Samson had his secrets, of course. That woman with the voice like honey who’d called him before Christmas. The same woman he’d been to see in York. There’d been other instances since his arrival back in Bruncliffe, too, when Delilah had witnessed first hand the ease with which he lied. Covering for her nephew Nathan after the disaster up at High Laithe in November was just one of them.
Lying was a part of his job. It had been something he’d excelled at, all those years down south. Good enough a dissembler that he’d been chosen to join some crack law-enforcement group – what had Gabriel called it? The National Crime Agency? Four months home and even with all they’d been through in that short time, Samson hadn’t uttered a word about it. Or corrected anyone when they mentioned he worked with the Metropolitan Police.
She stared at the sleeping figure, the mass of dark hair tumbling over his jacket collar, long legs stretched out between the seats.
Just how well did she know Samson O’Brien?
A grey head lifted up from the floor, amber eyes regarding her intently. She put a hand out and stroked Tolpuddle, feeling the pressure under her touch as he pushed back into the embrace.
‘You think he’s all right, don’t you, boy?’ she whispered, scratching behind his ears.
Tolpuddle gave a sigh, his head falling back onto his paws and, before long, he’d returned to his dreams, legs twitching, tail giving an occasional thump. Delilah was left alone with her worries, wondering if she could base her trust on the opinion of a dog.
The cold walk back from the station was enough to rouse Samson from his train-induced drowsiness. He’d accompanied Delilah and Tolpuddle as far as the marketplace, bid them goodnight, and then turned back towards the ginnel that led to the office. Ostensibly to collect his motorbike and ride back to his non-existent flat in Hellifield.
He would tell her, he promised himself as he opened the gate, a few spots of rain starting to fall. Come clean and admit to abusing his tenancy agreement. When he got paid for the Thornton case and he had a bit more money in his pocket and could honestly claim to be looking for somewhere.
Walking past the Royal Enfield, Samson let himself into the building, keeping the lights off as always. No need to alert the neighbours to his unauthorised presence. He made his way through the small kitchen and into the hallway, the passage darker than usual, the council still not having fixed the street light that normally provided illumination through the fanlight above the front door. Which is why he didn’t see it. But as he turned to go up the stairs, his right foot caught the edge of it. Enough to make it crackle.
Samson froze at the noise. Lifted his foot. Then crouched down to the floor, took his mobile out of his pocket and turned on the torch. In the harsh light that splashed across the tiles he saw a rectangle of white. An envelope. Face-down.
Laughing at his thumping heart, he picked it up, expecting a flyer. Or perhaps a payment for either himself or Delilah. Maybe someone wanting to hire them.
But it was none of those. Samson could tell without even opening it. For splayed across the front of the envelope was a selection of letters of varying fonts, roughly cut and pasted into place to spell out a single word:
Somehow Samson didn’t think it would contain a request for his services. He slid his finger under the seal and opened it.
9
Rain. Falling from the leaden sky onto the fells. Trickling over the limestone and down the hills, flooding the fields and spilling out onto the lanes, leaving deep puddles and blocking roads. Streaming down pavements and pooling in the potholes in the ginnels. Seeping under cottage doors and saturating gardens. The Dales winter had turned decidedly soggy.
Samson stood staring through the window of Turpin’s solicitors at the marketplace below. It was deserted, the cobbles slick with water, shop windows misted up. Having started the night before as Samson and Delilah arrived back from Leeds, at nine-thirty the following morning there was no sign of the rain easing. Friday was in danger of being a washout – both in terms of weather and business.
First, Ida Capstick hadn’t turned up to clean at the office, so Samson had been unable to find out more about her role in the exchange of letters between Livvy and her mother. Then Delilah had arrived to inform him rather brusquely that Frank Thistlethwaite had called her that morning. The policeman had found no records of a fatal accident involving Livvy. If the conversation between Delilah and Frank had strayed onto more personal matters, she didn’t say. And given the sour mood she was in, Samson hadn’t lingered to ask.
