‘What’s about to start?’ asked Samson, entering the room. As before, a large group of residents were gathered, but this time they were all seated in armchairs facing the TV, his father amongst them. ‘What’s about to start?’ he said again.
A group of heads turned to face him and replied in unison. ‘Flog It!’
‘It’s like Antiques Roadshow, but with more thrills,’ explained Clarissa.
Arty laughed. ‘That’s one way of putting it. We like to guess how much the tat will go for.’
‘And Arty always gets it wrong,’ chipped in Edith Hird, gesturing to an empty chair. ‘Come and have a seat.’ Then she noticed the sodden clothing and the trail of wet footprints. ‘Why, you’re soaked through, young man! Joseph, he’ll need to change or he’ll catch his death of cold.’
Joseph O’Brien, who’d been looking on with bemusement as his son was gathered into the flock of Fellside Court, knew when he’d been given a command. He got to his feet and walked towards Samson, a twinkle in his eye.
‘Come on, son,’ he said, putting a hand on Samson’s arm and leading him back out of the room, ignoring his protests. ‘You know better than to argue with Miss Hird. Let’s get you into some dry clothes.’
‘And be quick,’ added Edith, ‘because it’s about to start.’
* * *
Different addresses. Different jobs. Different lives. To all appearances, Richard Hargreaves, Martin Foster and Tom Alderson had nothing in common. Apart from dying. And one other thing …
All three men had been on the last Speedy Date night.
‘Damn it!’ Delilah sat back in her chair and stared at the screen where the records of her demised clients confronted her. Suspicion, disquieting and insistent, uncoiled within her, pushing aside all the rational arguments she’d been using to suppress it.
Three men dying suddenly. All members of the same dating agency. All participants in the last dating event.
How much coincidence did you need before starting to pay attention?
She reached for her mug. Empty. She didn’t have time to make a fresh one. For a moment she was tempted to forgo the evening ahead, to call home and make an excuse so she could stay in the office and keep picking away at the threads of this problem that had the potential to sink her business. But she couldn’t. Not after her behaviour in the pub earlier. Will would presume she was avoiding him, while the rest of the family would take her absence as yet further justification for her newly acquired black-sheep status.
Another half an hour, then. She’d go back over her records once more and tomorrow she’d start early, looking at the dating history of the men in question. And praying she didn’t find any more parallels. Because this time she would be searching for a darker reason behind the demise of the three men, and hoping to God it had nothing to do with Mrs Hargreaves’ suspicion of murder.
* * *
‘Eight thousand pounds? For a cup made of rhino’s horn? That so-called expert wants his head looking at!’
‘And it’s chipped.’
‘It’s bloody ugly, too.’
‘Arthur! Language!’
‘Well it is,’ declared Arty, unabashed by the reprimand from the former headmistress. ‘And as for it being a cup – you wouldn’t get a decent brew in that piece of rubbish.’
Samson stood in the doorway as the pensioners bantered back and forth, the TV holding their attention. He felt awkward in his new attire. When they’d entered the flat, his father had handed him some clothes and left him to change. Now he was dressed in cords that had a permanent crease down the front, a soft flannel shirt and a baggy, ribbed cardigan that could house two. Thanks to the difference in height between the O’Briens, the hem of the trousers was high enough to clear the puddles gathering outside and Samson’s wrists protruded from his sleeves. But at least he wasn’t wet any more.
‘Samson, what do you think?’ Arty was pointing at the screen where a brown cup-like object was on a pedestal. ‘Would you pay eight grand for that?’
‘No,’ said Samson, crossing the room to take the empty chair next to his father. ‘But I’d be happy to have some idiot pay me that for it.’
A wave of laughter greeted his reply.
‘“Idiot” is right,’ muttered the frail man with the oxygen cylinder Samson remembered from his visit the week before. ‘Fools are soon parted from their money.’
‘That must make you the wisest amongst us then, Eric,’ quipped Arty with a wink.
Another outburst of laughter caused Clarissa to lean over and pat Samson’s hand. ‘Take no notice of them,’ she said. ‘They’re always teasing each other. But it’s so good of you to call in and see your father.’
