Likewise, in the small cottage on Crag Lane, Delilah Metcalfe had yet to join her fellow townsfolk in slumber. She was sitting on the couch nursing a hot chocolate, Tolpuddle in his bed by the wood-burner. Luckily the hound was the forgiving type and had given her a warm welcome when she called in at the Fleece to collect him on her way home, having unwittingly abandoned him with Samson.
Now the dog was sleeping like an angel and Delilah was wide awake, tormented by the idea that poor Livvy Thornton had met such an awful fate.
Those bones. Every time she closed her eyes Delilah saw them, swaddled in fabric and soil.
Not wanting to be alone, she lay down on the sofa, covered herself with a throw and listened to the soft snoring of the sleeping Weimaraner.
Up above the town, in the shadow of Rainsrigg Quarry, Constable Danny Bradley was wishing he was in bed. Instead he was sitting at the kitchen table of the Thornton house, the range ticking away quietly behind him. A quick cup of coffee and a chance to get warm. No one would blame him for abandoning his post, not when he could see the silhouette of the police tent through the window, its ghostly outline marking the evidence he’d been tasked with guarding.
Five minutes and he’d head back out.
He settled back in the chair, his eyes gritty and tired. He closed them. Felt the heavy blanket of sleep enfold him. Then he jerked awake. Senses alert.
A light. Muffled but visible by the side of the tent.
Someone was out there.
Jumping up from the table, the young policeman went scrambling for the door, throwing it open and running out into the night.
‘Hey!’ he shouted. But the light had already started moving away, flitting into the distance like a will-o’-the-wisp.
Danny scrambled for his mobile, fumbled it out of his pocket and turned on the torch, a thin beam of illumination picking out a path as he ran, feet slithering and slipping on the snow. Already the tent had been left behind, the trespasser heading towards the quarry, its inky nothingness looming ahead.
‘Come back,’ Danny shouted, his years of fell running giving him the advantage as he began to gain ground. ‘Stop!’
Still the dancing light moved away, deeper into the dark and the dangers of the quarry. Given better light and better luck, Danny would have caught it. And the person carrying it. But luck wasn’t with him.
As he ran headlong into the hollowed-out arena that was littered with debris from its working past, his left foot snagged on something solid, tripping him, sending him flying. He sprawled across the rocky ground, felt his cheek smack against the cold earth and heard his mobile smash. Danny Bradley was plunged into darkness.
22
Early the following morning, the isolated solitude of Quarry House was broken.
With the snow having stopped and the snow ploughs finally getting the roads clear, under a cloudless sky streaked with the first fingers of light the forensics team and a couple of detectives had arrived. Now several police cars, radios crackling, were parked outside the cottage along with an unmarked vehicle, and around the back people were working in the garden, their white suits merging into the landscape.
What had been the Thornton family home had become a potential crime scene.
‘Bloody kids!’ Sergeant Clayton was muttering as Constable Bradley finished telling Samson O’Brien about his nocturnal adventures. ‘Mucking about like that. Someone could have been seriously injured.’
‘You didn’t see who it was?’ Samson asked Danny, the young policeman showing the strains of his long stint on watch, black smudges beneath his eyes, his jawline unshaven. And an angry red welt along his left cheekbone.
‘Not a chance. It was pitch-black. All I saw was the light bobbing into the distance. And then I fell.’ The constable shrugged, bony shoulders sharp beneath his uniform. ‘I reckon Sarge is right. It was kids larking around.’
‘But you didn’t hear them?’
‘No. Not a peep. Which is odd. But why would anyone else have been up here?’
‘It was kids,’ the sergeant reiterated. ‘Trying to get gory photos to put up on Facebook or the like. Makes you wonder what the world’s coming to.’
Samson didn’t offer any rebuttal. Neither did he concur. For he had his own theories about who may have been trying to see inside the evidence tent, which was now busy with activity, and he wasn’t keen to share them.
‘Do they know if it’s Livvy yet?’ he asked.
Bruncliffe’s sergeant rubbed a hand over his face as though he too hadn’t slept well. ‘Too early to say. We’ll have to wait for the boffins to do their job. But I’m hoping it’s not. Livvy Thornton was a lovely lass.’
