Date with Malice

by Julia Chapman

  ‘There’s no one in the guest suite next door,’ he murmured as they approached Rita’s front door, ‘and the people opposite are away with their families already. But even so, don’t be too long. It doesn’t feel right, breaking in like this.’

  Samson took the key from him and let himself into the apartment.

  It was homely. Stylish. More lived-in than his father’s austere dwelling. Soft touches of curtains and cushions marked it as a woman’s home. And the smell of perfume lingered, a flowery scent reminiscent of lavender and lilies.

  He crossed to the coffee table and the pile of presents his father had mentioned. Flipping the first one over, he could see why his father had been intrigued. The original decorative sticky tape had been resealed with a layer of traditional Sellotape but even through this second layer, Samson could see the tattered edges of the older tape. A nail, trying to lift it? Possibly. But why?

  He inspected the rest of the pile, found the same markings on the tape on quite a few of the presents.

  Had someone been looking for something specific? Or had Rita simply got tired with the mundane task of wrapping and become less thorough?

  Leaving the lounge, he crossed to the kitchen area, but there was nothing to suggest anyone had been in there other than Rita. The bedroom led off the hallway, the door open. He stuck his head in. Same thick-pile carpet as in Eric Bradley’s place. And the same indentation by the foot of the chest of drawers.

  He bent down and ran his fingers across the floor, noting the groove where the furniture had rested. Until recently. Someone had pulled the unit out from the wall and failed to put it back fully. Just like in Eric’s. He peered down the gap between the drawers and the wall. Nothing. Not even dust.

  A diligent cleaner, vacuuming behind the set of drawers.

  Aware of the time passing, he stood up, cast a quick eye over the bathroom and then paused in the hall to inspect the frame around the front door.

  No signs of forced entry. No scratches around the lock. If someone had broken in, they’d used a key. Or there hadn’t been a break-in at all . . .

  He left the flat, greeted by a relieved sigh from his father.

  ‘I’m getting too old for this lark,’ muttered the elder O’Brien, a hand to his heart. ‘Did you find anything?’

  ‘A few bits of tattered tape and that’s about it.’ Samson scratched his chin, still itchy from the false beard. ‘You’re right, Dad,’ he said. ‘Arty’s paranoia is contagious.’

  Joseph O’Brien shook his head in disgust. ‘I wasted your time, son.’

  ‘Better safe than sorry. Come on.’ Samson set off in the direction of the cafe. ‘Let’s go and get some turkey before Edith Hird eats it all.’

  Arty Robinson was nobody’s fool. He’d seen Joseph and his son sneak off. Had noted that they’d taken longer to return than a mere change of clothing warranted. He was hoping it meant they were snooping around. But while feeling relieved that his fears were being taken seriously, Arty had also seen Ana Stoyanova checking her watch a few times, a frown marring her otherwise perfect forehead. She was no fool, either.

  When father and son had finally appeared in the doorway of the cafe, she’d pounced, leading Samson to a chair next to hers. She’d smiled. Talked a little – more than normal anyway. That beautiful, innocent face focused on young O’Brien.

  And the detective had fallen under her spell.

  ‘More roasts, Arty?’ Edith was leaning across the table, a bowl of potatoes in her hand.

  He tore his attention away from Ana. ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Have some more turkey then.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ve had enough.’

  Edith looked at his plate and tutted, the sight of his unfinished meal drawing her concern. ‘Not like you to be off your food, Arty Robinson. You’re worrying me.’

  Arty managed a smile. ‘No need to worry, Edith. I’m fine. Honestly.’

  She gave a sharp nod. ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Does this mean you don’t want Christmas pudding, either?’ asked Clarissa from the other side of her sister.

  ‘Ah, now that is a different thing entirely,’ said Arty, forcing a big grin onto his face and slapping his stomach. ‘There’s always room for Christmas pudding.’

  Clarissa laughed, convinced by his display of good humour. But Edith kept her stern gaze on him. Another one who wasn’t easily fooled.

  He gave her one last smile and then turned back to the other end of the table. Samson was talking to Rita Wilson, leaning back in his chair with a contented look on his face. But the other side of Samson was an empty place.

