‘Business, eh?’ Samson was watching the detective over the rim of his mug, the way the man’s gaze kept returning to Delilah, and trying not to notice how cantankerous that made him feel.
The three of them were sitting in Samson’s office, Delilah and Frank on the opposite side of the desk to him, and Tolpuddle – having left his patch of sunlight in the garden – in the dog bed in the corner. There’d been very little small talk, Delilah not having shown her customary warmth when it came to Frank Thistlethwaite. In fact, Delilah’s interaction with the detective was proving very interesting.
She was definitely on edge, her gaze more on the mug in her hands than on the man, and her responses to his attempts at conversation almost monosyllabic. As though she – or they – were hiding something.
‘Yes, business. A case, no less,’ announced Frank with a smile.
‘A police case?’ Surprise made Delilah finally turn to look at him.
Frank laughed. ‘No. Despite all the cuts, the force still has the resources to carry out its own investigations. This is closer to home. I was in the Fleece last night—’
‘You were in the Fleece last night?’ Samson couldn’t help it, the question bursting out of him at the news that the detective had been in the area, the pub a mere few steps away from the ginnel and that dropped bottle of wine . . .
He also couldn’t help noticing that Delilah’s attention had reverted to her mug, knuckles white on the handle.
‘Yes. Having a drink,’ the detective said. ‘Is there a problem with that?’
‘It’s a long way to come for a pint.’
Frank’s smile hardened. ‘I was catching up with Matty, like cousins do. And then Uncle Seth came in and started pestering me to look into some problems they’re having at the allotments, which is what I want to talk to you—’
‘What time was this?’
‘Does it matter?’
Samson shrugged. ‘Just getting the background.’
There was a pause, Delilah watching the pair of them now, then Frank replied, a thick eyebrow raised in challenge. ‘I don’t know exactly. Some time between six and seven. But I could ask one of the others to verify it if you like?’
‘No need,’ said Samson, smiling brightly. All the while calculating. When Delilah went for the meal. When she came back. Was it any coincidence that Frank Thistlethwaite had happened to be in town at the same time? The man who kept turning up at the Dales Detective Agency’s investigations out of the blue, now in the vicinity of whatever had happened last night that had caused Delilah to abandon their Chinese meal. That had caused her to abandon Samson . . .
And he saw again that lone crimson footprint. Had he got it wrong? Rather than something nefarious, connected to the murky background of his suspension, was this all much more . . .
More what? He baulked at putting a word to it. But he could imagine it. Delilah, returning to the office with the takeaway; Frank Thistlethwaite meeting her in the dark of the ginnel. The good-looking detective – who’d made no secret of his attraction to her since they’d first met back in February – approaching, expressing his feelings for her, gathering her into a passionate embrace, the bottle of wine and the bag of food tumbling to the ground . . .
The thought wormed its way into Samson’s consciousness and then couldn’t be unthought, an image of the pair of them haunting him, Delilah in the detective’s arms—
‘What sort of problems are they having at the allotments?’ Delilah was asking Frank, soothing over the tension that had risen between the two men.
‘Nothing that would merit a police presence,’ said Frank, his affability returning as he addressed her. ‘Some veg gone missing and a potting shed broken into, but no real damage done. As chair of the Allotments Association, however, my uncle’s taking it personally. So I thought you might look into it.’ He shrugged. ‘But if it’s too much trouble . . .’
‘Not at all. It’s right up our street, isn’t it Samson?’ Delilah glared at him and he managed a sullen nod. ‘We’re a bit busy today, but first thing tomorrow we’ll have a chat with Seth and get onto it.’
Tomorrow. A Saturday. Samson didn’t register his surprise, or intervene, despite knowing his calendar was empty for the remainder of the day. For a start, he didn’t have the inclination to accommodate Frank Thistlethwaite any further. And for another, the thought of getting to spend some of the weekend in Delilah’s company was a ray of sunshine in what had turned out to be a gloomy morning so far.
Not that he expected Delilah to make anything of that time together. Not after last night . . .
The weak ray of light that had filtered through in the last few seconds was quickly extinguished by another black cloud.
‘Tomorrow it is, then,’ said Frank, getting to his feet. ‘And thanks. Like I said, Uncle Seth is really upset about it so it’s good that he’ll at least know he’s being taken seriously.’
