She made her way to Arty’s front door, her hip easing slightly. She’d done the right thing taking the stairs. A trip down them wouldn’t hurt, either. Especially as she’d be spending a lot of the next week in an armchair while her family fussed over her. By the time Christmas was over, she’d be desperate to be back here amongst her friends and living independently. For the next week, however, she’d enjoy being looked after.
Leaning on her stick, she stood in front of Arty’s apartment and rapped sharply on the door, the sound loud in the stillness of the corridor.
No answer.
She knocked again. Slightly harder this time. Then she listened, expecting to hear Arty moving to the door, the rattle of keys in the lock.
After a third attempt failed to bring him to the threshold, she gave up. He might be asleep already. He’d been looking very tired of late and she’d heard him saying he wasn’t sleeping. Unwilling to disturb him, she turned away. She had time to catch him tomorrow before she left. Hannah wasn’t coming for her until mid-morning.
Moving slowly down the hallway, her stick tapping out a staccato rhythm in the silence, she walked towards the stairs. She had just opened the door that led onto the stairway when the lift pinged beside her. Door held open, her weight off balance, she twisted to see who was getting out.
She didn’t notice the odd sheen of light on the floor, right in front of the first step.
Two dates in and Father Christmas was proving a hit, with smiles all round, lots of laughter and not a sign of nerves. Even Stuart Lister had relaxed, currently talking to Hannah Wilson, who was behaving herself for once. Perhaps she’d sensed the fragile nature of the young man. Or taken pity on him as he hobbled over on his crutches.
All in all, it was a Dales Dating Agency event that would go down as a success.
Delilah cursed quietly, her words at odds with the smile on her lips. Bloody Samson O’Brien. She’d gone from wanting to kill him to wanting to hug him. And yet again, she would owe him.
She rang the bell in her hand and the men all stood to rotate around the tables once more, Father Christmas throwing her a roguish wink as he passed.
Kill him. That was the only option. Because if she didn’t, she was in danger of falling for him. And then Will would kill her.
Feeling happier than she had in years, Delilah Metcalfe found herself looking forward to Christmas.
‘Good evening!’ Rita Wilson said in some surprise. ‘I didn’t expect you to be here.’
She’d twisted to greet the person who’d emerged from the lift, the stairway door heavy against her left arm, her stick now carrying the majority of her weight.
She smiled. Then shifted slightly, shuffling forward a fraction to ease her discomfort, her stick now perilously close to that sheen of light on the floor.
When the hand reached out, Rita was sure it was to hold the door for her. Instead, it landed on her shoulder, violently, pushing her further off balance. She felt her stick hop across the tiles. Then it hit that sheen of light and it slid. Smoothly. Treacherously.
With nothing left to support her, Rita Wilson fell, her cries unheard in the silent corridors of Fellside Court.
18
When Delilah pushed open the back gate the following morning, Tolpuddle on her heels, she felt an unaccountable happiness at the sight of the gleaming motorbike standing on the concrete in the corner of the yard.
Good. He was in already.
In the aftermath of the Speedy Date night she hadn’t had a chance to catch up with Father Christmas, the man in red making a beeline for the door the minute his last date was finished. He’d left behind a clamour of ladies wanting to know who he was and a jovial atmosphere that lasted well into the evening. Already some of the clients were asking about the next event.
She let herself in through the back porch, the dog bounding ahead and announcing their presence. From the office came the sound of Samson making his usual fuss of the hound. And from out of nowhere her happiness was submerged beneath despair.
Tolpuddle. She’d pushed it to the back of her mind for the last couple of days. Now it was starkly real. Come New Year, there was a strong chance he would no longer be here.
She paused in the hall, wiped her eyes and took a deep breath, before stepping into the office.
‘What the hell were you playing at?’ she demanded, doing her best to sound ferocious. ‘Turning up as Father Christmas!’
Samson looked up from where he was kneeling beside Tolpuddle, an arm draped around the dog. He blinked. His mouth opened in protest. Then he saw the gleam in her eyes and the grin that was fighting its way through her fake fury.
‘Ho-ho-ho!’ he said, grinning back at her. ‘But the big question is, did Santa get any date requests?’
