It was hard to be a good student.
It was even harder to make friends.
Jamie scurried across the park, stopping every few feet to flash his pearly white smile at Lucy, who dotingly followed. He watched as his wife moved effortlessly towards the swing Jamie was now clambering onto, feeling his heart jump with love. They had been together for over ten years, married for six, and he had loved her more every day since. Whilst he had been pinned down in an abandoned warehouse in Iraq by two snipers, he had spent the entire time clutching her photograph.
She had always made him promise he would make it back.
He always did.
Jamie was sat in the swing, his little fingers gripping the chains until his knuckles whitened, and he called to Sam, urging his dad to join them. With a grin, Sam pushed himself up, walking with a little discomfort across the park. He hadn’t long since been released from hospital, his chest still flaring with pain regularly, and the stiffness in his shoulders told him it was a long road ahead.
As he had lain on that bloody concrete, with two bullet holes still smoking from his chest, he had thought of his family.
His gorgeous wife and his beautiful son.
The very image he was seeing now.
With a smile he joined them both, his wife wrapping her arm around his waist and offering him a concerned look which he immediately batted away. Nothing was going to stop him from pushing his son, who shrieked with happiness as he was launched forward. As he came rushing back, Sam ignored the aching as he reached out and gently pushed his son again, watching him rise and fall in the sunshine.
It was that moment then, with his wife by his side, lovingly watching him bond with his son, that he had made a silent promise to them both. That he wasn’t going to go back to the man he had been.
The world had trained him to be a killer. Then tried to kill him.
He promised them both he was done.
And at that moment, as the world allowed him to spend those precious moments together as a family, he had truly meant it.
Sam was still thinking of that memory when he arrived at work, walking through the building like a ghost, with no one offering a ‘good morning’ or even a courteous nod. Quietly he dropped his bag off in the archive office before making his way to his weekly meeting with Amy. He scoffed at the idea of having mandated therapy to deal with his life. Sam had eliminated targets that had caused deaths to thousands, had over sixty confirmed kills, with over double that on a strictly ‘need-to-know’ basis.
He had a decade of war bubbling inside him.
Yet Amy Devereux, as lovely as she was, was expected to piece together the shattered remains of a life that he had valiantly fought for.
Despite his misgivings, Sam appreciated the chain of command, and despite not finishing his training to become a police officer, still held the idea of rank very highly. He had lived his life reporting to duty, obeying the chain of command and carrying out his orders.
They had ordered him to therapy.
Begrudgingly, he obeyed.
As he hopped up the stairs, a couple of officers trudged past, one of them casting an uneasy eye over him before disappearing round the corner. The terrorist attack had the entire building rocking, with Mayer hunting down anyone he suspected of, as he so eloquently put it, being ‘stood around with a thumb up their arse.’
Sam wondered where the case was, how many leads they had, and how close they were to catching those responsible. He didn’t like Mayer, a view that wasn’t uncommon in the station, but he respected how much the man wanted the bomber found. Sam had refused to look into the file, to allow himself to get swept up in it, but now, as he watched another officer burst out into the corridor on her mobile phone, demanding someone give her information, he could feel that sense of duty rising within him.
He fought it back, realising that his need for therapy may not have been as outrageous as he had once thought.
Especially with DCI Pearce tracking him. Sam needed to keep a low profile, and ripping the city of London apart to find out who had tried to do it themselves wasn’t the best idea.
Amy Deveraux’s door was closed, the metal slide pushed to the side to reveal ‘Engaged’. Slid the other way, the message was a lot more welcoming. With a few minutes to spare, Sam idly wandered down the corridor, hands stuffed in his pockets and trying to listen to any intel he could.
He already knew how many officers were in the main office, noting every detail as he had walked to his meeting.
He knew how many were set for the regular patrol from a quick glance at the rota boards.
Sam had memorised every detail, from the number of mugs left next to the coffee machine to how many of those officers had their ASP and pepper spray attached to their belts.
He had spent his life doing it—evaluating every scene, filtering those details, and devising whatever strategy he needed. Today, in the Metropolitan Police HQ, the only strategy was to follow orders, have his therapy session, and report back to work like a good little soldier.
The days of harnessing that intel so he could deliver a bullet to the centre of a skull were long gone.
The sound of Amy’s door opening caused him to turn and then instantly step briskly to the corner, out of sight. Peeking round the corner, Sam watched in shock as Officer Harding stepped out, forcing a smile before stomping off in the opposite direction. He whistled joyfully, an undeserved swagger on his heavy frame as he passed a female officer, whom he leered at, before pushing through the double doors and disappearing into his shift.
Sam waited for a few moments, trying to fathom why someone like Harding, who revelled in the boisterous nature of his job and treated everything like a pissing contest, had been to a mandated therapy session.
Shrugging at the bizarre sight, Sam took a deep breath and headed towards the door, preparing himself for another hour of painfully yearning for his family.
CHAPTER NINE
That Saturday morning, nearly a week after the horrific blast had ended his life amid a city living in fear, Police Constable Jake Howell was laid to rest. In a service at his local church, grieving friends and family sat in tears as the vicar ran through the usual service, offering peace through his religious words and the hope that Jake would be happy in the afterlife. The church itself was full to capacity, the sadness of a jovial young man being snatched so cruelly clearly effecting many.
