A New Dawn Rising (9 page)

'Are you seriously expecting us to believe all that?'

Sam looked around the sparse interview room. It was mundane and depressing, no different to many he had sat in before. Only this time, he was answering the questions, not asking them.

'You asked me what happened,' he replied calmly, turning his attention back to the two men opposite him, 'and I've just told you. It's up to you whether you believe me.'

Sam leaned back in the chair and folded his arms. The two detectives looked at each other. Sam could see they were getting frustrated. He had some sympathy for them. His story was so full of holes they would have expected a breakthrough by now. A confession, even. But after grilling him solidly for over an hour, they weren't getting anywhere.

'Right, I'll tell you what,' said Detective Inspector Mason, looking at Sam thoughtfully. 'I'm going to summarise everything you've told us. Then you can see how it looks from our point of view.'

Sam knew only too well how it looked. He wouldn't believe his story either if he was their side of the table. But what was he supposed to do?

'Now, you're telling us you drove Carl Renshaw to his factory, dropped him off at the site entrance and waited for him there in your car. He told you he wouldn't be long as all he was doing was collecting paperwork from his office. Correct, so far?'

Sam nodded in reply.

'After a few minutes, you wondered where he was, and when you saw a bright light coming from the factory roof, you decided to take a closer look...and that's when you realised the building was on fire.'

Mason propped his elbows on the table, placed his fingertips together and watched Sam closely.

'Then comes the first of many things I don't understand,' he continued, irritation evident in his voice. 'You didn't ring the emergency services.'

Mason strummed his fingers together, waiting for a reaction. Sam didn't give him one. He didn't see the point in repeating himself any more. Let Mason have his rant.

'Now, when your average citizen has the misfortune to see a building on fire, what's the first thing that comes to his or her mind?'

Sam stayed silent. He remembered the drill. This was where Mason played the bad cop and started losing his cool. He might even blow a fuse and walk out. Sam watched him with a certain curiosity.

'You don't know, Sam?' asked Mason, his head slightly tilted, gazing at Sam as though he were an imbecile. 'Well, I'd hazard a guess the first thing they do is call the fire brigade. Now, don't quote me on that, it's just a hunch. What do you think, Detective Constable?'

Mason looked at his colleague sat next to him. DC Hoskins has said very little so far. It was evident to Sam this was Mason's show. Hoskins was just the silent partner here. The good cop, if needed.

'I'd say you're exactly right, Detective Inspector,' agreed Hoskins, playing his role. 'A member of the public would call the fire service.'

Mason put his hands together in exaggerated fashion and looked back at Sam.

'There you go!' he exclaimed, his voice thick with sarcasm. 'It's not just me. The general consensus appears to be when you see a fire, you call the emergency services. But you didn't, did you do, Sam?'

Mason suddenly sat bolt upright and fixed Sam with a hard stare.

'No, according to you, the best option was to try and break into a burning building and be some sort of superhero-'

'My first instinct was to find Carl,' said Sam flatly. 'I didn't realise how out of control the fire was until-'

Mason exploded in fury.

'What?' he shouted. 'You didn't realise the extent of the fire? Not even when, by your own admission, the whole roof was on fire? When flames were coming out of the walls? You were a bloody copper once. You were trained to follow procedures. You're trying to tell me that you ran around like a headless chicken, leaving the building to burn? Do you expect me to believe that?'

Mason's face was bright red. He started rolling up the cuffs of his sleeves. Sam watched him, unperturbed. It was all part of the act.

'Yes, I ran round to the side door,' he admitted, keeping his voice steady. 'But only because I saw someone leaving through it. I thought it might be a way in to-'

'Ah, the mystery person!' announced Mason. 'How convenient is that? Another person on the scene. I suppose you'd like us to treat them as the prime suspect instead of you, eh?'

Sam shrugged. He wasn't going to be drawn into making insinuations.

