‘Why now?’ he asked, before she even had a chance to put the drinks on the desk.
‘Because this is Bruncliffe and you can’t go an entire morning without a cup of tea,’ she said, passing a mug to him and then sitting back down in the chair she’d appropriated when the poacher had arrived at the back door, furtively asking to see Samson.
‘No, I mean Pete Ferris. You asked him why he’d told us about what he saw. What we really need to know is why he’s telling us now. Why not when we were up at the caravan yesterday?’
Delilah laughed. ‘He’s a poacher. His first instinct is to lie. Plus we caught him unawares. He wasn’t expecting us to be able to place him at Mire End that night.’
Samson reached for his tea and she registered the flicker of an eyebrow at the milky colour and the pungent smell – his ability to drink a true Yorkshire brew diminished by his years down in London. He took a sip, flinched and immediately reached for a biscuit.
‘I think it’s more than just Pete’s first instinct to lie,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure I’d trust anything that passed his lips.’
‘You think he’s not telling the truth about that night?’
‘Not all of it, no. He was up there, that much I’d agree on. But the rest of it is a bit too convenient.’
‘Like what?’
Samson frowned. ‘All of it. The lack of registration number. The vague identification of the van. And he didn’t mention the harness.’
‘Maybe he forgot?’
‘I think you’d remember seeing someone flinging a harness on the road as they roared off with a stolen sheep. At the very least you’d hear it.’
Delilah shrugged. ‘You’re overthinking it. Pete Ferris saw Ralph being stolen. He probably lied about how long he was up there and whether or not he caught anything. But there is no logical reason why he’d come and see us with a fabricated tale. Not in his line of business. The last thing he’d want is to be involved in anything to do with the police.’
‘So you think he only came down because we found the lighter?’
‘Yes. Once we found the lighter, he knew he could be connected to the scene. Perhaps even implicated in the crime. He had no choice but to come forward.’
Samson took another drink of tea and then put the mug back on the desk and pushed it away from him, the cuppa clearly too strong for his southern-softened tastes.
‘You could at least smile,’ she said. ‘You’ve been given a lead and even if you don’t find Ralph, Clive Knowles can contact his insurance company and tell them he’s had a ram stolen. You get paid. He gets compensated. Everyone’s a winner.’
Samson grunted and leaned forward for another biscuit. Delilah noticed both the wince as he stretched and the red stain on his shirt sleeve.
‘You’re bleeding!’ she exclaimed. ‘What happened?’
A quick glance down at his arm confirmed her words. ‘I fell off a balcony onto some concrete,’ he said, giving her a roguish smile. ‘Over at Fellside Court.’
Her eyebrows shot up. ‘While you were checking out Eric’s oxygen machine?’
He nodded. ‘Your friend Rick turned up, and I thought it was best if I wasn’t caught snooping around someone else’s flat. So I made a quick getaway and did this in the process.’ He indicated the blood seeping through his shirt.
Delilah bit back a retort, stung by the derision in his voice, the implication that she was more than mere friends with Rick. ‘And the oxygen machine?’ she asked. ‘Was it working okay?’
‘Fine.’ He frowned and she sensed that he was keeping something from her.
‘You don’t think it was anything other than an accident, then?’ she persisted.
‘Didn’t seem to be.’ He stood up, ending the conversation. ‘Come on. I need something to wash away the taste of that awful tea. How about we get some lunch at the Fleece?’
‘Lunch? You have been down south too long,’ she muttered, the term striking her as odd coming from someone from Bruncliffe. ‘When did you stop calling it “dinner”?’
He grinned down at her as she followed him out of the office. ‘Dinner, lunch . . . Either way, it won’t be as swanky as the place your friend Rick took you to, but the company might be better.’
Mindful of his sore arm, she thumped him on the leg instead and he yelped in pain. ‘Ouch! I fell on that bit, too,’ he moaned as she opened the front door, Tolpuddle at her heels.
‘Next time, try landing on the grass,’ she retorted, before crossing the road to the pub, Samson limping along behind her. She knew, without looking round, that he was still grinning.
