Date with Malice

by Julia Chapman

  ‘Oh yes. Much better.’

  ‘Good. That’s sorted then. I’ll text to let you know what time I’m coming for you,’ said Delilah. She picked up the blue Co-op bag nearest to the table, wished the sisters a merry Christmas and left, a bemused Arty staring after her.

  ‘That wasn’t in the script,’ he muttered at Joseph.

  ‘No,’ said the Irishman, watching Delilah untying Tolpuddle’s lead outside. ‘But I’ve a feeling it was genuine.’

  ‘Delilah!’ Lucy Metcalfe was descending the steps of her cafe, apron covered in flour, black smudges of fatigue on her face. She waited until she was alongside her sister-in-law before speaking again. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked quietly.

  Delilah turned wide eyes to face her. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Don’t lie. You’re rubbish at it. Those four old folk are huddled over the table in there drinking too much coffee and twitching every time the door opens. And you’re in the middle of it. So what’s going on?’

  ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘Is it something to do with Samson’s work?’

  ‘Possibly. I honestly can’t tell you any more than that.’

  Lucy stared at her, a frown on her pale face. ‘Just remember what happened last time, okay? Be careful.’

  ‘I will. I promise,’ said Delilah, feeling awful for adding to her sister-in-law’s stress at a time when she was flat out with work.

  ‘Oh, and another thing,’ added Lucy, with a mischievous smile. ‘I couldn’t help but overhear your generous gesture. Does Peggy know you’re bringing Arty, Joseph and Samson to Christmas dinner at Ellershaw?’

  Delilah grimaced. ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘And Will?’ The silence that greeted her question made Lucy laugh. ‘Thought not. I can’t wait for tomorrow,’ she said.

  With a quick kiss on the cheek, Lucy rushed back into the busy cafe. Delilah and Tolpuddle headed back to the office, Tolpuddle thinking about the warm bed waiting for him; Delilah thinking about how badly things could go awry when she decided to act natural.

  Ana was the first to comment on the wreath on Arty’s door.

  He’d hung it up as soon as they got back from town, Joseph and the sisters watching him with the solemnity reserved for a funeral, knowing the circle of greenery was more than just a nod to the season; thanks to its hidden camera pointing down the corridor, it was Arty’s amulet against evil.

  With the euphoria of their cafe trip wearing off and their stomachs still full of mince pies and Yule log, the four of them had decided to skip lunch and instead had retired to the residents’ lounge for a quiet afternoon. And to put the next part of the plan into action.

  In the pre-Christmas exodus, the lounge was almost empty. On the sofa nearest the door, two women were knitting, the small suitcases next to their feet suggesting they were expecting family to arrive any moment. In the far corner, the immaculately styled Geraldine Mortimer was sitting in an armchair, chatting to a friend. The women all looked up as the group entered, Geraldine flashing a smile in Arty’s direction before she resumed her conversation.

  ‘I thought she was going to London for Christmas?’ Joseph whispered.

  Edith shook her head, a rare expression of sympathy on her face as she regarded the unfortunate Geraldine. ‘Her son was supposed to be picking her up on Monday after the party, but he cancelled at the last minute.’

  ‘That’s harsh,’ said Arty. ‘She must be upset.’

  ‘Hard to tell,’ muttered Edith. ‘She just keeps saying that the responsibilities of a high-flying barrister understandably take precedence over Christmas with her.’

  ‘We could invite her to spend it with us,’ said Clarissa, looking earnestly at her sister.

  Edith gave a sharp laugh. ‘It might be the season of goodwill, but I still don’t have enough to endure a day with that woman!’

  ‘Game of crib?’ Joseph asked Arty, pulling a packet of cards out of his pocket and taking a seat, as Edith and Clarissa went over to talk to the women who were knitting. Soon engrossed in a good game of cribbage, Arty almost forgot why he was there. Until Ana Stoyanova walked in.

  ‘Arty,’ she said, approaching with a smile, her hair swept back into a ponytail, her cheeks sharp under her flawless skin. She was beautiful. But rotten to the core. ‘I see you have embraced Christmas at last. What a lovely wreath.’

  He forced a smile in response, aware that his heart was pattering dangerously. ‘Joseph talked me into it.’

