Feeling even more like the black sheep of Bruncliffe than he had when he left, he raced towards the town. He had an appointment to keep.
* * *
‘Delilah?’ Elaine Bullock hammered on the back door of the cottage perched on the hill above the town. But she knew she was out of luck. Tolpuddle’s lead wasn’t hanging on its hook in the porch. And if Tolpuddle was out, so was Delilah.
Muttering curses, Elaine hurried back to her bike, her bad temper momentarily alleviated by the sight of the low sun burnishing the rock face overhanging the narrow lane. Limestone. Her favourite of all rock types. Although the red siltstone of Monument Valley had to be up there. Along with the glassy-black depths of obsidian. Which technically wasn’t a rock, but was too beautiful to be argued over. Then of course there was bog iron, its name alone making it a contender. And serpentinite, she ought to consider that—
‘Afternoon.’ A passing jogger disturbed her geological daydreams.
‘Afternoon.’ Elaine raised a hand in greeting and, in doing so, saw her watch. She’d just spent several minutes with her head in the clouds. Or rather, the ground, given that she’d been thinking about rocks. She was never going to find Delilah in time at this rate.
With a tut of reproach for herself, Elaine Bullock cycled back the way she’d come, her mind still so full of minerals that she failed to register the flash of red as a motorbike roared past on the road below. Reaching the junction at the bottom of Crag Hill, she paused. Where next? She thought for a moment and then turned, unheedingly, in the wake of the motorbike towards Back Street.
There was only one place left that Delilah was likely to be.
* * *
‘I’ve never seen owt like it.’
‘Daft, is what it is.’
‘Perhaps there’s more to it than we know?’
‘Don’t see how that’s likely.’
Soaking up the conversation from the large group that had gathered at the windows, Troy Murgatroyd pulled another pint, face as sombre as the decor of his bar. But on the inside he was smiling.
A funeral. And then something out of the ordinary, right outside the pub. There could be nothing better for business than this coming together of two such occurrences – the former bringing the people in to seek solace, the latter keeping them entertained and on-site, once the beer had helped restore their downcast spirits.
‘What time’s Delilah due down, Ash?’ Seth Thistlethwaite asked the Metcalfe brother next to him, who was also keeping watch at the window.
‘Any moment now. Here’s the new bloke from Taylor’s.’ Ash nodded towards a bright-orange Mini which had pulled up outside, emblazoned with the slogan ‘Taylor-Made Homes’. A young man in a crumpled suit, the cuffs and ankles some inches short of the end of his limbs, was getting out, a folder clutched business-like under his arm.
A buzz of anticipation went through the spectators as the estate agent crossed to the building that was under such scrutiny, selected a key from a large collection and let himself into the ground-floor office, unaware of the crowd opposite. Or the reason for their interest.
The throb of a motorcycle came next, cutting to silence as it parked behind the Mini.
‘Oh, Christ!’ muttered Seth, before taking a long drink from his pint.
‘What?’ Ash glanced at the old man and then back at the motorbike and the man getting off it. ‘Do you know him?’
Seth didn’t reply, just watched as the man strode towards the open door where the estate agent was waiting. How they didn’t recognise the bike, Seth didn’t know. That flash of scarlet. The chrome. It was so distinctive.
But then they were too busy watching the man who was now easing off his helmet, rucksack slung over one arm, his back turning to the onlookers as he approached the estate agent in the doorway. A mass of black hair touching broad shoulders. Lean body. Still they didn’t realise. Seth cast a sideways glance at Will Metcalfe, who was as oblivious as the others. There was going to be trouble. Once they cottoned on.
* * *
Perfect timing. Delilah had extended her walk by taking the furthest of the two sets of steep stone steps that led down from Crag Lane to Back Street and it had brought her out just beyond the antique shop, with a couple of minutes to spare. Turning right, back towards town, she could see Stuart from Taylor’s already leading someone into the office. She picked up her pace. Things were going to be okay.
* * *
‘… So I trust it’s to your liking?’ Stuart Lister smiled, trying to hide the nerves that his shaking hand betrayed as he rifled through his folder for the paperwork. He was also trying not to stare at the various shades of black and blue on his client’s cheek.
