The Final Mile: A SAM POPE NOVEL

by Enright, Robert

  Celebrating him could lead to imitation, and Singh doubted anyone looking to take up the mantle would have the same skills he did.

  But there had been no pressure from the journalists to bring Sam’s first week behind bars to the public domain and the guilt of Helal Miah’s death hung heavy on her conscience. Almost all of them had been in touch, wanting an interview with the star detective who had brought the UK’s most dangerous man to justice. A part of her wanted to scare them off, to tell them the truth about how Helal Miah was even caught up in a series of events that would end in his murder. Although he was brutally tortured and killed by Farukh Abdul, she was the one who had brought him into the frame.

  She’d sold Miah the story.

  Had put him in the firing line.

  And while she didn’t beat him to a pulp, nor wrap the noose that choked the life out of him around his neck, she still had blood on her hands.

  It was why she was determined to keep her career going. Sam had given his freedom for her own and Helal Miah had died to bring the truth to light. The article published in his memory by his heart broken boss, had lifted the lid on the extent of Wallace’s crimes.

  They had honoured Miah by getting the story he’d died for out there.

  Sam had honoured his death by bringing those responsible to justice.

  She would honour it by not letting those sacrifices be for nothing.

  But still, something didn’t sit right.

  She’d thought about bouncing some ideas off Pearce. Seeing him at the trial had been the one brief moment of happiness she’d endured in months and knowing that he effectively retired in the face of helping save her life had rewritten the betrayal she’d original pinned to him.

  But he was out of it now.

  Retired.

  Dedicating his life to a new cause and one that she didn’t want to disrupt. Singh had also considered going to speak to Etheridge, but the man’s cowardice in the face of Sam’s incarceration had caused her blood to boil. Etheridge may have been beaten and shot for the cause, but Sam had saved his life when they were soldiers.

  The least Etheridge could do was be there for Sam when his life as a free man was coming to an end.

  Singh sat back in her chair, rested her hands on her head, and took a deep breath. The sleeves of her neatly ironed, white shirt had been rolled up to the elbow and she stared at the phone on her desk.

  The idea running through her head should have made her stomach flip, but the knot caused by Sam’s sudden disappearance had held it steady. She hated the thought of what she was about to do, but what else was there?

  Singh was out of ideas.

  And she needed to know what the hell was going on.

  With a resounding sigh, she leant forward, logged into her terminal, and brought up the police directory. After a few clicks on the keyboard, she found the number for the administration office for Pentonville Prison.

  Prison Guard Matt Allison had made no secret of his attraction to her on the few times she’d visited the depressing structure, annoying her with suggestive comments as she made her way to interrogate a prisoner.

  Despite her rejections, he never wavered. There was always an offer for a drink and promise of a good time.

  He was either extremely confident or wildly deluded.

  From Singh’s experience, most men seemed to be made up of a mixture of both.

  She dialled the number, and as the phone rang and then automatically put her in the queue, she gritted her teeth. A non-descript Coldplay song echoed in her ears, a depressingly apt tune as she abandoned her morals. Using her womanly charm was never a weapon that she kept in her arsenal. It went against everything she’d built for herself.

  But she had to know.

  Something wasn’t right.

  And Singh was damn sure she was going to find out what.

  * * *

  The week in solitary confinement passed a lot quicker than Sam had expected.

  After literally being dragged through the prison, to the delight of the inmates, Sam had been hauled to his feet and roughly pulled down two flights of stairs to the basement which housed a dank corridor, lit only by a few bulbs that were running on empty. There were four, thick metal doors, each of which opened up to a thin, empty room. As the guards unlocked the one in the furthest corner, Sam was happy to smell the putrid smell of damp.

  It meant the shock he’d received hadn’t blasted away his sense of smell, but he was soon hurled into the room, followed by a few empty threats and meaningless curse words, before the door slammed shut, sealing him in his dark tomb. As he pulled himself to a seated position, the bottom panel of the metal door slid open and a stained, metal bucket was tossed into the room, clattering loudly.

