‘Revenge.’
Delilah flinched. Glanced down at the objects and back at Samson, eyes wide. ‘Really? You think that’s what’s behind all this? Marian Thornton is getting even with her husband from beyond the grave?’
‘It’s one way of looking at it. Let’s face it, without her bizarre bequest, we wouldn’t know any of this. Carl Thornton’s abusive past would still be a secret and the lies about Livvy’s death would still be believed.’
‘But this is so . . .’
‘Extreme. I agree. But at the moment there’s no other explanation for any of it.’
‘And the intruders Danny intercepted last night? Do you believe Sergeant Clayton’s theory that they were just kids mucking around?’
‘If they were, they were the quietest kids ever. Danny said he didn’t hear a thing. No laughter. No carrying on.’ Samson shook his head. ‘I think it was more likely—’
‘Our anonymous letter writer,’ said Delilah, nodding. ‘I agree. And given the conditions, Oscar Hardacre is looking like the most suitable candidate. Getting up to Rainsrigg in that weather would have proved difficult for most folk. Oscar only had to walk up the track from the farm. But what was he after?’
‘Tampering with the evidence?’ suggested Samson.
‘Which would mean he knows what’s buried up there,’ Delilah replied, looking appalled at the implication. She reached out a finger to stroke the calico dress of the rag doll lying on the desk. ‘Poor Livvy. She didn’t deserve—’
A crash of a door slamming open came from the back porch, interrupting her. Samson shot to his feet, crossing the floor in silent strides and pulling Delilah behind him as he stepped towards the doorway into the hall. Body tense, fists clenched, a roused Tolpuddle by his side growling softly, he inched along the wall. The clatter of footsteps running towards them and then Samson was moving forward, hands raised, grabbing hold of the figure that appeared around the doorjamb and, in one swift movement, flinging him against the wall, hand against his throat.
‘It’s me!’ squeaked Danny Bradley, his lanky frame held up by Samson’s grasp, the welt on his face lurid against his reddening cheeks.
‘Jesus, Danny!’ Samson released his hold, the policeman slumping back on the wall, an affectionate Tolpuddle nudging against him. ‘Knock next time.’
Danny rubbed his throat, eyes full of admiration. ‘Wow! You have to show me how to do that.’
Delilah meanwhile was watching on in shock. Those reactions. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen Samson go into Ninja mode. The man was expecting trouble. Serious trouble. More than was justified by a handful of threatening letters or even a potshot with an air rifle.
Frank Thistlethwaite’s warning echoed in her head.
‘So what did you want that was worth risking getting flattened?’ asked Samson with an apologetic grin.
‘The bones,’ said Danny, remembering why he was there. ‘They’ve unearthed all the bones.’
‘And?’ whispered Delilah.
Danny was already shaking his head. ‘It’s not Livvy.’
24
‘Sarge called me,’ Danny continued. ‘He said there’s no doubt about it. That’s not Livvy buried up at Rainsrigg.’
Delilah was staring at the young policeman, unsure how to react. Relief that Livvy hadn’t met such an awful fate, or confusion that the mystery surrounding her death still remained unsolved.
‘How can they be so sure so soon?’ Samson asked.
‘Because the bones belong to a dog.’
Delilah gasped, hand flying to her mouth as she collapsed onto a chair. ‘Red!’
‘What?’ Danny looked puzzled.
‘Livvy Thornton’s dog,’ said Samson. ‘She had a collie called Red. He went missing at the time of her death.’
‘Mrs Thornton told everyone he ran after the car involved in Livvy’s accident . . .’ Delilah paused, taking in the significance of this new information. ‘It was all blatant lies. All the time Red was buried in the family garden.’
‘The important question is why would Mrs Thornton lie about that?’ mused Samson.
‘Maybe because the dog was shot.’ Danny’s comment triggered another gasp from Delilah and a frown from Samson.
‘You’re certain of that?’ he asked.
‘Pretty much. Preliminary findings at the site are pointing that way, but it’ll be a while before we get official confirmation.’
