He’d managed to shake his head.
‘Oh, come on,’ she’d demanded. ‘Tell me what you’ve uncovered.’
Another shake of his head.
‘Why not?’ she asked.
‘I’m not sure I’m right,’ he said between gasps.
‘When will you know?’
He’d shrugged, gestures using up less of the precious oxygen he was sucking into his lungs.
She’d made a noise akin to a growl and ran off, Tolpuddle following her, up and up, towards the top of the fell.
She hadn’t waited for him again. Not until she reached the peak. And now she was haring down the steep slopes back towards the car park. In the mood she was in, Samson didn’t expect the Nissan Micra to still be there when he made his own way down.
With a sigh of resignation, he began running after her.
She was impossible. But she made life a lot more interesting.
The man was impossible.
Delilah felt her sour mood thumping into the ground with every footfall as she hurtled down the fellside. Why was he being so secretive?
Since he’d leapt up from his laptop and disappeared the day before, she’d heard nothing from him. Apart from a terse text saying ‘Don’t worry’, in response to the note she’d left him. He was keeping her in suspense about the Thornton case and whatever it was he’d hit upon.
If he’d hit upon anything, of course. Perhaps it was all a show of pretence? Maybe he was no closer to solving the mystery than any of them. No closer than her. Or the poor sods turning over the soil up at Rainsrigg.
They’d be into another day of the search up there, which, from what Danny had told her yesterday, wasn’t getting anywhere. According to the constable, they only had twenty-four more hours and then the manpower would be taken away. Budgets, he’d said with disdain, when she’d asked how that could possibly be enough time to conduct a comprehensive search. For while the garden of Quarry House was limited, the surrounding quarry stretched out into the distance, bordered by trees and woodland.
Livvy Thornton could be buried anywhere out there.
The situation filled Delilah with frustration. And now Samson had discovered something and was refusing to share it with her. Not even the morning run, which she’d orchestrated hoping to prise the truth from him, had made him relent.
Samson wasn’t going to tell her anything about the Thornton case.
‘Let’s leave him to walk home,’ she muttered to the dog as they ran the last stretch of track back to the car. ‘See if that loosens up his tongue.’
But when Samson staggered up to the Micra ten minutes later, Delilah Metcalfe found she wasn’t sadistic enough to make him suffer any more. Taking pity on the man, she held the door open and watched him collapse on the passenger seat, Tolpuddle leaning over from the rear to lick his ear.
‘Thanks,’ panted Samson. ‘Does this mean I’m forgiven?’
She slammed the door shut and got in the driver’s side. She might not be cruel enough to kick a man when he was down. But when Samson doubled over in cramp halfway home, she didn’t hold back in showing her delight, her laughter finally breaking the heavy silence.
Ida Capstick was running late.
She’d arrived at the Dales Dating Agency – the official name in Ida’s view, as that agency had pre-dated the subsequent one that now had its initials decorating the glass out front – a bit later than normal. And had been surprised to find the scarlet-and-chrome contraption that so fascinated her brother out in the yard, but no Samson inside.
Calling his name loudly, she’d made her way up to the top floor and knocked firmly on the bedroom door, hoping to prevent an incident like the one back in November. An incident that had left the image of a naked godlike figure lunging at her out of the dark seared on her consciousness. With that in mind, she knocked even louder. Then she turned the handle to release the latch, stood to one side and kicked the door open, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on the bathroom the entire time.
‘Is tha in there?’ she’d called out, gaze still averted.
There’d been no response. And when she finally plucked up the courage to look, she’d seen an empty bed. No sign of his sleeping bag which she knew would be stowed away, no evidence of his occupation of the room ever being left out on view.
Deprived of a chance to chat – this morning, of all mornings, when she had so much to say, with her cousin driving her demented – she’d made her way down to the first-floor kitchen. A cup of tea on her own, then.
She’d sat at the table, a couple of biscuits on a plate, mug in hand, and grumbled away to herself about her impossible relative, who had arrived the weekend before and was already proving unbearable.
‘Not clean,’ she’d muttered. ‘Who does she think she is, saying my range isn’t clean?’
