‘How can I help?’
From the comfort of one of the two armchairs in the corner of his office, Matty Thistlethwaite regarded the lanky young man sitting opposite and knew he’d made the right decision not to sit at the desk. The fidgeting hands, the tapping foot – whatever had brought Stuart Lister to Turpin’s, it was making him nervous, a situation the formal setting of the desk would only have exacerbated. And as the lad was unmarried and with youth on his side, Matty presumed it probably wasn’t divorce or death that he had on his mind, the normal preoccupations for many who visited the solicitor. Matty doubted it was a house purchase either, as someone who worked in real estate wouldn’t be looking this uneasy about getting onto the property ladder.
‘Thanks for seeing me,’ Stuart said, gaze flicking from Matty to the window and back again. He coughed, cleared his throat and glanced down at his hands.
Matty waited. Patience was something he found worked well with anxious clients and he’d cultivated an aura of calm that made him seem a lot older than his thirty-odd years. Which was no harm when he was dealing with customers who expected their solicitor to be grey, both at the temples and in personality.
The silence stretched and then suddenly Stuart stood, long limbs snapping him upright. ‘I should go,’ he muttered. ‘I’m wasting your time.’
‘Not at all,’ said Matty, remaining in his seat as the young man hovered by his chair. ‘You’re a welcome break from conveyancing.’ He leaned forward and poured coffee from the cafetière on the small table between them. ‘So,’ he continued in his relaxed manner, holding out a cup towards Stuart with a smile, ‘tell me what’s new in the property world. Anything I should know about?’
The lad’s face went white and he sank back into his seat. ‘That’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about.’
Samson knew the moment he stepped into the cafe and saw Delilah’s guilty glance in his direction that Arty had hit the unsuspecting nail on the head. Her offer to work at the shoot was motivated by the investigation into Bernard Taylor.
‘Any chance of a couple of coffees?’ he asked Lucy, as Delilah scuttled into the kitchen, blushing. ‘And a chat with Delilah if she’s got a couple of minutes?’
‘A couple of minutes is about all I can spare her for,’ grumbled Lucy, rubbing the small of her back. ‘I think this shoot will be the death of me.’
‘How many are you catering for?’
‘Eight guns, plus entourage, whatever that means.’
‘Local?’
Lucy shook her head. ‘Out of town. And from what Gareth said, they’re already proving a nuisance.’
‘Gareth Towler?’ Samson recalled a large, tousle-haired lad a couple of years below him at school who’d been besotted with raising game birds, always skipping classes to help out with feeding pheasants at Bruncliffe Manor. He seemed to remember him being one of a gang of many children who hung out at the Metcalfe farm, Samson amongst them. ‘Ash’s mate?’ he asked, referring to the youngest of Delilah’s brothers.
‘The same. He’s head gamekeeper on the estate now, and organises all the shoots. Good at it too. He runs a tight ship and takes no nonsense. Ryan used to do the odd session beating for him when he was home on leave and Nathan’s been a couple of times. In fact, it was Gareth who helped coax Nathan out of the dark place he was in after Ryan died.’ A shadow crossed Lucy’s face at the memory of her son’s pain. And her own. Then she smiled. ‘He took Nathan fishing whenever he could and just got him back into enjoying life. So I shouldn’t be complaining about doing this for him, really.’
A sharp cry from the kitchen was followed by a crash of china. Lucy rolled her eyes.
‘Is Elaine helping out by any chance?’ asked Samson, the reputation of the waitress known around the town.
‘Helping is one way to describe it! But beggars can’t be choosers. Gareth didn’t give me much notice so I’m short-staffed and I’ve already had to pay over the odds to get someone in from a temping agency for the actual shoot. I can’t afford to hire someone else at those rates. Besides,’ she said with a grin, ‘Elaine’s handy to have around at events like this if any of the customers decide to get fresh with the waitresses.’
Samson could well believe it. The geologist had a sharp way with words and took no nonsense. She also habitually wore Dr Martens and he imagined she wouldn’t be averse to using them for purposes other than walking, should the need arise.