They all came to pay their respects.
Sat at the front, grasping the hands of his weeping sister, was Inspector Michael Howell. Wearing his police tunic, Howell took to the podium to read a small speech about the pride he had for his nephew, the struggles he had with his sister who didn’t want him to be a police officer, and the heroic death that would not be in vain. Whilst all of his speech was met with tears, Howell felt disconnected from it all; the grief had taken a bizarre stranglehold on him and he felt nothing. His eyes scanned the room, but he felt like he was on the outskirts, witnessing those who loved his nephew grieving through frosted glass.
The weight of guilt felt heavy on his shoulders.
As he came to the final sentence of his speech, he felt his voice crack, the sadness rushing up through his body like volcano, and he began to sob. As this triggered more weeping inside the church, Howell felt determined to complete his tribute, speaking once more of how proud Jake had made him before patting the coffin that sat at the front of the room. Before him, rows of pews were filled with black-clothed loved ones and people he didn’t know. The walls of the church were a drab grey, the monotony broken up by the stunning stained glass windows. Wooden beams arched across the roof, which echoed with the sadness of the mourning crowd.
The vicar reassuringly patted him on the shoulder as he returned to his seat, before turning and saying a silent prayer to the shiny wooden coffin. With a gentle nod, he pressed a small button, a curtain drawing around the body, which would then be respectfully taken to the crematorium behind the church, for Jake to be cremated.
As the curtain slowly crawled around the edges of the coffin, Howell felt the tears fall down his world-weary cheeks, the finality of his nephew’s tragic death becoming too apparent.
The vicar’s soothing voice did little to quash the wave of sadness that swept the room as the coffin slowly faded from view.
‘Father, thank you so much for your grace and your goodness, for your message of hope, for this man’s life and how it was spent. We pray that we might all aspire to live as well as Jake did. We thank you that he is now safe in your presence. And we pray that today you fill us with faith and guide us along our way so that we might end up in the same place when it is our time.
‘In Jesus’ name, amen.’
A resounding ‘amen’ echoed back before Jake’s favourite song, ‘Hey Joe’ by Jimi Hendrix, filtered through the speakers as Howell led his sister through the aisle and back out to the front of the church. As they passed through the large wooden doors, they stopped, their mouths open with shock.
Over fifty uniformed police officers stood, dressed like Howell in their tunics. They lined the pathway on either side, and at the command of a senior officer, all of them raised a white-gloved hand to salute.
Howell choked back more tears.
His sister beamed with pride.
They walked through the respectful corridor, with Howell nodding his appreciation to each officer who stood to attention. Beyond the officers, a small crowd of other mourners had ventured to pay their respects. Howell didn’t see anything but blurred faces, his vision obscured by the tears and the grief. He failed to spot Samuel Pope, a man who, until recently, had been nothing more than a quiet man behind a glass screen.
As he helped his sister into the car that would take them to his nephew’s wake, Howell took a deep breath, said one final goodbye to his nephew, and promised him his death would not be for nothing.
The old, crooning voice of Neil Diamond struggled through the speakers that hung overhead as Sam patiently sat, his arms crossed and resting on the table. The pub, the Old Crown, was a traditional ‘old man’ pub, filled with uncomfortable furniture, money-stealing fruit machines, and enough local ales to keep the regulars happy. The décor was dated, with random black-and-white pictures of the good old days only hammering home the pub’s status as a relic.
Still, at least you could have a conversation and actually hear it.
Just as Sam began to focus on the nearest dreary painting of an old market square, Theo Walker returned to the table, his meaty hands wrapped around two glasses. Setting a gin-and-tonic in front of Sam, Theo took the seat opposite, necking a long sip from his pint before settling down and smacking his lips with satisfaction.
‘Cheers,’ Sam mockingly offered, lifting his glass.
‘Cheers’, Theo repeated, their glasses clinking before he took another sip. The foam rested along his lips, even more noticeably due to Theo’s black skin. His cropped hair faded as it ran down the sides of his skull, merging into the neatly trimmed stubble that framed his strong jaw. He still looked every bit the soldier he had been back when he and Sam had served together, his light blue shirt wrapping tightly around his muscular frame. After a few moments of silence, Theo rested his dark eyes on his former comrade. ‘What’s up, Sam?’
‘Nothing.’ Sam took a nervous sip, his social skills having left the same time his wife did.
‘Come on, man. You can talk to me.’ Theo offered a pearly smile. ‘The shit we been through, you could tell me anything.’
‘That is true.’ Sam chuckled.
‘How’s things, man? You heard from Lucy?’
Sam sighed and shook his head. ‘Not for a while. She’s got her new life now. They’re expecting.’ Sam took another sip. ‘Jamie always wanted a little brother.’
‘Look man, don’t do this to yourself.’ Theo spoke with the same authority that had made him one of the most respected and trusted medics during Sam’s tenure. ‘What happened, happened. You can’t go back in time, you can’t change the past. So let it be. You can’t sit here and wallow. That isn’t the Sam Pope that I know.’
