The Dinsdale farm seemed deserted. Having left an anxious Alison Metcalfe standing outside Ellershaw House, Samson and Delilah had driven back to the road, cutting across it to pick up the track which led to the neighbouring farmyard. But as they got out into the late morning sunshine, it was eerily quiet.
Samson had been there once before, back in early spring when there’d been daffodils dancing in the grass in front of the old farmhouse and an air of optimism about the place. Admittedly, he’d been focused on a case of sheep rustling at the time, so hadn’t really paid much more than superficial attention to the background. Now, however, under a more critical eye, while the surroundings were still neat and tidy, there was a creeping sense of neglect. Paint peeling from windows, a couple of holes gaping in the corrugated roof of one of the barns set back behind the house, a tractor inside surrounded by bits of engine, in the midst of being given a DIY repair.
Either this revised appraisal of the Dinsdale farm was simply a result of the unforgiving spotlight being cast by the sun overhead, or these were signs of recent financial constraint. Samson was inclined towards the latter, well acquainted with such symptoms from his own farming experience.
‘Hello?’ Delilah called out. She was greeted by a responding shout and the sound of footsteps as Kevin Dinsdale came around the corner from the back of the house, drying one hand on his overalls, the other holding a car-headlight bulb. If the intervening four months had aged the property, they had also aged the owner. The fresh smile which had greeted Delilah back in spring had been replaced with a frown of concern and the look of a man constantly expecting bad news.
‘Delilah, Samson,’ the farmer nodded, popping the bulb in a pocket and holding out his hand to each in turn.
Samson hid his surprise as he accepted the man’s greeting, which had been noticeably withheld last time round. It seemed those same four months had done a lot to change the O’Brien reputation, too.
‘What can I do for you?’ Dinsdale asked.
‘It’s about Will,’ said Delilah. ‘The police have just taken him in for questioning over the murder of Ross Irwin.’
Dinsdale’s eyes widened. ‘You’re kidding me?’
‘Wish I was. We just want to have a chat about what happened at the wedding and . . . you know . . . the planning permission.’
There was a pause, as if he was going to refuse, then Dinsdale shrugged and gestured towards the house. ‘Sure. Come in and have a brew. I can’t tell you much about the wedding, mind,’ he added with a rueful smile. ‘I wasn’t in a fit state to remember my own movements on Saturday evening, let alone those of anyone else!’
They followed him through the side porch and down a narrow hallway which led into the kitchen extension. If the exterior of the house had shown signs of trouble, the interior suggested more of the same. A couple of damp patches marred the ceiling where the roof abutted the main building, water no doubt seeping in along the valley, and underfoot, a couple of the slate slabs rocked as Samson walked over them. Even the kettle Dinsdale was filling had a handle held together with duct tape. And as for the long table which dominated the space, one end held a stack of beautifully carved birdboxes, all in various stages of completion, while the rest was covered in paperwork, much of it carrying the logos of local agricultural stores or oil suppliers. Samson recognised bills when he saw them. Amidst it all was a laptop, the screensaver beaming out a photo of Kevin and his wife at the Malham Show in happier times, arms around each other, a grinning gap-toothed toddler in front of them, chubby hands holding a trophy and a red rosette. Next to them was a handsome Swaledale tup.
‘Best in show,’ said Kevin with a wistful air as he closed the laptop, before stretching a broad arm the width of the wooden surface and clearing the clutter, laptop and all, to one end. ‘Make yourselves comfortable.’
He turned back to make the tea as Delilah took a seat at the table. Samson wandered over to the end wall, where an assortment of wire figurines were arrayed along the sill beneath a large picture window. Birds, of all sorts and sizes. Robins, wrens, kingfishers, goldfinches, even a curlew, exquisitely depicted, plus many more Samson couldn’t identify. They advanced from either end of the ledge towards the middle, where there was a blank space, two circles of clean sill left within the dusty surface, as though a couple of glasses had been resting there a long while and had only recently been removed. But it was what was on the other side of the window that really caught his focus. Out across a small patio area, the dale dropped towards Bruncliffe in a magnificent cascading carpet of green fields stretching into the distance before the fells on the far side rose up to curve around them. He felt a sharp pang of longing for Twistleton Farm.
