Trailed by the ever-present smell of prawn crackers, he climbed the steep stairs and let himself into his cramped living quarters. A bedroom too small to house more than a bed; a lounge that strained to contain a two-seater sofa and a TV; a kitchenette in one corner; and a bathroom that had long ago lost the battle against mould. All of it pervaded by the sweet-and-sour odours from the takeaway below.
It was all he could afford. For now. But if he kept working, kept finding tenants to rent from Taylor’s, then the future would be bright. After tonight, he believed that bright horizon might be closer than he’d thought.
He reached for his mobile and pulled up the app for the Dales Dating Agency. And in the gloom of his shabby accommodation, he made his choice.
* * *
A ping, loud enough to cut through the whistle of the wind, and then the harsh glow of a mobile screen slicing through the dark. A broad thumb brushed across the phone and there, stark against the night, was the name of the next person to die.
15
‘Bullseye!’
The raucous shout from darts captain Harry Furness made Delilah leap in her seat, her mobile falling from her hand and her sudden movement triggering a loud bark from Tolpuddle.
‘It’s okay,’ said Samson, putting a soothing hand on the dog’s head as Delilah glanced wildly around the crowded pub. ‘Nothing to panic about.’
He’d have liked to have calmed Delilah in the same way, her nerves at breaking point twenty-four hours after Speedy Date night. But with Will Metcalfe and Rick Procter over by the bar casting dark glances his way, the last thing he wanted to do was start another brawl. If he was going to be attacked by the phantom murderer anytime soon, he’d prefer to be in a state to fight back.
‘I don’t know how much longer I can stand this,’ muttered Delilah, picking her phone up from the floor.
‘What, Harry’s relentless crowing?’ asked Samson with a grin, as the auctioneer did a jig on the oche to boisterous cheering from the partisan spectators.
She glowered at him. ‘You know what I mean.’ She placed her mobile on the table and folded her hands on her lap, so no one in the Fleece could see them trembling.
The pub was packed. Word had travelled fast through Bruncliffe and the outlying villages – helped undoubtedly by the posters which had appeared overnight on community noticeboards up and down the dale – that Harry Furness had persuaded the legendary Samson O’Brien to play darts for the Fleece. Against none other than the Mason’s Arms.
Only Seth Thistlethwaite and his contemporaries could recall the last time the smallest pub in Bruncliffe had beaten the team from Gargrave, Troy Murgatroyd never having had the honour of victory in his lifetime as landlord. Tonight, after a blazing start by the home side with Will, Harry and Rick Procter winning their games, it looked like history could be rewritten. The locals had already secured a lead of three games to love, and Samson had yet to play. And for the first time since Troy took over the pub, no one had heard him grumbling about the money he wasted paying the league fees for the darts team every year. He was too busy serving pints to be complaining.
Delilah Metcalfe, however, wasn’t feeling the joy.
She’d spent the day in her office, checking and rechecking the dating agency systems, making sure the net she’d created had no holes in it. So far, it seemed to be working. Only Samson’s date requests had made their way to Hannah Wilson and Sarah Mitchell, all others having been blocked by the modifications she’d made to the program. Likewise, any moves by Hannah or Sarah to take things further with any of the men they’d met had been intercepted. As a result, Hannah had four would-be suitors she didn’t know about; Sarah, despite her timidity, had captured the attention of two. Delilah had made sure these unlucky admirers received the softest of rejections – Leave it for now – and had even gone so far as to delay the replies, hoping to console the men with the thought that the two ladies had at least deliberated over their decisions.
Her role as Cupid’s evil twin hadn’t made her mood any better. But it had to be done. Until Hannah Wilson and Sarah Mitchell could be ruled out of any involvement in the suspicious deaths besetting the Dales Dating Agency clients, Delilah had to protect not just the hearts of her male customers, but their lives too.
Not knowing whether her attempts to safeguard them had been effective, however, was unbearable.
