It was a relief to be out of the blasted pub. For a moment back there he hadn’t been sure how to respond when the yokel landlord had told him to wrap up warm, all the while unaware of the situation. Of just whom he was talking to. It was tempting to laugh at the irony, the misplaced solicitude.
And if that hadn’t been enough, the collision with the old dear as he was leaving had been the flat cap on top of the cake. Bad enough the first one, the fragility of her bones beneath her woollen jacket startling him. But then the other one had stood up and joined in, fussing and flapping. It had been like being beset by a couple of sparrows, all twittering and twitching. Not to mention that the wittering grandmothers had made him the centre of attention when he was supposed to be keeping a low profile.
It had made him cautious, enough so that he’d paused on the pavement just outside the pub, ostensibly bending down to do up his laces, allowing the man who’d held the door for him to walk ahead. His caution had proved unnecessary, the man having showed no interest in him, turning left down an alleyway out of sight. But still he’d lingered for a few more minutes.
No harm being careful. That’s what had kept him in business. Kept him alive. Although it was obvious this one-horse town offered no threat. A quick job and he’d be back on the road to London – or maybe a swift change back into his hiking outfit and a return to the hotel he’d left that morning? The cute receptionist’s offer was a tempting one, even if it would require him breaking his own strict rules against fraternising while working a contract. Either way, he’d have shaken the dust of Bruncliffe from his shoes before the day was out. Before anyone even knew the man he’d been sent to kill was dead.
With the sun warm on his back, he began sauntering up the narrow road towards the marketplace, while grudgingly admitting that the landlord had been right. That wind had a bite to it. Good thing he wouldn’t be out in it for long. Because according to the mobile in his hand and the light pulsing on the screen, O’Brien hadn’t got far. In fact, he was just ahead. The hitman glanced up and sure enough, there at the top of the street was the banana-yellow jumper, the unmistakable black hair stark against it. For a man who supposedly knew the danger he was in, he wasn’t using any of the skills he’d learned undercover. He was moving away from an older man who’d been at the allotments, as casual as if he was any other member of the public, his back to the street the hitman was walking up. O’Brien clearly felt safe in this hovel of a town. Which meant even less of a challenge.
Unfortunately, the hitman concluded with a twinge of disappointment, beyond the exceptional coffee and tart he’d just consumed, it didn’t look like Bruncliffe had any more surprises to offer.
Samson had time to kill. He’d met Seth on the cobbles in front of the town hall and picked up the key to the shed, handing over the plastic bag containing the coach’s precious training folder in return. Which had prompted a conversation about fell running, Seth doing his best to talk his former student into competing in the Bruncliffe Hills race, held the same day as the town show. Samson had demurred and the two of them had been arguing good-naturedly back and forth for a while when Seth’s mobile started beeping. At which point Seth had abruptly terminated the conversation, muttered his apologies for not being able to accompany the Dales Detective team on their return to the allotments, and walked away towards Turpin’s Solicitors on the corner.
Well acquainted with his former coach’s gruff manner, Samson wasn’t offended by being cast aside so bluntly. But having spent some time chatting with the sun on his shoulders, he was now reluctant to head back inside. The day was just too nice, even with the sharp wind – and the threat of unspecified danger looming over him. Besides, he would be in greater peril cooped up in the office spending yet more time with Miss Metcalfe. She was unpredictable at the best of times but today in particular, it was like dealing with molten mercury. You never knew which way her quicksilver mood would turn.
So he strolled aimlessly across the marketplace, nodding a greeting at a couple of people, enjoying the sunshine on his face, and was level with the butcher’s when he saw George Capstick come out of Church Street on his Little Grey, the vintage tractor rumbling over the cobbles before disappearing down High Street. Someone else who was making the most of the benign conditions, George clearly not having returned to Thorpdale after his unexplained visit to the office building that morning. Not that anyone could blame him. It was the kind of day for bunking off. And suddenly Samson felt the urge to go back and get the Royal Enfield from the yard. A ride out into the countryside would be perfect in this weather. It wasn’t like they were in any rush to fit Seth’s surveillance equipment, as long as it was in place before dark.
