‘That should do the trick.’ Ida stood back and cast a critical eye over the camera positioned on a shelf above the counter in the kitchen of Peaks Patisserie. Sandwiched between a bag of flour and a stack of Menier chocolate bars, it was barely visible. ‘It’s got a forty-hour battery life but as it’s motion-activated that’ll last a few nights. Just remember to switch it on before tha leaves at the end of the day.’
‘Will do,’ said Lucy, staring at the small device with wonder. ‘Hopefully it will catch the thief red-handed.’
‘But how are they getting in?’ asked Nina, looking around the kitchen.
‘That’s what’s been so strange. No sign of a forced entry on any occasion.’
‘And the back door?’ Ida asked, while simultaneously checking the handle, the door opening to her touch and bringing Tolpuddle expectantly to his feet out in the ginnel at the side of the building. ‘Tha locks it every night?’
Lucy nodded. ‘Always. We leave it unlocked during the day, propped open sometimes if the heat gets too much in here. But I always check it before I leave.’
Ida stepped outside, wanting to look at the doorframe. And also wanting to look like she knew what she was doing. Still relatively new to this detective lark, while she was confident her recently acquired combat trousers granted her a more official appearance, she wasn’t so confident that her skills backed that up. And today she had young Nina with her, so it was even more important to set a good impression.
She ran a hand over the woodwork around the door. No indication of any forced entry. Nor did the lock show any scuff marks or scratches, evidence of it having been picked – a bit of knowledge Ida had learned the hard way back in May when she’d failed to notice such signs on the porch door of the office building, and had almost paid for it with her life.
She turned, looking at the ginnel where Tolpuddle was also doing a good impression of investigating, snuffling at the ground. She squinted at the dark stains which had caught the Weimaraner’s attention.
‘Does tha park out here?’ she asked Lucy over her shoulder as she crouched down to inspect the blotches, the dog immediately leaning into her with affection.
‘Sometimes if I’m dropping something off. But never for long.’
Ida touched one of the stains, brought her finger to her nose. Oil.
‘Is it a clue?’ Nina had crouched down beside her, excited.
‘Could be,’ muttered Ida. ‘Someone’s been parking here for extended periods. And not in the same place each time, either.’
‘The thief?’
Ida shrugged, straightening up, noticing that her knees made a lot more noise than Nina’s did when the teenager copied her movement. ‘Not sure. But I tell thee what lass, let’s hedge our bets.’ She pulled another small camera out of one of her many pockets and turned back into the kitchen.
It was probably something and nothing. But at least, she thought, as she placed the device on the windowsill, aimed at the exterior, it would make Lucy feel like the Dales Detective Agency was finally taking her case seriously.
It all seemed so polite. Sergeant Clayton and some detective called Benson from out of town, asking if they could have a quick chat. Like calling in at Ellershaw was just a social visit.
Alison Metcalfe had acted surprised, enquiring what they wanted, as if the news Will had relayed only moments before hadn’t arrived and turned the day dark. But as the detective explained the reason for their presence – standard procedure, in light of Ross Irwin’s murder – she’d regretted playing dumb.
Murder. The sound of it. So stark. So final.
Will had led them into the kitchen, the heart of the Metcalfe home, the three men sitting around the large table at the far end of the room. The view stretching outside. The cluck of hens drifting in through the open window. Standing with her back to the sink, Alison was wishing they were in the more formal lounge instead. For the kitchen was where their memories were made, a place of warmth and joy. Not the setting for something so sombre. So potentially dangerous to the harmony of Ellershaw Farm.
‘More tea?’ she heard herself offering, unable to stem the customary etiquette Bruncliffe instilled in its inhabitants from an early age.
They’d already had a cup. Cake too, although the detective hadn’t touched his. And even Gavin Clayton had only eaten half. A sign that he was troubled.
They shook their heads.
‘Thing is, Will,’ DS Benson was saying, ‘in the course of our enquiries, your . . . disagreement . . . with Irwin at the wedding reception yesterday has been brought to our attention.’
Will grunted. He was regarding the detective with a steady gaze, head to one side, the same way he looked when he was about to bid on a tup that was stretching their budget. Or when he’d asked her to marry him. She knew from years of living with him that this was apprehension, disguised as contemplation.
‘Folk are quick to talk,’ he muttered. Then he flicked his hand. ‘It were nowt. A couple of cross words combined with a few drinks. A bit of something and nothing.’
Alison steeled her face into neutral while Sergeant Clayton leaned forward across the table.
‘Come off it, Will,’ he said. ‘We’ve got reports of you having to be pulled off him by your brother. Sounds a bit more than a simple misunderstanding to me. And besides, we both know you’re not that quick-tempered, despite what folk think. If you went for Irwin, there’ll have been something of substance behind it. What was it?’
