Date with Death

by Julia Chapman

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ the butcher’s wife said some minutes later, sitting up straight and dabbing at her swollen eyes with her tissue. ‘I didn’t mean to make such a fuss…’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Barbara.’ Delilah stretched for a mug of tea and placed it in the woman’s hands. ‘Here, get that down you while we get to the bottom of this.’

  Barbara. Delilah’s casual use of Mrs Hargreaves’ name struck Samson. He’d left before he’d earned that right, before he’d really entered Bruncliffe’s adult world. Yet here was Delilah, an awkward adolescent when he’d last seen her, now on first-name terms with one of the pillars of Bruncliffe society.

  ‘I presume you’ve been to the police?’ continued Delilah, flipping open the notepad on her lap, pen poised to write.

  ‘We’ve already established that,’ Samson said, before taking a sip of what passed for tea in these parts. He winced at the rugged flavour, the bitterness. ‘Did you … is there sugar…?’

  Delilah nodded. ‘Two spoons, as instructed.’

  Christ! The tea was harsh enough to etch granite. Presuming his taste buds had refined over the years, he reached for a biscuit to help ease the ordeal, taking one of the ones that had fallen off the plate.

  ‘That’s—’ Delilah paused, pointing at the digestive in his hand, and then smiled.

  ‘That’s what?’ he asked, biting into the biscuit, a strong taste of yeast hitting his palate.

  ‘Nothing. So, Barbara, what exactly did the police say?’

  Samson coughed quietly, trying to concentrate on what was being said while attempting to swallow the disgusting foodstuff that Delilah was passing off as refreshments. He felt a nudge on this thigh. Tolpuddle.

  ‘You saviour,’ he murmured, passing the remainder of the digestive to the dog, who was far more appreciative of these strange delights. Taking another sip of tea to scour his mouth, he turned his attention back to Mrs Hargreaves.

  ‘Not a lot,’ she was saying. ‘They implied I was being stupid.’

  ‘So they don’t suspect foul play?’ asked Samson, before Delilah could take charge again.

  ‘No. They have no evidence to suggest that.’ The butcher’s wife turned pleading eyes to Delilah. ‘But surely that works the other way, too? I mean, there’s no evidence to suggest he killed himself, either.’

  ‘There was no note?’ Samson asked gently. ‘No behaviour leading up to the day that might have pointed to suicide?’

  A robust shake of the head was followed by a steadier voice. ‘Not a thing. He was happy. First time I’d seen him so happy in years…’ She addressed Delilah again. ‘You know how it’s been for him. With that woman doing what she did.’

  Delilah nodded and, seeing Samson’s raised eyebrow, turned to him. ‘Richard moved back here three years ago with his wife and two children. It didn’t work out—’

  ‘She wouldn’t let it work out!’ snapped Mrs Hargreaves. ‘Didn’t give it a chance. Didn’t give any of us a chance before hightailing it back to the city.’

  Samson, knowing the realities of living in the town under the claustrophobic attention of its citizens, felt a passing twinge of sympathy for the maligned ex-wife. ‘And Richard had got over this?’

  Delilah nodded again. ‘Yes. He took it hard at first, but in the last year he’d really begun to move on.’

  ‘I’ll say!’ added Mrs Hargreaves. ‘He was all set to buy one of those lovely houses Rick Procter’s built at the end of town. And he’d been on a couple of dates.’

  Samson glanced at Delilah, looking for confirmation, but she just shrugged, offering no further details.

  ‘What about his friends? Have you spoken to them?’

  Mrs Hargreaves shook her head, hands now fidgeting in her lap. ‘I haven’t had the chance. And besides, Ken said not to bother them. He thinks … he thinks I’m being silly. But I know … knew my boy. He just wouldn’t have done this. Not to me.’

  She looked up at Samson for the first time, her eyes filled with pain. ‘Can you help? Can you find the person who killed him?’

  Samson O’Brien, home less than twenty-four hours, found himself nodding. ‘I’ll do what I can, Mrs Hargreaves, I promise.’

  * * *

  ‘I think it’s your round, Rick,’ said Harry Furness, waggling an empty pint glass in his hand.

