Date with Death

by Julia Chapman

  ‘And this time, I mean it. Stay.’

  He strode out of the room and within minutes she heard the roar of the Royal Enfield tearing into the silence.

  * * *

  Something over her mouth, the texture rough on her lips like sandpaper. And under her cheek, a cold, hard surface against her skin. If it was her skin. She wasn’t sure. Everything was so strange.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  The voice coming from the end of her body, where the light was, the light that was dipping and swaying, expanding and contracting. But she couldn’t see him, his outline distorted, bleeding into the background, the sound disembodied.

  ‘You left me no choice. You have to see that?’

  A flare of anger surging up through the hollowness of her mind. She tried to kick out, her limbs refusing to cooperate.

  ‘All those men … It’s not right. You know that. It’s not what he would have wanted.’

  He was fading, disappearing into the halo behind him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again.

  Then the sound of a door slamming shut and footsteps over stones, overlaid by the smell. Something familiar. Something fearful. That was when she had a moment of lucidity. The moment when she realised she was about to die.

  * * *

  Nathan Metcalfe.

  Samson held the image of the lad’s face before him as he rode out of town. Those cheekbones, the same as Delilah’s. The hair the same as his father’s, a thatch of dark gold. The stature taken from his uncles – Delilah and Will the only two of the Metcalfe siblings to fail to reach above-average heights. And the temper?

  He’d seen a flash of it that day at the caravan. Like Will’s? Capable of blind rage?

  But did that mean the boy was capable of murder?

  As the houses of Back Street gave way to fields, Ellershaw Farm became visible up to his left and above it, out of sight, Lucy’s caravan at High Laithe. Samson opened up the throttle and let the bike gather speed. Even though he had a terrible premonition that he was already too late.

  * * *

  ‘Nathan? He’s not here, love.’

  Delilah bit down hard on her impatience, her stomach acidic with tension and her hand shaking as she held the phone. ‘I gathered that, Mum. But I’ve been trying his mobile and there’s no answer. Do you know where he is? It’s urgent.’

  ‘Of course I know where he is. He’s in Wales.’

  ‘Wales?’ Delilah felt a wave of relief. Then confusion. ‘What’s he doing in Wales?’

  ‘Some outdoors adventure thingy for some award – Duke of York or something like that. Does that sound right?’

  ‘How long’s he been over there?’

  In the background Delilah could hear her mother walking over to the calendar from the auction mart, an annually updated edition of which had been hanging on the kitchen wall for as long as she could remember.

  ‘Lucy dropped him down to catch the school minibus two days ago. She’s picking him up sometime this afternoon.’

  ‘Have you heard from him? Has Lucy?’

  ‘No, and we don’t expect to, either. He said there’d be no mobile reception, so not to bother calling him. Reckon that’ll be the biggest shock for him. He’s used to being out in nature all on his own. But that blasted mobile – lately it’s like it’s attached to his hand. It’ll do him good to be without for a few days.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum. I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Is everything okay, love? You sound worried.’

  ‘Everything’s fine,’ said Delilah, adopting a more cheerful tone to varnish the lie. ‘Give my love to Dad.’

  ‘I will do, whenever he gets home. Don’t know where he’s got to this afternoon. Your brother’s been looking for him, but—’

  ‘Sorry, Mum, I really have to go.’ Delilah cut across her mother’s grumbling and hung up, a large sigh easing from her as she dropped her head into her hands.

  Nathan was in the clear. He’d been on a camping trip with the school when both Stuart and Harry had been attacked.

  With a snap, her head lifted and she was staring at the computer screen. If Nathan was somewhere out of mobile reception, how the hell had he rejected Harry’s date request last night?

  Entering her admin password, she accessed Samson’s dating agency account and sent Lucy a date request.

  Within seconds she received a response. An outright rejection.

  ‘What the—?’

  It took her a few moments to realise she was looking at the question all wrong. That really the puzzle was not how. But who.

  Who was answering Nathan’s phone?

  With a sense of fear stealing along her nerves, she jumped to her feet. Samson. He was on his way to the caravan, but rather than confronting a teenage boy when he got there, it would be someone else. Something else.

