In a farmhouse high up on the Keasden Road, the narrow lane which wound up over Bowland Knotts, Jimmy Thornton had been trying to make sense of it. Gemma was at work, a part-time teaching assistant in Bruncliffe Primary, and so the farmer was all alone with his thoughts. It wasn’t a situation he liked finding himself in of late.
Over the last couple of weeks he’d had to re-evaluate his entire life and the role his family had played in it. Livvy, the older sister he’d adored, hadn’t been killed in Leeds as he’d been told. Instead it looked likely she’d met a terrible end at Quarry House. And his mother, whom he’d had on a pedestal all his life, had turned out to be a liar. A teller of untruths who, in dying, had finally told a truth of sorts, leaving behind a document that would reveal the mess she’d kept so well concealed. As for his father . . .
For years Jimmy had blamed himself for his father’s suicide. That argument he’d tried to prevent. His mother’s harsh words. It had culminated in his father coming home from the pub and shooting himself in the old barn. Impossible, then, for a young lad of eight not to feel guilty – to believe that his actions had triggered the events which took his father’s life.
Looking back with the benefit of recently acquired hindsight, things took on a hideously different complexion.
His father had been the one feeling guilty. His mother was the one who had fuelled that guilt. Co-conspirators in the mystery of Livvy’s death – one carrying it out, the other concealing it – in the court of Jimmy’s mind, they were both convicted.
He didn’t think he could ever forgive either of them.
The purr of an engine outside disturbed his thoughts and with relief, he got up to see who was calling on him. He recognised the scarlet-and-chrome motorbike straight away.
‘Are you sure I’m not disturbing you?’ Shoebox under his arm, Samson took a seat at the wooden table in the heart of the kitchen, a wood burner blazing behind him.
‘You’ve no idea how glad I am to be disturbed,’ muttered the farmer.
‘You’ve heard the news then?’
‘About the bloodstain?’ Jimmy nodded. ‘Don’t like to think what it might mean.’ He sighed. ‘Is that why you’re here? Have you come up with something?’
‘Not as such.’ Samson placed the shoebox on the table. ‘I was returning this to Quarry House and thought I’d get you to tell me what you make of it.’
The farmer approached the table, taking a seat opposite Samson and pulling the box towards him. ‘Mother’s legacy to Livvy.’ He gave a wry laugh.
‘Have you got any idea why your mother would have gone to the effort of listing this separately in her will?’
Jimmy was sorting through the contents, frowning. ‘Not a bloody clue. Same as with this whole business. It’s like I missed something growing up. Something the rest of my family were in on but neglected to tell me about.’ He pushed the box away and rubbed his face in frustration.
‘Do you think you could have another look? See if anything in particular stands out?’
‘Stands out?’ The farmer’s laugh was devoid of humour. ‘What, apart from my father possibly having killed my sister, and my mother having covered it all up? For twenty-four years?’
‘Sorry. If you’d rather not . . .’
A large hand waved away Samson’s apology and Jimmy reached into the shoebox and began placing all of the objects on the table.
They were so familiar to Samson now. The well-loved rag doll. The home-made card. The postcards, the photos and the tea caddy filled with letters. The swimming certificate. The tiny shoes. And the jeweller’s box.
‘Stands out . . .’ muttered the farmer, frowning. He picked up the ring box and flipped it open. ‘This.’
‘Why?’
He gave a shrug. ‘It shouldn’t be empty. Mother used to keep her engagement ring in here.’
‘She didn’t wear it all the time?’
‘No.’ Jimmy grimaced. ‘I always thought it was because it was too precious. That she was afraid of losing it. Now I wonder if it was because of how Father was. The way he treated her. And us.’
‘Do you remember when you last saw the ring in there?’
‘No.’ A memory came to the farmer unbidden. A hand reaching out to touch his bruised face, the sparkle of diamond catching his frightened gaze. ‘But I know when I last saw Mother wearing it. It was the night Father killed himself.’
‘You haven’t seen it since?’
