Date with Malice

by Julia Chapman

  ‘You did the right thing,’ said Edith. ‘She can be funny about—’

  ‘Damn!’ Joseph was staring through the wall of glass at the man running across the courtyard, blond hair glinting in the winter sun. Rick Procter.

  ‘For once,’ said Edith, as the sound of raised voices reached them from the hallway below, ‘your use of profanity is justified, Joseph. Quick, get Samson out of there while I stall Mr Procter.’

  Joseph wheeled round and hurried down the corridor. He could already hear footsteps pounding up the stairs.

  Aware that he’d gathered more questions than answers in Eric’s empty flat, but nothing that suggested anything other than an accident had occurred, Samson checked that he’d turned off the oxygen concentrator and made to leave. He was in the hallway when the front door flew open and his father rushed in, breathing heavily.

  ‘Rick Procter’s here. Ana, too. You need to get out. Now!’

  But it was too late. From the corridor beyond the open door, they could hear Edith Hird.

  ‘Mr Procter,’ she was saying, her headmistress’s tones carrying even further than usual. ‘What a coincidence. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about—’

  ‘Sorry, but I’m in a bit of a rush, Miss Hird. Ana and I have to—’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Edith, the voices getting closer. ‘Surely you’ve got a moment for your old headmistress?’

  There was a pause and when he next spoke, Rick was slightly further away.

  ‘Now what?’ hissed Joseph as he eased the door closed behind him, shutting out Edith’s enquiries about the progress of the housing development down at Low Mill. ‘They’re in the corridor. We can’t get out of here without being seen.’

  Samson weighed up the options. While he wasn’t breaking any laws, Procter Properties had the right to say who was allowed on the premises. And he doubted his name would be on that list. At the same time, however, Danny Bradley had asked him to visit the apartment. So should he just brazen it out?

  The thought of another confrontation with the arrogant property developer made his decision for him. A quick exit was called for.

  ‘You can’t get out of here, Dad. But I can.’ Samson strode into the lounge and out onto the balcony that overlooked the back of the complex. Thankfully, the obsession with glass that predominated the architecture of the building didn’t extend to the balcony railings. He leaned over the wooden barrier and looked down. Below was a small flower border tucked in against the wall of the communal lounge, a strip of grass beyond that and then a footpath. Of hard concrete slabs.

  ‘Don’t be daft, son.’ Joseph was at his side, looking concerned. ‘You’ll only hurt yourself.’

  But Samson was already clambering over the balustrade. ‘Thanks for keeping watch, Dad,’ he said with a grin. ‘You’ll have to think of an excuse for being in here.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Joseph. He patted his son on the arm. ‘I can take care of myself. Just make sure you aim for the grass.’

  Then Samson lowered himself over the edge, working his hands down two uprights until he was dangling from his outstretched arms and facing the end wall of the lounge.

  ‘Aim for the grass,’ he muttered. He let go and the ground rushed up to meet him.

  ‘So there’s plenty of availability?’ asked Edith Hird, putting a hand out to detain the property developer, who was eager to get away, his smile of several minutes ago replaced with an impatient frown. ‘I mean, if my niece wanted to put her name down for one of those gorgeous town houses, there wouldn’t be a problem? It’s just that she needs a bit of time to—’

  ‘There won’t be a problem, Miss Hird. Now I’m sorry, but you’ll really have to excuse us.’ He turned away, Ana Stoyanova at his heels, and headed back down the corridor towards Eric’s flat.

  There was nothing more she could do. She’d spent what felt like an age trying to stall them, prattling on about those new homes down by Low Mill like a scatterbrained old woman, in the hope that Joseph and his son might somehow escape from the apartment. But how on earth would they manage that, when the only exit was right past the very people they were hoping to avoid? Past the very man who was inserting a key into Eric’s front door at this very minute.

  Rick Procter turned the key, the door swung open and a startled Joseph O’Brien was standing on the threshold.

  ‘Mr Procter!’ Joseph had a hand to his heart. ‘You frightened the bejesus out of me!’

  ‘Sorry.’ Rick Procter’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. ‘But I have to ask what you’re doing in Mr Bradley’s apartment.’

