As Clive Knowles had said, hardly anyone ever came this way. Even the walkers who did would most likely be following the Pennine Way, which passed the farm and then veered off around the forest of conifers rather than through it. So Samson had been confident they would find the missing ram here. Tucked away. Awaiting an off-the-record sale. Or worse.
‘Sorry,’ he said as he closed the gate and joined Delilah and Tolpuddle on the road. ‘I dragged you all the way out here for nothing.’
‘Don’t speak too soon.’ She was looking over his shoulder at the next field down the dale. ‘Because that is as fine a Swaledale ram as you’re likely to see around these parts.’
He turned just in time to catch the last few movements of a tupping, the ram moving away, the ewe’s backside now daubed in blue. As were the backsides of most of the ewes in the field.
‘Only thing is,’ said Delilah as the ram started making moves towards another ewe, ‘I thought you said Ralph didn’t perform . . .’
Samson was already jogging towards the gate.
‘It’s him!’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘I’m telling you, it’s him.’
‘But there are no tags,’ said Delilah, standing to one side with a doubtful look.
‘I don’t need tags,’ said Samson, a wide grin forming as he leaned over the tup.
They’d caught this ram a lot easier than the last one, the animal trotting over to them when they’d entered the field. Straight away the differences were clear. The way the ram stood. The broad, level back. The muscle under the thick fleece. And of course, the all-important undercarriage.
But as Delilah had pointed out, there were no tags in the ram’s ears, only empty holes. Which meant they couldn’t use the identification number to say for certain if it was Ralph or not. Samson, however, had found another means.
He ran his hands over the ram’s chest once more. It was smeared in blue raddle, an oily substance rubbed directly onto the tup as an alternative to a harness and crayon at mating time. But that wasn’t what Samson was interested in. Pushing his fingers through the thick fleece, he felt the abrasion. It was just under the right foreleg. A nasty lump of scarred tissue where something had been rubbing. It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together—
‘Hey! You two! What are you at?’ A farmer was at the gate, scowling across the field at them, and at Tolpuddle tethered outside. He held a bucket in one hand, a small pot of raddle in the other.
‘Bugger!’ muttered Delilah as Samson let the ram loose, his hands Smurf-blue. ‘Now we’re in trouble.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Samson. He strode confidently over to the disgruntled farmer.
‘What you wanting with my tup?’ demanded the man, the animal in question nudging at the bucket, looking for his usual treat.
‘Your tup?’ asked Samson.
The farmer paused, put down the bucket and pushed back the cap on his head, a deep red flushing up his neck and into his cheeks. ‘Not sure I know what you mean.’
Samson laughed. ‘I think you do. At what point did you decide to use him?’
An appropriately sheepish look stole across the man’s face. ‘Aye. Fair cop all right. But it’s a crying shame to have such genes going to waste.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Delilah, looking from the farmer to Samson and then to the ram, ‘someone would like to tell me what the hell is going on?’
‘Delilah, meet Ralph,’ said Samson, nodding at the ram, which had its head in the bucket, munching away.
‘You were right? This is Ralph? But I thought he – you know – couldn’t perform?’ She looked around the field at the blue-stained ewes.
‘Ha!’ The farmer cackled, his eyes creasing with amusement. ‘Reckon that’s what old Knowles thought, too. He told me his tup needed a rest. Wanted to rent my top field for a couple of weeks so the lad could get his stamina back.’
‘What happened?’
‘The tup kept breaking out, is what happened. And then breaking in here with these lasses. Couldn’t keep him away from them.’
‘So you swapped out your own ram and let Ralph in here,’ said Samson.
The farmer gave him a shrewd look. ‘Any bugger would have done the same. Look at him. He’s sex on legs, that boy.’
Delilah coughed and turned away, bubbles of laughter threatening to overwhelm her.
‘You’ve seen my poor Jackson next door,’ the farmer continued. ‘He couldn’t keep up. This lad got in here and had more ewes under him in a day than Jackson could manage all week. Didn’t seem right to deprive the youngster.’
