He gave a half-smile. ‘Like I said before, it’s easier when you don’t know the people involved. Putting Jimmy Thornton through all that today was hell.’
‘Did you become inured to it? The violence? The death?’
She watched him consider the question, placing his cutlery on his plate and leaning back in his chair before replying. ‘I’m not sure “inured” is the right word. The way I dealt with it was to put it in a black box and never lift the lid.’
‘How very Bruncliffe,’ she said with a light laugh.
He grinned at her. ‘Yeah, it’s not exactly what the police shrink would advocate.’ The smile fell from his face. ‘Seriously, if you need to talk . . .’
‘Thanks. But I think I just need something to take my mind off it all. And it’s not exactly good running weather out there.’
‘In that case, I may have just the thing.’ Samson got to his feet, cleared the plates into the sink, put the kettle on and disappeared downstairs. He was soon jogging back up to the kitchen, laptop in hand. ‘I need a Facebook profile,’ he said, placing the computer on the table and giving her a smile.
‘You’re going on Facebook?’ She couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her.
His smile morphed into a wounded look. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘Nothing – just I didn’t think . . .’ she started stuttering, then saw the twinkle in his eyes.
‘You’re right,’ he said, grinning again. ‘Not my thing at all. But this is for work.’
‘The Livvy Thornton case?’
He nodded. ‘I had the bright idea of setting up a group for her old friends, maybe seeing if any of those who’ve moved away can shed light on what happened in the days leading up to her death. If Livvy came home in secret—’
‘She might have met up with one of them!’ Delilah was already pulling the laptop towards her. ‘What a brilliant idea.’
‘Thanks. But when it came to setting up an account, I was terrified of getting something wrong.’
‘And ending up telling all of Bruncliffe what you were having for tea?’ she teased.
‘Or worse! Seeing as there’s an expert on the team, however . . .’
‘Sweet talk doesn’t work on me,’ she said, concentrating on the screen, her fingers flying over the keys. ‘Luckily for you, coffee does. And chocolate.’
Samson took the hint. Delilah didn’t even hear the front door close as he made his second trip to the Spar. Nor did she pay him any heed when he returned with a bag full of chocolate. And she devoured the Cadbury’s Dairy Milk he placed in front of her without even glancing up from the computer.
‘Done!’ she exclaimed not long after, her smug smile offset by an endearing smear of chocolate on her cheek. ‘That’s your profile set up. I’ve made sure it’s as invisible as you can be on Facebook, but there’s still a risk of being found by some old school friend you’d rather not hear from. Or an old flame.’ She grinned. ‘So before I press the button and go live, are you sure you want to do this?’
‘How big a risk?’ he asked, thinking that school friends and former girlfriends were the least of his worries when it came to being tracked down.
She shrugged. ‘Bigger than if you left Facebook alone.’
He thought about the trouble in London. Could doing this put his head too far above the parapet? Make him an easy target?
Then he thought of Livvy Thornton and poor Jimmy, his life being turned upside down by the past. This might help solve the mystery that was causing such upheaval.
‘Of course,’ continued Delilah with a glint in her eye, ‘if you’ve got something to hide, we could always set up the group for Livvy’s friends using my profile.’
Samson sensed the reservation beneath the quip. She didn’t trust him. Not fully. It made him reckless.
‘Do it,’ he said. ‘Press the button.’
Delilah clicked on the screen and Samson found himself hoping he wouldn’t regret the decision to step out from the shadows he normally dwelled amongst.
Shadows. Turning to dark. At Rainsrigg Quarry, PC Danny Bradley was standing outside the evidence tent Sergeant Clayton had sent up, trying not to get spooked as the night staked its claim.
At least the snow had stopped. It was scant consolation for the constable, stamping his feet to ward off the cold and wishing he was in the warmth of the Fleece, enjoying a game of darts with his mates. Anything rather than keeping watch over a grave of bones in the middle of nowhere.
The edges of the tent flapped sharply behind him, making him start.
