The Takers Read online

  Mark Harris knew he was big news. He was handsome, smart, charming, and pushing all the right buttons. Three months shy of his fortieth birthday, his hair was starting to grey at the edges.

  His wife thought it made him look more endearing.

  His mistress didn’t seem to care at all.

  Carl Burrows, his executive assistant, was the only other person who knew of his infidelity, arranging the secret meetings and the removal of evidence. Burrows was a stern, well-educated man who had a permanent sneer across his world-weary face. Tufts of grey hair framed his bespectacled head and did so that day as he opened the door and stepped into the office.

  Harris didn’t even turn from the window.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ Burrows said approaching the desk, a stack of folders resting in his arms. He placed them on the desk before unbuttoning his blazer and taking his seat. Rain gently pattered against the window, each droplet exploding on impact.

  ‘Do you ever think it will rain hard enough that it will wash the streets clean?’ Harris eventually offered, his eyes still transfixed on the streets surrounding the vast park, the trees clinging desperately to their final leaves.

  ‘I very much doubt it, sir,’ Burrows said without emotion. ‘It would take an unseemly amount of rain.’

  ‘Quite.’ Harris turned, smiling warmly at the stalwart of his political party. Burrows had been in the same position for years, serving as the assistant to the last mayor from Harris’s party. The man may have been a complete stick in the mud, but he knew his job and knew it well. Harris nodded to the files as he took his seat. ‘What are those?’

  ‘They are all the reports about last night’s, shall we say, incident?’ Burrows removed his glasses before wiping them with a small cloth. ‘Several different angles, but all similar details.’

  ‘Pope?’ Harris asked, picking up the first file and flicking it open.

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Harris shook his head, his eyes flaring with anger as he read the red-top headline. ‘This isn’t great, especially with the election only a month away.’

  ‘You have nothing to worry about, sir,’ Burrows spoke, his words robotic. ‘We have already prepared you a statement to read to the gathering press outside. The usual.’

  Harris tossed the folder back onto the desk in frustration. He massaged his temples before looking around the room. A sofa with a coffee table was pressed against the far wall, adjacent to a book case that stood proudly next to the door. Harris wasn’t one for reading, but Burrows had demanded its inclusion in the office. Apparently, it boosted Harris’s intellectual appeal.

  ‘The usual isn’t working,’ Harris eventually offered.

  ‘But today, you will not be alone.’

  Before Harris could respond, Burrows leant forward and pressed his finger on the small, red button atop the phone. Instantly, the speaker produced a ring before Peggy, Harris’s secretary, wished them good morning. Burrows leant forward, his mouth near the speaker of the phone.

  ‘Send them in, please.’

  The phone hung up as Burrows stood. Harris copied, confusion on his face as he slipped his arms into his blazer.

  ‘Them?’

  Before Burrows could answer, the large, wooden door swung open and in walked Assistant Commissioner Ruth Ashton of the Metropolitan Police. A veteran of over twenty years, Ashton was the prototype for any senior police official. An immaculate record on the beat, with three commendations for bravery. Six years working within CID, heading up a task force that brought down an inner-city drug ring as well as spending three years on Project Yewtree. Since then, Ashton had taken a back seat, working the political ladder and progressing all the way up to the third highest rank in the entire police service. Juggling that with a marriage of over twenty-five years and two kids in further education, and Harris understood exactly why she commanded respect as she entered the room. With her hat tucked neatly under her arm, she marched to the table, extending her hand and firmly shaking Harris’s.

  ‘Assistant Commissioner, what a lovely surprise.’ Harris flashed his brilliant, white smile.

  ‘Mr Harris,’ Ashton spoke with well-honed gravitas.

  ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’ Harris motioned to the seat which Burrows had respectfully vacated. ‘First off, would you like a drink? Tea? Coffee?’

  ‘A tea would be lovely.’

  ‘Burrows.’

