With hours to pass until he was needed again, Sam left Carl's property and headed towards town. Within seconds, a silver Audi appeared in his rear-view mirror. Sam watched it close up right behind him. He counted four men in the car. Were they interested in him? Sam laughed at himself. He was getting paranoid.
Despite having a lengthy stretch of straight road ahead of him, Sam cruised along, keeping to the speed limit. He was in no rush. The Audi was right up his backside now. With nothing coming the other way, Sam waited for it to overtake him. It didn't, though. It stayed right on his bumper.
The hedgerow flanking the side of the road disappeared and gave way to a ditch. With a rev of its powerful engine, the Audi suddenly accelerated and drew up alongside Sam. The passenger gestured to him, making it clear he wanted the Capri to pull over. Giving the man a baffled look, Sam eased off the gas and slowed his car down. He steered it as far over to the near side as he could, until his wheels were almost hanging over the precipice of the ditch. As he brought it to a standstill, the Audi pulled over in front of him. Three of its occupants got out, leaving the driver in the car. Sam watched them approach. None of them were as big as the two he had encountered at Carl's house, but they were still nasty looking individuals. In particular, the scrawny character walking around to Sam's side looked an evil piece of work. He had a tattoo on his neck and an impressive scar above his left eye. Sam noticed him slip his hand into his trouser pocket while the other two men made their way round to the Capri's passenger side. Now he had got a good look at them, Sam decided it was time to leave.
With the Capri still in gear, he floored the accelerator. Caught out by the sudden move, the men were forced to dive out the way to avoid being struck. Sam got a fleeting glimpse of them in his mirror, getting back to their feet, charging back to the Audi with a mixture of shock and anger on their faces.
Sam swung his car round the Audi, its surprised driver hurriedly motioning for his mates to get back in the car. Fortunately, he had done exactly as Sam had hoped and parked the Audi right in line with the Capri, over to the very side of the road, allowing Sam enough room to get past. It was a common mistake. That, in itself, told Sam these men were amateurs.
He got the Capri up to speed as quickly as possible. He knew he couldn't outrun the Audi, but he could give himself a decent head start. With another glance in the mirror, he saw the men climb into the Audi and the car pull off after him.
Carl, he asked himself, what have you got yourself into?
***
They weren't giving up.
Sam had been pushing the Capri for several miles, negotiating the tight country lanes with sheer abandon at times. His experience as a police officer allowed him to maintain the distance between himself and the faster Audi, but he wasn't losing the other car. The driving skills he had acquired during chases had always involved him being the hunter. Now, Sam was the hunted and he wasn't enjoying it.
He tried to plot a move. It didn't help that he didn't know the area particularly well. All he had done so far was circle the edge of Bursleigh, intentionally sticking to the near-empty roads of the countryside. He had considered going into town. Its extra traffic would provide the deterrent of plenty of witnesses, but Sam wasn't entirely sure that would put these men off. He didn't know what they wanted, only that there would be severe consequences if they caught up with him. Especially after the stunt he had just pulled.
He had to do something. Hurtling round another bend, Sam knew from experience something had to give soon. Driving this recklessly, it was only a matter of time before an accident occurred or they attracted the attention of the law.
Right on cue, Sam heard the wail of a police siren in the distance. As he flew over the crest of a hill and sped down the other side, he reckoned the police car was behind them. Hopefully, they had the Audi in their sights and not him.
He slowed down for a junction at the bottom of the hill. Behind him, he saw the Audi appear at the top of the rise. He was delighted to see the police car right behind it, headlights flashing furiously. Sam eased the Capri straight across the junction and steadily accelerated. He looked back as the Audi reached the same junction and turned left. The police car did the same. Sam pulled his car over and got out. Across the low fields, he watched the Audi speed off, with the police car doggedly hanging on to its tail.
Sam remembered a wizened old copper once telling him that, more often than not, car chases were about luck. Never could he agree more.
Satisfied he wasn't being tailed anymore, Sam continued into town, deciding he would confront Carl later with everything that had happened today. He would make Carl an offer of his own. Come clean and explain a few things or he was calling it a day. Money or no money. The list of people with some form of gripe towards Carl was getting longer all the time. It was getting out of hand.
As a precaution, Sam parked in an underground car park in town, leaving the Capri in the darkest, dankest corner he could find. Locking it up, he found himself wishing he was driving something less conspicuous right now. A white Capri was not the most discreet car. He headed to the library again, hoping Lucy would be at work today. He wanted to know if she had remembered anything more about Carl. Anything else her dad might have mentioned about him.
The lad he had seen yesterday, Gareth, was on reception again. It was Lucy's day off, he told Sam, eyeing him suspiciously. Sam asked to use a computer, to which Gareth gleefully informed him he could only do so with a membership card. Sam ignored the urge to wipe the smirk off the kid's face and went to leave.
