Painfully aware of what happened the last time she failed to heed advice when it came to men – the fallout from her disastrous marriage having repercussions even now, threatening to take Tolpuddle from her – Delilah had resolved to take a step back and give herself a chance to make an objective assessment of the man sharing her office space. And a lot of her life. Since his arrival in October they’d been thrown together, first in the spate of murders that had targeted her dating agency and then in the horrible events up at Fellside Court. It was time to take a breather and let her head be the judge of Samson O’Brien, rather than her way-more-impulsive heart.
She’d taken the first steps by turning down Samson’s invitation to accompany him to Turpin’s for his meeting with Matty, figuring that quelling her burning curiosity when it came to the Livvy Thornton case was a small price to pay. If Samson had been surprised by her refusal, he hadn’t said. And so now Delilah was trying to make the most of the empty premises by getting down to some work that would cover the bills. She was finding it impossible, however, to remain focused on finding a bride for Clive Knowles.
Hearing familiar voices in the street outside, she glanced out of the kitchen window. Talk of the devil. Samson was speaking to Seth Thistlethwaite in the doorway of the Fleece.
Damn! He was back already. She was preparing to flee, tea untouched, when he looked up and saw her there, throwing up an arm in greeting, a smile accompanying it. She waved back instinctively. Then he turned and walked away, and Delilah cursed herself for the sense of disappointment that welled up when she realised he wasn’t coming into the office.
Taking her tea with her, she went back to her desk and resumed her work. She would find the farmer a wife. Even if it bloody killed her. Because she needed something to take her mind off the conundrum that was Samson O’Brien.
A small whimper from the curled-up shadow in the dog bed across the room reminded her that she wasn’t the only one obsessed with the returned detective. Tolpuddle had barely seen Samson today and he wasn’t appreciating the change in habit. He’d spent the majority of the morning lying down in the doorway of Samson’s office, giving her reproving glances whenever she tried to tempt him upstairs to his bed.
‘It’s for our own good, Tolpuddle,’ Delilah muttered as she forced herself to focus on her computer screen. She wasn’t sure the dog believed that, any more than she did herself.
Shear Good Looks. The sign, decorated with a sheep and a pair of clippers, hung on the front of the premises next to the Dales Detective Agency. Through the misted window, Samson could see it was busy. Of course it was. The hair salon served as a news service, attracting people who wanted to catch up on local events as much as get themselves a new haircut. With trepidation, he pushed open the door and entered.
Three chairs facing mirrors along the left, all full, with hairdressers working over clients at various stages of being coiffured. Two sinks on the back wall, a young girl bent over an elderly lady as she washed her hair, chatting away. And on the right two chairs, both occupied by waiting customers, and two more chairs under dryer hoods, both empty.
‘Finally!’ exclaimed Jo Whitfield, looking up from the curlers she was applying to a grey head of hair. The same age as Samson, the intervening years since they’d both left school had seen Jo rise from a trainee to owner of the salon. They’d also seen her figure soften, the whip-thin, self-confident teenager who’d intimidated the boys now a plumper, more approachable woman. The cheeky smile aimed in Samson’s direction, however, was exactly the same. ‘Are you going to let me loose on those locks?’
Samson laughed. ‘Not yet.’
‘Thought it was too good to be true. You’re here about Livvy Thornton, I’m guessing.’
The comment caused Samson to pause, shocked yet again by the speed with which news travelled around the town. ‘How—?’
‘How did I know?’ Jo grinned. ‘You’re not the only one capable of making deductions around here, Sherlock. Everyone’s talking about Mrs Thornton’s will and the fact you’re chasing down a death certificate.’ She shrugged. ‘Livvy trained here for a while, so I presumed you’d call in at some point. Grab a seat and I’ll be with you in a bit.’ She nodded towards the bank of dryers.
Samson had no choice but to duck under one of the dryer hoods and sit down. It was only then that he noticed the person sitting next to him. Mrs Pettiford from the bank – Bruncliffe’s equivalent of a tabloid newspaper.
‘How was York?’ she asked, a glint in her eye.
