Carl nodded.
'It's nothing I can't handle.'
He started to walk back to the house, but Sam blocked his way.
'You're not going anywhere, mate. Not until you tell me what they said to you.'
Carl looked at Sam the way a harassed parent might at a particularly inquisitive child.
'Sam, I know I'm paying you to look out for me, but there was nothing different about that call. It was just the same as the other threats.'
'So why didn't you let me listen in? I might have picked up a clue. Why walk off?'
Carl looked down towards the house.
'Because I didn't want Molly or the kids coming out and getting wind of it,' he replied impatiently. 'Anyway, these people distort their voices over the phone. They don't give away clues. The police have looked into it, remember.'
Sam wasn't convinced. Carl looked nervous. Doubt clouded his eyes.
'Sam, I not being funny, but I employed you to protect me from physical threats. Phone calls, I can handle.'
'Okay, have it your way,' said Sam, stepping aside to allow Carl to pass. 'But there is something I want to talk to you about. I only remembered it as we pulled up.'
'What's that?' asked Carl, not looking very interested. He was striding back to the house like a man on a mission. Sam fell in beside him.
'I think your daughter did hear someone in the garden the other day. I found a fresh cigarette end in among the bushes.'
Carl flinched but didn't reply. Stony-faced, he kept on walking. The reaction puzzled Sam. He had expected Carl to hit the roof and demand the two of them make immediate plans. Set up a strategy to protect his family. But whatever had been said to Carl during that latest phone call seemed to have knocked the stuffing right out of him.
Sam didn't like it.
Something wasn't right here.
Chapter 12
Sam found the name in his contact list. Richie Humphreys. It had been eighteen months since they last talked. Sam punched in Richie's number and listened to the phone ring out. He waited with bated breath.
'Hello?'
'Richie?'
A moment's pause.
'Bloody hell, Sam! Is that you?'
Sam laughed nervously into the phone. It had been a long time indeed.
***
Sam had decided to do some digging.
He had tried one final time to get Carl to talk before leaving the Renshaw's house. To elaborate on that last phone call and discuss the possibility of the threats escalating. But Carl had told Sam not to worry so much while discreetly sliding a bulky envelope into his hand, telling Sam he wanted him back at ten the next morning. Inside the envelope was a generous wad of notes. While the cash in hand was more than welcome, Sam was left thinking it was time he did a bit more for his money.
He reckoned matters surrounding Carl needed taking more seriously. If the truth be told, Sam hadn't expected the threats to extend beyond phone calls. He had taken on this job knowing his presence might not make the calls any more palatable for Carl, but it would provide him with some reassurance. And both men had been happy with the arrangement.
But things were changing fast.
The threat appeared to be getting more real, and Carl seemed to be creaking under the strain. Or burying his head in the sand. Sam wasn't sure which, but neither were helpful. Molly clearly didn't trust her husband at this moment in time, and those two little girls were at risk of getting caught up in something dangerous.
And Sam himself?
He had given Carl his word. Promised him he would do an efficient job. And now he had started, it was as much about personal pride than anything else. Yet there was something else. Yes, it was about Carl and his family. His own self-protection, too. But there was more to it now for Sam. Even after one day, this job was giving him focus. A reason to live again.
So, if he was going to do this properly, he needed to find out what he was up against.
***
'It's good to hear from you, Sam. Even if it is a bit out the blue.'
The strong Midlands drawl on the other end of the line took Sam back to another time. One of such happiness. All dashed in the blink of an eye.
'Yeah, I know,' he said, 'but-'
'Hey, Sam, I told you when you left, take as long as you need to get in touch. How are you, anyway?'
Sam thought about it for a moment.
'I'm getting there...I think.'
He heard Richie clear his throat. His old friend wanted to ask about the nightmares. The drinking. The things that had driven Sam away.
'How about you, Richie?' asked Sam quickly. 'Are the family okay?'
