‘The same goes for the timer on Eric’s oxygen machine,’ said Edith. ‘It was Ana who organised our trip to Morecambe, leaving the field clear for the timer to be fitted. If anyone suspected Eric’s collapse was anything but natural, then the finger pointed at Ana.’
‘It was a brilliant plan,’ agreed Samson. ‘Ana was always going to get the blame.’
Arty looked mortified. ‘It nearly succeeded,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, Ana, for having ever doubted you.’
Ana smiled, a proper smile. ‘No need to apologise. Vicky fooled us all.’
‘Not you,’ Delilah said. ‘You saved Joseph’s life.’
The syringe. They’d found it under the armchair. And the bottle of whisky and the Rohypnol which had been intended to aid Joseph O’Brien on his way. When Ana had tried to rouse him, it was clear he’d been drugged. She’d also smelt the whisky on his breath, but that wasn’t something she’d shared with the others. Wasn’t something she planned on sharing, either. She was good at keeping secrets.
‘Any later and Dad would have been killed.’ Samson ran a hand over his face, shaken by the prospect. ‘I can never thank you enough.’
‘Actually,’ said Ana. ‘I think you can. I think all of you can.’ She looked around the table at the two sisters, Arty, Samson and Delilah. ‘I think you might know more about me than you’re letting on.’
Edith cleared her throat. ‘Well, we did come across a bit of information—’
‘You’re from Serbia,’ blurted Arty. ‘You lied to us.’
Samson reached into his pocket and placed the two passports on the table.
Ana blushed, a deep pink that seeped from her throat up over her cheeks. Her hands rose to cover her face. ‘I’m sorry. I did it for my son.’
‘You’re here illegally?’ asked Edith gently.
‘Yes. I didn’t have the required points to get a visa as a Serbian. So I borrowed my cousin’s passport.’
‘Anastasiya Stoyanova. She’s your cousin?’ Samson flicked to the photo of the young woman whose identity had been borrowed. ‘You look so alike.’
Ana nodded. ‘We’re like twins. Everyone says so. We’re both nurses, too. But Anastasiya was born in Bulgaria. Now they are in the EU, she has the right to work in the UK without a visa. As a Serbian, I don’t. So my aunt suggested I use Anastasiya’s passport.’ She dipped her head, ashamed. ‘It was easy. No one ever suspected. But living a lie has been terrible.’
‘Is that why you moved on from the other jobs in Manchester and Leeds?’
‘Yes. I didn’t try to work as a nurse. I thought there would be too much scrutiny of my background. So I applied for care work in retirement complexes, like this one. But I got too friendly with the residents in Manchester and slipped up.’ She pulled a face. ‘I had to leave in a hurry. Then in Leeds, I got nervous. There were other Bulgarians working for the same agency. They were curious about me. When I saw the job here advertised, it seemed perfect. In the countryside. Probably no one from Bulgaria or Serbia. I applied and when I got the position, I promised myself I wouldn’t get involved emotionally. I would keep myself apart and not risk being discovered.’
‘It’s harder than it seems, isn’t it?’ said Samson.
Ana smiled. ‘Impossible. The best part of my job is the people I care for. It’s been awful not allowing myself to interact with them properly.’
Arty leaned over and patted Ana’s arm. ‘Your secret is safe with us,’ he said.
But she was shaking her head. ‘No, I’m not asking you to lie for me. There’s been enough lying. I decided last week to go home. I handed in my resignation two days ago.’
‘You’re leaving us?’ asked Clarissa.
‘Yes. It’s ironic. If Vicky had waited, she could have had this job without resorting to such awful crimes.’
‘You don’t have to do this,’ protested Arty. ‘We won’t say a word.’
‘Thanks, Arty. But it’s not just about the lying. It’s my son, too. I miss him. I need to go home. And who knows, maybe I can come back in the future . . .’ She smiled, her eyes filled with devilment. ‘Hungary is offering passports to the descendants of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and my family are eligible. So I might come back as a Hungarian.’
Arty laughed. ‘We’d be happy to have you here,’ he said, a sentiment Edith and her sister endorsed with vigorous nods of the head.
‘Now, if you will excuse me, it’s time to go to bed.’ Ana stood. ‘Samson, if you would walk me to my car?’