‘I don’t think so. But I couldn’t swear to it.’ He gave another dark laugh. ‘I’m not much help. It’s probably with all the other important stuff, like birth certificates and so on.’
‘You didn’t come across it while you were clearing out?’
‘Not yet, but then I haven’t finished going through the dresser. What with everything that happened . . . I haven’t felt much like going up to Quarry House lately.’
Samson totally understood. Especially now that the grounds were about to be dug up as part of the investigation into Livvy’s death. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said. He picked up the postcards, fanning them out, images of kangaroos and koalas and Sydney Harbour Bridge amongst them. ‘And these?’
‘Livvy’s penfriend. She lives in Melbourne. They’d been penfriends for years. And then after Livvy died, she kept on writing to Mother. A couple of postcards a year. A Christmas card. That kind of thing.’ The farmer shrugged. ‘Right nice of her, really. To keep writing after everything . . .’
Surprised, Samson turned the cards over, the terse greetings on the back printed in a neat hand. He hadn’t noticed the postmarks. Partly because they were smudged and almost illegible. Now that he looked closely, he could see the dates. All after Livvy’s death, as Jimmy had said.
He slipped them back in the box.
‘Is there anything missing that you would have expected to be in here?’ he asked.
‘Apart from Mother’s engagement ring, you mean?’ asked Jimmy with a wry smile. He scratched his head. ‘I can’t think of anything. To be honest, I’m surprised at this lot. Mother wasn’t the sentimental type. She didn’t make much fuss about Livvy’s anniversary. She set more store on her birthday, marking it with flowers on the windowsill each year.’ He shrugged. ‘I guess we each have our own ways of acknowledging death.’
‘One last question’ said Samson, getting to his feet and picking up the shoebox. ‘Did you tell anyone else that your mother had left this to Livvy?’
‘Just Tom Hardacre,’ said Jimmy. ‘I tell him pretty much everything. He’s like a father to me.’
Samson nodded. ‘Thanks for your time. I’d best get this back to the house. And if you don’t mind, not a word to Sergeant Clayton or the other detectives about me having taken it off the premises.’
Jimmy gave a sad smile. ‘My lips are sealed.’
They walked out to the waiting motorbike, pillows of white clouds blowing across a backdrop of blue, the fields below the farm beginning to green up where the snow had melted.
‘I’m sorry you’re having to go through all this,’ said Samson as he got on the Enfield.
The farmer gave a tired shrug. ‘I’m trying not to be bitter about it,’ he admitted. ‘But it’s difficult. Especially when it comes to Mother . . .’ He shook his head. ‘How could she have covered for him? Concealed the murder of her own child?’
‘We don’t know for sure—’
‘Oh, come on!’ said Jimmy, cutting off Samson’s attempt to mitigate the involvement of Livvy’s parents in her death. He cast a dark look at the fells, beyond which lay Rainsrigg Quarry. ‘I think we all know what’s going to be unearthed over there. I just have to find a way to come to terms with it.’
Samson didn’t attempt to dissuade him a second time. He left the farmer standing in front of the farmhouse, a large man confused by the sudden turns his life had taken.
The news from Danny didn’t clarify anything. Quarry House had been broken into between ten at night and eight o’clock in the morning.
&
nbsp; A large stretch of time to play with.
Promising the constable that she’d go for a run with him sometime, Delilah left the police station and walked up to Fellside Court to collect Tolpuddle. She stayed for a short while, chatting to Joseph and his friends, and then headed back to the office. She was only just in the back door when her mobile rang.
Herriot. With the sound of bleating in the background, he answered her questions briskly, keen to get back to work.
She thanked him, hung up, and then thought about her morning.
She’d been an idiot. Putting herself in harm’s way like that. Because it turned out that Oscar Hardacre’s definition of all night was a lot shorter than Herriot’s. The vet had testified that he’d left the Hardacre farm at one o’clock.
Oscar had had seven hours in which to visit Rainsrigg and break into Quarry House.
