Date with Death

by Julia Chapman

  ‘You’re forgetting, he doesn’t have a home here any more.’ Rick Procter stared down at the old man, a smug glint in his eye. ‘Old Boozy sold it.’

  Seth shot him a look of distaste. ‘Aye, a nice piece of business that was, too. You should be proud of yourself. Negotiating such a good deal with an alcoholic.’

  Rick bristled, broad shoulders pushed back as he leaned towards the retired teacher. ‘I am proud of it. Old Boozy was rotting away on that crappy farm, not able to afford to get the help he needed. At least he’s getting support now. Not that his son cares.’

  ‘Easy, easy…’ Harry Furness placed a hand on the tensed arm of the property developer. ‘No point in us all falling out over this. How about another pint? Eh, Seth?’

  Troy Murgatroyd moved over to the Black Sheep pump in anticipation, never knowing Seth Thistlethwaite turn down a free beer. But his hand stalled in mid-air as the old man stood up off his stool, his head shaking furiously.

  ‘I’d rather take a sup with the devil,’ he snarled as he brushed past the property developer and headed for the exit. ‘Happen as he’d have more morals!’

  The door slammed in his wake, leaving a hiccup of silence before Rick’s booming voice smothered it. ‘If that pint’s still on offer, Harry…’

  Laughter filled the bar as the auctioneer pulled a face and reached reluctantly into his pocket.

  Elaine leaned towards Ash, her gaze on Rick who was now holding court, telling some ribald rugby tale. ‘Do you think there’s any truth in what he said?’

  ‘About the dismissal?’ Ash gave a soft laugh. ‘You know Samson. He’s capable of all sorts.’

  ‘But corruption?’

  Ash grimaced. ‘Once upon a time I’d have said no way. Now…? Who knows? He’s been gone a long time.’

  He stared across the road at the bright lettering covering the glass, and then at the fierce profile of his brother, who had maintained his position by the pub window, pint held in a tight grip. ‘Either way, Samson’s not welcome. I can’t see this ending well.’

  * * *

  While Ash Metcalfe was making his dire predictions, in the ground-floor office of the Dales Dating Agency things were getting heated. And Stuart Lister was beginning to reassess his capability to be an estate agent. Or a peacemaker.

  ‘Perhaps … perhaps we could try to resolve this without … without any further animosity…?’ he stuttered as his two clients faced each other, one like a cat about to strike, the other with a disdaining demeanour that poured more fuel on the fire, while the massive grey dog turned restless circles between them.

  ‘How’s the hand, Delilah?’ The sardonic question from the man lounging on the window seat prompted a feral growl.

  ‘Fine,’ came the retort, the scarlet welt along her knuckles telling a different story. ‘Better than your chin, I’ll bet.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure. I’ve taken harder shots. This week, in fact.’ He pointed at his discoloured cheek.

  ‘All merited, no doubt.’

  He grinned. ‘Probably. But none of them from someone as attractive.’

  She growled again, the dog beginning to whimper in response.

  ‘Here, Tolpuddle.’ Samson held out a hand and the dog responded, settling by his side, large head leaning against Samson’s thigh as mournful eyes regarded his mistress.

  Delilah’s lips thinned into a narrow line. ‘I can’t believe you had the audacity to come back. And to do it in such an underhand manner, not even using your real name on the contract.’

  He shrugged, still fondling the dog’s ears. ‘I didn’t think I’d be welcome. Not with the way I left.’

  ‘Yes, not your finest hour. Fighting with your own father at Nathan’s christening. It was low, even by your standards.’

  ‘Is that why you hit me?’

  ‘No,’ snapped Delilah. ‘I hit you so Will wouldn’t!’

  Samson laughed. ‘You haven’t changed a bit.’

  ‘What the hell would you know? You haven’t been here. You couldn’t even be bothered to make it back for—’ She faltered, then blinked furiously, face turned away.

  ‘Make it back for what?’ he asked, tone softer, sensing the change in her.

  ‘You know bloody well for what!’ She whipped back to confront him. ‘Ryan’s funeral.’

  His hand froze on the dog’s head and his eyes dropped to the floor.

