By mid-afternoon, Carol Kirby had already worked wonders in the caravan across the river from Mire End Farm.
In the bathroom, the excuse for a shower had been scrubbed clean of decades of dirt and grime, the plastic curtain taken down and placed in a bin bag, beyond even Carol’s cleaning expertise. The small patch of floor had been mopped repeatedly until every bit of stickiness had been removed. The sink had lost its grey tidemark and as for the toilet, while there was still some way to go, at least it no longer resembled an alien life form.
With a nod of satisfaction, she turned her attention towards the kitchen area, aware that she didn’t have a lot of time, the stew she’d left in the slow cooker about done. One last job and then she’d have to leave it for today.
The cupboard above the sink caught her eye, its door hanging at an angle, held on by a single hinge. She’d empty that and then be on her way. Rubber gloves sticking to the handle, she pulled open the door and started with the bottom shelf. It wasn’t exactly overstocked. As she emptied out three tins of dog food, a couple of tins of meatballs and the moulding remnants of a loaf of bread, she felt a pang of sympathy for the poacher who’d lived life on the poverty line. She condemned the bread to the bin bag and the rest to her bucket. Happen as the dog wouldn’t object to a change of brand and she knew Clive was partial to meatballs, even if these would be inferior to her homemade ones.
Standing on tiptoes now, she reached a gloved hand onto the top shelf, fingers searching blindly for any other provisions. There – something towards the back, just beyond her grasp, her attempts to grab it pushing it further away. Using the head of her cleaning spray as a hook, she stretched again, this time managing to drag it to the front.
A magazine, two old margarine tubs sitting on top of it.
She flicked through the pages of the magazine. Caravans, new ones, a few circled here and there. A brochure of some sort, and by the looks of things, poor Pete had been dreaming big or planning on winning the lottery. Because the ones that were circled were the real deal. Statics with en suites and proper bedrooms, floor-to-ceiling windows and wood-burning stoves.
Having lived all her married life in Whitby, a life that had only been ended earlier that year with the sudden death of her husband, Carol had a good idea how much units like this cost. And that was even before you’d paid site fees. There was no way Pete could have traded in what he owned for something like that.
Already thinking of the future and that maybe she and Clive could consider upgrading their tourist accommodation, maybe even get permission for a second caravan, she stuck the brochure in her bucket and opened the first margarine tub. It was full of shotgun cartridges. She glanced around, no sign of the gun they went with. The police must have taken it for safekeeping. Best if she took these, too. Wouldn’t want kids breaking in and getting their hands on them. She placed the tub in the bucket alongside the rest of her haul before turning her attention to its twin.
She flipped off the lid and stared for a few seconds at the greenish-brown substance inside. While she may not have grown up in the bright lights of Leeds or Bradford, Carol Kirby knew from one look what it was. And if she hadn’t, the smell when she’d entered the caravan would have been the giveaway. Cannabis. No surprise, given that Pete had quite often been stoned when he’d ventured into town.
Another thing that shouldn’t be left lying around. She went to throw the tub in the bin bag but then paused. Curious. She shrugged, slipped it into her bucket, wiped the cupboard out with her cloth and then began packing away her cleaning supplies.
It was time to go. Not only was the stew going to be ready, but she had other duties this evening. Important duties that Clive had brought back with him from his meeting with Delilah. Bucket filled once more, and substantially heavier thanks to her additions to it, Carol stripped off her gloves, threw them over the top and turned to get the mop, only to send it clattering to the floor in the narrow gap between the table and the sofa.
‘Clumsy bugger,’ she muttered.
Not wanting to crawl under the table to retrieve it – especially not on a floor that hadn’t yet been cleaned – Carol simply kicked the protruding mop head and the handle sprang out from under the sofa, bringing with it thick clumps of dust. And something else that spun across the lino to her feet.
A mobile phone.
She picked it up, wiped it clean on her tabard and pressed power.
Nothing. No doubt a dead battery after all this time. Was it Pete’s? She’d take it back home, charge it up and find out. Either way, it probably ought to be handed over to Matty Thistlethwaite to deal with.