With the day already shaping up to be a dud, Samson had left for Turpin’s solicitors to give a report on the case – alone, thanks to Delilah spurning his invitation to join him. He’d laid the bare facts out before Matty who, as Samson had anticipated, didn’t relish how tangled the situation had become – a dead girl everyone remembered alive, but whom no one could recall dying. The solicitor had digested the news sitting back in his armchair, deep in thought, leaving Samson to appreciate the exceptionally good coffee that clients could bank on at the law firm. And to prowl across the office to the window. The investigation into Livvy Thornton was troubling them both.
With his mood as heavy as the clouds stretching across the town, Samson turned back to Matty.
‘I don’t get it,’ the solicitor said. ‘How can there be no record of her death, official or otherwise?’
‘It’s an odd one all right.’ Samson resumed his seat and placed his empty cup on the coffee table between them, wondering if it would be impolite to ask for another, while, fingers steepled under his chin, thick eyebrows drawn together in a frown of concentration, his friend tried to process everything he’d been told.
‘The women at the hairdresser’s knew Livvy,’ Matty murmured, ‘cousin Frank can even remember her singing at a gig, and the address on the letters Jimmy found correlates with what Livvy told the hairdresser. But we have nothing. No paperwork. No newspaper clippings. No police report. Nothing to prove she is dead. How can that be possible?’ He sat forward, noticed Samson’s empty cup and reached for the cafetière. ‘More?’
‘Please.’ Samson tried not to look too keen.
‘Any idea where we go from here?’ asked Matty, topping up his own cup, too.
‘We don’t have a lot of options. From what we’ve uncovered, we have to accept that it’s highly unlikely Livvy Thornton died in Leeds. So we need to start looking elsewhere.’
‘Where?’
‘Up at Rainsrigg.’
Matty looked shocked. ‘You think there’s something more sinister going on here?’
Samson reached into his pocket and placed a ziplock plastic bag on the table. Inside was a single sheet of A4 paper and an envelope.
‘What’s this?’ Matty pulled the bag towards him and peered at the contents. Then he stared across at Samson. ‘Where did you get it?’
‘It was waiting for me at the office last night. I called in to get my motorbike and it was by the front door.’
‘You think it relates to the Thornton case?’
Samson shrugged, rereading the odd assortment of black and yellow letters that had been pasted across the page to form two sentences:
‘I can’t think of any other case it could be referring to,’ he said, not wanting to acknowledge that the only investigation he had on was the one Matty had given him. When he’d read the note the night before, for a brief moment Samson had wondered if it could be part of the corruption that had wormed its way into his life. But somehow he didn’t think the men he’d encountered in London, with their heavy boots and powerful fists, were the type to cut out letters and paste them on paper in order to get a message across. Their threats tended to be more physical. And delivered in person.
‘Do you think it’s serious?’ asked Matty.
‘Someone took the time to produce this,’ said Samson. ‘I’d say they were serious enough.’
‘Enough to involve the police?’
Samson had been expecting this question from
the cautious solicitor. ‘Not yet. It’s a lead of sorts and we’re precious short of those, so I’d prefer to keep this between us for now.’
‘Fine. But if it escalates into anything else . . .’ Matty was looking at Samson, both of them aware of the recent Dales Detective Agency cases that had turned dangerous.
‘You’ll be the first to know.’
Satisfied, the solicitor placed the letter back on the coffee table. ‘So,’ he said, ‘enlighten me. How is this connected to the search for Livvy’s death certificate?’
It was something Samson had been giving a lot of thought. He took another sip of the delicious coffee as he tried to form the words needed to articulate the kernel of suspicion Chris Metcalfe had triggered in the Angel pub the night before; a suspicion which had fermented into a tangible sense of deceit pervading everything about the case, only strengthened by the anonymous warning letter and the news from Frank Thistlethwaite that morning.
‘Let me put it this way,’ he began. ‘In all your years of settling wills, have you ever come across an unrecorded death?’
‘Never. The odd complication, but usually it’s down to a computer error.’
Samson smiled, thinking of Delilah’s protestations about computers and errors. ‘But never a situation like this.’