‘Anyway,’ concluded Lucy, ‘I’ll get you those coffees. And a couple of scones too.’
While the busy chef headed back into the kitchen, Samson made his way towards Arty Robinson, who’d already secured a table next to the window and was studiously watching the front of Taylor’s. The retired bookie had been right about the cafe being the perfect milieu for him, thought Samson as he surveyed the room, the average age of the clientele this Friday afternoon north of fifty. Arty’s shining bald head blended in completely, more so than the dark locks gracing Samson’s wet parka.
‘Anything?’ he asked, as he took off his coat and hung it over the back of the chair before sitting down opposite his new-found partner.
Arty consulted the napkin on the table in front of him, an indecipherable scribble inked across its surface. ‘Just Rick Procter exiting the premises at ten thirty-eight hours,’ he read, voice clipped in a military manner. ‘Alone.’
Nothing unusual there, especially given that Procter was organising an event with Taylor for the weekend.
‘No one else?’
‘Not a soul.’ Looking up from his notes, Arty glanced over towards the counter, eyes resting hopefully on the mouth-watering display of cakes. ‘Hungry work, this surveillance,’ he said. ‘We might need to have an expenses account. You know, to cover sundries.’
‘An expenses account?’ Delilah had approached the table from behind Samson and kept her concentration on the older man as she deposited three mugs of coffee and three scones in front of them. ‘Who you working for, Arty?’
Grinning at the sight of the scones, Arty leaned over to Delilah as she took a seat next to him and whispered to her in a loud voice, ‘The Dales Detective Agency!’
Delilah frowned and looked at Samson, eyebrows raised. ‘In what guise?’
‘Relief cover,’ said Samson, enjoying the confusion on her face. ‘You know, for when you’re at the shoot.’
‘I guessed you two were staking out Taylor’s offices,’ continued Arty, oblivious to Delilah’s discomfort as she took a swig of her coffee. ‘And suggested that me and the Fellside Court gang could keep watch here over the weekend while you’re busy at Bruncliffe Manor.’
‘Oh, right . . .’ Behind the rim of her mug, Delilah’s cheeks were on fire.
‘Right,’ echoed Samson dryly. ‘Arty reckons it’ll take their minds off Clarissa’s love life.’
Arty grinned at him and then let out a curse. ‘Pretend you didn’t hear that,’ he said to Delilah. ‘It’s supposed to be a secret.’
‘Don’t worry, Delilah excels at keeping secrets,’ said Samson, tone still arid.
Delilah shot him a glance before turning back to Arty. ‘Clarissa has a boyfriend? Since when?’
‘Since two weeks ago. Not sure he can be called a boyfriend as such at our age, though.’
‘How did she meet him?’
It was Arty’s turn to look awkward. ‘That’s the bit I’m not supposed to say.’
‘Why ever not?’
He scratched his scalp and then shrugged. ‘She met him online. Although technically, she hasn’t actually met him yet. They’re still just exchanging messages.’
Delilah smiled. ‘What’s wrong with having met online?’
‘Well, she didn’t use your agency so, you know, she’s afraid you’d be annoyed.’
‘Not at all,’ said Delilah. ‘It’s good that she’s happy.’
‘Aye. She’s in better form than her sister, that’s for sure.’
‘What’s up with Edith?’
‘Hard to put a finger on it. She just seems out of sorts.’ Arty sighed, reached forward for his coffee and then stood, face contrite. ‘Blast! That’s one of the drawbacks of old age. I’ve got to spend a penny. Can you keep watch?’
He hurried off towards the toilets, leaving a strained silence at the table behind him. It was Delilah who finally broke it.
‘That’s great news about Clarissa,’ she said, with what she hoped was a distracting smile.
‘Forget about Clarissa,’ growled Samson. ‘Do you want to tell me what the hell you’re doing?’
Delilah knew exactly what he was talking about. She shrugged. ‘It seemed like a good opportunity to keep tabs on Bernard.’
‘I’m perfectly capable of doing that on my own. I told you – I don’t need help on this case.’
‘And Arty?’
‘He came across me in the ginnel and guessed what I was doing.’
