Searching For Hope

by Michael Joseph

  A black Audi pulled up outside Jaspers, forcing Sam to retreat into the shadows of the shop door. He watched as a tall man in a sharp grey suit got out of the back of the car and waited on the pavement, fastening the buttons on his jacket. The Audi's driver, resplendent in black suit and peaked cap, hurried around the car holding an umbrella high in the air. His passenger ducked underneath it, and the pair walked towards Jaspers' front entrance.

  Sam dropped in behind the two men just as they reached Jaspers. He waited patiently as the driver closed up the umbrella and opened the entrance door to allow the other man through.

  'I'll ring you when I need picking up,' said the tall man. Sam couldn't miss the broad Midlands accent.

  'Okay, Mr Swain,' replied the driver, obediently heading back to the Audi. Sam watched him go. An old school employee. Polite and subservient.

  'Evening, Mr Swain.'

  Inside the entrance, a burly doorman Sam didn't recognise welcomed Swain with the same respectful tone.

  'Charlie, is everything set up?'

  'Yes, boss,' replied the doorman solemnly. 'The table's ready for you.'

  Swain nodded.

  'Where's Barry?'

  'In the kitchen,' replied Charlie, opening the inner door of the club for Swain. 'He's making a drink for you while you wait.'

  Suddenly, the relative tranquillity in the entrance was shattered as noise erupted all around Sam. Inside the club, a live band launched into an old motown number with lively gusto. Behind Sam, a more raucous, unpleasant sound assaulted his ears. A group of young men had arrived, clearly drunk and up for a good time.

  'Tickets only,' said Charlie, as Swain slipped past him into the main room. The inside door closed to again, leaving Sam and the doorman alone with the group of men, who were now shouting to each other.

  'How much?' yelled Sam, struggling to make himself heard above the din.

  Charlie shook his head.

  'You can't buy one,' he replied. 'It's a private party. Entry by invite only.'

  Sam nodded resignedly. There wasn't much to be done about that.

  He turned to leave but a sudden shove in the back sent him crashing heavily into the inner door. The doorman grabbed hold of his shoulder and turned him around effortlessly with one gigantic hand.

  'You okay?' he asked, already moving towards the young men drunkenly jostling each other. They seemed oblivious to the fact their boisterous antics had sent Sam flying.

  'I'll live,' winced Sam, rubbing his forehead. 'I'll let you deal with this lot.'

  The doorman nodded and approached the group with intent.

  'Go home, lads,' he told them. 'You're not getting in here tonight.'

  The men groaned in unison. There were seven or eight of them, dressed up for a night on the tiles, all looking worse for wear. Sam watched Charlie move them along, expertly ushering them back towards to the entrance door. They retreated like a herd of sheep, bumping into each other as they backed off.

  'Why can't we come in?' yelled one indignantly.

  'Private party,' replied Charlie, giving the nearest man a hearty push. 'Now, get out!'

  Sam followed as the group emptied out onto the street. They hung around, cussing to each other, getting more and more agitated.

  'Nicely handled,' said Sam, drawing alongside Charlie. 'Have a good night.'

  Before he could pass, two of the men marched back up to the door, fingers pointed accusingly at Charlie. Their friends were right behind.

  'You can't just kick us out of here!'

  'I already have,' replied Charlie with a yawn.

  Sam tried to squeeze past. This wasn't his argument. However, the group were blocking the doorway, preventing his exit. Sam could see they were working themselves up into a frenzy. He sighed and took a step back, accepting this lot weren't going anywhere just yet.

  Then all hell broke loose.

  Some of the men began launching punches at Charlie, who realised in an instant he was in trouble, alone at the door with a number of drunken men in his face. He retaliated, catching a couple of them flush in the face, but they were overpowering him through sheer numbers. He tried to close the door on them, but they had got a taste for it now.

  'Get him!'

  It was a guttural cry, followed by a cumulative roar.

