‘It’s in my pocket,’ Samson cautioned, sliding a hand into his jacket, careful not to make any sudden movements. The lurchers, anticipating more biscuits, shuffled closer, panting eagerly as Samson pulled out the odd-shaped lighter. ‘Here,’ he said, holding it out. ‘Recognise it?’
Teeth gnawing at his lip, Pete glanced down at the object in Samson’s palm and then nodded. ‘It’s mine. Where’d you get it?’
‘Up at Clive Knowles’ farm.’
Another spasm pulled at the poacher’s shoulder and his gaze flicked beyond his visitors to the foothills of Pen-y-ghent.
‘Any idea how it got up there?’ asked Samson.
Pete was shaking his head before the question was even finished, attention back on his visitors. ‘Someone must have taken it.’
‘From where?’
‘How would I know? The pub? My truck? It’s never locked.’
‘You didn’t lose it while you were out hunting one night?’
The gun snapped up, barrels inches from Samson’s face, and the lurchers started growling. ‘I don’t care for the nature of your questions,’ said Pete. ‘I think it’s time you left.’
‘Sure.’ Samson held out an arm, gesturing Delilah ahead of him. ‘Ladies first.’
Heart pounding, Delilah took Tolpuddle’s lead and led him down the steps, twisting back to make sure Samson was following. He was, and was composed enough to wink at her. ‘Go to the car,’ he whispered.
Go to the car? Where else would she go? Aware of the gun pointing at them, she began the walk across the field. A tense shout from behind made her jump.
‘You’re testing my patience, O’Brien!’ Pete Ferris was at the edge of the porch, shotgun trained on the detective who, instead of following Delilah, was over by the poacher’s battered pickup, opening the door. ‘Bugger off, and that’s your last warning!’
But Samson was holding up his hands in innocence. ‘I was only putting your lighter back,’ he said, the truth of his words visible in the green-and-black object he was placing on the passenger seat.
It was difficult to discern if the savage growl that came from the direction of the porch was issued by owner or dogs, but it was clear that neither biscuits nor Delilah’s charms would be sufficient to pacify either. Samson walked hurriedly across the field, caught up with Delilah and Tolpuddle, and the trio hastened away.
‘What the hell were you up to?’ spat Delilah when they reached the safety of her car, her legs trembling. ‘He could have shot you.’
Samson grinned. ‘I took a gamble.’
‘On what?’
‘I wanted a look at his truck.’
‘And?’
He held out his right hand. Clasped between finger and thumb was a tuft of wiry wool. ‘I pulled it out of the join between the cab and the back.’
Delilah looked up at him. ‘It’s a bit of fleece.’
He nodded. ‘Want to bet where it came from?’
She looked back across the field to the distant figure still watching them from the porch. ‘Ralph? Pete Ferris took Ralph?’
‘That’s what it looks like,’ said Samson. ‘Now we just need to prove it.’
8
Half an hour after being run off Pete Ferris’s land, Samson and Delilah were walking along a bridleway in the soft falling rain in the direction of the rising mass of Pen-y-ghent, Tolpuddle trotting ahead of them. They’d left the car tucked out of sight of the poacher’s caravan and had set out across the land.
‘You’re convinced he’s involved?’ asked Delilah.
Samson nodded. ‘In some way or other. How else can you explain the lighter up at the farm and the wool in the back of his truck?’
‘Coincidence? He poaches up that way. He could have innocently dropped his lighter, and as for the wool – it could have blown in on the wind.’
‘Sure. Equally, he could have been up there stealing a tup and stupidly left a trail. I’m leaning towards the latter.’
‘I still think you should give him the benefit of the doubt. Not everyone is a criminal.’
Samson snorted. ‘He’s a well-known poacher.’
‘Okay, so he is a criminal. But not necessarily one that steals sheep. And by the way,’ she asked, exasperated as she stepped over yet another puddle, her boots already caked in mud, ‘where are we going?’
As if in answer to her question, they turned a corner and the river was in front of them.
‘There.’ Samson looked across the fast-flowing water to the land on the other side. Tucked in under Pen-y-ghent, even from this distance he could see it was badly managed. Broken stone walls, weed-infested fields. A farmhouse stood to one side, a couple of barns beyond it.
