‘He’s coming up?’
‘Sunday afternoon. He’s bringing his girlfriend, Abbie.’ She pulled a face. ‘Reading between the lines, I get the feeling she’s the driving force behind this.’
‘And they’re planning on taking Tolpuddle back to London with them? Without a fight?’
Delilah’s shoulders slumped. ‘What fight can there be? I’ve been telling myself I’d go to court, but Matty’s been really clear. Thanks to the paperwork being in Neil’s name, I don’t have a leg to stand on.’ She pressed the tissue she was holding to her lips, her eyes welling up once more. ‘There’s nothing I can do.’
‘Rubbish!’ Samson stood. ‘There’s always something that can be done. We just need to think this through.’
Tolpuddle rose too and crossed the hall to nose the discarded bag, before looking at Samson wistfully.
‘But first things first,’ said Samson. ‘As Tolpuddle is trying to tell you, we’ve got some of Mrs Hargreaves’ pies, so let’s eat before the hound loses patience and starts without us.’ He held out his hand and pulled Delilah to her feet. ‘And then we’ll sort it.’
Mrs Hargreaves’ steak-and-ale pie did the trick. Sitting across from Samson at the table in the first-floor kitchen, Delilah placed her cutlery down on her empty plate and smiled.
‘Thanks,’ she said.
He smiled back at her, relieved to see her spirits lifting. It had been painful witnessing her distress, knowing that she wasn’t the type to fall apart easily. It had been equally painful listening to her telling him things she would clearly have rather kept to herself. Especially when he already knew most of it.
Thanks to Bruncliffe’s grapevine, he’d heard about Delilah’s adulterous husband. And about her divorce. He also knew that he spent each night in the marital bed she couldn’t bear to keep.
But as she’d blurted out the whole sorry tale, things had begun to make sense. The whispered conversation with Matty Thistlethwaite; Delilah’s sudden reluctance to leave Tolpuddle with Clarissa that morning. Since mid-December she’d been worried sick because her ex-husband was claiming custody of her dog.
Yet it wasn’t until Neil Taylor emailed her to say he was coming to town to make real on his threat that she’d seen fit to confide in Samson. It was a fact that hurt the detective irrationally.
‘Everything feels better after a pie. Doesn’t it, Tolpuddle?’ he said.
The dog glanced up from his bowl, a distinct look of satisfaction on his face and a trail of gravy on his chin. Delilah laughed.
‘I hope for our sakes that wasn’t steak-and-ale he had,’ she said. ‘You know what he’s like after beer.’
Samson grinned, having already witnessed Tolpuddle’s adverse reaction to bitter a couple of times since making the dog’s acquaintance. Neither had been a sweet-smelling experience. ‘Don’t worry. He’s not going to be toxic. Well, no more than normal.’
As quickly as Delilah’s spirits had risen, they plummeted back to the depths of depression. ‘I can’t bear the thought of life without him,’ she whispered.
‘You won’t have to,’ said Samson, feigning a confidence he didn’t feel.
‘How can you be so sure? Even Matty doesn’t think I have a chance.’
‘Matty has to operate within the law. We’re going to operate outside it.’
‘You’ve got a plan?’
‘No. Not yet. But I’m working on it. Tell me more about this girlfriend.’
‘I only met her the once.’ Delilah’s lip curled in disdain. ‘She’s pretty, if you like waif-thin types. Other than that, I can’t really remember her.’
‘She didn’t make much of an impression?’
‘It wasn’t that. More that I was concentrating so hard on not thumping Neil, I didn’t really take her in. But she seemed high-maintenance. Not the sort to be at home on a farm, you know?’
Samson laughed, knowing that the Metcalfes judged most people by the farmyard barometer. ‘Not the sort to go tearing across the fells, either, I suppose.’
‘No.’ Delilah sounded miserable. ‘I doubt Tolpuddle will get much running down there.’
‘Tolpuddle isn’t going anywhere,’ said Samson, rising to his feet and clearing the plates. ‘Leave it with me. In the meantime, we need to decide what our next step in the Livvy Thornton case is.’
The reaction was immediate, as he’d known it would be.
‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ she said, already tapping at her mobile, distracted by the prospect of being part of the investigation. Samson hid a smile as he placed the dishes in the sink.
