The click told him he was talking to thin air. Jacket trailing in his hand, he walked back towards the house, a sheen of sweat on his top lip and the chill of fear in his stomach.
‘Bloody hell!’ Chris was standing by the open door of the car, face aghast as Samson and Delilah scrambled out after him, Delilah looking green. ‘What was that?’
‘Beer,’ muttered Delilah as her dog roused himself and sauntered out onto the pavement to regard them all with a bemused expression, ears half-cocked, head to one side. ‘Tolpuddle’s allergic to beer.’
‘I think you mean we’re all allergic to Tolpuddle once he’s had a beer,’ countered Chris, hand over his mouth as he closed the car door. ‘In all my years in the hospital I’ve never smelled anything so bad.’
Samson grinned. ‘He’s our own chemical weapon.’ He ruffled the dog’s ears with affection.
‘Well he can wait outside while you two go and do your investigating,’ said Chris. ‘He’s not getting back in my car until he’s been fully disarmed.’
‘Come on,’ said Samson, clipping on Tolpuddle’s lead. ‘A bit of exercise might do you good.’
With Delilah next to him, he led the dog along Street Lane, the wind cutting through his jumper in the absence of his jacket as he took in the changes since he’d patrolled the area in his newly acquired police uniform.
It was a part of Leeds that had always had a suburban chic, but whereas that chic had veered towards shabby in Samson’s time, now it was the trendy bustling heart of Roundhay. Delicatessens, wine bars, restaurants, a couple of independent boutiques, a bakery and the usual smattering of charity shops, all being frequented by an astounding number of people for a weekday afternoon. It spoke of an affluence that Samson didn’t remember. But then he hadn’t been on the beat long here before he was transferred to the more troublesome Harehills to the south. That had been an altogether different experience.
‘There it is.’ Delilah broke into his reminiscences, pointing towards a hairdresser’s sandwiched between an estate agent’s and a tanning parlour.
SNIPS Hair Salon.
Silver writing on a black background, a pair of scissors cutting through a lock of hair cleverly forming the ‘N’ in the name, it looked sophisticated. Not the sort of place Samson would brave when it came to getting his hair trimmed.
‘I’m guessing this isn’t somewhere you frequented,’ said Delilah, reading his thoughts with a grin.
He laughed, running a hand over his mane. ‘No. I had a crew cut back then. I used to keep it in check myself with a pair of clippers.’
Delilah smiled, remembering the cropped hair of the young man who’d fled Bruncliffe. ‘I’m happy to do the talking,’ she said as they approached the smoked-glass frontage of the salon.
‘Be my guest,’ Samson replied, silently relieved. Hairdressers were on a par with lingerie boutiques in terms of places that made him break out in a cold sweat. ‘Although I still think it’s a long shot. The place has probably changed hands several times in the last two decades.’
‘Not according to Companies House.’ Delilah gave him a smug look. ‘I checked and it’s still registered to the same owner as back in Livvy’s day – a Mrs Paula Atkins. Let’s hope this isn’t her day off.’
She opened the door, releasing a blast of feminine scents – shampoo, hairspray, perm lotion – all carried on the noise of hairdryers and female chatter. Already unnerved, Samson edged behind Delilah, Tolpuddle tucking in next to him as though he too felt out of place in this woman’s world.
‘Here for a cut, love?’ called out a large woman wielding a pair of scissors.
‘No, actually—’
The lady laughed, cutting Delilah off. ‘Not you. Him.’ She tipped her head towards the awkward figure of Samson. ‘Wouldn’t mind getting my hands on those locks.’
Samson blushed while the women in the salon burst into laughter, made more vociferous when they noticed the crimson creeping up his cheeks.
‘He’s shy,’ Delilah said with a grin. ‘Be gentle with him, ladies.’
‘So how can we help?’ continued the first lady, coming over to them.
‘We’d like to speak to Mrs Atkins, if possible. Is she here?’
‘That’s me. What’s it about?’
‘It’s about someone who might have worked here twenty-four years ago.’
Mrs Atkins gave a wry smile. ‘You’ll be lucky. I can barely remember last week, let alone that far back. Have you got a name?’
