When it came to investigating their own, most coppers didn’t want to delve too deep. There was an unwritten rule.
They were all in it together.
As far as Pearce had been concerned, through his thirty-year career that had seen him run an Armed Response unit, as well as solve over fifty murder cases, the only way you could go into a no-win situation with a fellow officer was if you knew they weren’t going to leave you behind.
You had to trust them.
It was that unrelenting commitment to the truth and the justice system that had lead him to becoming an outstanding detective for the Department of Professional Standards and also one of the most hated officers within the Metropolitan Police. But it was also that unrelenting commitment to the truth that caused him to question the justice system. When Sam Pope took a stand against the corrupt police who, along with one of the most fearsome criminals in London, bombed the London Marathon, Pearce soon found himself doing the one thing he swore he wouldn’t.
He broke the law.
He allowed Sam Pope access to files while under arrest, aided his escape from custody and then, with the man being held at gun point and the net tightening, he allowed a vigilante to disappear, to continue his war against the cancerous crime that was eating the city from the inside.
It had been the right thing to do.
Since then, Pearce had barely slept. The constant, nagging voice questioning his hypocrisy kept him from more than a few stop-start hours every night. When you spend over fifty years of your life, committing yourself so vehemently to an ideal to the point that it costs you your marriage and any chance of a family, but then go against it, it shakes you to your core.
That’s why he had taken over running the youth club every weekend. As he stood, staring out of the window of the Bethnal Green Youth Centre, he realised that the young men and women who walked through those doors were the only things keeping him sane.
‘Sam. You crazy bastard,’ Pearce muttered with a shake of the head, knowing that the man he had let go now had the whole city in a panic. What Pearce found most amusing was that it wasn’t the general public who were scared. By and large, whenever one of the papers went to the people, the general consensus was they were rooting for him. They didn’t agree with breaking the law, but the majority saw a capable man fighting for the good of the people.
Like a modern-day Robin Hood.
Their Watchdog.
It was the police, being shown up as corrupt and unable to stop a rogue soldier that were panicking most, along with the politicians who claim to back every task force possible just to bring him to his knees. Pearce didn’t need to be a detective to know that those who wanted Pope stopped, were undoubtedly the ones with the most skeletons in their closets.
It was why he didn’t trust Harris and it was why he wasn’t surprised to see a black Audi A3 pull up outside the Youth Centre. Folding his arms across his broad chest, Pearce watched with intrigue as DI Singh stepped out of the driver’s side, slammed the door shut and hastily made her way through the gate. Pope was becoming a major priority for more than one party and Pearce actually felt a twinge of sympathy for the young, talented lady.
The pressure being stacked on her slender shoulders was enormous, but Pearce admired how she carried it. Shoulders wide, back straight, she commanded attention as she marched through the gate. Pearce was sure the younger officers also gave her attention for other reasons, but the memory of his marriage still haunted him like an echo. Denise had moved on, but somewhere among his commitment to the job and fear of being hurt again, Pearce hadn’t.
Couldn’t.
He pulled open the front door and greeted Singh with a warm grin.
‘DI Singh. Twice in two days. I am lucky.’
‘Pearce.’ She offered her hand, which Pearce took. She gave the shake a little extra. It was an old habit.
‘Can I get you a drink? Coffee? Tea?’ He gestured to the window. ‘It’s freezing out there.’
‘I’m fine, thanks.’ She pulled her hood back, allowing her black hair to fall around her shoulders. ‘So, this is the place huh?’
Pearce smiled as she looked around the modest room, the wooden floors freshly mopped. Pearce could remember when they were covered in a pool of Andy Devereux’s blood.
Yesterday evening’s session had been a movie night, with him screening Iron Man for the young locals who frequented. Sunday afternoon, he opened the doors from four until eight, offering sandwiches and warm drinks to those who didn’t get anything at home. It surprised him how many of the attendees weren’t from the council estates or poverty-stricken homes.
Just teenagers and young adults who needed somewhere to go.
Someone to care.
On the far wall, the Theo Walker Memorial plaque was displayed proudly, with nearly a hundred messages pinned to a board beneath. Pearce found himself reading them most days, moved by the amount of people who had clung to Theo for hope. For guidance.
Theo had cared about them all. As a former medic, the man had dedicated his life after the army to helping kids from his local community, renovating the Youth Centre and offering some semblance of a safe place to the youth that dominated the gang heavy borough.
Theo died just as he had lived.
As a hero.
Theo had given his life to save two people who had been wronged by the very organisation that Pearce worked for, and he had taken it as a personal mission to continue Theo’s good work. The people who came through those doors had a strong, black role model before and Pearce was determined to
