‘A couple of gin traps, one on each leg, that’d do the trick.’
Will Metcalfe raised an eyebrow at the immense shape that was Gareth Towler, the gamekeeper leaning over their captive with a wicked grin behind his russet beard.
‘You have gin traps?’ asked Ash Metcalfe, the younger brother of Will. ‘I thought gamekeepers were the good guys?’
‘Got some I confiscated off a group of poachers a few years ago.’ Gareth shrugged. ‘I swear, a minute or two in those and this guy will sing like a midsummer lark over Fountains Fell.’
The object of their conversation was sitting on the dirt floor of the barn at Mire End Farm, Clive Knowles’ place, a mere walk down the hillside from the grouse butts where they’d apprehended him. With his hands and legs trussed up in bailing twine and his clothes covered in bits of straw and what smelled like curry, the dishevelled figure looked far from dangerous. Until you looked at his eyes. Will had never seen such a calculating gaze. Even from his position with the cards all stacked against him, the hitman seemed to be assessing the assembled group as though he was calculating how he was going to kill each and every one of them.
And somehow they were expected to make him talk. To get him to tell them who had ordered the hit, thus exposing the ringleader behind the conspiracy to frame – and kill – Samson O’Brien. But so far, the man hadn’t said a word since he’d dropped his weapon up at the butts. Not even a curse. So in true Bruncliffe fashion, the group were trying to come up with ways to change that.
‘Still think my suggestion would work,’ muttered Clive Knowles. The normally bald farmer flicked the long black hair of his wig back over his shoulder, yet to discard his yellow-jumper disguise as Samson’s alter ego which, disconcertingly, he seemed to have taken a liking to. ‘Cover him in feed and stick him in with my hogs. He’ll be begging us to let him out.’
‘Too slow,’ said Will.
‘Aye,’ added Harry Furness, casting an auctioneer’s eye over the sizeable pigs in the pen beyond the barn doors. ‘Your hogs are so fat they’d most likely just lick him to death.’
A rumble of laughter met his words.
‘You got a better idea?’ grumbled Clive.
‘What about we let him run and set the lurchers after him?’ Will’s nephew, Nathan, was leaning against a tractor next to his grandfather, his two dogs picking up their ears at his words. ‘Keep doing it until he breaks.’
For a fourteen-year-old, there was something coldly pragmatic about the proposal that made Will wonder about the wisdom of letting the lad be involved with all this. But then again, given the dogs had been trained by a poacher before Nathan adopted them and were almost feral, the proposal had merit.
‘Or,’ came a lone female voice from behind the men gathered in the barn doorway, ‘we stick him in with Cupid?’
They all turned to see Carol Kirby, back from her duties of blocking the road with her fiancé’s pink sheep, standing in the sunlight in the yard, arms crossed, face in its habitual sour expression.
Silence fell on the assembled men. The same silence that met the appearance of a prime beast in the auction ring; a sure sign that farmers were contemplating something interesting.
Jimmy Thornton was the first to break it. ‘I can’t see the Hardacres saying no. Want me to give them a call?’
Will glanced at Herriot. The vet had raced from the marketplace to join the group at the grouse butts, Delilah adamant that he be on hand whenever there was an encounter with the hitman, his veterinary skills making him the closest thing they had to a paramedic should the worst happen. ‘Any objections?’ Will asked.
Herriot gave a slow smile. ‘My only concern in this instance is the welfare of the animal, and I think Cupid is more than capable of taking care of himself.’
A nervous laugh came from one of the men, another sucked air through his teeth in contemplation, the rest nodding solemnly.
‘Right then,’ said Will. ‘Cupid it is.’
‘Who’s Cupid?’
All heads turned to look at the hitman who, sounding a bit less self-assured, had finally spoken.
‘Don’t worry,’ Will said with a grimace, almost feeling sorry for the bloke. ‘You’ll find out soon enough.’
‘I can’t believe any of this.’
Samson O’Brien was in a state of shock. It wasn’t because of the kiss in the allotments, although that had no doubt taken out a fair few of his neurons. Nor was it due to Delilah’s driving, stone walls whipping past at an alarming rate as she raced out of Horton on the narrow road that led to Clive Knowles’ place. Instead he was trying to get his head around the fact that she had managed to foil a plot on his life.
‘You’re telling me that Will and his band of merry men—’
‘And one woman.’
‘—are holding a hitman captive in Mire End Farm?’
‘Yes.’
