A New Dawn Rising

by Michael Joseph

  All of which made Sam wonder why Peter had wormed his way up close to Carl. Had he committed the arson and murder? Or at least been involved? It would go some way to explaining his strange behaviour. Stalking Sam around town the way he had. Sam hoped DI Mason was following the same lines of enquiry and investigating Peter Canning.

  Somehow, he doubted it.

  ***

  There was a scrum of people outside his front door. Cars and vans were parked haphazardly all the way up the lane past his house. Sam's worst fears were confirmed when he saw a television camera in amongst the crowd.

  Reporters.

  Thinking fast, he drew up level with the cottage and lowered his window.

  'Hey!' he shouted. 'Are you after Sam Carlisle?'

  Some of them had already turned to stare at the white Capri pulling up. Now, they all looked his way, attracted by his yell. A middle-aged man wearing a long overcoat got to the car first. He crouched down and addressed Sam through the open window. Behind him, a ruck of inquisitive faces had formed.

  'Do you know where he is?' asked the man eagerly, frantically withdrawing a notepad out of his pocket.

  'He'll be round the back,' replied Sam. 'I'll go round and ask him to come out and talk to you. If you lot go round, he'll scarper off across the fields.'

  With that, Sam moved the car along slowly until he reached the turn-off to the dirt track. He looked in his mirror. Nobody had followed him. They were all waiting patiently outside the cottage, chatting amongst each other. Marvelling at this rarely seen example of the media's trusting nature, Sam gently eased the Capri off the road and down the dirt track. When he reached his garage, he did a three point turn and got out. He ripped away a loose plank of wood from the back fence, then opened his boot and took out a blanket. Sliding onto the back seat of the car, he propped the piece of wood up against the back of the seat and placed the folded blanket on top of it. Sam stepped back and studied his handiwork. It was crude, but he would be some distance away and travelling at speed. Satisfied, he got into the front of the car and drove back up the dirt track.

  Only this time, he put his foot down.

  It worked a treat. The reporters heard the roar of a car engine coming up the dirt track, then watched in dismay as the Capri hurtled back out onto the country lane before roaring off into the distance.

  'There's somebody in the back seat!' came an angry cry.

  'He's fooled us!' another person yelled. 'He's smuggled Sam Carlisle out!'

  Some of them looked at each other. Those quicker off the mark were already heading to their vehicles.

  'Get after that car!'

  That final, anonymous shout was the cue for several minutes of mayhem. Everybody rushed to their cars and vans, tripping over each other and dropping equipment in their haste. Cameras had to be stashed carefully back into vans and cables collected up and stored away. In the mad scramble to chase after Sam Carlisle, one impatient newspaper reporter guided his car around a stationary television van and collided with a rival's vehicle pulling out blindly in front of him. A young lady from the local radio station, desperate for her first major headline story, drove straight over the foot of the lead crime reporter from the Bursleigh Sentinel. A large television camera was dropped in the melee, sending fragments flying all over the road. The next car driving over the shards of glass and plastic got no farther than a few yards before one of its tyres burst in spectacularly loud fashion, causing numerous members of the Bursleigh press to dive for cover under the misapprehension a gun had been fired. Some of those already in their vehicles heard the frightened screams of their colleagues and veered off the road in panic.

  In the resulting chaos, only a few vehicles managed to take up the chase. Oblivious to the carnage behind him, Sam had already built up a sizeable lead. Furious his name had been leaked to the press, he drove through the countryside like a man possessed.

  He felt like strangling DI Mason. The man had gone way too far.

  Chapter 38

  Sam took the car out of Bursleigh and headed back to his cottage from a different direction. He parked the Capri half a mile from his home, behind a disused barn, and walked the rest of the way. He approached the cottage from the rear, negotiating ploughed fields, rusty old gates, and curious stares from watching farmhands. All was quiet when he reached the back of the property. He unlocked the garage door and entered the empty building. A large holdall sat in the corner. Sam unzipped the bag. Everything was there. A change of clothes. Personal items. Enough to keep him going for a day or two.

