Outside the rain continued to fall.
‘How was lunch?’ Samson looked up from his desk as Delilah came to stand in the doorway.
She smiled widely. ‘Brilliant. You should see what Rick has done with Low Mill.’
‘Pretentious?’
‘Tasteful. And the food . . .’ She puckered her lips and kissed the air. ‘Delicious. How about you two? Did Tolpuddle behave?’
‘Like an angel.’ A snore from the corner of the office punctuated the comment. Tolpuddle had become such a part of the detective’s working day that Samson had bought a dog bed – an item the Weimaraner used liberally, dividing his time between the two offices.
‘Woolly popped in,’ continued Samson, using the local nickname for Norman Wollerton, Bruncliffe’s only remaining bank manager. And Delilah’s uncle. ‘Said he was passing, but asked you to call him straight away.’
‘Right, well, I’d best had. He’s probably wanting ideas for Christmas presents,’ she said breezily. She turned to leave and then paused. ‘Oh, I almost forgot. Here. I found this in the car.’ She casually placed his mobile on the desk. ‘Hope you weren’t panicking about losing it.’
He stared at the phone, hand automatically going to the back pocket of his jeans – which was empty. Of course it was. His mobile was on the desk in front of him. He’d been without it for the best part of two hours and hadn’t even noticed. What the hell . . . ?
‘Thanks,’ he said. She smiled again, and then headed up the stairs to her office.
Berating himself for being so preoccupied with Delilah’s lunch date, Samson pulled the phone towards him and checked the recent activity. No new emails. No new texts. A phone call . . . That was odd. An actual phone call, not a missed call.
He opened up the log. Unknown number. Just like the other night.
It seemed she’d called again, his mystery woman. But this time Delilah had answered.
To the accompaniment of Tolpuddle’s sonorous breathing, he thought about that for a moment. What had the woman said? And why hadn’t Delilah mentioned her call?
It didn’t bode well. Perhaps she’d said something that had alerted Delilah to his impending problems? Which would explain Delilah’s over-bright smile just now, her performance of normality. Or had that been to disguise the fact that the bank manager was on her back?
He slipped the phone in his pocket and tried to concentrate on the laptop in front of him. But for the rest of the afternoon the property-search requests he was conducting for his old friend Matty Thistlethwaite didn’t get his full attention.
Night descends quickly in the Yorkshire Dales during winter. After a day of dismal weather and dark skies, it was almost a seamless transition, marked formally only by the Christmas lights in the marketplace coming to life. By the early hours of the morning, when the rain finally cleared away and stars appeared to rival the festive decorations, Bruncliffe was fast asleep.
Or most of it was.
In the small cottage high up on Crag Lane, Delilah Metcalfe was sitting on her sofa, a mug of hot chocolate in her hand and Tolpuddle’s head resting on her lap as she stared out across the slumbering town. She’d been unable to sleep, fitful dozing replaced with full-on insomnia, concerns about her business looming large in the dark until she’d deemed it useless to lie in bed, twisting and turning under the covers. Pulling a hoodie on over her pyjamas, she’d gone downstairs, where the wood-burner was still glowing. A couple of good pokes and some fresh wood and soon flames were flickering.
The moment she’d entered the cosy lounge, Tolpuddle had stirred in his bed, opening an eye to watch her pad across to the kitchen area to make a drink. When she’d settled on the sofa, he’d roused himself, leaving his warm bed to come and sit next to her, his large head flopping onto her lap.
But if she’d thought a change of environment would calm her restless thoughts, she was mistaken. Even as she stroked the dog’s soft ears, soothing him back to sleep, her mind was churning.
Uncle Woolly. Contrary to the pretext she’d invented for Samson’s benefit, Bruncliffe’s bank manager hadn’t called in to the office to discuss Christmas shopping. He’d seen the dip in revenue for the Dales Dating Agency over the last month and wanted reassurance that Delilah was on top of things. That the six-month loan he’d reluctantly extended to her in October wasn’t in jeopardy.