‘And that you knew this assassin was coming and you never told me?’
‘Yes.’ The last words was accompanied by that all too familiar tilt of her chin.
Samson tried to digest the information as Delilah guided the Micra around yet another corner on what felt like two wheels. It all seemed too outlandish to believe. Except this was Bruncliffe. A place where he’d learned the outlandish happened every day.
‘So pretty much everything you’ve asked me to do today—?’
‘Gave us time to identify our target and set the decoy in motion.’
‘Decoy?’
Delilah grinned. ‘You’ll see.’
Samson shook his head, not knowing whether to be alarmed or impressed.
‘And DC Green? You think she might be behind this?’
‘Don’t you?’ Delilah flicked a glance at him before pinning her attention back onto the thin strip of tarmac, a 4x4 with trailer up ahead causing her to ease off the pace.
Truth was, Samson didn’t know what to think. Because despite all of the sensational revelations his partner had made as they left the allotments – her coerced meeting with DC Green, the cajoling of locals to help, the intricate planning and its execution including road blocks and lots of tech – the one thing he kept returning to was that blasted Chinese takeaway.
‘So it wasn’t Frank Thistlethwaite you met in the ginnel the night you stood me up,’ he murmured.
Delilah let out a snort. ‘Is that what you thought? That I ditched our meal because I got a better offer?’
He had the grace to blush.
‘Besides,’ she continued with a serious tone, ‘the jury is out on DCI Thistlethwaite. There was someone else in the barn the other night. I didn’t get to see who it was but they were wearing a cologne that smells just like Frank’s.’
Samson had a sudden image of Delilah in his office, seeming to linger in the detective’s embrace. ‘That’s why you were—!’ He broke off before he made a complete fool of himself.
‘Why I was what?’ asked Delilah, following the 4x4 off the road onto the track to Mire End Farm, where it pulled up, Tom and Oscar Hardacre getting out. She parked behind them, a convoy of other vehicles already there, and turned to Samson.
‘Why I was what?’ she repeated.
‘Nothing,’ he muttered.
Still trying to grasp what he’d just been told, Samson stepped out of the car into a scene reminiscent of the Wild West. In the farmyard were about a dozen men toting shotguns standing around a sizeable corral made out of sheep hurdles, a man hog-tied on the ground in the enclosure, and something kicking ferociously inside the Hardacres’ trailer, sounding to all intents and purposes like a bucking bronco at a rodeo.
Even more unusual, walking towards them was a characteristically morose Will Metcalfe with a wide grin on his face.
‘It worked!’ he said, giving his sister a slap on the back before shaking Samson’s hand. ‘I can’t believe it bloody worked.’
‘Is he talking?’ asked Delilah.
‘Not yet. No ID on him either, just a receipt for a hotel over in Ilkley last night.’
Delilah glanced at Samson. ‘That blows your allotment theory,’ she said.
‘What about the allotments?’ asked Will, looking confused.
‘Just a case we’re working. Samson thought it might be connected but it’s not.’
‘Right, well, we also found this.’ Will held out a basic-looking smartphone. ‘Not that I’m an expert or anything but I’d say it’s a burner. Only one number on it. But I thought you might be interested in the app that was open when we captured the bugger.’
Delilah stared at the red light still pulsing on the screen, a mixture of horror and relief on her face.
‘That’s what he used to locate my decoy?’ Samson was staring too, the sophistication of the conspiracy against him sinking in. The idea that someone had planned to stalk him and then kill him, all using a GPS tracker—
‘So where was the tracker, then?’ he asked, struck by the thought. He looked at Delilah. ‘And how did you know where to find it?’
‘I didn’t.’ She pocketed the phone, businesslike all of a sudden, giving Samson the sense she wanted no more questions on that topic. ‘I took a gamble. Let’s go speak to this assassin and see if we can get some idea as to who was behind it all.’
They turned towards the improvised corral, Samson stopping suddenly, caught by a dazzle of sunlight on chrome amongst the many parked vehicles. ‘Is that my—?’
‘Oh yes, your bike.’ Delilah gave an apologetic shrug as Samson took in the Royal Enfield, a hen sitting on the seat, preening herself in the sunshine. ‘We needed your double to look convincing. Sorry. It wasn’t like I could ask your permission.’
‘My double,’ murmured Samson. ‘And who exactly was that?’
‘Samson!’ A loud voice hailed him and separating itself from the crowd of men was a figure in a bright-yellow jumper, striding towards him, luxuriant black hair reaching his shoulders.
