Even in the cloak of winter, it was beautiful. And unique. A distant cry from his metropolitan life in London.
The car crested a small rise and rounded a bend, a row of railway cottages visible tucked into a copse of trees, the train track running next to them, parallel to the road. In less than a minute they were approaching the collection of houses that comprised the village of Selside.
‘There, that’s our turning.’ Samson pointed at a narrow lane cutting off between two houses.
Delilah slowed up, indicated and pulled off the road, the Micra immediately bucking and bouncing through potholes filled with water. ‘Hell!’ she muttered, worried about her car. ‘Let’s hope it’s not too far.’
They passed under the railway and took the right-hand fork as the track branched at a farm. More holes pockmarked the gravelled road, the car crawling along, lurching from one to the next, Delilah cursing beneath her breath.
‘How much further?’ she asked.
Samson pointed. ‘There.’
At the end of the track, in a field containing a dilapidated barn, was a small caravan. Filthy net curtains hung at the windows, mould and dirt covered the once-white roof and a ramshackle porch leaned heavily against its side. A muddy path led up to it and a battered pickup truck was parked alongside.
‘There’s no way I’m driving in there,’ said Delilah, pulling the car over on a patch of grass and stopping the engine. ‘We’ll walk the rest of the way.’
They got out, the rain that the low clouds had heralded now beginning to fall. Tolpuddle, eager despite the weather, loped ahead, expecting a run as they headed through the gateway into the field. They were halfway between the car and the caravan when a cacophony of barking split the silence.
‘Damn.’ Delilah called Tolpuddle back and slipped his lead onto his collar. ‘We might have a welcoming party.’
The porch door swung open, drunken on its hinges, and two solid shapes came hurtling out, covering the distance towards Samson and Delilah at a rapid pace. Lurchers. Trained to kill.
‘Now what?’ asked Delilah, feeling the tug of resistance as Tolpuddle fought to be released.
‘Don’t move,’ said Samson. He stepped in front of her and as the dogs closed in, reached in his pocket and tossed a handful of something into the air.
The dogs froze, assessed and leapt, sharp teeth catching the objects as they fell.
‘What the—?’ Delilah watched in awe as the lurchers started chewing, tails wagging.
‘Dog-gestives,’ said Samson with a smile, his attention fully on the two dogs. ‘I didn’t think Tolpuddle would mind sharing.’
Delilah laughed quietly as Samson threw another couple of biscuits to the now-contented canines. Tolpuddle whimpered, and she turned to reassure him that he too would get treats. But he wasn’t watching the lurchers. He was watching the caravan. She followed his gaze and went rigid.
‘I don’t suppose,’ she murmured, ‘that you’ve got something in your other pocket to deal with this?’
‘What?’ Samson looked up from the dogs and across the field. Standing on the ramshackle porch of the caravan was a man. In his hands was a shotgun. It was trained on them.
The low-lying cloud that was covering the peak of Pen-y-ghent was mirrored in the mist that had settled over Bruncliffe, dampening the morning with fine rain. In the cafe of Fellside Court, a despondent group of residents was sitting around a table, post-aerobics cakes and coffees largely untouched.
‘Has anyone called for him?’ Edith Hird looked at the concerned faces of her friends, the empty chair in their midst testament to Arty Robinson’s absence.
‘I did. He said he didn’t feel like aerobics,’ replied Joseph O’Brien with a frown. ‘It’s just not like him.’
‘Definitely not.’ Edith tapped her spoon against the side of her cup and pursed her lips. ‘We need to do something.’
Over the five days since Alice Shepherd’s death, the normally buoyant bookmaker had become morose, his cheerful smile missing as he went about his daily life. Withdrawing further and further into himself, he’d been shunning communal activities, staying in his room and turning away all offers of comfort from those who cared for him. And as his sunny personality became eclipsed by grief, so a shadow was cast across Fellside Court, plunging its inhabitants into melancholy too. Joseph had never known the place so downcast.
Take the morning aerobics session. There’d been little laughter, despite the best efforts of the lovely Vicky trying to lift the mood. Attendance had also been down, the usual seats of Arty and Alice not the only ones left vacant. Numbers had been low for the weekly Sunday roast in the cafe the day before as well, an event that was normally fully booked.
