‘It was a hit-and-run?’ asked Delilah.
‘Yeah. Coward! Ruined our lives without so much as a glance back.’ He looked at Delilah. ‘Guess you were too young to remember any of this. But your brother was good to me. Ryan,’ he added, realising that in a family with five sons, distinction was needed.
It was Delilah’s turn to focus on her mug. Ryan. Middle son of five. Delilah’s adored older brother and Samson’s best friend. Killed in Afghanistan two years ago. She still hadn’t got used to the loss.
‘You too,’ continued Jimmy, turning to Samson. ‘You got me through the worst of it.’ He gave a dry laugh. ‘I reckon we’ve got a fair bit of experience of grief around this table. We should set up a counselling service or something.’
Samson laughed. ‘Bruncliffe Bereavement Bureau?’
‘That’d do the trick.’ Jimmy smiled. Then he noticed the mug of tea untouched on the table. ‘Here,’ he said passing it to Samson. ‘Don’t forget your tea.’
‘Thanks,’ murmured the detective without conviction. He took a sip and placed the mug promptly back down. ‘I don’t suppose you have a photograph of Livvy to hand?’
Jimmy reached over to the dresser and pulled open a drawer. ‘Matty said you’d want something like that,’ he said, taking out a framed photo and handing it to Delilah. ‘This was on Mother’s bedside table ever since the day Livvy left home. It’s the most up-to-date one we have, taken just after her seventeenth birthday.’
Delilah took the frame, looking at the girl encased in it. Long hair in soft waves around her face, a bright smile on her lips, she was sitting on the grass looking up at the camera, both of her arms wrapped around a handsome border collie, the dog’s distinctive colouring as auburn as her hair.
‘They’re beautiful,’ she said.
Jimmy nodded. ‘And inseparable. Livvy and Red went everywhere together. He wouldn’t leave her side. Bit like you and that grey hound of yours,’ he added.
‘Unusual colouring for a collie,’ said Samson.
‘That’s how Livvy ended up with him. Red was the runt of a litter and not the healthiest pup. And on top of that, his colouring wasn’t what was in fashion. Livvy pestered the breeder until he caved and let her have the pup for almost nothing.’ He smiled. ‘She could be very persuasive.’
‘Can we take a copy of this?’ asked Delilah, getting her phone out of her pocket.
‘Sure. If you think it will help.’
‘Did Red go with Livvy to Leeds?’ Samson was looking at the photo now.
‘Of course. Like I said, they couldn’t bear to be apart. I often wonder where he ended up.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He disappeared. After the accident. Mother always reckoned he probably chased the car and then got lost.’
‘Oh! How sad!’ Delilah said, her hand going to her mouth. ‘You never found him?’
‘No. I even persuaded Mother to take me over there so I could put posters up. I must have covered every lamp post in the vicinity. But we never heard anything.’ His face twisted in irony. ‘Then Father went and killed himself, and Red faded into the past.’ A heavy silence fell across the table before Jimmy Thornton got to his feet, large hands hanging by his side. ‘I can’t tell you any more than that. But I’m sure you’ll find the paperwork you need. This is nowt but a hitch in the system.’
‘You’re probably right,’ said Samson, standing too. ‘Just one last question. Your mother didn’t give you any indication as to why she left Livvy in the will?’
‘I didn’t know she had, until Matty called me in.’ Jimmy scratched his head. ‘Can’t think what possessed her.’
‘Could it have been for sentimental reasons?’
‘Not Mother. She was tough. Had to be, with what life threw at her. She’d be right vexed if she knew what a fuss she’d created. Always hated a fuss, did Mother.’
‘We’ll get to the bottom of it,’ said Samson, shaking hands with the younger man. ‘Thanks for your time. Matty will let you know how we get on.’
‘Aye. No doubt he will. He’s thorough, I’ll give him that.’ He smiled, turning to Delilah. ‘And remember me to Chris if you’re over in Leeds. Tell him to give me a call next time he’s home. Reckon we’re owed a catch-up in the Fleece.’