'Yeah, bud. They're all good. And I'm still working my arse off for little thanks. For Peters now, rather than Walters. So, no change there.'
Walters.
Hearing the name again rekindled the old rage deep within Sam.
'You're still working there?' he asked.
Richie drew a deep breath.
'I gave it a lot of thought, Sam. I questioned everything after what happened. Myself, the job, the force, everything. But it's all I've ever done. All I've ever known.'
Sam knew it was. Richie had started with the force on the very same day as Sam. Just two raw kids setting out on their careers. They had hit it off immediately. Progressed through the ranks together. Watched out for each other. Worked alongside each other right up to the-
'As for Walters,' continued Richie, interrupting Sam's thoughts, 'it broke him.'
Sam tried to quell two years of anger. He didn't want to let it out on Richie.
'Richie,' he said quietly. 'I don't want to hear about Walters.'
There was a moments silence.
'Sam,' Richie said tentatively. 'I know you don't want to hear about him, but I want to tell you because it might give you some sense of justice.'
Sam closed his eyes and said nothing, allowing Richie to continue.
'Walters couldn't look us in the eye after what happened. The guilt began to get to him. It made him ill. He broke down and admitted it was all his fault. They sent him home on sick leave. Two days later, he blew his brains out.'
Silence again.
Sam swallowed hard. Richie's news gave him no satisfaction. There was no justice to be had now. It was time to move on.
'Richie, I'm ringing because I need a favour.'
'Fire away, buddy,' said Richie, sounding relieved. Sam imagined his old friend carrying the burden of that news around with him all this time. Wanting to tell Sam. Hoping it would bring closure in some way.
'I'd like any information you can find on an environmental activist group called Red 71.'
'Red 71? Can't say the name rings a bell.'
'Apparently, they're an offshoot of Save the Countryside.'
Sam smiled as he heard Richie tapping away down the line. It had always been one of Richie's traits, tapping his fingers excitedly when something came to him.
'Ah, Save the Countryside! Now that lot I do know. Green-fingered lunatics looking for any excuse to get their wellies on and go on a march.'
'The very same,' laughed Sam, suddenly missing Richie's droll sense of humour. 'I need to know what Red 71 have been up to over the last couple of years, and I could really do with finding out if they're active right now.'
'Any particular part of the country?' asked Richie.
'Up North,' Sam told him. 'A small district called Bursleigh.'
'Is that where you are now?'
Sam didn't answer. He heard Richie cuss softly.
'Sorry, bud. Didn't mean to pry. I'm sure you'll tell me. If and when you're ready...'
Chapter 13
Sam's next task was to pay a visit to the library. He drove into town feeling heartened after his conversation with Richie. The two men had talked a while longer before Richie rang off, promising to call Sam as soon as he found out anything.
He parked up in a side street. There were few people about in town, just the odd early-evening rev
eller braving the bitter cold. Sam hurried into the warmth of the library, where he found a studious looking young man behind the reception desk stamping one book after another with careful precision. Beyond the desk, the main reading area was empty.
The young librarian, Gareth, according to his name badge, led Sam over to the microfilm machine and showed him how to look up documents on it. He told Sam the library was shutting in fifteen minutes and went back to his desk. Sam cracked on with it, but trawling through the mass of archive material was a time-consuming process. He had just found what he was looking for when he heard light footsteps coming his way. This would be the librarian kicking him out.
'Sam? Fancy seeing you in here.'
Sam turned in his seat. Lucy Pargeter stood in front of him, holding a couple of books to her chest.
'Hello, Lucy. You getting some reading matter?'
'Not quite,' she grinned. 'I work here. Do you know we're shutting now?'
Sam looked at the clock on the wall. Exactly eight o'clock.
'Yeah, I left it a bit late to get here.'
Lucy was gazing over his shoulder at the microfilm.
'DR Garments?' she said with some surprise. 'Isn't that Carl Renshaw's company?'
