Arty continued on to the stairs, wanting a bit of exercise after a morning spent sitting down. He climbed them at a moderate pace, feeling his heart thumping heavily before he was halfway up. That delicate heart, which he was supposed to be careful with. Two heart attacks already and they said the next one would take him.
If whatever was going on at Fellside Court didn’t take him first.
He reached the first floor and passed through the door into the corridor, the wall of glass greeting him, giving him a perfect view diagonally across the courtyard to the empty flats of Eric and Alice. And of the slight figure of Ana Stoyanova at Eric’s bedroom window.
She turned and he jumped to the side out of sight. It was a reflex born of fear. Had she seen him? He peered round the pillar. There was no one there.
Chest pounding, he fumbled for his keys and hurried over to his front door. Once inside, he leaned against it, taking deep breaths and willing his heartrate to ease up. He was safe in here.
A jingle of metal in the corridor outside his door made him turn, putting his eye to the spyhole. She was there. Ana. Blonde hair pulled back, uniform on. Staring at him.
His chest constricted, heart rattling, a stab of intense pain. His pills. He needed his pills. But he was transfixed, watching as the manager of Fellside Court glanced down at the ring of keys in her hand and back towards his door.
She had a key. Of course she had a key.
She took a step forward and then froze as the doors to the stairwell banged behind her.
‘Ana? Elaine Bullock is on the phone. She’s heard from the coroner.’ Vicky Hudson, care assistant and a woman Arty had never been happier to see, came into the hallway. ‘I thought you might want to speak to her?’
Ana nodded curtly and walked towards the stairs, Vicky following her. Behind the door of his flat, Arty sank to the floor.
He wasn’t safe. None of them were.
His mobile rang. Edith Hird. She’d be down in the cafe wondering why he hadn’t called in when he got back. He let the phone ring unanswered. He had no desire to leave his flat.
Fellside Court was no longer the happy place it had been. Not while evil roamed the corridors.
12
‘You haven’t forgotten about Alice’s funeral?’
It was Friday morning, the weather wet against the office window with the slap of sleet. Samson glanced up from his laptop to see Delilah standing in the doorway. Her hair was plastered against her cheeks, her top was soaked and her leggings were splattered in mud. But her face was glowing with the satisfaction of a morning run. He had a twinge of envy, remembering that feeling.
‘No. Have you?’ he asked, gesturing towards her dishevelled appearance.
‘I’m changing here. How about you?’
He looked down at his shirt and black jeans, both ironed, thanks to Ida. Having arrived in town with only a rucksack to his name, Samson had subsequently lost a pair of jeans and a good jacket to the fire at Lucy’s caravan, leaving his choice of attire very limited. He looked back up at Delilah, feigning hurt.
‘I’ll have you know this is my best outfit. I’ve even polished my boots.’
She grinned. ‘This is Bruncliffe,’ she said. ‘You’ll fit right in with all the farmers.’
‘What time does it start?’
‘Ten. Elaine said to tell you there’s a small wake in the Fleece afterwards as well. It was the only place she could get at such short notice.’
The notice had indeed been short. Informed by the coroner on Tuesday that there would be no post-mortem on Alice Shepherd, the family had organised the funeral for the end of the same week. With Christmas approaching and Elaine leaving for a geology field trip on Saturday morning, there hadn’t been much choice.
‘I just hope there’s a good turnout,’ said Delilah. ‘What with the time of year and the weather . . .’ She saw the time on her watch and spun round, heading for the stairs at a jog. It was only then that Samson realised something – or someone – was missing.
‘No Tolpuddle?’ he called out after her.
She paused to lean over the bannister rail. ‘He’s up at the farm. I didn’t want to leave him alone while we’re out. Will’s going to drop him down later.’
‘Thank goodness,’ laughed Samson. ‘The place doesn’t seem right without our hound.’
He was already refocusing on his laptop and was oblivious to the impact of his casual comment as Delilah bit her lip, wiped an annoyed hand over her eyes and jogged on up the stairs.
