‘Ouch!’ He winced as the paramedic applied ointment to a particularly badly burnt section of calf.
‘No point in complaining when you decide to jump through a fire with no trousers on, lad,’ came the brusque reply. Then the man squinted at him in recognition. ‘Aren’t you the bloke who was down at the rugby club this morning?’
‘Yeah. That was me,’ Samson muttered.
The man regarded him afresh. ‘Two fires in one day? One a year’s enough for most folk. You got a death wish or summat?’
‘He’s just a bloody halfwit, that’s what it is.’
‘I’m willing to put up with your abuse, Will,’ said Samson with a smile. ‘If it hadn’t been for you and Nathan turning up, I don’t think I’d have got Lucy out of there. Not in the state she was in.’
Will grimaced. ‘Aye, that was a piece of luck all right. Nathan arrived back from his trip earlier than planned and I happened to be passing the school. I picked him up, intending to stop off at the farm first, but Nathan wanted to let his mother know she didn’t need to go into town for him. He didn’t have his phone with him and I couldn’t get through to her on mine, so we drove up…’ He shook his head at the thought of what might have been. ‘Rob Harrison! I can’t understand it.’
‘I don’t think any of us will be able to. He thought he was protecting Ryan’s memory.’
‘What, by killing a whole load of innocent folk and trying to kill a few more? And as for what he did to Lucy – he was supposed to be Ryan’s mate. Some bloody mate when he drugs a man’s wife and leaves her to die in a fire!’ He scuffed the gravel with a foot, face troubled. ‘What were those drugs? Could you tell? What with your background and all…’
‘Hard to say for sure just from seeing her, but I’d put money on it being something like Ketamine.’
‘Horse tranquilliser?’ Will looked sceptical.
‘It’s not just for horses any more,’ said Samson. ‘I came across it a lot on raids down in London.’
‘Where the hell would Rob Harrison have got hold of it, though?’
The paramedic gave Will a world-weary look. ‘You’d be surprised how easy it is to get hold of drugs around here.’
‘After today,’ muttered Will, ‘I don’t think much would surprise me about Bruncliffe. But will there be any lasting harm? Will Lucy be okay?’
‘She’ll be fine,’ said Samson. ‘It can’t have been a large dose as she was already beginning to come round in the caravan, so she’ll be a bit light-headed and probably queasy. Other than that, she’ll be okay. Won’t she?’ He looked to the paramedic, who was already nodding his agreement.
The additional weight of a professional opinion seeming to pacify Will, a comfortable silence settled between the three men, allowing the voice of the vet to carry easily across the yard.
‘Most of all, he needs rest and lots of love,’ Herriot was saying to Delilah as they eased Tolpuddle into a van.
‘Huh,’ said the paramedic with a grin, wiping off his hands and standing up, satisfied that he’d done all he could for Samson. ‘Don’t go thinking I’m going to recommend the same for you.’
‘What the hell would he need love for?’ countered Will, a small spark of amusement in his eyes. ‘He’s got bloody cake!’
And Samson, verging on exhaustion, found himself laughing. And laughing. And laughing.
* * *
Delilah helped Herriot lift the inert Tolpuddle into the vet’s van, her precious dog nuzzling at her hand as she held his head.
‘I’ll keep him overnight, if you don’t mind,’ said Herriot. ‘Just to monitor his condition. But he should be good to come home tomorrow.’
‘Thank you,’ said Delilah, shaking the man’s hand. ‘You saved his life.’
The vet looked over his shoulder at the smouldering caravan, the firemen having brought the flames under control. And at the sombre faces of those waiting for the mountain rescue team to return from Thursgill Force after their unenviable task. ‘Seems like quite a few people around here have been saving lives today,’ he said. Then he ruffled the dog’s ears. ‘Tolpuddle among them.’
He closed the van door, a small whimper audible as it shut.
‘He’ll be fine,’ Herriot said, noticing Delilah’s anxious face. ‘I promise. Now get yourself home. You need to rest, too.’
She waited for the van to pull out of sight before she turned, still not sure she could handle the overwhelming emotions that were swamping her.
