The reporter shook his head slightly and flustered, Ashton turned to another sea of raised hands. She nodded and awaited the question.
‘Ma’am, since the trial of Sam Pope concluded, there has been no update on his condition, nor any official word from yourselves or HMS Pentonville. Are you able to update us on Sam Pope’s condition?’
Ashton’s eyes flickered with a furious envy. Insulted that the press were still focused on Sam as opposed to her, she snapped her response.
‘As far as I’m concerned, Sam Pope is no longer an issue that the press or the public need to worry about.’
‘But ma’am, considering the public interest in Sam’s trial, and the split belief among them that he was a hero, do you not think that they deserve to know?’
Ashton slammed her hands down on the table, a gasp echoing from the watching reporters. The Deputy Commissioner was renowned for her composure and seeing a clear act of annoyance would be worth a few lines itself. Embarrassed, Ashton readjusted her cravat, cleared her throat, and leant forward to the mic.
‘The Sam Pope situation has been concluded, as has this press conference. Thank you for your questions.’
Ashton stood, bringing an abrupt and regrettable conclusion to the proceedings. As the reporters called out in the hope of a final question, Ashton marched towards the door, trying her best to keep her cool. Once she’d made her way through the small PR team who offered her praise, she entered her office and slammed the door shut.
As she sat her desk, she took a few deep breaths. As far as she was concerned, Sam Pope was a non-issue and the sooner the country forgot about his pathetic mission the better. Reaching for the bottle of Scotch in her locked cabinet, she poured herself a celebratory drink and toasted to her own future, knowing that as long as she kept a lid on Sam’s incarceration, she’d soon be sat where she belonged.
* * *
Four hours sleep was more than enough for Singh to recharge her batteries and she awoke on top of her covers, still dressed in her shirt and trousers. The previous few days had been exhausting and she pushed herself off the bed, stripped off, and stepped into her shower.
As the water crashed over her, she felt her energy levels return. For ten minutes, she let the water pour over her, running her hands through her thick, black hair and gave herself a few moments to think. With another high-profile success against her name, she was well aware that doors would open for her. Despite their personal animosity, Ashton would soon be the most powerful person in the Met and Singh was her golden goose.
She should have been thrilled, but the thought of being used by the woman as a political tool turned her stomach.
But that wasn’t the real reason for her unease.
Singh stepped out of the shower, dried herself off, and dressed herself in jeans and a hooded jumper before heading towards her increasingly valuable coffee machine. The caffeine hit her like a bolt of lightning, and she checked the time. It had just gone one o’clock and she turned on the TV, watching as Ashton settled down behind the desk, a victorious grin across her face. With interest, she watched as Ashton fielded the questions, impressed with the command and ease that the Deputy Commissioner handled the room.
Singh couldn’t help but smile at the clear irritation Ashton felt at being questioned about Sam and watching her lose her cool at a journalist’s insistence was a welcome treat.
But Ashton wasn’t the only one irritated by the Sam Pope situation and taking it as a cue, Singh made her way to her car and headed towards Farnham, determined to get the answers that her very sanity rested upon.
The drive around the M25 was relatively easy, only hitting traffic near Heathrow airport and as Singh turned off at the junction leading towards her destination, she took a moment to appreciate the beautiful countryside. The vast, sprawling green fields were the personification of freedom and she worried about Sam.
Where was he?
How was he?
She would soon find out.
With a sprinkle of rain dotting her windscreen, she pulled up in front of Etheridge’s house and she stepped out, approaching the locked gate with purpose. Despite the records showing that he’d sold the house and was living in Tenerife, she knew otherwise and she scaled the gate impressively, her daily workouts giving her surprising upper body strength.
Not caring if she’d been seen or not, she approached the front door which Etheridge pulled open with a smile on his face.
‘Amara,’ he said joyfully. ‘Lovely to see you.’
‘We need to talk,’ Singh said firmly, marching past Etheridge, who ushered her in like a maître d’. Singh stepped into the hallway, once again impressed by its size. Her modest two-bedroom flat could fit in the living room, especially as Etheridge no longer had any furniture. With his prominent limp, Etheridge led her to the kitchen, and she was reminded of the pain that the man had gone through.
He had given himself to Sam’s cause as much as she had.
The kitchen was just as derelict as the front room, with nothing hanging from the walls and the large, marble work tops empty apart from a cheap kettle and toaster. Etheridge pulled open the fridge with a strong arm and pulled out two bottles of beer, opened them on the fridge mounted opener and handed her one.
Hesitantly, she took it, her brain warning her of her weakness.
‘It’s good to see you,’ Etheridge began, taking a sip. ‘I felt bad about how things were left when we last spoke…’
‘I need to know what the hell is going on,’ Singh blurted, putting her untouched drink down on the side and walking to the back door, peering out over the garden. ‘Sam is missing, and
