‘So give him one more. For me.’ She looked up at him. ‘Please?’
He glanced around the room, noting the whispered conversations, the sly looks. Delilah was right. They were waiting for him to react. Waiting for yet another chapter in the O’Brien family meltdown saga.
‘Hello, you two.’ His father was standing next to them, a small bottle of lemonade in one hand, glass in the other. He raised the bottle in Samson’s direction and smiled. ‘I’m on the soft stuff, son.’
Delilah slipped her arm around Joseph and reached up to kiss him on the cheek. ‘As if anyone thought any different.’
Joseph laughed but still the concern lingered on his son’s face.
‘Should you be in here?’ Samson asked quietly.
‘Probably not. But I didn’t want to leave Arty.’ He gestured towards the bookmaker, who was talking to Elaine Bullock, his pint of bitter already half-drunk. ‘I recognise the signs of someone on the edge when I see them.’
‘What’s wrong with him?’ asked Delilah.
‘He’s not been himself of late. Not since Alice died. But the last few days he’s been behaving really strangely.’
‘In what way?’
‘He doesn’t come down for any of the group sessions, for a start. And he hasn’t been in the cafe for a while now. He just stays in his flat and refuses to answer the door. Or he comes into town and spends the day away from Fellside Court.’ Joseph took a swig of his lemonade and winced at the sweetness, before staring at the bottle in contemplation. ‘Plus he’s taken to drinking. A lot. If I didn’t know better,’ he murmured, ‘I’d say Arty is afraid of something.’
Delilah caught Samson’s eye and opened her mouth to reply but Samson cut her off.
‘What on earth does he have to be afraid of?’ he asked.
His father looked up. ‘You tell me,’ he said. ‘We live in a great place, surrounded by great people. None of it makes sense.’
None of it did. Unless it was all connected to Alice Shepherd’s claim that Fellside Court was harbouring something malicious. Samson watched Arty return to the bar for another drink, throwing back a whisky before starting on his pint. He was tired, anyone could see that. But he also had that haunted look which Samson had seen on undercover agents close to burnout. The constant fear. The struggle to appear normal in a situation that was tense.
Arty Robinson was under great strain.
‘Have you tried talking to him?’ he asked his father.
Joseph nodded. ‘He clammed up, saying nothing’s wrong. So when he suggested coming here . . .’ The older O’Brien gave a sheepish grin. ‘I happen to know all about the liberating effects of alcohol.’
‘You rogue!’ said Samson in admiration. ‘I’ll make a detective of you yet.’
Joseph raised his glass in response and wandered over to join his friend, who was finishing his second pint.
‘Do you think it’s connected?’ asked Delilah. ‘Arty’s fear and Alice Shepherd’s allegations?’
‘Hard to say,’ said Samson. ‘But there does seem to be a lot of unease in Fellside Court.’
‘Maybe we should take a closer look?’
There was that we again. ‘How, exactly? And what would we be looking for?’
Delilah grinned. ‘You could go undercover as an old lady. Spend a few days over there and see if anything’s going on.’
He laughed, despite himself. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll save my old-lady outfit for when there’s firm evidence of something untoward. At the moment we have nothing more than the claims of a confused elderly woman—’
‘Who happened to die.’
‘Old people do tend to die,’ countered Samson.
‘And then there’s Eric . . .’ Delilah continued, speculation in her eyes.
‘What about him? His oxygen concentrator was working fine. He simply tripped and fell.’ Samson shook his head. ‘I spoke to Danny outside the church earlier and he’s happy there was no malice involved. It was just an unfortunate mishap.’
‘Aha! So you are curious. Enough to speak to Danny.’
He paused. Long enough for her to wag a finger in his face.
‘See,’ she said. ‘You feel it in your gut. We should act on it. Have a bit of a snoop around before anything else happens.’
‘Delilah,’ he said patiently, ‘if – and it’s a big “if” – there’s any investigating to be done, I’ll be doing it. Not us. Not you. Not after last time. Understood?’
The door crashed open, cutting off her reply, and Will fell into the pub, cursing loudly and being pulled along by a frantic Weimaraner. A Weimaraner covered in multi-coloured blotches.
