This time Sam drove onto the Withdean Estate. He wasn't taking any chances tonight. He might need to make a sharp getaway. As he negotiated the estate's litter-strewn streets and never-ending speed bumps, a number of feral-looking gangs roamed the area. Sam noticed how each bunch of swaggering youths stared at him brazenly as he went by, clocking the unknown Capri with a mixture of anticipation and suspicion. Memorising the vehicle and its unsuspecting driver for future reference. The streets were the kingdom of such gangs during these hours of darkness. Theirs to do as they pleased.
Sam knew how important it was to find a suitable place to park the car. Too near to The Duck and he was giving notice to the locals he was in the area. Too far away and he might be struggling to make that swift exit. Put it in the wrong place altogether and those youths may well have relieved him of his tyres by the time he saw his car again.
Driving past The Duck, he found what he was looking for immediately. He pulled into the pub's car park and tucked the car into a space right in the corner. It was almost hidden away behind a couple of skips and the low branches of a overhanging tree. Nobody was loitering about. So far, so good.
If Peter Canning was top of Sam's list of suspects involved in Carl's death, then
Martytaylor
was up there with him. While Peter had aroused Sam's suspicion with his strange behaviour and the circumstances in which he appeared in Carl's life,
Martytaylor,
or Martyn Taylor, if Sam's hunch was correct, was a candidate because he had a clear motive. Sam didn't know what that was yet, but nobody made the kind of hate-filled threats posted on that blog without good reason.
The smell of skunk hit Sam as soon as he walked through the pub doors. Then the noise. The scene inside was like something out of the debauched final days of the Roman Empire. Two men were drunkenly squaring up to each at the bar, each with their shirt sleeves rolled up. A handful of enthusiastic onlookers cheered on their particular favourite. Out of the blue, one of the combatants threw a hefty punch, connecting more by luck than skill with the jaw of his opponent, sending him flying across the room. The man went crashing into a table and slumped to the floor in a heap. A groan of disappointment went up. It hadn't been the duel those watching had been hoping for.
Elsewhere in the pub, the merriment raged unabated. Loud, repetitive dance music blasted out from a jukebox against the wall. The patrons shouted to make themselves heard above the din. Sam thought it possible they did that anyway at this time of night. Drinks were being spilled left, right and centre. All manner of weird and wonderful things were being smoked. An ebullient card game was taking place at a table near the bar. In the centre of the table lay a hefty pile of money. A group of youngsters, barely in their teens, sat at a corner table swigging back bottles of cider. One of the group had his head back and eyes closed. Dried vomit adorned the front of his shirt. His friends either hadn't noticed or didn't care.
There were a lot more women in than during his previous visit. A number of them had turned the centre of the pub into an impromptu dancefloor. It wasn't a pleasant sight. Way too much pale flesh was on display, hanging over skimpy outfits designed for those twenty years younger and a few stones lighter. Not that such sights were putting off the male fraternity. Inebriated men with yellow fingers and greasy hair stared lecherously at the women, offering a steady stream of crude and graphic suggestions for further activities later in the night.
Sam didn't bat an eyelid. Nor was he so naïve as to think no-one had taken any notice of his entrance, despite the raucous surroundings. There was always someone keeping an eye out in a place like this. People like these had too many enemies. The police. Rival gangs.
Strangers.
Sam stepped over a prostrate body and warily circled a Staffordshire bull terrier tied to a chair. After ducking to avoid a flying pint glass and turning down the drunken advances of a woman coming off the dance floor, Sam finally reached the bar. As he waited for some service, he scoured the pub. In an alcove over the far side of the room, the purpose of his visit was taking place.
A darts tournament.
Sam hoped Martyn Taylor had brought his arrows out with him tonight.
***
'I suppose it's too late to enter, isn't it?'
Sam put the question to an elderly man leaning against a pillar, engrossed in the game currently taking place. The dartboard was only yards away, but the pillar offered some cover to Sam from the crowd of men watching the darts match.
As a cheer went up to mark the end of that particular game, the man turned to Sam and gave him a cursory glance. A torch wasn't the only unusual item Sam had packed in his bag. He waved a set of darts enthusiastically in the man's face, accompanying his actions with a stupid, hopeful grin.