‘I will do,’ said Delilah, knowing her brother would be pleased to hear from his old school friend. She followed the two men back out into the front garden, struck again by how odd the house was, sitting there on the edge of the quarry.
‘It must have been noisy living here when this place was open,’ she said as they reached the motorbike.
‘I wasn’t around much. I was at school during the day, and in the holidays I was off on the fells. Or working down at Tom Hardacre’s.’
‘Over on the Horton Road?’ asked Samson, thinking of the farm which was situated on the way out of Bruncliffe to the north-west. ‘Quite a trek from here.’
Jimmy tipped his head towards the copse to the right of the quarry. ‘There’s a path through there that leads straight down to it. Ten-minute walk.’
‘Do you still work there?’ asked Samson.
‘No. I stayed on for a couple of years after I left school, but when his lad Oscar took over, I quit. Tom helped me get a tenancy on a place up near Bowland Knotts. Been there ten years.’
‘That must be a change,’ Samson laughed, remembering the wildness of the land to the west of Bruncliffe, where grouse, lapwings and curlews were a common sight. It was a far cry from the bleak panorama of Rainsrigg Quarry.
‘Tell me about it. I hate coming back here. If it hadn’t been for Mother . . .’ Jimmy paused, then gave a bitter smile. ‘Guess I won’t need to come over much more. Once I’ve cleared out the house, I’ll be done with it.’
‘Will you sell it?’ Delilah asked.
‘Not mine to sell,’ said Jimmy. ‘It’s rented. It came with Father’s job as foreman at the quarry. When he died, the quarry owners agreed to let us stay on. I think they saw the writing on the wall and knew the site would be closing.’ He looked at the squat cottage with unexpected sadness. ‘Not sure they’ll find anyone to take it on now Mother’s gone. It’ll probably go the same way as the rest of this place.’
Delilah squeezed his arm. ‘It was good to see you, Jimmy. Despite the circumstances. And tell Gemma I said hello.’
The clouds that had swept across the farmer’s face cleared at the mention of the woman’s name. ‘I’ll be sure to,’ he said. ‘Best thing I ever did, calling in to your dating agency that day.’
‘Make sure you tell all your single friends that,’ said Delilah with a laugh. ‘And when you two finally get married, I want an invitation.’
Jimmy blushed, foot swiping at the dust on the ground. ‘Funny you should say that . . .’
‘You’ve set a date?’
He grinned. ‘Not exactly. What with Mother being sick and all, we haven’t had time.’ He paused, then spoke in an excited rush. ‘Gemma is pregnant.’
‘Oh, wow!’ Delilah’s face split into a smile. ‘That’s fantastic news. When is the baby due?’
‘Not for a while. We only found out a couple of weeks ago so we’re not telling folk just yet. But I thought you had a right to know. Seeing as you brought us together, like.’
‘Did your mother know?’
‘We came straight here from the doctor’s. Just as well as she was gone not long after.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘I promised her we’d call the baby Olivia, if it’s a girl. Seems only fitting.’
‘It’s a lovely idea,’ said Delilah, putting on her helmet. ‘Take good care of Gemma.’
Jimmy laughed. ‘Aye. And you take care riding round on that thing.’ He gave the Royal Enfield an envious glance as Samson started the bike, the throb of the engine echoing around the walls of the quarry. Then he turned and went back inside the cottage.
Samson sat there for a moment or two, the motorbike rumbling beneath him, a feeling of disquiet settling on his shoulders. The
re was something about the place. An eeriness that had his heightened senses twitching. He stared at the blank face of the house for a moment and then let his gaze pass beyond it to the cluster of trees to the side of the quarry.
He could swear someone was watching them.
‘Are we going to sit here all day?’ Delilah shouted over the noise of the bike. ‘It’s just I’ve got a dog waiting back in town . . .’
Samson flicked his visor down, revved the engine and pulled away, glad to put distance between them and Rainsrigg.
They were gone. The vibrant bike disappearing up the track in a cloud of dust, the sound of the engine lingering in the echoes off the rocks. They’d disturbed the place. Uprooted it from its habitual quiet.
They’d begun to uproot the past, too. And that couldn’t be allowed.
