‘I don’t suppose the Chairman of the Parish Council got the contact details for that tourist?’ he asked casually.
Bill frowned. ‘I doubt it. Why, is it important?’ He paled as he grasped the implication of what Samson was asking. ‘You think … it might have been a trap?’
‘I can’t say for sure. But someone put tape on that throttle. Someone who knew Tom would be out here that night. And it seems to me a dead sheep is a pretty good way to guarantee getting a farmer out to a specific field.’
‘Christ! We have to call the police.’
A vivid recollection of Sergeant Gavin Clayton’s cynicism as he discussed Mrs Hargreaves and her suspicions must have been enough to place doubt on Samson’s face. Doubt which Bill Alderson read easily. His shoulders sagged.
‘They’d think we were mad, wouldn’t they? Nothing but a bit of stickiness on a throttle as evidence.’
Samson gave a small nod.
‘So what then? We do nothing and let the bastard—’ The farmer broke off and twisted away, putting his face into the wind, and once again Samson wished Delilah was with him to handle this man and his raw emotions.
The two men stood there in the vast field, dwarfed by the rising fell before them, the half-hearted trill of a lark way above sharp against their silence.
‘Do you think it’s connected?’ Bill Alderson turned, eyes red-rimmed, expression bleak.
‘Sorry?’
‘To the suicide you’re investigating. Do you think Tom’s death might be connected?’
‘Possibly.’
The farmer stared back over the landscape that he’d known all his life, as though assessing it anew in the wake of the last week. He shook his head in bewilderment. ‘Why?’ he asked.
‘That’s what I’m hoping to find out.’
‘You mean you’re going to look into this?’ Bill Alderson pointed at the scarred ground beyond them with its ominous dark colouring.
‘I’m going to try. I can’t promise anything, though.’
‘We can pay. I know it’s what Lynn would want.’
Samson was already shaking his head. ‘Let’s talk about that if I manage to find whoever did this. In the meantime, I’ll let you know if I discover anything that the police might be interested in.’
Bill Alderson held out his hand, a flicker of hope replacing the despair in his eyes. ‘Thank you,’ he said, grasping Samson in a firm handshake.
* * *
It was carrying the weight of that hope that Samson had left the Aldersons and dropped George back at his house. When she’d seen the excited state her brother had arrived home in, Ida Capstick shook her head in disapproval, shooting daggers of reproach at Samson while George babbled on about the Little Grey. So Samson hadn’t lingered, turning the bike back onto the road and accelerating towards Bruncliffe.
The police station. That was going to be his first port of call. Not to report a suspected crime – as Bill Alderson had realised, that would be pointless. If their reluctance to probe into Richard Hargreaves’ death was anything to go by, it would take something more substantial than a sticky substance on a throttle to make the local force sit up and take notice of this latest case. But although there was no point in involving the police at this stage, they did have something he was keen to see, now that his hunch about Delilah’s dead clients was beginning to appear valid.
Slowing up as he entered the town, he passed Fellside Court on his left, a group of elderly people sitting on the benches on the front lawn. He recognised his father and Arty amongst them, both men raising their hands as the scarlet motorbike went past. Then he was pulling onto the forecourt outside the station. Praying that someone other than Sergeant Clayton would be on duty – preferably some outsider who’d never heard of the O’Brien family and their colourful history, and who possessed an ounce of investigative talent – Samson jogged up the steps.
‘Afternoon, Mr O’Brien.’ The young constable who’d been in reception on his previous visit greeted him from the desk, a shy smile on his face as he snapped upright, his uniform sagging over his thin chest.
‘Afternoon…’ Samson let his eyes slip discreetly to the kid’s name badge, ‘Constable Bradley.’
The lad’s face reddened and his smile widened into a grin and Samson crossed his fingers.
‘I need to see the CCTV footage taken the day of Richard Hargreaves’ death.’ He said it nonchalantly, as if it was his inalienable right. But Constable Bradley wasn’t fooled. A frown replaced the grin.
