Although how you could mislay something over in the copse didn’t make sense. And things that were mislaid didn’t tend to be half-buried, when found.
It was odd. All ways round.
She stroked the smooth surface of the lid, the vivid slices of semi-precious stones none the worse for their neglect. It was hard to say how long the box had been abandoned, but the hinge was still intact and inside there were some pills, damp and discoloured, lying in their designated sections.
What to do with it? That was the other thing that had been occupying Rita all morning, her plans to walk down to town set aside in the excitement of her discovery.
It was a delicate situation. Rita didn’t want to broadcast to all and sundry that she’d found Alice Shepherd’s pillbox sticking up out of the snow under a tree. Not until she’d told Elaine Bullock about it, and given the young woman a chance to explain what it was doing there.
But she’d heard Arty saying at the funeral that Elaine was going away on a field trip today. And by the time she got back, Rita herself would be gone, off to her son’s to spend Christmas with his family. Which would mean Elaine wouldn’t be reunited with the pillbox until after New Year.
That just wouldn’t do. Rita needed to give it to someone to pass on to the young woman. And she knew just the person.
Popping the box into her pocket, she headed out into the corridor and was just in time to see him crossing the hall.
‘Arty!’ she called.
He jumped, turning round with his hand across his heart, his skin pale and sheened in perspiration. Then he smiled. But it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
‘Rita,’ Arty said. ‘You gave me a fright.’
She had, too. He’d been so focused on sneaking past the closed office door ahead that he hadn’t seen her approaching from the hallway to the left, which led to her flat. He tried to laugh off his reaction while his heart thumped in his ears.
‘Sorry, but I was just coming up to see you. I wanted to give you this.’ Rita Wilson reached into the pocket of her cardigan and pulled something out, her hands folded over it, shielding it from sight. ‘Here. Put it away before anyone sees.’
‘What is it?’ he asked, holding out a hand.
She passed it to him and he felt the cold touch of metal and stone. Then he saw the colours.
‘Alice’s—?’
‘Shush!’ she hissed, finger to her lips, leaning into him. ‘I found it outside under a tree.’ She gestured towards the bare branches of the copse beyond the glass wall. ‘Put it away, quickly.’
He did as he was told, sliding the box under his jumper. ‘But I don’t understand. How did it get to be out there? I thought Elaine Bullock had taken it?’
‘I thought so, too. Which means either she lost it or—’
‘She threw it away?’ Arty was already shaking his head. ‘She wouldn’t do that. She thought the world of Alice.’
‘Which is why I think we should keep this quiet. We need to have a word with Elaine before the rumour mill turns this into something it isn’t. But as I’m heading to my son’s on Tuesday . . .’
‘You want me to speak to Elaine when she gets back?’ Arty nodded. ‘No problem. I’m sure we’ll get to the bottom of it—’
‘You two look very serious. Is everything okay?’ Ana Stoyanova had approached them, shoes silent across the carpet. Her tone was light and a small smile graced her lips. But her gaze was intense.
Arty hunched forward over the hidden pillbox, words sticking in his parched throat. It was Rita who saved them.
‘Secret Santa,’ she said with a laugh. ‘Arty’s drawn Geraldine and was asking me for some ideas. I’ve told him not smelly stuff. Her tastes are a bit more expensive than our permitted budget.’
Ana smiled back. ‘I think you’ve got sound advice there, Arty. I’d take it, if I were you. But you’re cutting it fine. The Christmas party’s Monday afternoon.’
Arty forced his mouth into a grin, lips dry against his teeth. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Best get ready for a trip into town. Thanks, Rita.’
He nodded in the general direction of the two women and then turned away towards the stairs. It took all of his willpower not to run. Not to take the stairs two at a time in the hurry to be away from her. And all the while he could feel that gaze on his back, burning into him while the pillbox rested cold against his stomach.
He needed a drink. And then he needed to talk to someone. Soon.
‘That was a very cosy chat you were having with Will at the table.’