Caught up in the turmoil of her domestic problems, Ida had sat longer than she intended. Consequently she’d been still up on the first floor when she heard the knocking.
Chuntering about folk calling round at ridiculous hours, she made her way down to the hall and was approaching the front door when she heard the knocking again.
It was coming from the back. Someone was at the porch.
Ida frowned. What kind of person knocked at a back door and then waited? Folk from Bruncliffe, where back doors were nearly always unlocked, knew better than that. Knock and enter, that was the custom when calling round the back.
Grumbling about modern habits, Ida made her way along the hall, through the rear kitchen and into the porch.
‘What’s tha wanting that can’t wait for a decent hour?’ she demanded as she flung open the door. Then she blinked at the figure standing there. ‘Tha’d best come on in.’
‘I can’t believe you laughed at me. What kind of fiend laughs at someone when they have cramp?’
Delilah grinned at Samson as he limped up the back path, his right calf still giving him pain. ‘Serves you right for keeping me in suspense. Or haven’t you heard of karma?’
‘Voodoo more like,’ muttered Samson, stooping to pat Tolpuddle while Delilah fished her key out of her pocket. ‘I can just see you sticking pins in a doll.’
She laughed, turning towards him as she opened the door. When she turned back she was face-to-face with the stern features of Ida Capstick, arms folded and standing sentry in the porch.
‘Ida!’ Delilah stepped back in surprise. ‘What are you doing still here?’
‘Most folk stay in when they know visitors are coming,’ the cleaner said enigmatically, staring at Samson in disapproval. ‘Tha’s got some explaining to do, young man.’
Samson frowned and then his eyes widened. ‘Already? I wasn’t expecting . . . so soon . . .’
Delilah looked from the cleaner to her tenant and then back again. ‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘one of you would like to explain what’s going on.’
Ida led them through the porch and the rear kitchen and past her cleaning bucket in the hall, before stopping outside the closed door of Samson’s office. She put a hand on his arm.
‘I hope tha knows what tha’s doing,’ she said.
Samson nodded. ‘I think so.’
‘Think? Tha needs to be more certain than that. There’s a lot at stake here.’
Delilah watched him, his face pale, the glow of the exercise having faded in the shock of whatever Ida knew. Whatever lay behind the door.
‘I’m certain,’ he said. He looked at Delilah.
‘Do you want me to wait out here?’ she asked, sensing the delicacy of this situation that she didn’t understand.
He shook his head, reaching out a hand to squeeze hers. ‘No,’ he murmured. ‘I need you with me.’
And like a ringmaster at the circus, Ida opened the door and ushered them into the office.
‘You came.’ Samson was walking across to the figure standing by the window, back to the room, a hood pulled up. It wasn’t someone Delilah recognised.
‘Yes.’ A woman’s voice from behi
nd the hood. Soft. Sensuous. ‘I wasn’t sure. But your message . . .’
‘You didn’t reply. I wasn’t sure you’d come . . .’ Nerves. Delilah could hear it in his voice. Samson was nervous about whatever this woman represented.
‘I had to.’ The figure at the window turned. Auburn hair tumbling out of the hood. Tears on the face – a beautiful face Delilah thought she should know, but couldn’t place. ‘He’s all I have left.’
‘I’m sorry—’ Delilah began.
Samson turned at her words. ‘Delilah Metcalfe,’ he said, ‘meet Livvy Thornton.’
28
‘I think I need to sit down,’ said Delilah, gaping at the woman standing the other side of Samson’s desk.
‘Tea,’ said Ida from the doorway. ‘Good and strong.’ She turned, her heavy footsteps on the stairs breaking the ice.
‘Strong tea,’ laughed Livvy. ‘I’ve missed that.’
‘Here, let me take your coat.’ Samson was holding out his hand, showing Livvy to a chair, the woman’s beauty made even more vivid by the shabby surroundings of the office.
‘Hello, darling,’ she was saying, a hand on Tolpuddle’s head, the Weimaraner clearly smitten. ‘What a gorgeous dog. Is he yours?’
