‘Yes,’ said Samson with a heavy heart. ‘I’ll give him a call and see if he can meet us at Rainsrigg. Are you free to come with me?’
Delilah glanced at him. ‘Of course. I wouldn’t let you do this on your own.’
As Samson made the call, she put the car in gear and turned out onto the road, heading back towards town and Gunnerstang Brow. And the small house tucked in against the white rock face. A house that was still keeping its secrets.
It took George Capstick a while to calm down. Never good at interacting with other humans, confrontation was something he avoided as best as he could. This morning he’d had no choice; the car going past had triggered his responsibilities.
Luckily she’d gone quietly. The woman with the big bag over her shoulder, a blue file sticking out of it. He’d found her round by the front door of the farmhouse. Knocking on it like a real outsider. No one used the front door. Always the back.
‘Private property,’ was all he’d had to say. The shotgun said the rest.
She’d walked towards her car – not a make or model that interested George, although he’d memorised the number plate. Then she’d asked him the question.
‘Does Samson O’Brien live here?’
‘No,’ George had replied.
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘No.’ It wasn’t a lie. George never lied. It was the simple truth.
When she’d driven off, he’d walked home, replaced the shotgun in the cabinet and then spent a long time pacing the barn. He should call Samson. But he didn’t like using the phone. All those words travelling through the air without context.
It never crossed his mind that perhaps he also ought to call Rick Procter and explain about the trespasser, Mr Procter being very particular about the privacy of his property. But then George Capstick’s mind wasn’t wired like that of most folks.
When he did get round to calling Samson, it was a while later. Standing in the hallway of the cottage, receiver pressed hard to his ear as he listened to the ringing tone, he rehearsed the words in his head, mouth dry. As soon as he heard a voice start to speak he blurted out the message. Then he hung up.
‘Unsynchronised gear liquid-cooled back to work,’ he muttered, crossing the yard towards the waiting David Brown tractor, eyes on the ground, the black clouds gathering on the horizon of no interest to him.
Jimmy Thornton arrived at the quarry fifteen minutes after Delilah had pulled up in front of the empty house.
‘Sorry,’ he said, ushering Samson and Delilah round to the back door and into the kitchen, Tolpuddle having been left asleep in the car. ‘I had to drop Gemma home. We’ve been at the hospital. First scan.’ His face split into a beaming smile, making Samson feel awful. They were about to take the shine off Jimmy Thornton’s day.
‘Everything go well?’ asked Delilah, taking a seat at the table.
‘Seemed to. Although it was strange seeing Gemma getting scanned instead of one of the yows,’ he laughed. ‘Tea?’
Delilah nodded.
‘Coffee, if you have it,’ said Samson, already awash with tea but wanting to delay the interview. He sat next to Delilah, taking in the open cupboards, the contents cluttering the surfaces, the pile of boxes in the corner. A life being dismantled, piece by piece. He thought of all Tom Hardacre had told them. The shotgun. The bruises. What else had this room witnessed? And would the secrets come spilling out as the house was emptied?
‘So,’ said Jimmy, sitting opposite Delilah and distributing mugs. ‘Any sign of that blasted certificate?’
‘Not yet,’ began Samson. ‘Our investigation has taken an unexpected turn. We’ve got some questions we need you to answer.’
‘Hard questions, Jimmy,’ said Delilah softly. ‘But we need you to answer them honestly.’
The farmer looked from Delilah to Samson and then stared down at his tea. ‘How will this help find the certificate?’
‘We’re not sure.’
He looked back up, wary. ‘Okay.’
‘First of all, the address on the top of Livvy’s letters,’ said Samson, consulting his notes. ‘It’s for a house that was owned by a Mrs Jean Larcombe at the time. Does that name ring any bells?’
‘Mrs Larcombe? That’s where Livvy stopped in Leeds?’ Jimmy looked puzzled.
‘We think so. You knew her?’
‘Not as such. She was Mother’s primary-school teacher down in Dorset. She moved up to Leeds when she retired.’
‘Did your mother talk about her much?’
