‘Where the hell are my office keys?’ Delilah had one hand on her head, holding it together as the pain inside her skull threatened to cleave it in two, and the other was rifling through a jumble of junk in one of her kitchen drawers.
Tolpuddle let out a loud bark, and she shuddered.
‘Do you have a mute button?’ she muttered, glowering at her hound.
After an evening being fussed over by the residents of Fellside Court retirement complex, the Weimaraner was in much better condition than she was, making her think that opting to spend time in the sober company of Joseph O’Brien would have been a better idea for her too. Tolpuddle barked again, eager to be outside on what was shaping up to be a glorious day – as far as Delilah could tell from peering out of her cottage window through half-closed eyes, the stab of bright sunlight too much for her to endure.
She gave one last look around, nothing on the worktop or the small table in the corner, nor on the hook where her keys normally hung.
‘Right. We’ll go without. Ida will let me in.’
Clipping on Tolpuddle’s lead, she headed for the door and took a deep breath. She could do this. She could get through the morning with the world’s worst hangover.
She put on a pair of sunglasses and stepped out into the sunshine bathing the small terrace beside the cottage. The view was magnificent. Bruncliffe spread out below her, the jumble of roofs a flare of shining slates, the fells rising up a vibrant green, and overhead, a sky gloriously blue and cloud-free.
Normally it was a scene that made her smile. Today it made her clutch her stomach, a wave of nausea threatening.
‘That’s the last time I drink,’ she vowed as she turned towards the road and the route down into town. ‘I swear. The very last time.’
With Tolpuddle trotting along beside her, she gingerly made her way along Crag Lane to the steep flight of steps which brought her out in the ginnel at the back of the office building.
At the foot of the steps, she paused, letting the queasiness pass. It had been a good wedding, what she could remember of it, much of the evening a blur of half-recalled images. A snapshot of dancing with Ash, possibly while on a table. Another of leaning against the bar chatting to someone, but she couldn’t remember who. And then . . . pretty much just a blank, until she’d woken up on the couch at home, still fully dressed in her wedding finery and with Tolpuddle panting in her face, waiting for her to get up and feed him.
Although, now that she was standing here in the ginnel, the sun streaming down over the Crag towering above her, she had a vague recollection of standing in the same spot the night before. She strained her memory, finding nothing more than the opacity which came with excess alcohol, and the aftertaste of whisky on her tongue. Which was enough to make her gag.
Gathering her reserves, she crossed the alleyway and entered the yard, her tired eyes immediately glancing to the left. Still no Enfield.
She let herself into the rear porch, unclipped Tolpuddle and followed him into the building. The smell of bacon floated down from the kitchen on the first floor. Delilah clutched her stomach and let out a groan. Getting through the day was going to be a challenge.
Tolpuddle had his nose in the air the minute they entered the building and caught two smells. One familiar. One not. The familiar one pulled him towards the stairs at a pace, long legs taking the steps in bounds. Up onto the landing, round the corner and there she was. The woman who made mornings amazing. Calling him towards her.
The smell of bacon flooded his senses as she ruffled his ears. Overpowering the other scent. Making him forget about it. He tucked himself into the far corner of the room, eyes on the frying pan and the woman, knowing to stay out of her way until it was ready.
‘Tha survived, then?’ Ida Capstick cast a critical eye over Delilah as she slowly walked along the landing and then eased herself down onto one of the chairs at the small table in the kitchen. All the while holding herself steady, like she was doing deportment lessons with a crystal glass balanced on her head. Her face was the colour of old putty and, when she removed her sunglasses, her eyes were no more than pinpricks of pain. ‘Mind, I’ve seen thee looking better.’
Ida turned back to the stove, bacon hissing and spitting. To her left, Tolpuddle was sitting, the epitome of good health, watching the progress of the cooking with interest. Judging by the way Delilah had a hand resting on her stomach, he might be getting double rations.
