For a man who’d gone to bed with a lot on his mind, Samson had slept like a log. If he’d had nightmares triggered by the alarming text from his old boss, or by his decision to face his troubles head on, he wasn’t aware of them. All he was aware of as he opened his eyes was the bright light seeping around the edges of the curtains, telling him that it was significantly later than his normal hour of rising.
Not that it mattered. It was Saturday.
No need to hurry. Especially now that his use of the bedroom on the top floor was above board, eliminating the need for stealth that he’d lived with for the first five months of his time back in Bruncliffe. Plus, Ida didn’t tend to work at the weekend, so there’d be no cooked breakfast to hasten down to.
He rose and flung back the curtains. The sun was shining out over the Crag, basking the back of the building in golden light, the sky a soft blue with cotton puffs of cloud. It was glorious.
The kind of day where good things happened.
In a mood strangely elevated for someone with an unspecified threat hanging over them, twenty minutes later, showered and dressed, Samson descended the stairs to the first-floor landing. He was approaching the kitchen, nose twitching at what smelled like bacon, when he heard muffled voices coming from the ground floor.
Immediately tense, he leaned over the bannister, the conversation coming from the rear porch and just about audible.
‘Tha knows what to do?’ Ida was asking softly. Tension replaced with surprise, Samson kept listening.
‘Twenty-six hp standard-tread yes.’
‘Good. Just mind tha takes care. And thanks.’
The back door closed on Ida’s visitor but Samson didn’t need to see who she’d been talking to; the Top Trumps tractor statistics were a giveaway. Her brother George had made a rare venture away from their cottage in Thorpdale for some reason. What was equally surprising was the emotion that had coloured Ida’s words. Not one for sentiment, she had sounded almost tender.
‘Tha’s up at last!’ By contrast, the statement aimed at Samson was stripped bare of any compassion as, like a ninja, Ida had crept to the foot of the stairs and was glaring up at him. ‘Bout time!’
‘Morning, Ida!’ he replied with a grin. ‘Did George call in for a bacon sandwich?’
Ida blinked. ‘George? What’s tha wittering on about him for?’
‘Wasn’t he just here? I thought I heard—’
A sharp cackle interrupted him. ‘Aye, well, tha knows what happened to Thought. Jumped on a muck cart and thought it were a wedding! Tha needs to get tha lugholes washed out.’
‘So who was the bacon for?’ he asked, as Ida stomped up the stairs towards him, cleaning bucket in one hand, shopping bag over her shoulder.
‘What bacon?’
‘I can smell it. Someone’s been frying bacon.’
Ida had reached the landing and now held her head up, nose sniffing dramatically, making her look even more ferret-like than usual. ‘That’s nobbut the stale smell of last night’s tea,’ she declared, whipping out a can of air freshener from her bucket and spraying liberally, Samson just managing to jump out of range before he became doused in the artificial scent of flowers.
‘So that wasn’t George you were talking to just now, then?’ he asked, undeterred.
‘Tha’s imagining things, lad,’ Ida replied with an exasperated snort. ‘I’ve spoken to no one since I left Thorpdale. Happen tha slept in too long and it’s addled tha head. Now get that kettle on.’ She stared at him defiantly, daring him to question her further.
Which is when Samson discovered that Ida Capstick was a first-class liar, a discovery which amazed him. Because he’d never known her to tell anything but the truth. Yet here she was, downright denying that she’d just been speaking to George when Samson knew damn well that she had, and there wasn’t the merest hint to suggest she was spinning falsehoods. No telltale tic on that granite face. No giveaway colour on her cheeks. She was as good as many undercover operatives he’d known in his time.
Samson decided not to challenge her. Perhaps if it had been anyone else, he would have, but this was Ida. If she didn’t want to reveal the purpose for her brother’s visit to the office building, she would have her reasons.
‘So what brings you here on a Saturday, then?’ he asked over his shoulder, Ida entering the kitchen behind him.
