‘Oh, he’s adorable!’ Abbie cooed, getting to her feet. ‘Such a lovely boy.’
‘He has his moments, don’t you, Samson?’ said Delilah, sparking a grin from the man in the doorway while Abbie blushed furiously.
‘I didn’t mean . . . I was talking about . . .’ she stammered.
‘Nice to meet you,’ Samson said, stepping forward and extending his hand, smoothing over her awkwardness with a charm matching that of Neil Taylor. A charm that had Abbie fluttering her eyelashes at him.
Bloody hell! Delilah didn’t know whether to laugh or launch herself at the woman and make her just a little bit less perfect. The only consolation in the ridiculous charade was Neil’s deep frown.
‘Tolpuddle,’ Samson was saying, ‘this is Abbie.’
The dog looked up at Abbie’s proffered hand, sniffed it and then allowed it to pat his head. Within a minute he was lying on the lino having his stomach rubbed.
‘What a gorgeous dog,’ Abbie gushed, crouched down next to him. ‘A real beauty. Aren’t you, my darling? A real beauty.’
Neil Taylor crossed the room, nodded a curt greeting at Samson and bent to pat Tolpuddle, genuinely delighted at seeing the Weimaraner again, even if the delayed custody bid had been provoked by a desire to pander to his girlfriend.
‘He looks great, Delilah,’ he said. ‘You’ve been looking after him well.’
‘Someone had to,’ she retorted, the situation becoming unbearable. The heat. The scratchy wool of her dress. The facade she was having to maintain. She was stretched to snapping point, being asked to just stand and smile while they took her dog.
‘He’s going to be so at home in our flat,’ continued Abbie, rubbing the dog’s head now, his legs sprawled out across the floor.
Their flat? Delilah whipped round to stare at Samson, willing him to do something. Say something. There was no way Tolpuddle could live in a flat.
But Samson just gave a shake of his head, making her want to throttle him as well as the two visitors.
‘And we’ve got lots of toys, so you won’t be lonely during the day while we’re at work.’ Abbie glanced up at Samson. ‘I’ve been reading that it’s important to keep them active. It stops them getting anxious when we’re out of the house.’
A surge of anger crashed over Delilah. Sod Samson’s non-existent plan. Neil and Abbie didn’t deserve Tolpuddle and she wasn’t going to let them have him. She wasn’t about to condemn him to a life locked up inside a bloody flat!
She took a step forward, intending to put an end to this farce, but firm fingers encircled her wrist. Samson, standing next to her. There was another subtle shake of the head, a brief wink. He wanted her to think he had it under control. But from Delilah’s perspective, Neil and Abbie were about to walk away with Tolpuddle. The same Tolpuddle who had rescued Delilah from the depths of despair after the death of her brother; the dog that had given her life purpose when her husband walked out and everything she’d believed in had come crashing down around her ears.
The dog she couldn’t live without.
‘Trust me,’ Samson whispered, his hand moving to the small of her back. ‘Please.’
She stared at him, his blue gaze holding hers, then she closed her eyes to hold back the tears, and placed her faith in him.
Ringing. The sound of a mobile being ignored sounded in his ear.
She was probably out on the fells making the most of her Sunday. A day of rest. But not for the wicked. Or alcoholics.
Joseph O’Brien feared he was both. Sitting in his armchair, a cold sweat on his forehead, he shoved his phone back in his pocket. There’d be no help from that quarter. And he couldn’t face calling Samson. Exposing this weakness to a son with whom he was still trying to piece together the fragments of a relationship. It would kill any chance of them reconciling properly stone dead, because Samson wouldn’t understand this. Not after everything Joseph had put him through as a child.
Gaze never leaving the bottle on the coffee table, he swallowed, the taste of whisky raw in his throat. Imagined. But all the stronger for that. The smoky flavour, the soft warmth . . .
He reached out. His fingers splayed around the curve of glass separating him from his addiction, daring himself. One small shot. It wouldn’t hurt. And no one could blame him. It hadn’t been his fault. He hadn’t fallen off the waggon so much as been pushed by a deranged woman determined to kill him.
