‘Now aren’t you glad we came with this?’ asked Samson, patting the grey bonnet of the Ferguson as George unhooked the tow rope.
‘Thank you,’ said Delilah with far more grace than earlier.
‘But how on earth did you end up buried in there in the first place?’ Samson had crossed the lane to inspect the mound of snow that now featured a Micra-shaped hole.
‘A rabbit,’ muttered Delilah under her breath, her cheeks going red.
‘A rabbit?’ Samson started laughing, George Capstick casting her a shy grin. ‘You were forced into a snowdrift by a rabbit?’
‘It was a small one. Too cute to run over.’
Samson shook his head, laughing even harder. ‘You’re as soft as Tolpuddle,’ he said.
She glowered at him, pointing at the platform that George Capstick had added to the Little Grey to accommodate passengers. ‘If you want a cold ride back on a tractor, keep laughing.’
He grinned, undaunted by the threat. ‘Might be safer than putting my life in the hands of someone capable of getting stuck in a couple of inches of snow. What do you think, George?’
Samson made the fatal mistake of turning his back on her. In one fluid movement, Delilah bent down, scooped a fistful of snow and had it compacted and flying through the air just as he started laughing.
It caught him on the side of his head, showering icy particles all over his face.
‘What—? You bugger!’ He was quick to retaliate, hurling a snowball back at her, but even as it left his fingers, a second shot caught him on the chest.
She was good. What could you expect with having five brothers? Already she was behind the Micra, gathering and throwing in smooth movements, hitting her target – him – with a high percentage.
‘Surrender,’ she called out with a laugh, Tolpuddle darting between the two of them, leaping up at the snowballs flying over him.
‘Never,’ Samson shouted, taking another hit to the body, his black parka now smeared with white. He ducked behind the tractor, seeking shelter, and turned to George Capstick, who was standing by the bonnet, watching the fight with an amused expression. ‘Help me,’ he whispered to his old neighbour, before firing another couple of snowballs in Delilah’s direction and getting the satisfaction of a yelp from the vicinity of the Micra.
George gazed at him blankly and Samson thought it was a lost cause. But then one of Delilah’s efforts landed on the Little Grey, whumping onto the bodywork. George Capstick’s eyebrows shot up, his lips compressed, and he glared across no-man’s-land at the transgressor.
Whump. Another missile, hitting the grey paintwork.
‘You’re losing,’ laughed Delilah, stretching above the car to fire again. She was mid-shot when it hit her. A huge snowball, catching her full on the chest.
She let out a small squeal as she fell back into the snow, arms splayed out like a scarlet angel. ‘I surrender,’ she yelled, still prone, Tolpuddle rushing over to lick her face.
Samson cast a look at George Capstick, calmly wiping snow from his hands. ‘Good shot, George,’ he murmured, before hurrying over to help a laughing Delilah to her feet. He was brushing the worst of the snow off her back, thinking about the perils of getting between a man and his tractor and how good it was to hear the sound of Delilah’s laughter again, when his mobile went.
‘Hello,’ he said as he turned, cupping the phone to his ear.
‘Come quickly!’ Jimmy Thornton, shouting, his voice quavering. ‘I’ve found her . . . Livvy . . . she’s here.’
21
They found Jimmy Thornton standing at the kitchen window up at Rainsrigg, staring out into the garden with a look of horror.
‘I was splitting the rhubarb,’ he muttered, gaze fixed on the dark gash in the snow he’d created. ‘Just digging. And I found—’ He gulped, throat working. ‘It’s Livvy, I’m sure of it. You were right.’
Delilah moved over to his side. ‘Come on,’ she said, leading him to the table. ‘Sit down. We’ll take over from here.’
Jimmy sat, back to the window and its macabre view, while Delilah put the kettle on.
‘Have you called the police?’ asked Samson.
‘No. Just you.’
‘Do you mind if I go and have a look?’
Jimmy shuddered. ‘As long as I can stay here.’
‘You can look after Tolpuddle for me,’ said Delilah.
As if sensing he was needed, the dog came and sat by the table, leaning into the farmer’s legs until Jimmy lowered a hand onto the grey head, leaving Delilah to follow Samson back out into the cold and the falling flakes.
