A tractor. It had to be. He flashed his lights. No response. Hadn’t they seen his car? How couldn’t they have? He flashed again and sounded the horn. Still the lights bore down on him.
Panicking now, he shifted the car into reverse.
Was there space down below at the cattle grid? Could he pull in there and let the maniac past? He couldn’t tell, the road behind bending away from the reversing lights. He’d have to try it or this idiot would hit him.
Easing off the brake, he let the car roll gently backwards, hand on the horn at the same time. He turned to look out of the rear window, but there was little to see, the stone walls disappearing into the blackness of night. Then he twisted forward and knew it was all futile. The massive tyres of the tractor were there, right in front of him. And in a screech of metal, the Mini and its passenger were pushed backwards down the road.
‘Stop!’ screamed Stuart, foot pumping the useless brake. ‘Stop!’
He was still screaming when the car was slammed into a wall.
* * *
‘Double top!’ yelled Harry Furness, throwing his arms around Danny Bradley, who had just secured a vital point for the Fleece. The constable, appearing even younger out of his uniform, was grinning widely, elated at his part in this spectacular match.
‘Four all,’ said the opposition captain, shaking his head in disbelief. Normally the Fleece was known as a team of non-starters. A team that the Mason’s Arms looked forward to trouncing on a twice-yearly basis. But tonight …
Something had got into them. They’d led at the outset, which was unheard of. And now they were pulling themselves back from the dead, the latest contender a string-bean of a young man whose arms didn’t look strong enough to hold a dart, let alone throw it, somehow beating one of the best players the Arms had.
‘Must’ve been summat in that tart,’ his teammate next to him muttered as he picked up his darts.
‘Aye. Well see as you have a slice of it before you play their last lad then,’ grumbled the captain, as the final Fleece player stepped up to the oche.
‘Go on, Samson,’ shouted Elaine. ‘Beat the buggers!’
‘Go on, lad,’ echoed Seth Thistlethwaite, his nephew Matty standing next to him.
‘Make sure I finally get something back for the blasted league fee,’ grumbled Troy Murgatroyd.
The tension rose. Silence fell. Four all, with one game left to play. Samson tried not to think about the weight that was resting on his shoulders.
* * *
There was a weight. On his chest. Pinning him down. And his legs. Trapped. He couldn’t move. He could hear a scream, thin and sharp, coming from somewhere beyond him. Or from him. He couldn’t tell.
He opened his eyes, something wet on his face, stinging, and through the cracked windscreen, beyond the shadow of the tractor that was so close – too close – he saw a blurred shape.
A person. Coming towards him.
‘Help!’ he cried. ‘Help!’
But the only help Stuart Lister was about to get was not the kind he wanted. He was about to be helped out of this life and into the next.
* * *
‘Three more darts, lad. That’ll do it!’
Samson closed his eyes and tried to ignore the well-meaning advice from the crowd.
It had been a closely contested game, both players starting well. But the man from the Mason’s Arms, a burly, red-faced butcher, had started pulling away, capitalising on Samson’s rustiness. So when the man had stepped forward with a score of one hundred and sixty left to achieve, it had seemed the dreams of the home crowd were about to be crushed.
But the butcher had crumpled under the pressure, his final dart clipping a wire and landing on the floor to give him a total of one hundred and twenty. Only forty left to get. He wouldn’t miss next time. Which meant Samson had this one opportunity to win the match for the Fleece.
Trouble was, he had to score one hundred and seventy, the highest score that could be achieved while meeting the criteria of finishing on a double or the bull.
Treble twenty, treble twenty and the bull. That would do it.
No pressure then.
He took a deep breath, opened his eyes and settled himself, letting the creaking seats, the muffled coughs, the tense breathing around him fade into the background. Focus on the circle in front of him, he raised his arm and let the first dart fly.
‘Treble twenty!’ shouted Harry and the room sucked in its breath.
Two more to go. He lifted his arm again, concentrating on that wedge of red towards the top of the board, which looked smaller now, a dart already stuck in it. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he released his second throw.