‘Just the bloody wind,’ he muttered to himself, heart rattling against his ribs, eyes peering into the surrounding blackness, unable to rid himself of the feeling that he was being watched.
Danny Bradley was already counting the hours until he was relieved of duty.
Facebook made no sense to Samson O’Brien. Likes. Friend requests. Privacy settings. Status. Check-ins. After half an hour sitting next to Delilah as she walked him through the basics, his head was reeling.
‘People actually enjoy all this?’ he asked, face twisted in pain.
Delilah laughed. ‘You’ll get the hang of it. In the meantime, I’ll monitor it for you. So don’t go doing anything private on here for now, as I’ll be able to see everything you do.’
Samson shuddered. ‘I won’t be doing anything apart from watching the group.’
Entitled Friends of Livvy Thornton, Delilah had kept it simple. What she’d called a ‘pinned post’ was at the top of the page, explaining the reasoning for the group and making it clear that the Dales Detective Agency was behind it. It included a brief explanation about the search for a death certificate and encouraged people to discuss their memories of Livvy, especially the last couple of weeks of her life.
‘That ought to get people interested,’ she said. ‘I’ve kept it closed, too, which should prevent unwanted visitors.’
‘So how do we get Livvy’s friends to join?’ Samson asked.
Delilah pointed at the list of members on the sidebar, several names showing there despite the group having been live for such a short time. ‘Word gets around,’ she said. ‘Plus I’ve invited a few key people, like Jo from next door.’ She gestured towards the salon. ‘She’ll spread the news. I reckon by bedtime tonight you’ll have a lot of discussion going on here.’
As she spoke, a red circle appeared at the top of the screen.
‘More requests to join,’ she said.
Samson watched on, impressed by the speed with which she navigated what to him was an incomprehensible world, as she clicked on the mouse and brought up the names of three women.
‘Oh, Lisa Baldwin,’ she exclaimed, leaning in closer to the screen. ‘She used to have a massive crush on Will. What’s she up to now?’
Delilah clicked on the name – one Samson barely recalled from school – and the image changed, the entire screen now devoted to one particular woman.
‘It’s Lisa’s personal profile,’ explained Delilah with a grin. ‘And I’m being nosy.’ She scrolled down: holiday photos, pictures of kids, the odd joke all rolling past. ‘Tut-tut,’ scolded Delilah. ‘She’s not got her privacy settings very secure. I can see everything. Let’s see who she’s friends with.’ Another click and they were looking at rows of mug shots.
Samson was mesmerised by the sheer number of people claiming to be Lisa Baldwin’s friend. And the places they came from. Bruncliffe, obviously. But also London, Manchester, Leeds, quite a few in France, several in Spain, quite a few in the US and a couple in Australia. ‘How does she keep in touch with them all?’ he asked.
Delilah laughed. ‘It’s Facebook. It’s not about keeping in touch. It’s about showing off! That’s why most profile photos are shots of people on holiday.’
He turned to look at her. ‘Have you uploaded a photo for my profile?’
She grinned. Clicked the mouse a couple of times. And there it was. Samson O’Brien’s profile.
‘Like I said, it’s all
locked down, with minimal personal info. No marital status or anything.’ She grinned again.
But he was staring at the screen. At a photo of him and Ryan Metcalfe when they were in their teens, Samson astride a quad bike, Ryan leaning against a barn to one side. Both of them were wearing T-shirts and jeans and squinting into the camera, the sun full on their faces, giving them something of a cowboy air – James Dean, Dales-style.
‘Where did you get that?’ he asked, overcome with memories.
‘It was on my phone. The original photo was pinned to Ryan’s bedroom wall when he left to join the army. After he died, I took it. Made a digital copy. Sorry,’ she said, sensing his emotion. ‘Do you want me to change it?’
He shook his head, forcing a smile. ‘No. It’s lovely. Just a shock.’
A shock because he remembered the day vividly. Ryan had come over to help get the hay in. It had been a sublime summer’s day, the two of them working hard alongside George Capstick under a hot sun, sweat running down their backs. They’d broken off at midday, returning to the house for something to eat. And his father had met them at the door. Camera in hand.
