‘I thought it was.’ Arty shrugged. ‘I could have sworn it was. But when we got into the apartment, the machine was working fine.’
‘Yet Eric had collapsed.’
‘He was on the floor by the bed. He’d ripped his mask off, stupid bugger—’ He blew his nose again, eyes welling up.
‘Arty put the mask back on Eric while I called the ambulance,’ said Joseph O’Brien, taking up the tale and giving his friend a chance to compose himself. ‘Then Edith phoned Vicky, who was on call that night. I gave Ana a call too, and it was just as well as she was there in minutes and took charge.’
Arty stuffed his handkerchief back in his pocket, eyes red-rimmed, shoulders sagging, and finished off his tea. It had been an awful wait for the paramedics – Edith kneeling beside Eric, trying to rouse him; Joseph on the phone; Clarissa standing in the doorway silently panicking, with Geraldine Mortimer and a host of other residents behind her like a pyjama-clad chorus. Then Ana had turned up. She’d dressed hastily, shirt tails sticking out from beneath her sweater, collar sticking up, and she was tying back her hair as she rushed into the room, her face still creased from her pillow.
She’d taken over. Calming them all down. Dealing with the paramedics. Getting Vicky to make tea when she turned up ten minutes later. But all the time Arty was watching her, and puzzling over two things.
How had she got there so quickly from her rental property in Hellifield, a village five miles down the road? And why wasn’t she wearing a coat?
Inconsequential things. Yet they’d nagged at him as Ana dealt with the drama with her trademark calm efficiency. Nagged at him enough that he’d raised it with her as they left Eric’s apartment, the ambulance gone, the residents all encouraged back to bed.
‘You must have been freezing, coming out without a coat,’ he’d said.
She’d stiffened, her back to Arty as she locked the door. ‘I was in too much of a hurry to get one.’
‘Well,’ he said with a half-laugh, ‘I hope none of Bruncliffe’s finest were out on patrol. You’ll have broken the speed limit getting here that quickly.’
She turned, her cheeks still marked with faint lines from her sleep. ‘I did my best,’ she said. Then she’d walked away down the corridor, that familiar icy demeanour firmly in place.
It wasn’t a good feeling, this kernel of suspicion. But the look on Alice Shepherd’s face when Ana had confronted her with her pillbox had haunted Arty for the last week. Should he say something? Mention it to young O’Brien, seeing as he was a detective?
‘So it wasn’t a problem with the oxygen machine that was to blame?’ Samson was asking.
‘Not that we could see,’ Joseph replied. ‘It was working fine. After they’d taken Eric away, we even turned it off and on again, but there was nothing wrong with it.’
‘And yet the light went out earlier, Arty?’
The bookmaker’s spirits flagged. Had it been out? Or had he been so tired he’d not seen it flashing away from across the courtyard? Or maybe Eric had got up to go to the bathroom and had blocked his view of it? There was also the matter of the large whisky he’d drunk just before . . .
‘I don’t know,’ he said wearily. ‘I honestly don’t know.’
Delilah gave a slight shake of her head at Samson as she placed an arm round the old man’s shoulders. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘What matters is that you found Eric and got help.’
Danny Bradley murmured his agreement and then stood to go. ‘I have to get to work or Sergeant Clayton will be on my case,’ he said. He paused in the doorway and then looked back at Samson. ‘About that oxygen concentrator. Would you have time to have a look at it today? I don’t get off my shift until late, and I’d quite like to know it wasn’t the machine that was at fault.’
‘Of course,’ said Samson. ‘It’s time we were heading off too, so I’ll go straight there.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Joseph, putting a hand up to ward off the objection he knew was coming. ‘I’ll give you an excuse for going up to the first floor. I’m not sure how Ana would take it if you just wandered in on your own.’
‘He’s got a point,’ said Delilah, a mischievous grin forming. ‘Here, take my helmet, Joseph, and you can go back together.’
‘No way!’ said Samson, both hands up. ‘I don’t need any help. I’m just going to look at the concentrator. Besides, how will you get back to town?’
