Date with Malice

by Julia Chapman

  ‘No,’ quipped Lucy. ‘But you’re here and Will isn’t, so make the most of it!’

  Seth smiled and raised his drink in toast. ‘To your new home,’ he said. ‘May you be in it by Christmas.’

  Ash groaned. ‘Thanks, Seth. Not like I’m under pressure already or anything.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Harry, biting into his sandwich and licking his fingers. ‘We’ll get it done. Some of the rugby lads have agreed to come up and get painting. And the darts team have offered to pitch in, in any way they can.’

  ‘Goodness,’ Lucy said with a grateful smile. ‘Thanks, Harry, for organising everything.’

  Harry shrugged. ‘No organising needed. They all asked to help. Ryan had a lot of friends and they won’t stand by and see you and Nathan struggle. Not after what happened to you . . .’ He paused. Then a smile broke over his florid features. ‘Mind you, that lot’ll take some feeding!’

  Lucy laughed. ‘If they’re anything like you, they’ll bankrupt me.’

  ‘Talking of bankruptcy . . .’ Seth turned to Samson and lowered his voice as the others continued chatting. Only Nathan, close by his godfather’s side, was in earshot. ‘I hear you’ve taken on a case for Clive Knowles, looking for that halfwit tup of his?’

  Samson wasn’t surprised at the old man being well informed. Despite his taciturn manner, Seth Thistlethwaite had an uncanny way of gathering local news, even if he rarely passed it on. ‘As usual, Seth, you’ve heard correctly.’ Samson waited for the inevitable comment that would follow. For while Seth was anything but a gossipmonger, he was always happy to deliver his judgement on whatever rumour was doing the rounds.

  ‘Aye, well make sure you get paid up front,’ said Seth, taking a sip of his wine. ‘Clive Knowles’ wallet doesn’t see the light of day very often.’

  Harry had joined them, a couple of mince pies in his hand, and was nodding his head in agreement. ‘That’s exactly what I said. Now there’s two of us telling you, you’d best take heed.’

  ‘Noted,’ said Samson. ‘And thanks for the advice.’

  ‘Have you asked Seth about what you found up at Knowles’ farm?’

  Seth looked from Harry to Samson expectantly and Samson took the grenade-shaped lighter out of his pocket. ‘I came across this at Mire End. Do you recognise it?’

  The old man peered at the object in Samson’s hand. ‘That’s Pete Ferris’s. Seen him in the Fleece with it many a time.’ He glanced up, eyes shrewd, while Nathan examined the unusual lighter with interest. ‘You thinking he might have summat to do with the missing tup?’

  ‘Not sure. For now, I’m just trying to find out who owns this. I want a word with them.’

  ‘Well, it’s Pete’s all right. But I’d be right careful about how you approach him. He’s not the most stable of people.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Harry, swallowing the last mouthful of his mince pies. ‘I’d take backup if I were you.’

  ‘Backup for what?’ Delilah appeared at Samson’s shoulder, collecting the empty glasses onto a tray.

  ‘He’s heading up to Pete Ferris’s place,’ said Harry and then winced as a well-placed kick caught him in the ankle. But Samson was too late. Delilah had heard and was already turning to him.

  ‘I’ll come with you. We can bring Tolpuddle, too.’ She nodded at the dog, who looked up momentarily and then resumed eating the scraps of hog-roast that had fallen to the ground.

  Samson shook his head. ‘No way. This doesn’t involve you. And besides . . .’

  ‘It could be dangerous?’ Delilah raised an eyebrow. ‘And I’m a girl?’

  ‘No . . . yes – there’s that, but . . .’ Samson’s stuttering petered out, to be replaced by Seth’s chuckling.

  ‘That’s sorted, then,’ said Delilah, taking the glass from Samson’s hand. ‘Besides, I was at school with Pete. I know him. You don’t. We’ll go Monday morning.’

  Samson started to protest but Seth cut him short. ‘She’s right, Samson. Pete hasn’t seen you in years. He won’t know you walking up to his caravan, and he’s more likely to take his gun to you than greet you. Whereas Delilah . . . He’s always had a soft spot for her.’

  Delilah smiled, a trace of pink on her cheeks. ‘See,’ she said to Samson. ‘You need me.’

  He was about to reply when the smile slipped from her lips and a scowl replaced it.

