‘Don’t believe everything you hear,’ said Samson as Chris arrived with a tray of drinks, Delilah and Tolpuddle with him.
‘Delilah Metcalfe!’ announced Gabriel, pulling her into a bear hug. ‘You’re all grown-up. I remember you as a tiny thing, running after those five brothers of yours and getting into more trouble than all of them put together.’
‘Nothing much changed there then,’ muttered Chris with a meaningful stare at his sister.
She ignored him, holding out her hand towards Gabriel’s son instead. ‘I don’t think we’ve met,’ she said.
Frank grinned, eyes twinkling as he took her hand. ‘We have. When you were a nipper with a hell of a temper. Shame you don’t remember, because I’d prefer the welcome you gave Dad. I’m guessing you save that for old friends?’
Delilah blushed, fussing with Tolpuddle’s lead while Frank pulled a chair out for her.
Gallantry. Samson had always felt it was overrated. He took a seat next to his former boss.
‘So what’s brought you home, lad?’ asked Gabriel with a directness that was as hereditary in the Thistlethwaite line as unruly eyebrows.
‘Time for a change.’ Samson held the older man’s gaze, knowing he wasn’t easy to fool.
‘And the force?’
Acutely aware of everyone listening, Samson kept it casual. ‘I’ve taken a sabbatical.’
Gabriel gave a slow nod. ‘Understandable, with the kind of work you were doing. But don’t leave it too long, son. It’s hard to go back to undercover. The nerves go.’
‘That’s presuming they’ll have him back,’ said Frank with a light laugh.
‘One of the best coppers ever to come out of this district. Of course they’ll have him back,’ barked Gabriel. ‘Not many get called up to the Met and then go on to be seconded to SOCA.’
‘SOCA?’ asked Chris.
‘Serious Organised Crime Agency. Been rebranded since as the National Crime Agency, but it does the same job. Top-notch crime-fighting unit.’
‘I thought you were just in the Met?’ asked Delilah, looking at Samson with open admiration.
‘It’s no big deal,’ he muttered. The attention and the subject matter were both making him uncomfortable. But his old chief superintendent wasn’t about to let it drop.
‘Don’t go hiding your lights under a bushel!’ boomed Gabriel, slapping his protégé on the back with a hefty clout that almost shook the drink from Samson’s grasp. ‘You were hand-picked, and I have it on good authority that you excelled.’
Frank dipped his focus to his pint. When he looked back up, there was a hardness to his gaze, enough to make Samson paranoid that the younger Thistlethwaite knew what was coming down the line. And that it would tarnish Samson’s stellar reputation forever.
‘How’s retirement?’ Samson asked, steering the conversation onto safer grounds.
‘Endless golf. Long walks with the dog. Three holidays a year.’ Gabriel picked up his pint, took a drink and grimaced. ‘I bloody hate it,’ he cursed.
Delilah laughed. ‘You sound like my father. He gave up farming, supposedly, but we can’t keep him out of the fields. Drives Will mad.’
‘They’re intense professions,’ said Gabriel. ‘A way of life more than a job. And Samson here has tasted both.’
Tasted both and lost both, thought Samson, picturing the abandoned farmhouse in Thorpdale that now belonged to Procter Properties. In a few weeks’ time he could be walking away from his police career, too.
‘So what brings you to Leeds?’ asked Frank, with a hint of impatience. ‘Chris mentioned an investigation.’
‘We’re working for Matty,’ said Samson. ‘He’s trying to locate a death certificate for a local girl who died twenty-four years ago.’
‘What’s the connection to here?’
‘She was working in Roundhay when she was killed in a hit-and-run. But there’s no record of her death at the register office, or in the local papers for the time—’
‘Samson’s too polite to ask,’ chipped in Delilah with a smile aimed at Frank, ‘but it would help if we knew whether there was a police file on the accident.’
The frown that had marred the policeman’s forehead during his exchange with Samson disappeared as he turned his attention to Delilah. ‘I’d love to be able to help,’ said Frank, with a warmth that had been missing in his earlier conversation, ‘but if you haven’t had any success with the register office or the newspapers, I wouldn’t rate your chances of finding anything in our files. It sounds like the whole thing is a wild goose chase. What was her name?’