About to succumb to the temptation of taking the rest of the morning off, on the opposite side of the square Samson saw Rick Procter going into Taylor’s Estate Agents. The mere sight of the property developer soured Samson’s mood. And brought guilt hot on its heels.
He really ought to be working on Nathan’s case, finding out more about the link between Procter Properties and the lockers. Trying to ascertain whether Rick could have had access to them.
But . . . it was a Saturday, not a day for dealing with the likes of Rick Procter, and the sun was shining, the narrow roads of the Dales calling out to be ridden.
He reached in his pocket and pulled out a coin. He’d toss for it. Heads he treated himself to a ride on the Enfield; tails, he went back to work.
He flipped the coin, a twist of metal glinting in the bright sunshine before it fell into his open palm, the Queen’s profile uppermost. Choice made. A trip out towards Horton and the Ribblehead Viaduct, maybe on through Barbondale to make the most of it.
Smiling at the whimsical nature of his decision-making, Samson cut across the top of the marketplace, aware that his mobile had started ringing. He had no intention of answering it. He was playing truant, after all. Letting it ring, he reached the corner of High Street where, in the distance, down past Bruncliffe Social Club at the other end of the street, he saw the vibrant paintwork of a traditional Gypsy caravan, horse tied up to railings. It wasn’t that unusual, the horse fair at Appleby an annual attraction that saw the roads of the Dales frequented by such colourful caravans at this time of year. But it gave him pause for thought, hit by memories he’d long since forgotten. He glanced down at the coin still in his hand, shrugged, and decided to let fate lead his path.
It was the weirdest of things. So weird that at first Mrs Pettiford had a hard time putting her finger on what exactly was out of place.
She’d left her counter in the bank at exactly ten o’clock, intending to use her short break to pick up something for that evening’s tea. A Hargreaves’ pie was what had taken her fancy. As she’d exited the bank, she hadn’t really taken in what was going on, probably because it was only a couple of steps to the butchers’, where she’d unexpectedly found Ken Hargreaves manning the counter. On enquiring about the absence of his wife, Barbara – Mrs Pettiford not being one to miss an opportunity to garner knowledge about the goings on in Bruncliffe – Ken had announced she was at a meeting. A follow-up question as to the nature of the meeting had been met with a typically male shrug of the shoulders, either the man not knowing what his wife was up to, or not caring.
Preoccupied with trying to work out what kind of meeting could have torn Barbara Hargreaves away from her duties on a Saturday of all days, Mrs Pettiford had crossed the cobbles of the marketplace to Peaks Patisserie for what had become her daily treat: a delicious coffee and a pastry. She’d noticed how quiet the cafe was when she entered, a handful of tourists the only customers, despite it being the weekend. And for the second time that morning, the staff serving her weren’t the usual, Peggy Metcalfe behind the till with her daughter-in-law, Alison. No sign of Lucy Metcalfe or the clumsy Bullock girl, who normally ran the place. Or the new one, that foreigner, Ana Stoya-something.
While Peggy Metcalfe made her coffee, Mrs Pettiford commented on the absences. The reply? They were at a meeting. Something to do with the Bruncliffe Show.
Well! Imagine! A meeting about the Bruncliffe Show which had been important enough to have at least two of the town’s retailers abandon their premises on a Saturday and yet Mrs Pettiford herself hadn’t been asked to attend. Hadn’t even heard about it! Feeling affronted at the slight, she stepped out into the sunshine, and finally noticed . . .
