Date with Death

by Julia Chapman

  Deciding to stick with the chronology of deaths, she’d started with Richard Hargreaves. On the night in question, he’d logged on to his Dales Dating Agency account almost as soon as the date event ended, which was unusual for a man. Normally it was the ladies who recorded their verdicts straight away, the men either playing it cool or, more likely, heading down to the pub and leaving it until they got home. Not Richard.

  Out of the twelve ladies, he’d let seven of them down gently. Drawing a line down the page of her notepad, Delilah listed the names of all the women who’d been on the Speedy Date night, separating them across the two columns according to whether they’d been rejected by Richard or not. Then she turned to Martin Foster.

  Clearly the electrician’s first dating event hadn’t left him cautious, as he’d gone onto the website the following morning and asked all twelve women if he could see them again. Which made him either desperate, or easy to please! On a fresh page, Delilah drew two more columns, although thanks to Martin’s impartiality, she only had need of one.

  Finally, Tom Alderson. He’d been the most reticent, waiting almost a full day before marking out only three women to follow up. Delilah entered the information on a third page and then sat back and looked at the notepad in front of her.

  Two pages that offered her a glimmer of hope, and then a third – with its single column containing all twelve names – that totally skewed her burgeoning theory.

  Damn! Thinking along the lines that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, she’d been convinced she would find a correlation between the three men and the women they’d declined to get to know better after the date night. And while she couldn’t believe that anyone would resort to murder simply on the basis of being rebuffed, it was at least a place to start.

  Instead, there was nothing. Because all twelve women had been chosen by Martin Foster. Yet he was dead. So if the men had been killed, it wasn’t on the basis of rejection.

  What was the motive, then?

  Wishing for the first time in her life that she had the mind of a murderer, Delilah Metcalfe turned back to her computer screen. The answer was in there somewhere. She just had to find it.

  12

  ‘The quad bike? Whatever do you want to look at that for?’

  Bill Alderson was sitting across the kitchen table from Samson, the detective’s business card tiny in his large hand, while his wife, Lynn, was pouring tea, good and strong judging by the odour rising from the three mugs.

  ‘I just wondered—’

  ‘You think it might have had something to do with the accident?’ Mrs Alderson cut across Samson, eyes sharp in a face haggard with grief.

  ‘Possibly…’

  She turned to her husband. ‘What harm could there be, Bill?’

  ‘None, I suppose. But I don’t understand why someone’s come all the way out from Bruncliffe for this.’

  Samson reached for his mug while searching for the right words, unsure how to put it. ‘I’m investigating another accident,’ he said finally.

  ‘Like Tom’s?’ asked the farmer.

  ‘Kind of.’

  ‘How kind of?’

  ‘A suicide.’

  Fresh pain showed on the face of Lynn Alderson, the teapot still held before her like a shield. ‘How could that be connected to Tom? You’re not suggesting he turned that bike deliberately, are you?’

  ‘No, no, nothing like that.’ Samson cursed inwardly at his own clumsiness. A life lived undercover hadn’t prepared him for interviews with grieving parents and, bizarrely, he caught himself wishing that Delilah was by his side. She’d know how to handle these people and their sadness without hurting them further. ‘I just thought … if I could have a quick look at the bike?’

  But the keen eyes of Mrs Alderson were on him again, scrutinising him. ‘Was it the other mother who hired you?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The mother of the person who committed suicide. Did she hire you?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t say—’

  But Mrs Alderson’s hand was already covering her mouth. ‘You think it wasn’t an accident?’

  Samson froze, unsure which way to leap.

  ‘You think someone killed our Tom?’ Her voice rose high and hung above the table, shimmering like a blade.

  Bill Alderson reeled back. ‘Tom? You think someone killed him?’

  ‘I can’t be sure. It’s just … a hunch. But I might be able to rule it out,’ said Samson.

  ‘But why?’ Mrs Alderson asked, hand shaking as she replaced the teapot on its stand. ‘Why on earth would anyone want to harm Tom?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Husband and wife looked at each other and then Bill got to his feet.