On top of things? What a joke. Since she’d started the dating agency two years ago, it had been a bumpy ride. Neil leaving. Cash-flow problems. And then someone killing off some of her clients. Although, perversely, business had picked up in November after the tragic events that had shocked the town. But in the run-up to Christmas, new members had been thin on the ground and several subscriptions hadn’t been renewed. It was the time of year. Finding love took a bit of a back seat when there were bills to pay and presents to buy. Come January things would improve. That’s what she’d told Woolly. She wasn’t sure he’d believed her.
A deep sigh of contentment came from the now slumbering Weimaraner, his head heavy on her legs. Tolpuddle – yet another reason she couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t bear to think about what life would be like if Neil got his way and took back their dog.
His dog. That’s what Neil was saying. He’d bought him. It was his name on the Kennel Club registration papers. According to her ex-husband, Delilah didn’t have a leg to stand on – even though they both knew that he’d got Tolpuddle for her, when she was in the depths of depression over the death of her brother.
She sipped her hot chocolate and tried to shift her focus to brighter things. Samson sprang to mind. That image from earlier in the day of him at his desk, dark head bent over his laptop, the grey shape of Tolpuddle snoring by his side. The pair of them were becoming inseparable. Delilah smiled. But her pleasure was short-lived. The honeyed tones she’d heard on Samson’s mobile came out of the night to haunt her.
It might not be long before her life was devoid of both Samson and Tolpuddle. Then she’d have nothing to distract her from the financial worries that kept her awake at night.
She leaned her head back against the sofa and closed her eyes. It wasn’t an attempt to sleep. It was an attempt to stop the tears that were welling up from falling.
In Fellside Court, Eric Bradley was fast asleep. The oxygen pumping through his fragile lungs, the machine beside the bed emitting a low hum, its pulsing light keeping pace with his every breath. If he stopped breathing, an alarm sounded. If the level of oxygen being dispensed dropped for whatever reason, an alarm sounded. And in the rare case that the machine stopped working . . .
Snaking back from the oxygen concentrator, the flex crossed the carpet then ducked out of sight behind Eric’s bedside cabinet, where it concluded in a plug; a plug that was normally inserted directly into a wall socket. Tonight, however, there was an intermediary. A lethal one. A chunky white rectangle with a plug socket below and a dial above, marking out the hours of the day.
At two-thirty precisely the dial turned, emitting a quiet click and cutting off the power supply to the plug. To the concentrator. To Eric’s lifeline . . .
It took a few strangled breaths. Then he woke with a gasp, the mask on his face no longer providing him with the precious air he needed. He clawed it away from his nose and gulped, lungs tightening, chest heaving, aware of the concentrator’s alarm sounding. He pushed aside the duvet and tried to stand, shaky on his feet, the lack of oxygen making him dizzy. Already his body was struggling. He managed a couple of steps across the room towards the beeping machine, but then he stumbled, collapsing on the floor, the noise loud enough to wake his neighbours. If he’d had neighbours.
The crash of his fall echoed in the empty apartment next door and in the residents’ lounge below without a single person hearing it.
Like Delilah, Arty Robinson couldn’t sleep either. It was a combination of excitement from the stolen day at the seaside and remorse. He’d allowed himself to be cajoled into the outing and was glad he had, as the fresh air and the c
ompany had done him good. The win on the fruit machines hadn’t hurt either, covering the cost of the minibus for everyone.
A smile crossed his tired face as he thought about Edith Hird waving her stick around when all that money had started spilling out, a golden torrent of one-pound coins. They’d struggled to get her out of the arcade after that.
It had been a good day. But now he was home in his apartment and like every night for the last week, he’d been unable to sleep.
