Stuart Lister was trying to show initiative. But he was also placing his career in jeopardy.
He checked his watch. Another three quarters of an hour at least before there was any danger of being interrupted. The silence of the place felt heavy, disturbed only by the throaty whirr of the ancient fridge in the kitchen area. Beyond the large double-glazed windows people were crossing the cobbled marketplace, going about their business, just a regular Wednesday in Bruncliffe.
The normality of it all only served to heighten his awareness of the risk he was taking.
With a deep breath, he stepped into the office, palm damp against the door handle, and swallowed, the sharp edge of his Adam’s apple raking down his throat. He shouldn’t be here. This was so out of character. Effectively breaking and entering when the most criminal thing he’d done up until now was lie about his age in the pub. He should be out in reception getting on with his work.
But this was work. It was a burst of resourcefulness, motivated by two things: a desire to impress and a broken boiler.
Having been malfunctioning for a week, the ancient water heater in his flat had finally given up entirely that morning, choosing to die a noisy death during his shower. With an alarming bang originating from the cupboard that housed the contraption, the tepid water he was washing in had suddenly turned into an icy waterfall that had made him yelp.
Wrapped in a towel and shivering, Stuart had called the landlord again and been met with promises of action, none of which he had any faith in. So he’d dressed in a hurry, pulling on yesterday’s shirt which he’d hung in the bedroom doorway to air, ensuring that it now smelled less of him and more of the sickly sweet-and-sour aroma of Chinese cooking that seeped through the floor from the takeaway below. To compound his misery, he’d arrived at work to a scrawled note from Julie, the receptionist, informing him that she was away on a training course for the day and he would have to man the office.
His heart had plummeted. Not so much at having to take on her role. More at the fact that she was going to be absent. With her open manner and infectious laugh, Julie was what got him through the hours toiling away for Taylor’s Estate Agents. It certainly wasn’t the pay, his salary still barely above minimum wage despite his increased responsibilities. Lettings Manager – it sounded impressive; in reality it meant nothing. He was the head of a department that consisted solely of himself, responsible for everything to do with the rental properties the agency had on its books. Well, almost everything. Much to his frustration, Mr Taylor still didn’t trust him with the high-end properties, handling the lettings and inspections for those himself.
Standing at his desk reading Julie’s note in a rumpled suit reeking of prawn crackers, Stuart Lister had had a moment of insight, wondering if the lack of trust his boss placed in him came from image. After all, it was hardly impressive that the lettings manager’s own living quarters were so shoddy. A tiny flat above the Happy House takeaway – flat being a generous description for the bedroom that just about accommodated a double bed, the narrow lounge with kitchenette and the cramped, mouldy bathroom – didn’t really suggest success. But without a substantial increase in pay, Stuart had no other option. With holiday rentals yielding good income in the picturesque Dales, there was a shortage of standard lets and those that did come on the market were often larger properties which were actually up for sale, rented out while waiting for a buyer.
Of course, there was the possibility of moving back to Skipton. But that would mean moving back in with his mother and, while he loved her dearly, she fussed over him too much. When he’d told her he was relocating to Bruncliffe, all of fifteen miles to the north, she’d gone into a panic, warning him how folk ‘over there’ were different. He couldn’t go running back with his tail between his legs. Which meant if he was to improve his lot, he needed money so he could afford a better flat. Which meant he needed a promotion. Hence the initiative he was currently showing.
He took a step into his boss’s office, grip still tight on the door handle, anchoring him on the right side of the law. For now. Vertical blinds on the small window opposite sliced the bright light of the day across the empty desk, Mr Taylor in tuxedo and his wife in long dress smiling out from behind bars of sunshine in the sole photograph adorning its surface. A couple of certificates and awards decorated the wall behind. And to one side, the large metal filing cabinet that was the motive for Stuart’s trespass.
Another glance at his watch. Another minute had passed while he dithered.