  She’d gone again.

  ‘Who’s for Christmas pudding?’ asked the cook.

  A flurry of hands shot into the air amid a burst of laughter. But Arty’s arms stayed by his side. His appetite, along with Ana Stoyanova, had disappeared.

  ‘She had a migraine,’ Samson said. ‘She’s gone home. There’s nothing more to it.’

  Slumped in his armchair, Arty snorted. ‘Likely story. That woman is rotten to the core and no one can see it but me.’

  Having retired to Arty’s flat following the Christmas meal, Samson and his father had been listening to the bookmaker’s condemnation of Ana Stoyanova for the last ten minutes. It was a condemnation pinned on the most fragile of evidence – a look of fear in Alice Shepherd’s eyes; a sense of unease over Ana’s appearance at Eric’s bedside; and sightings of her in the corridors late at night.

  Samson remained far from convinced, finding it difficult to cast the manager of Fellside Court in the role of villain, despite Arty’s convictions.

  Yes, she was reserved. Aloof even. But Ana didn’t seem like the kind of woman capable of malice. Besides, what motive did she have for harming Alice Shepherd and Eric Bradley? If they had been harmed . . .

  ‘But you haven’t seen her doing anything inappropriate?’ the detective queried.

  Arty shook his head reluctantly. ‘Just that blonde hair, glinting under the lights.’

  ‘And you’re sure it’s her you’ve seen? Not someone else with blonde hair?’

  ‘It’s her!’ Arty growled. ‘Always her . . .’

  Casting his eyes around the apartment, Samson knew who a jury would believe. The curtains were drawn tight against the afternoon light. Bottles littered the worktop in the kitchen. A stack of unwashed plates was teetering next to the sink, scraps of food congealed on them. And in the midst of it sat Arty, eyes bloodshot, skin grey, his hands shaking slightly. The man was drinking. Hard. Samson knew the signs all too well.

  Unwelcome memories crowded in on him in the oppressive atmosphere, his father equally ill at ease on the couch next to him, as though he too was back in the kitchen at Twistleton Farm. Samson had a sudden longing to be out on the fells, running in the clean air with Delilah.

  ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ Arty was demanding.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Samson. ‘But you haven’t shown me any credible evidence of wrongdoing.’

  Arty glanced over his shoulder towards the curtains covering the patio doors, as though contemplating something. Then he sagged back in the chair. ‘I’ve told you enough,’ he muttered.

  Torn by an all-too-familiar mixture of exasperation and concern, Samson got to his feet, eager to be out of the flat. ‘I think you’re worrying over nothing,’ he said. Then he stared at the glass on the floor by the old man’s chair, his discomfort making him curt. ‘And you might want to cut back on the drink. It can’t be helping.’

  Arty gazed up at him, eyes sad. ‘This will come back to haunt you, son,’ he said. Then he picked up his empty glass and pointedly walked towards the kitchenette, conversation over.

  Following his father out of the apartment, Samson had a flashback to a frightened Alice Shepherd sitting in his office only a fortnight ago.

  ‘There’s nothing going on,’ he murmured, as much to convince himself as his father, who’d remained silent throughout the exchange. ‘Sorry, Dad,’ he said
finally when they reached the foyer. ‘I’m not sure I was of any help.’

  ‘You came. That in itself was a help. And don’t worry about Arty. I’ll keep an eye on him.’

  ‘Someone needs to. As for Rita’s flat—’

  Joseph pulled an imaginary zip across his lips. ‘I’ve no intention of mentioning my daft suspicions. Arty’s imagination is wild enough without me fanning the flames.’

  ‘Right, well, I’d best be off. Thanks for this.’ Samson held up the bag containing the Santa outfit and Joseph’s face split into a grin.

  ‘Use it wisely, son.’ He patted his lad on the back and watched him out through the courtyard and onto the motorbike. He waited there until the sound of the engine had faded and then he made his way back towards the stairs.

  He’d call in on Arty again. Make them both a cup of tea and persuade his friend to play a game or two of cribbage. In time, Arty would emerge from this depression which had unbalanced him and affected them all. Then life would return to normal. In the meantime, Joseph would keep his word and keep an eye on him.