He’d tried. He’d taken what had become his regular nightcap, but an hour after lying down he’d still been wide awake, tormented by regret. Several hours later he’d abandoned all hope of a peaceful night and had got up and made his way to the drinks cabinet in the lounge. He’d poured a generous measure of whisky, pulled his curtains open and stood at the patio doors that led onto the balcony, looking out across the courtyard while he sipped his drink. To his right, the wall of glass stretched over to the other wing, the lights of the corridor bright against the dark, the twinkling Christmas tree on the ground floor an off-key note against the exterior gloom. Opposite, Alice’s flat stared back at him. Windows bare of covering, not a flicker of life inside it.
By contrast, the flat next door to it had the curtains tightly drawn. Eric had been tired after a day gallivanting and had retired to bed earlier than normal. No doubt he was fast asleep.
Draining the last of his drink, Arty decided to have another go at getting some rest. He left the glass in the kitchen, walked back across the lounge and reached for the curtains. Arms outstretched, his gaze fell on Eric’s window again. And he paused.
What was it? What was missing?
He stared out into the night, the only light coming from the corridor to his right. Then he realised. The familiar blink of green from Eric’s oxygen concentrator. He couldn’t see it. Screwing up his eyes, thinking it was his vision that was at fault, a product of his weariness or perhaps the alcohol, he waited another heartbeat. But the dark across the courtyard remained unpolluted.
It took another moment for the importance of that missing light to sink in. Then Arty was hurrying out of his flat, rushing down the corridor to hammer on Joseph’s door.
‘Wake up! Wake up!’ he shouted. ‘Hurry!’
He heard movement, the door was pulled open and Joseph was there, bleary-eyed. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘It’s Eric,’ exclaimed Arty. ‘I think his oxygen has cut out. Who has the spare key for his flat?’
‘Edith does.’
Arty was already turning away, hustling down along the wall of glass to the corner apartment shared by the two sisters. The door was opening when he reached it.
‘What’s all the noise?’ Edith, hair in curlers, was peering out at him.
‘We need the key to Eric’s. His oxygen machine has stopped.’
Edith moved fast, reaching into the top drawer of the sideboard in the hall as her sister appeared behind her.
‘What’s happening?’ asked Clarissa, fingers clutching the throat of her nightdress, eyes wide with worry.
‘Eric’s in trouble,’ said Arty, holding his hand out for the key. But Edith was already pushing past him and down the corridor, stick tapping the floor. He followed her white shape, her nightgown fluttering around her legs, aware that Joseph was behind him, that other doors had opened and residents were gathering in the hallway.
‘Eric!’ Edith called out as she unlocked the door. ‘Eric, it’s me. Edith.’ She flicked the lights on and with a worried glance at Arty, hurried inside, the pair of them heading straight for the bedroom. Neither of them heard the slight click from behind the bedside cabinet as they entered or noticed the oxygen concentrator come back to life.
They were too focused on the incapacitated form of Eric lying on the floor.
9
‘Eric Bradley’s in hospital!’ Delilah didn’t even say good morning. Just blurted out the news as she got to Samson’s office door.
‘What happened?’
‘Complications with his breathing. One of the residents found him collapsed in the early hours and called an ambulance. He’s in a bad way, apparently.’
Samson looked at his watch. It was just eight o’clock. The speed of Bruncliffe’s grapevine was truly amazing.
‘Mum got a call from Vicky Hudson, the care assistant, this morning,’ continued Delilah, as if sensing Samson’s need to know how the news had travelled. ‘She was asking if Mum could go in to do an extra volunteer session. You know, to help lift spirits.’
Spirits would need lifting, thought Samson. Alice Shepherd was dead less than a week and now Eric was in hospital. He slipped his mobile in his pocket and stood up to get his helmet.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To see Eric.’
Delilah’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is this a personal or professional call?’
‘Right now, I’m not sure.’
‘So you think Alice might have been right? Something’s going on at Fellside Court?’
‘Probably not. I mean, Alice had high blood pressure and Eric has a long history of lung disease, so their respective decline in health is hardly surprising.’
‘But you think there might be something in Alice’s suspicions,’ Delilah insisted.