One more deep breath and Stuart Lister crossed the floor in quick steps, long legs covering the distance to the filing cabinet in seconds. The key. That’s what he needed first. Picking up the pot that contained the flourishing peace lily which resided on top of the cabinet, he took the small silver key from the plastic saucer beneath it.
The worst kept secret in the estate agency’s history. Having once lost the key and having had to fork out a fair amount to the local locksmith to get access to his private papers, Bernard Taylor had decided to keep a second one in the office. His employees weren’t supposed to know about it. But Julie had discovered it when watering the plant one day and had mentioned it to Stuart in passing as an example of how tight their boss was, risking security for the sake of calling out a locksmith again.
And now here he was, Stuart Lister, about to break the law with it.
Before he could change his mind, he unlocked the filing cabinet and pulled open the top drawer.
Financial accounts, payroll info, VAT records . . . Stuart flicked through the tabs on the dark green suspension files, nothing of interest catching his eye. He eased the drawer closed, wincing as it screeched on its runners. A panicked glance over his shoulder to the reception area, checking there was no one to witness his wrongdoing. He turned back to the cabinet, opened the second drawer.
Personnel files. Along with information packs on employment law, health and safety regulations, insurance and a raft of other documents. Half of the contents, Stuart suspected, were probably already obsolete, revised versions easily available online. He moved onto the third drawer. More out of date material, this time old brochures and flyers for the business, along with printed specs from an age when digital house-selling hadn’t been an option.
Impatience overriding his nerves, he bent down to the fourth drawer and knew straight away from the weight of it that this one was different.
Bingo.
A drawer full of fat files. The first section held what he was after. Eight folders, neatly arranged, documenting the more expensive rentals handled by Taylor’s. The ones Stuart wasn’t trusted to manage. Before his conscience could interfere, he scooped them up, closed the drawer and turned towards the reception. And through the large windows either side of the front door, he saw the stout figure of Bernard Taylor crossing the cobbles of the market square.
He was early. There was no time to get the files back where they belonged without being caught.
Frozen in the doorway of his boss’s office, forbidden folders clutched to his chest, Stuart Lister felt his heart start to thunder.
Funerals were generally good for business. It was a fact that Troy Murgatroyd, landlord of the Fleece, never admitted to anyone, but had long observed in a lifetime spent behind a bar. Folk came in from the cold needing a bit of cheer – because the graveyard could be a bitter place even in late spring if a northerly was blowing down the dale – and the pub was the perfect place to find it. A fire in the grate, the company of good friends and a fine spread laid out by his wife in the back room, all conspired to keep them chatting and drinking. And spending. And hey presto, a quiet weekday morning could suddenly become lucrative.
Looking at the muted group of locals who’d attended the funeral of Pete Ferris, Troy sensed today would buck that trend. There was no food on offer for a start, the few family members who’d bothered to show up having left town the minute the formalities were over. All in all, it hadn’t been much of a send-off.
For someone from one of the cities to the south, Leeds perhaps, or even Lancaster across the border to the west, maybe it wouldn’t seem so strange that a man’s passing could be marked by so few and in such a lacklustre way. After all, cities were places of anonymity where you could live – and die – alone. But this was Bruncliffe. A tight-knit community nestled in the Yorkshire Dales. Surrounded on three sides by the embrace of the fells, it was a place where people knew each other and knew how to show respect. Strange then, that the good folk of the town hadn’t turned out in their best suits, collars tight on unaccustomed necks, shoes polished.
Some would say the dead man deserved no more.
He’d been a poacher. Not the most popular of professions in an area devoted to farming and country pursuits. He’d lived his life on the outskirts of civilised society, rarely seen in the marketplace and rarely sober when he was. Little surprise then that, by all accounts, the church had been close to empty. And of those people who’d bothered to pay their respects and made it as far as the Fleece, there was a dark cloud hanging over them, no doubt arising from the manner in which the man had gone to meet his maker.
