The question hit Ashton like a slap to the face and her restraint vanished.
‘Of course not. Do you think I’m stupid enough to do such a thing?’
‘You understand how this looks, right?’ Stout cut in, angered by her tone. ‘Your obsession with putting Sam away was getting borderline worrying and now I’m presented with this. It doesn’t look good.’
‘I didn’t do it,’ Ashton stated. ‘I’m insulted you would even question me.’
‘Well, I have questions, Ruth. Fucking thousands of them. But the bigger one, beyond who signed my name to that form, is where the hell is Sam Pope now?’
Stout slammed his hands down on the desk, leaning forward with authority. In the weeks since bringing Sam to justice and being told of her ascension to Stout’s position, Ashton had felt untouchable. Her confidence had spilled over the fine line to arrogance and she found herself speechless at his question.
She didn’t know where Sam was.
Had no clue what was going on or any idea of what to do next.
For the first time in years, Ashton felt out of her depth and what hit her hardest was Stout knew it too. With a resounding sigh, Stout straightened up, recomposed, and stared at her.
‘You need to fix this, Ruth. For both our sakes.’
‘Yes, sir. I promise you I will…’
Stout held up his hand, cutting her off. Shaking his head, he shot her an unimpressed glare.
‘Save it. You’re on thin ice, Ruth.’ Stout turned on his heel and headed to the door. ‘Fix this or start writing your damn resignation.’
The door slammed shut behind him, rocking the room slightly and Ashton slumped in her chair. Her dream was slowly dissipating before her and she reached out, lifted the glass and gulped the entire glass of Scotch in one.
Somehow, despite everything she’d accomplished, Sam Pope was still the bane of her existence.
Wiping the residual drops of Scotch from her thin lips, Ashton lifted the phone and demanded to be put through to DI Singh immediately.
Ashton needed answers.
Her career depended on it.
Chapter Twenty-Four
‘Quit being a pussy.’
Sam laughed at Etheridge’s comment, but then drew his teeth together and hissed in pain. Sat on a stool with his elbows pressed against the marble worktop, Sam was being patched up. His blood-soaked T-shirt had been thrown away and Etheridge was stood behind him, his latex gloved hands carefully threading a needle and stitched through his skin. Etheridge was not a medic, but he was an intelligent man and with the hospitals not an option, had offered to crudely stitch the wounds inflicted by Ravi to stem the bleeding.
Sam reached out with his bandaged hand and took a swig of his beer, hoping the alcohol would numb the pain. Etheridge had already performed a similar job on the slice down across his palm. It had stopped the bleeding, but even after a few paracetamol, Sam could still feel the freshness of the pain. Considering what he’d put his body through in the last year or so, having his friend stitch his skin together wasn’t too bad.
After Singh had collected him from the prison, she’d brought him back to Etheridge’s house as quickly as she could. Before she’d left, she’d turned off her mobile phone and as she followed Etheridge’s directions to the remote location of Ashcroft, she’d tossed it from the window at over eighty miles an hour.
The last thing she needed was for Ashton to trace her signal.
It wouldn’t only lead them to Sam, but would bring the hammer down on a career which was starting to veer dangerously close to the point of no return.
As Etheridge pulled the thread tight, Sam grunted in pain and Singh shook her head.
‘This is insane.’
‘It’s necessary,’ Etheridge responded, not breaking his concentration.
‘I’m fine.’ Sam assured her with a smile.
‘No, not this. I mean everything.’ Singh stood and paced the room. ‘When is it going to stop?’
Etheridge cut the thread and took a step back to admire his handiwork. The thread was neat enough, but the soreness around the wound told Etheridge that Sam would be in a bit of discomfort for a while. As he scanned over the other scars that decorated Sam’s broad, muscular back, Etheridge assumed Sam would be fine with a bit of discomfort. Pulling the latex gloves off and dumping them in the carrier bag, along with numerous blood-soaked cotton balls, Etheridge patted Sam on the shoulder and stepped back.
Sam stood, stretching his back and unconvincingly rolling his shoulder, the pain striking like he’d be lashed with a whip and he turned to face Singh, who still waited for her answer.
Taking a final swig of beer before putting the empty bottle in the bag, Sam sighed.
‘It doesn’t stop.’
‘It has to.’
‘It can’t.’ Sam’s voice rose. ‘There are people out there, Singh, who think they’re untouchable. People who do unspeakable things without a second thought to the damage they cause. I wish I could put my faith in the police, I really do, but when I’ve seen your superiors rubbing shoulders with the people I’ve put in the ground, I can’t. Someone has to fight back.’
Singh looked offended, struggling to stop her eyes from watering. Etheridge, not wanting to involve himself in their quarrel, took his beer from the kitchen counter and stepped out into the cool spring evening, ignoring the light drizzle that was coating his garden.
‘Why does that have to be you?’ Singh demanded.
‘Because I can. You wouldn’t understand.’
Sam took a few steps around the island in the centre of the kitchen, heading for the door. Singh stepped out, blocking his path.
‘I know that you lost someone close to you, Sam, but killing criminals isn’t going to bring your son back.’
‘Don’t.’ Sam held up his hand, his words heavy with pain. ‘You have no idea what this fight has done for me. It has saved me.’
‘That’s the thing, Sam. It hasn’t.’ A tear fell down Singh’s cheek. ‘You’re still in pain. No matter how many people you save or people you kill, you’re
