‘Never,’ Helal said defiantly. ‘If I’ve got certain people pissing in their pants, it’s because I’ve written something close to home. It’s what I do.’
Pearce took a step towards Helal, who readjusted his feet, doing his best to stand straight. The man had a backbone, that was for sure, and Pearce couldn’t help but admire that. But accompanying that with a smart mouth was a recipe for trouble. Sat behind the desk, Nigel had his head in his hands, as if the whole interaction was a personal slight on his company.
‘Just be careful,’ Pearce said calmly. ‘Otherwise the next person who comes to see you might not be as accommodating.’
‘Are we done?’ Helal asked dismissively. ‘Because I’ve got a hot date with a cute source.’
‘I mean it,’ Pearce said coldly. ‘There are some stones certain people don’t want overturned.’
Helal took a step closer to Pearce.
‘Then they shouldn’t hide things. I don’t write these stories for the glory. I write it because people we trust to serve and protect us have a hell of a lot of skeletons in the closet. Now, I don’t condone Sam Pope or any act of violence but if he’s prepared to risk it all to do the right thing, then so am I.’ Helal looked at his boss, who had a face like thunder. ‘The world could use more truth. Then maybe I wouldn’t have to write these pieces in the first place.’
Pearce stopped himself from responding. Despite the sensationalist way he saw himself, Helal was right. Powerful people did things in the dark and all he was doing was a shining a light on it.
And potentially painting a target on his back.
‘Just think about it,’ Pearce finally said, before turning to a desperate looking Nigel. ‘Thanks for the coffee. I’ll see myself out.’
Pearce shot one final glance at Helal, who gave him an empty smile. As he stepped back into the office, he looked out at the rest of The Pulse reporters, whose heads poked up from their screens like startled meerkats. As he scanned the room, each one dropped their glance as his eyes rested on them.
The power of the police badge.
Leaving Nigel to read Helal the riot act, Pearce headed for the door, wondering how long it would before Mr Miah penned an article about police intimidation.
Chapter Eight
Amara Singh had failed.
With a resounding sigh, she lifted herself from the leather sofa that took centre stage of her living room and stretched out her back. The feeling of uselessness flowed through her like a current and she wondered once again if she should take up her parents’ offer of therapy. For years, she’d always seen the idea of seeking help as a sign of weakness. But now, with her life crumbling around her, she wondered if maybe it would help.
It certainly couldn’t hurt?
As she trudged across her flat, she rolled her eyes at the mess. It used to be immaculate, with everything neatly stored away, the shelves sparkling and the only evidence of a human came when she passed through. Now, as she sat at home most days, she’d allowed her standards to slip.
Everything had slipped.
It was nearly five o’clock in the evening and she was still lounging in her pyjamas. Her usual routine of going to the gym, keeping herself in peak physical condition, had fallen by the wayside two months ago, when her superiors enforced an ‘extended period of absence.’
They were doing their best to push her out of the Metropolitan Police Service.
This was not how her life was supposed to go.
Six months before, she was seen as the rising star of the organisation. While her aptitude tests, arrest record, and performance as an Armed Response Officer were off the charts, she knew her gender and race had opened doors that had caused resentment from others. But she’d never allowed the snide comments or the sexist remarks stop her.
She’d been focussed.
She’d achieved.
She did not fail.
Then, in the midst of Sam Pope’s one-man war on organised crime, she was put in charge of the task force created for the sole purpose of bringing him in. It was an opportunity she’d jumped at, personally recommended by the Assistant Commissioner herself. It was an honour, one bestowed upon a prodigy that should have been her crowning moment.
But somewhere along the way, the lines began to blur.
As a deplorable mayoral candidate pressured her to find Sam, her obsession to catch him had blinded her from the reality.
Sam Pope was not a bad guy.
He was a criminal and she would never waver from the belief that someone should never take the law into their own hands. But while her superiors were concerned with the negative press, he was out, hunting for missing teenagers who were being shipped abroad into the sex trade.
The lines definitely blurred.
As she thought about that harrowing night in the Port of Tilbury, she remembered how close she’d been to death. Set upon by two of Andrei Kovalenko’s thugs, she’d fought valiantly, throwing well-trained punches, and dished out as good as she gave. But she soon found herself on her knees, the rain lashing against her as a gun was pressed against her forehead.
As she remembered the feeling of accepting death, Singh felt her knees weaken.
She’d been seconds from the death, the thug had wrapped his finger around the trigger.
But Sam Pope had saved her.
Without hesitation, he’d killed both men, before telling Singh exactly where to find the missing girls. That was the moment when it clicked for her.
Sam Pope was not a bad guy.
With an army of armed henchmen baying for blood, Sam ran back into the war zone, doing his best to draw them away. His life or freedom weren’t his priority. The safety of the innocent was.
Singh steadied herself against the kitchen unit, looking with disgust at the mountain of dirty dishes and mugs that decorated her sink. She knew she would need to pull herself up, get her life