The gun was lowered, the barrel dropping below shoulder height. It had been trained on the man. O’Brien. If he kept digging, it would be used on him, too.
For the past needed to be protected. In whatever way necessary.
4
The ride back into Bruncliffe was cathartic. Instead of turning left out of the quarry road and heading straight into town, Samson turned right, taking them up over Gunnerstang Brow, past the cafe owned by Titch Harrison, a For Sale sign outside it. Once on the top, the views opened up before them, out across the edge of the Dales, the Lakeland Fells marking the horizon in the distance. They were so clear, their serrated outlines sharp against the blue sky.
Not feeling like he’d shaken all of the dust from Rainsrigg off him, Samson pushed on, down the hill to the main road. Turning left towards Skipton, he opened up the throttle and the Enfield sped away, cutting around the edge of Bruncliffe, the town a huddle of slate roofs topped by the dramatic rise of the limestone crag at the back.
Whenever he saw his birthplace of late, he marvelled at how impressive it was. And wondered at how he’d never appreciated that until he’d returned. This morning, with the sun shining down on it, the tall chimneys of the disused mills marking either end, it was a burst of colour, welcome relief after the reduced palette of Rainsrigg Quarry.
Soon they had passed Bruncliffe Old Station and Samson was turning left onto High Street, easing the bike back to a more moderate pace as they rode past fields towards town. The rugby ground appeared on their left, cement mixers and builders’ vans parked up along the road. Three months after the clubhouse had been burned to the ground, work was under way to replace it, the heavyset figure of the club secretary, Harry Furness, amongst the builders. Spotting the vintage motorbike, Harry waved, causing the man next to him to likewise turn his attention to the Royal Enfield. The blond head of Rick Procter was unmistakable.
Samson grinned behind his visor. Knowing his pillion passenger was instantly recognisable, the decision to ride the long way home suddenly felt more than justified. By the time they pulled up outside the front of the office building, he was in a good mood. A tap on his back from Delilah soon changed things.
‘You’ve got a customer,’ she said, helmet already in her hand as she got off the bike.
He looked towards the large window with the initials D D A stencilled across it. A man was standing in front of the glass, staring at the letters and tipping his head back to compare them with the window above on the first floor. Another window where D D A spanned the glass.
Dales Detective Agency on the ground floor; Dales Dating Agency on the first floor. It was something Delilah hadn’t been happy about when Samson took on the tenancy, this ridiculous duplicating of letters, but in actual fact it hadn’t proved a problem. Apart from the odd person getting the offices the wrong way round, which soon became apparent.
‘Do you know you two have got the same initials?’ the man asked, pointing out the obvious as he turned round. ‘Bit daft is that.’
Samson stifled a groan and reluctantly pulled off his helmet. Clive Knowles. The farmer from Mire End who had occupied so much of his time before Christmas on a hunt for a missing ram.
‘I can smell him from here,’ murmured Delilah with a delighted grin. ‘You might want to open the office window.’
‘Morning, Clive,’ said Samson, crossing over to the man, a stale smell of manure oozing from the farmer’s stained clothes. ‘How can I help you?’
‘What makes you think it’s your help I need?’ he demanded gruffly, before turning to Delilah. ‘Come on, lass. Get the office open and a brew on. Haven’t got all day for chit-chat.’
Samson looked at Delilah with a wide smile. ‘Yes, lass. Make me one while you’re at it.’
He was wise enough to stand well back as he said it.
‘What took you so long?’ Ensconced in a chair in front of the desk, Clive Knowles reached forward to take a mug of tea off the tray Delilah was holding. ‘No biscuits?’
‘No, sorry. I can offer you a Dog-gestive, if you’d like?’ Delilah said through gritted teeth, not convinced the farmer would refuse one of Tolpuddle’s treats.
He waved her suggestion away, releasing yet more odour into the room. The man had only been in her office a mere five minutes and already there was a farmyard fug clouding the air. She walked around the desk and pointedly opened the window. In the yard below, Samson, having parked the Royal Enfield on the concrete, was heading out of the gate on his way to Fellside Court. When Delilah had asked him to collect Tolpuddle for her, he’d agreed with alacrity, happy to be out of an environment that included Clive Knowles. At the sound of the window opening, he looked up and grinned, pegging his nose at the same time.
