A New Dawn Rising (21 page)

Sam returned to Lucy's flat in a state of confusion, still unable to figure out why Lucy had allowed herself to be spirited away so easily. He tried to look at it logically. The person in the car had to be the one now holding her, and Sam couldn't imagine a scenario where Lucy had got into the car compliantly because she knew her abductor. It just wasn't possible. Sam had mentioned the possible suspects in Carl's murder to her, but she had no idea what any of them looked like. And if she did, it was all the more reason to run a mile from them.

It had to be someone unknown to her. But Sam couldn't imagine Lucy being so gullible as to climb into the vehicle of a complete stranger. As sweet and kind as she was, he wouldn't describe her as naïve. The only conclusion available to Sam was Lucy had been lured into a trap of some kind. A very effective one.

The next few minutes passed agonisingly slowly for Sam. He sat on Lucy's sofa, fidgeting restlessly, willing the phone to ring. He had already decided his response. He would comply unconditionally with whatever the caller wanted. If that meant taking a step back and leaving it to the police to complete the investigation, then so be it. It would be a hard one to swallow, trusting in Mason to get to the truth, but what choice did he have? He should have done it earlier. Lucy had tried to tell him. Now, all that mattered was getting her back safe and sound, and never putting her in such a situation again.

The guilt began to consume Sam.

He was to blame for Lucy's predicament.

And it wasn't the first time.

His actions that had placed others in danger before.

His wife and daughter.

Perhaps he should have taken the blame for their deaths. It had been himself, not Walters, who had willingly married Elizabeth and then had a daughter with her. It had been himself who had started up a family knowing his career was a precarious and dangerous one. Had that been selfish?

Sam thought about Lucy. Elizabeth. Danielle.

The weight was crushing him.

He looked at his watch and his heart sank. Forty-five minutes had passed since the phone call. Something had gone wrong. He tried Lucy's number again, but there was still no line. Why hadn't her captor rung back?

He waited another fifteen minutes. In that time, he stewed, the anger building up inside him until he had to face facts and consider his options. They weren't ringing back, and Lucy's position was getting more precarious by the minute. Sam gave serious thought to swallowing his pride and going to the police station. He could tell them about recent events, report Lucy as a missing person, and hope they took him seriously. He could even ask the woman who had seen the car to go with him and back up his story. But wouldn't involving the police be putting Lucy in even greater danger?

Sam got up and looked out of the window, gazing over at the row of shops. He watched for a few minutes but saw no sign of the woman he had talked to. And there was no guarantee she would be back tomorrow. Anyway, the harsh reality was tomorrow could be too late. Sam looked up and down the street for CCTV cameras. He couldn't see any. The authorities probably deemed there was no need. It seemed a pleasant residential area, probably one with a low crime rate. Sam could almost taste the irony.

He thought about what he had to go on. The only added information the woman had been able to supply was the driver's side of the car had a red door. It stood out like a sore thumb, she told Sam. A red door on a white car. But no, she didn't know the make of the vehicle. Nor could she supply a description of the driver. She had been too far away.

An image popped into Sam's head. White car. Red door. He had seen it parked up somewhere recently. Sam racked his brains, trying to remember the location. He ran through everywhere he had been during the last few days. It was no good. All he could see was the vehicle stationed in a car park. It was infuriating. He just hoped the details came back to him soon. In the meantime, he had to do something.

Anything to stop thinking about Lucy being held captive.

Anything that might give him a clue to her whereabouts.

Sam picked up his phone and punched in the numbers he had been given by the two loan sharks.

'Yep?'

The voice was distracted. Disinterested.

'It's the bloke you talked to earlier outside the Renshaw's place,' said Sam. 'I think I might have something.'

Straight away, the tone on the other end changed.

'Oh yeah, what you got?'

'Look, no offence, mate, but I'd rather talk to your boss.'

'Why can't you-'

'Take it or leave it.'

Sam heard a heavy sigh, then whispering and the noise of the phone being handed over.

'You've got some information about Molly Renshaw?' a new voice asked.

'Yeah, that's right,' Sam told him. 'She's living on Hodge Hill Road. A friend of mine saw her coming out of one of the houses-'

'Hodge Hill Road? There's some money up there.'

Sam composed himself. The bloke was falling for it.

'Look, I was wondering. If your guys are going to go up there, can I tag along?'

Sam heard laughter on the other end. It was a spiteful, unpleasant sound. He knew he had more chance of going to the moon.

'Sorry, fella. The guys told me about your situation but that's not my problem. We don't take passengers along with us.'