‘Livvy Thornton,’ said Delilah, pulling up the photo on her phone and showing it to the lady.
Mrs Atkins took the mobile and ran a finger over the girl’s face. ‘Livvy,’ she murmured softly. ‘Aye, she was a bonny lass. Quick learner, too.’
‘She worked here?’ Samson stepped forward, wariness forgotten.
‘Not for long. Couple of months or more.’
‘But you remember her?’
‘Hard to forget, that one. She had a quality about her, you know? Like she would go on to be something extraordinary. Gorgeous hair, too.’ Mrs Atkins passed the phone back to Delilah. ‘Why are you asking about Livvy after all these years?’
‘We’re trying to track down her death certificate—’
‘She’s dead?’ The salon owner’s hand went to her mouth. ‘What a shame. She can’t have been that old. When did she die?’
Samson glanced at Delilah, who was frowning. ‘You didn’t know?’ she asked.
‘How could I? We didn’t keep in touch when she left. I wasn’t right pleased with her, disappearing the way she did.’
‘So you’re saying you don’t know anything about her accident?’
‘What accident?’
‘Livvy Thornton was killed in a hit-and-run two decades ago,’ explained Samson. ‘While she would have been working here.’
Mrs Atkins was shaking her head. ‘No, no, that can’t be true. We’d have known. Seen it on the news or something.’
‘What’s he saying?’ A younger woman had joined them. Judging by the similar facial features, Samson was guessing it was the salon owner’s daughter.
‘Livvy Thornton,’ said Mrs Atkins. ‘They reckon she died in a hit-and-run back when she was training here.’
‘No way,’ said the younger woman, shocked. ‘We’d have heard.’
‘But she did work here? That’s definite?’ Samson asked.
Both women nodded.
‘I don’t suppose you happen to remember where she lived?’
‘Not a matter of remembering,’ Mrs Atkins replied with a frown. ‘We never knew. Livvy gave us an address and phone number which turned out to be false. When she didn’t turn up for work we tried calling, but the old lady there said she’d never heard of her. It was all a bit of a mystery.’
‘What about that address?’ asked Delilah. ‘Can you recall where it was?’
‘North Park Avenue, down by Roundhay Park. I only remember because I thought it was a bit swanky for a trainee hairdresser. Bit above the salary I was paying.’ She glanced at the clock on the wall and towards the client who was waiting for her. ‘If that’s all . . .’ she said apologetically.
‘Thanks,’ said Delilah. ‘You’ve been a great help.’
‘Just one last thing,’ Samson interrupted. ‘When Livvy went missing, did you contact anyone in authority? The police, maybe?’
‘No . . .’ The salon owner had a look of contrition. ‘In retrospect, I suppose I should have. But I just presumed . . . I thought she’d moved on.’
‘I understand. Thank you for your time. And if you think of anything else, don’t hesitate to call.’ Samson passed her his business card. She looked at the name and burst into laughter yet again.
‘Samson? Really?’ she asked. She wielded the scissors, snipping at the air. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to cut your hair?’
He grinned sheepishly, the same heat as earlier creeping up his cheeks. ‘Maybe another time,’ he said, backing towards the exit, Tolpuddle with hi
m, the pair of them grateful to get out of the fug of hair products and into the cold of the winter afternoon.
When Delilah joined them on the pavement, Samson was deep in thought.
‘So Livvy must have lived in Leeds,’ he muttered. ‘Given that she worked here.’
‘Seems like it,’ Delilah agreed. ‘And there was a connection to that house. Whether she stayed there or it was a drop box, who knows?’
‘None of this makes sense.’
‘No. It doesn’t. Those women remember Livvy working here, but not dying here. How can that be possible?’
A blast of hairdryers made them turn to see the salon door reopening and the younger of the two women hurrying out after them, a couple of business cards in her hand.
‘Here,’ she said, passing one each to Samson and Delilah. ‘Mother thinks I’m touting for business, but I couldn’t say back there – Livvy had another name.’
‘Like a middle name?’ asked Samson.