  Without a word, Burrows nodded and vacated the room, as loyal and obedient as ever. Harris knew the man deserved more respect than that, but there were times when he caught himself testing to what lengths Burrows’ obedience stretched. As Burrows left, Harris took his seat, pressing his fingers together in front of his chest.

  ‘Mr Harris…’

  ‘Please, call me Mark.’

  ‘Mark.’ Ashton corrected herself. ‘As you know, there was another incident last night.’

  ‘Yes. I’m aware.’

  ‘Well, your confidant, Mr Burrows, invited me in this morning to discuss the plan of action. As you’re well aware, the Metropolitan Police has had some severe problems this year, especially within its own ranks.’

  ‘Yes. That whole mess with Inspector Howell.’

  ‘That was handled internally and as you can imagine, we’d like to keep a lid on that as much as possible.’

  ‘Quite.’ Harris offered his smile once more.

  ‘Since then, Sam Pope has been a strict priority. Again, you can see the sensationalism of the press with regard to an armed vigilante supposedly cleaning up the streets.’

  ‘Well, as you’re aware, Assistant Commissioner…’

  ‘Please, Ruth.’

  Harris smiled politely before continuing.

  ‘Ruth. My entire campaign is all for the apprehending of this man and the reduction in gun crime within this great city. I’m due to speak to the press this morning in relation to yesterday’s incident and impact on my campaign. I’m sure I can play my part in extinguishing any flames of excitement.’

  ‘Thank you. Do you know that the press has given him a nickname now?’ Ashton asked rhetorically, shaking her head. ‘They are calling him The Watchdog.’

  ‘Pathetic,’ Harris chimed in, disappointed at the press for branding a man who was breaking the law. Burrows re-entered the room with two cups of tea. He placed them on the wooden coasters on the desk before taking his leave once more. Ashton took a satisfying sip, allowing the piping hot liquid to warm her on a bitterly cold and wet morning. ‘As I said, I was invited here.’

  ‘I can’t say I’m too sure why. You know Carl, he’s full of secrets.’

  Both of them smiled politely at the lame joke and Harris sipped his tea, annoyed at his own intimidation at the powerful woman before him.

  ‘Well, in light of yesterdays incident, we have released extra funding to not only increase our search for Sam Pope, but to launch a task force dedicated to his apprehension.’

  ‘Well this is excellent news.’ Harris beamed.

  ‘Of course, this will be run through the Met, but as you know, many of our officers are fully behind your campaign and have suggested you would like to officially launch the task force today.’

  Harris shook slightly with excitement. Although he was the clear favourite for the next election, being the face of a dedicated task force was only going to increase his standing in the eyes of the citizens. He took another swig of his drink before placing the mug down, his eyes wide with glee.

  ‘Ruth, I would be honoured to announce it on your behalf, and I look forward to working with you.’

  ‘Oh, I won’t be leading the task force.’ She smiled politely, a few wrinkles framing her blue eyes. Her auburn hair was tied neatly into a ponytail.

  ‘Oh?’ Harris raised an eyebrow and Burrows stepped back into the room, stepping to the side and ushering in Detective Inspector Amara Singh. Despite her lack of height, Singh walked with purpose, her police tunic immaculate and her fierce brown eyes locked on Harris. Her brown sk
in complimented her striking face and Harris was slightly taken aback by her immediate beauty. Singh marched towards the desk as both Harris and Ashton rose from their seats, stopping in front of her superior and offering a salute. Ashton nodded her acceptance and they both turned to Harris.

  ‘Mr Harris, meet Detective Inspector Singh.’

  Harris extended his hand as well as his dazzling smile. Singh took it, looking less than impressed.

  ‘It’s a pleasure.’ Harris couldn’t help but have a quick scan of her body, her petite frame clearly carried some muscle. He could tell she was a strict trainer, without a shred of fat on her. ‘Are you up to the task, ma’am?’

  ‘Sir, I’ve spent the last four years on the Armed Response team, leading several successful raids as well as working alongside Assistant Commissioner Ashton on Project Yewtree. I have extensive field and command experience and to be honest, sir, I just want this scum bag off our streets.’