‘Suicide.’ Will Metcalfe shook his head and stared into the bottom of his empty pint glass. ‘What a way to go.’
‘Drugs too,’ muttered Troy, hand hovering above the Black Sheep tap, waiting for Will to offer over his glass. ‘Not the route I’d choose.’
No one asked the sullen landlord to expand on his preferred choice of exit from this life. Nor was anyone making any move to order more drinks.
Will Metcalfe sighed. Put the empty glass on the bar and glanced at Samson O’Brien, who was standing next to him. And drinking a coffee. It was enough to curdle the landlord’s already sour temperament. Folk frequenting a public house and not ordering ale.
‘I just wish I could have thanked him in person,’ Will said. ‘You know, for what he did for Nathan.’
Surprised to hear Will mention his nephew in the same context as the poacher, Troy moved away from the beer pump and leaned in towards the oldest Metcalfe sibling. ‘What did Pete Ferris do for young Nathan?’
‘He saved his life,’ said Will, attention back on the landlord. ‘When Nathan went missing up on the fells back in March, Pete found him and brought him down safe.’
It wasn’t often that the man behind the bar was surprised by his clientele, having lived in the Fleece all his life. He was proud to know his customers. To be able to predict their behaviour. And while Pete Ferris hadn’t been as regular as some, no doubt owing to a lack of spare cash to pay for his beer, the ferret-faced man had been in often enough to give Troy a sense of his nature. Furtive. Feral. The poacher certainly hadn’t been known for his philanthropic nature.
Yet here was a revelation about him Troy hadn’t been expecting. The dramatic return of Nathan Metcalfe to Bruncliffe after several days on the hills in bad weather – a return that had seen the anxious townsfolk expressing a universal sigh of relief at the teenager’s safe delivery from what could easily have been an untimely death – was thanks to Pete Ferris.
‘I had no idea,’ he said.
Will shrugged. ‘I only found out myself after Pete died. He didn’t want folk knowing.’
‘He wouldn’t even accept a reward,’ added Samson O’Brien, draining the last of his coffee and placing the cup on the bar, next to Will’s empty glass. ‘Lucy wanted to pay him for saving her son’s life, but Pete wouldn’t hear of it.’
If Troy had been astounded at the first disclosure, this second one was enough to make his jaw drop. ‘He refused payment?’
Samson nodded. ‘Wouldn’t take a penny.’
‘And like I said,’ muttered Will, ‘I didn’t even get the chance to thank him.’
James ‘Herriot’ Ellison, the town vet, had been standing quietly next to Samson, not one for getting involved much in conversation. He was a man who went about his business with a level of care and a discretion that endeared him to the farmers he worked with. But now he spoke up.
‘Nathan taking in the lurchers is thanks enough,’ he said. ‘They’d have struggled to find a home and being confined to a kennels would have killed them.’
Troy grunted in agreement. The two dogs that had been the permanent companions of the poacher were legendary for their ferocious protection of the man and his ramshackle caravan, people approaching the premises unannounced at their peril. There were few who would have been happy to take on a couple of dogs with that kind of temperament. But by all accounts, young Nathan seemed to have a rapport with them akin to that they’d shared with Pete Ferris. Until Pete had decided to kill them along with himself . . .
It had been all over town – that Samson O’Brien and Delilah Metcalfe had discovered the dead poacher in his caravan, and his two lurchers left for dead outside.
‘What kind of man rescues a kid he doesn’t really know and then a matter of a few weeks later, decides to kill his own dogs in a joint suicide?’ mused the landlord.
Herriot shook his head. ‘We can’t be certain what Pete’s intentions were.’
There was something in the way the vet said it that made the three other men turn to him.
‘You saying they weren’t poisoned?’ asked Samson.
‘Oh, they were poisoned all right. I’m just saying that the quantities used aren’t conclusive. We can’t say for sure that he meant to kill them.’
‘What was it?’
‘Ketamine,’ said the vet.
