‘That’s hardly proof—’
‘She’s stalking me, too.’
This time Joseph couldn’t hide his disbelief. ‘Stalking you?’
‘Outside my door. Loitering there.’ Arty’s voice shook, his fear real, even if his imaginings weren’t. ‘It’s got so I don’t sleep. Just spend the night here.’ He slapped the arm of his chair, shadows of terror flickering across his face. ‘Ana Stoyanova is bad news. You have to believe me.’
Joseph couldn’t help himself. His gaze shifted to the empty bottles, the glass on the floor by the side of the chair.
Arty noticed. He seemed to shrink in his armchair, rubbing a hand across his worn features. ‘It’s not as bad as it looks,’ he muttered. ‘Just something to help me sleep.’
‘Far be it from me to comment,’ said Joseph gently. ‘But don’t you think you’re working yourself into a state over nothing?’
It was all so far-fetched. In Joseph O’Brien’s opinion, the manager of Fellside Court was a good woman. Sure, maybe Ana wasn’t the warmest of souls. Maybe she could smile a bit more. But Joseph saw the work she did around the place.
He also heard the grumblings of the residents who weren’t predisposed to offcumdens, to people from beyond the parish boundary of Bruncliffe. Being from Ireland, Joseph was accepted. Just. Being from Eastern Europe, Ana didn’t really stand a chance.
Not that they were openly racist. They were simply less tolerant of those who weren’t their own. Quicker to find fault.
Joseph was saddened to think Arty was among their number.
‘Besides, if you’re that convinced Ana is up to something, then perhaps we ought to talk to the police?’ he suggested.
Arty recoiled. ‘No! I have no evidence and I don’t want her to know I suspect anything. It’s too dangerous. Promise me you won’t go to them.’
‘Okay, okay!’ Joseph laid a hand on his friend’s arm, felt the tremors besetting the bookmaker. ‘We’ll leave the police out of it. But what else can we do?’
‘Samson,’ said Arty. ‘I want you to talk to Samson. He’s the only one who can help us.’
Arty leaned against his front door, the soft tread of his friend’s footsteps receding down the corridor. Joseph didn’t believe a word of it. The man was a hopeless actor, his disbelief written right across that weathered face of his.
But at least he’d been persuaded to talk to Samson. To get the detective to come over to Fellside Court.
A spasm of apprehension clutched at Arty’s guts. What if Samson didn’t believe him, either? What would he do then?
He thought of the pillbox buried out on the balcony. He’d made a split decision not to mention it to Joseph – there was no point in placing him in danger by burdening him with the knowledge of what Rita had found. It was also one more thing his friend could have questioned, pulled apart, until Arty began to question it all himself. But the pillbox was solid evidence. Proof of something wrong. Surely Samson would see that.
With one last look out of the spyhole, he shambled towards the bathroom. Time to clean himself up. Then, keeping his promise to Joseph, he’d leave the safety of his flat and head down to the cafe.
Another spasm gripped him at the thought.
‘What took you so long?’ The smile on Delilah’s face was born of the exhilaration of a morning run. And of triumph.
She felt a faint stab of remorse as Samson shambled towards her, face red, chest heaving, his mud-flecked legs wobbling slightly as he came to rest.
When he’d asked her to join him on what she was sure was going to turn out to be a wild-goose chase, she’d been uneasy. Sharing her running again, after all these years. The people of Bruncliffe had only just found out she was back on the fells, and even then that was simply because she’d been placed in a situation where she could no longer hide it. The thought of having anyone – her old training partner in particular – running with her . . . It had brought back the weight of expectation that she’d walked away from years ago.
So, after their brief pause above Mire End Farm, she’d been pushing the pace, following the track northwards, the incline negligible as they hugged the contour line. Then she’d taken a sharp right, cutting back onto the Pennine Way. Back uphill and into the snow. That’s when she’d really begun to test him, lengthening her stride, bounding up the fell with her heart thudding while Tolpuddle raced ahead. To her surprise, Samson had responded well.
