‘That goes without saying,’ her sister said, giving the dog another pat. ‘Delilah and Tolpuddle are a pair.’
‘How is Eric?’ asked Samson, the frail elderly gentleman having been hospitalised in December following a fall in his apartment. A fall that had been part of an attempt on his life.
‘Better. Although I would imagine he’s apprehensive about being back living on his own.’ Edith’s lips pressed together. ‘Who wouldn’t be, after what he went through?’
‘He’s lucky to be still with us,’ murmured Clarissa.
‘Give him a week back here and he might be arguing that fact,’ quipped Arty.
Samson grinned, catching his father’s eye. Joseph looked away.
‘It’ll be lovely to have him home,’ Edith continued. ‘And Rita.’
Rita Wilson. Yet another resident at the complex who’d fallen foul of the spate of malice that had visited the place.
‘Any word on Rita?’ Samson asked.
Clarissa nodded. ‘I had a call from her a couple of days ago. She’s on the mend. It’ll be a month or so before she comes back, but she can’t wait.’
‘And how about the new manager?’ Samson looked towards the office in the foyer behind them. ‘How are you getting on with her?’
‘Fine. We’re showing her the ropes,’ said Arty with a grin. ‘We’ve almost got her trained.’
‘Talking of trained . . .’ Samson looked down at Tolpuddle. ‘It’s time we got back to the office. Give my regards to Eric.’
‘We will. And don’t be a stranger,’ said Edith as Samson clipped a lead onto the Weimaraner’s collar. ‘You know where we are.’
His father just smiled vaguely, his gaze shifting when Samson looked at him.
‘Yes, if you need any assistants for your detective work, don’t hesitate to ask,’ added Arty.
‘Oh!’ said Clarissa as Samson turned to go. ‘I forgot to ask. How was York?’
‘It was great, thanks,’ said Samson, already walking off before he could be grilled, an art which the good folk of Bruncliffe excelled at. ‘And thanks again for looking after Tolpuddle,’ he called back over his shoulder.
Dog at his heels, he walked around the side of the building and down Fell Lane towards town, pondering on his father’s behaviour. It had been several weeks since Samson had made the time to call in at Fellside Court, and even then, it had been a brief visit. In fact, now he thought of it, he’d hardly seen his father since Christmas. Not properly. So it was hard to know if this was a new development. But either way, Joseph O’Brien didn’t seem himself. Or at least, not the man Samson had begun to know since returning in October – a very different person from the one he remembered staggering out to meet him with a shotgun on his last night at Twistleton Farm all those years ago.
Perhaps the events over Christmas had taken their toll? Or maybe he wasn’t well?
Or perhaps . . .
Samson hated himself for it. Instantly suspecting the worst. Anticipating failure. But as the child of an alcoholic, he was conditioned to expect his father to fall back into drinking.
‘Give him a break,’ he muttered.
Approaching the end of the road, his head rooted in the unwelcome past, he was glad to see a familiar figure coming towards him.
‘Morning, Samson.’ The passing months had seen no change in Constable Danny Bradley’s physique, his uniform still hanging off his thin shoulders. They were shoulders that had borne a lot recently, as tragedy hit Bruncliffe in quick succession and the small rural police force found themselves dealing with murder. But the young policeman had proven himself to be more than capable. More capable, despite his inexperience, than many of those he worked with.
‘Hi, Danny. How are things?’
‘Great. All quiet on the crime front, for once.’ The constable looked up from patting Tolpuddle. ‘How was York?’
Samson shook his head. ‘Is there anyone in this town who doesn’t know I went to York?’
‘I doubt it,’ Danny said with a grin. ‘Mrs Pettiford from the bank knows, so that just about covers things.’
‘What I can’t understand is why anyone is interested in what I get up to,’ said Samson with genuine puzzlement.
‘Of course they’re interested. You’re exotic! It’s not every day we get a returned Met detective living amongst us.’ The young man’s face became serious. ‘You must be itching to get back to it. I know I would be. I’d give my right arm to have a chance like that. So exciting.’
