Public Enemy (Sam Pope Series Book 14), page 8
It just made her unfortunate.
As he watched her performance, his gloved finger gently stroked the trigger.
She slammed her fist down on the podium.
Jensen took one more deep breath.
Then he squeezed.
He felt the entire weapon jolt in his arms, and he watched with pride as a second later, he watched the top of Ashton’s skull turn to red mist. He could hear the rising hum of panic, and then rocked back on his heel, before ejecting the casing of the bullet onto the ground.
He left Sam’s rifle beside it.
Without even a hint of guilt, Jensen pushed himself up, and hurried back through the door to the maintenance stairwell, bounding down the steps two at a time. As he reached the bottom floor, he pulled out the burner phone and called the emergency services.
They eventually picked up.
With a well-rehearsed panic in his voice, he stammered that he heard the shot, and then saw Sam Pope leaving the building. The woman tried to calm him down, and he smiled as he gave the address, hung up the phone, and then crushed it under his boot. The armed response unit would be swarming the place within minutes, and they’d find the rifle.
They’d find the bullet casing.
And pretty soon, the entire country would believe that Sam Pope had publicly executed a senior police figure.
With a spring in his step, Jensen headed as far away from the chaos as possible, eager to see what would happen next.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The shockwaves of the assassination were relentless.
Every phone in New Scotland Yard was on a constant ring, and the streets surrounding the building had been locked down, with armed response units sweeping through a one-mile radius, all in search of Sam Pope. It hadn’t taken long for the shooter’s location to be found, with a team of armed officers sweeping through the building and retrieving the sniper rifle and the shell casing that had brutally ended Ruth Ashton’s life.
Sarratt felt sick to her stomach.
As she sat behind the desk in her office, she knew that even shutting the blinds to the outside world didn’t stop all eyes from falling on her.
They were looking to her for guidance.
For a response.
But deep down, she knew she’d given the entire operation the green light. Strong-armed by the threats to her own position, she’d agreed to sign off on the new Sam Pope Task Force, even against her better instincts. Admiral Wainwright was a formidable man, but his cruel nature was only trumped by the power he wielded within the country’s governance.
He was untouchable.
And he’d made it very clear that Sarratt was not.
But now, just a few hours removed from one of the most shocking events in recent memory, Sarratt sat her desk, her eyes glued to the TV screen on the wall, and the relentless barrage of updates on the news channel. The footage was gruesome, but thankfully, the network had decided to block out the moment Ruth Ashton’s skull was turned to paint and dust.
Sarratt wished she could do the same.
The return of a woman she’d worked under had given her cause for concern, and although Sarratt would never speak ill of the dead, Ashton had never been a woman she could warm to. Steadfast in her own self-belief, Ashton was the blueprint for playing the political game, rising through the Met Police thanks to her admittedly stellar career, but also her ability to lick the right boots when needed. She’d never extended any opportunities Sarratt’s way, and at times, had done her best to lift the ladder with her.
Having her forced into the task force had been a curve ball from Wainwright, but the idea that Sarratt herself shouldn’t be the face of the operation had held merit. It would have shown her authority in her position at the top of the food chain, and also reinforced the notion that she was willing to reach out for expert help to bring Sam in.
Now, it would appear, she was merely a sacrificial lamb.
Sarratt had given her approval for the entire operation, which had seen an innocent and respected woman assassinated on live TV and she would undoubtedly need to peddle the narrative that Sam Pope was the man behind the trigger.
She had her doubts.
There was more to all this than just keeping the country safe, and the more time Sarratt had spent in the closed rooms with Wainwright and Murray, the more she felt there was more at hand. James Murray was what they were paying for. A tough, soulless mercenary with the means and the capabilities to bring down Sam Pope and anyone who stood in their way.
But Wainwright had more skin in the game.
Of that, Sarratt was certain.
And that was the reason, despite the rolling news warning the nation that Sam Pope was at large, and that he’d just murdered the former deputy commissioner in cold blood, Sarratt’s attention had turned elsewhere.
She was digging into Wainwright.
After the events at Gatwick a few months ago, where DS Sutton had pulled Chief Inspector Dummett from the fire and then explained to Sarratt what had been going on, the young detective had decided to move to the Department of Professional Standards. She’d passed on a list of names, a who’s who of the most powerful people in the country, and all of them with supposed links to terrorism.
The list had never made it to Sarratt.
In fact, the list had mysteriously vanished.
And Sarratt wanted answers.
Because if her gut was as good as it had been her entire career, then she was certain what name she’d find on it.
Right on cue, the door to her office opened, and her immediate, angry response at being disturbed was curtailed by the frown of Admiral Wainwright.
‘What a mess,’ he said forlornly, slamming the door behind him. As always, he was dressed immaculately, the picture of power and authority. ‘We need you out there, Henrietta.’
‘What we need, is the press to keep that poor woman out of the headlines.’ To Sarratt’s disgust, Wainwright chuckled. ‘I’m sorry, sir, is this situation funny to you?’