As tangible as the mist outside the window, a muted atmosphere had settled on the retirement residence.
‘How is everybody this morning?’ Ana Stoyanova was standing at the end of the table, face pale against the blood-red vibrancy of the cardigan she was wearing over her uniform, a file clutched to her chest.
‘Not so good,’ said Clarissa with her trademark honesty. ‘We’re worried about Arty.’
‘He didn’t come down for aerobics?’
Clarissa shook her head. ‘We haven’t seen him properly in days. He answers his door but doesn’t invite us in.’
‘He’s depressed,’ said Edith.
Ana frowned. ‘Yes, I’ve noticed. He is missing Alice.’
‘Do we know when the funeral will be?’
The frown on Ana’s forehead deepened and her lips drew into a thin line of disapproval. ‘Not yet. I heard from the family that they are still waiting for the coroner to make a decision on the autopsy. So, we must wait.’
Her reply drew a sigh from Edith and further glum expressions from the others. A flicker of worry rippled across the normally impenetrable expression of the manager and she attempted a smile. ‘Anyway, what are you up to today? Any plans?’
‘Eric’s son is visiting on Wednesday,’ volunteered Joseph, trying to match Ana’s efforts to lift the spirits of his friends. ‘Isn’t that so, Eric?’
‘Oh, that’s wonderful. Where does he live?’ Ana turned to the frail man sitting next to the empty chair.
‘Down south,’ said Eric with the disdain he reserved for anything below Skipton on the map. Then he looked at Ana with renewed interest. ‘You and he might have something in common.’
Ana lifted an eyebrow. ‘Really? What?’
Eric coughed and took a few breaths to recover. ‘Serbia,’ he said.
The reaction was immediate. Ana stiffened, her face fell back into its habitual inscrutable mask and her arms tightened across the folder she was carrying.
‘Sorry,’ said Eric, noticing her reaction. ‘Have I got it wrong? I thought you said you were from Serbia? My lad was out that way, peacekeeping in the war.’
‘I’m from Bulgaria.’
‘Oh, my mistake.’ He smiled apologetically. ‘Never was good at geography.’
‘No harm done,’ said Ana, her clipped tone at odds with her words. She looked at her watch and turned to go. ‘Have a good day, all of you.’ She walked away, back rigid, steps hurried.
‘Whoops,’ said Edith, eyes on the manager as she left the cafe. ‘Think you might have hit a nerve there.’
‘I didn’t mean to.’ Eric looked upset, his breathing rasping in response. ‘I was only trying to make conversation.’
Clarissa patted his hand. ‘Of course you were. Don’t worry about it. I’m sure Ana will have forgotten all about it already.’
Her sister chuckled. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ she said. ‘She’s hard to fathom, that one. You might want to appoint Joseph as a bodyguard.’
Joseph raised two fists and scowled, making the group laugh.
‘Then again,’ continued Edith, smiling at the gaunt figure of the Irishman, ‘Arty would be a better bet. There’s a bit more meat on him.’
‘Talking of which,’ Joseph got to his feet, addressing Eric. ‘How abou
t we go and find him and see if we can’t get him to join us?’
He helped Eric out of his chair and the two of them left the cafe, Eric’s oxygen cylinder trailing behind him on its trolley.
‘Bugger off!’
The shotgun was unwavering, both barrels pointing at the intruders as the thin figure on the porch shouted at them. Already shielding Delilah from the dogs, Samson took a step forward, wanting to protect her even more.
‘I said bugger off!’ the man yelled again, lowering his cheek to the stock, clearly meaning business.
‘Go back to the car, Delilah,’ whispered Samson over his shoulder. ‘Slowly.’
‘And what about you?’ she asked.
‘I’ll go and talk to him.’
Delilah snorted. ‘Like hell,’ she muttered and stepped out from behind his back, the shotgun immediately focusing on her.
‘I warned you—’
‘Pete! It’s me, Delilah Metcalfe.’ She passed Tolpuddle’s lead to Samson, raised both of her hands in the air and took another step towards the caravan, wary of the lurchers, which were no longer occupied with the dog treats and were watching alertly.
