‘You taking young Danny home, then?’
The voice behind him made Samson start. Sergeant Clayton had followed him out from the kitchen and was now squeezing past him, heading for the stairs and, no doubt, the bathroom.
Samson nodded, heartrate picking up. He reached into the open box, making a show of pulling out a couple of mugs.
‘Good, good,’ said the sergeant, already partway up the stairs.
Samson waited until he heard the click of the bathroom door – the loud humming issuing from behind it telling him more about Sergeant Clayton’s bathroom routine than he had a desire to know – then he grabbed the shoebox and moved to the front door.
Locked. No key in sight.
He was going to have to take it out through a kitchen full of policemen. Smuggle potential evidence away from what was now a crime scene, despite having been warned. Because even though he knew he would have Jimmy Thornton’s permission to take the box, the minute the detectives or Sergeant Clayton sensed that what he held in his hands could possibly be linked to whatever lay in the garden, they would commandeer it before he’d had a chance to look at what was inside.
Samson was determined to prevent that happening. For unlike Sergeant Clayton, he had a gut feeling that the mystery of Livvy Thornton’s death was a long way off being solved. In fact, he was hoping the contents of the shoebox would lead him closer to the answer. If only he could get it out of the house undetected.
The flush of the toilet told him he was running out of time. Box under his arm, he looked frantically around the hallway, hearing the click of a door upstairs, the humming getting louder, steps already on the landing.
Panic made Samson desperate. He grabbed the only option available to him and prayed he wouldn’t get caught.
23
Afterwards Delilah would remember how focused Samson seemed when he came in from the hall up at Quarry House. But at the time, with her back to the room as she wiped down the worktop, she merely heard the clink of crockery as Samson set the mugs he’d gone to fetch on the table.
‘Thanks,’ she said over her shoulder.
Samson nodded, leaning back on the dresser, gaze fixed on the assembled policemen who seemed in no hurry to get back out into the cold. The red bundle on the dresser behind him didn’t catch Delilah’s eye.
‘You off then, Danny?’ Sergeant Clayton was coming through the hallway door.
‘If that’s all right, Sarge.’
‘Aye, lad. You’ve done your shift. May as well take them back to the station on your way.’ The sergeant pointed at the remaining doughnuts. ‘Give them to the lads and lasses down there.’ He turned to the detective sergeant with a sarcastic smile. ‘Unless they’re considered part of the crime scene?’
The detective scowled at him.
‘Good.’ Sergeant Clayton was rubbing his hands together, eyes still focused on the doughnuts, and Delilah was just forming the suspicion that his magnanimity might have sprung from more selfish motives when Samson spoke up.
‘Best if Delilah takes them,’ he said. ‘Danny’s with me on the bike. That okay with you, Delilah?’ He was already reaching for the shopping bag Sergeant Clayton had brought everything up in.
‘Fine,’ she said, busy stacking the dishwasher.
She heard the rustle of the bag and then the scrape of chairs on slate as everyone got ready to go back to work.
‘We’ll let you know when we hear anything, O’Brien,’ Sergeant Clayton said as he pulled his boots back on.
‘O’Brien?’ The detective sergeant was staring at Samson. ‘Samson O’Brien?’
‘The same,’ said Sergeant Clayton before Samson could respond. ‘Bruncliffe’s finest. No doubt you’ve heard of him? He’s been down in London working with the Met.’
‘Oh, I’ve heard of him.’ The detective’s eyes narrowed, a knowing smile forming on his lips as he turned to Samson. ‘I hear you’ve got a busy couple of months ahead.’
Samson didn’t respond. He simply picked up the shopping bag and crossed to Delilah. ‘There you go. I put your coat in there too, so you don’t forget it.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, focused on him rather than the bag he was putting on the floor, trying to work out what had caused the tension in the room. She squeezed his arm. And he winked at her.
Hiding a grin, she turned back to the dishwasher. Unaware that she was about to become a criminal.
Samson followed Sergeant Clayton and Danny Bradley out of the door, glad to be away from the detective’s scrutiny. And wondering if he’d done the right thing. Would Delilah get caught? She was so useless at lying, he hadn’t felt able to tell her the truth. Better if she was unaware of the crime she was committing.