‘Are you sure you want to see this?’ Samson murmured, closing the back door behind them.
They’d ridden up to the quarry on the back of the Little Grey, the two of them huddled with Tolpuddle on the makeshift platform, knowing the road over Gunnerstang Brow would be too challenging for the Micra in the wintry conditions. Having seen how shaken Jimmy Thornton was, Samson was glad Delilah had insisted on accompanying him, her interpersonal skills far surpassing his. He was also glad he’d told George Capstick to head home after dropping them off, the man not being equipped to deal with drama. Or death. Seeing the upturned earth in the Thorntons’ vegetable patch, Samson was expecting both.
‘We’re on this case together, remember,’ Delilah said, reinstating herself into the investigation with more bravado than she felt, aware of the vast space around them; the trees and the rocks providing cover for anyone wishing them harm. The place felt menacing, despite the purity of its winter coating.
In tense silence they walked in Jimmy’s footprints up the snow-covered path to where a spade lay abandoned on the ground, not far from a brown smudge in the surrounding white. Samson squatted down beside the hole and brushed off the thin layer of snow that had settled in it, the tattered edges of black plastic buried within it discernible. Jutting out of the rent in the plastic was a piece of fabric, colour faded, some kind of pattern on it, like the petal of a flower, a rusty stain across the white leaf. But it was what that fabric contained that made Samson straighten up, blood draining from his face.
‘Are they . . . bones?’ gasped Delilah, a hand over her mouth.
‘Afraid so.’ Samson was already retracing his steps, heading for the house to use the phone.
Sergeant Clayton, a policeman who had grown into his role over the years – literally, in some ways – was accustomed to a certain type of crime. Quad-bike theft. Sheep rustling. The odd fracas outside the Fleece on a Saturday night – never inside it, as Troy Murgatroyd was more than capable of turfing out troublemakers before they caused any damage to his pub. Nothing to spark any major concern. Nothing that would elevate the heartrate.
Since the return of Bruncliffe’s black sheep back in October, all that had changed. They’d had a spate of murders that had culminated in complete mayhem up on the fells. A series of malicious attacks on the elderly residents of Fellside Court. And now this.
The possible remains of a young woman, uncovered at Rainsrigg Quarry. A woman who was supposed to have died twenty-odd years ago in Leeds.
He pushed back his helmet, scratched his head and glared at Samson O’Brien, the man who seemed to be the catalyst for the recent outburst of exotic crimes in this part of the Dales. Not that there was anything exotic about this. Standing out in the bitter cold getting covered in snow and staring down into a hole that contained bones, young Constable Bradley next to him, looking like he was going to faint at the sight.
When the call had come through to the station, Gavin Clayton had been sceptical. Not least because he didn’t fancy the drive up Gunnerstang Brow in the current conditions. But mostly because he remembered Livvy Thornton. He remembered her being killed, too. So why would he go haring up to Rainsrigg in a blizzard on a wild goose chase, when everyone knew she’d died a long way from here?
Constable Bradley, however, had insisted they respond, seeming to think O’Brien wouldn’t waste their time. So here they were, lookin
g at what was bound to mean a mound of paperwork and hours hanging about in freezing temperatures. And the only consolation was seeing the young constable struggling to hold down his breakfast.
‘What makes you think it’s her, seeing as she died an hour’s drive away from here?’ the sergeant grunted.
‘It’s a long story,’ said Samson. ‘Let’s go inside in the warmth and I’ll fill you in.’
Constable Bradley was already turning away from the hole with its garish contents and towards the back door of Quarry House, whether in anticipation of a decent brew or in eagerness to escape the crime scene, it wasn’t clear. They trooped inside, leaving snow-covered boots on the mat and crossing the slate floor in socks, the slabs cold on the feet.
‘Now then, Jimmy,’ Sergeant Clayton said to the farmer by way of greeting as they sat in next to him at the table. ‘Bit of a rum do, all this.’
The young man barely glanced up in reply, merely reaching out to take one of the mugs Delilah Metcalfe had just placed on the table. ‘It’s Livvy, isn’t it?’ he muttered.