Panic when she’d seen the burnt-out caravan. Relief when she’d heard Lucy was okay. Guilt at abandoning Tolpuddle. And then there was Samson.
Sitting there wrapped in an emergency blanket, clutching a Peaks Patisserie box for some unknown reason. She’d seen him as soon as she’d turned the corner by the barn and she’d felt joy. Pure joy. Amidst all of the other feelings, that rude burst of happiness, which was so inappropriate in the circumstances, had threatened to overcome her.
She’d hidden it by ignoring him. Focusing on the things she needed to. Now she watched him, laughing with Will and the paramedic, his bare legs protruding incongruously from the foil around him.
‘Glad you’re not too badly scathed, Samson,’ she said lightly, as she approached the men.
‘I don’t know about that,’ said the paramedic with a wink. ‘He rescued someone out of a burning caravan wearing only his boxers. But he won’t let me check any higher than his knees to see if anything else got singed!’
‘It better not have done,’ said Samson. ‘I’ve got two dates tonight!’
And the men started laughing even harder.
Delilah sat down beside this man who’d been absent from her life for fourteen years, yet in the space of fourteen days had turned the town and her world upside down. She let the laughter wash over her.
21
As Friday dawned on Bruncliffe, news of the previous day’s events had spread right across the town. The breakfast table at Fellside Court was alive with chatter, Eric Bradley bringing the residents up to speed over their porridge with the latest news from his grandson in the police station. In the marketplace Elaine Bullock was opening up Peaks Patisserie, marvelling at the way the world worked, having been simultaneously sacked and hired in the aftermath of yesterday’s adventures. Her old boss, Titch Harrison, was in a state, given the involvement of his brother in such terrible deeds, and had closed his cafe indefinitely as a result; her new boss, Lucy Metcalfe, was lying in hospital overcoming the effects of smoke inhalation and being drugged. None of it sounded like a typical Bruncliffe day.
On Back Street, the Fleece – ideally located opposite the very offices at the heart of the whole thing – already had its door open. Inside, Troy Murgatroyd was wiping down the bar and calculating his profits from what would be another busy day as his pub filled with locals eager to catch up on events. He was also wondering if the team’s top dart player would be in a fit condition to compete in the upcoming match, given the state of his ribs.
Meanwhile, up on the fells, as the sky grew lighter and the day began, Seth Thistlethwaite walked alone, knowing that this morning he probably wouldn’t be granted a glimpse of his former star pupil striding in the distance, that familiar grey shape shadowing her. But there would be other days. Especially now her secret was out and everyone knew she was running again.
With all the excitement, no one in the town – not even the children gathering in the school playground, who were staring across at the burnt ruins of the rugby club – was complaining about the last-minute cancellation of the Bonfire Night celebrations. After all, there’d been plenty of fireworks in the end.
As Ida Capstick wheeled her bicycle into the backyard of the dating agency offices that Friday morning an hour later than normal, she was no less gripped by the revelations of the day before than the rest of Bruncliffe. She’d heard the news first from Mrs Pettiford in the bank in the afternoon, as dispatches began to filter back to the town. She’d been cleaning the glass partition that separated
cashier from customer, grumbling about greasy handprints and people breathing too much, when Mrs Pettiford had come rushing over to inform her that there’d been a fire up at High Laithe, the Metcalfe place. And that Samson O’Brien had saved Lucy Metcalfe’s life by leaping out of an inferno in his boxer shorts, while carrying her and a cake.
Mrs Pettiford seemed most flustered at the idea of Bruncliffe’s black sheep in his boxers – making Ida mutter enigmatically that they should be thankful that at least he’d been wearing them – while Ida was much more interested in the last snippet of information. Why had he been carrying a cake? But Mrs Pettiford hadn’t been able to shed any more light on that.
Then Ida had gone over to the estate agent’s to do a quick bit of cleaning and heard from Julie, the receptionist, that one of their agents was in hospital, having been caught up in the dreadful events and nearly killed. And by the way, added Julie, did Ida know that Samson O’Brien had jumped from the top of a blazing caravan in his boxer shorts with Lucy Metcalfe and a cake in his arms? Again, the young lady was far more interested in the man’s attire – or lack of it – than in the absurd presence of the cake. It was the same all over town. Everyone talking about Samson’s heroics and his semi-nudity, and no one asking about the blasted cake.