‘Fifteen,’ said Delilah, shaking her head, still laughing. ‘Every woman in the place.’
‘Not every woman,’ said Samson with devilment.
Delilah’s cheeks grew hot. ‘It takes more than a white beard and a red suit to woo some of us,’ she muttered, annoyed that she was blushing like a teenager.
Samson laughed. ‘You Metcalfes always were choosy.’
Before she could retort, his mobile rang. He stood to answer it, turning slightly away from her.
‘Dad?’ His body tensed and when he turned back, there wasn’t a trace of amusement on his shocked face. ‘We’ll be right there.’
He hung up and looked at Delilah. ‘Rita Wilson,’ he said, grabbing his jacket and heading for the door.
‘What about her?’ Delilah hurried after him, Tolpuddle too.
‘She fell down the stairs at Fellside Court.’
‘Oh my God! Is she okay?’
He paused at the back door, his features grey. ‘She’s in a coma,’ he said. Then he turned on his heel and strode across the yard, leaving a stunned Delilah to follow.
‘I warned you,’ muttered Arty Robinson. ‘I told you something was up. Now you might believe me.’
They were gathered in the lounge of Edith and Clarissa’s flat – Arty and Joseph, the two sisters and, as of a few minutes ago, Samson, Delilah and Tolpuddle. The cosy room, with its floral armchairs and cushion-scattered sofa, seemed an incongruous setting for such a sombre meeting. The mellow tick of the antique school clock on the wall marked the seconds between words that were hard to come by.
It had been a night from hell. After Samson’s departure following the Christmas party, Arty had remained in his flat, in the grip of a dark mood. He’d drunk more than he should have and had fallen asleep. Passed out, more like. It must have been early, as he could recall the start of the news on Channel 4 at seven, but not the sport or the weather. He woke just after ten-thirty to someone pounding on the front door, his neck cricked, his head throbbing, an empty bottle on the carpet.
It was Ana. Arty had watched her through the spyhole, her hair dishevelled, her face taut with shock. Still he hadn’t opened the door. It was only when Joseph appeared in the background, the commotion bringing him out of his flat, that Arty had emerged into the corridor.
‘There’s been an accident,’ Ana had exclaimed. ‘Call an ambulance.’ Then she’d disappeared through the door to the stairs.
Joseph had done as she asked while Arty had followed her. He’d pushed open the stairwell door, slipped in something and grabbed the bannister rail just in time. As he caught his breath, heart pounding from his averted fall, he’d seen Ana Stoyanova huddled over a figure on the half-landing.
She’d looked up at him, frantic. ‘It’s Rita.’
Sleep banished, headache forgotten, Arty had hurried down the stairs. It had been clear straight away that Rita Wilson was seriously injured.
The school clock chimed the half-hour, more of a soft burr than a pure ring. It was enough to trigger conversation.
‘There’s still no proof,’ said Edith gently. She’d arrived on the scene minutes after Arty the night before, stoic and unflappable in the face of tragedy. ‘No matter what you think.’
‘Proof!’ Arty shot to his feet. ‘Rita is in a coma. Alice is dead. And Eric would have been, if it hadn’t been for us. What more proof do you bloody need?’
Joseph put an arm on his friend, but Arty shrugged it off.
‘You wouldn’t listen,’ he shouted. ‘And I did nothing to protect her—’ He halted, choked, tears on his cheeks. ‘I did nothing . . .’
Edith rose and gathered him to her, the bookmaker sobbing openly. ‘Shush,’ she said. ‘Shush. It’s not your fault.’
She eased him back into his chair, the silence in the room strained with guilt.
‘I’ll make tea,’ chirped Clarissa, eyes wet with tears. ‘It’s just what we need. A good cup of tea.’
Edith nodded and her sister scurried into the kitchen area, occupying herself in an attempt to overcome her distress. Delilah went to help her.
‘It’s no one’s fault,’ said Joseph as the clatter of teacups and the hum of the kettle eased the tension. ‘It was just an accident.’
Arty looked up, shaking his head. ‘How can you still believe that?’
