The factory was tucked away behind a screen of tall trees. On reaching the site entrance, a security guard in a booth raised the barrier for them. As Sam drove through, he mentioned to Carl how well hidden the site was from the road.
'It can't be seen from anywhere outside,' explained Carl. 'The whole site was purposely shielded so it wouldn't be a blight on the countryside. We also make sure the noise and pollution levels are kept to a minimum.'
As Sam pulled into the staff car park, Carl's mobile phone began to ring. Sam parked up and turned off the engine. He watched Carl look at the caller number and pull a face.
'One minute, Sam. I've got to take this.'
Carl got out of the car and shut the door behind him. Sam looked over at the factory. It was a huge building. He thought it looked quite modern considering it was built years ago. Hardly any noise could be heard coming from it. In fact, the only sound he could hear right now was Carl raising his voice on the phone.
'What the hell do you mean by that?'
Sam peered out through the side window. Carl looked livid.
'I told you, you'll get it soon!'
The passenger door was yanked open. Carl poked his head inside the car and snatched up the paperwork he had left on the seat. His face was flush with colour.
'Sorry about that, Sam. The trade can be hard work at times.'
Sam shrugged. Carl's work calls were his own business. He was just paid to drive the man about and make sure he was safe.
Carl encouraged Sam to join him inside and meet some of the staff. Walking onto the shop floor, Sam was surprised by its cleanliness. People worked away at their machines on spotless floors. Neat bundles of clothing lay piled next to each machine.
'We keep on top of any litter and waste,' Carl pointed out. 'Nothing's thrown away. It's all recycled. Oh, and the whole building's been soundproofed to keep the noise down. Even the loading bays.'
Looking about him, Sam didn't see the need. All the machinery hummed gently. Carl seemed to have gone out of his way to make his factory as environmentally friendly as possible. Sam wondered why any activist would have a grievance with this set-up.
***
Carl opened the door to a small office.
'This is where all the hard work happens,' he grinned. 'My office.'
A man was sat behind Carl's desk. He rose to his feet as the pair entered.
'Morning, Carl.'
'Good morning, Bill,' said Carl, dropping his paperwork into an empty tray. 'I'd like you to meet Sam, my new driver.'
Bill shot Carl a surprised look. Carl stared back at him defiantly. Sam detected a sudden tension between the two men. Bill walked round the desk to shake hands with Sam. He was a small man, about sixty years old, with receding grey hair and a pair of spectacles perched precariously on the edge of a bony nose.
'Hello, Sam,' he said in a thin voice. 'I'm Bill Seymour, Carl's accountant.'
It transpired Bill needed an urgent word with Carl. One that couldn't wait. Carl threw Sam another apologetic look.
'No worries, Carl,' said Sam. 'You've got a business to be getting on with. I'll take a wander round the factory and leave you two to talk.'
***
Sam leaned on the balcony overlooking the shop floor. He could imagine Carl taking a break from his work, walking the few feet to here from his office, and gazing down on all he owned with proud satisfaction. Sam watched the multitude of workers below, every one of them clad in dark blue overalls. Realising he would stand out like a sore thumb walking amongst them, he went to his pocket for the visitor's badge Carl had issued him. It wasn't there. He looked around and saw it on the floor outside Carl's office. He must have dropped it on his way out. He walked over and bent down to retrieve it.
From within the office, he could hear Carl and Bill arguing. He couldn't make out exactly what was being said, but it sounded like they were rowing about money. He heard a fist being slammed down on the desk. Passions were clearly running high. It dawned on Sam he had been here barely ten minutes and already overheard Carl involved in two heated conversations.
A metallic clang nearby told Sam someone was coming up the steps to the balcony. He clipped the badge to his chest and walked over to the top of the steps. A woman on her way up saw Sam and frowned slightly when she didn't recognise him. He cheerfully greeted her good-morning and carried on down past her.
Sam took a leisurely stroll around the factory. As a strange face on the site, he naturally got a few curious looks. In the loading bay, he saw two men sitting on a stack of pallets, deep in conversation. An empty wagon lay idle yards away from them. As he walked past the men, they stopped talking and stared at him.
'Morning,' he said to them.
'Alright, mate,' said the younger of the two, a genial-looking chap with dyed blonde hair. 'You lost?'
Sam stopped and studied the men. They were either waiting for some work to do or lazing about for a few minutes.
'No, mate,' he replied pleasantly. 'Just taking a look round.'
'Looking at anything in particular?' asked the other man, eyeing Sam suspiciously. 'Picking out who to make redundant next?'
That threw Sam. Redundancies?
'I don't know anything about that,' he replied. 'I only started today as Carl's driver.'
The two men exchanged perplexed looks before turning back to Sam.
'Driver?' exclaimed Blondie, shaking his head. 'Jesus Christ, mate, don't you know Mr Renshaw laid off a dozen people last week?'
Sam was dumbfounded. He had presumed DR Garments was thriving, not laying people off.
