Even when Samson was trying to help.
‘Sod Will!’ she muttered. ‘Christmas is only two weeks away, so we need all the bodies we can get up there or we’ll never be ready. Besides, it’s Lucy’s home we’re building. She gets the final say. And she told me to ask you.’
Samson laughed. ‘So I can hide behind Lucy when Will’s looking murderous with a nail gun in his hand?’
The image brought a grin to Delilah’s face. Slender Lucy hiding the broad-shouldered Samson while the much stockier Will menaced him. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’ll bring Tolpuddle. He’ll happily guard you.’
‘Then it’s a deal,’ said Samson.
They turned into the courtyard at the back of Fellside Court and Delilah bent down to loop Tolpuddle’s lead under one of the wrought-iron chairs that decorated the paving.
‘We won’t be long,’ she promised, a pair of amber eyes regarding her with reproach. ‘Try and be a good boy.’
‘Isn’t he always?’ asked Samson, ruffling the dog’s ears.
The question was met with a wry smile. ‘Depends where you rank destroying perfectly good trainers on the naughty scale. Punctured uppers and torn soles were what greeted me when I got up this morning.’
‘Were they yours?’
The smile disappeared, a dark look taking its place. ‘Who else would they belong to?’
Samson held up both hands in submission, grinning mischievously at having triggered the famous temper. ‘Just asking.’
The grin transported Delilah right back to her childhood and school holidays spent trailing round after Ryan and Samson, the much older lads tolerant of her to a point. Until they started teasing her, provoking her until she blew up. She’d give anything to be able to go back there for a day.
She’d also give anything for the trainers in her porch to have been hers. But they weren’t. They were her ex-husband’s, Tolpuddle having found them stowed in a place that Delilah had overlooked when she cleared out all of Neil’s stuff and moved it to the office building. He would hit the roof when he came back to collect his belongings and saw what had become of his very expensive Reeboks. If he ever came back . . .
But as Samson wasn’t even aware that she’d been married, as far as she knew, she wasn’t about to tell him and risk another lecture on the perils of youthful romance. Bad enough that she had to suffer Will’s moral superiority on the topic every time her marital status came up.
She sighed, her spirits sinking like the clouds on the fells, and Samson kicked himself for taunting her. What was it about Delilah that made him revert to the behaviour of his youth?
‘Come on.’ He nudged her with his elbow. ‘Let’s get this over with and go for lunch in the Fleece. My treat.’ He opened the door to the retirement complex and ushered Delilah in ahead of him. ‘Who is your meeting with this morning, anyway?’
‘The new manager – Ana . . .’ Delilah pulled her notepad out of her bag as she entered the foyer. ‘. . . Stoyanova,’ she said, reading from the pad.
‘Not Rick Procter?’
‘No. He doesn’t get involved, just lets a subsidiary company run it.’ She bent over to sign the visitors’ book that lay on a sideboard in the hallway. ‘That said,’ she continued, passing her pen to Samson, ‘he’s asked me to meet him for a drink later, to run things past him. Typical Rick. Can’t bear not to be hands-on.’
The thought of the good-looking property developer being hands-on with anything that involved Delilah triggered a flash of annoyance in Samson. He knew that most of Bruncliffe viewed the man differently – a successful entrepreneur who hadn’t forgotten his roots, despite his wealth, and gave a lot back to the town. Even the purchase of Twistleton Farm was considered an act of kindness by many, taking a derelict property off old Boozy O’Brien and offering him the chance of a new life.
Something the man’s own son hadn’t been around to provide.
But Samson didn’t trust Rick Procter and never would. Biting back a retort, he signed the visitors’ book and then nodded towards the wall of glass through which they’d entered, the fells rising in the background. ‘Stunning, isn’t it?’
‘It sure is. The residents must love it.’
‘I assure you, they do.’ A clipped voice made them turn to see a young woman coming down the stairs to their right. ‘Ms Metcalfe? I’m Ana Stoyanova, manager at Fellside Court. Pleased to meet you.’