‘I’m sorry, Mr O’Brien, but … Sergeant Clayton said … we can’t let you…’ The lad shrugged, his bony shoulders almost piercing his shirt.
Damn. Foiled at the first hurdle. The same hunch that he’d had about Tom Alderson’s quad bike was nagging at him about the camera at the old railway station. He really needed to see the video taken before and after Richard’s fall onto the tracks. But how?
‘That’s okay,’ said Samson, turning to go, already deep in thought. He was at the door before he realised the lad was calling him back.
‘Mr O’Brien,’ the young man was saying. ‘Is it true you were one of an elite group of undercover officers for the Met in London?’ There was no disguising the eagerness in the lad’s voice.
Samson paused, wondering where such a rose-tinted view of his career had come from. ‘I worked on some undercover drug operations, yes,’ he said, his answer deliberately vague.
‘What’s it like? Working for the Met, I mean? Is it exciting?’
A flash of memory – a drug deal in a backstreet, adrenalin soaring as he tried to negotiate the dealer into a trap.
‘That’s one word for it,’ he replied dryly.
‘Did you make a lot of arrests?’ The lad was leaning over the counter now, eager to catch every word.
‘As a team, yes, we did. But a lot got away, too. And it’s not all glamour.’ Another image from the past – holed up in an empty warehouse on a stakeout for two weeks, tracking the coming and goings of a drugs gang. He’d needed a long shower after that one.
But the lad seemed undeterred. ‘That’s so cool!’ he breathed, eyes shining. ‘It’s what I want to do. I’ve got six more months of probation and then I’ll be applying for the first job that comes up.’
‘You want to join the Met?’
Constable Bradley nodded.
‘What’s wrong with the force up here?’ asked Samson.
The constable rolled his eyes. ‘It’s boring. Nothing ever happens.’ He leaned even closer over the desk, voice lowering. ‘And you end up fat and dull like Sergeant Clayton!’
Samson laughed. ‘Possibly. But as for nothing happening around here, there’s more going on than you’d think.’
‘That’s what my grandfather says.’
‘Your grandfather?’
‘Eric Bradley.’ The lad nodded in the direction of the open door and the road beyond it. ‘He’s in Fellside Court with your dad. The old man with the oxygen cylinder?’
‘Ah, Eric,’ said Samson, recalling the frail pensioner with the sharp tongue. He was also putting two and two together and working out where young Bradley had obtained his forgiving version of Samson’s past. It wouldn’t be long, though, before even Joseph O’Brien would struggle to put a gloss on his son’s time with the police. Once recent events in London came to light …
‘Grandfather says you think Richard Hargreaves was murdered.’
Samson took a deep breath and cursed silently. Bloody Bruncliffe. It bred rumour like weeds in a neglected allotment.
‘Is that why you want the CCTV footage?’ the lad continued, almost whispering now. There was something in the way he said it, head angled to one side like an oversized fledgling.
‘Yes. I think it could be crucial.’
Constable Bradley glanced over his shoulder at the door cutting him off from the rest of the station, long fingers drumming nervously on the desk. Then he gave a sharp nod of his head as though coming to a difficult decision.
>
‘You’re not allowed to have access to it,’ he repeated, a gleam in his eyes. ‘But there’s nothing stopping me having a peek. What exactly are you looking for?’
Samson grinned. The lad would go far. He leaned across the desk and gave Constable Bradley the details.
* * *
By lunchtime both Delilah and Tolpuddle were going out of their minds. Samson wasn’t in yet.
Delilah broke off the relentless pacing of her office to stare down into the empty yard at the space where the Royal Enfield should be, the dog leaning heavily against her leg.
Today, of all days, he was running late.
She was toying with the idea of calling him, when she heard the back door open and the sound of heavy footsteps along the hall.
‘Samson?’ she called out, crossing to the landing. But it was the fair hair of her nephew that was coming up the stairs. ‘Oh … hi, Nathan.’ She covered her disappointment with a smile but Nathan simply grunted, the language of a typical teen, and passed her a paper bag.