  She needed to get up there, but she didn’t have a car.

  She’d just have to take the more direct route.

  Hurrying from the room, mobile clamped to her ear, she called Samson as she dashed down the stairs, the familiar sound of paws behind her telling her Tolpuddle was following.

  No answer.

  Stuffing her phone in her pocket, she bent and pulled on her trainers in the porch, the dog already beginning to wag his tail in anticipation.

  ‘Not this time, Tolpuddle,’ she said, blocking his path as she opened the door. ‘You heard what Samson said. Stay here.’

  He whined. A loud wail like a police siren, which she knew he could keep up for hours.

  ‘Sod it!’ She stood aside and let him past. ‘We might as well both break the rules. At least this way I can say it was your idea.’

  He twisted his head to one side, regarding her with his ears cocked, and then they were both out of the back gate and running to help Samson. And Delilah Metcalfe didn’t care who saw them doing it.

  * * *

  As he turned off the main road onto the track at High Laithe, he saw the van parked next to Lucy’s static caravan, a large figure standing by its open doors. Rob Harrison. The stonemason glanced over his shoulder at the sound of the motorbike’s approach. But there was no sign of Lucy’s car. Samson pulled up a short distance from the van, leaving his helmet on the bike as he got off.

  ‘Afternoon, Rob.’

  ‘Samson.’ The man tipped his head in greeting and leaned against the van, hands in pockets.

  ‘Is Lucy around?’

  ‘Nope. Just called up with some bathroom brochures that she asked for, but she’s not in. Thought you might know where she is.’

  Samson shook his head, concern gnawing at him. ‘I don’t. But I need to speak to her. Urgently. So if you see her…’

  Rob nodded. ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Not sure. I think Nathan might be in some trouble.’

  ‘Nathan?’ The stonemason straightened up, eyes narrowing. ‘What kind of trouble?’

  ‘I can’t say.’

  Rob stared at him. ‘He’s a good lad, like his father. Whatever it is you think he’s done, you must have it wrong.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said Samson with a smile, touched by the stonemason’s faith in his friend’s son. He nodded and turned to go.

  * * *

  The roar of a motorbike. She’d heard it arrive, sounds filtering through her befuddled mind with startling clarity. Then voices. Two of them. Both men. But the words, her brain couldn’t cope with the words. Nor could she form any of her own. All she could do was lie there, eyes closed, breathing in that sickly smell with the damp of tears on her cheeks.

  * * *

  The wind – that living creature that blows up and down the Dales, swirling leaves in the autumn, turning the brightest of summer days chilly and tweaking at washing on lines – at the precise moment that Samson began to turn away, it chose to shift from its prevailing direction out of the south-west to due south.

  Due south. Brushing over the caravan and straight towards Samson. Bringing with it a scent that he recog
nised – an odour he’d encountered that very morning. And, carrying across the short distance that separated the two men, the soft sound of a text being received.

  It was enough to make Samson pause. To turn back. To inhale a lungful of the air and recognise the underlying taint. To see Rob Harrison glance down at his hand and the distinctive mobile he was now holding, a lion rampant on the back cover.

  The smell was petrol; the mobile was Nathan’s.

  19

  Less than a mile as the crow flies. But a bloody crow wouldn’t have to run up the steps to the top of the Crag.

  Chest burning, legs on fire, Delilah forced herself to pick up the speed as she cleared the rocky outcrop that towered over Bruncliffe and finally hit the open fells. If she’d looked back, she’d have seen the Lake District peaks, hazy in the distance; the stone-built houses of the town behind her with the river snaking between them; and the smoke still hanging in the air above the ruins of the rugby club.

  But she didn’t look back. She looked ahead, following the path uphill that she knew from years of training, concentrating as she sped across the distance between Bruncliffe and the caravan where her friend lived.

  Alongside her, Tolpuddle kept pace, his grey body covering the uneven terrain in easy strides.

  Less than a mile as the crow flies. They would be there in minutes.

  * * *

  The wind wasn’t the only thing that had shifted.