The words were warm enough, even if the woman’s features remained frozen, no hint of a smile on her red lips, green eyes coolly appraising the visitors. Whatever her temperament, she was beautiful, making even her uniform of fitted tunic and black trousers look chic.
‘Delilah – please call me Delilah.’ The two women shook hands and Ana turned to Samson.
‘And Mr O’Brien. You’re here to see your father?’
Samson made no attempt to hide his surprise. ‘Have we met?’
She nodded. ‘Briefly. The first time you visited. But I’ve heard a lot about you. It’s good to see you visiting more often. I think people don’t realise how important family contact is in old age.’
A hint of red curled up Samson’s cheeks and Delilah wondered if it was triggered by the attentions of an attractive woman, or by the sting of what she’d said.
‘If you’ve both signed in,’ continued the manager, ‘Ms Metcalfe, would you join me in my office? Enjoy your visit, Mr O’Brien.’ Ana gestured to an open door and Delilah followed her inside, leaving Samson standing in the corridor. He was racking his brain as to how he didn’t remember meeting such a remarkable woman when he heard his father calling from the far end of the hallway.
‘Samson! What brings you here?’ Unlike Ana Stoyanova, Joseph O’Brien was sporting a wide smile, his time-worn face alight with pleasure.
‘What makes you think it isn’t you?’ asked Samson, as the two men shook hands, a slight awkwardness lingering in the physical contact which had ceased to be normal decades before.
Joseph gave a gentle laugh. ‘Sure, I don’t mind either way. It’s a joy to see you. You’re just in time for a coffee, too . . .’
‘Why, if it isn’t the prodigal son!’ exclaimed Arty Robinson, spotting the two O’Briens entering the crowded lounge. A devilish smile accompanied his words as he turned to the gathered residents. ‘But what a shame, ladies. He’s come fully clothed!’
A loud burst of laughter from the pensioners saved Samson from having to reply and Joseph led him over to where his group of friends was sitting.
‘Take no heed of him, Samson,’ said Edith Hird, casting a reproving glance at the stout figure of the bookmaker, who was still chuckling. ‘He’s beyond taming.’
‘Yes,’ said Clarissa Ralph, patting Samson’s hand as he took a seat next to her. ‘Arty doesn’t mean any offence. He’s just excited, as we all are, about the adventures you’ve been having.’
Not sure whether he’d classify leaping through a fire in his boxer shorts as an adventure, Samson grimaced. ‘Hopefully I won’t be having any more for the foreseeable future,’ he said.
‘Oh, but you must!’ exclaimed Arty. ‘What else would Bruncliffe have to talk about?’
‘Your expanding waistline?’ wheezed Eric Bradley, a grin visible below the thin tube connecting him to his oxygen cylinder.
‘Expanding? I’ll have you know . . .’
Samson let the banter wash over him, glancing at his father in the chair opposite, a contented look on the older man’s face. No signs of drinking. A light in his eyes that Samson remembered from his childhood. And a flush to his cheeks that wasn’t caused by alcohol.
The place was good for him, thought Samson.
The same could be said of the others as they carried on an animated conversation punctuated by laughter, comfortable in each other’s company and in their surroundings.
And who wouldn’t be? High-backed chairs and a few sofas – most of them occupied – were scattered around the room in small clusters; coffee tables covered in magazines and
board games formed focal points; and a long wall of floor-to-ceiling windows looked out onto the courtyard. The space was well lit, tastefully decorated, and felt like home.
Alice Shepherd must have got something wrong. There was nothing malevolent about Fellside Court.
‘Would you like a coffee, Mr O’Brien?’
Samson twisted in his chair to see a woman wearing a navy-blue staff tunic, dark hair swaying along dimpled cheeks, a pot of coffee in her hand. ‘Yes, sorry, I don’t think we’ve met?’
‘I saw your picture in the paper – you know . . .’ She smiled.
‘Sorry, son. Where are my manners?’ Joseph O’Brien gestured towards the woman. ‘This is Vicky Hudson, our care assistant.’
‘The angel of Fellside Court,’ chipped in Arty with a wink. ‘She keeps us all on the straight and narrow.’
‘A big task, then?’ Samson smiled at Vicky, who laughed.