‘Olivia Thornton. She went by the name of Livvy. Does the name mean anything to you?’
‘I’m afraid not. She was here way before my time in the force.’ He looked at his father but the older Thistlethwaite was shaking his head.
‘Doesn’t ring a bell with me, either,’ said Gabriel. ‘Was she one of the quarry Thorntons?’
‘Yes,’ said Delilah. ‘They’re not Bruncliffe, are they?’
Samson noted the phrasing of the question, so typical of people who could trace their ancestry back multiple generations, all within a five-mile radius.
‘No,’ concurred Gabriel. ‘The mother was from down south somewhere. And the father was from Bradford.’
His son glanced at him. ‘Not one of the notorious Thorntons?’
‘A branch of them. He didn’t have a criminal record, but I seem to remember he had a reputation for being quick with his fists. What was his name . . . ?’
‘Carl. And I can vouch for that reputation,’ said Samson, thinking of the times he’d seen the man throwing his weight around the Fleece.
‘So it’s his daughter you’re investigating?’ continued Gabriel. ‘I don’t remember her coming over here. Normally I’ve got my ear to the ground whenever folk come from home, but she must have slipped the net. Unless . . . when did you say she was here?’
‘Twenty-four years ago,’ said Delilah.
Gabriel nodded. ‘I was on secondment over in Bradford. Otherwise I’d have kept an eye out for her. Poor lass. She can’t have been that old.’
‘She was only seventeen when she died.’
The retired policeman sighed. ‘Youngsters running away from home. They always think the city will offer up something more dramatic than the fells and dales of Bruncliffe. Trouble is, they’re not always equipped to handle it.’ He glanced at Samson. ‘Not sure how you’d have turned out if I hadn’t found you in that dive of a pub you were working in.’
Samson grinned, thinking back to the day when big Gabriel Thistlethwaite had walked into the Anvil, the regulars almost choking on their pints at the sight of a high-ranking policeman in full uniform striding up to the bar. It had been deliberate, the uniform. He’d greeted Samson like a long-lost son and marked him out as connected to the police. Tainting him in the eyes of the suspicious locals who didn’t take kindly to law enforcement. Or to the bar staff having affiliations to it.
Then he’d told Samson to join the force. That if he didn’t have an application in within the week, he would be visited every day by a constable in uniform, until his job became untenable. Looking over Gabriel’s shoulder at the angry stares of the old timers, Samson knew his time at the Anvil was already up. He’d gone home that night and applied to the police.
‘I’d probably be living off illicit earnings and a lot happier,’ laughed Samson.
Gabriel laughed with him, but Frank merely raised an eyebrow and picked up his pint.
‘So you don’t remember Livvy, then? Either of you?’ continued Delilah.
‘Sorry, no,’ said Frank.
‘What about Olivia Nightingale? Apparently Livvy used to sing at the Fforde Grene under that name.’
Gabriel was already shaking his head. But Livvy’s stage persona had caught Frank’s attention.
‘Olivia Nightingale?’ he said with pleasant surprise. ‘Her I remember. I used to sneak into the Ffordy with a couple of mates and while I’ve h
appily forgotten most of the bands we saw, she was special. She had a voice like an angel. Stunner, too.’
‘Do you have any idea when that was?’ asked Samson.
‘Sure. The spring I turned sixteen. I can remember hearing her for the first time. I didn’t touch my pint for the entire session.’
‘Your pint?’ queried Gabriel. ‘You were underage. How the hell did you get served?’
Frank shot a grin at his father. ‘Fake ID.’
Gabriel grunted and clipped his son around the ear. ‘Better late than never,’ he muttered, shaking his head at this revelation.
‘So you actually heard her perform?’ asked Delilah, as Frank rubbed his ear, still grinning.
‘Many times. She wasn’t around for long, though, a couple of months or so. When she stopped appearing, we were all heartbroken.’
‘And you never knew why she just disappeared?’
Frank shook his head. ‘We just presumed she’d gone on to better things than the Ffordy on a weeknight. She had the talent for it.’