‘And what about the T-shirt. The bloodstains. Are they going to investigate those, too?’
‘Thanks to Sergeant Clayton, yes, they are. The detectives didn’t want to pursue it any further but Sarge insisted that, with the lack of a death certificate for Livvy Thornton and the allegations that her father threatened to kill her, we’re looking at what is technically a missing-person case now. So the bloodstained clothing is going to the lab. Sarge has also suggested that the rest of the property be searched, but that’ll need authorisation from higher up.’
Samson nodded, satisfied that Sergeant Clayton was taking the case seriously. Then he noticed Danny Bradley’s gaze.
‘Is that . . . ?’ The policeman was pointing at the shoebox, its contents strewn across the desk, the photos of Livvy giving the game away. ‘Did you take that from . . . ?’ He looked at Samson, who grinned.
‘From the crime scene? Yes, I did. But don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you saw it.’
Danny was already picking up the items one by one, feeling them the same way Samson had. Searching for clues.
‘It’s just junk,’ muttered Delilah, still thinking about poor Red, her chin on her hand, Tolpuddle’s head on her lap.
‘One man’s junk . . .’ murmured Danny. He flipped open the jeweller’s box and stared at the empty interior, before turning to Samson. ‘What is all this?’
‘Mrs Thornton left it to Livvy. Along with half of the estate.’
‘Samson’s convinced she was actually leaving clues,’ said Delilah. ‘Although how an empty ring box can be an indicator of anything, I don’t know.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Danny with a shrug, ‘it’s the fact it’s empty that’s significant.’
Delilah groaned and dropped her head into her hands. ‘Honestly, this case. It’s like a Chinese puzzle. I don’t see how we’ll ever solve it.’
Danny was already heading for the door. ‘Much as I’d love to stay and help, I need some sleep. I’m dead on my feet.’
‘You came over just to give us the news?’ asked Samson, taking in the policeman’s dishevelled state for the first time – a creased hoodie over a T-shirt and jeans, his hair standing on end as though he’d risen from his bed.
‘I thought you’d want to know straight away,’ said Danny, rubbing his throat with a grin. ‘Next time, though, I might just call.’
‘Much appreciated,’ Samson said, shaking hands with the young man before he disappeared down the hallway the way he had come.
The back door slammed shut, leaving Delilah and Samson looking at each other.
‘What now?’ asked Delilah.
‘Now,’ said Samson, ‘we have to start all over again. Because we still don’t know where Livvy is.’
Delilah made tea while Samson got out his laptop. He was engrossed in his notes from the case when she returned to the office with two mugs.
‘Are you getting anywhere?’ she asked, placing the tea on the desk.
‘God knows.’ He sat back, running a hand through his hair in exasperation.
Delilah sat down opposite him, pen and paper in hand. ‘Perhaps it might help if we try to fit what we’ve just discovered into the order of events.’
‘A timeline, you mean?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, but not for Livvy. For Red.’
Samson looked up from the computer screen. ‘That’s not a bad idea. Let’s start with what we know.’
‘Okay – so Red was in Bruncliffe up until Livvy left town.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Because,’ said De
lilah, writing on her pad, ‘according to you, neither Jo Whitfield nor Mrs Walker mentioned him being absent from the salon before Livvy moved to Leeds.’
‘Good point.’
‘So Red was here—’
‘And alive,’ Samson added.
Delilah bit her lip. ‘And alive at that point.’
‘After that . . . we were told he went to Leeds—’
‘But he ends up shot and buried in the back garden of Quarry House.’ Delilah shook her head. ‘How is that possible? Do you think Livvy brought him back with her when she came home in secret?’
‘Possibly – although we have no evidence of him ever being in Leeds. By contrast, we know he wasn’t here during that time. Tom Hardacre was adamant that the postman would have been aware if Red was still around. And the same goes for Jimmy.’