Kind of. Not as well as the Samson of fourteen years ago would have done. He’d have left her for dead as his long legs tore up the hillside. But then she could hardly boast. Six months ago she’d have thought twice about even walking up here.
More surprising than Samson’s ability to cope had been her own reaction to running with him. She’d forgotten how rewarding it was to turn to someone after a sharp climb and share a sense of achievement. She’d forgotten how good it was to have company other than Tolpuddle’s. Especially someone she stood a chance of beating – her canine friend never letting her be first up a hill.
Even if it was a wild-goose chase, she was enjoying it.
‘Christ!’ Samson groaned, crumpled over at the waist. ‘Was it always this hard?’
‘It never gets easier,’ Delilah said, echoing their old coach’s mantra. ‘Just faster.’
Samson choked on a laugh. ‘Bloody Seth. The number of times he said that to me.’
‘He was right. About that and a lot of other things.’
He looked up at the hint of regret in her voice. ‘Danny Bradley told me you gave up running with the Harriers. How come?’
She looked away at the mention of the local running club. She wasn’t about to explain to Samson O’Brien the complexities of having a social life and trying to be the best female fell runner that Bruncliffe – or even Yorkshire – had ever produced. In her late twenties, it was easy to see how she could have managed it better. At the time, barely out of her teens and caught up in her first love, when faced with running at a competitive level or a life with Neil Taylor, giving up running had seemed like the only option. Because Neil had made it very difficult for her to have both.
‘I couldn’t find the time,’ she said. ‘You know how it is.’
His silence suggested he could guess at the truth of it – he knew how much being out on the fells had meant to her. How she’d lived for that feeling of euphoria as you crested a hill and the Dales spread out before you.
‘It’s beautiful up here,’ he said, twisting round to take in the outlines of Ingleborough and Whernside draped in snow to the west. A soft sky hung above them, puffs of cloud breaking up the blue.
‘Had you forgotten?’ she asked. ‘What with all that drama you had living in London?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Never. I just put it to one side for a while.’
‘What made you come back? You still haven’t said.’
It was his turn to be evasive. He shrugged. ‘Felt like a change. You know how it is.’
She laughed. ‘Touché. Well, you didn’t ask me up here to admire the view. That’s where we’re heading.’ She pointed to the track disappearing into a forest of conifers. ‘It’s all downhill, so you should be able to keep up.’
With a grin, she was off, haring down the path before he had a chance to retort. Behind her she heard Samson following, steps hesitant at first, but finding his confidence as they approached the trees where they left the snow behind. The shade grabbed them and the temperature dropped, and then they were bursting out into the sunshine in a small clearing. Below them, in a lonely field, was what they had come for.
Delilah stopped as soon as she saw it, Samson almost colliding into her, his hands on her shoulders to stop them both falling.
‘There!’ she said, pointing. ‘Could that be . . . ?’
‘Let’s go and find out.’ He overtook her, running down the last section of track to where it joined a tarmacked lane, heading for the field nearest to them and its lone occupant.
Christmas was coming in
Fellside Court. Under the guidance of Clarissa Ralph and her band of helpers, things were taking shape in the cafe in preparation for the party the next day.
Silver and gold streamers had been strung across the room, snowmen danced on the windows and the paper chains that some of the residents had been busy making for the last week were looped along the walls. Above the door hung a brightly coloured star and a bunch of mistletoe.
‘It looks fantastic!’ exclaimed Joseph. ‘Doesn’t it, Arty?’
The bookmaker smiled, a pale imitation of his usual beam. But at least he was there. When Joseph had left him earlier, the Irishman hadn’t been convinced that the promise of a visit from Samson would be enough to persuade Arty to leave his flat, such was the man’s paranoia. Yet here he was.
Not that he seemed to be enjoying it. He’d jumped visibly when one of the residents popped a balloon, and his eyes were constantly shifting towards the doorway as though expecting trouble. Thankfully, Ana Stoyanova was off duty, but even knowing she wouldn’t turn up, Arty was still a bag of nerves.