  He headed up the stairs. He noticed nothing unusual. Because there was nothing to notice. Not yet. By the time anyone spotted it, it would be too late.

  He was on his own. Keeping guard with a second-hand golf club and a glass by his side.

  Arty Robinson hunkered down in his chair and prepared for another long night. Behind him, buried beneath the roots of the rose on his balcony, Alice’s pillbox lay hidden.

  Should he have told Samson about it?

  What was the point? The detective hadn’t believed a word he’d said. He’d been too busy judging him. Too bewitched by the charms of Ana Stoyanova to be capable of seeing that the pillbox was a valid piece of evidence.

  The doorbell sounded, followed by the call of Joseph through the letterbox, but Arty wasn’t in the mood for the Irishman’s optimism. Or his sobriety. He ignored his friend. Reached for the bottle and poured himself a generous measure.

  They thought he was deranged, the two O’Briens. Perhaps they were right? He took a swig of whisky, felt the burn hit his throat and dull his fraught emotions – apart from the cold slice of fear which remained lodged in his chest, as sharp as ever.

  Deranged or not, he was on his own.

  ‘Where the hell is he?’

  Several hours later, when night had fallen and Bruncliffe was bathed in the glow of Christmas lights, Delilah was looking at her watch in the upstairs function room of the Coach and Horses. Situated in the centre of town, the pub was more upmarket than the Fleece – which didn’t say much – and its staff were more welcoming, too. But then it wasn’t hard to beat Troy Murgatroyd in the customer-services stakes. Consequently, the Coach was her venue of choice for her speed-dating events.

  Tonight, it was a venue that had been transformed.

  Having raced home after returning from Mire End Farm, Delilah had taken a long shower to get rid of the smell of sheep – her car, unfortunately, still carried a certain eau d’ovine – then she’d come to the pub and worked all afternoon decorating the room next to the upstairs bar. Her hard work had paid off. It looked amazing. Garlands of holly and ivy decorated the walls, bunches of mistletoe intertwined with scarlet ribbons hung from the ceiling, and each table held a centrepiece of a tea light floating in a wine glass filled with rose petals in water. A pile of beautifully wrapped presents were artistically arranged in the corner and the air was scented with the aroma of pine and spices. Christmas had arrived in Bruncliffe. All that was missing was Santa Claus himself. And Samson O’Brien.

  The success of the entire evening rested on having an equal number of men and women. But so far, with precisely five minutes to go before the event started, she was a man down. Samson O’Brien had failed to show.

  ‘I’ll kill him,’ she muttered to herself as she slipped through the doors into the crowded bar area, scanning the gathered customers for a familiar mane of dark hair.

  Not a sign of him.

  Rita Wilson was tired. It had been a long day. The excitement of the party had been as wearing as the actual event itself and now, with her case packed for the morning and her evening meal finished, she was ready for her sofa and a bit of mindless television.

  But first, she wanted to go and see Arty.

  He’d not been himself all day. And he had nowhere to go over Christmas, his wife long dead and his only child living in Australia. He’d be spending it in the quiet environment of Fellside Court, the majority of the residents away in homes around the area.

  She felt a pang of sympathy and relief at the same time. She was so lucky. All her family were still local, her grandchildren now adults. She had no lack of places to spend the festive season. Christmas Day would be with her son and on Boxing Day her granddaughter, Hannah, was having her round. That was always fun, Hannah as wild as Rita herself had been in her youth. A woman who knew how to enjoy herself.

  Rita chuckled. It was a shame Arty wasn’t going with her. Hannah would snap him out of his depression.

  She mulled over this kernel of an idea and the more she thought about it, the better it seemed.

  She would invite her friend home with her. She reached for the phone to call her son.

  Hannah Wilson was over in the corner of the upstairs bar, talking animatedly, her red hair vibrant against the green of her dress. It was hard to believe the gregarious woman was a librarian. Alongside her was Jo Whitfield, owner of the hair salon next door to the Dales Dating Agency, stout figure arrayed in a flattering black trouser suit, blonde bob immaculate. Whatever Jo was saying, Hannah was doubled over in laughter.