Delilah laughed. ‘So much for being an undercover expert.’
Her reaction drew a smile from Samson. ‘I must be losing my touch. But then he offered to help and when I refused, he looked so crestfallen, I didn’t have the heart to say no again. So I’m setting him up in here to watch Taylor’s place during the day.’
‘Is your father going to be involved?’
The answer came on a sigh. ‘Apparently so. Eric, Edith and Clarissa too.’
Delilah crossed her arms over her chest, chin lifting. ‘So you’ll take the help of a group of pensioners but you won’t take mine?’
‘It’s different,’ Samson protested. ‘I only suggested this as a way of giving them something to do. They won’t be actively involved. Whereas you’re going waitressing at an event where we know Taylor will be. What if he gets suspicious about you being there? You could blow the whole case wide open.’
‘He won’t get suspicious.’
‘How can you be so sure? If he is having an affair or up to anything shady with his finances, he’s going to be on high alert. You won’t be able to let him see you, which is going to be nigh on impossible out on the moor. So what use will you be?’
A small smile crossed Delilah’s lips. ‘He won’t see me. I promise. And besides, what other option do you have? I can’t see you getting access. Unless you’re planning on dressing up in a deer suit so you can blend in with the countryside—?’
Samson’s mobile interrupted them, Nancy Taylor’s name showing on the display. Turning his back to the room, he answered it.
‘Nancy? Everything all right?’
A torrent of words tumbled through the phone and Samson realised his options for running the case had just changed. He could no longer do it all by himself. Which meant he was going to have to eat an awful lot of humble pie.
‘Can I trust you?’
Matty spread his hands wide at the young man’s question. ‘I’m a lawyer. I’m used to being discreet.’
‘Sorry. Yes. I didn’t mean to suggest . . .’ Stuart reached for his coffee, took a gulp and placed the cup back on its saucer with a rattle. ‘It’s just . . . shell companies. How do you spot them?’
‘Shell companies?’ Matty hid his surprise. This hadn’t been what he’d expected the lad to say. ‘In what context?’
Stuart shook his head. ‘Just in general. Nothing specific.’
It didn’t take much to see he was lying. Wary of spooking him again, Matty took the question at face value.
‘First of all, it helps if you have the company name. If it’s registered in the UK then a good place to start is Companies House—’
‘UK? Don’t they have to be registered overseas?’
Matty gave a dry laugh. ‘No. While the weather might be better in some of the more traditional jurisdictions that shelter shell companies, it’s actually cheaper to set one up here. Apply online with an address in some offbeat office block and hey presto, you’re in business.’
‘How easy is it to find out if a company is a shell or not, then?’
The intensity accompanying the question told Matty all he needed to know. The estate agent was worried about someone, probably someone connected to a property deal, and was trying to do his due diligence.
‘That’s a question with two answers,’ said the lawyer. ‘Often they’re easy to spot if you know what you’re looking for. But if you want to find out anything more, that’s the tricky bit.’
Stuart sat back in his chair, face twisted in thought and long fingers rubbing against each other anxiously. He looked like a man trapped between the devil and the deep blue sea.
‘Whatever it is,’ said Matty, ‘I can help. Just tell me the name of the company and I’ll do the legwork. Absolute discretion guaranteed.’
‘I don’t have a name—’
Matty cut him off with a raised eyebrow and a smile. ‘You do. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here. And given your profession, I suspect you’re trying to do the right thing – a thing required by law – which isn’t easy in a small town where the walls have ears. So let me have the name of the company that’s bothering you and I’ll do what I can to uncover who’s behind it.’
There was a pause, Stuart looking both hopeful and yet still reluctant. Then Matty took in the lad’s jacket, frayed at the cuffs, his shirt creased and crumpled, and the faint odour of Chinese spices that permeated from him.
‘Pro bono, of course,’ the lawyer added with a smile. ‘For a fellow professional.’
The estate agent’s shoulders sagged and he gave a single nod of relief. ‘Thanks. That’d be a great help. But I have to stress, this is just curiosity. It might lead to nothing—’
‘The name?’