He wished she’d succeeded. The agony he was going through, trying to live each day as though nothing was wrong. As though he was still sober, when all the time he was obsessed with drink.
His hand worked up the bottle, all the way to the screw top. A quick twist and it would be off. He tightened his grip, the top beginning to rotate under the pressure. He heard it click. Open.
‘Joseph?’ A hammering at his door and a loud voice shouting. ‘You in there?’
In one swift movement, the top was screwed back on and the bottle stowed down the back of his armchair. Habits learned long ago. The furtiveness of the compulsive drinker.
When Joseph O’Brien opened the door, slightly flushed, Arty Robinson had no idea how close his friend had been to giving in.
‘Right. I think we’re all sorted.’ Neil Taylor was straightening up, clipping a lead onto Tolpuddle’s collar.
‘I can’t believe he’s ours,’ cooed Abbie, still patting the Weimaraner. ‘He’s so beautiful.’
Samson felt Delilah stir next to him and knew he didn’t have much longer before she snapped, his plea for her trust having gained him only a modicum of time.
Tolpuddle, for his part, was getting to his feet, giving himself a shake. Still looking happy with all the attention. Still looking his normal self.
Which wasn’t what was supposed to be happening.
‘Come on, boy,’ Samson muttered under his breath. Willing his plan to kick into action.
‘Thanks for being so understanding, Delilah,’ said Neil, heading for the door, the dog at his heels.
‘Yes, thank you so much.’ Abbie was giving Delilah a simpering smile. ‘I know it must be hard for you to part with him. But he’ll be happy with us.’
A strangled sound from Delilah, part cough, part sob. She stared at the dog as he followed Neil out into the hallway, Abbie on their heels. The front door was opening . . .
Still nothing happening.
Fingers dug into his arm. Delilah. Next to him. Hissing in his ear. ‘Whatever your plan is, now would be a good time for it to start working!’
The click of a car unlocking. Samson hurried over to the front door, still convinced there was time.
‘It’ll work,’ he muttered. It had to.
But he could see Neil encouraging Tolpuddle into the rear of the BMW. Could see Abbie getting gracefully into the passenger’s side. Then Neil was glancing over, raising a hand in farewell.
Delilah had moved alongside Samson. Grey-faced. ‘They’re leaving,’ she said, turning to him, tears in her eyes. The simplicity of her words more wounding than any screams. ‘I thought you were going to do something?’
A wrench of anxiety tore at Samson’s guts. He’d been so confident. He’d asked Delilah to trust him. Could he have got it all wrong?
The car door closed. The engine started. And a low murmur of pain issued from the woman standing next to him.
Delilah wasn’t aware of anything. Not the whimper coming from her own throat. Not the cold air against her flushed cheeks. Not even the small crowd that had gathered on the pavement outside the pub.
All she saw was the smudge of grey in the small rear window of the silver car. The car that was pulling away from the kerb.
Tolpuddle. She could see him looking back. He’d be confused. Upset. Then she realised. She hadn’t even got to say goodbye.
‘What the hell . . . ?’ An angry voice. Her brother, Will, storming across from the pub. ‘I thought you had this sorted, O’Brien!’
Samson next to her, face twisted in contrition. ‘I’m so sorry,’
he was saying. ‘I’m so very sorry.’
Then Will was upon them, advancing on Samson, fists curled in rage. ‘You let that scumbag take her dog!’ he was shouting. ‘You didn’t even try to stop him.’
Samson was taking a step back and Seth Thistlethwaite was there, trying to calm the two men. And all the while Delilah was watching the car heading down the road; the flash of the indicator as it began turning right. Then it was gone. Out of sight.
‘No.’ She felt her knees tremble. ‘No . . . no . . . no!’
A strong arm caught her elbow, helping her stay upright.
‘We’ll get him back, Delilah,’ Samson was saying. His eyes bright with distress. ‘No matter what it takes. I promise.’
She turned her head slowly, the world still not in focus. Then she stared at him and felt the flood of anger and grief overwhelm her. Ripping her arm from his grip, she pushed both hands against Samson’s chest, sending him staggering backwards.
‘I trusted you!’ she spat. ‘I should have known better.’
