Delilah let out a yelp of laughter as Ash’s jaw dropped at the accurate rebuke.
‘Touché,’ she crowed, picking up her knife and fork and feeling her stomach rumble appreciatively as the delicious scent of steak and ale wafted up from the golden pastry before her. She’d just cut into the pie, Tolpuddle lifting his head from his paws in anticipation, when the door opened and Will Metcalfe and Harry Furness, both wearing suits, walked in.
‘Oh God,’ she muttered, appetite fading as she eyed her oldest brother warily. ‘I’m not in the mood for another lecture.’
‘What’s with the fancy dress, lads?’ called out Ash.
‘Funeral,’ said Harry, coming over to take a seat, his eyes lighting up at the sight of their meals. ‘That smells divine. Order me a pie and chips as well, Will,’ he called out over his shoulder, ignoring the dark grumbling of the landlord at his request.
‘Another funeral?’ Seth shook his head. ‘This dying lark is getting contagious.’
‘Another young man, too,’ said Will from the bar. ‘Farmer over towards Gayle.’
‘You knew him, I take it?’ asked Ash, knowing his brother didn’t forsake a day’s work lightly.
Will nodded. ‘From the auction, mostly. Bought sheep off him a few times. He was a decent lad.’
‘His parents are distraught,’ said Harry soberly, as Will placed two beers on the table and sat down next to Delilah, greeting her with something between a smile and a frown.
‘How did he die?’ she asked.
‘Rolled his quad bike.’ Will’s reply had the matter-of-fact tone of a farmer who knew all about the risks involved in his occupation; knew that fatalities happened in a business increasingly pushed to make profits out of smaller and smaller margins. ‘His father found him trapped under it. Poor sod was dead by the time the paramedics arrived.’
‘And it was definitely an accident?’
Will whipped round to face Delilah, who was already regretting her question and wondering where it had come from. ‘Of course it was a bloody accident,’ he snapped. ‘Why? You trying to find more cases for your pet detective? Not enough that he’s barging around town harassing people over Richard Hargreaves’ demise?’
‘For God’s sake!’ Delilah slapped her cutlery down on her plate, the noise silencing the busy conversation of the pub. ‘You just can’t leave it, can you, Will?’
‘And nor should I, when O’Brien is wringing money out of a grieving mother under false pretences. Giving her false hope and lining his pockets into the bargain. All thanks to you, of course. You should have sent him packing like we said—’
A hiss from Delilah was enough to make Ash intervene.
‘Now, now, you two…’ He put out a hand to calm the siblings, so alike when annoyed, with shoulders thrust back and chins jutting forward, fists clenched. ‘There’s just been a funeral. Show some respect.’
‘Respect?’ spat Delilah. ‘He wouldn’t know the meaning of the word.’
‘That’s fine, coming from you,’ retorted Will. ‘Not like you’re besmirching your dead brother’s memory or anything—’
The glass was in her hands and the contents over her brother’s head before the rational part of her had a chance to intervene.
‘Hey,’ protested Harry Furness with genuine indignation as Will dripped beer over the floor beside him. ‘That was my pint!’
‘I’ll buy you another,’ snapped Delilah, thrusting her half-eaten meal aside and standing to glare down at her sodden brother, who was trying to mop himself dry with a handkerchief, Tolpuddle helping out by lapping at the wet carpet. Any remorse Delilah felt was matched by an urge to tip her meal over Will, too, and so, in an attempt to quell the surge of anger and frustration, she walked to the bar.
‘Pint of Black Sheep, Troy, please.’ The irony of the order wasn’t lost on her in the hushed atmosphere of the bar, all the customers staring as Will strode off to the toilets. She laid her shaking hands on the counter.
Were families supposed to be so complicated? Or was it only the arrival of Samson O’Brien that had made everything go pear-shaped? Her shoulders drooped and she felt the backwash of misery that always followed her flashes of temper.
‘Good day for a run,’ murmured Seth Thistlethwaite as he leaned over from his bar stool to place his hand over hers, a wink accompanying the rare show of affection. ‘That’d clear your head.’
She nodded, braving a smile.
‘Anything else?’ Troy had his hand out, waiting for her to pay.