Will shook his head. ‘Nothing. I’m telling you. He just made some comment about being at a wedding full of hicks and . . . well . . . I saw red.’ He shrugged. Stared at the sergeant.
DS Benson nodded. As though he was swallowing Will’s line. ‘So,’ he said, turning to include Alison, sending her pulse thumping, ‘what time did you leave the reception?’
The question she’d been dreading. Because they hadn’t left it together. She shot a glance at her husband. ‘Erm . . . sometime after eleven?’ she said, leaving it vague, letting him have an escape route if he needed one.
But the detective had done his homework. ‘And you, Will? I hear you didn’t hang around after your clash with Irwin. Is that correct?’
‘You heard right,’ Will said dryly. ‘I’d had enough of Harry’s crap singing.’
Sergeant Clayton smiled. ‘Aye, that’d be a good enough reason to leave. Did you bring the little ones home with you?’
Will nodded and tipped his head towards his wife. ‘I’d not drunk much so I drove back up with the kids. Thought it might be nice for Alison to have a bit of fun and stay out late for once.’
‘And did you?’ Benson was looking at her again, grinning, charm personified.
‘What? Have fun or stay out late?’ Alison managed, through a throat that was suddenly very dry.
‘Both.’
‘Yes.’ She somehow formed a smile.
‘So how did you get home?’
‘My neighbours gave me a lift back.’
‘The Dinsdales?’ Sergeant Clayton asked, taking notes. ‘They live on a farm just the other side of the road,’ he added for Benson’s benefit.
She nodded. ‘They dropped me at the end of the track and I walked up.’
‘What time would it have been when you got back here, then?’ asked Benson.
‘Just before midnight.’ She flicked a glance at her husband but there was no reaction.
‘Were your folks at the reception, too, Will?’ continued the sergeant.
‘Yes, but they left even earlier than I did. They were still up and about when I got back, before you ask.’ It was said calmly but with emphasis. Will making it clear that someone could vouch for his movements.
‘And you didn’t go out again once you got home? Either of you?’ Benson turned from Will to Alison and back again.
They both shook their heads, Alison hoping that her face wasn’t giving away the lie.
But their answers seemed to satisfy DS Benson, the detective placing his hands on the table and getting to his feet. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Thank you both for your time. We’ll get out of your hair now. But if you could let us know if you’re planning on going anywhere in the next few days, just in case we need to ask any follow-up questions.’
Will nodded. Alison gripped the worktop behind her. Follow-up questions. He’d made it sound routine but she wasn’t fooled. There was a ruthlessness beneath the detective’s debonair exterior. And besides, Alison knew she had reason to be worried.
She watched Will usher the policemen out, across the yard, past the battered old Land Rover, the detective’s head turning towards it. The slightest of movements, but enough to register his interest. To see the bottle-green bodywork shining, where Will had washed it that morning. Inside and out. A rare occurrence.
The fear Alison had been trying to suppress engulfed her. The missing button. The stain on the shirt. The Land Rover – it hadn’t been there when she’d got back the night before. She’d thought nothing of it at the time. A bit drunk, if she was honest. Nor had she questioned the empty bed as she’d climbed between the sheets, glad just to be lying down. But now . . .
Now that she’d heard her husband lying to the police . . .
There was trouble here. Real trouble. The kind that could swoop in and tear her family apart.
The three men were still in the yard, standing in the early evening sunshine, chatting about something. Will looking so relaxed. Through the open window the tang of woodsmoke drifted into the kitchen.
Alison was moving before she could change her mind. Striding now, fear replaced with cold determination, heading towards the rear porch where the laundry basket had been abandoned. She fished out the shirt with the missing button – and that stain, that awful stain – balled it up and shoved it down the back of her trousers, pulling her loose T-shirt over it all.
When she reached the small incinerator round the back of the house, her father-in-law was finishing up, the heap of hedge cuttings he’d been burning almost all gone.
‘There’s tea freshly brewed and cake ready-cut,’ she said. ‘Go grab a cup. I’ll see to this last lot.’
Ted Metcalfe grinned, bestowing a kiss on her cheek. ‘You’re an angel, lass.’
She waited for him to disappear around the corner of the farmhouse before she lifted the lid of the incinerator and threw the shirt into the flames. She gave it a few minutes, added the last of the hedge trimmings, and then walked back towards the house.
Will was leaning against the porch, staring into the distance, the police car gone. He turned as she approached, his face crumpling at the sight of her.
‘Ali,’ he said, voice low. ‘Oh God, Ali. I think I’ve really screwed up.’