'Bloody hell, Jase!' said Blondie, addressing his mate. 'I think Mr Renshaw's got his priorities-'
'Oi, you two, get back to work!'
Sam turned to see who had shouted. A solid man with close-cropped hair was storming towards them with a scowl on his face.
'That wagon should have been loaded by now!' he bellowed at the two men. 'Now, get on with it!'
They rolled their eyes petulantly, jumped down off the pallets and moved off towards the empty vehicle.
'And who are you?' the angry man asked Sam aggressively.
Sam felt the heckles rise on his neck. Who was this arsehole?
'I tell you what, mate,' he replied evenly. 'You talk to me properly and I'll give you a polite answer.'
The man was speechless for a moment. Sam supposed he was a gaffer of some kind and not accustomed to people talking back to him in such a way.
'I'm Dave Starkey, the foreman,' the man huffed pompously. 'Not that it's any of your business. Now, what are you doing here?'
Sam told him. Once again, the reaction he got was one of bewilderment.
'A driver?' yelled Starkey indignantly. 'What the hell is the man playing at?'
Starkey didn't hang around for an answer. He was already marching off in the direction of Carl's office, presumably for words with his boss. Sam watched him go thoughtfully. Was Bill Seymour arguing with Carl over the same thing? He could understand why these people felt repulsed. They had seen work colleagues lose their jobs, and now the man responsible was paying out for the luxury of a personal driver. It looked bad. They didn't know the real reason for Sam being hired, and Carl was unlikely to be sharing it with them.
It appeared Sam had unwillingly walked into a sensitive situation and he didn't appreciate it one bit.
Sam headed back through the factory intent on speaking with Carl. However, word seemed to have already spread amongst the workers and a general unease had infiltrated the atmosphere. Sam was aware of people staring at him as he walked by. Others whispered to each other and pointed in his direction. Then a shout went up from somewhere, followed by another. Suddenly, he was the sole focus of hundreds of mistrusting eyes. A sea of resentful faces leered at him. A hand tugged at his sleeve.
Sam turned to face the young blonde lad he had spoken to in the loading bay.
'C'mon mate,' he said to Sam earnestly, 'let's get you out of here.'
Sam went to argue his innocence but realised it would do no good. He couldn't satisfy their sense of injustice. The wrath of these people could only be extinguished by the words of their boss. He reluctantly allowed himself to be ushered out of the building with jeers and catcalls ringing in his ears.
***
Sam leaned against the Jag, oblivious to the cold air nipping at him. He was fuming. Jimmy, the lad who may well have rescued him from a lynching, had gone back inside. With a sympathetic smile, he had told Sam not to take it personally. He had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Jimmy had overheard the way Sam had talked back to Starkey earlier. He told Sam anyone who stood up to that bully was a decent bloke.
When Carl came out a few minutes later, Sam's anger had subsided a few degrees. He still gave Carl both barrels, though.
'What was all that about, Carl? Letting me walk around telling them I was your new driver when you'd just sacked a load of their mates?'
Carl looked sheepish.
'Sam, what can I say? I hold my hands up.'
He did as well, high into the air.
'I hadn't thought it through properly...how they'd react...'
Sam looked at him. With his hands held up in submission, Carl resembled a sad puppy awaiting execution. Sam found it impossible to stay angry at him.
'Too bloody right, you didn't. Now, put your hands down, Carl. You're embarrassing me even more, if that's possible.'
***
'So, did they have a good moan at you?' asked Sam. 'That's one unhappy group of people you've got back there.'
He had changed his mind about packing the job in but only because of the money. Now, having gladly left the factory in his wake, he was driving Carl to a meeting in Ashbury, a town twenty miles out of Bursleigh. A conference for local business owners.
'Yeah, they had their say,' replied Carl, absent-mindedly flicking through some paperwork. 'I told them I'd talk to the entire workforce in the morning. I'll smooth things over. Tell them you're working voluntarily or something. My contribution to the unemployed.'
Sam laughed despite himself. Carl Renshaw had some brass. An unerring ability to bounce back and turn things to his advantage. One more hard-nosed trait that had helped him to success.
'That's if any of them return tomorrow,' said Sam mischievously.
'Sam, business has its ups and downs,' explained Carl, all chirpy again. 'Right now, things are a bit slow, but it's nothing to worry about. I've been here before. It'll pick up again. When it does, those people laid off will get their jobs back. In the meantime, the rest of them need the money too badly to cause a fuss.'
Don't we all, mused Sam.
In the warmth of the foyer, Sam watched a young man outside struggle in vain with his umbrella. An almighty gust of wind suddenly took hold of it and blew it inside out in spectacular fashion. The man stared at his wrecked umbrella,
threw it in the nearest bin and stomped off in disgust.
Sam stretched out his legs and turned his attention back to the newspaper he had picked up off the table. He gave it a cursory glance. The meeting had been going on for two and a half hours. Carl had told him it shouldn't run over three hours. Sam yawned. Another thirty minutes. He tried to quell his complete and utter boredom by consoling himself this was the life, sitting around drinking tea for a living. It took him back to the slow shifts on the force. Another lifetime ago.
