When the young policeman had made his dramatic entrance – his appearance at the back door apparently an attempt to remain undetected, given the clandestine nature of the evidence he was carrying – Samson had offered Delilah a brief explanation as he’d ushered all of them up the stairs to her office.
‘You mean you paid him to get the CCTV footage the police refused to show you?’ she’d asked when he finished.
‘Not exactly. He offered.’
‘Is that legal?’
Samson shrugged. ‘I can’t see there’s any harm in him looking at it. This, however…’ He’d grinned as he gestured at the constable sitting in front of Delilah’s computer and pulling up a video file from the USB.
Now, on her second viewing, Delilah was hoping to see something that might make risking a spell in prison worthwhile.
The screen flickered to life, showing a black-and-white image of Bruncliffe Old Station from a camera above the platform. The two lamps either side of the passenger shelter were on, spilling light into the dark of an October morning, and in the middle of the picture stood a man, overcoat and scarf giving tell to the chilly temperatures, the satchel slung across his chest suggesting a daily commute.
Richard Hargreaves. The date and time at the top of the image revealed it was the morning before he died. His last journey from Bruncliffe Old Station. The train arrived to the right of the screen, Richard boarded and the carriages rolled away, leaving the station deserted.
Danny scrolled quickly through the rest of the day’s footage, small figures moving in and out of view, but mostly the camera showing only the empty concrete platform, typical of such a rural station. Then, as the blur of darkness gave way to the teasing grey of dawn, he let the film roll again.
Another morning. Just before six-thirty the next day, according to the on-screen clock. But this time a thick mist makes it almost impossible to discern anything more than light and shade. In the left-hand corner a smeared brightness denotes the station lamp, then a dark shape lurches forward – the lens too fogged to give greater definition – as a blur of motion slices through the footage. The train.
Richard’s death was reduced to nothing more than a fatal smudge of movement.
Danny froze the video and turned round in his chair to look at Delilah.
‘Well?’ he asked.
She stared at the screen and then back at the young man sitting in her chair. ‘I’m sorry, I just don’t—’
‘Look at the positioning, Delilah.’ Samson leaned over and clicked the mouse, starting the morbid film all over again. ‘Here,’ he said, pointing at the two lights and then at the lone figure of Richard Hargreaves on the day before he died. ‘See where these are in relation to the camera? Now watch.’
He fast-forwarded and then paused. In the gloom of the following morning, Delilah could see the hazy aurora of the lamp and then …
She squinted at the screen and then jerked back. ‘The light…’
Samson nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘There’s only one visible.’
‘What else?’
She looked again as the film rolled once more. The dark shape, the train …
‘Oh! Richard. He’s only visible at the very end.’
Samson nodded again, Danny smiling at her from the chair as she considered explanations for this new information. There was only one she could think of.
‘The camera was moved!’ she said. ‘It’s not focused on the same spot as it was the morning before.’
‘Correct,’ said Danny. ‘You can only see one light, and you can’t see Mr Hargreaves until he begins falling onto the track.’
‘And the train is in the centre of the screen, not on the edge like a day earlier!’ Delilah exclaimed.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve checked the overnight footage, too?’ Samson addressed his question to the constable, who was already rewinding through the film. When the clock at the top of the image revealed it was just gone one-thirty in the morning, he let the video play. The screen consisted of two bright lights, a slice of platform between them and beyond that, nothing but the darkness of a country night.
‘Here,’ said Danny. ‘Watch.’
Even Delilah saw it first time. The shift in perspective. Suddenly the lens was no longer centred on the platform. It had swung round so that the track, just about discernible, cut through the middle of the screen and the lamplight was thrown to the left-hand side.
‘Could it have been the wind?’ Delilah asked. But Danny Bradley was shaking his head.
‘That’s what the train company claimed when I called them. They said it’s not uncommon for cameras to shift in high winds. But then I checked the Met Office for the night of October the fifteenth, the night before Mr Hargreaves died. It was still. Nothing strong enough to budge a camera, at any rate.’