'Now, you can't describe this person because it was too dark,' said Mason, looking down at his notes. 'Yet, you state it definitely wasn't Carl Renshaw. Right?'

'I'm certain.'

Mason looked up at Sam, bemused.

'Well, you can't have it both ways, can you? It's either too dark to see or it isn't.'

Again, Sam shrugged. He knew what he had seen. He didn't have to explain himself.

'Then, as far as your story goes, you manage to get the side door open...and that's when you finally realise the whole bleeding factory is on fire!'

For a split second, Sam was back there. Swamped by the heat and noise, struck by the gut-wrenching reality there was no way through the flames.

'So, at last, you decide to call the fire brigade!' shouted Mason, his sarcasm reaching new heights. 'Only to get blown through the air before you can make that call!'

Sam watched the detective inspector work himself up to a crescendo. He couldn't criticize him for it. Sam had used the same tactic himself on occasions.

'Then, just in the nick of time, another mystery figure turns up and drags you away from the carnage before disappearing into the darkness. What a story, Hoskins! Absolutely remarkable!'

They both looked at Hoskins. He was nodding silently in agreement, waiting patiently for his turn to join in.

'And, finally, to top it all!' yelled Mason, on his feet and leaning over the table now, almost in Sam's face. 'You're caught trying to escape the scene! Unbelievable! You're trying to do a runner despite being surrounded by half of the constabulary of Northern England!'

Mason was practically nose to nose with Sam, his face having progressed to an angry crimson colour. Sam could see bulging veins prominent on his nose, seemingly ready to explode. He could also see desperation in Mason's eyes. The detective was hoping all his effort was about to pay off.

'Detective Inspector,' said Sam coolly, not flinching away from Mason. 'What I have told you is the truth. What you need to do is find some evidence.'

For a few moments, time appeared to stand still. Nobody moved. Mason continued to tower threateningly over Sam. Hoskins watched them both with slight concern. Sam looked into Mason's eyes. Was the detective going to lose it? No, he looked too disappointed.

Mason turned away and walked out of the room without another word. Sam noticed him throw Hoskins a knowing look on his way out.

'Right then, Sam,' said Hoskins pleasantly. 'Let's have a chat while DI Mason's having a breather, shall we?'

Sam had to tolerate twenty minutes of Hoskins talking to him like they were best mates. All Detective Constable Hoskins got out of it was a dry throat and confirmation from Sam of everything he already knew. Both men were relieved when Mason popped his head inside the door and beckoned Hoskins outside.

Sam wondered what was going on. Had there had been some development? Maybe they had found Carl.

Mason and Hoskins returned five minutes later looking sombre and serious. Mason carried a slim blue folder under his arm. As both men sat back down, Mason gave Sam a wary glance, switched the recorder back on and asked him if he was still happy to continue without a solicitor. Sam told him nothing had changed. Mason raised his eyebrows.

'I'm surprised, Sam,' he said quietly, placing the folder down carefully on the table. 'I really am...especially after reading through this.'

Sam groaned inwardly. He didn't need to read the front of the folder to know what was inside. It was his personnel record. His entire career in the police force down on paper. The reason for Mason's change in demeanour.

'Sam, would you like to elaborate on your reason for leaving the service?' asked Mason, extracting the paperwork from the folder.

'No,' answered Sam bluntly. 'I'm sure you've read through it.'

Mason nodded but remained silent.

'So, what do you want to know that isn't already in there?' asked Sam. 'And what relevance has my time in the force got to do with the fire?'

Mason studied him for some time. Sam found the thoughtful stare more unnerving than all Mason's earlier histrionics put together. Gone was the detective's bravado and sarcasm. When Mason did answer, his speech was slow and deliberate.

'I don't want to ask you anything, Sam.'

Sam looked at him, baffled. It wasn't what he had expected.

'There's nothing to be gained by questioning you about your departure from the force,' said Mason. 'Not for either of us. In fact, you have my deepest sympathy in relation to the incident...and I truly mean that.'