A sigh of exasperation escaped Delilah’s lips. ‘We’re going round in circles. Red is here right up until Livvy goes. Then he’s missing while she’s in Leeds. Yet the poor dog ends up buried beneath Mrs Thornton’s rhubarb. It’s not possible—’
‘The shotgun.’ Samson got to his feet and began pacing the floor. He stopped at the window and then turned to Delilah. ‘Red was dead before Livvy left for Leeds.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Tom Hardacre’s testimony.’
Delilah cast her mind back to the farmhouse kitchen in the company of the Hardacres. ‘Tom heard a shotgun fire when he was walking Jimmy back to Quarry House,’ she whispered, piecing it together. ‘Red . . .’
‘Red was shot the night before Livvy left.’
‘How awful.’ Delilah cast a glance at the snoozing Weimaraner in the dog bed in the corner. ‘Livvy must have been distraught.’
‘Enough to make her leave home.’
‘But who . . . why . . . ?’
‘I suspect the who will turn out to be Carl Thornton. We know he had a quick temper. As to why he would kill a dog?’ Samson leaned on the windowsill. ‘I’ve a feeling that might be at the heart of this mystery.’
Tolpuddle stirred in his sleep, legs twitching as he chased something across his dreams. It was enough to trigger Samson’s memories. Up at High Laithe, Lucy Metcalfe’s place, in November. The time he’d been faced with certain death.
Tolpuddle had saved him. Leapt in front of a knife to save Samson, regardless of the danger.
‘Red . . .’ Samson muttered, toying with the idea. A small kitchen. A room filled with violence. One that had witnessed violence before. Add to that a shotgun and a loyal dog – the shotgun aimed at the one person that dog wouldn’t allow any harm to come to.
‘The shotgun wasn’t meant for Red.’
Delilah stared at him. ‘You mean Carl Thornton was going to kill his wife?’
‘No. He was going to kill his daughter.’
Delilah was standing now, shock driving her to her feet. ‘Livvy? She was the one he was aiming at? Why?’
‘You heard what Jimmy said about trying to come between his father’s rage and his mother. What if the same thing happened that evening? Carl flew into a temper, started beating his wife. Both Tom and Jimmy testified to Mrs Thornton having bruises, remember.’
‘So you think Livvy tried to intervene, to stop her father?’
‘That’s exactly what Livvy was like. She would have tried to put a stop to it. But Carl got even angrier. Fetched the shotgun, intent on teaching his daughter a lesson . . .’
‘And Red . . .’
Samson nodded. ‘Red did what Tolpuddle would have done.’
Tears filled Delilah’s eyes. ‘He saved her. He saved Livvy’s life.’
‘He jumped up as Carl fired. Came between Livvy and the danger, like Tolpuddle did with me up at High Laithe.’
Delilah was nodding, tears on her cheeks. ‘That’s it. That’s why Red didn’t go to Leeds with her. He was already dead. He sacrificed himself for Livvy.’
‘Which means,’ muttered Samson, ‘he wasn’t around when she came back to Rainsrigg.’
Delilah raised a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh God.’
‘If Carl Thornton was moved to raise a gun against his own daughter once,’ continued Samson grimly, ‘what would stop him a second time? What would stop him from killing Livvy when Red was no longer there to protect her?’
They were back at square one. The bones up at Quarry House didn’t belong to Livvy Thornton and they were no closer to finding a death certificate for her than they had been when they started the search two and a half weeks ago. Apart from the fact that they now suspected she’d been killed at the hands of her father, rather than through the recklessness of an anonymous driver. And that Livvy had become a part of their lives.
For Samson, this case had become more than just a paperchase. It was personal. He was driven to discover what had happened to the vivacious young woman all of Bruncliffe remembered. They’d already let her down once, failing to intervene in the Thornton family with the simmering violence at its heart. He was determined the town wouldn’t let her down in the matter of her death.
He would find her.
With the afternoon ticking by, Samson stood up from his desk, stretched his arms above his head and heard the click of tired bones. Too long sitting. He rolled his shoulders, loosening his neck muscles, and found himself cursing the weather. There was still a lot of snow on the ground, despite a day of sunshine. Too much for an out-of-condition runner like himself. He wouldn’t risk going up on the fells today. Maybe tomorrow. When the hillside would be less treacherous.
