Date with Death

by Julia Chapman

  But if Mrs Hargreaves was right, what had happened here was far from quaint.

  Murder. Could it have been?

  With the sky beginning to be stretched with light, peeling the night slowly back from the beautiful scenery, it was difficult to imagine something so heinous. But Samson knew from experience that death was no respecter of environment; there was no sentimentality when it came to killing. And this was the perfect place to commit a crime. The platform was set back from the road, a thick line of trees shielding it from view. Around it, fields unfolded emptily, stone walls criss-crossing them, not a house in sight. Add to that the murky conditions on the morning in question, and there had been ample opportunity for someone to give Richard Hargreaves a helping hand towards his early destiny and not be seen.

  Not even on CCTV, apparently.

  Above him to his right, a lone camera stared across the platform. Despite a week of trying, Samson had been unable to gain access to the footage, the train company and the police both refusing to part with it. It was frustrating.

  In his previous role he’d have had his hands on it immediately. Seconded from the Metropolitan Police, he’d spent the last six years working within the highest law enforcement agencies in the land: the Serious Organised Crime Agency and its replacement, the National Crime Agency. He’d been part of an elite group of detectives leading investigations into drug cartels and criminal gangs. Nothing had been beyond their powers.

  Now he was a mere private detective and couldn’t even get permission to see a bloody CCTV video.

  He kept telling himself this reduced status was temporary. One phone call from London and he’d be back in the high-octane world of real detective work. After seven days in Bruncliffe, that phone call couldn’t come quickly enough.

  In the meantime, however, given that Richard Hargreaves had died in mid-October, before the clocks went back, it was debatable how much would have been captured by the camera anyway. Almost a fortnight later, at six-twenty in the morning the station wasn’t exactly ablaze with light, even with the benefit of that extra hour. Throw a thick mist into the equation …

  All the same, Samson would have preferred to have seen the footage for himself so he could rule it out. Instead, he’d opted to drop by the station at the exact time Richard would have been there. But now he was on the platform, cold and desperate for a coffee, he wasn’t entirely sure why he’d come.

  On the off-chance that he’d uncover a vital clue that would prove Mrs Hargreaves right?

  Only trouble was … there was no motive for murder.

  In the week since she’d asked for his help, Samson had discovered nothing that would imply the death of her son was anything other than suicide. His visit to Bruncliffe’s oversized Victorian police station opposite the library on Fell Lane had been a waste of time, producing only bad memories. The minute he’d entered the small reception area, he’d been ambushed by the past – his dishevelled father sitting on the wooden bench, watching with bloodshot eyes as his son was led out from the cells. The father was still drunk; the son battered and bruised from a fight in the Fleece the night before. But through his befuddled, sleep-deprived state, the teenage Samson had seen how they appeared – these O’Briens – to the desk sergeant. The shame had hit him hard and he’d dragged his mumbling father out onto the street, where George Capstick was waiting to drive them home.

  He’d not told his father what the fight was about – what were they ever about? A defence of someone who was never sober long enough to worry about the names people called him. Samson had arrived at the Fleece at last orders, intending to take his father home. He’d found him in a belligerent mood, determined to drink more. They’d argued and Samson had turned to go, when a well-built man at the other end of the bar made a quip about Boozy O’Brien. Without even taking a moment to consider the differences in size, Samson lunged, grabbing the opportunity to vent his frustration with both fists. When the police arrived, he’d have gone for them too, if Ryan Metcalfe hadn’t caught hold of his arm.

  He was seventeen. Working long hours on the farm. Trying to care for an alcoholic. He’d been a tinder box waiting for the spark. Perhaps the old sergeant had understood, for he’d let Samson off with a verbal warning. Nothing on the record. Although, when he found out that the unlicensed Samson had driven into town in his dad’s car, he’d insisted the lad spent the night in the cells.

  Wiser now, with the benefit of his years in the police force behind him, Samson could appreciate the actions of the officer – even if at the time he’d been furious. A night alone in a cell being sufficient to cool any temper, it had been a more subdued teenager who’d walked into the reception area the next morning. It was the first and last time he’d been in police custody.