The woman shook her head. ‘No. A stage name. She sang down at the Fforde Grene pub. I used to sneak in to listen, as I was only sixteen. Mother didn’t know about it. Still doesn’t.’
Samson wasn’t surprised. He remembered the pub from his days in the town. Situated at the southern end of Roundhay where Harehills began, it hadn’t been the kind of place a parent would want a young daughter going to.
‘What was her name?’ he asked.
‘Olivia Nightingale.’ The woman gave a fond smile. ‘She was good. Bloody good. I was always telling her she should give up hairdressing and take up singing professionally. When she disappeared, I thought that was what she’d done.’ She shrugged, pulled her cardigan tight across her chest against the chill wind and hurried back into the salon, where her mother was still watching them.
‘Olivia Nightingale,’ murmured Delilah. ‘I reckon that pub might be worth a visit. What did she say it was called?’
‘The Fforde Grene,’ said Samson.
‘Do you know it?’
‘Unfortunately, yes. I was in on a couple of drugs raids there. Not a pleasant place. Or at least it wasn’t in my time. It might have changed in twelve years.’
‘So we head there then? See if anyone has anything else to add to this mystery about Livvy Thornton?’
Samson nodded, already turning back towards Chris and the warmth of the car and wondering why this investigation, which should have been so straightforward, was proving to be so complex.
8
‘Not much of a pub.’
Delilah sounded less than impressed. A short drive back through Roundhay Park and down the Roundhay Road had brought them to the edge of Harehills. The change couldn’t have been more dramatic. From the tree-lined streets of the northern suburb and the green expanse of open parkland, they had driven into a more urban area, delicatessens being replaced with loan shops and cash converters, a busy road wrapped around the lot, its traffic incessant.
‘It must have been closed down,’ said Samson. ‘No surprise, given its past.’
They were standing in a car park looking at a large redbrick building rising up three storeys, marble surrounding what had once been the grand entranceway of the Fforde Grene pub. Now the double doors looked permanently closed, a large sign across the front declaring the premises to be a continental supermarket, its entrance on the side.
‘So another dead end.’ Delilah sighed. ‘We’re not having much luck.’
‘No. But at least we know more than we did this morning.’
‘I reckon I might know someone who could help us find out a bit more,’ said Chris, Samson noting with amusement the use of ‘us’, in a manner typical of the Metcalfes. ‘Are you in a hurry to get back to Bruncliffe?’
‘Not particularly,’ said Delilah. ‘As long as we catch the last train.’
‘Same here,’ added Samson. ‘We’ll take any help you can give.’
‘It’ll probably involve going to a pub,’ said Chris, taking out his mobile and turning away.
Delilah and Samson both looked down at Tolpuddle.
‘No beer allowed,’ Delilah warned the dog. ‘Or we’ll get chucked off the train home.’
Tolpuddle lifted an eyebrow, his martyred expression revealing the aptness of his name.
A couple of hours and a new jacket later, Samson was following Delilah and Chris along Briggate in the heart of the town, Tolpuddle trotting next to them. The pedestrianised area was busy with office workers and shoppers heading home under street lights, the sun having already set in its customary winter habit. With the air turning colder, Samson was glad to be able to pull his collar up to his chin, feeling snug after an afternoon of shivering.
‘It looks good on you,’ said Delilah, giving him an approving glance.
She’d taken pity on him when they’d arrived in the city centre amongst a labyrinth of shops, his horror at the task facing him painfully clear. Lodging her brother and Tolpuddle in a coffee shop, much to their relief, Delilah had slipped an arm through Samson’s and marched him into an outdoor clothing store. Forty minutes later he walked out in the warmest jacket he’d ever owned. Having rejected the temptation of the exorbitantly expensive down jackets, given the rigours of his job and the fate that had befallen his last two, he’d opted for a hard-wearing, waxed parka. Black – despite Delilah’s attempts to get him into something more vibrant – and lined in fleece, it was worth the cost, Samson decided as he walked along the precinct. It was a jacket that would withstand the worst of a Bruncliffe winter. As long as he didn’t lose it to fire or a rabid dog.
‘This way,’ said Chris, veering down a narrow alleyway between two shops and into the dark beyond.