  Then darkness again.

  The following day, Harris had come to see him, offering his apologies that Sam’s first night had resulted in such a mess. Sam held his tongue, not wanting to add to the man’s clear health problems by suggesting that it was a set up. Harris wasn’t an idiot, and he confessed as much to Sam that he knew Sharp had a way with inducting new inmates that wasn’t part of the prison policy.

  But Sharp, despite being a cruel and power-hungry man, wasn’t an idiot. He had already submitted the necessary reports to ensure that Sam’s incarceration in solitary was acknowledged and approved, which meant Harris’s hands were tied. He could try, but it would take longer than the week Sam had been assigned.

  The best he could offer, was to ensure his bucket was cleared out daily and to keep the light on in the room for a few hours a day. Then, in an act of kindness that touched Sam, he handed over a copy of War and Peace, and told him to tuck in.

  So Sam did.

  After day five, Sharp had entered the room with a few of the guards, goading Sam to lash out to no avail. Sam had kept his calm, even when Sharp had snatched up the book and dumped it in the foul-smelling bucket.

  All Sam did was remind Sharp that the book belonged to Harris and smiled when Sharp cursed loudly and stormed out of the room, flanked by his goons.

  Moments later, the light went off.

  It didn’t come back on for the rest of Sam’s stay.

  After what Sam judged to be roughly seven days, he heard the jingling of keys and murmured words through the door, then the loud clank of the lock turning. The light that burst into the room burnt his eyes and he looked away, drawing a delighted chuckle from Sharp.

  ‘Wakey, wakey,’ Sharp said, his smugness telling Sam it was clearly rehearsed. ‘Fucking hell, it stinks like shit in here.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure it stinks like shit in every room you enter.’

  Sam paid for the remark, as Sharp drove his thick, metal capped boot into his ribs. As the air rushed from his body, Sam hunched forward and wheezed.

  ‘Get him up,’ Sharp commanded, and two guards strode in and hauled Sam to his feet. It was the first time in a week he’d stepped a foot outside the small room and the lack of proper food and water hit Sam like a tidal wave. He stumbled to the side, collapsing against the wall, much to the crazed delight of Sharp.

  ‘Not such a smart fucker now, are you?’ Sharp spat, not expecting an answer. Sam didn’t offer one, anyway. Sharp turned on his heel, walking proudly ahead, as the two guards chaperoned Sam behind. As they made their way up the stairs, Sharp, clearly enjoying the sound of his own voice, spoke.

  ‘See, Sam. Despite what Harris thinks, I run this side of the prison. He’s on his way out and soon, he’ll be gone for good. He’s the last of a dying breed. A man who thinks he can make a difference. He believes that a place like this may not change men like you, but it can at least give you a sense of peace.’

  They stepped through the doors and into the main corridor where a week ago, Sam had been hauled across the floor like a bag of cement. Sharp continued.

  ‘But me, I see this place for what it is. A cage. A place to keep the scum and make sure they spend every day regretting every fucking action they took. Now, I don’t exp
ect a man like you to change overnight. I expect you will try to hold your head up high, be this dignified soldier you make yourself out to be. And that’s fine. It will be fun to beat that out of you.’

  Sharp stopped in front of the double metal doors that led to the canteen. He turned to Sam with a smile.

  ‘But you will break, Sam. And when you do, I’ll be there to collect the pieces with a smile on my face.’ Sharp offered him a vulgar grin, his stained teeth shooting out from his gums like crooked stalagmites. ‘Now, you must be hungry, right?’

  Sam sighed, arching an eyebrow in agreement.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes, what?’

  ‘Yes, deputy warden.’ Sam’s emphasis on the word caused a flash of fury to betray Sharp’s calm demeanor. He quickly tried to mask it, but Sam clocked it. He also noticed the time on Sharp’s watch, seeing it was well past the allotted time slots for dinner. ‘I take it you haven’t put on a special dinner for me?’