‘Obnoxious bugger,’ muttered Sergeant Clayton as they turned the corner of the house, heading for the Royal Enfield parked out front. ‘Treating us like country bumpkins.’ Then a grin split his face. ‘He’d heard of you though, O’Brien. You’re putting Bruncliffe on the policing map.’ He slapped Samson on the back.
‘I wouldn’t go that far . . .’ Samson said weakly, passing a helmet to Danny and getting the keys for the bike out of his pocket.
‘Nonsense. You’ve achieved more than that runt ever will. I have to admit,’ continued the sergeant while Samson started the bike, the throb of the engine echoing in the quarry, ‘I wasn’t happy when I heard you were back. Now I’m only hoping you’ll stay.’ He shook Samson’s hand, gave him another slap on the back and then turned to Danny Bradley.
‘You’ve got a perfect role model here, lad. Watch and learn.’ With a nod of his head, he walked back towards the crime scene, leaving the young constable with a massive smile on his face and Samson with a sour taste in his mouth.
Gavin Clayton wasn’t the sharpest of coppers. And he certainly wasn’t one of the fittest. But he was honest. Having a man like that eulogising him was more than Samson could bear. As was Danny Bradley’s look of admiration.
Slapping his helmet on, he pre-empted any further false praise and tried not to think of all the people he’d be letting down when his suspension – and the causes of it – became public knowledge.
Dishwasher on. Stove wiped down. Table cleared. It was only then that Delilah picked up the shopping bag, ready to go home.
The weight of it surprised her, first of all. Heavier than a few doughnuts and a bundled-up coat. But it was when she went to pull the coat out and put it on that she realised. Something was hidden inside it.
Keeping her back to the detective sergeant, who was still standing by the table talking quietly to his colleague, she peeled the red fabric away to see what it was concealing.
A shoebox. The Beryl’s shoebox that had been out in the hallway.
She hastily covered it back up, heart thumping.
It hadn’t got there by accident. Just jumped inside the bag of its own accord, wrapping itself in her coat for good measure.
Samson. The bugger! He’d been out in the hallway getting mugs. He’d taken the box and used her coat, hanging on a hook out there, to hide it. And now he was using her. Getting her to smuggle potential evidence away from a crime scene. Like she was his own personal mule!
She glanced at the two detectives. She could tell them. Or she could simply go back out into the hall and leave the box where Samson had found it. No one would know.
The young detective sniggered and then she heard Samson’s name, rising from the hushed conversation. They were talking about him. It wasn’t complimentary either, judging by the sly nature of their exchange.
Delilah’s stubborn loyalty kicked in. She picked up the bag, said a cheery goodbye and walked out, neither of the detectives questioning why she was heading into the cold without a coat on.
To be fair, with the fear of getting caught and her anger at having been used burning inside her, Delilah didn’t feel the cold at all.
She was going to be furious. And while Samson knew there would be no avoiding it, perhaps there was something he could do to d
ampen the blaze of her ire.
‘Two Americanos, please, Lucy. And a couple of your lemon-and-ginger scones.’
Lucy Metcalfe smiled at him from the other side of the Peaks Patisserie counter, a smear of flour on her face. ‘They’re Delilah’s favourites.’
‘I’m banking on that,’ he said, grinning.
Lucy raised an eyebrow, still smiling. ‘In trouble with my sister-in-law, are you?’
‘This is Delilah we’re talking about,’ he said. ‘Of course I’m in trouble.’
‘Well, if the scones don’t work on her,’ came a voice from behind him, ‘pop next door with them. They’d buy my forgiveness any day.’ Jo Whitfield from Shear Good Looks had joined the queue and was giving Samson a saucy look.
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ he said, laughing.
‘How’s your case going, anyway?’ she asked, turning serious as Lucy put his order together. ‘Any closer to finding Livvy’s death certificate?’
‘No definite leads as yet. I’m hoping the Facebook page might trigger something. Thanks for spreading the word, by the way.’