‘We’re meeting your friend down here?’ queried Delilah as the high walls of the buildings closed around them, cutting off the glow of the street lamps. She glanced back at Samson and he shrugged.
Despite having lived in Leeds for two years, this wasn’t a place he knew. He’d spent most of his time in the city on the edge of Harehills, finding a cheap room in a house share with a couple of student nurses when he’d arrived. Working in a pub at first, he had little money or inclination for visiting other drinking establishments, especially when he didn’t touch alcohol himself. When he’d started his training with the police he’d been travelling to Wakefield every day and coming home late, no time for socialising. And once he’d begun his probation, up in Roundhay and later on in his own patch of Harehills, he’d been even busier. Even though he’d been earning enough by then to move to a better part of the city, he’d grown attached to Harehills, in spite of its social problems. Or maybe because of them. Whatever it was, he’d always felt more at home in the terraced streets with their subcultures and diverse ethnic mix than he had in the leafy avenues of Chapel Allerton or the student-magnet of Hyde Park. It was an experience that would set him up perfectly for a life undercover.
Which explained why, as Chris led the way further into the alley, Samson didn’t have a clue where they were going.
‘Here we are!’ said Chris, throwing out an arm as they rounded a corner to welcoming lights and a whitewashed facade, bright against the walls around it.
The Angel. A small pub hidden away between two major shopping thoroughfares.
Chris opened the door, a couple of rooms branching off either side of a small entranceway and narrow stairs twisting out of sight ahead. He turned right into a compact bar, a low buzz of conversation coming to a halt as they trooped inside.
‘It’s just like the Fleece,’ murmured Samson with a grin, recognising the guarded looks of the regulars at this intrusion by strangers.
Delilah laughed. ‘Only we’re the outsiders for once.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ said Chris. ‘This is my local. And the landlord isn’t as moody as Troy Murgatroyd.’
‘That’s not saying much,’ quipped Samson.
Acknowledging the truth of the statement with a wry smile – the owner of Bruncliffe’s oldest tavern being renowned for his sullen nature
– Chris took their orders and made his way to the bar, leaving Tolpuddle to pull Delilah towards the roaring fire. Samson, meanwhile, was taking in the pub. It was a drinker’s haunt. Cosy. Uncomplicated. Good beer on the taps. No frills. It was the kind of place his father would have loved in his drinking days. The days when he was still discerning, before the desire for alcohol removed any refinement from his choice of establishment.
‘O’Brien!’ An authoritative voice hailed Samson from the larger room across the hall. He looked over and instantly felt the years peel away.
A set of bushy eyebrows beneath a bald head marked the man out as a Thistlethwaite. His accent marked him out as a native of Bruncliffe. Gabriel Thistlethwaite, brother of Seth, uncle of Matty and the person who had persuaded Samson O’Brien to join the police. Samson hadn’t seen him in twelve years.
‘Sir!’ Samson was already crossing towards him. ‘Chris didn’t mention it was you we were meeting.’
‘It’s not,’ said Gabriel, shaking hands with a firm grasp. ‘My days of policing are over. This is who you’re here to see.’
He moved to one side and, at a corner table next to another blazing fire, Samson saw a man of about his own age, possibly a bit older, with the same distinctive eyebrows but this time underneath a thick thatch of brown hair. The man stood, his hand extended in welcome, a wariness in his dark gaze.
‘I heard the prodigal son had returned,’ he said. ‘Dad’s itching to hear all about it.’
Frank Thistlethwaite. He’d been in the intake the year before Samson, following his father into the police but opting to do his probation in Bradford, away from the long shadow of Chief Superintendent Gabriel Thistlethwaite. Samson had seen very little of him during his time in Leeds.
‘Not much to tell,’ lied Samson. ‘How about you? Still over in Bradford?’
Frank shook his head. ‘Back here now. Have been for some time.’
‘He’s a DCI,’ said Gabriel, proudly.
Detective Chief Inspector. Samson was impressed. Frank was climbing the ranks at a tremendous rate.
‘Not as exciting as undercover, I’m sure,’ said Frank with a self-effacing smile.
Date with Mystery Page 9