‘So Livvy Thornton was definitely here,’ murmured Samson. ‘Working in the hairdresser’s and performing at night.’
‘Trouble is,’ said Delilah, ‘people remember her being alive. But no one remembers her death. Maybe we’re looking at this the wrong way round?’
‘In what sense?’
She shrugged. ‘Perhaps there was no accident.’
‘You’re not suggesting she’s alive?’ asked Chris.
‘Yes . . . no . . . I mean, I don’t see how that can be. But logically, if there’s no evidence of the incident, wouldn’t that suggest there’s some hope?’
The look Gabriel gave Delilah was world-weary. ‘I love your optimism, young lady. But when you’ve been in the police as long as I have, you soon realise that hope is best reserved for lottery tickets. I’m afraid not having a paperwork trail doesn’t preclude someone from having met a sad fate.’
‘He’s right, Delilah,’ said Samson.
‘Besides,’ added Chris, ‘there are people who remember Livvy’s death. The whole of Bruncliffe, for a start. It’s simply that there’s no record of it in Leeds.’
The three policemen turned in unison to the doctor, his words striking a chord of suspicion in all of them.
‘He’s got a point,’ said Gabriel, frowning. ‘Perhaps it’s not the death you need to be questioning, but the location of it. And the person who told you about it.’
‘You mean . . . ?’ Delilah looked around the table, perturbed by the grim expressions displayed there.
‘He means,’ said Samson, darkly, ‘there’s probably more to this than meets the eye. And the answer may well lie closer to home.’
Darkness pushing against the carriage windows, the Bruncliffe-bound train rattled along the tracks towards home. Relieved to be out of the city, Samson stared into the night, occasional lights from isolated farmhouses pin-pricking the distance. Even though he couldn’t see the fells, he could feel them, a sense of openness and expanse that was lacking amongst the high-rises and terraced streets of Leeds. It was as though he could breathe more easily, feel lighter.
He smiled ironically at his own reflection in the glass. He was turning into a country bumpkin. God knows how he was going to be able to go back to London when the time came.
Sidestepping the thought, he let his gaze shift, the mirrorlike window allowing him to covertly study the woman in the seat opposite: Delilah curled up asleep, shoes off, head resting on her bunched-up coat. Below her, Tolpuddle lay sprawled along the floor, the heater blasting out over him, soft doggie snores just about audible. At least he was only snoring. They’d been vigilant in the pub, making sure no one fed the hound beer while they fussed over him.
It had been a strange encounter. Catching up with his old boss after all these years had been a treat for Samson. Meeting his boss’s son again, less so. There was something about the way Frank Thistlethwaite had regarded him that made Samson suspect the worse. Already at the rank of detective chief inspector and only a few years older than Samson, the younger Thistlethwaite was tracking his father’s footsteps and heading for heights that Samson would never attain. Even without the threat of dismissal and possibly prison hanging over him. So it was entirely feasible that Frank, with a network of contacts in the force, knew all about Samson’s impending problems. And being a Thistlethwaite, he would hardly approve.
But at least he hadn’t mentioned his suspicions to his father. If Gabriel had had an inkling of what was going on, he’d have tackled Samson about it, regardless of the setting or who was present. It wasn’t in his nature to tippy-toe around a subject. Especially not one as toxic as a suspension, pending investigation. The thought of his old boss’s inevitable disappointment when the news did finally break made Samson sick to the stomach. Yet another person he’d have let down.
He turned from the window, not caring for the image it was throwing back at him. At least meeting the Thistlethwaites had given them a bit more insight into Livvy Thornton’s life before she was killed. And with Frank promising Delilah – pointedly, Delilah and not Samson – that he’d run a check through the police files for the accident, one more avenue of enquiry had been duly investigated. That his offer of assistance had given DCI Thistlethwaite the perfect excuse to elicit Delilah’s phone number hadn’t escaped Samson’s notice. Nor had he missed the warmth with which Frank had bid Delilah goodnight. A warmth which had been reciprocated.
