‘Right,’ he said, somewhat abruptly. ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’ He strode across the lounge and into the hall.
‘Good luck,’ said Delilah from the window.
Samson didn’t reply. He was too busy trying to remember when he’d last felt the urge to kiss someone he was on a stake-out with.
Never. Until now. And it was a Metcalfe at that. He must be suicidal.
He slipped into the empty corridor, happy to be out of a situation that was far more dangerous than the one he was about to enter.
The office door closed softly behind him and he paused in the dark. Opposite, the window was covered by closed venetian blinds, allowing him to risk his torch. He switched it on and the room came into focus.
Observe. Assess. No rash movements. Take the time to work out an exit strategy.
It wasn’t the biggest of spaces. A desk, with a computer screen atop and chairs positioned in front and behind, was set perpendicular to the window. Tucked under the windowsill between the desk and the right-hand wall was a printer on a unit of drawers.
Down the other side of the room, a grey filing cabinet sat in the far corner. Next to it, an antique bookcase stretched across the wall. And to his left, two club chairs were situated around a small coffee table.
Apart from the bookcase with its scrollwork and heavy mahogany shelving, the furniture all looked like it came out of IKEA. Practical. Simple. Functional. A brightly coloured rug covered the floor by the coffee table, the only splash of colour in the otherwise neutral tones.
None of it told him anything about the woman he was investigating. It was as featureless as the lady herself, hidden behind her mask of efficiency.
Memory key in hand, Samson sat at the desk and turned on the computer. As Delilah had promised, within less than a minute he had access, a small flashing light on the USB drive indicating it was downloading. Everything.
Switching off the computer monitor as a precaution, he left the gadgetry to do its work but remained sitting in the chair, turning his attention to the desk. It was tidy. Impeccably so. A tray of paperwork to one side, a telephone and a small lamp on the other. Nothing else on display. No photos on the surface. No tacky souvenirs. No reminders of home and the family Ana must have left behind.
He twisted round to look at the shelves on the wall.
A spider plant, looking healthy. A couple of reference books. Some ring binders. An open packet of printer paper and several boxes of envelopes of different sizes.
No dust. But that would be more due to Ida Capstick than Ana.
Flicking a quick glance at the camera footage on his mobile, he saw nothing to concern him, the courtyard empty, the hallway beyond the office door devoid of life.
Time to have a look in the filing cabinet.
Being undercover was boring.
That was the conclusion Delilah had come to after ten minutes of sitting in the dark, staring out of the window while Tolpuddle snored softly behind her.
Boring and sleep-inducing. Already she was fighting the downwards pull of her heavy eyelids, her yawns becoming wider and longer. She was going to nod off at her post if she wasn’t careful.
Food. That’s what she needed. Food and caffeine.
Reaching for the shopping bag, she grabbed the flask she’d made earlier, pouring the tea in the gloom of the flat. Resting the cup on the windowsill, she reached back into the bag and got a packet of biscuits. Hobnobs.
She opened the packet, dipped one in her tea and bit into it. Better. Much better.
A soft nudge at her elbow told her she had company. The previously dormant dog, woken by the rustle of a biscuit packet, which he could hear even in the deepest sleep, was now staring at her with doleful eyes. Pleading for her to spare him a bite.
‘You’ve got your own,’ she whispered, taking a couple of Dog-gestives out of the bag. She passed one to the grateful hound and left the other on the windowsill. Next to the cup of tea.
It wasn’t to prove the wisest of moves.
The bottom drawer of the filing cabinet yielded nothing out of the ordinary. Invoices, marketing material, archived accounts – the endless paperwork essential to run a place like Fellside Court. The drawers above, however, gave Samson pause for thought.
He came across the personnel files first. Ida Capstick had a slim folder; the staff that ran the cafe, likewise. He had a brief look at all of them but nothing stood out. Vicky Hudson’s file was more substantial, records of the training she’d undertaken as a care assistant and copies of her certificates – Level 1 and Level 2 in Social Care and currently working towards Level 3. She’d been at Fellside Court since it opened three years before.