  ‘No answer? No futile excuse? How typically O’Brien,’ she goaded. ‘Your best friend dies in the line of duty in Afghanistan and you leave Lucy to cope alone – not a single bit of contact. Not even with your godson.’

  He made no reply, just stared at the ground, face blank.

  A heartbeat passed before Delilah wheeled on Stuart, standing in the corner, folder clutched to his chest like armour. ‘The contract is cancelled,’ she snapped. ‘Do what you have to do to sort it out.’

  Stuart Lister felt his spirits sink. He’d had an inkling things weren’t right when Miss Metcalfe had decked her prospective tenant. Though he hadn’t been long in the business, he suspected it wasn’t the norm – even in Bruncliffe. But now, with her eyes flashing and her fists clenching once more, he knew his first deal for Taylor’s estate agents was about to amount to nothing.

  ‘Of course…’ he managed. ‘I’ll just need your signature to authorise the bank transfer.’

  ‘What transfer?’

  ‘The first month’s rent. It was paid in today. Under the circumstances … it has to be returned…’ Stuart stumbled to a halt under the ferocity of her gaze.

  ‘You mean that money is already in my bank account?’ Delilah asked.

  He nodded. She turned away, bottom lip caught between her teeth, and he noted the pallor replacing the flush of anger. She paced over to the window, then back to the desk, the dog letting out soft sounds of anxiety as he tracked her restless movements. Then she crossed to the window once more, slapped her hands on the glass and stared at the vibrant letters spaced across it. Her shoulders lifted and she took a deep breath, as though coming to some momentous decision.

  ‘What does DDA stand for anyway?’ she asked, nodding at the lettering, her tone still clipped but the venom gone.

  ‘Dales Detective Agency,’ said Samson. ‘Catchy, don’t you think?’

  ‘A detective agency? Here? You must be mad. Who needs a detective in this place?’

  ‘You’d be surprised.’

  ‘I would! But as a landlady, I don’t want surprises. I want regular payment from a reliable tenant.’

  ‘Would six months’ payment up front be reliable enough?’ Samson was watching her now, smiling again.

  The estate agent held his breath, unsure what had caused the sea change, but sensing a breakthrough nevertheless.

  She shrugged. ‘Possibly. But there’s still a problem.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘The initials. In case you haven’t noticed, they’re already taken.’

  ‘By?’

  ‘The Dales Dating Agency.’

  A roar of laughter escaped from Samson’s throat, making the dog jump. ‘A dating agency? In Bruncliffe? Who the hell had that half-arsed—?’

  ‘So,’ said Stuart, leaping into the gulf that was about to rip his tentative deal apart. ‘Perhaps I could get you both to sign a new contract to reflect this generous offer from Mr O’Brien? Six months’ rental up front…’

  He let it dangle there, a much wiser negotiator than he gave himself credit for as, unbeknownst to him, Miss Metcalfe struggled between pride and desperation.

  ‘Yes,’ she finally snapped. ‘But one more condition. A six-month lease only. I doubt the Dales Detective Agency will still be in business after that.’

  Stuart immediately had his folder open, rifling through the pages for a blank contract before either client changed their mind. Samson meanwhile was standing up, a grin across his face as he held out a hand.

  ‘You won’t regret it,’ he said.

  ‘I’m regretting it already
,’ retorted Delilah, ignoring the hand and grabbing hold of Tolpuddle’s collar instead, pulling the disloyal dog over to her side. ‘But I will take great delight in watching you fail. Because no one around here needs a detective.’

  A doorbell sounded and Samson, closest to the door, headed into the hall. A soft murmur of voices and then he was guiding a statuesque woman dressed from head to toe in black into the room.

  ‘Mrs Hargreaves!’ Delilah crossed to the bereaved mother, anger instantly forgotten in the face of such blatant grief. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

  The butcher’s wife, fresh from burying her only son, held out the local paper and pointed a shaking finger at the classifieds. ‘The detective agency … Is it open?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Samson. ‘It is. And I’m at your service.’

  She nodded, tears beginning to spill over her lower eyelids. ‘Good. I need your help. I think our Richard was murdered.’