‘One-hundred-and-eighty!’ Harry bellowed, his voice trained from years in the auction ring to travel greater distances than the two rooms of the Fleece, and consequently deafening at close quarters.
Delilah sat on her hands and forced herself to relax. If someone was going to try and bump Samson off, they would hardly choose darts night in the Fleece to do so. Unless, of course, you counted her brother Will in that number. Currently standing at the bar, pint in hand, his black stare hadn’t strayed from the detective for the duration of the evening.
If looks could kill, Samson would already be dead. At least, thought Delilah with a wry smile, her dating agency couldn’t be blamed for that one.
* * *
Eight-thirty in the evening. Who in their right mind would arrange a viewing for that time?
And what letting agency in their right mind would agree to go through with it?
Unfortunately for Stuart Lister, an agency desperate to rent out a property that had been on their books for over two months would. And had.
The estate agent stood in the porch of the empty farmhouse, staring out into the dark. Total dark. Unlike Skipton, where he was from, where street lights kept the night at bay, here there was nothing. Not even the moon or the stars as the clouds smothered the sky, making it as black as the desolate moorland below it.
No headlights dipping over the horizon, either. He’d wait another ten minutes and then he was heading back to Bruncliffe and the vibrant facade of Happy House. It would be a welcome beacon after this.
The request had come mid-morning. Julie, the receptionist, had received an email from a Dr Howson wanting to look at a property on Henside Road that evening. As head of the rentals department – which was not as impressive as it sounded as Stuart was the only member of said department, although Mr Taylor assured him they would be taking on more staff soon – it fell to Stuart to deal with it. So he’d got out the files and looked it up.
It was a remote former farmhouse that was up for sale, the owners having relocated back down to London after their dream life of working from home in the countryside had turned sour – turned into divorce, if Julie was to be believed. And no wonder. All this space with no one in it, just the two of them rattling around. It was enough to test the strongest of relationships. With no sign of a sale in over twelve months, they’d decided to rent it out in the interim. But that hadn’t produced many takers either. If Stuart could land a tenant tonight, it wouldn’t hurt his long-term prospects with Taylor’s.
He checked the time on his mobile. Dr Howson was twenty minutes late already and Stuart had no way of making contact, the screen on his phone indicating that not only was there a lack of lighting in the area, but there was a lack of mobile signal, too.
It was looking like this was going to be a no-show. Stuart sighed, thinking about the tricky drive over from Bruncliffe, the innocuous-sounding Henside Road turning out to be a single-track road that wound up onto bleak moors near Fountains Fell. Hemmed in by the Dales-defining stone walls on either side and with several steep hills thrown in, it hadn’t made for a pleasant journey. He hated to think it might have been for nothing.
Willing twin beams to appear at the end of the lane that led to the house, or the sound of an engine to drift across on the wind, Stuart shifted his weight against the door frame and wished that he smoked. It would help pass the time. Maybe make him look a bit older, too. Because he could do with looking older. Twenty-eight and still people mistook him for some fresh-faced lad straight out of college and damp behind the ears. His mother was always telling him it was a blessing. That when he was fifty he’d be glad
to lose a few years. But right now, it felt like a curse.
If he looked older, perhaps the blunt rejection he’d got after the Speedy Date event would have been different.
Staring wistfully into the dark, Stuart Lister made the decision to wait five minutes more. It was a decision that would change his life.
* * *
Three all. Three games left to play. A tense captain of the Fleece darts team was pacing around by the bar as the players took a break to savour the delicious spread laid on by Kay Murgatroyd, despite her husband’s objections.
‘I don’t understand it,’ muttered a disconcerted Harry Furness, his swagger of the previous hour replaced by a nervous hunch of the shoulders. ‘Total collapse!’
‘Maybe you should have broken for food earlier,’ said Samson, winking at Lucy Metcalfe and Elaine Bullock who were standing next to him, both of them enjoying a slice of cheese-and-onion tart. ‘These athletes need to keep their stamina up.’