‘We should go to Leeds,’ she was saying. ‘See if we can find the hairdresser’s Jimmy mentioned. There might be someone there who remembers Livvy.’
‘If it still exists. We’re better off calling in at the register office. They should have the original paperwork.’
‘And then we’ll go to the hairdresser’s,’ said Delilah, brandishing her mobile in triumph, a website for Snips Hair Salon showing on the screen.
Samson laughed. ‘There won’t be any need. I keep telling you this will be straightforward. A simple oversight in the records department. We’ll be done in no time.’
‘When do you want to go?’
Samson made a pretence of consulting his mobile. ‘I’m free tomorrow,’ he said. ‘How about then?’
‘Suits me. I’ll call Chris and see if he can get the day off. We can take the train over and then he can chauffeur us around, seeing as he knows the city.’
‘Is he averse to O’Briens, too?’ asked Samson, trying to remember this Metcalfe brother who’d made the rare decision to move away. Trained as a doctor and working in Leeds, Chris had been at Ellershaw Farm on Christmas Day when Samson, his father and Arty Robinson had joined the Metcalfes for dinner. But the day had been a bit of a blur and Samson hadn’t spent any time with him. All he could hope was that as another of the clan with the fair hair, height and slender frame that was typical of the family, Chris – lacking the darker, shorter features shared by Delilah and Will – would lack their temper, too.
Delilah laughed. ‘Not that I know of. He’s been gone from Bruncliffe a long time. I doubt he’ll hold any grudges. But I can’t promise anything. Anyway,’ she added, holding her mobile to her ear, ‘I don’t think Chris is allowed to cause injury, as a doctor.’
‘Great,’ muttered Samson, beginning to wash up the plates as Delilah started talking to her brother. ‘I’m relying on the Hippocratic Oath to protect me from the Metcalfe wrath.’
He felt a nudge against his thigh. Tolpuddle, leaning into him, whether in gratitude for the pie or in the hope of more, it was hard to tell. Samson scratched the grey head, filled with sadness at the thought of the dog no longer being part of his life. Or Delilah’s. Because despite the assurances he’d given, he didn’t see how Tolpuddle could be kept in Bruncliffe. Apart from hiding him. Or faking his death . . .
‘Sorted,’ Delilah announced, putting her phone away. ‘Chris is off duty tomorrow, so we can go over.’
‘He’s fine with me coming too?’
Delilah grinned sheepishly. ‘I didn’t tell him. Thought it was best to let him find out in person. Just in case.’
Samson sighed. It was bad enough having to work with one Metcalfe. Having to spend the day with two of them would be hell.
‘Right,’ said Delilah, getting up from the table. ‘I’ve got to go over to the bank. And then I’m going to run off that pie. What do you reckon, Tolpuddle? Does a blast up on the fells sound good to you?’
The dog barked and began heading for the stairs. Delilah followed him and then paused in the doorway, turning back to Samson.
‘Fancy joining us?’ she asked.
She made it sound casual, when Samson knew it was anything but. Delilah Metcalfe, former champion fell-runner who had shunned the sport for so many years, was inviting him to run with her. Like they used to when they were younger.
‘I’d love to,’ said Samson.
He thought of his fictional flat in the village of Hellifield five miles down the road, and then of the reality – the rucksack containing all his belongings up on the second floor. ‘I’ve got my kit with me,’ he said, offering the bare truth, knowing from experience that people seldom questioned it.
‘In that case, I’ll see you at the gate in half an hour. Feel free to change in the bathroom upstairs,’ she added generously as she walked off.
Samson finished the washing up, vowing to himself that he would find accommodation soon. Even for a seasoned liar like himself, the deception was getting hard to maintain.
They ran up Crag Lane, concentrating on the changing terrain, the increasing steepness as they approached the looming shape of the crag that rose up at the back of town. Three figures: one small, compact, pacing easily as she ran smoothly upwards; the second one tall, powerful, breathing heavily, his dark hair flicking his shoulders; and the third, a grey shadow of muscle, outstripping the others as he bounded gracefully towards the fells.
They were unaware of the binoculars trained on them. The man assessing them, watching her movement in particular – the former champion. And her running companion, returning to the hills after a hiatus of fourteen years. The condition wasn’t there yet. But the instinctive style was.
