Samson coughed and looked out of the window, unable to explain that the only soaking he’d suffered on his commute had been in the shower of the office bathroom. Hating the deception, he was grateful when the car turned off the road and onto the track leading to High Laithe, home to Lucy Metcalfe and her son Nathan. Delilah wiped the fogged-up windshield and the burned-out carcass of a static caravan came into view at the end of the lane, sitting next to a barn that was in the final stages of conversion. In front of the barn was a Land Rover Samson recognised.
‘Damn it! Will’s here.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Delilah, features setting into a determined line that he knew well. ‘He’ll be fine.’
Samson rubbed his right arm where she’d hit him and made a wry face. ‘Easy for you to say. Personally, I can’t afford any more run-ins with the Metcalfes today.’
They were both laughing as they got out of the car.
He watched them pull up, the pair of them just about visible through the misted-up windshield of that ridiculous car she’d bought. They emerged laughing, the dog exploding out of the cramped back seat in a riot of legs and ears to run with them for the cover of the barn.
He could tell from how she was behaving. She was making yet another mistake.
‘Did you invite him?’ he asked, turning to look up at the tall figure beside him.
Ash Metcalfe shook his head in despair at his older brother. Fair where Will was dark, he had the characteristics typical of the Metcalfe clan – a rangy height and an even temperament. Only Will and Delilah had inherited the shorter stature and darker hair of their maternal ancestors. The fiery nature too, of course.
‘Honestly, Will,’ sighed Ash, ‘he’s a good bloke. You just need to give him a chance.’
‘He’s Samson O’Brien,’ said Will, turning from the door, his broad shoulders squared in annoyance. ‘Or have you forgotten everything that means? Delilah’s a fool for having anything to do with him.’
‘He saved Lucy’s life, or have you forgotten that?’
‘And I’m grateful for it. But that leopard won’t change his spots.’
The stress of taking on the renovation project for his sister-in-law, combined with his brother’s stubbornness, finally triggered a rare outburst of temper from the usually affable Ash.
‘Whatever! Quite frankly, I’ll take any help I can get if it means we can finish this bloody barn by Christmas and get Lucy and Nathan moved in. So keep a civil tongue in your head and try to smile once in a while. And if you can’t manage that, then bugger off!’
He stepped out into the rain to meet his sister and Samson, leaving Will staring after him.
The morning passed by in a blur of activity. Ash, his good spirits having returned, was finishing off the plumbing in the utility, whistling while he worked. As a carpenter by trade – and the only professional builder amongst them – he’d accepted the role of project manager, assigning Will the task of tiling the bathroom and setting Delilah and Lucy painting one of the bedrooms. Harry Furness, the livestock auctioneer, who was known more for his love of talking than for his love of labour, was put to work sanding the floorboards of the large lounge, the ensuing noise of the sander guaranteeing his productivity. And Samson, simply out of Ash’s desire to keep the detective and Will as far apart as possible, had been given the back-breaking job of grouting the floor tiles in the kitchen. He’d acquired an eager assistant in fourteen-year-old Nathan, his godson, who had taken to following Samson around ever since the fire at the caravan when Samson had saved Lucy’s life. When Elaine Bullock pulled up in the Peaks Patisserie van and walked in with a tray piled high with sandwiches, there was a collective sigh of relief and the clatter of downed tools.
‘Now there’s a sight for sore eyes,’ said Ash with a grin, as he relieved Elaine of her burden, Tolpuddle following the transfer with interest.
‘He means the food, Elaine,’ said Delilah. ‘Just in case you thought he’d gone soft.’
Elaine laughed. ‘Don’t worry. I know you Metcalfes too well. Food always comes first.’
They gathered round a makeshift table in the hall, with camping chairs providing seating, and for the first ten minutes there was no talking as the hungry workers attacked their meal.
‘Crikey,’ said Elaine as the mound of sandwiches rapidly dwindled, the auctioneer reaching out for his fourth. ‘I didn’t factor you into the equation, Harry, when I calculated how many to bring.’
‘An army marches on its stomach,’ retorted the auctioneer through a mouthful of food.