Slipping the phone into her pocket, she got to her feet, collected her cleaning implements and left the caravan. When she got home, she found Clive in such a state about what was happening the following day that her hoard from her cleaning session was largely forgotten. The tins of food were placed in the larder. The brochure, the shotgun cartridges, Pete’s stash of cannabis and the dead mobile phone were shoved in the drawer of the dresser along with the key to the caravan. It would be some time before Carol Kirby would even remember them.
It was early evening before Samson left the residents’ lounge in Fellside Court. The birthday cake had had to be accompanied by a cup of tea. And then a second. Which necessitated another slice of cake. And then Flog It was on television, the antique auction programme a firm favourite with the residents, so Samson was press-ganged to stay a bit longer, and before he knew it, the afternoon had passed in a haze of carbs and good-natured banter.
When he got up to go, his father accompanied him to the exit.
‘Thanks, Dad,’ said Samson as they reached the entranceway’s high wall of glass that looked out onto the courtyard. The gratitude was genuine, for somewhere in amongst the hours he’d just spent at Fellside Court, his sour mood of the morning had slipped away, leaving behind a glow of contentment. He hadn’t had a birthday this enjoyable since he was eight. ‘That was a lovely surprise.’
Joseph smiled. And Samson sensed something forced about it. A wariness in his father’s eyes he hadn’t seen in a while.
‘Is everything okay?’ he asked.
‘Sure. Why wouldn’t it be?’ laughed Joseph. ‘I just got to spend the entire afternoon with my son. What could be better?’
Samson nodded, already turning to go. But then Joseph drew him into an embrace, something that hadn’t happened often in the last twenty-six years.
‘Look after yourself, Samson,’ he murmured as he pulled away, staring into his son’s face.
Feeling the thin frame beneath his father’s bulky cardigan, Samson thought he wasn’t the one who needed taking care of. But he said nothing, just nodded, not really trusting himself to speak.
‘And don’t forget to give Delilah some of that cake.’ Joseph gestured towards the Tupperware box that Clarissa had thrust into Samson’s hands before he left. ‘Tolpuddle, too!’
‘Will do.’ He leaned forward and kissed his father’s cheek, a spontaneous gesture that seemed to catch his father off guard as much as it did himself. Then he turned and left. As he walked across the courtyard, he was aware of the cluster of people watching him from the windows of the lounge. Arty, Edith, Clarissa, Eric . . . When they saw him looking, they smiled and waved. But in those brief seconds before, Samson had seen the worry writ large across all of their faces.
Telling himself he was getting paranoid, his wild misinterpretation of the incident in the ginnel the evening before proving that his instincts could hardly be trusted, he walked down Fell Lane, revelling in the warmth and the lingering sunshine. By the time he entered the office building, it was in a mood fuelled by what had turned out to be an excellent day. It was only made better when he was greeted by a gambolling grey ball of affection.
‘Tolpuddle! At least let him get in the door!’ Delilah was halfway down the stairs, laughing as the Weimaraner almost knocked Samson over. ‘I think he must have smelled the cake.’
Samson glanced up at her. ‘You knew? About the birthday surprise?’
Delilah had gone red, the blush spreading up her throat and across her cheeks. ‘Your father mentioned it. I did my best not to let the cat out of the bag.’
‘You did a good job. They frightened the life out of me!’
‘I’m glad it was a success.’
It was so formal. Despite the smile. And Samson couldn’t help wondering, if Delilah had known about the celebration, why hadn’t she been there, too? His father adored her. As did the rest of the Fellside Court residents. And yet she hadn’t been included. Or perhaps she had been and had diplomatically turned the invitation down, given what had happened last night. Both with him and with blasted Frank Thistlethwaite . . .
‘So how was your day? Any new cases?’ She was in the hallway now, arms crossed over her chest, standing some distance from him. And yet again he was struck by her tone, the question sounding mechanical, as though she was asking out of politeness with none of the curiosity she’d normally show when it came to the detective agency.