‘It’s not exactly been quiet around here of late,’ said Samson, aware the lad had him on a pedestal. Aware that, before long, the pedestal would be smashed. He was also aware that all of Bruncliffe, including his own father, were under the impression that Samson had served his time with the Metropolitan Police. It was a fact he hadn’t rushed to dissuade them of. Partially true, he’d actually only been in the Met for six years before being seconded to work undercover with Britain’s top crime-fighting agency.
Which was where the trouble had started.
‘It’s not the same,’ Danny murmured. ‘London must be a world away from this. No one down there would know you’ve been to York.’
Samson laughed. ‘True. I lived in a flat for years and never even saw my neighbours.’
‘Like I said,’ moaned Danny. ‘A world away from Bruncliffe, where people know everything about you before you even know it yourself.’
‘Talking of which,’ Samson said, ‘it’s good to hear Eric’s moving back in at Fellside Court.’
Danny nodded. Grandson to Eric Bradley, he’d seen evil come perilously close to his own family in the events before Christmas. ‘That’s where I’m heading. I want to make sure the apartment’s all ready before he gets there.’
‘I hope he’s up to a welcoming committee. They’re excited about having him home.’
The policeman smiled. ‘I suppose that’s where Bruncliffe beats London.’
As they went their separate ways, Samson couldn’t help thinking that it wasn’t the only thing his home town had over the capital. There would be a lot of things he’d miss once his suspension was lifted and he resumed his undercover work. If his suspension was lifted . . .
A soft tug on the lead brought his attention back to Tolpuddle, who had crossed the marketplace and was trying to pull Samson towards the butcher’s. Inside the shop window, with her apron stretched across her generous frame, Mrs Hargreaves was waving at them.
‘Fancy a pie, eh, Tolpuddle?’ Samson asked.
The dog pulled even harder in response.
She’d said yes. Half an hour later, as she saw Clive Knowles off the premises, Delilah was wondering what had possessed her.
The man was impossible. His dating profile was a catastrophe. And yet she had agreed to find him a wife.
In two months.
The farmer had dropped that bombshell once she’d submitted to his demands, swayed by the man’s misery at being considered an impossible case. He was only giving her two months to find him a bride. If she succeeded, he would pay her a handsome bonus.
It was a very big ‘if’.
They’d spent some time going over his profile, Delilah trying to point out the areas where he could improve his answers. Clive Knowles had rebutted every one.
‘I don’t see why I need to change it,’ he’d argued, leaning in over the desk to underline his point, his finger leaving a trail of greasy smears across the screen. ‘It gives all the necessary information.’
Delilah sighed. ‘Mr Knowles, a dating profile is like a shop window. It’s supposed to tempt people inside to see what’s on offer.’ She’d gestured at the monitor. ‘Let’s just say yours isn’t exactly John Lewis.’
He’d grunted. ‘What’s up with it then?’
‘The photograph, for a start. When was it taken?’
‘A bit back.’
‘How far back?’
‘Couple of years, maybe.’
‘Couple of decades more like!’ She’d po
inted at the image of a young Clive Knowles, hair swept back off his forehead, a dashing air about him as he smiled for the camera. The reality sitting across from her was starkly different. Bald head under a tatty cap, eyebrows meeting in a perpetual frown and many years’ worth of lines tracking across his weathered face, the farmer could easily be mistaken for the grandfather of the man in the picture.
‘So we update the photo. Will that be enough?’
‘I think it might take a bit more than that,’ Delilah had said. She’d cast her eyes over the text that formed the heart of the profile. ‘I mean, Farmers Weekly doesn’t really count as your favourite book.’
‘But I don’t read much else. Craven Herald and the Weekly. That covers all I need to know,’ he’d protested.
‘There’s plenty of people would agree with you. So just ignore the questions that don’t apply. Like naming Bruncliffe brass band as your favourite group – it limits you to rather a niche market.’