‘No.’
‘Exactly. Yet we’re trying to make Livvy’s death fit in with the scenario of a hit-and-run in Leeds because that’s what we’ve been told, despite the fact that all the evidence is telling us that Leeds is not where she died.’
‘But what you’re saying . . .’
‘I’m saying that someone has been lying. Possibly more than one person. And this,’ he gestured at the letter, ‘just reinforces that belief. If Livvy’s death was straightforward, why would someone be trying to dissuade me from looking into it?’
Matty tapped the arm of his chair as he contemplated this unexpected turn in what he’d thought was a simple case. ‘It’s plausible,’ he muttered. ‘All we know about Livvy’s death has come second-hand.’
‘And from the Thornton family,’ added Samson, pointedly.
Matty’s fingers stopped their staccato beat and he stared at Samson. ‘You’re right. We – the town, everyone – that’s how we heard back then that Livvy had died. Carl Thornton told us. But why would the Thorntons lie about it? And how could they get away with it?’
‘Your Uncle Gabriel gave me the answer to that. He said Marian Thornton came from down south somewhere and Carl was from Bradford. They had no immediate family in Bruncliffe. No one to dispute whatever they wanted to say.’
Matty slumped in his armchair. ‘Christ! You realise what you’re suggesting?’
Samson nodded. While he wished he could share Delilah’s optimism, years of experience led him to agree with his former boss, Gabriel, that in the face of what they knew, there was little to be hopeful about when it came to the fate of Livvy Thornton.
‘Thing is,’ he said, ‘it’s not just me suggesting it. Both Gabriel and Frank came to the same conclusion last night.’
At the mention of his relatives, Matty gave a small smile. ‘I’m happy to proceed on your analysis alone, as you know. But I have to admit I’ll feel happier going forward with this – given how distasteful it will be – knowing those two agreed with you.’
‘So you want me to take this further?’ asked Samson.
‘What choice do I have? The will can’t be settled without that piece of paper, wherever we get it from.’
‘We could be about to unearth a lot of misery. And anger, if this warning is anything to go by.’
Matty grimaced. ‘I’m aware of that. But it’s unavoidable.’ He glanced out of the window. ‘Poor Jimmy,’ he muttered. ‘He’s been through so much.’
Samson knew that Jimmy Thornton was about to go through a hell of a lot more. Because the questions Samson was going to have to ask him would throw suspicion on the people he had cared about most – his family. And possibly even himself.
‘I’m presuming that’s where you’ll begin this new line of enquiry?’ Matty asked. ‘With Jimmy?’
‘At first. But there’s a couple of other things I want to have a look at. It will involve expenses.’
‘Such as?’
‘The deeds for the house in North Park Avenue, for a start,’ said Samson. He’d elected not to include his trespass onto the property, or the ensuing race with the Rottweiler, in his report to the staid solicitor. Nor had he mentioned anything about Rick Procter’s interests in the house, never one for playing his cards anywhere but close to his chest. ‘Livvy Thornton was using the address to collect her post, so she must have had some form of contact with the owner, even if she wasn’t living there. It would help us to know who that person was.’
‘I thought you said Livvy’s old boss at the hairdresser’s tried that address and had no luck? Isn’t it going to be a dead end?’
‘Mrs Atkins didn’t remember the house number. Just that it was on North Park Avenue. It’s possible she tried the wrong place.’
‘Possible, but unlikely. You’re right, though. It won’t hurt to check out who the owner was back then. We might hit lucky for once in this case. Anything else?’
‘Burial records,’ said Samson. ‘I’m presuming we know where Livvy was buried – or Jimmy does? We should at least be able to get proof of her internment, and that should lead us closer to getting the essential proof of death.’
Matty slapped his forehead and smiled. ‘Excellent idea. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that already.’
‘That’s what you’re paying me for,’ replied Samson with a grin. He stood up and put his jacket on, preparing to take his leave.
