Leaving the cafe, he entered the stairwell in the corner and slowly climbed the stairs, like a prisoner heading for execution. Reaching the first floor, he walked along the corridor towards his flat, not bothering to glance out of the wall of glass which was streaming with rain.
Key in the door. Latch clicking shut. He was alone. Alone with his nemesis.
Taking a chair from the small dining table in the open-plan living space, he moved into the kitchen area, placed the chair by the sink and stood up on it. Stretching up high above the wall unit, he felt the familiar shape, the cold welcome of an old friend hiding on top of the cupboard.
Grabbing hold of it, he stepped back onto the floor and returned to the lounge, where he placed the bottle on the coffee table.
Demons. Caught inside the glass. Swirling around in the amber liquid. All he had to do was unscrew the top and he could release them, like his body was crying out for him to do.
He sat in his armchair and stared at his potential downfall. One taste of it before Christmas. One swig, which had been forced upon him in circumstances beyond his control. And now this. The craving was back as strong as ever.
He gripped the chair, fighting the urge to drink. Willing himself to conquer this affliction which he had beaten into submission once before. It was his own version of Russian roulette. He’d been playing since the end of December and, so far, he’d won every round.
He didn’t think he could win many more.
‘Livvy Thornton? Why, that’s a name from the past.’
Phyllis Walker peered at Samson from over her glasses, not flustered in the least at having a group of people descend on her. She’d graciously invited them all in, observed Bruncliffe customs by offering tea – which was universally declined, to Samson’s relief – and had retained an air of elegant refinement as she’d gestured towards the seating area in her lounge. All while shuffling across the apartment with the aid of sticks, clearly in pain.
‘He’s on a case,’ said Clarissa, sitting on the couch next to her sister. Eric was in an armchair opposite Phyllis, while Arty and Samson were sitting on dining-room chairs by the balcony doors. ‘And we’re helping him.’
‘A case? About Livvy? But she’s been dead a long while.’
‘I’m trying to locate a copy of her death certificate,’ explained Samson, the elderly lady turning her attention back to him, her eyes watering, hands gnarled and knotted in her lap.
‘Rheumatoid arthritis,’ she said in explanation, noting Samson’s glance. ‘I was diagnosed in my late fifties. Not the best thing for a hairdresser to get,’ she added with a dry laugh. ‘It makes holding a pair of scissors rather difficult. I managed to keep going well into my sixties, but then it all got too much.’
‘Is that when Jo took over?’
Phyllis nodded. ‘I thought at one stage it would be Livvy who would take it on. But that wasn’t to be. Poor girl.’
‘Do you remember her well?’
‘Very well. She was like a kaleidoscope of colour dropped into my life. No day working with Livvy was like the last, but all were vivid. I was sad to see her leave, and distraught to hear she’d died.’
‘Did you go to the funeral?’
‘There was no funeral.’
Surprised, Samson looked at Edith Hird, who was nodding in corroboration.
‘Phyllis is right,’ she said. ‘There was a church service here in Bruncliffe, but no funeral. Livvy had already been cremated.’
‘Where was she cremated?’
Edith shrugged. ‘Leeds, I presume. The story from the family was that they wanted a private ceremony. But it was a bit odd.’
‘So she’s not buried here?’ Samson tipped his head in the direction of St Oswald’s on Church Street, just along from the police station.
‘No. I don’t know what they did with her ashes. Marian Thornton wasn’t the most outgoing of people and she never really spoke about what had happened. As for Carl . . .’
Phyllis Walker let out a snort of contempt, completely in contrast to her genteel demeanour. ‘Carl Thornton was a waste of space. He didn’t deserve a daughter like Livvy.’
‘What makes you say that?’ asked Samson.
The former salon owner drew her shoulders back, sitting more upright, a prim expression on her face as if realising she had transgressed her self-set boundaries of propriety. ‘I’m not partial to tittle-tattle,’ she said. ‘Either dispensing it or collecting it.’
‘This is different, Phyllis.’ Edith Hird leaned forward and placed a hand on the other woman’s arm. ‘Samson isn’t after gossip. He’s trying to help young Jimmy by sorting out the bureaucratic mess Marian left behind. If you know anything, you can tell him in confidence. And if it makes any difference, I share your opinion of Carl Thornton.’
