Down in Bruncliffe, the three Metcalfes who’d been left in charge of Peaks Patisserie were doing a brilliant job. Will’s wife Alison was waiting on tables, Lucy’s lad Nathan was manning the dishwasher and the matriarch of the Metcalfe clan, Peggy, was baking up a storm, a batch of Yorkshire curd tarts and two tea loaves already cooling on a wire rack. With a tray of spinach-and-feta mini quiches in the oven and some lamb-and-mint pasties currently underway, things were running smoothly. Despite the hectic start.
The makeshift team had had to hit the ground running, having arrived at the cafe at eight to see a huddle of people already waiting at the door. Peggy hadn’t had the heart to leave them out there for half an hour until the official opening time, especially when they were all residents of Fellside Court.
‘What on earth are you doing here so early?’ she’d asked as she ushered the group into the cafe. ‘Did you get kicked out for misbehaving?’
The last question was aimed at Arty Robinson, who’d grinned back at her. ‘Not this time,’ he’d said.
He’d offered nothing more by way of explanation and they’d settled themselves at a table next to the window. And promptly ordered coffees and breakfast rolls. That had been the catalyst for a manic morning. People passing by had seen the pensioners sitting in the cafe, and had been drawn in despite the early hour. Before the cafe was even supposed to be open, every table had been occupied and the temporary staff rushed off their feet.
Two hours on, and things had quietened down a bit. Apart from the table by the window.
‘What do you think they’re up to?’ Peggy asked Nathan, as they stood behind the counter grabbing a breather and watching the pensioners chattering away. ‘They’ve been here ages and show no sign of moving.’
‘A stake-out, I’d say.’
‘Seriously?’ Peggy glanced at her grandson to see if he was joking but the lad was slouched on the counter, long body draped over it as he contentedly bit into a blueberry muffin. There was no sign of laughter on the face that was almost a mirror-image of his father’s at that age. ‘What on earth makes you say that?’
Nathan shrugged. ‘They keep taking it in turns to sit looking out of the window. And they’re drinking a lot of coffee. Classic signs of a stake-out.’ He sounded so authoritative and a lot older than his fourteen – soon to be fifteen – years. ‘They must be on a job for Samson while he’s up at the shoot.’
Peggy turned back to reassess the group across the cafe. Ludicrous as it might sound, Nathan’s observation held a ring of truth, particularly when the group included Joseph O’Brien, Samson’s father. She shook her head, amazed both at her grandson’s prescience and her own easy acceptance of what he’d suggested.
A stake-out in Bruncliffe. Only last year that would have been considered ridiculous. Like Bruncliffe had any crime! But since the return of Samson O’Brien in the autumn and the opening of the Dales Detective Agency, such events had become commonplace, at least for the Metcalfe family. It was only a few weeks ago that Delilah had nearly lost her life—
Peggy’s breath caught in her throat, her hand involuntarily going to her heart as though to ease a pain at the thought. She’d already lost one child; she wasn’t sure she could cope with losing another. Which is why, much as she cared for the O’Brien lad, Samson having been a fixture in the Metcalfe family since his mother died, she sometimes wished he hadn’t returned home and got Delilah embroiled in his escapades. It was only going to end in someone getting hurt and Peggy had a sneaking suspicion that person would be Delilah. Even if she survived the physical danger that seemed to come with the job, surviving with her heart unscathed was another matter. For Peggy had seen the way her only daughter looked at the returned detective and suspected the attraction Delilah felt for the Dales Detective Agency wasn’t simply based on an interest in sleuthing.
‘You okay, Gran?’ Standing up straight now and towering over her, Nathan was watching her with concern, the last bit of the muffin halfway to his mouth.
‘Yes, yes, sorry.’ Peggy forced a smile. ‘I was miles away.’
‘Dad?’ he asked, not fooled for a minute.
The pain in her heart flipped to love as she looked at her grandson, offering her comfort for a loss that had affected no one more than him. She smiled again, genuine this time.
