Sam circled the building. There wasn't a soul about. It was too late in the evening for even the most dedicated employee to still be working. Satisfied the coast was clear, he made his way through the empty car park to the back of the office block. Now, he needed some luck.
He found what he was looking for straight away, a ground floor window left slightly ajar. He pulled it open further until there was enough space to climb through. After scanning the car park one last time, he hauled himself up onto the ledge and clambered through the gap.
The room Sam landed in had an unusual odour, and it took him a moment to get his bearings in the dark. He turned up his nose, realising he had climbed into the toilets. He just hoped they weren't locked up at night. The set of skeleton keys he had brought along were designed more for the target in mind, not a door to the gents. He went over and tugged at the door. It was open. He poked his head out and looked down the hallway. Empty. Tiptoeing slowly, he made his way down the hall to the bottom of the stairway.
Somebody coughed.
The noise had come from above. Sam froze where he was and listened. He heard a door shut, followed by footsteps coming down the stairs. Quickly, he dashed into the alcove under the stairway. There he waited, crouched down in the darkness, listening to the footsteps get ever closer to the ground floor. As the person reached the bottom, Sam peered through the gloom to take a look.
Bill Seymour.
Sam watched Seymour push open the front doors, walk through them and lock up behind him. Sam didn't move a muscle until the accountant had walked down the path and disappeared from view. Able to relax at last, Sam let out a sigh of relief. If he had climbed into the office block two minutes earlier, he would have walked straight into Seymour.
He darted up the stairs, encouraged by the possibility his fortune was changing at last. The only obstacle in his path now was the door to Bill Seymour's office. Reaching the top floor, he recalled the lay-out from his earlier visit. Fortunately, the building wasn't the largest and Sam quickly found Seymour's office. He had even less trouble opening the door, the skeleton keys working their magic almost immediately.
Once in, Sam closed the door behind him and got out his flash-light. He hunted through drawers and filing cabinets, looking for any documentation associated with Carl or DR Garments. After a few minutes searching he found a box folder titled:
DR Garments-Accounts.
Sam carried it over to Seymour's desk, sat himself down and began rifling through the box folder. The paperwork inside was a chronological record of DR Garment's yearly accounts going back over the last few years. Sam knew his grasp of accountancy wasn't too hot. He had been placed on a fast-track book-keeping course years ago to teach him the basics for an upcoming undercover case. But that had been short, sweet and a long time ago. Now it was taking all his concentration to make any sense of the figures in front of him.
From what he could tell, the older accounts showed a healthy financial state of affairs. Then things began to change a couple of years ago. Business slowed down and the company began to struggle. Orders dried up, sales went down as a result, and DR Garments began failing to cover its overheads.
Sam noticed the entrance of various lump sums into the records. He added them up.
Bingo!
They matched the figures he had mentally totted up from the invoices at Rigbys auction house. This was the confirmation. Carl had been vainly trying to prop his business up with the sale of his personal possessions. Sam checked the accounts over again until he was satisfied there were no other unusual entries. He had found what he wanted.
Carl hadn't ploughed in any money from drug sales. That explained why the loan sharks had still been on his back. He hadn't made any money from drugs, despite the underworld knowledge gained from his younger days on the Withdean. All he had succeeded in doing was increasing his overall debt.
Sam wondered what had stopped Carl from selling drugs. Had he been out of the game too long? Sam couldn't discount the possibility. He presumed it had been years since Carl had mixed with the criminal element, and the drugs scene was capable of changing in the blink of an eye, let alone a decade or two.
Sam had a thought.
Had Dave Starkey known the full extent of Carl's problems? He would have been aware the factory was in some trouble, but what about the drugs? The loan sharks?
Had Starkey found out and blackmailed Carl? Had matters got out of hand between the two men to such a degree that murder was the only option left to one of them?
Carl Renshaw and Dave Starkey.
Their past and present.
Sam needed to find out what had happened in both.
The past. Martyn Taylor.
But who could fill him in on the present?
Right at that moment, the door to Seymour's office swung open, and in walked the very man to provide the answer.
Sam watched Bill Seymour flick on the lights and walk into the office, totally oblivious he had an uninvited visitor. At least he was until his fourth stride across the carpet, when his eyes rested on Sam. Sitting in his chair. At his desk. In his office.
'What the-'
'Hello, Bill. Nice of you to pop in.'
Seymour saw the determined look on Sam's face. Glancing nervously at the box folder on the desk, he opened his mouth to speak but changed his mind. Sam thought he resembled a goldfish. It was clear Seymour didn't know if he should run from Sam or confront him.
Sam didn't give him time to make the choice.
He jumped out of the chair and shot across the room in a flash. Seymour just had time to raise his eyebrows and take a small step backwards before Sam was in his face, grabbing a fistful of his overcoat, shoving him back against the nearest wall.
'Please...please,' he stammered. 'Don't hurt me. Please don't hurt-'
'Bill, will you do me a favour?'