‘What’s so special about that?’ asked Delilah.
Samson grinned down at her. ‘Don’t you know where we are? I thought you called yourself a local?’ Not waiting for a retort, he veered right and followed the bridleway, which had narrowed into a riverside path.
Delilah frowned, taking in the landscape as she walked behind him, the mist-shrouded peak of the mountain, the brown tinge of the damp winter fields below it. She thought back over where they’d come from. They’d travelled north-west out of Bruncliffe up the dale, passing through Horton on the way. Then they’d turned east into Selside and down the track to Pete Ferris’s caravan. From there, the path had taken them further east and now . . . Now they were heading in a southerly direction, back towards Horton.
‘Worked it out yet?’ Samson asked over his shoulder.
The smug smile on his face took her right back to childhood, the memories so vivid she could see Ryan laughing as his friend wound her up. Then she would fly at her tormentor, small fists flailing, and Ryan would have to intervene. There was no Ryan now. Nothing to stop her shoving the man in front of her into the cold waters of the river beside them.
As if sensing the direction of her thoughts, Samson stepped to the side and ushered her ahead of him with a gallant sweep of an arm.
‘Not that I don’t trust you,’ he laughed as she stalked past him. ‘So, any idea?’
She didn’t have a clue, but was too ashamed to admit it. Instead she picked up her pace, trying to put distance between them while she struggled to get her bearings. When they reached a small bridge that spanned the river, she mutely followed Samson’s directions and crossed over to the other side, Tolpuddle choosing to take the scenic route by going through the water.
While the dog was shaking himself dry on the bank, Delilah looked around, failing to spot any identifiable features. It was just farmland, nothing to mark it out as different apart from its poor condition. ‘I give up,’ she muttered, turning up her collar in an attempt to stop the rain trickling down her neck.
‘And there was me thinking I was the offcumden.’ Samson walked past her, back upstream in the direction they had come from, towards the farmhouse they’d spotted from the other side. They were approaching a stone wall when he crouched down behind it, beckoning Delilah to do likewise, Tolpuddle already by his side.
‘What about now?’ he whispered. He was pointing at a figure, which had just left the building and was making its way towards the furthest barn. Even from this distance, there was something about the slightly stooped shuffle that was unique.
‘That’s Clive Knowles!’ she said, head turning sharply as she reassessed their location.
‘Correct. Welcome to Mire End Farm. And that,’ Samson pointed back across the river to a white oblong in a field, ‘is Pete Ferris’s caravan.’
‘They’re virtually neighbours.’
‘Doesn’t mean one wouldn’t steal from the other.’
They waited until Clive Knowles had entered the barn and then they slipped back across the river, careful to give the lonely caravan and its gun-wielding occupant a wide berth on the way back to the car.
‘This is the life!’ Eric Bradley gave a contented sigh that quickly dissolved into a bout of coughing, chips spilling out of the polystyrene container on his lap.
‘Take it easy,’ said Joseph O’Brien, holding onto his friend’s portion of fish and chips to prevent further accident, ‘or this life you’re so enjoying might be shorter than you expected.’
The two men, along with Arty Robinson, were sitting on a wall on the promenade looking out across Morecambe Bay to the Lake District in the distance. With the tide at its highest, the sea stretched out before them, glinting in a surprisingly warm sun. Surprising because it was December and they had left behind a dismal day in Bruncliffe.
After a frantic bustle to get everyone ready, a group of twelve pensioners had set out from Fellside Court. Thanks to the reluctance of some residents to subject their newly styled hair to the wind and brine of the coast – Monday being the day Geraldine Mortimer organised the Coiffure Club – the men almost outnumbered the women, for once. But reduced numbers hadn’t dampened the excitement on the minibus at the prospect of an unexpected day out; it was an excitement which amplified as the weather improved the further west they travelled. They’d arrived in the seaside resort to blue skies, and even Arty had felt his spirits lift as they walked down to the beach, the smell of salt and seaweed washing over them. They’d strolled the length of the promenade slowly, to accommodate those who were less mobile, and had then decided it was time for fish and chips. With the breeze picking up, the majority of the group had opted to eat in, taking seats at the cafe window with a view of the bay. But, egged on by Arty, three of them had decided to brave the elements and eat outside. The combination of chips, vinegar and fresh sea air had worked wonders on Arty’s disposition.