‘There’s not much’ll beat a good brass band,’ grumbled the farmer. ‘They fair entranced folk at Malham Show last year. Besides, any woman will have to take me as I am, and be glad about it.’
When she’d tried to diplomatically suggest that this attitude was the problem, Clive Knowles had slapped his hands flat on her desk, sending a warm waft of farm odour her way.
‘I’m a man of property,’ he’d declared. ‘There’s many would be happy to have me.’
Delilah had bitten her tongue. Again. For Mire End Farm, with its dilapidated barns, neglected farmhouse and weed-infested fields, was hardly the Promised Land. If anything, it reduced the man’s worth on the marriage market. And that took some doing.
They’d finally come to a compromise. Delilah would take a week to work on the profile and would then call over to Mire End with the result. She’d bring her camera, too.
Kicking herself for being too soft and taking on the job in the first place, she climbed back up the stairs and washed her hands in the kitchen – a wise precaution after dealing with Clive Knowles – before heading into her office. She sat down at the computer and stared again at the self-portrait the farmer had compiled for himself.
A strangled laugh escaped her throat. How on earth was she going to make him sound appealing? And if she was successful in tempting someone to meet him, surely the reality of the man would be enough to send any sane woman running for the fells?
She let her eyes drift to the envelope of cash still sitting on the desk. It was a lot of money, which she badly needed. So if she was going to accept it, then it was only fair that she did her best by the lonely farmer. And pray for a miracle at the same time.
The ping of an incoming email sounded on her mobile. Still thinking about the mammoth task ahead of her, she glanced at the screen, saw the sender and froze.
The email was from Neil. It could only be about one thing.
She tapped it open.
In typical Bruncliffe fashion, it had taken a full ten minutes for Samson to emerge from the butcher’s, three pies in a bag in his hand and an impatient dog waiting for him. There’d been a couple of other customers ahead of him, all chatting to Mr and Mrs Hargreaves, who were working hard behind the counter. But when Samson entered, the focus had turned on him and he’d had to answer a barrage of questions about his recent sojourn in York. And about his father and the residents of Fellside Court.
‘Let’s get out of here while we still can, Tolpuddle,’ he muttered as he untied the dog’s lead and set off across the marketplace for Back Street, Tolpuddle loping along beside him.
Insatiable curiosity backed up by a directness unique to the Dales – Bruncliffe thrived on it. It was the kind of community that would have made his life undercover almost impossible. It made his current life, with its half-truths and deceits, uncomfortable.
Samson found himself unaccountably saddened by that fact.
‘I’ll miss the place,’ he murmured. ‘You too, boy.’ He reached down to pat the dog, who used the movement as an excuse to nose the bag in Samson’s other hand. ‘Even if you’re only with me for my pies.’
Another couple of months. If he was lucky, he’d have another couple of months here. But even that hung in the balance. After the meeting with his boss, his life in the Dales seemed more precarious than ever.
Everything seemed more precarious.
It wasn’t simply that he was going to have to fight to prove his innocence, which was going to be hard enough. It was the trouble that was coming with it.
For he’d been warned. Not just by his boss, but also by the mystery woman who seemed to know all about him. She’d called out of the blue in December, alerting him in her sultry tones that his past was catching up with him. He hadn’t recognised her voice. Couldn’t think of any woman who would fit her profile. Or one who would be willing to help him. Then on Christmas Day she’d called again. This time she’d told him they were going to make him take the fall. Whoever ‘they’ were. She’d told him to run.
Could he trust her? Should he take her advice? But where would he go? Besides, he hated the thought of turning tail yet again. It had been bad enough the first time, fleeing London when things went sour and his boss advised him to leave town. With the bruises from the balaclava-clad men fresh on his face, he’d come home. The only place he could think of. Hoping to have time to lick his wounds and work out what the hell was going on. And at least be amongst people he knew, even if they weren’t all happy to see him back. He’d felt safer here. There was little chance of strangers arriving in Bruncliffe without him knowing.
But now he was suspended from the police force. Formally. Pending investigation into drugs offences.