  ‘Oh, I haven’t. No.’ Sharp smirked, trying his best to be mysterious. ‘But someone has.’

  ‘Who?’ Sam asked, flashing a quick glance at his surroundings, his training kicking in when an ambush seemed imminent.

  ‘Like I said, I run this side of the prison.’ Sharp opened the door. ‘Bon appetite.’

  Two hands roughly slammed into Sam’s back, shunting him through the door and into the canteen. The door slammed behind Sam, and he turned to look at the room which had been plunged into the darkness. The halogen tubes he’d stared up at as he was pulled across the floor a week ago were off, but Sam couldn’t see the fixtures at all. He knew where they were, he’d logged that detail away, but the darkness was so thick, he couldn’t even see his hand in front of his face.

  The only light in the room came from the table in the far corner where a lamp had been placed, its bulb bathing the metal table in a bright glow, illuminating the solitary plate that was covered in food. Sam’s hunger and curiosity drew him towards it, walking slowly so as not to collide with any of the other furniture. As Sam approached, a waft of meat and vegetables filled his nose and he hurried his pace. Just as he adjusted to take his seat, a figure stepped out from the shadows opposite him.

  The bearded man from the first night, who had watched approvingly as Sam had dismantled his two men. Without saying a word, the man stepped to the other side of the table, his advanced age showing as he lowered himself to the chair opposite. As he adjusted his sizeable gut, he looked up at Sam with a powerful glare, one that was used to demand respect and furious that Sam wasn’t showing any.

  ‘Jesus fucking Christ, would you sit down?’ The man’s East London accent was as thick as his beard. ‘Your food’s getting cold.’

  Sam looked around, seeing nothing but darkness, before slowly lowering himself into the chair, not taking his eyes off the prisoner.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m the ‘Guvnor’,’ he replied proudly. ‘And once you have a nice full belly, I’ll explain to you just how well and truly fucked you really are.’

  Chapter Eleven

  It took Harry Chapman over twenty years before he was known as the Guvnor. He always saw it as paying his dues, but there was an underlying frustration that it took him that long to rise to the top of the criminal underworld that ran through London like an insidious vein.

  He got his first taste of his future during his teenage years. Growing up on an estate in Stockwell on the south side of the Thames, he and his older brother, Mike, were on amicable terms with the drug runners that frequented their building. The large tower block comprised of eight concrete floors of identikit apartments and was owned by the council and filled with many people living below the poverty line during the seventies. Harry would often stare out from their seventh-floor window. The view his bedroom window afforded him, especially at night, was a cacophony of lights.

  The city of London in all its majesty.

  It was beyond the version he’d grown up in, and his father, who worked as a bus driver, would constantly complain about the rat race that infested the city.

  Giles Chapman was an honest man, who had worked hard to emerge from a monstrous childhood to build a quaint life for himself. Happily married for fifteen years until the untimely death of his wife, Giles had worked diligently to ensure their two sons were given the opportunities that he never had.

  Looking back at it, Harry often wondered whether his father would have been proud of the man he became. Sure, he eventually rose to being the most notorious criminal in the UK, but he built an unshakable legacy that was still standing long after his incarceration.

  During his teen years, Harry had towed the line. He had gone to school. He had done his homework, excelling in maths which would eventually be the greatest tool in his arsenal. By being able to read the numbers and plot ahead, Harry took the drug empire to places it had never been before.

  Back then, he wanted to be an accountant. His father often spoke about the rich men he saw while having a cheeky cigarette by the side of his bus. All of them marching around Marble Arch in their fancy suits, weaving in and out of accountancy firms.

  ‘Money is what really equals power. Not position.’

  Those words always stuck with Harry, and during his rise up the criminal food chain, they echoed in his mind with every move he made. Whether it be when concluding a multi-million-pound drug deal or slicing open a snitch’s throat with a box cutter, those words rang in his head.