It had been a rare moment of sobriety for Joseph O’Brien. He’d insisted on taking photos, capturing the event for posterity, as he kept saying. All the while Samson was watching him for the first sign of trouble, the squinted glance in the image not merely because of the sunshine in his eyes.
But Joseph had turned all expectations on their head. He’d ushered them into the cool of the kitchen where he’d laid the table, the provisions Samson had bought in preparation already made into sandwiches, tea brewing in the pot. Not a drop of alcohol in sight.
And now . . . ? Samson suppressed the memory of his father at Fellside Court and the niggle of concern that accompanied it. The old man was fine. There was nothing to worry about.
‘Thanks,’ he said, glancing at Delilah. ‘It’s a lovely photo.’
She grinned in relief. ‘I’ll say. I reckon you two teenage gods will encourage a few women to get in touch. Now, in terms of privacy settings—’
Samson interrupted her with a raised hand. ‘Enough,’ he pleaded. ‘No more Facebook. Not tonight. How about we head across the road for a quiet drink instead?’
She opened her mouth, as though she were about to say yes. Then she glanced at the kitchen clock. ‘Damn! Sorry. I lost track of the time. I’ve got to go.’
And like a modern-age Cinderella, she jumped up from the table and ran down the stairs. He heard the front door slam and crossed to the window to see her still struggling into her coat as she began hurrying away, the street lights reflecting back up from the snow-covered pavements.
Seconds later a Range Rover pulled up alongside her, the blond head of Rick Procter visible as the window wound down. He said something. Delilah laughed. And got in.
Under Samson’s sullen gaze, the Range Rover drove off towards the marketplace. A pumpkin coach being driven by a rat. When he turned from the window, Samson half-expected to see a silver shoe lying in the doorway.
Instead he saw the mournful features of a dog. Tolpuddle. Delilah had run off and forgotten him.
‘Come on, boy,’ Samson said. ‘Let’s go to the pub.’
‘Just drop me there.’ Delilah pointed at the bright facade of the Happy House Chinese takeaway on the junction of Church Street and Fell Lane.
‘Are you sure? I don’t mind waiting and giving you a lift back,’ said Rick as he pulled the Range Rover into the kerb. ‘How long can it take to choose a few books, anyway?’
He turned to look at her with a warm smile, his blond hair glinting in the light streaming from the takeaway. And Delilah thought she must be mad.
Rick Procter, good-looking to an insane degree. Incredibly successful self-made businessman. Well known for his charitable donations to local causes. And, more importantly, held in high esteem by the Metcalfe clan, even Will having nothing but good things to say about the man.
So why, when it was clear that he was interested, was Delilah not encouraging his advances? She’d even thought twice about getting in the car with him when he’d offered her a lift, but decided it would seem churlish not to.
She was definitely mad. Preferring instead a reprobate with a chequered past and a dangerous profession.
‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘but the walk home will do me good.’
‘We still haven’t had that drink you promised me before Christmas,’ Rick reminded her as she reached for the door handle. ‘How about tonight? After you’ve been to the library.’
‘Not tonight. Sorry. It’s been a long day. But soon, I promise.’
Rick smiled and leaned over to kiss her cheek, but Delilah was already out of the car.
‘Thanks again,’ she said, waving as the door closed.
She waited until the Range Rover was out of sight before walking up Fell Lane towards her supposed destination. She’d had to think fast when Rick had asked where she was going; the library was the first place she’d thought of. Glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching, she continued past the building with its shelves of books inside the windows, lights bright against the dark of the night, and on to Fellside Court.
No one needed to know about her visits here. Because no one needed to know about Joseph O’Brien’s struggle. If word got out, all of Bruncliffe would hear and the man would be condemned in an instant.
She looked at her watch. She was late. Joseph had invited her round for tea and she’d completely forgotten. Still, she had plenty to tell him. Just wait until he heard that Samson was on Facebook. She was smiling with anticipation when Joseph O’Brien opened the door to her.