  When he’d returned to the forbidding building the week before, Samson could see that nothing much had changed. The high counter with its sliding glass partitions still ran parallel to the back wall, a low wooden bench opposite beneath the window. To the left of the entrance, a notice board carried a list of missing persons alongside an invitation to meet the Police and Crime Commissioner; to the right, a locked door led to the rest of the station. And to the overnight lock-up, which Samson could attest was far from five-star accommodation.

  He’d approached the young constable behind the desk and introduced himself. Uniform almost dwarfing his thin frame, the lad had started stuttering and stammering before disappearing into the back office. He’d re-emerged with a heavyset man; someone Samson recognised straight away.

  ‘So, the rumours are true.’ The sergeant rested thick forearms on the counter. ‘Unfortunately.’

  ‘Good to see you too, Gavin.’

  ‘You in trouble already?’ The sergeant gestured at the bruises which were fading, but still visible.

  Samson repressed a smart retort. A couple of years older, Gavin Clayton was a born policeman – even though it had taken him multiple attempts to persuade the police authority of that – and had never quite believed troublemaker Samson O’Brien’s conversion to the right side of the law. Which, to be fair, was understandable. While Samson’s change of heart had happened on the road to Leeds, rather than to Damascus, it had been just as incredible for those who knew him.

  But then they didn’t know the reason why he’d left Bruncliffe so quickly. Samson wasn’t about to enlighten them.

  He forced himself to smile. ‘Not yet. I’ll let you know when I am.’

  ‘So how can I help you?’

  Pulling a business card out of his pocket, Samson slid it towards the officer.

  ‘The Dales Detective Agency?’ A snort of laughter followed. ‘Bit of a comedown for the Met’s finest, isn’t it? Seems like you’re fast-tracking the wrong way these days.’

  Another bite of the tongue, resisting the urge to comment on backwater coppers. Or the substantial girth that rested above the waistline of the officer’s trousers, suggesting more time raiding the biscuit tin than offenders’ houses. Nor did Samson correct the assumption that his last posting was with the Met. If the inhabitants of Bruncliffe were largely ignorant of the work he had been doing for SOCA and the NCA, now wasn’t the time to tell them. It would only make his fall from grace even more dramatic.

  ‘Felt like a change,’ he lied, wondering how long it would be before the truth followed him home. Hopefully he’d be long gone by then. ‘I’m doing some work for Mrs Hargreaves.’

  ‘Richard’s mother?’ Sergeant Clayton looked up. ‘Has she hired you?’

  Samson nodded, eliciting a curse from the man on the other side of the desk.

  ‘Damn! I told her she was on a hiding to nothing. Daft woman is throwing good money away on a fool’s errand.’

  ‘I’ll try not to take that personally.’

  ‘Take it how the hell you like. There’s nothing suspicious about Richard’s death. It was suicide.’

  ‘You found a note?’

  ‘Didn’t need one. He threw himself in front of a train. What more not
ification do you need?’

  ‘And the CCTV?’

  ‘Nothing on it.’

  ‘Can I see it?’

  The sergeant had bristled. ‘Think you might spot something us rural coppers didn’t? Listen, O’Brien, it was suicide. Plain and simple. And on your way out of here, it’s worth noting that Bruncliffe folk don’t take kindly to those who swindle money out of grieving mothers.’

  Samson had left empty-handed.

  If the police station had proved fruitless in the detective’s search for something suspicious about Richard Hargreaves’ demise, the dead man’s home hadn’t been any better. The semi-detached house across the road from the school, with its carpets in need of a vacuum, dust thick on the bookcases, and telling blank spaces where furniture and pictures had once rested, had suggested a divorced man with little appetite for domestic duties, but not much else.

  However, if there wasn’t a motive for murder, there didn’t seem to be much reason for suicide, either.

  Samson ran a hand over his weary face and regretted once again that he hadn’t made time for a coffee before coming to stand on this bleak platform. For the last six days he’d been rising before dawn, grabbing a quick shower and hustling down to his office, so that when the back door crashed open at seven, he was already at his desk.

