Date with Death

by Julia Chapman

  He was popular, that was for sure. Laughter was following him around the room, along with quite a few adoring gazes. The part of Delilah that had known him for years was rolling her eyes at such pathetic behaviour over Samson O’Brien. The part of her that ran a business was wondering whether she’d be able to persuade him to come to the Christmas Speedy Date night.

  But the biggest part of her, the one that woke in the night in panic at the threat to her business and her customers, was on tenterhooks. Two more minutes and then Samson would be placing himself in possible danger.

  Delilah glanced at her watch, unsure whether she wanted to stop time or speed it up.

  * * *

  Harry Furness didn’t know where the time had gone. For an evening he’d been dreading, it had passed quickly and he was already at table nine sitting opposite a quietly spoken young woman called Sarah Mitchell. She’d barely made eye contact when he sat down and he’d had to ask her name twice, so whispered had been the reply.

  But there wasn’t much that could throw the auctioneer. With a big smile, he leaned across the table.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘shall we talk rugby or the price that Texel tup went for at the last market?’

  Her head snapped up, but when she saw the twinkle in his eyes, a smile dimpled her cheeks.

  ‘Or perhaps,’ he said gently, ‘you could tell me something about yourself?’

  Hands clenched together on the table before her, she glanced at him sideways like a Swaledale lamb threatening to skitter off up the fellside.

  ‘I like otters,’ she said, gaze dropping back to the table.

  Whatever Harry had been expecting, that wasn’t it. He leaned forward a bit more. ‘Otters? Them buggers with the big teeth that can fell trees with a single bite?’

  Sarah laughed, a bubble of sound which delighted Harry and made him glad he’d played the fool. ‘No,’ she said. ‘You’re thinking of beavers. Otters are much more interesting…’

  When the bell went minutes later, Harry Furness found he was cursing Delilah. And wanting to stay where he was.

  * * *

  Table seven. Aware of Delilah’s scrutiny, Samson took his seat.

  ‘Hello!’ Hannah Wilson was smiling at him, vibrant red hair – Samson didn’t have the expertise to tell if it was natural or chemically assisted – falling to toned shoulders, long lashes over brown eyes, her chin resting on a manicured hand. She was the kind of woman that would eat him for breakfast and he found it hard to believe she ran the town’s library, as Delilah had assured him she did. ‘I was a few years below you at school,’ she said. ‘Hannah Wilson?’

  He kept his eyes on hers, aware of the perilously low-cut neckline opposite, and was pretty sure she hadn’t looked anything like this at Bruncliffe High School or he might have spent more time there.

  ‘Hi. Samson O’Brien.’ He offered his hand and it was grasped in a powerful grip. His surprise must have shown.

  ‘I run a stable,’ she said, shrugging. ‘You need strong arms for mucking out. As for riding – well, you should see my inner thighs!’ Her eyes flashed up at him, voice purring.

  Samson reached for his drink, wishing not for the first time that night that it was a bit stronger than mere ginger beer. He had no idea how to get a hold on this conversation. Or the woman before him. But he was painfully aware he only had minutes left to do so.

  She laughed, mistaking his silence for discomfort. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, touching his arm and giving a conspiratorial wink. ‘I’m only joking. I’m a timid librarian at heart. And I have to say, I love your dad’s taste in books.’

  The conversation had tilted again, leaving Samson unbalanced as Hannah began extolling the brilliance of Lee Child. From vamp to bookworm in less than thirty seconds. This was a woman who would never leave you sure-footed, her personality shifting like the sands at Morecambe beach. But was she capable of murder?

  ‘Enough about dusty books,’ she finally said, her demeanour flirtatious once more. ‘What about you? What brings you back to Bruncliffe? Apart from its gorgeous women, of course.’

  ‘The weather,’ he said, making her laugh. ‘Seriously, it was time to come home. But I’ve been away a while, as you probably know. So I thought I’d give this a go.’ He cast a hand around the room. ‘Try and meet some new people. How about you? Is it your first time here?’

  Hannah shook her head. ‘Oh no, I’m a veteran. Delilah really knows how to put on a good event.’

  ‘So you’re not here looking for love?’ He risked a grin and was relieved to see it returned.