He tracked them up the path that snaked around the outcrop of limestone that towered over Bruncliffe. They were heading for the tops, where the bright skies above would be tempered by the raw east wind. That’d test them.
And when they came back down, he’d be waiting for them with a far-from-welcome surprise.
‘Christ, I’m out of condition!’ An hour later and Samson was still panting, despite the last half of the run having been downhill. Trying to keep up with Delilah and Tolpuddle as they flew down the fellside was almost as hard as tracking them up it.
Almost.
‘A few more runs and you’ll get there,’ said Delilah with a grin as she jumped down onto Crag Lane, Tolpuddle already waiting for them. ‘Of course, it’ll take a bit more than that to keep up with me.’
‘I’m not sure I’ll ever get to that level again,’ muttered Samson, joining her on the tarmac.
It had been like old times, out on the hills on a Thursday evening with the Bruncliffe Harriers, the two of them so much better than the rest. Especially Delilah. She was born to run the fells. National junior champion, she’d been heading for the same at senior level when Samson left town. He still didn’t understand why she’d walked away from what could have been a bright future. Although her revelations about her youthful marriage went some way towards explaining it.
But she was back running now and the potential was still there. All she needed was a push.
Legs screaming at him, Samson began running down the lane, Delilah and Tolpuddle either side of him. They were almost at the steps that led down to the town when a door was flung open in one of the small cottages that faced the Crag.
‘Hold up, you two!’
They both jumped, startled. Seth Thistlethwaite, retired geography teacher, former athletics coach and uncle to Matty, was standing in the doorway, a pair of binoculars around his neck.
‘Been spying on folk, Seth?’ asked Delilah with a grin as they walked over to him.
Then she spotted the red folder in his hand.
‘Is that . . .’ she murmured.
‘Oh God,’ groaned Samson, realising what she’d spotted in Seth’s grasp. ‘No, please no.’
‘Don’t start moaning,’ barked Seth, tapping the folder. ‘If you’re going to start running, you might as well do it properly. With a plan.’
The dreaded training plans. Seth had been infamous for them. Gruelling sessions designed to make better runners out of all of them. Although Samson had sometimes suspected they were actually designed to kill. There’d been many an evening when he’d crawled upstairs to bed at the farm, legs buckling under him from the interval training and hill repetitions that Seth had subjected them to. At the time, dealing with his father’s drinking and trying to run the farm, Samson had relished the pain, a release from his everyday life. Now, he wasn’t so sure he would.
‘Give it a try,’ muttered Seth, slapping the file into Delilah’s hand. ‘And re-join the Harriers, the pair of you. It’s time you gave a bit back.’
He turned, cutting off any argument with the slam of his front door, leaving Delilah and Samson feeling like the kids they’d been when he first started training them.
From Seth Thistlethwaite’s house, tucked in under the Crag at the back of Bruncliffe, there was a direct line of sight across the roofs of the town below and up towards Gunnerstang Brow. A copse of trees shielded the top of the fell, hiding from view the quarry that lay behind them. For Jimmy Thornton, sitting at his mother’s kitchen table, there was no hiding from it. Outside the window the exposed stone glared white in the sunlight, the wind kicking up eddies of dust across the deserted space.
But for once, Jimmy didn’t notice. After his visitors had left that morning he’d sat alone in the empty kitchen, remembering the violence, hearing the ghostly echo of tears as the past crowded in on him in a room that never felt warm, no matter how much he stoked up the range. Secrets he’d kept buried since childhood, and of which he was now the sole custodian, had been stirred up by Samson and Delilah’s questions, threatening to overwhelm him. In an effort to escape the memories, he’d decided to make a start on the task of clearing out the house.
He’d begun in his mother’s bedroom, emptying the wardrobe item by item – sorting out the clothes, folding up the good ones and putting them into bin bags to be taken to the Age Concern shop once the will was settled. There hadn’t been a lot to pack, his mother having been a frugal woman and not one for hoarding or sentimentality. Which is why he’d been surprised when he’d found the shoebox at the bottom of the cupboard.
Beige in colour, it had a swirl of script across the lid: Beryl’s Shoes.