‘Can’t rightly say as yet,’ replied the sergeant. ‘We’ll need to call in the boffins. But before I go and do that, I want to know a bit more about all this. Like why you think it could be your sister out there.’
Eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot, Jimmy shot a sideways glance at Samson. ‘Tell him. You figured it out, so you tell him.’
It took a while. To detail the will, the missing death certificate, the lack of evidence in the newspapers. The growing suspicion, fuelled by Tom Hardacre’s story about the shotgun and his belief that Livvy came home before she died. When he broached the topic of Carl Thornton, Samson tried to make it more palatable for the sake of the son sitting there listening. But there was no avoiding the brutal truth of what he was suggesting.
‘So let me get this straight,’ said the sergeant when Samson had finished. ‘You think Carl Thornton killed his own daughter when she was home on a secret visit. And that the whole story about Livvy being killed in a hit-and-run accident was fabricated to cover that up?’
‘I’m saying it’s possible,’ Samson countered. ‘But like I said, apart from a lack of paperwork to support the idea of Livvy having died in Leeds, there’s no evidence for any of this.’ His gaze fell on the patch of earth beyond the window, already merging back into the white landscape. ‘Not yet.’
Sergeant Clayton shook his head in dismay. ‘What a mess.’
Jimmy snorted. ‘That about sums up my family,’ he said. ‘A bloody mess.’
Delilah reached across the table and took his hand. ‘Don’t, Jimmy. This might turn out to be something and nothing.’
‘Delilah’s right,’ said Sergeant Clayton. ‘Until we get the experts in, there’s not much point in making assumptions.’
‘And when will that be?’ asked Samson.
The policeman glanced at his watch and then cast an eye towards the weather outside, snow still falling fast. ‘Not today, that’s for sure. They come over from Harrogate nowadays. It’s already late and there are roads closed all over the place, so tomorrow morning at the earliest, I’d say.’
‘So what do we do with . . . that . . . in the meantime?’ Jimmy pointed towards the garden.
‘Cover it over and protect it from the elements for now. And wait for the cavalry.’
‘More bloody waiting,’ muttered the farmer. ‘But I can tell you now, that’s Livvy.’
Sergeant Clayton leaned across the table. ‘What makes you so sure, lad?’
Jimmy raised his head, face twisted in grief. ‘James – the band. Livvy was mad about them.’
The policeman looked puzzled, but Samson was already making the connection. The fabric in the hole outside. The pattern. The big petal. It was part of the daisy motif favoured by the Manchester band in the nineties.
‘That’s Livvy’s T-shirt out there for sure,’ continued Jimmy. ‘So unless you can come up with some other explanation for how my sister’s bloodstained clothing is buried in our garden along with a load of bones, I’m thinking that the blood and bones are probably hers, too.’
Accepting that there would be no further progress on the case that day, the two policemen and Samson covered the gruesome discovery with an old tarpaulin from the barn – a temporary measure until a police tent could be brought up from Bruncliffe. Jimmy Thornton had been persuaded to return home, having left a set of keys to the property with Sergeant Clayton. And Constable Bradley had come to terms with the fact that he’d drawn the short straw and would be on duty at the quarry overnight, standing guard over the find. Promising to return to the empty house with provisions to keep the young constable going, Sergeant Clayton had led Samson, Delilah and Tolpuddle out to his car, leaving poor Danny Bradley to his unenviable task.
The drive back into town was slow and sombre, the sergeant negotiating the slippery slope of Gunnerstang Brow with care, no one inclined to talk. On being dropped off at the office, neither Samson nor Delilah was in the mood for company in the form of the clientele at the Fleece, but both of them were starving, breakfast a distant memory and the dusk already turning to dark. So when Samson offered to pop to the Spar and get supplies, Delilah acquiesced. Even though she wasn’t supposed to be spending time with him.
An hour later, with Tolpuddle sound asleep in his bed across the hallway, she was sitting at the office kitchen table with Samson, pushing away an empty plate, the omelette and chips Samson had rustled up having been exactly what she needed.