Wainwright didn’t wait for an invitation as he lowered himself onto the sofa pressed against the far wall of Sarratt’s spacious office. Calmly, he poured himself a glass of water from the jug on the centre of the coffee table and took a long sip. Finally, he turned to her.
‘I find it funny that you think the news would do such a thing.’ He took another sip. ‘Ruth Ashton was a fine woman who served this country with respect and grace. Her murder needs to be acknowledged.’
‘That’s what you think this is? A murder?’
‘Don’t you?’ Wainwright locked his eyes on her.
‘I think she was assassinated.’
‘Assassinated. Murdered.’ Wainwright waved it off. ‘Same difference.’
‘Not really. Not when an assassination is arranged.’ Sarratt could feel her temper boiling below the surface, and Wainwright seemed to read the room and placed his glass down. He stood slowly, a rare showing of his advancing years, and he adjusted his glasses before he spoke.
His voice was low.
Threatening.
‘I’d say we should all be on red alert.’ He warned. ‘Because what would possibly stop Sam Pope from targeting another pillar of the Metropolitan Police?’
He locked eyes on her.
The message clear.
Sarratt held his stare, refusing to back down, and she took a deep breath and Wainwright smiled, nodded, and then headed to the door. Before he pulled it open, he turned back to address her once more.
‘I think a statement should be made. A joint one. You and I united in the horror of Sam’s actions.’ Wainwright’s tone made it clear it wasn’t a suggestion. ‘But let’s not lose sight of who’s really in charge here.’
Sarratt didn’t respond.
She didn’t move a muscle.
Wainwright pulled open the door and headed back out into the chaos of the building, slamming it shut once more. The second the noise was shut out, Sarratt exhaled, only then realising her rage and disgust had trapped the air in her lungs. With Wainwright’s threat still echoing in her ears, she rushed back to her desk, opened her laptop, and started working on two things at the same time.
She wanted to do some digging on Guardian and their potential links to Wainwright.
And second, she needed to get in touch with DS Sutton.
The same pandemonium had swept through the BBC headquarters. Every reporter worth their salt was fighting tooth and nail to get their voice heard on the matter, all of them hoping that their pitch or their spin on the assassination would see them given the story of their career. Tom Alderson had shepherded them all into the biggest conference news he could find and demanded they all calm down.
The story wasn’t who was going to report on the death.
The story was the death itself.
A few ambitious reporters pitched in first, adding a sensationalist spin on the murder of Ruth Ashton, with one of them even going as far as to pitch the headline A nation under attack. Tom beat it back, saying the last thing he wanted was to spread panic and that, in turn, led to another session of shouting.
It was big news.
A well-known, highly respected public figure had just been executed live on their network.
Tom was impatiently waiting for Morganna to return from the front line, knowing full well that having her input would help steer the conversation into something meaningful. Hopefully, Morganna would solve the problem for him by having some exceptional footage and first-hand details that meant the conversation would be a quick one.
She was there.
She should run with it.
But until she returned, Tom had the arduous task of calming down a room of excited, hungry journalists, who were already posting their condolences and theories on social media.
He needed to nip that in the bud.
‘Right. First things first, any more posting on social media and you’ll be reporting on the high level of dog shit on Wimbledon Common,’ he said firmly. ‘And second, let’s not lose sight of what has actually happened here. It’s easy to let your journalistic nature lead you into theory instead of fact. But the fact is, Ruth Ashton, the former deputy commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Force, and face of the Sam Pope Task Force has been killed. Let’s not lose that as the seed of this story.’
‘Killed by Pope,’ a voice piped up, followed by agreeable murmurs. Tom shot a glance to the back of the room, where Lynsey Beckett stood, arms folded across her slight body, and her piercing eyes overlooking the group of journalists with disappointment.
‘We don’t know that,’ Tom said, holding up a finger. ‘And like I said, we need to deal with the facts. That’s our job, people.’
Lynsey scoffed at the back of the room.
Tom planted his hands on his hips, trying to convey his authority as he addressed her.
‘You got a problem, Lynsey?’
‘No, no.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s all about the facts.’
He could detect the sarcasm in her voice but turned back to the other journalists.
‘I want to know everything that led up to this moment. Every meeting in her calendar, every call she made. We need to paint the picture of her final acts and what could have led to this disgusting crime.’ Tom looked back to Lynsey. ‘Morganna will be best placed to piece today’s events together, so I want you all digging into the last twenty-four hours, last week, hell, last three years since she left the police. I want to know who Ruth Ashton became, and every step she took to get to this unfortunate day. Understood?’
The speech seemed to work, and his team of journalists enthusiastically nodded before scarpering from the room like excitable teenagers.
All except one.
Lynsey Beckett.
Tom sighed and rubbed his temples.
‘Not now, Lynz,’ he said. ‘We’ve got too much to do.’
‘I know. Apparently, we need to build the story of this heroic woman and her apparent murder by Sam Pope.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘But you think that’s what’s going on, right?’