‘Yes. But . . . how come . . . ? I thought—’ Delilah didn’t know where to start. She looked over at Samson, who was staring at Livvy, a huge smile on his face. ‘You knew? This was your secret?’
‘I thought I knew. But I wasn’t sure.’ He shrugged. ‘Perhaps now you understand why I couldn’t say anything.’
Delilah looked back at Livvy. ‘Jimmy . . .’ she said.
Livvy bit her lip. ‘I’ll go and see him. Put it right.’
‘But I don’t understand,’ said Delilah, turning to Samson again. ‘How on earth did you find her? She’s supposed to be dead.’
‘About that . . .’ Livvy looked up from petting Tolpuddle. ‘It’s probably best if I start at the beginning.’
Ida Capstick didn’t think she’d ever heard the like in her life. A young woman returning from the grave after twenty-four years. It wasn’t the sort of thing that happened in Bruncliffe.
As a consequence, she made the tea extra strong. Good for shock. Plus that lass looked like she needed fortifying – all those years away from home, amongst strangers.
Armed with tea that could fell an ox and a plate piled high with biscuits, she returned to the office. Livvy and Delilah were sitting next to each other at the desk and Samson was leaning on the windowsill. Ida took the remaining chair. There was no way she was going to miss out on what would be the story of the century for the town.
‘It got unbearable,’ Livvy was saying. ‘He’d drink and come home violent. Then it got to the point where he didn’t even need the drink as an excuse to hit her.’
‘Was it always aimed at your mother?’ asked Samson.
Livvy nodded. ‘Always. He only turned on me when I tried to stand up for her.’
‘So is that what happened? The night you left?’
‘Yes. Jimmy was down at Hardacre’s lending a hand with lambing and I was helping Mother get the tea ready, when Father came home drunk. He started shouting straight away. His meal was cold. The house was dirty. The dog was annoying him.’ She shook her head. ‘It didn’t take much to set him off. Mother tried to placate him but it only made him worse, and then he hit her.’ She reached in her pocket for a tissue, twisting it between her fingers. ‘It was the last straw for me. I was seventeen. Old enough to leave home and start a new life. But I couldn’t. Not while he was there. Not while he was treating Mother that way. I remember hearing the crack of his hand on her cheek and I snapped. I went for the shotgun.’
Livvy paused, the silence filled with the clank of the radiator and the soft sighs of a dozing Tolpuddle, the unremarkable contrasting sharply with the extraordinary tale unfolding.
‘Were you intending to kill him?’ asked Samson.
‘I don’t know.’ Livvy frowned. ‘I’ve asked myself the same question so many times . . . I think I probably meant to frighten him. But things got out of hand—’ Her voice broke, the tissue in her hands twisted to tearing point.
‘He took the gun off you?’ Delilah asked gently.
‘Yes. He turned and saw me in the doorway and he started laughing – like a demon – saying that if you picked up a gun, you had to use it . . . that he’d teach me a lesson—’ She gulped, her voice dropping to a whisper. ‘He wrestled it out of my grasp and knocked me to the floor. Then he pointed it at me. And then Red . . . beautiful Red . . .’ A tear slipped down her cheek.
‘He saved your life.’
Livvy nodded. ‘Red jumped up, putting himself between me and the gun . . . There was this loud noise and it took me a moment to realise . . . Then I saw Red. And the blood.’ She wiped the back of her hand across her face. ‘Father had shot him.’
‘Were you injured, too?’ asked Samson.
‘Yes. A couple of the pellets caught my shoulder. But I didn’t realise it at the time. I was too focused on Red, crawling across the floor to him. He was dying . . .’
‘And your father, what did he do?’
Livvy grimaced. ‘He pointed the gun at me again. Shouting that it was all my fault. That I was to blame . . . I thought I was going to die. But then he just threw the shotgun on the table, told me that if I was still there when he came back he would kill me, and walked out.’ She reached for her mug with a trembling hand and took a drink of tea.
‘How long was this before Ted Hardacre brought Jimmy home?’
