‘She brought him an otter,’ said Lucy, contributing to the red streak staining Harry’s cheeks.
‘An otter? A real one?’ Samson glanced at the auctioneer in amazement.
‘No, a bloody toy one. Honestly, this place,’ Harry Furness moaned, pulling a cuddly otter out of his pocket to great mirth. ‘You just can’t keep a secret!’
Under the cover of the laughter, Will Metcalfe headed for the door.
‘You off, Will?’ asked Ash.
Will nodded. ‘Work to do.’ He paused and held out his hand to Samson. ‘Thanks again,’ he said brusquely. With a wave at the rest of the room, he left as the arguments over the cake resumed.
‘Wow,’ murmured Delilah so only Samson could hear. ‘You’ve won him over. Wonders will never cease.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ said Samson, aware of the hesitation in the older Metcalfe’s farewell.
And he was right. For Will Metcalfe was walking along the hospital corridor thinking about Samson O’Brien. Thinking about the debt the Metcalfe family owed the man. But also thinking about his past. A past that Rick Procter had assured him was about to come back and haunt them all.
If there had been hesitation in that handshake, it was because he didn’t trust Samson O’Brien. Not for fourteen years. And not now.
* * *
It was gone lunchtime when Samson and Delilah left Lucy’s ward. Flagging from the long morning and the pain in his ribs, Samson was glad that he’d caved in to Delilah’s insistence that she drive them to the hospital, having borrowed her mother’s car for the day. He was barely able to put one foot in front of the other, let alone ride his bike back to Bruncliffe.
‘Do you want me to drop you in Hellifield?’ Delilah asked as they walked down the corridor.
He was so tired he almost asked her why he’d want to go to Hellifield. Then he remembered. The subterfuge. ‘Actually, the office would be better,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a bit of work to—’
‘Samson!’ A voice from behind made them turn and Nathan came running towards them.
‘I’ll wait by the main entrance,’ said Delilah, guessing this would be a private conversation. She walked off, leaving Samson and her nephew in the corridor.
He was tall, Samson noticed, surprised to see that his godson was almost the same height as he was. In their two brief interactions – once up at the caravan, when Nathan had stormed off; and then yesterday, when his shocked face had been on the other side of the flames – Samson hadn’t had a chance to have a good look at the lad. Now as Nathan glanced out from under his thick fair hair, Samson was struck again by the boy’s likeness to his father.
‘I wanted to thank you,’ the lad said, eyes cast on the floor.
‘I only did what anyone else would have,’ said Samson. ‘If Will had been there instead of me, he’d have got your mum out of the caravan just the same.’
Nathan nodded, then bit his lip. ‘But he wouldn’t have lied.’
‘Lied?’
The lad stared at him. ‘You lied. About how Rob knew who those men were. About him stealing my phone.’
‘Ah. That.’
Nathan looked back down at the floor. ‘I told Mum. About changing the account. She started crying, apologising for rushing things.’ He gulped. ‘I feel so bad. All those people – I only told Rob about it because he seemed to care. I didn’t think he would…’
His shoulders heaved and Samson put out an arm and drew his godson towards him.
‘It’s okay, son,’ he said as the lad broke down. ‘No one can blame you for that. Rob Harrison was troubled. He was carrying a lot of guilt all of his own. And in the end, that’s what made him do what he did. You had nothing to do with it. Okay?’
He felt the lad nod against his chest.
‘As for your phone, Rob told me he stole it, so that’s what happened. It’s in a police report with my signature at the bottom. So if you go saying any different, I’ll get in trouble. Understand?’ He eased the boy back to see his face, the tracks of fresh tears on his cheeks.
‘Thanks,’ muttered Nathan, wiping his eyes with a sleeve. ‘For everything.’
Samson thought about the fourteen years he’d been absent, the last two of them especially. ‘I’m not much of a godfather, am I?’ he said.
Nathan looked out from under his fringe, the beginnings of a smile tweaking his lips. ‘You have your uses,’ he said. ‘All the girls at school want to know me, now they’ve heard about you in your boxers.’
Samson laughed and pulled Nathan back into a hug, not caring how much his ribs were hurting.
* * *
‘Are you going to be okay riding back to Hellifield?’ asked Delilah as she pulled up outside the offices and noticed Samson wincing in pain when he opened the passenger door.