‘Lovely view,’ he said, turning back to the room and away from the landscape which was doing strange things to his heart.
Kevin laughed. ‘Aye, it’s grand all right, on a day like this. Try it when there’s a storm blowing and it’s lashing down. Nothing so desolate as the sound of rain on glass.’
A noise from the hallway made all of them turn and Louise Dinsdale entered the room.
‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t hear you come in,’ she said, flustered by the unexpected guests. She ran a hand through her hair, smoothed out her crumpled T-shirt and managed a smile. But it didn’t hide the weariness. She cast a vague hand at the cluttered table. ‘I was trying to get the accounts done while Ava’s at my folks for the morning, but I got distracted.’
Kevin grunted. ‘Easily done, love. Not like we’re living in a bed of roses at the moment.’
‘Have you managed to find any work?’ asked Delilah, as Samson wandered over to sit next to her.
Louise shook her head and, seeing Samson’s querying look, pulled a face. ‘I’m yet another statistic in the Rick Procter saga,’ she said, with a lightness he suspected came at a cost. ‘Two of my main clients went under when Procter Properties was closed down and at the moment, there’s not a lot of call for bookkeepers in the Bruncliffe area.’
‘You’ll find something, Lou,’ said Kevin, dropping a kiss on her head as he placed the teapot down between them. ‘A woman of your skills won’t be long out of work.’
Louise nodded. Without conviction.
‘So what’s this about Will, then?’ Kevin took a seat next to his wife and leaned strong forearms on the table. ‘You’re not telling me the police really think he killed Irwin?’
The question was aimed at Delilah but it was Louise who reacted.
‘They suspect Will?’ Her eyes were huge, shock bringing life to her tired features.
‘Apparently so,’ said Delilah. ‘Which is kind of why we’re here. It seems my stupid brother doesn’t have anyone who can corroborate his whereabouts for crucial times on Saturday night. We were just wondering if you could help.’
Kevin shrugged, turned to his wife. ‘We didn’t see Will once he left the reception after he went for Irwin, did we, love?’
Louise shook her head.
‘What time did you get back here?’ asked Samson.
‘No point asking me,’ said Kevin with a bashful look. ‘I was out of it.’
‘Just before midnight,’ said Louise. ‘We dropped Alison off at the end of their lane and came straight here.’
‘So I don’t suppose you saw Will coming back down Hillside Lane in the Land Rover at all?’ Delilah’s question held more hope than expectation.
‘What was he doing up there at that time?’ asked Kevin, while Louise was shaking her head.
‘Collecting a dead sheep off the fell. Only trouble is, he can’t prove it. And the police seem to think that means he must have been moving Irwin’s body from Malham Cove to the Hoffmann kiln instead.’
‘Jesus!’ Kevin ran a hand over his ruddy face. ‘What a bloody mess. I’m beginning to wish I’d never brought Irwin over here in the first place. It’s done nothing but bring bad luck and soured our relations with your brother.’
Louise looked down, running a finger over the rim of her cup.
‘Talking of Irwin,’ said Samson, ‘what was he like to deal with?’
Kevin took a swig of his tea. When he spoke, there was a heartiness to his voice which was at odds with his previous demeanour. ‘He were all right. A bit condescending, like, as some folk can be when they’ve letters after their names and they think farmers are nowt but tractor drivers. But nothing worse than that.’ He nodded towards his wife. ‘Isn’t that right, Lou?’
She gave a simple nod in return. Cleared her throat. And then picked up her own tea.
‘You don’t know of anyone around here who might have had a grudge against him?’
Samson’s question was met with a wry look. ‘Apart from that ruckus with Will, you mean?’ Kevin shook his head. ‘As far as I can tell, the man kept himself to himself and just got on with his work.’
‘What about the report he was compiling?’ Delilah asked. ‘Did Irwin let you know which way he was leaning?’
The farmer’s response was to reach over into the mess of paperwork and extract a sheaf of pages from the bottom of the pile. ‘Here,’ he said, holding it out. ‘He dropped this by the morning of the wedding. It’s an advance copy of what he was about to submit.’