  The pub had got even busier as the working day began to come to a close and curiosity drew locals down to the Fleece to hear about the return of Bruncliffe’s black sheep. And possibly get a glimpse of round two of the punch-up that had been held earlier. The tables were all full, small groups were standing around and a low hum of conversation filled the room.

  ‘Right you are,’ said Rick, already reaching for his wallet. ‘Same again?’

  ‘Aye, why not.’

  ‘Will? Ash? Either of you fancy another?’ Rick asked the two Metcalfe brothers who were by the window, Will’s dark face set in a scowl as he glared over at the newly christened detective agency. Like Delilah, he hadn’t inherited the Metcalfe colouring or stature, measuring a good few inches shorter than his fair-haired younger brothers, but Will more than made up for his lack of height with his strength. And temper. He wasn’t someone Rick Procter would care to take on.

  ‘Not for me,’ Ash said, collecting his jacket from the back of a chair. ‘Might call it a day. Leave Delilah to sort out this mess.’

  ‘Will?’

  The oldest Metcalfe shook his head, his gaze firmly fixed on the shadowy shapes that could be just made out in the room opposite.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said Rick. ‘Just the two pints it is, then.’ He turned to head for the bar and his mobile began to ring. ‘Sorry, Harry,’ he said, after a glance at the screen. ‘I’ve got to take this. It’s work. You get them in and I’ll be right back.’ He thrust a tenner at the auctioneer and made his way to the pub door before answering the call.

  ‘Can you talk?’ asked the voice on the other end.

  ‘Just a moment.’ Rick let the door close behind him, and turned right down Back Street. He paused in the archway that led down behind the antiques shop, casting a glance around to check he was alone. ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘I trust you’ve heard who’s back?’

  ‘I’ve heard.’

  ‘And?’ Irritation crackled down the line.

  ‘And what?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Rick. I’ve got a lot at stake here. We need to be careful.’

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s all in hand.’

  ‘And the farm? Will that be a problem?’

  ‘Let me deal with that. I’ve got someone keeping an eye on it for me.’

  ‘Is he trustworthy?’

  Rick gave a sharp laugh. ‘Oh yes. Totally.’

  There was a long pause and Rick could imagine stubby fingers tapping on a desk as anxiety took hold. Then, ‘I still think we need to hang fire for a while. Just until we know what O’Brien’s up to.’

  ‘If that’s what you think,’ said Rick, trying to hide his impatience. There was no need for such caution. But he was a partner in this deal. He had to remember that. ‘We’ll give it until Christmas. From what I hear, O’Brien won’t last that long anyway. He’s in more trouble than we could ever give him.’

  ‘Well make sure you’re right. I can’t afford to have this come back on me.’

  The call ended abruptly. Rick pocketed his mobile and, deep in thought, headed back up the street. When he reached the door of the Fleece, he hesitated, the thought of a pint suddenly making his stomach sour.

  Panic. That’s what he’d sensed from the caller. And panic could cause everything he’d worked for to be lost in an instant.

  No longer in the mood for alcohol, he glared over at the detective agency and then continued on his way towards the marketplace.

  Bloody Samson O’Brien. That was all they needed.

  * * *

  ‘So, do you really think you’ll be able to help her?’

  Samson chose to ignore the scepticism coating Del
ilah’s question as he re-entered the office, the hunched-over figure of Mrs Hargreaves passing by the window outside. ‘I’ll try. But I doubt I’ll discover what she wants me to.’

  ‘You mean you think he committed suicide?’

  He nodded. ‘This is Bruncliffe. Murders don’t happen that frequently in places like this. Not out of the blue. Which means it’s far more likely that the police are right and Richard did kill himself, even though it’s hard for his mother to accept that.’ He shrugged. ‘All I can do is try and find some definitive proof as to the cause of his death. Then perhaps Mrs Hargreaves will be able to come to terms with it.’

  ‘Where will you start?’

  Samson smiled and gestured towards the notepad on her lap, Tolpuddle’s head now lying across it. ‘For someone who doesn’t think there’s a place for a detective agency in town, you suddenly seem very keen to be involved.’