'You're too late,' the man growled, picking up his pint and taking himself over to one of the tables under the window. That was fine by Sam. He knew it was too late to play, but he had integrated himself as a innocent darts fanatic. A harmless bore.
'The next match,' came the shout from a man stood next to the board, 'is between Dylan Hargreaves and Martyn Taylor.'
A loud roar erupted. Sam craned his neck around the pillar, watching keenly to see who appeared out of the crowd. More people had gathered in the alcove, attracted by the noise. The small area had suddenly become tightly packed, a heaving mass of drunken, sweaty bodies. A jubilant chant started up amongst the men.
'Marty! Marty! Marty!'
Sam was left in no doubt as to Martyn Taylor's popularity.
The first man to step out of the crowd received a humorous mixture of scorn and applause. He waved his hand aloft in mock triumph. This enticed another round of singing.
'Marty! Marty! Marty!'
Sam saw the onlookers part obediently as a figure pushed his way to the front. Most of the crowd exploded into cheers as Martyn Taylor appeared.
Sam looked on in shock.
The scar above the eye.
The tattoo on the neck.
Martyn Taylor was one of the men from the silver Audi. The ringleader of the group that had forced him to pull over. Sam was sure they were only interested in him because he was working for Carl.
Martyn Taylor.
Martytaylor.
They had to be one and the same.
Sam took little interest in the two players as they began throwing their darts. His focus was on the crowd watching them. With Martyn Taylor in the pub, there was a good chance his merry band of thugs were nearby. Sam had found what he wanted and there was nothing else to be gained by hanging around. Staying longer would only increase his chances of being exposed. The set of darts in his pocket would provide little protection against Martyn Taylor and his followers if they turned on him in this enclosed area.
He headed for the sanctuary of the entrance doors, glad to see the boisterous crowd fixated on the action at the dartboard. Nobody took any notice of him leaving. There were no sudden shouts. No alarming cries. Breathing a sigh of relief, Sam pushed open the double doors and welcomed the blast of fresh air.
A man was crossing the road and heading towards the pub. He had his head down, trying to shield himself from the bitter cold. Sam noticed the car parked in the street before he recognised the approaching man.
An Audi. A silver Audi.
It was the driver walking towards him.
Sam pulled his hat out and thrust it hurriedly onto his head. It was too late. The man had already looked up and spotted him. He looked at Sam in surprise.
'Hey, you!' he shouted.
Sam pretended he hadn't heard. He started walking, veering off to the right, towards the pub car park. He had only got a few steps when a hand gripped his right arm tightly.
Sam was taken back in time.
Carl had done something similar to him days ago, physically halting Sam in mid-stride. Calling him back. Sam wished he had walked on that fateful day.
'Hey, I'm talking to you.'
Sam let his body go limp and allowed himself to be swung around. The Audi driver stared at him, trying to make sense of Sam's sudden appearance on the Withdean.
'What are you doing around here?' he asked. 'Does Marty know you're here?'
Sam realised he could take advantage of this situation. Get hold of this scally and drag him into the car park. Have a serious word with him. A bit of pressure in the right place and he would soon talk.
'Hey, Smithy! You having a problem over there?'
Sam looked over Smithy's shoulder. A man had come out of the pub to have a cigarette. Sam couldn't believe his bad luck. The bloke was probably the only one in The Duck tonight willing to take his habit outdoors. He was eyeing Smithy and the stranger with curiosity. Too much curiosity for Sam's liking.
'I'm okay, Bob!' shouted Smithy back to his friend, his eyes never leaving Sam. 'But this bloke won't be if he doesn't start talking soon!'
Sam rued the lost opportunity and resorted to his back-up plan. With no warning, he unleashed a ferocious upper-cut that caught Smithy just under the chin. For a moment, time appeared to stand still. Smithy stared back at Sam in wonder, unable to understand how he had been caught off-guard so badly. Then his eyeballs rolled back, his legs went limp and he slumped to the floor.
'Bloody hell-fire,' muttered Bob, gazing down at the listless Smithy. Bob's mouth was agape with shock. His lit cigarette dropped out from between his lips and rolled forlornly along the ground. He looked over warily at Sam. For a few moments, the two men locked eyes, like two cowboys in the old wild west, each waiting for the other to draw.