Delilah took the report, Samson looking over her shoulder as she flicked through the pages, each one watermarked with the word ‘DRAFT’. She got to the final page and looked up at Kevin.
‘Approved? He was giving you the OK?’
He nodded. ‘The police have seen that. First thing they asked when they called in to chat to me. Guess they wanted to know if I had a reason to kill Irwin. That’s evidence I didn’t.’
‘And evidence that Will did,’ muttered Delilah.
‘Sorry.’ Kevin shook his head. ‘Like I said, I never wished this to cause trouble for Will and his family, but we really didn’t have a choice. The way things are here, we’re in desperate need of an added revenue stream. Thanks to this report, we’re one step closer to getting the planning approved and making that happen.’ Then he grimaced. ‘No disrespect to the dead or anything, but I’m hoping Irwin’s demise doesn’t hold it up any.’
Walking on the fells beneath a benign sun, Gareth Towler should have been in his element, a man of the outdoors such as he was. Instead he was scratching his head. Literally and metaphorically. The literal bit was a slight tic he had when he was nervous, and he was presently in that heightened state, thanks to Sergeant Dani Grewal.
While Gareth would never profess to have worked with the public much, a lot of his former profession of gamekeeping seeing his time spent alone on the land, he’d had a fair amount of dealings with folk while running the shooting parties for Bruncliffe Manor. And he liked to think he was an affable kind of bloke. He’d had to be really, to put up with some of the wealthy types who’d turned up for shoots with attitudes straight out of the Victorian era. Certainly he’d never had a problem getting on with people, as far as he knew.
Today, however, was proving to be the exception.
He just couldn’t seem to put a foot right with his companion. Which is why he was scratching his head, in both senses.
He’d tried making small talk on the walk down towards the land Sergeant Grewal had asked to inspect. She’d had none of it, cutting him off with brusque answers or simply ignoring him completely. And when she did have recourse to speak, it was with a tone which left him in no doubt as to her opinion of him. Despite the fact they’d only just met.
But if Gareth was having a problem with her, Bounty wasn’t. With no livestock in the fields they were walking through, he’d left the springer spaniel off the lead and as she trotted along, she showed no signs of her recently acquired nervousness, as happy at the police officer’s side as she was at Gareth’s. At one point, she even brought a small branch back to the sergeant. Who’d willingly thrown it, and then lavished affection on the dog when she returned.
So Gareth had accepted he was the source of the sergeant’s hostility and taken the hint, falling silent until they reached the point where the Metcalfe property butted up against the Dinsdale farm.
‘This is it,’ he said, halting at a gate in a drystone wall which separated Will’s land from the site of the proposed camping-pod development.
It was easy to see why Kevin Dinsdale had chosen the location. The field had a gentle gradient, running down towards a sizeable beck which cut across the bottom of both fields, glinting in the sunshine and heedless of the man-made boundary which divided the two farms. A boundary which had been forced to deviate from customary straight lines as it snaked around a sizeable pond on Will’s side of the wall, just uphill of the beck. Between the two bodies of water, a small copse of ash, alder and oak provided shelter from any westerly wind, adding a darker green to the palette.
And as ever, in the distance, the far fells rose in purple-heathered magnificence. With the addition of birdsong and the joyous burble of water tumbling over stones, it was a veritable paradise.
‘Wow.’ The word seemed to be pulled from the sergeant against her will, the frown which had marred her forehead since they’d set out disappearing as she took in the sight. There was even a hint of a smile.
‘It’s pretty special,’ said Gareth. ‘Not sure I’d want to mar it with camping pods, mind.’
‘Not our place to judge,’ came the reply. The frown back in place. She turned and left the gate, heading down to the beck.
‘What are we looking for, exactly?’ Gareth asked as he caught up with the surprisingly long stride of his companion.
‘We aren’t looking for anything.’
They’d reached the water’s edge, Sergeant Grewal crouching down and inspecting the bank, brushing aside foliage to see the soil underneath.