She glowered at him, before turning back to her client. Because that’s how she had to view the man sitting across the desk from her, no matter how odoriferous he was. And if she was going to raise enough money for a court case to secure custody of Tolpuddle, she needed every client she could get. Even the smelly ones.
‘So, Mr Knowles,’ she said, sitting a bit further away from her desk than usual as she pulled up his account on the computer screen, the farmer having been a member of the Dales Dating Agency for a while. Without any success. ‘You’re fully paid up for the next three months. And I see you’ve already signed up for the next speed-dating event.’ Delilah looked up from the screen. ‘So how can I help you?’
The farmer leaned in across the desk, white stubble bristling along his jaw, his breath reeking. ‘I need a wife,’ he stated.
‘I know. You keep telling me.’
‘I’ve been on over ten dates with this agency and three of those Speedy Date nights, and what have I got to show for it? Nothing!’
Delilah bit her tongue. Hard.
‘Well the waiting is over, missy. I need a wife.’ He pointed a dirt-creased finger in her direction. ‘And you are going to find me one.’
‘Mr Knowles,’ Delilah began, finding a patience she didn’t know she possessed. ‘I’ve done all I can—’
‘I’m willing to pay.’ The farmer slapped an envelope on the desk, ten-pound notes stacked thickly inside it.
Delilah faltered, the refusal she had been forming dying on her lips. She stared at the money, then lifted her gaze to the man opposite.
Could she do it? Find a wife for a man who paid scant attention to personal hygiene and whose attitude to women languished in the nineteenth century? Was it possible that there was someone out there who would want to marry such a person?
She put a hand on the envelope and reluctantly pushed it back towards the farmer. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t think I can help.’
He blinked. His mouth opened but it took a beat before anything emerged. ‘Are you saying it’s not possible?’ he finally asked, all of the bluster knocked out of him. ‘That I’m unmarriageable?’
‘No . . . yes . . . I mean, it’s not that simple,’ Delilah stuttered, taken aback by Clive Knowles’ obvious upset.
‘So you’ll do it then?’ he said, pushing the envelope back across the desk. ‘Please?’
Tolpuddle was basking in the attention. Two elderly ladies were making a fuss
of him and he was loving every minute of it.
‘He’s been such a good boy,’ cooed Clarissa Ralph, tickling the dog behind his ears. ‘Not a peep out of him all morning.’
‘He can be good when he wants to be,’ said Samson.
‘Can’t we all.’ Edith Hird, Clarissa’s sister, was patting the dog with affection. She cast a wry glance at the two other men standing with them. ‘Well, most of us.’
‘It just takes some of us more of an effort,’ said Arty Robinson with a laugh that came from the depths of his ample belly. ‘Doesn’t it, Joseph?’
Joseph O’Brien nodded, a ghost of a smile flitting across his worn features.
They were standing in the courtyard at the back of Fellside Court, the wall of glass that linked the two wings of the building towering over them. Samson had arrived to pick up the dog from the two sisters some time ago, but had been pressured into staying for a cup of tea and a slice of cake. And of course they’d insisted his father joined them. And Arty Robinson, the former bookmaker in good humour on this clear day.
It seemed a lifetime removed from the dark weeks that had beleaguered the retirement complex in the run-up to Christmas. Samson observed the four friends and marvelled at their resilience. They’d been put through a lot and yet here they were, laughing and joking and enjoying the pleasures life sent. Or rather, three of them were. His father seemed preoccupied. Wary. As though his son’s visit was a strain.
Given the history they shared, it was understandable. They’d never win any awards for familial affection. A childhood dominated by a father’s alcohol abuse, followed by fourteen years without any communication – four months was hardly enough to overcome the shadows of the past.
‘Eric’s moving back in today,’ Edith was saying. ‘You’ll have to come round and have a drink with us one evening. Delilah too.’
‘And Tolpuddle,’ interjected Clarissa.
Date with Mystery Page 4