‘Reckon we’re all owed a cup of tea,’ said Rita Wilson, taking a seat and rubbing her bad hip. Even though they hadn’t been climbing up and down stepladders – Vicky Hudson and the caretaker getting that job – the decorating of the cafe had taken a couple of hours and had involved a lot of standing. Especially when Clarissa was so picky.
A mild-tempered woman for the majority of the year, when it came to preparing for Christmas she could be just as bossy as her sister. Everything had to be right. Consequently, everything took time.
‘I’m not sure about that star,’ Clarissa murmured, head on one side as she regarded the burst of colour hanging over the doorway. ‘I think it might be too gaudy.’
Edith Hird raised an eyebrow and cast her eyes around the room. ‘Just the star?’ she muttered, Clarissa’s approach to Christmas ornaments being far from subtle.
‘It’s fine,’ said Joseph. ‘Come and sit down and have a rest. Or you’ll be fast asleep when Santa comes.’
Clarissa’s face lit up. ‘Oh, I do love the Christmas party. Especially Santa’s visit. Have you got your suit all ready, Arty?’
Secret Santa. It had become a bit of a tradition, instigated by Arty a couple of years ago. All the residents drew names from a hat in early December and were tasked with buying a present for that particular person. The presents were wrapped with the name of the recipient clearly identified, given to Arty, and then distributed by Father Christmas at the party the week before Christmas Day.
The residents loved it. Especially as Father Christmas was one of their own, the rotund body and booming laugh impossible to disguise behind a red suit and a white beard. He was funny. He was full of fun. He made the party memorable.
But Arty was shaking his head. ‘Sorry, Clarissa. I’m not up for it this year. You’ll have to find someone else.’
‘Not up for it?’ Edith asked, peering at him. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’
‘I’m not really in the festive spirit. It’s been a tough couple of weeks.’
Edith patted his hand. ‘Never you mind,’ she said. ‘It’s time you had a break anyway. We’ll find someone to give out the presents, won’t we?’ She was looking at Joseph expectantly.
‘We will? I mean, we will,’ said Joseph, injecting more confidence into his words as Edith stared at him.
‘See, Joseph will sort it. All you have to do is come along and enjoy it. Ah, Vicky!’ She smiled up at the care assistant, who had arrived at the table with a tray bearing teapot and mugs. ‘Just the ticket. What would we do without you?’
As the care assistant made a cheeky reply, Joseph heard Rita mutter beside him.
‘Everything okay?’ he asked.
‘Idiot that I am, I’ve forgotten my sweeteners.’ She was reaching for her stick.
‘Do you want me to fetch them?’
‘No, it’s okay. Although . . . you could come with me and get my contribution to the Secret Santa, seeing as you’re in charge. It’d save me bringing it up to you later. Do you mind?’
‘Not at all.’ He stood and offered her his arm and she leaned gratefully on it.
‘All that decorating has worn me out,’ she said as they passed into the corridor. ‘But I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Such a shame Arty’s not in good form, though.’
‘Yes. He’s not himself, all right.’
‘Any ideas who you’ll ask to replace him tomorrow?’
‘Not a clue,’ he replied honestly. ‘And I don’t exactly have a lot of time. There’ll be mayhem if Santa doesn’t turn up.’
‘You should ask Samson,’ she said.
‘Samson?’ He couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice.
‘Why not? He’s a favourite in here. Just make sure he keeps his trousers on, though, or there really will be mayhem.’
‘I don’t think he’d . . .’
‘You won’t know if you don’t ask,’ she said as they reached her apartment. She opened the door and passed inside, leaving Joseph full of turmoil on the threshold.
Could he ask Samson to stand in for Arty? It would mean the world to the residents. And to Joseph himself. Having his son beside him for the first Christmas meal in years. But did he have any right to place obligations on the lad?