Our hound. Perhaps Matty Thistlethwaite was right. She should tell Samson what Neil was trying to do. It was only fair. He had developed an affection for Tolpuddle. But . . .
But she was wary of involving men in her life. And she didn’t relish revealing to Samson that she’d been married by twenty-five and divorced by twenty-eight.
She entered the bathroom on the top floor, threw her running kit on the tiles and stood under a hot shower, hoping to wash away both the mud from her exercise and the troubles from her ex-husband.
Samson didn’t hear the boiler fire up in the kitchen along the hallway. Didn’t hear the shower running on the third floor. He was vaguely aware of Delilah humming as she wandered about getting ready. But mostly the images in front of him held his attention.
They were of Mire End Farm.
He’d returned to the office on Tuesday afternoon following his visit to Clive Knowles, determined to close the case, move on and not overthink things. But with no pressing investigations and no clients knocking on the front door in the run-up to Christmas, he’d finished off the few bits of work he had on Wednesday. Then on Thursday he’d started on his accounts.
It hadn’t taken him long to get distracted, flicking through files on his laptop rather than sorting out his finances. He’d ended up rereading his notes on the missing Ralph. And he’d been thinking about them ever since.
The wool in Pete Ferris’s truck. The poacher’s sudden attack of social conscience, which had led him to confess what he’d witnessed. Clive Knowles’ passive acceptance of the mysterious witness. The discarded harness – why would thieves take the time to remove such a contraption in the haste of an escape?
Something wasn’t right.
So despite the fact that he’d already been paid, Samson had found himself preoccupied by the case. Starting with the only evidence he had, he’d spent part of the day fruitlessly trying to track down the Transit van that Pete Ferris claimed to have seen on the night Ralph was taken.
It was useless. With no registration number, no identifying features, not even a definite colour, it was like looking for the proverbial needle. He’d even resorted to calling young Danny Bradley in his official capacity, to see if the police had news of any stolen Transits in the area. He’d drawn another blank.
Frustration mounting, Samson had woken early on Friday morning with the idea of going over his notes yet again. Not that there was much in the Mire End Farm file, but he’d found on previous cases that simply reacquainting himself with the facts sometimes brought something new to light.
Several hours on and he was staring at his computer screen and getting nowhere.
He checked the time. Ten minutes before they needed to leave for the funeral. With a sigh he scrolled back to the top of the photos he’d been looking at, all taken on his first visit to Mire End, and went through them one more time. When he heard Delilah coming down the stairs, he closed the laptop and stood up to go. She entered the room in a black trouser suit, dark hair washed and dried and framing her face, and the images of sodden fields and sheep were chased from his mind.
‘Will I do?’ she asked with a grin, as he started putting on his tie.
He didn’t answer, mainly because she’d flicked his hands out of the way and was tying some kind of fancy knot at his neck. But also because she was his best friend’s sister. And he doubted that Ryan would have appreciated exactly what he thought about how Delilah looked. Especially as they were about to attend a funer
al.
The weather didn’t get any better as the morning progressed. The hills at the back of Bruncliffe were smothered by low clouds hanging across the town and the sleet had become heavier, on the cusp of being proper snow and beginning to settle on the ground. By the time the church doors opened and the funeral procession filed out, it was a bleak winter’s day, the slow toll of bells muffled by the damp air.
Looking out from under her umbrella at the backs of the other mourners, Delilah decided she needed a bit more joy in her life. It was her second funeral in less than two months. There had been far too much death of late.
A soft incantation of a prayer came from the priest standing at the head of the grave, interceding with God on behalf of Alice Shepherd. To his side was Elaine Bullock, dressed in respectful black apart from a vibrant scarf around her neck. She looked tired. It had been a stressful couple of weeks for the family, the indecision on the part of the coroner making it impossible for them to begin the process of moving on. What a relief it must have been to finally hear that there would be no post-mortem.
Delilah glanced to her right to see the broad-shouldered figure of Samson O’Brien, face solemn as the funeral came to a close.