  Harris felt a jolt of arousal as he regarded the stern, highly strung Singh who stood powerfully before him.

  ‘I couldn’t agree more, Detective.’ Harris waited for Singh to offer her first name but she didn’t. The situation was clearly too important for niceties. Harris respected it and even saw it as a slight challenge. ‘Tell me, and please exclude the usual reasons, why is this task force important to you?’

  Singh stood to attention at the question, aware of the eyes of the mayoral candidate and her superior falling upon her. She cleared her throat and began.

  ‘With all due respect, sir, it’s the duty of every officer to uphold the law, regardless of rank. This man is a criminal. On a personal note, a friend of mine who I trained with at Hendon eleven years ago, was shot twice last year. He was attending a noise complaint and was murdered for doing his job.’

  The office fell silent for a moment. Harris, determined to steer the conversation back to a positive, shook his head.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Detective. You have my full support and if you need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask.’

  Harris once again offered her a smile which she acknowledged. Her brown eyes sparkled with an eagerness to begin. Harris found it as attractive as he did impressive. He wondered if Burrows would be able to instigate a private meeting between them. A little presumptuous, but he was sure he would be able to seduce her. With his mind wandering, Burrows stepped forward.

  ‘Sir, if I may, the press is gathered downstairs and would like to speak with you. I suggest, with us all having made our introductions, there would be no time like the present in launching this task force.’

  ‘Quite right.’ Ashton nodded approvingly, fixing her cap onto her head and turning to Harris, who was gathering his belongings. ‘Shall we?’

  ‘Of course.’ Harris began to round the desk, aware both police officials were watching him. ‘What’s the name of the task force?’

  ‘Project Watchdog,’ Singh said coldly.

  ‘Clever.’ Harris smiled, hoping to break the stern exterior. Unsuccessful, he turned to Burrows, who stood passively by the door. ‘Let’s go shall we?’

  All four of them headed to the stair well and towards the hungry swarm of questions and photo flashes of the waiting journalists.

  Chapter Three

  As the rain clattered against the lone window of the kitchen, trying in vain to wash away years’ worth of grime, Sam turned the volume of the TV up. His flat was as depressing as the early winter weather. Situated above Store ‘n’ Go, a storage facility run by a Greek man named George Tsillis, Sam had tried his best to make it homely.

  Originally a dumping ground for the soiled or abandoned goods, Sam had offered the man five hundred a month in cash for the next year, slapping six grand on the table. As the greedy man’s eyes lit up, Sam knew there would be no questions asked. The facility was in North Wembley, the multicultural streets alive with traders and small business owners, all of them trying to get by. The surrounding streets were filled with fast-food chains, a car hire service, and a few dodgy bars with delusions of grandeur. Late at night, as Sam passed through the shroves of people still out wandering the streets, he marvelled at the illuminated arch of Wembley Stadium, the lights bending over the tops of the houses.

  Despite the glamour of the national stadium and the cash injection in the surrounding areas, the majority of the town was in poverty, with a number of estates overrun with gangs and knife crime. Reportedly, there was on average at least one stabbing a week in the borough, a statistic the media liked to roll out in their never-ending quest for hyperbole.

  Sam wanted to do something about it, but his focus was on the mission.

  It was only about the mission.

  Now, sat in the dingy kitchen of his crummy flat, he watched the early afternoon broadcast, the reporter stood in front of Holborn station, giving a reasonably accurate account of what Sam had accomplished the night before. What they failed to mention was the information he got.

  The second High Rise’s location.

  Shovelling a spoon of porridge into his mouth, he clicked the TV off as it cut to a well-dressed man in front of a weather map, trying his best to make a torrential downpour interesting. Finishing his porridge, Sam stood, walking across the bland kitchen to the porcelain sink, the bowl stained from years of filth.

