‘Crikey.’ Delilah stared at the sign and then at the fence, disconcerted to find a slice of Bruncliffe in the middle of this city. ‘What a coincidence. He’s developing the house that Livvy Thornton lived in.’
Samson grunted. ‘Coincidence indeed.’ He stepped back, assessing the line of fence, trees and bushes growing on the other side of it. ‘Reckon I might take a look.’
He grabbed hold of the stone gatepost, put a foot on a bar in the gate and hauled himself up onto its top railing, a hand on the fence keeping him balanced.
‘What are you doing?’ hissed Delilah, whipping round to check the empty street. ‘That’s trespassing.’
Samson grinned down at her and held out a hand. ‘Coming with me?’
Tolpuddle’s lead was thrust at Chris and Delilah was scrambling up onto the gate in seconds.
‘Delilah!’ protested Chris, doing his best to be the older brother. ‘Come back down. You’ll get hurt. Or arrested. Or both!’
Her grin mirrored Samson’s. ‘We won’t be long. If you see anyone coming, whistle.’
And with that, she pulled herself over the top of the fence after Samson and disappeared.
‘It’s massive!’ Delilah whispered, head tipped back to take in the house.
Sitting at the top of a winding drive that kept it hidden from the road, the property was built from stone. A lot of stone. It was bordered on each end with wide double-bow windows topped by gables, the arched windows in the gable peaks indicating a third storey. In between these magnificent bookends, a set of generous double doors sat above curved steps, a mullioned window above them. With a rack of chimneys on both ends, the house was magnificent. If slightly eerie.
It was the stone. Dark, almost black in places, it gave the building a sombre air. It wasn’t a place Delilah would want to spend a night alone in.
‘Have you noticed the windows?’ murmured Samson. ‘Boarded up from the inside, every one of them.’
‘It’s a development project. Surely that’s normal?’
‘Maybe. But I don’t see much evidence of any developing going on.’
It was true. The building seemed untouched. Merely closed up and closed off from the road beyond. There were no builders’ tools outside, no cement mixer and definitely no white van.
‘Come on,’ said Samson, heading towards it. ‘Let’s have a look around the back.’
They walked round the house and got their first glimpse of the overgrown rear garden. With mature trees ringing the boundary and bushes growing up between them, it was completely private, even in the depths of winter with the branches bare of foliage.
‘It’s not quite what I imagined when I thought of Livvy’s accommodation,’ Delilah admitted.
Samson gave a low laugh. ‘No, it’s not what you’d expect a student hairdresser to be living in.’
‘So do you think I might be right? That Livvy used this purely as a delivery address?’
‘Possibly. But that still means she knew whoever lived here so there has to be some connection. It’s just discovering what it is.’
They turned to take in the back of the house. Less ornate than the front, it faced blankly onto the untended lawn, each window shuttered with plywood. Apart from one on the top floor. As Samson was looking up at it, he saw a shift in the light behind the unblinkered glass, the outline of a figure pulling back out of sight.
‘We might have company,’ he murmured, taking Delilah’s arm and beginning to retrace their steps around the house. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
They were past the front edge of the house and hurrying down the drive when they heard the door open. Prepared to try and charm his way out of the situation, Samson turned towards the sound. But no one appeared on the steps, the yawning door revealing nothing but a dark interior.
‘Should we go and apologise?’ asked Delilah, a guilty look on her face.
Before Samson could reply, a shrill whistle cut the air. Not from beyond the fence where Chris Metcalfe was waiting. But from within the house. It precipitated the scrabble of paws on tiles.
‘Run!’ shouted Samson, as a bundle of black bristle and muscle came tearing out of the open door.
A Rottweiler. Looking far from friendly.
7
There was no leash on the dog. It was running free. And after them.
Following Delilah’s fleeing figure, Samson raced for the fence. The fence that was on their side of the gate with no handy foothold to help them get over it. Without the benefit of that leg-up, it would be impossible to scale.
‘The trees, Delilah,’ he yelled. ‘Head for the trees.’