‘Of course,’ he said getting to his feet.
Ana bid the group goodnight and followed him out into the corridor. When they reached the ground floor, she paused by the Christmas tree, a hand on his arm.
‘I haven’t been completely honest,’ she said with a small smile.
‘About where you’re living?’ Samson smiled back at her and tipped his head towards the guest suite next door to Rita Wilson’s empty flat.
She laughed. ‘How did you guess?’
‘Arty said something about you arriving on the scene really quickly the night Eric was taken ill, considering you’re supposed to live in Hellifield. I never thought anything of it until tonight. You appeared out of nowhere. Our cameras didn’t pick you up. And you’ve been prowling the corridors at all hours. Plus you get your son’s letters delivered here and you keep your passport in the office.’
‘You really are a good detective,’ she said, impressed. ‘No wonder Rick Procter is wary of you.’
Samson scowled at the man’s name. ‘He’s right to be.’
Ana nodded. ‘Yes. But be careful, Samson. He is not a man to cross. There is something . . .’ She struggled for the word. ‘Something of the devil about him.’
‘Thanks for the warning,’ he said. He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. ‘And thanks for saving my father’s life.’
‘His is a life worth saving,’ she said. ‘No matter what his history is.’ She turned to go and then paused, a cheeky smile cast over her shoulder. ‘Oh, and by the way,’ she said, with a wink, ‘I hear you’re supposed to be living in Hellifield, too? Just like me.’
Then Ana Stoyanovic walked down the corridor and let herself into the guest suite, leaving Samson thinking about his past. And his future.
26
For Christmas Day at two o’clock in the afternoon, Bruncliffe was unusually busy. Couples, dog-walkers and families were sauntering around the town, lingering to chat in the marketplace, making the most of the mild weather. Making the most of this perfect excuse to hear more about the news that had been rocking the town since the early hours of the morning.
Up on Crag Hill at the back of the town hall, Samson O’Brien was standing outside the brightly lit Spar – the only shop open that day – tapping his foot. With very little sleep in his system following the dramatic events at Fellside Court, and with little enthusiasm for what lay ahead, he wasn’t at his most patient.
‘Come on, Dad,’ he muttered. ‘Hurry up.’
‘Happy Christmas, Samson!’ A uniformed Constable Danny Bradley was walking up the hill towards him, hand already outstretched, a smile on his face. ‘I hear you had an eventful evening.’
‘That’s one way of putting it. You on duty?’
‘Just about to start. You’re the talk of the station,’ Danny said. ‘Sarge doesn’t know whether to curse you or praise you.’
Samson laughed. Sergeant Clayton wasn’t the most dynamic of policemen, and while he was no doubt basking in the reflected glory of having caught a dangerous criminal, he would be grousing at the amount of work the arrest would generate. Today of all days.’
‘Sorry,’ Samson said. ‘It wasn’t my plan to ruin anyone’s Christmas.’
‘Just the opposite,’ replied Danny, turning serious. ‘You prevented that woman from causing any more hurt. This is a day I won’t mind working if it helps put her away.’
‘How’s it looking? In terms of evidence?’
Danny grinned. ‘Good. We found a ti
mer at her flat like the one Ida Capstick saw. If we can get Grandad’s DNA off that, it’ll take some explaining. The blonde wig has proven a goldmine, too. Fibres off it at all the attack scenes and even in Arty’s flat. But the best news is we have a witness. Rita Wilson has regained consciousness and is ready to talk. I’m heading over to the hospital to take a statement.’
‘That is good news,’ said Samson with relief. ‘They wouldn’t let us see her when we picked Dad up this morning. I would never have forgiven myself if she hadn’t pulled through.’
‘Don’t go shouldering the blame,’ said Danny, with a maturity that belied his youth. ‘None of us suspected what was happening over there, and you put a stop to it in the end.’ He nodded towards the Spar where Joseph O’Brien was standing at the till, waiting to pay. ‘Your dad had a lucky escape.’
‘A bit too close for comfort,’ said Samson grimly. ‘But for Ana Stoyanova—’ He broke off as his father emerged from the shop, struck again by the depth of feeling that remained, despite the past. ‘At last,’ he grumbled, his look of affection at odds with his tone as Joseph approached. ‘Thought you were going to be in there all day. Delilah will be waiting for us.’