He had a sudden urge to share his discovery about the connection between Procter Properties and the school lockers, knowing that would get a reaction. Only trouble was, he wanted all of his ducks lined up before he made any move against Rick Procter, so the last thing he needed was Delilah or Will going full-Metcalfe and confronting the man before there was any firm evidence.
‘Potentially, yes,’ he said instead. ‘Kamal Hussain has a cousin in insurance who wants a chat and Matty wanted to talk about Pete Ferris’s will.’
He had the pleasure of seeing her eyebrows shoot up. ‘Pete left a will?’
‘Yep. All his worldly goods go to Clive Knowles.’
He had her attention now, a spark of interest in her eyes. ‘So what does Matty want us to do?’
There it was. That ‘us’. Offering him hope that this aloofness between them could be overcome. That Delilah was as invested in his life as ever.
‘He wants us to do a bit of digging into Pete’s relatives. See if there might be any grounds for objections.’ Samson shrugged. ‘All in all, a good bit of business coming in. Not all of it pure detective work but, as my old boss always said, it’s good to have a Plan B.’
Delilah blinked. Nodded. Expression guarded once more. Then she was putting the lead on Tolpuddle in preparation for leaving.
‘How about you?’ he asked, desperate to keep her there. ‘Lots of lovelorn folk sorted out?’
Even as he said it he cursed himself, aware of everything that was still unsaid between them. But she was smiling, not her usual full beam but the edges of her lips curving and an eyebrow arched in droll self-mockery.
‘Too early to say,’ she said. ‘I’ve taken on a new project and I’m afraid I might have bitten off more than I can chew.’
‘Not another Clive Knowles, is it?’
She laughed at his reference to the Horton farmer whose love life she’d managed to sort despite his lack of personal hygiene and squalid living conditions. ‘Worse. More stubborn, for sure.’
He grinned. ‘I’m sure you’ll get him kicked into shape in no time.’
And just like that, the smile disappeared. ‘Problem is I don’t have time to play with,’ she muttered. She gave a shrug, as though shifting the weight of the world across her shoulders. ‘So, is eight thirty okay tomorrow morning?’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘For meeting Seth to talk about the problems at the allotments. You won’t forget?’ There was a sharpness to the question.
Samson shook his head. ‘Sorry, no, I won’t forget. You off home?’
‘Yes. I’m shattered.’ He had no reason to doubt her statement, her eyes underlined with dark smudges, the rigidity of her stance suggesting she was only just holding herself together.
As to the causes of her fatigue, Samson thoughts immediately turned to the gloom of the ginnel and the dropped takeaway.
‘Here, take this with you,’ he said, stepping forward to hold out the Tupperware, the dog following it with his gaze, nose sniffing.
Delilah laughed, a genuine moment of delight, eyes dancing as she reached for the box, her fingers brushing against his and sending a bolt of electricity shooting up his arm. And in an instant he didn’t care about the disappointment the evening before and whatever had provoked it. Didn’t care about anything but the taste of Delilah’s lips, the feel of her in his arms—
Damn it! Just kiss her!
A loud beep from his back pocket cut through Samson’s turbulent emotions.
DI Warren’s phone. The one that would warn him of impending danger. Standing in the hallway this close to Delilah, Samson couldn’t help but notice the irony.
‘Aren’t you going to get that?’ Delilah was asking.
‘Later,’ he said. ‘It’ll just be Dad.’
She stared at him for a moment, then she simply nodded and turned towards the back door. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she said, Tolpuddle trotting after her, eyes fixed on the box of cake in her hands. ‘Oh, and Happy Birthday.’
The words were thrown over her shoulder with an impish smile. Then she was gone, the porch door closing behind her.
Pulling out DI Warren’s phone, Samson turned to enter his office, ashamed at how easily he’d lied to her. Despite all the progress they’d made over the last few months, their relationship having moved from hostility – on Delilah’s part – to cautious friendship and then on to something more, here they were right back at the beginning: Delilah treating him like a stranger and keeping him at arm’s length, while he played fast and loose with the truth once more, like the undercover professional he was.