He saw her veer to the left, making for a broad oak, its branches low to the ground. Behind him he could hear the fast approach of the dog. He risked a glance over his shoulder and wished he hadn’t. The Rottweiler was closing rapidly. There was no way to reach the trees before it would be upon him.
Faster – run faster. Legs pounding across the gravel, lungs bursting, he raced for the oak, where Delilah was already swinging herself up onto a bough.
‘Come on,’ she screamed back at him, her hand held out as though to pull him on. ‘Samson! Run faster!’
He was running as fast as he could. But he could hear the approach of the dog, paws scattering gravel, the heavy pant of pursuit. It was impossible. He was never going to outrun it.
Making a snap decision, he yanked down the zip of his jacket, managing to shrug it off one arm as he ran. Then he wheeled around, with the jacket bundled over his other arm, and faced the dog.
Teeth bared, it was already bunching, ready to jump. As it sprang towards him, a ferocious barking set up from the other side of the fence. Tolpuddle. Deep, anxious barks. Paws slamming on the fence, rattling the boards.
It was enough to distract the Rottweiler, its leap losing momentum as its attention was pulled towards this newer, louder threat. Making the most of the distraction, Samson swung his jacket towards the beast, loose sleeve trailing, and with a flash of sharp teeth, the Rottweiler bit into the flapping fabric. Teeth tearing at the cloth, the dog landed back on the gravel, Samson throwing the rest of the jacket over it before turning on his heel and running for his life towards Delilah’s outstretched hand.
It gained him a couple of seconds. No more. But it was enough.
Reaching the tree, he grabbed hold of the bough and Delilah’s hand and hauled himself up beside her, the Rottweiler already stretched up along the trunk, snapping at his heels as he pulled his legs up behind him.
‘You took your bloody time,’ she muttered, staring down at the snarling canine prowling beneath the tree.
Samson didn’t reply, his lungs sucking deep breaths of air into his body.
‘You’re going to need to go shopping,’ she added. She nodded towards the drive, where the Rottweiler had returned to the discarded jacket and was savaging the material in a frenzy of teeth and paws.
A second whistle split the air, sharp, high. The dog froze. Looked back over its shoulder. Then bounded back up the drive towards the house. From the safety of the tree, they watched it disappear inside the building, the door slamming shut behind it.
‘Next time you suggest we go trespassing,’ murmured Delilah, cheeks flushed, eyes wide, ‘remind me to pass.’
Samson grinned. ‘Next time I suggest we go trespassing, remind me not to give you a head start.’
‘Head start?’ she exclaimed. ‘I was simply faster than you and you know it.’
‘Have you two finished arguing over there?’ Chris Metcalfe’s voice carried to them from the other side of the fence. ‘Because if you have, I’ve got a dog here that’s frantic to see you.’
A whine from Tolpuddle underlined Chris’s words and with one last mournful look at the black strips of lacerated fabric on the drive, Samson followed Delilah up the tree and out over the fence. It was the second jacket he’d lost in his time as a private detective, the first having been burned to a cinder in a fire. At this rate, he was going to have to st
art putting them on expenses.
‘You could have been killed!’ Chris muttered, spearing a chip with his fork and glaring at Delilah.
They were sitting in a pub on the edge of Roundhay Park, the three of them having decided that food was needed after a close brush with the sharp side of a Rottweiler. With a fire blazing in the grate nearby, now that drinks and plates were in front of them and Tolpuddle was lying under the table munching contentedly on some dog treats, shock was setting in.
‘How were we to know there’d be a massive hound the other side of that fence?’ demanded Delilah, taking attack as her form of defence. ‘There was no sign on the gate.’
‘That’s precisely my point. You had no idea what you were getting into, yet you still went over there. Imagine if something had happened. How the hell would I have explained that to the rest of the family?’
Delilah rolled her eyes. ‘You’re as bad as Will. One day you’re all going to have to accept that I’m no longer the little sister tagging along.’
‘When you stop being so reckless, perhaps we’ll take note,’ said Chris.