He stretched once more and then stared at his desk. The contents of the Beryl’s shoebox lay haphazardly across the surface.
He was still none the wiser as to their significance. If there was any. The way this case was going, it was more than possible that the objects in front of him were nothing more than they seemed – a random collection of memorabilia from a dead young woman’s childhood.
Following Danny’s revelations and their speculation about the fate of the beautiful Red, Samson and Delilah had spent an age looking at each of the items. Trying to pin some kind of relevance on them. But nothing had sprung to mind. They’d also talked over what remained an anomaly in the case – the anonymous letter writer. No matter how they looked at it, neither of them could find a way to fit Oscar Hardacre into the puzzling tangle of the investigation. If he was the mystery shooter, what was his motive for trying to protect the past? A question made even more perplexing if they were to believe that Carl Thornton probably had a role in Livvy’s death.
Finally, after it was clear they were making no progress, Delilah had announced that she had to go, muttering something about a client in the mysterious manner she’d assumed of late. The lie was written all over her face.
Quelling the urge to ask her outright if this person who was taking up so much of her time was Rick Procter, Samson had instead offered to look after Tolpuddle, earning himself a grateful look. In return, Delilah had agreed to accompany him on a security risk-assessment for Bruncliffe Social Club the following morning, Samson wanting the benefit of her technical knowhow when it came to the latest security gadgets.
Having fully intended to return to the Thornton case once Delilah was gone, when the back door closed and he was left in silence with the snoozing hound, Samson’s concentration began to slip. Rather than carrying on trying to unpick the tangle of evidence, he found himself googling Procter Properties. Stalking Rick Procter across the internet.
Disgusted at his adolescent behaviour, he’d forced himself back to work. Half an hour later and he was ready for a break.
‘Fancy a walk?’ He directed his question at the dog, who was likewise stretching, paws extended over the edges of his bed.
They turned left out of the office along Back Street, past the salon next door and on past the antique shop, before crossing the road and cutting through a small lane which brought them onto High Street. Turning left again, they headed away from the town centre, shops and cafes giving way to residential
properties and Bruncliffe’s two schools. All the while, Samson’s thoughts were on the case.
It seemed unsolvable. Yet the answers had to be there. They just weren’t looking at it the right way.
As he walked beside the dog, wandering towards the outskirts of town, he forced himself to focus on what they knew, putting the events into chronological order.
Livvy Thornton had left home because of her father’s violence and his threats to kill her. The night before she left, her dog had most likely been shot and killed, probably by her father. She’d moved to Leeds, where she lived and worked for several months, writing to her mother via Ida Capstick. When her father put an end to that communication with more threats, she had visited her mother in secret, a visit noticed by Tom Hardacre. A week later her family announced she was dead, killed in a hit-and-run in Leeds. There was no record of the accident. And no death certificate had been found as yet. Less than a month after that, Carl Thornton took his own life. Finally, more than two decades later, Marian Thornton died, leaving half her estate to Livvy in her will, including a shoebox full of mementoes.
With the facts laid out so clinically, it was easy to see how Carl Thornton had become their prime suspect. His history of domestic abuse, not least his promise to kill his own daughter if she came home, only damned him further.
But . . . the mystery letter writer. That was what was colouring the case. Twisting everything, so that what should be straightforward became complex.
Whoever the person was, why were they going to such lengths to protect the secret of Livvy Thornton’s death? If, as Samson suspected, Carl Thornton had killed her, who would be trying to cover that up now that he and his wife were both dead? Not Jimmy Thornton, that was for sure. Whatever reservations Samson had harboured about the man, there was nothing staged in the agony the farmer was going through, as his childhood home became a crime scene and his childhood memories became nightmares.
Who then? And why?
What was he missing?
He stopped. A flash of comprehension like quicksilver across his mind. There, then gone. A fleeting idea that probably would have had a better chance of forming if Samson O’Brien hadn’t suddenly become aware of his surroundings.
Date with Mystery Page 29