‘No,’ she mumbled. ‘And sorry about the mess…’ She glanced over her shoulder to where Will was resuming his seat, a damp patch marking the worn carpet despite Tolpuddle’s best efforts.
Troy shrugged, lips tugging at the corners in the closest he ever came to a smile. ‘It’ll clean up and I sold another pint. Nothing to apologise for.’
Delilah took the glass, carrying it carefully in her unsteady hand, and turned back to the table where conversation, thanks to Ash’s peacemaking efforts, had reverted to the topic of the funeral.
‘Just outside Gayle,’ Harry was saying. ‘That farmhouse on the left, before you get to the steep drop into the village.’
‘The Alderson place?’ asked Ash, eyebrows raised, fork halfway to his mouth.
‘That’s the one. You knew him?’
‘He was scrum-half for Wensleydale, but was too good for them. Had a try-out with us but…’ He paused and shook his head. ‘Tom Alderson.’
‘That’s him. Crying shame—’ A sharp intake of breath from behind made Harry turn as Delilah, face ashen, dropped the full pint of beer onto the floor.
‘Jesus, Delilah!’ Will Metcalfe shot to his feet, trousers now soaked to match his shirt. ‘What the hell—?’
But he was speaking to thin air. Delilah had rushed out of the pub, Tolpuddle on her heels, leaving the place in silence yet again. A silence broken by Harry Furness’s plaintive cry.
‘That was my pint!’
Behind the bar, Troy Murgatroyd was reaching towards the beer taps. Today was turning out all right after all.
* * *
Samson O’Brien crested the hill and pulled over, the motorbike throbbing as he twisted round to appreciate the landscape behind. Rolling green fields fell away from him, walls scrambling up and down their edges before giving way to the houses in the dale below.
On the opposite side of the town from where he’d arrived the week before, from here the view was more benign. Instead of the abrupt rise of the fells and limestone crags at the back of Bruncliffe, the grey of the houses nestled softly against undulating land, a pastoral patchwork of grass and stone. Behind it, a blue sky skimmed with thin cloud rested atop the far-off fells of the Lake District.
Ryan Metcalfe had chosen a wonderful place to live. Such a shame he hadn’t got to spend long in it.
Heart heavy with regret and apprehension, Samson turned the bike down the small track to his right that led to High Laithe. He could see the static caravan, a long, green mobile home mounted on a concrete base, steps leading up to it. Next to it was Lucy’s car and a white van. And across the gravelled yard, the barn that Ryan had been renovating.
He’d been putting off this moment all week. Finally, after worrying every time he set foot outside the office that he would bump into her at an inopportune moment, Samson had plucked up the courage to call Lucy Metcalfe. Typical Lucy, she’d laughed away his worries and invited him over for lunch on her day off. Knowing he could avoid her no longer, Samson had accepted.
Not that he’d be able to eat anything. His stomach was tied up in knots.
He parked the bike next to the van, taking in the name on the side. Rob Harrison – Stonemason & Builder.
‘Heard you were back.’ The rough voice came from a large figure emerging from the high arch of the barn door. Broad shoulders, massive chest and arms like thighs. Samson recognised the family traits immediately. Titch’s brother. He had to be.
‘You heard right.’ S
amson walked over, trying to assess the warmth of his reception. He was mere feet away when Rob Harrison cleared his throat and spat resoundingly.
‘Took your time,’ he muttered, staring at Samson through narrowed eyes.
Not wanting to risk a reception like the one from Delilah, but delivered with the bulging biceps of a man-mountain, Samson halted. Out of arm’s reach.
‘Been busy,’ he said. ‘Seems like you are, too.’ He nodded towards the barn towering over both of them. Now he was close up, he could see that it was far from finished. Fresh render covered some of the outside walls and, through the great arch of glass behind the builder, piles of sand and cement, shovels, and a cement mixer covered the floor of what should be a lounge.
Rob twisted, glanced over his shoulder at the building site behind him, then grunted. ‘Doing what I can. Lucy needs all the help she can get.’
For a man of few words, Rob Harrison sure knew how to use them and Samson felt the accusation strike home. He’d been away too long and had left his best friend’s widow to pick up the pieces.
‘Ryan would be grateful,’ he said, meaning every word. ‘And I’m sure Lucy is.’