‘You’re kidding?’ Samson’s jaw dropped. He looked down at his own knitwear and back up at the man approaching him.
‘Great isn’t it? We’re as good as twins!’ said Clive Knowles with a grin, tugging at his sweater proudly as he held out a hand to shake Samson’s. ‘I’m thinking of keeping the hair if my lass takes a shine to it.’ He cast a look of devotion over his shoulder to the scowling Carol Kirby standing by the barn.
Samson turned to Delilah, incredulous. And somewhat appalled that the starring role of her subterfuge was the bald, unkempt farmer who, until his recent adventures in romance, had been known for his distinct odour. ‘This is my decoy?’
Delilah shrugged, eyes dancing in delight. ‘He was the best fit in terms of height and shape. He was the obvious choice.’
No more mollified, Samson looked down at his birthday present. ‘And the jumper? That’s why Ida insisted I wear it, so you could swap me for Clive?’
‘Ingenious, don’t you think?’
And it was. The more Samson thought about it, the more impressed he was. Especially when he took a look at the person the trap had caught, the man in the corral. He recognised him from the pub, a workman who’d blended right in, all the hallmarks of a professional. And yet somehow Delilah’s ragtag army of helpers had managed to outwit him.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ he murmured.
‘Start with “Thanks” and then a round of drinks in the Fleece. That’ll do,’ said Harry Furness, eliciting a laugh from the rest.
‘Time enough for thanks when we’ve finished the job,’ growled Will, gesturing at the hitman. ‘Got to get this bugger talking first so we can clear your name once and for all, O’Brien.’
‘And how do you propose to do that?’ asked Samson.
‘With this.’ Clive Knowles slapped a hand on the Hardacres’ trailer, the racket issuing from its interior becoming even more pronounced than before.
‘What the hell is in there?’
‘That,’ said Will Metcalfe dramatically, ‘is Cupid.’
‘Cupid?’ Delilah nodded in approval. ‘That’s a brilliant idea!’
Going for the pies had been an excellent idea. So good, in fact, that Ida and Tolpuddle had walked up to the bench at the top of Crag Hill to sit in the sunshine while they consumed their al fresco dinner. With the sun warming her bones, Ida had been reluctant to return to the office; after all, she had her mobile with her so could be contacted if need be. But not being one for idling in her normal life, she was soon itching to be back at the so called ‘Mission Control’. While things were pretty much over, she still had a role to play.
‘We’ll pop out again when everything is properly done and dusted,’ she promised the Weimaraner, who’d been as good as gold all day. Ida took real pride in the fact that he’d not once displayed any signs of anxiety, his siren-like wailing at times of stress a thing to behold.
As they ambled back down Crag Hill to the marketplace, she felt content. An emotion she considered the pinnacle of all emotions. Far more sustainable than joy; far more realistic than happiness. Contentment was the secret to a good life. And with the danger that had been hanging over Samson’s head ever since he’d returned to town now passed, and the chance that he and young Delilah might finally get things together, she was allowing herself to wallow in the feeling.
Still sporting her unaccustomed smile, she opened the gate and ushered the dog into the yard ahead of her, Tolpuddle sprinting towards the porch where he let out a little whine, sniffing the doorframe as if to check he was actually home.
‘Daft bugger!’ Ida muttered good-naturedly, unclipping his lead. ‘Does tha not recognise—’
She broke off, tutting loudly. For as she’d gone to put the key in the lock, she’d noticed several scratches on the metal around the keyhole. They hadn’t been there yesterday, as she’d taken the opportunity to wipe the door down on the outside while she’d been waiting for Delilah to give her the all-clear to come in. Making a note to come out with a bit of Brasso and see if she could work her magic on them, she opened the door. She stepped over the jumble of running shoes that always cluttered the back porch, Samson’s now added to Delilah’s own, and entered the space that had once been a kitchen but had become more of a utility since Samson started living in the building. Leaving the lead back on its hook, she reached for the bright red collar she’d left on the worktop.
‘Tolpuddle,’ she called, the dog having gone into the hallway. ‘Let’s get this back on.’
She stepped forward, towards the hall, and saw him, sniffing near the foot of the stairs. There was a lump of something on the carpet.
With the feeling of the warm sun still on his back and a stomach full of pie, Tolpuddle was feeling content. Until he stepped into the building. There was a strange smell, which was making him a bit on edge, nose sniffing at the floor as he walked towards the stairs. And then there was the object by the front door.
