Eldridge was nineteen years old, crippled by a war that had started before he had even hit puberty. And because of it, he was forced to live his remaining years with the scars of war all too prominent. The last Sam had heard, Eldridge was running a very successful database security company, was married, and had a beautiful daughter.
War had changed Eldridge just as it had himself.
Only Sam wasn’t sure it was for the better.
As he perused the paper that Des had brought into the office, he overheard the two officers waiting in the archive waiting room, both of them complaining to Sam’s colleague that she was taking too long and they were going to miss the briefing. Sam, who had been at the office since seven a.m., popped his head into Des’s office to realise he wasn’t there. Quickly, he followed the two officers as they gratefully took their folders before marching hurriedly back to the main offices. The briefing room, which only a week before was filled with the excitement of another glorious day in London, had turned deathly silent. The spectre of the day loomed large, especially as the passing out photo of PC Jake Howell was proudly displayed in the centre of the whiteboard at the front of the room. To the side of it, a heartbroken Inspector Howell stood, the usually triumphant stance replaced with a man that looked like he wanted to implode. His shoulders hunched and his eyes were darkened, the lack of sleep evident of a man who had not stopped grieving. He didn’t even look up as the final officers slid in through the door, taking the final two seats. Other officers were stood to attention at the back of the room, as if casually leaning against the wall would be disrespectful to the recently departed.
Samuel Pope managed to catch the door before it closed, silently holding it open and sliding into the room. A few curious glances came from the nearest officers, but with the room as quiet as a library, no one dared break the eerie silence.
Sam’s eyes fell upon Inspector Howell and he instantly felt the man’s pain. Sam knew more than anyone what it was like to lose someone close, that feeling of helplessness that the grief slaps on you like a straitjacket. It wrenches your body inwards, daring you to try to escape and mockingly squeezing you tighter as you try.
He could see in Howell’s eyes that he wasn’t yet at the point of anger.
Next to Howell stood DS Mayer, his eyes relaying nothing but sheer fury. As leader of the Counter Terrorist Unit, he had been in charge when the Marathon collapsed into anarchy. Whilst everyone else in the room was busy mourning the loss of their colleague or nephew, Mayer had been mourning his prospects of promotion, determined to turn the tragedy into his own twisted career ladder. Mayer’s eyes locked onto Sam’s and he easily conveyed a ‘what the fuck are you doing here?’ with a glare.
Sam ignored it, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his navy trousers, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to just below the elbow. His eyes scanned the room, years of training that had become automatic long ago, every detail being absorbed and memorised. He counted forty-seven officers, eight detectives, and four sergeants.
Another six stood to his left, three more officers to the right.
Howell and Mayer stood at the front.
Then, to his complete surprise, Sam saw DCI Adrian Pearce stood in the far corner, hands tucked into the pockets of another well-fitted suit. Pearce locked eyes with Sam, giving him an accusing nod, which Sam returned graciously. Why Pearce was there, Sam didn’t know, but he was sure it wouldn’t be too long before he found out.
Before Sam could analyse the distances between himself and his recent tormenter, Mayer stepped forward, running a meaty hand through hair that had long since given up the ghost but had neglected to tell him.
‘Right, quiet down,’ Mayer demanded, his dark eyes locking onto an officer in the front row. ‘Now.’
Sam could feel every officer’s sphincter tighten with fear. Mayer was known as a brownnoser, but he also threw his considerable weight around with the younger officers. His reputation as a boxing champion in the Met Police during his beat days preceded him. Inspector Howell stepped forward, every movement taking considerable effort, along with a deep breath. The heartbreak was written across him like a billboard.
‘As we know, at eleven fifty-two on Sunday, an explosive device was detonated just after mile seventeen of the London Marathon, just here in the London Bridge area’—he pointed to the large map of London which decorated one of the whiteboards— ‘claiming the lives of six civilians and one officer…’
The entire room felt heavy with grief as the likable inspector swallowed back tears, his throat closing slightly with sadness. He let out a deep breath and turned back to the other whiteboard, his teary eyes falling upon the youthful face of his deceased nephew. Sam watched as many officers bowed their heads in respect. Howell tried to speak up again, but his words once again caught in his throat. Surprisingly, DCI Pearce stepped forward, placing a hand on Howell’s shoulder and ushering him towards the corner. A number of officers watched on with intrigue, many of them unfamiliar with the smooth-talking internal investigator.
Mayer took his cue with glee.
‘Let’s not piss about. An officer, Police Constable Jake Howell, was one of the victims of this disgusting attack. The phrase ‘one of our own’ has never been so apt. Inspector Howell, as I have said in private, my condolences to you and your family during this horrible time. I’m sure all of the officers in this room extend the same courtesy.’
Sam watched Mayer milk the room, with many officers mumbling their condolences to the inspector, who had mentally checked out. Pearce stood, arms folded, watching the DS as he stood powerfully, hands on hips.
