‘Is he cut?’ Delilah asked, skidding the car around a bend, into the trees now, aware of the glass beneath her feet, the cold air rushing in through the empty space where the window had been. ‘Are you?’
‘I’m fine. Concentrate on the road.’ Samson was twisting back to check on the dog. ‘We’re both fine.’
Another screech of tyres, the car juddering around a tight left-hander, the grey wall precariously close. Then the allotments, coming up ahead. The normality of greenhouses and sheds, the Crown pub opposite. The safety of the outskirts of town.
‘Ease up,’ Samson was saying, a hand over hers on the wheel. ‘You can ease up now.’
‘What was that?’ she asked, the panic still in her voice as she slowed to the speed limit. ‘What the hell was that?’
‘Pull over. In there.’ He was gesturing towards the Crown and the car park down the side of it.
Delilah did as he said, turning off the road and into the empty yard, stopping the Micra straddled across the white lines of two spaces. She turned to face him and saw blood trickling down his left cheek.
‘You’re cut! Here.’ She pulled a small packet of tissues out of the glove box and handed him a couple. Then she turned to the back seat, held out a hand to Tolpuddle, the dog no longer wailing but still looking unsettled.
‘You okay, boy?’ she asked, patting his head, feeling him calm down. ‘No wounds?’
Tolpuddle licked her hand, no evidence of harm.
‘So,’ Delilah said again, turning back to Samson, who was dabbing at his bloody cheek, ‘what was that?’
‘An air rifle.’ He said it so nonchalantly. Like it was an everyday occurrence.
‘Someone shot at us?’
He nodded, concentrating now on brushing the worst of the glass off himself and into the footwell. ‘I’d say so.’
She stared at him until he looked over at her. ‘You’d say so? Is that the extent of your reaction? Someone takes a potshot at us on the back road into town and you react like I’ve just asked you how the weather is.’ She could hear the nerves rippling along her words and hated that Samson was so unfazed by it all. ‘If you hadn’t dropped your mobile . . .’
‘It’s probably just kids,’ he said, voice calm. ‘Trying out a new rifle. They probably weren’t even meaning to hit us.’
Delilah’s jaw dropped. ‘You’re joking. Kids round here don’t try out air guns on moving cars. And either way, we need to tell the police.’
‘There’s no point. They won’t be able to do anything. And besides, there’s no harm done.’
‘My bloody window’s been smashed out,’ snapped Delilah. ‘And they frightened the life out of me. And Tolpuddle.’
Finally Samson reacted, a frown creasing his brow, his lips compressing into a thin line. He reached out a hand to her cheek but she pulled back, too angry to be mollified. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘You’re right. Let’s get back to the office and I’ll give Danny a call.’
Delilah shoved the car into gear and pulled onto the road, feeling her heartrate settling, her anger fading to be replaced with tiredness. She turned towards the marketplace and the safety of town, trying not to notice that her hands were trembling on the steering wheel.
He’d lied to her. Again. As the Micra headed into town at a much more sedate pace than it had come down Gunnerstang Brow, Samson was pondering his instinct to keep the truth from the woman sitting next to him.
He’d told Delilah it was kids, when he knew the shooting had been the work of someone with a much calmer head. Because while the glass from the car window had still been settling on the floor, Samson had been scanning the exposed fellside, looking for movement, a scampering of teenagers running from the crime.
There had been nothing. No flash of colour against the limestone. No rapid flight. Whoever it was had known to stay still. To remain hidden in the cover they’d fired from, until the car had gone out of sight. Which meant it had been deliberate. Planned. Not the rash action of lads with a new toy.
And given that it had happened on the way back from Rainsrigg, Samson was convinced the shooting was a manifestation of the threats made in the letter he’d received four days ago. The one he still hadn’t told Delilah about.
He’d had the ideal chance to be upfront with her just now in the car park of the Crown, yet he’d lied. As she sat there next to him, her hands shaking, eyes wide, he’d felt a strong desire to protect her from whatever was going on. A sentiment she wouldn’t appreciate.