By the time she’d got home to George, Ida had enough news to keep the pair of them up all night. And enough of a puzzle in her mind to keep her awake when she finally did get to bed.
It was no wonder then that she entered the offices the following morning with a sense of anticipation. She pushed open the back door, walked through the kitchen and was about to shout up a warning, just to prevent a recurrence of the previous morning’s mishap, when she smelled the most delicious of smells.
Bacon. Drifting down the stairs.
‘Morning, Ida!’ Samson was standing on the landing above – fully dressed, thank goodness – with a spatula in hand. ‘Fancy a bacon butty?’
She didn’t reprimand him for dripping grease on the carpet. She just opened her mouth and said the first thing that was on her mind.
‘Why was tha carrying a cake?’
* * *
‘It’s true then? Tha went back in for a cake?’
‘It’s hard to explain,’ said Samson, sensing Ida Capstick’s disapproval as she sat opposite, eating her bacon butty. He’d already given her a first-hand account of yesterday’s events but, out of all the madness that had happened, Ida was only interested in the cake.
‘I’d say! Bloody daft, if tha asks me. Must’ve been something special, that cake.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Samson, thinking of the box still on his desk downstairs. ‘I haven’t opened it.’
She took another bite of her sandwich, shaking her head in amazement, and then nodded towards the frying pan on the hob. ‘So what’s with the bacon? Can I expect this every morning?’
Samson grinned. ‘No, so don’t go getting used to it,’ he said. ‘It was a gift. I found it hanging on the back door when I got home last night.’
‘Mrs Hargreaves?’
He nodded. Prior to leaving High Laithe the day before, he’d phoned Mrs Hargreaves to tell her what had happened and, once back in town, showered and changed, he’d walked over to the marketplace to see her, Delilah accompanying him. A subdued Mr Hargreaves had let them in and led them to a small office behind the shop where his wife was already sitting, a pot of tea on the table before her and a plate of biscuits next to it.
‘Thanks for calling me,’ she’d said, eyes red from crying. ‘I’d hate to have heard that news over the counter.’
‘It was definitely Rob Harrison?’ asked her husband.
Samson nodded. ‘No question.’
His words seemed to deflate the man. He lowered himself into a chair. ‘It just doesn’t make sense,’ he muttered, staring at the floor.
Mrs Hargreaves reached across and took his hand. ‘I doubt death ever does,’ she said. ‘But at least we know Richard didn’t … that he wouldn’t have done that to us.’
They’d stayed and talked for a while longer and then, as Samson made to leave, Mrs Hargreaves had got to her feet and reached across to a bookcase filled with folders and files. She’d taken an envelope from the middle shelf and held it out.
‘Here,’ she said with a small smile. ‘You told me you’d find out who did it, and you did. So there’s a bonus in there.’
But Samson backed away, both hands held up. ‘No. I can’t. Not with how things turned out.’
‘You earned it,’ she’d said, pushing it towards him again.
He’d shaken his head. ‘Not this time. And besides, I still owe you for years of free meat.’
She tutted at him, putting the envelope on the table. ‘You’ll never last in business at this rate, lad,’ she’d said, wiping a tear from her eye.
‘I can live with that,’ he’d replied. Then Delilah and he had ridden out to the Aldersons’ farm in Gayle to talk to two more bereaved parents. They’d returned to the office to find the bacon hanging on the back door.
‘Aye,’ said Ida, finishing off her butty. ‘I heard tha turned down good brass from the Hargreaveses, all right.’
‘Does that make me more of a fool than for rescuing the cake?’ he asked with a grin.
She flashed a dark look at him and he decided it probably wasn’t the best time to tell her that the Hargreaveses weren’t the only ones whose money he’d turned down. Nor was he in a rush to inform her that the Aldersons had pressurised him into taking the little grey Ferguson in lieu, and that the very same tractor was on its way to her brother George’s already-cramped barn.