‘A bit, when we were younger. She used to get Christmas cards from her and the odd present for us. That kind of thing. But not to the extent that Livvy would go and stay with her.’ He shook his head in amazement. ‘I can’t believe Mother never mentioned it.’
Delilah shot Samson a look. There was a lot Marian Thornton had never told her son.
‘On the subject of Leeds,’ continued Samson, ‘when we spoke last week, you said Red went with Livvy when she left. Are you certain of that?’
Jimmy frowned. ‘Of course I’m sure. The dog wasn’t here. Where else would he be?’
Sensing his irritation, Delilah intervened. ‘We spoke to some people who knew Livvy over there. None of them remember a dog, that’s all.’
‘Why would they? It’s a long time ago. Look, I don’t see how this is connected to the death certificate. Is there something you’re not telling me?’
Samson ran a hand through his hair, hating what he was about to do. ‘We think Livvy wasn’t killed in Leeds,’ he said.
‘What? Whatever’s made you think that?’
‘There’s no trace of her death over there. No certificate. No newspaper reports. Not even a cremation record.’
Jimmy blinked. Looked down at the table. And then back up at Samson. ‘No cremation? You’re sure?’
‘Certain. I checked all the crematoria in Leeds and Bradford.’
‘How can that be? She was cremated in Leeds. That’s what Mother said.’
‘You weren’t there?’
‘I wasn’t allowed. Father didn’t go, either.’ A strained expression crossed the farmer’s face. ‘He said Livvy left the family the day she left here.’
‘So your mother went on her own? To Leeds?’
‘That’s what I thought . . . but now?’ Jimmy got to his feet, crossed to the window and leaned on the wall, looking out at the sharp edges of the quarry. ‘None of this makes any bloody sense.’
Samson made to speak but Delilah put a hand on his arm, shaking her head.
‘Perhaps it would help if you tell us everything you know, Jimmy,’ she said gently.
The farmer turned back to them, looking weary. ‘I’m not sure what I know any more.’
‘So start with Livvy leaving. What do you remember about the night before?’
He slumped back onto his chair, scratching his head. ‘Not much. I came back from a day down at Tom’s, and Mother put me straight to bed.’
‘That was it?’ asked Samson. ‘You didn’t hear any argument?’
‘No. Mother met us at the door. She said Livvy and Father were out. I went to bed and she brought me up a sandwich and a glass of milk.’ He shrugged. ‘When I got up the next day, Mother told me Livvy was gone.’
‘You don’t remember hearing a shotgun being fired?’
Jimmy shook his head.
‘And your mother?’ Delilah asked. ‘Do you remember – was she . . . bruised?’
A dark stain crept up over Jimmy’s cheeks. ‘Who have you been talking to?’ he asked, voice curt.
‘Is it true?’ Samson leaned forward. ‘We wouldn’t ask if we didn’t think it was important.’
The farmer pulled his mug towards him and finished his tea, knuckles white around the handle. ‘Aye, she was bruised,’ he muttered. ‘She was trying to hide it the next morning, but when I burst into tears at hearing Livvy was gone, she gave me a hug and I remember seeing this mark under her eye. She’d got make-up on it, but that close up . . . I b
urst into tears again.’
‘Your father used to hit her?’
Jimmy nodded, miserable.
‘Did he hit you, too? Or Livvy?’
‘Never. He saved his temper for Mother.’
‘What about threatening you?’ asked Delilah.
The mug was placed back on the table, Jimmy staring into it, the past consuming him. ‘Once,’ he finally said. ‘He threatened me once.’
‘What was it over?’
‘God knows. I was upstairs and I heard him shouting. It was after Livvy died. I came running down, trying to do what Livvy had always done. Trying to be the man I thought I was. At eight years old.’
‘You tried to protect your mother?’
‘Tried to. He’d backed her into that corner.’ Jimmy glanced up at the range. ‘His hand was raised as though he was about to hit her. I ran over and grabbed hold of his arm.’
‘Did you stop him?’
A bitter smile twisted Jimmy’s face. ‘Kind of. He flung me across the room and said he’d deal with me next. Then Mother asked whether he meant the same way he’d dealt with Livvy. Father just deflated. Turned on his heel and walked out.’
