Date with Death

by Julia Chapman

  Delilah lowered her gaze, a familiar panic clawing at her stomach. Debt. So much of it. It wasn’t what she’d envisioned when, newly married and deeply in love, she’d established a business with her husband. They’d timed it well. The internet was expanding rapidly, broadband allowing for larger and more elaborate websites, which were becoming essential for commerce. And Delilah, with her talent for coding, her passion for IT and several years in the industry, was perfectly poised to make the most of it. Add in a partner with a background in graphic design, and the future looked bright for Bruncliffe’s first website development company.

  It had been. They’d built up a solid client base and a great reputation. Then things had begun to fall apart. In the short space of a couple of years her brother Ryan had been killed in action, the business had been run into the ground by her husband while she was caught in the grip of grief and, finally, her marriage had collapsed, ironically just as she was getting the dating agency off the ground.

  Delilah had been stubborn at the end, refusing to accept that it was best to close the two companies she’d set up with her husband and walk away, just as he was doing from their relationship. But the thought of failing in both love and commerce had galled her. Equally, the idea of giving the town even more to talk about had filled her with horror. So she’d taken on the house with the mortgage and the business premises, requiring yet more outlay. She’d had the web design service and the Dales Dating Agency transferred to her name. And she’d been slowly heading for insolvency ever since.

  She stood to lose it all if she didn’t turn things around. Or, as the man across the desk was suggesting, cut her losses and focus on the venture that was more profitable. But something held her back. Some of it was pride – the fact that the dating agency had been her idea, established in the dark months before her marriage broke down, and her sole focus as her life fell apart. Yet underneath all that, she was convinced it would work, no matter what the locals said. Or the man opposite.

  ‘I know it doesn’t look good,’ she said, indicating the spreadsheet, which depicted a failing business in brutal rows and columns. ‘But some of it can be explained by the fact that I’ve introduced speed-dating sessions. It’s taken a bit of outlay to get them off the ground, but they’re becoming really popular and now I’ve even got people coming from as far as Reeth and Leyburn to take part. I’ve also got quite a few commissions for website designs coming in and I’ve rented out the ground-floor office, starting today. All I need is a little more time…’

  Norman Woolerton ran a hand across his balding head and sat back to take in the words he’d heard on countless occasions in this small office, with its view across the heart of Bruncliffe. That’s what they always thought, the failing entrepreneurs protesting that their product simply had to find the right niche; the farmers pinning everything on the next lambing season; the business start-ups willing to throw good money after bad. In his forty-plus years working in the only remaining bank in town, and even more so since the crash, he’d seen them all. And had to keep seeing them around the town for years afterwards, as they tried to reconstruct their lives post-bankruptcy. He was loath to let Ted Metcalfe’s daughter follow the same path – not after what the family had suffered in the last few years. On a more personal note, his wife was Ted’s cousin and he’d never hear the end of it if he let a relative slide into financial ruin.

  But … recently there had been a lot of ‘buts’. The blasted internet was the cause. While Norman could judge a traditional business by running an eye over the accounts, he’d found that his instincts, honed after years of living in the same place and understanding intricately the world of commerce in Bruncliffe and its surroundings, were less sure when it came to the internet. It opened up the world of trade beyond the fells and dales which he knew so well. And as for this business in particular …

  A dating agency. The town had been alight with speculation when it was announced. The sceptics had dismissed it as another gimmick from a woman who couldn’t settle down. The pragmatists had pointed to an internet already swollen with websites aimed at singles. While the more malicious had poked fun at the idea of Delilah Metcalfe being an advisor on love.

  The least likely person to be accused of being a romantic, she had a head filled with computer code, an outspoken manner as a result of being the youngest child with five older brothers, a painful disregard for sentimentality, and a right-hook that her oldest brother, Will, had passed on from his short-lived boxing career. But maybe she also had a head for business.

  The bank manager picked up the papers she’d produced for him and glanced at the numbers again. Sensing him wavering, Delilah leaned forward.