  Joseph looked bemused. ‘Why, fetching these,’ he said, holding up a pair of spectacles. ‘Eric can’t see further than his nose. He’ll need them when he comes round.’

  Rick pushed past him and into the flat, the sound of doors being opened and closed filtering down the corridor to where Edith waited, holding her breath.

  ‘Is something wrong? Did I do something wrong?’ Joseph was asking, a realistic tremor in his voice.

  Ana put a hand on his arm. ‘You did nothing wrong. Don’t worry. It’s just a security check.’

  Rick Procter had reappeared in the doorway, scowling. ‘He’s not there,’ he muttered to Ana.

  She frowned. ‘But I saw—’

  ‘I said, he’s not there! You must have been mistaken.’ Rick stalked back up the corridor.

  ‘Eric? Are you looking for Eric?’ Joseph called out to the retreating figure. ‘Sure, he’s in hospital, Mr Procter. Haven’t you heard?’

  Edith Hird had to call on all the skills she’d acquired as a headmistress not to burst out laughing as Rick Procter strode past her and down the stairs.

  10

  It felt like he was in the air for a long time. In reality, it was seconds. Then the solid impact of the ground as his body hit the strip of grass and his legs slammed into the concrete.

  ‘Oof!’ Breath rushing out of his lungs, Samson rolled as he landed, aware of pain erupting in his right ankle, bruising in his right hip. But he was up and on his feet, running across to the car park through the cover of the copse of trees. The Royal Enfield started first time, purring into life and taking him away from Fellside Court.

  Halfway down the road, he realised he was grinning.

  What a rush! It had been like old times, adrenalin racing, that element of risk. Memories of his previous life washed over him. The stake-out at a rural airfield, waiting in the dark for a planeload of drugs to emerge out of the night. The raid on a warehouse in the early hours which uncovered millions of pounds’ worth of heroin. The thrill of speeding across rough seas in a Border Force cutter to intercept a yacht stashed with almost a ton of cocaine. He missed it. To have his heart pounding and his mind in overdrive in sleepy Bruncliffe had been unexpected.

  So had his father’s level-headedness. He hadn’t panicked when Rick Procter turned up. Not even when Samson clambered over the balcony. The old man kept surprising him. Perhaps he’d been too quick to doubt his father’s sobriety.

  He cut across the marketplace and turned down the ginnel that ran parallel to Back Street, pulling up outside the gate of the office building. Leaving the bike on the hardcourt in the yard, he was still smiling as he entered through the back porch, tripping over the clutter of walking shoes and trainers which he now knew belonged to Delilah’s ex-husband, Neil Taylor.

  Passing through the small kitchen that came with his lease – but which he never used, not having bothered to stock it when Delilah’s kitchen on the first floor already had milk and coffee . . . and biscuits – he was in the hallway when he heard voices coming from his office.

  Delilah. And a male voice he recognised but couldn’t place.

  Alert once more, Samson slowly looked round the open door to see Delilah sitting at his desk, notebook in hand. Opposite her was the skeletal shape of the poacher, Pete Ferris.

  ‘Damn it, Ana. He wasn’t there.’

  In the manager’s office at the front of Fells
ide Court, Rick Procter was trying to control his temper. Across the room from him stood Ana Stoyanova, head bowed, a faint flush of colour on her cheeks.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Procter, but I was certain—’

  ‘You were wrong. It must have been Boozy O’Brien you saw.’

  ‘Boozy O’Brien?’ she asked.

  ‘Samson’s father. It’s a local nickname.’ He turned to stare out of the window and missed the ripple of distaste that disturbed the passive features of the woman standing behind the desk.

  ‘I’m sorry to have wasted your time,’ she said, the words sharp, whether through accent or intent, it was hard to say.

  Wary of losing a vital asset, Rick turned back to face his employee. ‘Not at all, Ana. You did right to call me, even if it was a false alarm. Samson O’Brien’s not the sort of person we want wandering around Fellside Court. Do you understand?’

  Ana gave a measured nod of her head, expression neutral, the exact same reaction she’d given when he’d first broached the topic of O’Brien at the Christmas lights turn-on. Perturbed at hearing the returned detective had been present when Alice Shepherd died – and sensing Ana had concerns of her own about Bruncliffe’s black sheep – Rick had persuaded her that the O’Brien lad needed watching; that she should keep tabs on his visits to Fellside Court. All in the name of the residents’ welfare, of course.