‘Judging by the way yours was wobbling when you were using that sander, you should be fine marching for a month or more,’ said Samson, eliciting laughter from the others and an affronted look from Harry.
‘Watch it,’ warned Delilah. ‘He’ll drop you from the darts team.’
Harry, captain of the Fleece’s resurgent team – which owed its recent success to Samson’s prowess – was already shaking his head. ‘Never. He can insult me all he likes, as long as he lines up on the oche on our side.’
‘Does that mean I can also pick your brain?’ asked Samson.
‘About what?’
‘Tups. The theft of them, in particular. Have you heard of any being taken lately?’
The auctioneer’s face grew serious. ‘There’s a fair bit of it about, unfortunately. Even with all the technology in the industry and the improved traceability, animals still get stolen.’
‘But what do thieves do with them?’ asked Lucy. ‘I mean, they’re tagged, so they can’t exactly be sold at auction.’
‘Black market,’ said Harry. ‘Unscrupulous abattoirs take them. And sometimes, if they’re good specimens, they’ll be used for breeding on the quiet.’ He turned back to Samson. ‘Why are you asking?’
‘He’s chasing a missing tup,’ scoffed Will before Samson could reply. ‘Clive Knowles has hired him to find that Swaledale he bought last backend.’
‘Clive Knowles?’ Harry looked sceptical. ‘Then I’d take payment up front if I were you. He’s known to be slow paying his bills, is Clive. I was surprised when he forked out for that tup.’
‘Do you think it was stolen, then?’ asked Will, his concern as a farmer overriding his reluctance to engage Samson in conversation.
‘I’m not sure yet. But someone definitely visited the field in a truck around the time Ralph went missing.’
‘When was this?’ asked Ash.
‘This week.’
Will frowned. ‘Was the tup not in with the yows?’
‘Yeah, he was.’
‘But they took only the tup?’
Samson nodded, impressed by Will’s sharpness. ‘Exactly. That’s what’s been puzzling me. Why take only Ralph, when there was a field full of sheep?’
‘I’m surprised they were able to,’ continued Will. ‘Get a tup in with the yows and they won’t want to leave. It’d be a job to isolate him. Easier to take a load.’
‘Any clues as to who might have done it?’ asked Lucy.
‘Like I said, it’s just a theory at the moment. But I did find this.’ Samson pulled the odd-looking lighter out of his pocket. ‘I don’t suppose anyone recognises it?’
He passed it around the group, all of them shaking their heads until it reached Harry. He turned it over in his hands, frowning, and then looked across at Will.
‘Didn’t Pete Ferris have one like this? I seem to recall him showing it off in the pub one night.’
‘Not that I’m aware of,’ said Will. ‘But Mire End Farm is in his patch.’
‘Patch for what?’ asked Samson, struggling to place the name Harry had given. He vaguely remembered a pack of whey-faced kids at school called Ferris, who had always looked on the verge of malnutrition.
‘Poaching. He followed his dad into the family business.’ Will’s tone was sarcastic. ‘Given that he shares an IQ with the game he hunts, he’ll probably follow his dad into prison, too.’
‘Where would I find him?�
��
‘Out lamping, mostly.’
‘Anywhere else?’ asked Samson, not relishing the idea of trying to approach someone while they were out hunting at night. That was how accidents happened.
‘He has a caravan on a field over near Horton. You could try there.’
‘But be careful,’ warned Harry. ‘He’s as likely to take a shot at you as answer questions. And his dogs are vicious.’
‘Talking of which,’ said Elaine, starting to clear the table, ‘I’d best get back to work before my boss gets vicious.’
Lucy laughed. ‘Good to know my reputation is intact. But I’m a pushover compared to Ash. He’s a regular slave-driver.’
‘Well, in that case,’ Elaine continued, ‘perhaps now is a good time to ask for a few days off.’
‘For Alice’s funeral?’ Lucy put a hand on her friend’s arm. ‘You know you don’t have to ask. Have you got a date?’
‘No, not yet. We’re still waiting to hear from the coroner about the post-mortem.’ Elaine pulled a face. ‘We’re all hoping it won’t be necessary. But I need to sort out Alice’s apartment. Ana, the manager, called me yesterday to find out what we were planning to do with it. She’s keen to get it cleaned and on the market.’
