‘Bernard’s having an affair.’ Nancy Taylor placed her cup on its saucer and her shoulders sagged, as though the admission had drained her.
So shocking was the bare statement, Delilah found herself unable to take it in, distracted instead by the crockery in the hands of the mayor’s wife, wondering how far back in the kitchen cupboards Samson had had to dig in order to find something that was more appropriate for his prospective client than the chipped mugs the Dales Detective Agency normally offered its customers.
The rattle of china drew her attention back to the astonishing announcement that had come from the woman sitting next to her, who was now leaning forward to place her cup on the desk.
‘Sorry,’ said Nancy. ‘I can’t seem to stop my hands shaking. So stupid of me. I’m behaving like a teenager.’
‘No need to apologise.’ Delilah placed her own hand over Nancy’s, surprised at how cold they felt despite the warmth in the office.
Samson cleared his throat. ‘An affair?’ he asked. ‘What makes you say that?’
A twisted smile prefaced Nancy’s response. ‘It was a gut feeling at first. Late nights that were always blamed on work. Phone calls cut short when I walked in on them.’ She turned to her ex-daughter-in-law with a contrite look. ‘You know what I mean.’
Delilah nodded. Only she didn’t know. Not really. Because when her husband – Nancy’s son – had cheated on her, she’d been the last person to find out. She’d placed her blind trust in the man and had never suspected that the loving persona he showed to her and the rest of Bruncliffe was masking a serial adulterer.
‘And have you asked Bernard about any of this?’ Samson’s pragmatic response brought another small smile to Nancy’s face.
‘No. That would be the sensible option, I agree. But I’m feeling far from sensible about all of this. In fact, if I had to be honest, I’m afraid to ask him.’
‘You think he could be violent?’ The surprise in Samson’s voice was understandable, the idea of Bruncliffe’s rotund mayor being capable of physical aggression not one many in the town would sign up to.
Nancy’s smile turned into a dry laugh. ‘No, not at all. I’m afraid to ask him because I can’t bear the thought that it’s all been a sham – the lifestyle we’ve built up together; all the hard work getting him to where he is . . .’ She shook her head. ‘I’m a coward.’
‘You’re here asking for help,’ countered Delilah. ‘I’d hardly call that the action of a coward.’
‘About that,’ said Samson. ‘I don’t mean to sound callous, but if you already know Bernard is having an affair, what do you need a detective for? Surely you’d be better off seeing a solicitor?’
‘I thought about it. Until I found this when I was going through Bernard’s wardrobe this morning.’ Nancy picked up the holdall from the floor, unzipped it and then stood, turning the bag upside down as she did so. Bundles of rolled-up banknotes thumped down onto Samson’s desk.
‘Jesus!’ Samson stared at the money piled in front of him and then at Nancy. ‘That’s a lot of cash!’
‘You’re not kidding,’ murmured Delilah, stunned.
‘It’s one hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds, to be precise,’ said Nancy. ‘And it’s why I’m here. I not only want to know if my husband is having an affair, but also if he intends to rob me blind in the process.’
‘I want out!’ Bernard Taylor was on his feet, leaning across the desk, face ashen, jaw tense, looking like a man one pulse away from a coronary.
Sitting in his office in the Low Mill development his company owned, Rick Procter eased back in his chair, mind racing. His instinct was to cut the man loose, let the people they both worked for step in and take charge – a euphemism if ever there was one. The concept didn’t cause the property developer any qualms. He held no allegiance to Taylor, despite the fact they were deep in this together; that he had actually been the one to bring the estate agent on board with his ingenious idea to incorporate remote rental properties into the business.
But it was too risky. If the organisation they answered to got wind of the fact that part of Rick’s operation was getting cold feet, their response would be to close down his whole set-up. Another euphemism, and one Rick didn’t want to be on the other end of.
So he was going to have to calm the man down and get him back in line, because there was too much at stake. Taylor knew everything about Procter Properties – well, almost everything. Enough to sabotage the image Rick had carefully cultivated over the years and to expose the murky dealings behind the facade. Enough to secure both of them a lengthy prison sentence, or an early death. He couldn’t have him simply sauntering off into the sunset. Or losing his nerve and developing a conscience. In fact, the timing of Taylor’s meltdown couldn’t have been worse.