How was he feeling? Did he still think Alice Shepherd might have had reason to be worried about her safety?
He’d been cagey about his visit to Eric Bradley’s flat, saying nothing more than that the oxygen concentrator was working fine, a fact young Danny Bradley had been pleased to hear. He’d offered no more than that. In fact, for the past few days she’d barely seen him. He’d been out of the office on some case or other.
Not that she hadn’t been busy herself. The Dales Dating Agency’s fifth speed-dating event was scheduled for Monday evening. With Christmas Day falling a few days later, it was going to be a festive occasion and she’d been occupied sourcing mistletoe and holly and other Yuletide trimmings. It would be the final event of the year for her dating agency and would bring some badly needed revenue into the business. It would also be the first speed-dating night without any of her friends to support her.
After the drama following the last one, Lucy had opted out, a decision Delilah totally understood. And Harry Furness, having met the lovely Sarah Mitchell at the event in November, had also cried off from lending his backing to the Christmas edition. Elaine Bullock – apart from not being in the frame of mind for thinking about romance – wasn’t going to be around as she was setting off tomorrow to run a field trip in the Lake District. As for Samson . . .
‘Penny for them, sis?’ Ash ducked under the rim of the umbrella as the mourners moved away from the graveside and made their way towards the church gate. Taking the umbrella from her to hold it at his height, he promptly removed all of its protective benefits from his much shorter sister.
Delilah didn’t complain. What was a bit of snow anyway, in the scheme of things? ‘I was thinking about love,’ she said.
Ash smiled and tucked his arm through hers. ‘Appropriate. Considering.’
‘It was good of you to come.’
He glanced towards Elaine up ahead of them, leading her mother up the road towards the marketplace with its strings of fairy lights bright through the thickening snow. ‘Thought it would be appreciated. She’s had a hard couple of weeks and she’s been a rock for Lucy the last month.’
Delilah squeezed his arm in affection, wishing her relationship with her oldest brother was as good. ‘How’s the barn getting on?’
The smile dropped from Ash’s lips. ‘It’s one step forward, two steps back at the moment. I don’t know if I’m going to get it finished in time for Christmas Day.’
‘It’s still almost a week away. Is there a lot left to do?’
‘Nothing major. Painting. Glossing,’ he said, ticking things off on his fingers. ‘A little bit of grouting. There’s a few light fittings that need putting up . . . Why? Are you offering to help?’
She nodded. ‘I can come up tomorrow. I’m sure Samson wouldn’t mind, either.’
‘What wouldn’t I mind?’ asked the man in question, falling into step with the siblings as they crossed the marketplace, the cobbles slippery underfoot, pockets of white forming on the old stones.
‘Helping up at the barn,’ said Ash. ‘Delilah’s put your name down for some more grouting.’
Samson groaned, his knees protesting at the thought. ‘Anything but grouting,’ he said.
‘Okay. I’ll sign you up for glossing the skirting board instead,’ replied Ash with a grin.
‘And while you’re volunteering,’ said Delilah, ‘I’m still one man short for Monday’s Speedy Date—’
‘Oh no!’ Samson backed off, grimacing. ‘No way. Last time it was in the line of duty.’
‘But you enjoyed it,’ she protested.
‘I said that under duress. Ask Ash, if you’re desperate.’
Ash was already shaking his head. ‘No can do. I’ve got a Christmas party with Procter Properties that night. Thank goodness.’
‘You’re becoming quite the corporate man,’ teased Delilah.
Her brother, as usual, failed to rise to the bait. ‘You bet I am,’ he said. ‘I’m quite happy to hitch my waggon to that particular star. Rick has more developments in mind and I don’t see why he won’t put the kitchens my way, seeing as he’s happy with what I’m doing down at Low Mill.’
‘Guess that means the first round’s on you, then,’ said Delilah as they reached the Fleece. Samson held the door open and they shook the worst of the snow off themselves before entering the welcome warmth of the pub.
