Searching For Hope Read online

  SEARCHING FOR HOPE

  by Michael Joseph

  Copyright © 2014 Michael Joseph

  All rights reserved.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Also By This Author

  A New Dawn Rising

  Death In July

  Chapter 1

  Sam Carlisle peered down at his watch. 3am.

  'Right!' he exclaimed, finishing his whisky and getting to his feet. 'Time to go home.'

  No response.

  Sam gazed down at his friends. Denny was bolt upright in his chair, head back with his eyes closed, snoring gently. Alongside him, Archie was slumped forward, chin in the palm of his hand, also fast asleep. The table in front of them was strewn with empty glasses and bottles.

  Sam rolled his eyes. It had been Archie's idea to come out tonight, then Denny's to continue on to this dingy club in the notorious dock area of Newgate. Now look at them. The last of the big time drinkers.

  Sam scanned the dimly-lit, near empty room. In the far corner, two elderly men berated each other vigorously in drunken argument. On the tiny dance floor, a hulking man in navy uniform clung to his leather-clad, female companion, the pair swaying to the soulful number drifting mournfully from the speakers. Over by the bar, a young man stared morosely into his empty glass.

  Sam shook his head. It really was time to leave.

  He checked his phone and sighed. No reception. Sam headed outside to call a taxi for himself and his two lightweight friends.

  'Door's locked, mate! You'll have to leave out the side!'

  Sam halted. A stocky doorman with heavily tattooed arms and a savage crew cut pointed to a fire exit across the room. Sam nodded and changed direction.

  'What about your pals?' the doorman shouted. 'They can't sleep here all night! This isn't a doss house!'

  Sam resisted the temptation to point out that's exactly what it was. Instead, he gave the man a dismissive wave.

  'I'll be back for them in a minute!'

  Sam pushed the fire exit door open, stepped out into the January night and immediately felt the cold air prick at his skin. He was in a narrow alleyway, its brick floor dusted with a light coat of frost. To his right, dustbins lined the wall running down to a dead end. The opposite direction led out onto the main road, silent and deserted at this hour. Sam grunted, pulled out his phone and punched in numbers. He would ask the cab to pick them up out front.

  Something stirred nearby. The slightest noise. Sam ignored it, presuming an animal was scavenging amongst the bins. Shuffling his feet to ward off the cold, he waited for a reply down the phone.

  Another noise. A weak groan from behind the nearest bin.

  'Newgate Cabs. Where do you-'

  Sam ended the call and stared at the bin. Curiosity roused, he walked slowly towards the source of the noise. What he saw behind the bin confused him. A bundle of rags on the floor. Sam inched forward to take a closer look. A form began to define itself in the shadows. A human form. Sam realised he was gazing down at a man lying flat on his back, eyes wide open, staring up at the night sky.

  His upper body covered in blood.

  Sam dropped down beside the lifeless figure and located a faint pulse. The man was barely breathing. A deep chest wound was clearly visible, the lost blood dried hard on the man's coat. A knife? Sam thought it highly likely. He took off his own jacket and placed it across the stranger's chest. Then he removed his sweater, folded it up and tucked it under the stricken man's head. The man groaned weakly, his lips barely moving, eyes still fixated on the stars high above.

  'Hang on,' whispered Sam. 'I'm getting help.'

  He called the emergency services, studying the wounded figure as the phone rang out. Mid-forties. Gaunt, with blotchy, weather-beaten skin. Straw-blonde hair, lengthy and unwashed. Straggly beard. Grubby clothes. Worn-out shoes. Stale body odour. Sam chewed on his lip. This man was living rough.

  A crisp voice punctuated Sam's musings.

  'Which service do you require?'

  'Ambulance,' replied Sam hurriedly, 'and police. Quickly.'

  Sam gave his location, tucked the phone away and turned his attention back to the injured man, noting the pallid complexion and glazed eyes. The man's lips had turned a soft shade of blue, his breathing was quiet and shallow. The life was draining out of him. In that moment, Sam was certain of one thing.