‘Ketamine?’ Will Metcalfe’s voice was sharp. ‘What the hell is it with that stuff?’
He had a point. Other than in connection with horses, Troy had never heard of it until six months ago, and now the area seemed to be awash with it. ‘There’s definitely a lot of it about,’ the landlord muttered, shaking his head in disgust.
‘Sure is.’ Herriot lowered his glass and looked at Samson O’Brien. And Troy Murgatroyd, with all his years of experience gleaned from a life working in a pub, noticed the stillness that had settled on Bruncliffe’s private detective.
If he’d been inclined to bet, the landlord would have put good money on the man sensing a case.
He made it to his desk just as Bernard Taylor stormed in, metal and glass crashing behind him as he let the door slam shut.
‘Morning, Mr Taylor.’ It came out in a squeak of tension. Stuart Lister shoved the folders he’d stolen from his boss’s office under a pile of papers and wiped his palms on his trousers, wondering if the violent thumping in his chest was the portent of a heart attack.
‘Where’s Julie?’ Mr Taylor snapped, looking at the unoccupied seat behind the desk nearest to him.
‘She’s at a training course. She said you’d authorised—’
‘Christ! Like we can afford to be understaffed. Here. Get this into the system!’ A rental contract dropped in front of Stuart, Mr Taylor mopping a podgy hand across the sweat sheening on his forehead. The man was perspiring like a wrestler three bouts in and it wasn’t even hot outside. ‘And call someone about that bloody fridge. That rattling is driving me crazy.’
‘Yes, Mr Taylor.’ Stuart shifted in his chair, acutely aware of the hidden folders.
But Bernard Taylor was turning away, still mopping his face as he headed for his private office. The danger was far from over, however.
Concentrate on work. Just act normally. Stuart pulled the contract that had been deposited on his desk towards him. A letting agreement for a large house on the fells above Keasden, it was standard fare. Apart from the blank space at the top.
‘Mr Taylor,’ he said, standing up on legs that were quivering. ‘Erm . . . what name should I put on this?’
His boss wheeled round. ‘Name?’
Stuart gestured at the empty space on the page in his hand. ‘For the tenant?’
Plump fingers flicked at the air as though they were conjuring an answer and Mr Taylor’s face contorted. ‘Erm . . . name . . . yes . . . erm . . . Fred Lambert. Forgot to write it down. Too busy . . .’
‘I could help with that.’ The words slipped from the young man, as though something in him recognised that this was his chance to impress without resorting to underhand means.
‘Help?’ Mr Taylor was staring, walking back towards him.
‘With the rentals. I could help you out with them. Do more of the inspections—’
A heavy hand thumped down on Stuart’s desk, halting the nervous stream of language gushing from the lad and sending a pile of papers cascading over the edge. ‘Just do what I bloody asked!’ barked Mr Taylor.
‘Sorry . . .’ spluttered Stuart, aware out of the corner of his eye that some of the paperwork now littering the laminate flooring included pages that should be under lock and key. If his boss so much as looked down, Stuart’s career with Taylor’s would be over. ‘I just thought . . .’
‘I don’t pay you to think! So how about you get on with the work I do pay you for.’
To Stuart’s relief, Mr Taylor swung back towards his office, oblivious to the origin of the rental contracts scattered on the ground. He slammed the door behind him and Stuart dived to the floor, shaking hands gathering up the incriminating evidence, heart thundering in his ears.
Pages and folders in a jumbled heap in his gangly arms, he slumped into his chair.
That had been close. Too close. Even now, if Mr Taylor decided to work on one of the contracts he kept to himself . . .
The thought was enough to make Stuart squirm. Which is when he felt something dig into his leg. Metal, with sharp edges.
Already feeling a cold cloak of dread stealing over him, Stuart put a hand in his pocket and pulled out a key. The key to the filing cabinet in his boss’s office, which he’d stolen from and then forgotten to relock.
With a quiet groan, he sank down even further in his chair and waited for the axe to fall.