‘So Ralph’s not a dud,’ murmured Delilah.
‘A dud? Whoever told you that? This fella will go down in history.’ The farmer ran an affectionate hand across the rump of the ram. ‘I suppose Knowles wants him back, then? Is that why you’re here?’
‘Something like that,’ said Samson. ‘Only we don’t have transport right now. Can we come back tomorrow morning for him?’
‘Aye, that’d be fine. No disrespect or anything, but I’ll need to check you are who you say you are, so I’ll give Knowles a call—’
‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ said Samson. ‘Thing is, he’s not exactly told you the truth . . .’
When the farmer heard that Clive Knowles had declared his ram missing and was even now filing an insurance claim, he was more than happy to wash his hands of the affair rather than risk getting involved in something so dubious. He agreed to an early pick-up the following day, and when Samson asked him to bring a pot of raddle with him, he didn’t question it. They shook hands – Samson’s still tinged in blue – and the disconsolate farmer began walking back to the distant farmhouse.
‘What I don’t understand,’ said Delilah, already on the road with Tolpuddle, ready for the run back, ‘is how Ralph has gone from dud to superstud!’
Samson laughed. ‘I have a theory, but you’re going to have to wait to see if I’m right. In the meantime,’ he said, ‘I need a favour.’
‘Another one?’
‘Last one, I promise. It’s just, I can’t take Ralph back on the motorbike . . .’ He grinned at her, one eyebrow raised in expectation.
Delilah was quick to catch on. ‘You want me to ask Will for the Land Rover? You must be joking!’
‘It’s better coming from you.’
‘You think? How little you know my brother,’ she said. ‘There’s no way he’ll lend it to me. And there’s no way I’ll give him the pleasure of saying no, by asking for it.’
‘Please? If there was another way I wouldn’t be asking.’
She looked away, frowning, then she smiled. It wasn’t a smile that boded well for Samson. ‘What’s it worth?’ she asked.
He knew her better than to answer glibly. ‘What are you asking for?’
It was her turn to grin. ‘Some participation.’
‘In what?’
‘Tomorrow night. The Speedy Date—’
‘No!’ He was shaking his head. ‘No way.’
She shrugged and began jogging up the road towards the forest, negotiations over. Tolpuddle paused, looking at Samson, then he too seemed to shrug and loped off after Delilah.
‘Damn it.’ Samson was caught between a rock and a very hard place. ‘And damn that woman.’
He ran after her.
‘Delilah, wait. Let’s talk about this,’ he gasped, trying to catch her.
‘Nothing to talk about. Unless you’ve changed your mind?’
‘But it’s not fair!’ he declared, running alongside her. ‘You can’t seriously expect me to take part in another speed-dating session. The last one was bad enough.’
‘You said you enjoyed it!’
‘I lied,’ he lied.
‘Well, that’s my offer, so take it or leave it,’ she muttered, beginning to lengthen her stride as the sound of Samson’s mobile cut through their debate. She didn’t ease up while he answered it. Neither did Tolpuddle.
‘Dad?’
‘Son? Is this a good time?’
‘As good as any.’ Samson watched Delilah disappear into the trees.
‘Thing is, son, I need a favour . . .’
Samson listened as his father aired his concerns about Arty, the bookmaker seemingly making all sorts of claims about nefarious goings-on at Fellside Court and pointing the finger at Ana Stoyanova.
‘He’s being irrational, I know,’ continued Joseph. ‘But his anxiety is contagious.’ He gave a half-laugh. ‘Just now I caught myself thinking someone had broken into Rita Wilson’s flat, simply because a few presents had come unwrapped. It’s all so absurd.’
Absurd maybe. But Samson knew that absurdities often masked crimes. And Fellside Court was appearing on his radar more than it should – first, Alice Shepherd’s accusations, then the drama over Eric’s collapse. Now Arty, too, was making allegations.
‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked.
‘I want you to be Father Christmas,’ said Joseph O’Brien.
‘You what?’