‘Tolpuddle!’ shouted Delilah, rushing over to greet her dog, who was now wagging his tail and barking with pleasure. She rubbed his head, careful not to mark her suit with whatever the dog was coated in. ‘What happened?’ she asked Will.
Her oldest brother scowled. ‘Idiot dog. He nearly drove me demented all morning, whining like an air-raid siren the minute you went out of sight. The only time he calmed down was when I was replacing the marking colour on the ram and he got into the store. Had himself covered in crayon by the time I found him. Think he might have eaten some, too.’
Tolpuddle looked up at the pair of them, ears cocked, more proud than contrite. Then he heard Samson’s voice. Wheeling round, he pushed through the crowded pub, making a beeline for the detective, jostling people as he went.
‘Easy, easy! I’m here,’ Samson could be heard saying as he bent to stroke the dog, everyone laughing at the colours on the animal’s coat.
Will wasn’t laughing. He was watching man and hound with a look of distaste.
‘I’ve never known a dog be more wrong about people,’ he muttered as Tolpuddle leaned in against Samson’s leg, enjoying every second of the affection being lavished on him.
Delilah shot him a black look. ‘Ever thought it might be you who’s wrong?’ she hissed.
Will shook his head. ‘Nope. That daft mutt liked your ex-husband too, remember. Look how well judged that was.’
Delilah paled. ‘Jesus, Will. You never can let it go, can you?’ She walked away, unwilling to let her brother see how much the last comment had hurt. Given the circumstances, any mention of Neil in connection with Tolpuddle was like a knife in an open wound.
‘Are you okay?’ Samson asked as she re-joined him, her dog thrusting his head into her hand, panting happily.
‘Fine. Just wish I could divorce my brother.’
Samson grinned and then gestured at the splotches of colour on Tolpuddle. ‘What happened?’
‘He got into the crayon store up at the farm while Will was changing the colours over. You know how easily that stuff rubs off on—’
‘That’s it!’ Samson was staring at the dog’s back.
‘What?’ asked Delilah. But she didn’t get a reply. Samson had his mobile in his hand, scrolling through photos until he reached one that made him freeze.
‘It just doesn’t make sense,’ he muttered. Then he was striding across the pub, heading for the door.
Delilah would have followed him, sensing that he’d had some kind of breakthrough in a case and eager to know more. But she felt the heavy weight of Will’s stare from the bar. So she fussed over Tolpuddle a bit more and then joined Elaine Bullock, who was talking to Lucy. There was no way her brother could complain about her keeping them company. Then again, given the state of the sibling relationship, he’d probably find a way.
He’d been taken for a fool.
Samson flicked through the photographs one more time, his conviction growing stronger as the images of Mire End Farm flashed across the screen.
An absolute idiot – that’s what he’d been. And him a farmer in a previous life. How had he not noticed before?
Berating himself, he pulled up a map of the area. He needed evidence. Clear evidence. And some background information. He thought he might know where to find it. He also knew the two people who could help him.
Whether or not he could persuade them to was another matter. Particularly given their family history of stubbornness.
‘Time to go home, Arty.’ Joseph O’Brien slipped a hand under his friend’s arm and gently led him towards the door.
It was mid-afternoon. The wake had long since finished but Arty had kept insisting on another drink. Then another. Then something to eat. And the entire time Joseph was fighting the temptation to order something stronger than lemonade, the smell of alcohol seeping into his consciousness, making him salivate. Just one. He could have just one and he’d be fine.
Kathleen had saved him. The thought of her looking down, watching over him as he tried to do his best for his friend. That and the fact that he didn’t want to give Bruncliffe the satisfaction of seeing him live up to the nickname of Boozy O’Brien. Not now his son was home.
‘One more . . . for the road,’ slurred Arty, straining to get back to the bar.
But Joseph was insistent. He didn’t think his own strength would hold out much longer.
‘No more, my friend. You’ve already had more than enough. Think what Edith will say when she sees you.’
