But every search came to nothing.
Discreetly, she’d reached out to a trusted ally who worked in the IT department, but they too had been met by nothing but disappointment.
Something didn’t feel right.
Singh had broached the subject once with Ashton, who had been hamming up her personal touch with everyone in the office, ensuring the support of many when she rose to the top seat. It was as transparent as a pane of glass, and every time she offered Singh an empty smile, it made her skin crawl.
It also caused her to reflect.
Just over six months ago, Singh looked at Ashton with wide-eyed respect. A woman who had risen through the ranks, making impeccable career moves, and forging the right friendships. It was inspiring to Singh, who was also climbing through the ranks and back then, Singh would have been congratulating Ashton for playing the political game.
But things had changed.
Sam Pope’s war against injustice, either side of the thin blue line, had opened her eyes.
She didn’t want to throw away her career, but Singh’s motivation had moved away from what style of epaulettes she wore on her shoulder. Now, it was about making a difference.
About ensuring that true justice was carried out and she wasn’t going to allow her own aspirations to blur her view on right or wrong.
Not since Sam had laid it out so clearly.
Her requests to Ashton for an update regarding Sam were met with a condescending shake of the head and a warning that she should know better. The rumours about her collusion still hadn’t gone away, but in the eyes of the media, she was a beacon of hope for a police force whose credibility had been fed through a wood chipper.
But she was a damn good detective.
When presented with a version of the truth that knotted her stomach, Singh couldn’t help but investigate it. It was that dogged nature that made her such a valued detective, that had seen her put forward to hunting down Sam in the first place.
Which now made her a pain in the arse.
The media had been quiet, too. Ever since the despicable murder of Helal Miah, the press had given the Sam Pope story a wide birth. There was extensive coverage of the sentencing for the first couple of days, with some of the more liberal papers printing Sam’s speech verbatim as some sort of rallying cry. It was a dangerous tight rope to walk, as while Sam’s acts were noble in theory, they were criminal in execution.
Celebrating him could lead to imitation, and Singh doubted anyone looking to take up the mantle would have the same skills he did.
But there had been no pressure from the journalists to bring Sam’s first week behind bars to the public domain and the guilt of Helal Miah’s death hung heavy on her conscience. Almost all of them had been in touch, wanting an interview with the star detective who had brought the UK’s most dangerous man to justice. A part of her wanted to scare them off, to tell them the truth about how Helal Miah was even caught up in a series of events that would end in his murder. Although he was brutally tortured and killed by Farukh Abdul, she was the one who had brought him into the frame.
She’d sold Miah the story.
Had put him in the firing line.
And while she didn’t beat him to a pulp, nor wrap the noose that choked the life out of him around his neck, she still had blood on her hands.
It was why she was determined to keep her career going. Sam had given his freedom for her own and Helal Miah had died to bring the truth to light. The article published in his memory by his heart broken boss, had lifted the lid on the extent of Wallace’s crimes.
They had honoured Miah by getting the story he’d died for out there.
Sam had honoured his death by bringing those responsible to justice.
She would honour it by not letting those sacrifices be for nothing.
But still, something didn’t sit right.
She’d thought about bouncing some ideas off Pearce. Seeing him at the trial had been the one brief moment of happiness she’d endured in months and knowing that he effectively retired in the face of helping save her life had rewritten the betrayal she’d original pinned to him.
But he was out of it now.
Retired.
Dedicating his life to a new cause and one that she didn’t want to disrupt. Singh had also considered going to speak to Etheridge, but the man’s cowardice in the face of Sam’s incarceration had caused her blood to boil. Etheridge may have been beaten and shot for the cause, but Sam had saved his life when they were soldiers.
The least Etheridge could do was be there for Sam when his life as a free man was coming to an end.
Singh sat back in her chair, rested her hands on her head, and took a deep breath. The sleeves of her neatly ironed, white shirt had been rolled up to the elbow and she stared at the phone on her desk.
The idea running through her head should have made her stomach flip, but the knot caused by Sam’s sudden disappearance had held it steady. She hated the thought of what she was about to do, but what else was there?
Singh was out of ideas.
And she needed to know what the hell was going on.
With a resounding sigh, she leant forward, logged into her terminal, and brought up the police directory. After a few clicks on the keyboard, she found the number for the administration office for Pentonville Prison.
Prison Guard Matt Allison had made no secret of his attraction to her on the few
