Samson nodded, taking her warning with the seriousness it deserved. Then he cleared his throat and began to outline his plan.
‘Do you think it will work?’
In the bleak hours of early morning, Delilah was standing in the doorway to the guest-suite lounge, her outline a mere shadow in the dark apartment. She padded over to where Samson was sitting, her feet bare, pyjamas and tousled hair making her look like the teenager he remembered. Apart from those curves.
He turned swiftly back to the window, resuming his watch. ‘What are you doing up? You’ve got another two hours before you need to relieve me.’
‘I couldn’t sleep,’ she murmured. ‘I’m worried. About your plan. Do you think it will work?’
‘I hope so. We don’t have any other option.’
‘And Arty? What if Edith’s right and something happens to him?’
‘I won’t let it.’ He tried to sound more confident than he felt. Because the reality was that in any operation there was always the chance something would go wrong. When the participants were laypeople – not to mention pensioners, a tempestuous young woman and a dog with anxiety issues – those odds increased.
Delilah nodded as though reassured. She perched on the edge of the chair he was sitting in, her thigh warm against his arm. ‘I don’t know how you did it for all those years.’
‘Work undercover?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Hiding away all the time. Pretending to be someone you aren’t. It’s on a par with what Ana is doing. How did you cope?’
He tried to concentrate on her question and not on the fact that his arm was on fire. Or that she looked adorable in her sleepy state.
‘You get used to it,’ he said, thinking about the nights he’d spent on the streets courting danger. The days he’d spent hanging out in seedy bars and troubled neighbourhoods, blending in with those around him until he forgot who he was himself.
He had got used to it. But he’d also quickly got unused to it, his life in London already seeming an eternity ago. No contact with his father. No friends. And no Delilah.
A soft weight landed on his left foot, accompanied by a sigh as the sleeping dog turned over. No Tolpuddle, either.
If the call came tomorrow and he got the all-clear to return to his old job, would he do it? Could he do it?
‘Well, at least you don’t have to go around pretending any more,’ said Delilah, smiling down at him, her features undefined in the gloom. ‘You’re amongst people who know exactly who you are.’
He smiled back at her, feeling every bit as duplicitous as Ana Stoyanova. For there were things about him that he was hoping Bruncliffe would never discover. ‘You should get some more sleep,’ he said. ‘I’ll be fine here.’
‘Are you sure?’ She yawned and stretched, her arms above her head, her pyjama top pulled tight across her chest. ‘You don’t want me to keep you company?’
He forced himself to stare out of the window at the sleeping building. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve got Tolpuddle for that.’
Hearing his name, the dog stirred in his slumber.
‘Traitor,’ muttered Delilah with another smile. ‘He was supposed to sleep with me.’
Samson bit back a retort and forced himself to consult the screen on his mobile, the cameras showing nothing new.
‘I’ll see you in a couple of hours. Make sure you wake me,’ said Delilah, standing up. Then she dipped down and kissed his cheek. ‘Goodnight.’
He waited for the bedroom door to close before he released the breath he’d been holding. Coffee. He needed coffee. And a cold shower. Anything to get his mind back on the job and away from the woman in the next room.
Tolpuddle sighed again and Samson reached down to stroke him.
‘Some help you are,’ he said. Then he recoiled, hand to his nose. ‘Damn it, Tolpuddle!’
The strong odour of recycled beer wafted up from the floor. It was enough to make Samson forget all about Delilah’s charms. He stood up and edged away from the smell, to the far side of the window. Which is how he saw it.
Behind the wall of glass, a flash of blonde hair coming down the corridor on the first floor. Ana Stoyanova. Creeping around the building in the middle of the night. How had she got in without them knowing? And why was she there?
Moving swiftly across the flat, Samson cracked opened the front door just in time to see the door to the stairs swing softly closed. He inched across the corridor, checked the stairway was clear, and followed her down, keeping an eye on the video feed from the camera in the Christmas tree as he went.
When he reached the ground floor he peered out of the glass panel in the door at the bottom of the stairs. The corridor was empty. Ana hadn’t passed the camera outside her office or gone out into the courtyard. Yet she was nowhere to be seen.