Sam had on screen a two-year old front page from the local paper, The Bursleigh Sentinel. The headline told of a demonstration due to take place the next day in protest at the planned extension of the DR Garments factory.
'Yeah, it is,' replied Sam, hastily skimming through the rest of the article. 'Why? Do you know him?'
'Well, this is a small town,' she replied, walking over to the reception desk and sliding the books onto the shelf underneath. 'My dad grew up with him on the Withdean. He's always on about Carl Renshaw. Now, where did I put my car keys?'
Sam glanced over at Lucy. She was rummaging around under the desk looking for her keys. With Lucy preoccupied and Gareth nowhere to be seen, Sam turned back to the machine and scanned the Sentinel's archive pages for the days following the planned demonstration.
What he saw made very interesting reading.
***
'What does your dad have to say about Carl Renshaw, then?'
Sam was walking Lucy to the staff car park at the rear of the library. He could see his own motor across the road, its white bodywork dazzling under the street light. Lucy strolled along with him leisurely. She seemed in no hurry to get to her car, despite the coldness of the night.
'He's always going on about Carl being unpopular,' she said, adjusting the scarf draped around her neck. 'He reckons plenty of people would like to see him taken down a peg or two.'
'Like who?' asked Sam.
'I'm not sure. People off the Withdean, I think. The people he used to hang round with before he became successful. I don't take that much notice, to be honest. Dad's always giving out about something.'
Crossing the car park, Sam could see Lucy's blue Clio tucked away in the corner.
'Anyway, what's your interest in Carl Renshaw and his business?' asked Lucy, taking her gloves off and getting her keys out of her bag.
'I'm doing some research,' replied Sam.
'Research?' said Lucy, raising her eyebrows. 'Sounds mysterious.'
'Nah, it's not that exciting,' he told her. 'Look, I'm parked just over there and I'm sure you want to get home, so I'll get off now.'
Lucy unlocked her car, opened the door and threw her bag onto the passenger seat.
'Okay, Sam,' she said. 'Well, thanks for walking me to my car.'
'You're welcome. See you round.'
Sam thrust his hands into his pockets and headed towards the Capri. He gave Lucy a quick wave as she drove past. Then his thoughts turned to what he had discovered in the library.
'Sam!'
Lucy had stopped at the exit of the car park. Lowering her window down, she beckoned Sam over.
'I was thinking,' she said, looking slightly embarrassed. 'It's a lot quicker nowadays to look on the internet.'
Sam looked back at her, perplexed. She turned off her engine.
'What I mean is, if you're looking up old newspaper articles, it's quicker and easier to go online rather than using that old microfilm machine in there.'
'I haven't got a computer,' explained Sam. He hadn't even considered getting one since moving to Bursleigh. The outside world had held little interest for him. 'And my phone's an old one.'
'Oh, right,' she muttered. 'Look-'
She stopped herself and looked straight ahead.
'What?' asked Sam.
'I was going to say, if you still have research to do, you can come round mine and use my laptop.'
Even in the dimly-lit car park, Sam could see Lucy was blushing.
'Er, I think I've got everything I need, but thanks, anyway.'
Lucy didn't appear to have heard him. Reaching into the glove compartment, she pulled out a notepad and scribbled something on it, then ripped the page off and handed it to him.
'Well, the offer's there, anyway. Good-night, Sam.'
He watched her pull away. The tail lights swept out of the car park and disappeared from view.
Mystified, Sam gazed down at the scrap of paper in his hand.
Lucy had written her name and phone number on it.
He shook his head and smiled.
Chapter 14
Half a bottle of vodka.
Holding the remaining half up to the light, Sam was pleasantly surprised at how little he had drunk last night. It was the least he had consumed for a long time. One minute, he had been sat down sipping the vodka, giving Carl Renshaw more thought. The next, he was spark out in the chair. He reminded himself how eventful yesterday had been. Far busier than any day he had experienced recently.