Stuart Lister gulped. And then threw caution to the wind. ‘Kingston Holdings,’ he said.
‘Well?’ asked Delilah, leaning across the table as Samson placed his mobile back in his pocket. ‘What did Nancy want?’
‘She seems to have reason to believe that Bernard is meeting the woman he’s having an affair with tomorrow.’
‘At the shoot?’ Delilah’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Seriously? How on earth has she found that out?’
‘I’m not sure she has,’ said Samson, frowning. ‘She said Bernard’s just called her to say he’ll be out all day Saturday with work and she could tell from the tone of his voice that he was lying. How reliable that is as a source, I’m not sure.’
Delilah gave a dry laugh. ‘You’re asking the wrong person. Bernard’s son lied to me for the duration of our marriage and I never sensed a thing. But would the town’s mayor be so foolish as to flaunt his new woman at an event like that? Even if it’s invited guests only, it’s still a bit risky.’
‘Maybe that’s the entourage that Lucy is having to cater for,’ mused Samson. ‘Entertainment for the boys. And Bernard is joining in. Either way, Nancy is insistent that we tail her husband and find out.’
‘Well, there’s only one way to do that,’ said Delilah, a smug tone entering her voice. ‘If only you had an insider already booked to work the event . . .’
Samson sat back, glaring at her. She was insufferable. And she was also right. He needed her help. But that didn’t stop him worrying about her, particularly as he was supposed to be keeping her at a distance.
‘If you do this,’ he said, ‘you have to wear a wire.’
‘What on earth for?’
‘That’s the condition. If you don’t agree, I’ll tell Lucy that you’re putting yourself in danger and she’ll sack you in an instant.’
Delilah’s chin tipped even higher. Then she simply nodded. ‘Okay, I’ll wear comms equipment but I’ll supply it. And it won’t be a wire,’ she added with a mocking laugh. ‘They went out with the ark.’
‘A wire?’ Arty Robinson was back at the table, rubbing his hands in excitement. ‘Are we getting rigged up with wires? Wait till I tell the gang. This day just gets better and better!’
He reached for his scone and took a big bite, eyes glued back on the estate agent’s across the square.
Fighting back a smile, Samson glanced over at Delilah to see her grinning at him and he felt his heart swell with love. Arty was right yet again. This day just kept getting better. Basking in being back in her company once more, Samson allowed himself to ignore the kernel of concern at the thought of Delilah spying on someone in an environment where guns would be in use.
Many hours later, in one of the apartments at Fellside Court retirement complex, Phyllis Walker was trying to remember when she’d last had such fun.
Hands twisted with arthritis, she was doing her best to wield the tools of her former trade. And without being arrogant, she thought, as she stood back to admire her work, she was doing a pretty good job. Especially considering how little notice she’d been given.
She’d been finishing off the last of her solitary evening meal when there’d been a frantic knocking at the front door and she’d opened it to see a group of excited fellow residents in the hallway. Arty Robinson had been the first to speak, but it had all been so garbled and delivered in a stage whisper so loud the others had to keep telling him to keep his voice down, thus effectively drowning him out. In the end it had been easier to invite them all in.
Arty and his companions – including Tolpuddle, the gorgeous Weimaraner – had all filed in, leaving Phyllis’s lounge somewhat overcrowded. It had taken them a few minutes to outline what they wanted – something to do with an undercover operation which they weren’t at liberty to talk about, which at first made the conservative Phyllis reluctant to be involved. But when she realised it was all connected to the Dales Detective Agency and Joseph O’Brien’s son, Samson, a young man she’d found to be most charming in her previous dealings with him back in February, she’d relented. And consequently was having an evening unlike any she’d had recently.
Entertaining for a start. Exciting too. And so rewarding, to know that she hadn’t lost her touch, even if her hands were no longer as agile as they had once been.
‘It’s all about light and shade,’ she explained to her audience. ‘A strip of pale here and the shape changes. A bit of dark there and everything becomes more hollow.’
‘Christ,’ muttered Arty Robinson, watching on from the safety of the couch alongside Joseph O’Brien and Eric Bradley. ‘Who knew it was all so complicated?’
