It was raining. Of course it was. Over a week of May sunshine and gorgeous spring days but the minute he was outside tailing someone, the heavens opened and the temperature plummeted from the high teens back down to barely double figures.
Such was life in the Yorkshire Dales.
Samson pulled up the hood of his parka, the coat back in use thanks to the sudden change in the weather, and huddled closer to the stone wall on his left, trying to get some shelter from the chill wind that was gusting down the ginnel he was hiding in – a ginnel that reeked of damp dog. At the end of the alleyway, a slice of the marketplace was visible, wet cobbles glistening in front of the three shops framed by the walls of Samson’s hideout. He had his focus on only one of them: the double-fronted expanse of glass that was Taylor’s Estate Agents.
Two days into the case and Samson had seen nothing to justify Nancy Taylor’s misgivings about her husband. So far, Bernard had behaved exactly as you’d expect of a successful businessman who happened to also be the current town mayor. He’d spent most of his working hours at his offices in the marketplace, leaving only a handful of times: once to attend a meeting at the town hall and twice for a long lunch at the brasserie in Rick Procter’s development in Low Mill. Samson had followed him effortlessly on all three occasions, confident his target knew nothing about being shadowed, but he’d witnessed nothing sinister. Unless you counted the fact that on both days Bernard’s lunch partner had been Rick Procter himself.
For Samson – not being a fan of the head of Procter Properties – that was grounds enough for divorce. Frustratingly, though, there were few in town who shared his view of the man, most of Bruncliffe’s citizens hailing Procter as a role model and saintly benefactor – but then they hadn’t had their family farm stolen from them for a song. An alcoholic father abandoned by his son and an unscrupulous developer with an eye for a killing were a heady mix; Twistleton Farm no longer being in the O’Brien family was testimony to that.
Associating with Rick Procter aside, Bernard Taylor had done nothing over the last couple of days to suggest he was having an affair. Samson had tailed him the short distance from his home at the top end of the square to his work and back home again. But this wasn’t London with its swarm of humanity and warren of streets, where a man could hide in plain sight, shrouded by the anonymity of a huge city. This was Bruncliffe, and so there was a limit to how long Samson could conceal himself in this ginnel off the marketplace and not arouse suspicion. So far he’d only been disturbed a couple of times, the path not much used and the rain reducing the number of folk walking around. On both occasions he’d avoided scrutiny by shrinking back within the hood of his parka and concentrating on his mobile, keeping his face turned away from the passers-by. But it wouldn’t be long before someone either recognised him or raised the alarm about a strange man loitering in a dark alley. Which meant that if Samson was going to keep tabs on the estate agent, he was going to have to be a bit more creative than simply standing opposite Taylor’s offices for hours on end.
Technology. That’s what he needed.
Delilah immediately sprang to mind – it didn’t take much for his thoughts to wander in that direction these days. She’d have just the gadgets he needed to track Bernard Taylor without having to get soaked out in the elements. A GPS device of some sort. She’d probably even be able to get access to his mobile or his computer. In fact, wasn’t she working on Taylor’s IT system, upgrading it or something? With that as a cover, she’d be able to get inside the offices and deploy some of her spy tools, the easiest way to ascertain whether the stash of money Nancy uncovered was the prelude to the end of a marriage and a difficult divorce.
Perhaps he should give Delilah a call? Apologise for being so rash as to cut her out of the case?
Rain pattering on his hood, Samson pulled out his mobile, stared at the screen for a couple of seconds and then shoved it back in his pocket.
He couldn’t do it. It would be putting her at risk, providing an easy target for whatever shape the menace was going to take that was coming from his past. It would be putting his heart at risk, too. Because ever since those cold hours in the freezer when the thought of losing his maverick partner had forced him to acknowledge how much she meant to him, he’d been struggling not to let his feelings for Delilah show. It was pure torture – even the briefest of time with her and he was biting his lip to stop himself from telling her. From pulling her into his arms and—
‘Is that you, Samson?’
Samson whipped round to see his father’s friend and neighbour, Arty Robinson, standing behind him in the alleyway, umbrella over his bald head, and a puzzled look on his face.
Stuart Lister wasn’t cut out for cloak and dagger nonsense. He’d already stretched his meagre skills by lying to his boss, asking for the morning off for a fictitious dental appointment. The prospect of having a root canal seemed preferable right now compared to what he was actually doing – leaving the safety of his flat for a meeting that could land him in hot water. Or worse.
Closing the door behind him, Stuart scanned the wet street for anyone he knew before pulling up the hood of his waterproof. He was probably the only person in town who was grateful for the inclement weather. At least it offered him an excuse for keeping his head covered. He’d debated going full beanie hat and scarf, but while the wind was cold and the temperature had plummeted, it was still May and wearing that many layers in what was deemed to be spring in the Yorkshire Dales would draw attention rather than deflect it. Besides, he’d reasoned, he belonged here now. Folk knew him to see him and, given his profession, no one would question him being out on the streets during the day. They were far more likely to register surprise if he tried skulking around in disguise.