Phyllis Walker gave a brief nod of her head and turned back to Samson. ‘The man was a bully.’
‘In what way? Did he physically abuse his family?’
‘I can’t vouch for that. Livvy never bore any visible bruises. But she came to work quite upset several times, and it took a lot to upset that girl.’
‘Did she confide in you at all?’
‘Not specifically. She was very defensive of her family. Especially her mother. But reading between the lines, I’d say things weren’t great at home. And the father was the cause.’
‘You don’t think it was typical teenage angst? A daughter rebelling against her parents?’
‘No.’ The response from Phyllis Walker was adamant. ‘Livvy wasn’t that type. This was something more . . . more adult. As though she was the responsible one in the family. For example, she was always talking about going to work on cruise ships when she finished her training. But when I suggested she start applying, she clammed up. Said she couldn’t. Not yet.’ The old woman let out a long sigh. ‘Turns out she never got the chance.’
‘Did you notice this too, when Livvy was at school?’ Samson asked Edith.
‘A bit. Obviously she was only a nipper when she was in my charge, but she was always precocious. In a good way. I didn’t have that much to do with her parents – a couple of parents’ evenings, that was about it. But I’d agree with Phyllis. There was something cowed about Marian Thornton when her husband was alive. Even more so in the weeks between Livvy’s death and Carl’s suicide. Whether he was abusive or not, I couldn’t say. But it wasn’t healthy.’
‘I can vouch he had a temper,’ Eric Bradley added. ‘I used to drink in the Fleece and Carl Thornton was a man you’d walk round carefully. Any excuse and he’d fly off the handle.’
‘I remember,’ muttered Samson. ‘Was he ever arrested?’
‘Never got that far, from what I saw. He’d flare up, throw a few wild punches and old man Murgatroyd would have him by the ear and hauled out of there quick-smart.’
Old man Murgatroyd, father of the current landlord and, likewise, an ex-rugby player, broad of shoulders and hard of fists. Samson remembered him as a man that no one messed with. He’d have been more than a match for a bully like Carl Thornton.
Could the same have been said for Livvy? Samson wondered what kind of relationship the young woman who’d been brimming with character could have had with such an aggressive father – a man who would have been top of Samson’s list for penning the threatening letter that had arrived at the Dales Detective Agency. But for the fact that Carl Thornton was dead.
As it was, Samson didn’t have any idea as to the identity of the anonymous author. With both Livvy and her mother also deceased, there was only Jimmy left who was directly affected by the investigation. And while Samson didn’t think being a grieving son precluded the farmer from being a suspect, he decided to make the most of the repository of Bruncliffe history represented by the pensioners around him and do some discreet digging.
‘Sounds like Mr Thornton wouldn’t have appreciated me raking over the past,’ said Samson with a smile. ‘Are there any other toes I need to be wary of treading on in this case?’
‘Huh!’ retorted Edith Hird, arms folding across her chest, her piercing stare fixed on her former pupil. ‘Not like you to start worrying about offending folk.’
Samson grinned. ‘Forewarned is forearmed,’ he quipped.
She stared a moment more, scrutinising Samson in a way that some of the toughest gangsters he’d dealt with would have been proud of. Then she spoke. ‘Most round here are quick to take offence, whether they have a right to or not. But apart from young Jimmy, I can’t imagine any would have a legitimate cause to be upset about you asking questions.’
‘That’s good to know.’
‘Although I’d tread carefully with Oscar Hardacre,’ added Phyllis.
‘Oscar?’ asked Samson, thinking of the farm on the Horton Road. And the path that linked it to Rainsrigg Quarry. ‘Tom’s son?’
‘The very same. He had a thing for Livvy. Always hanging around the salon on a Saturday waiting for her to finish, come rain or shine.’
‘Was he her boyfriend?’
Phyllis laughed softly. ‘He’d like to have been. But she was out of his league.’
‘Did she lead him on?’ asked Samson, thinking of the unwitting cruelty of teenage girls when vulnerable hearts were strewn before them.