Ana Stoyanova’s file was even thicker, though not as easy to understand. There was a handful of certificates, one possibly from a university, and a reference with an attached translation eulogising the young woman’s skills and capabilities – all in the Cyrillic alphabet.
At least her CV was in English, listing Ana’s studies at university in Sofia and revealing that she was a qualified nurse. A fact that surprised Samson. Surely she was overqualified for her role at Fellside Court? Having spent six years working in Sofia after university, she’d moved to Manchester for a year, followed by six months in Leeds, all in the healthcare sector, before arriving in Bruncliffe in October.
She moved around a lot.
The final items in the file provided proof of Ana’s English proficiency – results of exams taken years ago before she came to Britain. Interestingly, there were no employment references from her positions outside Bulgaria. He took photos of the certificates and the CV, closed the file and put it back.
The top drawer held information on the residents. Current and deceased.
Samson lifted out Alice Shepherd’s file. Inside was a list of her prescribed medication, updated not long before she died. She’d been on Propranolol for high blood pressure. It meant nothing to the detective. But the fact that her dosage had been increased could be significant.
If Alice had been taking more each day as a matter of course, wouldn’t that have made it easier for someone to push her dosage over the edge by persuading her that she hadn’t taken her medicine?
He took more photos and replaced the file before turning his attention to the bookcase.
The shelves weren’t exactly overflowing with light reading: The Sociology of Healthcare; Good Practice with Vulnerable Adults; Promoting Health in Old Age; Drug Calculations for Nurses; A Guide to Healthy Ageing; Keeping Active in Retirement.
Samson paused and backed up . . . Drug Calculations for Nurses.
He pulled it off the shelf. It was well read, the pages marked in places with a neat hand – the same neat hand that had written Ana’s name on the flyleaf.
She had a manual on calculating drug doses. Presumably that meant she knew how to medicate. Which would mean she also knew how to over-medicate. But then that would apply to anyone with basic medical training, let alone a qualified nurse.
He took a photo of the cover and the inside page anyway, before slipping the book back into place.
Only the drawers by the desk to go. So far he hadn’t found anything conclusive that could point the finger of blame at the manager of Fellside Court.
Samson felt curiously relieved. He was secretly hoping his gut instinct was right: that Ana Stoyanova had nothing to do with what was going on in the retirement complex she was tasked with running.
A quick check of the cameras covering the outside showed nothing to alert him, so he moved behind the desk and opened the top drawer of the unit under the printer.
Tolpuddle was frustrated. He’d been given a biscuit. Which he’d eaten already. Now he was being expected to sit quietly while another biscuit was poised tantalisingly on the windowsill. It was there. Right in front of him. Smelling divine.
He stared at it and then at Delilah, but she was staring out of the window, her concentration taken by something else.
He nudged her. A dis
tracted hand fumbled backwards, finding his head. He allowed her to pet him. But he kept his focus on the biscuit.
‘Good boy,’ she whispered.
She spoke too soon. For Tolpuddle had got fed up of waiting. He stretched his front paws up onto the windowsill, grabbed the biscuit in his mouth and knocked over the cup of tea next to it.
The commotion that ensued went largely over his head. He was too busy eating his biscuit.
‘Tolpuddle!’ The frantic hiss was loud in Samson’s ear, making him whip round in the empty office, forgetting for an instant where the sound was coming from.
‘Bloody hell, Delilah,’ he muttered, heartrate calming as he resumed his search and silence returned to his earpiece.
He didn’t check the phone. He figured that if Delilah was awake enough to be reprimanding the dog, she was awake enough to keep watch.
‘Damn it!’
Delilah was frantically mopping at the dripping tea, Tolpuddle watching her warily.
He’d stepped up to get the Dog-gestive that she’d stupidly left within his reach and had sent her drink flying. All over the windowsill. All over the carpet.