‘I understand your concerns, Bernard,’ he began. ‘I really do. But now isn’t the right moment—’
‘I don’t care. I can’t take any more of this.’ Taylor started trembling, legs going weak and depositing him into his chair with a thud. He ran a hand over his face and for one awful minute, Rick thought he was going to cry. Instead, the estate agent shook his head mournfully. ‘I’m not sleeping. Ever since Pete Ferris . . .’ The words trailed off into an edgy silence.
Bloody Pete Ferris. Taylor had been getting more and more twitchy since the poacher launched his blackmail attempt. A couple of photographs, taken from a hiding place at a remote property on Henside Road, and Ferris had had them over a barrel – the golden boy of the Bruncliffe business world and the town’s mayor caught in the act of running a cannabis farm. Never one to miss an opportunity, the poacher had contacted Bernard Taylor and outlined his demands: £250,000 in cash.
There had never been a question of paying the man. It simply couldn’t happen. But Taylor had allowed himself to believe that the money would be handed over and Pete Ferris would be satisfied, never to darken their doors again. So, nearly four weeks ago, when the poacher was found to have committed suicide the very night the ransom was supposed to have been paid, Rick had presumed Taylor would accept it with relief, a lucky break that allowed him to keep his half of the potential ransom. As early as the next day, however, the estate agent had started getting anxious, querying the cause of Ferris’s demise. And undeterred by Rick’s repeated warnings that this was a course of inquiry best left alone, he kept coming back to it.
The fact his doubts were justified didn’t change anything: Bernard Taylor had become a liability. One look at him was enough to see he was right on the edge. But there was no get-out clause in the unwritten contract they had with the people they were doing business with.
‘Look,’ Rick said softly, ‘let’s just get this networking event at the weekend out of the way and then we can discuss this.’
But Taylor was shaking his head again, more vigorously this time. ‘I’m revoking all of the rental contracts. The farms need to be gone within the week.’
‘And the rest of the business?’ Rick’s tone was deceivingly genial, concealing his rising temper at the naivety of the man opposite.
Taylor shrugged. ‘We can sort something out.’
Sort something out. An enterprise that was pulling in millions for the criminal organisation behind it all, and the estate agent was talking about ending it like he was negotiating a divorce settlement.
‘Okay,’ Rick said, hands flat on the desk in front of him – the safest way to stop them from reaching across and fastening themselves around Taylor’s chubby neck, which would at least solve this current problem. ‘I promise I’ll raise it with the bosses, but you have to swear you’ll leave it with me. These aren’t men who take rejection lightly.’
The mayor nodded eagerly, happy yet again to consign the dirty work to his partner. ‘Thanks,’ he muttered, getting to his feet.
‘So, can I still count on you for Saturday?’ Rick kept the question light, despite the weight it carried. Because his partner had no idea of the magnitude of the coming few days, Rick having made the decision to keep him in the dark as long as possible in the hope it would contain the man’s jitters. Judging by the man’s demeanour, it had been the right call.
‘What time?’
‘Eight thirty at Mearbeck Hall Hotel. Don’t be late.’
Bernard Taylor nodded and, looking no more composed than when he’d entered the room, took his leave. Half an hour later Rick Procter was still staring into the distance, trying to come up with a solution. One that didn’t involve shutting down the operation as his companion in crime was insisting. Because if there was one thing he was sure of, telling this particular bunch of men that you no longer wanted to be part of their organisation wasn’t an option. Especially when the next time Rick met them, they would be carrying fully loaded shotguns.
Fred Lambert.
Stuart stared at the name on the piece of paper in his hand. It was a rental contract that had fallen out of one of the folders he’d taken from the filing cabinet, drawn up for an old manor house with four bedrooms and lots of outbuildings on a secluded plot out past Horton. The property had come on the market last June for a hefty eighteen hundred a month before being snapped up by a Mr Lambert.
Needless to say, being at the pricier end of the lettings market, it was a property Mr Taylor hadn’t let Stuart near, so while it had been entered on the computer system, this was the first time the lettings manager had paid attention to the details. Or the name of the tenant. It wasn’t an unusual name, not around these parts, there being plenty of Lamberts in the Dales. But it was striking a chord.
Fred Lambert was the same name Mr Taylor had given him just now for the newly leased house up above Keasden – a five-bedroomed barn conversion set back from the road on a couple of acres, out of sight of what little passing traffic ventured up onto those fells.
A coincidence, maybe? If not, then the man had deep pockets. And a seemingly insatiable need for large houses in isolated areas.
Curious to see if there were any more instances of Mr Lambert’s appetite for high-end rental properties, Stuart pulled the rest of the folders towards him. Separating the contracts from other paperwork, he spread them out on his desk.