‘How’s he doing?’ Danny Bradley, his constable’s uniform hanging off his slight body, was standing in the doorway of the hospital ward, a middle-aged couple next to him. ‘Any change?’
Arty looked up, startled out of his morbid thoughts, and shook his head. ‘No change.’
The older man advanced, hand outstretched, his posture that of an army man. ‘Alan,’ he said. ‘Eric’s oldest. And this is my wife, Laura.’
They shook hands, Alan’s grip firm. ‘Eric’s talked about you a lot,’ said Arty. ‘About your time in the forces.’
Alan looked towards the bed and shook his head at the sight of the frail old man beneath the sheets. ‘What was Dad doing, the daft bugger? Why did he take his mask off?’
Arty had no answer.
‘Danny tells me we’ve you to thank for finding him in time,’ continued Alan.
‘It wasn’t just me. The others helped raise the alarm, too.’
Laura smiled. ‘You’ve got a good community in there. That’s one of the reasons Eric chose to live at Fellside Court. He said it was like a home from home.’
Arty swallowed hard, his eyes misting up. ‘Aye. We try to look out for each other.’
‘Thanks, anyway,’ said Alan, shaking his hand once more. ‘We really appreciate all you’ve done.’
‘Come on, Arty,’ said Danny. ‘It’s time I took you back. You’ve been here all morning.’
All morning. It had passed in a stream of thoughts as his friend slept silently beside him. Thoughts about Alice. About Eric. And about Ana Stoyanova. About the inconsistencies in her behaviour. The rapid arrival. The lack of a coat. Alice Shepherd’s expression when she saw her.
He should tell someone.
‘You ready?’ Danny was waiting by the door.
Arty nodded, even though Fellside Court was the last place he wanted to go. For the first time since he’d moved there, it didn’t feel like home.
If he was really honest, it didn’t feel safe any more.
11
As tarmac gave way to rough track, Samson wasn’t sure that having lunch at the Fleece had been such a good idea. The excellent pheasant pie and large serving of Yorkshire curd tart were now jolting around in his stomach in a distinctly unpleasant manner, as his motorbike bucked and bumped along the lane towards Mire End Farm. He was relieved to finally pull up in the shadow of one of the dilapidated barns, chickens scattering at his arrival.
Receiving no answer to his calls in the yard, he walked around the back of the farmhouse where the only greeting he got was a desultory bark from the old sheepdog, lying on a bale of hay as before. In the field beyond, he saw the bulky shape of Clive Knowles stooped over a sheep. Picking his path through the bits of cars and farm machinery and skirting the teetering piles of abandoned tyres, Samson crossed over to the gate and entered the field. The farmer noticed him at last and straightened up, eyes narrowing as the detective approached.
‘You’ve found the bugger?’ he grunted, one hand buried in the thick fleece of the ram he had trapped between his legs.
Samson shook his head and the farmer made a noise of disgust and resumed his work, applying a half-used block of red crayon into the harness trussed around the struggling ram. Judging by the wear on the straps and the rusty rivets, it was the same harness that had been left discarded by the roadside when Ralph disappeared.
‘Damn thing keeps
falling out,’ Clive Knowles muttered as he fiddled with the contraption, trying to hold the crayon in place with a pin that was broken and jagged.
‘Need a hand?’ offered Samson.
‘I need you to find my bloody tup!’ The outburst was followed by a curse as the farmer’s thick finger snagged on the rough edge of the pin. Blood mixing with the red of the crayon, he persevered until the crayon was held in place and then released the animal.
‘You’ve got a replacement?’ asked Samson as the ram ran off, heading for a group of ewes over by the stone wall.
‘Had to. Need lambs come spring, or this place will go to the wall. Not a patch on the pedigree of that Ralph, though.’
‘He’s doing his job,’ remarked Samson, nodding towards the red splotches across the rumps of some ewes nearby.
‘Aye. Can’t fault him. But he’s no prize-winner.’ With a wipe of his hands on his overtrousers, a smear of either blood or crayon left in its wake, he started walking back towards the gate. ‘Reckon you didn’t come all the way out here to admire my stock,’ he muttered as Samson fell into step beside him.
