Singh turned on her chair, resting a hand on Sam’s arm.
‘Sam, this is a way out.’ Her eyes were wide with hope. ‘You’re still facing life in prison.’
‘She’s right,’ Blake said cockily. Sam shrugged.
‘My fight is over.’ Sam put his empty mug on the desk and turned to Singh. ‘Good luck, Amara. Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.’
Speechless, Blake stood, adjusting his tie. He nodded a thank you to the commissioner and turned to Singh.
‘We will be in touch.’
Blake shot a glare at Sam before striding out of the office. Singh turned to Sam in dismay, but Sam winked at her, catching her off guard. Stout let out an audible yawn and leant forward on the table.
‘It’s late. Singh, why don’t you head home. And keep this to yourself. Those guys don’t exactly like gossip.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Singh stood, before resting her hand on Sam’s shoulder. ‘Goodbye, Sam.’
He reached up and squeezed her hand.
‘Good luck.’
Singh marched to the door, wiping a tear from her eye, before stepping out of Sam’s life. Sam felt a small twinge in his chest, knowing he would miss her. But she needed to break away from him. His fight would only bring her down and now she had the opportunity to do more than she ever imagined. Singh was a tremendous fit for the role, but Sam hoped that she was smart enough to see when the agenda wasn’t about the freedom of others.
Every government had an agenda.
Sam’s fight was for the people.
For justice.
With a resounding sigh, Stout reached into the cabinet beneath his desk and returned with two glass tumblers. He followed it up with an expensive Scotch.
He shot Sam a smile.
‘We can sort out your transfer tomorrow.’ Stout unscrewed the cap on the bottle. ‘You look like you could use a drink?’
‘Very astute, sir.’
Stout chuckled, poured out two generous helpings and then slid one across to Sam. As surreal as it was to be toasting with the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, Sam took a sip of the warm liquor and looked out over the city.
He thought of Mac and mourned his passing.
He thought of all the criminals he’d taken out and the lives he’d saved.
He thought of Jamie, and how the public and police had treated him like a hero.
Ignoring the conversation that Stout was trying to initiate, Sam looked at the skyline and for the first time that evening, he felt a smile creep across his face.
Chapter Thirty
It was a surreal experience waking up unemployed.
Ruth Ashton had followed Stout’s advice and sent her letter of resignation through to his office the moment she’d returned home. In less than twenty-four hours, her career had fallen from an unprecedented high to rock bottom. It seemed an age ago that she was stood in front of the media, waxing lyrical about the effectiveness of the Met under her careful management and the incredible bust of Chapman’s drug empire was compelling evidence.
But Ashton hadn’t seen the full picture and although Stout had given her the dignified option of jumping before she was pushed, it had left a bitter taste in her mouth.
There was no applause as her career ended.
No nods of respect.
No thanks.
Those had been reserved for Sam Pope, a convicted killer who had broken out of prison.
As she’d watched the public applaud him for his bravery, she’d decided they didn’t deserve her sweat and tears, the lifetime dedicated to making their city a safer place.
When Stout had overruled her, offering Sam his thanks, she decided that he no longer deserved her loyalty.
With sleep out of the question, she’d returned to her isolated life and poured numerous glasses of the strongest alcohol she could find. There was no loving husband to wrap herself in during her crisis. Nor were there any kids to band around her, to thank her for doing all she could.
The closest she’d come to love was with a deceased general who had been outed as a global terrorist.
Brought to his end by Sam Pope.
As she fell further into a drunken stupor, Ashton began to angrily connect the dots.
The common thread that ran through her miserable life was Sam Pope. He had been the architect of her downfall and had stripped every modicum of happiness from her life. Drunkenly vowing her revenge, she’d fallen asleep across her dining room table, waking the following morning with a stiff neck and a thumping headache.
Somehow mustering the energy to head for the shower, Ashton allowed the warm water to run over her body for nearly forty-five minutes. It allowed her to cry without facing the reality of actually doing it, the water crashing against her face and wiping the tears away.
It took her a while to realise she was mourning.
Wallace.
Her career.
Her life.
An hour later, surrounded by glasses of orange juice and enough paracetamol to start a small pharmacy, she began to scribble notes down on a notepad, drawing connecting to lines as her brainstorm began to take shape.
Her career with the Metropolitan Police may have finished but she would, if it took her the rest of her life, find a way to get her revenge on Sam.
She just had to find it and without the pressures of the Met on her shoulders, she had all the time in the world to do so.
* * *
‘Are you okay, dear?’
Anna stopped a few paces ahead of Harris, looking back with concern. The spring morning had offered a wonderful sunshine, which basked the beautiful lake with a blinding shimmer. For years, Harris and his wife had enjoyed strolls around it, often leading to hikes up the hilly terrain. But with his health in decline, Harris could only manage one lap around the lake. Two at a push.
Harris offered her his best smile.
‘All good, here.’
Anna beamed at her husband. They had been married for over thirty years and she felt as much affection for him that day as she did the moment she’d met him. Back then,