‘Your father would be so proud of you,’ she said, reaching up to stroke a stray lock of hair off his forehead.
Nathan grinned down at her. ‘Proud enough to let me have one of those quiches? I think they’re done.’
Peggy laughed, remembering a son who’d had a similar appetite and a similar cheeky manner. ‘Okay – but don’t burn yourself!’
The lad headed into the kitchen and Peggy was about to follow him when a scrape of chairs from the table over at the window caught her attention. Arty Robinson was swapping places with Clarissa Ralph and Joseph O’Brien was giving up his seat to Clarissa’s sister, Edith.
Nathan was right. Whatever they were up to, the residents of Fellside Court weren’t simply having a prolonged coffee morning, that was for sure.
Intrigued, Peggy Metcalfe went into the kitchen to rescue her quiches before they all disappeared. That would be one mystery which wouldn’t require solving by Bruncliffe’s detective agency.
Up on the fells above the town, Peggy’s only daughter would rather have been investigating a missing quiche than sitting in a jolting Land Rover feeling like she was going to be sick, all the while being interrogated like a stranger by her oldest brother. As he guided the vehicle over the rough track that led to the shooting pegs, Will fired questions at the woman he knew as Denise.
Where was she from? Were her family local? When did she start temping for the catering agency? Had she known Lucy long . . .?
Getting a taste of what it was like to be an offcumden in her own community, Delilah was doing her best to provide plausible answers, but the physical effort of being in disguise was starting to take its toll. With her face red and a sheen of sweat on her forehead – the foam padding around her midriff making her feel like an over-lagged pipe – she was beginning to think she might have bitten off more than she could chew.
And that was before she factored in what she’d learned when she’d called into the kitchen to sweet-talk Lucy into dropping everything to provide unscheduled coffee and cake for the guns.
Mafia! What the hell?
Ana had been convinced about it, that the men she’d seen in the courtyard bore the hallmarks of organised crime. While it was a substantial allegation to be based on appearance alone, if she was right it changed the nature of what lay ahead entirely.
Delilah was about to go undercover amongst men who wouldn’t take kindly to being spied on.
She’d been tempted to call it a day on hearing Ana’s bombshell, a move the Peaks Patisserie team had strongly advocated. And one Delilah knew Samson would be already pushing for if the spy cam had been on during the conversation in the kitchen. After all, there was no sign of any femme fatale with her sights on Bernard Taylor, unless one of the Bulgarians had an even more convincing disguise than Delilah. So the need for stealth was redundant. She could abandon her suffocating outfit, send her alter ego home ‘sick’, and serve out the rest of the shoot as herself, a waitress and nothing more.
But Delilah had a stubborn streak as wide as Malham Cove. This was her first covert operation and she wanted to prove she could do it. Even if just for a little while. Besides, there was still the matter of the financial aspect of the investigation. Given Ana’s suspicions, the day could well yield something that might cast light on Bernard’s hoard of cash: a careless conversation, for example, which was unlikely to be held in front of the Dales Detective Agency’s Delilah Metcalfe.
And then there was Samson . . . Or rather, a desire to impress him. To get a reaction out of him and get their relationship back to something other than the intolerable politeness that had shrouded it recently.
With this reasoning in mind, Delilah had sworn her friends to silence – knowing that if Samson got wind of Ana’s theories about the men, he’d insist on Denise making a swift exit – loaded up the old Land Rover with a couple of crates of provisions and a folding table, and clambered up into the passenger seat next to Will, determined to carry out her mission.
Fast forward ten minutes and as the 4x4 lurched and bumped along the grass track, it was taking all of her willpower to stick to that resolution.
‘Here we are,’ said Will, finally turning off the track to pull up where the Jaguars were parked on a patch of grass next to a small copse.
Almost falling out of the car with relief, Delilah discreetly tapped the side of her glasses to reactivate the camera, dabbed the worst of the sweat off her face with a tissue and, with Will helping her carry the supplies, walked down the sloping grass to join the shooting party.