  So far she’d proven a more than capable spy. Until today’s fiasco. Rick didn’t appreciate being made to look like a fool, not in front of a gaggle of pensioners. But given the things he had in the pipeline, he couldn’t afford to alienate Ana Stoyanova. He needed her onside. Because what he didn’t need was a suspended police detective prowling around his premises.

  He leaned towards her, placing a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘This isn’t public knowledge,’ he said, ‘but O’Brien’s currently under suspension from the police and from what I hear, he could go to prison. So don’t hesitate to phone again if he comes back.’

  ‘Even if he comes to visit his father?’ A fine eyebrow was arched above Ana’s cool gaze.

  ‘You don’t need to go that far,’ said Rick, taking a step back as he fought a surge of irritation at her impenetrable poise. ‘Use your common sense. If he seems to be acting suspiciously, then let me know.’

  ‘As you wish, Mr Procter.’

  ‘Thanks, Ana. I know I can rely on you.’

  She walked him out of the building and across the courtyard to his Range Rover. Still thinking about Samson O’Brien, Rick Procter got in, waved goodbye and drove off. He pulled out of the car park without a final glance at the slim figure in the tunic, her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail being whipped by the wind. He didn’t see her walk across to the footpath that ran under Eric Bradley’s flat. He didn’t see her bend down and inspect the grass. He didn’t see her trace her fingers over the imprint in the soft ground, or notice the frown of displeasure as she looked up at the balcony above.

  Rick Procter also wasn’t aware of Ana’s brief moment of hesitation, her hand reaching for her phone. Then, letting it slip back into her pocket, she pulled her cardigan round her shoulders and with a worried expression, hurried back into the building.

  Tolpuddle – back from his walk with Nathan and having a sneaky mid-morning rest, head on paws, eyes half-closed – announced Samson’s presence, letting out a sharp bark before rushing over from his bed to greet him.

  ‘Oh, Samson!’ Delilah looked over to the doorway and then gestured at the man across the desk from her. ‘Pete’s come to talk to us.’

  Us. Samson felt a surge of laughter and frustration in equal measure. His landlady was sitting in his office, behind his desk, in his chair, interviewing his client. ‘So I see. Hopefully he’s left his shotgun at home?’

  Pete grinned, teeth crooked and stained. ‘I was only teasing you.’

  ‘And the dogs?’

  The poacher gestured over his shoulder to the street outside. ‘In the truck. Probably chewing the seats.’

  ‘As long as it’s not my leg.’ Samson’s response triggered a laugh, one tinged with nervousness. ‘How I can I help you, Pete?’ He gave Delilah a pointed glance, expecting her to leave him to it. Instead she tipped her chin at the spare chair in the corner of the room and opened her notebook, pen at the ready.

  Accepting the inevitable, Samson positioned the chair at the end of the desk, some distance from the gamey odour of the poacher – an odour which didn’t quite mask a more cloying smell. Cannabis. Samson thought he’d caught a whiff of it up at the caravan. Here in the confines of the office, he was certain. He sat down, wincing as his right hip protested. ‘In your own time,’ he said.

  Pete flushed, his pockmarked skin mottling, fingers toying with the lighter he’d been reunited with the day before. Without his baseball cap he seemed less menacing, his shaven head all hollows and ridges. The man needed a decent meal. And a shower. He shifted in his seat, body turned sideways to Samson.

  ‘I lied,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t say,’ retorted Delilah.

  Samson smothered a groan. So much for the softly-softly approach. Delilah had just committed the interrogation equivalent of springing a trap before the prey was in it.

  ‘What do you mean, you lied?’ he asked, trying to draw the poacher back out into the open.

  The gaunt cheeks turned to him. ‘About where I lost my lighter.’

  ‘We know where you lost it,’ said Delilah. ‘Up at Mire End Farm.’

  Samson shot her a look. For a woman who sold romance for a living, her interview technique was far from gentle. But then this was Bruncliffe, in the heart of Yorkshire. Things had always taken a more direct approach around here.

  Pete was nodding. ‘Aye, that’s true. I was up there.’

