Within two years of being a police officer, she’d been weapons trained and joined the Armed Response Unit, undertaking several dangerous missions and catching the eyes of those higher up. She soon transitioned to a detective, with her tenacity and sharp mind making her a valuable asset to the Met. Her work on Project Yewtree had seen her name cross the desks of many a senior officer.
When the opportunity to lead the task force dedicated to bringing in Sam was established by Assistant Commissioner Ruth Ashton at the behest of the then mayoral candidate, Mark Harris, Singh put herself forward.
Ashton backed her to the hilt.
Singh had it made. All she had to do was bring Sam in.
That was when everything changed.
As her hunt for Sam intensified, so did his as he tore a hole through the London underworld to find a missing girl. As the bodies piled up and Singh’s grasp on the task loosened, it soon became clear to her that Sam wasn’t the enemy. Having dedicated her life to the law, she could never condone his actions.
But he did save four young girls from a life of sex slavery, along with bringing down yet another criminal empire.
That wasn’t the act of a criminal.
Singh threw back the coffee like it was a shot of tequila and poured herself another. At three o’clock that afternoon, she would be there as Sam received his sentence and she was sure he would do it without fear.
Without a hint of regret.
She knew she wouldn’t feel the same.
As she got dressed into a smart, well-fitted, dark grey suit and crisp, white shirt, she kept thinking back to ten nights before. Having watched as an innocent man, Helal Miah, had been hanged in his own home, she’d been attacked.
Taken as bait.
Used as leverage against Sam.
There were a number of reasons why that could have been, and Singh allowed herself to speculate that it was because she meant something to Sam. Their attraction had grown ever since Sam had evaded her at Etheridge’s house six months before, and it escalated to a passionate kiss in a lift at Liverpool Street. Moments later, Sam was brutally attacked by the very man who would take her hostage.
She wanted to believe that she was taken because Wallace knew how Sam felt about her.
But the crushing reality she’d accepted is that Wallace took her because he knew Sam would do the right thing. As much as it hurt, she couldn’t help but admire it.
It was why she felt so guilty.
After the showdown between Sam and her captor atop the High Rise, she tried her hardest to help Sam to his feet, to help him escape. He had suffered serious injuries, with his back bleeding profusely, but she urged him to move. He didn’t.
The fight was over.
As the police had surrounded the building, trapping them in, Sam had dropped to his knees, offering Singh the only way out of the situation that wouldn’t see them both behind bars. While the thought of Sam living the rest of his life in prison broke her heart, they both knew that a high-ranking detective thrown into prison was a lamb to slaughter.
Sam pleaded with her to arrest him.
Bleeding, beaten, and with his life over, Sam was still fighting for the right thing.
The kiss they’d shared had stayed with her since the passion and sadness that’d passed between them had produced a permanent crack in her heart. While she’d never entertained the idea of settling down, the thought of not being able to have a future with Sam was one that would hurt her until her dying day.
She would watch him proudly walk away once he was sentenced, knowing he was doing it to keep her out of jail.
It may not have been love, but it was certainly something.
Singh tried to distract herself once she got into her car, the feeling of not having a Blackridge tail for the first time in six months felt a little alien, and she still shot the odd cursory glance into the rear-view mirror just to be sure.
There was no one there.
An April shower was sprinkling the road ahead as she pulled out of Canon’s Park, through Edgware, and joined the M1. She headed north for one junction, before turning off at Watford and making her way around the outskirts of the town before joining the M25. The orbital motorway was one of the busiest in the country, circling the entire capital city, and was the bane of most commuters’ lives. At half ten on a Wednesday, it was relatively clear, and she pressed her foot down, her Audi A4 Sport zipping past the more cautious drivers. The rain clattered against her car, the black paint shimmering under the rain drops and the sun that was mockingly slicing through the downpour. Just over an hour later, she turned off and passed the sign welcoming her to Farnham and ten minutes after that, she pulled up outside the large gate that shielded the large home from the road.
Paul Etheridge’s house.
Singh didn’t know why she’d driven there and told Etheridge as much when he answered the door. Despite her confusion, Etheridge had welcomed her in with a smile and led her through to his kitchen. Six months before, the house had been overly opulent, with the millionaire tech mogul living the lavish lifestyle his salary could dictate. Singh recalled sending an Armed Response Unit in to extract Sam, only to hear the gunfire and later find her team incapacitated.
Sam had never shot to kill.
Each of his shots had been pinpoint to the legs of her team, and although they all suffered immense pain, none of them experienced anything other than flesh wounds.
The shots were meticulous.
Innocent people didn’t suffer at the hands of Sam Pope.
Not directly, anyway.
Etheridge could attest to that. A