  Ana turned to the Irishman. ‘Good for you,’ she said. ‘Arty needed cheering up.’

  ‘I think we all do, after the last few weeks,’ said Joseph.

  A slight tick pulsed at the base of Ana’s jaw and she glanced down. ‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘It’s not been the best of times.’

  ‘Any word on how Rita’s doing?’ asked Arty.

  ‘She’s still unconscious.’ Ana shook her head sadly. ‘So awful for the family.’

  ‘Talking of family,’ said Arty, ‘will you be in touch with home tomorrow?’

  ‘If I get time.’ The reply was polite but curt, a trace of pink stealing across Ana’s pallor.

  ‘You should make time,’ persisted Arty pointedly. ‘Nothing like family at Christmas.’

  ‘And you two?’ she asked. ‘Where will you spend it?’

  ‘We’ve been invited to the Metcalfes’ farm,’ said Joseph, intervening in an attempt to deflect Arty’s barbs. ‘A very generous offer on their part.’

  Ana nodded, her smile returning. ‘Very generous. Well, have a lovely time.’

  She was turning to go when Arty called her back. He stood up, making it clear that what he was about to say he didn’t want anyone else to hear.

  ‘I came across something odd,’ he said, trying to keep his voice steady. ‘Actually, it was Rita who came across it, buried outside in the copse by the car park, and she gave it to me.’

  ‘What is it?’ Ana was leaning in, concentrating on him.

  He put his hand in his cardigan pocket and pulled out Alice Shepherd’s pillbox.

  It was as if he’d slapped her. She jerked back, mouth open, and stared at the rainbow colours in his hand.

  ‘Where did you say you got it?’

  ‘Buried in the snow outside. Rita found it a couple of days before she had her accident. I just wondered what to do with it.’

  Ana was still staring at the box, but she made no move to take it. ‘I thought Elaine Bullock had it.’

  ‘That’s the really strange thing. I thought so, too. So I called her and she said she’s got one. Exactly like this.’

  ‘So this . . .’ Ana looked from the box to Arty, her forehead creased. ‘This isn’t the one Elaine took?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There’s two of them?’

  Arty nodded. ‘Like I said, it’s odd, isn’t it?’

  ‘Very odd.’ Then she held her hand out, her green eyes fixed on him. ‘Would you like me to look after it until we get to the bottom of this?’

  ‘No,’ he said, putting the pillbox back in his pocket and setting himself firmly inside the trap. ‘I’ll hang onto it, if you don’t mind. But I just thought I’d mention it. See if you knew any more about it.’

  ‘Good idea,’ she said, letting her hand fall back to her side. ‘And perhaps keep this between us for now?’

  He nodded, his heartrate at a level his doctor would not approve of.

  ‘If you’re sure you don’t want me to take it—’

  ‘Ana! I’ve had a brainwave!’ Vicky Hudson was in the doorway. ‘A small drinks party tonight after supper. What do you think, everyone? For those of us still here?’

  Ana had a smile on her lips when she turned to greet her colleague, but not before Arty had witnessed the flash of irritation that had preceded it. ‘What a wonderful idea. I just wonder if it would be appropriate, though, given the circumstances.’

  ‘I think Rita would have been the first to sign up for it,’ said Edith. ‘If that’s what you mean?’


  ‘Edith’s right,’ said Joseph. ‘Rita loves a party.’

  ‘And a chance to get dressed up,’ added Clarissa. ‘Oh, do we need to get dressed up?’

  ‘If you want to,’ laughed Vicky. She turned to her boss. ‘So, is that a yes?’

  ‘I suppose it is,’ said Ana. She turned back to Arty. ‘I hope we’ll have the pleasure of your company?’ she murmured.

  ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

  With a final tight smile, Ana Stoyanova left the lounge, and Arty couldn’t help but feel the snare he’d created closing in around him.

  24

  As dusk fell over Bruncliffe, the marketplace long since emptied of stalls, the cafe closed, blinds pulled down over all the shop fronts, the town had an air of expectation about it. It was the night before Christmas, after all.

  Up the hill past the police station, a similar sense of anticipation pervaded Fellside Court, despite its quiet corridors and darkened windows. For, in the lounge, the remaining residents were gathering for their pre-Christmas drinks.