‘Treble twenty!’ Harry’s shout was met with a roar from the pub, people jumping to their feet, a couple of pints spilled.
‘Quiet, please; quiet, please,’ called the captain of the Fleece team, flapping his arms in an effort to curb the excitement. ‘Give him a chance, folks.’
The crowd hushed, their expectation making the air thick, bodies craning forward waiting for the last throw … which had to land in the bullseye.
Samson stared down at the gaudy carpet, threadbare at his feet, and forced himself to relax. And an image of his mother came to him, standing in her stockings in the kitchen, aiming at the dartboard on the back door. Hair pulled back, a smile lighting her face, and to her side, his father, laughing.
On that beautiful memory, he looked up, bent his arm and, without hesitation, sent his dart winging towards the red circle at the centre of the board.
‘Bullseye!’ screamed Harry Furness, sending the pub into wild celebrations. Lucy and Elaine were jumping up and down, Seth Thistlethwaite was slapping his nephew on the back, and Delilah was grinning, Ash’s arm around her shoulders. Even Troy Murgatroyd was allowing himself a satisfied smile.
Samson wished with all his soul that his father was there to see it.
* * *
‘Help!’ The sound faded to a whimper as Stuart Lister’s body began to shut down. Blood poured from his forehead, his crushed ribs hampered his breathing, and his legs … his legs – he couldn’t feel his legs.
Blackness encroaching at the edges of his vision, he struggled to see the blurred figure. Next to the car now. Reaching in through the broken window.
‘Help…’
He tried to turn his head but his neck wouldn’t cooperate. Tried to welcome his saviour.
‘Please…’ A gurgle of air, blood trickling over his bottom lip. ‘Please…’
Then a broad hand, placing something across his nose and mouth, pushing his head back into the headrest. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t struggle. He was about to die.
Lights flickering at the periphery of his consciousness, Stuart Lister began to lose the tenuous grip he had on his life.
* * *
‘From zero to hero in two easy weeks!’ Delilah was grinning up at him, punching him on the arm, all her fears of earlier forgotten for now.
Samson grinned back. ‘I wouldn’t say I’ve won over everyone.’ He threw a glance at Will Metcalfe and Rick Procter at the bar, neither of them looking like they were in a joyous mood, despite the jubilation around them and having been part of a winning team.
‘Oh, those two!’ Delilah tossed her head. ‘They’ll come round.’
‘Only when they hear I’m leaving.’
‘Who’s leaving?’ demanded an exuberant Harry Furness, bouncing up with a slice of cheese-and-onion tart in one hand and a pint in the other. ‘You can’t leave yet, Samson, lad! The night’s still early. Get yourself a real drink and celebrate properly.’
‘This’ll do me fine,’ Samson replied, raising his bottle of ginger beer. ‘I can get drunk on the victory.’
‘And what a victory!’ Harry crowed. ‘We’re the stuff of legend now. The team that beat the Mason’s Arms!’
Delilah rolled her eyes. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll leave you two to revel in your own glory. But don’t praise him too
much, Harry.’ She pointed towards the window and the Dales Detective Agency across the road. ‘That office isn’t very large. I’d hate to lose a tenant because his head was too big to fit inside.’ And with a laugh cast over her shoulder, she walked over to Lucy and Elaine.
‘So,’ said Harry, cutting straight to the point. ‘Can I sign you up as a permanent member of the team?’
Samson lifted both hands. ‘Whoa! Steady on. I stood in as a substitute for Ash. I’m not sure I’m ready to make any long-term commitments.’
The auctioneer regarded him through narrowed eyes. ‘Aye. I can understand that. It’s not as like folk round here welcomed you with open arms, myself included. But this has changed things. You must see that?’
Looking across the room at the glowering countenance of the oldest Metcalfe, Samson didn’t see anything of the kind. Plus, his own plans didn’t include being around long enough to complete the darts season. When that phone call came, he’d be leaving.
‘We’ll see,’ he said.
