Stout regarded her with a ferocious stare, searching for any hint of hesitancy. Seemingly pleased, he nodded.
‘Good. Because I echo his sentiments.’
‘Sir?’
The Commissioner gave a deep sigh and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his gloved hands.
‘I’ve been doing this too long, Ruth. There comes a time when every leader has to take stock and decide whether it’s time to hand over the reins.’
Ashton could feel her legs begin to shake with excitement.
‘I think you’ve done a sterling job leading this organisation through tough times. I’ve been proud to serve under you.’
‘Well, I’m not out of the door just yet. But the ball is rolling, and I shall be retiring in two months. The idea of spending this summer worrying about the world was the straw that broke the camel’s back. No, now that the kids are settling down, Cathy and I have decided the time is right to enjoy our twilight years without the stress and the long hours.’
Ashton nodded politely, caring little for the Commissioner’s home life. He hadn’t seemed to notice, and his candour had caught her a little off guard.
‘It will be announced within the next week or so. Make sure you’re ready for the call. I’m sure you will make a fine Commissioner, Ruth. But a word to the wise, whatever rumours are flying around about DI Singh, extinguish them. The powers that be want her front and centre. In their mind, you’ve mentored her and she has fast become a beacon of light for this place.’
As Commissioner Stout headed towards the door, Ashton felt her fist clench in frustration. Despite bringing Sam to justice, Ashton didn’t trust Singh at all. There was undeniable proof that she’d aided and abetted the man on his mission, one which had claimed the life of the man she’d potentially loved.
But the greater good was at stake and she knew Stout was right. If she wanted to sit in his throne, she needed to play the game just as well as he did.
Personal preference was not a route she could take, nor could she allow her feelings to override her thought process.
Singh was a valuable commodity.
If she couldn’t remove her from the equation, she could at least exploit her.
‘In less than two hours time, Sam Pope will be on his way to his retirement home in Pentonville.’ Stout smiled at his attempt at a joke. ‘Make the most of this opportunity.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And for Christ’s sake, sort out your cravat.’
Stout exited the room and Ashton dropped into her comfortable, leather seat. Her exasperation at the conversation threatened to overwhelm her. The past few weeks had been the most trying of her life and having to mourn a man who had been accused of such villainous treachery had almost broken her.
But she’d made it through to the other side.
One that would see her finally take the top chair at the table and become the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. After taking a moment to recollect herself, Ashton stood, approached the mirror that was affixed to the wall, and began tackling her cravat once more, doing her level best to stop the smile that was spreading across her face.
Chapter Four
With the spring showers clearing just in time for the afternoon’s attraction, the sun bathed the Crown Court Southwark in a glorious beam of light. The large, beige building stood on the south bank of the famous River Thames and was made up of over fifteen separate court rooms. While numerous magistrate’s courts were dotted across the capital, the proud building was only one of three crown courts still functioning within the city.
It took a serious offence to wind up on trial within the confines of the building, and the deluge of press vehicles stationed around the front of the building was testament to the severity of Sam’s case.
While the country had been gripped by his arrest ten days before, there had almost been a sense of betrayal in his guilty plea.
The papers wanted the ‘trial of the century’, for a man who had been painted as both hero and villain to have his story told in painstaking detail. Here was a man who had suffered untold heartache, who due to his own sense on injustice, had used his deadly skills to clean up the streets of London. While a number of publications did their best to stay impartial, they all ended up swaying one side or another.
Many vilified him for his actions, despite the people he’d saved and the criminals he’d brought to justice. It went against the very fabric of the country he’d sworn to protect and while his intentions may have been noble; they were also murderous.
Others portrayed Sam as a hero for the people, hunting down the criminal underworld that had plagued the city. The unravelling of police corruption, sex trafficking, and even global terrorism proved this.
The trial would have stepped through his life in meticulous detail and journalists and editors alike were rubbing their hands at the word counts and potential pay hikes. Some even callously played upon the hideous murder of Helal Miah, who had died in the midst of bringing Sam’s fight to life. He had been found beaten and hanged in his apartment, killed by a barbaric terrorist who had been hired by the now disbanded Blackridge.
They had martyred him, using his name as almost a badge of honour for how dangerous their profession was and that the world needed to know the truth about Sam Pope, lest his death be in vain.
It had turned Singh’s stomach, as she’d been the one who had brought Miah into the chain of events that had eventually ended in his untimely death.
The whole situation made her feel sick.
As she walked around the corner and stepped onto Battlebridge Lane, she saw the impressive building, the sun shimmering