He approached it cautiously, the tantalizing meat odour not having the desired effect for two reasons. One, his appetite was already sated. And two, while being sated didn’t mean he abstained from tasty morsels, this particular morsel was a sausage.
Tolpuddle had lost his taste for sausages of late. He could recall the last one, out in the yard, fighting the cat next door for it. Fighting being a loose term for his abject surrender to those flashing green eyes and sharp claws. But not before he’d taken a bite. And then he got sick.
So for once, he didn’t just wolf this offering down, but rather prodded it with a paw, rolling it across the carpet.
He turned, towards the woman who always smelled so comforting, a mixture of bacon and biscuits and a sharp odour of lemons that made his nostrils twitch. And as he turned he saw the shadow, emerging behind her. Reaching out for her.
He barked, a warning.
But she didn’t turn around. And the shadow was almost on her.
So he charged, teeth bared, hackles raised, ready to protect. Despite the fact that he was terrified.
Ida watched the Weimaraner sniffing at whatever was on the carpet and as she did, she became aware of Samson’s office. The door was closed. When she’d left it had been—
Tolpuddle started barking, a loud fierce boom of sound, reverberating off the walls. Setting the hairs up on the back of her neck. Something wasn’t right. And then he was charging at her, snarling, aggressive . . .
She fumbled in her pocket for her mobile, stepping back from the hallway, back from Tolpuddle. Back into a pair of strong arms that pulled her fully into the former kitchen, the door kicked shut, the dog now going berserk on the other side of it, paws slamming into the wood, trying to get in. Trying to save her.
Ida struggled. But there was a hand over her mouth. She bit it. Heard a muffled yelp. Then a crunch of bone. Her bone. She’d been hit. As she slumped to the ground, through the strobing pain in her head she saw a blurred shape standing over her, a blonde ponytail hanging down. Then everything went black.
The sides of the trailer were shaking. Whatever beast they had locked up in there, its temper wasn’t being soothed by the prolonged confinement.
‘Is tha ready?’
The hitman recognised the farmer asking the question – and the solid chunk of muscle standing at the trailer door, waiting to unlatch it. The stubborn father and son team who’d held up his journey with their tractor and a road strewn with rocks.
It hadn’t been a coincidence, then. Nor, judging by the presence of the battleaxe of a shepherdess, had the flock of pink sheep accidently blocked his path. Which made him think the incident in the market square was all part of it too. The entire thing had been painstakingly planned. And he’d fallen for it.
Then he saw O’Brien, walking towards him, yellow sweater on, identical to the one on the man next to him. Seen together, there was no likeness between the two men beyond a similar height and build. The rest of the illusion had been manufactured with a black wig and that damned gaudy jumper. Yet it had been enough to dupe him – a professional assassin, with all his years of experience in a ruthless world in which the weak didn’t survive.
He stared at the faces of the people standing around the enclosure they’d rigged up, leaning on the metal barriers like old timers at a rodeo, shotguns still at the ready. He’d seriously underestimated them. Underestimated the town with its country ways, and it had been the undoing of him. Whatever happened next, he wasn’t going to recover from this. He was done for.
But that didn’t mean he was going to talk. Because there was done for and there was the hell that would be his fate if the person who employed him got wind that he’d spilled his guts. Which they would do, seeing as they were part of the institution that was supposed to protect the citizens of this country.
So no matter what came out of that trailer, the hitman would be holding his tongue.
‘Untie him,’ said the large man with the russet beard. ‘At least give him a fighting chance.’
‘Aye,’ said another. ‘We want him talking, not dead.’
The one they called Will jumped over the barriers to undo the ropes binding the hitman’s arms, careful not to get between the guns and their target. No fool. He leaped back out of the corral and signalled the bulky bloke at the trailer.
‘Let him out,’ he said.
The hitman watched the trailer door fall down, the banging stopped, and then from the dark recesses of the vehicle came an explosion of speed, a dark bullet of muscle and mean disposition.
Cupid came to an abrupt halt in the centre of the enclosure, glowering round at the faces. Then his black gaze fixed on the hitman. Who was doing his best not to laugh. For the infamous beast that was going to get him talking was nothing but a black-faced, black-legged, stocky sheep. He had nothing to fear.