‘I’m keeping an open mind,’ said Samson, putting on his jacket and heading for the door. He was also keeping his conscience clear. He wouldn’t forgive himself if, somewhere down the line, it became known that there had been something malicious happening at the retirement complex and he’d ignored the warnings of one of the residents.
He was at the back door when he realised Delilah was following him, his spare helmet in her hand.
‘Oh no,’ he said, trying to herd her back into the porch. ‘You’re not coming with me.’
She stuck a hand on her hip, head tilting, chin rising in defiance. ‘I am.’
‘What about Tolpuddle?’
‘He’s with Nathan. The school’s closed for a training day, so Nathan volunteered to take him for a long walk.’
Samson sighed as she walked past him to open the gate. He wheeled the motorbike out into the ginnel and as she got on behind him, he tried one last time.
‘Don’t you have a dating agency to run?’ he asked.
‘About that,’ said Delilah, settling in behind him, hands on his waist. ‘I’m still one man short for the next speed-dating event, so I was wondering if you’d—’
He kicked the bike into life and drowned out the rest of her request.
Eric Bradley didn’t look good – grey-faced behind an oxygen mask, eyes closed, machines beeping by his bedside. Samson could see why the doctors were concerned. The livid bruise staining the old man’s temple didn’t augur well, either.
‘They said it’s too early to give a definite prognosis, but he’s lucky to be alive.’ Constable Danny Bradley, grandson of Eric and Bruncliffe’s newest member of the police force, was sitting by the bed in his uniform, looking far too young for the responsibility it bestowed on him. On the other side of the unconscious pensioner was a visibly upset Arty Robinson.
‘They reckon he got out of bed and fell, his mask coming off in the process,’ continued Danny.
‘He hasn’t come round yet?’ asked Samson.
‘Briefly. He was groggy and confused. Couldn’t remember a thing. The doctors decided it was better to sedate him for a while.’
‘Who found him?’ asked Delilah, taking a seat next to Arty while Samson leaned against the wall.
‘I did.’ Arty ran a hand over his face. ‘Actually, we all did.’
‘But you were the one who raised the alarm,’ added Danny. ‘You saved his life.’
‘How did you know he’d collapsed?’ asked Samson.
‘I’m not sure I did know,’ Arty said. ‘I was looking out of my patio doors as I couldn’t sleep and . . . I just thought . . . it seemed like the light had gone out on his oxygen machine. Normally I can see it through his curtains at night, flashing away. So I roused the oth
ers, got a key to Eric’s flat—’ He broke off as Joseph O’Brien came in carrying a tray bearing three cups of tea.
‘Morning,’ said Joseph, nodding at Samson and Delilah before passing a cup each to Danny and Arty. He gave the third drink to Delilah, who started to protest, but Joseph cut her off. ‘I’ll go and get another couple for me and Samson. Coffee, son?’
‘How well you know me, Dad. Thanks.’ Samson turned his attention back to Arty. ‘How come you had a key to Eric’s flat?’
‘Edith had it. We all leave keys with one another, in case we forget to take them with us and lock ourselves out. Memory isn’t the strongest faculty amongst the residents of Fellside Court.’ He gave a wry smile.
‘Just as well someone did have a key,’ said Danny. ‘Grandad wouldn’t have been discovered until morning, otherwise.’
Arty sat silently, letting the praise wash over him. He didn’t feel worthy of praise. He felt guilty. First Alice. Now Eric. He took a drink of his tea, the corrosive taste burning his tongue, and became aware of the soft touch of a hand on his knee. Delilah. Her gesture brought the tears he’d been fighting to the fore and he reached for his handkerchief and blew his nose.
‘Here, Samson. Coffee. At least that’s what they claim it is.’ Joseph O’Brien was back with two cups and a small packet of biscuits.
‘Thanks.’ Samson took a sip as Delilah tried to offer Joseph her chair. The older man waved her away and stood next to his son instead. ‘Was there a problem with the oxygen machine, then?’ Samson asked, turning back to Arty.
‘I don’t know.’
‘But I thought you said the light was out?’ said Delilah.
Date with Malice Page 11