‘So you’re saying someone moved it?’ Delilah turned to Samson, who was still staring intently at the frozen video. ‘What do you think? Was this a deliberate act by someone who didn’t want the events of the next morning recorded?’
‘I think this might give you the answer,’ he said.
He leaned in over the keyboard to play the overnight footage once again, and for the second time they saw the change of focus as the camera was repositioned, the view now of the darkened track. Then Samson pointed at the screen where, in the left-hand corner, a long shadow shifted briefly across the edge of the picture.
‘What’s that?’ asked Delilah, as Danny looked up at Samson in awe.
‘That,’ said Samson, expression grave, ‘is the person we’re searching for.’
‘You mean…’
‘They parked behind the camera. On its blind side. They moved it undetected and then drove off. Only, thanks to its new angle, the lens picked up the elongated shadow of the vehicle as it passed in front of the far light in the car park.’
He tapped the blurred image on the computer screen. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is our killer.’
Delilah felt her excitement distil into a bone-chilling fear.
14
Samson had never been so afraid. He surveyed the small upstairs bar area of the Coach and Horses, his blood running cold at the scene before him.
Give him an alleyway full of thugs; a confrontation with an armed dealer; a derelict warehouse on a moonless night, every corner filled with terror. None of that had made him feel as out of his depth as the evening which lay ahead.
Women. Lots of them. Dresses cut to weaken his knees, jewellery that trapped his eyes, smells so intoxicating his senses reeled, and smiles that promised dangers of a delicious nature.
His instinct was to run. Go back down the stairs and out into the sharp air of a Bruncliffe November, to clear his head and return his faculties to normal. But this was work. And Delilah was relying on him.
‘Samson!’ A desperate voice called from the bar across the room where a pallid Harry Furness was already fortifying himself with alcohol.
Heart thumping, Samson began to make his way through the throng of sirens to the auctioneer.
* * *
Four days. Four of the longest days of her life, the hours stretching into infinity.
Delilah had taken to checking the local paper’s Twitter feed, listening to local radio and watching the regional TV news, all the time dreading that she’d hear of another death. Another client murdered while they sat around and did nothing.
But what could they do?
They had no definitive lead as to the perpetrator. They had no way of narrowing down the identity of the next victim, beyond it possibly being a participant in the speed-dating event.
Samson had argued the case for patience, pointing out the less-than-flimsy nature of their evidence, but it didn’t make it any easier. Thinking that someone might be targeting another Dales Dating Agency customer, while the owner waited for Tuesday evening to arrive.
Not that she hadn’t been busy. Word had got out, thanks to Harry Furness and his loquacious nature, that Samson O’B
rien had joined the dating agency and was taking part in the next Speedy Date night. And Delilah had been inundated with new membership applications.
Women. Lots of them. All wanting to join and take part in an event which Delilah had had to explain was already fully booked.
‘What is it about black sheep and their appeal to the female sex?’ she muttered as she stood, hands on hips, casting a critical gaze over the upstairs function room of the Coach and Horses. The night she’d been waiting for was finally upon her.
The lamps on the wall cast a suitably romantic glow; the furniture was cosy, positioned to afford privacy; soft music gave a background for small talk while preventing embarrassing silences; and the heavy curtains blocked out the November squall beyond the windows. For the rest, she’d kept it simple. No flowers on the tables that could be knocked over by awkward farmers; no tablecloths that would ruck and rumple under the broad forearms of rugby players; and sturdy chairs. Everything else was up to the crowd of people outside, an excited babble of female voices audible through the double doors that led to the bar area.
Thirty clients. Fifteen tables. And only an hour for the hopeful singles to find the person of their dreams. Or, in Samson’s case, to identify the killer who was targeting the lonely hearts of the Dales.