'Yeah, but if there's more of us...'

More cynical laughter.

'We don't need any help. My boys are capable of looking after the situation.'

Sam exaggerated a sigh.

'I don't know why Carl Renshaw needed to borrow money, anyway,' he said, sounding defeated. 'The bloke was bloody loaded.'

Sam closed his eyes, willing the man to give him something. Any bit of tittle-tattle.

'Drugs, sunshine. That's the rumour. Anyway, thanks for the tip. Have a nice life.'

Sam heard the phone click at the other end.

Now, why had Carl Renshaw needed money for drugs?

Standing outside the garages at the rear of the flats, Sam realised he couldn't get his car out. Lucy's garage was locked and she had the only key to it on her. He would have to use the Clio again. Sam hoped sticking with the unfamiliar car would prove to be a blessing in disguise.

He drove into town and parked in the small bay outside Rigbys auction house. It was getting late in the day and he didn't have any idea how late such places stayed open. It didn't look promising. There were no lights on at the front. He tried the large oak doors but they were locked. Round the back it was then.

He didn't want to leave the Clio out front on display, so he drove down the side road and carried on past the rear entrance of Rigbys. Driving by, he saw the gates still open. A wagon sat idle in the yard with its lights on. Sam hoped it was just leaving. He parked the Clio just yards past the gates, switched the headlights off and waited. Darkness had descended and the area was practically deserted. Sam checked his phone again. No calls. No texts.

Minutes later, he heard the wagon roar into life. He got out of the car and peeked into the yard. The wagon was coming out. A man waved the driver off before dipping his head under the shutters and going inside the back of the auction house. Sam watched with bated breath. The shutters stayed halfway up.

Sam waited in the shadows until the wagon had turned out of the gates,. Then he walked casually into the yard. A soft yellow light shone weakly from beneath the shutters.

'Hello?' he called out cheerfully, bending down to look under the shutters. He straightened up when he a voice shouted back from inside.

'Hold on, mate. Let me take these up a bit.'

Sam stepped back and watched the shutters rise a few feet, just high enough for someone to walk through upright. They stopped with a shuddering halt. A young man wearing jeans and a jumper looked at him with curiosity.

'Can I help you?' he asked.

'I tried the front but there was no answer,' said Sam, giving him a friendly smile. 'Hope you don't mind me coming round here?'

The young man shrugged easily. He didn't look any more than eighteen years old.

'Well, we're just about to lock up for the day...'

'Ah, I see. Well, I won't keep you. I just wanted to ask about your storage facilities. I need somewhere to store some of my stuff.'

Sam got a blank look in reply.

'You have got a warehouse, haven't you?' asked Sam. 'A friend of mine told me he used your warehouse for storage.'

The man shook his head.

'There's only this despatch area and a small box room for storing items ready to go on auction,' he explained, looking confused. 'Hold on, I'll go and fetch the boss for you. I've only been working here a week.'

Sam thought he was going to be left standing where he was, but the young man invited him to wait inside before disappearing to find his boss. The area Sam found himself in was no more than a modest loading bay, a smaller version of the one at Carl's factory. Against a wall stood a battered grey filing cabinet. Sam walked over to take a closer look. The top drawer was labelled
Customer Invoices: A-F
. Sam bent down and pulled out the third drawer:
M-R.
He found it particularly difficult to open. Rust had set in and he only got it out all the way by jiggling it about noisily on its runners. Once it was fully out, Sam took a quick glance behind him. Nobody was coming yet. He turned his attention back to the drawer and rifled through the sheets of paper until he came to the
R
's. He flicked through them.

Randall. Raymond. Rendall. Renshaw.

Renshaw.

He pulled out the piece of paper and scanned it.

Sale of goods. Mr Carl Renshaw.

Sam heard voices. He hastily folded the piece of paper and stuffed it in his back pocket. The voices were getting nearer. Sam took a quick glance at some of the other sheets in the drawer before slamming it shut, covering the screeching sound with a sudden bout of coughing.

A tall, elegant man with grey hair appeared in the doorway, looking at Sam with mild concern.

'Are you okay?' he asked.

Sam put his hands on his waist and took a few deep breaths.

'Yeah, just a touch of flu. I'll be alright.'

The man gave him a sympathetic look but didn't come any closer.

'Well, I'm Charles Rigby. What can I do for you?'

Sam had prepared for the question. Mentioning Carl's name to Charles Rigby could be risky, but it was a calculated chance he was prepared to take.

