Her hard work had yet to yield much – a couple of enquiries. Nothing definite. So when Bernard Taylor had summoned her to his office and told her what he wanted, she hadn’t been in a position to refuse. By the end of April she had to have sufficient income to prove to the bank that she could maintain the loans on her businesses. And her house. Two months. It was a challenge that woke her up at night, gripped in panic.
If the price of alleviating that stress was working with Neil Taylor, she was happy to pay it.
Which is why, for the last week, Delilah had been working a lot from home. She told herself that it was easier, given the weather and her need to keep her current project a secret. That her period of self-enforced purdah was largely the result of her argument with Samson, she didn’t allow herself to think about. Basing herself at the small table in her kitchen, she’d thrown herself into redesigning Taylor’s website, only venturing down to the office building twice.
Both times Samson had been there. Both times Tolpuddle had been reluctant to leave once her work was done, mournful eyes reproaching her as they left Samson in his office, bent over his laptop.
She’d been determined not to weaken. Not to get pulled back into the easy relationship that had developed between them and blinded her to the fact that he couldn’t be trusted. Whatever anger she’d felt the day of the shooting had been replaced with wariness. A sense of self-preservation which made her keep her distance. She’d exchanged pleasantries with him, but when he’d dangled the Thornton case in front of her, she’d made her excuses and left. Only to have to return some minutes later to coerce Tolpuddle after her.
Although, by the look of frustration on Samson’s face as he tapped away at his computer, she sensed nothing much had been happening in the quest for Livvy’s death certificate. Or in the search for the mystery sharpshooter. And she knew for a fact that Samson had yet to inform the police about the incident up at Rainsrigg because if he had, it would have been all over town by now.
Telling herself that none of it was her concern and she was better off out of it, Delilah had done her best to block the Thornton case, and Samson O’Brien, from her mind. She’d seen more of his father in the last week than she had of him, having called in on Joseph every other day since he’d admitted he was struggling to control his addiction. The older O’Brien was still refusing to tell his son about his predicament or accept professional support, so Delilah could do little more than sit and chat to him, but it seemed to be helping. She found herself looking forward to her visits to Fellside Court and Joseph’s stories about Samson’s youth, the joyous years before cancer tore their family apart and alcohol filled the void. The fact that she was vicariously spending time with the very person she was supposed to be avoiding, Delilah chose not to dwell on.
A whimper from the back seat made her glance in the rear-view mirror. Tolpuddle had his head on his paws, looking dejected. While Delilah might be able to feign indifference to the absence of a certain person in their lives, Tolpuddle wore his heart on his sleeve. The hound was missing Samson.
And now she was dragging the poor dog out into the cold on a fool’s errand.
Hands tense on the steering wheel, she eased the car along the narrow, wall-lined road that snaked across the lower slopes of Pen-y-ghent, windscreen wipers slapping, the skies dark above. Just gone midday and it was more like midnight. Thankful that someone had cleared the worst of the snow to the sides, Delilah was equally glad that her little car had come equipped with winter tyres, and it wasn’t long before the ramshackle collection of buildings that was Mire End Farm came into view. Deciding against risking the rough farmhouse track, a cover of thick snow lying across it, she pulled into a partially cleared area by a gate. Better to park here and be able to get out, even if it meant a bit of a trek.
‘Ready for cold paws, Tolpuddle?’
The dog lifted an ear. Not a huge sign of enthusiasm. About as much as she had herself, the excitement she’d felt earlier in the day having waned – a result of the tricky drive, combined with a growing acceptance of the impossibility of the task she’d set herself. There was only so much a dating profile – no matter how brilliant – could achieve.
It had all come together the day before when Clive Knowles had called her, irate that she hadn’t been in touch since his visit to the office a fortnight ago. But in the excitement of the Livvy Thornton case, Delilah had neglected her own business and had nothing to show her client after two weeks’ work. Understandably annoyed, Mr Knowles had given her twenty-four hours to produce a dating profile, further insisting that she deliver it in person to his farm. Otherwise he would take his business elsewhere.
That threat had been enough to make Delilah focus. Faced with his ultimatum, she’d spent the rest of the day trying to compile a description of him that didn’t deceive, but didn’t tell the blunt truth either. The idea she’d finally settled on was unusual, to say the least. She hoped he’d like it.
Most of all, she hoped it would work, bringing the farmer a wife, and her business a much-needed injection of cash. But looking out across the snow-covered fields to the dilapidated barns that guarded the farmhouse from view, Delilah felt that hope might be short-lived.
With a resigned sigh, she opened the car door and stepped out into the snow, her boots ankle-deep. Tolpuddle followed and the pair of them began walking into a bitter wind towards the property, where the welcome sign of smoke was spiralling out of a chimney. At least they’d get warm. And at least she was out of the house.
Mundane!
Samson slammed back his chair and stood up, restless at being confined behind a desk for so long. A week on from the incident-packed day that had culminated in the second anonymous letter, the Livvy Thornton case had hit a lull. A quick conversation with PC Danny Bradley had established that Oscar Hardacre was a member of the Bruncliffe gun club, confirming what the cluster of androgynous figurines holding guns on the sideboard in the Hardacre kitchen had made Samson suspect. That Jimmy Thornton, while not a club member, was also a frequent participant on the local range and a decent shot according to the young policeman, made things interesting. But other than that, Samson had unearthed nothing new to help identify the mystery shooter.