The thought of the headmistress, face puckered in disapproval, was enough to send the bookmaker into a fit of giggles. ‘Edith . . . she’s a good woman . . .’ Then he jerked upright, a hand reaching out to Joseph in terror. ‘Look after her,’ he said. ‘If anything happens to me.’
‘Nothing’s going to happen to you,’ said Joseph. ‘Apart from you having a massive headache tomorrow morning. So let’s get you home.’
Arty slumped back into himself, the drink taking hold, and quietly allowed Joseph to lead him out of the pub and into the cold of a winter’s afternoon. The snow had relented but the ground was covered, and the pair of them slipped and slid across the marketplace and up the hill towards Fellside Court. By the time they reached the apartment building, Joseph was tiring, Arty needing a lot of support as he stumbled on alcohol-numbed legs. He was glad to see the wall of glass rearing above them as they crossed the courtyard.
‘Nearly home,’ he said, guiding his friend into the warmth of the entrance hall.
Arty shuddered, focusing on the familiar carpet, the photographs on the walls, and realising where he was. He shrank further into his winter coat, hand grasping tightly onto Joseph’s arm.
‘Quick, before she sees us,’ he mumbled, almost colliding with the Christmas tree as he hurried towards the lift. He pulled Joseph in after him, muttering incoherently while he struggled to locate his keys. When the lift doors opened, he lunged across the corridor towards his flat.
‘Inside, inside,’ he hissed, trying to insert the key in the lock, his hands shaking so badly that Joseph had to take the key from him and open the door.
Whether Joseph had been intending to stay or not, he had no choice. Arty dragged his friend into his flat and slammed the door, breathing heavily, eyes wild.
‘Did she see us?’ he demanded.
‘Who?’
Arty didn’t answer, visibly shaking as he put an eye to the spyhole. ‘She’s out there. I see her. She’s poison.’
Joseph put a hand on his friend’s arm and Arty jumped. ‘Calm down, Arty. It’s just the drink talking. I should know.’
But Arty shook him off, dropped his coat on the floor and staggered across the apartment towards his bedroom. ‘You don’t understand,’ he muttered. ‘No one does. No one except Alice.’
‘Alice is dead, Arty,’ said Joseph gently. ‘And you’re drunk. Come on, get some sleep and you’ll feel better in the morning.’
Arty shook his head, sitting on the edge of the bed as he tried to take off his shoes, the laces proving tricky for his fumbling fingers. ‘No sleep. Too dangerous. She comes when we’re asleep.’
‘Here, let me,’ said Joseph, ignoring the drunken paranoia. Bending down, he undid the shoes and slipped them off, eased his friend out of his jacket, removed his tie and then helped him onto the bed, covering him with the bedspread.
Already Arty’s eyelids were closing, his drink-inspired terrors abating.
Joseph waited until his friend’s breathing became heavy with sleep. Then he hung the discarded items of clothing over a chair and headed out into the hall, placing Arty’s overcoat on a hook as he made to leave.
He paused, hand on the front door.
Arty was drunk. That much was clear. Drunk enough that he was seeing demons in the shadows.
Joseph remembered those days. He also remembered waking up in the dark all alone, his fears as large as when he’d fallen into a drunken stupor hours before.
He turned back towards the kitchen. It wouldn’t hurt for him to stay a while. At least until Arty was awake again and ready to eat something maybe. God knows, enough people had done that for him when he’d been raving drunk. Time he paid back a little.
Smiling at the irony – a drunk looking after a drunk – Joseph O’Brien put the kettle on. And placed himself in danger.
Dusk fell quickly on an already dark day. The snow eased, the shadows took over, and the stillness peculiar to snowy conditions descended on Bruncliffe. Up the hill above the police station and the library, Fellside Court reflected the sombre qualities of the town around it.
Like every year in the run-up to Christmas, the retirement complex had taken on a melancholic air as its population temporarily decreased, with many residents heading off to stay with their families. So even though it was only early evening, the place was quiet. The cafe was empty; the lounge hosted a handful of people, some of them snoozing lightly in front of the television; the corridors were silent. In the cluster of six apartments overlooking the courtyard, things were no livelier. Alice Shepherd’s flat was understandably vacant. Next to it, Eric Bradley’s was in the dark, the old man still in hospital and then due to go to his son’s for the festive season. Rita Wilson was at a WI meeting in the town, leaving her windows unlit. And the two guest suites were unoccupied. It was only Arty Robinson’s flat on the first floor that showed any signs of life. And even they were muted.