‘Least I could do. It’s a great idea.’ Jo grinned. ‘Good to see you’ve joined the modern age at last and signed up too.’
‘Facebook?’ Lucy was placing the coffee and scones in a paper bag. ‘You’ve joined Facebook, Samson?’
He grimaced. ‘Of sorts. I’m in a bit of a rut with the Livvy Thornton case and thought it might help. I don’t feel very qualified to use it yet, though.’
Lucy laughed. ‘I don’t think any of us do – apart from our teenage kids. Any specific problems?’
‘Nothing major. Just a general sense of inadequacy and a fear of doing something wrong. Although I wouldn’t mind knowing what to do with friend requests from people I don’t even know.’
‘I’m the last person to offer advice on that,’ said Jo, grinning. ‘I ended up befriending a couple of people I’ve never met, thanks to a few glasses of wine on a Friday night. Now I’m too worried about causing offence to unfriend them, even though one of them is on the other side of the world!’
Lucy was laughing as she took Samson’s payment and passed him the coffee and scones. ‘The perils of social media,’ she said. ‘Almost as tricky to negotiate as a Metcalfe in a bad mood.’
‘Here’s hoping this does the trick,’ said Samson as he took the bag and headed for the door.
Outside the air still held a bitter chill, the wind blowing from the east and refusing to be warmed by the bright sun above. He rode across the marketplace, spotting the Micra outside the front of the office as he cut along the top of Back Street.
Delilah had beaten him back from Rainsrigg.
He wasn’t surprised. He hadn’t exactly hurried on the journey into town. He’d waited outside the police station while Danny logged off his shift and had then taken the lad home, to one of the Victorian terraced houses on High Street where he lived with his parents. They’d stood for a while, talking about motorbikes, and then Danny’s mother had appeared and started fussing over her son’s bruises. She’d tried to persuade Samson in for a cuppa but he’d politely declined, making his way back to the marketplace and Peaks Patisserie to buy the sweetener for Delilah.
He knew he’d been stalling, delaying his inevitable return. She was going to be fuming. But at least she was home. Whether she’d managed to smuggle the box out, too . . . ?
Parking the Royal Enfield in the yard, he crossed to the back door. He’d barely got a foot inside the porch when he was met by a blur of grey. Tolpuddle, jumping up, happy to see him.
‘How’s her mood, boy?’ he whispered, fondling the dog’s ears and hoping his presence was a good sign. At least Delilah hadn’t been so enraged she’d forgotten to collect him from wherever he’d spent the morning.
Tolpuddle just barked. And then sniffed hopefully in the direction of the scones.
‘Not for you, I’m afraid.’ Samson lifted the bag out of dog-range and passed through the ground-floor kitchen, which came with his tenancy but which he never used, and into the hall.
Would she be upstairs? He edged forward towards his office, the door open as always, and peered around the doorjamb.
She didn’t even look up, chin resting on a hand, dark hair falling across her face as she stared at the contents of the shoebox splayed across his desk.
‘I’ve brought treats,’ he said with a cheeky grin, holding up the Peaks Patisserie bag.
Finally she lifted her head and stared at him, eyes steely, a scowl darkening her features. ‘After the stunt you pulled this morning, there had better be more than just coffee in there.’
‘What if I’d been caught?’
‘But you weren’t.’
‘But what if I had been?’
The coffee and scones had dampened Delilah’s rage, as he’d hoped. They hadn’t extinguished it completely. Still sitting behind Samson’s desk, the contents of the shoebox all packed away, she was leaning forward, hands flat on the surface as she glared across at him.
‘You left me there surrounded by police officers and carrying stolen property.’
‘Trust me, Delilah, if I’d told you what I was up to, it would have been worse. You’re a hopeless liar.’
‘How about just not including me in your hare-brained scheme in the first place?’ she hissed.
He grinned at her. ‘Are you sure that’s what you want? To miss out on the thrill of being part of the Dales Detective Agency?’
Her lips snapped together and she frowned. And he knew he had her. She gathered up the plates and moved the empty coffee cups to one side and then pulled the shoebox towards her.
‘It wasn’t worth the risk anyway,’ she muttered, lifting the lid and laying the objects back out on the desk.