He hauled himself up off the settee and winced. Sleeping on there had done his neck no favours. Still, his dream hadn't been quite so horrendous last night. A vast array of faces had visited him, blending seamlessly into one another. Faces from the past, such as Richie and Walters, mingling with others he had only seen for the first time yesterday. Some had asked reluctantly for help. Others had simply sneered at him. He couldn't remember which image had done what. It was all too much of a blur now.
What he could recall with clarity was the end of the dream. Perhaps it had stayed with him because it had been so different. The expressions on the woman and girl had been ones of nervous apprehension this time, rather than complete terror. Their pleas quiet and controlled, in marked contrast to the frantic, hysterical screams that regularly haunted him.
That hadn't been the only difference.
His dreams always ended with those two particular faces staring back at him. Last night, however, they transformed into those of Carl's two daughters. The girls looked anxious, with slight concern etched onto their fresh faces. There was no doubt something was scaring them, but they asked for help while still retaining a certain measure of calmness.
Then fear began to creep into their eyes.
And the dream suddenly ended.
For the first time in two years, there had been no screams. No tears. No horror and no terror.
***
No answer.
That was strange. Carl had said ten o'clock and it was exactly that now. The Range Rover wasn't on the drive, so perhaps he had taken Molly out and they were running late. Sam decided to give it a few minutes before he tried Carl's phone.
With nothing else to do, he sauntered over to where Peter Canning was loading objects into the back of a transit van. Sam had clocked Peter watching him knock on the front door of the house. Sam could understand why he gave Molly the creeps.
'Morning, Peter. What are you up to?'
Peter was struggling with a large framed painting. Having lifted it onto the van's bumper, he was now trying to guide the artwork into the rear of the van.
'Hold on,' said Sam. 'I'll give you a hand.'
As he got nearer, Sam could see why Peter was having so much trouble. The van was already crammed with an assortment of pa
intings, large ornaments and various works of art. Together, the two men managed to squeeze the painting in.
'That's quite a collection you've got in there,' said Sam.
Peter slammed the van door shut.
'I'm moving it for the boss,' he said, wiping his brow with his sleeve.
Sam studied him. There was something about the man. A familiarity Sam couldn't explain.
'Where are you taking it?' he asked.
Sam hadn't meant to sound so blunt.
'I'm not nicking the bloody stuff, you know!' replied Peter, puffing out his chest. 'I'm dropping it off at Rigbys auction house. I've moved everything out of the house down there over the last few months. Well, everything of value.'
Sam's intuition about missing items had been right. But an auction house?
'Why is Carl taking the stuff down there? It's not as though he needs the cash.'
Peter looked at his watch and shuffled his feet. It was evident he wanted to get off.
'He's not selling it. He's storing it for safekeeping. Charles Rigby's letting him keep it all in his warehouse at the back of the auction house.'
Sam wondered why Carl needed to store his valuables away. Environmental activists weren't known for stealing works of art from people's homes. And why use somebody's warehouse? Surely a vault storage company would be more secure?
'Right, I'm getting off,' announced Peter. 'It'll take takes ages to unload this little lot, especially if someone's already parked outside the front of Rigbys. It's murder getting in there.'
Sam watched him drive off. He wasn't entirely convinced by Peter's story, but he doubted the man would be robbing Carl so blatantly. He would check it out when Carl turned up. If he ever did. Sam got his phone out, fed up with waiting. Time to give Carl a ring.
He heard a vehicle approach the house. About time, he thought, slipping his phone back into his pocket. However, it wasn't the Range Rover that appeared. Instead, a black BMW came into view, sliding to a halt yards away from Sam. Two big guys with shaven heads got out and walked towards him. All muscle and intimidatory stares.
'Who are you?' one of them growled at him.
Sam weighed them up. They weren't here for a friendly chat.
A New Dawn Rising Page 5