‘Fifteen minutes, no more!’
Delilah nodded, feeling guilty at the consternation on the pale face of the youngster who’d given them access to Ross Irwin’s hotel room. They’d arrived at the Coach and Horses on High Street as instructed – just as the evening food service kicked in – and had taken a seat at the bar, a couple of drinks in front of them as they waited for Nina’s friend to give them the nod. It hadn’t taken long for her boss to become fully occupied in the crowded dining room, at which point she’d ushered them upstairs, her willingness to be involved in an action which could cost her job visibly diminishing with every step. Delilah had done her best to garner information about Irwin on the way but the strained answers to her questions had revealed nothing other than the fact that he’d checked in five days ago, and had managed to run up a substantial tab.
By the time the lass inserted the key card into the lock, she was a nervous wreck.
‘And for goodness sake, don’t get caught,’ she murmured, standing aside to let them enter. ‘But if you do, don’t say I let you in!’
‘I promise we won’t. And thanks!’ The door closed on Delilah’s gratitude as the teenager’s footsteps hurried back along the corridor.
Samson let out a low whistle of appreciation as he took in the room. This wasn’t your standard hotel accommodation.
A cleverly designed niche in one corner functioned as a wardrobe, an antique table next to it containing a well-stocked refreshment tray displaying a coffee machine, kettle, supplies of tea and coffee, bottles of sparkling water and lots of tempting snacks, even some Peaks Patisserie delights among them. Hanging on the wall above was a generously sized TV. Between the table and the large window was the entrance to the en-suite bathroom, a glimpse of sumptuous towels, chrome and glass through the doorway suggesting yet more opulence. Then there was a plush two-seater sofa under the window, a desk with USB connections aplenty to its right and, in between the window and the door, the biggest bed Delilah had ever seen.
‘Super king,’ said Samson with a grin, spotting where her focus had landed.
‘Right,’ she muttered, suddenly aware that this was the first chance they’d had to be alone since he’d turned up out of the blue that morning. Suddenly aware that it was stiflingly hot and her cheeks were burning. And that Samson was staring at her with the look of a hungry man.
‘Work,’ she managed to say, tapping her watch. ‘We’re on the clock.’
‘Yes . . .’ Samson nodded. Dragged his gaze off her and reached into his pocket. ‘Here, put these on.’ He was holding out a pair of nitrile gloves. ‘We don’t want to leave anything for the forensics team.’
‘You don’t think they’ve searched in here already?’
He shook his head, casting a look around. ‘Not that I can see. It’s all a bit too tidy and there’s no sign they’ve dusted for fingerprints.’
He was right. The bed was unmade, as was to be expected, but the clothes were all neatly hung up, Irwin’s case stowed at the bottom of the wardrobe, a pile of folders stacked on the desk next to a laptop. Definitely no indication of the police having been through it.
‘So how much do ecologists earn?’ mused Samson, as he snapped the gloves over his fingers.
Delilah shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t think it was astronomical. Why?’
‘Doesn’t this strike you as a bit high-budget for our lad? And it’s not like he was here on a one-nighter or, according to our reluctant accomplice, coy about splashing the cash. I hate to stereotype, but I’m not sure this is what I would have expected from someone over here exploring for newts or badgers or whatever it is he was doing.’
Remembering the expensive-looking suit Ross Irwin had been wearing at the wedding, which had triggered caustic comments from her brother, Ash – and which now lay up at the Hoffmann kiln draped around its dead owner – Delilah moved over to the wardrobe and riffled through the clothes hanging there. A mixture of outdoor clothing and more formal attire, there were a few designer labels even she recognised, all of it suggesting quality. Beneath, lined up and polished, were two more pairs of shoes and a pair of hiking boots in a plastic bag. She pulled them out, careful not to knock the mud off the soles onto the floor.
‘Le Chameau,’ she muttered. ‘Cost a fortune. Irwin had money, that’s for sure.’
‘Worth thinking about,’ said Samson. ‘Maybe he was involved in something underhand after all.’
‘Like wildlife crime?’
‘Possibly. Let’s see what we can find.’
He turned to the bedside table and started going through it, leaving Delilah to move over to the desk. The laptop was her main concern. She flipped it open and turned it on. All she needed to be able to do was get around the password and—
‘Ha! Folk are so daft!’ She grinned over her shoulder at Samson, the glow of the computer screen behind her. ‘No password.’
‘Excellent. Download anything of interest. And if there’s a way to cover your tracks—’
She made a sucking noise. Samson laughed.
‘I know, I know,’ he said, as he crossed to the desk and began flicking through the pile of folders, ‘I’m teaching you how to suck eggs!’