  ‘Evening, all.’ Will Metcalfe was standing behind Samson. Beside him was the golden-haired Rick Procter.

  ‘Everyone enjoying the festivities?’ asked the property developer, leaning over to place a kiss on Delilah’s cheek.

  ‘We were, until you brought Scrooge along,’ muttered Delilah.

  Rick laughed and ruffled her hair. ‘Cheer up. The lights are about to be switched on.’

  ‘Who’s the celebrity?’ asked Nathan. ‘Do you know?’

  ‘It’s a secret,’ said Rick, tapping the side of his nose. He turned his back on the lad and focused on Delilah, asking her about her work on the website for Fellside Court.

  ‘Arse!’ muttered Nathan under his breath. Making sure he was shielded from his Uncle Will by Samson and Seth, he held the lighter behind the property developer’s backside and pressed the switch, a flash of fire shooting up and almost catching Rick’s trousers. The lad jumped back, surprised by the ferocity of the flame, while Seth Thistlethwaite, never a fan of the arrogant property developer, collapsed in silent laughter.

  ‘Behave, you two,’ whispered Samson, reaching out to take the lighter and trying hard not to smile. ‘You’ll get me in trouble. And I can’t afford any more of that.’

  A surge of applause from the crowd prevented any further mischief, and they turned to face the stage where the children’s choir had finished singing. Samson didn’t notice how it happened, but as everyone repositioned themselves he ended up with Will Metcalfe behind him and Rick Procter next to him. He shifted uncomfortably. While the centre of Bruncliffe was a far remove from the alleyways and deserted spaces where he’d conducted his undercover drugs operations, he felt every bit as exposed. Every bit as under threat.

  A heavy weight came to rest against his legs. Tolpuddle, leaning into him as was his way. He reached down and stroked the dog’s head, getting a lick on the hand in return.

  At least he had one ally.

  As the choir filed off into the wings, a portly middle-aged man stepped out of the ranks of local officials, microphone in hand and a chain of office propped on his broad chest.

  ‘Our esteemed mayor,’ said Ash. ‘Mr Bernard Taylor.’

  Samson watched the man on the stage, the intervening fourteen years since he’d last seen him having added at least a couple of stone to what had already been a well-padded frame. ‘Looks like selling houses has been profitable while I was away,’ he remarked wryly, glancing across the square to where what had once been a small office for Taylor’s estate agents was now a double-fronted expanse of glass.

  ‘A lot’s been profitable while you were away,’ said Rick, as Bernard Taylor started to address the crowd. ‘But not Twistleton Farm, I grant you.’

  It was said in an undertone meant only for Samson’s ears. He stiffened, his tension transmitting to Tolpuddle, who growled softly. Lowering a hand to reassure the dog, he tried to calm his own thumping pulse, while the injustice at what had happened to his home raged through him. It wasn’t the time or the place to confront Rick Procter.

  ‘Oh, look!’ Lucy was pointing at the stage, where a life-size Mickey and Minnie Mouse had appeared, waving at the crowd. She waved back, eliciting a groan from her teenage son.

  ‘Oh God,’ muttered Nathan. He turned to Samson with a pained look. ‘I told you it would be lame.’

  ‘You think everything’s lame,’ said Delilah, laughing as she put an arm around her nephew. ‘It’s just an age thing. You’ll get over it.’

  With the mayor looking awkward between them, Mickey and Minnie took their positions centre stage next to a giant plunger, and the countdown started, a big
screen flashing out the numbers, encouraging the audience to join in. Standing next to Nathan, Delilah was happily taking part, clapping her hands and teasing him until he started laughing and began calling out along with her, his face alight with pleasure.

  ‘Forget it!’ Rick Procter’s words were sharp enough to penetrate the surrounding noise but were aimed at Samson alone. ‘She’s out of your league, O’Brien.’

  ‘Thanks for the warning,’ said Samson, keeping his voice low and his attention on Delilah.

  ‘I’ve plenty more warnings for you. Stay around and you’ll find out.’

  It was enough to make Samson turn to face the property developer as the countdown reached its conclusion and the characters on the stage pressed down the plunger, bathing Bruncliffe in the spirit of Christmas. In contrast, Rick Procter was staring at him with undisguised hostility.

  Tolpuddle stirred and Samson slipped a hand under the dog’s collar. He knew what the faithful hound was capable of. He also knew what he was capable of himself.