And instantly Samson felt ashamed. Seth Thistlethwaite, the curmudgeonly retired geography teacher who’d introduced Delilah and Samson to fell running, was one of the few in the town who’d welcomed Bruncliffe’s reprobate home with open arms. Yet here was Samson showing reluctance to help him simply because Seth happened to be the uncle of a man he didn’t care for.
‘Tell him not to worry,’ said Samson gruffly. ‘We’ll sort it.’
‘Great.’ Frank held out his hand across the desk and Samson couldn’t do anything but shake it. He then had to suffer watching the detective lean over to kiss Delilah on the cheek. A cheek that was suffused with pink at the attention, her nostrils flaring briefly as though she was trying to inhale the very essence of the man.
‘Keep me posted,’ said Frank, as Delilah finally stepped back, her gaze dropping to the floor while his hand lingered on her shoulder. ‘And be sure to send me the bill.’
‘We will,’ muttered Samson, his churlish mood returning at full tilt. He waited until the detective reached the office door before adding, ‘One last thing, what size shoe do you take?’
Frank turned, surprise arching his eyebrows. ‘Twelve, why?’
Samson shrugged. ‘Got a pair of running shoes I’m not getting on with. Wondered if they’d fit. But they’re only an eleven.’
‘That’s what comes from being fast-tracked into the NCA and not spending as long on the beat as the rest of us,’ laughed Frank, a touch of steel beneath the words. ‘Your feet aren’t as flat as a true copper’s.’
Samson managed a smile at the pointed remark but as Delilah ushered the detective out into the hallway, all traces of humour slipped from his face.
He was an idiot! He’d been so eager to tie his own problems to what he’d discovered out in the ginnel, that he hadn’t considered an alternative. That damned footprint. Did it belong to Frank Thistlethwaite? If so, it was possible proof that he’d lost Delilah forever.
Heartsore at the thought, Samson found himself cursing Ida Capstick. If he hadn’t complied with her request and investigated the cause of her blasted puncture, he could still be fooling himself that Delilah had simply got cold feet last night. That her sudden change of mind had been prompted by nothing more than a feeling they were going too fast. But now . . .
Now it was staring him in the face. Delilah wasn’t involved in the dangers coming from his past; she was simply breaking his heart in the present.
‘Penny for them?’ Delilah was back in the doorway, an over-bright smile on her face.
‘Just thinking about Ida,’ he lied. ‘I was wondering how she’d react if I got her an E-bike.’
Delilah let out a peal of laughter, the mask she’d been wearing slipping for the first time that day to reveal the woman he loved. And Samson caught himself wanting to turn back the clock. To stop her leaving the office the evening before, to pull her to him and give whatever it was that had flourished between them time to blossom. Anything rather than lose the chance of love with this woman who had so surely captured his heart.
As she turned and walked away, he reached for his mobile, hoping that the monotony of a morning on the phone to locker manufacturers would prove a balm for his tortured soul.
The laughter was genuine, and it sustained Delilah all the way up the stairs and into her office. But once inside, she slumped back against the closed door and took a deep breath.
A breath designed to clear her nostrils of Frank Thistlethwaite’s aftershave as much as to calm her.
Not that she could be calm. Because as she’d leaned over to reluctantly accept Frank’s farewell kiss on her cheek, she’d breathed in, checking to see if he was the source of the woody aroma she’d noticed when she’d been talking to him in the kitchen. And he was. A delightful scent of cedar and spruce had been emanating from his clean-shaven jaw, which in any other circumstances would have beguiled her. Now it filled her with dread. She recognised it from the evening before, coming from the shadows behind DC Green.
Somehow DCI Frank Thistlethwaite was embroiled in the deadly plot that had Samson in its sights.
Relieved that she’d been cautious enough to refuse Matty Thistlethwaite’s well-meaning suggestion to include Frank in their scheme, she pulled out her mobile with a hand far from steady. Time to get things started. A little preparation before the big day tomorrow. She clicked on the WhatsApp group, typed her message and pressed send. Then she eased open her office door. From the floor below she could hear Samson talking on the phone, leaving a message by the sounds of it. He hung up and seconds later his mobile rang. A minute after that and he shouted up the stairs to say he was heading out.