  ‘I can do this, Uncle Woolly,’ she said, her childhood name for the banker slipping out unchecked in her desperation to get his approval. ‘The website was set up specifically for farmers, but word has got out and I’m getting people from all over the Dales. People who have lived here all their lives but haven’t had a chance to meet someone. Or have, and it ended badly and now they want to try again. It’s aimed at Dales folk. People like me. I know them. And this business is made for them. It will succeed. If you could just see to—’

  He cut her off with a nod of his head. ‘Six months. I’ll allow you an extension on your overdraft for a further six months. But if in that time the business doesn’t show considerable improvement, then I’m sorry, but I’ll have to take the steps neither of us wants to happen.’

  She was around the big oak desk, which had been his bulwark against the borrowers of Bruncliffe for almost half a century, and a kiss was planted on his whiskered cheek before he could protest.

  ‘Thanks. You won’t regret this, I promise!’

  ‘Make sure I don’t,’ said the bank manager gruffly as he straightened his tie and fidgeted with the keyboard in front of him. ‘Now get on with you. I’ve got another meeting to get to.’

  Delilah gathered up her papers and was out of the door before he could change his mind. But her euphoria was short-lived. As she headed for home up the hill at the back of the town hall, she experienced a swell of trepidation for her future. She wasn’t to know that trouble was about to arrive from the past.

  * * *

  Derelict and abandoned. Scraps of machinery littering the yard. Slates slipped on the roof, paint peeling off the windows, a couple of broken panes. The chicken coop they’d made the year before she died nothing more than a jumble of rotting planks. And, encroaching on it all, the steep sides of the fells, plunging the small farmhouse into early shadow.

  He pulled off his helmet, dumped it next to his rucksack on the ground and approached the back porch, heart pounding in his chest. The last time he’d been here, things hadn’t gone so well.

  ‘Dad?’ He knocked and pushed at the same time, the door squeaking open to his touch, and he stepped into the kitchen. ‘Dad? You home?’

  Stupid question. Where else would the old man be?

  It took a few seconds for the smell to reach him. Mildew with a tinge of something else. Booze? A bark of laughter escaped his dry throat and he glanced around, taking in the bottles that covered the small worktop. The crushed empty cans on the table. And the sink. Full of pans and dishes, thick mould flourishing across them.

  It was bad. Worse than he’d anticipated.

  ‘Dad?’ he called again, the word coming back to him in an echo typical of an empty house as he stuck his head into the front room.

  Cobwebs and a thick layer of dust on every surface. His father’s chair, sagging and worn, cigarette burns dotting the arms. The colourful rag rug, where she used to curl up with him next to the fire in the winter, the big book of bible stories a heavy weight across her lap. The rug was falling apart, the fabric frayed, bald patches where his father’s feet had rested. He crossed to the dresser, pulled open the cupboards to reveal bare shelves where once the best china had been stacked. Likewise, the drawer which had been filled with Sheffield’s finest cutlery was empty, the felt tatty an
d blotched with age and covered in a scattering of mouse droppings.

  It was the same as when he’d left. Just dirtier.

  He turned to go and noticed the space on the mantelpiece. Her photo. Gone.

  ‘Dad? You here?’ he asked with less certainty as he headed for the stairs. He took them two at a time, nervous of what he’d find.

  Empty rooms. His own, smaller than he remembered. A musty duvet spread across the single bed, its faded pattern one he recognised. Nothing on the walls. He’d had no idols by then. Nothing to be proud of. A small collection of paperbacks. Crime mostly, which was ironic. And the rough-hewn desk he’d made in woodworking classes and had never used, academic study not fitting into his life on the farm.

  Chest constricting as the past crowded in on him, he gave a cursory glance through the open door of the bathroom, recoiling at the smell of collapsed drains, and entered the front bedroom. Bed unmade, a tangle of sheets and bedspread on the bare mattress. The wardrobe hanging open, half of it empty, hangers strewn across the floor. The other half still filled with her clothes. A couple of dresses. Blouses. A hat on the top shelf he could never remember her wearing. He reached out to let his fingers trail across the fabrics, pulling them back hastily at the damp they encountered.