Elaine spluttered on a laugh, looking pointedly at the crowd of men bustling around the trays of sandwiches and tarts, pints in hand, the average shape of the participants a long way from athletic. Even young Danny Bradley, who was at the opposite end of the scale from the majority of his teammates, was hardly a model of vigour, his skinny arms sticking out of a flapping T-shirt. But Harry Furness was desperate enough to grasp at straws.
‘Do you think that was it?’ he asked, with a worried frown. ‘Perhaps I should have brought some energy bars along? I mean, it’s a total collapse. Three games on the trot … They’re coming back at us and they still have their strongest player to throw. Two more games – that’s all we need. But it’s not as if we have a lot of quality left on our side. No Rob Harrison for a start, and it’s not like Danny Bradley’s much of a substitute … so it could all come down to you, Samson—’
The witterings of the panicking captain came to an abrupt halt as a mini-Yorkshire pudding filled with beef and garnished with horseradish sauce was thrust at him.
‘Try one of these,’ said Samson, hoping the food would serve two purposes – take Harry’s mind off the match and shut him up at the same time. The approach of Ash Metcalfe helped his cause.
‘Thanks for stepping in tonight,’ said Ash, shaking hands gingerly, his wrist heavily bandaged. ‘Don’t know what we’d have done without you.’
‘I’m sure you’d have managed,’ Samson replied, aware of the unrelenting scrutiny of Ash’s older brother from the other end of the bar, as yet another Metcalfe dared to fraternise with the devil.
‘Any chance of Rob making a last-minute appearance?’ demanded Harry through a mouthful of Yorkshire pudding.
Ash shook his head. ‘He’s torn a muscle in his shoulder repairing a wall. He’s in a bad way apparently.’
Harry groaned, casting a despairing glance at Danny Bradley, the slight figure of the constable a mere shadow of the stonemason, both in physique and ability with the darts.
‘Have faith,’ Ash counselled his captain. ‘Samson and Danny will save the day.’
‘Don’t speak too soon,’ said Samson. ‘We’ve got to win our games yet.’
‘Speaking of winning,’ continued Ash with a grin. ‘How did everyone get on last night? Are your dance cards filled?’
‘Not mine,’ muttered Harry, a second Yorkshire pudding gone and a third in his hand. ‘I got knocked back for the only date request I sent.’
‘You sent a date request?’ Ash asked, eyebrows raised. ‘Who to?’
Harry shook his head and tapped a finger against his nose. ‘Not telling.’
‘What about you two lovely ladies?’
Elaine grinned, reaching for a second slice of tart. ‘I didn’t send out any, but I did get one response.’
‘And?’ Lucy nudged her. ‘Are you going to accept?’
‘Not on your life. It was some farmer with bad breath who didn’t even take the hint when I started reading before the four minutes were up.’
‘You read? During the dating event?’ asked Samson, suddenly recalling the book she’d been carrying the night before.
Elaine nodded, licking her fingers and reaching for her pint. ‘Yes. Why not? I’d rather be immersed in the world of rocks I’m interested in than in some bloke with rocks for brains.’
Lucy laughed, while the men regarded the geologist with something between awe and terror, none of them wanting to be on the receiving end of such a snub.
‘And you, Samson?’ asked Elaine. ‘Have you been inundated with requests?’
‘A few.’
‘How many’s a few?’
A snort from behind made her turn to where Delilah was standing, a plate of food in her hand and a glint in her eye. ‘Try ten,’ she said, bestowing a disbelieving look on Samson as she spoke. ‘There is no accounting for taste.’
‘Ten?’ Harry almost dropped the sandwich he was holding, head flicking between Delilah and Samson. ‘You had ten women send you a date request?’
Samson gave a boyish grin. ‘What can I say? The ladies of Bruncliffe appreciate me, even if their male counterparts don’t.’
His response prompted a groan from Ash and a loud laugh from Elaine, while Delilah shook her head and wandered off to talk to Seth and Matty Thistlethwaite.