Delilah didn’t notice the car parked in the shadows of an alleyway, lights off, the driver watching her walk straight past the library. And on to Fellside Court.
From the dark interior of the Range Rover, Rick Procter kept his eyes on her all the way up Fell Lane.
She’d not been telling the truth. He’d known it straight away. Delilah Metcalfe had to be one of the worst liars he’d ever met, those big eyes revealing her every emotion.
It had been pure chance that had placed him on Back Street as she left her office building, the slippery conditions underfoot providing him with the perfect excuse to pull over and offer her a lift. To try and persuade her to come for a drink.
Piqued by her refusal and her uncharacteristic deception, after dropping her off he’d turned left into the small lane just past the chippy and doubled back to where the alley met Church Street, providing him with the perfect vantage point for satisfying his curiosity.
Why would she lie about going to Fellside Court? Why the secrecy? She’d walked up the hill like she had something to hide, checking over her shoulder all the time.
He pulled out onto Church Street, heading back towards the marketplace, thinking hard.
Somehow it had to be linked to bloody O’Brien. The returned detective had been haunting his thoughts since that call from Leeds. What had he been doing at the house on North Park Avenue, trespassing where he had no right to be?
The man was a curse. A constant malign presence, sticking his nose where it shouldn’t be. He’d been poking around Fellside Court before Christmas, a situation that had troubled Rick. But with reports from Leeds saying the second intruder had been a woman, it looked like Delilah could be involved as well. For Delilah’s sake, he hoped that wasn’t the case. He liked her. Really liked her. And he’d rather not have to deal with her in the way it was looking like he’d have to deal with O’Brien.
If it came to it, however . . .
Fingers tapping the steering wheel, the property developer drove slowly across the quiet marketplace, the snow and the cold keeping people at home on a dark evening. He turned the Range Rover into Back Street and saw two familiar figures crossing the road. O’Brien with that stupid hound of Delilah’s. They headed into the Fleece, unaware of his scrutiny.
It was only as he was passing the burnt-out ruins of the rugby clu
b on the edge of town that Rick Procter wondered about what he’d seen. O’Brien was in the pub with Delilah’s dog. Yet Delilah had been heading into Fellside Court. Something she hadn’t wanted anyone to know about.
Were they in cahoots? Was she helping him investigate another of Procter Properties’ holdings?
Pulling into the kerb, Rick reached for the mobile in his jacket, ignoring the latest-spec iPhone stowed between the seats. It was time to do something about the returned detective. No more waiting for official channels to take him down. The man was too dangerous. And given his tenacity, Samson O’Brien wouldn’t stop until he’d uncovered the truth behind the successful business that Rick had spent so long building up.
There were too many people involved to let that happen. Too many dangerous people.
On the prepaid mobile he entered the number he knew by heart.
‘Boss?’ A deep voice. No names. An added precaution.
‘That problem we talked about,’ said Rick. ‘I’ve thought of a solution. Two birds with one stone.’
‘I’m listening.’
Less than a minute was all it took. Rick Procter ended the call and slipped the phone back in his pocket, smiling at the neatness of it all. The sheer bloody brilliance of it.
The scourge that was Samson O’Brien would soon be taken care of. Permanently.
Many hours later, at a time when most of Bruncliffe’s lights had been extinguished and the majority of its residents were tucked up in bed, a yellow glow still spilled from the window of the Dales Detective Agency.
Samson O’Brien was staring at his laptop, a cold cup of coffee and a half-eaten sandwich to one side, the dog bed in the corner empty. There was something about the Livvy Thornton case that he was overlooking. Like he wasn’t seeing it right. A blind spot obscuring his view.
He sighed. He was getting nowhere. He logged off the computer, switched off the light and headed up to the second floor and the room he’d appropriated as a bedroom, aware of the silence in the building. It wasn’t something that normally bothered him. But after a day with Delilah and then a couple of hours in the pub with Tolpuddle, Samson was missing the company.
Date with Mystery Page 26