A New Dawn Rising (6 page)

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 reveller 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.

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 paintings, 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 friend of the bloke who lives here,' he replied, being purposely vague. 'Who are you after?'

'Your mate, Carl Renshaw,' said the second meat-head, spitting out the name with distaste. 'Now, where is he?'

'You tell me,' said Sam, continuing to play dumb. 'I've been ringing the bell for ages.'

This stumped them. They looked at each other, uncertain of what to do next.

Sam thought he would push it a bit.

'What do you want him for?' he asked amiably. 'Maybe I can help.'

Neither man replied. They just stared at him with curiosity. Sam could almost see the cogs whirring in their thick skulls. They were trying to work him out.

'No? Okay, I can give you his number if you want,' he suggested, pulling his phone out. 'Not that it will do you much good. I've been trying to get hold of him since I got here.'

Without saying a word, both men stepped up to Sam. He was impressed. Synchronised intimidation. Straight out of gangster school. He readied himself.

'We've already got his number,' said the slightly larger thug, his face only inches away from Sam's. So close Sam could feel his warmth breath. 'You tell Carl Renshaw we called, and you tell him we'll be back if we don't get what we want.'

Both men gave Sam one final menacing stare and left.

Sam sat down on the steps and pondered what had just happened. In a way, he was glad Carl hadn't been here. Things would have only got nasty. Sam had been tempted to ask the two goons once again why they were calling on Carl, but he hadn't really needed to.

He had seen it many times before.

It was nearly always about money.

Sam had given up waiting and was getting into his car when the Renshaw's Range Rover finally appeared. Carl was driving, with Molly alongside him and the girls in the back. Sam moved away from his car. He had a few questions for Carl.

However, Carl wasn't in the mood for talking. He jumped out of the Range Rover and marched over to Sam.

'Sam, there's been a change of plan,' he said with a serious expression. 'I don't need you until later.'

'Okay, but I want to have a word with you about-'

Carl interrupted him.

'I haven't got time to talk,' he said sharply. 'I've got a meeting to get to and it's going to last all day.'

Molly was helping her daughters out of the car. Once out, the girls stopped and gazed over at Sam. They looked confused. Molly ushered them inside the house with some urgency.

'Do you want me to take you?' asked Sam.

'No,' replied Carl sternly. 'I'm getting the train, but I do need you back here at seven. I need you to take me over to the factory to pick up some paperwork. Okay?'

Sam nodded but he was taken aback. This wasn't the easy-going, friendly Carl he had come to know. He wondered yet again what had been said during that phone call yesterday. Whatever it was, it had changed Carl overnight, leaving him tetchy and nervous.

'Carl, is everything okay?'

They both turned in response to the noise of a vehicle coming down the driveway. A taxi cab appeared.

'Right, there's my lift to the station,' said Carl. 'I'll see you back here at seven.'

Sam watched him dive into the back of the taxi and issue instructions to the driver, who nodded and turned the car around briskly. The taxi then sped off, its tyres screeching on the gravel. Molly had stayed on the steps to see her husband off.

Sam went over to her.

'Hello, Molly.'

She turned to him. Concern was etched on her face. She looked distracted.

'Sam, I've got to go in and see to the girls.'

She went inside, gently closing the front door behind her.

Sam wasn't sure what to make of it. Molly appeared as pre-occupied as her husband. Had Carl confided in her about the phone call?