Mason looked so grave Sam actually believed him. But there was a sting in the tail somewhere. Sam continued to listen with apprehension.

'However, just because I don't need to ask you about the circumstances surrounding your life at that time doesn't mean to say what happened isn't relevant to why we're here now.'

It slowly dawned on Sam. He closed his eyes. Mason had in front of him an extremely damning character assassination of Sam Carlisle.

'Yes, Sam,' said Mason grimly. 'As you are aware, the service has to give an honest assessment of everything that happens in all our careers...good and bad...and while they appear to have no issues with your career up until-'

'There were mitigating circumstances-'

'I'd say they were tragic circumstances myself,' interjected Mason. 'And that's not me being patronising. But, remember, I still have a case to investigate here, and if that means dragging up your past and asking you awkward questions, then I have to do it...and I will.'

The two men looked at each other across the table. In the few seconds their eyes locked, they reached an unspoken agreement. Neither man welcomed this situation. Nor did they envy the other's position in it. Yet, both knew the matter had to be dealt with. Sam had seen how Mason's attitude had relaxed towards him since returning to the room, possibly a small sign of compassion for Sam's troubled past. But Sam could also see the steely look of determination still bright in the detective's eyes. A dogged resolve to solve this case using any means necessary.

'After the incident, you went on a short period of leave. On returning to the workplace, you're behaviour was described as, and I quote, “depressive, unreliable and, at times, downright aggressive”. Then you physically attacked one of your superiors and, as a result, you were suspended pending an internal investigation.'

Sam had picked a spot above Mason's head and was staring at it.

'But then you jumped before you were pushed. Resigned from the force and moved away. Started a new life here.'

Sam swallowed hard and looked at Mason and Hoskins in turn.

'Well, I can't argue with that, can I?' he said, smiling weakly. 'Not when it's all down there in black and white.'

'Right,' said Mason. 'It's stated in your staff record that you were drinking heavily immediately after going on leave and continued to do so during your short time back at work. In fact, it says here you may well have been disciplined for that reason alone, regardless of everything else that happened.'

'Again,' said Sam. 'I can hardly deny it.'

'So, what have you been doing during the last eighteen months?' asked Mason. 'Have you spent the time drinking on the same scale?'

Sam felt himself bristle. The question had touched a nerve inside him.

'I don't have to answer that.'

'No, you don't,' admitted Mason. 'And although the breath test you gave us earlier showed you'd been drinking today, it wasn't to excess. So, what exactly have you been doing since you moved to Bursleigh? There's no record of you working. Not legally, anyway.'

'That's because I haven't,' Sam told him simply. 'In fact, I haven't done anything since I moved here. I just wanted to get away and have some time to myself. But now the money's run out.'

'Well, a change of scenery is understandable given what you went through,' mused Mason, stroking his chin thoughtfully. 'But what concerns me is what's been going on in your head during that time.'

Sam's mind conjured up the misery of the last eighteen months. Days filled with despair. Nights spent fighting off haunting nightmares. A daily dose of heartache and anger, washed down by a regular supply of alcohol to numb the pain. He looked down at his hands. They were trembling slightly on his lap.
He heard Mason talking again. The detective sounded miles away.

'Sam, have you spent the time dwelling on what happened?'

The voice, gentle and persuasive.

'Getting more bitter about what you lost? Getting angrier at the injustice of it all?'

The words, probing him, pulling him apart.

'Wishing somebody could take the pain away?'

Tearing him apart, little by little.

'Drinking yourself into a stupor while plotting some sort of revenge?'

The last comment jolted Sam. He looked up and stared at Mason and Hoskins. Both were studying him keenly. Their expressions gave nothing away, but he knew they were trying to work out if Sam Carlisle had turned into a loose cannon.

'Revenge?' said Sam, shaking his head. 'You're way off with that one, Detective.'