  ‘Come on then,’ he said, heading for the door. ‘It’s in the small barn.’

  * * *

  There. Staring out at her from her computer screen. A pattern of behaviour shared by the three men.

  Having drawn a blank with her initial theory – that the women who had been rejected would yield a common link – Delilah had returned to the data accumulated after the Speedy Date night, this time focusing on the women who had been chosen.

  According to her records, Richard Hargreaves had sent five follow-up requests, two of which had been turned down. That left him with three interested ladies. Martin Foster, after his staggering decision to invite all twelve women to meet him again, had been rewarded with six acceptances. While two of Tom Alderson’s three offers of a date had been favourably received.

  So three women had wanted to date Richard; six had said yes to Martin; two had agreed to meet Tom. But only two names appeared in all three columns – two women who had accepted date requests from all three of the men who had subsequently died.

  Finally Delilah had something to tie the deceased men together – even if it didn’t seem a credible catalyst for the deaths that had followed. However tenuous though, it was a definite line connecting her dead clients and right now, that was all she had.

  Delilah stared at the two names in front of her and wondered if she was looking at the name of a murderer.

  * * *

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with it at all? The brakes? The throttle?’

  George Capstick was already shaking his head, eyes darting back to the large barn where the much more interesting grey tractor was waiting. ‘It’s fine.’

  Samson covered his disappointment by stroking a hand across his face. He’d been so sure. So confident they would find something here; that there would be some evidence of foul play which would tie at least two of Delilah’s dead clients together.

  He’d crossed the farmyard in the company of both Lynn and Bill Alderson, noting the pristine conditions once more as they paused to collect George from his loving admiration of the Ferguson tractor. The doors of the larger barn were painted green, the paintwork bright in the morning light and the woodwork solid. The yard had been swept, a couple of hens scratching futilely at the barren surface. The drystone wall that ran around the perimeter of the property looked newly repaired in places. And when they arrived at the smaller, stone-built barn, it too was organised to perfection: a workshop with everything in its place. It had made Samson ashamed to think of the ramshackle outbuildings of Twistleton Farm.

  ‘Tom kept the place in good nick,’ Bill Alderson had explained, noting Samson’s approving glances. ‘He could turn his hand to anything. Apart from walling. We had to get someone in for that as neither me nor Tom are … were … much cop at it. Everything else though…’

  He’d tailed off, his anguish clear to see, and Samson, uncomfortable at the torment he was putting the Aldersons through, had been relieved when George had begun giving the quad bike a thorough inspection.

  Now George was delivering his verdict. Apart from a few scratches and a couple of dents following the accident, the bike was in full working order.

  Samson knew better than to question the judgement of his mechanic, Georg
e Capstick being more knowledgeable about anything with a motor than anyone Samson had ever met. But still, it wasn’t what he’d been expecting. Or hoping for.

  He’d convinced himself that the quad bike had been tampered with. That Tom Alderson’s accident had been anything but. If he was on the trail of a murderer, however, the person he was chasing was covering their tracks impeccably.

  A long exhalation next to him reminded him that not everyone in the barn was a detached observer.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said to the distraught parents, Lynn Alderson’s face drawn, hands clasped to her chest. ‘I thought … maybe the bike…’

  Bill Alderson placed a solid arm across his wife’s shoulders. ‘No need to apologise, son.’ He sighed heavily. ‘It was a bit far-fetched anyway. Who’d want to hurt our Tom? And as for the bike…’ He gestured at the surrounding workshop, everything tidied away, surfaces clear. ‘Tom was particular about his tools. He wouldn’t have been riding a quad that was defective.’

  Samson nodded. It had been a long shot, but one the gnawing in his stomach wouldn’t let him ignore. ‘Thanks for allowing us to look at it,’ he said. ‘And I’m sorry to have intruded on your grief.’ He turned to George, who was still gazing longingly over at the far barn. ‘We’re leaving, George.’