  He hadn’t banked on Delilah having a cleaner when he’d made the decision to sleep in the spare room on the top floor. The first morning had almost been a disaster. He’d been coming out of the shower when he heard the door slam two floors below and had dressed hastily, no time for drying. Or underwear. He’d made it as far as the first-floor kitchen and was looking nonchalant – as nonchalant as someone wearing jeans over a damp backside could – when Ida Capstick marched in.

  Another aspect of Bruncliffe that hadn’t changed. The same whippet-like frame, face all angles. And a sour expression, which, in all the years he’d lived at Twistleton Farm with the Capstick siblings his nearest neighbours, he’d never seen graced with anything resembling a smile. Friday morning had been no exception.

  ‘George said tha were back,’ had been her greeting. Closely followed by ‘What’s tha doing up here? Haven’t tha got a kitchen of tha own downstairs?’

  He’d gestured at the stocked cupboards, given her his best roguish grin, and offered to make her a cup of tea. It was the latter that deflected her suspicion and she’d gone about her business, vacuuming and dusting, with no further questions. That night he’d set his alarm for an hour earlier.

  It wasn’t ideal, the way he was living at the moment. Having to sneak around, careful not to leave any signs that the office was more than just the place where he worked. His sleeping bag was stuffed into the top of one of the boxes in his makeshift bedroom every morning and the box resealed before he had a shower, one ear permanently cocked in case Ida changed her routine. When he’d meticulously wiped away all traces of moisture from the shower tray, breakfast was an apple and a banana. And coffee, of course. In the evening, the charade of being seen to leave by the front door was followed by an aimless ride around the area, until he could be sure Delilah had gone home. Then he drove down the ginnel at the back, parked the motorbike in the yard and let himself into the building. His tea was eaten in the first-floor kitchen in the dark, the light of the street lamp the only illumination. After a liberal spray of air-freshener to remove the smell of curry, Chinese or fish and chips, he retired to bed where, with the thick curtains pulled across the back window, he would read one of the books from the box next to the bed before going to sleep.

  He really needed to find better accommodation, if only for the sake of his waistline. Plus he hated the deceit, telling anyone who asked where he was staying that he was renting a place in Hellifield, six miles down the road. It was far enough from Bruncliffe that it justified the presence of his motorbike in the backyard of the office every day, and far enough that no one in town would detect his lie.

  But for now, his morals and his weight were going to have to be sacrificed, as his unauthorised use of Delilah’s spare room was the only way he could afford to stay around. While his current dishonourable status – suspended, pending investigation – came with full pay, he was reluctant to spend a penny of his salary, aware that he might have to cover his legal costs if things in London went badly. With six months’ worth of rent already gone from his savings, however, he had precious little left to live on. Which was why he needed to wrap up the Hargreaves case quickly.

  Suicide, then. He sighed, not looking forward to telling Mrs Hargreaves the news. But there was no other answer. Casting a last sour glance at the useless CCTV camera, Samson began walking towards the path back to town. Two steps later, he stopped.

  Something was nagging at him.

  He looked over his shoulder at the camera once more. There was something odd about it. The way the lens was pointing …

  On the platform opposite, the watchful eye of an identical camera was ignoring him, its focus on the length of concrete where passengers would stand. But the one on this side …

  It was tilted so that the lens was watching the track. Not the platform.

  He walked over to the post supporting the camera, turned his back on it and moved forward, following its line of sight. A short distance and he was at the edge of the platform. To his left, the station light. To his right, the tracks.

  Even allowing for a wide angle of coverage, the camera wasn’t in the best position for providing surveillance. Either the people who’d installed it were idiots or … it had been moved.

  Wind perhaps? Or something more malicious?

  Samson hunched his shoulders, a familiar feeling of suspicion in his gut. Then a loud horn blared from behind and set his heart thumping.

  The six-thirty train, pulling into the station so close to him that the air rushed against his jacket. He jumped away from the platform edge, breath ragged, and threw an arm of apology up for the scowling guard.

