‘Come on then, let’s go,’ said Delilah, getting in the car.
Tolpuddle and Samson looked at each other and then they both dived for the empty passenger seat. Tolpuddle won, establishing himself on the seat. He let out a sharp bark of victory, startling the ram, which bleated while Samson tried to squeeze in next to the large hound.
‘Budge up,’ he muttered as he managed to close the door, the handle digging into his side, his tender calf muscles threatening to cramp.
Tolpuddle licked his cheek.
‘Seriously, Tolpuddle. How am I supposed to get the seat belt on? Delilah, tell your dog to move!’
Tolpuddle leaned into him, squashing Samson against the glass as Delilah pulled off.
With a rear-view mirror full of sheep, and a dog and a large man fighting over the passenger seat, she drove back down the track towards Mire End Farm, a smile tugging at her lips.
Mire End Farm didn’t look any more prosperous on the Monday morning before Christmas than it had on Samson’s previous visits. The mist had settled across the dale, wreathing around the forlorn barns and adding to the general air of misery that the place exuded. Chickens scuttled ahead of Delilah as she got out of the Micra, Samson almost falling onto the muddy yard as Tolpuddle pushed past him.
‘Doesn’t look like anyone’s home,’ said Delilah.
‘It always looks like this.’ Samson reached back into the car and pressed on the horn, a strangled burp of sound echoing between the barn walls. ‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered. ‘Does this thing have any redeeming features?’
Despite its feeble nature, the horn did the trick, the lumbering shape of Clive Knowles appearing through the shroud of grey from behind the barns.
‘What do you want?’ he demanded, taking in Samson, Delilah and Tolpuddle with a surly look.
‘We’ve brought you a Christmas present,’ said Samson. He opened the boot and a loud bleat stopped the farmer in his tracks as the ram hopped down into the yard.
‘Ralph?’ Clive Knowles stepped forward to catch the animal, frowning, a stain of red creeping up his broad face. He stared at the ram, more in shock than elation. Then he turned to Samson. ‘Where’d you find him?’
The attempt at surprise was too late. The words forced past stunned lips.
‘Over the back in Langstrothdale,’ said Samson, tipping his head towards the fell that rose behind them. ‘He was in a field.’
The farmer’s face twisted into a pretence of pleasure. ‘It’s good to have him back,’ he muttered.
‘I’m sure it is. Funny thing, though, how he escaped all the way over there and managed to lose his harness on the way.’
‘They must have left him there,’ said Clive, his voice strained.
‘Who?’
‘The buggers that stole him!’
Samson shook his head. ‘I’ve been thinking about that. I’m not sure he was stolen after all.’
‘What do you mean?’ The farmer was glaring at the detective, a mixture of worry and anger on his florid features. ‘Of course he was bloody taken. It was you who spotted it.’
‘All I spotted was what you wanted me to see.’
‘What? You’re not suggesting—?’
‘A harness handily abandoned by the side of the road and some tyre tracks.’ Samson cut off the indignation by pointing at the pile of discarded tyres looming lopsided in the yard. ‘You took the harness off Ralph, and then used one of these. Rolled it over the field to give the impression that someone had driven in to steal your tup. But you forgot to open the gate. There were no markings in the mud from where the gate would have swung across the tracks. The only way Ralph left that field was down at the bottom gate and in the back of your trailer, with Pete Ferris’s help.’
‘That’s bloody ridiculous. Why would I want to steal my own tup?’
‘The ewes,’ said Delilah.
‘The ewes?’ Clive Knowles turned to her, desperation in his tone.
‘Ralph wasn’t servicing them. You’d bought a dud. So rather than lose all of your investment, you decided to have him disappear, leaving you free to claim the insurance.’
‘All you needed,’ said Samson with a trace of sarcasm, ‘was some unsuspecting fool to verify the theft. And you chose me.’
The farmer glanced from Delilah to Samson, his blustering confidence failing. ‘You can’t prove it,’ he said.
Samson shrugged. ‘Maybe not. But I wouldn’t put money on Pete Ferris keeping quiet if the police get involved.’
