‘So what do you think? Is Bernard capable of having an affair?’
Samson’s question was addressed to Delilah’s back. She was standing over at the office window, her attention on the departing figure of her former mother-in-law walking away down the street. With her focus elsewhere, he allowed himself a moment to appreciate the woman who had stolen his heart. And he felt a pang of concern. She was losing weight, her jumper failing to conceal the sharp point of her shoulder blades, her profile as she began to turn towards him offering a prominent cheekbone below pallid skin. In three short weeks she’d lost the healthy bloom that characterised her, and he’d only just noticed.
He cursed silently. She was still in shock – still reacting to the trauma they’d endured. And he’d failed to pick up on it. He was so used to the consequences of a dangerous existence that he hadn’t given a thought to how Delilah was coping after their confinement in the freezer. He could have kicked himself. Despite her tough exterior, Delilah had never faced anything like the ordeal she’d been subjected to, and post-traumatic shock was no respecter of persons.
She was fully facing him now, a wry smile below weary eyes. ‘You think I’m some kind of expert or something, just because I’ve had experience of a philandering Taylor?’
The words had bite to them and had Samson scrabbling to apologise. ‘Sorry . . . I didn’t mean . . .’
She waved a hand at him, dismissing his attempts to backtrack. ‘To be honest, I haven’t a clue. If I learned anything at all from my brief attempt at marriage, it was that I’m not a very good judge of people.’
Samson shifted uncomfortably in his seat, knowing her acquaintance with him had done nothing to advance her understanding of human behaviour.
‘So I can’t help you there, I’m afraid,’ she continued. ‘But what I will say is that Nancy Taylor doesn’t air her laundry in public. When Neil and I divorced, she kept very quiet about it, despite the clamour in Bruncliffe for the inside story. So it would have taken a lot for her to walk in here today and confess her concerns about Bernard to you. I wouldn’t take that lightly.’
‘Agreed. She’s a classy lady.’
There was an awkward pause, about the point at which Delilah would have normally drawn up a chair, sat at his desk and asked him how they were going to proceed with the latest case. But instead, she turned back to the window, shrugged and then walked towards the door.
‘I’m thinking it’ll be straightforward,’ he blurted out.
Delilah paused. ‘What will?’
‘This case. A simple tail on Bernard for a couple of days and we’ll . . . I’ll know whether or not he’s seeing anyone.’ He could feel his cheeks beginning to burn under her calm gaze.
She nodded.
‘What I mean is, I’ll be fine on my own with this one,’ he said, even though he wondered if he would be.
Finding out whether the town’s mayor was seeing someone on the sly was one thing; working out the origins of the holdall stuffed full of cash that Nancy Taylor had stumbled on in her husband’s wardrobe was another. The bank statements she’d had with her only confirmed that it hadn’t come out of either of the Taylor accounts in the last six weeks, so it was still possibly a legitimate withdrawal from an earlier date. But then again, why would Bernard be squirrelling money away like that? And in his wardrobe? For a wife already suspecting him of infidelity, presuming he was hiding assets ahead of a divorce seemed a reasonable conclusion to leap to. Proving that was the sort of puzzle that would benefit from a bit of Delilah’s IT expertise, but Samson simply couldn’t allow it.
‘Okay,’ she said.
A buzzing sound drew her eyes to the edge of the desk and, too late, Samson saw his emergency mobile, out in full view. In his attempts to placate the crying Nancy Taylor, he’d left it down and forgotten all about it.
‘New phone?’ she asked.
He opted for the truth. ‘DI Warren gave it me when we met up last month. Said I should keep it on me at all times . . . You know, so he can contact me if he hears anything.’ He shrugged. Tried to make light of it, even though she knew the reality of the danger he was in.
She stared at it for a second. ‘Good idea. You should do what he says.’ Then she gestured towards the dozing Tolpuddle in the dog bed in the corner. ‘Can I leave him with you for a while?’
‘Sure.’ Samson waited for an explanation as to where she was going but none was forthcoming. Instead, Delilah Metcalfe left his office, crossed the hallway and went out, quietly closing the front door behind her.
It was more disconcerting than if she’d blown up into the full Metcalfe rage he’d grown to expect.
Already unsettled, Samson reached for the emergency mobile and read the screen. The succinct text from his former boss unsettled him even further:
Danger imminent. Don’t trust police!