'Excuse me, but you can use this one. I've just finished.'
An elderly lady was rising from a computer just inside the entrance door. Above the computer was a sign declaring fifteen minutes of use for non-members. Sam thanked the woman and turned back to the reception desk. Gareth scowled at him. Sam smiled back.
He started typing into the search engine.
Save The Countryside.
They had their own website, filled with pages of innocuous-looking information and articles for those with an eco-friendly inclination. Nothing very militant at all. They even had a game for children, which involved building as many wind turbines as possible in a minute. Sam resisted the temptation but did check out their archive section. He found what he was looking for, confirmation of what he had discovered on the microfilm. Two years ago, Save The Countryside had cancelled all demos and protests aimed at the expansion of DR Garments. A statement at the time announced the extension of the factory would cause no foreseeable risk to the environment. It appeared to Sam that Red 71 had truly gone it alone in hounding Carl.
Red 71.
Nothing. Sam wasn't surprised. Hardcore terrorists were hardly going to openly advertise themselves or their intentions. However, he found it slightly strange there were no reports or articles on Red 71. Underground organisations usually attracted the most intrepid of reporters.
Carl Renshaw.
No such problem here. Carl and his company were plastered everywhere. Mainly on sites lauding local dignitaries. The same story was repeated over and over again about the local boy made good. How he rose from a council estate to set up a successful business fifteen years ago. Expanded his factory two years ago. Boosted the local economy over time. Provided much needed employment for the area. Happily married with two young children. Sam baulked slightly at that, remembering the stony looks on Carl and Molly earlier today. However, reading through all this, Carl was the all-round good guy.
Then Sam found something. A small blog, first written eight years ago.
Eight years ago!
If Carl Renshaw ever returns to the Withdean he is a dead man.
Further comments had been added sporadically over the next four or five years.
Too right. Scum of the earth.
He is a dead man walking.
The Withdean does not forget.
Then nothing for a few years. Until six months ago.
Revenge will be sweet.
Another, three months later.
Carl Renshaw has not learned his lesson. He will.
A final remark, only two weeks ago.
Time for action, my friends. Time for Carl Renshaw to pay.
Sam looked at his watch. He had half a minute of computer time remaining. A young man sat to the right of him coughed impatiently. Sam ignored him and scrolled back up to the initial entry in the blog. The user name was
Martytaylor.
The following contributors all had other names, with no user commenting more than once. Until that last entry a couple of weeks ago.
Martytaylor.
Suddenly, the screen flashed off. His time was up. Sam slumped back in the chair for a moment, contemplating the blank screen. Whoever had made that initial threat eight years ago still had a grudge against Carl. And it looked like they had support.
It was time to pay a visit to the Withdean Estate.
'You want the number nine. That'll drop you right in the middle of the Withdean.'
The man pointed to a stop at the far end of the terminus. Sam had decided to leave the car parked where it was and get the bus. He still had plenty of time before he was due to pick Carl up. An overwhelming curiosity had taken hold of him. The Withdean estate kept cropping up and he wanted to see it for himself.
The bus trundled around Bursleigh town centre before heading out into the countryside. Minutes later, it diverted onto a slip road. On one side was a green field awash with all manner of brightly-coloured flowers. On the other, a tractor ploughed the land, its driver looking over to gaze at the passing bus. Sam could see a low bridge farther up the road, just high enough to allow the single-decker through. The bus squeezed underneath and, for a few seconds, the world went dark. When they came out the other side, Sam felt as though he had travelled to another time. The lush greenery and scenic beauty was gone, replaced by a litter-filled wasteland and huge concrete monstrosities. It was almost post-apocalyptic, a setting in which burnt-out cars fought for attention with graffiti-sprayed walls. As the bus trundled around the estate, Sam saw a gaggle of tired-looking, lank-haired women congregated in a vandalised play area. They leaned on equally worn out pushchairs, chatting to each other as their children skipped unnoticed around them. The bus slowed down at a corner, where a group of menacing looking teenagers loitered, their hoods up in uniform, openly smoking spliffs and drinking alcohol. They stared threateningly at the bus as it went past. Then a flurry of stones ricocheted off the bodywork, the windows of the bus somehow surviving the onslaught unscathed. Sam looked at the other passengers. Not one face registered alarm or surprise at the attack.
The bus came to a standstill in front of a run-down row of shops. Seeing everybody else get off, Sam did the same. He watched the driver change the destination on the front of the bus back to Bursleigh Town Centre. Sam noticed how he didn't hang around, zooming off as soon as the last passenger had stepped onto the pavement.