‘Hellifield? Oh … yes. I’ll be fine. I’ll take it easy.’ He smiled at her, fingers crossed behind his back, before easing his legs onto the pavement and gently hauling himself out of the car. He’d already ascertained that Delilah was picking Tolpuddle up that afternoon and was heading straight home. With the office building to himself, Samson was planning nothing more strenuous than a mid-afternoon snooze.
‘Okay. I’ll see you Monday, then. Oh, and can you let me know how much I owe you for your sterling detective work?’ She said it so breezily, but he caught the shadow of worry in her eyes at the mention of payment.
‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ he said, leaning on the car door. ‘How about we simply add on another month to my tenancy and call it quits?’
She blinked, eyes flicking to the gold letters spanning the downstairs window. ‘Are you sure?’ she asked.
He nodded.
Lower lip trapped between her teeth, she looked back at the office again and then at Samson. ‘Well, if that’s all right with you…’
‘More than all right. We can sort it out on Monday.’
‘Thanks. Have a peaceful weekend.’ She smiled brightly and he could sense the relief flooding through her. Then she paused, took a deep breath and leaned across the passenger seat, tone casual as she looked up at him on the pavement. ‘Why don’t you come to the farm for lunch on Sunday?’ she asked. ‘We’re all gathering to celebrate Lucy’s lucky escape. Even Craig and Chris are coming home. You’d be more than welcome.’
His reaction was instinctive. ‘I’ll see,’ he said.
She gave a soft laugh, as though it was the reply she’d been expecting. ‘So that’s not a no?’
He grinned. ‘It’s not a no.’ He closed the car door and watched her drive away.
He stood there for a while, thinking about Bruncliffe, the Metcalfes, Delilah, and how things had changed in the last fourteen days. He’d gone from being knocked out cold to being invited to Sunday lunch. And rather than being run out of town, judging by the number of calls coming in he was going to have enough work – and money – to last him the six months he planned on staying. As for that seventh month of rent he’d just negotiated – he had no intention of using it. He would be back in his adopted city by then.
Across the road, Seth Thistlethwaite was in the window of the Fleece, enjoying his lunchtime pint. The old man threw an arm up in greeting and Samson waved in response.
Was it really so bad being back? he wondered. Perhaps he shouldn’t be in such a rush to return to London once everything was sorted, and instead should consider settling here. Take the time needed to get Twistleton Farm back and make Bruncliffe home again.
Slightly stunned by this unexpected rush of affection for his home town, he turned and entered the office building and his phone began to ring. When he saw the caller’s name, his heart started thumping. It was the call he’d been waiting for.
‘Boss?’ he said, perching on the edge of his desk.
‘Samson. There have been some developments.’
‘And?’
‘Sorry, son, but there’s going to have to be an investigation. Things are going to get dirty. I won’t be able to keep a lid on
it.’
Samson clutched the mobile, knuckles white. ‘Is there no other way?’
‘I’m sorry. I’ve tried. We’re going to have to let it run its course now. It’ll be at least six months before we know the outcome.’
‘What if I came back down? Tried to find proof—?’
‘Don’t be mad! You’d be putting yourself in danger again. Stay where you are. And keep a low profile. That way they won’t find you. In the meantime, I’ll keep doing all I can. We’ll resolve this one way or the other.’
‘If you’re sure…’
‘I’m sure. Take care.’
The line clicked dead before Samson had a chance to thank him. He stared at the desk, the peeling lino, the red-flocked wallpaper and the pub beyond the window. And he cursed himself.
Who was he kidding? He couldn’t make a life here. Not now, and not in the future. Because when his past caught up with him, the people who’d been making him welcome today would be queuing up to chase him out of Bruncliffe. So there was simply no point in trying.
Epilogue
‘Delilah, sit down, child. Dinner is on the table.’ Peggy Metcalfe’s voice carried across the large room filled with people and brought her daughter’s attention from the window.
‘Coming, Mum.’
‘Who you watching for anyway, Dee?’ teased Ash. ‘Father Christmas?’
Everyone laughed and Delilah pulled a face at him, to the delight of the kids.
Sunday lunch. It had been a tradition for as long as she could remember. All of them gathered around the big kitchen table, while Dad carved the beef and Ryan tried to steal an extra Yorkshire pudding. There were more of them now: Will’s wife and kids, plus Lucy and Nathan. There was also one missing. But today, for the first time in two years, that absence didn’t hang over them like a pall of black smoke. Instead, there was laughter. Even Will’s mood lightened as he cracked jokes with his younger brothers.
It was perfect. And Samson would fit right in.