Turning on her heel, she entered the office building and slammed the front door behind her. Only when it was closed and the eyes of Bruncliffe could no longer see her did she let the tears fall. She collapsed onto the stairs, her head in her hands, sobs convulsing her body.
Tolpuddle. She’d lost him. For good.
‘Leave her alone,’ Will Metcalfe growled as Samson approached the door that had slammed in his face only moments before. ‘Take my word for it, she’s best left alone. Unless you want a black eye.’
‘Not particularly,’ muttered Samson, his hand still raised, key grasped within it.
‘He’s right, lad.’ Seth Thistlethwaite stepped forward, putting himself between Samson and the lock. ‘Leave her be. She’s not one for wanting folk seeing her when she’s upset.’
And she was upset. For Samson could hear faint sobbing coming from within the office building, each hiccup of sound tearing at him, making him feel distressed and angry and concerned all at the same time. He’d let her down. Badly. All because he’d had the arrogance to think he could solve the situation with Tolpuddle.
Instead, he’d allowed Neil Taylor to drive off with the dog without the least bit of a challenge. He hated himself. Enough that he would happily allow Delilah free range with her fury, letting her do her worst with those fists of hers. He’d welcome the pain. Deserved it, in fact.
‘Come on.’ Seth was leading him away, steering him towards the pub and out of earshot of the small crowd of spectators which had gathered in the street. ‘Let’s get inside and talk this over.’
‘What’s there to talk about?’ snapped Samson. ‘I’ve messed up. This is all my fault.’
‘You won’t find me disagreeing,’ muttered Will as he made a path through the onlookers and entered the Fleece. Troy Murgatroyd looked up from behind the bar.
‘Thought you were going saving that dog, O’Brien,’ said the landlord as the three men filed in. ‘Didn’t look like whatever you had planned worked out too good.’
‘Bloody understatement of the year,’ growled Will, slumping onto a bar stool and pulling the remains of his pint towards him.
‘Easy Will,’ said Seth as Samson collapsed on a stool, head in hands. ‘Getting angry isn’t going to help anyone.’
‘Might have bloody helped if I’d decked that peacock, Taylor. At least we’d have had the satisfaction of seeing him suffer.’
‘And the satisfaction of being in the holding cell at the police station before the day was through,’ retorted Seth. ‘Old man Taylor would have you locked up in seconds if you so much as touch his lad. So ease up on the testosterone and give Samson a break. He was trying to help.’
Will glowered at Seth and finished off his pint.
‘What went wrong?’ Troy asked.
Samson’s shoulders slumped. ‘I don’t know. It’s always worked before.’
‘What has?’
‘Beer,’ said Samson, glancing up at the landlord. ‘It has an unwelcome effect on Tolpuddle.’
Troy stared at him. ‘That was your master plan? To make the dog fart?’
Samson nodded miserably. ‘To make him undesirable. But it didn’t work. Tolpuddle wasn’t bothered by it.’
‘Bloody hell. I’ve heard some things in my day, but that . . .’ Troy was shaking his head in disbelief.
‘It must have been the beer,’ said Seth.
‘Now hang on a minute!’ Troy straightened up, chest puffing out in indignation. ‘Don’t go blaming my merchandise. There’s nowt wrong with any of the ale on tap in here.’
‘I’m not saying there is,’ said Seth, hands up to soothe the irate landlord. ‘Just that it didn’t have the same effect on the dog as usual.’
‘No matter what it was,’ muttered Will darkly. ‘End result is the same. That blasted Taylor whelp has got Tolpuddle, and our Delilah is across the road crying her eyes out. So what I want to know, O’Brien, is what are you going to do about it?’
Samson stared at the floral carpet swirling across the floor and wished he could start the day all over again.
He was in a car. He’d been in cars countless times. But never without her.
Anxiety rising, Tolpuddle twisted round on the cramped rear seat, his tail brushing across the passenger seat as he did so.
‘Oh!’ An exclamation from the front. ‘He just swiped me with his tail! Sit down, Puddle-kins, there’s a good boy.’
‘Puddle-kins?’ A laugh from the man. ‘I’m not sure Tolpuddle will respond to that.’