This was the first step in his new life in this town, his first transaction for Taylor’s, all conducted over the internet in the space of twenty-four hours with a client who had never seen the premises but was in a hurry. Hoping the deal wouldn’t fall through now that the man could see the office in person, the trainee estate agent pulled out the relevant papers and reached in his pocket for a pen.
‘It’s fine,’ said the man, propping his rucksack against the battered filing cabinet as he took in the red-flocked wallpaper, the coffee-stained desk, the two rickety chairs and the peeling lino flooring with a wry smile. ‘Just what I need.’
‘Wonderful, wonderful. And I organised the sign-writer as you requested—’ Stuart came to a halt, hand held out to indicate the results of his efforts. Because opposite, in the twin windows of the pub, a host of faces were peering out, staring at … what were they staring at?
His attention was drawn to the arrival of a woman and a grey dog.
‘Ah, your landlady is here. Shall we…?’
He gestured for the man to precede him and they headed for the door.
* * *
Delilah was almost at her office when she noticed. She froze, jerking Tolpuddle to a halt as his lead tightened.
Was it a joke?
She stared at the ground-floor window, gold lettering splashed across the glass. It couldn’t be right. There’d been a mistake.
She looked up at the floor above. Older lettering, faded and slightly tatty, there for a few years now – three letters to indicate her business.
D D A
Dales Dating Agency.
She lowered her gaze back down. Three letters, freshly affixed, to indicate goodness knows what.
D D A
Then she felt the eyes on the nape of her neck. The pub, full of people, all of them watching to see her reaction. She turned back to the offending window and felt her blood fizz. Two businesses with the same initials. It was bloody ridiculous. She’d throttle whoever had authorised this without her permission. Seeing a figure materialise in the open doorway, she began to cross the road.
* * *
Elaine spotted her quarry as soon as she turned down Back Street. She didn’t notice the Mini or the motorbike or the crowd of faces peering out of the pub windows. Or even the windows with the duplicate signs. She simply raised a hand off the handlebars and waved frantically at the figure crossing the road.
‘Delilah!’ she shouted. ‘Delilah! He’s back!’
* * *
They heard the shout in the pub. The Bullock lass calling out something about someone being back. But they were too preoccupied with the drama unfolding in front of them. Delilah had seen the sign. And her fists had clenched and her shoulders had tensed in a way Bruncliffe locals recognised.
‘Wouldn’t want to be that young lad right now!’
‘Or the new tenant…’
‘You not watching, Seth?’ asked Ash, as the old man eased to the back of the crowd.
A shake of the head was the only reply. Seth Thistlethwaite had no desire to watch. Because he knew what was coming. And he knew there was no way to stop it.
‘Look, look – they’re coming out,’ said Harry Furness, his auctioneer’s voice carrying across the room. Then there was silence. Stunned.
‘It
’s…’
‘That’s…’
‘I’ll bloody kill him!’ Will Metcalfe dropped his pint and rushed for the door as mayhem erupted amongst the onlookers.
* * *
He’d noticed the faces in the pub. Deliberately kept his helmet on and his back to them as he walked up to the estate agent. But now there was no avoiding it. With an ironic smile for his audience, he stepped out onto the pavement and then he saw her. Delilah Metcalfe, no longer a scrawny teen but now a young woman, a large grey dog next to her. His smile became genuine as she stepped towards him. She was probably the only person in Bruncliffe he’d been looking forward to seeing.
His years of training should have alerted him. The furious expression that flickered into shock. The tension in her shoulders. The balled hands. But at that moment the pub door flew open and Will Metcalfe tumbled into the street, his brother Ash and chubby Harry Furness doing their best to restrain the much stronger man.
‘I’ll kill him!’ he heard Will roaring, the pub dwellers spilling out raucously behind, the large grey dog beginning to bark, Elaine Bullock jumping off a bike and grabbing the arm of the enraged farmer …
He turned back to Delilah just in time to see the blur of a fist flying in his direction.
‘You!’ she yelled, as her famous Metcalfe right hook connected with his chin and sent him sprawling into a heap on the ground.