That’s what was hanging over him and he was stuck up here kicking his heels, waiting for goodness knows what to arrive.
His grip tightened on the lead, Tolpuddle shifting in closer to him as though sensing his unease.
‘Make the most of it,’ he told himself as he walked across the cobbled square in the sunshine, taking in the busy shops, the sense of security that came from being in a community like Bruncliffe. All too soon, he would have to leave. Because even if the trouble that had been threatened never materialised, when news about the investigation broke, he would be hounded out of town anyway.
It was a despondent Detective Constable Samson O’Brien who entered the ginnel that ran parallel to Back Street and let himself into the back yard of the office building. He glanced up at Delilah’s window as he walked up the path, continuing to the porch when there was no sign of her.
Yet another reason not to cut and run. Delilah Metcalfe. He smiled, knowing what she’d have to say on the subject. She wasn’t the sort of woman to turn her back on trouble. And she’d come to be a big part of his life.
He wondered if she knew how lucky she was being a part of this world. Not having to fear what was coming round the corner.
He turned the key in the door, let the dog off the lead and made his way to the hall, Tolpuddle already trotting towards the stairs.
But the Weimaraner didn’t make it that far. Delilah Metcalfe came running down to meet them, tears on her cheeks as she flung herself at Tolpuddle, wrapping her arms around his grey body.
Both dog and man reacted, Samson dropping the pies, the dog setting up a loud wail of distress as Delilah sobbed into his neck.
‘He’s coming,’ she cried, lifting her face to Samson. ‘He’s coming. And you have to stop him.’
5
‘My ex-husband is trying to get custody of Tolpuddle.’
Delilah kept her gaze fixed on the hallway tiles, not wanting to see the reaction her statement had triggered. It had taken a while for Samson to prise her from Tolpuddle, and a further couple of minutes for her to calm down sufficiently to explain her behaviour. Now she was mortified at having lost control. And at having to divulge her past in order to get help. But the email from Neil had pushed her over the edge.
‘You were married.’ It was more of a statement than a question, de
void of any nuance. Samson was sitting next to her on the second-from-bottom stair, while the object of her despair was lying in the hall, staring longingly at the plastic bag Samson had dropped on the floor when he’d been confronted by the sobbing Delilah.
‘Yes,’ she conceded miserably. ‘To Neil Taylor.’
She risked a glance at the man next to her. If he shared her brother Will’s contempt for the son of local dignitary Bernard Taylor, it didn’t show. But then Samson was a master of dissemblance.
‘How long for?’
‘Long enough. Three years.’
‘When did you get divorced?’
‘We spilt up two years ago. Shortly after Ryan was killed. It wasn’t a great year,’ she said with deliberate understatement. It had been a brutal time for her. Losing her brother. Finding out Neil had had another affair. Struggling to keep their joint web-design business alive and kick-start the Dales Dating Agency. The only highlight amongst all the turmoil had been the arrival of Tolpuddle. ‘Neil moved down to London with his new girlfriend and the decree absolute came through almost a year later, on my twenty-eighth birthday.’
‘That’s well over a year ago.’
She nodded.
‘And yet Neil’s only asking for custody now?’ Samson raised an eyebrow. ‘Why the sudden change of heart?’
‘God knows,’ muttered Delilah. ‘He contacted me out of the blue in mid-December. I thought it was about his belongings. I have them stored up on the top floor.’ Heat rose up her cheeks, turning them crimson. ‘Daft, I know, but I couldn’t bear the thought of using anything of his afterwards. Especially not the bed.’
‘But it wasn’t about that?’
‘No. He said he wanted custody of Tolpuddle.’ Her voice caught on the name and she fought another swell of tears. ‘I was trying to convince myself it wouldn’t come to anything. That it was just another of Neil’s whims. He can be like that – blowing hot and cold over things.’ She gave a dry laugh. ‘Me included. So when I didn’t hear anything more, I told myself there was nothing to worry about. But then I got an email just now . . .’ She faltered, her hand going to her mouth.
Date with Mystery Page 5