Feeling a sudden need to be cautious, Delilah broke with Bruncliffe tradition by returning to the porch and locking the back door.
Jimmy Thornton wasn’t the only one confused. On the ride back into town, Samson didn’t notice the scenery. His head was filled with missing engagement rings and flowers on windowsills. And something Ida Capstick had said.
Marian Thornton would have died for her daughter.
Ida was a sound judge of character, someone Samson would trust as a witness in any court. But her portrayal of Mrs Thornton didn’t fit with a woman who’d covered for her murdering husband. The same woman who now seemed intent on the world knowing the extent of her sins.
Which was the real Mrs Thornton? And why did he have the feeling that he was missing something?
He let his thoughts roam over the facts of the case once more, sensing the answers were tantalisingly close now. And as he hit the outskirts of Bruncliffe, it came to him.
The missing piece of the puzzle.
Could it be . . . ?
By the time he reached the office, Samson could feel the quiver of anticipation that heralded the cracking of a case.
Delilah spent the rest of the morning trying to concentrate on the next Dales Dating Agency speed-dating night. Choosing to sit at Samson’s desk with Tolpuddle by her side – thinking that at least from there she could escape out of the window if Oscar Hardacre came calling – she’d worked through the guest list, jumping like a nervous cat every time there was the slightest sound.
If this was what going undercover did for you, she wasn’t sure she was cut out for it.
When she finally heard the solid thump of someone walking into the back door, followed by muttered cursing at it being locked, she felt relieved.
Samson was home.
Home. What was she thinking of?
Flustered, she got up and followed Tolpuddle into the hallway.
‘The back door was locked!’ Samson said in surprise as he entered, rubbing his forehead.
‘I took the precaution of locking it,’ she said. ‘Oscar Hardacre doesn’t have an alibi.’
He nodded, walked past her into his office, sat at his desk and opened up his laptop.
‘Did you hear me?’ she repeated, feeling slightly miffed that her news had been met with such composure. ‘It’s looking like Oscar is our man.’
‘Yes.’ He glanced over. Smiled. And turned back to the computer.
Intrigued by what was holding him so transfixed, Delilah leaned over his shoulder to look at the screen. ‘Facebook? You’re just in the door and you’re already on there? You’re getting as nosy as Mrs Pettiford.’
‘What?’ He glanced up again.
‘I said you’re becoming nosy. That’s what Facebook is for. Keeping tabs on people.’
He stared at her, before looking back at the website, the Livvy Thornton page displayed before him. He clicked on the followers, opening up Jo Whitfield’s profile. ‘Keeping tabs,’ he muttered.
‘So when are we going to confront Oscar?’ she asked.
He grunted, his focus on the screen. She heard the repeated click of the mouse.
‘Should we go this afternoon? Strike while the iron’s hot?’
‘No need,’ he said, without looking up. ‘It doesn’t matter now.’
She was about to argue when he froze like a pointer on the scent. He glanced quickly at the photos on his mobile, Delilah recognising some of the items from the shoebox. Then he shot to his feet and took her startled face in his hands.
‘You,’ he declared, kissing her on the forehead, ‘are a genius.’ He turned from the computer, grabbed his mobile and his jacket and headed into the hallway.
‘What’s going on?’ she called after him.
The closing of the back door was his only response.
‘What the—?’ Delilah looked at Jo Whitfield’s Facebook profile on the laptop, the hairdresser smiling out at her, and then down at Tolpuddle.
The hound simply raised an ear and tipped his head to one side. He had no idea what was going on, either.
He needed time to think. Away from the laptop and his office. Time to make those final connections, to see whether his growing suspicion had any foundations before he took action.
Because action would need to be taken.
With his parka zipped up against the sharp air blowing from the east, Samson turned onto the narrow path that bordered the tumbling waters of the river. Walking north, towards the distant white-capped fells and away from the town, he let his mind wander.
It was so obvious. Now that he was thinking straight. He was kicking himself for not seeing it before. He’d been intent on looking for what was there instead of looking for what was missing, even when Delilah had been so close to the answer. But how to go about sorting it?