‘Not Livvy. She wasn’t like that. She was always friendly with him, letting him walk her home. Perhaps, though,’ mused Phyllis, ‘that was worse. Giving the lad hope, even though she didn’t mean to.’
‘How did Oscar react when she left?’
‘Ah! That was awful. The poor soul was waiting for her outside the following Saturday, as usual. It was pouring down, so I went out to him in the end. To tell him she’d gone.’ Phyllis shook her head at the memory. ‘He was soaked through. But when I told him, he just stayed there, staring at the salon as though Livvy would appear at the door, despite what I’d said. I left him to it. At some point in the afternoon he disappeared.’ She shrugged. ‘I can’t imagine he’ll relish being cross-examined about his first love after all these years.’
‘Thanks for the advice,’ said Samson. ‘And for giving me some context to the case.’
‘I’m glad to have been of assistance,’ she smiled. ‘Although I don’t see how any of this can help get you the paperwork you need. But it’s been lovely to have the chance to talk about Livvy. She and that gorgeous dog of hers brightened up my life, even if it was only for a year. I just wish I’d had more notice that she was leaving. Perhaps I could have persuaded her to stay and then she never would have been killed.’
‘You didn’t know she was going?’ asked Samson.
‘Not a clue. I got a phone call from her mother on the Monday morning to say Livvy was gone. And then a letter from Livvy herself, full of apology. I never saw her again.
‘Do you still have that letter?’
In reply, Phyllis Walker struggled to her feet and limped across to the writing bureau in the corner of the room. She opened the sloping hatch and took an envelope from one of the shelves within.
‘Here,’ she said, handing it to Samson.
He checked the date and the postmark. Early March the year Livvy left Bruncliffe and a Leeds stamp, like the letters to her mother. But when he pulled out the familiar writing paper, there was no return address on the top. Livvy hadn’t given Phyllis Walker – or anyone else – the chance to get in touch with her.
‘May I?’ he asked, gesturing at the letter.
‘Of course. Although I don’t think it will reveal much.’
It didn’t take long to read. Two paragraphs telling Mrs Walker how grateful she, Livvy, was at having had the chance to train under her. And how sorry she was to be moving on so suddenly and without notice. According to Livvy, an opportunity had arisen that was too good to turn down. She hoped Mrs Walker would forgive her.
The letter concluded with a flourish of a signature and two kisses.
Samson folded the paper and slid it into the envelope before standing and putting it back in the bureau.
‘Thank you for saving my legs,’ said Mrs Walker with a smile. ‘But like I said, it doesn’t tell you anything new. Not even a mention of Red, either. I always wondered what happened to that poor dog.’
‘You know he disappeared after the accident?’
Phyllis Walker nodded. ‘After I heard the news about Livvy, I went to see Mrs Thornton to offer my condolences and to ask her what was going to happen to Red.’ She gave a small smile. ‘I was going to offer to take him in. Me, someone who had no time for dogs, before Livvy and Red came into my life. But Mrs Thornton told me about him running away. So sad. To think of him roaming the streets of Leeds looking for Livvy. It breaks my heart. The two of them were inseparable.’
Standing over by the writing bureau, Samson froze. What was it? Something in what Mrs Walker had just said.
He closed his eyes, tried to concentrate, but whatever it was, it was disappearing, slithering away from his consciousness.
‘Sorry,’ he muttered, reaching for his coat and slipping it on, already heading for the door. ‘I’ve got to go. Thanks, everyone.’
The door closed behind him, the remaining people in the room sharing a surprised look at the sudden departure, before Arty Robinson burst out laughing.
‘Like a hound on the scent, that boy!’ he said, shaking his head. ‘God help the person at the other end of it.’
11
The office building had echoed to his call when Samson returned from Fellside Court. No Delilah. No Tolpuddle. He’d gone up to the first floor to double-check she wasn’t simply in a meeting but he’d been met by a locked door, her office closed up. In the kitchen along the corridor, a hand on the cold kettle told him she’d been gone a while.