  This man was not going to survive. He would be lucky to see the ambulance arrive.

  Then, to Sam's surprise, the man roused. His eyes began to dart around with urgency. He tried to lift his head, causing a trickle of blood to roll down the corner of his mouth. Sam leaned over him.

  'Easy,' he whispered, taking the man's hand in his own. 'Don't move.'

  The man wasn't listening. His lips moved wordlessly. His eyes, suddenly clear and piercing, locked onto Sam with intent.

  'Help...'

  The solitary word came out as a croak. More blood flowed.

  'You're going to be okay,' replied Sam, lying through gritted teeth. He gave the man's hand a gentle squeeze. 'Just hang on-'

  Suddenly, Sam felt himself being tugged forward. To his amazement, the man had found enough energy from within his weak body to grab Sam's shirt and pull him close. Sam didn't resist. The man desperately wanted to convey something.

  'No...not me...'

  Sam shook his head, mystified. The two men were so close now their noses were almost touching. Sam could feel the man's breath on his face. He saw no fear in the stranger's eyes, just a burning desire to communicate before it was too late. Then the grip began to slacken on Sam's shirt. The man's eyes began to roll. A whisper escaped his lips as his eyelids closed.

  'Help...me...find...'

  A sudden commotion shattered their tragic solitude. Sam looked up. Denny and Archie had appeared, the pair being expertly manhandled out the fire exit by the doorman. The surly bouncer was giving them the benefit of his wisdom.

  'Now, go home and don't come-'

  All three of them stopped in their tracks when they saw Sam, kneeling on the frozen floor, cradling a dying man.

  Sam looked back down.

  The man had stopped breathing.

  Chapter 2

  'A pleasure doing business with you, Sam.'

  Sam took the envelope offered to him and peeked inside. He raised his eyebrows.

  'This is more than my regular fee, George. A lot more.'

  George Connelly smiled easily.

  'Call it a bonus, Sam. My appreciation for everything you've done.'

  Sam shrugged and pocketed the envelope. He knew Connelly could afford it. What the colourful nightclub owner couldn't afford was his reputation being undermined, a strong possibility two weeks ago when armed men sauntered into one of his clubs, threatened the staff and casually walked out with the night's takings. Hired by a seething Connelly to rectify the situation, Sam had tracked the gang down and leaned on them in his own inimitable style, ensuring they saw the error of their ways and returned the stolen money. Every single penny of it. Connelly was delighted. Sam was phlegmatic. Another case tied up. One more satisfied customer.

  Sam left Connelly's plush apartment and headed back home, nudging his Capri across town at a modest speed. The whole of East Anglia was blanketed in frozen snow following two days of blizzards and sub-zero temperatures, leaving the roads in a treacherous condition, laden with lethal patches of black ice. As Sam crawled through the town centre, eerily quiet for a weekday afternoon, he peered up at the leaden sky. More snow was predicted for later in the day. The coastal resort of Ne
wgate had been warned to batten down the hatches.

  Sam's mind began to wander. Solving the mysterious death of Geoffrey Compton six months ago had earned him notable praise throughout Newgate and beyond, earmarking him as a private investigator who got results. Sam had been inundated with work since, allowing him the luxury of picking and choosing his cases. The more challenging or intriguing, the more likely he was to be interested. His workload had been such he was only now facing his first period of inactivity. Sam knew he should be relishing the break, but it had left him with a dilemma. One he wasn't sure how-

  A sudden squealing noise forced Sam out of his daydream. A lorry up ahead was skidding on the icy road, slewing sideways as its driver fought desperately to regain control. It shuddered to a violent halt, stationary across the entire width of the road. The driver looked in Sam's direction. Alarm spread across his face.

  Sam was approaching fast.

  Too fast.