  ‘I thought you might need a hand!’ snapped Delilah. ‘And to be honest, given what little you know about Bruncliffe these days, I was right.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Samson raised both hands in apology. ‘Yes, you’re right. I did need your help. Seeing Mrs Hargreaves upset like that…’ He dropped heavily onto the chair the bereaved woman had been sitting in, the legs creaking ominously under the sudden weight. ‘Thank you. You helped break the ice.’

  Delilah’s lips parted as though on the verge of a retort. Instead she dipped her head in acceptance.

  ‘As for what’s next,’ he continued, holding up a bunch of keys. ‘Mrs Hargreaves gave me these, so I’ll start with a quick search of Richard’s house and then do some background investigations – talk to his friends, people he mixed with…’

  ‘And they are?’

  Samson grinned. ‘I’m a detective, Delilah. I’ll find out.’

  ‘And waste days doing so. I’m a local. Just ask me!’

  He laughed. ‘Okay, okay. I’ll ask you. But in the meantime, if you’re going to intrude on my meetings, do you think you could provide better biscuits? Those things are revolting.’ He pointed at the oatmeal digestive on the tray and Delilah smiled, the first time he’d seen her smile since he’d clapped eyes on her outside. Face alight with mischief, she reached for the offending biscuit and held it out to Tolpuddle.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with my biscuits,’ she said, as the dog gobbled down her offering. ‘But as for these Dog-gestives … you’d have to ask Tolpuddle.’

  Samson froze, eyes flicking between the last morsel disappearing into the dog’s mouth and the biscuits left on the plate. Completely different. A plate of chocolate digestives and …

  He felt bile rise up his throat. ‘Dog-gestives? You let me eat a dog biscuit?’

  She was laughing now, the sound rippling around the empty room as she stood to go, the dog following her. ‘Serves you right,’ she managed between bursts of laughter, ‘for asking me to make tea.’

  The door closed in her wake and Samson was left staring at the plate of digestives. And the notepad Delilah had forgotten to take with her.

  He picked it up, eyes skimming across the page of notes she’d taken. Clear, concise, important elements underlined. She’d make an excellent assistant, he thought wryly, as long as she was never asked to make tea or allowed to give free rein to her temper. Within the space of an afternoon, she’d floored him with a right hook and then knowingly fed him dog food. It seemed like Delilah hadn’t changed much in the years he’d been gone.

  Although she’d developed an ability to hold a grudge, judging by the reserve she’d been treating him with so far. While Mrs Hargreaves had been in the room, Delilah had been like her old self – open, confident, and with a streak of generosity that knew no limits. But the minute the butcher’s wife had left, the shutters had come back down. Until the revelation about the biscuit.

  He grinned. That laugh of hers, the way she had of throwing her head back in abandonment when life was funny. Just like Ryan—

  The thought jolted the smile off his face. Ryan, who was dead and buried. He’d been trying not to think about it ever since Delilah had dropped her bombshell. It was too much to deal with right now. Tonight, when everything was sorted, he would allow himself to mourn the loss of his best friend. And tomorrow he would have to visit Ryan’s widow and try to explain why he’d never been in touch, why he hadn’t even made it to the funeral. In the meantime …

  He started flipping through the pages of Delilah’s notepad, the detective in him unable to resist, curious as to what type of business she ran from her office upstairs. Notes from that morning detailed a meeting with a client – something about smelly boots and bad breath scrawled in the margin, alongside a brilliantly drawn Cupid being sick. Intrigued, he turned back more pages.

  A date for something she referred to as ‘SpeedyD’. Next month. In the evening. Lucy’s name written next to it and circled multiple times.

  Skipping to the first page, he was back in September: a meeting with a Tom Alderson, who’d signed up for three months. Three months of what? Alderson … The only Tom Alderson he’d known had been the son of a farmer up Hawes way. If it was him, was Delilah some sort of agricultural supplier?

  He was puzzling over this, all the while idly leafing through her notes, when he saw a name he recognised.

  Richard Hargreaves. Delilah had had a meeting with him a couple of weeks ago, according to the date. He’d renewed for a further three months and signed up for ‘SpeedyD’, whatever that was, in October. But Richard Hargreaves had been no farmer. As Mrs Hargreaves had announced with pride, he’d been a lecturer in linguistics.