Rob nodded, wiped a hand on his trousers and crossed the distance between them to grab Samson in a crushing handshake, his muscles flexing under the rampant lion tattooed on his upper arm. ‘Welcome home,’ he said gruffly.
‘You found us, then!’ called out a voice from behind.
Hand throbbing, Samson resisted the urge to shake it free from pain as he turned to greet Lucy, who was walking across the yard with a mug of tea.
‘Glad to see you two getting along,’ she said as Rob took the mug and, with a mock salute, headed back into the barn.
‘You’re not the only one,’ Samson muttered with a wry smile. ‘What do they feed him on? Raw meat?’
Lucy laughed, the sound light and fresh after the builder’s gravelly conversation. ‘Whatever it is, it’s a lot. Ryan always used to tease Rob that he didn’t choose to leave the army, but was begged to leave because he was costing so much to keep.’
‘Did he serve with Ryan?’
‘They were out in Basra together. Rob already had a few years’ service in when Ryan joined. He looked out for him. And now he’s looking out for me.’ She smiled fondly in the direction of the barn where the builder was busy loading the cement mixer.
Then she reached out both arms and gathered Samson into a hug. She was thinner than he remembered, her cheekbones sharp under her pale skin, her wedding ring loose on her finger.
‘It’s good to have you home,’ she said, kissing his cheek and slipping an arm around his waist. ‘Come on, we’ve got a lot to catch up on.’
And before he could utter a word of the apology he had planned, she was leading him up the caravan steps, peppering him with questions about his life and reminding him of just what a wonderful woman his best friend had married.
* * *
Delilah Metcalfe stared at the computer screen and felt a cold snake of fear twine around her intestines.
In the past week she’d somehow managed to convince herself there was nothing in it, that there was no basis for her unease over the deaths of two of her clients. She’d even allowed her initial trepidation at the investigation into Richard Hargreaves’ death to be allayed by Samson’s exasperation over the passing days – the curses as he slammed down the phone, the long face as he entered the office after another wasted morning.
Bruncliffe’s only private detective was getting nowhere – because there was nowhere to get. Richard Hargreaves had committed suicide, Martin Foster had died in an accident, and if anyone did happen to make the connection between the two men and the Dales Dating Agency, so what? There’d be a bit of bad publicity, but that was it. Delilah and her business had nothing to fear.
But the minute she’d heard that name in the pub, she had realised she’d been deluding herself. She’d fled, leaving her meal uneaten in her desperation to make sure. And now she knew.
Tom Alderson. Thirty years old. A smiling face under short brown hair, eyes full of life, a smattering of freckles across his nose. He’d joined the Dales Dating Agency in the last week of September. He’d joined the growing list of her deceased clients as of today.
Richard Hargreaves. Martin Foster. Tom Alderson.
Three men. All dead. All with a connection to her business.
Could it still be just an awful coincidence? Simply three men who happened to join her dating agency and, unfortunately, die prematurely? Or was something more sinister going on?
Trying to stem the leap of panic in her chest, she made herself focus. Even if there was nothing untoward about the deaths, once the connection between them was made, the ensuing exposure would only be detrimental for her. It would be enough to ensure the Dales Dating Agency started losing living customers. And she couldn’t afford that.
So she needed to make sure. To start looking for an alternative link between the dead men before someone else came up with the most obvious one. Perhaps they all knew each other? Or were members of some other organisation? If she could find something external to the agency, she could help deflect the negative attention away from her struggling enterprise.
Fingers trembling, she pulled up her customer records for the men in question. As the printer began to whir in the corner, she stood up, crossed the room and closed the door. After a slight pause, she locked it.
This was sensitive information. The last person Delilah Metcalfe wanted poking around was the detective she shared the building with.
* * *
‘I was undercover…’ Samson knew how preposterous it sounded here in the caravan, as they ate lunch against a backdrop of green fields and a soft blue sky. ‘I’m sorry. It’s hardly an excuse.’
‘Delilah wrote to you.’
‘She did?’ He shook his head. ‘I didn’t get it. I was off the radar for the best part of a year.’
‘I know.’ Lucy touched his arm. ‘Really, I do. If you’d heard, you’d have been here.’