'Ah, but am I, Sam?' said Mason, tapping on the folder still in front of him. 'Am I really? This document here clearly describes your state of mind when you left for Bursleigh. An angry man, out of his mind with grief. Aggressive and drunkenly lashing out at the world. Then you arrived here, hoping the quiet life would ease your pain. But it didn't, did it, Sam?'

Mason paused a moment, letting his words sink in.

'The pain wouldn't go away, would it, Sam? The loss became unbearable. The drinking and loneliness only made it worse. And then you came across Carl Renshaw...'

'What are you implying?' asked Sam, knowing exactly what Mason was getting at. He wanted to hear the detective say it out loud.

'I'm suggesting, Sam, that when Mr Renshaw came onto your radar, you saw someone who was everything you're not. Happy, wealthy, a content family man. And in your drunken, bitter state of mind, the unfairness of it all...the jealousy...it drove you to do what you did tonight.'

'Which was what?' asked Sam, intrigued. 'What is it exactly you think I've done?'

'Well, you tell me,' replied Mason, stony-faced. 'Did you stun Mr Renshaw? Kill him? Burn the factory down hoping to hide the evidence?'

Sam shook his head in disbelief. He would have laughed had circumstances been different. Mason really believed he was behind the fire. That he had succumbed to some form of mental breakdown and gone crazy. The detective might have guessed accurately at Sam's recent turmoil, but he was spectacularly wrong about the conclusion.

'Look, I don't blame you,' said Mason, giving Sam a sorrowful look. 'To a point. You haven't been thinking straight. People will understand. You've been through a lot. But it's important you tell us the truth. Then we can help you.'

Mason sat back in his chair, exchanged glances with Hoskins and gazed at Sam expectantly. He looked a man satisfied with his work. However, when Sam continued to remain silent, Mason began to get concerned.

'Well?' he urged. 'Are you going to tell us what really happened tonight? Come on, Sam, you can talk to us.'

In that single moment, Sam realised just how far he had fallen.

How pathetic his life had become.

He had sunk to a point where experienced police detectives genuinely suspected him of a desperate, horrific crime. Actually believed him capable of descending to such depths.

'I've told you what happened, Detective.'

They continued to question him.

Sam saw the disappointment written all over Mason's face when the detective realised he wasn't changing his story. Mason had clearly been convinced he had seduced Sam into opening up and confessing. With a disenchanted sigh, Detective Inspector Mason put the setback to one side and carried on with the interview.

Both Mason and Hoskins raised their eyebrows when Sam explained just how recently he had met Carl, the circumstances in which Carl had approached him, and their informal working relationship in the short time since. Sam answered a constant stream of questions, every one of them loaded with suspicion. No, he couldn't explain why Mr Renshaw had failed to register him legally as an employee. Nor could he enlighten the detectives as to why Mr Renshaw had used such an unconventional method to recruit him. And he couldn't begin to hazard a guess as to why a level-headed, astute businessman would invite a near stranger, unchecked and without recommendation, into his inner sanctum. Yes, Sam agreed, it was all highly unorthodox, but he needed a regular income and Carl had been more than willing to provide it.

Sam knew he had to tread carefully. He was being selective with the truth, and Mason was already sceptical of him. However, Sam wanted to keep the real reason for his employment to himself. Telling Mason about Carl's need for protection from environmental activists would only invite scorn and make the detective even more distrustful of him. Anyway, only Carl and himself knew the truth, and it looked highly unlikely Carl Renshaw was going to be telling anyone.

When Mason finally got round to asking, albeit reluctantly, about anyone Sam might know with a valid reason for harming Carl, Sam was only too happy to reel of a lengthy list of potential suspects. He thought Mason was never going to ask.

Hoskins was a busy man during the next few minutes, constantly making notes, trying to keep up with the endless information Sam was supplying. Mason sat unmoved throughout, displaying a fine poker face, asking few questions. Sam thought his lack of interest strange. Perhaps he just couldn't see past Sam as the guilty party.