‘I’m pleased for you, Samson,’ said Lucy, patting him on the arm. ‘Even though I didn’t get any.’
‘Not one?’ asked Harry, still eating.
‘Nope. I didn’t get any after the October event, either.’
‘Don’t let Delilah hear you say that,’ warned Samson with a grin. ‘She’ll tell you it simply means you need to sign up for the next one.’
‘I don’t know about that. I think Tuesday night was my last foray into the speed-dating world. It’s too difficult … with Nathan. I didn’t tell him about this last one and I’ve felt guilty all week.’
‘There’s nothing to be guilty about,’ said Ash, putting an arm around his conscience-stricken sister-in-law. ‘Ryan wouldn’t have wanted you to stay at home for the rest of your life. Isn’t that right, Elaine?’
‘Totally,’ concurred the geologist through another slice of tart. ‘Although I think he’d have been happy for you to stay at home and bake us all a bunch of these. You need to get the recipe off Kay Murgatroyd.’
‘I already have,’ said Lucy. ‘Swaledale cheese. That’s the secret.’
‘So can I expect some next time I pop in to Peaks Patisserie?’
‘Only if you’re paying,’ quipped Lucy.
‘Paying? Huh! Seems like Troy isn’t the only one willing to fleece his friends…’
Samson turned from the banter between the two women to see Ash and Harry huddled together over Harry’s phone.
‘He’s sending Lucy a date request,’ whispered Ash with a wink.
‘Can’t have her feeling left out.’ Harry Furness slipped his phone back in his pocket. ‘And at the very least, she might make me one of those cheese tarts!’
Samson laughed and slapped him on the back. ‘Enough about cheese tarts. We’ve got a darts match to win. You’d best call the lads to order before they eat too much to play.’
The captain of the Fleece team pushed back his shoulders, stuck out his chest and then bellowed for the players to resume the match. There was no possibility of anyone not hearing.
* * *
A no-show. All the way out here for a no-show. Stuart Lister turned the orange company Mini out of the lane that led to the farmhouse, glad to be back on the properly surfaced Henside Road, and tried not to be too annoyed.
What would he have done with his evening anyway?
Gone and watched the darts at the Fleece probably. From the way everyone had been talking in the office this morning, it sounded like a big deal. Samson O’Brien – the man whose arrival had caused such a commotion a couple of weeks ago – was now being touted as the saviour of Bruncliffe darts.
It might have been good to see the match. Better than standing around in the dark waiting for
Dr Howson to make an appearance and jumping every time there was a noise. For despite what people thought, the countryside was far from quiet. The sudden low of a cow as he’d been locking up the house had nearly frightened him to death.
Headlights travelling ahead of him and picking out the stones that walled in the narrow road, Stuart drove carefully back towards the town. He made better time than he had on the way out, being more prepared for a road that rose and fell as it twined itself around the contours of the fellside, and he was beginning to think it might be worth stopping by the pub after all. It was only just gone nine. The match wouldn’t have finished yet. But first he had to negotiate the steep descent and climb that led up to the turning for Goat Lane.
With his headlights pointing out into dark nothingness, Stuart paused at the top of the hill, the road plummeting away beneath him in a gradient that would be dizzying in daylight. At night, it was a step into the unknown. He eased the Mini into a low gear and, foot firmly on the brake, guided it cautiously down the twisting drop. By the time he reached the cattle grid at the bottom, his heart was in his mouth and his hands were sweating on the steering wheel.
Now to get up the other side. He looked at the two precipitous lines of stone wall rising above him into the inky sky, a slender strip of tarmac between them.
Slow and steady. And pray nothing came down the hill towards him.
Switching brake for accelerator, he began to climb. He was halfway up the sharp incline when they came over the crest – two dazzling beams of white light glaring down at the orange Mini.
He stamped on the brake, waiting for the lights to stop. But they didn’t. They were rolling towards him at tremendous speed. And from such a height.
Date with Death Page 21