Applying a coat of gloss to the skirting board in the utility, Samson kept his head bent to make sure the already annoyed Delilah couldn’t see the grin forming. He’d estimated that she wouldn’t last the afternoon without tackling him about his tête-à-tête with her oldest brother. In actual fact she’d lasted an hour.
She stood in the doorway, arms folded across her chest, a smear of grout on her cheek. It was impossible to take her seriously. But he needed her assistance so he had to avoid antagonising her any further.
‘He was helping me with a case,’ Samson said, brushing smooth the last bit of gloss before standing.
‘A case?’ Interest had overlaid the indignation. ‘What case?’
‘The Clive Knowles case.’
She frowned. ‘I thought you’d solved that already. Ralph was stolen.’
He put the paintbrush down on the tin and pulled out his mobile, holding it out so she could see the screen.
‘Is this Mire End Farm?’ she asked as he showed her the first picture, the sheep scattered around the field.
‘Yep. I took all of these last Wednesday when I went out there for the first time. See anything odd?’
She zoomed in, pulling the photo left and right, eyes flicking over it. ‘Ralph was in with them before he was taken?’ she asked, looking up at him.
‘For two weeks.’
‘And you said Knowles uses a tup harness?’
She was every bit as sharp as her brother. Samson waited while she looked again and then raised an eyebrow.
‘Reckon someone dodged a bullet,’ she said, offering him back the phone. ‘It doesn’t look like Ralph was doing his job properly. But at least Knowles will get the insurance payout.’
‘Quite an incentive, don’t you think?’
Delilah glanced back at the phone and then up at him. ‘You’re not suggesting . . .’
‘Why not? There’s been something odd about this case since the beginning.’
‘But a field of sheep that haven’t been serviced is no proof of anything dishonest. Whereas you have an eyewitness stating the ram was taken, and you found evidence up there to suggest Pete Ferris was telling the truth.’
‘What evidence?’ he asked, encouraging her to list it.
‘The harness—’
‘Proves nothing. Knowles could have discarded it himself.’
‘Pete’s lighter,’ she continued, undaunted. ‘It proves he was there.’
‘Exactly. That’s all it establishes. For all we know, he was in on it.’
‘The tyre tracks in the field . . .’ she said, losing confidence as her mind worked ahead of her words.
He held out the mobile again, this time swiping to a different picture. ‘These tracks?’
She leaned in, looking at the photo of the gate and the severed chain, the muddy field behind showing parallel lines extending into it. He zoomed in on the image.
‘Apart from the fact that they suggest a vehicle was used to remove the ram,’ he continued, ‘do you notice anything else about the tracks?’
It took her a moment. Then she looked at the gate. The partially open gate, the gap only wide enough to allow Samson to squeeze through. ‘It’s wedged in the mud,’ she said, a finger tracing the mark left behind as the gate opened. The same finger paused as the deep gouge in the mud came to an abrupt end.
Then she smiled.
‘The gate hasn’t been opened fully,’ she said, pleased with herself.
He grinned. ‘Not bad for a civvy.’
‘No,’ she retorted, her grin matching his. ‘And it didn’t take me a week and a half to figure it out.’
He didn’t have a response to that. How had it taken him so long when the evidence had been staring him in the face all the time?
Ralph couldn’t have been taken away in a vehicle. Not through the top gate, anyhow, as the tyre tracks in the field were perfect. Which meant that, as Delilah had pointed out, the gate hadn’t been opened wide enough to allow access to a Transit van. If it had, the gouge left by the gate in the mud would have swiped across the tyre tracks, leaving a visible trace across them.
Delilah let out a low whistle. ‘So Clive Knowles faked the theft?’
‘It’s looking that way.’
‘And Pete Ferris was in on it?’
Samson nodded. ‘I think so. They spirited Ralph away and left enough subtle clues to ensure that it looked like he’d been stolen.’
‘The harness and the tracks.’ Delilah paused. ‘But what about the lighter?’