Ana Stoyanova had disappeared.
Concerned that he might be underestimating his target, he slipped back upstairs and into the apartment, wide awake and worried.
Perhaps Delilah was right to have concerns. After all, in a few hours they would be putting Arty’s life at stake.
23
After a night on watch with a few snatched hours of sleep, Samson wasn’t in the brightest of moods as Christmas Eve dawned. It didn’t help that he’d been torn from a dream featuring Delilah lying next to him on a beach, back to the reality of being on the sofa with Tolpuddle lying on his legs – Tolpuddle, who was only slightly less odorous than the night before.
‘Seriously,’ Samson muttered as he stuffed his sleeping bag into a small rucksack, ‘you need to stop feeding that dog beer.’
‘It was Clarissa,’ said Delilah with a smile, looking far better than she had a right to after a stake-out. ‘And good morning, by the way.’
Samson grunted. ‘If you say so. I take it nothing happened while I slept?’
‘Quiet as a mouse. If Ana is up to something, she behaved herself last night.’
Samson just nodded. When they’d swapped shifts two hours ago he hadn’t mentioned seeing the blonde-haired manager prowling the corridor. Or that she’d disappeared on him. For some reason he still felt the urge to give Ana Stoyanova the benefit of the doubt. He only hoped it wouldn’t backfire on him.
He hadn’t mentioned Rick Procter’s activities, either. Those bundles of cash the property developer had been ferreting away in an envelope. Something told Samson to file that away for now. Until he could find out more about it.
‘Anyway,’ continued Delilah. ‘Get a move on – your dad’s just texted to say he’s got bacon frying and the sausages are in the oven. We’re to head over when we’re ready.’
Christmas Eve fry-up. Samson couldn’t remember when he’d last had one. Probably the December after Mum died. Dad had been trying to cling to the traditions they’d established in their brief time as a family and had done his best, despite the drink already having a hold on him. By the following Christmas Eve, and for all subsequent ones until Samson left home, Joseph O’Brien had never been out of bed in time for breakfast. Or if he had, it was simply because he was slumped at the kitchen table in an alcoholic stupor, not having made it upstairs the night before. Samson wasn’t sure that counted.
‘A fry-up,’ muttered Samson, his bad humour darkening with the memories. ‘Just like old times.’
They packed up their stuff, leaving the flat as they’d found it – apart from a slight whiff of stale hops – and sneaked along the corridor past Arty’s flat to the open door of an apartment round the corner, opposite the wall of glass.
Joseph O’Brien was waiting for them, apron on and spatula in hand. ‘How do you like your eggs?’ he asked with a smile.
‘Any way at all,’ said Delilah, kissing his cheek. ‘I’m starving! All this detective work is making me hungry.’
‘And you, son? Sunny side up still?’
‘Whatever,’ muttered Samson. Because when he saw Delilah leaning in to greet his father, it reminded him of the night before. She’d been flirting with Rick Procter
and she’d agreed to go on a date with him.
With his desire to eat already dulled by the thought that a man’s life was about to be put in danger, suddenly Samson O’Brien had no appetite at all.
Arty joined them for breakfast, the four of them squeezed around Joseph’s small dining table consuming fried eggs, smoky bacon and thick local sausages while they held a council of war. Tolpuddle lay on the floor monitoring every transfer of food from plate to mouth with endless optimism.
‘Wait until mid-afternoon, Arty, and then make your move,’ Samson said as he mopped up the last of the yolk with a crust of bread, his fickle appetite having reappeared the minute the fry-up was placed in front of him. ‘Any sooner and it gives us longer to have to monitor her.’
‘Which will make it more risky?’ asked Joseph, looking worried.
‘More difficult,’ countered Samson in an attempt to allay their fears.
Arty laughed, a sound that hadn’t been heard too much inside the walls of Fellside Court of late. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll do exactly as you said. I’ve no intention of being a hero.’
‘And me?’ asked Joseph. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Act natural. Just do whatever you’d normally do on Christmas Eve,’ said Samson.