‘As head of the Counter Terrorist Unit I failed in my duty to protect this city and its occupants, and that will never be something I will be able to scrub from my conscience. But what I can do is promise that we will find the fuckers who did this and we will bring them in here kicking and screaming so they can look this man in the eye.’
Mayer pointed a finger at Howell, who peered at the room with desolate eyes. Once again he tried to muster some words, but grief tightened its grip on his vocal cords yet again. With an apologetic nod of the head, he opened the door at the far side of the briefing room and took his leave. A few of the younger officers dabbed a tear or two away. The hardened veterans watched with a stoic acceptance, all of them making silent promises to find justice for Howell and his family. Sam watched all of them, catching the eye of PC Harding, who scowled in return. Mayer let the silence slowly tilt towards awkward before addressing the room again.
‘The reports are on their way back from the morgue as we speak, which means we can start contacting the families and allowing them to start making their arrangements. I will be devising a specialist task force to start rattling some damn cages, and hopefully kick down some doors.’ A few veins rose to prominence as Mayer’s temper began to surface. ‘I want these fuckers found and I want them found today. I will be in touch personally once my team has been selected. To everyone else, knock on every door you can, chase every lead, and let’s not let Officer Howell’s bravery be for nothing.’
A number of audible agreements filled the air before the Metropolitan Police Force burst into life, all of the officers filtering to the doors. Sam held the door open, getting nothing but the odd look and a crass comment from Harding for his troubles.
Just as he was about to exit, DS Mayer stomped past, stopping a few inches from Sam. The DS was broader than Sam, but the years had begun to pad together around his midriff. A few inches taller than Sam, the DS scowled into his eyes.
‘Just for the record, this is police business. Next time you interrupt or intrude on an official briefing again, you’re going to need more than a fucking shrink to fix what I will do to you.’
Mayer barged past, ensuring his mighty shoulder slammed into Sam’s, knocking him a step back. Sam responded with an eye roll, taking a few seconds to play out a scenario where he systematically took the DS apart in a matter of seconds. It was only the calm voice
of DCI Pearce that brought him back to reality.
‘I reckon he would put up more of a fight than Morton.’
Sam smiled, gently shaking his head as he turned to face the DCI. ‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘Really?’ Pearce asked insincerely. ‘See, I beg to differ.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Yeah. And very soon, I’m going to start connecting dots.’ He leant in close, a few inches from Sam’s ear. ‘Do you know what will happen then?’
‘You finally complete your dot-to-dot book?’
Pearce chuckled, raising his eyebrows. Despite the rumours and stories of Samuel Pope being an oddball, he certainly had a sharp wit and quick response. Delving into his military career, Pearce had begun piece together a picture of Sam Pope that no one else seemed to have noticed. Observing him in the office, he had seen every officer either regard him with disgust or ignore him completely. He was a ghost, hiding in plain sight and in the thick of everything. With his undoubted reconnaissance skills, Pearce was sure that Samuel Pope knew more of what was going on than the commissioner herself. As Sam stood before him, Pearce took a friendly step back, nodding a friendly goodbye.
‘I’ll be seeing you, Pope.’
‘Can’t wait.’
Sam left the briefing room and marched through the office. Every police constable was either deep in conversation or clattering their fingers across their keyboards. The entire Metropolitan Police Service was on alert, their focus on the brutal act of terrorism that not only sent a shockwave of fear through the entire country but had claimed the lives of seven people.
Including one of their own.
As he passed through the office, he noted the position of every officer, their likely escape route and pathway to him and the calculated time of response. He made mental notes of how many desks, what was on them, even what colour the coffee mugs were and where they sat. All the information scrolled through his brain like the credits at the end of a movie, building not only a clear image of what was in front of him but several likely scenarios and the best course of action.
It was what he had been trained to do.
What he had put into practice, the many years he spent out of sight, silently killing without leaving a trace.
As he neared the door to the corridor to return to his job, he caught a glimpse of a morose Inspector Howell slumped in his chair, his desk a myriad of files that he was clearly ignoring. DS Mayer stepped to the door, giving Sam one last glare of hatred before slamming the office door shut, clearly looking to score some brownie points off his grieving superior.
Sam shook his head and stepped out of the noise and into the corridor, the office behind him buzzing faintly like a bee trapped in a bottle. As he approached his office, he was reminded of the bombings in Afghanistan—the sheer terror they bring and the helplessness that follows.
The destruction.
The death.
Knowing it had happened just a few miles over the Thames caused his body to shake. At first he was sure it was anger, the usual reaction any patriotic person has when they see their homeland under attack. He then thought it was fear, the scars of war reopening and allowing the PTSD to finally catch up to him.
But it was neither of them. As he entered the archive office, nodded a greeting to Des, and walked towards the recent stack of files, he knew what the feeling was.
It was guilt.
Sam felt the guilt rise up inside of him as he lifted the files and began to wander through the rows of filing units. Placing them into their expertly marked locations, he knew what he was doing. He was ignoring the call to look further into the bombing.
To use the skills and training that country had provided to find out who the hell took a shot at it.
As he filed away the large manila folders, he also shut away the call of duty.