Back in Bruncliffe, it was over an hour after the engineer left before the landlord of the Fleece had call to use his newly serviced coffee machine. The request hadn’t come from Arty Robinson or his friends, the pensioners having departed for Fellside Court a few minutes earlier, but from two tourists.
Stomachs full of Kay Murgatroyd’s amazing fish pie and a generous portion of her homemade sticky toffee pudding, they waddled up to the bar and asked for a couple of post-meal coffees. With mints, no less. Troy nodded, mind on other matters and so not subjecting them to his usual scowl. He even offered to bring the drinks over, allowing the couple to return to their table and collapse back onto their chairs.
But when Troy turned to the machine, filled the filter full of coffee, twisted it into place, put a cup underneath it and pressed the shot button, nothing happened. He immediately checked the plug at the wall. Switched on. Then he looked at the front of the machine.
The dials didn’t look right. The pressure had dropped significantly and the temperature was way down. He placed the palm of his hand on the shiny red side, the metal cool to his touch. It was only then he realised that it had been some time since he’d heard the usual hiss and splutter that the machine continually made.
Perplexed, he removed all the cups and saucers from the top, lifted off the cover and, standing on tiptoe, peered inside, using the torch on his mobile to light up the interior. The bronze drum of the boiler took up most of the space, pipes and hoses coming in and out of it in a bewildering fashion. Nothing seemed out of place there. Apart from the fact Troy could put a hand on the cylinder without getting scalded. Lukewarm at best.
He moved the torch, shining it into the back corner. Reflected back up at him was a small pile of nuts and bolts, just sitting there in the bottom of the machine, several screws lying next to them. The whole lot were partially submerged in a small puddle of water.
Troy Murgatroyd was no engineer, looking after the pub’s beer lines about the extent of his technical knowhow. But even he could take a guess that the problem with the coffee machine probably had a direct correlation to the state of its interior. In fact, he’d even go so far as to say the engineer hadn’t serviced it at all but had simply dismantled it before throwing the bits back inside, slapping on the sides and top, and leaving.
‘Any sign of that coffee?’ came a call from the other side of the bar. ‘We’ve got a train to catch.’
Grumbling to himself, Troy reached for the kettle. Minutes later he crossed the floral carpet to the table occupied by the tourists where he unceremoniously deposited two cups, a small jug of milk and a large teapot.
‘You’re in Yorkshire,’ he snapped. ‘We drink Yorkshire Tea.’
Leaving them open-mouthed, he turned on his heel and headed back to the bar where he picked up the phone. The company that serviced his coffee machine were about to be read the riot act about their shoddy engineer.
Across town, in his apartment on the first floor of Fellside Court, Joseph O’Brien was feeling a lot less stressed. And a lot less tempted.
It wasn’t just that he’d removed himself from the deadly siren call of the whisky bottles at the Fleece. It was also because of Ida’s last message on the WhatsApp group.
They’d done it. The team had come through and the hitman had been captured, thus removing the threat to his son’s life. If all was going according to plan, the assassin would now be at Mire End Farm and Samson and Delilah would be doing their best to make him talk before they handed him over to the authorities.
It was something to celebrate. And in fact, that was what Joseph was just about to do. A manic call from Arty had summoned him to the cafe on the ground floor of the apartment complex, the group of friends on their way back to mark the successful culmination of Delilah’s plan with a long lunch. Not so much painting the town red as daubing it in pink, but the principle was the same.
Joseph picked up his wallet before stroking a finger over the faces of the woman and young boy in the photograph on the bookcase.
‘He’s safe, Kathleen,’ he murmured, his throat constricted with emotion. ‘They kept him safe.’
And now his friends were coming home to check that the older O’Brien was safe too. For Joseph was no idiot. He knew the real reason why they were coming back. They’d figured out he was struggling with his addiction and were rallying round.
Thinking that he’d been blessed several times over when he’d decided to make Bruncliffe his home all those years ago, Joseph O’Brien walked across his lounge, down the narrow hallway and to the front door. He’d just put his shoes on when the bell rang.
‘You were quick. Did you make Eric jog back?’ he said as he opened it, laughing, expecting Arty.
But it wasn’t Arty. It was a blur of motion, rushing him, pushing him back so he stumbled over his slippers and went sprawling, the door slamming shut with a finality that struck Joseph with terror.
‘What . . . who . . .?’ he spluttered. Then he realised he had seen his assailant somewhere before. Recognised the ponytail and the orange baseball cap. What he didn’t recognise was the barrel of the gun being aimed at his face.