‘I can’t go. You’re the only person who knows I still live here. As far as the Met and the government are concerned, I sold up and moved abroad after my divorce. A way to deal with the heartbreak and the trauma I was put through. If I turn up at the trial, I’ll get nabbed. You and I both know they’re investigating who helped Sam.’
‘So you’re hiding?’
‘Yup,’ Etheridge replied proudly. ‘Because that’s what’s needed right now.’
Singh shook her head in disappointment and headed back towards the door. As she was about to step back into the sparce kitchen area of the house, she turned back to Etheridge, who was staring out over the garden. The rain and wind were dancing in unison through the overgrowth.
‘What Sam needs right now is our support. He sacrificed everything to help those who needed it. I know you have your reasons, Paul, but Sam is going to prison for the rest of his life. The least we can do is be there. What else can we do?’
Etheridge sighed and turned to face her.
‘There’s always a plan, Singh.’ He turned back to look out over the garden. ‘There is always a plan.’
Singh pondered for a moment, with Etheridge’s cryptic response sending a bolt of uncertainty shooting through her body like lightning. She opened her mouth to respond but thought better of it. In her eyes, Etheridge was hiding from his responsibility and it hurt her to second guess him. With a resounding feeling of defeat, she walked back through the house and out through the front door. As she headed towards her car, the rain crashed against her, chilling her to the bone.
With a sense of dread, she hopped into her car, pulled away from the curb, and headed back to London.
* * *
With a degree of frustration, Assistant Commissioner Ruth Ashton grappled with her cravat. The black and white chequered garment was a part of her tunic, which she was required to wear on court visits. As one of the most senior and powerful officers within the Met, she knew she needed to look pristine for the photographers who would be swarming around the crown court like vermin.
She hated the press, especially after they’d assassinated Wallace’s credibility in the aftermath of his death.
But it was all part of the job and she needed to look as in control and as professional as possible on what was the biggest day of her career.
Despite the detail behind Sam’s capture, and the irrefutable evidence that Wallace wasn’t who he seemed, she’d still been tasked with bringing the vigilante to justice.
She’d succeeded.
While the news outlets had painted Singh as the superstar who finally absolved the city of Sam Pope, the higher ups were quick to slap her on the back for the part she’d played.
Her ascension to the top job in the Met was somewhat of a formality.
But now, as she struggled with her neckwear, she felt nothing but disgust.
The sound of knuckles rapping on her door broke her concentration and she turned in frustration. Just as she was about to launch a venomous tirade at her intruder, the door opened and she stood to attention, her cravat flopping lifelessly around her shirt.
Commissioner Michael Stout stepped in.
Carrying himself with the assuredness that came with power, he was dressed immaculately. His grey hair was neatly combed to the side, still thick despite approaching his sixtieth birthday. While not a tall man, he cut an imposing figure, his broad shoulders were straight, and he walked with the posture and physical fitness of a man half his age. Commissioner Stout had a distinguished career, from his glory days as a tough bastard on the beat to his phenomenal grasp of office politics.
Many had tried, but nobody had been able to stop his rise to the top of the Met Police, and although he had an air of arrogance from the power he wielded, he commanded respect from every room he entered.
‘Ruth.’ He greeted her with a firm handshake.
‘Sir.’
‘Today is a big day,’ he began, immediately taking his gaze away from her to study the framed achievements that hung from the wall of her New Scotland Yard office. It was a tried and trusted tactic of his, to make the person work for his attention.
‘A great day.’ She corrected, before scorning herself immediately.
‘Quite.’ He shot her a look. ‘I’m not here to heap praise on you for a job well done, as I feel that goes without saying. Getting Sam off our streets was our number one priority and you delivered, albeit with significant collateral damage.’
Ashton felt a twinge of sadness. Wallace, despite what had come to light, had been killed and her affection for the man had seen her end up in his bed occasionally.
‘A regrettable necessity,’ she said, forcing herself to stay as stoic as possible. ‘But we do not deal with failure, sir.’
‘I must say, I have been alarmed by the information that has been made public over the last two weeks. It would seem that perhaps Sam wasn’t the biggest threat to this country’s safety.’
Ashton knew where he was going but refused to rise to the comment. She waited patiently for him to continue, as he slowly patrolled the office.
‘I’ll cut the bullshit, Ruth.’ His candour surprised her. ‘General Wallace endorsed you to take my seat a few days before he was killed. Now, what with the recent revelations about the man, there have been murmurings about whether his word carries any merit. The last thing we need, Ruth, is another scandal. Last year, it was Howell. I need to know, right now, whether there is anything about your relationship with Wallace that could harm this organisation.’
A trickle of sweat ran down the back of Ashton’s neck and she willed herself to show no emotion. Although acting wasn’t her strongest asset, she gave a quick thought and then shook her head.
‘No, sir,’ she replied. ‘He had a keen