  ‘Time to go!’ said Delilah, twisting round to smile at Samson. He forced himself to relax. ‘There are fireworks up next and Tolpuddle doesn’t like them, do you, boy?’ She leaned down and rubbed his head, the dog panting up at her.

  ‘I’ll walk you home,’ said Rick.

  Delilah shrugged, casting her farewells over her shoulder. She caught Samson’s eye and grinned. ‘See you Monday,’ she said. Then she was gone, swallowed up by the crowd, the tall figure of Rick Procter blocking any view of her.

  ‘Arse!’ muttered Samson, echoing his godson’s opinion. He should have let the lad loose with the lighter.

  Loud music began to pump out of the speakers at the side of the platform and a local dance troupe came running onto the stage. Samson, his mood dark and far from festive, tapped Lucy on the shoulder and said goodbye, throwing a hand up in farewell to Nathan and the others.

  ‘You off?’ asked Harry, half a gingerbread man in his grasp, the other half already consumed.

  Samson nodded. ‘Had enough.’

  ‘Me too,’ said the auctioneer, falling into step alongside him. ‘Reckon I’ll get a swift pint in the Fleece and call it a night.’

  ‘You not staying for the fireworks, then?’

  ‘No, I’ve had my fill of them this year.’ Harry grinned ruefully, acknowledging the close call on Bonfire Night, when he’d nearly lost his life. ‘I only came along tonight to support Rick.’

  ‘Rick?’

  ‘He sponsors this.’ Harry gestured back at the far side of the stage and Samson noticed the banner bearing the name of Procter Properties. ‘He does a lot for the town, and he’s thick as thieves with the council.’

  Samson grimaced. ‘Thick as thieves with Delilah, too. Not sure Ryan would approve of them being together.’

  His comment drew a deep laugh. ‘Delilah and Rick?’ Harry shook his head. ‘There’s nothing going on there. I’d have heard about it.’

  ‘But . . .’ Samson paused, remembering the shoes littering the back porch at the office, all of them a size that would fit Rick Procter. Had he jumped to conclusions? ‘They’re not an item?’

  ‘Nope. Delilah hasn’t dated anyone since her divorce.’

  ‘Divorce?’ Samson blinked. Delilah had been married?

  ‘Christ, Samson, you didn’t half hide yourself away when you left town. How can you not know all this?’

  ‘Easily. Feel free to fill me in.’

  Harry glanced over his shoulder to make sure they were out of earshot, the crowd thinner at this end of the market square. ‘She married Neil Taylor,’ he said. ‘It didn’t last long, though.’

  ‘Neil Taylor?’

  ‘Bernard Taylor’s son. He came home after college and swept Delilah off her feet.’

  Casting his mind back to school, Samson pictured a tall, spotty-faced teen in the year below him swaggering around town, arrogant on the back of his father’s commercial success. A father who had gone on to become mayor. ‘What happened? Why didn’t it work out?’

  Harry frowned. ‘Bastard broke her heart. Had a couple of affairs, the last one not long after Ryan died. Will was ready to kill him if he hadn’t left town.’

  Samson felt a surge of respect for the oldest Metcalfe sibling.

  ‘It was bad,’ continued Harry. ‘You know what it’s like around here. Everyone knew everything about it. Or at least they thought they did. But Delilah is stubborn. She held her head high and took on both businesses, as well as the cottage they’d bought. It nearly destroyed her, though, financially and emotionally.’

  ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘No, I guess you didn’t. Still, she’s over it now. Not seen her as happy as she’s been lately for a long time.’

  Ahead, the lights of the Fleece were spilling out onto Back Street. Samson shook the auctioneer’s hand. ‘Thanks for bringing me up to speed.’

  ‘Any time. But don’t go telling Delilah I told you,’ said Harry. ‘I’ve no desire to find out just how powerful that right hook of hers is.’

  With a laugh and reassurances of discretion, Samson made his way to the small ginnel that ran along the back of the properties opposite the pub. Picking his way down the alleyway, the black mass of the crag looming up above him on the left, he stopped outside the third gate, unlocked it and let himself into the courtyard of the office.

  Well, well. Delilah – little Dee, who’d trailed around after him and Ryan like a persistent shadow – had been married and divorced, with all of her life history laid bare for the vultures of Bruncliffe to pick over. And judging by the stack of boxes and the furniture in the spare rooms at the office, she was still hanging onto the past.

