‘And you?’
‘I have Nathan. And the cafe.’ She smiled. ‘Not sure how much Ryan would have appreciated being replaced by croissants and strawberry tarts!’
Samson grinned. ‘No. He wasn’t one for tarts.’
Lucy let out a loud peal of laughter. It was enough to bring Rob Harrison out of the barn, his dark stare trained on the caravan. He caught Samson’s eye before turning back into the building.
‘That’s a compliment, I take it,’ Lucy continued, oblivious to the builder.
‘What passes for one in Bruncliffe, anyhow.’ Samson ate another piece of pie, this time his stomach growling in appreciation as he began to relax.
‘So what about you?’ she asked. ‘How are things?’
‘You probably know better than I do. No doubt you heard about my welcome party?’
‘Yes. Idiots – Delilah included. Acting like children. Honestly!’ Her indignation on his behalf drew a smile from Samson. ‘Sometimes I’m ashamed to be a Metcalfe. A more stubborn bunch of people I have never met.’
‘They had a point, though,’ Samson said quietly. ‘I should have come home sooner.’
‘And done what? Held my hand by the graveside? I had plenty of people offering to do that, but the only one I wanted by my side was being buried in the ground.’ She stabbed a piece of broccoli with her fork. ‘And I can’t imagine you’re much use in a kitchen making cakes so really you were better off staying where you were, ensuring our streets are free of drugs.’
Samson watched her cut the broccoli with a sharp slice and pop it in her mouth, eyes flashing. ‘There’s the situation with my dad, too,’ he said.
Her umbrage at his treatment by her in-laws dispelled in an instant. ‘Ah, yes. Your dad. I hear you’ve been in to see him?’
‘How…?’ He let the question lapse. He knew how. It was going to take a while to get used to the Bruncliffe grapevine again.
‘My mother-in-law,’ explained Lucy with an apologetic grin. ‘Peggy does a couple of voluntary sessions down at Fellside Court every week. In-chair aerobics and the like. She got talking to Edith Hird after her last one and somehow your name popped up.’
‘As it would,’ Samson said wryly.
Lucy spread her hands and lifted her shoulders. ‘You know how it is. Small place. Not much going on. Although I hear there might be more going on than we think.’ Her face became sombre. ‘Is it true Mrs Hargreaves has asked you to investigate Richard’s death?’
‘Yes.’ Samson deliberately took a forkful of pie, leaving silence for Lucy to fill. Which she dutifully did.
‘It was such a shock. To think both he and Ryan … so young.’
‘Do you think he killed himself?’
‘No … I mean … why would he? Why now?’
‘You think he might have done before?’
Lucy frowned. ‘If you’d met his ex-wife, you might wonder why he hadn’t jumped in front of a train a lot earlier.’
‘Sounds like she wasn’t popular. Did she earn that or was it typical Bruncliffe suspicion of outsiders?’
‘Huh! No, this time the judgement of Bruncliffe was fair. Annette was such a bitter woman. She hated life here and made sure her husband wasn’t much happier. Ryan had no time for her and neither did I, so we didn’t see much of Richard after he came back. From what I gather, not many of his old friends did either. It was a real shame, especially considering how close Ryan and Richard were as kids.’
‘And after the divorce?’
‘Richard was depressed. Who wouldn’t be? Annette took his boys back to Manchester, took their savings in lieu of the house. She even took the car. But it was the kids being gone that really upset him.’
‘What about recently? Was he getting his life back on track?’
‘He most certainly was. I bumped into him at one of Delilah’s dating nights—’
‘You went to a Speedy Date night?’
Misunderstanding the sharpness of the question, Lucy blushed. ‘Yes, I did. Widow goes out once in a while. Shock-horror! You’re as bad as the rest of Bruncliffe.’
‘That’s not … I didn’t mean…’
‘It’s okay.’ Lucy took a deep breath, waving away his stumbling apology. ‘It’s a touchy subject. Delilah asked me to go to make up numbers, so I agreed. Didn’t think it would create such headlines.’