  ‘Not at all! I just treat it as a fun night out.’

  ‘So have you had many offers … any dates?’

  She threw him a coy glance. ‘That’s as bad as asking a girl’s weight,’ she said. Then she smiled. ‘A few.’

  ‘Any worth mentioning?’ He kept the grin in place.

  ‘Not really – apart from…’ She blinked, a sober veil falling over her features. ‘Richard. Poor Richard. He was sweet.’

  Samson had to restrain himself from leaning across the table. ‘You dated Richard Hargreaves?’

  She nodded. ‘We were supposed to be going on a second date the day he … you know.’ She pulled a face. ‘I keep wondering if I could have done something. Spotted something, maybe.’

  There was no doubting the concern, the twist of anxiety in her voice.

  ‘He didn’t seem depressed to you?’

  ‘Not at all.’ A soft sigh escaped her. ‘Sorry, can we talk about something else?’

  Suppressing his guilt at manipulating her, Samson tried another angle, his tone playful. ‘I read online that hobbies are a safe topic for these events.’

  Hannah’s teasing smile slipped back into place. ‘I like a man who does his research. So, what do you like to do in your spare time?’

  ‘Hiking. Being outdoors.’ He paused and then cast the bait. ‘I’m also thinking about taking up potholing, now I’m back.’

  ‘Ugh! Crawling around under the surface of the earth. I can think of better forms of entertainment.’

  Trying to ignore the scorching look she sent him, he gave a light laugh. ‘A friend of mine got me interested,’ he said. ‘Martin Foster. He was at the last of these events, so you might know him.’

  Well-shaped eyebrows drawing together, she frowned. ‘Yeah, I know him. Sort of. He was supposed to call me to arrange a night out after last time, but I never heard from him.’ She shrugged an elegant shoulder. ‘That happens sometimes. People lose their nerve.’

  ‘Maybe he got stuck in a pothole,’ Samson joked, saying a silent prayer of apology for making light of the dead.

  Hannah let out a peal of laughter, the clouds of moments before chased away by bright sunshine as the bell rang to end their time together. She lifted one of her date cards with a flash of painted nails and passed it to him.

  ‘Perhaps you’d best steer clear of potholes then,’ she said, voice seductive. ‘It would be a massive loss for the women of Bruncliffe if you were to follow Martin’s example.’

  ‘I’ll bear your advice in mind,’ said Samson, taking his leave of her with a smile which he hoped concealed the unease besetting him.

  One down. One to go.

  * * *

  Delilah was biting her nails. She’d been biting them for some time, almost four minutes, before she became conscious that it wasn’t the best of images for the host of Speedy Date night to be portraying.

  With an effort, she folded her arms, then decided that wasn’t exactly welcoming, either. So she placed them by her sides and allowed her gaze to wander back to Samson O’Brien.

  He seemed so relaxed, chatting with Elaine Bullock – who thankfully had put away the book she dipped into between dates. And sometimes during dates, if she perceived the four minutes to be a waste of her time. Samson was holding her attention though, laughing and joking as if this was just another night down the pub. When he’d stood to leave Hannah Wilson’s table, he’d turned in such
a way that Delilah had been unable to see his face and so she had no idea whether he thought the librarian a credible suspect.

  Not that he would have revealed anything, if the rest of the evening had been anything to go by. Having watched him move from table to table, she’d been impressed by his ability to play the role of the single man at a dating event. No wonder he’d excelled undercover with the police. She could only hope he excelled at finding out who was murdering her clients.

  Aware that her fingers had crept back to her mouth, Delilah pulled her attention back to her job in an attempt to calm herself. Watch the room. Make sure everyone is having a good time. Make sure no one is feeling neglected.

  It had all gone well so far. Lots of excited chatter. Plenty of laughter. Even Mr Knowles, the disgruntled farmer she’d given the free date night to, seemed to be enjoying himself – although from this distance she couldn’t tell if he’d taken her personal hygiene advice on board. But most importantly, no one had got drunk, which was always a worry when nervous men were in the vicinity of alcohol. And there were plenty of nervous men in the room. Her glance fell on the estate agent, Stuart Lister, perhaps the most nervous of all those here tonight – apart from Delilah herself, but her tension wasn’t caused by affairs of the heart.