  The dream of being an accountant began to fade when Mike was approached by the local drug dealers to become a spotter, and within six months, was promoted to an actual dealer. At just seventeen years old, Mike was bringing in more money than their heart-broken father. That heartbreak was soon superseded by lung cancer and while he would regret not speaking to Mike before he passed, he’d begged Harry to follow the right path.

  To keep following the numbers.

  To seek out money, not reputation.

  Harry had every intention of honouring his father’s dying wish, but when Mike was beaten and hurled from the fifth floor of the block less than a year later, Harry’s life took a turn. There was a flash point, a fork in the road where he could have carried on, allowed the trauma of losing his family to spur him on to a decent life. Or seek revenge and never look back.

  The fact Mike didn’t die on impact was what allowed him time to think it over. For fifteen grotesque hours, surgeons tried their best to fix his broken body. The pain must have been insufferable and as he watched them rush his shattered body into surgery, Harry had wept. Through his tear-stained hands, he thought of their time together, roughhousing in the living room. Mike had always looked after him, ensuring no one ever picked on his little brother.

  Now it was Harry’s turn to protect the only thing he had left of his brother. His memory.

  A local dealer, a sinister man with dreadlocks named Sy, took Harry under his wing, telling Harry he felt somewhat responsible for the death. A rival dealer had targeted Sy’s patch and Mike was an unfortunate victim of the game they played.

  Harry smiled politely, accepted the lame apology, and worked round the clock to become Sy’s number two. By the age of twenty, Harry had killed three people.

  The two men responsible for killing his brother, and the man who had sent them. He was christened the ‘BC’, as he’d slit their throats with a rusty box cutter.

  Another year later, he’d nailed Sy to a chair and set him on fire in front of the rest of his crew, taking control of the drug empire and changing the course of his future forever.

  The following two decades were a whirlwind of money, women, and drugs. The harder he crunched the numbers, the quicker he expanded, and by making smart moves with suppliers, he was able to triple his income year on year. A bigger target was painted on his chest, from both sides of the law, but the mammoth wealth he amassed not only ensured his safety, but the blind loyalty of his men.

  They killed for him.

  They died for him.

&n
bsp; Harry Chapman, on the eve of his forty-second birthday, was christened The Guvnor for the first time. One of the tabloid papers coined the term and it soon stuck. By building an empire of so many levels, it was almost impossible for the police to pin anything to him. With his eye on an early retirement, he traded the gangster lifestyle for a luxurious estate in Surbiton, where he went through two messy divorces and sadly, never fathered a child.

  It was his only regret of a life that had far exceeded the insurmountable odds placed against it.

  Two years before his eventual capture and incarceration, The Guvnor changed the criminal underworld permanently. By combining the estates of other empires and offering a share of the spoils, he soon brought together an enterprise so powerful that even the police wanted in.

  A series of buildings, known effectively as ‘High Rises’ were purchased and renovated, with each one offered to a crime boss. Harry’s money meant the police stayed away and his contacts ensured a steady flow of product was available for the customers. Women, men, children, drugs. Whatever was desired by the paying customer was reachable and soon, The Guvnor was not only tripling his multi-million fortune, he also had every major criminal in the damn country begging to be on his staff.

  ‘Money is what really equals power. Not position.’

  No truer words had a greater man spoken.

  The press would run features on the supposed Guvnor, christening the rumoured High Rises as ‘The High Street’, a place where the elite could live out their most depraved fantasies but with no evidence to back it up, valuable witnesses going missing, and over half of the Met Police in his back pocket, he was untouchable.

  Or so he thought.

  A needless trip to the theatre with a young lady turned out to be a honey trap where he was caught on camera confessing his implicit involvement in the trafficking of women. Unfortunately for him, one of the detectives, Adrian Pearce, was an incorruptible bastard who ensured those working the case saw it through to the end.

  At the age of fifty-one, Harry Chapman was sentenced to life in prison and soon found himself locked down in the most secure facility in Europe.