‘Oh no, they’re mostly well behaved. And besides, I leave the discipline to Ana.’
‘She’s better suited to it,’ muttered Edith Hird.
If Vicky heard, she made no comment, simply poured a coffee for Samson and placed it on the small table next to him. ‘Sugar, Mr O’Brien?’
‘No, thank you. And call me Samson, please.’
‘Yes,’ said Arty, nudging Eric. ‘No need for formalities with Bruncliffe’s boxer-shorts hero.’
Vicky laughed again, shaking her head at the roguish old man. ‘I wasn’t going to mention that,’ she said.
‘Why not?’ said Samson with an exaggerated sigh. ‘Everyone else does.’
‘Well, boxer shorts or not, it’s a pleasure to meet you.’ She held out a hand and took his in a firm handshake. ‘I hope you’ll stay for the talk?’
‘Talk?’
‘We have talks on a Thursday morning,’ said Joseph. ‘Something Ana started when she took over. They get some expert in to speak about their field of interest. Last week was a retired policeman talking about rural crime. It was fascinating.’
‘And today?’
‘A local lass. Talking about the geology of the Dales.’
‘Elaine Bullock,’ said Edith Hird. ‘You might remember her from school, Samson? She was a year or two below you, I think?’
‘I know her.’ Samson grinned, thinking about the week before when he’d seen Elaine waiting on tables in Peaks Patisserie, looking totally harassed. Officially a lecturer in geology, she supplemented her part-time hours by working in the cafe, saving the money to pay for trips around the world. Trips to see rocks. ‘I think that might be worth waiting for. If only to see her face when she spots me in the audience.’
‘Talking of audience,’ said Arty, looking at his watch. ‘Where’s Alice? She won’t want to miss her god-daughter. Especially when she suggested that Elaine be invited to speak.’ He pulled his mobile out of his pocket.
‘Elaine Bullock is Alice Shepherd’s god-daughter?’ Samson asked his father, as Arty held the phone to his ear.
Joseph nodded. ‘You know how it is around here. Everyone’s related. Kick one of them and they all limp!’
‘No answer,’ said Arty.
‘She’s probably left her phone in her handbag, as usual,’ said Edith. ‘You’d best go and get her.’
‘I’ll go,’ Clarissa offered, already getting to her feet. ‘I need to get my glasses anyway.’
As she left the room, Ana Stoyanova entered, accompanied by Delilah. They were deep in conversation – Ana’s face serious, Delilah taking notes. When the manager saw Samson sitting in the group at the far end of the room, she indicated for Delilah to follow her towards them.
‘I hope you’re going to stay for the talk, Mr O’Brien?’ she said as she approached. ‘I’ve persuaded Ms Metcalfe to join us so she can get an idea of the social activities Fellside Court provides. It would be good for you to witness it too.’
‘I’ve already had my arm twisted,’ said Samson with a grin.
Ana dipped her head slightly, no lifting of the lips in response. ‘Good. Now if you will excuse me, I have some calls to make.’
‘Before you go,’ said Delilah, ‘I need to take your photograph for the website. Shall we do it now?’
A delicate eyebrow arched up, followed by a frown. ‘Is it really necessary?’
Delilah smiled. ‘A friendly face is a powerful marketing tool.’
‘I’d really rather not today. I’m very busy. Perhaps another time—?’ The manager broke off as footsteps sounded along the corridor and Clarissa burst into the lounge. ‘Why, Clarissa! Whatever—?’
‘Call an ambulance!’ exclaimed Clarissa, eyes wide with shock. ‘It’s Alice. She’s collapsed.’
A crash of crockery underlined her announcement and a hush descended. Then Ana Stoyanova was rushing out of the room, Samson and Delilah close behind her.
5
They followed Ana up the stairs, all of them taking the steps two at a time. Turning right through the stairwell door, Ana led the way down the corridor, mobile phone pressed to her ear, talking to the ambulance service as she hurried towards the open door of the first flat on the left.
‘You two, wait outside,’ she snapped over her shoulder, before rushing through the lounge to the bedroom, where the petite shape of Alice Shepherd could be seen crumpled on the floor by the foot of the bed.