  After saying a tense goodbye to Lucy that morning, he had packed the bag and left it ready to pick up in case of an emergency. The type of situation he had in mind was another unwelcome visit to his house, not hordes of press camped on his doorstep. Still, the result was the same. Sam needed to get away from the cottage for a couple of days and give things a chance to cool down. And there was plenty for him to get on with in the meantime.

  ***

  Bill Seymour had resided in his current office for thirty years. In all that time running his own accountancy firm, he had never suffered the sight of anyone barging into his office. Not until now.

  His door went flying inwards, revealing an irate-looking Sam Carlisle. Moments later, his secretary appeared behind Sam, looking equally as disgruntled.

  'I tried to tell him, Mr Seymour,' she said, giving Sam a dirty look. 'I told him you can't see him unless he's got an appointment.'

  Bill Seymour took one look at the stony expression on Sam's face.

  'It's okay, Melanie. I'll make an exception this time.'

  ***

  'Well, now you're in here, what can I do for you?'

  Sam hadn't been offered a seat in Bill Seymour's plush office. Perhaps Carl's accountant only extended that courtesy to his paying clients.

  'I want to know if Carl had any money problems.'

  Seymour laughed.

  'What's so funny?' asked Sam.

  'I don't mean to be rude, but what have Mr Renshaw's financial matters got to do with you?'

  Sam stared hard at Seymour.

  'I know somebody was after something off Carl,' he said slowly and steadily, his eyes never leaving Seymour. 'Was it money?'

  'Look, you can't just barge in here and ask-'

  'I already have done,' said Sam through gritted teeth. 'And now I want some answers.'

  Seymour got up out of his leather chair and turned his back on Sam. He spent a few moments gazing out of the large window behind his desk. The office was on the top floor of a low-rise commercial block. Sam could see the view over Bursleigh was something stunning.

  However, he wasn't here to appreciate the scenery. Tracking down Bill Seymour had been straightforward enough. Bill Seymour Accountancy advertised boldly in all the local phone books. Getting answers was proving a darn sight more difficult.

  'How long had you known Carl Renshaw for?' asked Seymour, turning back to face Sam. 'A couple of days, if that? Do you really think I'm going to elaborate on his private matters with somebody he'd only just met?'

  'That may well be the case,' replied Sam, 'but the police have got it into their heads I was responsible for his death, and I want to clear my name.'

  'Maybe you were,' suggested Seymour, peering over his glasses to scrutinize Sam closer. 'After all, you were the last person with him. And it's a bit of a co-incidence the way you turned up-'

  'Yes, I've heard it all before,' interjected Sam angrily. 'There's not a shred of evidence-'

  'Well, for someone so innocent,' sneered Seymour, 'you are causing an awful lot of bother. I heard you called on Molly Renshaw after she specifically asked you to stay away, and now you're trespassing on my property and hassling me. Why don't you just leave it alone and let the police get on with it?'

  Sam ignored the question.

  'How is Molly?' he asked. 'And the children?'

  'They're fine,' replied Seymour curtly. 'Not that it's any of your business.'

  Sam w
ondered how they were holding up. He recalled the concerned look on Molly's face the last time he had seen her. The confused expressions her children had been wearing. That had been only hours before the fire.

  'Now, if you don't mind,' said Seymour, sitting back down in his chair and turning his attention to the paperwork on his desk. 'I'm a busy man. I'm trying to deal with the fallout of this unfortunate incident-'

  'Unfortunate incident?' exclaimed Sam in wonder. 'Is that how you'd describe Carl's murder?'

  Seymour sighed, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

  'Call it what you want, Mr Carlisle, but somebody has got to look after his business matters and his family's financial security.'

  'Shouldn't a solicitor be dealing will all that?' asked Sam. 'You're only his accountant.'