Her faith in his reliability made him feel even worse. Because he wasn’t sure he would have come. Not if it meant breaking off an investigation. And as for Delilah’s letter, how could she have got in touch? He’d moved house several times, adopting the nomadic lifestyle of an undercover operative, never updating his father or anyone else with the new address. Once he’d left Bruncliffe, he’d left for good.
Had Ryan understood that? Would he have been as forgiving as his widow, now that Samson was back?
‘He knew you well,’ said Lucy, her eyes flicking up to the photo on the small shelf that ran above the window as she read Samson’s mind. ‘He always said the two of you had ended up in the same jobs, just with different uniforms. And he got better weather.’ A smile danced across her face. ‘I suppose that’s true enough.’
‘Hardly! Think I’d rather be on a drugs bust than on patrol in Iraq or Afghanistan. I don’t know how he did it.’
‘Neither do I.’ For the first time since she’d crossed the yard to greet him, Lucy’s face fell. ‘He never talked about it when he came home. Said he didn’t want to dwell on it. Instead he’d bury himself in whatever work Will needed doing down on the farm. And then we bought this place…’
‘It’s a stunning spot.’
‘Yes. He brought me up here one day while Nathan was at school. He had a picnic and everything. But just as we got here it started to rain. We ended up sheltering in the barn while the worst passed and when we came out, the view … It was breathtaking. Like someone had taken a giant can of Pledge to the dale. Everything was sparkling, the air was so fresh. And down below we could see Ellershaw Farm.’ She laughed. ‘Typical Ryan. He pointed at the farmhouse and said he liked it here because he could keep an eye on Will and his parents from above. Never mind the view! Then he told me the barn was for sale with planning permission. We got back to Bruncliffe and put an offer in and were living in the caravan just in time for the winter.’
&nbs
p; ‘Was Ryan planning to renovate the barn himself?’
‘That was the plan. Fate decided otherwise.’ She sighed. ‘Four years we’ve been living up here and while I don’t mind it so much, it’s getting hard for Nathan. He’s fourteen now. That sense of adventure he had as a ten-year-old has gone. He wants a proper bedroom. Somewhere he can bring friends back to, without having to hear his mother singing through a thin partition while she irons!’
‘It must be tough?’
Lucy shook her head. ‘No. Tough is not having family or friends around you. This…’ she waved a hand at the building site across the yard, ‘this is just life.’
Not knowing how to respond to such a magnanimous attitude, Samson took another bite of the chicken-andleek pie Lucy had served and tried to will his appetite to do justice to her culinary abilities. For there was no doubt about it, she was an amazing chef. But, unusually for him, he was having to force the food down. He was too tied up in grief, regret and shame to really enjoy it.
‘Do you miss him?’ The words were out of his mouth before he could retract them. He looked over at Lucy with contrition. ‘Sorry … stupid question.’
‘Maybe. But it’s one no one around here dares ask.’ Lucy grimaced. ‘It’s hard in ways I never thought it would be. I’m always so careful not to upset other people, like his parents, his family or even his friends, that I don’t talk about Ryan so much any more.’ She sighed again, brushing her hair back over her shoulder. ‘Delilah took it really badly. As did Will. But it’s Peggy and Ted I’m worried about.’
‘Ryan’s mum and dad?’ Samson had a sudden image of Mr and Mrs Metcalfe in the doorway of the farmhouse at Ellershaw, a couple of dogs at their feet as they watched Samson and Ryan taking turns on Ryan’s new motocross bike; Delilah – always Delilah close by her beloved brother’s side – laughing as they tried ineffectually to do doughnuts. He felt a surge of nostalgia. And surprise. He’d forgotten so much that was good about his childhood. ‘They’re not doing so well?’
‘On the surface, they seem fine. Peggy has thrown herself into all sorts. She’s Bruncliffe’s most willing volunteer. But Ted … He handed over the running of the farm to Will six months before Ryan was killed and so, when we all involved ourselves with work to get over the initial grief, Ted had nothing to do. Still doesn’t. And he’s drinking more than he should.’ She gave him a sidelong glance, her head dipping as she acknowledged Samson’s own experience of that affliction.
Date with Death Page 12