‘Well, if I can’t sign you up for the team, can I sign you up for tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Bonfire Night. The rugby club is holding its annual celebrations. I could do with a hand in the morning setting the fireworks out. You up for it?’
But Samson wasn’t listening. He was revisiting the past, hoisted on his father’s shoulders, watching rockets scream into the dark sky, his mother’s hand in the small of his back offering security. The rugby club’s annual party on November the fifth had been legendary. Huge fire. Lots of fireworks. Baked potatoes and toffee apples. It had been a highlight of his childhood. Until he was eight.
It was just after his mother died. His father was already struggling to control his drinking by then, but had yielded to Samson’s relentless pleading and taken him to see the bonfire. Once at the rugby club, however, memories had overcome the recently widowed father and he’d got blind drunk, staggering around, causing a nuisance and getting in the way. It had been towards the end of the evening, the fireworks finished but the fire still blazing, when Joseph O’Brien tripped over and fell into the flames.
Two quick-thinking men had dragged him out of the fire before any real damage had been done. His hair and eyebrows were singed and he’d had burns on both hands. But the main talking point as the story made its way around town over the next few days was that Boozy O’Brien – as he would forever be known – had kept a tight hold of his can of beer the whole time. Mortified, his son had never asked to be taken to the Bonfire Night celebrations again.
‘Come on,’ cajoled Harry, taking Samson’s lack of response for reluctance. ‘You owe me. I went through the torture of that date night and got two kicks in the teeth for my trouble. So the least you could do is help me out.’
‘Two kicks in the teeth?’ asked Samson, dragging his attention back to the present.
‘The Patisserie Queen gave me the cold shoulder. An outright no, not even the offer of leaving it until later.’ The auctioneer’s show of being indignant was belied by the twinkle in his eyes as he looked over at Lucy Metcalfe.
Samson laughed. ‘Serves you right! Teasing her like that. She’s giving you a taste of your own medicine.’
‘That’s as maybe, but it doesn’t change the statistics. Two blows to the heart. The least you could do is help me out tomorrow.’
‘Okay, okay,’ Samson grinned. ‘But then we’re quits.’
‘Ten o’clock in the clubhouse, then. See you there.’
Harry Furness swaggered off, accepting a hail of congratulations as he made his way to the bar, where he started hassling Rick Procter to buy a round of drinks for the successful darts team. Samson was watching the shark-toothed smile of the property developer as he faced Harry’s persuasive powers, when there was a tentative tug at his sleeve.
‘Mr O’Brien?’ Danny Bradley was standing next to him.
‘After your performance tonight, Danny, I think it’s time you started calling me Samson.’
A flush stole up the lad’s skinny neck, settling in the hollows of his cheeks. ‘Yeah, that was fun. Worth giving up a run out with the Harriers at any rate.’
‘They still run on a Thursday evening?’ asked Samson with a pang of nostalgia for his weekly outings with the Bruncliffe Harriers.
‘Every week. You should come with us, now you’re back. Persuade Miss Metcalfe … Delilah … to come too.’
‘She doesn’t run with you any more?’ Samson glanced over to where Delilah was talking to Will and Rick Procter.
Danny shook his head, eyes also settling on Delilah, but with a look of adoration. ‘Not for a long time. Wish she did. She’s a legend in fell-running circles and I reckon I could learn a lot from her.’
Samson didn’t disagree, partly because it was true, but also because he was puzzling over what could have made Delilah give up something she’d been so passionate about. And something she’d been so naturally good at.
‘But Mr—Samson,’ Danny continued, ‘I wanted to ask if you’d discovered anything else. You know, about … Mr Hargreaves.’
‘Not exactly,’ Samson said, keeping his reply vague, aware that there was a lot the constable didn’t know. The connection with the two other dead men, for a start.
‘It’s just that … I feel bad not telling Sergeant Clayton what we saw on the CCTV footage.’
‘I understand. But I don’t think it’s time to be telling him anything just yet. It’s not as if we have anything concrete to offer him.’
Danny bit his lip, clearly in a quandary.