No more Fred Lamberts. But bizarrely, there were a couple of other oddities. For a start, it appeared that Mr Lambert shared an address with a Mr Dugdale, who’d rented the former farm on Henside Road, because both contracts had the same details listed as the tenant’s contact information.
Stuart automatically turned to his computer and googled the address, zooming in on the map to see a large house on a leafy road in Roundhay in Leeds. A house easily as big as those the two men had rented here in the Dales.
But that wasn’t all. A couple of the phone numbers listed were the same. For different tenants. Two people with different names renting separate properties months apart yet they had identical phone numbers? Now that was bizarre. And then there was the small matter of references. For eight separate properties, one source was cited as a referee for all of them. A Kingston Holdings.
The rattle of the fridge startled Stuart and he glanced at the clock on the far wall. He’d already spent half an hour looking at the documents. If Mr Taylor came back early and found him going through them, there’d be no explanation for what he was doing.
Gathering up the contracts, he set about placing them into their respective folders, deciding that whatever was going on, it was none of his business. Perhaps it was a network of businessmen who, for some reason, were renting large houses in the middle of nowhere—
He paused, struck by the fact that there was very little paperwork in the folder in his hand. One of Mr Lambert’s properties. There was the contract, which Stuart was just replacing, room-by-room specifications including a floorplan, and an inventory.
No evidence of credit checks on the tenant.
No copies of references.
No copy of ID either.
Despite having only a smattering of experience behind him, Stuart took his career seriously and had read enough articles online to know that, while the regulations for rental properties were not as strict as for sales, agents were still expected to carry out basic checks to comply with the ‘know your customer’ remit established by the government. Yet this file contained nothing to show that Mr Taylor had followed procedure when it came to establishing the background of his clients. Or their money.
Stuart picked up the next folder. Likewise, there were no references and no proof that a credit check had been carried out. Nor was there a photocopy of a passport or driver’s licence. Not even a single utility bill. He hurriedly checked the other six.
They were all missing essential documentation.
Concerned now, he logged on to his account and pulled up the digital files for all eight properties, quickly clicking through them. According to the information on the screen, all of the tenants had been vetted and paper records stored on file, as was company policy. Yet there was no evidence of that process in the folders.
Not only that, but five of the eight properties were listed as being up to date with their six-monthly inspections. However, there were no copies of any of Mr Taylor’s inspection reports in the folders.
Stuart didn’t know what to make of it.
Before he knew what he was doing, he was reopening the folders one by one, laying the scant paperwork on his desk. Heart racing and with one eye on the marketplace beyond the windows, he pulled out his phone and started taking photographs.
If he’d been asked the reason for his actions, he couldn’t have answered precisely. It was a feeling. A hunch that something wasn’t right, even though the rational part of him was trying to believe it was all nothing more than an administrative hiccup. Five minutes later, however, having taken photos of every one of the rental properties that Mr Taylor guarded so tightly, Stuart returned to his boss’s office and opened the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet and knew instantly that his hunch had been justified. Because the tab on the suspension file directly behind the rental one said ‘Kingston Holdings’.
Stuart Lister reached in and took out the contents.
High above the town, on the slopes of a fellside that looked down upon the collection of slate roofs and the two tall mill chimneys that made up Bruncliffe, Gareth Towler was having a bad day. Despite the wonderful weather.
Shaking his head at the latest development, he shoved his mobile back in the pocket of his waxed jacket and took a deep breath, making himself appreciate the gentle spring morning, the touch of warmth in the air, the sound of lapwings in the distance. For a few minutes he felt his worries recede and was reminded why he loved being a gamekeeper. Then he focused back on the problem in hand.
Bloody shooting parties. They were often the worst part of his job. Back when he’d been a nipper helping out beating, things had been different. More respect for a start. More of an understanding about the effort that went into rearing the birds and the parts everyone played in bringing a successful shoot together. Nowadays, he often found himself overseeing events for people who didn’t know one end of a shotgun from another. Rich folk pretending to be gentry for a day without a jot of the manners the likes of old Mr Lupton, the owner of Bruncliffe Manor back in Gareth’s childhood, had displayed as a matter of course.
Those had been the days. Mr Lupton had run a good estate – well stocked, well managed and well loved. An invitation to shoot at Bruncliffe Manor had been considered an honour, Gareth recalling a dazzling array of finery and impeccable behaviour amongst the guns, while an army of knowledgeable beaters, loaders and pickers-up worked the drive, all aided by immaculately behaved Labradors and spaniels. For a child like Gareth, it had been one long carnival. And while his love of gamekeeping had sprung from early mornings and late evenings tending pheasants out on his own on the fells, the magic of those smoothly run shoots had made an impression.