'A friend of mine...the late Carl Renshaw...'

Sam watched as Rigby's jaw tensed up and his eyes widened. Everybody in Bursleigh must have heard of Carl Renshaw's tragic and mysterious death by now. It had been all over the news. But Rigby's reaction looked more personal.

'He told me before he died that you stored some of his possessions for him. He recommended that if I never needed to do the same-'

Rigby cut Sam off.

'No, you must be mistaken,' he insisted. 'We haven't got the space here to do such a thing. Anyway, we're an auction house not a storage company.'

More lies. Sam had heard enough.

'Oh, okay,' he said, giving Rigby a disappointed look. 'I must have got it wrong. Sorry to have bothered you.'

Rigby gave him a hollow smile. The colour had drained out of his face. His eyes darted around nervously.

'That's not a problem,' he said, moving towards the shutters. 'I'll see you out.'

Sam allowed himself to be ushered out of the loading bay. Walking across the yard, he heard the shutters come down and thought of how Rigby had been a picture of sobriety and good grace until Carl Renshaw's name had been mentioned.

That told Sam a lot.

Rigby hadn't recognised him. Nor had he asked for his name.

Sam Carlisle meant nothing to Charles Rigby.

His visit hadn't increased the danger to Lucy.

Sam blew out his cheeks in relief.

He opened the door. All was silent inside. Stealthily, Sam made his way along the hallway. With each peek into an empty room, his heart sank that little bit more. He had allowed himself a brief glimmer of hope while driving back to Lucy's flat. Her captor may have released her. The police may have intervened and rescued her. She might even have escaped.

Sam slumped down on the sofa, castigating himself for his foolish optimism. He checked his phone again, knowing it was useless. No calls. A temptation to throw the phone against the nearest wall in disgust overcame him, but he stopped himself. The mobile was his only hope. With no idea where Lucy was, who was holding her, or even where to look anymore, it was his only possible connection with her captor. Despondently, he dropped the phone gently onto the sofa alongside him.

It landed next to the battery charger Lucy had bought earlier. Sam realised he never got to hear the rest of the article concerning Martyn Taylor's sentencing. He unwrapped the charger, connected it to the laptop and switched the computer on. As he waited for it to fire up, Sam tried to piece together what he had found out today.

The loan shark had fed him the gossip that Carl had taken a loan to buy drugs. Now, such an idea would have been laughable to Sam a couple of days ago, but not anymore. Not after all the lies and revelations that had come to light recently. Anyway, there would have been no reason to give Sam such a story. Not unless it was true. And Sam was aware people at the most scurrilous end of the lending business had a habit of being spot on about such things. So, what had Carl been up to? The drugs wouldn't have been for personal use, not when he had borrowed such huge sums of money. No, he had to be buying large quantities to sell on.

Suddenly, some things began to make sense to Sam.

He remembered the piece of paper in his back pocket. He took it out and studied it. The invoice showed a number of items sold by Charles Rigby on behalf of Carl Renshaw, to the combined value of hundreds of thousands of pounds. Furniture. Statues. Paintings. Antiques. All valuables from Carl Renshaw's home. As far as Sam could tell, the paperwork looked legal and above board. Charles Rigby had taken a small percentage of the sales as his commission and the rest had gone straight to Carl.

Nor was it the only such invoice attributed to Carl. Sam had seen several more in Rigby's filing cabinet, all records of money Carl had raked in from the sale of his assets. It explained why Charles Rigby had looked so shaken. The man had not been doing anything illegal, but he had been covering up for Carl by pretending he was storing the goods. Sam recalled the puzzled look on Peter Canning's face while describing how he regularly unloaded outside the front of the auction house. No wonder. The goods had been taken off the wagon, carried though the building and then sold on almost immediately. Carl hadn't wanted anyone to know. Sam could only presume he had done it in an attempt to prop up his troubled business. Sam wondered if Molly had known the truth. He doubted it. Carl had gone to too much trouble to keep it quiet.

Sam guessed Carl was selling on drugs for the same reason. To bring in desperately needed money. He had been trying to turn things round while still keeping up the facade of a healthy financial position. But with the redundancies, the cracks had begun to show. One thing troubled Sam. Why hadn't the loan sharks been paid off and kept at bay? Carl had either been unwilling or unable to pay back what he owed.

Sam wondered if this was the real reason Carl had employed him. To protect him from loan sharks. With a touch of embarrassment, Sam recalled the story Carl had given him about environmental activists.

Sam had to give Carl Renshaw some credit. He had been one totally convincing liar.