He walked on, unaware that the sky was beginning to darken as afternoon yielded to evening. It was only as he arrived at the scattering of houses that heralded the boundary of Horton that he took any notice of where he was. And how far he’d come.
Feeling suddenly weary – and hungry – he turned back towards Bruncliffe. By the time he reached the marketplace he was footsore and starving. Picking up a takeaway from the Happy House, he got back to a darkened office building. No Delilah. No Tolpuddle.
Instead there was a scrawled note on his desk.
Have you cracked it? Call me if so. D x
PS. Do I need to lock my doors?!
He smiled. Sent her a brief text in reply. Then sat down to eat his meal alone.
He wouldn’t be calling Delilah. Even though he was pretty sure he knew what had happened to Livvy Thornton. For if he was right, this was going to turn the town on its head all over again. And if he was wrong . . .
‘She must be here somewhere.’ Sergeant Gavin Clayton surveyed the garden of Quarry House and the small hole under the rhubarb that had sparked the police excavation. ‘We’ll find her. We’ll solve this mystery and get the lass a decent burial.’
Danny Bradley was standing next to him, the cold wind filtering through his uniform, making his bones ache. He watched the forensics team wind up their search for the evening after a day digging into the soil under the menacing quarry face. And he felt a pang of sadness for the young woman he’d never known who’d met her fate in such a lonely place.
27
‘You won’t tell me?’ Delilah was standing at the top of Pen-y-ghent, hands on hips, glaring at him as he struggled to catch his breath.
‘Nope.’
‘I thought we were partners?’
‘I still can’t tell you,’ he gasped.
A jut of her chin and that glare he knew so well greeted his words.
‘You’re being ridiculous,’ she spat. ‘Come on, Tolpuddle.’
In a flash of trainers and grey legs, Delilah and her dog started back down the fellside, leaving Samson still recovering from the climb.
She was impossible.
Less than twenty-four hours on from what he’d been sure was a breakthrough in the Livvy Thornton case, Samson knew he had a long wait ahead of him, killing time until the news arrived that would tell him
what he needed to know. Aware that the news might never come.
It was bad enough that he had to endure the agony of an investigation in limbo, without Delilah being in on it, too. Plus there was every possibility that he was wrong . . . So he’d decided to keep her in the dark, ignoring the texts begging for an explanation that she’d sent him the evening before.
But Delilah Metcalfe was no fool. As Samson had slipped out of the back door at seven that morning, intending to spend the day out of reach, she’d been coming up the path, a determined look on her face.
‘You’re here early!’ she’d announced, taking in the motorbike parked in the yard with a frown of surprise.
‘Actually, I was just leaving,’ he muttered, thrown by her unexpected presence. Any earlier and she’d have walked in while he was in the shower, uncovering more than just his illicit use of her premises.
‘Where are you going?’ she demanded.
His normally quick wits deserted him, his heart still pounding at the close shave. ‘Nowhere special.’
She’d grinned. ‘Good. You can accompany me on a run then. It’d be a shame to waste such a lovely day.’
He could have said no. Just walked past her and ridden off, finding somewhere to while away the hours out of range of her burning desire to know what he’d unearthed in the Thornton case. But the devil in him had accepted her offer. Perhaps it was the definite hint of spring in the air. Or maybe he’d had enough of being on his own. Which was ridiculous – an undercover specialist no longer comfortable being alone. Either way, he’d said yes, telling himself that there wouldn’t be much talking on a run up the fells . . .
He hadn’t banked on a run up Pen-y-ghent.
She’d nearly killed him.
When the questions she’d fired at him on the drive over to Horton elicited nothing to satisfy her curiosity about the investigation, she’d set a gruelling pace on the first section of the climb, Tolpuddle loping along easily beside her. Samson had done his best to keep up, but before long he was struggling. Finally she’d waited for him, a glint in her eye.
‘So,’ she’d said as he staggered up to her. ‘Feeling any more talkative?’
Date with Mystery Page 32