The echoes of the gunshot seemed to hang in the air for a long time.
Longer than it took for Delilah to crash against him, sending him sprawling.
Longer than it took for his father to clatter Frank Thistlethwaite to the ground as DI Warren spun round towards them.
Longer than it took for a sharp scream of pain to rise up and fade.
Then everything was happening in the slowest of motions, Samson aware he was falling, Delilah in his arms, hitting the quarry floor, his head cracking hard against stone, the breath pushed out of him by the inert weight of her. A brief moment where everything went black and then he was clawing himself back to consciousness, alert to the danger, rolling instinctively to cover her body with his, preparing for the next shot even while he feared the first had been deadly. Because through the fog clouding his vision, he could see blood. Crimson. Seeping into the dust beneath her.
Movements sludge-like, he turned towards the others. His father, lying there, motionless. Frank Thistlethwaite up on his knees, lunging for something.
The gun. On the ground. DI Warren lying beyond it, his outstretched hand empty, red staining the shoulder of his jacket. Samson couldn’t make sense of it. But he could sense the threat, DI Warren moving too, despite his wound, scrabbling across the quarry floor, closest to the pistol. Fingers inches from it—
‘Don’t move!’
It came from above. A woman’s voice. Cut through with enough authority to make DI Warren freeze, staring upwards. And there, on one of the many rock ledges that ringed the quarry, spotlit by the sun against the bluest of skies, was Annie Hardacre, rifle aimed firmly at the man’s chest.
‘Before you start calculating your chances,’ she shouted, gaze unwavering from her target, ‘I didn’t hit your arm by accident. I’m county champion five years running. National champion material on a good day. And any day that’s not raining in these parts is a good day. So just bloody sit still and save me having to kill you.’
DI Warren slumped back to the ground.
‘Everyone else all right?’ Annie called down.
A weak reply from Joseph, a thumbs up from Frank, who was already approaching DI Warren, careful to keep out of Annie’s line of sight, pulling a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket to slap them on, heedless of the blood seeping through the sleeve of his corrupt colleague.
Blood. Samson twisted his head, felt everything see-saw in and out of focus at the motion, only the grey stone turning brilliant red beneath the woman next to him terrifyingly clear.
‘Samson? Delilah? All okay?’ Annie was asking.
It wasn’t okay. It was far from okay. He stared at the limp form, at the bullet hole in the back of her jumper, the ragged material around the deadly circle, the burn mark . . .
‘Samson! Delilah!’ Another voice. Multiple voices. And the bark of a dog. Their dog.
Tolpuddle reached them first, going straight for her, nose pressing against the back of her head, nuzzling her, whining softly, looking to Samson for reassurance. Samson tried to reach out a hand to comfort him but everything dipped and swayed and he felt sick.
Then Danny was there, swearing at the sight of the bullet hole, turning her over carefully, lifting up her jumper and looking shocked. More voices. More panicked shouts. Everything muffled, Samson numb to the core, trying to fight the dark that was threatening to claim him. Vaguely aware that someone was pressing something to his head.
‘He’s badly cut and losing a lot of blood.’ A woman’s voice, brusque, a tremor in the hands touching his scalp. ‘Tha needs to call an ambulance!’
‘It’s on its way.’
And then a bark. Sharp. Happy. A happy bark. Followed by a stirring on the ground.
‘Delilah?’ Danny leaning over her, laughing. Relieved laughter. Turning to Samson. ‘It’s okay. She’s okay.’
She was trying to sit up, pale, Danny helping her, her jumper rucked up, something there beneath the fabric. Something bulky. Samson couldn’t work out what it was. Too distracted by the blood trickling down her arm. Her arm. Not her chest, where it should be. He didn’t understand. Didn’t need to. She was all that mattered.
She looked over at him, through the crowd of people – for it was a crowd now, cars arriving, people shouting – and she smiled weakly, tipping her head towards Annie Hardacre, who was standing over DI Warren, rifle trained on him.