  5

  ‘Tea?’ Delilah slammed the teapot back onto the counter and added milk to three mugs. ‘Could I make tea? Who the hell does he think I am? His bloody secretary or something?’

  She reached into the cupboard above the sink for the biscuit tin, still ranting.

  ‘And that smile! As if that makes any difference to the fact that he’s bossing me around. In my own building!’

  Lips in a tight line, face thunderous, she opened the tin and shook a generous helping of chocolate digestives onto a plate. She would have used the stale ones that she’d left open by mistake, but her sympathy for the bereaved Mrs Hargreaves called upon her Bruncliffe hospitality. Placing the lot on a tray, she remembered the sugar.

  ‘“Two spoons, please,”’ she mimicked, hand stretching for the sugar bowl. Then she paused, a wicked smile replacing the glower.

  Sod the sugar. He could take it as it came. Strong and milky.

  Reaching into the cupboard one last time, she added a couple of treats for Tolpuddle. Not that the faithless hound deserved any spoiling. The way he’d carried on when they’d entered the office, sitting at Samson’s feet, fawning on him …

  A wave of annoyance washed over her again. What a bloody mess!

  She crossed to the window of the kitchen up on the first floor. Looking out between the D and the A of the initials spanning the width of the glass – the same initials that were now ridiculously mirrored in the window below – she could see her brothers standing guard in the pub.

  Her heart sank. They’d be so disappointed in her. In her utter capitulation. But what choice did she have?

  Bloody mess was right. She wanted to be able to send Samson packing, his behaviour fourteen years ago at her nephew Nathan’s christening reason enough. Even thinking about it made her grimace. Everyone trying to be upbeat for the sake of Ryan and Lucy, but in a rural gathering in May of 2001, the spectre of foot-and-mouth and financial ruin was hanging over them all. Not to mention the acrid stench of burning carcasses.

  No wonder things had been tense. But there was no excuse for how Samson had behaved at the christening party; attacking his father in the marquee at the rugby club, knocking over a couple of tables and sending people flying. It was Ryan and Will who’d managed to separate the two men, Will taking a drunk and dazed Mr O’Brien home, while Samson stormed off.

  Whatever the reason had been for his outburst, they’d never found out. Word came the following day that Samson was gone. As was his father’s motorbike. Until today, they hadn’t seen or heard from him since.

  Although they’d heard of him, thanks to Seth Thistlethwaite. Seth’s brother, a police officer in Leeds, had come across the Bruncliffe exile working in a pub and persuaded him to apply for a place with the West Yorkshire force. According to Seth’s reports, delivered regularly in the Fleece, Samson had excelled in training – much to the surprise of almost everyone in Bruncliffe – and, after spending a couple of years as a constable in Leeds, had had a fast-track promotion to the Met down in London. Something to do with an undercover drugs operation. That was the last they’d heard, and that was more than a decade ago.

  In the meantime, Samson’s father had continued to drink, until the sight of Mr O’Brien staggering out of the Fleece became commonplace. When he’d finally lost his licence for drink-driving, he’d taken to drinking at home. It had been Ida Capstick, his only neighbour, who’d called the ambulance when she found him collapsed in the kitchen. He’d gone into hospital and Rick Procter stepped forward to help, offering to buy the derelict farm and set Mr O’Brien up elsewhere.

  And where had Samson been all this time? Not in Bruncliffe, that was for sure. Add to that his lack of contact when Ryan was killed and it was no wonder people around here wanted nothing to do with him. Especially her brothers. The man was amoral and totally selfish; not traits the Metcalfes identified with. Or tolerated. But …

  Her thoughts returned to her predicament. Those bills. The overdraft. The mortgages that needed to be paid. And the determining factor – the rent that had already been deposited in her account and which Woolly, the bank manager, would have taken into consideration when he made his damning assessment of her finances.

  If she gave it back, he’d have her in his office in a flash and would no doubt withdraw his reluctant offer of a six-month extension of her current banking arrangements. Which would mean the end of her business. Possibly even bankruptcy.