‘Father Christmas. I want you to go undercover at the Christmas party tomorrow afternoon. Have a look around while you’re here, without Ana or Rick Procter suspecting a thing. It’ll put Arty at ease. Me too, for that matter.’
Samson was already grinning. The conversation he’d had with Delilah after Alice Shepherd’s funeral had been preying on him over the weekend. She’d been right. He was intrigued by the goings-on at the retirement complex. Now he had the ideal opportunity to have another look. Plus kill a second bird with the same stone. ‘Does the job come with a red suit?’
‘And a beard. A pillow too, for the extra padding you’d need. Is that a yes, then?’
‘Yes, Dad. It is.’
The sigh of relief at the other end of the phone pulled at Samson’s conscience. ‘Thanks, son. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.’
Samson stuffed his mobile in his pocket and started back up the track. Delilah was nowhere in sight. But Tolpuddle, that faithful hound, was waiting at the edge of the trees.
‘Come on, boy,’ he called as he ran towards him. ‘Let’s catch her.’
It took a while. And some fast running, which meant that when he did get within shouting distance as they cleared the trees and came back into the dale above Mire End Farm, Samson barely had the ability to call her name. Delilah heard him and turned, pausing, hand on hip as he came to a stop in front of her.
‘Okay,’ he wheezed. ‘Get transport and I’m all yours.’
Her eyebrows shot up. ‘Really? You’ll do the Speedy Date night?’
He nodded, a lot easier than trying to speak when his lungs were so busy sucking in air.
‘You star!’ Delilah threw her arms around him and he grinned.
When she realised the conditions he’d imposed on his acceptance, she wouldn’t be so happy.
While Delilah and Samson were finishing their Sunday-morning run, the final preparations were being made to Fellside Court for the Christmas party. By late afternoon the cafe was resplendent, the tables covered in snow-white tablecloths with red napkins, silver crackers and centrepieces of holly entwined in scarlet ribbons adding colour.
In the kitchen, the staff had been busy, getting as much ready for the meal the next day as they could. Mounds of peeled carrots and trimmed sprouts were stored in the fridge, along with three turkeys, pigs-in-blankets and lots of stuffing. As the cook hung up her apron and prepared to leave, she was confident everything had been done to make the party a success.
By early evening, tired from an eventful day and looking forward to the next one, the residents had already begun to drift towards their beds. By midnight, when across the town Samson was woken from a disturbed sleep by a brutal attack of cramp in his left calf, Fellside Court was silent.
In his room on the first floor, Arty Robinson was drifting off, propped up in his armchair facing the front door, an old golf club bought in the charity shop in town resting close to hand. A bottle of whisky even closer. He’d slipped into a dream, sharing a tender moment with his wife, who’d died years before, and was whispering sweet nothings to her with a half-smile on his restful features.
On the floor below, Rita Wilson was fast asleep too. At least she was until she heard it. Something. A bump? A crash?
It woke her completely, bringing her out of bed, shuffling into her slippers to investigate.
Next door, she thought. It had come from next door.
But next door was empty, the guest suite unoccupied for months.
Tying her dressing gown at the waist, she moved quietly down the hallway and rested an eye against the spyhole in the door.
The light in the corridor revealed nothing out of the ordinary. No movement. No one around.
She unlocked the door and gently opened it, heart starting to patter. It’s the hour, she told herself; that’s what was making her jumpy.
She poked her head out. And saw blonde hair bright under the lights. Ana Stoyanova. She was standing outside, keys in hand.
‘Ana!’
The manager spun round. ‘Rita. What are you doing up?’
‘I heard something.’
Ana smiled, a tight movement of her lips. ‘It was the wind,’ she said. ‘It’s blown a chair over outside. You should get back to sleep or you’ll be tired for the party tomorrow.’
Rita smiled back at her and nodded. ‘You’re right. Got to look my best for Santa!’
The old lady closed the door and went back to bed, glad to have such a diligent manager on hand. She was asleep before she had a chance to marvel at just how diligent the manager of Fellside Court was. After all, Ana Stoyanova wasn’t even supposed to be on duty.
Outside, the clouds barely moved in the still of the night. And under the starlight, every single chair in the courtyard was upright.