  When Sam had moved in, the walls were peeling, mould and damp pushing the outdated paper from the wall, and the electrics were out. As fastidious as the armed forces had demanded, Sam had stripped them all and then applied an anti-damp treatment to the required areas. He had ripped the carpets from their rusted grip strips, exposing the perished underlay and a few sunken floor boards. Several trips to the local rubbish tip soon cleared them away and Sam found himself replacing some of the boards.

  While he was at it, he had left two boards loose, allowing easy access to the small compartment that he stored his sports bag in. It contained over twenty grand in cash, and was more than enough to see him through the next few years.

  The kitchen, now painted a neutral white, was small and compact, but it had a working fridge and a cupboard to store his dry food. It was stocked with packets of porridge and army issue meal packs, all in non-distinct wrappers, all of them tasting more or less the same.

  It didn’t matter.

  It was enough to sustain him, to keep him focused on the mission ahead.

  Marching back across the kitchen and living room, he passed his dusty two-seater sofa and his one luxury: the bookcase. As he took a moment to look at the surprising collection he had amassed, he felt a twinge of guilt for his reason for reading.

  A hobby he had taken up as a promise to his late son.

  His Jamie.

  Sam closed his eyes and drew in a breath, all his senses rushing from his body as they shot back through time to that warm night in North London. As he stumbled home drunk from the pub to celebrate another successful day of training at the Met’s training facility in Hendon, he soon collided with his worst nightmare. In a drunken haze, he and his friend Theo had failed to stop a drunk man from driving home.

  The smell of the night flooded back to him, the heat resting in the air, alleviated by the gentle breeze.

  He could hear the panic of the passers-by. His ex-wife, Lucy howling with heartbreak.

  The drunken man was being helped from the wreckage, blood covering his face and vomit down the front of his shirt.

  Sam remembered it all. Every sound. Every smell.

  His body shook as he recalled losing all power in his muscles as his eyes rested upon his son’s body, broken and motionless under the front of the car.

  His cold, lifeless eyes staring into oblivion.

  Sam startled, returning to his flat and finding a tear forming in the corner of his eye. It had been nearly four years since he had lost his son. Just under three since Lucy had left him. Every day, he awoke in a single bed, dreaming of the times when he had both of them beside him.

  That life had long since left.

  Sam
had begun to make peace with it, accepting his son’s death and using it as the catalyst to drive him to seek justice. The man who had killed his son got off on a reduced sentence, serving just under a year for erasing his son from the earth. Sam stopped himself from remembering the night he paid him a visit.

  The horror of discovering what he was truly capable of.

  His son had been a keen reader and Sam, who had spent his life in the army, was never an academic, but promised to show an interest. As their son excelled, Lucy encouraged him to get involved and Sam had taken to reading.

  He promised his son two things.

  One; he would read more.

  Two; he would never kill again.

  Now, as he stared at his burgeoning book collection, he knew he had to make good on that promise.

  Especially as he had broken the second one.

  Six months earlier, the capital was shaking from a terrorist attack. The London Marathon, a British tradition and one of the most eagerly anticipated days of the years, was ripped apart by a detonated bomb. A few people were killed, including a young police officer.

  Officer Jake Howell.

  The nephew of the revered, Inspector Howell.

  Sam had mourned the young man, having seen a number of people die in the line of duty during his tours. When a few things didn’t add up, Sam eventually unveiled an inside job, commissioned by Howell himself. They had been on The Gent’s payroll, and Howell had signed off on the murder of his nephew.

  All for greed.

  Having only broken his promise not to kill out of self-defence, Sam decided to take the High Rise by force, executing over ten of The Gent’s soldiers, before unloading an entire round into the criminal’s chest.

  He left Howell for the police, who duly sent him to prison, where after two months of assaults, he was found hung in his cell.

  It was suspected suicide.

  Sam didn’t care.

  As far as he was concerned, it was another criminal eradicated from the world and he marched on. He scolded himself for his broken promise but had balanced it by investing more time into his books. As he stepped from the living room into the dim bedroom, he spied his latest read on his bedside table. War and Peace loomed large and Sam was struggling to make any head way into it.