Sam took his beanie hat out of his pocket and put it on. The temperature had suddenly plummeted. He looked around him. A high-rise block of flats towered into the air above him, the majority of its balconies festooned with various items of washing. Sam heard a blood-curling scream from somewhere within the flats. Nobody around him batted an eyelid. A mangy dog, tied too tight to a nearby lamp-post, barked half-heartedly. Two teenage girls walked past him, both pushing prams. A baby's bottle fell out of one of the pushchairs and clattered onto the pavement, coming to rest near Sam's feet. He moved to pick it up, but one of the girls got there first, swearing angrily at her baby for dropping it. She looked up at Sam.
'What are you looking at, you pervert?'
Before Sam could answer, the young mums looked at each other, sniggered and continued on their way. As they reached the entrance to the flats, one of them turned and stuck two fingers up at him. Sam shook his head sadly. He had grown up on a council estate himself. But while hope and solidarity had abounded there, the Withdean seemed awash with apathy and despair. As if to prove his point, a lad no older than sixteen ran out of the nearby off-licence holding aloft a spirit bottle. His mates were waiting outside for him. They all whooped and cheered in delight. A harassed looking man ran out of the shop, shouting after the lad. He stopped when he saw the gang of youths glaring at him, daring him to take it further. It was enough to send the man meekly back inside. Sam watched the youngsters collapse in laughter. They moved off, slapping each other on the backs, crowing over their stolen prize.
Sam took in the rest of the shops. The ones that didn't have shutters down. A launderette and a newsagent looked the only ones open for business. Sam walked past them. Around the corner stood a group of men, smoking and chatting outside a bookmakers. The bookies shop itself was crowded with punters. Sam knew the score. Take the dole money and hope to multiply it, then struggle for the rest of the week. Across a bare patch of land lay a pub. The Duck. With several windows boarded up, paint peeling off the woodwork and rubbish strewn all over the car park, it didn't look particularly enticing. But Sam guessed it would be a focal point for underhand activity and dodgy characters. The very reasons he had come down here.
He hadn't anticipated just how busy The Duck would be at four o'clock on a weekday afternoon. Clearly, those men on the estate not betting their money away were set on drinking it up the wall. A number of customers stared at Sam as he entered. He knew he stuck out like a sore thumb in a local like this. He had done it many times before. His preferred method was to engage the drunkest looking person in a bit of banter. Use them to blend into the surroundings.
'You lost, mate?' asked a tall, unshaven man leaning against the bar. Sam had picked him out within seconds of walking through the door. 'Haven't seen you in here before.'
Sam smiled, got the barman's attention and ordered a whisky.
'Visiting an old pal of mine,' he replied. 'But it seems he's upped sticks and moved on. Thought I'd pop in here for a quick one before I go home.'
The man gave him a sympathetic look.
'That's a shame,' he slurred, shaking his head and emptying half his pint down his front in the process. 'He moved on without telling you?'
'Yeah,' replied Sam, taking a sip of whisky while looking suitably downcast.
'What's his name?'
'John.'
The man concentrated hard on Sam. It was plainly taking all his effort.
'John?'
'Yeah,' said Sam. He leaned closer to the man and spoke quietly. 'I won't tell you his second name 'cos he's always in trouble and you never know who's listening. It's probably why he's bunked off. Got into bother again...'
'Ah, enough said,' the man replied slyly, tapping the side of his nose in understanding. He thrust a hand out in Sam's direction. 'I'm Barry, by the way. Can I get you one?'
Sam shook his hand. For one unsettling moment, Barry wouldn't let go. He held Sam's hand in a tight grip and stared at him, eyes glazed over. Then he relaxed and took his hand away, visibly wobbling on the spot. Sam realised his new friend had just been using him for support.
'Cheers, Barry. Yeah, I'll have another whisky before I bunk off.'
Barry nodded in exaggerated fashion and gave Sam a friendly slap on the back.
'Whisky please, barman!' he shouted, leaning on the bar and slamming his fist down on it. Sam took a discreet look round the pub. Nobody was paying them any attention.
'Here you go, my friend,' cried Barry, passing him the whisky. 'Yep, I know a few people myself round here who are up to no good...'
Sam's ears pricked up.
'...some right little villains...'
Sam watched Barry lean back against the bar. His eyes had gone again.
'...there's a bloke who lives a couple of doors from me...'
Barry shut his eyes. He looked unsteady on his legs. Sam could see he was going to topple over. It was a good time to go. He didn't want to be the centre of attention in here. He knocked back his whisky and walked over to the toilets. Halfway there, he heard a loud thump behind him. A roar of laughter followed.
Just as he reached the door leading out to the toilets, something caught Sam's eye. On the wall, next to the dartboard, was a list of names. Entrants to an upcoming darts tournament. At the very top of the list was a familiar looking name.
Martyn Taylor.
Martytaylor.
Sam wondered. Was it co-incidence?