Seymour squirmed in fear under Sam's vice-like grip. Sam could feel him trembling underneath his coat.
'Wh-What?'
Sam gave him another firm shove and looked him squarely in the eye.
'Shut the bloody hell up!'
Seymour nodded frantically, not daring to open his mouth.
Sam relaxed his grip a little.
'Good,' he announced. 'Now we have an understanding.'
'What do you-'
Sam sighed loudly. He had no time for niceties, and Seymour just wasn't getting it. He let go of Seymour's coat and placed his hand around the accountant's neck. Then he squeezed hard. Seymour's face began to change colour. He was having trouble breathing. His eyeballs looked ready to pop out of his head.
'Bill, I really haven't got the time to explain, but this is how we're going to do this. I'm going to talk, your going to listen, and then you're going to answer my questions. I am seriously racked off right now, and I won't think twice about doing you serious harm if you don't co-operate. Now, can I assume we finally have an understanding?'
Seymour tried to nod. That was good enough for Sam. He let go and watched Seymour slump to the floor, whimpering pitifully.
'Now, get in the chair and listen.'
***
'Bill, let's not beat around the bush. We both know DR Garments was in serious financial trouble, and that Carl was throwing money at it trying to keep things going.'
Seymour just stared at Sam from his chair, trepidation written all over his face. Sam was standing on the other side of the desk with his arms folded, staring back hard at Seymour.
'We also know he was raising the money by selling his household possessions, don't we?'
Seymour nodded meekly.
'But the sums he was putting in weren't making any difference, were they?'
'N-No, they weren't,' stuttered Seymour, watching Sam warily.
'Why?' asked Sam. 'What went wrong with the business?'
'Colin Doyle moved in,' replied Seymour sourly. 'That's what happened.'
'He took orders away from DR Garments?'
Seymour nodded.
'That's right. This is only a small town. It's not big enough to maintain two sizeable clothing businesses. It didn't help that Minstrel Clothing undercut DR Garments right from the off.'
Now Sam understood the reason for the animosity between Carl and Colin Doyle. He decided to change the subject.
'How long had Carl been selling drugs?'
Sam watched Seymour carefully.
'What?'
'You heard,' said Sam, taking a menacing step nearer to Seymour. 'I want you to tell me about the drugs.'
Sam watched Seymour flinch at the prospect of further violence.
'I-I really don't know. I honestly don't know what you're talking about.'
Sam was drawing on all his undercover experience to gauge Seymour's expression. It was important he judged the man's response right. Lucy's life could depend on it.
'Are you sure?' he asked, taking another step around the desk.
'I've told you!' cried Seymour, looking fearful. 'I don't know anything about Carl selling drugs!'
Sam considered the look on Seymour's face. He believed the accountant was telling the truth. Not even the most talented of actors could look as bewildered or terrified as Bill Seymour looked right now.
'Okay, Bill,' he said, casually sitting himself down on the edge of the desk. 'Let's try a different tact. Tell me all you know about Carl Renshaw and his death.'
Seymour swallowed hard. He hesitated a moment, giving Sam a guarded look. Then, with a resigned shrug, he told Sam everything he knew.
'Carl came to me about ten years ago. His business was doing well, but his accountant had just passed away. So I took over. It was a doddle until recently, when the orders started drying up. Then, as it became harder to balance the books, Carl started getting increasingly desperate. The banks wouldn't lend him any more money. He was already behind on his payments to them. Bills were going unpaid. Suppliers were chasing him for money. Bailiffs were sending him letters. The stress on him became unbearable.'
Sam had no idea the situation had been so serious. He thought of the phone calls Carl had taken from the loan sharks. One more debt he couldn't pay. No wonder he had tried to ignore their persistent efforts.
'What about the redundancies?' he asked. 'Didn't they help save money?'
Seymour waved his hand dismissively, having regained some of his composure since he started talking.
'A drop in the ocean. The business was on the verge of going bust and cutting back on wages just didn't save anywhere near enough to make a difference.'
Seymour rubbed his throat where Sam had grabbed him. Sam could still see the red fingermarks on his skin. He felt little sympathy. Seymour had missed his chance for an amicable chat when Sam visited yesterday.
'Okay, so what do you know about the day of Carl's death?'
Seymour moved the box folder in front of him to one side, placed his elbows on the desk and looked at Sam thoughtfully.
'Carl and Molly came to see me that very morning,' he said freely, no longer reluctant to talk. 'They wanted to discuss his will.'
At least Sam knew now why he had been left to wait outside the Renshaw's house on the morning of the fire. They had been here, talking to Seymour.
'Why would they want you to sort out the will? After all, you're not a-'
'I'm legally trained,' interrupted Seymour. 'And in the potential event of Carl's death, they wanted just one person to look after all his finances. They believed it would make it easier for Molly afterwards.'
'What did they want to discuss in particular about the will?'
Sam was pleased to see Seymour open his mouth to reply without hesitation. Sometimes only pure, unadulterated violence got the necessary results.