‘Too dry for tracks,’ said Gareth, helpfully.
She glared up at him. ‘But not for droppings.’
He sighed. ‘Look, I realise you don’t want me here but I could be of use. I know this land probably as well as Will or Kevin. So if you just let me know what you’re hoping to find, you’d get finished a lot faster and then never have to see me again.’
She stared at the water for a few seconds, then stood up. ‘I’m looking for evidence of something that would have made your friend kill that ecologist. So forgive me if I don’t take you up on your offer.’
‘What makes you so sure that’s what happened? Or has the law dispensed with innocent until proven guilty?’
She snorted, an eyebrow raised in arched disdain. ‘We’ve got a dead ecologist who was in the process of doing an ecological impact survey as part of a planning permission application. And that survey incorporated land belonging to two different farmers, one of whom seemed to have a real problem with our murder victim. I’d say that’s a good place to start.’
‘How about the peregrine falcon connection?’ Gareth found himself protesting. ‘That feather found in Irwin’s hand? Aren’t you going to follow that up?’
‘I already have.’ The sergeant looked like she was going to offer nothing more. Then she shrugged. ‘There’s no evidence that Irwin was either involved in, or came across, anything to do with wrongdoing over in Malham in terms of the peregrine falcons.’ She gestured at the fells around them. ‘If there is any link between his death and wildlife crime, this is where I’ll find it.’
The blunt assessment wasn’t what Gareth had been hoping to hear, yet another avenue of escape for his friend closed off. He watched Sergeant Grewal return her attention to the side of the beck.
‘So you’re looking for what, exactly?’ he asked. ‘A protected species? Like badgers? I can tell you for nowt that there are no badgers round here.’
The eyebrow arched again. ‘You think I’d take the word of a gamekeeper?’
Gareth bit his tongue, a rare surge of annoyance rising at the injustice of how she was behaving. At how she was judging him. He was tempted to walk away and leave her to it. But the memory of Will being driven off to the police station made him take a deep breath and try again.
‘What about if I told you there were great crested newts on this land?’
For the first time since he’d clapped eyes on her, the antagonism on Sergeant Grewal’s face was replaced with eager interest.
‘Really? Up here?’
Gareth nodded, gesturing towards the pond beyond the copse. ‘Over there, Will reckons.’
She was already moving towards the body of water, talking over her shoulder as she walked up the field, Gareth following her. ‘Mr Metcalfe told you about the newts?’
‘He did indeed. Which begs the question, why would he have had reason to kill the ecologist? Surely the presence of a protected species on Will’s property, right against the border of the area under review, made it less likely that the camping pods would get the go-ahead? He didn’t need to resort to murder.’
The sergeant shrugged. ‘I’m not here to theorise. I’m just here to make sure that this murder isn’t part of a wildlife crime. As in, Irwin stumbled on something that was going on in terms of wildlife persecution and got silenced. Permanently.’
They’d reached the edge of the pond, reeds clumped at one end, the water still and silent in the sunshine. Sergeant Grewal peered down into it. Then she turned, looking at Gareth with a stare made even more intense by those amber eyes.
‘When did Mr Metcalfe tell you about the apparent presence of great crested newts here?’
‘This morning.’
‘When he knew he was already under suspicion for the killing of Ross Irwin?’
Gareth shrugged. ‘What’s your point?’
‘It’s a bit convenient.’ She gestured at the pond. ‘Great crested newts aren’t exactly easy to find. Even less so at this time of year when they’ve left the water. So we really only have his word that there is a species here which could have scuppered Mr Dinsdale’s planning without Mr Metcalfe having to take matters into his own hands. It could well be a perfectly timed alibi, of sorts.’
As a large man, Gareth had long learned to hold his temper, aware that he could be intimidating even when in the best of moods. But he could feel his frustration building.
‘For goodness sake,’ he grunted, ‘do you always see the worst in people or are you just making a special effort on my account?’