  So Delilah wasn’t selling agricultural supplies. But what was she up to? Samson flipped the notepad closed and saw the answer decorating the front cover.

  The Dales Dating Agency.

  The business Delilah had referred to earlier – the one that shared the same initials as his own. It was hers.

  He grinned, glancing at the window and the lettering that advertised his new enterprise. No wonder she’d been annoyed about it. They shared the same initials and the same building. Then the incongruity of it stuck him. A dating agency! Delilah Metcalfe, with her forthright opinions and lack of romance, was in charge of organising people’s love lives. Only in Bruncliffe!

  He started to laugh, but a sudden thought trapped the sound in his throat. Thumbing frantically back through her notes, he found the page he wanted.

  Richard Hargreaves. He’d been a client at Delilah’s dating agency. Yet when Mrs Hargreaves had mentioned that Richard was possibly seeing someone, Delilah had offered no confirmation. Nor had she revealed that he was one of her customers. Why not?

  She didn’t trust him. Or something more?

  He dropped the notepad back onto the desk and lowered his head into his hands, wincing at the contact with his cheek and chin.

  It had been a hell of a day. A brutal welcome back to Bruncliffe, the realisation that he was homeless yet again, the shock news about Ryan and then that bit of sheer madness when he’d offered to pay six months’ rent up front to secure this office. Money that he should have been using to find somewhere to live. But when he’d been faced with Delilah’s reluctance to have him as a tenant, it had suddenly seemed imperative that he persuade her to change her mind. Even if that now meant he had no money in the bank.

  He rubbed his hands gently over his face and on a long sigh, got to his feet. It had been a hard homecoming all right. And it was about to get harder. It was time he paid a visit to his father.

  * * *

  ‘Had any visitors, George?’ Arms folded, Rick Procter leaned against his Range Rover outside the Capsticks’ cottage. Situated at the start of Thorpdale, it was tucked into the hillside, offering a commanding view of the surrounding land – land which Rick now owned. But while the house was pristine, windows glinting, paintwork fresh, the yard was chaotic. Bits and pieces of farm machinery lay dumped in random piles, hens strutting around them pecking relentlessly at the ground, and in the corner stood a vinta
ge David Brown tractor, tools and parts strewn around it. Rick’s attention, however, was on the man standing rigid in the doorway of the old barn, shirtsleeves rolled up, spade-like hands covered in oil.

  A slow blink and then the lips moved. ‘No, Mr Procter.’

  ‘Good.’ Rick turned to stare up the dale at the property just visible in the distance. Twistleton Farm. No one could reach it without passing here. Which is why George Capstick made the perfect watchdog. That and his pliability. He returned his gaze to the man. ‘You’ll tell me if anyone does come calling?’

  Another blink, measuring at least three heartbeats. ‘Yes, Mr Procter.’

  ‘Good man.’ He took an envelope out of his pocket and laid it on an upturned water butt. ‘I knew I could rely on you.’

  This time Rick was sure George Capstick would never open his eyes again, so long was the hiatus. But then his eyelids popped up and he shuffled over to pick up the envelope, never coming within arm’s reach of the property developer, like a wary hound.

  ‘Thanks, George. Keep in touch.’ Rick threw up a hand in parting and got in his car, the usual wave of relief washing over him at escaping from the awkwardness of interacting with the man he still referred to as ‘Brains’. Struck, as always, by the brilliant irony of the nickname for a man distinctly lacking in grey matter – unless you counted his uncanny ability with anything mechanical – he pulled off, turning left onto the road to head back to Bruncliffe. Driving into the setting sun, he reached for his phone. His partner was worrying over nothing.

  * * *

  In the yard of his small cottage, George Capstick was staring at the envelope in his hand. Devil’s money. That’s what his sister Ida said. He walked slowly across to the house, slowly took off his shoes and entered the kitchen. Ida wasn’t home. She worked most days. But he knew what to do. He pulled open the middle drawer of the dresser and threw the unopened envelope in on top of all the others.

  Devil’s money. Ida said they were saving it, for when the devil came and tried to take their house, like he had Mr O’Brien’s. And now the devil was asking about visitors. George blinked. There’d been no visitors. Not here.