‘No. I came to tell you I’ve found a witness.’
Clive Knowles stopped to face the detective. ‘A witness? You mean you’ve proof Ralph was taken?’
‘Kind of. The witness saw him being stolen, but he won’t come forward to testify.’
‘What did he see?’
‘A Transit van pulled up over there late at night.’ Samson gestured towards the gate at the top of the field. ‘It was too dark to get a registration number, unfortunately.’
The farmer let out another grunt. ‘Reckon that’ll be the last I see of Ralph, then. Most likely been through an abattoir already.’
Samson didn’t contradict him. From what Harry Furness had said about livestock theft, Clive Knowles was probably right. ‘Do you want me to continue looking?’
‘Not much point,’ said the farmer gloomily. ‘Throwing good money after bad. Might as well get a claim in and be done with it.’
‘You had Ralph insured?’ Samson asked with relief.
‘Too bloody right I had him insured. Cost a bloody fortune. Least this ways I’ll get some of it back.’
‘Well, if you need me to corroborate anything for the claim . . .’
The farmer nodded. ‘Reckon you’ll want paying, too,’ he muttered as he led the way back towards the farmhouse.
Ten minutes later, with cash in his pocket, Samson was riding away from Mire End Farm. All things considered, he thought as he guided the Royal Enfield around the worst of the potholes, the case had gone rather well. Not for poor old Ralph, obviously. But finding proof that the ram hadn’t just wandered off was what Clive Knowles needed in order to place his insurance claim. What’s more, Samson’s payment had been prompt, despite all Seth and Harry’s warnings about Clive Knowles’ parsimony.
He turned the motorbike onto the road to Horton and, in an excellent frame of mind, started back towards Bruncliffe. He was in sight of the town when it came to him.
Clive Knowles hadn’t asked who the witness was.
Was it significant? In a place like London, maybe not. But here? Where everyone knew everything about the folk they lived amongst. He would have at least asked, surely?
But he hadn’t. Hadn’t even shown the slightest interest.
Strange. Yes, maybe. However, that didn’t mean it was suspicious.
He let the thought go. Delilah was right. He was overthinking things. Right now, all he wanted to do was put his feet up and have a decent cup of tea. It had been a long day, he was covered in bruises, but at least he had money in his pocket.
He cut across the marketplace, the fairy lights bright against the growing dusk, the shop windows filled with festive cheer. And he found himself looking forward to Christmas.
‘I’m sorry, Delilah . . .’ The solicitor shook his head and Delilah’s heart sank. ‘There’s nothing you can do.’
Knowing this was going to be the worst Christmas ever, she reached a hand down to the warm head that was resting on her thigh and fondled the dog’s ears. ‘Nothing at all?’
Matthew Thistlethwaite – Matty to his friends – frowned, his thick eyebrows bushing together to identify him as the nephew of Seth, Delilah’s former teacher and athletics coach. ‘These are pretty damning,’ he said.
Laid out in front of him on the glass table were the documents from the Kennel Club that had accompanied Tolpuddle to his new home. Having spent last night tormenting herself about the email from her ex-husband, Delilah had called Matty after she got back from the hospital that morning and had made an appointment to see him. When she’d walked into his office she’d been hoping for a miracle. Now she was wishing her ex-husband dead.
‘Unfortunately for you,’ Matty continued, pointing at the papers, ‘Neil is named on the certificates, which is grounds enough for him to be awarded custody of Tolpuddle in a court, should you take things that far.’
‘But that’s only because he bought him as a surprise for me. Tolpuddle’s my dog!’ Sensing her anxiety, the hound in question lifted his head and let out a low whine. ‘It’s all right, boy,’ she murmured, patting him until he settled once more.
Matty was watching with a pained expression. ‘I really am sorry. I know how much he means to you. But in the eyes of the law . . .’
‘The law is an ass!’ she said.
‘You’d be surprised how often I share that sentiment,’ replied the solicitor with a dry smile. ‘What are you going to do?’