The entrance door was pushed open and a blast of cold air entered the foyer. A woman in a grey business suit hastily smoothed down her bedraggled hair and looked over in Sam's direction. Noting the settee opposite him was free, she strode over and sank gratefully into the chair.
'Christ, that wind!' she exclaimed, folding her arms and gazing at him. 'It's a nightmare!'
Sam told her it was indeed. He yawned again. The woman looked at him with some pity.
'Have you been sat here all this time waiting for them?' she asked, nodding in the direction of the closed meeting-room doors.
'Yeah, and it's taking long enough,' replied Sam, glad for once to have the distraction of some company. Not a single person had entered the foyer for two hours. Even the receptionist had long disappeared.
'You won't catch me sitting around for hours on end,' his new companion remarked haughtily. 'I've been into town and done some shopping.'
'You're a driver as well?'
Carrie Smith introduced herself, curtly informing Sam she was most certainly not a driver. She was the personal assistant to Colin Doyle, chairman and owner of Minstrel Clothing.
'Who's doing the driving for Mr Doyle today, then?' Sam teased, having seen Carrie drop car keys into her handbag as she came through the door.
Carrie crossed her legs and pretended to look offended.
'Okay, I'm a personal assistant who does a bit of driving sometimes.'
Sam looked at her but said nothing.
'Okay, the games up!' she said, with a hint of a smile. 'A lot of driving ever since the chauffeur caught whatever horrible illness he's got.' Carrie glanced at her wristwatch. 'The meeting shouldn't take much longer, as long as Mr Doyle doesn't get into another row with Mr Renshaw.'
Sam's ears pricked up.
'Mr Renshaw?' he asked. 'Carl Renshaw, from DR Garments?'
'That's him. Mr Doyle can't stand the man. Anyway, who are you waiting for?'
Sam grinned at her.
'What's so funny?' she asked.
Then the penny dropped.
'You're here with Mr Renshaw?'
Sam nodded. Carrie's jaw dropped open. She placed her hand over her mouth.
'Oh, no!' she cried, looking horrified. 'How embarrassing!'
Sam tried to keep a straight face. They stared at each other for a few seconds, then both burst out laughing.
'I really shouldn't have said that,' Carrie squealed, wiping tears from her eyes. 'Sorry.'
'Hey, I'm his driver, not his mother. I couldn't care less.'
This started Carrie off giggling again.
'Seriously,' said Sam. 'What's the problem between the two of them?'
Carrie told him she wasn't totally sure. DR Garments and Minstrel Clothing were in the same trade, so their respective owners were naturally direct business rivals. However, Carrie thought it was more personal than that.
'They just don't seem to like each other.' she said. 'Mr Doyle seems to have more of a problem, which is strange as you'd have thought Mr Renshaw would be the one with more reason to-'
'I don't understand,' interrupted Sam.
Carrie pursed her lips.
'What I mean,' she said, 'is Minstrel Clothing has only been going for five years. I've been with them for the last two, whereas Mr Renshaw's business was around long before that. I would have thought he's lost a fair few orders to Minstrel over the last few years.'
'What did they row about last time?'
'Oh, dirty tricks, undercutting each other, they always find some reason-'
The doors of the meeting-room suddenly burst open. Sam and Carrie both stood up. They watched Carl stumble out and almost lose his footing. A man charged out in his wake and prodded Carl forcefully in the chest. Sam looked sideways at Carrie, who rolled her eyes and nodded back knowingly at him.
'Carl Renshaw, you are without doubt the most despicable...underhand...pathetic man I've ever had the misfortune to come across!'
'Get lost, Doyle! You're no angel yourself!'
Colin Doyle pulled his fist back, fully intent on swinging for Carl. Sam dived in and grabbed Doyle's arm before he could unleash the punch. Carl looked on, shaken.
'Come on, Mr Doyle,' implored Sam, pulling him away. A crowd of suits had gathered, stunned to see such high-profile figures behaving this way. 'Whatever's going on between you two, a punch up in public isn't the best way to settle it.'
Sam watched Doyle carefully, ready for any sudden move. Doyle was a lot younger than Carl and in better shape. Sam had no doubt he was capable of doing serious damage to Carl if the two were ever to have a fistfight.
Doyle looked at Sam properly for the first time. He went to say something to him but thought better of it. Instead, he shrugged himself free of Sam's grip and pointed angrily at Carl.
'Renshaw, one day I am going to get you! That's a promise!'
With one final, vitriolic sneer, Doyle turned on his heels and stormed out. Carrie shrugged hopelessly at Sam and followed her boss out. Sam shook his head in disbelief and turned his attention back to Carl, who was casually brushing down his suit and already regaining his composure. Sam shook his head. These weren't the type of confrontations he had anticipated. He had prepared himself for shadowy anarchists, not irate factory workers and raging business rivals.