His words coaxed a laugh out of the young woman, lightening the atmosphere. ‘Let’s see if I agree with you once I’ve been to the bank.’
He nodded. ‘You’ll find me in the Fleece if you want to drown your sorrows. You joining me, Ash?’
Delilah’s brother shrugged. ‘Why not? The best part of the day is over, and it would be only fitting to toast Richard. I’ve just got to speak to Rick. I’ll catch you up.’
With a quick kiss on the cheek for Delilah, Ash passed through the crowd of mourners gathered on the footpath, heading towards a group of men standing to one side. Seth Thistlethwaite watched him go.
‘Surprised he’s not bawling with grief, yon Rick Procter,’ he muttered, eyes on the well-built man Ash was now talking to.
‘Rick? I don’t think he knew Richard that well,’ said
Delilah. ‘Not since school, and even then, Rick was a few years older.’
Seth gave another curt laugh. ‘No doubt you’re right,’ he said. ‘But he’s just lost a sale on a new house. And that’s about the only thing as would make that man cry.’
‘A sale…?’
‘Richard Hargreaves. He was talking about buying one of them blasted boxes Procter’s built down on the flood plain. Won’t be going through now, though. Can’t say as I’m upset for Procter.’
Delilah smiled at the gruff verdict. ‘Honestly, you and your gossip. I don’t know how you find all this out. As for Rick, he’s a good man. Look at all he does for the town.’
The glare that fastened on her had none of the twinkle of moments before. ‘Good deeds don’t necessarily make for a good heart. Right, I’m off for a pint.’ He turned to go and then twisted back to face her. ‘You getting out running again, young lady?’
She shifted her gaze to the pavement. ‘I gave it up, remember?’
Seth Thistlethwaite grinned. ‘Of course you did. Stupid of me … Anyway, good luck with Woolly at the bank. Don’t let him give you a hard time.’
With a wave of a hand, he walked off, leaving Delilah to cross the road. She needed a fortifying cup of coffee before she faced the worst. As she headed towards Peaks Patisserie, thoughts already on the meeting to come, she was ignorant of two things: her mobile phone, still switched off, now held five frantic messages; and there was a very distinctive motorbike coming under the railway bridge towards the church.
* * *
On the other side of the road, Seth Thistlethwaite, retired geography teacher and athletics coach, had paused to watch his former pupil. She was lying about the running. He’d seen her, up on the fells in the early hours. While his eyesight wasn’t what it had once been, he’d know her distinctive style anywhere. It was impossible to forget the best athlete that had ever been through his hands. And that grey shadow of a dog striding alongside her.
It had to be a good thing. It must mean she was getting over the worst.
He was still watching her when he heard the motorbike approaching, the engine more of a purr than a roar. Coming along the main road, under the bridge, the rider in black leathers, dark visor. He knew it straight away. A Royal Enfield. Scarlet. There’d only ever been one of them round here and now it was back.
He was back.
The old man glanced across at Delilah as she headed towards the marketplace. Did she know? She would soon – the bush telegraph would see to that.
Returning his attention to the bike, Seth watched it pass the church, continue along the main road and then, as expected, it turned left before it reached the open square in the centre of town. He was heading home. Although what he’d find when he got there …
Seth Thistlethwaite started walking faster. Things in Bruncliffe had just taken an unexpected twist and, for a man of his advanced years, he had need of a pint to make sense of it before all hell broke loose.
* * *
‘How was it?’
Sitting on a sofa by the window of Peaks Patisserie, looking out over the marketplace and wishing she was miles away, Delilah glanced up as her sister-in-law placed a coffee in front of her. ‘Awful. Packed, as you’d expect.’
‘Did you make my apologies? I’ve been flat out in here, and besides … I just couldn’t face it.’
Delilah placed a hand on Lucy Metcalfe’s arm, noting the strained expression beneath the dark-blonde hair, and gave a gentle squeeze. ‘I spoke to the Hargreaveses. They understood.’