Tea was what was needed. Ida dropped the spatula into the frying pan with an unintentional clatter of noise, eliciting a whimper from behind her, and picked up the teapot, a brew already stewing. She poured it into a mug, treacle-coloured, and added a good splash of milk. Turning back to the table, she placed it down, along with a strip of paracetamol.
‘Get this lot down thee.’ It was said with the kindest tone in the Capstick repertoire, Ida having no condemnation for the lass.
Delilah reached for the mug and paused, her focus caught by the set of keys lying on an envelope at the edge of the table. She pulled them towards her and looked at Ida, a question on her face which she was obviously beyond articulating.
‘Aye, them’s tha office keys all right. Tha must have called in last night. I’m guessing tha’s not remembering much of it?’
Whatever response Delilah went to make was drowned out by the slam of the front door in the hallway down below. She grimaced and picked up the tablets Ida had given her as fast feet hurtled up the stairs.
‘Sorry I’m late! But guess what – the Taylors’ place is up for sale—!’ Nina Hussain came to a breathless halt on the landing, staring at Delilah, whose head had dropped into her hands. ‘Oh!’ A grin split the teenager’s face. ‘I’m guessing those whisky shots don’t seem like such a good idea now?’
‘Don’t . . .’ groaned Delilah. ‘Don’t mention them.’
Nina winked at Ida. Who turned back to the frying pan, thinking that Delilah’s condition wasn’t exclusively caused by drinking spirits. Whatever Samson was playing at, he was going to need a good excuse for not turning up yesterday. For not even bothering to get in touch.
‘So,’ continued Nina, showing no mercy for Delilah’s indisposition, ‘did you know Mrs Taylor was selling?’
Delilah’s response was halfway between a shrug and a shake of her head, culminating in a wince. But Ida knew, even if the lass wasn’t suffering, she’d not say owt. She wasn’t one for gossip, not even about her former mother-in-law. Although the same couldn’t be said for the rest of the town. Given Nina’s news that the widow of the recently deceased – and discredited – mayor was selling up and leaving Bruncliffe, there was no prize for guessing what would be the talk of the day.
‘Thing is, she’s not only selling her house here,’ Nina chattered on. ‘She was in the restaurant last night and was talking to Dad about things and asked if he knew anyone who might want to buy a villa in Mallorca. Said she had one going cheap. Seems like she’s having a complete clear out! Mind you, who could blame her. Have you got any idea where she’s going?’
This time Delilah managed an unintelligible sound, part pain, part grunt, and before Nina could start up again, Ida interrupted.
‘Did tha get Nathan’s project done?’ she demanded, shifting the attention off her under-the-weather boss and back onto the teenager.
‘Yeah. Kind of.’ Nina shrugged, her gaiety of moments before dimming somewhat. ‘I’d forgotten we had a large group booked in at the restaurant so I had to get back. I left him at the kiln.’ She gave another shrug. ‘I presume he got everything he needed.’
Ida flipped the bacon. Reading between the lines. The poor lad – the torch he held for Nina Hussain was as plain as day. Had he made a move, suggesting they take their friendship further, and Nina had had to set him right? There wasn’t a bad bone in the lass so she’d have been gentle if that was the case. But the male ego was fragile at any age. At Nathan’s age it was at its most brittle.
Another one who’d be nursing hurt this morning, although less self-inflicted.
‘Have you heard from Samson?’ Nina asked, pulling out the chair opposite Delilah in a screech of legs on floor.
Delilah flinched. Whether at the noise or the question, Ida couldn’t tell.
‘No. Not yet.’
‘Have you had a chance to tell him about this?’ Nina tapped the envelope on the table, the logo for Turpin’s Solicitors across the top.
Matty Thistlethwaite, taking it upon himself to try to clean up the mess that had been left in the town following the arrest of Rick Procter. The solicitor was keeping everyone abreast of the consequences of Procter’s criminal activities, giving advance warning when properties owned by the developer became eligible for auction under the Proceeds of Crime Act. So far the only business to have gone under the hammer was Fellside Court, the retirement apartments having been identified as a front for money-laundering on a huge scale. The sale had gone through at the start of the month and now the elderly residents were all of a flutter, worrying about what the change of ownership might mean. Still cleaning there a couple of times a week despite her increased responsibilities at the Dales Detective Agency, Ida had witnessed first hand how stressed the pensioners were.