The marketplace was busy. Nothing odd in that. But what was odd was that it was busy with locals who were doing nothing. Just standing there, in twos or threes, most of them not even chatting. Mr Hussain from Rice N Spice was outside his shop, tinfoil cartons in his hands, going nowhere, his teenage daughter next to him, one hand similarly burdened, the other holding a mobile to her ear. Barry Dawson from Plastic Fantastic was being just as antisocial – eyes fixed on his phone, he was in front of Whitaker’s newsagents, clutching a bucket and mop and looking for all the world like he was lost. While Seth Thistlethwaite was loitering in front of his nephew’s offices, which was most unlike the man. And there, on the other side of the bank, was the foreign girl from Peaks Patisserie, her blonde locks shining in the sun. Yet another one standing around doing nothing. Not to mention Herriot the vet and Samson O’Brien, the former dawdling at the corner of High Street while the detective was walking aimlessly away from the square, broad back vivid in a bright-yellow jumper – which Mrs Pettiford couldn’t help thinking was rather fetching, contrasting nicely with his dark hair.
It was all very peculiar, the whole thing resembling one of those living pictures she’d once seen of the Nativity, the entire marketplace frozen in place.
What on earth was the town coming to? Sensible-minded business folk dallying around the town centre daydreaming when there was work needed doing? Like the wool shop yesterday. Closed when it oughtn’t be.
Mrs Pettiford shook her head at the strangeness of it all and began walking back to the bank, where at least things would make sense. And then, as though at some hidden signal, everyone started moving all at once.
Up ahead, O’Brien was now out of sight.
A professional with less experience under their belt would have picked up the pace, eager to keep the target in view. But the man walking up Back Street was one of the best. He’d clocked the movement, the yellow jumper going left, hidden now by buildings. No need to panic, though. The tracker was the perfect backup, that solid pulse the means that would lead to O’Brien’s death.
Strolling up the last of the narrow street like a man without a care in the world, the assassin reached the corner of the marketplace and got his first glimpse of the heart of this sorry excuse for a town.
It was tiny. A cobbled square lined with shops and businesses, a solitary bank and then a ridiculously ornate town hall to his right, all arched gables and mullioned windows, like the place was noteworthy instead of being a mere afterthought in history. And rising up above it all, the dour hills and that damn lump of rock that loomed over the town like a granite frown.
It was the kind of place that could make you feel hemmed in. Trapped. Which in his business was never a good thing.
Shaking off the sense of ill omen crawling up his spine, he turned his attention back to the marketplace. It was busy, people going about their Saturday chores, mindless of the angel of death about to walk amongst them. Mindless of the fact that one of their own would no longer be with them by the end of the day.
Easy to spot across the bustle of the marketplace, O’Brien had reached the far side of the square and was walking steadily away.
Good. Because this was not the venue for a hit. He needed his target away from the town, or at least in one of those dark alleyways that seemed to litter the place. Confident that he would be finished with the contract within the hour, the assassin began walking across the cobbles.
He didn’t see what struck him.
One moment he was upright, the next his feet were tripping over something, sending him stumbling, colliding with someone, and then he was falling to the ground, aware of liquid spilling, apologetic cries . . .
He hit the cobbles. He grunted, a thud of pain in his head and a sharper spasm in his right wrist, which had twisted under him.
What the hell?
Before he could assess the situation, there was a crowd around him, concerned faces looking down, everyone talking at once.
‘I didn’t see you,’ one man was saying, holding a mop and bucket. ‘I’m so sorry!’
‘You knocked into us!’ an Asian man was protesting, gesturing with annoyance at some takeaway containers on the cobbles, their contents spilling across the stones.
Which is when he became aware that his clothes were covered in a red sauce and chunks of chicken, a tabby cat with startling green eyes trying to lick his trousers.
‘Do you need a doctor? Should I call an ambulance?’ A beautiful young woman was leaning over him, a gentle hand under his arm, helping him to sit up. Face framed with blonde hair, she was watching him with concern.
‘No, no doctor,’ he muttered, kicking the cat away from him, the creature hissing back before applying its attention to one of the aluminium containers.
‘What about my curries?’ the Asian man was saying.