‘Plan B,’ she said.
At that moment, just before he lost consciousness, Samson O’Brien knew he could never love anyone as much as he loved Delilah Metcalfe.
DCI Frank Thistlethwaite had never seen the like at a crime scene.
So many people. And they just kept arriving. A small grey tractor had been the first to reach the quarry – a vehicle Frank remembered well from his first encounter with Bruncliffe back in April during the sheep-rustling case. It was carrying the same cast of people: a fierce-faced Ida Capstick toting a shotgun, seemingly oblivious to the dried blood on her cheek from the cut on her head; PC Danny Bradley; Ida’s brother George at the wheel; plus Delilah’s dog and a man Frank didn’t know who was brandishing what looked like a mop. They’d started running towards the Portakabin, the Weimaraner outpacing them all. Seconds later two more cars had squealed to a halt, Sergeant Clayton with two pensioners as passengers in one and a young woman with blonde hair in the other. As she leaped from the car, Frank immediately spotted her as a fellow copper, despite the lack of uniform, while her passenger looked more like a bouncer. An absolute mammoth of a man, he was helping an old bloke with an oxygen tank out of the rear, a petite lady with grey hair following them. Then the 4x4s had started pulling up.
Land Rovers, Nissans, Isuzus, Fords, one even towing a trailer, they slewed across the quarry track, doors left open as men jumped down. All of them running. All of them, pretty much, carrying shotguns.
‘It’s like the set of The Magnificent Seven!’ Frank had muttered in astonishment, standing next to the woman with the rifle – the angel who’d appeared from above and saved all of their lives – as they stood guard over DI Warren.
‘It’s Bruncliffe at its finest,’ she’d replied with pride.
And it was.
The town’s vet, Herriot, had immediately busied himself with assessing injuries, Samson having suffered a nasty cut to his head and his father having sustained a broken wrist in his dramatic fall. Frank himself had got away lightly, just a dull ache in his right hip from where he’d hit the ground and a gash on his head from DI Warren’s gun. And Delilah, the delectable Delilah? Turns out she’d been wearing Bruncliffe’s equivalent of a Kevlar vest – a body protector for horse riders. Somehow, miraculously, the bullet aimed at her back had skimmed the thick padding and caught her arm, and while she’d lost a fair bit of blood, she was sitting up, pale, but taking it all in.
All in all, a lot less damage than Frank had anticipated as DI Warren had pulled the trigger.
It had been a heart-stopping moment, Delilah dramatically kissing Samson, DI Warren about to shoot and then Joseph O’Brien suddenly taking Frank’s knees out from under him and tipping the pair of them to the ground. In the split second as he fell, Frank had heard the crack of the gun, closely followed by another, seen Delilah crumple, shot in the back, Samson collapsing under her.
He’d thought they’d both been shot. Only realised something else entirely was happening as DI Warren spun round with a scream of pain, pistol flying from his hand. A second shooter. Seemingly on their side.
Frank hadn’t waited to ascertain that fact. He’d just placed his trust in this mad town with its incredible community and he’d lunged for the gun, only to see DI Warren doing the same. Closer to it. Heart thudding, Frank prepared to die. And then she’d shouted. Appearing up above them, haloed in the sunlight, rifle in hand.
Annie Hardacre, she’d introduced herself as when they’d finally had a chance to talk. Farmer and crack shot who, when he asked how she’d got roped into Delilah Metcalfe’s crazy scheme, had just smiled enigmatically and said she owed Samson O’Brien a debt she could never repay. Standing there now in the quarry that was no longer silent – more police cars arriving and the shrill siren of approaching ambulances in the distance – Frank watched Sergeant Clayton and the blonde woman dealing with the man who’d been prepared to kill O’Brien and the rest of them and thought perhaps that debt had finally been paid. For Annie had saved their lives, there was no doubt about it.
