Date with Death

by Julia Chapman

  He closed the drawer and, with his head full of the delicious roar of a Royal Enfield engine, headed back to work.

  * * *

  Hills. He just wasn’t used to them. Already he could feel the backs of his legs protesting as he walked up Fell Lane. He wasn’t used to people, either. Or at least, not people who knew him. In the short distance from his new office, across the marketplace and onto Fell Lane, Samson O’Brien had never felt more exposed. For a man who was used to living his life incognito, it was disconcerting.

  They stared. Openly. And then gave a nod of acknowledgement because it would be bad manners not to say hello. Even if the face of the person offering a greeting was puckered up in a frown of disapproval. He’d not lingered over the walk, uneasy with the attention, but had had time to note the changes in the town.

  Two of the banks were gone from the square. In their places were an Indian restaurant and a cafe called Peaks Patisserie, which was doing good business despite the afternoon drawing to a close. He’d also noticed the organic food shop, the enlarged premises of Taylor’s estate agents with its double frontage and, of course, Hargreaves’ butcher’s with its blinds drawn and a ‘Closed’ sign on the door.

  Leaving the marketplace behind, he’d turned right onto Fell Lane and felt the strain on his calves. With his destination in sight, he began to feel the strain on his nerves, too.

  It was a two-storey building, split into flats, each one having a small balcony overlooking the spacious front lawn. They were high enough up at the back of the town to offer great views and to catch the last bit of sunshine as the evening approached. But it was a far cry from the isolated splendour of Twistleton Farm.

  What the hell had made him sell?

  Anger mixing with apprehension, Samson took the path up to Fellside Court and entered the building. He was met with the sound of laughter. Bellowing down the hallway and bursting with life, it brushed aside any notion he’d had that the place might be full of old people waiting to shuffle off into the heavens. He followed the noise along a bright corridor, one side floor-to-ceiling glass looking out onto a courtyard and the fell rising at the back, the other a wall covered with dramatic photographs of local scenery: bluebells out in Hawber Woods; Bruncliffe Crag burnished gold in the setting sun; Pen-y-ghent looking resplendent under a covering of snow; Ribblehead Viaduct arching across the landscape; and there at the end, one that took his breath away. A panoramic shot of Thorpdale, its fields stretching up towards the curve of hills at the top, two streams bisecting the land and a small farmhouse nestled between them. Home. Or at least, it had been.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  He turned to see a young woman standing in the doorway of an office, blonde hair pulled back into a severe ponytail, the high cheekbones and hint of an Eastern European accent suggesting she was an offcumden, like him. Her eyes widened slightly as she took in the damage to his face.

  ‘I’m here to see Joseph O’Brien,’ he said.

  ‘Apartment eighteen.’ Her clipped reply was cut through by another burst of laughter, this time a woman’s voice joining in, lightening the deeper tones. ‘Or you could try the residents’ lounge. Just along this corridor and around to the left. Please sign in first.’ She pointed at the sideboard beneath the picture of Pen-y-ghent where a book was lying open and, with a curt nod of her head, retreated back into her office.

  Samson dutifully entered his details in the visitors’ book and then followed her directions, curious as to what was causing such amusement. He took in the well-tended plants, the immaculate carpets, the pristine walls as he went. The place was impressive. As was the lounge.

  Running the entire length of the right-hand side of the U-shaped building, it too had a wall of glass looking out over the courtyard, armchairs and sofas scattered throughout the large space. But the residents weren’t taking in the views of the stunning hillside and crags that rose above. Instead, they were gathered around a table at the far end.

  ‘He’s cheating!’ exclaimed one old lady, leaning on a stick and peering over the head of the person in front of her. Even from the doorway, Samson recognised the sharp tones of Edith Hird, his former headmistress. ‘He has to be.’

  ‘How dare you insinuate that my man would cheat!’ came an indignant response from the man opposite her. ‘It’s sheer brilliance, is what it is.’

  ‘Only brilliance around here is your shiny bald head, Arty,’ retorted the man next to him, the audience chortling in appreciation.