Thus encouraged, he turned into the cold wind that was blowing along Church Street and began walking briskly towards the viaduct. He’d devoted as much thought to the best route to take to his rendezvous as he had to the issue of camouflage. He couldn’t make a direct journey. This was Bruncliffe – the chances of him getting there unseen were practically zero. So he’d hatched a plan to approach his destination from an unexpected direction which, should he be seen and recognised, would seem innocuous. Sticking to his original deception, he was heading for the dental surgery, next door to the vet’s on a side street not far from the primary school.
Cutting left down Station Road, he walked parallel to the train tracks for a while before taking a succession of turns through quiet streets to arrive at the far end of a narrow road of houses, grey stones sombre in the rain, slate roofs glistening. Halfway down were the only two non-residential properties: the vet’s and the dentist’s.
This was where it would get tricky. Up until now, Stuart had held a legitimate excuse for his journey. Once he walked past the opaque glass window of the dental surgery, he would find it harder to justify his presence.
Pulling his hood a little lower to cover his face as much as he could, he picked up his pace and strode down the damp pavement. Past the vet’s. Past the dentist’s. And with his heart thundering, he turned left out onto High Street.
No one he knew was coming towards him, the rain keeping a lot of folk at home. A few long, nervous strides and he was able to duck into the ginnel that would bring him onto Back Street. Almost there. Hustling along the gloomy alley, he emerged next to the wool shop, where he paused. Back Street was never the busiest of places, being somewhat overlooked when it came to Bruncliffe’s commercial concerns, but even so, he looked left and right.
Not a soul to be seen. Even the glorious rainbow of plastic items that normally brightened the pavement outside Plastic Fantastic had been pulled inside, leaving the road to wallow in the gloom of a grey, wet day.
Stuart checked his watch. He had five minutes to make his appointment. He’d timed it perfectly. But he still had a bit of distance to cover.
Stepping out from the cover of the ginnel, he hurried up the road. As he approached the windows of the Fleece, he twisted his head to offer only the back of his hood to any curious gaze that might be looking out, forcing his own focus onto the golden letters spanning the glass across the road.
The Dales Detective Agency. Maybe that was where he should have gone? But it was too early for that. He wanted to make sure his suspicions were valid before he sounded the alarm.
So instead he kept walking, huddled inside his waterproof, shoulders hunched over, the back of his neck prickling as though a thousand eyes were watching him from the windows he was passing. Hugging as close to the buildings as he could, he followed the natural curve of the road round onto the marketplace. A couple more long strides and he’d reached the doorway that had been his objective, his heart truly rattling, his breathing coming in short gasps.
With one final desperate glance around the exposed square that extended across the cobbles to the multitude of shops and business that surrounded it, Stuart stretched out his hand and pushed open the heavy wooden door. Slinking around it into safety, he was satisfied that he had made it undetected.
He was wrong. Because just as he turned his head, his face visible in profile, the young estate agent was noticed. Not by Ida Capstick, the cleaner, who was wheeling her bike down the opposite side of the square. Not even by Mrs Pettiford, who had nipped out from behind her counter at the bank to go to the post office, too distracted by a snippet of gossip she’d just overheard to pay attention to a lanky figure disappearing into a doorway up by the town hall.
Instead, in a complete freak of fate, Stuart Lister, trainee estate agent with problems on his mind, was seen by the worst person possible.
As his anxious face turned up towards the town hall, a man just happened to emerge from the car park around the back. It wasn’t the man’s custom to park right at the top of the square. Being a busy entrepreneur, normally he left his Range Rover as close to his appointments as possible. But the rain had ensured that anyone visiting the town today was coming in by car and so his usual parking spot had been taken. Hence he’d been forced to use the facilities at the town hall. Blond hair already wet, he was walking down towards the marketplace, thoughts troubled by his own worries, when he just happened to see the thin features of a lad he recognised.
It took a while to place him. In fact, it was only as Rick Procter entered Taylor’s and saw the empty desk to the left of the reception area that he realised who it was he’d just seen.
Taylor’s pet letting agent. Hired for his incompetence and lack of backbone – someone who wouldn’t get in the way of what they were doing. Rick couldn’t even remember his name.
‘Has he left you in the lurch, then?’ he asked the attractive lass on reception, gesturing towards the unoccupied chair across the room. He only asked as a way of flirting with her. If she’d been older or less bonny, he’d have walked straight past to where Bernard Taylor was waiting for him in the doorway. Instead he lingered at her desk, waiting for her answer as she laughed and graced him with a warm smile.
‘Seeing as poor Stuart’s having root canal work done as we speak, I think I have to forgive him,’ she said.
Rick laughed back. Nodded and walked towards the office at the rear of the room. All the time his brain was whirring.
Because Stuart, the lad who was supposed to be innocuous, hadn’t been going into the dentist’s when Rick had seen him.
Rick filed the incident in the back of his mind. It could be nothing. Or it could be something. Either way, it was yet one more example of how Bernard Taylor was becoming a liability.
‘I thought that was you! What are you doing out here, lad? Spying on someone?’ Standing in the ginnel, grinning despite the weather, Arty Robinson regarded Samson with a look of mischief.
