‘Ruth, I would be honoured to announce it on your behalf, and I look forward to working with you.’
‘Oh, I won’t be leading the task force.’ She smiled politely, a few wrinkles framing her blue eyes. Her auburn hair was tied neatly into a ponytail.
‘Oh?’ Harris raised an eyebrow and Burrows stepped back into the room, stepping to the side and ushering in Detective Inspector Amara Singh. Despite her lack of height, Singh walked with purpose, her police tunic immaculate and her fierce brown eyes locked on Harris. Her brown skin complimented her striking face and Harris was slightly taken aback by her immediate beauty. Singh marched towards the desk as both Harris and Ashton rose from their seats, stopping in front of her superior and offering a salute. Ashton nodded her acceptance and they both turned to Harris.
‘Mr Harris, meet Detective Inspector Singh.’
Harris extended his hand as well as his dazzling smile. Singh took it, looking less than impressed.
‘It’s a pleasure.’ Harris couldn’t help but have a quick scan of her body, her petite frame clearly carried some muscle. He could tell she was a strict trainer, without a shred of fat on her. ‘Are you up to the task, ma’am?’
‘Sir, I’ve spent the last four years on the Armed Response team, leading several successful raids as well as working alongside Assistant Commissioner Ashton on Project Yewtree. I have extensive field and command experience and to be honest, sir, I just want this scum bag off our streets.’
Harris felt a jolt of arousal as he regarded the stern, highly strung Singh who stood powerfully before him.
‘I couldn’t agree more, Detective.’ Harris waited for Singh to offer her first name but she didn’t. The situation was clearly too important for niceties. Harris respected it and even saw it as a slight challenge. ‘Tell me, and please exclude the usual reasons, why is this task force important to you?’
Singh stood to attention at the question, aware of the eyes of the mayoral candidate and her superior falling upon her. She cleared her throat and began.
‘With all due respect, sir, it’s the duty of every officer to uphold the law, regardless of rank. This man is a criminal. On a personal note, a friend of mine who I trained with at Hendon eleven years ago, was shot twice last year. He was attending a noise complaint and was murdered for doing his job.’
The office fell silent for a moment. Harris, determined to steer the conversation back to a positive, shook his head.
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Detective. You have my full support and if you need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask.’
Harris once again offered her a smile which she acknowledged. Her brown eyes sparkled with an eagerness to begin. Harris found it as attractive as he did impressive. He wondered if Burrows would be able to instigate a private meeting between them. A little presumptuous, but he was sure he would be able to seduce her. With his mind wandering, Burrows stepped forward.
‘Sir, if I may, the press is gathered downstairs and would like to speak with you. I suggest, with us all having made our introductions, there would be no time like the present in launching this task force.’
‘Quite right.’ Ashton nodded approvingly, fixing her cap onto her head and turning to Harris, who was gathering his belongings. ‘Shall we?’
‘Of course.’ Harris began to round the desk, aware both police officials were watching him. ‘What’s the name of the task force?’
‘Project Watchdog,’ Singh said coldly.
‘Clever.’ Harris smiled, hoping to break the stern exterior. Unsuccessful, he turned to Burrows, who stood passively by the door. ‘Let’s go shall we?’
All four of them headed to the stair well and towards the hungry swarm of questions and photo flashes of the waiting journalists.
Chapter Three
As the rain clattered against the lone window of the kitchen, trying in vain to wash away years’ worth of grime, Sam turned the volume of the TV up. His flat was as depressing as the early winter weather. Situated above Store ‘n’ Go, a storage facility run by a Greek man named George Tsillis, Sam had tried his best to make it homely.
Originally a dumping ground for the soiled or abandoned goods, Sam had offered the man five hundred a month in cash for the next year, slapping six grand on the table. As the greedy man’s eyes lit up, Sam knew there would be no questions asked. The facility was in North Wembley, the multicultural streets alive with traders and small business owners, all of them trying to get by. The surrounding streets were filled with fast-food chains, a car hire service, and a few dodgy bars with delusions of grandeur. Late at night, as Sam passed through the shroves of people still out wandering the streets, he marvelled at the illuminated arch of Wembley Stadium, the lights bending over the tops of the houses.
Despite the glamour of the national stadium and the cash injection in the surrounding areas, the majority of the town was in poverty, with a number of estates overrun with gangs and knife crime. Reportedly, there was on average at least one stabbing a week in the borough, a statistic the media liked to roll out in their never-ending quest for hyperbole.
Sam wanted to do something about it, but his focus was on the mission.
It was only about the mission.
Now, sat in the dingy kitchen of his crummy flat, he watched the early afternoon broadcast, the reporter stood in front of Holborn station, giving a reasonably accurate account of what Sam had accomplished the night before. What they failed to mention was the information he got.
The second High Rise’s location.
Shovelling a spoon of
