Date with Malice

by Julia Chapman

  He finished his cake in silence. She could tell he was on the trail of something. An air of distraction had fallen over him when she’d mentioned the timer, like a good hound on the scent of a hare.

  Could there be a connection between all those accidents? Something rotten in Fellside Court? Ida shook off the notion as quickly as it came. She was too pragmatic for drama and too old to believe in wives’ tales. Whatever it was, Samson would no doubt get to the bottom of it.

  ‘I asked you before about Ana Stoyanova,’ said Samson. ‘Remember?’

  ‘Of course. I’m not senile.’ She waited. Let him fill the silence, already sensing where all this was heading.

  ‘What would you say if I told you some people believe she might be behind the accidents that keep happening over there?’

  ‘That they needs their heads looking at,’ she snapped.

  ‘But you accept something is going on?’

  ‘Aye. Reckon there might be. Three incidents in a fortnight is high by anyone’s standards. Doesn’t mean it’s Ana’s fault, though.’

  He looked at her, those blue eyes just like his mother’s, seeing right through a person. ‘I need your help,’ he said. ‘I want to prove Ana isn’t involved. To eliminate her from the enquiry.’

  ‘What’s that to do with me?’ she asked, pretending she didn’t know.

  ‘I need access to her office. If you don’t want to help, I understand,’ he continued. ‘I know it’s asking a lot.’

  She folded her arms across her chest, trying to decide what was best. ‘Tha’s looking for proof that she’s innocent?’ she demanded.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And there’s a chance tha might put a stop to whatever’s going on?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She stood and crossed to the dresser, pulled open the right-hand drawer and lifted out a bunch of keys. ‘Here,’ she said, taking one from the ring and passing it to him. ‘Though I’m not convinced it’s the wisest thing I’ve ever done.’

  ‘One other thing,’ he said. He gestured to the key ring and told her his plan . . .

  ‘I’ll try not to get you in trouble,’ he said a short while later, as he stood to go.

  She snorted. ‘Like that would worry me. Procter can keep his job if it comes to that. No, lad, it’s the morality of the thing that bothers me. Ana’s a good woman. I don’t like the thought of going behind her back.’ She followed him to the door. ‘Tell George his tea’s gone cold. That blasted tractor.’ She shot Samson a dark look and he laughed, head thrown back, that hair and those eyes – he really was so like his mother.

  ‘Thanks, Ida,’ he said, shaking her hand. ‘For everything.’ Then he crossed the yard to talk to George.

  Ida Capstick watched her brother come out of the barn in that sideways shuffle of his. She saw him smile at young Samson, easier in the man’s presence than in that of any other stranger. Old Mr O’Brien had had that way with George, too. When he was sober. He’d always treated his neighbour as an equal, despite George’s different take on life. Same with Mrs O’Brien. She’d been an angel and George had adored her. He used to take her veg from the garden when she was pregnant with Samson and had been beside himself when she’d let him hold the newborn baby. Not many would have trusted George with that.

  They were good people. And it was wrong what had happened to them. The cancer. The alcohol. Then Rick Procter stealing the farm like that.

  Samson threw her a final wave, then he kick-started the bike and with George laughing delightedly at the deep throb of the engine, he pulled off, turning not towards Bruncliffe, but in the direction of Twistleton Farm.

  George came over to her. ‘Tha tea’s cold,’ she said.

  He nodded. Blinked slowly. ‘He’s gone home. He asked me if he could.’

  ‘Aye, thought he might want to. Tha’s not going to tell Mr Procter?’

  ‘No!’ The answer came with a violent shake of the head. ‘I’m on my tea break. Not at work.’

  Ida smiled and patted her brother on the back. His logic couldn’t be faulted. He’d been retained by Rick Procter to keep an eye on Twistleton Farm, the property developer keen to prevent anyone trespassing. In return, George got paid cash. Cash which they stashed in the middle drawer of the dresser, along with her earnings from Procter-owned Fellside Court. Because the Capsticks knew Rick Procter for what he was; they’d seen what he did to their neighbour. And they feared he might one day come for their home, too. Ida was determined they would have a nest egg to help fight him off when that day arrived.