‘Welcome home, Samson, lad,’ muttered Seth Thistlethwaite into his pint in the now-empty bar. ‘Welcome home.’
4
The cold slobber of reality brought Samson O’Brien to. A tongue, rough, wet, rasping the length of his face. His eyes opened to a grey shadow looming over him.
‘Tolpuddle, that’s enough,’ snapped a female voice.
Samson’s focus swung onto the blurry figure of Delilah Metcalfe tugging at the dog’s collar, trying to pull him away, the dog resisting.
‘Yeah, Tolpuddle, cut it out. You don’t know where he’s been.’
The retort provoked laughter, its instigator slouched against the pub doorway, pint in hand. Rick Procter, a half-smile gracing his handsome features, stared at the man slumped on the pavement opposite.
‘Tolpuddle, eh?’ managed Samson, his hand coming up to the large grey head, fingers scratching behind the ears. The licking stopped, replaced by an ecstatic panting, bellows of hot dog breath fanning the last of the dizziness away. Resting lightly on the dog, the only sentient being showing him any kind of favourable reception, Samson got slowly to his feet as the hostile crowd watched on.
‘I see you’ve still got the right hook, Delilah,’ he muttered, concentrating solely on her as his blurred vision cleared.
‘And you’ve still got a glass chin,’ she spat back.
He grinned at the typical riposte, felt a twinge of pain shoot up his face from injuries old and new and let the grin subside. ‘Didn’t realise Bruncliffe had abandoned the handshake as a form of greeting.’
‘We save that for those who are welcome round here,’ said Rick.
‘And you’re not one of them, O’Brien,’ growled Will Metcalfe, Elaine Bullock still holding onto his arm.
One eye on the burly farmer, Samson raised fingers to his tender chin. ‘So I gather.’
‘It’s probably best if you just head home, Samson.’ There was a hint of apology in Ash Metcalfe’s suggestion as he stood to one side. ‘Best for everyone.’
A grumble of consent came from the onlookers and Samson could almost feel the wave of belligerence that carried it. He was outnumbered. Not for the first time. If this was an undercover operation, he’d be considering his escape route, looking for a rapid exit and praying to get out in one piece. But these were Dales folk, his friends and neighbours. Former friends and neighbours, if the current mood was anything to go by. So how to deal with it?
As he had nowhere else to go, he didn’t have an option.
‘Problem is,’ he said, arms folding across his chest, ‘this is my home.’
‘Since when?’ Will took a step forward, dragging a protesting Elaine with him. ‘You left this place over a decade ago and never looked back, leaving the rest of us to clear up after you. You can damn well do the same today.’
‘Sorry. Not possible. I’ve moved back and I’m setting up business here.’ Samson gestured towards the window behind him. The window with the bright new lettering.
‘You mean…?’ Delilah looked from Samson to the young estate agent, Stuart, who was shuffling nervously in the doorway of her building. ‘This is my new tenant?’
Stuart gulped, his Adam’s apple tracing a sharp line up and down his thin neck as Delilah’s anger shifted in his direction. ‘Mr O’Brien … yes … he’s rented—’
‘O’Brien! The clue’s in the name, you halfwit! You should have known I would never rent to him.’
The young man gulped again. ‘Sorry … I didn’t comprehend … you didn’t say…’
‘Let him be, Delilah,’ came an older, calmer voice from the pub doorway. Seth Thistlethwaite stood surveying the scene, a bit more grizzled than at the disastrous christening fourteen years ago when Samson had last seen him. The old man’s head dipped in a muted greeting before his attention passed back to Delilah.
‘How was the lad to know?’ he continued. ‘He’s from Skipton.’
Samson’s lips tweaked into a grin, despite his aching jaw. Only in Bruncliffe could a place a mere thirty minutes’ drive away be considered an entire universe apart when it came to local politics. The lad was now nodding in terrified agreement, willing to sacrifice himself on the altar of ignorance if it meant deflecting the wrath of the woman before him.
‘Yes, yes … precisely. Besides,’ Stuart mumbled, fumbling at the folder he was holding, ‘it was rented under a different name.’
