It was time to go home.
It was time to end this once and for all.
Chapter Seven
Never underestimate the power of a police badge.
DS Adrian Pearce remembered when he first heard that saying. It was nearly twenty-six years ago, two weeks after he’d passed out of the Hendon Training Centre as a fully-fledged member of the Metropolitan Police. Fresh faced and full of enthusiasm, he was soon brought down to earth with a crushing thud.
Although his storied career within the system had hardened Pearce to a number of things, that phrase had stuck with him. Spurred him on.
Throughout his time within the Met, Pearce had dealt with everything the job had to throw at him. Racism, gunfire, dead bodies. All of it had resonated with him, helped mould him into the unflappable detective he became.
But it was that one saying, spoken by the veteran police officer on one of his first beats that would eventually be his calling.
Officer Lawrence Dudley.
A large man with thinning hair who enjoyed the power the position wielded as much as the satisfaction of nabbing a criminal. While not an inherently bad man, he would be a career officer, due to his propensity to cut corners, a trait that Pearce could never fathom.
They had just entered a small sandwich shop amid a busy lunch hour and Dudley had pushed himself to the front of the queue. As uncomfortable as Pearce was, he said little and then watched in dismay as Dudley flashed his badge in lieu of payment.
‘Never underestimate the power of a police badge,’ Dudley had said, stuffing the sandwich into his mouth.
Pearce sometimes wondered if that was the seed that planted itself in the back of his mind and eventually led him to becoming part of the Department of Professional Standards. The DPS investigated the inner workings of the Metropolitan Police, analysing the work of its officers and took them to task when they flouted the rules.
Initially set up to ensure that standards were being met, Pearce soon built up a reputation of hunting his own men. Despite making more enemies than friends, Pearce thrived, and it eventually sent him on a road he could never return from. Just over a year ago, Sam Pope was a quiet recluse, working within the archive department of the Met. With known criminals finding themselves in the hospital, all the breadcrumbs had led him to Sam’s door.
Then everything changed.
With the life of an innocent psychiatrist, Amy Devereux at stake, Sam Pope uncovered a horrifying link between the police and a suspected terrorist attack.
People died.
Senior officers disappeared, along with any remnants of Pearce’s career. Now resigned to a cupboard for life and busy work, Pearce wondered if helping Sam was one of the most hypocritical mistakes of his life.
They may have stood on opposite sides of the thin blue line, but they believed in the same thing.
Justice.
Pearce couldn’t help but smile as he looked at his police badge and the power it had wielded as he’d flashed it to the dismissive receptionist behind the desk as he’d walked into the head office of The Pulse. Pearce was old school, sticking to the traditional newspapers as they’d made their transition into the digital age but he was aware of some of the more ‘hip’ news outlets. The Pulse was one of them, a collection of new-age journalists, pumping out a relentless stream of click bait articles, all of them chasing the increasing monetisation of internet addicts. Strewn between their top ten lists and sensationalist headlines, The Pulse were widely respected for writing hard hitting and at times, provocative articles, especially on the current events within the country.
Pearce himself had been mentioned in some of the articles, with the character assassination of Mark Harris which underlined his unknowing links to the Kovalenkos.
Now, he was here for a different reason and he looked around at the open-plan office where a number of enthusiastic writers were glued to their laptops. The large floor-to-ceiling windows gave a stunning view over The Strand, their residence almost mocking the historic location where the paper press used to live.
The receptionist, a young blonde lady in a tight shirt, scurried back to the desk, her head set glued to her head like a fighter pilot.
‘I’m sorry about that, detective,’ she said with a smile as she lowered herself into her leather chair. ‘Nigel will see you now. His office is just at the end of the room.’
She pointed lazily and Pearce nodded with a smile, refusing to pull her up on her manners. Her disinterest when he’d first arrived had quickly dissolved when he’d shown her his badge.
Never underestimate the power of a police badge.
Pearce made his way towards the office, noticing the heads that swivelled as he walked by. In an office full of slick haircuts, casual clothes, and trainers, he stood out like a sore thumb. His grey suit was tailored to fit his athletic body, his fitness levels were a source of pride ever since he had passed his fiftieth birthday. His short, grey tinged hair was always well cropped, along with the neat, grey beard that framed his face.
He looked like a detective and he was proud of it.
The door to Nigel Aitkin’s office was ajar, his name printed on the plaque, along with his title of ‘Chief Editor’ was proudly displayed.
Pearce knocked as he entered.
‘Detective,’ Nigel said warmly, rising from his desk with an outstretched hand. Pearce had done his homework once Assistant Commissioner Ashton had given him this errand to run. Nigel had worked as a chief writer for a number of respected newspapers, with a keen eye for a story and a sharp wit to go with it. He was widely liked by the journalist community and some of his insightful exposes on the poverty within the UK had won him awards.
He had started his own online press just over three years ago and while Pearce admired the