With a last look down the track, Delilah turned from the window and took her place at the far end of the table. He was late. If he was coming.
* * *
Samson stood outside, clutching a bottle and a box of chocolates. He was nervous. Hesitant about getting this wrong. Anxious to get it right.
He took a step forward and stopped, the clink of china coming to him through the door. They’d already started. He was late. On the verge of turning round and heading home, he heard a burst of laughter.
‘It’ll be fine,’ he chided himself. ‘Just get yourself in there.’
He pushed open the door and walked in.
‘Hope I’m not too late?’ he said.
‘Samson!’ A hail of voices greeted him and he found himself being ushered to a chair.
* * *
Delilah heard it first. A vehicle pulling up. The snick of the latch on the outside door. Then the kitchen door was opening and she was smiling in anticipation. He’d made it.
‘Hope I’m not too late?’
But as the man stepped into the room, Delilah felt the smile slip from her face.
‘Rick!’ Peggy Metcalfe was up out of her chair and offering her cheek. ‘How lovely to see you!’
‘I couldn’t resist Will’s invitation. Good food and great company – what’s not to like?’ said the property developer with easy charm, greeting everyone in the room as Peggy set a place next to Delilah.
‘Not who you were expecting, sis?’ asked Will quietly, his focus on her alone.
‘I wasn’t expecting anyone,’ she muttered.
Will nodded. ‘Best keep it that way. Less chance of being hurt a second time.’
Then Rick Procter was taking his seat next to her and she was left making small talk and trying not to show the disappointment that was swelling in her heart.
* * *
‘So glad you could make it, son.’ Joseph O’Brien leaned towards Samson and laid a hand on his knee. ‘It means the world to me.’
Samson nodded. ‘Sorry it took me so long,’ he said, thinking of all the Sunday lunches his father had eaten alone. And as he sat there among the residents of Fellside Court and did his best to answer all their questions about the events of the last few weeks, Samson O’Brien tried not to think that, in six months’ time, he would be missing from his father’s table once more.
Acknowledgements
One of the many fascinating features of writing a novel is the research and where it takes you. Another amazing aspect is how willing people are to help you on that journey. For this, the first in a series of books set in the Dales, I had recourse to a wide variety of experts. All of them gave their time willingly and their advice freely. Hopefully I have used both wisely – if not, the blame lies entirely with me! Therefore, I owe the following a strong cup of Dales tea and a fat rascal:
* * *
Dr Matthew Townend for answering my questions about Dales place names and for sharing his passion for Viking Yorkshire; Ruth and Gary Cobb of Mosside Kennels, experts in all things Weimaraner who happily welcomed me in and introduced me to their beautiful ‘girls’; David Carpenter and Curtis Parkyn, both involved in the world of the police and both generous with their time and knowledge; Elizabeth and Dave Booth who answered my naive questions about farming life and fed me wonderful cake too!; Isabel Price, my neighbour and friend, who encourages my interest in sheep and is always happy to share her experiences of life in the Dales; Dorothy and Alan Hemsworth, for introducing me to some fine Yorkshire writing and for the glimpse of a sun-burnished crag that would inspire the name of Bruncliffe; Jane Marshall and Julia Murfin for odd questions about odd things like ginnels and fell running…; my ever-supportive family who have proven themselves to be stellar first-readers and superb sounding boards; the brilliant team at Pan Macmillan, especially Catherine for her enthusiasm for the Dales Detective and, most of all, Tolpuddle!; my agent, Oli, who threw an idea at me on a wet October day – yes, Oli, this is all your fault; and finally, to Mark and our much-missed Tomate, who sat by my side as I wrote this one – thanks both of you for keeping me balanced. Even if it doesn’t always seem that way.
About the Author
JULIA CHAPMAN is the pseudonym of Julia Stagg. Julia currently lives in the beautiful Yorkshire Dales in the north of England. When not writing, she spends her time out in the hills, running on the fells that provide the beautiful setting for the Dales Detective novels, or riding her bike through the small hamlets and villages that are a vital part of her books. You can sign up for email update here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
DATE WITH DEATH. Copyright © 2017 by Julia Chapman. All rights reserved. For inform
ation, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at (800) 221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at [email protected].
ISBN 978-1-250-10936-1 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-10937-8 (e-book)
First published in Great Britain by Pan Books, an imprint of Pan Macmillan
First U.S. Edition: April 2017
eISBN 9781250109378
First eBook edition: April 2017
Date with Death Page 30