‘Thanks,’ he said to Joseph as Eric finally got control of his breathing. ‘This was exactly what I needed.’
Joseph shrugged. ‘It’s Ana we should be thanking. I’m not sure we’d have organised it without her help.’
‘I can’t have offended her too much,’ said Eric with a smile.
‘Offended her?’ Arty looked confused.
‘It was nothing,’ said Joseph. ‘We were having coffee this morning and Eric was talking about his son coming up and his time over in the Balkans. In the process, he mistakenly said Ana was from Serbia.’
‘She’s not. She’s from Bulgaria.’
‘Yes,’ said Eric. ‘I know that now. She didn’t seem too happy with my slip-up. I didn’t mean to upset her.’
Arty patted him on the back. ‘Given the recent history in that area, you can understand her reaction. Perhaps we should get her something as a souvenir of our day out, to make amends?’
Eric’s face split into a smile. ‘What a wonderful idea.’
‘And then,’ said Arty, grinning now, ‘let’s hit the fruit machines.’
The three of them laughed, revelling in how perfect this day had turned out to be.
The drive back to Bruncliffe wasn’t much easier on Samson’s nerves, Delilah’s troubles of the morning replaced with the excitement of their recent sleuthing. Combined with a windscreen that was steaming up, the reverse trip over the double bridges of Horton village saw Samson clutching the dashboard in pretty much the same way as he had several hours earlier, the stonework of the old bridge just as hair-raisingly close to the side of the Nissan Micra.
‘Do you want me to drop you at the office?’
Samson was tempted to insist that she stop the car immediately and let him out, but the rain had got heavier and the walk would be a long one. ‘Fine,’ he said, eyes glued to the road. ‘Just get me there in one piece.’
‘Sorry,’ said Delilah, wiping the glass in front of her with a sleeve and reducing her speed. ‘I’m buzzing from all that. The dogs, the shotgun, the evidence you found . . .’ She glanced over at the frozen face of her companion, his hand still glued to the dashboard. ‘How did you cope?’
‘With what?’
‘Life undercover. You must have faced a lot worse than Pete Ferris with a shotgun. How did you unwind afterwards?’
‘You learn to compartmentalise. Detach yourself from everything else in your life.’
‘So it all becomes normal?’
He thought about that. What was normal? For him, the last six years had been spent living day to day, one case to the next, constantly reinventing himself, constantly on the edge of danger. That had been normal.
Now he was in a car in the Yorkshire Dales, driving through pastoral scenes which had nothing in common with the dingy environments he’d inhabited in London. And beside him was the little sister of his best friend. Yet this felt far more surreal.
‘It’s all relative.’
She screwed her face up at his answer. ‘Relative to what? Living on the moon?’
He gave a dry laugh. ‘Yeah, sometimes it did feel like that.’
‘Must have been lonely.’ She glanced sideways, but he kept his face passive. ‘No special person in your life, then?’
The teasing tone made him smile. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not in that life. It wasn’t possible.’
It wasn’t safe now, either. Not with what was happening to him.
‘Actually, drop me in the marketplace,’ he said, moving the topic on as the first of Bruncliffe’s two mills came into sight. ‘I’ll pick up some sandwiches from Lucy’s. Count it as payment for your time.’
Delilah laughed. ‘Thanks, but I’ve got a meeting with Rick Procter. He’s taking me to that new restaurant in Low Mill.’ She glanced at her watch and cursed. ‘Damn. I’m already late. I won’t have time to change.’
Jaw clenched, Samson forced himself to look at her. Her dark hair was soaked, wet tendrils curling on her damp collar, her jeans were splotched with mud and her nose was bright red. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, allowing his disgruntlement free rein. ‘You look perfect. Go straight there. He’s not a man to be kept waiting.’
‘You’re right. He’ll have to take me as I am,’ she said, pulling up outside Peaks Patisserie. ‘Could you do me a favour and look after Tolpuddle? He doesn’t seem to care for Rick and I don’t want to leave him in the car.’