‘Gareth’s starting them off on the tough stuff,’ murmured Will with a small smile as he took in the terrain of the first drive, the copse giving way to bare fellside rising sharply to the left, bursts of yellow gorse along its ridge, breaking up the green. Facing into the hillside were eight pegs spaced out along the rough grass. ‘High pheasants.’
Delilah just nodded politely. While she was totally at home in this environment, she wasn’t sure how much a woman like Denise would know about the world of clay shooting. Best to say nothing.
‘They’re harder to hit,’ Will carried on, taking the woman’s silence for ignorance. ‘Reckon he’s trying to put our delightful Bulgarians in their place.’
‘They need it,’ she said with passion, and was rewarded with a sharp look from her brother.
‘It’s funny,’ he said, still staring at her as they set down the crates a safe distance from the pegs, ‘you really remind me of someone. Are you sure we haven’t met before?’
‘Quite sure,’ Delilah muttered, bending down to pick up the folding table, using the action to hide her burning face.
‘Right. Well make sure you stay well back out of the way. These buggers don’t look like they’ll be the most respectful guns ever and if anyone is going to get hurt, I’d rather it wasn’t one of us. Okay?’
Thinking he didn’t know the half of it, Delilah let a brisk nod suffice and busied herself with erecting the table and laying out the coffee flasks, cups and cakes while Will headed over to the group gathered around the gamekeeper.
‘So if everyone is clear,’ Gareth was concluding, his spaniel Bounty at his heels, ‘we’ll commence and finish the drive on my whistle. Okay?’
The responses were mostly nods, the men already turning away and pulling on their ear defenders, eager to get shooting as they headed for the pegs they’d been allocated in the draw. Moments later, at the shrill blast of Gareth’s whistle, a flurry of clays flew over the top of the fellside and a barrage of gunshot began cracking around the dale.
From her position behind her table, Delilah tried to tell herself that this wasn’t the stupidest thing she’d ever got herself into.
Huddled over his phone in the cramped confines of the Micra, Samson was also kicking himself for an act of stupidity, but of an entirely different nature. He’d left the office in such a hurry, he hadn’t thought to grab any sustenance, so now he was stuck on a remote road up on the fells with no chance of getting any supplies. And he was being tortured.
‘Stop focusing on the food,’ he groaned, as Delilah’s spy cam treated him to the array of cakes provided for the shooting party, dipping close to a divine looking tea loaf as she began to cut it, the pop of gunshot audible in the background. The images were breaking up slightly, as though the distance out to the fells was having an impact, but they were clear enough to make him salivate.
God he was hungry. And less than half a mile down the drive opposite, Lucy Metcalfe was baking up a storm in the kitchen of Bruncliffe Manor. The thought of it was agony.
A whimper came from the back seat, followed by a gurgle of canine intestines. Tolpuddle, dreaming, a paw across his nose. Perhaps his stomach was empty too, leading to fantasies of tasty sausages. Or juicy steaks. Although the greedy bugger had managed to get himself two of Ida’s bacon butties, so maybe that gurgle was simply one of satisfied digestion.
More in hope than expectation, Samson leaned across to open the glovebox. Insurance documents, a dog-eared manual, a packet of tissues, a ballpoint pen and the tail end of a roll of Polo Mints that looked like they’d got damp at some point.
Faced with Hobson’s choice, he seized on them eagerly, fingers working the twist of wrapping to discover three mints. He glanced at his watch, dismayed to see it was still only mid-morning. With the shooting party being treated to five drives spaced out over elevenses, a leisurely lunch and afternoon tea, there was every chance he could be sitting in the Micra for another six hours. So, half a mint an hour.
Samson sighed. Broke a mint in two and placed it in his mouth, throwing the rest on the seat next to him before reverting his attention back to the live feed playing out on his mobile. Delilah had finished setting out the food and was watching the shoot. And he could tell from the way the camera was moving from side to side that she was shaking her head, unimpressed by the abilities of the Bulgarians.