  His mechanic gave his characteristic slow blink, shuffling his feet on the concrete floor. Then, after what seemed an age, he spoke.

  ‘You need to tell them not to tape,’ he said.

  ‘Not to tape?’

  George pointed at the handlebars of the bike, his eyelids closing for several seconds before reopening. ‘It’s dangerous,’ he said.

  ‘What’s he talking about?’ asked Bill Alderson.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Samson watched his mechanic as he began to fidget, hands twitching, legs jiggling. ‘What do you mean, George?’

  ‘It’s bad for the engine,’ came the blurted reply. ‘Too many revs.’

  Nonplussed, Samson turned to the quad bike. Too many revs – so something to do with the throttle. He reached across to the right and rested his hand on the metal lever under the handlebar. Sticky. A tacky substance pulling at his fingertips.

  Heart beginning to thump, he stretched his fingers up onto the handlebar. More traces of what felt like adhesive. A loop of tape had been wrapped around the throttle and onto the handlebar above. Jamming the throttle open. Making the bike rev …

  ‘Can you think of any reason Tom would have had for keeping the bike running when he wasn’t on it?’ he asked.

  Lynn Alderson looked up at Bill, who was already shaking his head. ‘No. I know folk who keep the quad trundling through when they get off to open and close gates. But only an idiot would do that round here. The bike would be off up a hill and back on you before…’ He paused, eyes darting to the handlebars where Samson’s hand was still resting and then to George. ‘Tape? My God. Someone taped the throttle open?’

  ‘But that could kill someone—’ Lynn Alderson’s words sliced through the cold air of the open barn. Then she let out a small moan, her hands flying to her mouth. ‘Tom! It wasn’t an accident!’

  Samson made no move to disagree.

  * * *

  The sharp ping of an email arriving startled Delilah back to her surroundings. How long had she been sitting there staring at the two names? Long enough for her tea to go cold and her computer screen to go blank.

  Hannah Wilson and Sarah Mitchell. Such unremarkable names. As for the women themselves, Hannah was local, a year older than Delilah, and a librarian who bred Shire horses in her spare time. She’d joined the Dales Dating Agency six months before but hadn’t really made much of the online options. But when Delilah had introduced the live events, Hannah had signed up for the first one and every one since. She was bubbly, cheerful, the perfect person for Speedy Date night.

  A quietly spoken ecologist, Sarah Mitchell was almost the polar opposite of Hannah. Hailing from Leeds, she’d arrived in the Yorkshire Dales eighteen months ago to carry out research into otter populations and had stayed on to work for an ecology consultancy service based in Hawes. She’d only joined the dating agency in September; October’s dating event had been her first.

  Neither woman struck Delilah as being capable of murder.

  She slumped back in her chair and checked her emails. Two more requests to join the Speedy Date night the following week. It was almost fully booked now, demand such that Delilah had increased the number of participants to fifteen couples. The article in the local paper had proved to be great publicity.

  It wouldn’t be so great when word got out about the link between the dating nights and the recent deaths.

  The thought sent a shot of anxiety through her, propelling her to her feet to pace the floor. What was she going to do? She only had a few days before the next event. And she could really do without anyone dying after that one.

  From the corner of the room a soft sigh alerted her to the presence of Tolpuddle, head on paws, eyes watching her forlornly.

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ she muttered. ‘You’re waiting for him.’

  She gazed out of the window into the empty courtyard below, and inspiration struck.

  * * *

  Suspicion. Unfurling itself, snaking through his mind. Turning the normal into the suspect. Casting scepticism on every coincidence.

  After the discovery of the tape residue on the bike, Samson had accompanied Bill Alderson to the scene of the accident, George opting to stay behind and continue his inspection of the old tractor. They’d taken the Land Rover, Bill pulling up inside the first gate where they got out.

  ‘This was open,’ he’d said, eyes filling with sadness as he recalled the night of his son’s death. ‘I should have known then there was something up. Tom never was one for being careless.’

