He was standing in front of Low Mill, deep in the heart of enemy country.
Samson stared at the old mill that had been converted into exclusive commercial premises and upmarket apartments, and the development that spread out from it: a collection of executive homes and town houses, all sold or under offer, according to the placard at the entrance to the complex.
Yet another successful Procter Properties project. The man had the Midas touch. And Delilah was in his thrall. She was probably in there right now, being wooed in the plush surroundings of the restaurant.
‘What are we going to do about that, eh, Tolpuddle?’ Samson looked down at the dog, who barked in the vague direction of the mill before turning away, tugging at the lead, far more interested in the nearby river.
All thoughts of the Thornton case chased from his mind, a dejected Samson turned his back on the symbol of Rick Procter’s prosperity and walked down to the tumbling waters of the Ribble.
One day, he vowed to himself as he watched Tolpuddle run up to a group of ducks and scatter them into a squawking flapping of feathers, he would bring it all down. The entire kingdom of Procter Properties. He would expose its rotten core and bring it toppling to the ground.
‘He’s a good lad, no matter what Bruncliffe thinks.’
Sitting on the sofa in Joseph O’Brien’s lounge, Delilah looked up from the photograph album laid across her lap, pictures of a young Samson arrayed on the page. Idyllic photos taken on Twistleton Farm. Samson in his pram, all chubby legs and cheeky smile. Samson on his first bike, gap-toothed and brave. Samson with his mother, a prize-winning tup between them, both of them laughing.
The images ended dramatically, the last few pages of the album blank. The record of his life had stopped when Samson was eight. When his mother died.
What would those missing photos show? The descent of his father into despair. The drinking. The hard work keeping the farm going.
But also the delinquency. The fights. The growing notoriety. The whispered scandals that delighted the likes of Mrs Pettiford. Then Nathan’s christening, when this cherub of a child in the photo before her had turned on his own father and attacked him in public, before leaving town for good. On his father’s Royal Enfield.
‘You still think that, after everything he did?’ Delilah asked gently. ‘Despite what happened before he left?’
Joseph shrugged, a gesture reminiscent of his son, as though the weight of opinion from the town counted for nothing with him. ‘There’s a lot folk don’t know about my boy.’
If the shrug had reminded her of Samson, so did the determined set to Joseph’s face. There was no point in asking him to explain. To give the other side of the story. The O’Briens were past masters at playing their cards close to their chests.
‘I’ll have to take your word for it,’ she said with a light laugh.
Joseph smiled. ‘No need for that, Delilah. You’re working with him every day. You’ll know better than any what kind of man he is. I just wish the rest of the town would give him a second chance like you have.’ He reached across from the armchair and patted her hand. ‘You’re a good friend. He’s lucky to have you.’
She felt instantly guilty. And ashamed at how quickly she’d allowed rumour to sway her. A whispered warning from a man she’d only just met and she’d taken it as gospel. Ignored the evidence of the last few months working alongside Samson in favour of Frank Thistlethwaite’s take on him. Which was based on what exactly? They hadn’t even served in the police together.
Yes, Samson O’Brien had secrets. But so did plenty of folk in Bruncliffe. It didn’t make him a bad person.
She closed the album and laid it back on the coffee table before reaching into her coat pocket and pulling out an envelope.
‘Here,’ she said. ‘I came across this the other day. Thought you might want a copy.’
Joseph took the envelope and pulled out a photo. He stared at it and then looked up at Delilah, tears in his eyes. ‘I remember that day.’ He gave a choked laugh. ‘Out of all of the fog of those years, all the memories lost in a bottle, this day I remember.’
He stood, crossed the room and placed the photo of a teenage Samson and Ryan – the same one Delilah had used for Samson’s Facebook profile – on the bookshelf, next to the silver-framed image of Samson and his mother.
‘Thanks,’ Joseph murmured, coming back to Delilah and putting his arms around her in a warm embrace. ‘Thanks for everything.’
Delilah wasn’t sure how to tell him that it was she who was grateful. Grateful that someone had made her see how bigoted she had been in danger of becoming.