‘That seems a bit insensitive.’
Elaine shrugged. ‘She’s very clinical. Good at her job, though.’ She turned to Samson. ‘And she was full of questions about you and your police background. I’d say you’ve got yourself a fan there.’
Harry groaned. ‘Christ, if he’s not rescuing damsels in distress in his boxer shorts, he’s winning them over with his drugs-busting past.’
Joining in the laughter with the others, Delilah was aware of Will’s brooding stare resting on her. ‘Do you want a hand cleaning out Alice’s things, Elaine?’ she offered, trying to deflect his attention.
Elaine shook her head. ‘It won’t take long. I’ll put most of it in bags for the charity shop. This is what I’ll remember her by.’ She took Alice’s pillbox, with its seven stripes of colour across the lid, out of her bag. ‘Even if it’s not the original.’
‘How do you know it’s not the original?’ Samson had taken the box from her and was opening the lids, all of the compartments now empty.
‘Look underneath.’
He turned it over to see a blank surface of silver. ‘Nothing on it.’
‘Exactly.’ Elaine gave a sad smile. ‘The one I gave her was engraved with her initials. Alice must have damaged it and bought a new one to replace it, without saying a word.’
‘How sweet,’ said Lucy. ‘Just shows how much she treasured it.’
‘Yes, that’s what I thought when I noticed the difference. She was a very special lady.’
Samson caught Delilah’s eye. A very special lady who had been afraid she was going to die. He felt the familiar stab of guilt and was relieved when Ash stood up and started ordering them back to work.
‘Escape while you can, Elaine,’ said Delilah as her friend took the empty tray back to the van. ‘And we’ll see you tonight. If my bossy brother hasn’t worked us all to death by then!’ She picked up her paintbrush and a stepladder and followed Lucy up the stairs, while Samson headed back into the kitchen.
‘You’re coming tonight, aren’t you, Samson?’ Nathan was already kneeling on the tiles, long legs tucked under him, a lock of thick, fair hair half covering his face as he wiped down the grout that had dried from the morning session.
Samson’s knees popped as he joined his godson on the floor and he cursed Ash silently for this punishment. ‘Coming where?’
‘It’s the Christmas lights turn-on in the marketplace this evening.’ Nathan was regarding him with expectation.
Samson couldn’t think of many worse ways to spend his time. Apart from grouting. He’d claimed to be busy when celebrations to mark the opening of the town’s festive season had originally been scheduled for two weeks before. But a storm system from the west had brought high winds across the Dales, and the leaders of Bruncliffe had seen fit to postpone the event, rescheduling it for a fortnight’s time. Tonight. And Samson had no excuses ready.
‘Erm . . . what does it involve? Someone famous flipping a switch?’
Nathan pulled a face. ‘Not even that. It’s lame. Typical Bruncliffe. It would’ve have been so much better if they’d held it during the storm.’
‘Are you going?’
‘Yeah. I promised Mum . . .’ The lad’s reluctance was palpable. ‘It’d be good if you were going.’ He glanced sideways at Samson, looking up from beneath long eyelashes, a replica of his father.
The Christmas lights turn-on. Samson wasn’t sure he was up for it. An evening spent in the company of people who still weren’t that keen to have him in town and who would only want to remind him of his past. It wasn’t worth it. Even if Nathan wanted him to go.
He turned to make his apologies and sensed someone watching them from the hallway. A sideways glance was enough to tell him it was Will Metcalfe – one of the many who wished Samson had never come back. And that was enough to make him change his mind.
‘Sure,’ he said, applying grout with exaggerated care. ‘I’ll come.’
The smile that spread across his godson’s face made up for the possible ramifications of provoking Will Metcalfe. Besides, what else did he have for doing on a wet evening in Bruncliffe?
‘Didn’t think this was your cup of tea, young man.’ Seth Thistlethwaite, retired geography teacher and former athletics coach, greeted Samson with a handshake and a twinkle in his eyes. ‘Mixing with Bruncliffe’s high society.’ He cast a disdainful look at the makeshift stage in the marketplace, where various dignitaries from the town were standing to one side as a choir from the primary school sang carols.