She reached for her bag, a tremor besetting her hand as she pulled out the seating plan and fifteen sets of date cards, each set tied with a red ribbon. Samson had suggested that the two women he was most interested in – Hannah Wilson and Sarah Mitchell – be seated in the middle. Tables seven and nine. That way Samson, starting at table one, would have time to warm to his task before seeing the two suspects only minutes apart, giving him a chance to assess them against each other. Then, when the evening was over, he would go online to ask to see them again. Delilah’s job was to make sure he would be the only man to do so.
On paper, the idea was sound. By altering the dating software, Delilah had created a snare to catch a murderer, a digital trap with Samson O’Brien as the bait. Here, in the last few minutes before the plan was put into action, the reality was making her tense.
Hands still shaking, she distributed the women’s date cards, placing Lucy Metcalfe and Elaine Bullock either side of Hannah Wilson, Elaine an unwitting breather for Samson before he moved on to the second suspect. When she’d placed the final set of cards on table fifteen, she stood back and looked at the evidence of her success.
Thirty people wanting to be part of the Dales Dating Agency event, and more queuing up in the wings for the next one. It was testimony to her hard work. Proof for any doubters that her dating agency was going to prosper. She should have been celebrating such an achievement. Instead, she was thinking about Samson O’Brien and the possible danger she was putting him in. Him and all the other male clients who were about to walk through the door.
She took a deep breath, checked her appearance quickly in the mirror which ran down one wall, and tried to tell herself that her unease sprang from the unfamiliar restrictions wearing a dress and high heels placed upon her. As she opened the double doors and prepared to greet her customers, she said a silent prayer that none of them would die.
* * *
‘I can’t believe you talked me into this!’ Harry Furness was clutching his pint like an amulet, pale face staring into the mass of women arrayed before him.
‘Makes two of us,’ muttered Samson, assuming a similar pose but with only a bottle of ginger beer to protect him. He was tempted to break his lifelong abstention from alcohol. There was no doubting that it would make what was to follow a lot less painful. ‘Did Delilah give you the pep talk?’
‘Aye,’ Harry grunted. ‘Four minutes and no longer. And no discussing politics, religion or sport. Or farming.’ He gave a baleful look. ‘I’m a livestock auctioneer who plays rugby and darts, so that’s me buggered!’
‘You could always talk about the weather,’ offered Samson with a grin.
‘That’s not going to be much of a conversation seeing as we’re in bloody Yorkshire!’
‘Hello, lads.’ Elaine Bullock was crossing the room towards them, long hair released from its usual plaits and now tumbling over her shoulders, an emerald-green dress falling to mid-thigh, from where thick tights led to patent-leather Dr Martens. She grasped a small book in one hand, a pint of beer in the other, and as she grinned at Samson, he noticed she had even cleaned her glasses. ‘So the rumours are true,’ she declared, nudging Samson gently with an elbow. ‘You’ve come back to Bruncliffe to find a wife.’
Samson laughed, glad to have a bit of normality injected into what was so far a surreal evening. ‘Something like that.’
‘And you as well, Harry?’
The auctioneer shook his head. ‘I’m doing this as a favour. That’s all.’ He glowered at Samson, as though the cost of the favour already outweighed any possible rewards.
‘Ditto,’ said Elaine, looking over her shoulder to where Lucy Metcalfe was approaching. ‘The things we do for friends, eh?’
‘And I’m forever grateful,’ said Lucy with a smile, hugging Elaine before greeting both men with a warm embrace. As she kissed Samson’s cheek he caught the scent of wild flowers, like the meadows around Twistleton Farm in summer. ‘You’ve both made an effort,’ she said, leaning back to take in the smart attire of the two men.
‘Likewise!’ said Harry Furness, eyebrows still raised at the sight of the women he was accustomed to meeting in jeans. He grinned at Lucy. ‘Do you have a licence for that outfit?’
The cafe owner immediately looked down at her dress, casting a hand over the black fabric that clung to her body, showing off her curves. ‘Is it too much?’ she asked, worried. ‘I mean, I haven’t worn it since Ryan … Do you think I should go home and change? I don’t want to give the wrong impression.’