‘Did you know her well?’ asked Constable Bradley.
‘Not that well,’ admitted the sergeant. ‘She was a couple of years above me at school. Like everyone else, I was shocked when I heard she’d been killed. But I didn’t for a moment doubt the version of events the Thorntons gave.’
Constable Bradley was frowning.
‘Penny for them, Danny,’ said Samson, knowing from past experience that the young man was astute when it came to crime, despite his lack of years on the force.
‘I was thinking overnight . . . I mean, how could it be possible? To deceive people for that long in a community this tight-knit?’
‘The Thorntons weren’t from here,’ said Sergeant Clayton. ‘That would make it easier. No family to contradict their stories. And once Carl Thornton died, there was only Marian left who would have known the truth.’ He shook his head in dismay. ‘I just can’t believe it. That Marian Thornton could be capable of such a cover-up. She was such a good woman. A regular churchgoer.’
Samson stayed quiet, thinking of all the people he’d come across who had masqueraded as decent folk while hiding heinous crimes. Going to church was no indication of innocence.
‘But it doesn’t make sense,’ continued Danny, brow still furrowed. ‘I mean, if Mr Thornton killed his daughter like we’re presuming, then Mrs Thornton must have known about it.’
‘You’d think so,’ agreed the sergeant.
Danny shrugged. ‘So why put Livvy in her will?’
‘What’s your point?’ asked Sergeant Clayton, not as sharp as his protégé.
‘My point is that if Mrs Thornton hadn’t named her daughter as an heir, we’d be none the wiser about any of this.’ He waved a hand towards the white tent billowing in the breeze, police tape fluttering around it. ‘We’d have carried on believing Livvy died in Leeds. So why do something that would expose everything after years of covering it up?’
Sergeant Clayton gave Danny a world-weary look. ‘Guilt,’ he said simply. ‘Mrs Thornton couldn’t bear to go to her maker without unburdening herself. When you’ve been in this job as long as I have, son, you’ll realise how powerful remorse can be. In fact,’ he continued, turning to Samson, ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what was behind Carl Thornton’s death, too. Couldn’t live with himself after what he’d done, so he took his own life. Aye,’ he said, concentrating on the white-suited figures moving around the garden. ‘That’ll be it all right.’
Satisfied that he’d solved the mystery, the sergeant turned towards the house. ‘Wonder how that tea’s coming on,’ he said, heading for the back door. ‘Come on, Danny. Get yourself a brew and then we’ll get you home.’
The young constable followed his boss into the farmhouse, leaving Samson with his thoughts. And his foul mood.
He’d barely got settled in the Fleece last night when he’d got a text from Delilah, apologising for leaving Tolpuddle with him. He’d offered to drop the hound home, but she’d insisted on coming to the pub to collect him when she was done. Whatever it was she’d been doing. No doubt eating out with Rick in Procter-Properties-owned Low Mill, the converted mill at the edge of town that now housed trendy apartments and some upmarket boutiques. Plus a brasserie. A place Samson couldn’t afford a coffee in, let alone a meal.
An hour and a half after her init
ial text – during which time Samson had been cajoled into playing darts with some of the regulars – Delilah had swept into the Fleece, all flustered, cheeks flushed, thanked him for looking after Tolpuddle and then, dog in tow, promptly left. With the darts game over, Samson had wandered back to the office feeling morose.
It was a feeling that had evolved into irascibility thanks to a fitful night’s sleep, his dreams haunted by Rick Procter. Consequently, at this early hour thinking wasn’t something Samson felt equipped to do, his mind sludge-like, synapses firing as poorly as his Royal Enfield engine on a cold morning. But Danny Bradley had triggered something.
Samson stood there in the shadow of the quarry, feeling the wind picking up, its sharp bite bringing the temperature down despite the emerging sunshine. He stared at the garden. And the old barn, the scene of Carl Thornton’s suicide.
Then he gave up trying to force his brain into action and turned back towards the house. He’d had enough of the cold for one morning. And he’d had enough of watching what could be Livvy Thornton’s grave being dug up by strangers.