‘I’ll take her in the patrol car,’ Danny offered eagerly, the young man keen to have some time alone with the famous Delilah Metcalfe. As a fellow fell-runner, he had heard all about her exploits in the sport and held her on a pedestal of considerable height.
Samson sighed. It was checkmate. ‘Okay, Dad, you’re with me. Danny, if you could take Delilah and Arty—’
‘I’m not going back just yet.’ Arty glanced at his friend in the bed and back at Samson. ‘I’ll stay with Eric a bit longer. Someone needs to be here when he wakes up.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. I’m fine. The nurses will look after me.’ He tried a smile, but it was half-hearted. Then he reached into his pocket and passed a key across the bed. ‘You’ll need this. It’s Edith’s spare for Eric’s flat. In all the commotion last night, I somehow ended up with it . . .’
His smile faltered and Delilah gave him a kiss on the cheek, before putting on her coat and joining Danny in the doorway.
‘I’ll come and collect you at midday, Arty,’ offered Danny. ‘My uncle and aunt should be up here by then. And thanks again. You too, Samson,’ he said, shaking the detective’s hand. ‘I owe you for this.’
Samson smiled, thinking of all the assistance the young constable had given him over the past couple of months. ‘I think it’s the other way round. Glad to be able to help.’
He was also glad to have a legitimate excuse to enter Eric’s apartment. Because while Delilah might have pacified Arty by telling him the sequence of events the night before didn’t matter, any detective worth his salt knew that they did. And Samson wouldn’t be satisfied until Eric’s collapse had had a bit more investigating.
The return journey from Airedale Hospital to Bruncliffe took longer than the usual forty minutes, thanks to a slow tractor on the road out from Skipton and Samson’s caution, given the age of the passenger on the back. A passenger who had tried to speed things up by continually nudging his son in the back.
When Samson had started up the Royal Enfield in the hospital car park, Joseph O’Brien had laughed with joy, cast back to his youth by the gleaming motorbike that had been so much a part of it.
‘By God, but your mother and I had some fun on this old girl,’ he said as he sat up behind his son.
‘Not sure I need to know the details, Dad,’ replied Samson, flicking down his visor and pulling out onto the road. But even he could see how the wonderful machine must have been a magical part of the romance between his parents. Riding back towards the Dales, the air washed clean by the recent rain, a low sun streaming down from a cloud-dappled sky onto the majestic fells, he had a mad desire to just keep riding. Perhaps riding back through his own youth to a point where the man behind him on the bike had been the father he barely remembered. To a point where he’d had a proper relationship with him.
He’d arrived at Fellside Court in an irritable mood.
‘Thanks, son,’ said Joseph as he got off, removing his helmet to reveal a beaming smile. ‘That was fantastic.’
‘Thank Delilah,’ muttered Samson.
‘I’ll be sure to.’ Joseph had sensed his son’s shift in temper. It had to be hard for the lad, trying to rebuild connections with the father who had drunk away their past. Not sure how to overcome the innate suspicion of the neglected child, Joseph fell back on the task in hand. ‘Come on then, let’s get you up to Eric’s flat. It’s coffee time, so the corridors should be clear.’
He led the way across the courtyard, glancing into the lounge where a few residents were in the far corner watching TV, b
acks to the window. They entered the foyer but instead of turning towards the stairs to the left, Joseph veered right, skirting round the huge Christmas tree that had taken up residence in the entrance hall.
‘Avoiding the cafe,’ Joseph said by way of explanation, pointing at a second flight of stairs and a lift, which Samson hadn’t noticed before. They were passing the corridor that ran down the right wing when a voice hailed them.
‘Joseph! How’s Eric?’ An elderly lady with grey hair cut close above an impish face was approaching, leaning heavily on a walking stick.
‘Rita Wilson,’ muttered Joseph to his son. ‘She’s discreet.’ He turned to the lady with a smile. ‘Morning, Rita. Eric’s still unconscious but he’s in good hands. Sorry, but I don’t know any more than that.’
‘Poor Eric!’ Rita shook her head. ‘What an awful accident.’