‘Actually, I came to speak to Edith,’ replied Samson, rueing his blunt acknowledgement of the truth the moment it was voiced. But if his father took offence, he made no show of it, still laughing at Arty’s last sally.
‘Edith!’ Clarissa was already calling across the room, her shrill tones cutting through the chat. ‘Edith, he says he’s come to talk to you.’
‘What about?’ Edith turned from the TV to face Samson.
‘It’s … er … perhaps we could talk somewhere…?’
A stout wave of a hand dismissed the idea. ‘Spit it out, lad. They’re about to start the auction.’
Samson looked around at the elderly faces, all now concentrating on him.
‘Well?’ demanded Edith.
‘It’s … I’m kind of here in an official capacity.’
‘You mean something to do with you being a private detective?’ asked Arty. And just like that, the TV was forgotten and a clamour of voices beset Samson.
‘Oh! How exciting,’ exclaimed Clarissa. ‘Has someone gone missing?’
‘Or died in mysterious circumstances?’ asked Eric hopefully.
‘Or he’s trying to find someone mentioned in a will,’ added another man.
‘Maybe he wants Edith to go undercover?’ a plump lady suggested.
‘Quiet!’ Joseph O’Brien stood, raising a hand to subdue the growing noise. ‘Give the lad a chance to tell us.’ He turned to his son, shaking his head. ‘Sorry. We lead sheltered lives here and tend to get a bit excited about anything out of the ordinary. Go ahead, Samson. Ask Edith what you want to know.’
‘It’s about Richard Hargreaves.’
Silence filled the room and all heads swivelled towards the former headmistress, whose eyes were narrowed, lips pursed.
‘I wondered if that’s why you’d come,’ she said. ‘Barbara mentioned she’d asked you to investigate.’
‘Mrs Hargreaves? She’s hired Samson?’ Arty looked from the old lady to the detective and back again. ‘Doesn’t she think it was suicide?’
‘Apparently not.’
‘And what do you think?’ asked Samson gently.
Faded blue eyes focused on him, still sharp despite Miss Hird’s age. ‘I’m puzzled, I must confess. He didn’t seem to be particularly depressed when I last saw him.’
‘When was that?’
‘A week to the day before he killed himself. He called in every month or so. To check how we were.’
‘He was a good boy,’ murmured Clarissa, her hands trembling. ‘Such a good boy.’
‘I’m sure he was,’ said Samson, laying his hand across hers.
‘A good boy, but a soft one,’ muttered Edith.
‘Aye, that wife of his…’ Arty let the sentence hang, heads nodding all around the room.
‘She was something, all right. “Wicked” is the word that springs to mind. Taking his boys like that.’ Eric coughed, his indignation taking its toll.
‘So does Mrs Hargreaves suspect foul play, then?’ Arty addressed his question to Samson.
‘Sorry, I can’t discuss—’
‘Of course she does,’ Edith Hird cut across Samson’s reply. ‘What mother wouldn’t? Surely it’s preferable to have your son be killed than have him die by his own hand?’
Again the room fell quiet
as they contemplated the suffering of the butcher’s wife.
‘Or in an accident,’ said Arty. ‘Like that lad they buried today.’
‘What lad?’ asked Eric.
‘Some young farmer over towards Hawes. Got killed when his quad bike turned over on him. I met Will Metcalfe and Harry Furness coming back from the funeral.’
‘How sad,’ exclaimed Clarissa. ‘Another young man.’
‘What was his name?’ asked Joseph O’Brien.
‘Alderson,’ said Arty. ‘Can’t remember what they said his first name was.’
‘Alderson?’ Joseph frowned. ‘That rings a bell—’
‘Oh, my goodness!’ Edith was pointing at the TV, where the auction of the ‘ugly’ cup was reaching its conclusion. ‘Forty thousand pounds, Arty! Shows what you know!’
‘Forty thousand…?’
‘Madness…’
‘Who on earth paid that much…?’
