The sleeves of her white shirt were rolled up, revealing her delicate forearms. The lapels of her shirt wore ‘pips’, the proud insignia of an Inspector and she cast her dark eyes around the room, a look of pity on her face. Pearce looked up, peering over the top of his mandated spectacles and caught her silent judgment.
‘Hardly the Ritz, is it?’
She forced a smile, ignoring the obvious elephant in the room. It was an elephant that had followed Pearce around ever since he had arrested Inspector Howell at the top of the High Rise. In the six months since, he had been moved from the Department of Professional Standards to working internal cold cases.
They hadn’t reallocated him.
They had neutered him.
His office, stuffed away behind the printing room on the fourth floor of the iconic Met building in Westminster, was a place to hide him from the world. After exposing the ‘terrorist attack’ as an inside job, Pearce knew what was coming next. The powers that be ensured that Howell was put away, but they swept a laundry list of indiscretions under the rug. Pearce’s access had been restricted, and they soon removed him from a number of potential internal investigations.
Now he sat, in a dark corner of the police service, killing time until they gave him his golden handshake and a severe confidentiality agreement.
Pearce leant back in his chair, his head just missing one of the overstuffed shelving units above him. He regarded Singh with an experienced eye, noting how she carried herself, the sternness of her expression and her clear obsession with proving she was more than a pretty face. Eventually, she offered him a smile that he was sure turned plenty of heads on a daily basis.
‘DI Pearce.’
‘Please, call me Adrian.’
‘Very well, sir.’ She shuffled as he raised his eyebrows. ‘I mean, Adrian. I’m Detective Inspector Si…’
‘Singh. I know.’
‘How?’ she asked, her posture as straight as an arrow.
‘It’s my job to know.’ Pearce flashed her a warm smile. ‘How long have you been with us now?’
‘I transferred just over three months ago, sir,’ Singh said.
‘They still let you carry a gun?’ Pearce asked, nodding towards the holster that was strapped securely to her curved hip. Singh flashed a glance down at the Glock 26 pistol that rested against her, the halogen light bathing it in a menacing sheen. ‘You transferred from AR, am I right?’
Singh raised a perfectly tweezed eyebrow. She smiled.
‘I served in the Armed Response unit for over two years sir, with distinction.’ She smiled warmly. ‘As did you, am I right?’
‘A long time ago.’ Pearce motioned to the small unit in the corner which housed a rusty old kettle and a small jar of instant coffee. Singh waved away politely. ‘I’m essentially a book keeper nowadays.’
Pearce chuckled to himself, clicking his mouse in frustration as his computer still refused to burst into action. Singh cleared her throat.
‘That’s not entirely true, is it, sir?’ Singh asked rhetorically. Pearce could see the effort she was putting into being authoritative.
‘Excuse me?’
‘With all due respect, sir. The reason you have been blackballed in this organisation is due to your involvement in the Sam Pope case from six months ago.’ Singh carefully selected her words. ‘So it hasn’t been too long since you were seeing some action.’
Pearce smiled again, linking his fingers together before letting his hands drop into his lap. Singh stared at him, her tenacity threatening to sour the mood between them.
‘You mean the Inspector Howell case, for which he was arrested for the murder of his own nephew?’ Pearce corrected, adding a sternness to his words for extra impact.
‘Forgive me, sir. But I’m not here to sully the name of a peer who has passed away.’
Pearce raised his eyebrows, conveying his difference of opinion. After arresting a bloodied and bullet ridden Howell at the top of the High Rise, Pearce had followed Howell’s descent with intrigue. He was sentenced to life in prison, which came to a non-surprising end after only a few months when they found Howell dead in his cell from suicide. Singh spoke again, breaking his train of thought.
‘My focus is on Sam Pope, the man who killed over a dozen men, including Frank Jackson, and who is still at large. A man who, and I mean no disrespect, you’re accused of aiding and abetting.’
‘Allegedly,’ Pearce stated calmly.
‘Well, for someone who has worked for years to ensure that the police uphold the law, the evidence against you is rather damning.’
Pearce rose from his chair, his athletic frame evident through his grey suit and which was impressive for a man of his age. His reputation as a crack shot on Armed Response had followed him into his job of investigating his own colleagues, as well as his unbeaten record in the boxing ring. He was well aware of how imposing he could be and he noticed just a flicker of nerves on Singh’s face.
It was what he was trained to notice.
It was all he needed.
‘DI Singh, if you have come here to test my knowledge on that case then you are succeeding in only testing my patience.’ He fastened the top button of his suit, the blazer clasping across his yellow tie. ‘Now, I’m assuming you didn’t come all this way to insult me, so why don’t you tell me what it is you want?’
Singh straightened her stance, her hands clasped behind her back. Pearce admired her attempts at standing strong.
‘I have been assigned to the Sam Pope Task Force, sir, and I was hoping I could lean on you for information or maybe even entice you to join.’
‘Join?’ Pearce raised an eyebrow again, never tiring of leading people to their point.
‘Yes, sir. With your knowledge of the previous case and your alleged dealings with Pope himself, your contribution in bringing this violent criminal to justice could be huge.’ Pearce chuckled and Singh’s