But his reluctance to be frank with Delilah wasn’t simply about shielding her. Samson knew that once Miss Metcalfe had an inkling of what was really behind the incident that had destroyed her car window and shaken her so badly, she would insist on telling the police everything – about the shooting and the letter. Samson wasn’t keen to have Bruncliffe’s finest involved just yet. He had a feeling that, in this complex case where leads were scarce, unmasking the person trying to derail the investigation into Livvy Thornton’s death certificate would lead them to the truth. Any chances of that happening would vanish like the mist over Pen-y-ghent on a summer’s morning the minute the police were called in.
Was that reason enough to lie to Delilah?
Bizarrely, after a lifetime of falsehoods, Samson was having a crisis of conscience. Surely he owed Delilah Metcalfe the truth? She was working alongside him on this case. She had the right to know what she was getting into. Especially if it was going to involve people firing guns at them.
Besides, if he didn’t come clean and tell her, when she found out – which she would do eventually, as this was Bruncliffe – she’d kill him.
Stifling a grin at the thought, he turned to Delilah as they drove past St Oswald’s church and the marketplace came into sight. ‘Drop me off at Peaks Patisserie and I’ll pick up some sandwiches. We’re owed a treat after that morning.’
She glared back at him. ‘I think I’m owed more than just sandwiches,’ she growled, pulling the car up on the cobbles. ‘Some cake at the very least.’
‘Don’t push your luck,’ he said with a laugh, spotting the hint of a smile on her lips.
He was out of the car and walking away when he heard her shout after him through the broken window.
‘Make sure it’s a big bit! And something for Tolpuddle, too.’
With a grin on his face, Samson entered the quiet Peaks Patisserie, a Monday in February not enticing the crowds out to eat. He was in and out in minutes, stopping only for a brief chat with the owner, Lucy Metcalfe, Delilah’s sister-in-law, before grabbing the bag of sandwiches and cake and heading back to the car.
He’d tell Delilah everything over lunch, he decided as he approached the Micra with its missing window. It would be good to have her input as to the identity of their anonymous adversary, even though she would insist on involving the police. And he’d feel better about himself. It’d be one less thing he was lying to her about.
He opened the car door to see Delilah putting away her phone.
‘Change of plan,’ she said before he had a chance to get in. ‘I’ve got to go somewhere. I’ll drop you back if you like.’
Samson looked at the bag in his hand and then at the glass strewn all over the passenger side of the car, before looking at her. ‘It can’t wait?’
She shook her head. ‘Sorry. No. Tolpuddle will help you out.’
A glance into the rear of the Micra revealed that the dog was watching the Peaks Patisserie bag with great interest.
‘You’re not taking him with you?’ he asked.
‘I was hoping you’d look after him for me,’ she said, already starting the engine. ‘He’s had a stressful morning. He’d benefit from some quiet time at the office. Is that okay?’
‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘Don’t you need a bit of quiet time?’
She smiled, the brightness not making it all the way to her eyes. ‘I’m fine. Like you said, it was probably just kids playing around. So if you could take Tolpuddle . . .’
; Caught in the snare of his own lies, Samson had no option. ‘Sure,’ he muttered, putting two and two together.
Rick Procter. He couldn’t stand Tolpuddle. Or rather, having exceptional taste, Tolpuddle couldn’t stand him. So whenever Delilah met the property developer, she left her dog with Samson. Had Rick called her and invited her to lunch? A prospect more enticing than a couple of sandwiches over the office kitchen table with Samson? One she couldn’t turn down, even after what she’d just been through?
‘Hop in then and I’ll drop you back,’ she said.
He shook his head, feeling surly. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll walk.’ He pushed the front seat forward and beckoned Tolpuddle, who scrabbled out, easily tempted by the bag in Samson’s hand.
‘Sorry,’ Delilah said again, her words cut off as he slammed the door.
Clipping on Tolpuddle’s lead, he led the dog across the cobbles without a backward look, his mood dark.
From the marketplace to the office building was only a matter of minutes on foot. It was long enough for Samson to brood on Delilah’s sudden desertion.