‘When I hear more, I’ll let you know.’ Joseph made to move on but then paused, tapped his finger to his nose and tilted his head in the direction of Samson. ‘If anyone asks, you never saw us, okay?’
A wicked smile lit up Rita’s face. ‘Oh! Intrigue in Fellside Court. Is he here on official business?’
‘No. But you know how funny Ana can be about visitors signing in. We’re keeping under the radar.’
‘Go quickly, then,’ she said with a chuckle, shooing them towards the door at the foot of the stairs. ‘My lips are sealed.’
They slipped away and, true to her word, Rita Wilson entered the cafe and didn’t tell a soul. Apart from whispering something in Edith Hird’s ear. But then Edith could be trusted.
The flat already had the feel of a deserted space, the click of the closing front door sounding hollow in the silence. Having left his father standing guard in the corridor by the wall of glass, Samson stood in Eric Bradley’s hallway, aware of Alice Shepherd’s empty apartment next door, of the residents’ lounge below. Even if Eric had called out when he fell in the middle of the night, who would have heard him?
Musing on the mystery of the missing green light that had led Arty to raise the alarm and no doubt save Eric’s life, Samson moved down the hall. The apartment was bigger than Alice’s, two bedrooms as opposed to one. According to Joseph, there were only four of these more spacious residences, all placed in the corners – the three others included the one Edith and Clarissa shared above the cafe, another on the ground floor at the front occupied by a couple in their late eighties, and then there was the apartment across the courtyard on the first floor, which was reserved as a guest suite. With the astronomical prices his father had quoted, it was a wonder they’d sold any of them at all.
Pausing at an open door on his left, Samson glanced into the bathroom. Opposite was the smaller of the two bedrooms. He poked his head into both. While Danny had only asked him to check the oxygen machine, it seemed sensible to have a thorough look at the place while he was there. Not that he could be certain Eric’s stay in hospital had been premeditated, but it would be a shame to miss such an opportunity should Alice Shepherd’s suspicions about Fellside Court be proven well founded.
The bathroom was clean, the sparse collection of toiletries on a shelf indicative of a single male occupant. Likewise, the spare bedroom was spartan. Bed. Small wardrobe. A single bedside table with an old lamp. Neither room suggested anything untoward. Samson moved through to the open-plan lounge and kitchen.
Tucked into the corner of the property with access to two balconies, it was an impressive space, looking out onto the fells and into the courtyard below. The kitchen area was immaculate, not a splash or spot of grease to be seen on the modern units and the hob gleaming. Eric had a cleaner. Possibly Ida Capstick. Samson filed that thought.
The lounge looked more lived-in, a couple of books on the coffee table, a fleece throw draped across the sofa, a well-worn footstool in front of an armchair and, to one side, Eric’s portable oxygen cylinder which he used during the day. Crossing the plush carpet, Samson gave the cylinder a quick inspection, but nothing seemed amiss.
The master bedroom, then.
If the rest of the apartment had the antiseptic feel of a show-home, Eric’s bedroom bore testament to recent drama. The duvet was in a tumbled heap on the bed, the discarded oxygen mask lay on the floor by the window, and the picture on the wall near the door to the en-suite was at an angle where a shoulder had caught it in the commotion. Tucked into the furthest corner, between the window and the bed, was the oxygen machine.
Samson stood in front of it and looked out of the window. On the diagonal across the courtyard he could see Arty Robinson’s balcony. He turned to the concentrator and pressed the on/off button. Nothing happened.
Following the flex that exited from the back of the machine, he crossed towards the bedside table where it disappeared. It was plugged into a socket behind the small unit. Badly plugged in. The pins weren’t fully inserted.
Odd.
His father had said they’d tested the oxygen concentrator after the paramedics took Eric away, turning it off and on again. How had it worked, if it hadn’t been plugged in properly?
Pushing the plug snug into the socket, he tried the machine again. This time the display lit up, a single short beep sounding as the machine hummed into action. From the mask on the floor came the gentle hiss of oxygen. And at the top of the control panel, a steady green light showed. Arty’s green light. Only it wasn’t flashing. Because the mask had no one breathing at the end of it.