  ‘So it was in this field that you found him?’ Samson looked up at the looming sides of Wether Fell, the autumn already turning the green to brown, and thought about how dark it would be here once the sun went down. And isolated, the only house visible being the Alderson farm in the distance.

  ‘No, the next one.’ Bill led the way up the field to the top gate. He paused, as though gathering his courage, and then passed through.

  Samson’s first impression was the steepness, grass rising sharply up to the far wall. It was similar to the fields at the outer edges of Twistleton Farm – tricky to negotiate even on a quad bike. No one who worked this fellside regularly would be stupid enough to ride directly up it.

  ‘He was over there.’ The farmer pointed to his left, where the ground was gouged and stained. He made no move to follow as Samson crossed to inspect the scene.

  Crouching down, Samson ran his eyes up along the land, taking in the contours, the bumps and indents. A well-worn track snaked across the hillside, weaving lazily up to a gate set high in the left-hand wall. The route for the quad bike. A safe traverse across this tricky terrain. So why on earth hadn’t Tom stuck to it? Because, judging by where the quad had ended up, something had urged Tom to take the more direct route to the top gate. Unless Tom hadn’t been in a state to make that decision…?

  He looked back at the gate where he’d entered the field with Bill.

  They’d been here, lying in wait, whoever had fixed the tape onto the bike. Tom would have stopped at the top of the first field, walked over in the headlights of the quad bike to the gate, and opened it. And out of the dark, rising up from behind the wall, his death had come to him.

  How? Tom had been beneath the quad when his father found him, some distance from the gate. From what the Aldersons had said, his injuries – smashed pelvis, fractured limbs, broken vertebrae, extensive damage to the abdomen – were consistent with being trapped under a heavy four-wheeled motorbike. So if it hadn’t been an accident, how had he got there?

  There was only one way. A blow to the head. Then slump the body on the bike, start the engine, tape the throttle open and let go. The quad bike would have carried its cargo up the treacherous
incline, until it could keep traction no longer. Then it would have cartwheeled backwards and onto its inert passenger, leaving Tom Alderson dead in what would look to all intents and purposes like one more farming accident, the initial wound easily overlooked by a coroner as part of the overall trauma.

  Callous. And calculated. For whoever had placed tape on the throttle had been composed enough to remove it. Which meant they’d approached the upended quad bike. No doubt checked the young man beneath it was dead, too, leaving nothing to chance.

  Samson straightened up and walked back to the farmer, who seemed to have diminished in stature since they’d entered the field.

  ‘Well?’ asked Bill. ‘Do you still think it could have been deliberate?’

  ‘My instinct says it was. But I don’t understand how someone could have known Tom would be here that night. What brought him out here?’

  ‘Why, the dead sheep, of course.’

  ‘What dead sheep?’

  ‘The one we got the call about. Some tourist came across a dead ewe on the right of way beyond.’ Bill pointed towards the far gate up the hillside. ‘They called the Chairman of the Parish Council. He called Lynn and when Tom and I got back from the auction, Tom went straight out to deal with it. That’s where he was heading when…’ His gaze rested on the site of the crash. ‘If it hadn’t been for that blasted ewe breaking her neck!’ he muttered bitterly.

  A ewe breaking her neck. That’s what had triggered this. A sheep carcass on a public path. A concerned tourist calling the Parish Council. And Tom Alderson had ridden out in the dark to his death.

  A death that could have been even more calculated than Samson had first thought.

  ‘Is that the only access into the field where the sheep was?’ he asked, pointing at the gate up above them.

  Bill nodded.

  ‘So Tom had to come through here to get to it?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  Samson was looking from the road to the first gate, and then up to the far gate. It had been well planned. Somewhere to hide. Terrain that would provide the perfect explanation for an accident. And now, with this information about the sheep, a certainty that the victim would arrive in this precise spot. But for the residual trace of tape on the handlebars, there was nothing to arouse suspicion.