‘Great burger,’ interjected Samson brightly, holding up his eight-ounce Chef’s Special in the hope of breaking up the familial tension. In return he got two hard stares from the Metcalfe siblings, as ferocious as that of the snarling Rottweiler.
He sighed, putting the burger reluctantly back on his plate. Reluctantly because it really was good. Although after being chased by a savage dog, anything would taste good. ‘It wasn’t Delilah’s fault, Chris,’ he said. ‘I talked her into going in there. So if there’s any blame to be had, it rests with me.’
‘Rubbish!’ snapped Delilah. ‘I’m old enough to make my own decisions. And it’s time my overprotective brothers realised that. They’ve always tried to wrap me in cotton wool but since Ryan got killed, it’s been worse. It drives me mad.’
Whether it was the mention of his deceased brother or an attempt – as the older sibling – to bring an end to the argument, Chris didn’t respond, focusing instead on his meal, his jaw clenched as he cut into his Yorkshire ham and eggs. Apart from the crackling of the fire, the clink of cutlery and the occasional contended sigh from under the table, a strained silence settled on the group. Samson was wishing he could join Tolpuddle out of range of the Metcalfe ire when Delilah, unable to bear the awkward atmosphere or hold a grudge, finally spoke up.
‘Besides,’ she muttered, ‘you’re missing the point. Instead of berating me for going over the fence, you should be asking what on earth a guard dog was doing there.’
‘Guarding the place?’ replied Chris wryly.
‘What, though? There was nothing in there.’
Samson looked up from his plate. ‘Good point,’ he murmured, wondering why he hadn’t thought of that. ‘No tools. No sign of development. No workers. Yet there’s a guard dog.’
‘And at least one person on site. That door didn’t open on its own.’
‘Did you see anyone?’ asked Chris, Delilah’s curiosity becoming contagious.
‘The windows were all boarded up. But Samson thought he saw someone on the top floor.’
‘It was the only unshuttered window,’ Samson explained. ‘I saw a shift in the light, as though someone had moved behind the glass. But it could have been nothing.’
‘It saved us,’ said Delilah. ‘Gave us the head start we needed.’
Samson laughed. ‘So you admit it, you did have an advantage.’
He was relieved to see a grin appear in response. ‘I’m admitting nothing of the sort.’
‘Are you going to report it?’ asked Chris.
‘What?’ Samson turned to him. ‘That we were attacked by a guard dog while trespassing? I don’t think the police will see our side of it.’
‘Even if the dog was deliberately set on you without any warning?’
‘It’d be our word against the testimony of whoever is guarding that place.’ He shook his head. ‘There’s no point.’
‘You could sue them for a new jacket,’ Delilah said, still grinning.
‘I’m thinking of putting it on expenses. Let Matty pay.’
‘Knowing Matty Thistlethwaite,’ said Chris, smiling too now, ‘I think he’d find a way to wriggle out of that. After all, you didn’t discover anything pertinent to your case by going in there.’
‘Chris is right,’ agreed Delilah, the dispute of moments before forgotten as the Metcalfes united against Samson. ‘That house didn’t lead us any further on in the investigation. I told you it would be a waste of time.’
Samson laid down his knife and fork and pushed his empty plate away. ‘Maybe,’ he conceded, unwilling to reveal that, for him, the house had been yet one more piece in the puzzle that was Rick Procter. Some day all of those pieces would be linked together and Samson would be able to show Bruncliffe the true nature of its golden boy. For now, he was content to have brother and sister gang up on him if it brought about peace. ‘Perhaps you were right too, Delilah, when you suggested Livvy never lived in Leeds.’
‘You think that’s a possibility?’ asked Chris.
‘It’s looking more and more likely. It would explain why there’s no record of her death here, either in official documents or in the press.’
‘So she was using the house in North Park Avenue as a drop box?’
‘Yes. Which means we need to get a look at the deeds and trace ownership back to the time Livvy was supposed to be in the city. There must be a connection there worth following up.’
‘And in the meantime?’