‘My pleasure.’ Samson got out, dog in tow, and watched her drive off, a mixture of emotions churning his gut. He looked down at the Weimaraner, who was panting up at him. ‘Don’t like Rick Procter, eh, Tolpuddle?’ The dog barked in agreement. ‘That kind of good judgement deserves special treatment.’
Turning his back on the cafe, Samson crossed the marketplace towards Hargreaves’ butcher’s. They did superb pies, which he and Tolpuddle were both partial to.
‘Great minds, Tolpuddle – great minds,’ he muttered. And he wasn’t just talking about the pies.
Lunch was in the newest addition to the Procter Properties portfolio, towards the south end of town. As Delilah pulled up outside Low Mill, she was struck by the changes. What had been scrubland now boasted a housing development that was almost completed, executive-type detached homes being built alongside more compact town houses, and all neatly arrayed around the old mill that dominated the skyline.
The mill itself was an impressive building, stone-built, three storeys high, with a tall chimney at one side. Under Rick Procter’s hand, it had been converted into a mixture of flats and commercial interests, boasting a delicatessen, a designer-clothing boutique, a bespoke jeweller’s and a brasserie. Not a cafe. A brasserie.
It was very upmarket for Bruncliffe. Rick seemed to think it would make money, however, and judging by the number of cars in the car park, it was busy, so who was she to know any different. But it would be a while before she could afford to visit it on a regular basis.
Delilah reached for her bag on the back seat and noticed the mud on her jeans. Damn. She wet a tissue and scrubbed at the marks, simply smearing them even further. Double damn. Twisting the rear-view mirror, she checked her appearance and promptly wished she hadn’t. Her nose was bright red, her hair was a wreck . . .
She looked at the imposing entrance to the establishment in front of her. Then at the other cars around her. Mercedes. BMWs. A couple of Audis. No other Micras.
It wasn’t the k
ind of place for someone who looked like she’d just come off the farm. She should have gone home and changed, not listened to Samson.
The trill of a mobile from the footwell below the passenger seat cut through her apprehension. Leaning over, she picked up the phone. It was Samson’s. Should she answer it?
Unknown caller.
Thinking it could be him calling from the Fleece or somewhere, she flicked her thumb across the screen and held the mobile to her ear. ‘Hello?’
‘Samson?’ A woman’s voice, low and sensuous.
‘I’m sorry, he’s not here at the moment. Can I take a message?’
A bewitching laugh, then that purr. ‘No, darling. I don’t think so.’ The connection was ended.
Bemused, she dropped the phone in her bag and got out of the car. When she entered the plush premises of Low Mill Brasserie, she wasn’t thinking about her bedraggled state. She was thinking about the fact that Samson had lied to her. There was a woman in his life. A sophisticated and alluring woman.
When Rick Procter reflected on his lunch date later that evening, he would blame her distracted manner on the surroundings. He’d curse himself for overawing her with such a demonstration of his wealth and success. He would have no inkling that in fact, while she picked at her chargrilled swordfish loin with little appetite, Delilah wasn’t thinking about him at all.
As Delilah sat opposite the property developer and watched him savour his roasted venison haunch, in the centre of town Samson was sitting at the office kitchen table, watching Tolpuddle devour a steak-and-kidney pie. His own pie lay neglected on his plate. Meanwhile, to the north of Bruncliffe, the Fellside Court residents who hadn’t absconded to the coast were eating their lunch in an unusually quiet cafe. In the kitchen, Ida Capstick, her cleaning duties at the retirement home almost finished for the day, was having a quick cup of coffee and a sandwich with the cook, before heading back upstairs to clean two last rooms.
The corridors were silent. The lounge was empty. In the entrance hall, a partially decorated Christmas tree had been abandoned for the duration of the mealtime. The courtyard was bleak, wet leaves plastered to the paving stones, the chairs and tables dripping in the persistent rain. Rising up above them, the sheet of glass that separated the two wings of the building stared blindly out, the conditions too dull to reflect the fells. Behind it, a figure walked swiftly along the first-floor corridor and turned left at the end. It passed the empty flat, entering the one next to it. Moving quickly, it went into the bedroom. Moments later it left.
Date with Malice Page 10