It seemed they were destined to be forever caught up in mistrust and suspicion.
And was it any wonder? In the doorway of his office, Samson stared at the screen of the mobile.
Leave Bruncliffe immediately! Your life is in danger.
Typical of his old boss – no beating around the bush. DI Warren had had his back from the moment the corruption case broke, telling him to flee London, that it was too dangerous to remain. Samson hadn’t taken his advice at first, until a confrontation with some men in balaclavas and heavy boots finally convinced him that leaving the city with a few bruises was better than staying and winding up dead.
With Samson exiled in Bruncliffe, it had been DI Warren who’d kept him in touch with the ongoing investigation into the stolen evidence. The person who’d broken the news that it was an inside job, someone high up in the force who was trying to pin the blame on him. And the only one from his past life who’d bothered to make contact, the detective bending the rules to come up and see him, once in Whitby and another time in Skipton.
Now the same man Samson had placed his faith in throughout was telling him to run yet again.
Samson stood in the doorway, contemplating his options. Then he saw the brightly wrapped box sitting in the middle of his desk, an envelope on top of it.
Delilah. Was this what she’d been trying to sneak into his office when he’d surprised her that morning? She hadn’t let the day go unmarked after all.
He crossed the room, tossed the mobile on the desk and opened the card, the front featuring a gorgeous photo of Ribblehead Viaduct. Inside, his eyes went straight to the signature. Not signed with love. But there was a kiss. Although ambiguously that was under Tolpuddle’s name, not Delilah’s. Still, it was something. He reached for the box, ripping off the paper to open it, and pulled out a mug. Bone china, the sort that Ida approved of. But it was the caption that made him smile. On the front, a cartoon dog that looked the spit of Tolpuddle. On the reverse, another image that could be Tolpuddle’s twin below a caption:
All you need is love and a Weimaraner
Samson held the mug in his hands, grinning. He was pretty sure he had one of those already, a daft dog that had become central to his life. As for the other . . .
He glanced down at the mobile, the text message still lit up on the screen. Should he do what DI Warren said? Leave town tonight without a word? Throw away everything he’d built up in the last few months?
Then he thought about his father and the afternoon he’d spent at Fellside Court. And about Delilah and the way their trust in each other had been shattered.
He could never have a future with either of them until he’d dealt with his past.
Shoving the phone in his back pocket, Samson O’Brien, birthday mug in hand, began climbing the stairs to the kitchen. In true Bruncliffe fashion, he was going to make himself a cuppa. Then he was going to sit down and drink it. He was done running. It was time to sort this once and for all.
It took a while for darkness to settle on the town, the clear sky holding the light well into the evening, until it felt like it would never leave. Even then, unlike the sudden clunk of night-time in the winter months, the transition was so gradual it was barely noticeable. What was noticeable, to the keen observer, was that as the clocks struck midnight and the stars laid a tapestry of silver overhead, down in the huddle of buildings that made up the town, there was a preponderance of lights still burning. Among the businesses of Bruncliffe, industry was still happening.
There was the wool shop at the far end of Back Street, for a start. Blinds drawn tightly down over the windows, the ‘Closed’ sign hung drunkenly on the door as though put up in haste, giving the semblance of the working day having ended. Yet behind the blinds, a soft glow gave out, the occasional shadow passing across the fabric, sometimes carrying what looked like a teapot. Back up towards the marketplace, Sheer Good Looks hair salon next door to the Dales Detective Agency was likewise shuttered and bolted. But around the metal shutters light was leaking. The odd burst of laughter carrying into the road, followed by frantic shushing.
Meanwhile, from its place on the cobbled square, Peaks Patisserie was staring blankly at the town hall. It looked empty. Apart from the thin line of yellow at the back, seeping around the closed kitchen door. And if a curious passer-by had been tempted to wander around the rear of the establishment, they might have wondered at the origin of the delicious aromas that were wafting into the May night.