In the mirror across the room, Samson saw Jo Whitfield grinning back at him. It was going to be a long wait.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting.’
Half an hour later, having withstood a barrage of questions from Mrs Pettiford about his detective agency, his private life and his father, Samson was relieved when Jo Whitfield beckoned him towards a door at the back of the salon.
‘It’s not normally this manic in February,’ she explained as she led the way into a small staffroom. ‘But I can’t complain. How was your chat with Mrs Pettiford? Did she get anything out of you?’
Samson gave her a wry look. ‘That woman has the tenacity of a terrier. The merest scent of a story and she starts digging.’
‘Careful! That’s my mother-in-law you’re talking about,’ said Jo, before bursting into laughter at Samson’s stricken expression.
‘Really? I had no idea,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’
She waved away his apology. ‘Ex-mother-in-law, in truth. The marriage lasted ten years, but she thinks that gives her the right to a family discount on haircuts for life. Still, it means there’s not much goes on in town I don’t know about.’
Marvelling yet again at the network of relationships that ran through Bruncliffe, a myriad of interconnections that he, as a relative outsider, would never fully uncover, Samson took a seat at the small table in the corner while Jo filled two mugs from a coffee machine on the counter.
‘You’ve done well for yourself,’ he said. ‘Running your own business. Employing staff.’
Jo laughed. ‘It’s a long way from being told off for talking in class. God, I look back at my teenage self and I feel sorry for the teachers.’
‘And the boys,’ said Samson. ‘We were all terrified of you. You seemed so much older than us. Wiser, too.’
‘I don’t know about that. I’m in my mid-thirties, with a failed marriage and two kids. I don’t feel very wise.’ She passed him a mug and took a seat opposite him. ‘And you never struck me as being afraid of anything. Or anyone. You always had an aura of independence about you.’
He smiled. ‘I just hid it better than the other lads. Believe me, you girls with your short skirts and make-up were more terrifying than much of what I’ve faced since.’
She smiled back at him. ‘Those were the days. Talking of which – Livvy Thornton.’
‘You knew her well?’
‘Quite well. Mum worked here part-time back when Mrs Walker ran the place, so I used to hang out in the salon on Saturday mornings. I remember Livvy starting her training.’ Jo laughed softly. ‘She turned up with her dog, Red. A beautiful collie. Well, Mrs Walker went apoplectic, telling Livvy she couldn’t have a dog in the salon, that it was unhygienic and all that. By the end of the day, Red was curled up by the hairdryers and Mrs Walker was worshipping the ground Livvy walked on. As were the rest of us.’
‘Sounds like she was quite a character.’
‘She was amazing. She’d walk in the place and it was like someone had turned the Christmas lights on. So vibrant. And so patient with me. I was only ten, but I was given full responsibility for Red every Saturday, walking him, feeding him. God, I loved that dog. I don’t know which I was more upset about when Livvy went to Leeds – losing her or losing him. And then for that accident to happen . . . What a waste!’ She sighed, then a slow smile crossed her face. ‘Livvy even allowed me to cut her hair once. It was only a couple of snips off the end, but even so, I felt like a proper hairdresser. I reckon
that’s how come I ended up becoming one.’
‘How long did she work here before she left for Leeds?’
‘I couldn’t tell you exactly, but it can’t have been that long because I was eleven when she died. So just under a year, maybe.’
‘Do you know why she left?’
‘I always presumed it was to complete her training somewhere a bit more exotic than here.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s not exactly demanding, working in a small town like this. Perms. Colours. The odd wedding. If you want to be more creative, you need to go somewhere like Leeds.’
‘Do you still think that’s the reason Livvy moved away?’
‘I don’t know. I thought about her a lot as I was training. Still do. There was something about her.’
‘Charisma?’ suggested Samson.
‘Certainly that, but also . . . a sadness.’ Jo took a sip of her coffee, Samson allowing her the space to continue her thoughts. ‘Despite the confidence and the bright persona, I always thought she seemed a bit sad.’
‘Any ideas why?’
‘Not then. Now?’ She shrugged again. ‘Perhaps her home life. I don’t think it was that great.’