  What the hell?

  It had never been this bad.

  A creak from below; the back door.

  In two quick strides he was across the room and heading down the stairs, angry. As angry as the day he’d left fourteen years ago.

  ‘Dad!’ he shouted. ‘What’s going on—?’

  A cold touch of metal on his chin pulled him up short on the bottom step. Just like the day he’d left, he was staring down the double barrel of a shotgun.

  3

  Four o’clock on the dot. Not a moment sooner. The tight bugger had made her hang around and fold napkins while the anxiety gnawed a hole in her stomach and Delilah’s phone remained unanswered. If she hadn’t needed the job, Elaine Bullock would have told Titch where to stuff it. But her part-time hours as a lecturer in geology weren’t enough to cover her living expenses and the field trips so essential to her work. Iceland last year. The Vosges Mountains the year before. And, if she got the money together, Monument Valley next September. So she’d bitten her tongue, got on with her work, and kept an eye on the clock. When the little hand reached the four, she’d flung down her apron and fled.

  Grabbing her bike from behind the cafe, she slipped her bag across her chest and started cycling. Downhill all the way to town and she wasn’t going to touch the brakes once. This was an emergency, after all.

  * * *

  ‘Easy!’ His hands rose into the air, the shotgun unwavering as it pressed against him. ‘It’s me.’

  A middle-aged man, eyes focused with a strange intensity, George Capstick hadn’t changed much. Although it was the first time he’d turned a gun on a neighbour.

  ‘It’s me, George.’

  ‘You’re back.’ Not a question. A statement. No surprise, either, because George didn’t like surprises.

  ‘I’m back.’ Still the gun remained prodding the soft underneath of his chin.

  George blinked slowly. Processing, that’s what Dad had called it. A lot of locals had a meaner way to describe it. ‘That’s your dad’s motorbike out there.’

  He nodded, no stranger to the odd slide of conversation. ‘He gave it to me.’

  A shake of the head. ‘You stole it. 1960 Royal Enfield Bullet 500. It’s your dad’s.’

  He didn’t argue. Wasn’t inclined to, when the weapon was still pointing at him. ‘I brought it back. So do you think you could lower the gun?’

  Another slow blink. ‘Can’t. You’re trespassing.’

  It was his turn to blink. ‘Trespassing? This is my home, George. Remember? Me and Dad live here.’

  George shook his head once more, the pressure on the gun intensifying. ‘Not your home any more. It’s Mr Procter’s home. And he pays me to guard it.’

  ‘Rick Procter? You mean…?’ He looked around. Empty. Not just for the day, but vacated. ‘He owns the farm? Since when?’

  George shrugged and stepped back, lowering the gun. ‘Sorry. You need to talk to your dad.’

  Anger shimmered through his veins. ‘I intend to. Once you tell me where I can find him.’

  * * *

  Down past the church, whipping past a turning car and bunny-hopping up onto the pavement, provoking disgruntled responses from a couple of pedestrians. She left the bike against the handrail, ran up the three steps into the cafe and collided straight into something solid.

  ‘Watch out!’ The stonemason, Rob Harrison, no less well built than his brother Titch, caught hold of Elaine as she bounced back off what the geologist could only term a corundum-like chest – corundum having a hardness rating of nine and being one of her favourite minerals – leaving her glasses askew and her head reeling. ‘Where’s the fire?’

  ‘Sorry, Rob. Emergency!’ She twisted out of his grasp and hurried towards the counter. ‘Lucy … Lucy!’

  Her cries brought the owner of Peaks Patisserie rushing out of the kitchen, flour all over her hands. ‘Elaine, whatever—?’

  ‘Delilah – I need to talk to her and she’s not answering her phone. Where is she?’

  Lucy Metcalfe glanced at her watch. ‘The bank, most likely. She had a meeting with—’

  The door crashed shut. Elaine Bullock was already gone, tearing across the marketplace on her bike and leaving the cafe owner and the stonemason to wonder what on earth was going on.