But Delilah wasn’t listening. She was already dragging files onto the USB stick she’d brought with her. Fieldwork reports, planning permission surveys, protected species licence applications, ecological impact assessments . . . All of it and more, she copied. Aware of time ticking, she focused on the rest of the files, laid out as orderly as the room Irwin had last occupied. Nothing really stood out. Some personal documents. A few blandly titled folders. She had them highlighted and was debating whether or not to copy them across when her smartwatch vibrated.
A text from Nina’s friend.
‘Shit!’ Delilah jumped up, a bolt of panic coursing through her. ‘The police. They’re downstairs, asking about access to Irwin’s room.’
Samson was already moving towards the door. ‘Out. Now!’
Delilah went to eject the memory stick but in her haste, copied across the remaining files. ‘Come on! Come on!’ she cursed, as they began downloading.
‘Delilah! We don’t have time for this. If we’re caught in here . . .’ Samson was at the door, holding it partially open.
‘Just one more thing,’ she muttered, heart rattling. Knowing she couldn’t leave before the software on the memory stick had finished doing its special magic and covered any evidence of her incursion.
‘Seriously, we need to go!’
‘We can’t!’ she snapped. ‘Not until it’s complete. Unless you want the police IT experts to know someone was accessing Irwin’s laptop long after its owner was dead?’
Finally the red light stopped flashing. Delilah whipped the USB stick out, stuck it in her pocket and hurried towards the exit. Out into the corridor, Samson letting the door close quietly behind them, and then they were hurrying towards the stairs. But drifting up the stairway at the end of the hall was the sound of voices.
‘No one’s been in there today?’ a female voice was asking in an authoritative tone. Benson’s DC.
‘No. Mr Irwin specifically asked not to be disturbed so not even housekeeping has been in.’
Delilah turned to Samson, fear gripping her. ‘We’re trapped!’
‘Damn it.’ Samson glanced back along the corridor, nothing but a window at the far end, looking out over High Street. Their only alternative was the lift, but that was at the same end of the hallway as the stairs, in full view of anyone walking up.
‘What are we going to do?’ whispered Delilah. The thud of her pulse almost deafening.
‘Blend in,’ said Samson.
He whipped round, back into Irwin’s room, emerging seconds later holding a pile of towels. Grabbing her arm, he strode down the corridor towards the stairs. Towards the danger.
‘What are you doing?’ hissed Delilah, as he stopped outside a room with the faint sound of a radio playing in the background.
‘Trust me,’ he murmured, before placing the towels in her arms and knocking sharply on the door.
‘Who is it?’ came a voice from within.
From the stairs, more conversation, much closer now. And several pairs of footsteps. A posse of police.
‘Room Service,’ said Samson, voice confident.
The door opened. He stepped forward, ushering Delilah ahead of him, the towels front and centre, forcing the bemused guest back into the room. The man’s eyes were wide behind his glasses.
‘I didn’t order any towels,’ he sputtered.
Samson was already letting the door close behind them, the gap no more than a sliver as a group of people could be heard going past.
‘You didn’t?’ he asked, demeanour courteous, assuming his role effortlessly. Even the bruises on his face seeming diminished as he shook his head. ‘So sorry, sir. We’re training up new staff and, well . . .’ He rolled his eyes in Delilah’s direction with the exasperation of a beleaguered mentor. ‘Quite frankly, it’s taking longer than we expected.’
Delilah blushed as the man laughed. At ease now.
‘No problem,’ he said, giving Delilah a kindly look. ‘We all have to start somewhere.’
Delilah clamped her jaw tight, stifling the natural retort, doing her best to look like a hapless trainee.
‘Again, my apologies, sir, for disturbing you.’ Samson turned to Delilah. ‘Let’s see if we can find the right room this time.’
With a firm hand in her back he guided her towards the door, the towels still in her arms.
‘Check the coast is clear,’ he murmured in her ear as he pulled the door open for her.
Towels held high as a shield, she quickly peeked left and right along the corridor, gave a small nod and stepped briskly out. With Samson on her heels, she headed for the stairs. Behind them, through the open door of Irwin’s room, they could hear the sounds of a search in progress.
‘Christ,’ breathed Samson as they turned the corner into the sanctuary of the stairwell and began to descend, ‘that was close.’
‘Tell me about it,’ muttered Delilah, her heart still thumping. The towels still in her arms.
The towels which were partially blocking her view, meaning she didn’t see the man coming towards her as she stepped off the final stair into the lobby.
They collided softly, the bundle of Egyptian cotton taking the brunt and spilling onto the floor.
‘So sorry—’
‘My fault entirely—’
They both froze. And Delilah found herself looking straight into the startled gaze of PC Danny Bradley.