‘Here,’ said Ida, picking a large reusable shopping bag up off the floor and thrusting it at him. ‘Seeing as tha’s staying a while, this is for tha dirty laundry. Leave it with me and I’ll sort it.’
He began to protest, but she quietened him with a glare.
‘If tha thinks I’m letting thee mucky that bathroom with soggy underpants dripping all over the place, tha can think again.’
‘I’ll use the launderette—’
‘Pah! Waste of bloody money. Tha’ll fill this bag and be done with it.’
He took the bag. ‘But I’ll have to pay you,’ he said. ‘The same as a service wash.’
She glared at him again. ‘No need,’ she snapped. ‘I’ve taken on cleaning at Fellside Court. Happen as Rick Procter will be paying me enough to cover a bit of washing on the side.’ Then her gaze softened and a twinkle danced in her eyes. ‘Happen as tha’d appreciate him paying to have tha underpants washed!’
Samson burst into laughter which, even when his broken ribs started screaming, he didn’t regret for an instant.
* * *
When Delilah opened the door of her office building an hour and a half later, she thought she could detect a lingering trace of bacon beneath the sharp scent of pine floor polish. But Samson gave her no time to investigate further, turning her round and marching her back out of the door.
‘We were supposed to be at the police station ten minutes ago,’ he said as he hustled her towards the marketplace, walking as fast as his injuries would permit.
‘I’m sure your new friend Gavin won’t mind us being a bit late,’ she teased.
He grinned, his face a patchwork of scratches and cuts. ‘Sergeant Clayton to you. Want to bet on him having doughnuts for us?’
Delilah laughed. ‘I’m still reeling from his about-face yesterday.’
‘You and me both,’ muttered Samson.
In the bleak atmosphere that had greeted the return of the mountain rescue team to High Laithe the day before, Rob Harrison’s body carried on a covered stretcher between them, Samson had found himself standing next to Sergeant Clayton. The policeman, as shaken as those around him – many of whom were well acquainted with the stonemason, and so doubly stunned by his death and the revelations about what he’d done – had turned to Samson and offered him an apology. Swaddled in a foil blanket and staring at the smouldering re
mains of the caravan, Samson hadn’t been in the best frame of mind to accept. But Delilah had taken pity on the shamefaced sergeant.
‘I don’t think anyone would have believed what Rob Harrison was up to,’ she’d said. ‘I mean, even we didn’t really want to accept that someone was targeting the dating agency clients.’
The policeman had looked grateful. Then he’d invited them to come down to the police station to talk, managing to make it sound like a favour rather than a summons. Still, Samson was looking forward to it being over.
They crossed the marketplace, walked past Peaks Patisserie where a hassled Elaine was working hard inside, and turned the corner onto Church Street. Straight away it was clear that something momentous had happened in the town. For unlike the previous times Samson had been there, the old Victorian police station was buzzing.
Several official cars were parked outside, police in plain clothes were coming and going, and when Samson and Delilah entered the reception area, Sergeant Clayton emerged against a background of ringing phones, looking like a man used to sailing calm seas who’d suddenly found himself in the centre of a maelstrom.
‘It’s manic!’ he said, escorting them into the back office. ‘I’m understaffed for something of this magnitude. But at least I’ve got the two men back from the hospital, now that we know Harry Furness and Stuart Lister are no longer under threat.’
‘How are they?’ asked Samson as he copied Delilah in taking a seat before a desk piled with paperwork.
‘Both are doing well. Stuart had an operation on his left leg yesterday, so he’ll be in a while longer, but Harry should be released later today. He came round about an hour after all that commotion up at High Laithe and was able to shed a bit more light on the day’s events.’
‘In what way?’
‘He identified Rob Harrison as the man who attacked him.’
‘He actually saw Rob?’
Sergeant Clayton nodded. ‘According to the statement he gave Constable Bradley, he went out into the entranceway of the club and saw someone coming in. He thought it was you, but it wasn’t. It was Rob. Then he was hit over the head and remembers nothing else.’ The policeman looked grave. ‘It shows how ruthless Rob Harrison was. He didn’t care about being seen, because he didn’t expect his victims to survive. Harry and Stuart were very lucky.’
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