There was a flare of something in those startling eyes. Like he’d hit a nerve. Then she shrugged. ‘Comes with the job. But I’ll notify DS Benson. He’ll get an ecologist up here to do a survey, see what they find. Like I said, though, while I’m no expert on newts, I do know that most surveys are done using DNA taken from breeding ponds in the spring, so the chances of corroborating Mr Metcalfe’s claim at this time of year are slim. To be brutally honest, Mr Towler—’
‘Gareth.’
She dipped her head sideways, a wry twist to her lips the only acknowledgement that she’d heard his attempt at informality. ‘To be brutally honest, Mr Towler, if your friend is resting his case on the great crested newt, he’s going to need a miracle—’ She broke off, her gaze moving beyond him, over his shoulder. ‘What’s up with Bounty?’
Noting that his springer spaniel merited first name terms with the sergeant, Gareth turned to look. At the edge of the copse, Bounty was sitting upright, one paw raised, a quizzical look on her face as she let out a muted whine.
‘What’s up, girl?’ He was already moving towards her, Sergeant Grewal by his side. They reached the spaniel about the same time. But it was the sergeant who spotted it first.
‘Look!’ she whispered, putting a hand on his arm, holding him back. She pointed.
There, on a small rock right in front of Bounty, was a newt. Not just any newt. Almost black in colour, there was a tell-tale streak of orange visible along the edge of its belly.
‘A great crested newt,’ murmured Gareth.
Sergeant Grewal had her phone out, taking photos, while Gareth kept his eye on Bounty. Not wanting to move in case he disturbed the newt but wary of how his dog might behave, given that the last few months had left her in a nervous state. But he needn’t have worried. The spaniel was simply watching the amphibian, head to one side, her low whine constant.
Until the sergeant dropped her mobile. It fell from her hands and hit a rock, the loud crack affecting both amphibian and dog. The newt disappeared in a brief flash of that vivid orange, and Bounty went into meltdown.
Jumping back, the spaniel hunkered down as small as she could make herself, her whine now shrill with anxiety, brown eyes wild as tremors rippled through her slim body.
‘It’s okay, girl, it’s okay.’ Gareth hurried over to his dog, laying a large hand on her head, stroking her and then picking her up to cradle her against his chest. Underneath his palm he could feel the panicked thuds of her heart. ‘It’s okay,’ he murmured into her fur.
The sergeant was looking distraught. ‘I’m so sorry. That was so clumsy of me. Is she okay?’
‘She will be. She’s not good with sudden noises.’
‘I thought she was a gun dog? I mean, I just presumed with you being a gamekeeper . . .’
Gareth laughed softly. ‘Former gamekeeper. There was an . . . incident. I lost my gun licence and my job, while Bounty lost her enthusiasm for the chase and nearly lost her sanity. But she’s getting there.’
A dawning comprehension came across the sergeant’s face, her gaze flicking from dog to man and back again.
‘It was you two . . . that accident at Bruncliffe Manor back in May where the man died . . .’
Gareth nodded, an ache in his soul as there was every time he thought about it, the loss of life he would forever feel responsible for. ‘Aye. That were us.’
He waited for the look of condemnation. But none came. Instead Sergeant Grewal drew closer and slowly held out a hand for Bounty to sniff. Then she stroked her.
‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise.’ She looked up at Gareth. ‘So what are you going to do for work?’
‘I’m sorted for the interim. But long term?’ He shook his head. ‘Not a clue. But it needs to be outdoors or I’d be the one losing my mind.’
She smiled. ‘Same here. I can’t imagine spending my life in an office or behind a desk.’ Then she nodded at Bounty. ‘Maybe she’s your future.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘That newt. She found him and then behaved super calm, not like most dogs, who’d have gone straight into hunt mode. I reckon she’d make an excellent conservation dog. There are places that can train up the right breeds to help detect protected species, like our newt back there.’
‘What, so she’d be a newt detective?’ He grinned.
Sergeant Grewal laughed this time, a sound of pure pleasure. ‘Yes, I suppose you could say that. Seriously though, more and more developments are using them at the planning stage – seems our canine friends are a lot more efficient at carrying out wildlife surveys than us humans. They can cover the ground a lot faster, for a start. I’ve also been on cases where we’ve used them to catch poachers. Or to find carcases during investigations into raptor persecution.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s just an idea.’