‘Delilah wants me to do some admin for the dating agency. Thought I’d give the place a quick clean beforehand. So I don’t have time for making breakfast today,’ she grumbled as she inspected the teapot, adding another heaped teaspoon of tea-leaves to the quantity Samson had deemed sufficient. Her eyes flicked appreciatively over his new china mug but when she looked at him, her scowl was still in place. ‘Tha’ll have to sort thyself out.’
It was convincing, this act of ill humour. But Samson had known Ida Capstick all his life and knew better than to take her grumpy demeanour at face value. Emboldened by the bright sunshine streaming in the kitchen window, he let his smile widen and threw an arm around her shoulders.
‘I’ll forgive you, Ida,’ he said. ‘Just this once.’
She stared at him. Long enough that he let his arm drop and his smile became rigid. Had he got it all wrong? Was she genuinely in a bad mood?
‘Morning!’ Floating up from downstairs, Delilah’s bright and breezy greeting gave Samson the excuse to turn hastily away, opening a cupboard to get down an extra mug. ‘What a lovely day out there!’
While her greeting might have been full of energy, one look at Delilah as she rounded the top of the stairs suggested it was a false front, the deep circles under her eyes which had been present the day before having grown darker and her cheeks showing none of their usual bloom. Swamped by a baggy jumper that only made her look more waif-like, she had the brittle appearance of someone who hadn’t slept in a while. Whereas her canine companion was full of beans, Tolpuddle bounding over to Samson with his habitual fervour, as though the two had been separated for years rather than a mere night.
‘Morning, handsome!’ said Samson, rubbing the dog’s head and getting happy panting in return. His hand ran across the bright red band encircling the Weimaraner’s neck. ‘And you’re wearing a new collar!’ He looked up at Delilah. ‘What’s the occasion?’
‘Nothing special. Just his old one was getting a bit worn.’ She turned away to sniff the perfumed air on the landing appreciatively. ‘It smells great in here. Have you been busy cleaning, Ida?’
‘Sommat like that,’ muttered Ida, casting a baleful look in Samson’s direction, who was trying not to grin.
‘Another one who’s in early,’ he said, addressing Delilah as he put a couple of slices of bread in the toaster. ‘What’s your excuse?’
He almost missed the glance that passed between the two women.
‘Admin,’ said Delilah hastily. ‘I’ve got applications outstanding which need entering on the database before the next event.’
‘At this hour?’
Delilah shrugged. ‘It needs doing. And Ida offered to help while we’re seeing Seth.’
If Ida was a past master at deception, Delilah still had a long way to go, her gaze not quite meeting Samson’s, sliding off over his shoulder and settling on the window. Were the pair of them in cahoots over something?
His glance fell on the Weimaraner mug. ‘Thanks for this,’ he said, gesturing towards it. ‘It’s perfect.’
Delilah smiled, the warmth of it genuine, but her eyes flicked to Ida, who gave the smallest of nods.
Of course! That was it! Delilah had told Ida about his birthday, and the cleaner had come in specially to bring him a belated present. That explained the cagey behaviour. They were trying to make it a surprise.
‘Toast?’ he asked nonchalantly in Delilah’s direction, playing the game.
‘That’d be great.’ Delilah took a seat. ‘We’re meeting Seth at the allotments, if that’s okay?’
‘Fine,’ said Samson, ostensibly watching the toast, but all the time listening for the sound of rustling that might herald a present or two being produced. He heard nothing but the hopeful sniffing of Tolpuddle while Ida poured the tea.
‘What are you smelling, Tolpuddle?’ Delilah asked, as the Weimaraner continued to snuffle around the area close to the cooker.
‘Bacon,’ said Samson, shooting a sideways grin at Ida. Who glared back at him.
‘Last night’s tea,’ snapped Ida.
‘You had bacon for tea last night?’ asked Delilah, looking a bit puzzled by the exchange.
‘Something like that.’ Samson began to butter the toast, Ida thumping two mugs on the table behind him before shooing the persistent dog away from the stove.
‘So have you got anything else lined up for today after we’ve seen Seth?’ Delilah asked as Samson placed her breakfast in front of her.
