To do ‘something good.’
As the sun set on the first Sunday of December, Pearce arrived outside the Bethnal Green Youth Centre slightly late, the sky already dark and the temperature dropping rapidly. Although he still had forty-five minutes until the doors opened, he usually liked to have a cup of tea and a read of the Sunday news. The local youths who attended were always so talkative and alarmingly knowledgeable about current affairs.
While many would dismiss them as estate kids or ‘hoodies’, he was often surprised with how intelligent they were and the conversations he had had around politics and the law were fascinating. It was a testament to Theo Walker, the former soldier who had partnered Sam in his past and who had set up the project to help the kids who had to survive on the streets.
Pearce had done his best to honour him, but age and time restraints were making it harder to do it beyond once a week.
As he got out of his car, he took a moment to stretch his back, Father Time reminding him of his age as more aches and pains infiltrated his reasonably athletic body. He stepped through the gate and towards the door of the community hall when a young man climbed off from the steps and approached him. Pearce assessed him and quickly offered him his warmest greeting.
‘Hello, young man. Can I help you?’
The young man had been severely beaten, his face was slashed and bruised. His right hand was wrapped in bandages and he twitched nervously. Pearce thought he recognised him but couldn’t place him.
Wiseman approached Pearce, nervously chuckling.
‘Err, I don’t want to get into any trouble,’ he finally said.
‘There is no trouble here, son. I don’t allow it.’
Pearce’s joke caused Wiseman to smile, his youthful exuberance peeking through the brutal scars.
‘Well, I was sent here by Sam Pope.’ Wiseman waited a moment then continued, ‘He said this was a place to come to if I needed help.’
Pearce stood still for a moment, shaking his head slightly as his respect for Sam grew even more. The most wanted man in the country was probably its most caring.
Pearce offered his handshake.
‘He wasn’t wrong.’
Wiseman took Pearce’s hand, solidifying their friendship with a shake before following the wise detective into the community centre, the warmth of the building welcoming him in from the cold and ushering him into a new life.
Epilogue
Burrows spat the final remnants of vomit into the toilet bowl and then reached for the chain. He sighed with relief that the ordeal was over and pulled himself up, his beady eyes flashing around the cubicle. A few numbers were scrawled across the wall, all of them offering a lude outcome and he stepped out into the airport bathroom.
It had been two weeks since he had gone dark, using the money he had been stockpiling for the last fifteen years to hide away in the darkest hole in the country.
Having worked for the Kovalenkos for a decade and a half, Burrows had over two million in a personal fortune that he kept hidden, choosing to live off of the generous salary provided by the UK taxpayer.
He had seen the end coming as soon as Sam Pope began taking down some of the major crime brackets in London. Once Frank Jackson’s High Rise fell, he knew that unless something was done, Pope would connect enough dots to lead him to their doorstep.
Then the game would be up.
He was right.
But Burrows had managed to slip through the net, reading with little remorse that Harris’s bright star had been extinguished and he had retired in shame. As the weeks went by, more stories of their misdeeds had flooded the broad sheets, with Burrows’ links to Kovalenko exposed. Harris, despite his campaign benefitting from the money, had been put forward as a victim of their betrayal, but his life was still spiralling out of control.
With their chance of fifteen minutes of fame and a potential pay out, a number of women came forward, selling their stories of their affairs with Harris to anyone willing to buy them. It wasn’t Burrows’ problem anymore, and he blamed Harris for not pushing the task force earlier.
Burrows had been in his ear every day, telling him to base the campaign around bringing Sam Pope to justice and tackling the rise of crime in London the right way. He had sold it like it was Harris’s idea, that he was the one in charge. But Burrows had pulled the strings and the odd lavish gift or dinner date with Assistant Commissioner Ashton had been most beneficial.
There had been nothing in the papers regarding their links and despite her rejection of his advances over the years, Burrows wasn’t willing to sell her down the river just yet.
An announcement echoed over the speakers, asking all final passengers for the non-stop flight from Birmingham to Kiev to make their way to gate sixteen. Burrows splashed water on his face, not recognising the plump man before him. The tufts of hair that framed his head had overgrown and his grey beard was overdue a trim. The green contacts had changed his eye colour, but he cursed having to put them in everyday.
Sergei Kovalenko had been in touch when news of Andrei’s passing became public. Despite their best efforts en route to the hospital, the paramedics had declared Andrei dead before they’d arrived.
Sergei hadn’t been best pleased, but he didn’t blame Burrows. He wasn’t anything more than a facilitator, but the man had been incredibly loyal to him and his family.
Therefore, he had offered Burrows a safe haven in Kiev, where he would protect him from the authorities who wanted him crucified.
A few days later, state-of-the-art documentation had arrived, giving Burrows a new identity as Gregory Baker. He didn’t hate it, but he felt like a