A smile flitted across the other woman’s pale features. ‘Thanks.’ She looked down at the papers fanned out on the table. ‘Rather you than me,’ she said, gesturing at the spreadsheets and accounts. ‘What time is your meeting?’
‘In half an hour.’ Delilah grimaced as she scooped a layer of froth off her coffee with a spoon. ‘I’m not feeling confident.’
‘Huh! You should be. Look…’ Lucy took the copy of the Craven Herald from the rack of newspapers inside the door and began to flick through the pages, before folding the paper back and passing it to Delilah. ‘Here. Take this with you and show old Woolly that you’re famous.’
Staring up from the page was a far-from-flattering photo of Delilah, next to an article about the speed-dating events.
Delilah groaned.
‘It’s not that bad. Anyway, you can put me down for the date night in November,’ said Lucy with a shy grin. ‘Can’t believe how much I enjoyed the last one, considering…’ She glanced over at the photo of a young man in military uniform hanging above the counter, a black ribbon decorating the edges of the frame, then back at her sister-in-law. ‘Thanks, Dee, for pushing me to take part.’
Delilah shrugged off the gratitude in true Bruncliffe fashion. ‘I was only making up numbers.’
‘You won’t need to for the next one,’ said Lucy, laughing as she pointed at the paper. ‘Good luck at the bank. Call in and let me know how it went if you have time.’ She squeezed her sister-in-law’s shoulder and then hurried back to the till where a queue of people had formed.
Delilah turned her attention to the article and the awful picture that made her look like a rabbit caught in the headlights. Still, as long as that didn’t deter customers, it was all publicity and perhaps it would bring people to the website.
She let her eyes drift over the text once more. And then down to the small item below. She wasn’t aware of dropping her spoon, white foam soaking into the print. She didn’t notice her body tense, the sharp intake of breath that caused Lucy to glance over in concern. She noticed nothing but the two paragraphs.
A local hiker found dead in the depths of Gordale Scar, his body only discovered when his family alerted the emergency services about his disappearance. Knowing the treacherous terrain in that area, which saw countless accidents every year, the news of itself didn’t shock Delilah. But the name of the hiker … Martin Foster. The very same name that had registered with the Dales Dating Agency a month ago.
Two of her clients dead in the space of a week. A coincidence? Probably. Even so, it was with trembling fingers that she tore out the article and slipped it into her pocket.
2
While the afternoon sun shone down on Bruncliffe, lighting up the imposing Victorian town hall with its front-facing gables and mullioned windows, and turning the glass of the estate agent’s, the bank and the newly refurbished bakery into a blinding brilliance, towards the back of the marketplace, on a narrow road that led up to the fells, the autumn light had already faded. Low-slung in the sky and unable to reach over the three-storey stone buildings that lined this tapering street, the sun had left long shadows in its place: shadows which reached across from one side to the other, casting into shade the hairdresser’s with its sign bearing a sheep and a pair of clippers beneath the words ‘Shear Good Looks’; and the slim building next door with ‘To Let’ plastered across the ground-floor window. Likewise, the stones of the pub opposite – the oldest pub in Bruncliffe and the smallest – were unlit by the warming sun. Hunkered down on this neglected byway that had once been the thoroughfare for the town, lacking hanging baskets
of late blooms, windows bare and without a single advertising board outside, on that afternoon the ancient hostelry seemed as surly and ill-humoured as the man who ran it.
‘How was it?’ A pint of Black Sheep thumped onto the bar, a meaty hand held out as the question was posed.
‘Grim. It’s not right burying a young man like that.’ Seth shook his head and fished in his pocket for coins, unwilling to give the landlord of the Fleece a penny more than was due. It wasn’t solely on account of his pub’s name that Roger Murgatroyd was surreptitiously known as Fleecer; the man’s reputation for being slow to return change making the nickname more than apt. Being of wide girth and a short temper, however, he was unlikely ever to become acquainted with this epithet. Instead, he was more commonly hailed as Troy.
‘Surprised there’s not been more of it,’ came the gloomy response from Troy, as his fat fist closed over the proffered money. ‘With the way the economy’s been going.’ He nodded towards the windows on either side of the door, through which could be seen the premises next to the hairdresser’s. ‘From what I hear, it won’t be long until that’s closing up for good.’
