Chapter Twenty-Seven
The entire day had been one big blur.
Since returning to the office among the panic of Sam’s attack, Pearce had tried to get his head down and lose himself in the mundane work he’d been given. It had been over a year since he’d been given a real case. The higher ups didn’t like the evidence trail he’d presented to them when it was revealed that Inspector Howell had conspired with Frank Jackson to stage a terror attack at the London Marathon.
While they’d acknowledged Howell’s deception and sentenced him to life in prison, Pearce found himself ostracised. He was shunted to a pokey office in the corner of the building, too small to fit more than one person in it.
He was sneered at by his colleagues, more so than usual and the higher ups had done little to dissuade the officers that he was in cahoots with Sam Pope.
Pearce wasn’t just presented as a snitch.
He was presented as a hypocrite as well.
But he’d been able to deal with it. Through his entire career, he’d developed the thick skin needed and the street smarts to match.
But he couldn’t shake the horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach.
The feeling of guilt.
There was no doubt in his mind that Sam’s attack on Tower Bridge, the execution of Wallace’s men, and subsequent abduction of the General, was the only choice Sam had. With Singh being abducted, Sam needed the ultimate card to play. But by helping him escape, Pearce had willingly aided and abetted the most wanted man in the UK. Sure, before he’d turned a blind eye, but this was different.
This felt like it had gone too far.
The whole afternoon had been one big wrestling match with his conscience, and after what felt like his eighth cup of coffee of the day, he turned and looked at the clock on his desk.
Somehow, it was nearly ten.
Thinking that time was dragging, Pearce had in fact sat in his office for nearly twelve hours, tossing his thoughts back and forth like a tennis ball.
He had scrawled a quick letter, signed it, and the shimmied out from his broom cupboard. The Scotland Yard office was nearly empty, the only people still in attendance were the cleaners, those on the night shift, and a few senior officers who seemed to spend more time at their desks than anywhere else.
As he strode through the corridor who flashed a glance through the window at the bitterly cold evening, watching as a light drizzle began to gently tap against the glass.
Below, the iconic Scotland Yard logo span.
It had always filled Pearce with a sense of pride, but now, the spinning logo only added to the guilt.
He marched through the Task Force office; the desks all empty apart from one unlucky officer who had been rota’d to the all-night phone line. The young man didn’t even look up from his desk as Pearce approached Ashton’s door. He took a deep breath and then rapped his knuckles gently on the door.
‘Enter.’
Ashton’s voice was curt and authoritative, and Pearce obliged. She looked up from her desk, peering over her glasses as the senior detective entered and she sighed.
Pearce had caused her a number of issues over the past year or so, especially regarding her blossoming relationship with General Wallace.
‘Evening, Ma’am.’ Pearce nodded respectfully, standing proudly with his shoulders straight and hands behind his back.
‘What can I do for you, Pearce? It’s late.’ The final statement told him he was on a time limit.
‘I’ve come to officially start the process of my retirement, Ma’am.’
Ashton dropped her pen and looked up, her finely tweezed eyebrows raised.
‘Oh?’ She struggled to hide her delight. ‘What has caused this?’
‘I’ve been doing this a long time, Ma’am. I’ve had a hell of a career and I’ll be honest; I’ve loved every second of it. But recently, I’ve been thinking that I could be doing a lot more good out there than I am in here.’
‘I hope this isn’t because you were moved to another office?’ Ashton offered flippantly. Pearce politely smiled.
‘No, Ma’am. It’s to do with the fact that the more we try to fix things, the worse they get. My focus was always on how we operated as an organisation. How people such as yourself, and the Commissioner, ran the police to ensure we are keeping the public safe.’ Pearce could see a smile forming on Ashton’s face. ‘And to be honest, Ma’am, the way we operate, the way you operate, makes me think we are doing more harm than good.’
The colour drained from Ashton’s face, replaced with a red-hot rage.
‘How dare you? You come in here, telling me that we are doing harm when you’re the one who’s had known dealings with Sam Pope?’ She slammed her hands down on the desk.
‘Allegedly.’ Pearce pointed out, his calmness riling her up more. ‘I assume I don’t need to work my notice.’
‘Get the fuck out of here, Pearce.’ Ashton’s face snarled like a rabid bulldog. ‘I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to kick you out the goddam door myself.’
‘It’s been a pleasure, Ma’am.’ Pearce bowed before turning on his heel and heading for the door. As he reached out for the handle, he froze. That horrible feeling at the pit of his stomach rumbled once again. He turned back to Ashton, who had already raised the phone, prepping security to escort him from the premises.
‘What?’ She barked.
‘Despite everything, we still need to do the right thing,’ Pearce said, almost to himself than to her.
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
Pearce felt the horrible feeling of betrayal. Sam was a good man, but it had gone too far.
Pearce had to do the right thing.
Had to.
‘Singh and Sam are at the High Rise.’ As he spoke, he saw Ashton’s eyes light up. ‘Wallace had Singh. Sam took Wallace. You need to get her out.’
‘You better not be lying,’ Ashton spat, hanging up the phone before redialling.
‘Not this time. But I’d send