‘So how was it?’
The familiar smile returned. ‘Why? Are you tempted?’
‘Christ, no!’ The vehemence of his reply triggered another laugh from Lucy.
‘It wasn’t that bad,’ she said. ‘Actually, it was really good fun. Richard was there. A few other blokes I know from round here. And Elaine came too. Safety in numbers.’
‘And how did Richard seem?’
Lucy regarded Samson, eyebrow raised. ‘Is this in a professional capacity, Detective O’Brien? Should I be careful what I say?’
He shrugged. ‘Possibly. Seeing as I can’t get any of his friends to talk.’
‘Who have you tried?’
‘All of them. Delilah drew up a list for me and I called each and every one. Not one of them agreed to meet.’
‘Not even Harry Furness?’
Samson shook his head. ‘I left a message but he never got back to me.’
‘That interfering Will Metcalfe!’ Lucy muttered. ‘He’s put the word around, no doubt. Well, I’m not sure how much of an authority I am on the subject, but Richard didn’t seem depressed that night.’
‘He was having fun?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he … you know … pull?’
‘Pull?’ she laughed again. ‘Samson O’Brien, where have you been all these years? In a cave?’
‘I’m a bit out of practice,’ he conceded, grinning sheepishly. ‘Did he get a date?’
‘I don’t know. That’s not really how it works. You spend the evening talking to all the potential dates, no more than four minutes per date—’
‘Four minutes? Is that long enough in Bruncliffe?’
‘Long enough to hear all about the latest sheep auction or how the rugby team would fare better with a decent scrum-half,’ replied Lucy with wry humour. ‘Then at the end of the evening you go home and log on to your account and flag up anyone you would like to see again. The computer takes care of the rest.’
‘You mean it notifies you when people want to date you?’
Lucy nodded. ‘Then you decide whether to accept or reject or – and this is Delilah’s own invention – leave it for now. It’s a nicer way of letting people down without an outright rejection.’
Samson scratched his head. ‘Do you think it works?’
‘Yes. I think she has really hit on something. At the moment she’s using her other business to prop it up, but soon it should be viable in its own right.’
‘What other business?’
‘The website development company.’ Lucy laughed at his surprised expression. ‘Yeah, Ryan could never get his head around it, either. His little sister capable of doing things with computers that he couldn’t begin to understand. Delilah’s a whizz when it comes to IT. All she needs now is for the bank to hold out a bit longer and she’ll have two thriving businesses on her hands.’
‘She’s got financial problems?’
Lucy bit her lip. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. Not to…’
‘Not to me. I understand.’ And he did. It made sense now. That sudden change of heart when he’d offered six months’ rent up front. Delilah needed the money to keep her dating agency alive. He felt a pang of sympathy. Twistleton Farm had always been in debt, the bank manager constantly chasing them for payments they couldn’t make. Then foot-and-mouth had hit and everything had exploded. ‘Don’t worry – I won’t say a word. Wouldn’t want to give her an excuse to kick me out.’
‘She wouldn’t. She’s softer than she makes out. And she’s had a hellish couple of years, so don’t take everything she says or does to heart.’
‘Not even a right hoo
k to the chin?’
‘Not even that!’ Lucy smiled. ‘But getting back to your day job. If you want to know more about Richard Hargreaves, go and see Edith Hird.’
‘Miss Hird? Our old headmistress?’
‘The same. She’ll tell you all about Richard.’ Seeing the puzzlement on Samson’s face, Lucy added, ‘She’s his great-aunt. Didn’t you know?’
Samson shook his head, stunned – not for the first time – at how these original Bruncliffians knew the lineage of everyone around them. And judged them accordingly. Including himself, with his Irish father and a mother from a distant dale. But when he’d complained about his lack of approved bloodline many years ago, his father had laughingly claimed that the locals were the ones at a disadvantage, tied to the land as much as their famous ‘hefted’ sheep. Just as the animals had become accustomed to the open spaces of the fells through generations of breeding and so never strayed, so the inhabitants of Bruncliffe were unable to break out for pastures new, thanks to the weight of the generations they carried with them.