‘And a good one,’ he said.
She nodded. ‘As for the matter in hand,’ she continued, the flash of friendliness vanishing as quickly as the great crested newt, ‘I’ll let DS Benson know what we found. But I wouldn’t go thinking this means Mr Metcalfe is out of the woods.’
‘But surely it proves he had no motive for killing Irwin.’
‘Possibly.’ She looked back at the pond and then at Gareth. ‘However, you’ve got to ask yourself why Mr Metcalfe never mentioned his exotic wildlife before now, when it proved useful.’
‘I don’t follow.’
The look she gave him wasn’t unkind. But it was steeled with professionalism. ‘Perhaps Mr Metcalfe didn’t mention it because he didn’t know about it until Mr Irwin made the discovery. And on making that discovery, Mr Irwin informed the landowner that he would be filing a full report to the relevant authorities. Which means there would be certain restrictions placed on how Mr Metcalfe farms this area in future.’ She stared at the landscape and up at Ellershaw House in the distance. ‘I don’t know your friend that well, but from the little I’ve heard, I don’t think he’d take too kindly to some outsider telling him what he can or cannot do on his own property. Do you?’
Gareth found he couldn’t disagree. He also found himself thinking about what Will had said about being blackmailed. It wasn’t something the gamekeeper was going to mention to his companion. But he mulled it over, wondering if she was partly right. Had their discovery today been at the root of the extortion attempt? Had Irwin been threatening to reveal the presence of great crested newts on Will’s property, possibly bringing to an end the use of it as a lambing pasture? But even if he had, would that have been enough to make Will kill him?
As he placed Bounty back on the ground and began to follow the sergeant up the land towards the farmhouse, Gareth Towler realised he couldn’t answer that question. Not honestly. Not without feeling disloyal to his friend.
Back down in Bruncliffe, Herriot was having an uneventful morning. A quick MOT of some tups the other side of Bowland Knotts, making sure they were ready for the forthcoming season, and then back to the clinic to catch up with admin. So when he got a text from the Dales Detective Agency asking for his help with an ongoing investigation, he was glad to get out of the office and head there straight away. Well, almost. He popped into Peaks Patisserie first to get a takeaway coffee, needing his daily fix. Not of caffeine, that being simply a boost for a body which was flagging already, despite it being barely noon.
His daily fix was of Lucy Metcalfe. A woman he would never have the courage to ask out. A woman he wasn’t even worthy of.
Every day he went into the cafe, filled with determination to finally put his heart out of its misery. Every day he came out with a coffee and a sense of failure. He’d even gone on the last Dales Dating Agency speed-dating night, knowing Lucy was going. And he’d spent the evening in agony, watching other men chat away to her with an ease he could never replicate.
He was an idiot.
Musing on this fact, he entered the three-storey building on Back Street, coffee in hand, and began making for the stairs on the presumption that Samson and Delilah would be up there.
‘In here!’ came a voice from the ground-floor office.
He turned in that direction, pushed open the door and saw Ida Capstick behind the desk, a laptop in front of her and a fierce expression on her face. Fierce even beyond her usual.
‘Morning, Ida.’ His greeting was met with a grunt. ‘Samson and Delilah not here?’
‘It’s not them tha’s here to see, lad,’ Ida snapped. ‘Tha wants to get Baggy to take a look at tha van. Happen it’s leaking oil.’
‘Sorry?’ Herriot was thrown by the unexpected turn of conversation.
‘Perhaps tha’d like to explain what tha’s been doing,’ Ida continued, twisting the laptop round to face him, ‘loitering in a ginnel every night? Round the back of Peaks Patisserie, no less.’
Herriot stared at the screen in horror, at the grainy footage of a vehicle parked up by the kitchen door. ‘But that’s not . . .’ His feeble attempt at denial faded into silence as the footage progressed, a light coming on in the vehicle and his own face unmistakably spotlit.
Ida folded her arms across her chest and glared at him. ‘I’m all ears,’ she said.
Wishing the ground would open up and swallow him, Herriot sank onto a chair and dropped his head into his hands.