  Deep in thought, he passed his motorbike and made his way up the path to the back door. He had his key in his hand when his mobile began to ring.

  Pulling it from his pocket, the light from the screen sliced through the dark. Unknown number. He answered it as he turned the key in the lock.

  ‘Be careful, Detective O’Brien.’ The voice was female, seductive, measured. Enough to make him pause.

  ‘Hello? Who is this?’

  ‘Be careful . . . Samson.’ His name sounded intimate in her sultry tone. ‘They are going to make you pay.’

  ‘Hello? Hello . . . ?’ Dead air rushed back to him through the phone. And the hand of the past touched his shoulder, making him shiver.

  It was coming. Perhaps sooner than he’d expected.

  7

  ‘Do we need to go so fast?’ On Monday morning, Samson was clutching the dashboard, the Nissan Micra taking the first bridge in Horton with the stone parapet startlingly close to the passenger window as the car whipped to the left and over the second bridge. In the rear, Tolpuddle gave a small whine of agreement.

  ‘Sorry,’ muttered Delilah, easing up off the accelerator as they followed the road out of the village, heading north for Selside and Pete Ferris’s caravan. ‘Bad start to the day.’

  ‘Dare I ask?’

  ‘Best not.’ She glanced in the rear-view mirror, met the amber gaze of the dog, and felt her stomach knot.

  The email had arrived the night before. Normally she wouldn’t have seen it, Sunday being spent in the warm embrace of her family at Ellershaw Farm. The Sabbath had always been sacrosanct in the Metcalfe clan, not so much in terms of religion, but in that everyone gathered for a late lunch which lasted through the evening. Since the incident that had almost cost Lucy her life, the Metcalfes had been observing this tradition even more faithfully. And by mutual consent, mobile phones were banned at the table. So Delilah should have had longer before the blow fell.

  But an argument with Will – a regular occurrence these days, usually instigated by her association with the man sitting next to her in the car – combined with the novel situation of having her own transport, had seen her leave the farm mid-evening. She’d been so wound up by her oldest brother’s meddling ways that she’d returned home and settled down to work, hoping the routine would help soothe
her agitated mind.

  How wrong she’d been. She’d heard the tone that signalled new mail, seen the name of the sender, and her heart had started to pound.

  Neil. Getting in touch out of the blue. She’d presumed it was about his belongings, which were cluttering up the top floor of the office building. When they’d split – or to be more precise, when he’d left her for a student and had disappeared down to London – he’d promised he would be back to collect his stuff. So she’d boxed it all and shifted everything over to the office, even though everyone was telling her to sell it; to get her own back by making money out of his possessions.

  But she wasn’t like that. Yes, she was capable of punching Samson when he’d turned up after fourteen years, but that was more honest. Sneaking behind Neil’s back in such a vindictive way just wasn’t her.

  Although that might be about to change. Because Neil’s email hadn’t mentioned his belongings at all. It hadn’t even mentioned Delilah. In fact, the email had focused on only one topic.

  Tolpuddle.

  Neil was asking for custody of their dog.

  Her throat clenched and tears pricked the back of her eyes. She blinked furiously. There was no way she was going to let her ex-husband take Tolpuddle, a dog he hadn’t even thought twice about when he’d left town with his new flame. She would fight him tooth and nail.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?’ Samson was staring out of the windscreen, hands still gripping the dashboard, and Delilah realised she was speeding once more, the left bend under the railway bridge already upon her in a blur of stone.

  ‘Yes, sorry.’ She blinked again, swallowed and pushed the thought to the back of her mind. ‘You know where we have to turn off?’

  He allowed himself to tear his frightened gaze from the approaching road. ‘We take a right at Selside,’ he said, looking at the map on his phone. ‘Then follow the track. The caravan should be at the end of it, according to Seth.’

  Delilah nodded, her grip on the steering wheel relaxing and the car slowing to a more moderate pace, allowing Samson to appreciate the view. To their right, Pen-y-ghent was veiled in a blanket of mist, its flat peak hidden, the fields on its lower flanks sodden and sombre. The few trees they passed held bare branches up to the grey sky, and enclosing the lot was the steady march of the stone walls that defined the Dales.