‘That was the only time he was violent towards you?’
‘He didn’t get another chance. He came home from the pub that night and shot himself in the old barn.’ Jimmy ran a hand over his face. ‘I’ve never talked about this before.’
Delilah reached across the table and took his other hand in hers. ‘It’s not easy, Jimmy. But it may well help us.’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t see how airing the Thornton dirty laundry will help you get a death certificate for Livvy.’
‘With no record of her death or cremation in Leeds,’ said Samson, ‘we need all the information we can get. In fact,’ he continued, ‘we have reason to believe Livvy came back here just before she died. Were you aware—’
‘Whoever told you that is lying,’ Jimmy said with vehemence, pulling away from Delilah’s attempt to comfort him. Then his eyes narrowed. ‘It’s that bastard Oscar Hardacre, isn’t it? Filling your head with his nonsense.’
‘What makes you say that?’
Jimmy snorted. ‘He was always spying on her. Watching the house with binoculars from the track. He was obsessed.’
‘Is that why you fell out?’
‘Kind of.’ The farmer’s shoulders slumped, his anger dissolving into weariness. ‘Oscar hated Livvy in the end. When she left like that. Even after she died, he couldn’t get over it. That she’d gone away without a word. So he took it out on me, always baiting and jibing, making snide comments about her. Until one day he went too far.’
‘What did he do?’ asked Delilah.
‘Let’s just say he called Livvy a name I couldn’t tolerate,’ said Jimmy with a wry look. ‘So I went for him. I was in my twenties by then, taller than him, but he was stronger. We had a right do, until Tom arrived and pulled us apart. I knew I couldn’t keep working down there after that. So Tom helped me get the tenancy and the rest is history.’ He shrugged. ‘Might have been for the best in the end.’
‘You don’t believe Livvy was home the week before she died, then?’ asked Samson, choosing not to set Jimmy straight as to the source of the news.
‘No.’
‘You’re certain? She couldn’t have been here without you knowing? While you were at school, perhaps?’
‘I’m more than certain.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ persisted Samson, earning a frown from Delilah.
‘Because,’ said Jimmy with a deceptive calm, studying his hands splayed on the table, ‘Father said he’d kill her if she ever set foot over the threshold again. Livvy wouldn’t have risked that. Mother wouldn’t have let her.’
Delilah threw a shocked glance at Samson. But the detective didn’t say anything. Just let the silence settle in the partially dismantled kitchen. Then he spoke.
‘So what if Livvy did risk it? What if she did come home?’
Jimmy looked up at him. Frowning. Putting it all together, as Samson had known he would. Then he stood, a look of horror on his face. ‘You think – Father? You think . . . ?’ He shook his head violently, backing away from them. ‘Livvy died in Leeds,’ he said. ‘A hit-and-run.’
‘I’m sorry, Jimmy, but that’s looking more and more unlikely.’
‘Go!’ The strangled command came from the distraught farmer as he held the back door open. ‘Just go.’
Not even trying to argue, Samson and Delilah rose from the table and walked past Jimmy Thornton, who was barely holding back the tears. The door slammed behind them, cutting off the sound of a choked sob.
‘Christ!’ muttered Samson as they followed the path to the front of the house. ‘I hate myself right now.’
‘I don’t know how you do this for a living,’ Delilah murmured, her face pale. ‘We can’t leave him like this. I’m going to call Gemma.’
‘Have you got a signal?’ Samson was holding out his mobile, the screen devoid of the bars that indicated reception.
Delilah checked her own phone and cursed. ‘I’ll try a text.’
Leaving her to compose the message, Samson stared at the bleak quarry that encircled them, and at the old barn with its horrible past. The gathering clouds closing in, sullen and brooding with the possibility of snow, only added to the malignancy of the setting. He shivered, the sensation of being watched as strong as the first time he’d visited.
What a place. What an awful place.