  ‘When?’ asked Samson, before Delilah could barge in again.

  ‘About a week ago.’ The man’s gaze sidled away to fall on the lighter gripped in his bony fingers.

  ‘The night Ralph was taken?’ demanded Delilah.

  This time Samson couldn’t stop a sigh escaping his lips. She was breaking every rule in the book. But Pete Ferris was nodding again.

  ‘Yes,’ he admitted, eyes still on the grenade-shaped lighter. ‘I was there.’

  ‘Where exactly?’ asked Samson, putting up a hand to silence Delilah.

  ‘Up at the top gate to the main field. I was . . .’ the poacher stuttered, ‘well, you know . . .’

  ‘Poaching?’ Delilah was ignoring any attempts to force her into a back-seat role. She was leaning across the desk, willing the poacher to confess all.

  A bone-pointed shrug met her question. ‘I can’t say owt to that. Not without getting myself in trouble. But I was up there.’

  ‘What time was it?’ asked Samson as Delilah scribbled down notes.

  ‘Gone midnight. I was just getting set up and then this van comes up from Horton way.’

  ‘Did you get the registration number?’ interjected Delilah.

  Samson glared at her. She glared back at him, mouthing a single ‘What?’, and he wondered briefly if it was worth risking his life to ask her to make tea, getting her out of the room in the process.

  ‘It was too dark,’ continued Pete, seemingly unfazed by the staccato interview. ‘I just saw it was a Transit. White, I think. It pulled up at the gate, two men got out and they went into the field.’

  ‘With the truck?’ asked Delilah.

  Samson’s patience snapped. ‘You know what we could do with?’ he said, forcing a smile at her. ‘A cup of your tea.’

  She turned with a smile equally sweet. ‘Sorry, we’re out of teabags.’

  ‘I don’t have time for tea,’ muttered Pete. ‘I need to head off in a minute.’

  Delilah’s smile turned triumphant. ‘So, did they take the truck into the field?’

  ‘Yes. They backed it in. I couldn’t see much of what happened after that, as the headlights were pointing straight at me. But I could tell what they were doing.’


  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Stealing a sheep.’

  ‘Just the one?’ asked Samson, deciding that if he couldn’t derail Delilah’s interviewing technique, he might as well adopt it.

  ‘Seemed that way.’

  ‘Which way did they drive off?’ asked Delilah.

  ‘Towards Horton.’

  ‘And what did you do then?’ Samson demanded.

  ‘I went home. No point in me hanging around somewhere I might get accused of something illegal. Not in my line of work.’

  ‘You didn’t see anything else?’ asked Delilah.

  ‘That was it. Then next thing, I hear Clive Knowles’ tup is missing.’

  ‘You didn’t report it to the police?’ Samson asked.

  Pete and Delilah both looked at him in disbelief, and he wished the ridiculous question unsaid. Of course the poacher hadn’t said anything to the authorities. Silently cursing his stupidity, Samson wondered if having Delilah as co-interviewer had addled his brain.

  Taking the lull in questions as a cue to leave, Pete got to his feet and pulled his baseball cap back on. ‘Those dogs of mine will need seeing to,’ he said. ‘I’ve told you all I know. And if anyone asks me about this, I’ll deny it.’

  ‘Just one final question,’ said Delilah as the poacher reached the door, her insistence on getting the last word raising a wry grin from Samson. ‘Why are you telling us this?’

  Pete stalled, halfway out of the door, eyes sliding to the peeling lino on the floor. ‘Clive’s lost a sheep,’ he said. ‘It’s not right. Thought I’d try to help.’ He tugged his baseball cap further down onto his head and slipped out of the back door.

  Delilah flipped her notebook closed and with a smug smile, stood to leave. ‘Still want that cup of tea?’ she asked. She laughed and headed for the stairs, Tolpuddle trotting after her. Samson was left alone in his office and he had to acknowledge, as he reflected over the interview, that Delilah had asked the most pertinent question of all.

  When Delilah arrived back in the office carrying two mugs and a plate of biscuits, Samson O’Brien didn’t have the look of a man who’d just been handed a breakthrough in a case. He was still sitting in the spare chair, a pained look on his face, rubbing his right hip.