‘It’s fine,’ exclaimed Elaine while simultaneously stepping hard on the auctioneer’s toe, her words covering Harry’s yelp of pain. ‘Don’t you think, Samson?’
‘More than fine,’ said Samson. ‘Just ignore Harry. He’s used to looking at farmers and livestock all day. He doesn’t know class when it hits him.’
Elaine gave him a grateful glance.
‘Goodness,’ said Lucy with a self-conscious smile as she tugged once more at the hem of her dress. ‘I feel fifteen and awkward all over again.’
‘Well, you certainly don’t look fifteen!’ announced Harry, hoping to make up for his earlier mistake. A dark look from Elaine told him he wasn’t doing so well, so he moved to one side before she could demonstrate her disapproval with another well-placed boot. He was relieved when the doors to the function room opened and Delilah appeared, ready to start the evening’s event.
He wasn’t the only one feeling relief. For Samson O’Brien, the night could never be over quickly enough. As an expectant hush descended, he watched Delilah welcoming everyone, taking in the burgundy dress, the high heels, a woman he almost didn’t recognise. Then she caught his eye and he saw the familiar tension.
She had a lot on the line. Her businesses. Her home, if Lucy’s comments about her debts were true. And she was trusting him to be able to help.
He looked again at the people before him, most of the women gathered to one side. Was the murderer in their midst? The next victim too? If so, he needed to find out tonight. Because none of them – Delilah, himself, the other men here – could afford for him to fail.
* * *
‘You haven’t changed a bit!’
‘You have, but only for the better.’ Samson grinned at the woman opposite, owner of Shear Good Looks, the salon next to the dating agency, and a lady whose figure was somewhat more substantial than when they’d been in the last year of school together.
Jo Whitfield laughed, a delightful, deep sound, and Samson realised that, almost twenty minutes and five tables in, he was actually enjoying himself.
‘Still got your dad’s charm,’ she said, acknowledging his flattery. ‘How is he, by the way?’
Ther
e was genuine concern in the question. Just as there had been genuine interest shown by her friend, Lorraine, on the previous table – another woman he’d been at school with, but whom he couldn’t recollect at all. Lorraine had taken great delight in teasing him about his poor memory and had proceeded to regale him with tales of Sunday school and how much his mother had been adored.
Whatever he’d been expecting, Samson hadn’t expected this. A warm welcome from the ladies of Bruncliffe. And just as much fun with the three other women he’d talked to, who had been from further up the dale.
Sharp humour. Candid opinions. That wry take on life unique to the Dales. Samson had felt at ease from the first hello, which had been delivered with a cheeky smile and a firm handshake. Fourteen years away, but within minutes he’d been totally at home.
‘Dad’s doing well. He’s got a good crowd of people in there with him.’
Jo pulled a face of terror. ‘Miss Hird will be keeping them all in check.’
They both burst out laughing as a bell rang loudly from the other side of the room and, with reluctance, Samson stood to go.
‘Don’t be afraid to pop round for a coffee now and then,’ said Jo, passing him one of her cards and taking one of his as he prepared to move on. ‘A handsome man like you calling into my salon can only be good for business.’
She gave him a wink as he leaned down to kiss her goodbye and by the time he approached table six, where Lucy Metcalfe was waiting, he’d almost forgotten his true purpose. But beyond his friend, he could see the first of his suspects, Hannah Wilson, already talking animatedly to her next date. When Samson sat down, Lucy was surprised to see him frowning.
* * *
Five down. One more to go and then he’d be with Hannah Wilson. Delilah had been watching Samson’s progress keenly. If he’d been nervous, it hadn’t shown. He’d had the women warming to him with no effort at all. She’d kept a close eye on each of his dates and hadn’t been surprised when she’d seen them pressing him to take their cards as he prepared to move on. One woman had even written something on hers – a phone number, no doubt.
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