‘I’m clearly paying you far too much,’ joked the solicitor, giving Samson’s black parka an approving nod. ‘New jacket, I see. Wasn’t your last one up to our Bruncliffe winters?’
‘Something like that,’ murmured Samson. He had an unwelcome flashback of snarling teeth and shredded fabric.
‘So how soon do you think you might have something for me?’ Matty asked as he held open the office door.
‘As soon as I can. I’ve cleared my schedule and I’m giving this my full attention. And as for our mystery letter writer,’ said Samson, tucking the ziplock bag back in his pocket, ‘I’d rather you didn’t mention it to anyone for now. Especially not Delilah.’
‘You haven’t told her?’
‘Not yet. I don’t want her worrying about it. She’s got enough on her plate with the threat of losing Tolpuddle.’
‘Ah!’ Matty looked relieved. ‘I’m glad to hear she’s told you about that. Are you going to be able to help her?’
Samson grimaced. ‘I wouldn’t bank on it. I’ve had no bright ideas so far and time’s running out. Neil Taylor is coming up on Sunday to make good on his threat.’
‘Damn!’ the solicitor cursed softly.
‘Precisely,’ muttered Samson, hating the thought of letting Delilah down. And Tolpuddle, too.
‘Well, if anyone is capable of taking the wind out of Neil’s sails, it’s you,’ said Matty, patting Samson’s back with a confidence the detective didn’t share. ‘I’m sure you’ll think of something.’
They shook hands and Samson made his way through the outer office and down the stairs to the marketplace, where the rain was bouncing off the cobbles. Pulling up the lined hood of his parka, he stepped out into the damp winter morning, marvelling at the wonder of his new jacket. It wasn’t long before that wonder had been replaced by thoughts of Livvy Thornton and the mystery surrounding her death.
Approaching Jimmy Thornton seemed the most logical way to commence this second round of digging into the past. But as Samson walked down Back Street, passing Plastic Fantastic on the corner, its piles of gaudily coloured plastic items slick in the rain, his attention was drawn to the shop on the far side of the Dales Detective Agency.
Of course! A grin split his face. It was the perfect place to start.
Ten o’clo
ck and already Delilah was in despair.
Throwing her pen onto the desk, she pushed back her chair and crossed to the window. Through the rain-streaked glass she could see the motorbike in the back yard, its chrome marred with water, the scarlet struggling to shine in the gloom.
What awful weather. It was worse than a full-on storm, this constant drip-drip-drip from the sagging skies.
With a sigh of impatience she turned her back on it, leaving the office and heading for the kitchen. A cup of tea. That would take her mind off her impossible task for a while. Filling the kettle occupied her for a couple of seconds, but as soon as she switched it on, her thoughts returned to Clive Knowles.
A wife. For a man unfit to be in polite company. How on earth was she ever going to do it? It was little wonder she wasn’t getting anywhere.
Although, if she was honest with herself, her lack of progress was more to do with a lack of concentration.
Bloody Frank Thistlethwaite. The words he’d whispered in her ear the day before had wormed their way into her heart and she’d spent the night tossing and turning under her duvet, wondering what she should do. Then he’d called first thing, just as she’d been persuading herself that he was being over-dramatic. He’d told her about his lack of success in finding anything relating to Livvy Thornton’s accident and then asked her out. Just like that.
After a night of no sleep, Delilah had been caught off-guard. She’d mumbled something about being busy, promised she’d be in touch next time she was in Leeds to visit Chris, and hung up quickly, as flustered as a fourteen-year-old schoolgirl. But not before Frank had reiterated his exhortation about her tenant.
O’Brien is bad news. Keep your distance.
While Delilah could ignore her older brother’s advice in the way siblings tended to, and Rick Procter’s protestations about the calibre of the returned black sheep could be put down to a mutual dislike between the two men, Frank’s repeated words of caution had struck a chord. He had no axe to grind when it came to Samson O’Brien. If anything, given his father’s clear respect for the man and their shared background in the police force, Frank should surely be inclined to give Samson the benefit of the doubt when it came to character assessment.
Date with Mystery Page 11