While he could appreciate his father’s wisdom now, it hadn’t helped the young Samson feel any less of an outsider.
‘Edith’s at Fellside Court, as you’re aware,’ continued Lucy ‘She shares a two-bedroomed apartment there with her sister, Clarissa. You should drop in on your way back and have a chat with them. They’ll be delighted to see you again.’
‘And see my father at the same time?’ muttered Samson, sensing an ulterior motive in Lucy’s suggestion. Her guilty expression confirmed his suspicion.
‘It wouldn’t hurt, would it? Two birds and all that—’ The squeal of brakes and the scrunch of gravel grabbed her attention. ‘Nathan!’ she said, rising to her feet as a figure came to a halt on a mountain bike outside the caravan. ‘I bet he’s come back for his phone.’ She reached over to a shelf and picked up a mobile, the reverse decorated with a rampant lion – identical to the tattoo on Rob Harrison’s arm – and a white rose. ‘The Yorkshire Regiment symbol,’ she explained, noticing Samson looking at it. ‘In honour of his dad.’
Moments later, the door swung open and Samson felt his heart lurch as a replica of Ryan stood there in the small kitchen. Tall and broad, his muscles already developing and his limbs outgrowing his school uniform, the lad was Metcalfe through and through, fair hair falling across his face as he entered.
‘Hi, Mum, is my mobile—?’ The boy’s gaze settled on the man sitting in the corner and the smile fell from his lips.
‘Hi,’ said Samson, standing to hold out his hand to this godson he had all but deserted. ‘I’m Samson. One of your dad’s friends.’
Nathan stared at him. Glared at his mother. And with a look inherited from his father’s side of the family, snatched the phone, turned around and left, slamming the door behind him, his hunched figure crossing the yard in angry strides.
Lucy hurried to the door. ‘Nathan,’ she shouted. ‘Come back here.’
But the lad didn’t acknowledge her. He entered the barn, where the shadowy form of Rob Harrison could be seen approaching him.
‘Sorry…’ Lucy ran a distracted hand through her hair as her forehead creased in concern. ‘He’s not normally this rude. I didn’t tell him you were coming as I didn’t know how he’d … he’s very protective of me.’
Samson put an arm around Lucy’s tense shoulders. ‘Don’t. It’s okay. The lad has every reason to be annoyed. Not everyone has your generosity of spirit.’
‘Or the Metcalfe ability to hold a grudge.’
‘Or that, thank God!’ Samson was pleased to see her smile. He reached for his jacket. ‘It’s time I was off. Thanks for lunch. And for being so forgiving.’
Lucy put her arms around him and pulled him into a hug. ‘You’re part of Ryan,’ she said. ‘How could I not welcome you home?’
They walked out of the caravan, Lucy’s arm resting through his, and as she reached up to kiss him goodbye, Samson felt the heavy weight of Rob Harrison’s stare upon him. Standing next to the stonemason in the opening of the barn was Nathan Metcalfe, flushed face full of resentment.
‘There’s a storm coming,’ said Lucy, pointing out over the dale at the dark clouds brewing above Gunnerstang Brow. ‘You’d best get going.’
As he started the bike and pulled away, Samson wondered whether he’d be better off heeding her words and getting as far away from Bruncliffe and its belligerent inhabitants as he could.
10
By the time Delilah looked up from the printouts that covered her desk, the world outside had grown dark and rain was spattering against the window, driven by the wind.
‘Nothing!’ she muttered, throwing her pencil onto the papers in annoyance. ‘Not a thing.’
Tolpuddle stirred in his bed in the corner, a stale smell of recycled beer wafting Delilah’s way. It was enough to force her to her feet and across to the door to let in some fresh air. Switching on the landing light, she continued to the kitchen and filled the kettle, all the while her mind churning over the personal details of the three dead men. Her three dead clients.
All of them had gone to local schools, all three different ones.
Their occupations were varied – farmer, lecturer and electrician.