  Sam cursed his own lapse in concentration. He had allowed his car to build up too much speed down the slight incline and now the stricken lorry was looming up large. With no room to pass by, Sam touched on the brake pedal, aware too much pressure could send him into a spin. The Capri struggled to gain traction on the icy surface, forcing him to press down harder. Up ahead, the lorry driver watched on in horror, transfixed by the vehicle about to plough into him. Sam grimaced. His car was beginning to slow down but not quickly enough. The lorry was almost upon him.

  Sam shook his head.

  He had run out of options.

  Gritting his teeth, he slammed both feet down and turned the steering wheel with vigour. The car began to spin as Sam feared, its tyres shrieking in protest at the emergency stop. The car wheeled around until Sam was facing the direction he had come from. With the vehicle sliding backwards, he braced himself for impact, relying on the rear end to take the brunt of the collision.

  Then all was still.

  There had been no enormous bang. No crash. Sam looked over his shoulder. The back of the Capri had come to rest millimetres from the trunk of the lorry.

  Sam turned back round and looked up ruefully at the sky.

  Large snowflakes were falling.

  ***

  Half an hour later, Sam pulled up in front of a row of shops, parking outside the door that lead up to his flat. He switched off the engine, still mulling over his near miss, cursing his transgression while marvelling at his good fortune.

  A small van eased into the space ahead of him. A sturdy, middle-aged woman wearing a padded yellow jacket, patterned bobble hat and lime green boots got out and hurried round to the rear of the van, her head bent low against the driving snow. She opened the back doors and slid out a large cardboard box. Sam watched her lift the box up over the lip of the pavement and carry it to the flower shop next to his front door. There she fumbled with her keys, struggling to unlock the shop door while keeping the box off the sodden floor. Suddenly, the keys slipped out of her hand and fell to the ground.

  Sam got out of his car and immediately found himself smothered by heavy snowfall.

  'Moira!' he called out, spitting flakes out of his mouth. 'Let me help you with that!'

  Moira Kennedy looked his way and smiled wearily, pushing strands of red hair out of her eyes.

  'Thanks, Sam,' she replied, her cheeks flush despite the cold. She handed him the box and picked the keys up. 'Let's get out of this awful weather!'

  Moira let them both into the shop. Sam carried the box through to the small kitchen out the back and placed it down next to a copy of the local paper. Something on the front page caught his eye.

  'Cup of tea, Sam?' asked Moira, hanging her coat up.

  Sam didn't reply. He was engrossed in the paper.

  'Is that the man you found the other night?'

  Moira was at his shoulder, peering at the paper.

  'Yeah,' he said, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. 'Nobody's come forward to identify him yet.'

  Moira gave Sam a quizzical look.

  'What are you thinking?'

  Sam allowed himself a smile. His landlady's flamboyant personality hid a mind that was sharper than most.

  'Sometimes, Moira, your uncanny knack of perception is quite frightening.'

  Moira returned the smile, curiosity in her eyes.

  'So...?'

  Sam leaned back against the worktop and folded his arms, recalling how warmly Moira had welcomed him to Newgate over a year ago, letting out the flat above her shop to him, encouraging him as he started up his private investigation business. The woman had a heart of gold. She was also a mighty good listener.

  'I'm going to make some enquiries...'

  'Enquiries?'

  Sam glanced down at the paper again.

  'Yeah, I want to find out more about the man. It's the least I can do for him.'

  Moira looked confused.

  'I don't understand,' she said, chewing her bright scarlet lip. 'I mean...I know it must have been horrible for you finding the poor man like that, but he was a complete stranger...'

  Sam hadn't mentioned the man's final, breathless words to anyone apart from the police. He hadn't seen the need. It wasn't the first time he had comforted someone in their last moments and, given his current profession, it may not be the last. Nor was Sam easily affected by such a scenario. He wouldn't have lasted two minutes in undercover if that was the case.

  However, the images from that night wouldn't leave him. The desperate clutch of Sam's shirt, the frantic look in the man's eyes, the urgent desire to communicate...

  Help. Me. Find.