Seth took a sip of beer, refusing to be drawn, and acknowledged to himself that, despite the truculent nature of its host, the Fleece always guaranteed a good pint.
‘I mean, a dating agency, for Christ’s sake. Thought Delilah would have known better, being raised in these parts.’ Troy continued to glare at the building, the first floor of which housed the offending business. ‘It’s like that rabbit-food shop on the high street, or that fancy cafe the Metcalfe widow opened. It won’t be long before they’re closing their doors, too, because there’s no place for the likes of them around here.’
Seth took another sip and declined to enlighten the man on the other side of the bar that, actually, the organic food store was in talks to move to a bigger place and Lucy Metcalfe’s Peaks Patisserie had just taken on two more members of staff. He simply drank his beer and allowed Troy the floor – the same tactics he’d deployed for decades to gather information.
‘Dating agency! Pah!’ Troy turned to the old man. ‘Would you use one?’
‘Nope.’
‘Do you know anyone round here that would?’
‘I can think of one or two that should,’ Seth replied, with a cackle.
‘Well, you wouldn’t catch me setting foot in the place,’ said Troy.
Seth raised his glass once more, because there was no reply to be made. After all, it was well known throughout the dale that the landlord of the Fleece was only married thanks to the freakishly hot summer of 1995.
With the sun shining down from clear blue skies that year, the residents of Bruncliffe had basked in the unnaturally good weather, none more so than confirmed bachelor Roger Murgatroyd, recently appointed landlord of the Fleece on his father’s retirement and a man whose moods were closely tied to meteorological conditions – commonly agreed to be the reason he was still single. It was into these rare circumstances that the young Kay Hartley had unwittingly stepped.
Over from Skipton on a day out, she’d been in a party of girls who, finding themselves on the back road of Bruncliffe, had entered the Fleece. Being first through the door, Kay had been momentarily blinded in the sudden gloom and as her focus struggled to readjust, she’d become aware of the vibrant personality behind the bar. Troy’s head was thrown back in laughter, a rich peal of enjoyment issuing forth. She hadn’t stood a chance.
She’d come back the following weekend. The weekend after that, with the heatwave still holding firm, Troy – high on sunshine and something he presumed was love – had recklessly proposed. Kay had accepted. And a month later, on her wedding day, the skies clouded over, the rain arrived, and her groom retreated back into his normal sulk, his cheerful alter ego only emerging whenever the sun turned the Fleece golden and the mercury climbed the thermometer. Which, in Bruncliffe, was not as often as you might think.
Twenty years on, Kay Murgatroyd had never complained about how the Fates conspired against her. Instead, to the amazement of the locals, she’d stayed in the town and in her marriage, a regular feature behind the bar and a genius in the kitchen. And, if truth be told, it was her influence on the pub that kept the regulars coming, even when Troy refused to yield to pressure from competition and revamp the faded interior, its two rooms decorated with floral carpet and brass-laden walls.
The slam of a van door and the clatter of ladders caused Seth to turn from his contemplation of the pub’s decor.
‘What’s he parked there for?’ muttered Troy, scowling at the vehicle outside the window. ‘He’s blocking the light.’
They watched, with the curiosity common to people in small towns when witnessing something out of routine, as the driver carried his ladders across the road, propped them against the glass front of the building opposite and then returned to his van.
‘Window cleaner?’ suggested Troy.
Seth shook his head. Knowing the perilous state of Delilah Metcalfe’s finances, he doubted she’d be spending good money on something she was able to do herself. Plus, if she was going to have the windows cleaned, she’d use her cousin’s husband’s brother, who had a thriving business nipping up and down ladders with a wet sponge. Although, having experienced the man’s efforts, Seth rather suspected he’d done his training on a ship: nice clean circles and not one corner touched. So perhaps Delilah had called in an outsider after all. Because that’s what the man leaning into the white van was.