Draining the remains of his drink, Sam offered another with a raise of the eyebrows. Surprised at the speed, Theo shrugged and went about demolishing his own pint as Sam approached the bar. By the time he had returned, Theo was gently placing an empty glass onto the rickety wooden table between them. They clinked again and took another sip.
‘How’s work?’ Sam asked with genuine interest.
‘Really good, thanks. A few of my guys got together and they decided to start a dance group.’ Theo beamed proudly, which sent a small twinge of envy through Sam. Since being honourably discharged, Theo had dedicated his life to working with underprivileged and wayward kids in the East End of London, tackling some of the most toxic and poverty-stricken estates in the country. With gang culture rife on every street, Theo had built up a lot of respect with many of the gangs, with surprising results. It didn’t surprise Sam at all. Despite being a great soldier, Theo was a born healer and Sam had witnessed him bravely risk his own life to save others. Whilst working with street gangs to forge a better path for the next generation wasn’t exactly a firefight in an abandoned factory in Iraq, it was another battle for Theo.
Sam wondered if maybe his own quest for justice could be considered a public service too. Smiling, he brought his mind back to the conversation.
‘You’re not teaching them, are you?’ Sam asked with a cheeky grin. ‘I mean, they want to improve, don’t they?’
‘Hey, screw you. I got some moves.’ Theo chuckled. ‘How about you—how’s work?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘You’re not sure?’
‘Everyone is on edge since Sunday,’ Sam began, his words tailing off. ‘That young officer, I knew him. Was a good kid, actually. One of the few.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Theo shook his head, recounting the reports he had read on the senseless act.
‘We had his funeral today. I think that’s why I needed a drink. Seeing someone die in the line of duty, you know how it is.’
‘Yeah. I do.’
Silence hung between the two of them, their minds casting back to morbid memories of fallen friends. Suddenly, Sam felt his eyebrows furrow into a frown.
Theo looked at him with caution. ‘Sam?’ he asked tentatively. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I just feel like something about it all is off.’
‘What do you mean?’ Theo took a nervous sip of his beer.
‘I looked over the initial report of the bombing and it said that PC Harding was at the scene and he saw Jake go into the alleyway. Other eye witnesses only place one officer in the vicinity of the area, and that was Jake.’
‘Sam…’ Theo tried to cut in, knowing where it was going.
Sam ignored him, allowing his mind to race. ‘Then I saw Harding at a mandated therapy session, which—trust me—is the last thing someone like him would do. He didn’t seem remotely interested. Then today, at the funeral, I caught him twice joking around with other colleagues.’
‘Sam!’ Theo exclaimed purposefully. ‘Just stop it.’
‘What?’
‘Look, I know what you’re doing. Okay? I looked the other way when you told me you were hunting down the odd gangster or beating the shit out of a rapist. After what happened, I understand why you have no faith in the justice system and you want to take things into your own hands. I didn’t approve, but I could understand.
‘But this is crazy. You are second-guessing how a fellow police officer is dealing with his grief? You, of all people, should know just what that can do to a man.’
Sam looked sullenly at the glass before him, twisting it slowly with his fingers.
‘The guy might be a prick, Sam, but it doesn’t make him a criminal. This isn’t your fight. None of them have been your fight and they never will. Besides, you promised your boy wouldn’t kill anymore…’
‘I haven’t killed anyone,’ Sam interjected, without looking up.
>
‘Good. Keep it that way.’
Again, they sat in silence, the intensity of the conversation causing Theo to finish his beer and make his way to the bar. Sam knew he was right.
He was looking for a reason that wasn’t there, something to make sense of a world trying to tear itself apart. Ever since that night, he had been lost. Only when he began scanning the archives for potential miscarriages of justice had he begun to deal with his grief. With every gangster or sex offender that he had brutally attacked, he had begun to feel like himself again.
Like he had a sense of purpose again.
But now, as he sat on a worn-out chair in an old, forgotten pub, he knew the only friend he had was right.
There was no ‘night shift’ needed for this one.
Theo returned with the drinks once more, the smile breaking across his face telling Sam the conversation had come to an end. As he placed the drink down in front of him, Sam looked his friend in the eye.
‘I love you, Theo.’
‘Fuck off.’
Both men started chuckling as they clinked their glasses together and settled in for the evening to take a more pleasant turn.
Stuffing his hands into his pockets to battle against the surprising spring chill, PC Harding impatiently sighed. Head to toe in black, he looked like a burglar, but he knew it was best to be able to blend into the shadows on the off chance a drunken idiot somehow stumbled up to see the city. It was past three in the morning, and from the top of the seven-storey car park he could see the entire city of London, bathed in shadow. The busy centres such as Camden Town and Leicester Square never slept, even during the week, where most bars were full way into the early hours. From his vantage point he could see Walthamstow Central Station, the cage locked shut across the front and the streets surrounding it bereft of people.
He felt entirely alone.
Alone and not in control.
The Night Shift: A high octane thriller that will have you gripped. (Sam Pope Series Book 1) Page 7