‘What else could it be?’ asked Edith. ‘Rita slipped on something that had been spilled at the top of the stairs. You said you nearly fell when you went to help Ana. It just shows that it could have happened to any of us.’
‘But it didn’t. It happened to Rita. And next it will happen to me.’ Arty’s dire prediction cast a pall over the room once more.
‘Did anyone see the accident?’ asked Samson.
Edith shook her head. ‘Everyone had retired early after the party. We were all worn out.’
‘But not Rita?’
‘Rita too,’ said Joseph. ‘I helped her to her flat as she was in a bit of pain with her hip and couldn’t wait to get off her feet. As far as I know, she was settled for the night. She said she’d see me before her granddaughter called to pick her up this morning.’
‘Her granddaughter?’
‘Hannah Wilson,’ said Delilah from the kitchen. ‘You know – she was at the event last night.’
Samson had a sudden image of the flame-haired librarian. She’d been the life and soul of the party as usual. This news would put a damper on her family’s Christmas.
‘What time was Hannah due to arrive?’ he asked.
‘About mid-morning, I think,’ said Edith. ‘After our usual coffee in the cafe, anyway. Rita was planning on giving out her Christmas cards when we got together this morning. Only . . .’ Her hands rose to her face, shaking, the veins proud, the bones prominent. She breathed deeply, holding on to her control with a fragile grip.
‘So as far as you know, Rita wasn’t expecting to leave her flat before this morning?’
‘Sounds about right,’ said Joseph.
‘In which case,’ continued Samson, ‘what was she doing at the top of the stairs on the first floor last night?’
Edith and Joseph looked at each other, neither having thought about this strange aspect of their friend’s accident.
‘I don’t know . . .’ Edith tailed off, while Joseph frowned.
What would have made a tired, elderly lady who had retired for the evening walk up a flight of stairs? Samson glanced at Arty, who was staring at the carpet, eyes raw from crying.
‘Arty?’ Samson asked. ‘Do you have any idea what Rita was doing on your floor?’
The former bookmaker lifted his head and met Samson’s gaze. ‘No. I don’t have a clue. But I know why she was attacked.’
He reached in his pocket and pulled out Alice Shepherd’s pillbox, bits of dirt caught in the hinges. He placed it on the coffee table.
‘Why – wherever did you get that?’ exclaimed Edith. ‘That’s Alice’s, isn’t it?’
‘The very same.’
‘I thought Ana gave it to Elaine Bullock,’ said Clarissa, who had emerged from the kitchen area with a plate of mince pies and biscuits, which Tolpuddle was eyeing hopefully. Behind her, Delilah was carrying a tray loaded with a teapot and delicate china cups.
‘She did,’ said Arty. ‘Then Rita found it out in the copse by the car park.’
Edith stared at the pillbox and then at Arty. ‘How very odd. When did she find it?’
‘Three days ago.’
‘She didn’t say anything.’
‘She wanted to keep it quiet until she’d had a chance to speak to Elaine and find out how the pillbox came to be buried out there. She thought Elaine deserved an opportunity to explain things.’
‘But she told you?’
Arty nodded. ‘She did more than that. She gave it to me to pass on to Elaine, as Rita knew she wouldn’t be here when Elaine got back from her field trip. Turns out she was right,’ he added bitterly.
‘Did anyone else know that Rita had found this?’ Samson picked up the rainbow-coloured box and opened each of the compartments, a small number of discoloured tablets stuck to the insides.
‘No one,’ said Arty. ‘But anyone could have seen her out there in the snow.’
‘Well, there’s no denying this is all very peculiar,’ said Edith, looking over the rim of her cup at the pillbox which had turned up so unexpectedly. ‘However, it’s hardly grounds for someone to attack poor Rita.’
‘I’m telling you, it’s all connected,’ insisted Arty. ‘And Ana Stoyanova is at the heart of it. Alice was shivering afraid of her. Remember, that afternoon before she died? Ana was telling her to take her pills and Alice was all het up. I saw it in her eyes. She was terrified of that woman.’
‘And Eric?’ asked Joseph with scepticism.
‘He said himself that he upset Ana just before we went to Morecambe. Something to do with her nationality.’
