frank Jackson on a number of occasions. Now, The Gent was dead and Riggs had found a new location.
Sure, it wasn’t elegant, nor did it have a concierge. It was an abandoned office, with enough rooms for him to throw a number of mattresses and hookers into, and start making some serious cash. Once that rolled in, so did the drugs and so did the punters.
Now, he was sat atop of the seedy side of London and Riggs was sure as hell not going to let it go. Which is why, as his trusted friend begged for them to give it all up, he could feel his fists clenching with anger.
‘Elmore, we been together since back in the day,’ Wiseman pleaded. ‘This guy ain’t gonna stop. I say we go. Tonight.’
‘Why? Because you told him where we at?’ Riggs took a menacing step forward. On the sofa against the far wall, two of his trusted guards sat, scantily clad women writhing on their laps. Lines of cocaine sat on top of the table, alongside piles of money and loaded hand guns.
‘Look what he did to me,’ Wiseman protested, lifting his bandaged hand, the bullet hole severing several nerves and any hope of a functioning hand again. ‘He did this to me, to get to you.’
‘Part of the job, son.’ Riggs shrugged. He looked around at the makeshift pent house with pride, the drugs, the goons, the weapons. All he had ever wanted to be was a gangster.
‘Not part of our friendship,’ Wiseman spat, before prodding a finger into Riggs’s bare chest. ‘I’m out.’
Riggs’s eyes widened in fury and quick as a flash, he swung a hard, back hand, his ring clad fingers clattering into the side of Wiseman’s head. As blood sprayed from the gash that appeared above his eyebrow, Wiseman stumbled back, crashing over a side table, the clatter echoing over the hip hop music thumping out of the nearby speakers. Wiseman
