The man who killed one of the UK’s most respected war heroes.
Ashton looked down at the newspaper on her desk, saw the name Sam Pope emblazoned all over it and immediately tossed it in her bin.
The name would haunt her forever.
Never, in his entire career in journalism, had Nigel Aitken ever felt so devastated.
The entire point of a free press was for the country to have access to the truth. People dismissed journalism as an intrusive profession, filled with cameramen with no boundaries and villainous reporters ready to stoop to horrendous levels just to get a scoop.
While in the tabloids that may have held some weight, for the majority, it couldn’t have been further from the truth.
Journalists were brave people, willing to knock on the doors where others were too scared and ask the questions no one else could. It landed them in hot water, sometimes even put them in danger, but every journalist worth their salt thrived for it.
The thrill of the story.
But the past week had been different.
Lost among the furore of Sam’s capture and the subsequent trail of destruction behind him, Helal Miah had died. An award-winning journalist, willing to go to extreme lengths for the truth, had been brutally murdered by a trained assassin.
Beaten. Tortured.
Then hanged.
It was horrifying and Nigel had shut down the publication for the week, the website showing a joyous photo of Helal’s infectious smile.
A loving tribute placed next to it.
Helal had been investigating the links between Wallace, Sam Pope, and Blackridge, his wild articles stoking many flames and had seen Nigel’s phone blow up. Several government officials wanted it shut down, telling Nigel that public distrust in the UK armed forces was not something they could afford.
The Met Police had sent a charming detective to talk him down.
But Helal was headstrong, and while his death was tragic, it clearly showed Nigel that he was on to something.
Brutal murders don’t happen by accident.
Nigel had wondered how he could honour his friend’s memory, looking through the final article he’d sent. It was a fascinating expose on the state of global terrorism, linking many strands towards the UK government and running the late General Ervin Wallace into the ground.
It was detailed, comprehensive, but it lacked the sufficient evidence that would make it watertight.
Nigel noticed the email in his inbox, the title catching his eye.
All the proof you will ever need.
As the editor of a popular publication, Nigel was accustomed to the odd prank email and opened it, expecting a cruel joke about Helal or a pornographic image.
Instead, what he received made his jaw drop in shock.
An email, sent by Paul Etheridge, detailing how he’d helped Sam Pope bring down the Kovalenko empire and how he’d helped him in his fight against Wallace. The email went to into great detail pertaining to Wallace, Blackridge, and the earth-shattering truth behind Project Hailstorm.
Attached to the email was an audio file and as Nigel played it, the colour drained from his face.
His hand shook.
It was a verbal confession from Wallace, admitting to the heinous crimes.
Nigel opened Helal’s article and respectfully began his amendments, his mission to honour his fallen friend being sparked into life with proof that would shock the country to its very core.
‘You sure about this?’ Singh asked with a smile, the bruising down her face had calmed to a dull, purple mark. The cut above her eyebrow nothing more than a scab.
‘More sure than I have been for a while,’ Pearce said, handing Singh a bottle of beer. She took it gratefully, and Pearce lowered himself down onto the steps of the youth centre. The sun was setting on another lovely spring afternoon, the orange glow of the sun reverberating off the windows. As Pearce slowly sat, he finally felt like a man entering retirement.
‘I hear that,’ Singh said, clinking her bottle with Pearce’s. ‘It’s been a funny six months.’
‘Funny year for me.’ Pearce chuckled, swigging his beer. ‘But it’s time to move on. For all of us.’
Singh nodded, a sadness to her movement. Pearce noticed it and wrapped an arm around her, drawing her in. The restoration of their friendship had been the one saving grace of everything that had happened. In their shared grief for what awaited Sam, Singh had reached out.
She’d forgiven him for her perceived betrayal and thanked her for helping Sam.
In a way, he’d saved her life.
‘So…’ Singh spoke, changing the subject. ‘You’re in charge full-time then?’
‘Yup. You’re looking at the new Bethnal Green Community Centre Manager.’
Singh whistled.
‘Get you.’ She chuckled and then rested her head on his shoulder. ‘I’m pleased for you, Pearce.’
He sipped his beer.
‘Please, call me Adrian.’
Singh looked up at him, tilted her head as if deep in thought and then shook it.
‘Nah, I don’t like that. Pearce it is.’
They both laughed and then sat silently, allowing the calming transition into the evening to relax them both. It had been a hell of journey, one which had seen both of their lives threatened and changed them both forever. As she finished her beer, Singh squeezed his shoulder and then stood.
‘I better be going,’ she said meekly.
‘Do you want a lift?’
‘No, the fresh air will do me good.’ Pearce stood and she offered him a smile. ‘Take care, Pearce.’
‘Don’t be a stranger okay?’
She nodded, her eyes watering and she buried herself into his chest. He held her for a few moments, gently rubbing her back. Sam’s journey had ripple effects, some that could never be altered.
Pearce was no longer in the Met.
Singh had nearly been killed.
While his fight may have finished, there were many nursing wounds.
Wounds that would leave scars.
Singh finally stepped away and disappeared around the corner, losing herself to the busy city. As Pearce watched her leave, Sean Wiseman stepped out from the centre, looking in the same direction.
‘She okay?’ Wiseman asked, his burgeoning career as a social worker making him care for everyone.
‘She will be.’
‘What about Sam?’ Wiseman popped the cap off his own beer and took a sip.
‘I couldn’t tell you.