Joseph gave him a wry look. ‘You mean sit here on my own and try not to think about everyone opening bottles of booze?’
Delilah put her hand over his. ‘I never thought,’ she said. ‘This has to be the hardest time of the year for you.’
‘Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and New Year. Those are the worst days to get through. Which never makes sense to me, as us alcoholics don’t exactly need a special day to get drunk. Still, dying for a drink is better than dying because of one.’ Joseph glanced at Samson, but the lad’s face was inscrutable.
‘Is there anything else we need to do?’ asked Delilah, sensing the unwelcome memories crowding the already cramped table.
‘Arty and Dad have to go into town and get the wreath,’ said Samson. ‘And then you need to make your special adaptations to it.’
She smiled. ‘With pleasure.’
‘What about Edith and Clarissa?’ Joseph tipped his head in the direction of the sisters’ flat at the far end of the corridor. ‘They’ll want to be involved.’
Samson shook his head. ‘Let’s keep them out of this. The fewer people involved in the action, the better. Ana will be less likely to smell a rat.’
‘And Edith will be less likely to get upset,’ said Arty with affection.
‘So that’s it, then. We’re ready to go?’ Delilah asked, beginning to clear the dishes.
‘As long as Arty is still willing to go ahead with it.’ Samson looked at the rotund man in the chair opposite.
‘Willing and eager,’ said Arty, his face solemn. ‘It’s the least I could do for Alice and the others. And I might finally get a good night’s sleep at the end of it.’
‘In that case, let’s get going.’ Samson made to leave the table, but his father’s hand on his arm held him back.
‘Take care, son. Of Arty and of yourself.’
Caught unawares by his father’s affection, Samson was reduced to a perfunctory nod in response.
‘You too, Joseph,’ said Delilah, hugging the older man with an ease Samson envied. ‘If the temptation gets too much tonight, text me and I’ll call round.’
Joseph laughed off her concern. ‘I’ll be fine. I’ll have my hot milk as usual and be off to sleep in no time. I won’t even wake up when Father Christmas comes creeping in.’
‘Just as well,’ said Samson. ‘Delilah might not be around to help anyway. She’s expecting Rick Procter to take her out on a hot date any time soon.’
‘Rick?’ Joseph swung round to look at her in surprise. ‘I didn’t think he was your type.’
‘It’s a long story,’ Delilah said, casting an arch look at Samson. ‘I was helping out a friend and got roped into it. I’d forgotten all about it. Good job your son reminded me.’
Wanting to kick himself for being so immature, Samson followed Arty and Delilah out of the flat. He wasn’t in the best frame of mind for launching a covert operation. He certainly wasn’t in the mood for Christmas.
Arty did exactly as he was told. He wandered down into town with Joseph, making a beeline for the festive market like a man who’d decided it was time to celebrate the season. He bought some snow-frosted gingerbread men for Edith and Clarissa, a beautiful wreath of holly and ivy from the man selling Christmas trees and, when Joseph was dallying over a selection of handmade fudge and chocolates, Arty impulsively purchased a rocking reindeer that danced to ‘Jingle Bell Rock’. Joseph would love it.
The gingerbread men he put in his pocket. The wreath and the reindeer went in his blue Co-op bag. At precisely ten forty-five, the two men entered Peaks Patisserie. It was crowded and so it was perfectly normal that Delilah Metcalfe, who was already at a table, waved them over to join her.
They talked for a few minutes, Delilah asking them their plans for the following day. Then, as Lucy came over to take an order from the new arrivals, Delilah got up to leave. She wished the old men a happy Christmas, gave her sister-in-law a quick hug, picked up her bags and left, collecting the waiting Tolpuddle from outside the door as she went.
No one thought twice about the blue carrier bag she had with her. It was the one she’d walked in with half an hour ago.
She forced herself to walk naturally through the marketplace and down Back Street to the office. As she reached the front door, a voice beckoned her from the Fleece opposite. The low growl from Tolpuddle told her who it was before she’d even turned to see.
‘Delilah? You’re not working today, are you?’ Rick Procter was standing in the doorway, pint in hand. ‘Come and join me for that drink you promised.’