‘Perhaps he’ll respond to this.’ A sharp slap on his flank. Then a raised voice. ‘Sit down!’
Startled, Tolpuddle fell back against the seat, flopping onto it. He felt the panic building. A burbling in his stomach, too.
‘See. He knows who’s boss.’
The man was looking in the mirror. He caught Tolpuddle’s eye. A wink. ‘Not too far to your new home.’
Tolpuddle shifted on the uncomfortable leather, the smell unfamiliar. A strong floral scent wafting back from the front. Overpowering. He sneezed loudly. Shook his head.
‘Oh God. He just sneezed. All down the back of my seat. Didn’t Delilah train him at all?’
Delilah. Tolpuddle’s ears picked up at the word. He knew what it meant. He barked. A sharp ricochet of sound in the confines of the car.
‘Tolpuddle! Be quiet!’ She was turning back to stare at him. Angry.
The bubble of disquiet grew, engulfing him. Making him whine. Making his stomach flip. And gurgle.
‘What’s that noise?’
‘It’s the dog. I think you’ve upset him.’
Tolpuddle put his head on his paws, eyes watching mournfully as the trees and the fells flashed by. The whine grew louder.
‘You have to make him stop it.’ She had her hands over her ears. ‘We can’t go the whole way back like this.’
‘You wound him up. You stop it.’
He could keep it up for hours. A wail of despair. Of grief. Of distress. But on its own, it might not have been enough to save him. When his stomach churned again with a gaseous burble, that was what changed things.
‘Oh, Jesus! What the hell is that?’ A face peering back at him, hand clamped across the nose.
Tolpuddle simply whined all the more.
14
She’d put the kettle on without even realising it. The motion of filling it and placing it down to boil a routine reaction in times of stress. And this was a stressful time.
Leaning her forehead against the kitchen window, Delilah stared down at the road below. Numb. A deep pit of anguish in her gut.
What was she going to do? Because she couldn’t leave things as they were. She couldn’t allow Tolpuddle to fester in a cramped flat down in London, spending long days on his own. It wasn’t fair.
The kettle clicked off but she made no move to cross to the worktop and make tea.
Across the road she could see the shadows of people inside the pub. Samson and Will had
gone in there. With Seth to keep them apart.
She felt a pang of sympathy for Samson. For whatever his plan had been that had failed so spectacularly. He’d be gutted. Distraught at losing Tolpuddle, too. The sympathy was tinged with contrition for the way she’d reacted, lashing out at him like that. But she couldn’t help it. He’d promised her he’d save her dog. He’d even stopped her when she’d been going to step in and put a halt to Neil’s casual assumption that Tolpuddle was his for the taking.
Samson O’Brien was going to have to shoulder the blame for this one.
And he was going to have to come up with a way to get her dog back. Because his life wouldn’t be worth living if he didn’t.
She turned from the window and opened the cupboard above the kettle, reaching for the teabags and seeing instead the packet of Dog-gestives. Tears streamed down her face once more.
‘You promised her,’ Will was saying, his temper still simmering. ‘You said you’d get him back. So you’d best get thinking, O’Brien.’
‘I know, I know,’ muttered Samson, staring at the floor and hoping for inspiration.
‘Haven’t you got contacts who could help out? Someone down in London handy with their fist, who might persuade that runt to give up the dog?’
Samson could think of plenty of people he’d come across while undercover who would frighten the life out of Neil Taylor. Perhaps that was an option?
‘Is that your answer to everything, Will? Resort to violence?’ Seth Thistlethwaite asked. ‘I think this will take a bit more finesse.’
‘Like trying to get a dog to fart?’ scoffed Will. ‘Not much finesse there. No success, either.’
‘For what it’s worth,’ said Troy from behind the bar where he was wiping glasses, ‘Seth’s right. You can’t beat a Taylor with brawn. They’re too powerful. If you want to get that dog back, you’re going to have to come up with something clever. Something that would hit them where it hurts.’
‘Like what?’ asked Samson, lifting his head to look at the landlord.
Troy leaned across to the three of them, voice lowered. ‘Kidnap.’
Date with Mystery Page 16