‘For God’s sake, Delilah!’ hissed Samson as the man’s cheek lifted off the gun and he stared across the field at her. ‘Don’t be an idiot.’
Ignoring him completely, she inched further forward. ‘I just want to talk to you,’ she continued, addressing the man on the porch. Tolpuddle whined behind her, drawing the attention of the two dogs in front. ‘It won’t take long.’
There was a long pause and then the gun lowered fractionally. ‘Delilah Metcalfe?’
She nodded, smiling.
The barrels dropped and a bony hand waved her forward. Samson made to go too, but the raising of the gun forestalled him.
‘Just Delilah – not you!’ shouted Pete.
‘You’re joking,’ muttered Samson as Delilah moved further away from him.
‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘He won’t hurt me.’
Samson was forced to watch helplessly as she walked past the lurchers and towards the caravan. A tug on his arm reminded him that he wasn’t the only one who was worried. Tolpuddle was straining on his lead, anxious to be with her too.
Arty Robinson stood before the sheet of glass in the empty lounge at Fellside Court and watched the water trail down its surface.
‘There you are. We missed you at aerobics, Arty.’ Joseph O’Brien was in the doorway, a look of concern on his face. ‘Why don’t you join us in the cafe? The others are all there.’
Arty shook his head. ‘I’m not good company,’ he said.
Joseph paused, reluctant to intrude on his friend’s desolation. He was on the verge of suggesting to Eric that they leave Arty alone, when he felt the jab of a sharp elbow in his ribs. Edith was behind him.
‘Here. Take this,’ she whispered, holding out a tray containing three mugs of coffee and three plates, each bearing a slice of cake. ‘And don’t take no for an answer.’
Joseph smiled, taking the tray from her. ‘You’re a good woman, Edith.’
The former headmistress brushed aside his compliment with a flick of a hand. ‘Nonsense. I’m acting out of self-interest. This place isn’t the same without Arty’s banter. Now get in there and cheer him up.’
She shooed the two men into the room, Joseph carrying the tray and Eric pulling his trolley.
Arty turned at the clink of china and a sad smile lifted his lips temporarily as he saw his two friends entering the lounge. ‘I see you’ve been sent on a mission,’ he said.
‘And our lives won’t be worth living if we fail,’ replied Eric, taking a seat as Joseph placed the tray on a table and distributed the coffee and cakes.
‘Come on,’ said Joseph, patting the empty armchair next to him. ‘Don’t refuse or Edith will have our guts for garters.’
‘I should have known she was behind this.’ Despite wanting to be left alone, Arty crossed the room and sat down, knowing they meant well. ‘Thanks.’ He picked up his coffee, leaving his cake untasted on the plate. ‘Any news on the funeral?’ he asked.
‘Not yet. Ana said the family still don’t know if there’ll be an autopsy,’ said Joseph.
Arty winced. He hated the thought of poor Alice having to endure such an indignity. It seemed so unfair, inflicting such a final humiliation on such a private lady.
But then it all seemed so unfair. Since Alice passed away he’d been unable to shake off the cloud of guilt that was hanging over him – a vague sensation that there was something he could have done, something he should have seen that might have prevented her death. With sleep eluding him, he’d spent several nights looking across at Alice’s empty apartment on the other side of the courtyard, nursing a glass of whisky as the blank windows rebuked him for her absence. From the adjoining flat, he could see the regular pulsing light of Eric’s night-time oxygen machine behind the thin fabric of his curtains, the rhythmic flashing a contrast to the lifeless space next door to it.
He sighed, the thick mantle of depression settling around him.
Discerning the direction of his thoughts, Eric slapped the arms of his chair and leaned forward with as much energy as his body – racked by chronic obstructive pulmonary disease after a lifetime of heavy smoking – would allow.
‘There’s no point moping around here thinking about it,’ he wheezed. ‘We ought to do something. Go on a trip somewhere.’
The enthusiasm from his frail friend brought a halting smile to Arty’s face. ‘It’s raining.’
Eric shrugged. ‘So? Where’s your sense of –’ a fit of coughing interrupted him, the oxygen cylinder rattling on the trolley next to him – ‘adventure?’