She stood on the towel she’d brought with her, praying it soaked up the liquid without staining. How would they explain that one?
She risked shining her torch on the cream carpet. It wasn’t too bad. They might get away with it. Wiping up a trickle on the wall beneath the window, she dropped the damp towel back into her bag.
‘It’s my fault,’ she said, ruffling the dog’s ears. ‘I forgot it was there, and you only did what was natural.’
He panted up at her, hot doggy biscuit-breath.
‘No harm done, eh?’
She couldn’t have been more wrong. For the camera sitting on the windowsill was soaked.
As Delilah fussed over the dog, her head bent down, she missed the shadow crossing the courtyard. The damaged camera, no longer transmitting images or audio, missed it too.
21
Samson had finally come across something of interest.
In the bottom drawer of the unit under the printer were some letters, held together by a red ribbon. He opened a couple, shining his torch across the paper. He couldn’t understand them. But the handwriting style was universal. They’d been penned by a child.
A young child, judging by the erratic lettering, the sloping words, the drawings. A stick figure in a triangle dress decorated one of them, her hair yellow, a huge smile on her face, a stick-fingered hand held tightly by a boy next to her as they stood under a bright sun.
Mama. The word scrawled under the drawing needed no translation.
Ana had a child.
He photographed the letters before folding them back into their envelopes, noting that they’d been addressed to Fellside Court, not Ana’s home. He checked the rest of the pile. They were all the same, and all were missing a return address. He took a few more photos and then retied the red ribbon around the envelopes.
It was only as he went to replace the letters that he realised there was something else in the drawer. Where his torch had shown what he’d thought was a black base, his fingers brushed against felt. And hard edges. The back of a picture frame.
He pulled it out and moved the light across it. Ana holding a young boy. The boy from the drawing? She was laughing, his blond head next to hers, his features as fine as hers. The glass covering the photograph showed smudges where fingers had picked it up countless times.
Why did she have it stashed away in the drawer?
Strange.
Even more curious, the reverse of the frame was bulging against the clips that held it in place. Something had been secreted inside it.
With his attention held by the object in his hand, Samson failed to glance at his phone on the desk. Failed to see the disturbing image it was projecting.
It was Tolpuddle who alerted Delilah to the danger. She’d been making a fuss of him, bent down below the level of the window, when he cocked his head, ears twitching.
‘What is it?’ She looked from the dog to the courtyard outside and froze.
Someone was bending down by the doors into the foyer, picking up a set of keys they’d dropped.
‘Samson!’ she hissed into the microphone. ‘There’s someone coming.’
She glanced at the screen on her mobile. Saw the blank space where her camera should be transmitting. And saw a gleam of blond hair outside the courtyard doors, captured by the fake bauble on the Christmas tree. The doors opened and the handsome features of Rick Procter were staring straight at the camera.
‘It’s Rick, Samson,’ she hissed, her words going no further than the room she was in, thanks to the tea-sodden equipment. ‘Rick’s here. Abort now!’
But it was too late. She knew that. Samson would never manage to get out of there.
She was already crossing the room and heading for the door.
Two of the clips on the photo frame opened easily, swivelling on their hinges. But the other two were proving difficult. Using his penknife, Samson tried to lever them aside, but they wouldn’t budge.
He poked the blade under the backing instead, feeling it hit against whatever was in there. Could he prise it out? Working carefully, he slid the blade backwards and forwards, the hidden item being manoeuvred closer to the opening. A brown envelope. As he edged it out, his fingers grabbing onto a corner, he heard a noise.
Outside in the corridor.
He glanced at his mobile. A shot of the front, looking serene. An oblong of black where the camera above the courtyard had failed. And a clear shot of Rick Procter’s face as he crossed the foyer towards the office door.
Pulling the envelope free and slipping it in his jacket pocket, Samson placed the photo frame back under the letters, closed the drawer and tried to think of a plausible excuse for being in Ana Stoyanova’s office. Because there was no way he could get out of there in time.