As had Delilah. A pre-arranged backup – Annie as the sniper, the kiss the signal to shoot. Joseph deserved credit too, tackling Frank to the ground as Delilah’s lips met Samson’s, giving Annie the space she needed for the shot. In fact, the entire lot of them – the townsfolk milling around, wearing the same elated expressions Frank had seen after many a successful police operation, everyone high on adrenalin – seemingly they’d all put themselves in harm’s way at one point or another throughout the day in an attempt to save O’Brien, and had then come haring up here at a distress call, armed to the teeth.
It had been a team effort.
‘Reckon this will take the sarge a while to get down in a report!’ Danny Bradley, the young constable, had approached him, face flushed with all the excitement.
‘Rather him than me having to write it,’ said Frank.
Danny laughed. Then he shot the detective a sideways glance and Frank sensed he was being assessed.
‘I’d love to know how you got embroiled in all this, sir,’ he asked. ‘Just out of interest.’
‘The blame lies entirely with your sergeant,’ Frank replied with a dry laugh.
Seeing the lad’s puzzled expression, he pulled out his mobile and showed him the missed call icon above Sergeant Clayton’s name on the screen.
‘Your boss called at the worst possible time.’ The detective gestured towards the copse at the far edge of the quarry. ‘I was down at the allotments, doing a bit of digging of my own into who’s been stealing Uncle Seth’s teabags, and started walking up the fellside through the trees, thinking that whoever was behind the thefts could have come from up here. Just as I got to the edge of the woods, however, my phone went. Next thing I knew, I had a gun pointed at me and I was being hustled over to the portacabin with Joseph O’Brien.’
‘So it was just a coincidence that you were here, then?’ Something in the constable’s gaze told Frank that he wasn’t entirely swallowing the story.
He’d be right, too. For Frank Thistlethwaite had been tracking Samson O’Brien, trying to discover evidence that could be used against the undercover officer in his forthcoming corruption case. Because Frank had been convinced that O’Brien was rotten. So convinced, in fact, that he’d taken two weeks’ leave and had been staying in a camping pod on a site north-west of town for the last eight nights while he carried out his own investigation. And part of that investigation had seen him trailing Samson this morning – watching him over at the allotments on his first visit with Uncle Seth and the others, getting too close in fact and triggering the bloody horse so he’d had to show his face and try to explain his presence away. And then later, when Samson had returned alone, he’d followed him again, only this time he’d kept his distance, watching him disappear into the trees before he was joined by Delilah.
Frank had been intrigued. So when Samson and Delilah had left, he’d entered the allotments and walked up the fellside through the copse, the same way he’d seen O’Brien heading. He’d noted the eggshells. He’d seen the cauliflower leaves. And he’d kept on walking up the steep incline, ruminating on who could be living rough, stealing from the gardens below, and how it could be connected to O’Brien. He’d been so deep in thought that the shrill sound of his mobile had startled him. The gun stuck in his ribs almost immediately afterwards had startled him even more, and then he’d been unceremoniously herded up to the quarry with Joseph O’Brien. Not the finest moment in his career.
‘Total coincidence,’ he confirmed, holding the lad’s gaze.
Danny stared at him a beat longer before tipping his head towards O’Brien, who was being helped into the back of one of the ambulances. ‘Lucky for Samson. Having a detective chief inspector on the scene when he’s finally exonerated.’
There was a challenge in the way it was said, Frank sensing the constable didn’t have him on the same pedestal on which he’d installed O’Brien.
‘What’s even luckier is that I recorded the entire thing on my phone,’ Frank responded. ‘There’ll be no denying DI Warren’s role in everything after this. Or Samson’s innocence.’
Finally the constable’s face split into a smile. ‘Brilliant!’ he exclaimed. ‘Because Samson is one of the good ones!’
Frank didn’t reply. He was thinking about the unsolved murder he still had on his books, the dead man found in a canal in Leeds, O’Brien’s jacket around his neck. The case that had made him start digging into O’Brien in the first place.