  Kicks and punches rained down on Charlie, who was trying to reach into his inside pocket to call for assistance. Sam doubted help would arrive in time from within the club. He stepped forward and delivered a low punch to the nearest man attacking Charlie, leaving him doubled over in pain. Then he grabbed the slimy scalp of another and smacked his head against the skull of one of his friends. Sam watched the two men stagger backwards, clutching their heads, bowling over their friends like tenpins.

  'Get the door!' yelled Sam, knowing they only had seconds before the men regrouped. Charlie didn't need telling twice. He grabbed the door and slammed it shut. Then he leaned back against it, hands on hips, blowing out his cheeks.

  'How much gel do these kids put in their hair nowadays?' grimaced Sam, wiping his hands on his trousers. 'I should have dropped a match on their heads instead.'

  Charlie laughed as banging started on the door. Then an object smashed against it. And another. A roar of laughter could be heard outside.

  'Give it a few minutes,' said Sam. 'They'll soon get bored.'

  Charlie grunted in agreement.

  'Come on,' he said, moving away from the door. 'I'm going to buy you a drink.'

  Sam wasn't going to grumble.

  ***

  'Park yourself over there.'

  Charlie pointed to an empty chair in the corner of the room.

  'Charming,' grinned Sam. 'Stick me out the way.'

  Charlie held out his hands.

  'What can I do?' he sighed. 'The boss would have my guts for letting a stranger in on his big night. Right, what are you drinking?'

  'Whisky,' replied Sam. 'Double.'

  Charlie gave him a stern look. Sam shrugged. He had saved the man from a kicking after all.

  While Charlie was at the bar, Sam gazed around the room. It was almost full, far busier than last time he visited. There was a vibrancy about the place that had been distinctly lacking that night. Sam spotted an unoccupied table on the other side of the room, empty but for a champagne bottle resting in an ice bucket. Next to the table stood a suited man, standing erect with his hands behind his back, scanning the packed room with watchful eyes.

  'Here you go,' said Charlie, returning with a glass of whisky. 'You'll have to drink up because the boss will be out in a minute. He'll want to do the rounds...meet and greet everyone...you know how it is...'

  'Yeah, you said,' said Sam, taking the drink and downing it. 'He'll have your guts.'

  'Your accent?' said Charlie. 'You're not from round here, are you?'

  'West Midlands. Same part of the world as your boss, by the sound of it.'

  Sam nodded over at the empty table.

  'I take it that's for him?'

  Charlie was more interested in asking questions than answering them.

  'Where did you learn to handle yourself like that?'

  'I worked in security,' Sam told him, bending the truth a touch. 'Talking of which, I reckon you could do with earpieces here for communicating with each other.'

  Charlie went to say something. Sam wasn't sure if he was going to tell him to mind his own business or thank him for the suggestion. He never found out because the band suddenly stopped playing.

  'Here we go,' said Charlie, glancing at the stage. 'He's on his way.'

  'My cue to go, I suppose,' said Sam, rising from his chair.

  Charlie gave him a nod.

  'Best go out the side door...just in case those blokes are still hanging around.'

  Sam followed him over to the fire exit, quite aware what the doorman meant. Once he was back outside, he was on his own.

  Suddenly, the lights died, plunging the room into darkness. For a moment, Sam feared he had be
en suckered into something. He relaxed when he saw an entourage walk out from behind the bar. A stoic-looking man lead the way, followed by Kenny Swain. Swain's trustful tea boy, Barry, and several others followed behind. The band struck up a jolly number to welcome the small party into the room.

  Sam was impressed. Swain had everyone here eating out of his hand.

  'Watch how you go out there.'

  Charlie held the fire exit door open for him, encouraging Sam on his way. As he left, Sam noticed Barry staring in his direction, confusion on his face as he clocked Sam.

  Then Sam was back in the alleyway.

  Again.