‘He’s right.’ Samson was openly smiling now as the hapless estate-agent-in-training held out a quivering piece of paper towards his seething client. ‘I used the company name on the paperwork.’
‘I don’t care what you used,’ snapped Delilah, ‘we have no agreement.’
‘But … but … you’ve signed the contract,’ stuttered Stuart, that very document now in his trembling hand.
‘Sod the contract!’ Delilah snatched the offending piece of paper and tore it in two. ‘I am not having this man renting my office.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Seth Thistlethwaite, with a nod towards the curious faces that were crowding the narrow backstreet, ‘you would be better off finishing this discussion inside? Unless you want Bruncliffe to know all your business, Delilah?’
Delilah Metcalfe turned to see a host of people behind her, some with hair in rollers from the salon next door, others spilling out of the antique shop or drawn down the road from the hardware store by the noise. Neighbours. Friends. All of them known to her. And all watching with interest as she provided the headlines for the Bruncliffe news. Her cheeks went crimson.
‘Inside,’ she hissed to the estate agent, tipping her head towards the office before turning to Samson. ‘And you! But don’t expect to be staying long.’
And to the dismay of those gathered outside, Delilah Metcalfe ushered Samson O’Brien, the terrified young man from Skipton and her dog, Tolpuddle, into the disputed office space and firmly closed the door.
* * *
‘If only she’d answered her phone, all this could have been avoided,’ bemoaned Elaine Bullock, ensconced at the bar of the Fleece, where most of the onlookers had repaired once the drama outside had been concluded. Much to Troy Murgatroyd’s delight.
‘Avoided? Where’d be the fun in that? I was hoping she was going to hit him again,’ laughed Harry Furness.
‘She might have to join the queue,’ said Ash. ‘Did you see those bruises? Delilah wasn’t the first to take a swing at him this week.’
Eyes on the office window across the road, beyond which three figures could be seen, Will Metcalfe grunted, anger still simmering on his ruddy features. ‘Probably nothing less than he deserved.�
��
‘Huh! All seemed a bit harsh, if you ask me.’ Seth thumped his empty glass on the counter, eyebrows beetled into one harsh line of disapproval.
‘Good job no one’s asking then, eh, Seth?’ responded Rick Procter. ‘Because you’re in the minority. Folk round here know exactly what O’Brien is. And they’ll be slow to forgive the way he’s treated people in this town. His own father, for Christ’s sake!’
Ash nodded. ‘It’s true, Seth. He walked out on his dad, left the farm in a mess. And our Ryan would be turning in his grave if he knew how Samson had treated Lucy. He didn’t even come back for the bloody funeral.’
Seth bit his tongue – not an easy task for a veteran Dalesman used to venting his opinions. But this was tricky. Whereas it could be argued that the young Samson had had no choice but to leave a failing farm caught in the ravages of foot-and-mouth, and with a drunkard at the helm boozing away whatever meagre profits came in, it had to be acknowledged that the Metcalfes had every right to feel aggrieved with him. Best man at his best friend’s wedding, godfather to the same man’s son, yet when Ryan Metcalfe, the friend in question, had been killed in action in Afghanistan two years ago, not a word had been heard from Samson O’Brien. Until now.
‘I still think we ought to cut him some slack,’ he muttered.
Rick Procter let out a disparaging snort. ‘He’s a reprobate, Seth, and you know it. He left here under a black cloud and, from what I hear, he’s back under another.’
The property developer’s words caught the attention of the pub. ‘What do you mean?’ asked Will, dragging his gaze from the window across the road.
‘Rumour has it he’s been suspended.’
‘From the force?’
Rick nodded. ‘Gross misconduct. There’s likely to be a criminal investigation.’
‘Come on, Rick, you’re making this up,’ said Elaine. ‘Samson has his faults, but I can’t see him as a bent copper.’
‘I’m just reporting what I’ve heard.’ He shrugged. ‘Personally, I’d believe every word of it.’
‘That’s hardly an endorsement,’ said Seth dryly. ‘And as we’ve yet to hear his side of the story, I still maintain it’s not right treating a man like that when he comes home.’
Date with Death Page 4