Overcome with a disgruntlement he wasn’t in the mood to analyse, Samson forced his attention back to the case. It was getting more complicated by the hour. And the fact that the evening had brought into question where – and possibly how – Livvy had been killed was something Samson would have to broach with Matty. The solicitor had approached the Dales Detective Agency over the simple matter of finding a death certificate. Samson wasn’t sure how keen he would be to extend that into solving what was turning out to be a mystery. One that might involve something darker than a missing piece of paper.
First thing in the morning, Samson decided, he’d speak to Ida Capstick when she came in to clean the office. Over their regular cup of tea, it would be interesting to hear how she’d come by her role of intermediary, and how exactly letters had been passed between Livvy and her mother. Then he’d call over to the solicitor’s and report back on the day in Leeds. Although, given that the Bruncliffe grapevine tended to include members of families who’d long left the town, there was every chance Matty was getting an update from his uncle or even his cousin right now. Perhaps an update that covered more than the investigation Samson was working on, if Frank was the one doing the calling.
It wouldn’t be long before all of Bruncliffe knew.
Impatient at the way his thoughts kept turning, Samson pulled up the collar on his new jacket and shuffled down in his seat, closing his eyes in an effort to shut out the trouble. And instantly he saw the sharp teeth and strong jaw of the Rottweiler lunging for him. With a jerk he snapped back upright.
Procter Properties. What on earth were they doing with a dog like that roaming their premises? Yet another puzzle he needed to work on. With a sigh he closed his eyes again and was asleep before anything else could disturb him.
Bruncliffe was winter-dark, thick cloud cover having blocked out the moon and stars, leaving the street lights to do battle with the night alone. In the marketplace they held their own, the cobbles glinting underneath their soft glow. But away from the shop fronts and the majestic facade of the town hall, down the narrow streets and ginnels that radiated out from the square, it was a different story.
Bereft of all but two lamp posts and with only the furthest of those in working order, Back Street was pooled in darkness. Plastic Fantastic was shuttered. Shear Good Looks likewise. The unlit windows of the Dales Detective Agency and its partner dating agency stared out on the empty street. Only the Fleece provided any illumination, a muted yellow spilling from behind the glass. It wasn’t enough to dispel the pockets of shadow
that stretched along the road. It wasn’t enough to highlight the hunched figure that slipped out of the ginnel beyond the hairdresser’s to make its way along the pavement opposite the pub.
To the casual observer, it was just an evening walk in the cold. Black winter coat. Collar pulled up. Hat pulled low. A scarf wrapped around the lower half of the face. There was nothing to remark about any of it. Even the pause outside the door opposite the Fleece. Just a brief rest during a bit of exercise.
In the gloom that pervaded, it would have taken sharp eyes to see what happened next. The gloved hand moving swiftly, pushing something through the letter box with haste. But careful enough to ease the flap closed quietly after it. Then a swift turn and the figure was walking away from the gold lettering on the darkened window and the closed office building, melting back into the night.
He was asleep at last. As the train pulled out of Gargrave station, Delilah peeked across at her dozing tenant, his sleep-softened features making him look vulnerable.
She’d been feigning slumber herself since they boarded the train in Leeds, uncomfortable at the thought of having to talk to him in the intimate setting of the sparsely populated train carriage as it trundled through the dark, given what she’d been told.
Was it true? Was he trouble?
Through the fabric of her coat, she could feel the hard edges of the business card Frank Thistlethwaite had given her when she was leaving. While Samson had been saying goodbye to her brother and Gabriel Thistlethwaite, Frank had leaned in to kiss her, pressing the card into her hand. And as his lips had brushed her cheek, he’d whispered a warning.
‘O’Brien is bad news. Keep your distance.’
Frank Thistlethwaite. She knew of him, even if she didn’t remember him from her childhood. He seemed as solid as his father. As his uncle Seth. And his cousin Matty. All men she would trust. Yet Frank was telling her to steer clear of Samson O’Brien. Why would he say that if he didn’t mean it?
Added to her brother Will’s misgivings about the returned black sheep, and Rick Procter’s clear mistrust of the man, Frank’s words had worried her. Were they right? Could they all see something behind the charming smile and the good humour that she couldn’t?
Date with Mystery Page 10