‘I deal with facts, Lynsey,’ Tom snapped. ‘And right now, the woman who came out leading the charge against Sam Pope just had her fucking head blown off live on our network. Now, I know you have some bizarre past with Pope that you’ve continued to keep from me, but right now, I’m just following the facts, and there is only one person who would benefit from Ruth Ashton being dead.’
‘Think about it, Tom,’ Lynsey protested. ‘How do you get the country to turn on this man? You list all the shit he may or may not have caused, and then you double down by making him seem more dangerous than he is.’
‘You don’t think Sam’s dangerous?’ Tom stepped back, a little shocked. ‘Seriously? He has over one hundred confirmed kills across both his career and his crusade. Confirmed, Lynsey. I know you might paint him like some kind of white knight, but the man is a serious criminal and in essence, a serial killer.’
‘That’s a little dramatic.’
‘Is it? You’ve covered stories before about people being killed and have been more than willing to label others as killers.’ Tom said with a frown. ‘So no, in my mind, I’m not being dramatic. Because from where I’m standing, Ruth Ashton isn’t the result of hundreds of deaths.’
‘You don’t think it’s a little too convenient that a few days after we get a confession by Michael Hartson all this comes to pass?’ Lynsey said, refusing to back down. ‘High-ranking political figures linked to a global terrorist network, but that gets kyboshed. And then almost instantly, a new task force comes out to bring Sam Pope in?’
‘Yes. It’s pretty easy to make the connection. I’ll agree with that,’ Tom said. ‘But we still can’t condone a man abducting someone and making them confess under duress. From the eyewitness accounts, Sam Pope assaulted two men who were just doing their jobs at the airport. Is that violence justified?’
‘If it gets to the truth.’
Tom took a step back and folded his arms.
‘Wow.’ He shook his head. ‘You genuinely believe that Pope’s actions are reasonable?’
‘No. Necessary.’ Lynsey wasn’t backing down. ‘Throughout all our tracking of Sam, when have we ever known him to target the police?’
‘Never,’ Tom agreed. ‘However, no one had painted Sam in quite the light Ashton had. As we’ve already seen, some of the public are turning against him.’
‘And what do you think they’re going to do now he’s being accused of blowing her fucking head off?’
Both Tom and Lynsey took a step back, realising that their voices, along with their anger, were rising. With perfect timing, the outside office burst into excitement as Morganna Daily walked through the door, like a triumphant hero returning from battle. As always, the immaculately presented reporter seemed more than happy with the attention, as the other journalists flocked towards her like sheep.
‘Let’s put a pin in this,’ Tom said as he headed to the door.
‘You can,’ Lynsey said coldly. ‘But you know me—’
‘I do.’ Tom sighed. ‘And that’s what worries me.’
She could see the inner-conflict loud and clear on his face, as his desire to protect them both was clashing with his journalistic integrity. With a dramatic blow of his cheeks and a shake of his head, Tom regarded her with a sigh.
‘Fine.’
With that, Tom Alderson marched out into the open plan office and headed towards the hum of excitement that had clustered around Morganna. Lynsey stepped back, leant against the wall and took a few deep breaths.
She was tired of the world, and the way the elite held such control over the truth.
Somebody didn’t want something coming to the surface.
She’d heard herself, whether under duress, or not, that Michael Hartson had been involved with a man called Vladimir Balikov. But any evidence of the man even existing had been eradicated.
But she did have one potential lead.
The list that had apparently been recovered and then, rather conveniently, disappeared.
But the one name she did have to go off was the one person who’d been involved in whatever happened with Sam Pope at Gatwick Airport a few months before.
She needed to get in touch with DS Jessica Sutton.
CHAPTER TWELVE
It had been a whirlwind few months for DS Jessica Sutton.
Before the turn of the year, life had fallen into an almost metronomic pattern. She’d wake early, go for a run to shake off any drowsiness from the bottle of wine the night before, and then find herself at her desk in Charing Cross Police Station, looking to get ahead of the day before anyone else from CID had arrived. Usually, after an hour or so, DS Connor Vokes would arrive with a coffee for her, some witty comment about the ease of her life before boring her with a story about parenthood.
The platonic love between the two of them made her feel closer to him than her two older brothers, and when she’d cradled him in the back of the car with her hands pressed to the bullet wound in his stomach, she’d worried she’d lose him forever.
But like her, Vokes was a fighter, and he’d clung to life long enough for the doctors to stabilise him.
It had been a few months since that night, and Sutton had only been to visit once. Laura, his doting wife, seemed to hold Sutton accountable for the incident, and in some ways, she wasn’t wrong.
It had been Sutton’s refusal to ignore a hunch that had seen her collide with Sam Pope’s world, as they both investigated the deaths of two young police officers. From hunting the vigilante herself, Sutton soon found her depending on him to knock down the doors some senior police figures had slammed shut in a vulgar attempt to cover their tracks.
Many people died over the course of those rainy nights in December, and all for a corrupt politician, Graham Henshaw, who had staged a robbery to boost his campaign.
She’d expected it from a politician, in truth. The government she served seemed bereft of integrity and witnessing it first-hand wasn’t a shock.