As the front door closed, the back door opened and Ida Capstick came up the stairs.
‘How long have we got?’ she demanded as she entered the office.
‘A couple of hours, maybe more. Depends on how well everyone plays their roles.’
‘Best make the most of it then.’ And without even a cup of tea to hand, Ida sat down next to Delilah and stared at the computer screen. ‘Right lass, show me how this is going to work.’
Not long after one Thistlethwaite’s departure, the call that had lured Samson away from his telephone duties was from another. Matty wanted him to come to his office to discuss some work.
As a solicitor, Matty had been a good source of income for the Dales Detective Agency from the outset, and continued to provide support through background checks and the odd bit of conveyancing work that required more detailed searches. So Samson had been more than happy to head out into the May sunshine and walk the short distance to Turpin’s Solicitors on the corner of the marketplace. If nothing else, it gave him a chance to clear his head, the sullen mood that had descended on him following Frank’s visit proving hard to shake off. Plus, while he had reservations about his cousin, he liked Matty Thistlethwaite, a man of similar age to Samson who’d also experienced life beyond Bruncliffe. Although Samson doubted the mild-mannered solicitor’s return to town had been as dramatic.
‘Coffee?’ asked Matty, ushering him into his office on the first floor, overlooking the cobbled centre of town.
Samson grinned. ‘You’re the only person around here who doesn’t force tea on me.’
‘That’s how you spot those of us who’ve lived away. We come back with a taste for the exotic.’ Matty’s grin matched Samson’s own. He gestured at one of the armchairs and began pouring coffee from a cafetière. Only when both cups had been filled and he’d taken a seat opposite did the solicitor begin to talk business.
‘I’ve got a will that needs some research. It’s a bit of a delicate matter but it should be straightforward.’
‘I seem to remember you saying something similar about the Thornton case,’ said Samson dryly, referring to the last time the Dales Detective Agency had worked on a will for Turpin’s. ‘And I also seem to remember that it was anything but straightforward.’
Matty held up his hands in surrender, his smile warm. ‘This time I mean it,’ he said. ‘I promise. It’s just I need complete discretion on this one.’
Samson immediately thought of Bernard Taylor, the town’s mayor and an eminent estate agent, the aftershocks of his death six days ago still rocking the town. If there was anything unexpected in his will, Matty would be right to demand a tight-lipped approach. But when the solicitor pushed a document across the coffee table, Samson read the name at the top with surprise.
‘Pete Ferris?’ he asked, eyebrows raised.
‘Not whom you were expecting, I’d wager,’ said Matty. ‘I have to admit, I was a bit stunned myself when he turned up one day asking to make a will. It wasn’t something I’d ever have expected of him.’
Samson looked at the will again and struggled to equate the feral poacher who’d lived out beyond Horton in a ramshackle caravan, existing only on the margins of society, with the precise nature of the testament in front of him. He was also struggling to believe that it was a mere ten days since he’d been standing next to Delilah in a practically empty church for the man’s funeral, so much had happened in between. As in life, poor Pete had been overshadowed in death.
‘He actually came in to have this drawn up?’
Matty nodded. ‘The Monday before he died. He didn’t have an appointment, just asked to see me. Gave me his instructions and it was done and dusted in less than half an hour. Then on the Friday night . . .’
‘He took his own life.’ Samson’s mind was churning, seeing again the outside of the caravan when he’d arrived early the following morning with Delilah. First on the scene, they’d found the poacher’s two lurchers left for dead on the grass, given what should have been a lethal overdose of ketamine by Pete before he killed himself. The dogs had survived, thanks mostly to the amazing care and attention lavished on them by James ‘Herriot’ Ellison, the town vet, and had since been taken in by Samson’s godson, Nathan. But the entire incident had left Samson feeling guilty, knowing that the poacher had tried to call him several times the night he took his own life, supposedly to report a crime. Samson couldn’t help wondering whether, if he hadn’t been on a stakeout with his phone on silent, he would have been able to prevent Pete’s drastic action.