  In the meantime, what Rick didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

  Standing in the winter sunshine, brother and sister watched the scarlet motorbike fade into the distant dale.

  Samson pulled up outside the farmhouse, not entirely sure why he was there. It was only going to hurt.

  Leaving his helmet on the bike, he walked to the porch and tried the handle. Locked. Just as well. He’d been upset at what he’d seen when he’d arrived back in October – the mould in the kitchen, the smell of damp throughout. It would only be worse now, two months on with no one looking after it.

  Thoughts drifting to the past, he crossed to the row of outbuildings. The woodshed. Hours he’d spent in there splitting wood, George Capstick having taught him how to swing an axe one winter’s day while his father was passed out on the sofa. He stuck his head inside. A few logs, lots of cobwebs.

  Next to it was the old stable, which had never housed a horse in his time. His mother had talked of him getting one when he was ten. She’d been dead a while when that landmark passed and he’d been too busy trying to hold the remnants of the O’Brien family together to remember her promise. He pushed open the top half of the door. A few broken bales of hay lay in a corner, dusty and dry. A bucket, upturned with a hole in the bottom, along with some old tools. Nothing that struck a chord.

  The last of the buildings was the big barn. His father had always joked that when their family expanded, they would move out of the house and into the barn and have more room. The young Samson had eagerly awaited these events – both the arrival of baby brothers and sisters and the excitement of living in the large stone structure with its high arched doors. As the years passed, his father had stopped joking about it. Then his mother had died and Samson had known neither would ever happen.

  As he approached the barn, he noticed that the doors had been replaced. Two solid wooden barriers now blocked the entrance, a shiny new padlock and thick chain further securing the building.

  It was incongruous. Such security, out here in the middle of nowhere. The only explanation was that Procter had tools and equipment in there.

  Feeling lost and alienated in what had been his home, Samson walked back to the motorbike. It was time to go. He didn’t want to risk getting George in trouble by being here if Rick paid an unexpected visit to his development project.

  He sat astride the bike, stared at the farmhouse and wondered again if there was anything he could do to get it back. Then he laughed, the sound echoing around the empty yard. Fourteen years ago he couldn’t wait to get shot of the place. Now here he was, getting sentimental about it.

  He slammed the visor down on his helmet and turned the bike back onto the track.

  Tackling Rick Procter over Twistleton Farm would have to wait. Right now, Samson had other things to think about. Like who had plugged Eric Bradley’s oxygen concentrator into a timer.

  Thinking about Alice Shepherd and her insistence that something was wrong at Fellside Court, Samson rode back into town. He’d been a fool not to realise she’d been right.

  ‘A timer?’ Joseph shook his head. ‘I didn’t notice one. Did you, Arty?’

  ‘No,’ said the bookmaker. While the others looked like they hadn’t stirred from Edith’s lounge since Samson left for Thorpdale – the coffee table cluttered with cups and empty plates – Arty Robinson had put the time to good use. Shaven, dressed in clean clothes and with his eyes clear of the alcohol that had fogged them fo
r so long, he was like a new man. ‘But then,’ he continued, ‘we were hardly in a state to be noticing what was plugged in where. We were only concerned about Eric.’

  ‘So it could have been there when you entered the flat?’ asked Samson.

  ‘It must have been,’ said Arty. ‘That would explain why I noticed the oxygen machine had gone out from my balcony, yet it was working when we got into Eric’s.’

  ‘You mean someone set the timer to turn off the oxygen in the middle of the night, but was cunning enough to have it set to come back on again?’ Delilah looked shocked.

  ‘Precisely,’ said Samson.

  ‘So when Eric was discovered,’ she continued, ‘no one would suspect the cause of his collapse.’

  ‘Goodness!’ Edith exclaimed. ‘That’s wicked. Who would do such a thing?’

  ‘That’s what I’m hoping to find out,’ said Samson. ‘We now have reason to believe that Alice, Eric and Rita were targeted. Alice’s medication was tampered with, Eric’s oxygen machine was deliberately turned off, and Rita was made to fall down the stairs.’