‘Not specifically. Why?’
She shrugged, biting into her toast, trying to look indifferent but not really succeeding, colour flooding her previously pale cheeks. ‘Just wondering if you had a full caseload, that’s all.’
He sat down opposite her, Ida refusing his offer of the seat, choosing to lean against the front of the cooker instead, a physical impediment to Tolpuddle’s incessant sniffing.
‘Well if tha’s going to be idle, my bike could do with another look at,’ said Ida.
‘Not another puncture?’ Samson asked. ‘Because if it is, you can pay for a new inner tube. I’m not repairing that relic again.’
Ida’s lip pursed. ‘It’s the chain. It keeps coming off.’
‘Can’t George have a look at it?’
At the mention of her brother, Ida shook her head. ‘He’s got a lot on.’
Samson took a big swig of his tea, the bitter brew stewed to Ida’s desired strength scorching his taste buds, but it was worth it to hide the grin that was threatening to give him away. Because if there had been an indication that something was afoot before, the claim that George Capstick was too busy to tinker with something mechanical was a subterfuge too far. Clearly this manufactured problem was intended to keep the birthday boy busy and out of the way of whatever was being organised.
‘But if tha’s not interested . . .’ Ida muttered at Samson’s silence.
‘No, no, happy to have a look at it,’ he said. Knowing he had the upper hand, he decided to have some fun. ‘In fact, while we’re on the topic, how about we have a look at E-bikes online afterwards?’
‘E-bikes?’ Ida spat out the words like they were toxic, almost spilling her tea on Tolpuddle, who had given no ground in their silent battle over proximity to the cooker and had his nose pressed to the oven door. ‘What would I be looking at them for?’
‘Because it’s time you upgraded. That beast you call a bike weighs a ton and only has three gears, two of which you never use.’
Ida opened her mouth to retort but the briefest of looks from Delilah stalled her. Instead, she simply nodded.
It was the clincher. Ida Capstick backing down from an argument. If Samson had been harbouring any doubts about this strange morning, he was now certain: Miss Metcalfe and her sidekick were cooking up something.
‘Right,’ he said, finishing his toast and draining the last of his tea, ‘we’d best be getting on. Seth’s not one for people being late.’
‘Not so fast, young man.’ Ida left her position guarding the cooker to pick up the voluminous shopping bag that accompanied her pretty much everywhere, and pulled out a plastic bag which she thrust towards him. ‘Here. For tha birthday. I clean forgot to bring it yesterday.’
Still no smile, just a stern glance as he took the bag from her, Samson trying not to look smug at having seen through their charade.
‘Thanks.’
‘Tha’s not opened it yet,’ she muttered.
He laughed, opening the bag, his fingers encountering softness, wool, something bright . . . The laugh died in his throat as he held up the most hideous jumper he had ever seen. It wasn’t the style so much, the sweater being a simple crew neck. And there was no denying it was well made, Ida more than adept with a set of needles. But the colour . . .
‘It’s lovely,’ he managed, staring at the yellow monstrosity. For it was monstrous. Not mustard or saffron or a gentle amber. Not even with the mellow hues of honey or gold. No, this was a canary-yellow luridness that would make him look like a walking highlighter pen.
‘I made it especially for thee,’ said Ida, pride in the words.
‘Try it on,’ said Delilah, the twinkle that had been absent from her eyes in the past few days back with a vengeance.
‘Oh no,’ he protested, ‘I wouldn’t want to get it dirty—’
‘Tha doesn’t like it?’ Ida was staring at him with a look like a wounded scorpion.
With a stifled sigh, Samson unzipped his hoodie and took it off, laying it over the back of the chair. Then he picked up the jumper and pulled it over his head.
‘A perfect fit!’ said Delilah.
Ida sniffed. ‘I knit it to the exact specifications of the pattern,’ she said, giving Delilah a long look before turning back to Samson with the closest thing to a smile. ‘Tha looks grand. Right proper.’