'They wanted to make sure it was all in order,' the accountant told him. 'That every single thing went to Molly.'
Sam's ears pricked up at this.
'It was a very strange meeting that morning,' added Seymour, almost as an afterthought.
'Why?' asked Sam.
'Well, for a start, Carl told me he had a feeling something bad was about to happen to him. That's why they wanted to discuss the will in such a hurry.'
Sam wasn't totally surprised. Carl knew he had people chasing him. However, his prediction of his own demise had been uncannily accurate. To within twenty four hours.
'What did Molly think about it?'
'Well, that's another thing,' replied Seymour. 'She wasn't worried or nervous like you might expect given the way her husband was talking. Instead, she seemed angry and forceful, ensuring everything in the will was going to be left to her. It just wasn't like her.'
Sam had to agree. That didn't sound like Molly at all. Then he remembered her mood on her return to the house that day. She had dismissed Sam rudely, looking tetchy and distracted.
'I said to Dave Starkey as they were leaving-'
'Dave Starkey?' said Sam. 'What's he got to do with it?'
Seymour looked at Sam, confused for a moment.
'Dave came along with them. He was here for the whole discussion.'
Sam couldn't get his head round it.
'Why?' he asked, mystified. 'Why would the Renshaws want Dave Starkey in on such a personal matter?'
'I have to admit,' replied Seymour gravelly, 'the same question crossed my mind at the time. I mean, who invites one of their employees to such a private meeting? It wasn't as though Dave even said a lot while he was here. I really didn't see the point.'
Sam wondered if Seymour was aware of just how far Carl and Dave Starkey went back.
'Did the Renshaws seem at ease with him being there?'
Seymour shrugged.
'They didn't seem to mind. They never explained why he was here and I never asked. It was their business. Then again, Dave has been hanging around ever since Carl passed away.'
'Hanging around?'
'Yes,' nodded Seymour. 'He hasn't left Molly's side since the fire. She asked him to help her deal with matters after Carl's death. And now he's constantly on to me, wanting to know how things are progressing. The insurance payout on the factory, the sale of the house, the reading of the will. That reminds me...I came back because Dave rang me up about a document Molly wants...'
Sam watched as Seymour began pulling open his desk drawers.
'I know I left it in one of these...'
Sam could clearly see Seymour's irritation. The man was getting tired of being at the beckon call of Dave Starkey. It was a far cry from yesterday when Sam had been here. The two men had been bosom buddies then.
As Seymour searched for the elusive paperwork, Sam considered the latest revelations. It all pointed to one thing.
Molly and Dave Starkey were in cahoots. They had to be.
Were they having an affair? Had they murdered Carl in order to collect his money and run off together? It would explain why Molly had moved out of the house and put it up for sale so quickly. Knowing what was about to happen to her husband, she would have needed no time to grieve. Her primary concern would have been to get things moving so she could start her new life.
'Ah, here it is,' said Seymour, pulling a piece of paper out of the bottom drawer. 'Now, I can go home,' he added wearily.
He pushed his chair back with the intention of getting to his feet. Then he remembered who was stood in front of him. An extremely volatile Sam Carlisle. He slumped back in the chair.
'What are you going to do now?' he asked Sam dejectedly.
Sam saw little point in keeping Seymour any longer. The man had been a mine of information tonight, but he was clearly oblivious to the real reason behind Carl's death.
He had just one more question.
'Did you tell the police about the meeting that day?'
Seymour nodded silently. The fear had returned to his face.
'You told them about the will? About Dave Starkey being present?'
Seymour nodded once more. Sam sighed. He didn't want Seymour clamming up again. Not just yet.
'Look, I'm not going to hurt you anymore,' he told Seymour emphatically. 'I just want to know the truth and then we can both leave.'
This failed to reassure Seymour.
'But Detective Mason said you were the main suspect,' he whined. 'He was insistent you murdered Carl. I told him about the meeting but he wasn't interested. All he kept asking about was you.'
Sam grimaced. No wonder Seymour had been so hostile yesterday. Mason had drummed it into him Sam was a killer. Right now, Seymour was probably doubting he was going to get out of here alive.
'I didn't murder Carl,' Sam told him. 'And now the police have had the results back from the fire, they'll be confirming that soon.'
Seymour stared at him, open-mouthed.
'So, do you know who-'
Sam nodded grimly.
'Yes, I do. It was Dave Star-'
He stopped talking and cocked an ear towards the corridor outside.
Sam had heard the shuffle of feet. Someone was lurking outside the door.
He put a finger to his lips, instructing a bemused Seymour to keep quiet. Then he crept over to the door. It was shut to, Seymour having closed it behind him on his way in. Sam grabbed the door handle with care and turned it quickly, pulling the door inwards at the same time.
A man fell into the office, landing face first on the floor. It appeared Sam had caught him totally unaware listening at the door.
Sam put a foot on the flailing figure's torso and rolled him over.
Peter Canning looked up at him.