  * * *

  Two cushions torn to shreds. Her old running shoes, which she’d stupidly left in the rear porch with him, chewed and mauled. And paw prints all over the glass.

  A lot better than expected, thought Delilah, surveying the damage. Clipping a lead onto the culprit, she left the cottage by the back door, crossed the tiny yard that looked out from a height over the roofs of Bruncliffe, and turned right out of the gate onto Crag Lane to begin the walk back into town, Tolpuddle by her side.

  Separation anxiety was how the experts described it. The minute Delilah was out of sight, her dog went berserk. Which, if he were a poodle or a dachshund, might not be such a problem. But for Tolpuddle …

  She glanced down at the large grey dog walking happily next to her. He’d been fine at first, fitting into their lives without a problem. But when the arguments started, closely followed by the break-up and then the divorce, Tolpuddle had begun to show signs of stress whenever Delilah wasn’t around. Which was why she’d nipped home to pick him up before going to meet her new tenant. It was either that or come home to bedlam.

  She sighed. A small cottage heavily mortgaged, a business premises also mortgaged, a struggling website design business and a dating agency yet to find its legs. Plus a Weimaraner with anxiety issues – albeit the only good thing to come out of her divorce. No wonder Uncle Woolly had reservations about her future. No wonder she was finding it harder and harder to smile these days.

  The dog leaned against her, as if sensing her unease.

  ‘We’ll sort it, eh, you daft dog.’ She scratched his head and hoped she was right. At least, with someone renting the ground-floor office at long last, there would be a bit of guaranteed money coming in. It wouldn’t cover the mortgage, but it would be a start.

  With a lighter step, Delilah Metcalfe continued along the lane, the outcrop of rock which gave it its name looming over her on the left, a view out across the town on her right. She loved living up here, above it all. Even if the walk home was an effort sometimes, particularly after a visit to the pub. Not that she went out drinking much now – a lack of money and a sensitive dog being effective deterrents.

  Feeling her thoughts sliding back into despair as she approached the steep drop down Crag Hill to the marketplace, she decided to continue along the higher road a bit further before descending. It would give her more time in the last of the sunshine and she was glad of the warmth on her face.

&nbs
p; ‘We’ll sort it,’ she said again. This time with more confidence.

  * * *

  ‘She’s not here, love.’ Mrs Pettiford gestured towards the empty office at the back of the bank, before turning to the flushed face that was breathing heavily all over the partition.

  ‘What time did she leave?’

  ‘Oh, it must have been at least thirty minutes ago. She was heading home,’ added Mrs Pettiford, noting the hot hands now splayed on the glass.

  ‘Thanks, Mrs P,’ Elaine Bullock hurried back out of the door.

  ‘I hope you catch her,’ Mrs Pettiford called after the retreating figure, who was already out of the door and on her bike, cycling away. ‘And I hope I’m not here when Ida Capstick sees what a mess you made of the glass,’ she said to the empty space before her.

  With that in mind, Mrs Pettiford started clearing her desk. It wouldn’t be long before the formidable cleaner arrived.

  * * *

  Homeless. He raced faster than was sensible across the rough track, bike jerking and bucking beneath him as he headed for the road. How the hell was he homeless?

  George Capstick had watched him carefully across the yard, the gun trained on him the entire time. Then he’d apologised once more, a hint of tears in his eyes as he’d stood aside to let him go.

  He bore George no malice. The man had done more than enough for Twistleton Farm and its occupants in the last twenty-six years, working alongside a boy out with the sheep during the day and then helping put a drunken wastrel to bed every night. All for a pittance, often nothing more than a cobbled-together meal and a cheap beer – there’d always been plenty of beer.

  George Capstick owed him nothing.

  Tarmac sighed under his wheels. He revved the engine and roared back down Thorpdale. He’d been made homeless twice in one week. He had precious little money. And he was facing dismissal and criminal prosecution.