‘I guess that rules Jimmy Thornton out as our mystery letter writer,’ Samson said, broaching the topic of the distressing afternoon up at the quarry for the first time since they’d got back to town. ‘It’s highly unlikely he’d try to stop us investigating and then unearth what could be his sister’s grave up there.’
Delilah stared at him, eyebrows raised. ‘Seriously? You thought Jimmy was the person shooting at us last week?’
‘It crossed my mind. He hasn’t exactly been forthcoming from the start, and I hear he’s good with a rifle.’
‘I told you before, he was as forthcoming as anyone around here would be when it comes to revealing skeletons in their closet.’ She gave a dismissive shake of her head. ‘I’d point the finger at a lot of others before I’d lay the blame on Jimmy.’
‘Like who?’ asked Samson, a glint of challenge in his eyes.
It was bait. Delilah knew it. Samson O’Brien was luring her back in, piquing her curiosity and getting her engrossed in the case again. She felt her will to resist crumble.
‘Oscar Hardacre,’ she said, beginning to tick off a list on her fingers. ‘He has a history with Livvy that doesn’t sound healthy; he’s still bitter about the way she left; he knows that path between the two properties like the back of his hand. And he’s inherited the Hardacre talent with a rifle.’
‘Those trophies at the farm aren’t just his?’ asked Samson.
‘No. Shooting runs right through the family – his grandparents were national champions. But Oscar’s no slouch on the range. Pretty nifty with clays, too. My money would be on him. Not that I’ve given it much thought,’ she added with a mischievous grin.
Samson laughed. ‘Clearly not.’
‘You’ve not tried speaking to him again then?’ Delilah asked, tone light as she skirted the subject of the last week and her self-imposed exile from the office.
‘I called him a couple of times, but he hung up on me.’
‘I could—’
‘No!’ Samson cut her off before the offer could be made. ‘Whatever Jimmy’s uncovered at Rainsrigg is going to make our mystery letter writer desperate. And desperate means dangerous. I’ve got away twice with placing you in harm’s way. I’m not willing to chance my luck – and your brother’s wrath – a third time. Leave Oscar Hardacre to me.’
Instead of her habitual defiance, Samson saw consternation in Delilah’s expression. ‘So you think this might bring the shooter out of the woodwork? They might strike again?’
; Samson nodded. ‘Which means I’ll be keeping an eye on Oscar.’
‘And watching your back,’ said Delilah.
‘That too.’
She fell silent, eyes on her empty plate. When she spoke again her words were laced with sorrow. ‘Do you really think it could be Livvy that Jimmy’s found?’
‘There’s every chance of it. We both know this case has been spiralling closer and closer to home. And with the history of Carl’s violence . . .’
‘Not just Carl. I keep wondering if Oscar might have had something to do with it.’ Delilah shuddered. ‘Unrequited love can lead to drastic actions.’
‘It’s crossed my mind, too. When Tom came home that day knowing Livvy had sneaked back to Rainsrigg, perhaps he told more than just his wife?’
‘And Oscar decided to act on it. Watching the Thornton house with his binoculars and waiting for a chance . . .’
‘Only flaw is,’ said Samson, ‘why would Carl and Marian Thornton lie for all those years about how Livvy died, if Oscar was the cause of her dying?’
‘And conversely, why would Oscar Hardacre be trying to stop our investigation if Carl Thornton killed her? The whole thing is a mystery,’ Delilah muttered, dropping her head into her hands with fatigue. ‘What a day!’
It was shock. The hassle of getting stuck in the snow, followed by the sight of those bones . . . So upsetting, the oddly familiar shapes nestled in the fabric. She knew she would be dreaming about them that night.
Not that she was the only one stunned by what they’d discovered at Rainsrigg. She’d been in the kitchen with Jimmy when Sergeant Clayton and Constable Danny Bradley arrived and she’d watched them follow Samson up the garden. Seen young Danny wheeling away as he registered what was down there.
‘You okay?’ Samson was regarding her with concern.
She nodded. ‘Just not used to seeing things like that. Being involved in things like this. I don’t know how you do it for a living.’
Date with Mystery Page 25