‘Yeah!’ piped up the teenage girl next to him. ‘Who’s going to pay for them?’
‘Sod your curries,’ he growled, getting to his feet.
Which is when the crowd turned.
‘That’s not a very nice attitude,’ said another young woman, this one with dark plaits and glasses. He remembered her from the pub, sitting at one of the tables. Now she was glaring at him. ‘Nina has a point. She and her father deserve compensation.’
‘Aye,’ said another voice, an older man, face wizened from years out in this bleak climate, bushy eyebrows pulled into a startling frown. ‘Only fair and proper. Man has a living to make.’
‘I’ll pay for it,’ the man with the mop started saying. ‘After all it was kind of my fault—’
‘No such bloody thing,’ argued back the older man. ‘This halfwit wasn’t watching where he was going—’
‘Seth is right,’ continued the plait-wearing harpy. ‘No reason why you should be out of pocket, Barry—’
And so they carried on, arguing around and around, and all the while he was aware that time was ticking and his target—
The hitman strained to see over the heads of the people clustered around him and just caught sight of that yellow jumper disappearing down a side street out of view.
‘Okay! Okay!’ He hadn’t meant to shout, but the words came out loud enough to silence the ridiculous arguments. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a fold of banknotes, peeled a couple of twenties off and thrust them at the owner of the curry. ‘Here.’
The man looked at the money and was about to take it when his daughter shook her head.
‘Not enough,’ she said, staring at the hitman, hand on hip.
Sensing he was being fleeced, the hitman wasn’t in a position to negotiate. He was the centre of attention in a town that would have long memories of any outsider. What he needed to do was get back under the radar. Even if that meant paying over the odds.
Supressing the desire to throttle the lot of them, he added a tenner to his offering. At which the teenager broke into a broad smile and took the cash.
Then the hitman was pushing through the growing crowd and walking away, aware of a sharp pain in his left ankle as he crossed the cobbles towards the corner where his prey had disappeared. Aware too, that he smelled like a Saturday-night takeaway.
Mrs Pettiford couldn’t take it all in. The mop. The curry. The poor man sent sprawling. The way everyone in the square seemed to descend on him, an argument starting up.
She’d stood transfixed in front of the bank, watching on until the bloke, a workman by the look of things, got to his feet and paid Kamal Hussain. Paid him what looked like a hefty amount, too – her bank teller’s eyes spotting the denominations even from a distance – way more than was justified for a couple of containers of spilled food. And besides, it wasn’t even his fault. Barry Dawson from Plastic Fantastic had felled the man in an action which, to her mind, had seemed deliberate.
She could barely credit it, this behaviour that was so out of character for the timid shopkeeper. But the way Mr Dawson had lifted that mop and swung it around, throwing the bucket into the mix for good measure . . . What else could it have been, even though it made no sense?
The man hadn’t argued, however, when Mr Hussain demanded recompense. He’d just paid the money and then walked away towards High Street – or rather limped, clearly having hurt himself when he tumbled.
It was all so odd. And would have remained odd even without what happened next. For Mrs Pettiford didn’t move when the unfortunate man disappeared around the corner. In fact she was gazing across the square, looking for that Leeds detective, the nephew of Seth Thistlethwaite – a bona fide high-flying copper, unlike that no-good O’Brien lad, pretending to be something he wasn’t – whom she’d seen loitering in the marketplace when she’d left the bank earlier. She was intending to make a complaint there and then about the behaviour of her fellow citizens. But while the detective was nowhere to be seen, in pausing to look for him Mrs Pettiford was perfectly placed to witness the weirdest part of what had been a surreal morning. A few minutes passed, everyone watching the poor workman’s departure and then . . .
And then the entire crowd burst into laughter, people slapping Mr Hussain on the back, Seth Thistlethwaite doing a jig of excitement with Nina Hussain like a man half his age.