Coming from a detective within the force, the warning was a stark reminder that Samson was on his own. And it confirmed that he’d made the right decision to try and keep a bit of distance between himself and Delilah – as much as possible given their situation. No more working together. No more socialising in the Fleece. For the last few weeks he’d been putting their relationship back on a professional footing so that anyone intending him harm would think she meant nothing to him. If being a bit more aloof meant keeping her safe, then that’s what he had to do. Even if his heart thought otherwise.
‘Is now a good time?’
The voice from the doorway cut through Samson’s thoughts and sent him shooting up in his chair.
‘Sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you.’ Edith Hird, one of his father’s friends from Fellside Court, was standing in the doorway leaning on her stick, looking pale in her funeral attire, the black making her seem even thinner than usual.
‘Edith,’ he said, taking in the concerned look on the retired headmistress’s face. ‘Is everything okay?’
She came into the room with a nervous glance across the road to the pub. ‘I need your help,’ she said. ‘But I don’t want anyone to know I’m here.’
‘Discretion,’ said Samson, pulling out a chair for her, ‘is my middle name.’
When the door slammed shut over at Peaks Patisserie some minutes later, Lucy Metcalfe didn’t even look up. She was too busy sliding lemon-and-ginger scones out of the oven – her second batch that day and it was only just gone lunchtime – and trying not to trip over the broom which was lying in the middle of the floor next to a pile of broken crockery.
‘Need a hand?’ The new arrival was Delilah, already coming around the counter into the kitchen and pulling on an apron, tying the cords with ferocity, her face set in a scowl as she started loading the dishwasher. Signs her sister-in-law knew all too well from a lifetime spent around Metcalfes.
‘Not if you’re in a bad mood,’ said Lucy with a smile. ‘We’re mad busy and I’ve already got Elaine forgetting orders and dropping plates. I don’t need anything else getting damaged.’
‘I didn’t drop the plate,’ protested Elaine Bullock, appearing in the kitchen carrying more dirty dishes, her glasses askew and plaits coming undone. ‘It leapt from my hands. A suicide bid to escape the mayhem out there!’ She glared back over her shoulder at the busy cafe, tables crowded with tourists lured to the Dales by the sunshine and mild temperatures. ‘Don’t they have somewhere better to be?’
Lucy laughed. ‘As long as they’re spending money, they can stay here all day if they want.’
‘But it’s so nice out there!’ Elaine tipped her chin in the direction of the blue sky stretching across the gothic turrets of the town hall beyond the windows of the cafe, her gesture accompanied by a rattle of china from the precariously stacked dishes in her hands. ‘They could be up on the fells, or down by the river—’
‘Or collecting rock samples in some outlandish place.’ Delilah’s reply earned a grin from her friend.
‘Touché! I should be outside, too,’ Elaine admitted ruefully, a part-time waitress who was really a geologist, waiting on tables to help pay for field trips abroad that her meagre hours lecturing didn’t quite cover. ‘But at least I have an excuse – my Monument Valley excursion is only four months away and still not paid for. You, however – what are you doing in here on a beautiful day like this?’
‘Escaping,’ muttered Delilah. Her reply was accompanied by a clatter of cutlery being thrust into the dishwasher that suggested her temper hadn’t improved.
Lucy and Elaine shared a look.
‘Want to talk about it?’ asked Elaine, placing her dishes on the counter while Lucy regarded her sister-in-law with concern.
‘No.’ With a yank, Delilah pulled down the lid of the industrial dishwasher, momentarily drowning out conversation as the machine thrummed into life.
‘Fair enough.’ Not one for cajoling, Elaine took the abrupt answer at face value and flipped open her notepad to consult the orders she’d just taken. ‘So, I need four more cream teas and we’re running short on cupcakes. Oh, and a large group are waiting to be seated so don’t expect a breather any time soon.’
‘Crikey.’ Lucy wiped her brow. ‘We’ve not had a day quite this crazy in a long time. But I can’t complain—’
‘Lucy!’ A large voice interrupted them from the entrance to the cafe, where a ruddy face bookended by a thick thatch of hair and a full beard – both dark auburn – topped a body of immense proportions. Taller even than any of the Metcalfe lads and with shoulders straining beneath his waxed jacket, the man strode across the room towards the kitchen. ‘My saviour!’
‘Gareth! How lovely—’ Lucy’s greeting was cut off as two huge hands grabbed her by the waist and lifted her into a bear hug, enveloping her in the smell of the hills, with an underlying aroma of pheasant and grouse.
‘How’s my favourite chef?’ asked the gamekeeper, planting a kiss on her cheek before dropping her back to her feet. ‘And her minions?’