‘Police records,’ said Delilah, looking at Samson. ‘A fatal accident would have to have been investigated. Surely you’ve got some contacts on the force from your time here that we could ask to check for us?’
Samson gave a non-committal shrug, ruing Delilah’s shrewdness. He knew the accident would be on record. But, to his frustration, he no longer had access to the police database and wasn’t in any position to go calling in favours. Least of all in Leeds, where his career had started and his current status would cause the most disappointment.
‘I lost touch with everyone,’ he lied. ‘Being undercover doesn’t exactly lend itself to sustaining friendships.’
‘Well in that case,’ said Delilah, accepting his reply without question, ‘next up is Snips. Finally.’
‘And then back into town to get me a jacket,’ added Samson. It was only mid-February and he knew, from bitter experience, that winter in North Yorkshire lasted well into what should be spring. He wouldn’t get through it without a substantial outer layer.
‘What about Tolpuddle?’ queried Chris.
‘What about him?’ asked Delilah.
Her brother nodded towards the bar with a grin. ‘Is he coming with us or staying with his new friends?’
Samson and Delilah turned to see what had captured Chris’s attention: Tolpuddle, sitting between the bar stools of two old men, soaking up their attention.
‘Good boy,’ one of the men was saying, patting the grey head. Tolpuddle pushed into the offered hand and then nosed towards the almost-empty pint glass the other man was holding.
‘Here, be my guest,’ the second man laughed, extending the glass towards the eager dog, who began lapping at the dark-brown beer.
Samson was the first to react. ‘Bagsy front seat!’
‘That’s not fair,’ Delilah groaned, while Chris looked nonplussed.
‘What’s the problem?’ he asked as Delilah left the table to retrieve her dog from his admirers, a trace of froth on the Weimaraner’s muzzle.
‘You’ll see,’ said Samson. He stood up and followed Chris in the wake of Delilah and Tolpuddle out of the pub. ‘How far away is the hairdresser’s?’
‘A couple of minutes. We could walk it in ten.’
‘Oh no,’ said Samson with a sly grin as they stepped out onto the pavement, Delilah already heading for the car. ‘Let’s drive. And take the scenic route.’
Chris shrugged. ‘If you’re sure.�
��
A minute later they were pulling away from the kerb, Samson and Chris up front, Delilah squashed in the back with a sleepy Weimaraner. By the time they drove past the boarded-up property on North Park Avenue, the Mini’s windows were all open and Chris was contemplating putting the top down, while focusing on the quickest route possible to their destination.
The sound of the Mini driving past didn’t disturb the man standing on the drive of the large stone property on North Park Avenue. Concealed behind the solid fence, he wasn’t worried about being seen. Nor was he worried about the aggressive dog that had roamed the garden just hours before.
What he was worried about was the person on the other end of the phone.
‘I don’t know who they were,’ the man stuttered into his mobile, looking at the remnants of a black jacket in his hand. ‘It was a man and a woman.’
‘How the hell did they get in?’
‘Over the fence.’
‘And the dog? Did you let it loose?’
‘Yes. As soon as we noticed the intruders.’
‘But it didn’t catch them?’
‘Not quite. The guy threw his jacket at it.’
A scornful bark of derision came down the phone. ‘Some guard dog. I should have it shot. And you with it.’
The man on the drive paled, sensing it wasn’t an idle threat.
‘What about the jacket? Anything in it?’
‘That’s why I was calling,’ said the man, feeling more confident. ‘There was something in the pocket.’
‘What?’
‘A business card. For a detective agency.’
The silence on the line turned ominous.
‘There’s a name on it,’ the man continued, his burgeoning confidence quashed beneath the lack of response. ‘It says “Samson O’Brien”.’
A hiss of released breath and then a chilling question. ‘Were you seen?’
‘No. I don’t think so . . . No. Definitely not.’ The man stumbled over the words, desperate to reassure.
‘You don’t seem certain.’
The man gulped. ‘I’m certain, Mr Procter. Very certain. They didn’t see me.’
Date with Mystery Page 8