In truth, it was impossible to say. But the guilt persisted, and was perhaps even responsible for his growing unease when it came to Pete Ferris and his suicide. Only last night, while waiting for Delilah to return from the takeaway, Samson had been watching CCTV footage of the poacher behaving suspiciously, and had idly contemplated the possibility that he’d been somehow connected to Bernard Taylor’s unexplained holdall of cash, which the Dales Detective Agency had been tasked with throwing light on. A connection which might have involved blackmail.
It was a conjecture Samson had quickly dismissed. Which was just as well because, whatever doubts he’d started to harbour about the manner of the poacher’s death, here was concrete proof that the man had had his exit from this world firmly on his mind. Enough to call in at Turpin’s and get everything neatly sorted.
‘As you can see,’ Matty was continuing, ‘Pete didn’t have a lot to leave. Just his caravan and the field it sat in. But his choice of beneficiary might cause a few comments.’
Samson glanced back down at the document, flipped over a page and saw the name.
‘Clive Knowles!’ he exclaimed, taken aback at the mention of the farmer who lived across the river from Pete’s caravan. ‘I knew they were neighbours but I didn’t know they were this friendly.’
The shrug Matty gave was one of a man who’d seen lots of life’s oddities revealed through the legal documents that crossed his desk. ‘Me neither. But I’ve given up second-guessing what people will do with their worldly goods. All I’ll say is that Pete must have been aware it was a bit unexpected as he asked me to make sure it was all done as quietly as possible.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘He was insistent that Clive was to be told to keep it under his hat for a while.’
Samson was staring at him now. ‘Why would Pete say that? Was he expecting someone to object?’
‘Well, he wouldn’t be the first to die alone only for a whole load of relatives to start crawling out of the woodwork when there’s a sniff of an inheritance.’
‘A dilapidated caravan and a scrap of land? You think people would fight over that?’
Matty’s smile was without humour. ‘I’ve seen fights over a lot less. Which is why I called you in. First of all I want you to ascertain that these assets were legally Pete’s to pass on and then I want you to sound out his family. See if there could be any likely objections to this bequest.’
‘Given how quickly they scuttled out of town once the funeral was over, I wouldn’t say any of them were expecting anything. But yes, I’ll see what I can find out. Does Clive know already?’
Matty nodded. ‘I . . . erm . . . bumped into him this morning and gave him the news. He was shocked. But relieved to know the caravan came without Pete’s feral lurchers.’
The laugh that started in Samson’s throat ended abruptly and he snapped forward in his seat. ‘The will mentioned the lurchers?’
‘Yes. They were left to Nathan,’ said Matty, ‘which, seeing as the lad has already adopted them, is quite fitting. I’ll be getting in touch with him and his mother later today, just to make everything legal.’
‘Jesus!’ Samson was skimming Pete’s will, getting to the details . . . He stared at his godson’s name, clearly listed as Matty had outlined. And again he thought about the dogs, thrown outside to die.
‘What is it?’ The solicitor was watching him, sensing his disquiet. ‘Is there a problem? I mean, if Nathan or Lucy don’t think they can take on the dogs permanently, especially given that they aren’t exactly docile, then the bequest doesn’t have to be accepted. I can arrange for Bruncliffe Animal Rescue—’
‘It’s not that,’ said Samson, knowing that the teenager had already formed a strong bond with the lurchers. ‘It’s more that I’m puzzled as to why a man would go to the bother of naming a beneficiary for a couple of dogs he was intending to take with him in a suicide pact.’
From the keenness of Matty Thistlethwaite’s gaze, Samson knew his question was a good one. But then the solicitor shrugged. ‘Perhaps he just couldn’t bear to part with them in the end?’
‘In which case, why shove them outside to die alone?’
‘Good point. But if I tried to evaluate the rationale behind the actions of all of my clients, I’d never get any work done. And besides,’ Matty continued with a wry smile, ‘us lawyers make a good living from people making inexplicable decisions.’ Then he gave Samson a long look. ‘You couldn’t have done anything for him,’ he added softly, displaying the astuteness that was a Thistlethwaite trait.
Samson nodded, aware that his eagerness to attribute something sinister to Pete’s death was in some ways a means of justifying his own lack of action. But as the solicitor poured a second coffee and the conversation turned onto more general matters, the image of the two lurchers abandoned to their lonely fate remained on Samson’s mind.