She walked back to the office a while later with a lighter step than she’d had in a while. Samson O’Brien was a good man. Her instincts told her so. No matter what Bruncliffe and the likes of her brother thought. Besides, she was a fine one to be judgemental about his secretive nature when she was keeping him in the dark about his father’s struggle to stay sober. Filled with a sense of shame, she entered the empty building and saw the shoebox still sitting on Samson’s desk. She realised there was a way to make amends for her unjustified mistrust.
He’d be furious with her if he knew. But he wouldn’t need to know until it was all over.
A couple of phone calls and it was arranged, an appointment that might just crack the Thornton case.
That it might also place her in danger, Delilah didn’t allow herself to dwell on.
It wasn’t until much later, as night crept in over the Dales, that the isolated solitude of Quarry House was reestablished. The evidence tent had been dismantled, the forensics team had gone home, and with the bones exhumed from the shallow grave and the bloodstained clothing having been sent to the lab for testing, the two detectives had seen little cause to spend their department’s sparse resources on establishing a guard at the house. What was there to protect?
Consequently there was no one present to witness the dark shape moving up the path, treading in the well-established footprints that patterned the snow. Likewise, the muffled crunch of glass attracted no attention. As for the torchlight that began moving through the empty house, it was so faint that, even if there had been someone around, it’s doubtful they would have noticed.
Fifteen minutes later the figure re-emerged, hurrying across the exposed land in front of the quarry to disappear into the trees.
25
‘There’s been a break-in at Quarry House.’
Nine o’clock the next morning, with the sun out in a blue sky and the snow finally beginning to melt, Samson was exiting the lane that ran between Back Street and High Street, his mobile pressed to his ear. He ducked into the doorway of the bakery, trying to shield himself from the hustle and bustle of Bruncliffe on market day so he could better hear Danny Bradley. ‘When?’ he asked.
‘Last night. Plainclothes lot didn’t see any point in leaving a guard up there. Whoever it was had the place to themselves.’
‘And no chance of being disturbed. Was anything taken?’
‘Not that we can tell. Jimmy’s going up there later this morning to check.’ A slight shuffling noise came over the phone and when he next spoke, Danny’s voice was significantly quieter. ‘It might be worth giving Jimmy a call and telling him you’ve got that shoebox full of stuff, if you haven’t already. You know, save any awkward explanations in front of those detectives who already think we’re hicks.’
Samson smiled, grateful for Danny’s shrewdness. ‘I’ll get straight onto it,’ he said. ‘Thanks. Any idea as to who it was?’
‘Sarge reckons the same kids that were up there two nights ago.’
‘What do you reckon?’ Samson set far greater store by the constable’s intuition than by that of his boss.
There was a pause, Danny considering his answer. ‘Seems odd,’ he admitted. ‘Kids don’t normally go to the bother of breaking in and then taking nothing. There was no graffiti left behind, either. But for a broken pane of glass, you wouldn’t know there’d been anyo
ne in there.’ Muffled shouting came through the mobile. ‘Sorry, got to go,’ said Danny, ‘Sarge is calling me. I’ll let you know if we hear anything back from the lab about Livvy Thornton’s T-shirt.’
‘Thanks. I owe you.’ Samson ended the call and sent Jimmy a quick text to tell him that the Beryl’s shoebox was at the office. Before he’d put his phone away it beeped with Jimmy’s reply, the farmer relieved to know that at least his mother’s odd bequest hadn’t been stolen.
Would it have been? Samson wondered. If it had been left at Quarry House, would the box of mementoes have been taken?
The person who’d interrupted Danny Bradley’s vigil and run off into the quarry was most likely the same person who’d made the most of the empty house last night. And probably the culprit behind the two letters and the air-rifle incident.
Oscar Hardacre? Was it him? And if so, what had he been looking for? Could it have been the shoebox, the only thing Marian Thornton had specifically left to Livvy? Whoever it was, they were getting desperate. Cornered by their inability to keep the past a secret, they were becoming more reckless; more ruthless. A lethal combination.