‘We weren’t meant to find that. I reckon Pete Ferris’s part in all this was meant to be a secret. But he dropped his lighter—’
‘And we were able to place him there. So after initially denying his presence, he then came forward as a witness.’
‘Exactly. No doubt after a consultation with his coconspirator. Which explains why Clive Knowles expressed no interest in knowing the identity of the witness to the so-called theft. He didn’t need to ask who it was, because he already knew.’
‘Wow.’ Delilah was shaking her head. ‘But why ask you to investigate? Why not go straight to the police?’
Samson shrugged. ‘Maybe Knowles thought I’d do a better job of finding the evidence he’d planted.’
‘Or maybe,’ she said with a laugh, ‘he expected you to do a half-arsed job and not question the evidence at all.’
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,’ he muttered, making her laugh some more.
‘So what now?’ she asked.
‘Now? Why now we have to retrieve Ralph.’
Her eyes lit up at the word we. ‘Do you know where he is?’
‘I have an idea, but I need your help,’ Samson said. ‘And it involves taking me for a run.’
He saw the flicker of uncertainty chase away the excitement. She wasn’t keen. After all these years, she didn’t want to share her running with him like she used to. He understood that. It was private for her now.
‘If that’s too much to ask—’
‘No, it’s okay,’ she said. ‘When do we go?’
‘Tomorrow morning. Early.’
She grinned. ‘It’s a date.’
As she turned to leave, the solid frame of Will Metcalfe was standing in the hall behind her, the glare he was casting at Samson suggesting he’d caught the tail end of the conversation. Enough to damn the black sheep of Bruncliffe even more.
‘O’Brien!’ he snapped, the lunchtime bonhomie having evaporated under the fire of his temper. ‘Ash wants a hand offloading the washing machine.’
Delilah cast a wink over her shoulder at Samson and left him to wonder whether there would ever be a day when he could count all of the Metcalfes on his side.
Arty had been sitting in his lounge staring at Alice Shepherd’s pillbox as night claimed the skies over Bruncliffe, a glass of whisky in his hand. He was still sitting there many hours and several glasses later. Perturbed. Anxious. Frightened. And close to drunk.
What if he was right? What if Alice had been afraid? Had met her end by something other than natural causes?
Perhaps the unexpected discovery of this rainbow box was connected?
He stroked the cool surface, trailed a finger across the slices of colour. If he was right, then this could be dangerous. And important. Worth hiding somewhere better than in his apartment.
Where, though?
He looked at the closed curtains. Thought of what lay beyond them. It was perfect. No one would ever think to look there.
He staggered to his feet, pulled on his coat and fetched his trowel from the cupboard in the hall. For the second time in its existence, the rainbow pillbox was about to be buried.
14
Sunday morning. Samson tried to persuade himself there was no better way to spend it as he doubled over, hands on knees, and drew noisy gulps of air into his lungs.
‘You’re out of condition.’ Delilah was standing next to him, something akin to pity on her face. Or disgust, maybe. Tolpuddle was beside her, looking no more impressed.
They’d met at the office at eight-thirty and Delilah had driven them over to Horton. From her lack of conversation, he’d sensed she was having misgivings about agreeing to run, but he needed her input. It was fourteen years since he’d been on the fells. With her alongside him, he wouldn’t need to worry about getting lost on hillsides that were still topped with snow. He’d also wanted the company. And her local knowledge, his own having eroded after years away.
She’d pulled up in the National Park car park, making no protest when he offered to pay, and they’d set off at a gentle pace towards the pub on the corner. Turning right, away from the road, they’d taken the track that led up onto the Pennine Way, the low ground clear but soggy underfoot from the melted snow.
At first Samson had kept up, congratulating himself on maintaining his fitness while down in London, jogging regularly when his undercover work took him away from the gym. But it had soon become clear that running in the city and running in the Dales were two very different pursuits and, before long, the detective was suffering.
It started with his calves, knives of pain searing up the back of his legs at every step. Then a fierce stitch began sawing at his ribs. With his breath ragged, and his energy being sapped by the sodden land that pulled at his shoes and soaked his feet, turning round and heading back down to await the opening of the pub had been more than tempting – even for a non-drinker like himself.