  Those three small words had played repeatedly in Sam's head since, keeping him awake at night, niggling him during the day. He knew the only way to extinguish them was to find the answer, or at least search for one. Sam had been the sole witness to a dying man's final wish, one he felt obliged to carry out. Even more so now it appeared the deceased had passed away alone in this world, his identity as much a mystery as his death.

  He just had to explain all that to Moira.

  She listened in silence as he relayed those few moments in the alleyway. Her eyes glistened as he described the pull on his shirt, the whispered words, the look of loss in another man's eyes. She nodded when he explained the moral dilemma consuming him since that night. How it had forced him into a decision.

  Neither of them said anything for some time. It was Moira who broke the silence, her words little more than a whisper.

  'I had no idea...'

  She wiped her eyes, smudging her mascara.

  'Could you have misheard?' she asked hopefully. 'He might have been asking for help for himself. He probably knew he was dying.'

  Sam shook his head.

  'No, there was no fear in his eyes. Not for himself, anyway. Whatever he was trying to tell me, it was something else.'

  Moira placed a hand on Sam's shoulder, sensing his frustration.

  'Sam, if you feel you should do something, then go ahead. I don't know how you'd go about it, but asking a few questions can't do any harm, can it?'

  Sam recalled the deep wound in the man's chest. The massive loss of blood suffered as a result. He patted Moira reassuringly on the hand.

  'No, Moira. A few questions can't do any harm.'

  Chapter 3

  Later that afternoon, Sam rang Newgate police station from his flat.

  'Detective Inspector Robins please.'

  As he waited, Sam gazed around the room he used as an office. He had yet to add to the minimal furniture installed on starting up; a wooden desk, two chairs and an old filing cabinet. The flocked wallpaper and tired beige carpet didn't bother him in the least. Moira had suggested sprucing the room up, but Sam had told her with a grin it was a place of work, not a contender for a interior design award.

  'Yes? Robins.'

  Sam winced at the harsh Yorkshire accent.

  'Detective Inspector, this is Sam Carlisle.'

  Robins did little to disguise a deep sigh. The detective had
taken an instant dislike to Sam on their first meeting, pompously declaring private investigation to be a pale imitation of police detective work. Sam had replied everyone was entitled to their opinion. An uneasy atmosphere had existed between the two men since. Sam was only sorry because he had got on well with Robins' predecessor.

  'What can I do for you, Mr Carlisle?'

  Sam had the phone some way from his ear. Robins wasn't shouting. He was just naturally loud.

  'The man I found in the alleyway...'

  'What about him?'

  'Have you got any news?'

  'Mr Carlisle, this isn't a public information line. I'm not here to-'

  'Any leads on who killed him yet?'

  That irritated sigh again.

  'Lines of enquiry are still being investigated.'

  Sam nodded. That meant the police had no idea.

  'And still no clues to his identity?'

  Silence. Sam knew he had touched on a sore point. No detective wanted to admit they were struggling with a case.

  'Look,' said Robins. 'I don't know why you're so interested, but this man was homeless. Living on the streets with no family or friends. He had no identification on him...no belongings to speak of...'

  'Somebody must have known him.'

  'An excellent observation, Mr Carlisle.'

  Sam ignored the sarcasm. He could sense Robins was about to hang up.

  'It doesn't matter if he was homeless or not, detective. A murder is a murder.'

  Robins' voice bristled with indignation.

  'Are you implying we're not taking the death of this man seriously?'

  Sam smiled grimly.

  'Not at all. What I am saying is you must have some idea what was behind it.'

  Robins snapped.

  'Mr Carlisle, we're talking about a homeless man attacked in a back street alley. It could have been caused by anything...a row with another down and out...an argument over drink or drugs. Now, if you don't mind, I'm very busy. Goodbye!'

  The line went dead.

  Sam wasn't surprised by the abrupt ending. He hadn't expected Robins to discuss the case at all, and while he had gained little from the conversation, the detective had confirmed one thing for him, supplying a lead to follow later.