‘He’s right,’ said Joseph, trying to fan the faint spark of interest Arty was displaying. ‘We need to get out of here. Get a change of scenery.’
Arty pointed at the window. ‘But we’ll get soaked.’
‘Not if you go to the coast.’ The three men twisted round to see Ana Stoyanova. She had her mobile in her hand, a weather app on the screen. ‘It’s dry over there.’
‘Morecambe,’ declared Eric with a grin.
Joseph was nodding. ‘Fish and chips on the beach . . .’
‘The amusement arcade . . .’
Arty laughed. After so many days without the sound, Joseph and Eric both jumped at the deep bellow of amusement.
‘Incorrigible!’ the former bookmaker declared, knowing that his friends had dangled the prospect of the seaside resort and its fruit machines in the confidence that he would be unable to resist. ‘But brilliant. How do we get there?’
‘I’ll book you a minibus,’ said Ana. ‘Bruncliffe Cabs has a fourteen-seater – would that be big enough?’
Joseph looked at Eric, who shrugged and looked at Arty. The bookmaker was grinning, already on his feet. ‘I reckon. Come on, lads, let’s get the ladies and tell them to grab their handbags. We’re going to the seaside.’
‘What do you want?’
The blunt question displayed none of the affection which Seth had claimed still lingered in Pete Ferris’s heart. Although the poacher had lowered his gun, his dogs had trailed Delilah back to the caravan and now sat watching her. Or guarding her. It was hard to tell.
‘Just a couple of questions. We don’t mean any trouble.’ She smiled warmly, but the bloodshot eyes staring back at her remained hostile.
It was a while since she’d seen Pete Ferris close up. She remembered him from school, despite the poacher being several years older and hardly ever turning up to class. The thin frame, the grubby clothes, the furtive manner – they were traits the entire family had shared. In adulthood, Pete had become a peripheral figure in Bruncliffe. Sometimes she’d see him leaving the Fleece, staggering down Back Street. Or catch sight of him on the other side of the marketplace, slouching across town. He seemed to slink through life, hugging walls and slipping through doorways, as feral as the animals he hunted illegally.
Now she had the chance to
assess him in detail. Skeletal face under the peak of a baseball cap, jumper hanging off the points of his shoulders, dirt-caked jeans dropping to scuffed trainers – he had the look of a starved man down on his luck. He didn’t smell too fresh, either, his pitted skin grey with grime.
‘Get on with it, then. Got things to do with my day.’
‘Right.’ Delilah looked across the field to where Samson and Tolpuddle were standing, both of them straining to see what was happening. ‘We found something. It might be yours.’
Suspicion flickered across the man’s face and he twitched, shoulder hitching up to his ear, the gun jerking in response. ‘Found what?’
‘A lighter. Samson has it.’ She gestured towards the figure in the distance.
‘O’Brien? Is that O’Brien?’ Pete turned and stared at the man with the dog. ‘I heard he was back.’
‘So do you want to see the lighter? See if it’s yours?’ persisted Delilah.
Pete twitched again, cheeks hollowing further as he chewed on the inside of his lip. Then he gave a tip of his head, which Delilah took for consent.
‘Samson,’ she called, beckoning him over, trying not to worry that the shotgun had lifted partially back into position or that the lurchers were rising to their feet. Under this attention, Samson and Tolpuddle approached the porch.
‘Hi,’ said Samson as they stepped up to join Delilah. He sounded relaxed, unperturbed by the gun or the dogs, and Delilah wondered how much of that was due to his police training. She surreptitiously wiped her damp palms on her jeans and felt the weight of Tolpuddle leaning against her leg, reassuring her that he was there. She slowly put a hand down to his head, wary of agitating the lurchers.
‘Welcome home, O’Brien,’ said Pete. He gave a sharp cackle, his gaze turning sly. ‘Bet you’ve got Rick Procter rattled.’
‘Not sure I’d go that far. Does he have reason to be rattled?’
The poacher shifted uneasily. ‘None of my business,’ he snapped. ‘What do you want to show me?’
Date with Malice Page 9