Shoulders slumping, Clive gave a weary sigh. ‘What choice did I have? Two seasons in and that bloody beast has bankrupt me. I’ve shelled out all that money and for what? A fine fleece and nowt more.’ He looked up at Samson, his wretched expression eliciting sympathy from someone who was well acquainted with farming debt. ‘Are you going to contact the authorities?’
‘What for? The insurance company hasn’t paid out yet and Ralph’s back where he should be.’
As if hearing his name, the ram lifted his head and began tugging at the restraining arm of the farmer.
‘Much use that is,’ muttered Clive.
‘I don’t know about that,’ said Samson, taking the pot of raddle out of the car. He leaned down and smeared a liberal amount of blue across the chest of the animal, then gestured in the direction of the field beyond the barns. ‘Let him loose with the ewes.’
The farmer gave a bitter laugh. ‘Right. So I can watch a prize tup do bugger-all!’
‘You might be surprised,’ said Delilah.
With a grunt of disbelief, the farmer guided the ram across the yard, past the barns and towards the gate. Through the mist, the blurred outlines of sheep could be seen munching grass contentedly, many of them with fleeces still unmarked. The field was only steps away when Ralph started straining to get free, head up, smelling the air. And he was barely inside the gate before a cluster of ewes was crowding around him.
‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ Clive Knowles pushed his cap back to scratch his head as he watched his prize tup do exactly what he was supposed to do, a splotch of blue soon left across a pristine white back. A broad smile broke across the farmer’s face as the ram started closing in on his next partner. ‘What the hell did you do to him?’
‘Nothing,’ said Samson. ‘You did it.’
‘Me? How?’
‘You took the harness off him. Have you still got it?’
Clive gestured at a tangle of leather discarded by the gate. ‘Bloody thing finally gave up the ghost.’
Samson picked it up. ‘Look,’ he said, pointing at the pin designed to hold the crayon in place, its jagged edge snagging his thumb. ‘Every time Ralph lifted up onto a ewe, this cut into him.’
‘No wonder the poor lad wasn’t up to his responsibilities,’ said Delilah.
Clive was shaking his head. ‘That was it? That’s what the problem was?’
‘Yep,’ said Samson. ‘You nearly lost a seven-grand investment for the sake of a crappy harness.’
The farmer flushed. Then he thrust out a hand in the direction of the detective. ‘Let me pay you a finder’s fee.’
‘And in return . . . ?’ asked Samson, shaking the offered hand but sensing there was a catch.
‘Perhaps we could keep this between ourselves?’ Clive Knowles looked abashed.
‘What about Pete Ferris?’
The farmer grimaced and spat. ‘What about him? If it hadn’t been for that blasted lighter falling out his pocket, you’d never have known he’d been involved.’
‘Probably worth our while calling in on him anyway. Let him know the game is up.’
‘Aye, well, mind he doesn’t set the dogs on you when you do.’
‘Somehow,’ said Samson with a grin, ‘I think we might get a better reception than last time.’
The dogs were still there, lunging out of the misshapen porch and racing across the ground to meet them. This time they were stilled by a sharp whistle from the caravan. They set, dropping onto their haunches,
eyes on Samson and Delilah, who had a firm hold of Tolpuddle’s lead.
‘What do you want?’ shouted Pete Ferris, now out on the porch, squinting as he strained to see them. The mist had begun to lift on this side of the river, a weak sun slowly burning it off, but residual wisps still trailed above the field.
‘A quick word,’ said Samson.
The poacher twitched and Samson took it as an invitation. He approached the porch, Delilah and Tolpuddle behind him.
‘We found Clive Knowles’ tup,’ he said.
Another spasm beset the thin frame of the man leaning against the caravan, his eyes large beneath the baseball cap.
‘Would you like to know where?’ continued Samson.
‘None of my business,’ muttered the poacher. He tugged on the peak of his cap and stared at his dirty trainers.
‘We know all about it. The insurance scam,’ said Delilah, taking pity on the man and putting him out of his misery.
Pete Ferris jerked back, body tense. ‘Don’t know what you mean.’