  ‘Well, I don’t care how he does it,’ said a petite white-haired woman, staring down at the table in awe. ‘I think it’s wonderful. Do it again, please.’

  Samson moved across the room towards the commotion, the familiar slap and shuffle of cards carrying over the top of the crowd of people.

  ‘Time to place your bets,’ urged the man called Arty, his deep tones suggesting it was him Samson had first heard laughing. ‘You, sir, want to place a bet?’

  Samson realised he was being addressed as the entire room turned towards him, Miss Hird’s eyebrows lifting in recognition. He smiled. ‘That would all depend on what I’m betting on.’

  ‘A feat unparalleled. A talent untapped. A man who defies odds.’ Arty was in his element, arms thrown wider with each exclamation, until he was in danger of knocking over the oxygen trolley of the frail gentleman standing beside him.

  ‘Don’t waste your money, son,’ warned Miss Hird. ‘He,’ she said, pointing at Arty with her stick, ‘is a retired bookmaker and would fleece you in a second. And he,’ she gestured over the people in front of her to where Samson caught a glimpse of someone sitting, ‘is cheating.’

  ‘Edith, if you say that again, I’m going to have to sue you for defamation of character,’ thundered Arty.

  ‘Aye, only problem is, you’d have to have character in the first place,’ quipped the old man with the oxygen cylinder, much to Edith’s delight.

  ‘So what’s the trick?’ asked Samson, closer now and able to see a grey head bent over the table, cards flashing between gnarled hands.

  ‘I bet you,’ said Arty, grinning at the prospect of a customer, ‘my man here can shuffle through the cards and then name every one back to you in the exact order.’

  ‘And the stakes?’ asked Samson, his heart beginning to thump.

  ‘Same as always. A bag of Jelly Babies.’

  Samson took one more step, looked at the seated figure, the trembling hands holding the cards, and slowly shook his head. ‘Bet’s off,’ he said, throat tightening.

  The audience groaned.

  ‘But why?’ asked Arty, crestfallen. ‘You didn’t even give us a chance.’

  ‘Because I’ve seen this trick before.’

  Then the old man at the table looked up and the years fell away, leaving Samson feeling like he was staring down the barrel of a shotgun once again.

  ‘Welcome home, son,’ said Joseph O’Brien, a wary smile on his face. ‘Welcome home.’

  * * *

  ‘Bloody tourists!’

  Up out of Bruncliffe and over Fountains Fell, across the flattened top of Pen-y-ghent, into Wharfedale and up over the bleak expanse of Fleet Moss, in a field on the lower slopes of Wether Fell, Tom Alderson was cursing.

  ‘What the heck do they know about farming?’ he muttered, quad bike bucketing across the rough terrain as it climbed the hillside. ‘Dead sheep in a field and they bloody panic.’

  He reached the stone wall on the far edge of the field and stopped the bike at a closed gate. It was dusk, the lights in the farmhouse in the distance pinpricking the dying day. That was where he should be, sitting in the kitchen having a coffee with his father and discussing the highlights of their long day over at the Wharfedale auction, while his mother got tea ready. Instead, before he’d even had a chance to tell her that one of their shearling rams had fetched top price, his mother had sent him back out of the door. The Chairman of the Parish Council had been on the phone. Apparently a tourist had called several times to report
that there was a dead sheep in the furthest field on Wether Fell Side.

  Like that was a catastrophe – a dead animal lying in a field. But if the same do-gooder called the county council, then next thing Trading Standards would be out and the farm could be facing a hefty fine. So here he was, dog-tired and wishing he was at home, heading out to pick up a dead ewe.

  ‘Bloody tourists!’

  He opened the gate, the land on the other side rising steeply away from him. Up across this field and into the next and he’d be there. He turned back to the bike and failed to see the shadow peel away from the stone wall. Failed to see it tower over him. He heard the sound of the air rushing to part as something was brought down at pace. But it was too late.

  6

  ‘I heard you were back.’ Joseph O’Brien held the door to his flat open and stood aside to let his son through, taking in the broad shoulders, the shoulder-length hair, the unforgiving blue gaze just like hers. He noticed the bruises, too. ‘Wasn’t sure if you’d come and see me.’