  As Rob Harrison raised his head, Samson O’Brien felt the change in atmosphere, an undercurrent of tension now shimmering between the two men.

  ‘Is that Nathan’s phone?’ he asked, tone light, as though they were having a relaxed conversation in the pub, while his brain turned cartwheels trying to work out the puzzling implications of this new piece of information.

  Nathan’s phone. Rob Harrison had access to Nathan’s phone. Which meant he had access to Lucy’s date requests. The loyal friend. The self-appointed protector. Perhaps Nathan wasn’t the only one who didn’t want Lucy dating. In which case …

  He kept his focus on the stonemason, who seemed to be doing some re-evaluating of his own, attention flicking from the mobile in his hand to Samson with growing anger. All the while, the scent of petrol grew stronger.

  Petrol. Lucy. She was in serious danger.

  ‘What have you done with her, Rob?’ Samson asked, beginning to circle slowly in the direction of the caravan.

  The stonemason shook his head, so Samson tried again, edging nearer to the steps that led to Lucy’s front door. ‘If you’ve harmed her, Nathan will never forgive you.’

  ‘You hypocrite!’ Rob finally snarled, brandishing the mobile.

  A date request was showing on the screen – from Samson to Lucy.

  Whatever had prompted Delilah to send it, Samson didn’t know. But it had handed him the edge. Because Rob Harrison was furious. And an enraged man is a lot easier to overcome than a rational one. Especially one as large as the stonemason.

  Rob took a step towards him, fists clenched, shoulders tense. ‘You’re as bad as the rest of them,’ he shouted. ‘Making out you’re concerned about Nathan while trying to date his mother behind his back. You’re his godfather, for Christ’s sake!’

  His temper had brought him closer. Samson needed him closer still if he was to negate the difference in size between them.

  ‘Where’s the harm?’ asked Samson. ‘Lucy’s young. And pretty. It’s not like I’m asking her to marry me or anything.’ He shrugged, as though Lucy’s connection to his dead friend was of no account. ‘Just looking for a bit of fun. Ryan would understand.’

  It was the catalyst he’d wanted.

  With a roar of rage, Rob attacked, and the detective had seconds to brace himself before eighteen stone of muscle and bone fell upon him.

  Twisting slightly as the huge man lunged, Samson let the full impact land on his right side, hands grasping the man’s jacket to continue the forward momentum, throwing the stonemason to the ground.

  But the power behind the movement was too much and as the heavier man fell, the detective was pulled after him, the two of them collapsing onto the gravel close to the wooden steps of the caravan. Landing on top of the stonemason, Samson heard the air rush out of the man’s lungs, but still Rob Harrison had the capacity to throw a powerful punch, catching the detective in the ribs. Rearing back in pain, Samson yielded too much space and two large hands were on his chest and thrusting him backwards, his head smacking into the side of the steps.

  Dazed, he scrambled to his feet, a warm trickle of blood on his scalp. And a pungent smell on his clothes. Petrol. They’d been rolling around in petrol, the gravel dark where the liquid had been poured in a wide trail around the caravan.

  He looked up, suddenly aware of the danger, only to see Rob Harrison standing opposite him, hemming him in between the caravan and the steps. He was holding a knife in his right hand, the blade ugly and serrated. Far more worryingly, in his left, he was holding a lit Zippo lighter.

  * * *

  An oblong of green in front of a stone barn. That’s all Delilah saw of the caravan as she crested the fell above it, breath coming in short gasps, thighs trembling. Then she was hurtling downhill, concentrating only on the tussocky grass and the bits of limestone passing beneath her feet as she negotiated the tricky route which would take her to the road. Tolpuddle, as if sensing they were almost at their destination, started pulling ahead.

  By the time Delilah ran across the tarmac, Tolpuddle was already racing down the track, towards the motorbike, the van with its open doors. And the two men standing by the caravan, one of them holding a knife.

  Delilah started sprinting.

  * * *

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Rob. This isn’t what Ryan would have wanted.’

  Samson had both hands spread in the instinctive gesture of surrender, the metal side of the caravan against his back. He tried not to let the fumes from the petrol alarm him. Tried to concentrate only on the man opposite and the naked flame in his hand.