  Seymour was straight back on his feet. He looked riled all of a sudden. His face had gone a dark shade of purple.

  'Get out of here!' he shouted at Sam. 'Get out of my-'

  A knock at the door interrupted his tirade. Sam expected to see Melanie fly into the room, panicking at the sudden shouting. Perhaps towing a security guard along in her wake. But it wasn't Seymour's receptionist who pushed the door open and stepped into the room.

  It was Dave Starkey. The foreman at DR Garments.

  Starkey froze when he saw Sam. His eyes flickered warily across the room to Seymour.

  'I, er, just wanted to-'

  Seymour interrupted his stuttering.

  'It's okay, Dave. Mr Carlisle was just leaving. Isn't that right, Sam?'

  'Yeah, I'm going,' stated Sam, his eyes locked on Starkey. Sam could see his presence here had caught the foreman off guard. Starkey looked nervous and tetchy. A far cry from the brash, arrogant man throwing his weight around at the factory.

  Sam turned his attention back to Seymour. The accountant watched him passively.

  'I'll tell you what I told the police,' said Sam. 'There's something wrong about all this and I'm going to get to the bottom of it if it kills me.'

  Chapter 39

  Sam strode along the street towards his car, fuming at the wasted visit to Bill Seymour's office. He reluctantly accepted Seymour had a point. An accountant couldn't go divulging a client's personal business to all and sundry. But it was his manner that had irked Sam. Condescending and superior. As though he knew something Sam didn't.

  Sam continued to run it through his head as he stood at a set of traffic lights, waiting to cross. Why was Seymour looking after all of Carl's matters, anyway? That wouldn't be his job. He had certainly reacted when Sam made a point of it. And what was Dave Starkey doing there? Picking up his final payslip?

  As the lights changed to red and he stepped off the pavement, Sam had that overwhelming sensation of being watched again. Spotting a newsagents directly opposite, he crossed the road and stood in front of it. He spent some time gazing in the shop window, pretending to study the advertisement cards while using the glass to survey the scene behind him. It was no good. He couldn't spot anyone lurking nearby. Sam knew he had a right to be paranoid after recent events, but maybe his mind was starting to play games with him.

  He went into the shop, pulled a magazine off the shelf and stood inside the window, glancing discreetly out onto the street. He saw somebody on the other side of the road, leaning casually against a lamp-post, looking in no hurry to be anywhere.

  'Excuse me, are you buying that magazine?'

  Sam turned to see an elderly lady scowling at him from behind the counter. She had her arms folded and eyebrows raised.

  'This isn't a library, you know,' she added, tutting loudly for effect.

  To placate her, Sam bought a copy of the Bursleigh Sentinel. However, in the seconds it took him to pay and walk out the shop, the figure across the road had disappeared. Sam found it hard to believe Peter would try the same trick again so soon after being discovered. That meant he had imagined it, or he had a fresh stalker on his hands. Sam had never felt so popular.

  He glanced down at his paper. Carl Renshaw's death was still headline news:

  LOCAL BUSINESSMAN SHOCKED

  BY DEATH OF RIVAL

  Owner of Bursleigh-based clothing manufacturer Minstrel Clothing, Colin Doyle, has expressed his shock and sadness at the recent death of Carl Renshaw, owner of rival firm, DR Garments. In a statement released by Mr Doyle today, the forty-three year old businessman conveyed his disbelief on hearing the tragic news about Mr Renshaw. 'It stunned me,' stated Mr Doyle in his statement. 'I can't believe something like this has happened to such a good person. We had been business rivals for years, but there was never any animosity between us. Just good, healthy competition. I would like to pass on my sincere condolences to Mr Renshaw's family and friends.'

  Sam read the article with amazement. No animosity between them? He had witnessed the two men almost resort to fisticuffs, and according to Doyle's personal assistant, that hadn't been the first time. Sam shook his head in disbelief. The two men had been sworn enemies and this press release was just one big PR stunt. Sam read through it once again, still failing to comprehend why Doyle had felt the need to put out something so gushing and hypocritical. He should have just kept his mouth shut. Sam couldn't help but wonder if Colin Doyle was trying to cover something up.