16
‘You have to be kidding!’
Samson stared at the Nissan Micra that was parked outside the office, Delilah standing next to it, arms folded and ready to argue.
It was Monday morning and she’d pulled up outside at eight o’clock on the dot. Not in the Land Rover, as he’d expected. But in the small hatchback, Tolpuddle already taking up quite a significant chunk of the interior.
‘Where’s the Land Rover?’
Delilah pouted and her chin tipped upwards. ‘Not here, clearly.’
‘Did Will say no?’
She glanced away, cheeks flushing. ‘Not exactly.’
‘You didn’t even ask him?’
‘You wouldn’t understand,’ she muttered.
‘But how the hell are we going to get a sheep in that?’ he asked.
‘It’s roomier than you think. Besides, it’s this or nothing. So get in and quit making a fuss.’ She strode round to the driver’s side, slamming her door to punctuate her point. Faced with no alternative, Samson sat in gingerly beside her, doing his best to conceal the fact his legs were aching from the run the day before.
‘I can’t believe you’re going to do this,’ he said, as Delilah threw a U-turn in the narrow street and headed out across the marketplace.
He was still shaking his head in disbelief as they left Bruncliffe behind and drove north towards Horton, fog closing in around them as they made their way up the dale.
‘You want to put him in that?’ The farmer scratched his head and looked at the Nissan Micra, while Delilah bit her lip in an attempt to keep her temper.
With a promise to overlook his involvement in a potential crime, Ralph’s custodian had been persuaded to bring the wandering tup back up the track and through the trees to meet the lane from Horton that ran above Mire End Farm. As Delilah’s small car bounced up the potholed tarmac, through the swirling mist had come the furtive flash of headlights. The farmer. He was sitting astride his quad bike, hat pulled low, fleece collar turned up hiding his face, and behind him in a trailer, Ralph. For Samson, against the backdrop of the dark conifers and concealed by the hill fog, the clandestine handover was like a surrea
l take on a drugs deal – Dales-style.
Although the car was hardly drug-lord material.
‘It’s all we could get, apparently,’ he muttered with a glare at the Micra and then at Delilah.
She glared back at him, cursing Will at the same time. Her oldest brother had been in a foul mood when she called up at the farm the afternoon before for the traditional Sunday family get-together. Her two middle brothers had been home – Craig having come all the way up from London, and Chris over from Leeds – but even their presence hadn’t alleviated Will’s sour temper.
He’d heard. Someone had seen Samson and Delilah setting off on their run and, on meeting Will in the Fleece, made some joke about Delilah getting married again. Delilah wasn’t sure what had irked Will more: her perceived betrayal, or the fact that he’d been so annoyed, he’d left the pub before he’d even finished his pint.
He’d pulled her aside the minute she arrived at the farm and warned her she was making a mistake. Again.
Being stubborn, she hadn’t set him right. Hadn’t told him there was nothing to her relationship with Samson O’Brien. That they’d simply been looking for a lost sheep. And then she hadn’t had the courage to ask for the Land Rover.
But there was no way she was explaining all that to Samson. Or to the farmer, who was starting to chuckle. Yet another story would be making its way around the Dales by teatime.
‘Let’s just get it loaded and be done with it,’ she snapped, leading Tolpuddle out of the car and then pulling the back seats flat.
‘Right you are,’ said the farmer with a raised eyebrow in Samson’s direction. ‘You’re the boss.’
The two men opened the gates to the trailer, grabbed hold of Ralph and walked him over to the rear of the hatchback. Between them, they lifted him in and shut the boot. The ram stared out at them.
‘There you go.’ The farmer handed over a small pot of raddle to Samson. ‘As you asked for. Now, I’ve nowt more to do with this.’
‘That’s great,’ said Samson. ‘And yes, I’ll keep your part in this quiet.’
They shook hands and the farmer turned the quad and headed for home, no doubt hoping that the prize-winning tup in the back of the Micra had left more than just blue marks in the field on the other side of the conifers.
Date with Malice Page 20