In a flash the sombre atmosphere was replaced with excitement, the pensioners enthralled by the unexpected climax of their TV programme. Samson listened with half an ear. Alderson … Alderson … Where had he heard that name?
‘Imagine! Forty thousand…’
‘More money than sense…’
‘Best episode ever…’
‘You should have been an auctioneer, Samson. Think of the cut … Samson?’ Joseph O’Brien was talking to an empty chair.
‘What got into him?’ asked Arty as the residents of Fellside Court turned their attention to the young man running across the courtyard towards his motorbike.
‘Not sure,’ said Joseph.
The roar of the engine carried over the television as Samson sped away.
‘Maybe he’s just remembered he’s got a cup made of rhino’s horn in the cupboard at home,’ said Arty and the room dissolved into laughter once more.
* * *
Alderson! Tom Alderson – the name in Delilah’s notepad. Another client of the Dales Dating Agency who had turned up dead.
Samson tore through the town, not even noticing that the rain had stopped, and took the sharp right down the ginnel to pull up outside the yard.
Logic suggested it had to be a coincidence. But Samson had been a policeman long enough to know that logic wasn’t always right. Sometimes that tug deep in your belly, the crawl of nerves along your spine, the tingle of instinct that made you pause – sometimes you had to let that override all logic.
Which was what Samson was doing now.
Bike parked for the night, he hurried along the path to the back door, noting the light spilling out of Delilah’s office window.
She was still here. He’d just have to work round her.
* * *
The downstairs door opening sent a draught of air up the stairs to pull Delilah from her morbid investigations and Tolpuddle from his dreams. Both dog and owner lifted their heads, Tolpuddle letting out a sharp bark and jumping from his bed to trot out onto the landing.
Samson was here. Damn!
‘Hello,’ he called out, his footsteps on the stairs already, forestalled by a flurry of barking as Tolpuddle gave him an enthusiastic greeting.
Delilah hurriedly closed the documents on her computer and gathered all the loose papers off her desk, shoving them in a drawer. When he appeared seconds later, there was no evidence of her dark suspicions. Apart from the sting of heat across her cheekbones.
‘Evening! You’re working late. Everything all right?’ He was in the doorway, a hand on Tolpuddle’s head, his gaze going straight to her flushed face.
Somehow she managed a smooth reply. ‘Fine. Just getting things sorted for the next Speedy Date night.’
He smiled. ‘Ah! Lucy was telling me all about it today.’
‘She was?’ Delilah felt her heartrate pick up. She tidied the pens on her desk to distract herself. ‘And what did she say? Only good things, I hope?’
‘All good. She really enjoyed it. I’d say you did her a favour asking her to go.’
‘Not everyone thought so.’
‘Let me guess – Will?’ A dark eyebrow lifted with the question.
‘Yes, Will. Dad thought it was too soon as well, and Nathan wasn’t overly happy. He had a row with Lucy over it, accused her of being disrespectful. One or two others made comments…’ Delilah shrugged. ‘That’s Bruncliffe for you.’
Samson’s smile transformed into a grin. ‘And people wonder why I left!’
‘No. Actually they don’t. They’re more puzzled as to why you bothered to come back.’ She lifted her focus from the desk to study the man before her. ‘Why did you come back?’
‘I’m looking for a wife.’ The grin became even more roguish. ‘And I heard there was a great dating agency in town.’
Delilah felt her lips surge into a smile despite herself. ‘Well, as the owner of said dating agency, I have to suggest that you might want to rethink your outfit for your profile picture.’ She pointed at the dark-brown cords that were floating a good few inches off the floor. ‘Short-legged flares are so last year!’
Samson laughed. ‘They’re Dad’s. I got caught in the rain on the way to see him, and Miss Hird was afraid I’d die of pneumonia.’
‘Now you’re just a casualty of fashion instead.’ Delilah stood, shutting down her computer as she did so. ‘Right. Time I went home.’
‘Really? I was just going to get some takeaway. I can’t persuade you to join me and pass on some more dating tips over crispy fried duck?’
‘Not tonight. But thanks for the offer. It’s Mum and Dad’s wedding anniversary, so family calls.’