  Tagged onto the bottom of the article was a further paragraph giving readers the latest update on the investigation into Carl's death:

  The lead officer in the case, Detective Inspector Mason, stated police are still baffled by events surrounding the fire at DR Garments and the death of Carl Renshaw. He re-iterated they are still awaiting the results of further forensic tests taken on the site of the incinerated factory. DI Mason added that all leads will be investigated thoroughly in the meantime. Police have yet to detain anybody since questioning and releasing thirty-two year old local man, Sam Carlisle, in the hours following the incident.

  Sam sighed in dismay. There it was, in black and white for everyone to see.

  Sam Carlisle.

  Suspect in the murder of Carl Renshaw.

  Thank you, Detective Inspector Mason.

  The last half of the article told Sam that Mason was still no nearer identifying the culprit. The detective was hopelessly chasing shadows, content to let Sam sweat it out in the meantime.

  Chapter 40

  Sam spent the next few hours traipsing from one cheap hotel to another, looking for somewhere to stay for the next night or two. He found everywhere full, even the grimy establishments frequented by the most desperate in society. He wasn't too concerned, despite the temperature plummeting in Bursleigh throughout the day and the prospect of a freezing night ahead. He would sleep in his car again, if necessary.

  In all honesty, Sam had been glad for an excuse to put off the one thing he needed to do.

  The thing he was dreading.

  ***

  The entire site was cordoned off with temporary metal fencing. Sam parked the Capri across the entrance, just as he had done a couple of nights ago. Only then, there had been the outline of a huge building looming up on the other side. Now, Sam could see nothing but the darkness of the evening skyline. He hauled himself up and over the metal barrier. If someone spotted him, then Mason would just have to add trespassing to Sam's rap list.

  With some trepidation, Sam approached the section of land where the factory had stood. He flicked on the torch and used its light to guide him through the darkness. The beam sliced through the crisp night air, pinpointing lumps of scorched concrete and blackened machinery parts on the ground. Sam shuddered, recalling how such objects had been spat out with arrogant ease by the fire. Smouldering chunks carelessly projected up and outwards like whirring mortar bombs.

  The nearer Sam got, the more vivid the images became. The first sign of the fire. The sight of orange flames licking at the roof, a flickering, malevolent beacon giving Sam notice of the destruction about to come. The horrific realisation Carl was inside followed by the desperation of finding no way in. The fear and the panic.


  It was all coming back to him.

  Burning embers dropping from the sky. The thick, nightmarish curtain of dark flakes descending all around him. The roof sliding to its inevitable collapse. The sudden, deafening charge of debris to the ground and the subsequent rush of wind and dust gusting past him, howling like angry banshee. The funnels of swirling smoke spiralling freely into the night sky. Black plumes of evil towering high above the burning pyre.

  By the time Sam reached the tremendous mass of rubble that was once the factory, he could almost feel the intense heat prickling at his skin once more. Taste the salty beads of sweat on his lips. Feel his clothes sticking to his clammy skin. The fierce blaze roared in front of him just as brightly again, the flames snarling and hypnotic.

  The noise. The colour. The heat.

  The complete and utter helplessness.

  Sam had returned to the site for one reason alone.

  In the slim hope it may jog his memory. Help him recall some detail that might prove useful. Now, skirting the widespread carpet of ash and remnants, he knew it was useless. The visions he had from that night were still there, but they were no clearer. Waving the torch light on a patch of rubble up ahead brought back the figure dashing from the scene, the fleeting silhouette in the dark. He walked on farther, nearing the area where he had finally, belatedly broken down the door, convinced he had gained access to the factory at last. He recalled his despair on seeing the wall of flames that had greeted him. The floor awash with thick, oily puddles, and the stench of fuel lingering in the air.