‘Are you sure about this?’ At the back of the small group of mourners heading for the Fleece, Arty Robinson was concerned.
Along with a good contingent from Fellside Court, he’d attended Alice’s funeral. It had been heartening to see so many people paying their respects. Young Danny Bradley had been there, standing in for his absent grandfather. He’d passed on the good news that Eric, who had regained consciousness the day after his accident, was on the mend and due to leave hospital within a few days. The lovely care assistant, Vicky Hudson, had also turned up, struggling to hold back her tears.
Arty had been less happy to see Ana Stoyanova at the back of the church, the stark blonde of her hair and pale skin against the black of her outfit making her nickname of the Ice Queen even more apt. There’d been no sign of tears from her. She was poison – of that he was now convinced. He’d been avoiding her for the last couple of days and so when Elaine Bullock had invited some of Alice’s closest friends to the Fleece, Arty had accepted. It was a fitting way to see off the old girl. And it delayed his return to Fellside Court and proximity to Ana Stoyanova.
At first, it seemed Arty would be the only resident to attend the wake. With the weather closing in and snow starting to fall, Edith, Clarissa and Rita had made the wise decision not to risk old bones on slippery cobbles and had instead opted to go home. Ana had offered to drive them across the town centre to the pub, but the women had declined, saying they were going to hold their own memorial for dear Alice in the cafe. Joseph had made to go with them but when he realised Arty was following the rest of the funeral party, he’d changed direction and caught up with the bookmaker.
Which is why, as they approached the pub, Arty was having second thoughts. ‘I mean, it’s not really a good idea, is it?’
Joseph smiled. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.’
‘Fine? You’re an alcoholic and we’re about to enter a drinking establishment. Of course I’m worried.’
A slight shrug of the shoulders was the only reply he got from his friend.
‘You don’t need to come in with me,’ continued Arty. ‘I’ll be okay on my own.’
‘Sure, I know that. But I’ve seen so little of you the last couple of days. It’ll be grand to catch up, away from the women.’ Joseph gave a roguish wink and reached for the door handle, ushering Arty inside before he could make any more protests.
Shaking the snow off his ov
ercoat, Arty entered the pub. Behind him, Joseph took a deep breath, looked up to the heavy skies and muttered a quick prayer.
‘Give me strength, Kathleen.’ Then, for the first time since he was carted home from its cosy interior by George Capstick two years ago, Joseph O’Brien entered the Fleece.
Troy Murgatroyd should have been happy. His pub was thronged with people and they were drinking. His wife had laid on a buffet in the small room at the back, which meant they would all stay a while. And the weather was getting worse outside, yet another factor that would keep the customers within the four walls of his establishment.
But while his entrepreneurial spirit was satisfied, he was a misanthropist by nature and couldn’t help but be annoyed by the arrival of his clients.
They were like dogs, the lot of them. Shaking off their wet clothes all over the floor, traipsing damp footprints across the carpet – these last two no exception. He glanced over at the door, a frown in place until surprise turned it upside down.
‘Bugger me!’ he said, overfilling the pint glass under the Black Sheep tap in shock. ‘Never expected to see you in here again.’
His voice carried, making heads turn, and a gentle quiet descended. By the arch through to the second room, Samson was one of those whose attention was caught by the exclamation from the sullen landlord. He looked across to the new arrivals and cursed quietly.
‘That’s all we need,’ he said, eyes on the figure of his father as he approached the bar.
Delilah placed a hand on his arm. ‘Don’t be so quick to judge him. He’s here to mark the passing of a friend.’
‘And then pass out on the floor,’ muttered Samson. It was like being a teenager all over again. This pub. These people. That father who drank until unconscious, slumped across the bar in an incoherent mess which Samson would be responsible for getting home. ‘He shouldn’t be in here.’
He made to cross the floor, but Delilah pulled him back. ‘Don’t. Give him a chance.’
‘I’ve spent most of my life giving him chances,’ he said.
Date with Malice Page 15