‘He’s taking down criminals, isn’t he?’ Hill asked, sipping his coffee.
‘That’s what we are for. The police. We abide by the same laws that we hold everyone else to and we uphold them with respect and dignity. Last night, Sam Pope tortured a known gang leader with acid to the extent where the man has had his arm amputated. Is that justice?’
Aaron felt woozy as a sudden rush of vomit threatened to explode out of him like a fountain. The sudden colour drain in his face wasn’t lost on Singh, who recognised a terrified man when she saw one. Usually, it was after they’d realised how head strong and career driven she was after they’d slept together. Singh assessed the mild-mannered man before her and reached into her pocket, removing an envelope.
Time to hammer the point home.
She slid out four mug shot photos, all of them of young, black youths. All looked angry, all of them sporting facial wounds.
‘These four boys were also assaulted yesterday, before Sam took their leader. The youngest, this one here…’ She tapped the photo. ‘He’s only sixteen years old. Sam Pope broke his jaw yesterday. Tell me, is that justice?’
Aaron stared at the photo, a light bulb threatening to go off in his mind. Singh re-shuffled the photos before stuffing them into her jacket.
‘Look, Mr Hill. If you can give us any information, anything we can do to stop this man, you need to help us. If you’re holding onto a shred of hope that this man is going to help you and find your daughter, just remember these photos as to just how far he will go for what he calls justice. Your daughter isn’t going to matter to him if there is a bigger prize on the table.’
The sudden mention of his daughter caused Aaron’s eyes to open with fury.
‘I think you should leave now,’ Aaron suggested, ensuring he kept his tone unthreatening.
‘Absolutely,’ Singh agreed. ‘I know this is a hard time for you, Mr Hill and I’m personally going to ensure our missing person’s unit do all they can to find your daughter. But if you can think of anything, or need to tell me anything that can help, here is my card. You can call anytime.’
She held the card out for a few moments, but eventually placed it gently on the table as Aaron glared at her. She nodded at him.
‘Thank you for your time. I’ll see myself out.’
Singh marched to the door, hating herself for goading the man regarding his daughter but she was sure he had made contact with Pope. While she would honour her promise to help find his daughter, her entire focus was on finding Pope.
She needed to. It was her neck on the line and the stern words of Carl Burrows that morning had reiterated the impact a public failure would have not just on her career, but on Mark Harris’s too.
While he was a creep, he was a powerful ally.
She closed the door behind her and marched back to her car, looking back once at Aaron Hill who stood in the bay window of the front room. Watching her briskly walk through the rain, Aaron waited for her to approach her car. As soon as she slid into the driver’s seat, he shot upstairs, the realisation that he himself may be able to find his daughter becoming very real.
Bursting into his daughter’s room, he swept his gaze around the room, dismissing the piles of clothing that had sprung up in the corner, or the posters of Hollywood heart throbs. He approached her book case, moving past the Twilight and Hunger Games novels until he pulled out her year book.
Yet another Americanisation that had filtered into British society but one he was eternally grateful for.
He flicked through the book until he came to Jasmine’s class.
Her beautiful face smiled back at him.
But it wasn’t her face he was looking for.
On the bottom left corner of the page, he saw the familiar face. Only this time, it wasn’t sporting a bruised jaw and a freshly blackened eye.
Tyrone Clark.
The member of the Acid Gang that was in Jasmine’s class.
Hill shook with excitement as he raced to his bedroom to get ready, with his own ideas of justice racing through his mind.
Chapter Seventeen
Sam Pope shot upright, his eyes darting around the dark room. His breathing was erratic, and his body was encased in a cold sweat. After a few moments, he recognised the sparse room that had been his bedroom for the last few months and his pulse slowed.
It was just a nightmare.
He collapsed back onto his damp sheets, the springs from the cheap camp bed poking through the thin mattress and pressing into his spine like a cheap massage.
It wasn’t the “Jamie Nightmare”. The usual haunting image of his dead son, lying crumpled and motionless in the middle of the street, his hands inches away from saving him. Ever since that fateful night over three years ago, Sam had blamed himself.
He could have stopped the drunk driver who had killed his son.
Miles Willock.
This was a different nightmare.
This was him, surrounded by darkness, out in the sand-covered wasteland of Afghanistan. Under strict orders to eliminate the entire enemy squadron, Sam had ventured into their compound, finding it surprisingly empty. As the roar of gunfire echoed around the building, he made his way further in, the memory fading fast.
Two bullets ripped through his chest.
The life began to seep from him as he collapsed to the stone floor, his eyes wide and trying hard to focus on the boxes piled on the table before him.
He heard his superior officer’s voice, echoing over the radio.
A man with a balaclava stepped past him.
That was when he had woken.
Glimpsing at the time on his phone that lay on the floor next to the bed, he also lifted the loaded handgun beside it. Instinctively sliding the cartridge and checking the ammunition, he place the gun back down and swung his