Joseph smiled, clutching a box of chocolates to his chest, his pallor telling the tale of the evening before. ‘We can’t turn up for dinner without something as a gift,’ he said. ‘Happy Christmas, Danny.’
‘Same to you, Mr O’Brien. Good to see you out of hospital.’
‘They couldn’t wait to get shot of him,’ muttered Samson. ‘He was flirting with all the nurses.’
‘Ignore him,’ said Joseph to the policeman. ‘He’s just jealous that he doesn’t have my natural charm. How’s Eric doing?’
‘Good, considering,’ said Danny. ‘We had to break the news about Vicky Hudson to him, which has shaken him up a bit. I think it was easier for him to blame himself for his accident than accept that he was a victim. Still, he’s talking about moving back to his flat in the New Year, so it hasn’t put him off being independent.’
‘Give him our best. And tell him we’re looking forward to him coming home.’
‘Will do. Have a lovely day, both of you.’
‘Oh, we will,’ said Joseph. ‘We most certainly will.’
Twenty minutes later, and Samson wasn’t sharing his father’s conviction about the day ahead. Already running late when they met up with Delilah, Arty and Tolpuddle under the Christmas tree in the marketplace, it had taken an age to get going. It seemed everyone was out for a walk in Bruncliffe that Christmas morning. And everyone wanted to talk about the happenings at Fellside Court.
Samson had let Arty take the stage, pleased to see the bookmaker back on form as he regaled his audience with the dramatic unmasking of Vicky Hudson. The news of Rita’s recovery had been warmly received and no one seemed in a hurry to move on. Apart from Delilah, who had become more and more agitated, checking the time repeatedly on her mobile, her jaw clenched.
She was tense. It had been apparent in her driving on the trip back from the hospital, Samson closing his eyes on more than one occasion as they hurtled along the narrow, wall-lined roads. And her mood wasn’t helping Samson any.
Christmas with the Metcalfes. While the offer had been a generous one, it wasn’t something he felt prepared for, not after the way Will had been treating him for the past few months. He’d already been wondering why he’d been crazy enough to accept. Now Delilah was showing signs of nerves, which meant she wasn’t sure about it either.
Samson was on the verge of concocting an excuse to back out when Delilah finally managed to extract Arty and Joseph from the crowd of well-wishers and steer them towards the office, where she’d parked the car. But then Arty spotted the two-door hatchback and her mood went from bad to worse.
‘You can’t be serious,’ he said, as Delilah opened the Micra. ‘We’re never all going to fit in that.’
Delilah glowered. ‘It’s either this or walk.’
‘Touchy subject,’ murmured Samson as he manoeuvred his bulk into the back seat, Tolpuddle insisting on following him. It left very little room for Arty.
‘Move up, you two,’ moaned the bookmaker as he wedged himself in. ‘And what the hell is that smell?’
‘Prize ram,’ said Samson, trying not to cough.
‘Are you sure you don’t want the front seat, son?’ asked Joseph, peering in the back at the three squashed shapes.
‘I’m certain,’ muttered Samson. ‘I’ve had enough of the front seat for one day.’
Joseph got in and Delilah had just started the engine when there was a rapping at the passenger window. Mrs Hargreaves, the butcher’s wife. In her arms was an extremely large plastic bag.
‘Happy Christmas, everyone,’ she said, stepping back slightly as Joseph opened the window and released the ovine odour. ‘I heard you were going up to Ellershaw for your meal. Thought you might like to take this. A little something for the table.’
She squeezed the present through the window, the smell of cooked ham pervading the car and mingling with the scent of sheep.
‘Thank you,’ said Samson, aware of how painful this Christmas must be for her and her husband, following the death of their son only a couple of months ago.
But she was frowning at the car. And the occupants – four adults, a large dog and a huge ham. ‘Are you sure that thing will make it up the hill?’ she asked. ‘Because I don’t think—’
‘Thanks for the ham, Mrs Hargreaves,’ Delilah muttered, before putting her foot on the accelerator and pulling away from the kerb. ‘And as for the rest of you,’ she said, voice glacial as they drove out of Bruncliffe and towards the fells, ‘next one to complain about the transport gets to walk home. That includes you, Tolpuddle.’