Which was frustrating as he was convinced now, more than ever, that exposing the person trying to obstruct the investigation would be pivotal to breaking the case.
Given the lack of progress, Samson had even debated taking Delilah’s advice and going to the police, in an attempt to shake things up. But with ever-decreasing resources, the local force wouldn’t act on mere speculation. Which was all he had.
The suspicion that Carl Thornton had killed his daughter. It wasn’t enough to go on. Even the threats that had been intended to stop the investigation were of no substance. Some haphazard letters cut from a magazine and a shattered car window. Hardly sufficient to get forensics involved. And what motive did he have for whoever was behind the threats? A vague sense that Jimmy wasn’t telling everything he knew, and a hunch that Oscar still nursed a grudge against a dead girl.
With everything at a standstill, Samson had been reduced to going back over the file and making sure he chased every lead, knowing that was how most investigations got solved. As for the threatening letters, there had been no more. Probably because, to all intents and purposes, the Livvy Thornton case had ground to a halt.
So in the quiet of the office building, Samson had filled the days with a couple of background checks he’d been asked to run for a small business in the town. One was on a new employee. The other on an au pair being employed by the owner.
Not exactly high-octane stuff.
He missed his old life at times like this. That tingle of anticipation when an investigation came together; the moment of complete calm before a raid. It was easy to forget the hours spent in cramped conditions staking out potential targets, or the days spent trawling bars trying to get information. Bars that were peopled with unsavoury types. And all while trying to maintain hi
s cover – whatever it was in that particular case.
Did he really miss it? Or was it more that he missed his old life here, in Bruncliffe? The life he’d had for the last four months, but which had suddenly changed. The office no longer populated by an anxious Weimaraner. Or an insane Metcalfe.
It was so quiet. Even Ida Capstick seemed to be spending less time here of a morning. Her cousin was in the process of moving over from Bridlington and somehow this meant Ida didn’t have time to linger so long over tea and biscuits. Samson didn’t understand why, but he did know that some days his chat with the cleaner was the only meaningful conversation he had.
What he’d give to have Delilah here storming around. Making her undrinkable cups of tea and offering her opinion on everything, as was the Metcalfe way.
Instead she was staying away, claiming to be working from home because of the weather. He glanced out of the window at the snow that had started again, spattering against the glass and smearing the gold letters that arched across the glazing. Some excuse when she lived up the hill, within easy walking distance.
There was no denying it. Delilah was avoiding his company – as frosty as the weather outside in the couple of dealings he’d had with her over the last week.
It had started the day of the shooting up at Rainsrigg Quarry. She’d arrived back from her mystery assignation in time to see DC Green leaving the office. And then she’d found the second menacing letter and had lost her temper with him. Somewhere within those events was the cause of her withdrawal. And while being shot at would normally be grounds for someone to take offence, knowing Delilah Metcalfe, Samson couldn’t believe that was the reason for her sudden detachment. She was much more likely to tackle something like that head-on. So what was it?
With a week of nothing much else to occupy him, he had allowed paranoia to flourish.
Did Delilah know about his suspension? Had Rick somehow found out what Samson had fled from? The property developer had been threatening to discover the reason for his return to Bruncliffe since October. Maybe he had finally succeeded. And knowing the man, the first person he would tell was Delilah Metcalfe. With that knowledge fresh in her mind, she’d overheard Samson talking to DC Green. How much had she heard? Enough to validate whatever Rick had told her?
Samson paced the lino from window to wall, impatient at the lack of activity in the Thornton case and anxious about his past, which seemed to be getting closer. Passing the desk, he picked up his mobile. He’d call her. See if he could tell anything from her tone. Then he tossed the phone back down.
Work. It was what paid the bills. He resumed his seat, staring at the laptop, Facebook open on the screen. He’d had the idea of tracing some of Livvy’s friends from when she was at school – friends who’d moved away and married, changing their names in the process. But social media wasn’t his thing. Being instantly contactable wasn’t exactly something an undercover officer aspired to. So he’d hesitated, unwilling to create the necessary profile to get started.
Delilah could help him with this. A legitimate reason to contact her. He reached for his mobile again and heard the back door open.
‘Delilah?’ he was up and in the hallway in one swift movement. But instead of seeing his landlady, he was faced with Matty Thistlethwaite, eyebrows prominent above a scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face, his shoulders dusted with snow.
‘Cold out!’ the solicitor exclaimed, stomping his feet as he unwound his scarf. ‘Any chance of a brew?’
Delilah was on the edge of her seat. Literally. When she’d laid her hand on the back of the chair, preparing to pull it out and sit down, her fingers had encountered a greasy residue and she’d had to discreetly flick some food off the seat before she took her place across the table from her client.