A tea towel whipped across the back of his legs, doing nothing more than making him laugh, and a fist landed on his arm with the same impact as a gnat on a hippo.
‘Minions?’ Elaine and Delilah were both glowering at him, Elaine twirling her tea towel for another go and Delilah rubbing her fist.
Gareth Towler raised both hands in surrender. ‘Steady on, ladies. I come with an offer of work.’ He turned to Lucy. ‘Quite a bit of work, actually. I need catering for a shoot.’
‘When?’
‘This weekend . . .’ said Gareth with a hopeful wince, but Lucy was already shaking her head.
‘Sorry, no can do. Even if I could get the food ready in time, I don’t have the staff to cover it. What happened to your regular caterer?’
‘They’ve had to close down for a while. Turns out the coronation chicken scones they served at a wedding on Saturday came with added salmonella.’
Lucy looked horrified. As did her sister-in-law. ‘The poor clients,’ said Delilah. ‘They must be distraught.’
‘You can say that again.’ Elaine pulled a face. ‘I mean, coronation chicken? At a wedding? The caterers should have been sacked for the menu, let alone the food poisoning.’
A boom of laughter broke from Gareth’s wide chest and he slapped Elaine on the back. ‘I agree. But they’ve always done well for us. Until now.’ He turned back to Lucy, voice coaxing, a pleading look on his face. ‘Which is why I need your help. And it’ll be a good chance for you to impress. If this goes well, it could be a regular thing.’
‘I’m sorry but I can’t just drop—’
‘How much does it pay?’ Elaine cut across her boss to address Gareth directly.
‘A lot,’ he said. ‘Rick Procter’s organised it and money’s no object.’
‘Quelle surprise,’ muttered Elaine dryly at the reference to Bruncliffe’s successful property developer.
‘Seems him and Bernard Taylor have got some investors coming to town they want to impress. Bound to be good tips too,’ he added with a wink at the waitress.
‘Final question,’ she said, a fierce look on her face. ‘Are you shooting live game?’
‘No. It’s out of season so it’ll be a simulated shoot.’
‘Then we’ll do it,’ announced Elaine, holding out her hand to shake on the deal.
Lucy’s mouth dropped open. ‘Elaine! I can’t just take on all that work. Besides, we need at least two more members of staff—’
‘One,’ said Delilah.
‘One what?’ asked Lucy, confused.
‘You only need one more member of staff. I’ll help.’
Gareth grinned. ‘I take it that’s a yes, then? Chef and minions all on board?’
‘I’m sorry, no—’ Lucy began, only to break off at the sight of the gamekeeper’s suddenly strained expression, the flippancy of moments ago gone as he caught hold of her by the shoulders.
‘I’m begging you, Lucy. Please. There’s so much resting on this.’
She stared at him for a second, then threw up her hands in resignation. ‘Okay, okay, I’ll do it. But you two,’ she said, turning to her friends, ‘had better know what you’ve let yourselves in for! I’m going to work you so hard, you’ll earn every penny. Understand?’
Elaine snapped to attention. But Delilah’s attention was elsewhere. Because her offer of help hadn’t been motivated by financial reward or even a desire to do her sister-in-law a good turn. Instead she was already planning the best way to use the event to keep tabs on Bernard Taylor, the good intentions she’d had of not interfering in the case fading as quickly as mist over the Ribble on a summer’s morning. Whether he wanted Delilah’s assistance or not, Samson O’Brien was about to get it.
Lucy Metcalfe was as good as her word. By late evening, when the shops that surrounded the market square were shuttered, workers and customers either at home or in one of the town’s three pubs, lights still shone out into the spring twilight from Peaks Patisserie. Most people passing by gave a curious look towards the windows to ascertain the reason for this unusual turn of events and some were rewarded by catching a glimpse of one of the three figures working away in the kitchen at the back of the cafe. But as he made his way home from Taylor’s, having been kept late waiting for the repair man to finish fixing the fridge, Stuart Lister didn’t so much as glance towards the cafe’s glowing facade. Nor did he see the furtive shape scuttle down the ginnel next to the butcher’s.
He had far too much on his mind.
Forehead furrowed with concern, he hurried across the marketplace and turned down Church Street, crossing the road towards the police station.
It was tempting to go straight in. To lay out his worries in front of Sergeant Clayton and PC Danny Bradley. But what if he was wrong? What if he’d misread things?