In the kitchen of Quarry House, Delilah was making tea. Vats of it.
After a night sleeping on the sofa, she’d been woken by Tolpuddle leaping on top of her with his characteristic enthusiasm for the day ahead. Unfortunately, she hadn’t shared his joy. A foul mood had descended on her overnight, leaving her tetchy and irritable, her eyes gritty from her restless sleep and her body stiff and sore from the cramped conditions of the couch. The prospect of a day sorting out her taxes hadn’t brightened her temper. So when Samson had phoned to offer her a lift to pick up her car from Horton, she’d jumped at the chance to get out of the house and away from the tedium of her accounts. Luckily she had a dog-sitter already sorted, Joseph O’Brien having suggested the evening before that walking Tolpuddle occasionally might be good therapy. Given her Weimaraner’s anxiety issues, Delilah thought the therapy might work two ways. Over the last week Tolpuddle had seen a lot of Joseph and was completely at ease in his company. It would be a good test to see if that affability remained once she was out of sight.
Fifteen minutes later Delilah had been handing over Tolpuddle’s lead to Joseph in the marketplace, along with a packet of Dog-gestives to be used as bribes.
‘Thanks, Joseph,’ she said, leaning in to kiss his cheek. ‘Call me if there’s any problem.’
‘No need to thank me. And don’t worry,’ Joseph said, registering the uncertainty on her face. ‘We’ll be fine. Won’t we, boy?’
Tolpuddle looked up, ears cocked, and then nudged Joseph’s pocket. The very same pocket containing the dog biscuits.
Joseph laughed. ‘He’s a fast learner.’
Man and dog had walked away without a backward glance, leaving Delilah to meet Samson at the office.
If Delilah’s mood could best be described as waspish, Samson was like a bear with a sore head. On meeting her in the back yard, his greeting had taken the form of an acerbic comment about the missing Tolpuddle, asking Delilah where she’d abandoned him this time.
She hadn’t graced him with an answer, her fuse way too short to risk replying and her conscience still smarting over her canine neglect. Instead she’d climbed onto the back of the Royal Enfield in silence. But while she may have been holding her tongue, she spent the entire ride out to Horton aiming silent curses at the broad back in front of her. When the bike pulled up alongside her Micra, Samson waited for her to get off before flicking up his visor and brusquely informing her that he was heading up to Quarry House, but there was no need for her to bother joining him.
‘I’m sure you have better things for doing,’ he’d muttered.
She’d thanked him for the lift, cleared the remnants of snow off the Micra’s windscreen and promptly followed him. All the way up Gunnerstang Brow to Rainsrigg.
It was petty. She knew it. Watching him riding ahead of her, checking his mirrors to see the Micra still behind him. Knowing she was irritating him. But the pleasure she got from needling him quickly turned to guilt when they arrived at the Thornton house in tandem and the sombre context of their visit was emphasised by the collection of official cars. She’d quickly made herself busy.
Tea. Sergeant Clayton had brought supplies for the troops up with him but had done nothing more than dump them all on the kitchen table, possibly hoping that the tea-fairy would arrive and take care of it all. Or a woman, judging by his comment when Delilah appeared.
‘Get a brew on, there’s a good lass,’ he’d suggested. ‘We’re all parched.’
Delilah had time to note Samson’s look of surprise as she calmly turned and entered the house without the merest rebuke for the sergeant. Knowing there was nothing she could do to help the experts carrying out their work in the garden, she figured she might as well do something useful. If that meant conforming to Sergeant Clayton’s stereotyping for once, so be it.
Raiding the boxes in the hallway for mugs, plates and utensils, she’d soon had tea brewing, bacon sizzling in a pan and a plate of doughnuts on the table. And now she had several hungry people hovering around the kitchen, all talking about the grisly discovery in the garden and the incident in the night.
Apparently Danny Bradley had disturbed someone at the evidence tent. He’d given chase, but the intruder had run off into the darkness of the quarry.
Delilah kept her suspicions to herself as she listened to the detective sergeant who’d come with the forensics team dismissing the episode as a prank. He broke off as the door opened and Sergeant Clayton walked in with a bruised Danny Bradley.