‘Not long at all. I was still cradling Red on the kitchen floor when they knocked at the door. Mother grabbed a hand-towel from by the sink and I gathered Red up in it and carried him into the pantry. I don’t know how she covered up the blood. But somehow she managed to get Jimmy in and up to bed without him seeing anything. By the time she came back down, Red was dead.’ Livvy lowered her head, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth. ‘We buried him in the garden. I wrapped him in the T-shirt I’d been wearing – I wanted him to have something of mine with him . . . And when we got back in the house, Mother said I needed to leave.’
‘It was your mother’s idea? To go to Leeds?’ asked Delilah.
‘Yes. She was afraid. Afraid that Father would make good on his threat.’
‘So she sent you to Mrs Larcombe.’
A smile flitted across Livvy’s face. ‘She was lovely, Mrs Larcombe. A real lady. She helped me find a job. Let me come and go as I pleased. It was a totally different life. I was singing and getting paid for it and had almost completed my training at the salon . . .’
‘And all the while you were writing to your mother in secret.’
‘Thanks to Ida.’ Livvy smiled at the cleaner, who waved away her gratitude.
‘How did you father find out about the letters?’ asked Samson.
Livvy shook her head. ‘I don’t know. Mother thought he must have seen one in her handbag or something. Either way, he told her to stop writing to me.’
‘Humph. It was a bit stronger than that,’ muttered Ida. ‘He told tha mother he’d find thee and kill thee if she wrote again.’
‘I know. She told me. Begged me not to contact her any more.’
‘But you couldn’t do it. You came home in secret to see her,’ said Samson.
‘How do you know about that?’ asked Livvy, surprised.
‘Tom Hardacre. He called up at the house about some chickens and heard you singing.’
Livvy laughed softly. ‘Good old Bruncliffe. I’ve missed it so much.’
‘So was that when you decided to die?’ asked Delilah. ‘When you came home that time?’
‘Kind of. Mother wanted me to go away. Far away. And never see her or Jimmy again. But I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t leave them to his mercy. So I suggested that we fake my death . . .’
‘It was your idea?’
Livvy nodded. ‘Mother wasn’t keen at first. So I said it was either that or go to the police.
To try and get Father locked up. But Mother didn’t want the trauma of testifying, of airing all the Thornton dirty laundry in public with a court case. So I convinced her that this way we could still meet up and he would never know. And when Jimmy was older, we could tell him I was alive . . .’
‘Did your mother ever consider leaving? Taking Jimmy with her?’ asked Samson.
A harsh laugh greeted his question. ‘You didn’t know my father. He’d have tracked her down. There was no way out for her. Or at least she couldn’t see one. We were desperate . . .’
‘And you were only seventeen,’ said Delilah. ‘Such a load to bear.’
Livvy nodded. ‘I look back and I think of all the ways we could have done it differently. But at the time, there seemed to be nowhere to turn.’
‘So where did you go after you . . . died?’ asked Samson.
‘To Southampton. The plan was to get a job on a cruise ship as a cabaret singer. I’d be gone for a couple of months at a time, but I’d be able to meet up with Mother in between. And there was little chance of bumping into anyone from Bruncliffe at sea.’
‘But something went wrong . . .’
‘Everything went wrong,’ said Livvy bitterly. ‘It was all my fault. I’d had an offer from an agent for one of the major cruise companies, who’d heard me singing in the Fforde Grene in Leeds. He knew I was underage, but he didn’t seem worried about it. So I was all set to go abroad and disappear for a while. But I wanted Mother to know. So I sneaked home.’
‘A second time?’ asked Delilah, surprised. ‘When was this?’
‘In the June after . . . after I’d supposedly been killed in the accident. No one knew. Not even Tom Hardacre,’ said Livvy with a dry laugh. ‘I caught the train to Horton and then walked back across the fells and up through the trees to Rainsrigg. It was night-time. Dark. Only the owls out in the woods.’ She stopped. Took a drink and then placed the mug back on the desk, her hands shaking. ‘I was coming out of the trees when I heard the shotgun. I started running, thinking that this time he’d done it. He’d killed her. I ran so fast, across the quarry, and then as I reached the edge of the garden, I saw the light. In the old barn. I ran towards it—’
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