It would be the end of his career with Taylor’s and he could forget about walking into any similar positions anywhere in the Dales. He would have to start again. And that was too big a gamble for a lad with little to his name and a personality that had made it hard making the move from Skipton to Bruncliffe. He’d never survive if he had to relocate somewhere as metropolitan as Leeds.
So he reluctantly walked past the sturdy building with the police cars parked outside and on towards the bright neon sign of the Happy House takeaway, where Mr Lee was already busy behind the counter, a queue of people waiting for food. Nodding through the window to his neighbour, Stuart unlocked the door that led to the hallway he shared with the restaurant.
‘Good evening!’ Mrs Lee was standing in the foyer, a grizzling baby on her hip and a plastic bag in her hand. ‘Are you hungry?’
The question was clearly rhetorical, as before Stuart could even formulate a response in the negative – food being the last thing on his mind – Mrs Lee was pressing the bag into his hand.
‘House special chow mein and spring rolls,’ she declared with a warm smile and a shake of her head, reaching out to pinch his cheek gently. ‘You’re getting too thin.’
Stuart blushed. Took the bag and mumbled his thanks, before nodding at the baby, whose wailing had kept him awake most of the night before, the walls between the two upstairs flats seemingly as thin as the prawn crackers his neighbours made in vast quantities. ‘How is he? Still teething?’
Mrs Lee grimaced and then laughed. ‘I think he’s going to have big teeth, judging by the crying. Sorry.’
‘It’s fine. I can’t hear him,’ Stuart lied.
His neighbour laughed again, knowing the realities of the property they were both renting. Then she shooed him away with her free hand. ‘Go,’ she said. ‘Eat it while it’s hot.’
With a final word of thanks, Stuart headed up the stairs to his flat and let himself in. He set the bag of food on the top of the gas cooker, there being no other worktop space in his cramped kitchenette, and sat on the sagging sofa, a fug of stale cooking smells engulfing him as he sank into it. He pulled out his mobile and began scrolling through the photos he’d taken at the office and felt his chest start to tighten.
Pages and pages of documents. The first lot from the high-end rental folders, detailing the absence of evidence that due diligence had been carried out in any of those transactions. Stuart had thought that bad enough. But what he’d subsequently discovered when he went to replace those files . . .
He stared at the photos and could barely breathe.
Rental contracts for properties that had never crossed Stuart’s desk, despite his title of Lettings Manager. And all of them rented to the same tenant: Kingston Holdings.
As soon as he’d seen them, Stuart had known that there was something up. Then he’d noticed the rental amounts. Astronomical figures, even for the Yorkshire Dales. Kingston Holdings was renting more than thirty properties across the region and paying over the odds for every single one of them. But that wasn’t the most disturbing thing. What worried Stuart the most was that he recognised several of the houses.
They had been sold by Taylor’s in the past six months and were now lived in by very contented purchasers. In other words, they weren’t on the rental market.
And yet . . .
Time had been against him in the office. He’d spread a few of the documents out on the floor and quickly taken photos before placing them all back, heart thudding the whole time. Because this couldn’t be explained away as an admin error. This was something much bigger than that. And something Stuart sensed he couldn’t afford to be caught prying into.
With the filing cabinet locked and the key replaced on the saucer under the plant, Stuart had barely had time to sit down before Bernard Taylor came back into the office, his mood no better than when he’d left. A sudden clatter from the fridge had sent him into a prolonged rant about ineffectual staff and sent Stuart scrabbling for the phone to find someone to repair it. Thus distracted, the afternoon passed in a blur and it was only now, in the solitude of his flat, that Stuart could try to fathom out what exactly he’d stumbled on. A quick google of Kingston Holdings seemed like a good place to start.
Two hours later, the trainee estate agent was still sitting on the couch, crouched over his mobile, its light casting a blue-white glow onto his face in the darkened room. He let out a sigh and tossed the phone aside. He was out of his depth, not even sure what he should be looking for. What he needed was professional help. But who could he trust?
He’d only lived in Bruncliffe a short while but it was long enough to know that allegiances in the town were often based on ancestry. And relationships interwoven over the centuries meant that an offhand comment in the wrong ear could result in disparaging someone unwittingly to their next of kin. This was a sensitive issue and Stuart couldn’t afford for his enquiries to get back to Bernard Taylor. So he needed someone who wasn’t in the back pocket of the town’s mayor. Or related to him.
It came to him in a flash of inspiration. Picking his mobile back up he started scrolling through a list of Bruncliffe businesses. On top of the cooker, the bag of chow mein and spring rolls continued to go ignored, and it would be morning before Stuart realised that his boiler had finally been fixed.