‘Turn around,’ said Delilah, revelling in his discomfort. ‘Let’s see all sides.’
He did a pirouette and she whistled her appreciation. ‘Thanks, Ida,’ he said, genuinely touched. But not intending to wear it ever again. He reached to pull it off.
‘Tha’s not going to keep it on?’ Ida asked, halting his undressing.
‘I wasn’t planning on it—’
‘Oh but you should!’ said Delilah, enthusiastically, ignoring the glare he gave her. ‘You’ll be the talk of the town.’
‘I wouldn’t want to get muck on it at the allotments—’
‘You’re not going digging.’
‘But it’s too warm for a sweater—’
‘Don’t be fooled by the blue sky. It’s only ten degrees out there.’ Delilah was struggling to control her laughter now, enjoying the predicament he was in.
‘Either way, I think I’ll leave it for today—’
‘Tha mother would have loved to see thee in that.’ Ida’s comment brought a halt to the verbal ping-pong between the two younger members of the conversation, Samson turning to stare at her. ‘It was a pattern she gave me,’ continued Ida, ‘when she took sick and couldn’t knit any more.’
Samson looked down at the yellow wool, fingering the soft texture and suddenly overcome with a longing for a person he’d only known as a child. When he looked back up, Ida was smiling at him. Proper smiling.
‘She’d be so proud of thee, lad.’
And Samson knew then and there that he’d be wearing the damn sweater for the rest of the day.
The receptionist on the front desk had worked in the hotel long enough to be able to spot a tourist when she saw one. And as this was Ilkley, a Yorkshire spa town that was a hotspot for visitors, it was a fair bet that most of the guests arriving or departing that Saturday morning weren’t here for business.
The man checking out was no exception. Dressed for a walk in the hills, he was typical of the species, a harmless breed of people coming to the area and providing locals like her with employment. Seeing as she was only an hour into her shift, she still had the energy to make small talk – something that would wane around mid-morning when the predictable comments about going up on the moors without a hat would wear thin. Honestly, who’d have known that one bloody folk song could cause her such misery, guests feeling obliged to sing the refrain of ‘Ilkley Moor Baht ’at’ in faux Yorkshire accents, all of them thinking they were the first ever to do so. And she having to laugh politely through firmly gritted teeth.
But she was feeling magnanimous, so she asked the question she’d long learned to avoid.
‘Got anything special planned for the day?’ she enquired as she took his key.
He smiled, fine lines creasing in the corners of his eyes. ‘Just catching up with some old friends,’ he said, tapping the map he was holding. ‘A nice walk, a pint or two afterwards . . .’
She let out the breath she hadn’t even known she’d been holding and smiled back at him, relieved that her gamble hadn’t backfired. ‘Well, you’ve got a lovely day for it. Not a drop of rain forecast.’
He laughed, a lovely deep rumble of sound. ‘I’ll be back to complain if you’re wrong.’
She smiled even more, a hint of flirtation slipping into her demeanour. Yes, he was a good bit older than her, but there was something magnetic about him. Something suave. As though he’d seen a lot of the world but it hadn’t made him arrogant.
‘Feel free,’ she said, letting her dimples show. ‘I’ll be on duty until this evening so you know where to find me.’
He winked. Picked up his rucksack and walked out the door, turning at the last minute to nod in her direction.
Still in the glow of the conversation, she turned to the next customers, a middle-aged couple in hiking gear, the man sporting a flat cap on his balding head.
‘Are you heading somewhere nice?’ she asked as she took their key, her attention still on the disappearing figure of the lovely man, who was crossing the road and heading up into town.
‘Aye,’ said the guest in front of her, doffing his cap with a wide grin, doing his best to mimic the flat vowels of the area. ‘Up onto Ilkley Moor, baht ’at of course!’
She groaned quietly. Just gone seven thirty and her day was already on a slippery slope. She found herself hoping it would rain. And that the previous guest would come back and bring out her dimples once more.
Of course, she wasn’t to know that the man with the warm smile and the suave demeanour was a cold-blooded assassin, currently pulling out onto the A65, turning west. Destination, Bruncliffe.