  ‘How do I look?’ asked Arty, standing before Delilah in his hallway and pulling nervously at his sweater.

  ‘Handsome,’ said Delilah.

  ‘Like a juicy morsel of bait?’ The former bookmaker’s voice shook slightly.

  ‘We’ve got your back, Arty,’ said Samson from the balcony doors. He was peering round the curtains to watch the brightly lit room down below, where Vicky and Ana were handing out glasses to people as they entered. ‘She won’t make a move until everyone has gone to bed.’

  ‘If she makes a move,’ said Joseph. ‘Innocent until proven guilty, remember.’

  Arty snorted. ‘Sorry old friend, but Ana’s guilty. You should have seen her face when I showed her the pillbox.’

  ‘For your sake, I hope I’m right and you’re wrong.’ Joseph patted him on the shoulder. ‘Come on then. Let’s go put you on show and see if we can’t spring this trap.’

  Samson, Delilah and Tolpuddle followed them out and slipped into the guest suite next door, while Joseph and Arty headed for the stairs.

  ‘Will he be all right?’ Delilah asked as she pulled up the video feed on her computer. Added to the camera in Joseph’s window over the front entrance and the one in the Christmas bauble in the foyer, which covered the courtyard door, she had two more views: the corridor outside Arty’s flat, from his wreath; and a floor-level shot of inside his hallway and the door to his bedroom, from the bonus camera in the reindeer.

  ‘How can he not be?’ said Samson, pointing at the images on her screen. ‘No one can get in Fellside Court without us seeing. And no one can get near Arty without us knowing. We’ve got it covered.’

  Delilah wished she shared his confidence. Her stomach was a knot of tension and she was as restless as a caged tiger. Just like when she was a child, she was eager for Christmas Eve to be over. Only this time she wasn’t concerned about opening presents. She was concerned about keeping Arty Robinson alive.

  Cameras, cameras everywhere. But not where they needed to be.

  In the kitchen of Fellside Court a tray of mugs was resting on the stainless-steel worktop. In the bottom of the mugs, cocoa powder. A door slipped open, a shadow slid across the floor and a hand hovered over the tray, a small sachet in its grasp. With a practised flick, the sachet was emptied and its fine, white powder quickly mixed in, until the brown of the cocoa concealed it.

  None of it was caught on camera.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever felt more alive,’ murmured Arty as he stood in the lounge listening to the high-spirited chatter of the dozen or so residents.

  ‘Make sure we keep it that way,’ replied Joseph, tension visible in the tightness of his jaw and his fidgeting fingers. He’d been keeping a discreet eye on Ana Stoyanova, who was standing to one side, surveying the room with those beautiful green eyes, and the whole situation was making him nervous as hell. The thought that they might be placing Arty in jeopardy . . .

  He swallowed. Watching everyone around him happily drinking alcohol wasn’t helping. He had a thirst on him like he hadn’t felt in two years.

  He looked at his watch. An hour had passed since they’d arrived at the soirée, an event that had so far been as innocuous as the mineral water in his hand. Amongst the last to turn up, they’d reached the lounge as Geraldine Mortimer was hurrying along the corridor, Arty holding the door open for her.

  ‘All the fashionable people arrive late,’ she’d laughed, her blonde hair shimmering in the light, a long black dress clinging to her curves. She’d slipped her arm through Arty’s and steered him towards the tray of drinks Vicky Hudson was holding. Poor Arty. He’d had to endure Geraldine gushing about her talented son, who’d just called to say he’d moved heaven and earth and was coming to pick her up after all, first thing in the morning. It had taken Joseph fifteen minutes to prise Arty away.

  Since then, the two men had spent the time making small talk. At least Arty had. Joseph was finding it difficult to string two words together, his nerves stretched taut.

  ‘Another canapé, you pair?’ Vicky held out a plate, curls of smoked salmon on something Edith had said were called blinis. Whatever they were, they tasted good. Arty declined, patting his waist with a grin, but Joseph took a couple, hoping they would deaden the urge to drink.

  ‘There she goes,’ murmured Arty as Vicky moved out of earshot. He was looking towards the door; Ana Stoyanova was leaving the room.

