If he did, it didn’t show. A large smile was plastered across his face, his glasses balancing on a thin, pointed nose that suited his sharp face. Thinning brown hair flopped across his forehead and for a man in his mid-forties, he seemed full of energy. Unlike his employees, Nigel still dressed smartly, although the suit had been downgraded to a shirt, chinos, and a smart Chelsea boot.
Pearce took the hand graciously.
‘Mr Aitkin,’ Pearce replied.
‘Please, call me Nigel.’ He motioned to the seat as he returned to his own. ‘Please sit. Can I get you a drink? Tea? Coffee?’
‘Coffee would be great. Thanks.’
As Nigel buzzed his receptionist and requested two coffees, Pearce scanned the room. It was ingrained in him.
Every detail would be absorbed, filtered, and then if necessary, stored.
The price of being a detective.
He never switched off. It’s what made him so damn good at his job but what had wrecked his private life.
But he wasn’t here to dwell on his divorce, he was there on police business. As he returned his gaze to Nigel, he was greeted with another warm smile.
‘First off, welcome to The Pulse,’ he said proudly. ‘It’s not often we get the boys in blue here.’
‘Well, you’re obviously doing something right, then,’ Pearce responded with a nod.
‘I’d like to think so,’ Nigel said with a deep sigh. ‘The day when the newspaper was a source of truth has long since died. Now, with social media infecting everyone’s phone, the reliance on the press to hammer through real news is as strong as ever. I like to think that we do our job and do it well.’
‘That’s very noble of you,’ Pearce said, interrupted by the reappearance of the receptionist, who looked less than thrilled to be bringing in two cups of coffee. Pearce nodded politely and then hid his disdain at the foul-tasting drink provided. As she left, he turned back to Nigel, who regarded him carefully.
‘How can I help you, detective?’
‘I’m here to talk with one of your contributors…’
‘Journalists,’ Nigel corrected.
‘Journalists…Helal Miah.’ Judging from the slight shake of the head, Pearce felt the tension. After a few moments and a small sigh, Nigel lifted his mobile phone. This was a modern office and the idea of a desk phone was laughable. As Nigel sent a text message, Pearce thought about the clunky device on his desk. He still didn’t know how to put someone on hold. After a few more taps of the screen, Nigel dropped the phone on his desk. He looked slightly perturbed and Pearce decided to press a little harder.
‘Is everything okay?’
‘I had a feeling a day like this would come.’ Nigel shook his head. ‘I’ve told Helal a few times that his pieces are becoming too provocative and…here he is now.’
The door to the office opened and Pearce stood. Helal walked in with a true sense of confidence, his head high, he shoulders straight. With his neatly cut, slicked hair and neatly trimmed beard, he was well groomed. The denim shirt, black chinos, and Converse shoes completed the outfit of a man completely comfortable in the modern world. While not the tallest, Helal’s firm handshake told Pearce he feared nothing.
It was an admirable quality.
One which would make this difficult.
‘How can I help?’ Helal shrugged, casually walking to the wall and leaning back against it, his arms folding across his chest.
‘Helal, this is DI Adrian Pearce from the Metropolitan Police.’ Nigel formally introduced him. ‘He has requested to speak to you.’
‘Oh really?’ Helal’s brown eyes flickered with excitement. ‘Are you here for an interview?’
‘Excuse me?’ Pearce said, taking his seat.
‘I know you. You’re the Sam Pope detective. I’ve mentioned you a few times in my articles. You were the one who exposed Mark Harris, weren’t you?’
‘Mr Miah, I am not here to grant you an interview, nor do I want to be involved in any pieces you are writing.’
‘That’s a shame.’ Helal looked around the office, pondering when the day would come when it would be his. Born and raised in London to Indian parents, Helal loved the city as much as he loved putting his fingers to the keyboard. Through his years of investigative journalism, he knew that powerful organisations worked hard to keep things behind closed doors. The fact that a detective had shown up, a mere day after he’d published an article questioning the Met’s ability to police safely wasn’t a coincidence.
It was a confirmation.
‘I’m here about the article you wrote.’
‘Who’s watching over us now?’ Helal interrupted, drawing a scowl from his boss. ‘Quality, wasn’t it?’
‘I didn’t read it.’ Pearce lied, knowing he needed to tip the balance of power. ‘But some people did and…’
‘Let me guess…’ Helal cut him off again. ‘Certain higher-ups are upset that the truth is coming out.’
‘Truth?’ Pearce raised his eyebrows. ‘I wouldn’t call sensationalist pieces supporting the work of a vigilante as truth. I’d call it click bait.’
‘Not according to my sources.’
Pearce smiled to himself and slowly pushed himself out of his seat. He towered over the journalist and locked his eyes onto him. He had been in enough interview rooms to know that his stare could be quite unnerving. This time however, Helal rolled his eyes and turned to his boss.
‘Am I in trouble?’
‘I don’t know,’ Nigel said. ‘But I did tell you that this article could land you in the shit.’
‘It’s a free fucking press.’ Helal spat, his arms out in dismay. ‘If we let the police dictate what we can and can’t write, what the hell happens to free speech?’
‘Save me the crusade,’ Pearce said firmly. ‘I’m not here to slap your wrist or to tell you what you can or can’t write, despite what some of my superiors would like. I’m here to tell you to be careful.’
‘Are you threatening me? Because believe me, I get threatened an awful lot.’
‘I don’t doubt that.’ Pearce smiled. ‘But your