He picked it up, held it over his face and took a breath. And another. The oxygen was a shot of pure air, heady and delicious. Another breath. The green light flashed in time. And again. He breathed in and out for thirty seconds, the light on the machine keeping pace. As his father had said, there didn’t appear to be anything wrong with it.
He removed the mask and turned off the machine.
Arty had seen the green light. Then he thought it had stopped and he raised the alarm. But when they entered the flat, Eric had been collapsed here on the floor by the window, yet the machine had been working.
Samson began pacing back and forward in front of the window, allowing his thoughts to roam. There was something here. Something that wasn’t making sense.
He passed in front of the window just as she was looking up from the entrance hall. That mass of dark hair, the broad shoulders, the brooding expression. Even across the distance of the courtyard he was unmistakable. Even when she saw him for only the briefest of moments.
Problem was, he wasn’t where he should be. And he hadn’t signed in.
Ana Stoyanova slipped her hand into the pocket of her tunic and took out her mobile. Her call was answered on the first ring.
‘He’s here snooping around,’ she said, still staring out of the glass wall towards Eric Bradley’s apartment. ‘You said to tell you.’
That was all she needed to say. She returned to her office and waited.
Eric. He’d been found on this side of the bed, close to the window.
Samson paused and viewed the room afresh. Eric Bradley had fallen on the side of the bed furthest from the en-suite bathroom. If Arty’s theory was right, that was a logical place for Eric to be. The oxygen machine had stopped, he’d been ripped from sleep and in difficulty, so he’d got up to check what was wrong. Yet when the others had arrived, there had been nothing wrong with the concentrator.
If Arty had been mistaken and the machine hadn’t stopped, then why had Eric got out of bed on this side? The bathroom was across the other side of the room.
It didn’t make sense either way. Especially when the machine didn’t seem to have been plugged in properly in the first place.
He looked over at the bedside table which concealed the plug. It was a heavy oak unit with a small cupboard at the bottom, a drawer above and a green marble top. Placed on the marble were a plastic beaker of water, a book and a pair of glasses. He moved closer, slight indentations in the carpet in front of the unit catching his eye. They were too faint to have been there more than a day or so, as tho
ugh the bedside table had been pulled forward for a short while.
Kneeling down, he ran his fingers over the soft pile, back along the base of the unit towards the wall. Where the wooden base ended he encountered another couple of inches of flattened carpet, much deeper impressions made by furniture over a long period.
The bedside table wasn’t in its normal place. It was further away from the wall. Someone had pulled it out for a brief time and then pushed it part-way back.
But why?
‘What’s going on?’ Edith Hird appeared out of the lift and approached Joseph where he was standing guard in the corridor. ‘Rita said you were up to something.’
‘Nothing’s going on!’ protested Joseph, internally cursing Rita Wilson.
Edith fixed him with what they called ‘the look’ – her head tipped forward and slightly at an angle, her fierce gaze concentrated on him.
‘Okay,’ he muttered. ‘Samson is in Eric’s flat.’
‘Why?’
‘Danny Bradley asked him to have a look at the oxygen concentrator.’
At the mention of the policeman, Edith’s expression morphed into one of shock. ‘Whatever for? Surely he doesn’t suspect foul play?’
‘No. I don’t think so. He just wants to know if there was a problem with the machine – what with Arty saying the light was out.’
‘I hope Danny isn’t setting too much store by what Arty saw,’ she said, concern in her voice. ‘We both know the machine was working fine when we got in there. And I’m sure you noticed Arty had a distinct whiff of alcohol about him – not for the first time lately.’
To his shame, Joseph had noticed. As his friend had blurted out his fears for Eric in the early hours, Joseph had found himself concentrating on the enticing aroma of whisky that curled around Arty’s words.
‘True,’ he said. ‘But either way, it was Arty who raised the alarm.’
‘And for that we must all be grateful. So I take it you brought Samson in on the quiet?’
Joseph nodded. ‘I didn’t think Ana would take too kindly to him sticking his nose in.’
Date with Malice Page 12
