Singh nodded curtly and turned to the door, pulling it open with a little extra force to convey her anger. Ashton smirked, pleased at her own power play and by executing it exactly as instructed by the Commissioner. While she never expected things to improve, she’d at least made it clear that Singh’s success is now linked to her own.
Mission accomplished.
Before the door closed and she could finish her drink, a young administrator politely knocked on the door, poking her head through.
‘What is it, Emma?’
‘It’s Gemma, ma’am.’ The young lady corrected sheepishly, nervously tucking her blonde hair behind her ear. Ashton regarded her with annoyance, even though the young lady had exceptional manners. Gemma had been working within the Met for over two years and was a firm favourite with the officers. While her peers commended the young lady’s efficiency and cadence, Ashton put her popularity down to her pretty face, full chest, and tight shirts.
Ashton chuckled into her glass. She could be a real bitch sometimes.
‘What is it?’ she eventually asked, not looking up.
‘I have the paperwork pertaining to Sam Pope’s prison transfer you asked for?’ Gemma stepped in nervously. Ashton waved her in, slamming her glass down.
‘Thank you,’ Ashton said, snatching the folder and immediately flicking it open. ‘Oh, and book me in for a visit to Pentonville tomorrow. I want to look that bastard in the eye.’
‘Ma’am,’ Gemma said, her voice shaking with nerves and confusion. ‘He hasn’t been taken to Pentonville?’
Before Ashton could respond to the young woman’s query, her eyes lit up with joy. Although it had originally been dismissed, it appeared Commissioner Stout had finally granted her wish. One final act of kindness from a man whose boots she doubted she’d be able to fill. There would be no chance of visiting Sam, not anymore.
With glee, she slapped the file down on the table and shot a smile towards a clearly uncomfortable Gemma.
‘Never mind,’ she said firmly, basking in the glory of the dark hole that Sam Pope had been sent.
* * *
Ashcroft Maximum Security Prison was located in the woodlands of Salters Green. A few miles out from the Sussex town of Mayfield, the vast woods provided the perfect location for the notorious building known by those in power as ‘The Grid’.
The large, concrete wall that spanned the perimeter of the facility was three feet thick, topped with electrified barbed wire that would fry anything it touched. A dirt path off Argos Hill Road was stopped abruptly by the first of three metal gates, each one needing a security pass and an ever-changing access code for entry. The code was scrambled every twenty-four hours and delivered within an encrypted message that required a thumb print to open.
There was no breaking in.
No getting out.
Beyond the third gate, which also included a physical inspection by three, armed security officers, the fortress loomed, encased in the shadows of the surrounding trees. A grey, concrete block made up of four floors, two of which had been built into the earth itself. Beneath the ground, it housed a maximum of three hundred and forty-six of the UK’s most dangerous criminals.
Criminals who not only required incarceration, but those who could never hope for a look at the outside world again. Each one serving a life sentence, the idea of parole a disgusting joke that was banded about by those on both sides of the law. A twenty-two-hour lockdown was implemented, with prisoners kept in their six square metre cells, segregated by thick walls and iron doors. The only daylight afforded was for the hour of ‘exercise’, regardless of the elements, with no protection offered beyond the trained snipers overlooking the courtyard.
To those inside, the idea of being placed at HMP Wakefield was a holiday.
To those who knew of Ashcroft, it was the hole you buried the worst criminals in, knowing they would die either at the hands of each other, the guards, or from their hourglass running out.
To the public, Ashcroft didn’t exist.
Sam knew he wasn’t headed to Pentonville the moment he’d set foot in the security van. The short glimpse of a pistol strapped under the jacket of the officers who pushed him in told him that.
The blackout doors of the van permitted him no sunlight, as he travelled in the dark, well aware that the van was bulletproof. After twenty minutes, when he wasn’t being greeted by the Pentonville Prison guards, Sam was resigned to his fate. While he didn’t swim in the ‘need to know’ circles, he knew of Ashcroft’s existence. His investigations into the organised crime had uncovered rumours of The Grid, a place that even the most hardened criminals were afraid of.
A place where people disappeared.
There were no stops on the hour and a half journey, with Sam not afforded a glimpse of sunshine, a smidgen of fresh air, nor a comfort break. As a prisoner, being carted off to a deep, dark hole, he no longer held any claim to those benefits.
Sam Pope had nothing.
Eventually, he felt the traction under the tyres change from the smooth tarmac of a main road to a gravelley, bumpy terrain, and the vehicle came to a stop. One of the men stepped from the front and after a few moments, the loud clunk of a metal gate echoed, and the van crept forward. Another two minutes and the same process was repeated.
Impenetrable.
As they came to a third stop, Sam was treated to a brief glimpse of the outside world, the gloomy day still held an unnatural brightness as the doors to the back of the van were thrown open. He held a hand up to protect himself from the glare, making a note of the two men who were quickly inspecting the cargo.
They were both well built.
One of them was left-handed, his fingers curled around his pen.
Both carried firearms.
Sam committed every detail to memory. It was a gift he had, which was only enhanced by his training. The smallest detail can sometimes make the greatest