  He would have laughed but for the severity of what had gone on before out here. It felt as though he were in a revolving door, repeatedly finding himself out in this narrow passageway. He started up the alleyway towards the front of Jaspers. At the end, he peered around the corner. The group of lads were still there, idling outside the entrance door. Sam edged back down the alleyway, deeming it too risky to venture out there just yet. It was a sobering experience, trapped in the place that had played on his mind so often recently.

  The fire exit door opened once more. Sam froze, expecting to see Barry searching earnestly for him. Instead, a young man clad all in black emerged, sucking gratefully on a cigarette. He was tall and lanky, with spiky black hair, facial piercings and a white towel draped over his shoulder. A barman grabbing a break. He jumped when he saw Sam in the shadows.

  'What the-'

  'Don't panic,' Sam told him easily. 'I'm only waiting here.'

  The young man had turned very pale. He glanced nervously back inside the club, clearly debating the wisdom of remaining outside.

  'Strange place to be waiting,' he said, watching Sam warily.

  Right then, the rowdy youths out front started screaming and shouting again.

  'Hear that?' said Sam, cocking an ear. 'They're why I'm waiting here.'

  He told the barman about the earlier altercation, making sure to mention Charlie's name. The young man relaxed visibly.

  'And they're waiting for you?'

  Sam shook his head, explaining they would be hoping for Charlie to reappear.

  'Well, they're going to be waiting a long time,' grinned the barman. 'Everyone who's coming in is in now.'

  Sam thought as much.

  'Are you not here for the party then?' asked the barman.

  Sam told him he had only popped in briefly.

  'Oh,' said the younger man, dragging deeply on his cigarette. 'I just presumed you were an old friend of Mr Swain's...you've both got the same accent.'

  Sam had to be careful. He was curious about Swain, but he didn't want the barman running back in telling his boss he had seen an old friend of his.

  'Yeah, we're from the same neck of the woods.'

  The barman took Sam's muted response as a green light to gossip. Sam didn't mind. Talkative barmen had proved a very useful source of information in the past.

  'Is it true he had some kind of breakdown years ago...before he bought this place? That's the rumour going round...'

  Sam would liked to have heard more, but a sudden shout from within the club sent the barman darting back inside. No sooner had he disappeared than Sam heard the sound of men passing by out the front.

  At last. They were leaving.

  He waited a few moments before leaving the alleyway. In the distance, the drunken group were sauntering up the middle of the road, their anger finally dissipated.

  Sam went the other way and hailed the nearest taxi.

  However, it wasn't time to go home just yet.

  ***

  Sam walked along the sand, absorbing the sound of the waves lapping gently on the shore. The beach was a regular haunt for him at night, within walking distance of his flat, quiet enough at this hour to allow him freedom of mind. He always found the fresh breeze drifting in off the sea liberating, the gentle noises created by the water somehow relaxing and invigorating at the same time.

  A place to think.

  His immediate thoughts revolved around his plans for the following day. So far, his investigation into Danny's death had borne little fruition.

  A murder outside a seedy club.

  A lack of motive or evidence.

  One possible suspect.

  It wasn't enough.

  Despite his desire to prove Jake Dawkins' involvement, Sam was adamant the key to the murder revolved around Danny's mysterious search in Newgate. It was time to find out more about the victim. Then he could concentrate on who might have targeted him.

  Sam backtracked along the beach, deciding to call it a night. The tranquillity was suddenly interrupted by the harsh shrill of his phone.

  A text message.

  Alice.

  'Sorry we missed each other when you left.'

  Sam ground to a standstill, slipped his hands into his pockets and stared up at the night sky. The snow had stopped falling. The clouds had cleared. A million stars twinkled above him. Sam often sought solace in those bright lights. Staring down at him. Watching him.

  The past.

  Always with him.

  He touched the phone in his pocket.

  The future.

  Betrayal and hope.

  Chapter 12

  Next morning, Sam received a phone call with an interesting proposition. The caller was a well-spoken man called Andrew Rodgers, a local businessman who owned a small airport in the Caribbean from where he ran a freight delivery company transporting goods worldwide. Recently, the airport had been the target of saboteurs. Aircraft had been tampered with and cargo had gone missing. Rodgers wanted Sam to accompany him on his next trip out there in a few days. To be his eyes and ears around the airport. To find the culprit.