She’d stood him up for that idiot Procter. It shouldn’t matter. But it did. It also hurt that she was so coy about it. Why not just say the man had called?
Aware of the hypocrisy in feeling piqued by Delilah’s lack of candour, Samson turned down Back Street, berating himself for his adolescent behaviour. Instead of dwelling on Delilah’s choice of lunch partner, he should be trying to identify the culprit from the morning’s shooting. Someone willing enough to target a car. A good enough shot to hit it, too.
If it hadn’t been for a dropped mobile, more than just the car might have been hit.
At the thought of his mobile, Samson pulled it out of his pocket. He still hadn’t checked to see what the message was that had possibly saved him from getting badly hurt. Looking at the screen, he recognised the number straight away.
The Capsticks. With Ida at work, it must have been George. What would George be calling him about?
Trying to juggle the phone, the sandwiches and a Weimaraner thinking only of his stomach, Samson paused to trap the mobile between his shoulder and ear and lift the bag out of the dog’s reach. He heard the voicemail click in and then a garbled message.
‘George Capstick. Someone here. Samson.’
That was it. Brief. A note of panic in George’s voice, which could have been caused by the stress of having to use the phone, an instrument he had no time for. But the fact George had felt compelled to use the phone – that in itself told Samson something was up.
Or someone. Looking for him out in Thorpdale.
It could only mean one thing. Trouble. Today of all days, his past was catching up with him. What form would it take? More balaclavas? More boots?
Turning abruptly back towards the marketplace, Samson veered round the corner and into the ginnel at the rear of the office building. If there was a welcoming party waiting for him inside, he’d rather have the upper hand. And the single avenue of attack which entering through the rear porch afforded.
A low whimper by his side reminded him he wasn’t alone. Tolpuddle. So much for giving the dog some quiet time. It had become a concept sorely lacking in Samson’s life of late.
‘Stay,’ he whispered, putting a hand down to the Weimaraner and unclipping his lead.
Tolpuddle sat and Samson began creeping along the alley, tucked in against the high wall to the right, shielding his presence from the windows overlooking the back yards he was passing. At the third gate he stopped. The gate was ajar.
Inching forward, Samson put his eye to the gap. His motorbike stood on the concrete. And reaching out to touch the engine was a hand. A female hand.
Was it her? The woman who’d called him. Warned him about the trouble that was coming from London. Why was she here? And was she alone?
He shifted, trying to see, but it was impossible, the opening too small to afford a better view. Gently he pushed the gate, easing it open a fraction more, all the while assessing his options.
Go in through the gate fast and hard. Go up over the wall and get the element of surprise. Or walk away.
After several months out of action and a stressful morning, Samson was tempted by the third option. But he knew it would merely delay the inevitable confrontation. Better to get it over with now. Glancing up at the high wall, he knew option two wasn’t going to happen. Which meant he was going in fast and hard.
Having already been shot at, this was the last thing he needed.
Stifling a sigh, he left the sandwiches on the ground, stuffed his mobile back in his pocket and zipped up his jacket, praying it wouldn’t get damaged in what was about to follow.
‘Ready,’ he muttered to himself. He stepped back and kicked the gate open with force, throwing himself across the yard before anyone inside could react.
A squeal. A bark. The thud of his body hitting hard concrete. Then he was up on his feet and preparing to fight. Only there was no one to do battle with.
Both hands up in the air, a young woman was standing with her back against the wall looking terrified, long blonde hair tumbling out of its clasp, eyes wide, a blue file clutched to her chest.
‘Samson O’Brien?’ she squeaked, her glance darting from the figure in the garden to the large dog at the gate, which was nosing a bag on the floor.
‘Depends who’s asking.’
She carefully pulled a slim wallet out of her coat pocket and flipped it open. ‘We need to talk,’ she said.
18
‘How did you find me?’
Samson was talking to the top of the woman’s head as she bent over her large handbag, scrabbling round inside it for goodness knows what.