And now this. A letter from Matty to inform people that Twistleton Farm, the former O’Brien home which Procter had bought for a song from a drunk Joseph O’Brien, had been deemed by the authorities to have been purchased with the proceeds of criminal activity and, as such, would be coming up for auction in mid-September, a scant four weeks away.
Delilah shook her head, and instantly regretted it, hands going to her face. ‘Want to tell him in person,’ she managed to mutter, through what sounded like gritted teeth. She was making a monumental effort not to succumb to her hangover.
‘Poor Samson,’ murmured Nina. ‘I can’t imagine how this will make him feel.’
Ida could. Having your home taken from you by unscrupulous means and then having it used to house a diabolical business involving human trafficking and drugs was bad enough, without having it finally auctioned off, probably to some offcumden wanting to have the place as a second home. For who else would be able to afford it with the daft prices for property in the area? Not Samson, that was for sure. The lad would feel like he’d lost the farm all over again. He’d never get over it.
‘Bacon’s done,’ said Ida, beginning to serve it up onto the thick slices of white bread she had buttered and ready.
‘Not for me—’
Delilah’s refusal was overridden by the slap of two plates on the table, one in front of her.
‘Eat it. Tha needs to line tha stomach. There’s work to be done and it’ll require stamina.’
A whine from the corner, Tolpuddle reminding the room that he hadn’t been served. Ida put a couple of rashers on a saucer and bent down to the Weimaraner. ‘Good lad,’ she murmured, patting his grey head.
‘Delicious, Ida, thanks,’ Nina was saying, already eating. ‘Breakfast of champions—’
The sound of a door opening, followed by movement on the landing above, cut across the teenager, the three women and Tolpuddle all freezing, looking at each other.
‘Who’s upstairs?’ asked Ida.
Delilah blinked, shook her head. ‘No one.’
But there evidently was. The soft pad of footsteps coming down the steps.
Eyes all on the landing, they watched, speechless, as a brown spaniel came round the corner and straight into the kitchen. Straight over to the saucer on the floor. To the rasher still lying there. And began eating it.
Tolpuddle looked at the dog. Looked at Ida, a comical expression of martyred disbelief on his face. While the three women stared at each other and the spaniel in puzzlement.
‘Isn’t that—?’ Ida’s question went unfinished as heavy footsteps now came down the stairs. Down to the landing. Revealing a large figure of a man, clad only in a towel wrapped around his waist.
‘Can I smell bacon?’ Gareth Towler stood in the hallway, russet hair damp, beard bushy, broad chest bare, and grinned at them.
‘What on earth—?’ Ida was staring at the man and then at Delilah, who was staring at Gareth in horror, like she’d done something dreadful.
‘Hello? Anyone home?’ Another voice, from downstairs this time. A voice which should have had Delilah leaping from her seat and running towards it – Samson was back!
But the lass was transfixed. Staring at the gamekeeper. And then down at the keys lying on the table. Her alarm now being compounded with what looked like shame.
‘Delilah?’ Samson was coming up the stairs. Nina giving Ida a look of terror. Ida wanting nothing more than to sweep the huge gamekeeper under the nearest rug. All the while, Delilah just shaking her head, a low moan coming from her.
‘You there, Delilah?’
Samson rounded the top of the stairs, and froze. Taking in Gareth and his state of undress. The audience watching from the kitchen. Tolpuddle and the spaniel. Then he looked at Delilah.
‘It’s not what it looks like,’ she said weakly.
‘Tea!’ said Ida into the ensuing silence, sliding Turpin’s letter off the table and into her pocket before turning to the kettle. Although even she, with her perpetual faith in the miraculous properties of a strong brew, knew it would be pushing it for a humble cuppa to sort out this monumental mess.