Free A New Dawn Rising by Michael Joseph

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.

Chapter 18
    '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