  He desperately needed a coffee.

  * * *

  It was a puzzle, all right. A puzzle indeed.

  Water in the shower tray when Miss Delilah wasn’t in yet. It was the second time this week. And it was strange. The young lady must have arrived early and gone out again, leaving the tray wet and liable to mould. Tutting her disapproval, Ida Capstick ran a cloth around the porcelain. If it happened again, she’d have to remind Miss Delilah of the merits of wiping down. Might have to tell her about the odd smell in the room next door, too.

  Ida gave the mirror a quick clean, gathered together the tools of her trade and placed them in her bucket, before going back into the spare room.

  That was better! She took a deep breath, fresh October air from the window she’d left open filling her lungs. The odour was less noticeable now, merely a faint trace of something – a deep, woody scent with a hint of lemon. Like an expensive floor polish. Probably something spilling in one of the many boxes. She negotiated her way between the stacks of cardboard and furniture and reached over to shut the window.

  She’d keep an eye on it, she decided, picking her way back to the door. Even though officially she was only contracted to clean the main areas – the downstairs office, kitchen and cloakroom, the first-floor office and kitchen and the bathroom up here – she’d got into the habit of popping into the two unused rooms on the top floor once a week to give them a vacuum. As much as she could, considering the amount of stuff piled up in here.

  Ida cast a critical glance over the contents of the room. Miss Delilah holding out hope, was what it was. Foolish child. That husband of hers had been nothing but a flash smile and quick patter, just like his father. Bruncliffe was well shot of him – even if Miss Delilah didn’t seem to think so, storing all his belongings when she should be selling them and using the money to support her business. She even had his shoes still cluttering up the back porch, as if he was due home any day …

  Ah well, it wasn’t her problem. She was done here. Next up was Taylor’s. Hopefully the tight-fisted
old bugger wouldn’t be in. Then she could sneak a cuppa to keep her going, seeing as young Mr O’Brien hadn’t been around this morning to offer her one, like he had done every day for the last week.

  At the thought of the new tenant, Ida gave an instinctive nod of approval. He was an early riser, that one. And a hard worker. There was folk around town who’d do well to take a leaf out of his book. Despite all that was being said about him.

  Bucket clanking, Ida Capstick made her way down the two flights of stairs to the ground floor. Returning the bucket to the cloakroom, she let herself out of the back door and into the morning as fingers of light streaked the sky.

  It was going to be a clear one. Cold, too. All the more need for that cuppa.

  * * *

  Delilah Metcalfe was gasping for a cup of tea. She ran down the hillside towards Crag Lane, Tolpuddle bounding ahead of her, the dog still full of energy despite a good run across the fells. She loved this part of the day as the heavens grew light and, if you were lucky, the sun rose over the Crag to shine down on Bruncliffe.

  Given that it was the last Wednesday in October, it would be a while before the sun got up on this particular morning. But then the darker starts suited Delilah, too. She could go for a run without being seen. Apart from by Seth Thistlethwaite, of course, the sharp-eyed old man having somehow spotted her. After he’d mentioned it at the funeral the week before, she’d been half-expecting her former coach to air his views on her return to the hills, but he hadn’t. Which was unusual, as Seth rarely held back from expressing an opinion. Perhaps he sensed she wasn’t ready to be pressured into competition … yet.

  Two months she’d been back running and it had made her wonder why she’d ever stopped. That feeling of freedom as you crested a fell and saw the expanse of moor laid out before you. How could she have turned her back on that?

  Love – that was how. Or what she’d thought was love.

  It had been just after her twentieth birthday when Bernard Taylor, Bruncliffe’s ambitious estate agent, had decided it was time to embrace the opportunities being presented by the internet. But typically, he’d been reluctant to pay the going rate. So he’d approached Delilah, who by then had been working for an IT company in Skipton for a couple of years, gaining hands-on experience in an industry that was changing by the minute. Having heard good reports about the help she’d already given to some of Bruncliffe’s businesses, Bernard offered to be her first official client. He was also the catalyst that changed her life.