‘I’m a police officer,’ Samson replied, following her. ‘Let me help.’
Ana was already feeling for a pulse, her phone trapped between her head and shoulder as she gently laid her fingers against the frail wrist protruding from a fleece dressing gown. ‘Here,’ she said, thrusting the mobile at him. ‘Tell them where we are. And tell them to hurry.’
‘Is she okay?’ Vicky Hudson was in the doorway, her voice quavering. ‘I mean—’
‘Fetch the defibrillator and then call Dr Naylor. And you,’ she pointed at Delilah, ‘no one else is to come in here other than the paramedics.’
Delilah nodded and turned to man the door, grateful not to have to witness Alice Shepherd’s indignity any further as, with practised efficiency, Ana turned the old woman onto her back, checked her airways and began to administer CPR. When the manager saw Vicky still hovering, she snarled. ‘Go! Now!’
Vicky stumbled from the room and Samson – having given the emergency services all the information they needed – dropped to his knees beside Ana.
‘Any pulse at all?’ he asked.
She shook her head, hands moving rhythmically on the old lady’s chest. ‘Come on, Alice,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘Come on!’
In the distance came the sound of sirens, growing ever louder.
‘Here, let me,’ offered Samson, but Ana shook her head.
‘She’s my charge. My responsibility.’
‘And she’s my friend’s godmother,’ said Samson.
Ana glanced up at him, gave a brief nod, and allowed him to take her place. But Alice Shepherd refused to respond.
After what seemed like an age since Vicky Hudson had raced back into the apartment with the defibrillator, Delilah heard the ambulance pulling up outside, the crash of doors and the pound of heavy feet across paving stones. And voices. Confused voices, Arty Robinson’s rising above them all, calling for calm, telling everyone to stay in the lounge. Then a voice she knew, floating up the stairwell and down the corridor. A voice full of panic.
‘Delilah!’ Elaine Bullock was running towards her, dark plaits swinging, glasses slipping down her nose. ‘Alice? Is she . . . ?’
‘She’s collapsed,’ said Delilah, taking her friend’s hands, feeling the tremors in the fingers. ‘Samson and Ana are with her.’
Footsteps on the stairs heralded two paramedics, one male, one female, the authority of their uniforms giving a sense of relief. And fear.
‘In here,’ said Delilah. ‘She’s in here.’
‘What’s her name, love?’ asked the woman.
‘Alice Shepherd.’
‘And her age?’
‘Eight
y-one,’ replied Elaine, entering the apartment with the two paramedics. As the door closed behind them, Delilah could hear the man already talking to Alice.
She didn’t hear any response.
A cold breath of air brushed across her neck, making her shiver. She thought it was shock. Then she spotted the corridor window slightly ajar, the chill December air stealing in.
It took a couple of strides to reach it. An outstretched hand to close it. She didn’t look out. She was too busy worrying about what was happening behind Alice Shepherd’s apartment door.
For a Weimaraner with anxiety issues, Tolpuddle had been behaving impeccably. Having tested the extent of his freedom against the weight of the chair restraining him, he’d settled down on the cold paving, his lead stretched taut. He’d whimpered a couple of times, more out of habit than genuine emotion, then had lain down reluctantly, head on paws as the skies above grew darker. His grey shape merged into the courtyard background and the growing gloom.
When the ambulance arrived, he’d watched warily as two people jumped down and hurried across the courtyard, one of them banging into a table with his hip as he passed, a chair knocked over in the impact. Uttering a muffled curse, the man raced after his colleague, not stopping to reposition the furniture. Not realising there was a dog behind it.
Tolpuddle felt it straight away. The slight tension on his collar eased. He sat up and inched further from the fallen chair, his slack lead following snake-like across the paving slabs. Then he heard a familiar voice.
Ears picking up, he walked around the corner towards the car park and was just in time to see her hand, outstretched, as she closed the window above. He trotted over directly beneath, ignoring the divisions between footpath, grass and border, and stood amongst the low bushes staring up at the glass. He barked, once. But she didn’t reappear.
Date with Malice Page 5