He was no longer that man anymore. He had made a promise to his son.
Fighting back a sudden wave of emotion, he steadied himself and went back to his job and begrudgingly left the Metropolitan Police to do theirs.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The following morning, Sam Pope went for a run to clear his head. Rising before five a.m., he slipped on his running gear and headed out, his feet slapping the pavement as the world slumbered around him. As he ran, his mind raced to the previous Sunday, when during the iconic London Marathon, a terrorist attack had broken the capital and spread fear like wildfire. Remembering the brutal explosions during a raid in Kirkuk seven years previously, he could only sympathise with the civilians who would never outrun that memory.
Every second of his ordeal stayed with him.
And he had had training. Lots of training.
A milk float lazily hummed down the road, the milkman nodding at Pope, who smiled back, surprised to see the profession still in existence. In a world full of one-click purchases and being able to pay with your watch, seeing a milkman felt like a throwback. As his pace quickened, so did his thoughts.
A young police officer and six civilians had been killed, wiped off the world like dust in the wind. Their families had been rocked by the cruelty of the world, their lives pulled apart like wet paper. For the other dozen who had suffered severe burns and loss of limbs, he had witnessed many a fellow soldier go crazy after not adjusting. The media was always willing to roll out the centrefold for a soldier who had been injured in the line of duty, who had gone on to do incredible things—his friend Eldridge being one of them.
But they tucked the horrors of war, the ones the other soldiers returned home with, out of sight. The public didn’t need to know their struggles, how their lives had been wrecked by serving bravely for a fight that wasn’t their own. As sweat poured over his chest as he reached his third mile, he could feel it sliding across the bullet scars, his own personal reminder of those horrors.
Eventually he turned a corner and picked up the pace, pushing his body through the final mile as he raced through Maidenhead town centre, through the windy streets lined with the high street shops. With High Wycombe and Windsor easily commutable, the town centre was slowly becoming a ghost town. More and more shops were closing down, with old banners strapped across dirty windows, the rooms behind derelict and dark.
Finally he returned home, instantly hopping into the shower and allowing the water to splash against his hair, splashing down his back. His mind was racing again.
Every inch of him wanted to do something.
He had been trained by the country to be an effective defence mechanism, with the skills and abilities to strike back against any enemy, foreign and domestic. Knowing a young man who had proudly served his country as he had was senselessly murdered was gnawing at him like a toothache. The previous acts of retribution, the brutal assaults that had DCI Pearce sniffing around like a lost puppy, they had been in the face of grave injustice.
He turned the tap off, steam rising from his wet body as he exited the shower and quickly dried off, brushed his teeth, and the raced into his bedroom to throw on his neatly ironed shirt and trousers. As he selected a tie, his mind flashed back to Jason Marlow and how he had dropped him over the edge of the stairway and choked him to within an inch of his life.
Sam thought about taking to the streets, using the same kind of tactic to find out who the hell had bombed the city.
Who had killed that police officer.
Just as his mind began convincing him to act, his eyes fell upon To Kill a Mockingbird on his bedside table.
He felt the guilt rush through his body like a tidal wave.
Sam slowly finished tying his tie before taking a seat on the edge of the bed and reaching out to the book. He ran his hands over it, remembering the promise he had made to his son.
Suddenly, the emptiness of his flat became very prominent, the absence of Lucy and Jamie growing like a sinkhole. How he longed to hear his son playing in the other room, crashing his toys together in some bizarre imaginary storyline. Or to smell Lucy’s perfume as she sat at her dressing table, running
straighteners through her blond hair.
Those days had gone.
He lifted his phone, sighing deeply as the idea to call Lucy was immediately rejected by his brain.
His family was broken, and he was sure it was because of who the war had made him. How it had changed him.
As he held the book, Sam thought back to a happier memory, safe in the knowledge that not all scars of war were physical.
The sun was making a rare appearance, bursting through the clouds as the British summer threatened to actually happen. Sam sat on the bench to the side of the adventure playground, his hands sat on his lap and a smile on his face. The playground was a hive of activity, with kids racing around in every direction, their cries of excitement batting back and forth like a tennis rally. Parents huddled together on the picnic benches, tables covered with bags of food, and the world was alive with happiness.
This was what he had come home for.
Lovingly, his eyes followed the smooth legs of his wife as she walked by, rolling her eyes with faux annoyance as their son raced towards the swings.
Just watching Jamie run, with his delicate prance, filled Sam with pride.
At five years of age, Jamie was starting to show signs of being a prodigy. Not the most athletically gifted or confident, the boy loved books. He was already reading at a nine-year-old level and his school work had already received recognition from his teachers.
The boy was smart and Sam was thrilled that he had seemed to have inherited more traits from his mother than himself.
Thinking back to his own childhood, Sam had never been one for studying. His father, a strict military man, was constantly being redeployed, meaning Sam never spent more than a year at a school.
The Night Shift: A high octane thriller that will have you gripped. (Sam Pope Series Book 1) Page 6