‘In what way?’
Jo shook her head. ‘Listen, I’m not the one you should be asking all this. I was only a kid. Go and talk to Mrs Walker. She trained Livvy. She’d know more about her than I do.’
‘Mrs Walker’s still around?’ asked Samson, recalling the sharp-faced older woman who’d run the salon before he left town.
The hairdresser burst out laughing. ‘Yes, she’s still around, as you put it. And living in the same place as your father.’
‘She’s in Fellside Court?’
Jo nodded. ‘She moved in a year ago when her house got too much for her. Reckons it was the best decision she ever made – even after all that nastiness before Christmas.’ The hairdresser shot Samson a look of admiration. ‘You’re making friends fast in town, you know. What with all these villains you keep catching.’
He grimaced. ‘Not fast enough. There’s still folk that would prefer me to leave.’
A manicured hand flicked the air in dismissal. ‘A minority. One that’s best off ignored. You keep this up and you’ll be running for the town council next, mark my words!’ She glanced at her watch and rose from her chair. ‘Sorry. Got to get back to work. Good luck with the investigation. And if I can be of any more help, let me know.’
‘Thanks for your time,’ said Samson, walking with her to the door. ‘Oh, one more thing. Were you aware that Livvy was a singer?’
‘In the church choir? Yes. She had a beautiful voice. Sometimes she’d sing when she worked, without even knowing she was doing it. At first Mrs Walker used to get cross, muttering about disturbing the clients. But then, as with everything connected to Livvy, it just became normal, having “Amazing Grace” floating out over the noise of the hairdryers. It was lovely. We all missed it when she went.’
Thinking it doubtful that ‘Amazing Grace’ would have been in the repertoire of Olivia Nightingale at the Fforde Grene pub, Samson left the busy salon, wondering what had torn Livvy Thornton from her life in Bruncliffe. And what had happened to her afterwards.
A quick check of his mobile showed no emails requiring immediate attention, so deciding to strike while the iron was hot, he walked past the Dales Detective Agency and up Back Street to the marketplace. If he picked up the pace, he could reach Fellside Court just as the pensioners were having their coffee and cake.
Grinning at himself for knowing the timetable of the local retirement complex, he pulled up his hood and walked through the rain towards the far side of town.
10
Samson timed it perfectly. As he stood in the foyer of Fellside Court, shaking the worst of the wet off his parka, the residents were beginning to file out of the lounge, heading for the cafe that was in the front corner of the building.
‘Why, if it isn’t young Samson!’ exclaimed a loud voice, Arty Robinson standing at the end of the corridor, arms open wide in welcome. ‘Come and join us for a brew and a bite, lad.’
Samson didn’t wait for a second offer. With his breakfast several hours past, he was more than ready for some sustenance. Falling into step with the former bookmaker, he entered the cafe, Arty steering him towards a table by the windows that already had several people grouped around it, Edith Hird, her sister Clarissa and Joseph O’Brien amongst them. Samson noticed the guarded look on his father’s face as he approached.
‘You take a seat and I’ll get your tea,’ said Arty.
‘Coffee,’ said Samson hastily, not trusting the tea in Bruncliffe to be drinkable unless he made it himself. ‘And a cake,’ he added, reaching for his wallet.
Arty’s hand on his arm forestalled him. ‘My treat, lad.’ Samson began to protest, but the bookmaker overrode him. ‘I insist. We’re still in your debt in here. Let me at least buy you a coffee by way of thanks.’
‘Don’t argue, Samson,’ said Edith Hird, a smile on her face. ‘It’s not often Arty gets his wallet out.’
‘There’ll be moth-collectors in here in a minute,’ muttered an elderly man next to her, an oxygen cylinder by his side and a grin on his face.
‘Good to see you back, Eric,’ said Samson, accepting defeat and taking a seat at the table. He shook hands with the old man, grandfather of the young constable, Danny Bradley. After the events that had seen Eric have to leave Fellside Court, Samson was genuinely happy to see him home and amongst friends. ‘Are you settling in okay?’