He heard the doorknob rattle and prepared to bluff his way out of it.
He was at the office door, his hand on the doorknob, key in the lock.
‘Rick!’ she called out, slapping a smile across her panicked features as she walked towards him.
Rick Procter turned sharply, frowning. Then he stepped back from the door.
‘Delilah?’ A reciprocal smile tipped his lips, but the frown remained. ‘What are you doing here so late?’
He was taking in the red coat, the scarf thrown over her shoulder. She made a show of checking her watch as she approached, struggling to get her breathing under control after that sprint out of the flat and down the stairs.
Look natural. Act natural.
‘I lost track of the time,’ she said with a grin, eyes dancing up at him. ‘Luckily for me. I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of bumping into you otherwise.’
He laughed, bending down to kiss her cheek, his hand lingering on her back. ‘Who were you visiting?’
‘Actually, I came on work.’ She turned to gesture at the Christmas tree resplendent in the corner, and discreetly stepped out of his hold. ‘I wanted a shot of this beauty for the website. Nothing says “home” like a welcoming Christmas tree.’
It was his turn to look at his watch. ‘You came here at ten-thirty to take photos?’
She grinned and held up her hands in surrender. ‘You’ve caught me out. I arrived at seven, but then Edith and Clarissa persuaded me up to theirs for a nightcap. I couldn’t get away.’
He laughed again, this time the frown disappearing. ‘Sounds like hell. Being locked in a small space with those two old birds.’
She forced a complicit look. ‘I was glad to escape. So, what about you? You’re not working this late too, are you?’
A casual wave of his hand provided no definite answer. ‘Christmas,’ he said. ‘Keeps me busy. Which reminds me, we need to get together for a drink over the holidays. How does that sound?’
‘Like an excellent plan,’ she said, letting a bright smile light her words. ‘No time like the present.’
<
br /> He grimaced, looking genuinely upset. ‘I can’t. I’ve got things to do. Soon, though, I promise,’ he said. ‘I’ll text you where and when.’
‘I’ll be waiting,’ she said. Then there was nothing else for her to do but leave. No reasonable excuse for her keeping him away from that door. Or what lay on the other side of it. ‘I’ll leave you to get on,’ she said, aiming her words at the camera and praying that Samson had had enough time to escape. Although how that was possible with Rick in the corridor . . .
She walked towards the courtyard door, allowing the property developer to open it for her.
‘Goodnight,’ he said, brushing his lips across her cheek.
‘Goodnight,’ she said, managing to keep the panic out of her voice.
She heard the click of the lock sounding behind her and steeled herself not to turn round. Or to start running.
Delilah. She gave him the time he needed.
With her conversation with Rick playing in his ear, Samson crossed the room and raised the blind a fraction, revealing the handle on the bottom rail of the window. The key was in it. He turned it and pushed, the window yawning open from the hinge at the top. Outside, a couple of shrubs grew up against the wall, reaching as high as the windowsill. Beyond that, the well-tended front lawn and Fell Lane, lit up by street lamps.
He’d be seen if he tried to cross the grass. He’d have to hide in the bushes.
Praying no one was out walking a dog, he lifted the blind with his hand, dipped under it and swung his right leg out. His toes could just reach the ground, the front lawns dropping away down the hill. Shifting his weight onto the leg that was now outside, he drew up his other leg and pulled it through the opening.
As his left foot hit the soil, he staggered backwards, the slope throwing him off balance, and his hand let go of the blind. It slapped back into place, sounding like a rifle shot.
He ducked below the windowsill. But there was no reaction, the door into the office staying shut.
He pushed the window closed and crouched down behind the bushes, the greenery prickling his skin, the cold cutting through his jacket and jeans. Disgruntled at having to fall out of yet another window to avoid Rick Procter, his mood wasn’t improved when through his earpiece he heard the property developer asking Delilah out for a drink. He pulled out his mobile and studied the screen.
Date with Malice Page 26