As she returned reluctantly to work, her break more than over, Mrs Pettiford could conclude only one thing. She had just witnessed her first flash mob. It was the sole explanation for the bizarre behaviour.
The thought of going to the police station to complain about it at lunchtime went some way to alleviating the indignation she felt at not having been included in the meeting about the Bruncliffe Show.
He’d lost him! The supposed High Street of the town and it looked deserted. Barely anyone on the pavements. No yellow jumper in the distance. Just a gaudily painted bow-top caravan some way down the road, its horse tethered to a railing, like something out of a bloody Western.
Damn it!
Frustrated and annoyed, and reeking of curry, the hitman came to a halt in front of the outdoor shop the landlord had mentioned in the pub what seemed like a year ago. Wondering if somehow he’d mistaken O’Brien’s route, he reached in his pocket for his mobile with a hand smeared in red paste, and a sharp slice of pain shot up his arm.
Shit! One glance at the wrist and he could see it was swelling. Not ideal when he was right-handed. Even more reason to get this contract done and dusted soon, before his skills became compromised by this ridiculous injury.
Using his left hand to open the app, he just had time to register the red pulse moving in his direction when a motorbike turned out of a side road between him and the caravan. The bike was distinctive enough, with its throaty roar and its vintage scarlet and chrome design. The dark hair protruding beyond the helmet merely confirmed it. O’Brien on his Royal Enfield.
The assassin wheeled round, putting his back to the street and looking like nothing more than a tourist staring at the display of rucksacks and running shoes as he watched the reflection of his target ride past. Then he was hurrying away, towards the post office and the side road O’Brien had appeared from, the very same road where the hitman had parked. All the while telling himself there was no need to hurry, he had the tracking app. O’Brien couldn’t get away.
But the throbbing in his right wrist was telling a different story. This case needed closing and fast, while he still had the ability to do it. And preferably close to civilisation, where he was on more familiar ground. He started jogging, despite the pain in his left ankle.
She’d lost him!
Tucked away in Delilah’s office at the rear of the building on Back Street – in what Arty had dubbed Mission Control – Ida was far removed from the events transpiring in the town centre. And yet she was at the heart of it all. For now it was all over to her, as she became everyone’s eyes and ears while the scheme they’d set in motion played out.
It didn’t bode well that she was already panicked.
As to the cause of her alarm? One of the recent WhatsApp updates from folk checking in and letting her know how things were progressing – the one from the young Hussain lass. Apparently, Nina had been trying to get through to Samson for over ten minutes to instigate the next part of the plan, but his phone kept ringing out unanswered.
Which meant Delilah’s meticulous timetable, which so far had been running fairly smoothly, had developed a hitch. Because at this very moment, Samson was supposed to be waiting for Nina in the Coach and Horses, where the teenager, fresh from her escapades in the marketplace, would keep him occupied and out of harm’s way by asking him for advice on joining the police.
But Samson wasn’t there. He was out in the open, unprotected. And potentially in danger.
Cursing the lad in an effort to suppress her growing disquiet, Ida took a deep breath, laid her mobile back on the desk and turned to the monitors. All three were showing red lights, blinking away, but only two were moving, the pulse on the third screen static now. The hitman. In front of Wilson’s outdoor clothing shop.
She flicked her gaze to the second screen and watched the red light move along the map, along the same road the hitman was currently standing on. Then it picked up speed past Wilson’s, across the marketplace and on towards the outskirts of town.
The reaction was just as Delilah had anticipated. The third dot came to life again, moving faster than it had before, down to where Ida happened to know an out-of-town vehicle was parked. Unlike Samson, the hitman was behaving exactly as they wanted. For now.
Ida allowed herself a sigh of relief as she began typing on her mobile once more. Partly because things were mostly going to plan; partly because she’d just been informed that the hitman was limping.
All they had to do now was make sure he didn’t reach Samson. Because despite never having encountered a professional assassin before, Ida didn’t think a twisted ankle would hinder his ability to kill.