In the bedroom, a soft burr of snoring drifted from under the bedcovers draped over the sleeping form of the drunken bookmaker. In the lounge, curtains drawn against the night, the TV flickered silently, the six o’clock news being broadcast unseen to the man in the armchair. Like his friend, Joseph O’Brien was fast asleep, head back, eyes closed, at home on Twistleton Farm in his dreams, his wife beside him, their infant son playing on a newly formed hay bale under a summer sky . . .
When the front door eased open, he didn’t hear a thing. Was unaware of the silhouette slipping into the hall, the shimmer of blonde hair before the door closed quietly behind it. A couple of soft steps and the figure was in the archway that gave onto the open-plan living area, the television casting the space in a sickly light. Enough light to reveal the outline of the man in the armchair, his back to the hall.
Perfect. He would die in front of the TV. Wonderfully normal. No suspicion. A heart attack in a man with a history of heart disease.
Syringe in hand, death approached the unsuspecting Joseph O’Brien. It wasn’t meant for him. But fate, and a kind heart, had placed him there. In the wrong place. Definitely at the wrong time.
Arty Robinson was in a deep, troubled, alcohol-infused sleep. Several decades younger, he was at the counter of his betting shop in Leeds, reliving an attempted robbery by two young lads in balaclavas and carrying baseball bats.
They’d stormed in, threatening customers, smashing glass and demanding money. Big Al had been out of the office like a shot, throwing himself at the nearest offender and pinning him to the wall with his bulk. The second lad had turned on the big man and Arty had seized his chance, leaping over the counter and lunging at his back. The lad had whipped around, sensing danger, baseball bat swinging, and instinct had taken over. Falling back on the boxing training from his youth, Arty had ducked low and then risen with an almighty punch, his fist aiming for the lad’s chin.
In the dark bedroom of
the here and now, limbs twitching, dreams mixing the present and the past, Arty’s right arm shot out of the bedcovers and smashed into the bedside lamp, a hoarse shout accompanying it.
It saved his friend’s life.
The crash came from the bedroom, overlaid by a bellow, and stilled the syringe. Someone else was in the flat. Hastily stowing the instrument of death in a pocket, the figure hurried back into the hallway, heading for the exit. But the man in the chair was stirring, roused by the noise.
‘What’s going on?’ he murmured, his distinctive accent slurred as he surfaced to unfamiliar surroundings, confusion befuddling him for a few vital seconds. He stared at the room around him, the TV on, and saw a slice of light reflected across the screen, a silhouette caught in it.
‘Who’s there?’ he muttered, twisting round to the dark hallway.
No one. Just the coats hanging off the hooks by the door and the sound of Arty snoring from the bedroom.
Laughing at his own jitters, Joseph O’Brien roused himself, stiff from his impromptu sleep, and padded into the kitchen.
A cup of tea. For him and Arty. It would do them the power of good. Make Arty feel alive after such a heavy session.
He filled the kettle and contemplated how wonderful his life was. Fellside Court had been the saving of him.
13
Samson O’Brien was on a mission. A charm offensive. He wasn’t sure of his success, given that his target was Will Metcalfe. However, he could but try.
The morning after Alice Shepherd’s funeral he eased the Royal Enfield along Back Street, the engine noise bouncing off the buildings on either side. He was soon on Hillside Lane – the road that led up onto the fells – and with the town falling behind, the shops and houses quickly yielded to fields and the dramatic rise of land that crested above Bruncliffe.
It looked beautiful any day of the year, in Samson’s biased opinion. But today . . .
Today, thanks to the wintry weather of the day before, it was like something out of a fairy tale.
White fields glittered under bright sunshine. Grey stone walls were adorned with a festive topping, softening the direct lines that had been etched into the terrain centuries before. And the fellsides sloped upwards in smooth, pristine scoops of snow, unmarred by rock or soil.
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