Feeling strangely put out by her absence, he’d returned downstairs. So much for an assistant on the Livvy Thornton case. He’d barely seen Delilah today and now that he needed someone to bounce ideas off, she wasn’t around. The elusive thought triggered by Mrs Walker’s words had remained beyond his reach and he’d been hoping that talking to Delilah might bring it out into the open. He also needed to find out where Ida Capstick had got to, the cleaner normally a regular presence in the office buildings every morning. He was pretty sure Delilah would know where she was, but having been blindsided by the mention of Frank Thistlethwaite this morning, it had slipped his mind to ask her.
Resigned to working in isolation, he’d put the bag of sandwiches he’d bought at Peaks Patisserie – enough for him, Delilah and Tolpuddle – on his desk and pulled out his laptop. Maybe going through his case notes again would yield whatever it was that was niggling at him. Several hours later, with the rain now falling under illuminated street lights and half of the sandwiches eaten, Samson rose from his desk and stretched his aching back.
In all his years undercover he’d never felt as stiff after a day’s work as he did sitting in front of a computer.
Spotting his running kit spilling out of a plastic bag under his desk, he glanced out of the window. The rain had eased, becoming more of a mist than a serious downpour. It wouldn’t hurt to go for a run. It would help him sort out everything he’d processed during the day. Maybe even unblock his thoughts. He could have a go at some of Seth’s training plan, too.
Changing quickly in the cloakroom next door, Samson was letting himself out of the back porch within minutes. Through the yard and a gentle jog down the ginnel to the steps that led up to the Crag. Up the steps and then across Crag Lane to begin the gruelling climb up to the tops.
It was only when he had crested the steep slope, the land levelling out above the town and the twilight giving him enough light to see the path, that Samson found his mind settling, the facts of the day slotting into place.
His work on the internet had yielded some success. After a bit of searching, he’d discovered that a Mrs Larcombe had been the owner of the big house on North Park Avenue during Livvy’s time in Leeds. Cross-referencing the name, he’d also ascertained that a Mrs Jean Larcombe had died three years ago. The hous
e had subsequently been bought by a Mr Phillip Kingston.
So Rick Procter, Bruncliffe’s property developer, was renovating the place on behalf of someone. Someone who felt the need to keep a Rottweiler.
Filing that thought for another day, Samson had returned to his computer search: the cremation certificate for Livvy Thornton. Thanks to Phyllis Walker, he now knew that Livvy hadn’t been buried. But crematoria kept records, too.
An hour later and he’d had no luck. None of the facilities in Leeds or Bradford held a file on Olivia Thornton. So where had she been cremated?
Feeling the hillside kick up once more, Samson concentrated on his running, one foot in front of the other as he pushed himself, the rain blowing softly on his face. He was soaked. But he didn’t care. The exercise felt good after a day being cooped up inside. He simply wasn’t used to long hours indoors.
With a final effort, he reached the top of the fell, pausing to catch the breath rasping in his chest. Hands on his thighs, bent double, Samson wondered if he’d get back the ability to run these hills with ease. Or perhaps he was kidding himself. Maybe they had been just as difficult to conquer when he was younger, but he’d simply forgotten the pain.
Either way, it was going to take more than Seth Thistlethwaite’s training plan to get him into shape. A miracle would be more like it.
Hoping the rhythm of the running would eventually free his thoughts like it had done so many times before, he started the descent, his mind emptying as his feet followed the route home. He was halfway down when he found himself thinking about the visit to Leeds with Delilah and Tolpuddle; about Chris standing by the car on Street Lane, an appalled look on his face. He laughed out loud.
Tolpuddle. What a star that dog was! Delilah would be distraught if Samson failed to come up with a way to keep him in Bruncliffe. But it was becoming a distinct possibility. The days were passing and inspiration had yet to strike when it came to rescuing the hound.
Tormented by the prospect of dashing Delilah’s hopes, by the time Samson bounded out onto the tarmac of Crag Lane he was more agitated than when he’d set out. The impasse with regards to the Thornton case hadn’t lifted, nor had he found a way to deal with Tolpuddle’s looming fate. Frustrated, he turned left, the lights of town spread out below him, and began running down the steps that led to the ginnel at the rear of the office building. He was at the bottom when he stopped short.
Date with Mystery Page 13