With the rain having given way a couple of hours before, it was a chilly, damp evening. The ground was covered in puddles, the skies already dark, and a persistent wind was tugging at the strings of lights looped across the streets, buffeting the tarpaulins of the festive market stalls lined around the edge of the square. But the folk of Bruncliffe were hardy when it came to weather, and determined when it came to celebrating Christmas. Consequently, the small square was packed, the shops that surrounded the cobbled centre were brightly lit, with seasonal displays of reindeers, red-cheeked Santas and fake snow decorating their windows, and the aroma of mulled wine and hot mince pies scented the air.
‘Not sure I’ll ever be accepted into the inner circle,’ said Samson with a smile. ‘I’m just happy to see a friendly face. It’s good to see you, Seth.’
Seth grunted, bushy eyebrows pulled together in a frown. He’d always defended the O’Brien boy, even back when the lad was being painted as the town’s black sheep. The determination to make a success of the farm, despite the odds; the reluctance to accept the version of his father that the town wished to portray. Plus his ability on the fells, those long legs propelling Samson over the hills with ease. All of that had endeared him to Seth, a man not known for sentimentality.
For the last fourteen years, however, since Samson had fled town on a stolen motorbike following that infamous fight with his father, Seth had been championing a lost cause. Bruncliffe had condemned the boy as a reprobate, and that was that.
Then he’d come back, and within a couple of weeks the place had been abuzz with stories about him. New ones. The punch that had greeted him. The darts match he’d won. And then that extraordinary day when the rugby club had been burned down and Lucy’s Metcalfe’s caravan destroyed. The black sheep had saved two lives that day. More maybe, considering that he’d helped catch the killer who had been targeting Delilah Metcalfe’s business.
But still the locals were wary. Seth had watched Samson approach a few minutes before, seen the way people were torn between acceptance and rejection as he made his way across the square.
‘Funny how folk hold onto the past,’ he muttered. ‘Even when the future can offer so much more.’
‘There you are!’ The men
turned to see Delilah pushing her way through the crowd towards them, Tolpuddle by her side, with Nathan, Lucy and Elaine Bullock following. The three women were wearing Santa hats, Tolpuddle had a red bow on his collar and Elaine’s bright-scarlet Dr Marten boots added to the festive colours. ‘Nathan said you were coming, Samson,’ continued Delilah, ‘but we didn’t believe him.’
‘What? Miss the chance to see a celebrity turn on the Christmas lights? How little you know me.’
Nathan laughed at the unveiled sarcasm and Lucy threw Samson a grateful glance. Her son hadn’t had much to be happy about in the last two years, but the recent improvement in his relationship with his godfather was having a positive effect.
‘A chance to have some mulled wine, more like!’ came the jovial tones of Harry Furness, the auctioneer elbowing his way towards the group, a tray of drinks in his steady hands. He was followed by the tall form of Ash Metcalfe, who was carrying a stack of hot rolls, the smell of pulled pork and apple sauce oozing from the wrappers and making Samson’s mouth water.
‘Courtesy of Lucy,’ said Harry as he started handing out glasses while Ash passed around the food, Tolpuddle watching his every movement hopefully. ‘Mulled wine and a hog-roast sandwich, for all your hard work.’
‘Hey up!’ A sharp nudge in the ribs from a grinning Elaine Bullock almost made Samson drop his roll. ‘I think you might have competition for the Fair Lady of Fellside Court.’ She was nodding towards two figures at the side of the stage, the handsome features of Rick Procter leaning down towards the delicate beauty of Ana Stoyanova. Both blonde, they made an arresting couple.
Perhaps sensing the attention, Ana glanced over and caught Samson’s eye. She quickly averted her gaze as Rick continued talking to her. Whatever the topic, it was clandestine. Ana nodded, cast one last look at Samson and then walked away.
‘Samson?’ Harry passed him a glass, pulling his attention back from the manager of Fellside Court, and gave another to Seth.
‘Not sure I qualify,’ Seth protested. ‘I haven’t done anything.’
Date with Malice Page 7