DC Jess Green. She’d flashed her credentials at him in the yard, but had offered nothing more. It had to be something to do with the case. And if she had his official address at the farm, albeit one he wasn’t using, then she had to be in touch with his boss. Which meant she was a friendly. Possibly. So he’d invited her into his office, simply to get her out of sight of any prying neighbours, and they’d sat at his desk, Tolpuddle happily eating one of the sandwiches that had been meant for Delilah. Samson had also taken the precaution of closing the office door, not wanting his landlady walking back in on this unscheduled interview.
‘Sorry?’ DC Green said, looking up, a biro clutched in her hand, hair falling over her face.
‘How did you find me?’
‘Oh,’ she blinked. ‘Easy. I bought some motorbike magazines.’
Samson blinked back at her. ‘What?’
She shrugged, a shy grin forming below freckled cheeks. ‘I come from a small village. I know how people are about outsiders. So I figured there was no point in asking for you outright when you weren’t at the address I’d been given. Especially when I was met with a shotgun at the farm . . .’ She looked at Samson, an eyebrow raised. ‘Your neighbour is protective of your property.’
‘It’s not my property any longer,’ said Samson. ‘And George means no harm.’
‘I’m presuming his shotgun licence is in order?’
‘Knowing George, yes. He’s not one for breaking the law. You were saying about the magazines . . .’
‘Ah yes, so I came back into town and decided to start with your Royal Enfield Bullet 500. A distinctive bike.’
‘You asked where you could find one?’
She shook her head, smiling. ‘No. That would have been too obvious. You’d have had a phone call before I could even get here. I went into Whitaker’s newsagents in the marketplace and spent a few minutes obviously browsing the motorbike magazines. Then I went to the counter with three of them and struck up a conversation, in the process of which I might have confessed to being a fan of British bikes . . .’
‘And Mike Whitaker told you there was an Enfield in town. Even told you where to find it.’ Samson was impressed. She was smart. The scatterbrained appearance deceptive. Whereas Bruncliffe folk would be slow to point out the whereabouts of
another inhabitant to an outsider they knew nothing about, they were happy to boast about the town’s attributes, even to the extent of a vintage motorbike. Civic pride had been Samson’s downfall. ‘So what now?’
‘Now we talk about what’s going on with you.’ DC Green opened the blue file, uncapped her biro and wrote the date at the top of the page.
‘Before we start talking about me, why don’t you tell me why you’re here,’ said Samson.
‘Oh! Sorry! I forgot.’ A flutter of papers as she rifled through the file, some of the pages falling to the floor, her fingers clumsy. ‘Here it is.’
Samson leaned across the desk to read the document being presented to him. Then he looked at the woman.
‘I’m your SSO,’ she said almost apologetically. ‘Your Suspension Support Officer. I’m here to support you through what’s coming.’
‘Sorry. I just didn’t know what to do.’
In an apartment on the first floor of Fellside Court looking out over a Bruncliffe that was growing darker by the minute, Delilah took Joseph O’Brien’s hand in hers. ‘You did the right thing.’
He’d phoned her while she was waiting outside Peaks Patisserie. Having missed a call from him the day before with all the excitement surrounding Tolpuddle’s last-minute reprieve, this time Delilah had answered, even though she wasn’t exactly feeling sociable after being shot at. She was glad she had. Something about Joseph’s simple request that she come round to see him as soon as possible had alerted her. Perhaps the plea that she keep it a secret from his own son.
She hadn’t liked deceiving Samson, but now she was here she realised how serious the situation was. For sitting on the coffee table between Joseph and the balcony doors was a bottle of whisky. The cap had been taken off. But the liquid itself remained untouched. For now.
‘Do you want to tell me about it?’ she asked.
Joseph hung his head, tears forming in his eyes. ‘It was when I was attacked. I can’t remember a thing about it apart from the blasted taste of whisky.’
The shadow of Christmas Day morning fell across the room, Delilah remembering the mayhem, the fight. The syringe that hadn’t reached its target. The Rohypnol that had been used to drug Joseph O’Brien. And the bottle of whisky they’d found under his chair.
Date with Mystery Page 21