‘Talking of good ones,’ he said, giving the constable an assessing gaze of his own, ‘how do you fancy a change of scenery? I could do with someone of your calibre on my team—’
‘So could the Met! Much more action than Leeds, too.’ The blonde woman was standing in front of them, a grin on her freckled face aimed at Danny and a hand held out towards Frank. ‘I don’t think we’ve met, sir. DC Jess Green, Met Police, and Samson O’Brien’s suspension support officer.’
‘DCI Frank—’
‘Thistlethwaite,’ she said, nodding, her smile warm. ‘Your father gave several talks on my training course. Amazing man.’
Frank nodded back, used to the long shadow now-retired Chief Superintendent Thistlethwaite had cast over his career, and the awe he’d inspired. ‘So what brings you here, DC Green?’
The smile lost a bit of its wattage, her gaze turning cagey, and Frank guessed that there was much more to this young woman than the blonde hair tumbling out of a ponytail and the slightly scatty appearance. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but that’s confidential. All I can say is while it hasn’t turned out quite the way it was planned, at least we’ve got our man.’ She glanced towards the figure of DI Warren being stretchered into an ambulance under police guard.
‘You’re working for professional standards?’
She tipped her head sideways. ‘Let’s just say DI Warren thought he’d appointed a rookie constable to be O’Brien’s suspension support officer, further hoping to undermine him through incompetence. Whereas—’
‘You were placed there to monitor DI Warren?’ Danny Bradley was staring at her in horror. ‘Which means you knew Samson was innocent all along!’
The lad was sharp, all right. And had a strong sense of ethics which Frank could only admire.
DC Green gave a reluctant nod of the head. ‘We were pretty sure that Dave Warren was the guilty party but had no evidence to prove it. All we could do was give him enough rope and hope he hung himself.’
‘Using Samson as bait.’ Danny’s words were laden with disdain. ‘And putting lives at risk in the process.’
‘None of that was supposed to happen,’ protested DC Green, the constable’s tone finally rattling her. ‘All Delilah had to do was put a tracker on O’Brien and we would have taken care of the rest. Instead of that, she took things into her own hands . . .’ She shrugged in frustration.
Frank laughed. ‘Show’s how well you know Delilah Metcalfe,’ he said. ‘Or Bruncliffe for that matter. As for you, PC Bradley, my offer is a genuine one. I’d be proud to work alongside you.’
For a second there was a glint of interest in Danny’s eyes. Then he looked over towards the ambulances, Ida Capstick and Joseph O’Brien in one, Delilah joining Samson in another. And he grinned.
‘Think I might wait six months or so,’ he said. ‘I’m learning a lot here.’
Frank sensed he was fighting a losing battle. And after the day’s events, he could understand why. Who wouldn’t want to be part of this amazing community?
‘Fair enough. But if you ever change your mind—’
‘Why would he change his bloody mind?’ The barked interruption made them all turn to see Sergeant Clayton, a frown on his flushed face. ‘The cheek of it. Trying to steal my best recruit, even if he doesn’t know how to take simple orders.’ He glared at Danny. ‘Which part of stop where you are and guard them bloody drugs did you not understand, lad?’
Danny made to reply but the sergeant hadn’t finished, turning his attention back to Frank and DC Green.
‘Anyroads, young Danny here is the best I’ve ever worked with. So you two can just let him be. Besides, what have you got in Leeds, or London for that matter, that we haven’t got here?’
‘Higher-profile cases? More chances of promotion?’ Frank shrugged. ‘Better weather?’
Sergeant Clayton gave a snort of disbelief. ‘You not been reading the newspapers, DCI Thistlethwaite? A couple of killers, a pet poisoner, a national sheep-rustling ring and now a shootout with a corrupt copper – we’ve had to deal with all that in the last few months. Happen as the lad stands as good a chance of getting promoted staying right here. And as for the weather,’ he cast a hand to the blue stretched out above them, ‘there’s nowt grander than this. Plus we’ve got the world’s best bakery just around the corner from the station.’