‘Mum sent these over for you to try. It’s a new recipe.’
Delilah peered inside the bag, the contents still warm. Four fat rascals lay within, the rising aroma of cinnamon and nutmeg enough to make Tolpuddle lift his nose and give a speculative bark.
‘They’re not for you, mister!’ said Delilah. ‘They’re for me and Samson. Isn’t that right, Nathan?’
‘Whatever,’ muttered Nathan, face clouding over beneath his long fringe at the mention of his godfather. He turned away and entered her office.
‘Let me just put these out of Tolpuddle’s reach,’ she said, deliberately not reacting to his change in mood. She’d learned over the last few months that the best way to treat her nephew when he was in this frame of mind was to ignore whatever was bothering him. Especially when she was too tense herself to be treading on eggshells.
With an ever-hopeful Tolpuddle at her heels, she walked the length of the landing to the kitchen and placed the cakes in the cupboard above the kettle, the dog opting to stay and guard them. She was gone for no more than a minute. But when she re-entered the office, it was to see an even more sullen young man slouched in her chair, staring at her monitor.
‘Everything all right?’ she asked.
He looked up, expression dark. Then he stood and pushed past her, racing down the stairs two at a time.
‘Nathan!’ she called out. The only response she got was the slamming of the back door.
Puzzled, she moved round behind her desk to see a document open on her computer, Lucy’s name in the middle of the screen. The list of entrants for the next Speedy Date night. If Nathan hadn’t known before about his mother’s planned participation, he knew now.
‘Damn it!’ She should have known better than to leave her nephew in her office unattended, especially when he was so vulnerable. He’d be hurt. Enough to go and challenge Lucy?
Cursing her own stupidity and rueing her increasingly dysfunctional family, she phoned Nathan. Getting no reply, she left a short message asking if he was okay, before returning to her vigil at the window, her fears for her clients soon overriding any other concerns. She stood there for some time, hoping to see a motorbike being pushed through the gate. But nothing appeared.
‘Come on, Samson,’ she murmured, forehead pressed against the glass.
Perhaps she should call him? But no, she couldn’t do this over the phone. It was too important. Besides, with what she was going to ask of Samson, this conversation needed to be face-to-face. Because it was going to take every last bit of her persuasive powers to get him to agree to what she wanted – the only way she could think of to save her business, and probably other lives.
Where the hell was he?
* * *
God, he was starving. He’d skipped breakfast in his rush to pick up George and had been on the go ever since. Carrying his hastily bought lunch, Samson left the motorbike in the yard and let himself in the back door.
He checked his watch as he walked through the kitchen. One o’clock already. Constable Bradley had promised to be in touch within the hour, planning to use his sergeant’s lunch break to view the CCTV. Hopefully he would find—
Samson’s train of thought was interrupted by instinct. That age-old alarm system was prickling his skin, sharpening his senses. What had triggered it?
He inched out of the kitchen, back against the wall, eyes scanning the hallway. Then he froze.
His door. It was closed. He always left it open.
A creak from inside the room, in the region of his desk. A careless footstep on lino-covered floorboards. Not very professional. Had it arrived already? The mess he had fled from? And if so, in what form? More men in balaclavas?
A weapon. He needed a weapon. No point going back to his kitchen with its empty cupboards and drawers. And trapping himself by going upstairs would be plain suicide. Far better to force the confrontation here where he had the advantage, blocking both exits.
He glanced down at the carrier bag in his hand. It would have to do.
Taking a silent step forward, he reached for the door handle. Shifting his weight onto the balls of his feet, in one swift motion he flung the door open, fired the carrier bag at the figure sitting at his desk and rolled across the floor. He was up on his feet in seconds, hands outstretched, ready to lunge before his assailant had time to react, when he was hit from behind by a second attacker. A large weight slammed into his back, knocking him to the ground. Twisting sideways as he fell, he landed heavily on his hip, his head inches from the edge of the desk. But before he could recover, the weight was on top of him. And licking him.