  ‘We’re accepting that someone made sure that step was slippery, then?’ asked Edith.

  ‘In light of the rest of it, yes, I think that’s a fair assumption to make.’

  ‘So you really do think the residents of this place are in danger?’

  He paused, not wanting to frighten the two women. Edith raised her chin and stared at him.

  ‘Don’t lie, Samson. We need to know the truth.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, and Clarissa sank back in her chair, a hand reaching down to Tolpuddle’s head, seeking comfort. ‘But I will make sure no one else is harmed.’

  ‘How?’ demanded Arty. ‘What can you do that will make us safe?’

  Samson reached into his pocket and drew out the two keys he’d secured from Ida Capstick. He held one of them up. ‘Firstly, I’m going to search Ana’s office as we agreed.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tonight.’

  ‘And what about that one?’ asked Joseph, pointing at the second key.

  ‘This,’ said Samson, holding it up, ‘is the other part of my plan. I’m going to stake out the building.’

  ‘Where from?’ asked Arty.

  ‘Next door to you,’ said Samson. ‘This is the key for the guest suite.’

  The air of relief was palpable. Arty was nodding his head in support, the two sisters were looking less pale and Joseph was patting his son on the back.

  Delilah was also looking enthusiastic. ‘A stake-out! The three of us. Me, you and Tolpuddle. It’s a brilliant idea.’

  ‘Oh no, not you two—’ Samson was cut short by Clarissa Ralph.

  ‘Tolpuddle, too? Oh, wonderful. I’ll sleep better knowing this gorgeous dog is in the vicinity.’

  Delilah grinned at Samson. ‘That’s that, then. I’ll nip home and fetch my pyjamas and my toothbrush. What time are we starting?’

  Samson sighed. Somehow this investigation wasn’t going quite how he’d planned it.

  20

  By ten o’clock that evening, Fellside Court was quiet. Standing to one side at the unlit window of the guest suite on the first floor, Samson peered round the curtains at the dark expanse opposite. The flats belonging to Eric and Alice were devoid of life. And while the residents’ lounge still had a couple of table lamps glowing softly, it was empty. Directly below him, no light spilled out into the courtyard, the second guest suite and Rita Wilson’s flat both being vacant.

  In contrast, linking the two shadowy wings, the wall of glass shone brightly. The corridors of both floors were well illuminated, the twinkling fairy lights on the Christmas tree in the foyer adding colour.

  ‘Bugger,’ muttered Samson, staring down at his objective. How to get down there without being seen, when it was lit up like Blackpool in the autumn?

  It would be risky. He’d have to take the chance that the staff were all gone and the residents in bed, or away for the Christmas holidays.

  ‘What time are we setting off?’

  Delilah was behind him in the darkened room. She was dressed from head to toe in black, a black scarf looped around the lower half of her face and a black woolly hat pulled down over her hair and forehead.

  When she’d met him at the office earlier that evening it wasn’t just her outfit that had suggested she was taking this stake-out seriously. She’d also come equipped with a sleeping bag, washbag, towel, a shopping bag full of food – both for them and for Tolpuddle – a change of clothes and a small rucksack full of goodness knows what.

  ‘It’s a stake-out, not a sleepover,’ he’d said.

  She’d glowered at him. ‘I’m well aware of that. But you’ll thank me for this in the small hours when you get hungry.’

  He’d glanced down at Tolpuddle, the dog regarding him back with a raised eyebrow. ‘You’ve even taken the collar off the dog?’

  ‘The buckle,’ she explained. ‘It would catch the light and give him away.’

  Samson had known then that it was going to be a long assignment.

  They’d returned to Fellside Court just before teatime under the guise of joining Joseph for a meal, Delilah having the sense to add a bright-red coat to her outfit to make her look less like a rogue ninja. They’d signed the visitors’ book and two hours later, when it was dark, they’d signed out and left the building through the courtyard. They’d turned left onto the path that looped round to the front, but as they approached the end of the north-facing wing, Samson had paused by the fire exit.

