Singh didn’t fear anything anymore.
As the sirens of the van began their long, droning scream into the night sky, the van pulled away, making its way slowly through the gathering crowd, ready to whisk Sam off to his future behind bars. Singh stormed away from the scene, bluntly rejecting the offer of medical assistance and decided she was going to take a long walk home.
She needed to clear her head and needed to heal her heart.
Ashton watched Singh leave, annoyed that her rebellious protégé had just solidified her legacy in the police, just as Ashton was on the cusp of ascensions. Still, despite Singh being the one to make the catch, Ashton would still spin it to Wallace that it was under her tutelage.
She’d guided Singh, promoted her quickly and now that shrewd judgement had paid off.
‘Ma’am, we have two bodies.’ A senior officer snapped her back to the matter of hand. ‘One up on the top floor and one sadly on the street.’
‘Where?’ she asked, and the officer pointed her towards the side street. ‘As you were.’
‘Ma’am.’
The officer nodded politely and went back to the mayhem and Ashton marched towards the small cluster of officers gathered around a body, the white sheet about to be placed over it.
Ashton felt her legs turn to jelly.
Staring up at her, with his head a crushed mess of bone and brain, was Wallace. The fall had crumpled his spine into a jagged mess of bone, his skull had been obliterated by the pavement.
Wallace was dead.
‘Are you okay, Ma’am?’ one of the officers asked, but she ignored him. Slowly, she turned back towards the crime scene, marching past the plethora of officers hard at work, the wide-eyed public trying to catch a snippet for their social media accounts.
She made her way back to her car and dropped into the back seat. Her driver remained silent, allowing her to weep as she hunched over on the backseat and howled at the loss of her beloved General.
Sam would pay for his death, she told herself. He would pay dearly.
Chapter Thirty
The following week was surreal.
The world watched on in amazement as what had been dubbed ‘The Weekend of War’ by the press had come to a close. With all eyes on the Metropolitan Police, Ashton was adamant on putting herself front and centre, happily talking to the media about the long and dangerous journey to bringing down Sam Pope.
The man dominated the press, with several of the outlets championing his release, highlighting the people he’d saved and the criminals he’d cleaned from the streets.
While it was hard during interviews to keep her cool, Ashton promised herself she would stay professional. There was one slip, when one of the journalists questioned the integrity of the late General Wallace, probing as to why Sam Pope had targeted the man and what links he had with the mysterious Blackridge.
Ashton had shut down the interview then and there, retreated to her office, and wept for the recently departed. While she was aware it was unrequited, she’d grown fond of the General, their sexual encounters meant more to her than just the feeding of passionate urges.
But he was gone.
Sam Pope hadn’t spoken a word since he’d been arrested, beyond signing a confession to the crimes he’d committed. When offered legal representation, he refused, despite being sternly told to accept the offer.
A full confession would mean he would never leave prison and while Sam said he understood, the only names he refused to confess to killing were General Wallace and a Sergeant Carl Marsden.
His lack of responsibility had infuriated the Assistant Commissioner, and she’d demanded a private meeting with Sam. While he sat quietly, almost at peace, she’d berated him for the murder of Wallace and for stripping the country of a fine man. Sam’s only response was to call Wallace a traitor, a decision that drew a hard, open palmed slap from Ashton. Disgusted by the vigilante before her, she promised Sam he would rot in prison until the day he died and that she would call on every favour to ensure every day was hell for him.
It fell on deaf ears and Ashton had felt less in control than ever when she’d returned to the office. Now, four days after the arrest, she realised that the story of Sam Pope would never be over.
The press would be tugging at that string forever, with undoubtedly more skeletons existing in numerous closets. She was scared to look further in Wallace, the notion of no smoke without fire had made her tremble slightly in fear.
What if the man she’d slept with wasn’t who he’d said? What if the rumours of barbaric actions and global terrorism were true?
It wasn’t worth thinking about and Ashton decided to focus on the other pressing matter.
DI Amara Singh.
A week before she was in the final stages of pushing the reckless detective through the door, much to the delight of Wallace. Now, as the person who had finally brought Sam Pope to justice, she was to receive an excellence award from the Commissioner and was the talk of the office.
The prodigy come good.
It reflected well on Ashton, of course, and she would ride the wave of praise as far as she could. But her suspicions of collusion remained, and she made a silent vow to keep digging, hoping one day to nail Singh for her crimes and let her rot in a dark hole as well.
The entire country was shaking, the public split on whether they wanted Sam to spend his life in prison or to be celebrated as a hero. It was dangerous territory and the last thing they needed were a bunch of senseless copycats taking to the streets in his place.
No, Ashton would make sure Sam was locked away behind as many doors as possible, with the key melted. She would hammer home the narrative of a crazed ex-soldier, who murdered as many innocent people as he did
