The Takers, стр. 39
When he finally took the seat of his political party at the tender age of twenty-six, he quickly became the media darling they’d been hoping for, and as the public latched onto him, so did the party themselves. He was pushed to the front of the queue, the future power of the current regime trying their best to cling to his coattails like barnacles to the Great Barrier Reef.
Ten years on, he was waiting to ascend to the throne of London, where he would be Mayor of the city that had moulded him.
With crime at an all-time high, the terror alert dangling precariously like the dagger of Damocles, and the public screaming for the country to fight back, Harris could almost touch the seat with his fingertips.
Destiny was so close to proclaiming him the white knight of London.
But now, with Sam Pope raging a one-man war against every crime syndicate in the city, the press were having a field day. Especially since it had only been two days since he had officially backed the task force as a sure-fire step on his way to the top.
They would bring an end to a dangerous vigilante.
He would get the credit.
Probably even a couple of rounds with the attractive Singh once she relaxed her obvious guard.
But as he stepped back into his office, he felt deflated. Suddenly, the panache with which he tackled every task had been sapped from him, replaced with hunched shoulders and tired, heavy eyes. He stomped around the large oak desk, unbuttoned the expensive grey suit and slumped into his chair, his eyes vacantly scanning the useless artefacts on his desk.
He looked at the picture of his wife, her smiling face full of joy and love. A look she hadn’t given him for over five years, not since she’d found out about his indiscretions. It didn’t stop him, and she was fond of the lifestyle.
But separate beds and the odd, disgusted glance only caused his body to yearn for Singh.
The press had been unrelenting, all of them querying the effectiveness not just of the Sam Pope Task Force, but of Harris’s ability to lead a full-scale project against crime. It was the life force of his entire campaign and it was starting to unravel, each journalist pulling on a separate thread. Although flustered, Harris was able to deflect a lot of the negativity, a skill he had acquired through years of schmoozing the public, offering them hard quotes that would likely make the paper.
Then the press conference turned in the direction he had been terrified of.
A young woman he didn’t recognise raised her hand, claiming to be from an online paper he had never heard of. He had almost pitied her from her introduction. Then, when she spoke, he found himself loathing her. The lady, who he had since demanded that Burrows have banned from future events, had suggested that Sam Pope was in fact doing the very job that Harris himself had claimed to be doing.
That Sam Pope was doing more to tackle crime than Harris or the entirety of the Metropolitan Police Service. Rattled, Harris had snapped back, belittling her as nothing more than a blogger who believed the whispers of desperate people, obsessed with the notion of heroic justice.
Then she read out the facts. The laundry list of hits that Sam Pope had been responsible for in the last six months.
Frank Jackson and the High Rise.
Four safe houses.
The make shift High Rise in Shepherd’s Bush, with over eleven wanted criminals arrested.
The uncovering of corrupt, senior police officials.
And in the late hours of the night, Leon Barnett, who had since been identified as the head of the notorious Acid Gang, had been found naked, beaten and tortured, with his entire right arm mutilated to the point of amputation.
All from a highly decorated soldier who had fought valiantly for his country.
The room turned soon after, with many other journalists jumping on the bandwagon, all of them probing Harris for a response to the notion that Sam Pope was what was best for the city.
Sam Pope.
A highly trained, dangerous vigilante with a death wish.
Harris had never felt lower.
The sound of the door clicking shut snapped him back into the room, his gaze falling upon the neatly groomed Burrows as he shuffled towards his desk. Harris sighed, turning slowly in his chair until he faced the window, the depressing grey sky once again littering the city below with rain. The traffic was grid locked on Marylebone Road, with car horns polluting the air with their impatience. Unfortunate pedestrians ran, many of them holding the Metro over their heads for shelter, the free paper finally offering something of use to commuters.
‘Now is not the time to sulk, sir.’
Burrows spoke confidently, his back straight. He had served as an assistant to a number of party leaders and was respected throughout the political world as a man of unshakable loyalty. Harris knew he was lucky to have him, so allowed the jab at his maturity to slide.
‘What a fucking mess,’ Harris eventually mumbled, glumly staring out at the horrible weather.
‘Every mess can be cleaned, sir.’
‘The man is essentially shitting on our door step.’ Harris gestured angrily. ‘Less than ten miles from this fucking door step.’
Burrows allowed a moment to pass, for Harris to regain his usual composure. Harris was grateful.
‘I spoke to Detective Inspector Singh this morning, she said they are following up on a lead from the attack on the second High Rise. She sounded positive.’
Harris shrugged.
‘Until she gets me a result, she’s got nothing,’ Harris barked. ‘Is there anything else, Carl?’
Burrows seemed slightly awkward at the informality of being addressed by his first name. He smiled, the wrinkles dominating his face and offering a fatherly warmth.
‘The usual, sir. A few emails regarding your investments, but nothing that I cannot handle if you would like.’
‘You always do,’ Harris said numbly, the anger still gripping him in a bear hug.
‘Quite,