Delilah shrugged. ‘What can I do? Neil says I have until the New Year, then he’s going to come and collect Tolpuddle.’ Her voice caught on the dog’s name and a hand went to her mouth.
How would she cope without this grey shadow that had become so much a part of her life? She’d been in a deep depression following the death of her brother Ryan, when Neil arrived home one night with a cheeky smile and a writhing bundle under his jumper.
Tolpuddle. A daft pup with long legs and a generous nature, he’d bounded into her world and brought sunshine to the dark corner where she’d been hiding. For a while he’d also helped bolster the crumbling foundations of her marriage, binding Delilah and Neil together in a shared love of this new arrival.
Then Neil had had another affair. Many weeks of bitter arguments later, he’d told her he was leaving and this time, caught up in trying to rescue their failing businesses, Delilah hadn’t had the energy to persuade him to stay. He’d never mentioned the dog. Had brushed him aside as easily as he had his marriage.
Delilah and Tolpuddle had become a single-parent family, both of them bruised by the break-up. Delilah had buried herself in work to hide the pain while Tolpuddle had developed an anxiety disorder, unwilling to let Delilah out of his sight. On the rare occasion when she did have to leave him, he would take out his fears on anything to hand. Shoes became tattered. Curtains became torn. Cushions – there was usually little left of cushions when Tolpuddle became anxious.
Not that he’d had an attack recently. If you discounted the dog’s obsession with footwear, his last fit of panic had been almost two months ago when she’d had to go to the bank to renegotiate her loans. She’d returned to the cottage, where she’d locked Tolpuddle in the porch, to find the innards of two cushions strewn over the floor, paw prints all over the glass and the Weimaraner’s best impression of an air-raid siren greeting her as she opened the door.
It had been the same day that Samson O’Brien had arrived back in Bruncliffe. Tolpuddle hadn’t had an anxiety attack in all that time . . . Delilah was contemplating this coincidence when Matty broke in on her thoughts.
‘Have you told Samson?’ he asked, watching her with concern. ‘He might be able to help.’
She shook her head. ‘Not yet. He’s . . . they’ve become really close. I don’t want to upset him if I don’t have to.’
Matty smiled, but said nothing. If he thought her last remark unclear as to whether she was referring to Samson or
Tolpuddle, he didn’t ask for clarification.
‘Thanks, Matty,’ she said. She stood to go.
‘I’m not sure I deserve your gratitude,’ said the solicitor. ‘But I know Neil didn’t deserve you as a wife. Or Tolpuddle as a dog.’
Tolpuddle cocked his head to one side and regarded Matty as though concurring, while Delilah laughed. ‘I don’t know about the former, but the latter is definitely true. So if you come across anything that might help . . .’
‘I’ll do a bit of research but I think your best bet is to reason with Neil. I don’t think the law can help you. In the meantime, I’d consider telling Samson if I were you.’ He saw the sceptical expression on her face. ‘You never know,’ he said with a smile as he showed her to the door. ‘He’s very resourceful. He might come up with something. At the very least, you wouldn’t be bearing the weight of this alone.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ said Delilah, knowing that she had no intention whatsoever of sharing this burden with Samson O’Brien. He wasn’t a man she wanted to become reliant on, for so many reasons. ‘And thanks again.’
She walked down the stairs, Tolpuddle at her side, and out into the marketplace where weak sunlight was spilling onto the cobbles. She blamed the brightness for the tears that were forming in the corners of her eyes.
‘How’s Eric?’ Rita Wilson was the third person to ask in the few minutes it had taken Arty to cross the courtyard, enter the building and head for the stairs. She put a hand on his arm, worry etched onto her face.
‘It’s hard to say. He’s still sedated and the doctors are reluctant to give a prognosis.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. He’s such a lovely, gentle man.’ Then she offered help, as they all had. ‘If there’s anything I can do . . .’
Arty smiled. ‘I’ll keep you posted. And thanks.’
‘No need to thank me. We all look out for each other in here. It’s what we do. That’s why we love living at Fellside Court.’ She squeezed his arm and then moved slowly down the hall towards the cafe, her body bent over her stick.
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