‘Look,’ said Samson, feeling for the lad he’d placed in such an awkward position. ‘How about you call in at the office tomorrow after lunch? I’ll bring you up to speed with everything I’ve got on the case.’
The clouds cleared from the constable’s face. ‘Thanks, Mr—Samson. I’d really appreciate that.’
Knowing that Delilah wouldn’t be as appreciative when she heard the dating agency’s problems were going to be divulged to an outsider, Samson was left wondering how he would tell her what he was planning to do.
* * *
Lights. Bobbing over the dark slope of the fellside. Close now. Voices shouting. It was time to go.
Like a shadow slipping back into the night, a dark figure peeled away from the orange Mini, leaving the inert figure of the estate agent pinned in the bright beams of the tractor.
* * *
When a tipsy Harry Furness started begging Troy Murgatroyd to get out the karaoke machine, Samson knew it was time to go. He scanned the noisy crowd for Delilah, needing to make sure she wasn’t going back to the office before he settled in for the night. After all the excitement of the last couple of days, the last thing he wanted was his landlady discovering that he was sleeping in her spare room on the quiet.
He pushed his way through the mass of people still celebrating, to the small room at the back of the pub. There, in a corner, Delilah was sharing an intimate conversation with Rick Procter. The property developer was bent over her, his blond head close to hers, a large arm draped over her shoulders as he whispered in her ear.
The running shoes in the back porch. The yeti-boots that he’d tripped over the first day. It made sense to Samson now. Delilah was dating Rick Procter.
Feeling like he’d been punched in the stomach, he turned away. Rick Procter, of all people. The man was a snake. A bully who hadn’t left his schoolyard habits behind when he grew up. Delilah could do so much better—
‘Samson?’ She was at his elbow. ‘Do you want another drink?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m heading home. Say goodnight to Lucy and Elaine for me and thank them for their support.’
‘Lucy’s already left. She’s got the caravan to herself tonight, so she’s gone back to watch Dirty Dancing.’
Samson laughed and made to go, but Delilah held his arm.
‘Be careful,’ she murmured, concern on her face.
‘Weren’t you leaving, O’Brien?’ Rick Pro
cter had moved to join them and Delilah let her hand fall. Samson chose to ignore him.
‘Well … erm … I’ll see you tomorrow,’ Delilah stammered. Then she nodded towards Tolpuddle, who had crept out from under a table and was now leaning against Samson’s thigh. ‘Take him with you, if you want,’ she said with a light laugh, her gaze much more serious.
Samson fondled the dog’s ears, aware of what she was offering. Security. A guard dog. But he shook his head. ‘Think I’ll leave you the pleasure of recycled beer,’ he said as a sour, hoppy odour crept up from the region of the dog. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. Sometime late morning, as I’m helping Harry at the rugby club first thing.’
She reached out to squeeze his arm and then headed for the bar, leaving Samson face-to-face with Rick Procter. Tolpuddle issued a low growl and Samson’s affection for the dog increased at their shared distaste of the man opposite. Even so, he gently curled his fingers under the collar around the Weimaraner’s neck. Just in case. Oblivious to the danger, Rick Procter leaned in, his voice dropping, the tone hostile.
‘I don’t get you.’ He held Samson with his glare. ‘You’ve had ample chance to bugger off for good yet you’re still here, hanging around like a bad smell. Are you thick or something?’
Samson lowered his gaze, eyes resting on the huge hands of the property developer, which were flexing, the tendons thick across the broad backs. Those hands were itching to hit something. And Samson had no desire to offer up his face as target practice.
He shrugged. ‘Guess it must be the latter.’
‘Well just so you know, Mr Detective, I’m digging into your past. Looking for whatever it was that made you come scampering home.’ Rick Procter pointed in the direction of Delilah, who was chatting to Seth Thistlethwaite at the bar. ‘And when I find out, we’ll see how welcome you are with the lovely Miss Metcalfe. So don’t go getting too cosy in Bruncliffe, because you won’t be in town for long.’
Samson willed himself to stay calm, fighting the tide of anger that was threatening to breach his self-control. ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ he said, teeth gritted.
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