She’d been met at the door of Mire End Farm by Clive Knowles, who’d grunted and turned back into the gloom of the hallway, the tiles muddy, dirty boots cluttering the floor. Above them a coatrack hung drunkenly on the wall, tipping under the weight of a motley collection of wax jackets and waterproofs, torn and stained from years of service. Against the opposite wall was a sideboard riddled with woodworm and with one door missing. Drawers gaped open, too full to close, a spool of twine spilling out of the top one and trailing to the ground, and a mound of paperwork littered the flat surface – along with a broken ram harness, a set of foot-rot shears, a couple of clipper blades, various jars of ointment, several coils of rope and three traps for rats, judging by the size of them. The farm office.
Delilah had followed the farmer into the kitchen, a bare, low-watt bulb doing little to dispel the shadows in the room. But at least there was a fire burning in an open grate, an aged sheepdog lying before it. Too old to object, the dog had merely opened an eye as Tolpuddle crossed to the hearth and settled down next to it, less fussy than Delilah about the conditions he found himself in.
As though trying to prove his marital potential, Clive Knowles had insisted on making tea. So now Delilah was perched on the rim of a chair, a chipped mug that she could have aged from the rings of old coffee on the inside placed in front of her, and surrounded by a kitchen that probably hadn’t been cleaned since the current owner’s mother passed away more than three decades before. To say it lacked a woman’s touch was an understatement.
Mire End Farm was making her think more than ever that finding its owner a wife was beyond the realms of her abilities.
‘So, you’ve found me someone?’ the farmer asked, pulling a couple of biscuits out of a tin and offering one to Delilah with grime-covered fingers.
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ she politely declined.
‘Watching your weight?’ he grinned, a blast of bad breath accompanying his words. He dunked the biscuit, half of it falling into the cup and sploshing tea over the table. He wiped his sleeve across the liquid, smearing it across an even larger surface. ‘Happen I should think about dieting, too,’ he said, patting the paunch underneath his jumper. ‘Wouldn’t hurt my chances.’
Delilah could think of a lot more pragmatic steps he could take to enhance his chances. A good bath, to start with.
‘I’ve devised a new profile for you,’ she said, pulling her Surface Pro out of her rucksack and placing it on her legs. There was no way she was putting it down on the table. With a couple of swipes she opened his file. ‘See what you think.’ She tried not to flinch as she passed the computer into his grubby grasp.
He read her description of him slowly, lips moving silently, a broad finger tracking the words. It had taken all of her skill to write it. After many false starts, it had been a throwaway comment from Samson when they’d been on the train to Leeds that had given her an idea. Ralph, Clive Knowles’ prize-winning Swaledale tup – Samson had jokingly suggested that Delilah would have more success if she used a photo of the ram as the farmer’s profile picture. Sitting in her kitchen, struggling to complete an honest portrayal of her client, those words had suddenly seemed inspired.
She’d compiled the dating profile in terms anyone in farming would understand.
BREED CHARACTERISTICS
Body: Medium length; shoulders broad; back strong. Good firm loins.
Head: Long-faced, dark-complexioned. Eyes bright. Firm jaw. Some grey.
Legs: Well-set legs of medium length. Walks well.
Fleece: Thinning with age.
General: A bold and hardy specimen, well suited to harsh environments. Robust. A good thriver. Of strong constitution.
Biting her lip, she watched Clive Knowles finish reading. Then he scratched his head and stared at her, eyes wide. ‘You’ve made me sound like a tup at market!’ he exclaimed.
‘That,’ said Delilah, ‘is exactly what you are. It’s my job to make you sellable.’
‘Sellable?’ he grunted.
She nodded, sensing she was losing him. Losing the payment that would come with the completion of the job, too. ‘By putting this on the Dales Dating Agency website, you are effectively offering yourself up to
the highest bidder. I thought that if we approached it from the angle of a livestock sale, we might have more success . . .’
A light came on in the farmer’s eyes. ‘Aye,’ he muttered. ‘It might work.’
‘But,’ continued Delilah, deciding it was time to bite the bullet, ‘a sales pitch isn’t enough on its own. I’m sure you know what it’s like when you turn up at the mart and the catalogue spec doesn’t match the beast in the pen?’
Clive Knowles squinted at her, then glanced down at himself. At his hole-ridden sweater, his dirt-rimmed fingernails. He ran a hand over his chin, stubble scratching his hand.
He nodded, the penny finally dropping. ‘You mean I’m to preen myself up if I want the chance of fetching a good price?’
Delilah laughed. ‘Exactly. Although I won’t ask you to go as far as trimming your gigots or colouring your fleece.’
He grinned. ‘Right,’ he said, passing her back her computer before brushing the biscuit crumbs off his chest and sitting upright, something akin to hope on his features. ‘What else do we need to do to get this on the internet?’
‘A photo is essential. Perhaps one with you and Ralph?’
The farmer stood and crossed to the sideboard in the hallway. Amidst the chaos he somehow found what he was looking for and returned with a framed photograph, which he passed to Delilah.
‘Malham Show,’ he said with pride, finger tapping the glass beneath which he was captured posing with his prize-winning tup, a rosette adorning the broad back of the sheep.
Date with Mystery Page 23