  ‘Neither was I,’ muttered Samson, entering the compact lounge. A two-seater sofa, an armchair, a TV and patio doors leading out onto a small balcony offering fantastic views of Bruncliffe and the hills beyond it. No cobwebs. No cigarette burns. And not a bottle in sight.

  Joseph watched him appraise it all, then move into the kitchenette through the archway, opening cupboard doors, checking the fridge.

  ‘You won’t find any,’ the older man said quietly. ‘I’m sober.’

  A harsh laugh was followed by a disbelieving look. ‘I’ve heard that before.’

  Joseph shrugged. ‘It’s true.’

  ‘Since when?’

  The older man’s head snapped up to challenge his son’s stare. ‘Does it matter?’

  Samson blinked, cheeks reddening slightly as he returned to the lounge. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘Old habits…’

  ‘I know a lot about old habits, son.’ Joseph smiled and gestured at the sofa. ‘Take a seat. I’ll make us a cuppa.’

  ‘No … no, it’s fine. I don’t have time…’ Samson crossed to the balcony doors, tension radiating from him as he looked out. ‘Seems like a nice enough place.’

  ‘It’s grand. Suits me down to the ground. The people are great, and the facilities – you saw the lounge, and there’s even a gym where they hold yoga classes and the like. Nothing too strenuous, mind. Then there’s a cafe where they do a delicious Sunday roast. You should come sometime—’ Aware he was babbling like a desperate salesman, Joseph broke off, unnerved by his son’s rigid back. The silence swelled around them and a familiar dryness seized his throat.

  He coughed and tried again. ‘I hear you brought the old bike with you. Good to know she’s still running well.’

  The glass doors reflected the hint of a smile which flickered across Samson’s face. ‘She’s a beauty. Do you want her back?’

  No apology. Not that Joseph expected one. Or wanted one. He’d driven his son out of their home. That the bike had been taken in the process seemed only fair. ‘No, son,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Me and your mother had our time with her. She’s yours now.’

  Samson’s attention remained fixed on the balcony. Then he asked the question Joseph O’Brien had been expecting. And dreading.

  ‘What happened to the farm?’

  ‘I sold it.’

  Samson turned to face his father, the telltale tightened jaw revealing the anger he was fighting to conceal. ‘So I gather. Why?’

  ‘Because … because I couldn’t cope any more. God knows, Samson, I wasn’t coping when you were there – how did you expect me to cope when you left?’

  ‘When I left? Don’t you mean when you kicked me out?’

  Joseph thrust his hands in the pockets of his cardigan, his head dipping at the backlash. ‘I was drunk—’

  ‘You were always drunk. The only difference that time was that you were holding a shotgun. Pointed at me.’

  Joseph swallowed hard, the urge to drink welling up out of nowhere. If he got through this without succumbing to temptation, he would be sober forever, he thought wryly.

  ‘I’m sorry. It wasn’t … I never meant to…’ He shook his head, annoyed at his inability to articulate what he needed to say. To explain why he’d done the awful things he had. But none of it was explainable. Not to someone who wasn’t in thrall to alcohol. The mess in his head. The emptiness in his heart. The misery that only drinking alleviated. Until it only made it worse.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, the word sinking into the gulf between them.

  Samson waited a beat and then turned back to the view. ‘So you sold the farm. To Rick Procter, of all people?’

  ‘He offered me a good deal, son. A lifeline when no one else could. Or would.’

  ‘I’m sure he did! Probably rubbing his hands at the prospect of dealing with an alcoholic.’ He gestured at the flat around them. ‘You bought this in return?’

  ‘Kind of.’

  ‘Kind of?’ Samson was staring at his father now, frowning. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I rent it.’

  ‘You rent it? I don’t understand.’

  It was Joseph’s turn to look out of the window, unable to bear the weight of his son’s judgemental stare any longer. ‘I didn’t quite have enough to buy anywhere—’

  ‘Christ, Dad! You drank it all?’