As if on cue, the sergeant’s stomach gave a loud rumble and Danny burst into laughter.
‘Sorry, Sergeant Clayton,’ said Frank, restraining his own laughter. ‘I certainly didn’t mean to step on any toes—’
The onset of loud barking cut through Frank’s apology, the police officers all turning to see what the commotion was. And then the barking changed to a high-pitched whine, like a siren in distress. An unrelenting siren.
‘What on earth is that?’ asked DC Green, as the four of them hurried over to the crowd of people gathered around the ambulances, two of which were pulling away while a paramedic was about to close the doors on the third, Delilah and Samson visible inside.
‘That,’ said a stocky man Frank recognised as Will Metcalfe, ‘is Tolpuddle, our Delilah’s daft dog. The paramedics have said he can’t go with her to the hospital.’
Sure enough, the Weimaraner was at the rear of the ambulance, a tall man with a look of Metcalfe about him doing his best to hold the dog back as it strained towards the vehicle, the hellish noise coming effortlessly from its throat.
‘Anxiety disorder,’ continued Will with a grimace. ‘He can keep this up for hours.’
Several of the crowd already had their hands over their ears but the paramedic was looking steadfast.
‘Rules are rules,’ he was saying over the noise. ‘No dogs allowed.’
‘Bugger the rules! Let him go with you!’ called out a voice from the back.
‘Aye, lad, what harm will it do?’
‘Please?’ The plea from Delilah was heartfelt.
Still the young man in the paramedic’s uniform shook his head. Until another voice called out, Frank identifying the deep boom of Harry Furness, the auctioneer: ‘Let the dog in or I’ll see as Mrs Pettiford hears how you ditched her niece by text!’
There was a roar of laughter, the lad’s head snapping up, something akin to fear on his face at the mention of the town’s gossip, and then he gave a resigned nod. Tolpuddle didn’t need a second invitation. He bounded across to the ambulance and leaped straight into Delilah’s embrace, a huge cheer going up from the crowd.
As the ambulance finally pulled away, Frank walked with the others towards the convoy of vehicles still parked up in the quarry.
‘Back to the Fleece for a pint, everyone?’ called out Will.
A raucous cry of agreement met his suggestion, the loudest coming from the pensioner with the oxygen tank and his bald friend.
‘You two coming?’ Danny Bradley had turned to Frank and DC Green, including them in the invitation.
‘Got a bit of work to do first, but once that’s done, yes, that would be lovely,’ said DC Green.
‘Sounds like a great idea,’ said Frank.
‘Maybe get yourself a room round at the Coach and Horses on High Street, too, sir,’ carried on the constable, a twinkle of devilment in his eyes. ‘Be a darn sight more comfortable than sleeping in that camping pod.’
Frank didn’t even try to deny it, impressed rather at the lad’s initiative. ‘I might just do that,’ he said, conscious suddenly of the throbbing in his hip from his earlier fall and not enamoured at having to spend another night on a camp bed.
‘You and Annie coming too, Tom?’ Will Metcalfe was calling out to an older man with a shock of white hair who was approaching the 4x4 with the trailer on the back, Annie Hardacre by his side.
The man nodded but then gestured at the trailer, from within which a sudden noise set up, like an enraged demon had been trapped inside. ‘Just got to drop Cupid back.’
‘Aye, doubt I could blackmail Troy so easily to let him in the pub the way I did with the paramedic and Tolpuddle!’ quipped Harry Furness, triggering a burst of laughter.
‘Cupid?’ asked DC Green, looking towards the trailer, which was rocking now.
‘A tup with a temper,’ explained Sergeant Clayton. ‘So called because you never know if he’ll kill you straight up or just love you to death! They used him to try and get the hitman to spill the beans.’
DC Green and Frank stared at the sergeant. And then Danny Bradley grinned.
‘And that, sir, is why I’m in no hurry to leave Bruncliffe.’