‘I shouldn’t have mentioned his mother like that.’ Sitting behind Delilah’s desk, Ida was looking uncharacteristically anxious. ‘It’s not right invoking a dead person to get one’s way.’
Having moved across to Delilah’s office on the pretext of getting Ida started on the admin which needed doing, the two women were talking in hushed tones, aware of Samson in the kitchen along the landing, entertaining Tolpuddle while he waited.
‘You did the right thing,’ murmured Delilah. ‘There’s no way he would have worn that sweater otherwise. I’m sure Mrs O’Brien wouldn’t mind her memory being taken in vain if it meant keeping her son alive.’
The tight lines of Ida’s lips softened at the mention of her former neighbour. ‘Aye, happen as tha’s right. Kathleen was a grand lass. She’d have done anything for Samson. But I tell thee what, I don’t know how tha does this detective lark for a living. This whole thing has got me up skittle so as I don’t know whether I’m coming or going. I’ll be glad when it’s all over.’
Delilah grimaced. ‘This is a bit more high-octane than our usual line of work. And you’re not the only one that wants it done with.’ She pointed at the three monitors crowding the desk, brought in just for the day’s mission. ‘Are you confident you know what you’re doing?’
‘Wouldn’t say as I’m confident,’ said Ida, the familiar brisk tone back in her voice as she turned her attention to what was going to be her workspace for the entirety of the operation, two mobiles adding to the collection of technology she was in charge of, ‘but I’ll do my very best. Although why tha’s landed me with this task, I don’t know. There’s plenty more qualified folk tha could have asked.’
‘Maybe, but there’s no one else I trust as much as you with Samson’s life. We both know how special he is.’
‘Humph! Happen as tha ought to think about telling him sometime soon and quit dancing around each other, then. It’s been driving decent folk mad waiting for the pair of thee to get together.’
Cheeks turning bright red, Delilah laughed. ‘Believe me, Ida, if we all get through today unscathed, I will be telling him exactly how I feel.’
‘So I’d best get this right, then, eh?’ said Ida, nodding towards the monitors.
‘Yes.’ There was no way to sugar-coat it – Ida’s role was going to be the most crucial. And possibly dangerous, too, a thought that was adding to the high level of anxiety burning in Delilah’s chest. It wasn’t just Samson she was placing in the firing line today.
‘Don’t tha worry about me, lass,’ muttered Ida, sensing her concern. ‘I’ll have tha daft hound to keep me safe.’ She tipped her head in the direction of the kitchen and Tolpuddle, who would be remaining at the office for the duration of the day, and she cackled. ‘Happen as he might earn his keep at last.’
‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.’ Delilah glanced at her watch. A replacement smartwatch for the one she’d lost when a case turned ugly back in April. Something else that was going to earn its keep over the next few hours. ‘It’s time. Remember to lock the doors after we leave, front and back, and no one is allowed in or out of the building until you get the all-clear from me. Not even if you know them. Okay?’
‘Yes.’ The word sounded like a death knell, Ida nodding, lips forming a thin line of determination. Then she turned to look at Delilah, her eyes suspiciously bright. ‘Happen as tha’s spot on about how I feel about that lad. I watched him grow from a carefree toddler into a child that had to carry way more of a burden than was proper. And then into a young man with so much potential . . .’ She faltered, blinking furiously, clearing her throat before continuing. ‘Samson’s the closest I’ve ever got to having a child and having him home has been a blessing I never expected. So all’s I’m asking is that tha brings him back safe this evening. Can tha promise me that?’
Moved by the rare sight of this stoic woman so close to tears, Delilah leaned over and kissed Ida’s weathered cheek. ‘I promise,’ she whispered.
It was a reckless thing to say, given all she knew and all she was concealing from everyone who’d stepped forward to help her in this mad undertaking. A guarantee of Samson’s life wasn’t hers to grant.
As she left the room, Delilah was hoping it was a promise she wouldn’t live to regret.