  He knocked. Three quiet taps, Delilah and Tolpuddle shifting restlessly next to him.

  The door had opened and Edith Hird had ushered them quickly inside into the stairwell.

  ‘All clear,’ she whispered, gesturing for them to go up the stairs. ‘Arty’s waiting for you.’

  Sure enough, when the three of them reached the first floor, Arty was standing chatting to Joseph in the hallway, looking casual. Without even breaking off his conversation, he’d opened the door into the corridor and Samson, with his two accomplices, had hurried across the brightly lit area and down past Arty’s flat. Within seconds they were safely inside the guest suite.

  That had been an hour ago. The intervening sixty minutes had been spent with Delilah sorting out the bedding arrangements – her and Tolpuddle in the main bedroom, Samson on the couch – and then making a flask of tea. Once the essential details were arranged satisfactorily, she’d settled in a chair facing the patio doors, watching. And asking the same question at frequent intervals.

  ‘I said, when are we setting off?’ she repeated.

  ‘I heard you the first time,’ Samson muttered. He stepped away from the window and checked the time. ‘Five minutes. And there’s no “we” about it. You two are staying here.’

  Tolpuddle sighed, head heavy on his paws, and Delilah nodded. ‘Thought you’d say that. Give me your phone.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You need backup,’ she said, holding out her hand.

  He passed over his mobile and she reached for her rucksack, pulling out a set of wireless earphones.

  ‘Put these on,’ she said as she concentrated on his phone. With a few swipes of her fingers she was done. ‘There. All sorted.’

  She passed him back his mobile, the screen showing video footage. It was the foyer downstairs.

  ‘How . . . ?’ he asked as he slipped the earpieces in. The soft sound of silence being recorded filtered through.

  ‘I used a pinhole camera and linked it to your mobile. You have audio and visuals of the immediate area outside Ana’s office door. If anyone approaches while you’re in there, you’ll get a couple of minutes’ warning.’

  He grinned, impressed. ‘Where’s the camera?’

  She grinned back. ‘Inside a Christmas decoration. I hung it on the tree when we were signing the guest register. And this,’ she continued, pulling a small device out of her bag, ‘is another camera. I’ll set it up here in the window to give you a wider view
of outside.’

  The image on Samson’s screen split into two, the empty foyer now joined by the equally empty courtyard.

  ‘What about the front?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s taken care of.’ As she spoke, a third view appeared on his phone showing the path to the main entrance.

  ‘Dad?’

  She nodded. ‘A camera in his window. The audio is turned on in all three cameras, so you’ll be able to hear what’s happening but you won’t be able to reply.’

  ‘Got it,’ he said as a loud cough sounded in his ear. His father. He stared at the phone and then at Delilah, astonished not for the first time at the technical abilities of the woman who’d been a gawky teen when he’d left fourteen years ago. ‘Where did you get all this?’

  ‘At a tech fair last summer.’ She shrugged. ‘It was all about security in the world of technology. I came away with some freebies and thought they would come in useful.’

  He nodded towards the rucksack. ‘What else have you got in there?’

  ‘Thought you’d never ask.’ She reached into it again and came out with a memory stick. ‘Here. Pop this in the computer as soon as you get into the office.’

  ‘Won’t there be a password?’

  Delilah laughed as she dropped the USB drive into his hand. ‘I hope so, otherwise I’ve done all this for nothing. I’ve loaded it with software that will bypass the normal boot-up, so when you’re asked for the password, you can enter whatever you like. This will do the rest.’

  ‘It’ll copy all the files? Emails included?’

  ‘Yes. And then close down the computer. All while you’re having a good look around at everything else.’

  ‘What about the password? Won’t Ana know someone’s changed it?’

  ‘Nope. As long as you don’t pull the USB drive out before it’s finished, the computer will be exactly the same as it was before you tampered with it.’

  Samson shook his head in awe. ‘I’m not sure if you’re a genius or a devil.’

  She smiled up at him, eyes twinkling in the gloom of the darkened room. ‘A bit of both, I’d say.’