Two had been married previously and were recently divorced, Richard the only one to have had children.
Outside of work and family, Tom had been a keen rugby player; Richard had played chess competitively; Martin Foster had preferred potholing. And there was no record anywhere on the internet that they were on local councils together, affiliates of the same political parties or even churchgoers in the same parish.
In other words, there was nothing to suggest a link between them. Not a link that would overshadow the one she already knew about – their membership of the Dales Dating Agency.
She tipped boiling water into her mug, stirred the teabag vigorously, and tried to quash the flutter of fear in her stomach. Even if she kept her imagination under control and accepted that the deaths were coincidental, if word got out about the thread that bound the dead men together, her business would be given publicity it really didn’t need.
How many clients would she lose? Enough to plunge her into bankruptcy?
She leaned back against the worktop, mug in hand, and watched the rain lash against the window.
Let it go. It was nothing. Just a twist of fate no one but her would notice.
But she couldn’t. It wasn’t in her nature. And besides, with Samson digging into the background of Richard Hargreaves, it was highly likely he’d stumble across the dead man’s association with her agency. If he hadn’t already. Her tenant had been out all day asking questions around town – and further afield, judging by the fact that his motorbike hadn’t been parked in the yard when she returned from her disastrous lunch. Perhaps he had a lead? So she needed to do more digging of her own. That way, at least she would be forewarned if anything unsavoury was uncovered.
The thought of becoming an investigator brought an ironic smile to her face. Having watched Samson O’Brien all week, how hard could it be?
She glanced at the clock on the wall. An hour before she had to leave for the farm for her parents’ wedding anniversary celebrations – and what could be an interesting evening, given her behaviour in the pub at lunchtime. But before she had to think about facing Will, she would go back to her desk and comb through her records once more, using the internet again to widen the search. There had to be something she’d missed.
With a sigh she headed into her office, greeted by a low whine from Tolpuddle.
‘It’s all right,’ she said, bending to stroke the grey head that lifted to her hand. ‘It’s just rain on the window. Be grateful we’re not out in it.’
The dog relaxed, releasing more stale beer and forcing Delilah back to her desk.
‘Honestly, Tolpuddle,’ she moaned, fingers pegging her nose. ‘That’s the last time I take you to the pub.’
The dog raised an eyebrow, gave a glance at
the inclement weather outside, and propped his head on his paws. In seconds he was asleep, dreaming of sunnier climes.
* * *
‘Jesus!’ Samson got off the motorbike and shook himself like a dog, a fine arc of water shedding itself from his jacket, and wished he was somewhere sunnier. He was soaked through.
The storm had hit as he was halfway back to town, the black clouds swooping over him at speed, unleashing rain as only the Yorkshire Dales could. Big, fat drops falling in rapid succession, his visor streaming, the road slick in minutes. If it wasn’t for the temperatures, it could almost be considered tropical.
Boots squelching, jeans chafing his legs, he jogged across the courtyard to the rear entrance of Fellside Court.
‘Come in, come in, or you’ll catch your death of cold!’ Clarissa Ralph, sister of the woman he’d come to see, was holding open one of the glass doors and ushering him in. ‘Oh, look at you!’ she said, hands flying to her mouth. ‘You’re wet through.’
‘Well don’t leave him out there,’ called a voice from the far end of the corridor. Samson recognised the rotund shape and bald head of Arty, the retired bookmaker. ‘Bring him down here where there’s a fire on.’
Clarissa did as she was told, fluttering along beside Samson, her frail hand on his arm, her head barely up to his shoulder, making him feel elephantine.
‘Oh, your dad will be pleased to see you,’ she chirped. ‘He’s talked about you a lot.’
‘I bet he has,’ murmured Samson.
‘And you’re just in time, too,’ she continued, smiling up at him, her white hair framing a sweet face.
‘Just in time?’
Clarissa nodded, tightening her grip on his arm. ‘It’s the highlight of our day.’
‘Come on,’ bellowed Arty, now at the door of the communal lounge. ‘It’s about to start.’
Date with Death Page 13