‘’Ey up, it’s Forrest Gump,’ said the detective sergeant to much laughter, Danny blushing scarlet at the attention. ‘Shame it wasn’t a sheep, eh, lad. You’ve probably had more experience running after them.’ A lewd wink accompanied the comment, causing more amusement.
But Sergeant Clayton wasn’t laughing. He was glowering ominously at his counterpart. Sensing the tension, Delilah stepped between the two sergeants, the first batch of bacon butties held out before her.
‘Help yourself,’ she said, placing the plate next to the doughnuts, bringing conversation, and potential acrimony, to a halt. She was refilling the frying pan with rashers when the back door opened again and Samson entered, face solemn. She caught his eye but he shook his head before making himself a cup of coffee and taking a seat next to Danny Bradley.
No news.
Delilah concentrated on the bacon curling in the pan, not wanting to think about the work being carried out beyond the window.
In the cosy kitchen of Quarry House, with the range kicking out heat and the smell of bacon frying, it was easy to forget what was happening outside. Samson sipped his coffee, surprised to find he had a raging appetite.
‘There you go.’ Delilah placed another plate of bacon sandwiches on the table, pushing it in his direction.
He took one and bit into it, feeling his mood lift slightly.
‘What a mess,’ Sergeant Clayton was saying between bites of doughnut, addressing his observations to the detective sergeant, the more senior of the two plainclothes policemen who had come with the forensics team. ‘I never thought I’d see the like of this on my patch.’
‘How long will it take?’ Danny Bradley asked, glancing in the direction of the garden.
‘Depends what they find,’ said the detective. ‘If it’s random bones, it could take a while to determine their origin. Either way, we’re treating the whole place as a crime scene for now. Which means nothing can be removed from the garden. Or this house.’ His voice held more than a hint of warning and his gaze fixed on the two local policemen and Samson.
Sergeant Clayton bristled at the unnecessary explanation. ‘I think we know how to treat a crime scene,’ he muttered, finishing his doughnut and reaching for a second. ‘Don’t we, Constable Bradley?’
Noticing Danny’s unease at being thrown into the tense atmosphere that was developing between the two sergeants, Samson changed the topic.
‘H
ow are you getting home?’ he asked.
‘I’ll get a lift with someone,’ said Danny.
‘I can take you.’ Delilah had turned from the stove. ‘I won’t be long here.’
The young man’s face lit up, his tiredness pushed to one side, and Samson had to hide a smile.
‘Or,’ Delilah continued with a grin, ‘you can persuade Samson to give you a ride back.’
Danny’s gaze swivelled to Samson. ‘Did you come up on the Royal Enfield?’
Samson nodded, still eating his bacon butty.
‘Oh.’ The poor lad. The dilemma was so clear. Have a lift down with the legendary Delilah Metcalfe, former Queen of the Fells. Or ride on the back of a vintage motorcycle.
Amused, Samson watched on as the constable tried to decide, not sure which option he would have plumped for at the same age. Now, it was a no-brainer. He’d combine the two and have Delilah up behind him on the motorbike.
‘I think,’ the lad said hesitantly, afraid of causing offence, ‘I’ll go with Samson. If that’s okay.’
Chasing his sandwich down with a doughnut, Samson merely nodded again. But he caught Delilah’s amused look before she turned back to the stove.
‘Any more mugs?’ The younger of the two detectives had entered the kitchen and was looking at the teapot with longing, slapping his cold hands together.
‘In a box by the front door,’ said Delilah, busy adding more bacon to the pan.
‘I’ll get them,’ said Samson. He gestured for the detective to take his seat and headed into the hall.
Away from the warmth of the range, the hallway was chilly, a slight smell of damp coming from the cold slate floor. Lined along the walls were boxes and bin bags, evidence of Jimmy’s hard work clearing the house, and halfway down the row was an open box full of crockery. On a pile of boxes next to it was a beige shoebox.
Beryl’s Shoes.
It had completely slipped Samson’s mind, the conversation with Matty Thistlethwaite seeming so long ago – Marian Thornton’s bizarre bequest to her dead daughter.
Date with Mystery Page 27