Down the road from the cafe and up the steep hill to Fellside Court, a similar discrepancy could be seen. Whereas the windows of the apartments that faced the police station were normally indistinct voids by this time, many were still illuminated.
Nor was this phenomenon confined to the dwellings of the town. Out over the dark fields, whose sheep and lambs were silent apart from the occasional bleat, along the stone walls that line the fells and all the way to the slopes of Pen-y-ghent, in the collection of buildings that comprised Mire End Farm, the lights were burning. In the kitchen, a man and a woman sat quietly, the only sound the click of her needles and the rustle of the wool bag at her feet.
‘It could be dangerous,’ she finally said into the silence, the curtness of her words offset by the worry on her face.
The man looked up from the documents he was trying to memorise. ‘Aye lass, it could.’
She dipped her head once in recognition, paused her knitting and laid a hand over his. ‘You’re a good man, Clive Knowles.’
As Carol Kirby picked up her needles once more, back over the dark mass of Pen-y-ghent and the smaller hump of Fountains Fell, in the cottage sitting alone at the entrance to Thorpdale, her cousin was likewise engaged. Needles flashing under the light above the kitchen table, Ida Capstick was focused on her task. Across the table, the seat normally occupied by her brother was vacant. Occasionally Ida lifted her head and stared at the empty chair, brows furrowed, before returning her attention to her knitting. For George wasn’t upstairs in the bedroom that had been their parents’ but was now his. In fact, like many folk that night in Bruncliffe and the surrounding area, George was a long way from sleeping.
The same could be said for the single occupant of the small cottage tucked under the limestone outcrop at the back of town on Crag Lane. Sitting on the couch, Tolpuddle spread out next to her, Delilah Metcalfe was going over her plan one more time, the panic that had been welling up inside her all day growing with every second that the clock on the kitchen wall measured out.
What if it all went wrong? What if Samson pulled a stunt like he had today and threw her careful scheme awry? Or even worse, what if she’d misjudged everything and placed him in the very danger she was trying to save him from?
She took a deep breath, counted out a few more precious seconds, and then started reading through her notes once more. But it was difficult to concentrate. Not because she was tired, but because her fractured thoughts kept straying to the back bedroom on the top floor of the office building, and the double bed she’d stored there, a relic from her failed marriage. It wasn’t the bed per se she was thinking about, but the person currently asleep in it.
Because, as the hour turned and the new day began, Samson O’Brien was asleep. At last. It had taken a while, stirred up by the text from his old boss and his decision to ride out whatever was coming his way. Stirred up too by his relationship with Delilah Metcalfe and how it seemed to be slipping from his grasp once more. Finally, though, sleep had claimed him.
And so he drifted in and out of troubled dreams, unaware of the frantic preparations taking place in the town around him. Unaware of the efforts people were going to on his behalf. He was equally unaware of the dark shadow that had quietly let itself into the building, using a borrowed key.
On feet that made no sound, the shadow crept along the hallway and turned to the stairs, the yellow glow of the streetlight spilling in through the fanlight above the front door enough to reveal the outline of a gun.
‘Four-point-four litre four-cylinder gasoline . . .’
With a low murmur of unpunctuated tractor statistics, the shadow sat on the second-to-bottom step, shotgun resting across its lap. In the unique world that George Capstick inhabited, the details of whichever vintage tractor he was working on served as worry beads for a mind that didn’t follow the pattern of most folk’s. And he was worried right now.
‘Three-speed gearbox hand-cranked . . .’
Young Samson was in trouble. And in case that trouble came creeping under the cover of darkness, Delilah had asked George to stand guard. So he’d spent two hours outside in the yard, waiting for the light to go out in the bedroom above. Then he’d waited a further hour before entering the building. And now he had another six hours to go until he would be relieved of his duty by his sister.
Six more hours of tractor statistics. It was fine. Because George had a head full of them.
He adjusted his position on the stairs, careful of the gun, and began murmuring once more.