17
They waited in the warmth of the car until Gemma arrived some minutes later. Not feeling up to the task of explaining the situation to Jimmy’s pregnant fiancée, Samson took the coward’s way out and allowed Delilah to do all the talking. When Gemma entered the house and they got back in the Micra, he let out a sigh of relief.
‘I don’t ever want to have to do that again,’ he said, as they drove away.
‘I thought you’d be used to it. Being in the police.’
He shook his head. ‘One of the upsides of being undercover, you don’t get emotionally involved. Plus I was mostly mixing with people you wouldn’t have a shred of sympathy for. Not decent folk like Jimmy and Gemma.’
‘Was it worth it?’ Delilah asked, glancing at Samson. ‘Putting him through all that?’
‘Depends how you measure it. We learned a lot.’
‘We learned Carl Thornton was a bully,’ muttered Delilah.
‘That, too. But we also know that Mrs Larcombe was Marian Thornton’s teacher. Which explains how Livvy could afford to live in the big house on North Park Avenue.’
‘So she really was living there?’
‘I’d say so. As for Red . . . We’re no clearer on what happened to the dog.’
‘Or to Livvy.’ Delilah glanced at Samson again. He was staring out of the window, frowning. ‘Do you really think Carl Thornton had something to do with her death?’
‘Everything points that way, despite what Jimmy said about his mother being the only target of Carl’s violence.’
‘Except when Jimmy intervened.’ Delilah shuddered.
‘Or Livvy, too, maybe. Did you notice what Jimmy said?’
Delilah nodded. ‘About doing what Livvy had always done, when he tried to stop the argument? Yeah, I noticed that. Do you think that’s what happened?’
‘That Livvy came home the week before she died and interrupted a domestic incident of some sort and something happened? Sadly, it’s looking possible. But we need to prove it.’
‘How awful,’ murmured Delilah. ‘I’m never going to complain about my family again after this.’
Samson smiled. ‘I’ll hold you to that,’ he said, as they approached the end of the Rainsrigg track, his mobile pinging loudly as reception was finally restored. The detective reached into his jacket pocket while Delilah began turning onto the narrow road that led back down to town.
A Micra. Not the biggest of targets. But that was no problem. That’s what the telescopic sight w
as for.
Hunkered down on the side of the fell overlooking the Bruncliffe back road, an outcrop of limestone providing cover, the shooter waited as the car turned off the Rainsrigg track. Rifle steady. Stock nestled in against shoulder and chin. No other traffic around, a clear line of sight down onto the exposed tarmac before the trees offered shelter further along. It was perfect.
A deep breath. Calming the nerves. Watching the car approach the zone. One squeeze of the trigger and it would be done. The past would be protected.
Unaware of the crosshairs trained on the car, Delilah was pulling onto the road and into danger.
A muffled curse came from next to her. Samson had fumbled his mobile and dropped it on the floor, the cramped conditions making it difficult for him to reach it. ‘Damn it,’ he muttered, head down, scrabbling for the phone, which was slipping beneath his seat.
‘Do you want me to pull over?’ Delilah asked, her eyes leaving the road for a split second as she glanced over at him.
Samson didn’t get a chance to reply.
There was a deafening crack. And then the passenger window shattered, shards of glass showering over them, Tolpuddle startled into wild barking on the back seat.
Instinct made Delilah swerve away from the explosion, the car veering to the right across the white line, then she was correcting it, pulling it back to her side of the road, applying the brakes in a squeal of tyres.
But Samson was shouting, ‘Drive! Drive!’ his hand reaching for the steering wheel, leaning across from where the window had just exploded. ‘Don’t stop!’
Delilah floored the accelerator on a spike of adrenalin, the Micra picking up speed again, the bare fellside whipping past as they hurtled down the steep hill, unforgiving stone walls at the edge of the tarmac. Seventy miles an hour. On a road not made for more than fifty. And a car not made for much more. ‘What’s going on?’ she shouted, pulse pounding. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Just keep driving! Don’t pull up!’ He was scanning the rocks to the left as they raced downwards, Delilah praying there would be no traffic coming against them.
On the back seat Tolpuddle stopped barking, sitting upright, anxious. Then he began to wail.
Date with Mystery Page 20