  Similar pockets of conversation peppered the room, everyone dressed in their finest, bracelets catching the lights, perfume catching the senses. There were old faces, like Hannah’s; there were also relative newcomers like Stuart Lister, the estate agent from Taylor’s standing to one side on crutches, looking apprehensive. The young man’s injuries had healed well after the turmoil he’d found himself caught up in following the last dating event, but still the sight of him swamped Delilah in guilt.

  She’d make sure he had a good time tonight.

  She’d also make sure that Samson suffered for leaving her in the lurch.

  Calling the room to order with a ring of an auctioneer’s bell, she stepped forward to greet the participants in the last event of the year.

  ‘Welcome to the Dales Dating Agency Speedy Date night,’ she began. ‘Firstly, I have to apologise, as due to unforeseen circumstances, we are a man down this evening.’ A murmur rippled around the room, some of the women looking disappointed. ‘But I promise it won’t spoil what will be a wonderful Christmas dating event—’

  ‘HO-HO-HO!’ boomed a voice from the doors that led to the stairs. ‘Did someone mention Christmas?’

  Rita hung up the phone. It was settled. Arty would be welcome to share Christmas with the Wilson family. If he wanted to, that was.

  Deciding it was best to ask him in person, Rita got up, her bad hip aching from the long day. Shuffling stiffly towards the front door, stick in her right hand, she let herself out into the corridor.

  It was eerily quiet. Both flats opposite were empty, the residents having already left for the holidays. And next door to her, the guest suite was unoccupied, as always. Feeling oddly unnerved by the hushed hallway, she advanced slowly towards the bright lights of the Christmas tree at the end of the hall.

  For a brief moment, she contemplated taking the lift. But thinking a bit of exercise might ease her hip, she opted for the stairs. She was halfway up and pausing to take a breather when she thought about Alice’s pillbox.

  If Arty was going to come with her, they’d have to leave it with someone else to give to Elaine Bullock when she got back from her field trip. Joseph probably. He wasn’t going anywhere.

  Brooding over the puzzling discovery of the box of rainbow colours immersed in the snow, she resumed her progress up the stairs. Above her the door to the corridor was closed. A shadow b
rushed across it.

  Rita Wilson didn’t give it a passing thought.

  ‘Ho-ho-ho!’

  Delilah turned to see Father Christmas standing in the doorway, black boots, big bushy beard, massive stomach bulging against a red coat, a sack over his shoulder.

  ‘So, ladies,’ declared Santa with a wicked grin, ‘I’ve come to see whether you’ve been naughty or nice!’

  Laughter split the room and a buzz of expectation rose from the clusters of women as the mysterious Santa moved through the crowd.

  Delilah was speechless. Then Santa strode over to her, grabbed her into a bear hug and planted a kiss on her cheek.

  ‘Room for one more?’ he demanded, depositing her back on the floor before making his way into the function room. The rest of Delilah’s clients followed like the children of Hamelin, laughing and joking as they jostled to take their places at the tables.

  It was only when Santa took the spare seat opposite a blushing blonde – the seat that should have been occupied by Samson O’Brien – that the penny dropped for Delilah. As Santa reached out to bestow a gallant kiss on the woman’s hand, there was a flash of blue. Faint but sure.

  Father Christmas had a hand covered in raddle.

  ‘I’ll definitely bloody kill him,’ laughed Delilah as she rang the bell to signal the start of the first four minutes of a speed-dating event that couldn’t be more festive if it tried.

  Filled with the spirit of Christmas, Rita Wilson reached the top of the stairs. It would do Arty good, she mused. Get him away from Fellside Court for a few days. Get him into the festive mood.

  Sure that her idea was a sound one, she pushed through the door into the corridor of the first floor. Ahead of her the wall of glass stretched along the hallway, letting her see across the courtyard to the dark, empty apartments of poor Alice and Eric.

  At least Eric was with his family. And well on the mend, from what Joseph had told her. Well enough to be talking about moving back into his flat in the New Year.

  It would be good to have him home again. Another man around the place, in a society dominated by women.