  Joseph’s guts churned. He placed half an uneaten blini on a nearby plate. How had Samson done this for a living? The boy must be made of stern stuff.

  ‘Still alive, then,’ whispered Edith as she joined the two men, elegant in her long black skirt and silver top. She winked at Arty and he laughed, the sound rare enough in the last few weeks to cause some people to look his way. ‘I don’t know about you two, but Clarissa and I are ready to retire. All this excitement has exhausted us. So I’ll see you both in the morning.’

  She leaned over and, in an unusual display of affection, kissed Arty on the cheek. ‘Stay safe,’ she whispered.

  ‘I intend to,’ he said, capturing her hand and kissing it in return.

  She nodded sharply, bestowed a peck on Joseph’s cheek and walked away.

  ‘One for the road, anyone?’ Ana Stoyanova had reappeared in the doorway, a tray of mugs in her hand. ‘Hot chocolate with a kick,’ she said as the residents crowded around her.

  ‘How much of a kick?’ asked Clarissa, abandoning her plans to go to bed and reaching for a mug.

  ‘It’s my grandmother’s recipe, made with plum brandy from home,’ said Ana, her face more animated than Joseph had ever seen it.

  ‘Which home would that be?’ muttered Arty under his breath as the two of them joined the group.

  ‘Arty? Would you like one?’ Ana held the tray out, only two mugs – one white, one red – left on it.

  Joseph noticed the hesitation. Then Arty was reaching out to take the white mug.

  ‘Why not?’ he asked with a grin. ‘It’s Christmas.’

  Joseph watched him raise the hot chocolate to his lips and drink, the smell of the brandy floating on the air, seducing the Irishman and making his throat clench with desire.

  ‘Joseph?’ Ana was holding out the red mug. ‘It’s for you. No alcohol.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. He took the hot chocolate and made himself drink it, when all he wanted to do was run away from the intoxicating lure of his nemesis.

  ‘That,’ said Arty, smacking his lips in appreciation, ‘was the best hot chocolate ever.’

  Ana smiled. ‘Thank you. I think you haven’t slept for a long time? Hopefully you will sleep well now. Goodnight.’

  She walked away and the blood drained from Arty’s face.

  ‘He’s home,’ said Delilah from the floor of the kitchen in the unlit guest suite. She was huddled over her laptop, the screen set as dark as possible and twisted away from the window to contain the light it emitted. Tolpuddle was sp
rawled on the lino beside her, fast asleep.

  ‘Everything okay?’ Samson was over by the darkened window, watching the last of the residents leave the lounge, Ana and Vicky clearing up behind them.

  ‘Yes. He gave a thumbs up to the wreath and he’s just in the hall.’ She watched as a pair of shoes walked past the reindeer camera, heading for the lounge. A faint sound of a TV came through the wall.

  ‘So he’s in and settled. Now the fun starts.’

  ‘Glad you’re finding this funny,’ came a mutter from the kitchen. ‘I’ve never felt so terrified.’

  Samson didn’t reply. Truth be told, he’d never felt less like laughing. In all the operations he’d run during his time undercover, he’d only ever had his own life on the line. Tonight he was risking that of a friend.

  He was every bit as nervous as Delilah.

  That white powder, so skilfully mixed into chocolate, was beginning to have an effect. Already he was feeling mellow, his limbs relaxing, his body slumped in his chair in the dark lounge. He hadn’t managed to get as far as a light. And now he couldn’t have got up if he had to. Not even if his life was in danger.

  He focused on the television, the pictures a blur, the sound distorted. If he’d been capable of coherent thought, he’d have known he was drunk. Or something close to it.

  Within an hour, he was unconscious.

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘Nothing. Not a peep since we saw her leave.’

  ‘No one approaching the front door?’

  ‘Nope. And before you ask, the camera in your dad’s window is working fine.’

  ‘How about the one in the foyer? Anything unusual?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  It was an hour and a half since Ana and Vicky had left Fellside Court, using the back door into the courtyard. Almost midnight. And nothing had happened.

  Samson paced impatiently across the small lounge. ‘Come on, Ana. It’s time to make a move.’

  ‘Perhaps we’ve got it all wrong?’

  ‘You mean she’s innocent?’