Samson laughed. ‘Sure you do. You and Clive Knowles. Quite a smart piece of work. But for your lighter . . .’
A haunted look came over the gaunt face. ‘What you going to do about it?’
‘Nothing,’ said Samson. He gestured at the artificial tree propped up by the front door, stems frayed, a single string of lights flickering dejectedly. ‘Consider our silence a Christmas present.’
The man’s knees sagged with relief. ‘Thank you,’ he muttered, holding out a bony hand. ‘I owe you.’
‘I’ll remember that,’ said Samson, shaking hands. He turned to go, Delilah and Tolpuddle following him off the porch, the poacher and his two lurchers watching them leave with the same wariness they’d greeted them with.
‘I can’t help feeling they got off lightly,’ said Delilah, thinking about the farmer and the poacher as she walked back across the sodden field to the car. ‘After all, what they were attempting to do was a crime.’
Samson grinned and patted his jacket pocket. ‘Not that lightly. Clive Knowles paid me twice, don’t forget. And that will have hurt him. A lot. Besides, the claim was never settled by the insurance company, so what harm was done?’
‘Apart from the sheep droppings in my car, you mean?’
‘It’s all part of being a rural detective,’ laughed Samson. ‘Like this.’ He held out his right hand, still coloured blue from the raddle. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got an important appointment in town.’
‘You haven’t forgotten about tonight?’ asked Delilah, as they got into the car. She was half-expecting him to renege, but he was shaking his head, grin still in place.
‘No. I’ll be there. Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.’
She should have known that when Samson O’Brien was showing enthusiasm for a Speedy Date night, something was up.
‘Is he here yet?’
In the lounge of Fellside Court, some nine miles and several fells away from Mire End Farm, Arty Robinson was tense. Surrounded by Christmas lights and baubles, by the residents of Fellside Court in their finery, he felt like Scrooge, a blanket of misery smothering the gaiety of those around him. But he couldn’t help it.
He was afraid.
Although knowing Samson O’Brien would soon be here helped.
He glanced over to the doorway where Rita Wilson was chatting to Ana Stoyanova, the manager in a red dress, her blonde hair swept back and entwined with silver tinsel. She looked like an angel.
An angel hiding a demon’s heart.
‘Is he here yet?’ he muttered again, leaning across to Joseph O’Brien, who was putting his phone away.
‘Any minute now,’ said Joseph. ‘He’s been up to old Knowles’ farm. Seems he’s found that missing tup.’
Arty’s spirits rallied. He was good, this kid of Joseph’s. If anyone could get to the bottom of what was going on at the retirement complex, Samson was the man.
Then perhaps Arty would be able to get some sleep at night instead of sitting up in a chair, clutching a golf club. It was no way to live. But it was better than dying.
‘Christ!’ Samson surveyed himself in the mirror on his father’s wardrobe door.
What had he been thinking when he’d agreed to this?
Red trousers hung loose, a couple of inches clear of his boots. A fat pillow padded out the red jacket, black buttons pulled taut across its width. A red hat topped the outfit, his hair tucked up beneath it, and a white beard covered the lower half of his face.
Santa Claus. With a blue-stained hand.
As undercover went, this was one disguise he’d never expected to don. It wasn’t exactly inconspicuous. But it did give him the perfect excuse for being in Fellside Court. To get a feel for the place. And for the woman whom Arty Robinson believed was behind the catalogue of tragedy that had visited it.
He picked up the sack of presents from by the door and slipped into the corridor. It was empty, everyone in the lounge awaiting the arrival of the big man. Shifting the sack over his shoulder, he headed for the stairs. Halfway down and he could already hear the excited buzz of the gathered pensioners. Holding a hand over his fake belly, he descended the last few steps, took large strides along the corridor and entered the lounge.
‘Ho-ho-ho!’ he exclaimed.
‘He’s here!’ cried Clarissa Ralph. And the room dissolved into chaos.
Arty couldn’t help himself. Fear or no fear, the sight of the large Father Christmas standing in the doorway made him grin. Clarissa was squealing with delight, Edith had a wide smile on her face and Geraldine Mortimer was already flirting with the man in red.