  Joseph grimaced, the pleasure of having Samson acknowledge his paternity diminished by the pain of the accusation. But the truth was harder to explain, so he let it pass with a shrug.

  ‘Christ!’ Samson muttered again, running a hand through his hair. ‘What a mess.’

  Disappointment. It was an emotion Joseph O’Brien had become used to seeing on his son’s face. He fought the urge to close the distance between them, to put his arms around his son’s strong shoulders and tell him not to worry. That things were different. But it was too early to tell. Two years dry. It was a mere drop in the stormy ocean of overcoming his addiction. So he wasn’t about to make any promises.

  ‘What brings you back?’ he asked, shifting the focus.

  ‘Work. Or lack of it.’

  ‘You’ve quit the police?’

  ‘Kind of.’ Samson gave a half-smile, offering no more than his father had.

  ‘So what are you going to do? And where are you staying?’

  ‘I’m setting up a business here. A detective agency. It’ll tide me over until things are sorted and then…’

  ‘This isn’t long-term?’

  ‘I doubt it.’ Samson turned once more to the window and then to the small bookcase in the corner, a photograph in a silver frame atop it. ‘There’s nothing much here for me.’

  Joseph followed his son’s gaze. She was beautiful. Would always be. Long, dark hair falling across part of her face, blue eyes full of laughter as she looked into the camera, mouth split into a wide smile. Twenty-six years dead, and still she filled him with longing.

  ‘At least you brought Mum with you.’ Samson was crossing the room now, heading for the door. ‘Although I doubt she’d approve of you selling the farm.’

  He stopped, hand on the doorknob, as though regretting his last retort. Then he shrugged. ‘Look after yourself, Dad. I’ll see you around.’

  The door closed behind him and Joseph O’Brien’s first action was to check the time. The Spar would still be open. He could get down there and back in the growing dark without anyone noticing. And he’d be set for the evening, a bottle in his hand. Something to take away the chill.

  Then he lifted his gaze to the photograph, to her laughing face. At least you brought Mum with you. What a fool that boy could be. For next to the young mother in her best dress, standing so proudly over the prize-winning sheep at the Malham Show, was an equally proud child. Dark hair like hers. Eyes as blue as hers. And his face lit up with happiness.

  ‘I brought you too, Samson,’ he said bleakly, blinking away tears in the darkening room.

  ‘Knock, knock!’ The
announcement and the door opening coincided and Arty Robinson stood in the doorway, a posse of elderly people craning over him to see into the flat. ‘We’re off to the chippy. Look smart or we’ll miss the early-bird special.’

  ‘I don’t want—’

  ‘Not a matter of what you want, my lad. I need your help. How else am I going to get all these geriatrics down the hill?’ He tipped his bald head at the crowd behind him, walking frames and an oxygen trolley making his point.

  ‘Don’t know who you’re calling geriatric,’ sniped Edith, tapping Arty sharply on the ankle with her stick. ‘At least my heart is sound.’

  ‘And so would mine be, if I didn’t have to put up with you lot! Come on, Joseph, don’t leave me at their mercy.’ Arty’s face was pulled into an expression of entreaty that would have weakened a man of stone.

  ‘Okay, okay.’ Joseph laughed despite himself. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute.’

  Arty grinned and then shooed the rest of the group out into the corridor, the door closing on a resumption of their good-natured bickering.

  It was what he needed – a distraction. No doubt Arty and the others were well aware of that, being no strangers to the O’Brien saga that had been entertaining Bruncliffe for almost two decades.

  Feeling the flicker of desire for drink fading, Joseph crossed to the bookcase, picked up his wallet, ran his finger over the two laughing faces, and headed for the door. He would make it through today. And tomorrow morning he would wake up sober, knowing his son was back in town.

  It was only as he caught up with the others at the far end of the corridor that he realised Samson hadn’t said where he was staying.

  * * *

  The body was a dead weight. Lifting it, slumping it over the quad bike, the dark coming down fast. Soon it would be total, pierced only by the headlights pointing into the hillside. It would provide the perfect cover.

  A push of the throttle and the bike began moving, heading up the steep fell, carrying its inert load on a final journey.