But when Mr Lupton had passed away, that affection for Bruncliffe Manor had passed with him, his son seeing the huge manor house and the acres of fellside that came with it purely as an asset. One that would pay off death duties if managed correctly. Fast forward a few decades and the current generation of the Lupton family rarely ventured this far north from their London home to avail themselves of the sport the manor had to offer, leaving the running of the estate to Gareth, as head gamekeeper, and a grey-faced accountant who appeared once a quarter to place even further restrictions on the funds available to Gareth and his team. In the absence of that personal connection, the manor was now run as a profit-making enterprise, offering commercial shoots to anyone who could pay the daily rate; no discernment as to the quality of the guests so long as they had the money.
It was a far cry from the estate Gareth remembered from his youth. But there was something about the place that kept him there, even when he’d received offers of employment from some of the grandest manors in the country. Something that made him desperate to keep his job, even on days like this.
‘Bloody Bruncliffe,’ he muttered, looking down at the town of his birth with a wry grin.
A soft nose nuzzled his hand, as if in sympathy.
‘Aye, Bounty,’ Gareth said, addressing the springer spaniel by his side, his hand running over the brown head. ‘Can’t help but love the place, eh?’
Even when it threw up problems like the one he had now. A shoot all set for the weekend, eight guns expecting a thrilling day of clays and fine food. But while Gareth could guarantee one of those essential elements, he’d just found out he couldn’t provide the other.
‘Bugger it!’ he muttered, scratching the thatch of russet hair beneath his cap. The group had already shown themselves to be awkward, putting pressure on him to provide a drive of pheasants even though it was out of season, something he’d resolutely refused to do. Then the standard vehicles he normally provided for the day – reliable Range Rovers he hired in – had been deemed unsuitable and a demand placed for Jeep Grand Cherokees. Unfortunately, 250 miles north of London, the Jeeps had proved impossible to get hold of and only after a day of searching had Gareth been able to find an alternative.
Three Jaguar F-Pace SVRs. A breed rarely seen in these parts. He hoped they would be grand enough to impress the clients. Especially as he was now left scrabbling to find a caterer with only a couple of days to go before the event. Perhaps the swanky cars would detract so much from the food that he could get away with using some sandwiches from the Spar.
A booming laugh burst out of him at the thought. And was promptly silenced by a sigh.
He was worried. A deep-seated concern about this shoot, which under normal circumstances would see him cancelling it. He had few rules when it came to running such events, but the most important was that if he wasn’t sure about people, he didn’t let them book. Working with shotguns and live ammunition didn’t lend itself to second chances when it came to judging folk.
But this was different. This was being organised by Rick Procter and Bernard Taylor, men of huge influence in the area, with the town council in their pockets. They weren’t men to be crossed when it came to business. Cancelling the shoot this late in the day would definitely come under the heading of crossing them and, with everything that was in the pipeline, that could have fatal consequences for Gareth’s prospects as gamekeeper of Bruncliffe Manor.
In fact, it was fair to say that Procter and Taylor held Gareth’s future in their hands.
So the booking had to be honoured. But perhaps with a few reinforcements for the minimal staff that normally accompanied him on simulated shoots? A few bodies that knew how to handle themselves and would be able to help should the visitors turn out to be obnoxious City types, as Gareth suspected they might. He’d seen it before. Only last August he’d had to terminate an event early when two of the guns – part of a group of blokes from the financial sector trying to bag grouse for the first time – had started openly taking cocaine while at the peg, ready to fire.
There’d been no arguing as he’d escorted them all off the moor, Gareth imposing enough when calm, let alone when he was trying to keep a grip on his temper. So it wasn’t as though he’d never experienced a difficult shooting party before. But this one was niggling at him. So much so that he felt the need to beef up his ranks.
Two names sprang to mind. And as he scrolled through his contacts on his phone to get their details, he was struck with even more inspiration. The answer to all his prayers, delivered neatly under the one family name.
Metcalfe.
With a grin, Gareth turned towards the Land Rover waiting on the track, Bounty following at a trot.
‘Let’s go girl,’ he said, getting into the 4x4, the spaniel hopping straight over from the back to sit next to him on the passenger seat. ‘This favour needs to be asked in person.’