Arty had caught Edith’s attention now, her finger pressed to her lips as she tried to remember the conversation. ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘Eric said she was from . . . oh, where was it?’
‘Serbia,’ said Clarissa, who was surreptitiously feeding Tolpuddle bits of biscuit. ‘And then Ana corrected him. A bit sharp, I thought. Poor Eric was in a right state.’
‘Where is she from?’ asked Delilah.
‘Bulgaria,’ said Joseph. ‘Given the politics in the region, you can understand why Ana might be touchy about being associated with the wrong country.’
‘Still, it was a bit over the top,’ said Edith.
‘But surely no one is suggesting Ana somehow attacked Eric because of that?’ asked Joseph.
Arty shrugged. ‘It’s linked. That’s all I’m saying. It’s all linked to Ana. She haunts the place like a malign spirit, turning up out of the blue when Eric collapsed and then first on the scene last night.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Arty!’ Edith said, eyebrows raised. ‘That really is daft. You’re starting to sound like Geraldine Mortimer.’
‘Geraldine Mortimer?’ Samson asked.
‘She’s the resident racist,’ muttered Joseph. ‘She lives in the flat opposite Eric’s and just about tolerates me – Ireland being part of the UK, in her eyes. But she’s not happy about Ana working here. And she’s made her views clear.’
‘Anyway,’ said Edith, ‘say your suspicions are correct, Arty. How do you explain what happened to Rita?’
Arty pointed at the pillbox still in Samson’s hand. ‘That – it has to be that. Rita found it. And now she’s lying in hospital.’
‘You think Ana was looking for it?’ asked Delilah.
Joseph shuffled in his chair and cast a glance at his son.
‘What?’ asked Arty, alert to his friend’s reaction.
‘Nothing – at least I don’t think . . .’ Joseph paused, looking again at Samson, who nodded.
‘Best get it all out in the open,’ said Samson.
‘Get what out in the open?’ asked Edith.
‘Dad thought Rita’s flat might have been broken into.’
His statement was met with a sharp gasp from the two sisters, while Arty sagged further into his armchair.
‘I wasn’t sure,’ said Joseph. ‘I didn’t want t
o create alarm, so I asked Samson to have a look at it yesterday.’
‘And?’ asked Edith, swivelling to fix her gaze on the detective.
‘It’s hard to say,’ Samson acknowledged. ‘There were no signs of forced entry and nothing had been stolen. Nothing that Rita noticed, anyway. But some of her presents looked as though they may have been tampered with.’
‘As if someone was looking for something,’ muttered Arty. ‘Looking for that!’ He pointed at the pillbox again.
‘It’s a vague possibility. Not enough to start throwing accusations around, though.’
‘But why didn’t you say something?’ Edith asked Joseph.
The older O’Brien looked contrite. ‘I thought it was nothing. I thought I was being paranoid.’
‘Like me, you mean?’ Arty said with reproach.
‘It wasn’t just Dad,’ said Samson. ‘I had a good look around and decided it wasn’t worth pursuing. We still can’t say for sure that it was.’
Arty shook his head. ‘Believe me, it was.’
‘Okay,’ said Delilah, sensing the relationships in the room beginning to strain. ‘Let’s assume Arty is right. According to him, everything revolves around Ana. And around this.’ She took the pillbox from Samson. ‘If we accept Arty’s theory, then Rita was attacked because of this. Why? What makes it so special?’
Arty lifted both hands. ‘Search me.’
Delilah flipped the box over, her fingers brushing the remaining dirt off the bottom and onto her empty plate. She froze. Then she looked at Samson and passed him the box.
‘Look,’ she said.
He looked. Initials engraved into the metal. A. S. ‘Alice Shepherd.’ He glanced back at Delilah, who was staring at him. ‘What about it?’
‘You don’t remember? When Elaine came up to the barn after Alice died?’
He glanced back at the box and then up at Delilah. ‘Call Elaine,’ he said. ‘Now.’
Delilah pulled out her mobile and headed for the hallway.
‘What is it?’ asked Arty. ‘What have you found?’
All of them were watching Samson, tea and mince pies forgotten.
‘This isn’t the box that was given to Elaine,’ he said.
Date with Malice Page 23