Bob broke first, sprinting back into the pub. Sam also ran, but in the other direction, towards his car. Within seconds, he heard a primeval roar go up from within The Duck. He took a look behind him. They were already spilling out of the pub. Angry locals with flared nostrils and set jaws, relishing the opportunity to mete out some mindless violence.
'There he is!'
They were coming after him.
Sam focused on the Capri. It was no more than twenty yards away. Once in it, he would have to drive through the chasing mob to get out the car park. It was the only exit. He hoped they would have the sense to jump out of the way.
He was almost there, his car just feet away. He glanced around again. Several blokes had passed the prone Smithy and were halfway across the car park. But they were too far away to catch Sam. He had reached the car.
Suddenly, the air was knocked out of him and he was hurtling sideways onto the ground. Somebody had come unseen across the car park and rugby tackled him right at the death.
Sam needed to get back up. Quickly.
However, his assailant wouldn't let him. Having fallen on top of Sam, the stranger was now using his considerable weight to keep Sam pinned to the floor. Sam struggled to free himself, but the man was simply too heavy. The stampede of footsteps was getting uncomfortably close. The voices more animated.
'You're not going anywhere, sonny,' growled the man lying on Sam. 'I don't know who-'
Sam plunged a dart into one of his legs. The man screamed in pain. Sam rolled him away and got to his feet. Now, if he could just get to the car.
Only there was no way through.
They had caught up with him. He was surrounded.
A sole voice spoke up.
'Well, well, well,' sneered Martyn Taylor. 'Who do we have here?'
His situation was hopeless. A dozen or more men had encircled him, preventing him from getting to his car. Stopping him from going anywhere. They wore manic stares and brandished pool cues and empty pint glasses. Sam still had the dart in his palm, but it would be of no use now. Not against this lot. Sam had downed two of their friends and they wanted revenge.
The man on the floor behind him groaned.
'Is somebody going to help me?' he wailed. 'I think I'm bleeding to death here.'
A number of the men took a step towards Sam. Standing at the front of them, Martyn Taylor flung out his arms sideways.
'Hold your horses, fellas,' he told them with authority. 'I want to hear what our friend here has got to say first.'
'But what about Johnny?' a man behind him complained. 'You can't just-'
'He'll live,' stated Sam. 'It's only a flesh wound.'
Taylor nodded solemnly.
'A man who knows how to handle himself, eh?' he said to Sam. 'So, what brings you down here, my friend?'
Sam cast a sweeping look across the men behind Taylor. None of them looked in the mood for talking. They were itching to be let loose. Only Martyn Taylor was keeping them at bay right now. One word from him and Sam knew that would be it.
'Why do you think I'm here?' he asked defiantly, holding eye contact with Taylor. 'I want to know why you stopped me on the road the other day.'
Taylor continued to stare at Sam, chewing his words over.
'That's not relevant anymore,' he said eventually, a sinister tone prevalent in his voice. 'But you coming down here snooping on us is...especially when you start picking fights.'
Now it was Martyn Taylor's turn to take a step forward. Sam watched him reach into his pocket.
This was it.
Taylor was going to have first go at him. Then the others would join in.
Suddenly, the tension was shattered by the noise of a powerful engine approaching at speed. Headlights lit up the car park. They all turned to see who was roaring towards them.
A Freelander with blacked out windows was heading towards the group. Sam raised an arm to shield his eyes from its headlights. For a moment, he didn't think the vehicle was going to stop. He took a couple of steps back. Taylor and his men did likewise. The four-wheel drive screeched to a halt in between them. Sam saw the driver's window roll down an inch or two.
'Get into your car!' a voice cried out to him. 'Get out of here! Now!'
Sam didn't need to be told twice. He got into the Capri, turned on the ignition and looked at the scene in front of him. Taylor and his men were slowly backing away from the Freelander with wary expressions on their faces. Sam couldn't understand why they looked so scared. Then he glanced at the Freelander and saw why.
The passenger side window was halfway down.
A masked man was pointing a gun at the group of men.