Big, long licks from chin to forehead.
‘Tolpuddle?’
The dog barked and then resumed licking Samson’s face, while from the chair behind the desk came a dry comment from the other would-be attacker.
‘You sure know how to welcome a prospective client!’
He struggled to get out from under the dog and saw Delilah Metcalfe, face stunned, staring at him. Behind her, a dark trickle of coffee was running down the wall.
13
‘What the hell was all that about?’ asked Delilah as she picked up the carrier bag, now leaking coffee and containing two soggy sandwiches. She dumped it in the metal bin next to the desk, wiping her hands on a tissue.
Samson suppressed a groan as his anticipated meal was summarily dismissed.
‘Well?’ Delilah was looking at him.
He shrugged. ‘I tripped as I came in the door.’
‘And just happened to throw your lunch at me with uncanny accuracy?’
‘It didn’t hit you.’
‘Only because I ducked! Who on earth did you think I was?’
‘No one,’ he snapped, hunger and spent adrenalin making him irritable. Plus she was touching on a subject he didn’t want to talk about, the shadow of his suspension looming over them. ‘What were you doing in here with the door closed anyway?’
Two hands slapped onto indignant hips. ‘I was waiting for you and he’ – Delilah glared at the hound nudging Samson’s legs – ‘closed the door while chasing after a ball of paper.’
Tolpuddle gave a bark of verification, a tight wad of crushed-up paper bag between his paws which Samson recognised as the wrapper off his prawn crackers from the night before. After he’d finished his meal, he’d lobbed it at the bin and missed. And had forgotten to pick it up.
‘Besides,’ she continued, voice decidedly waspish, ‘you’re a fine one to talk. Perhaps you’d like to tell me what you were doing in my office with the door closed last night?’
Samson did his best to prevent his jaw from dropping. How did she know? What had given him away? A delightfully triumphant smile traced itself across Delilah’s lips and suddenly, stomach rumbling at the thought of food, his appetite for argument waned. He held up both hands in surrender and gave a tired smile.
‘Okay, I’m sorry. But before we discuss that, I need to eat. Have you had lunch?’
>
‘Not unless you count two fat rascals which I shared with Tolpuddle. I’ve been too busy.’
‘So how about you risk the wrath of Bruncliffe society and accompany me?’
‘To the Fleece?’
Samson looked over his shoulder at the facade of the pub across the road. It wasn’t a place he’d graced with his custom when he’d lived here. Not when it was his father’s favourite haunt and the landlord had no scruples about taking money from an alcoholic who was already drunk.
‘Would you rather go elsewhere?’ Delilah’s tone had lost its sting. She was no doubt aware of the reasons for his hesitation.
‘No,’ he decided. ‘Let’s go there. As long as it won’t get you blacklisted. Being seen with me, I mean.’
She laughed, the sound clearing the lingering antagonism from the room. ‘I think I’ll take the risk.’
Which was exactly how Samson felt about it. He’d take the risk of entering the one establishment in Bruncliffe he’d vowed never to support. Because he was investigating a murder. Possibly more than one. And if he was to get any information, the Fleece, with its cast of diehard locals, was the best place to start.
Fixing a neutral smile on his face, he followed Delilah and Tolpuddle across the road.
* * *
She waited until their food was served and then she hit him with it.
‘I want to hire you,’ she said, eyes studiously fixed on the ham sandwich in her hand.
Nostrils already twitching at the delicious aroma coming from his plate, Samson paused, a forkful of steakand-ale pie tantalisingly close to his lips. ‘Sorry?’
‘You heard,’ she hissed, shooting him a black look.
He couldn’t resist. Despite his hunger. He laid the fork back on his plate and grinned.
‘You want to hire me? A detective? I thought you said Bruncliffe had no need of detectives?’
Date with Death Page 17