Ahead of him, Delilah had pulled further and further away towards the snow-covered peaks, gliding over the hillside, legs strong, movements graceful, Tolpuddle a grey shadow beside her. They weren’t suffering in the least.
If anything, they were enjoying it.
Gritting his teeth, he’d struggled after them, climbing steadily up the lower slopes of Pen-y-ghent and then veering off onto a smaller path which mercifully hugged the hillside, giving him a chance to recover on the easier gradient. Even so, when Delilah had stopped a couple of miles in, he was grateful for her compassion.
That compassion turned out to be something far more pragmatic.
‘There,’ she said pointing down to the dale below as Samson finally straightened up, sweat pouring down his face despite the cold temperatures. ‘Mire End.’
He nodded, incapable of anything more as he stared at Clive Knowles’ farm, the land and house looking less decrepit with the benefit of distance and the forgiving covering of snow that remained in dips and hollows.
‘And that’s the road coming out of Horton.’ She indicated the tarmacked surface between them and the farm, its path parallel with their own. He followed it north, away from Mire End and into the hills. The way in which he was sure Ralph had been taken.
‘It becomes a track,’ Delilah offered, seeing the direction of his gaze. ‘We’ll meet up with it in a bit and then bear right into Langstrothdale like you wanted. If you’re able to continue, that is.’
He glared at her, knowing how much she was revelling in his discomfort. ‘I’m getting my second wind,’ he grumbled, bending down and pretending to tie his laces in an effort to stave off having to run again.
‘Yeah, well, we’ve got another eight miles to do, so you might want to think about getting that second wind pretty soon or we’ll still be on the hills when the rain comes.’
‘There’s rain forecast?’ he asked, not relishing the thought of being soaked as well as shattered.
‘Tomorrow afternoon,’ she replied with a grin a
nd started running, Tolpuddle already pulling away. ‘So pick up the pace a bit.’
‘This had better be worth it,’ he muttered as he set off after them. If anyone was having misgivings now, it was him.
Joseph O’Brien was having misgivings. He’d called in on Arty in an attempt to persuade him out of his self-imposed seclusion – no one having seen him in the lounge or the cafe in the forty-eight hours since his drinking binge at Alice’s funeral. But instead of coaxing the bookmaker into helping with the preparations for the Christmas party which were due to commence downstairs, the Irishman had found himself listening to ludicrous conspiracy theories. And worrying about his friend’s well-being.
‘She’s up to something. I know it,’ Arty was saying, leaning forward in his chair, his clothes creased, a two-day-old growth of stubble on his chin and a distinct smell of alcohol on his breath.
Behind him, the patio curtains were still closed despite the advanced hour, weak winter sunshine struggling to penetrate the gloom. Just off the lounge, Joseph could see the kitchenette, empty whisky bottles lined up by the sink.
‘You have to believe me.’
It was hard to believe anything coming from a man looking so wild. Joseph shook his head. ‘I think you’re overreacting. Alice’s death was due to ill health. As for Eric’s collapse, he’s said himself that he fell over getting out of bed.’
‘Eric doesn’t remember what happened,’ scoffed Arty. ‘He can’t explain why he took his oxygen mask off. And no one can explain how the machine could have stopped and then started again.’
Joseph tried not to let his scepticism show. It took some believing all right. That Alice might have been the victim of something malicious. Eric, too. But the hardest bit to swallow was the person being blamed for all this.
Ana Stoyanova.
According to Arty, the woman was evil incarnate.
‘I just can’t see it,’ Joseph said. ‘Ana has been nothing but good to us.’
‘I’ve seen her!’ Arty gestured wildly at the closed curtains. ‘Walking along that bloody corridor at all times of night when she should be at home in Hellifield. And how come she got to Eric’s bedside so quickly when he collapsed? Eh? Answer me that.’
Date with Malice Page 18