Sam explained how Carl had been involved in a number of heated telephone conversations over the last two days. How he had briefly mentioned to Sam that activists from a group called Red 71 were threatening him over environmental issues relating to his factory. Sam purposely kept this low-key as he told it. He was glad he did. It was the only time Mason reacted, a look of pure disdain on his face clearly showing Sam what he thought. Even Hoskins stopped scribbling and looked at Sam in bemusement.

Sam also told an increasingly disinterested Mason about Carl's altercation with Colin Doyle, the furore at the factory and Carl's own admission that there were people in Bursleigh jealous of his success. When Mason asked exactly who might detest Carl enough to set fire to his property with him inside, Sam shrugged and let slip the Withdean estate had been mentioned.

Finally, he described the run-in with the two men outside Carl's house and the car chase involving the Audi. When he finished, Mason shook his head scornfully.

'Well, well, it's a miracle Carl Renshaw survived this long,' he said with a sneer. The sarcasm had returned to his voice once again. 'It sounds as though our Mr Renshaw is public enemy number one round here.'

Sam refused to rise to it. He didn't care what Detective Inspector Mason thought anymore.

When Sam was finally allowed to leave the station that night, Mason made it clear he wanted him to go straight home and stay there. Officers would be calling on him again in the morning. In the meantime, the latest news was the blaze had been deemed too dangerous to tackle, so the fire service were allowing it to burn itself out. The factory was lost, too badly decimated to be salvaged. With a glint in his eye, Mason told Sam forensics would be all over the site in the morning looking for the tiniest scrap of evidence. Anything that would reveal the truth.

Sam told him he hoped they found something conclusive.

After collecting his car from the compound, Sam gladly set off for home. However, he soon became aware of a pair of headlights behind him. They stayed a good distance back, tailing him along the dark country lanes leading back to his cottage. Was he being followed? Or were the police simply ensuring he returned home? Sam had no way of knowing.

A couple of miles from home, he waited until he had taken the first of a series of tight bends, then killed his lights. This was the one section of road in Bursleigh Sam did know well. Fighting off the tiredness threatening to swamp him, he sped up and took each bend as fast as he dared. The car brushed noisily against bushes time and time again as he pushed the vehicle faster in the darkness. By the time he reached the cottage, he couldn't see any lights back in the distance.

Still, he wasn't taking any chances. He drove on past the cottage a few yards and turned down a narrow dirt track. Cutting the engine out, he steered the car along, letting the vehicle roll silently down the slight incline. The track took him around the back of his cottage to an old wooden garage at the bottom of his garden.

He pulled up in front of the garage, got out and unlocked the big wooden doors. Suddenly, he heard the roar of an engine out on the country lane. Somebody was approaching the cottage. He leant into the Capri, released the handbrake and pushed the car into the empty garage. The vehicle out on the road slowed down, drawing level with the front of the cottage. Sam didn't have time to lock the garage doors, so he pulled them shut, slid the bolts across and waited inside the garage. He reached around blindly on the floor until his fingers touched something cold and solid. A metal bar. He picked it up and gripped it tightly. Then he waited, motionless in the dark, listening hard.

He heard the vehicle crawl past the cottage, its engine ticking over gently. It neared the turn-off to the dirt track. Sam held his breath. Would it follow him down here?

Much to his relief, it didn't. Instead, Sam heard the vehicle burst into life and accelerate away. The noise was deafening, exploding through the silence of the night-time countryside. Sam didn't move until all was quiet again.

He opened the Capri door and lowered himself into the driver's seat. He felt exhausted. Oblivious to the cold in the garage, he closed his eyes and let his mind wander. Fleeting images from the day flashed by. Bright orange flames. Dark, mysterious figures. Speeding cars.

Sam fell into a deep sleep. He dreamt of Carl's daughters. They glanced around furtively, looking out for imminent danger.

They called out his name.

Begged him for help.