‘Give them my best – if you think it’s appropriate.’
‘I’ll wait until Will’s out of earshot,’ she said with a wry look. She picked up her bag and moved past him in the doorway, Tolpuddle padding along beside her. Hand on the bannister rail, she paused. ‘Are you leaving now or will you lock up?’
‘I’ve got a couple of things to do yet.’
‘For the Hargreaves case?’
He nodded.
‘How’s it going?’ Her pulse started racing again as she strove to sound nonchalant. ‘Still think it’s suicide or have you unearthed some deranged killer?’
‘No deranged killers. Yet!’ He flashed her a smile.
‘Let me know if you do find any,’ she said with an equally bright smile. ‘Goodnight.’
Then she was down the stairs and through the kitchen, heading for the exit. It was only as the door closed behind her that she let her breath ease out between clenched teeth.
Why had that felt like an interrogation? Was it just her suspicions tainting everything around her? But she hadn’t imagined Samson’s reaction when she asked him about Richard Hargreaves. All that banter, the jovial demeanour, had been suddenly underlain by a stillness – like a hawk spotting prey halfway down a mountainside.
Had she given anything away? She didn’t think so.
She was outside her cottage, spare key in the door, when she realised she’d made a mistake. She’d been so knocked back by his offer to get a takeaway together – and equally wrong-footed by her own inclination to accept – that she’d forgotten to lock her office. Should she go back?
The thought of having to face Samson again deterred her.
Leave it, she told herself as she let Tolpuddle into the dark cottage ahead of her. It’s not as if he suspected anything anyway.
* * *
Samson O’Brien stood in the doorway of Delilah’s office and looked around. She was hiding something. First the failure to mention Richard Hargreaves had been a client. Now the news of this second death was all over town, via none other than Delilah’s brother, and yet she hadn’t admitted the connection between the man buried today and her dating agency.
Two of her customers dead. No wonder she’d looked rattled when he walked in. Part of him would like to think it was his male charisma that had brought the tinge of rose to her cheeks. But he knew better. Especially when he was dressed like something out
of a clowns’ cast-offs catalogue.
No, she’d clearly been ruffled to see him. And then she’d actually held a conversation with him. No scowls. No snapping. She’d been human. She was definitely hiding something.
He’d waited ten minutes, the length of time it would take her to get home, before returning to her office. The handle had turned without resistance, proof of how easy it was to distract people. By playing on her discomfort and standing in the doorway as she left, he’d managed to derail her from her normal routine and she’d forgotten to lock her office.
Closing the door after him to cut out the light from the landing, he crossed to the desk and switched the computer on – more in hope than expectation. The screen glowed bright in the dark room. He glanced over his shoulder at the curtainless window, outside a black canvas, the Crag looming unseen somewhere out there. He’d have to take the risk.
The computer hummed into life and presented Samson with a photo of Delilah laughing, her arms wrapped around a happy Tolpuddle, and a password request.
He cursed. Of course she’d have it protected. He tried a few long shots – date of birth, her dog’s name, the name of her pet rabbit when she was a kid.
No good. Delilah and Tolpuddle grinned back at him. He opened the desk drawer instead, the screen providing enough light to see the contents. A jumble of papers, looking like they’d been hastily thrust in there. He pulled them out and his lips formed a silent whistle.
Bingo! The Dales Dating Agency client records for Richard Hargreaves, Tom Alderson and another man, Martin Foster.
Martin Foster? A third man. Was he dead as well? Entering the name into his mobile, he quickly got the answer.
‘Jesus!’ Samson stared at the newspaper report – another accident. Another of Delilah’s customers who would go dating no more.
Three men, all connected to the agency and all dead in seemingly innocuous circumstances. Yet Delilah had been concerned enough to pull their records, proving that she was at least aware of the grim connection between her clients and a sudden spate of untimely deaths.
Perhaps even more than aware of it…?
He let the thought settle in a corner of his mind, too much of a policeman to discount anything simply because of the past. Then he took photographs of the records before pushing them back in the drawer.
Date with Death Page 14