‘And what the hell is all that stuff?’ wheezed Eric, a frail hand resting on his oxygen tank in reassurance, the excitement of the day having taken a toll on his breathing. He nodded towards the table, which was littered with brushes, puffs, powders, tubes and vials of God knows what, and an instrument that looked like a pair of scissors designed by the Devil.
‘Best off not knowing,’ murmured Joseph with a bemused smile. ‘Let them keep their secrets.’
Sitting in a dining chair to one side, Edith Hird let out a sharp laugh. ‘Don’t include me in that,’ she said, shaking her stick in the direction of the three men on the sofa. ‘I’m as perplexed by all this as the rest of you.’
‘I think it’s magical,’ breathed her sister, Clarissa Ralph, who was busy pouring tea for everyone. ‘The things you can do, Phyllis! You’re a real artist.’
Phyllis gave a little bow. She’d been raised in a household that didn’t hold with self-aggrandisement, but she felt a thrill at having her talents recognised. Especially after all these years of being defined as simply a pensioner.
‘Happy to help,’ she said truthfully.
‘I’ll have to get you to work on me before Robert comes over,’ continued Clarissa with an infectious smile. ‘He’s taking me to Bettys tea rooms at Harlow Carr for our first date.’
‘Is he now?’ said Edith sharply. ‘When was that decided?’
‘This morning. We haven’t fixed on a day yet because he’s got a lot on. But I can’t wait to meet him.’
‘Aye, well just make sure he has his wallet with him,’ muttered her sister.
From his seat on the couch, Arty saw the change in Edith’s mood. That frown of concern, which had disappeared since his return from his meeting with Samson, had crept back onto her forehead.
‘Maybe we should get Phyllis to do us next,’ he threw out, hoping to distract his friend once more. ‘You know, go for deep cover?’
‘Duvet cover, more like,’ quipped Eric. ‘That’s about the only thing that would work on that face of yours.’
Edith laughed and Arty did his best to look hurt. When in truth, hearing the sound of her laughter, he was anything but.
So far his plan to raise her spirits had been working. When he’d arrived back at the retirement complex with news of an assignment for the Dales Detective Agency, the gloom had been lifted off what had been an uneventful afternoon. More like her old self, Edith had joined her sister in making lists of what they would need to take and drawing up a rota of shifts – and comfort breaks – amongst the group of friends, while Joseph, Arty and Eric had discussed the best way for them to operate ‘comms’, as Arty kept referring to it. Having been denied access to any of Delilah’s gadgetry, they were going to have to rely on their mobiles, and so Joseph had spent the best part of an hour getting his head around creating a WhatsApp group. Arty had subsequently spent the next half an hour driving them all mad by repeatedly posting in it.
With little prospect of getting any sleep, such was the excitement amongst the group, they were sitting in the residents’ lounge discussing last-minute arrangements, when their day had taken yet another unexpected turn. One that had necessitated a trip to see Phyllis – a former beauty-salon owner and, more importantly, former make-up artist for Bruncliffe Operatic Society – in her first floor apartment.
And now Phyllis was standing back, letting them see the fruits of her labour.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘what do you think? Have I still got it?’
There wasn’t a sound. Just a line of open mouths as the pensioners took in the transformation Phyllis had brought about.
‘Bloody hell!’ Arty finally said, Edith not even turning at the blasphemy as they all stared at the person standing in front of them. ‘Your own mother wouldn’t know you.’
‘That,’ said Delilah, ‘is exactly what I wanted to hear.’
From his place on the floor lying at Joseph’s feet, Tolpuddle lifted his head at her voice and tipped it sideways in puzzlement, letting out an apprehensive whine.
‘It’s okay, boy,’ Delilah said, rubbing his head. Then she caught sight of herself in the antique mirror above Phyllis’s sideboard and she understood his confusion.
Arty was right. Even her mother wouldn’t know her. More importantly, neither would Bernard Taylor.
Nor, Delilah thought with a laugh, would Samson. Going undercover was going to be fun.