‘No . . . just waiting for Delilah.’
‘In the rain?’ Arty was peering round Samson towards the mouth of the alleyway, trying to get an idea of where the detective might have had his focus. His gaze settled on one of the few businesses visible across the cobbles. ‘Something going on at Rice N Spice, is there?’
‘I told you, I’m just waiting—’
‘Or has our mayor been fiddling the town expenses?’ Arty laughed. Then stopped and stared at Samson, eyes widening. ‘Is that it? You’re watching Bernard Taylor?’
‘No. I’m not.’
But Arty wasn’t having any of it. ‘It is Taylor you’re after! I can tell from your face!’
Samson groaned and slumped back against the stone wall. He’d been right. Bruncliffe was way too small for old fashioned surveillance techniques. Especially as it appeared he was so rusty when it came to undercover work that he’d been quickly rumbled by a retired bookie.
A retired bookie who was now glancing across at the estate agent’s and then back at Samson, excitement making him hop from one foot to the other. ‘What’s going on, lad?’ he demanded. ‘And how can we help?’
We. Samson noted the use of the plural pronoun with a sinking heart – Arty was offering the well-meaning interference of his gang of friends in Fellside Court retirement complex, one of whom just happened to be Samson’s own father. It was the last thing that was needed on a case already so close to home. And so sensitive in terms of local politics.
‘Seriously,’ Arty continued, undaunted by Samson’s obvious lack of enthusiasm for his proposition, ‘you can’t do this on your own. Taylor knows you. He knows what you are. Whatever you’re watching him for, one sniff of you on his tail and he’ll slip through your hands. You need help. And me, Joseph, Eric and the girls can offer just that. We could sit in Peaks Patisserie all day, sipping coffees and keeping an eye on that place and no one would question it. Might give Clarissa something else to talk about other than this new beau of hers—’
‘No,’ said Samson, firmly. ‘It’s not going to happen. Just forget you saw me and don’t tell a soul about this.’
‘But—’
Samson held up a hand. ‘Arty, I’m sorry but I don’t need your help, okay? I’ve got this covered.’
It was like popping a balloon. Arty’s shoulders drooped, his round face fell and he nodded glumly. ‘I understand. Sorry. Didn’t mean to bother you. Just thought it might be a break from sitting around doing nothing, especially for Edith. She’s been a bit down of late.’ He sighed. ‘You’d be surprised how long an afternoon can be when you’ve nothing to fill it.’
The guilt hit Samson in the gut like a headbutt from a boisterous calf. Forty-eight hours since Edith Hird – sister of Clarissa Ralph and the other of Arty’s ‘girls’ – had asked for his assistance and he’d done nothing about it. And here was Arty worried about her . . . As the pensioner moved past him, heading for the marketplace, he put out a hand to halt him.
‘Hang on,’ he found himself saying. ‘Maybe we can work something out. But you have to promise me complete discretion.’
‘Totally sealed, boss.’ Arty zipped a finger across his grinning lips. ‘So when do we start? I mean, you’ll need cover for when he’s at the shoot. The two of you won’t be able to do it all.’
‘The shoot?’
Arty blinked and took a step back. ‘You don’t know about the shoot? It’s all anyone is talking about round town the last couple of days. I’m surprised Delilah didn’t mention it seeing as she’s been helping Lucy out with the prep – that’s why your dad’s been looking after Tolpuddle the last couple of days. Did Delilah not say?’
Samson shook his head, not wanting to reveal that he hadn’t seen Delilah in two days and even then, it had been in passing. Not for the first time, he realised how much he was missing by keeping her at arm’s length – not just her company but her in-depth knowledge of everything that was going on in Bruncliffe. She really was his ear on the ground when it came to local affairs.
‘Rick Procter’s organised it,’ Arty continued. ‘A huge affair to impress some investors that him and Bernard Taylor are trying to woo. It’s tomorrow, up at Bruncliffe Manor.’
‘Damn,’ muttered Samson. A shoot on the large estate to the east of Bruncliffe, with no access for the uninvited. There was no way he’d be able to keep Taylor under surveillance in a place like that, despite all the natural cover. He’d worked as a beater on a few occasions in his youth before he left town and knew that crawling around in the undergrowth trying to spy on someone was most likely to end up with a backside peppered with shotgun pellets.
If he was going to uncover any illicit assignations in Bernard Taylor’s life, it was looking like he was going to need Delilah’s help after all. A tracker or something—
‘Anyway,’ continued Arty, ‘not to worry. Luckily for you, the organisers got caught short on the catering front and had to ask Lucy to step in.’
‘And that’s lucky how?’ asked Samson, puzzled as to the sudden turn of direction the conversation had taken.
The pensioner’s head tipped to one side and his eyes narrowed. ‘Well, it gave you the perfect excuse, didn’t it?’
‘Sorry?’
Arty gestured towards the estate agent’s. ‘Whatever it is you’re following Taylor for, Lucy doing the catering offers you the perfect excuse to get someone on the inside. I mean, isn’t that why Delilah volunteered to work at the shoot in the first place?’
For the second time in what was turning out to be a long morning, Samson groaned.