Lifting it onto the bed, he’d known from the weight that it contained more than just shoes. He’d taken off the lid, stared at the contents for a moment, and decided this was a job to be done over a cup of tea. More than an hour later he was still sitting at the kitchen table, a mug to one side, the tea untouched and long cold.
First he’d come to postcards from his sister’s penfriend in Melbourne, a thin strata across the top of the box. He’d gathered them up and put them aside, revealing the treasures underneath. A bundle of photos of Livvy, auburn hair vivid in the summer sun or tucked up in winter hats; Livvy with her little brother; Livvy at school. He flicked through the thick pile and then placed them beside the postcards.
Next he pulled out a tiny shoe, the buckle shiny, the sole barely worn. Underneath that, a Mother’s Day card, home-made egg-box daffodil protruding from the background and daubed in yellow. Inside, Livvy’s unsteady hand had signed her name in bold crayon, kisses covering the bottom half of the page. A swimming certificate. A rag doll with a fabric eye peeling, red hair straggly with age.
Only two items were left. A small jeweller’s box. And a Yorkshire Tea caddy.
He pulled out the jeweller’s box, the burgundy leather scuffed at the edges. He recognised it straight away, even though he hadn’t seen it in years. His mother’s engagement ring had always nestled inside, the single diamond an object of fascination for him as a child, something so precious that it was never worn apart from on Sundays when Mother went to church.
He flipped open the lid. The box was empty. He stared at the deep fold in the white interior where the ring was supposed to reside, puzzled. Had she lost it and never said? Or perhaps sold it, given the way Father had been. But why keep the empty box?
He laid it on the table along with the rest of the contents and turned to the tea caddy, the last thing in the shoebox. It was heavy. Inside, a stack of letters, tied together with a red ribbon. The first thing he noticed was the Leeds postmark and the
unusual address. The second thing he noticed was the handwriting.
Jimmy Thornton felt the past collide with the present and the letters fell to the table, spilling out of their ribboned constraints. He waited a couple of heartbeats before picking up the top envelope, pulling out the letter and beginning to read. Then he reached for the phone.
6
‘Livvy was writing to her mother in secret?’ Delilah looked up from the image of a letter on Samson’s phone, the question asked in a lowered voice, respecting the fact that the train they were travelling on was filled with folk from Bruncliffe.
Samson nodded. ‘Jimmy called me when we got back from the run yesterday, just after you’d gone home. He was on his way into town so he dropped by to show me what he’d found.’
‘How many letters were there?’
‘Twelve. Almost one a week for the time Livvy was in Leeds. The last one was two weeks before her death.’
‘And Jimmy didn’t know about them before now?’
‘He says not.’
‘How odd.’ Delilah stared at the sloping handwriting and felt a pang of sadness for the girl. ‘She couldn’t even write to her mother openly.’
‘It appears that way. And look who was the intermediary.’ Samson flicked to a photograph of an envelope on his mobile.
Born and bred in Bruncliffe, Delilah didn’t need telling. The envelope was addressed not to Mrs Thornton at Quarry House, but to Croft Cottage in Thorpdale, a small house that sat at the start of the remote dale to the north of town.
‘Ida Capstick,’ she muttered, thinking about the straight-talking cleaner who lived in the immaculate cottage with her brother, George. She was responsible for keeping Delilah’s office building – and its occupants – in order. ‘It’s not like Ida to get involved in another family’s business.’
‘Not at all. Which makes me think there must have been more to Livvy’s departure from town than we know.’
‘Like what?’ asked Delilah.
Samson shrugged. ‘Family stuff,’ he said, knowing from experience how complicated that could get. Knowing also that outsiders rarely had a true understanding of what happened within families. His own was a prime example. One fight at a christening and he had been cast as the black sheep by Bruncliffe, just because the fight happened to be with his father. The christening was that of his best friend’s son – Ryan Metcalfe’s lad, Nathan, who was now a strapping fourteen-year-old. The fact that Samson had been godfather to the infant had cast further condemnation on his behaviour. That he’d fled the town that night on his father’s motorbike had sealed his reputation. Yet not one person had ever asked him what had been the catalyst for the argument which had ended in violence. Or knew about the shotgun he’d had pointed at him when he’d returned to the farm after the fight.
Date with Mystery Page 6