‘Afternoon!’ Rick Procter’s voice rang out from the doorway and a large group of sombrely clad people from the funeral followed him into the pub, Ash Metcalfe and his oldest brother Will amongst them, as well as the stocky figure of Harry Furness, the livestock auctioneer. ‘First round’s on me, in memory of Richard.’
A crowd of bodies made for the bar, blocking Seth’s view out of the window. Pint in hand, he got up and wandered over to the door.
‘What’s up, Seth? Do we smell or something?’ called out Rick.
‘He’s being nosy,’ said Troy, tipping his head towards the activity outside as he started pulling pints. ‘Know anything about it, Will?’
‘New tenant,’ came the succinct reply.
‘What kind of business?’ asked Rick, watching, along with everyone else, the man climbing the ladder across the road.
Will shrugged, the taciturn farmer never one to talk much, especially about family concerns. ‘Delilah didn’t say.’
‘I don’t think she knows,’ volunteered his younger brother. ‘It’s all been a bit rushed. Someone contacted Taylor’s two days ago and agreed a lease for some kind of office set-up. Not sure what, though.’
‘We’re about to find out,’ said Seth, as the man they were all staring at began fixing letters to the glass in front of him.
It didn’t take long. Three simple initials in gold, neatly spaced across the window. Three simple initials which, as the sign-maker came down the ladder and gave the onlookers a clear view of his handiwork, set the pub abuzz.
‘Christ!’ muttered Ash, looking from the ground floor to the floor above and then back again.
‘Wait till Delilah sees this,’ said Rick over the raised voices filling the room.
Seth drank the last of his pint and headed back for another. Not because he was thirsty. But because this was turning out to be a day filled with trouble, and one beer simply wouldn’t do.
* * *
It hadn’t taken long to leave Bruncliffe behind, the houses giving way to fields and then to the steep valley sides. He’d followed the road as it turned between the hills, the sun sliding from his back as he entered the darker dale of Thorpdale where, before long, the tarmac ended, a rough track taking its place, making the Royal Enfield judder and bounce beneath him.
He slowed down, not wanting to wreck the bike as he negotiated around the holes pitting the lane, deep enough to cause damage, no attempt having been made to fill them. It was worse than he remembered. Either they’d had a ru
n of hard winters or no one was taking care of it any more.
One look at the land alongside suggested it wasn’t just the track that had been neglected. Fields unkempt, not a sheep to be seen. Gates hanging from broken hinges, the stone walls that criss-crossed the land crumbling in places. It didn’t give the impression of a prosperous farm. But then it hadn’t been doing well when he’d left, foot-and-mouth seeing to that. Even so, he hadn’t expected this.
He eased to a halt, engine idling, and stared up the length of the dale, a small house visible in the distance on a spur of land, two streams running either side. Behind it, the towering mass of the fell looming over it all.
Twistleton Farm.
With a sense of foreboding, he turned the throttle and headed for home.
* * *
Back in Bruncliffe, in an austere room overlooking the marketplace as befitted a man of prudence, Delilah Metcalfe was equally apprehensive.
‘Delilah, dear,’ the man behind the desk said, twisting his computer screen to face her. ‘The figures don’t lie. You’re badly overdrawn, you’re trying to handle two mortgages, and the money simply isn’t coming in. As your bank manager, and a friend of your father’s, I’m deeply concerned. Something is going to have to give.’
‘You don’t seem to understand,’ she said, trying to bridle her frustration as she pushed her carefully prepared documents across the desk towards him. ‘It’s an internet start-up. Of course it’s not going to make money straight away. But these figures prove it’s growing.’
‘All they prove is that there are a lot of lonely people in the Dales,’ he said with a sigh. ‘However, I’m not convinced that providing a dating agency for them is a viable way to make a living. Or run a business. So far you don’t seem to be reassuring me.’ He tapped the papers in front of him. ‘The Dales Dating Agency is entering its third year and you’ve yet to make a profit. In fact, it’s swallowing what little money you manage to eke out of the website design business. If you keep going at this rate, neither enterprise will survive. Nor, young lady, will your house.’
Date with Death Page 2