‘He’s good,’ he acknowledged to Joseph, and the Irishman lit up with pride as he watched his son being led to an armchair where a mince pie and a glass of sherry – nonalcoholic – awaited him.
But would he be good enough? While the rest of the room was entranced by this new addition to their yearly ritual, Arty had let his attention drift back to her.
She was standing by the door yet again. Always ready for flight, it seemed. Something shifty in the way she stayed at the edge of everything, never fully committing herself. Unlike her colleague, Vicky Hudson, who had promptly sat down on Santa’s knee, sending the residents into gales of laughter.
‘Arty!’ Edith was calling him, beckoning him over. ‘Your turn.’
With a last glance at Ana, he made his way over to the melee in the middle of the room.
‘Have you been a good boy?’ Father Christmas asked and Arty smiled, feeling at ease for the first time in over a week.
‘Let me sit on your knee and tell you,’ he said, promptly placing his bulk on the red-covered legs.
Father Christmas let out a mock howl of pain and everyone laughed.
When Arty stood up, present in hand, and extricated himself from the crowd, the doorway was empty. Ana Stoyanova was nowhere to be seen.
He felt the familiar mantle of fear descend over him once more.
17
‘You’ll stay for the meal?’ Ana Stoyanova asked Samson, her delivery more a command than a question.
With the presents all distributed, the gaggle of old people had begun to drift out of the lounge, heading down the corridor towards the cafe, comparing gifts as they went and leaving a trail of conversation behind them. The manager of Fellside Court had appeared in the doorway in their wake.
‘I’d love to,’ said Samson, scratching his chin where the beard was tickling him. ‘As long as I don’t have to eat in this blasted thing. Thank you.’
Ana gave a small smile and shook her head. ‘Thank you. Without your intervention, we wouldn’t have had a visit from Father Christmas this year. That would have been a shame. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and set another place at the table.’
He watched her leave, a hand pressed to her temple, face pale.
‘What do you think?’ His father was next to him, his gaze fixed on the departing manager. ‘Is Arty right to be worried?’
> Samson turned to where the bookmaker was standing alone in a corner, staring out at the bleak courtyard, a glass of sherry in his hand, a haunted expression on his face and his eyes bright from an excess of alcohol. ‘I think it’s Arty we need to be worried about, not Ana. He’s a wreck.’
‘He’s been getting worse. I don’t know what to do. I thought asking you here . . .’
Samson put a hand on his father’s arm. ‘You did the right thing, Dad. If nothing else, at least he thinks someone’s listening. In truth, there’s not much more we can do. Although,’ he lowered his voice, ‘I wouldn’t mind a quick look at Rita Wilson’s flat before we go and eat. You know, just to rule out the possibility of a break-in.’
‘Luckily, I know where the spare key is,’ said Joseph with a grin.
He accompanied his son out of the lounge and up the stairs, telling Edith Hird, who was waiting at the door to the cafe, that Samson was just going to change. On the first floor they stopped by Joseph’s apartment, giving Samson the chance to get rid of the Santa suit. As they exited the flat, Joseph took a key from a hook by the door.
‘Is that Rita’s?’ Samson asked, remembering what Arty had said the morning they’d visited Eric in the hospital. The residents left spare keys to their homes with one another.
‘Yes.’
‘Who’s got yours?’
‘Arty.’
‘And who’s got Arty’s?’
‘Normally Eric, but Clarissa has it for now. Why?’
Samson didn’t say anything. But he was thinking. Thinking that someone would only have to break into one flat in Fellside Court and they would instantly have access to the whole lot. It wasn’t a secure system, even if it did give the residents peace of mind.
‘Right, this way,’ said Joseph, walking briskly towards the stairwell over by the lift rather than the one that led down to the cafe. ‘There’s less chance of us being seen.’
The stairs brought them out on the ground floor by the large Christmas tree. With the entrance hall empty, the two O’Briens hurried round the tree and turned left into the wing that housed Rita Wilson’s flat, Joseph leading the way down the corridor.
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