  Stuart had called her the week before and had stammered his way around a variety of subjects, before she realised that he wasn’t calling her in his professional capacity, but instead was hoping to join the dating night. She’d soothed his fears and told him it was an excellent way for someone new to the town to meet people. Privately, she was relieved that he was willing to give the women of Bruncliffe a second chance after her boxing display outside the pub the day Samson arrived.

  If anyone could convince him that Delilah was an aberration amongst the women of the town, it was the person he was with now. Lucy Metcalfe, sensing a highly strung male, was leaning forward slightly, a smile on her face as she encouraged the estate agent to talk. She was gentleness personified and, once again, Delilah cursed the fate that had dealt her sister-in-law such a bad hand.

  A beep from her stopwatch told her the four minutes were up. Delilah rang the bell and tried not to bite her nails as Samson took a seat opposite the second suspect.

  * * *

  ‘Sarah Mitchell.’

  If Samson hadn’t known her name beforehand, he would have struggled to make sense of the murmured words as he shook her hand. A small hand, brown from the outdoors but slender, fine bones visible under the skin.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Sarah. You’re not from Bruncliffe?’

  She shook her head. ‘Leeds originally. I live in Hawes now.’

  Her gaze didn’t lift from the table and Samson wondered why she was putting herself through an ordeal that was clearly agony for her. Where Hannah had been vibrant, her personality carrying across the room, Sarah was timid, almost jumping every time he spoke.

  ‘It must seem quiet after Leeds?’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s a nice place to live. Easy access to the fells.’

  ‘You like the fells?’

  Her face lifted and he saw a flash of life there for the first time.

  ‘What’s not to like?’ she asked with a small smile.

  ‘The rain?’ he grinned.

  Her focus returned to the glass in front of her, a small white wine which didn’t look like it had been touched.

  ‘This isn’t your idea of a good night, is it?’ he asked, gently.

  She shook her head, a blush tracing along her throat.

  ‘Mine neither,’ he confessed. ‘I’d rather be out on the fells in the rain.’

  That made her smile again, her head tilting sideways as she glanced at him.

  ‘So why are you here?’ she asked.

  He gestured in the direction of Harry Furness and told a blatant lie. ‘Helping out a friend who was too timid to come on his own. You?’

  She bit her lip, eyes flitting around the room. ‘I thought someone might be here…’

  ‘Someone you met at one of these events before?’

  A slight nod was his answer.

  ‘I take it he’s not turned up?’

  ‘No.’ It was more a sigh than a word.

  ‘Perhaps he’s been waylaid. What does he do?’

  ‘He’s a farmer.’

  ‘Well, that probably explains it,’ said Samson, feeling despicable for the second time in ten minutes as he pretended not to know whom she was talking about. Or that the man in question was dead. ‘He’s most likely got caught up looking for a lost sheep or something.’

  Sarah smiled. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘For what?’ he asked, genuinely surprised.

  ‘For trying to make me feel better.’ She looked straight at him this time. ‘But you don’t have to. I’m used to being stood up.’

  Samson felt his heart twist inside him. While he was long accustomed to playing roles undercover, he wasn’t accustomed to upsetting women in the process. He had a fierce longing for the four minutes, and the entire night, to be over.

  * * *

  ‘What do you mean you don’t know?’ Delilah hissed, aware that they were surrounded by people.

  The formal part of the evening had come to a close and the Dales Dating Agency members were mingling in the bar, the conversation a lot more animated than it had been an hour before. Samson and Delilah were standing to one side and she was demanding an update.

  ‘I don’t know,’ repeated Samson, weariness in his voice. ‘I’m pretty sure we can rule out Sarah Mitchell right away. She can’t be much more than five foot—’

  ‘She’s five foot three, the same size as me,’ Delilah corrected him with the acerbity of someone who’d spent her life defending her reduced stature in a family of giants.

  ‘Like I said, not much more than five foot and, unlike you, she’d blow over in a good north-easterly.’ It was the pursed lips that alerted Samson to his unintended insult. ‘I mean, she’s not built like you…’ he backtracked. ‘She’s not…’ He looked desperately at the strong shoulders before him, skimmed quickly over the contours that hadn’t been there when he left Bruncliffe and let his gaze fall to the toned legs, the fell-runner’s calves accentuated by high-heeled shoes.