The dog wasn’t listening. He was too busy concentrating on the delicious smells seeping out of the parcel on Samson’s lap. And Samson was too busy worrying about sharing Christmas with the Metcalfes.
Delilah had never felt so nervous about Christmas. A mere twelve hours after she’d finally got to bed following the events at Fellside Court, she was pulling up outside the farmhouse and bracing herself for the biggest row her family had ever known.
‘And you’re certain this is okay with everyone?’ Samson was asking, clinging to the ham as he extricated himself from the back seat of the Micra, trying to wipe the worst of the dog drool off his jacket. Tolpuddle and Arty spilled out of the car after him. ‘I mean, three extra mouths to feed on Christmas Day. It’s very generous. Not to mention that your oldest brother hates my guts.’
‘Calm down, son,’ said Joseph. ‘Delilah wouldn’t have asked us if she hadn’t checked with her family first.’
Delilah took a deep breath, panic pushing against her chest at the thought of the Christmas dinner she had invited them all to the day before.
The Christmas dinner invitation that her mother, Peggy, knew nothing about.
The back door opened and Will strode out, Peggy Metcalfe a footstep behind him. Delilah felt her courage fail. This was going to be a disaster.
‘Mr O’Brien!’ Will was crossing the yard, face serious. Then his hand was stretching out and he was grasping Joseph in a firm handshake. ‘Welcome. We’re glad you could join us. You too, Mr Robinson. And you, Samson.’
Delilah managed to keep her jaw from dropping, aware of Samson’s surprised expression beside her.
‘Me too?’ Samson had the audacity to ask, as Peggy Metcalfe ushered the older men towards the farmhouse.
Will shot him a look with something that could be described as a smile. ‘You too. Rumour has it you cured Clive Knowles’ tup of infertility. A farmer would be daft to turn a man with those powers away from his table.’
Samson laughed and slapped Will on the back as a stunned Delilah followed them into the kitchen. Her mother was waiting for her inside the door.
‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t warn you.’
Peggy smiled. ‘Lucy told us what you’d done. Wh
at a lovely idea, Delilah. Sharing our Christmas dinner with Joseph and Arty is the least we could do after all they’ve been through.’ She drew her daughter into a hug. ‘I’m so proud of you. We all are.’
Delilah pulled back, tears threatening to overwhelm her. ‘I’ll set the table,’ she muttered, wiping her eyes on her sleeve and moving across to help Nathan put out the cutlery.
The room was full of people. Will was pouring drinks for the guests. His wife, Alison, was chatting to Delilah’s father. Lucy and Ash were over by the oven, talking about the last touches that needed doing to the barn, while preparing the turkey for carving. Delilah’s middle brothers, Craig and Chris, were playing cards with Will’s two young children. And Samson . . .
Where was Samson?
He was outside. His mobile phone was pressed to his ear, his back to the window, the ever-faithful Tolpuddle at his heels.
Work? On Christmas Day? Or was it her? The mysterious woman with the seductive voice.
A pang of loneliness pierced Delilah’s good humour. In the upheaval of the last few days, her concern about the future had been pushed aside. The sight of Samson and Tolpuddle together brought it all rushing back, the prospect of the year to come bleak in the knowledge that she could lose both of them.
Then Samson turned, the call ended and for a brief instant Delilah saw the fear on his face. Stark. Real.
It lasted seconds. Then he was crossing the yard and coming through the back door, a big smile as he joined them, the perfect guest.
Delilah realised she didn’t know Samson O’Brien at all. Which was a bit of a worry. Because she also realised that he had completely stolen her heart.
Acknowledgements
In a book bearing the title Date with Malice, I’m happy to report that my requests for assistance have been met with nothing but benevolence. I owe the following a pint of Black Sheep in The Fleece:
Firstly, a huge thanks to those who answered my tentative medical questions – both human and animal. None of them shied away from talking murder! To Grace Marshall, doctor-in-training, for fielding queries about COPD with a knowledge that bodes well for the future; Alison Slinn, old friend and brilliant resource, who not only responded to my queries but went even further to offer up other potential scenarios – love your curiosity, Alison!; Catherine Speakman of North West Equine Vets who gave me the okay to have Tolpuddle running again and also regales me with fascinating horse facts while out on our bikes.
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