‘Sorry, I can’t right now.’ She pulled what she hoped was a realistically disappointed face, while Tolpuddle continued to rumble deep in his throat. ‘I’ve got a few things that need doing. Later maybe.’
He smiled, his blond hair and handsome features making him look more like a model than a builder. ‘I’ll hold you to that.’ He raised his pint and disappeared back into the pub, leaving her and the dog to enter the office in relief. She raced upstairs and pulled the wreath out of the Co-op bag and onto her desk. It was only then she noticed the other item in there.
A toy reindeer dressed in a Santa outfit. She sat it on the desk and pushed the small button in its back, the strains of ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ ringing out and making her laugh as the reindeer started rocking. From his bed in the corner, Tolpuddle regarded it with a curious air.
‘Two for the price of one,’ murmured Delilah, as she got down to work. It hadn’t been in the plan, but it was a brilliant idea.
‘Act naturally, for goodness’ sake,’ hissed Arty as Joseph shifted in his chair and looked around the cafe for the umpteenth time. ‘You’ll give the game away.’
‘I can’t,’ muttered Joseph. ‘I’m so tense. How the hell did Samson do this for a living?’
Arty took a drink of coffee. He was being careful to only take small sips, partly to prolong the drink until Delilah came back, but also because if he had more than one cup he’d need the toilet. Which wasn’t in the plan.
‘Arty! Joseph! Fancy meeting you two here.’
Arty knew the voice. Would know it anywhere. Edith Hird and her sister Clarissa were making their way across the cafe, looking every bit as furtive as Joseph.
‘What are you doing here?’ he muttered as they took the spare seats.
Edith smiled at him, eyes bright with excitement. ‘What – did you think we’d stay home and miss all the fun?’ She gestured Lucy Metcalfe over. ‘Two coffees, please, Lucy. Oh, what about you boys? Will you have another?’
Joseph looked at Arty, who shrugged. ‘Might as well,’ he said, deciding it was okay to deviate from the plan after all. ‘And some of those mince pies too, Lucy.’
‘And a couple of slices of Yule l
og,’ added Clarissa with a cheeky smile.
Arty laughed, beginning to relax into this detective lark. If they were going to be undercover, they might as well enjoy it.
It was done. And both cameras worked at the required distance.
Mobile in hand, Delilah left the kitchen, two different images of a snoozing Weimaraner on the screen in front of her and the gentle sound of dog-snores issuing from the speaker.
‘Come on, Lazy,’ she said as she entered the office, Tolpuddle still in his bed under the watchful eye of the Christmas wreath and the Santa reindeer. ‘We’ve got a rendezvous to get to.’
It was only as she picked up the wreath to put it back in the Co-op bag that Delilah noticed her hands shaking. Excitement, fizzing around her system like a double shot of caffeine.
‘Act natural,’ she muttered to herself as she put the reindeer in with the wreath. ‘He said to act natural.’
Over in the corner the dog stretched, yawned and got to his feet to join her. As far as undercover operations went, Tolpuddle was taking it all in his stride.
‘Here she comes!’ whispered Clarissa, leaning in over the table with urgency.
‘For heaven’s sake,’ hissed her sister. ‘Calm down or you’ll give the game away.’
‘Hello again!’ Delilah was approaching, a smile on her face, shopping bag in her hand. She leaned down to talk to Arty and placed the bag on the floor. Next to an identical one that was already there. ‘I forgot to mention,’ she said, addressing the two men, ‘I was speaking to Mum last night and she said that if you pair have nowhere to go for Christmas dinner tomorrow, you’re more than welcome to join us. Samson, too.’
‘Oh,’ Arty stumbled. ‘That’s . . .’
‘Most kind,’ said Joseph, patting Delilah on the arm. ‘Tell Peggy we accept. And I’ll persuade Samson to come as well.’
Delilah beamed down at him.
‘What a generous offer,’ said Edith, nodding with approval. ‘We’ll feel better when we’re tucking into turkey with our family, knowing this pair are having a good time. Won’t we, Clarissa?’
Date with Malice Page 28