  He lifted his eyes back to Delilah’s and saw the laughter she was containing at his clumsy attempts to rectify a situation he’d stumbled into.

  ‘For goodness’ sake,’ he finally blurted, knowing this conversation had developed so many pitfalls, he was doomed to come a cropper either way. ‘Just look at her.’ He tipped his head at the petite woman standing closest to the stairs, as though ready to bolt at the slightest provocation. ‘She’s frail. There’s no way she’d manage to haul someone of Tom Alderson’s size back onto his quad bike. Plus…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think she really liked him.’ He shrugged apologetically. ‘Gut instinct says it’s not her.’

  ‘And Hannah?’

  ‘Superficially, yes, she fits the profile. She’s got the strength. I’d also say she’s not the most stable of people. But…’ He looked across the room to where the librarian was laughing, her hand on the arm of the man with her, eyelashes fluttering. ‘She’s fairly easy to read and I’d swear she didn’t know Martin Foster was dead.’

  ‘Could she be faking it? Not knowing, I mean?’

  ‘Of course. But it didn’t come across like that.’

  Delilah let out a sigh, unsure whether it was in exasperation or relief. She’d known Hannah Wilson all her life and couldn’t imagine the woman killing someone. Driving them to madness, perhaps. But not murdering them.

  And as for Sarah Mitchell, the delicate young woman had won a place in Delilah’s heart when she’d come to her first dating night and forced herself to participate, despite the obvious torture it was for her. On top of that, how could someone who loved otters with such a passion be capable of taking the life of another?

  Knowing her logic would make the man next to her laugh out loud, Delila
h kept it to herself. But what she couldn’t keep to herself was her frustration. And her panic. After a tense evening, they knew little more about the identity of the killer than they had at the outset.

  ‘So what now?’ she asked.

  Samson looked down at her. ‘You’ve set the program to block any requests to or from the two women?’

  ‘Apart from requests from you, yes.’

  He nodded and reached for his phone. ‘Then we stick to the plan we formulated. I’ll single out Hannah and Sarah for follow-up dates and we’ll see what happens. After all,’ he added with a wry smile, ‘I’ve been known to be wrong when it comes to deciphering women. And right now, those two ladies are all we’ve got to go on.’

  She watched him pull up the app for the dating agency and enter his choices and she felt a swirl of nausea curdle her stomach.

  If he was right and the two women were innocent, then the remainder of Delilah’s clients were in danger. If he was wrong, then he was placing himself in the firing line.

  He slipped his phone back in his pocket and gave her a grin.

  ‘What?’ he said, eyes twinkling. ‘You wanted rid of me a couple of weeks ago. Just think how happy it’ll make Will when I get bumped off.’

  She kicked him in the shin, aware that it wasn’t behaviour befitting a dating agency hostess, but it was preferable to hugging him, which was all she wanted to do.

  * * *

  Harry Furness didn’t believe in wasting time. He was an auctioneer. Once you got passions running, you acted. Throw in the next lot while the bidders were still grieving at missing the last one. Thump down the hammer before minds could be changed by the slow hand of caution. He lived his life the same way.

  So when he saw Sarah Mitchell standing alone at the top of the stairs, fingers clenched around her untasted wine, he took his mobile out of his jacket pocket. A couple of quick swipes and the deed was done. With a deliberately measured stride he crossed the room, approaching her like he would a wary heifer. He was relieved to see the reappearance of her dimpled smile at his arrival.

  * * *

  What a night! Stuart Lister was walking home in the damp of a dark November evening, happier than he’d been since he arrived in Bruncliffe. Passing the deserted marketplace, he veered down Church Street and then crossed the road to the garish yellow facade of the Chinese takeaway. Inside, a queue of customers waited, figures blurred through the steamy windows. ‘Happy House’ – normally the sign was a trigger for despair for the estate agent as he approached a small door to the side of the shop front; a door which led to anything but a happy house. Tonight, however, as he entered the hallway of his awful flat, he was still smiling.