‘You mean the mutilated man you sent our way this morning? Yeah, he was the head of The Acid Gang.’
‘That was them. The people who took her. Who take all of them,’ Sam spat. ‘But who pays them, that’s where I need your help.’
Pearce stared vacantly ahead, a blur of shoes passed his vision as customers passed his line of sight. He took a final swig of his coffee and thought about the choice he had to make. He was already being managed towards the exit, that much was obvious. The police couldn’t sack him for bringing down a superior officer. He should have received a medal. But the ‘rich boys’ club’ that scratched each other’s backs with fifty-pound notes had made it quite clear he would never get a sniff of their arses again. Tucked away in a cupboard and given busy work until a mind as capable as his couldn’t take it anymore.
They had pushed him into a corner.
Literally and figuratively.
If his access to police resources was dwindling, then he was going to use it to do some good.
‘What do you need?’ he finally said with a sigh.
‘Leon told me everything he knew. I didn’t really give him much choice,’ Sam said coldly. ‘He didn’t do the snatch or drop himself, but he said that she was dumped in a van behind KFC by the stadium. So any access you can get to CCTV would be…’
‘That’s going to take at least two days to get the clearance to footage and…’
‘Pull some strings,’ Sam demanded, frowning.
‘Listen, son, I don’t have strings to pull anymore. Do you understand? Ever since you cleaned up the High Rise and put Howell behind bars, I’ve been shunted so far down the fucking ladder I need a whole new one just to reach the first rung.’
‘I have a bank account too,’ Sam said hopefully.
‘Now that, I can run with,’ Pearce said, appreciating Sam’s frustration. The man was hard wired to protect people and the idea of a teenage girl being sold into European sex slavery made his stomach flip. Pearce had never been a father, but he knew how personal this would be for Sam.
Protecting a child from harm.
Sam’s horrible past came back to Pearce and he looked at the man before him. Despite his tough exterior and deadly training, Pearce knew that Sam was broken. The loss of his son had caused him to withdraw from the world, losing his wife and eventually the line between right and wrong. But since he had embarked on his quest for justice against organised crime, Pearce could appreciate how easy that line was to blur.
The right thing to do wasn’t always the lawful thing to do.
That much was becoming clear.
‘What’s the account?’ Pearce finally asked.
‘Burn Group Inc.’ Sam shook his head in disgust. ‘They get payments of five grand into that account. Whatever you can find, whatever you can trace.’
‘Okay. Wait … how do I contact you?’
‘You don’t.’ Sam quickly glanced around ensuring no one was in ear shot. ‘Tomorrow. The one place I’ll never be scared to go.’
Pearce nodded his understanding and Sam reciprocated. Sam looked around once more before pulling his hood over his head and stuffing his hands into his pockets. He offered a friendly smile as he headed for the door.
‘Thank you, Pearce. I owe you one.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ Pearce muttered. ‘What about the CCTV?’
‘Don’t worry,’ Sam said, not turning back. ‘I know a guy.’
Chapter Nineteen
The sterilised aroma of the hospital bought back horrible memories for Singh as she charged through the corridor, remembering watching her dying grandad fade away from her when she was sixteen years old. Despite her strict Hindu upbringing, Singh’s grandfather had always told her to follow her own path in life. He used to tell her that fate held something else for her, something which she would be able to wear with pride.
Her Metropolitan Police Badge was testament to that.
Once he had died, she felt even more pressure from her family to fall in line with the life they’d chosen for her, which caused her throw herself into Mixed Martial Arts and a career on the front lines.
Singh was tough. Physically, mentally, and emotionally.
But as she stepped through another set of doors, she couldn’t help but feel a slight flicker of pain, remembering the sixteen-year-old girl who held onto her grandfather as he slipped away from the world, tears rapidly sliding down her cheeks.
She could be whoever she wanted to be.
Do whatever she wanted to do.
That’s what he had told her.
Now, as she barged her way towards the nurse’s station on the fourth floor of Central Middlesex Hospital and with the pressure of Sam Pope’s one-man crusade against every gang in London, she wanted to speak to the one man who might be able to make sense of it.
As she knocked impatiently on the desk, a senior nurse scowled over the top of glasses, her Irish accent as thick as her ginger bob that framed a wrinkled face.
‘Manners don’t cost you a penny, my dear.’
Singh held up her badge.
‘Detective Inspector Singh, Metropolitan Police.’
‘Ma’am.’ The nurse stepped forward, clearly regretting her curtness earlier. ‘I’m Sister Conway. How can I help?’
‘Thank you, sister.’ Singh noted the smile from the woman who clearly believed in respect. ‘A young man was brought in here not too long ago, I believe. Severe injuries to his hands and face.’
‘Ah, the poor young man.’
‘I need to speak with him.’
‘Follow me.’
The sister stepped out from behind the desk, beckoning Singh to follow. As they stepped through the ward, Singh noticed the plethora of rotas and signs adorning the walls, each one of them filled with countless pieces of information. The corridors were filled with trolleys of medicines and supplies, the nurses working at double speed to get round to all of their patients. Each room was split into four-quarters, each one containing a bed and an unfortunate occupant. Their only sliver of privacy was a thin, blue curtain