‘How odd!’ Rita’s exclamation brought Joseph inside the hallway and through to the open-plan living area, tastefully decorated and awash with light. She was standing by the coffee table looking puzzled, a Christmas present in her hand, a further pile neatly stacked on the glass surface.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Look.’ She gestured at the wrapping paper, which was gaping open like a badly buttoned shirt. ‘All the tape is peeling off. Serves me right for buying cheap decorative stuff!’ She laughed and turned to the sideboard, reaching for a roll of plain Sellotape before turning back to the coffee table. ‘Now, where’s the one for the Secret Santa. I was sure I left it on the top . . . Ah, here it is.’
She pulled a present from halfway down the pile, tutting over the defective tape. Quickly cutting several new strips, she resealed the paper and handed the gift to Joseph. ‘That should do it. Right, just let me get my sweeteners . . .’
While Rita moved over to the kitchen area, Joseph leaned down to study one of the presents that hadn’t been resealed. He ran his fingers over the decorative tape that should have been holding the edges of the paper together. A corner was curling up slightly. Like it had been lifted by a fingernail. Glancing through the pile, he could see the same tattered corner on quite a few pieces of tape.
If it didn’t sound so crazy, he’d say someone had opened some of the presents and attempted to rewrap them. But why would someone want to do that?
‘Jesus!’ he muttered, dismissing his burgeoning suspicion before it had a chance to form. A bit of cheap tape and he was as jittery as Arty.
‘Well, have you given it some thought?’ Rita was standing in front of him, ready to go.
‘Sorry?’
‘Samson. Why don’t you ask if he’ll step in for Arty?’
‘Samson . . . ?’ Was it such a bad idea? He glanced down at the rewrapped present in his hand. It wouldn’t hurt to have him here, one way or the other, and maybe it would help settle Arty. Plus it would be fulfilling a promise. ‘You know, Rita, I think I will.’
Problem was, Joseph O’Brien wasn’t sure his son would say yes.
15
‘It’s not him.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘I’m telling you now, it’s not him. That is not a prize-winning tup.’
‘For God’s sake, Delilah, just check the bloody ear tag, okay? Before he breaks free and it takes another half an hour to catch him again.’
As if sensing a lowering of resistance, the ram, currently being restrained by Samson, started struggling while Delilah leaned in and tried to compare the number on the bright-yellow tag in its ear with that in the photo of Ralph on Samson’s mobile.
Having left the clearing, they’d run down the track until it became a narrow tarmacked lane, fields either side, a beck running to the right and the tree-covered fellsides stretching up away from them. In the nearest field had been the reason they’d come all this way. A Swaledale tup.
Ralph. Or at least, they thought it was Ralph.
After a lot of chasing, they’d managed to herd the ram into a corner, allowing Samson the chance to grab him. But even with hands on both horns, it was taking all of his strength to hold the animal still enough to let Delilah read the ear tag. And Samson wasn’t exactly dressed for the job, running shorts and bare legs not ideal attire when wrestling with a sheep.
‘It’s not him,’ Delilah finally announced, straightening up. ‘Like I said—’
‘Damn!’ Samson released the animal and it ran off, shaking its head, before standing some distance away to stare balefully back at them. ‘You took your time!’
‘You weren’t holding him still enough for me to see the tag. Besides, I didn’t need to look at his number. I could tell from the size of him it wasn’t Ralph.’
‘The size of him? You’ve never clapped eyes on Ralph.’
Delilah rolled her eyes. ‘Thought you were a farmer once? I’m not talking height!’ She pointed over to the ram, now contentedly eating hay. ‘Look underneath.’
Samson looked. She was right. The ram was a poor specimen of a male. No prize-winner, for sure.
‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered, knowing she would be smiling that smile when he turned back to her. ‘I was sure . . .’
‘Ah well. At least you got a run out of it.’ Her words were laced with amusement as he followed her out of the field to where a patient Tolpuddle was waiting.
It had been a long shot. A hunch he’d had that Clive Knowles wouldn’t have risked transporting Ralph through Horton, where he might be seen. Which left only one direction: north on the track that ran past Mire End Farm and through into this narrow dale, which led into Langstrothdale.
Date with Malice Page 19