Some photos of Livvy. A baby’s shoe. A swimming certificate. An old rag doll and a home-made Mother’s Day card. Some postcards from Australia. A tea caddy filled with Livvy’s letters from Leeds. And a jeweller’s box.
‘It’s just junk,’ said Delilah, not hiding her disappointment.
Samson picked up the rag doll. Checked inside the pockets of its calico dress. Felt the soft limbs. Nothing hidden there. He did the same with the tiny baby’s shoe, running his fingers around the edges, looking for something that would indicate it had been tampered with.
Another blank.
‘Told you,’ said Delilah with resignation. She opened the jeweller’s box, the interior empty, its size suggesting it had once held a ring. ‘I mean, why would you hold on to this?’
Samson took it from her, giving it the same scrutiny he’d applied to the doll and the shoe. But its velvet lining yielded nothing.
She was right. None of it was of any value, beyond sentimental. None of it threw any light on the case.
‘I don’t get it, either,’ he muttered. ‘I wasn’t expecting this.’
‘You didn’t know what was in the shoebox when you decided to steal it?’ she asked, incredulous.
‘Not a clue. But seeing as it’s mentioned specifically in Mrs Thornton’s will, I thought it was worth a look.’
‘This is in the will?’ Delilah stared at the shoebox and back up at Samson. ‘In what respect.’
‘As part of Livvy’s inheritance. Matty said she was left half of the estate and everything here.’ He waved a hand over the objects cluttering the desk.
Delilah shook her head. ‘Why would a mother go to the effort of listing all this in a will for a daughter who’s already dead? It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Danny Bradley said exactly the same thing this morning. And he’s right.’ Samson flipped the jeweller’s box closed and placed it back with the other items. ‘Nothing about this case makes sense. But I was hoping this lot might have revealed a bit more about Mrs Thornton’s motives.’
‘You make it sound like all of this was deliberate. Part of a plan of some sort.’ Delilah looked sceptical.
‘Perhaps it was. However Livvy met her fate, Mrs Thornton knew she was d
ead. Yet she included her in the will. That’s what I keep coming back to. Why would a mother do that?’
‘So you think Mrs Thornton knew exactly what she was doing? That it wasn’t all an indication of the early onset of dotage? Or merely a last wish to acknowledge her daughter in some way?’
Samson studied the objects before him for a moment and then looked at Delilah. ‘I think Mrs Thornton has been leaving us clues.’
‘Clues?’ Delilah gave a wry laugh. ‘Really? Like what?’
‘First of all, including Livvy in the will. Mrs Thornton knew we wouldn’t find a death certificate. Because there isn’t one. She knew we would be forced to investigate. And in doing so, there was a high probability of us digging up the past—’
‘And finding out about Carl Thornton’s abuse of his family. You really think she wanted us to know that?’
‘I’m beginning to suspect she wanted us to know everything . . .’ Samson paused, remembering the first day they’d met Jimmy up at Quarry House. ‘Rhubarb!’ he said.
Delilah was looking at him warily. ‘What about it?’
‘Jimmy mentioned it, the very first time we went up there. He said his mother loved her vegetable garden. That one of the last things she’d said to him before she died—’
‘Was to look after her rhubarb.’ Delilah shrugged. ‘And?’
‘I thought you were a country girl,’ said Samson with a grin. ‘How do you look after rhubarb?’
‘Trim it back in winter. Split the crowns—’ Delilah’s hand went to her mouth. ‘Split the crowns! You have to dig it up to do that.’
‘And when Jimmy did as his mother asked and dug up the rhubarb . . .’
‘He found Livvy!’ exclaimed Delilah. ‘Good grief. Do you really think Mrs Thornton was that calculating?’
‘I’m starting to think so.’
‘But she must have known what would be uncovered. Not just Livvy, but the whole past . . .’
‘And why would she do that, when she’d spent more than twenty years covering it up? Danny asked the same question up at Rainsrigg.’
‘So? What’s the answer?’
Samson stared at the baby shoe, the rag doll, the tin of letters. Then he looked up at Delilah.
Date with Mystery Page 28