  Sam was sorely tempted, and not just because of the sunnier climate. Sam knew nothing about aircraft or the transportation business. It would be a challenge, a whole new experience. He told Rodgers he would consider it.

  Sam knew if he accepted Rodgers' offer, he would be away from Newgate for some time. That wouldn't leave him long to solve Danny's murder. The thought gave him fresh impetus as he left his flat.

  He took the coastal road up to Morehampton, the wintry landscape changing the further north he travelled. By the time he reached his destination, the snow had practically disappeared, the sun daring to peek out from between the clouds.

  Sam parked in a small car park near the beach and headed inland, strolling along tight country lanes, passing quaint thatched cottages and a small farm. Before long, he was in the heart of Morehampton. Richie was right. It was no more than a village, containing a solitary pub, combined post office and grocery store, and a small church. In the very centre was a picturesque green, manicured to perfection. It was evident the locals took great pride in their village.

  Sam sat down on a metal bench on the green, watching a woman in a long white coat tidy up a nearby memorial headstone. There he pondered his next move. He couldn't just walk up to people asking if they knew a man called Danny. His only option was to keep a low profile and hope for a lucky break.

  It came sooner than he could possibly have expected.

  The woman at the memorial moved off. Sam spotted a set of keys on the grass.

  'Excuse me!' he called out, walking over to retrieve the keys.

  The woman turned and looked at him quizzically.

  'You've dropped your keys!'

  She checked her bag and rolled her eyes.

  'I am so absent-minded!' she smiled. 'Thank goodness you noticed.'

  She took the keys off him and dropped them in her bag while Sam read the epitaph on the memorial.

  'A terrible tragedy,' the woman sighed, following his gaze. 'I like to keep it nice and tidy, even after all these years.'

  The words on the stone expressed sorrow for the lives of seven people lost on the same day over a decade ago.

  'What happened?' asked Sam.

  The woman turned and pointed out to sea.

 
'Do you see that island over there?'

  Sam followed her finger and made out a craggy rock rising out of the water in the distance.

  'A boat used to take people out there on pleasure trips. That particular day, the weather turned as they were halfway across. A sudden storm capsized the boat. Nobody survived.'

  Sam was lost for words.

  'It was hard on everyone, none more so than Derek and Christine's children. They were only young at the time.'

  Sam looked back at the memorial. The names of Derek and Christine Findlay were at the bottom of the list.

  'That must have been hard,' agreed Sam, 'losing both parents as a child.'

  The woman continued to gaze wistfully over the water.

  'Their aunt and uncle took them in, but the children never really got over it. Well, you wouldn't, would you?'

  Sam shook his head respectfully.

  'The girl went off the rails as she got older...missing school...stealing from the shop. Then she just vanished one day. After that, it was one tragedy after another. The girl's aunt died from a heart attack...then Danny left the village...'

  Sam caught the name.

  'Danny?' he asked, keeping his tone neutral.

  The woman turned back to him, immense sadness in her eyes.

  'Yes, Derek and Christine's son. He just upped and left about a year ago. Nobody has seen him since.'

  ***

  Danny? Was it the same person?

  Sam heard the sound of door bolts sliding. Across the green, the pub was opening for business. A barrel-chested man with lengthy sideburns stepped outside, glanced up and down the street, then retreated back into the pub. Sam headed for it, deciding it would be rude to come all this way and not grace the inn with his presence.

  A myriad of smells struck him as he strolled inside, a pungent combination of polish, alcohol, the beach and sodden earth. The pub was empty so Sam sat down on a stool at the bar and waited, gazing into the mirror below the row of optics. The lean face looking back at him was beginning to show signs of age. Faint lines under the eyes and across the forehead. Flecks of grey in the stubble. The black hair receding a touch at the temples. Perhaps the last couple of years were taking their toll.