‘As good as can be expected with this lot,’ wheezed Eric Bradley, a chuckle concluding in a coughing fit.
‘We’re looking after him,’ said Clarissa. ‘Or at least we’re trying to. Keeping him out of mischief is a full-time job.’
‘Talking of mischief,’ said Edith, the former headmistress regarding Samson with her head tipped to one side, in a way he remembered from primary school. It had never boded well. ‘What’s this I hear about you trying to find a copy of the death certificate for poor old Livvy Thornton?’
‘You heard correctly. In fact, that’s partly why I’m here.’
‘Oh, good!’ Clarissa Ralph clapped her hands in delight. ‘Are we going to do another stake-out?’ she asked, referring back to the events before Christmas when Samson had had to rely on the residents of Fellside Court to help him stop the terrible chain of events besetting the place.
‘Can’t believe I missed that,’ moaned Eric, as Joseph put his mug down with a clatter.
‘Sorry,’ Joseph muttered. He dropped his hands into his lap, but not before Samson saw the tremors. They were worse than normal. A sign of stress. Or a relapse?
‘Did I hear someone say stake-out?’ Arty had returned, carrying a tray laden with mugs of coffee and a couple of slices of Yorkshire tea loaf. ‘When do we start?’
‘Stop!’ Samson held up his hand to quash the growing excitement. ‘There’s not going to be a stake-out. Never again, if I can help it.’
‘Not even a bit of one?’ asked Arty.
‘Seeing as the last one nearly ended in tragedy, no.’ Samson sighed, knowing how the pensioners valued the excitement his work brought into their lives. ‘But I do need your help.’
‘In what way?’ asked Edith, as practical as ever.
‘I’d like to know more about Livvy Thornton. Jo, from the hairdresser’s, suggested I speak to Mrs Walker.’
Edith was nodding. ‘Jo gave you good advice. Phyllis Walker took that girl under her wing. She’s the perfect place to start. But why are you asking about Livvy? I thought you were just trying to sort out a paperwork error?’
Not for the first time, Samson was impressed by the perspicacity of the headmistress, her faculties as sharp as ever.
‘Just tying up a few loose ends,’ he said. ‘Trying to get a better picture of Livvy’s background, which might help us sort out this mess.’
Edith stared at him, lips pursed, and then tipped her head towards the door. ‘Phyllis doesn’t leav
e her apartment much these days. She has difficulty getting around. If you want to see her, I’ll take you.’
‘I’ll come, too,’ said Clarissa.
‘We might as well all go, eh, Eric and Joseph?’ said Arty, finishing off his drink and cleaning the last crumb of cake from his plate. ‘It’ll do Phyllis good to have visitors. And a couple of men amongst them, too,’ he added with a wink.
Knowing there was little point in arguing, Samson ate his tea loaf and gulped down his coffee. When he looked up, the pensioners were already standing, waiting eagerly for him. Apart from his father.
‘You not coming, Dad?’ he asked as he got to his feet.
Joseph shook his head. ‘I’ll leave you to it. Got a few things to sort out. Make sure you keep that lot in line.’ He gave a small smile.
‘I can’t promise anything,’ said Samson, returning the smile and taking the chance to have a good look at his father. Searching for the telltale signs . . . ‘Is everything all right?’
‘I’m fine,’ Joseph said brusquely, turning away from his son’s scrutiny. ‘Don’t keep them waiting.’
‘Right. I’ll catch you around.’
Samson crossed the cafe in the wake of the amateur sleuths, persuading himself he was wrong. They’d have noticed, this band of pensioners who looked out for each other. They’d spotted something was amiss when evil visited their retirement home. They’d have noticed if Joseph O’Brien was drinking again.
He watched them leave, pushing the remnants of a scone to one side of his plate, his appetite gone.
Or not gone. That was the problem.
Joseph O’Brien, recovering alcoholic, rose reluctantly, knowing where he was going. Knowing what was waiting for him there. He had a horrible feeling his son knew too. While Joseph had been able to conceal it from his friends, when those piercing blue eyes turned on him – her eyes – there was nowhere to hide.
Date with Mystery Page 12