  So here she was. Making tea for the man downstairs who was now her tenant, the young estate agent having proved remarkably efficient once it came to drawing up a new contract and making sure it was signed by both of them before he left.

  She sighed, the window misting up before her. She really wasn’t looking forward to breaking the news to her family over Sunday lunch in three days’ time. Not that she’d have to break it. This being Bruncliffe, word would fly over the hills and up the dale, and the Metcalfe clan would know all about her treachery before nightfall. And as for Mrs Hargreaves’ visit …

  Delilah had been trying not to think about it. Richard’s mother sitting in Samson’s office and declaring that her son had been murdered. That particular snippet of information would be all over the place before Mrs Hargreaves even left the building. If it wasn’t already. And how long until someone – Samson, most likely – connected the dots and discovered that Richard wasn’t the only Dales Dating Agency client to have died recently?

  The investigation could bring nothing but bad publicity for the business.

  Feeling instantly ashamed of her selfish preoccupations when there was a grieving mother downstairs, Delilah reached for the tray and left the kitchen.

  It would turn out to be a coincidence, she reassured herself as she walked along the landing. The link between the two deaths nothing more than bad timing, and Richard’s demise nothing more than a cry for help that had come too late. After all, this was Bruncliffe. Murders never happened here. In the meantime, she would keep a close eye on Samson’s investigations.

  She halted at her office door, spying the notepad and pen lying on the desk.

  If he was going to treat her like a secretary, she would behave like one. And get as much information as she could, in the process.

  * * *

  ‘And you’ve been to the police?’

  Mrs Hargreaves nodded, a balled-up tissue pressed against her lips as though that could hold back the grief. She was sitting on a chair on the other side of the desk, head lowered, gaze on the floor. So far, she’d only answered in monosyllables.

  Samson had never been more out of his depth. Crazed addicts. Enraged dealers. Ruthless drug barons – he’d faced them all during his time with the Met and in his subsequent years with the Serious Organised Crime Agency and the National Crime Agency. Yet he’d felt less nervous than he did now. Confronted with such heartbreak, he found himself floundering, lurching through the interview while feeling like a brute. This was Mrs Hargreaves. The imposing woman who manned the counter at the butcher’s, starched apron girdling her generous frame. As able as her h
usband to handle a cleaver, and one of that rare breed of women who saved her words for when they were needed.

  She’d never shown any overt affection for the young Samson as he traipsed into the shop once a week, grubby hands clasping coins that never were enough. He’d mumble his order, ashamed to be buying the cheapest cuts, such small amounts. And she’d tell him to speak up, saying there was no shame in an honest pound. He’d been a good age before he realised: that gruff tone, the blunt admonishment which brought laughter from the other customers – it had been a cover. While he was busy staring at the floor and wishing it would swallow him, she was slipping extra meat into his order. When he was fifteen, a truculent teenager using attitude to conceal his vulnerability, he’d announced one day as she cut up strings of sausages and he saw two more than he’d asked for go in the bag, that he didn’t want her charity. She stared at him, gave a loud laugh and promptly held her hand out and told him what he owed her for countless years of free produce.

  He’d blushed, grabbed his shopping and left. He never raised the issue again. And she never added anything to his order. Apart from at Christmas, when a black pudding or a pork pie would find its way in amongst the offcuts and minced beef.

  Now this Amazon of a woman was sitting across from him, tears on her cheeks and inches away from complete despair. His heart went out to her. But the questions had to be asked.

  ‘So what did the police—?’ He broke off as the door opened and Delilah returned, a tray in her hands. ‘Thanks, Delilah.’

  He stood, grateful for the interruption, and took the tray, surprised to see there were three mugs on it. He turned to say something about client confidentiality and realised Delilah had taken his chair. Literally. She’d lifted it out from behind the desk and had, instead, set it down next to the now sobbing butcher’s wife. Taking Mrs Hargreaves’ hands in hers, she leaned in and started talking quietly to the woman.

  So Delilah was staying. Smothering a sigh of exasperation, Samson put the tray down and perched on a corner of the desk while his client cried onto the shoulder of his landlady. As beginnings of new enterprises went, it probably wasn’t the best. But it was typical Bruncliffe.