Head spinning with the impossible case and yet another night of restless sleep, Samson stared at the bakery window, trays of sausage rolls and savoury pastries displayed inside it, the smell of fresh baking tormenting his senses. He tore himself away from temptation, promising himself a treat when the morning’s meeting was done, and crossed the road to the Georgian property that housed Bruncliffe Social Club to wait for Delilah.
Security appraisals. They were a long way from the excitement of undercover work. But they brought in much-needed money and were a heck of a lot easier than locating Livvy’s death certificate had turned out to be. It would make a nice change, Samson decided as he stood outside the front door of the social club. It was a place he hadn’t frequented in years. Not since he’d dragged his father away from the bar that final time, a couple of weeks before leaving Bruncliffe for good. So he was glad Delilah had agreed to accompany him, not just for the moral support, but also because her expertise when it came to modern gadgetry was something Samson thought would add to the business.
He was looking forward to spending the morning with her.
If she ever turned up.
He scanned the street, expecting to see her hurrying towards him along the slush-covered pavement. Instead he saw his father in the distance, walking towards the marketplace. Assailed by guilt, Samson shrank back into the doorway of the social club.
Damn! It was already two weeks since that visit to Fellside Court when his father’s shaking hands and averted gaze had been enough to cause him worry. Two weeks in which he’d done nothing about it. He’d pushed it to the back of his mind and allowed the Thornton case to occupy his time, persuading himself that he was too busy to get involved.
In the cold light of a March morning, as he spied on his parent in the centre of town, Samson had to accept the truth behind his lack of filial responsibility. He hadn’t done anything because he didn’t want to admit his father might be drinking again. Anything but that.
From the cover of the building, he watched the familiar figure walk past Peaks Patisserie with a steady gait, a smile on his face. Reassuring himself that there was no need for concern, Samson was about to pull back out of sight when a shift in shape caught his attention. He squinted into the distance, hand shielding his eyes against the bright light as Joseph O’Brien stepped off the pavement, preparing to cross the road. There. That grey shadow beside his father. Was that—?
A deep bark echoed down the street.
Tolpuddle. His father was walking Delilah’s dog.
Samson was puzzling over the presence of the hound when his mobile beeped again. Another text. He read it, stared back up the road at the distant figures of his father and Tolpuddle, and frowned.
Delilah Metcalfe was the world’s worst liar.
He turned and entered the building alone, wondering where she really was. Because according to the text she’d just sent, she’d cancelled their appointment in order to take Tolpuddle to the vet.
Trying to persuade herself that this wasn’t a stupid idea, Delilah parked the Micra and took a moment to calm her growing nerves.
It was broad daylight. What could possibly go wrong?
She looked at the pristine glass in the passenger window, the echo of the shot loud in her memory. Perhaps she should send Samson another text, with the truth this time.
She picked up her mobile, but instead switched it to silent and slipped it back in her pocket. He wouldn’t approve of her plan. He might even turn up and she would lose the chance to have a snoop around. And they would lose the chance to solve the Thornton case.
This was up to her. She was the only one who could do it.
Getting a grip on her shaking hands, she got out of the car, the sound of the closing door reverberating between the buildings to signal her arrival. In the doorway of the barn, overalls making his bulk look even bigger, he appeared.
Oscar Hardacre. A scowl on his face, thick arms folded across his massive chest, he didn’t look overjoyed to see her. Neither did he look like a man interested in love.
Taking a deep breath, she crossed the yard towards him. Delilah Metcalfe was going undercover.
‘Did Mother put you up to this?’ The growl came from inside a pen of lambs, Oscar Hardacre feeding two with bottles while four more butted against his legs.
He’d led the way into the barn which was set up as a lambing shed, the large space marked out in smaller enclosures mostly containing ewes waiting to give birth, a few holding mothers and their newborns, and two set aside for lambs that needed hand-rearing. A warm smell of wool and straw draped over it all, punctuated by the tremulous bleats of the new arrivals. It was a scene familiar to Delilah, but even so she felt a tug of nostalgia and the awe and excitement which accompanied every lambing season.