  ‘At least let Lucy go.’

  Rob’s eyes flicked tellingly and Samson knew Lucy must be inside the caravan, incapacitated in some way or she’d have been making a racket by now. The situation wasn’t looking good. For either of them.

  His only hope was to keep Rob occupied. To talk to him, in the chance of overpowering him.

  ‘Please, Rob. For Ryan’s sake.’

  ‘Don’t use his name!’ the stonemason snapped, the lighter jerking dangerously in his hand. ‘You abandoned him. And now you’re back trying to steal his wife. You’re scum, just like the others.’ He spat on the ground at Samson’s feet. ‘Well, I took care of them. Like I’m going to take care of you.’

  Samson fought the panic welling inside him. ‘And Nathan?’ he managed. ‘Does he know what you’re doing? That you’re about to kill his mother?’

  Confusion passed across Rob’s face. He glanced at the caravan again and a blur of movement over his right shoulder caught Samson’s eye.

  Tolpuddle, racing down the track, Delilah following in his wake.

  ‘Does Nathan know?’ pressed Samson, trying to keep the stonemason’s attention away from the fast-approaching dog.

  ‘Leave him out of this,’ shouted Rob, glare focused back on Samson. ‘Nathan’s a good kid. All he did was change the dating account to stop those men contacting his mother.’

  ‘Then you need to let Lucy go,’ said Samson. ‘For Nathan’s sake.’

  The stonemason growled. ‘I need to do no such thing. Nathan’s better off without her despoiling his father’s memory.’ He raised his left arm, the flame flickering in the wind. ‘See you in hell, O’Brien.’

  Samson flinched, waiting for the burst of fire that would be triggered by the dropped lighter. But a sharp bark cut through the air and Rob Harrison began turning to his right, leading with the knife as Tolpuddle hurtled towards him.

  * * *

  She saw the two men. Samson facing her. Rob Harrison the st
onemason with his back to her, holding a knife in his right hand. And a lighter in his left. As she raced closer, the smell of petrol drifted across the space between them and terror clutched at her chest.

  Tolpuddle was some way ahead and closing fast. When she heard his warning bark, she knew what was coming, the muscles in his haunches bunching as he prepared to leap. Then Rob Harrison was turning and the sun was glinting off the blade in his hand.

  ‘Tolpuddle, no!’ Delilah screamed.

  But the dog was already committed, leaping at full stretch, front paws landing on the stonemason’s right shoulder. The unexpected weight was enough to cause the man to lose his balance and he stumbled to his left, Samson lunging for the lighter. In a blur of motion, the dog and both men fell to the ground.

  * * *

  The lighter! Samson’s hand closed around the thick wrist of Rob Harrison, trying to hold the flame away from the petrol-sodden gravel. But he was falling – him and the stonemason and the dog, a jumble of limbs as they hit the ground. He felt his already-sore ribs crunch against the hard surface, heard the dog yelp in pain, and he saw the fingers gripping the Zippo let go.

  Then his head smacked into the ground and the lighter clattered out of sight.

  * * *

  It was a miracle, of sorts. The lighter tumbled from the stonemason’s grasp, yellow flame still burning, and bounced on its bottom edge on the gravel, before landing on the concrete base under the caravan. It skittered across the smooth surface and was still alight as it came to rest against a pile of dead leaves that had been blown there by the autumn winds. It wouldn’t be long before they began to smoulder.

  * * *

  The lighter. Where was it?

  Shaking his head to clear his vision, Samson scanned the ground around him. No fire. The petrol still damp on the gravel. No lighter, either.

  Heavy footsteps pulled his attention back to Rob Harrison, the stonemason up on his feet and running, cutting right between the caravan and the barn and heading towards the path that led up the fellside. Already veering after him was the much smaller figure of Delilah.

  Head throbbing, his arm clamped to his side where his damaged ribs were making every breath painful, Samson struggled to pick himself up. ‘Let him go, Delilah!’ he called out as she approached. ‘He’s dangerous.’