All combined with the fear of knowing she was in the company of someone who might be dangerous.
‘Cos I’m warning you,’ the farmer continued, ‘I don’t have much patience for such talk this morning. Been up all night with a yow even Herriot couldn’t save.’
‘Guilty as charged,’ said Delilah, forcing a grin. ‘It wouldn’t hurt to try. You might get lucky.’
‘I’ve no interest in dating.’ Oscar scowled. ‘Women are more bother than they’re worth.’ He turned his attention to the lambs he was feeding, his solid back towards her.
As investigations went, it was not going well. Under the pretext of calling in to invite Oscar Hardacre to the next Dales Dating Agency speed-dating event, Delilah was supposed to be sounding him out about the past while pretending to sort out his love life. But she wasn’t exactly getting the man to open up. And time was ticking. While Annie Hardacre had happily agreed to drag her husband to Bruncliffe market for the morning and leave the coast clear for Delilah to try and enrol Oscar in the dating agency, Delilah knew it wouldn’t be long before Tom Hardacre was itching to get back to the lambing shed.
She was going to have to take a more direct approach. So she said the first thing that popped into her head.
‘Was Livvy that mean to you? Did she put you off women for life?’
He jerked upright, triggering a furious bleating from the lambs whose milk had been abruptly taken away. Then he turned, face thunderous.
‘Don’t talk about her,’ he snapped.
Delilah knew she should heed his warning. But there was something incongruous about the man standing there filled with rage while a small flock of tiny lambs stumbled around his legs.
‘What did she do to you?’ she asked, curiosity overcoming her caution. ‘Everyone else in town is happy to talk about her. But you . . . I thought you loved her?’
He stared at her, stunned by her directness.
‘I didn’t know her,’ she continued, ‘but from what people say, she was wonderful. So I don’t understand why you—’
Oscar stepped out of
the pen, bottles still in hand, and advanced on Delilah. She took a step back, felt a metal barrier against her legs, trapping her, setting her pulse racing. He was inches away from her, leaning in, face up close and solid jaw set in anger.
‘I’ll not talk about her,’ he snarled. ‘And neither will you.’ He raised his huge fists towards her. She flinched. Then she felt the milk bottles being thrust into her hands. ‘Now make thyself useful and finish the feed. There’s a yow needs seeing to.’
He stomped across the barn to a pen where one of the pregnant ewes was bleating loudly, leaving Delilah to enter the lamb enclosure. Trying to hold the bottles steady in her shaking hands as the lambs eagerly resumed feeding, she assessed her progress so far.
Information uncovered – zero.
Ability to annoy target – full marks.
But then she’d always had that talent. Growing up with five older – and much bigger – brothers, she’d been like a mosquito around a herd of elephants. Only able to get noticed by making a nuisance of herself. Oscar Hardacre, with his trigger temper, was a lot easier to provoke. Which might not be a good thing. It certainly didn’t seem to be getting her anywhere.
She needed to have a look around. See if there was anything that might identify Oscar as the anonymous letter writer. Looking down at the now-empty bottles, Delilah realised she had the perfect excuse.
‘These two are done,’ she said, holding up the bottles. ‘Want me to make another couple up?’
Oscar glanced across from the back of the barn where he was checking over the upset ewe. ‘Aye,’ he said distractedly, a concerned look on his face. ‘Everything’s set up in the outhouse. You know what you’re doing?’
Delilah nodded.
‘Thanks,’ he muttered, his attention back on the sheep.
Doing her best to act naturally, Delilah crossed the yard and entered the lean-to attached to the rear of the farmhouse. Inside, a metal counter ran along one wall, a couple of tubs of milk-replacement powder stacked upon it, along with a kettle, a large plastic bowl and a container of clean bottles and teats. Adjacent to it was a sink, a plastic bucket on the drainer filled with more bottles in sterilising fluid.
Date with Mystery Page 30