He didn’t blame her. The men were haphazard, peppering the sky with erratic blasts, most of the clays flying over their heads unscathed. But at least they were trying. The camera swung to the far peg to show Rick Procter, who didn’t even seem to be taking aim properly, firing before the barrel of his shotgun was fully lifted. Either he was a dreadful shot or he was deliberately missing in an effort not to embarrass his guests.
The image froze for a second then restarted, Bernard Taylor now in the frame. There was no play-acting in the mayor’s lack of skill with a firearm. Flinching every time the large Bulgarian next to him fired, he had a grip on his gun that even death couldn’t have released. And unless Samson was mistaken—
‘He’s not shooting!’ Delilah’s whisper came over the speaker in a rustle of static, anticipating Samson’s own observation. ‘Bernard isn’t firing his gun.’
She was right. She was also the only one who’d noticed – Gareth was further down the line with Will and Ash, and the four bodyguards were standing behind the Karamanski brothers. No one was paying any attention to the rotund man at the end who was going through the motions, tracking the clays with his barrel, yet never pulling the trigger.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ Delilah muttered into the microphone.
A bark in reply came from the seat behind Samson, Tolpuddle waking up at the sound of her voice.
‘It’s okay boy,’ said Samson, reaching a hand back to pat the dog, focus still on the screen. ‘She’s not here.’
He felt the wet touch of a nose, the lick of a tongue and then a low whine.
‘What’s up?’ he asked, looking at the Weimaraner now.
Tolpuddle gave another bark and licked Samson’s hand again, nose twitching. Hauling himself up from his sleeping position, he stretched forward between the seats. Towards the remainder of the Polos.
‘Oh no you don’t!’ yelled Samson, lunging for the precious rations at the same time.
But the dog was faster. In a blur of grey, he grabbed the twisted end of the wrapper and dived back into the rear of the car.
‘That’s our only food,’ Samson pleaded, trying to reach back to snatch the mints. Tolpuddle wasn’t having it. He shuffled to the far side of the seat. Samson resorted to threats. ‘Okay, go ahead and eat them. But I’m warning you, that’ll be you and me finished. No more stake-outs. No more sleepovers in my office. You’ll be dead to me.’
With his head tipped to one side, the dog regarded him solemnly, the mints dangling from his jaws. Then Delilah spoke again.
‘I think there’s going to be trouble,’ she murmured, in a voice filled with concern. ‘Samson, are you watching?’
Samson turned back to his mobile as Tolpuddle barked again, the mints falling onto the back seat. But they went ignored. Because Delilah was right. Trouble was about to break out.
If she’d had to put money on where the trouble would come from, Delilah Metcalfe would have placed her entire life savings – which didn’t amount to much – on Milan, the tall Bulgarian. Since he’d got out of the Jaguar back at the manor, there’d been an air of malcontent about him, a dark cloud of looming aggression. That cloud had only got more and more ominous as the first drive had progressed and the clays remained untouched by the majority of his shots.
While his compatriots had settled into the sport, getting better with each round they fired, Milan had continued to miss the mark, his reckless style more suited to a shoot-out in a Wild West saloon. Aware he was lagging behind the others, he’d begun grunting his discontent. Then he’d started shouting in Bulgarian at every missed target. Now he was gesticulating at his shotgun, seemingly blaming the weapon for his lack of success. Until he spotted a target that offered more entertainment.
A brown hare, emerging out of the copse onto the fellside to the left of the guns. Startled by the noise, it stopped, sat upright and turned, ears lifted as it gazed around with wary elegance.
‘I think there’s going to be trouble,’ Delilah murmured, watching a sly smile cross the Bulgarian’s face. He reloaded his gun, attention on the hare rather than the blue sky through which the clays were flying, and Delilah went cold. ‘Samson, are you watching?’ she asked, unable to keep the concern from her voice.
There was no opportunity for a reply, the comms one-way only. All Delilah could do was keep her glasses fixed in the direction of the Bulgarian, and hope that Samson was seeing this too. Fingers clenched on the knife she’d been using to cut the cake, she heard Milan give a roar of delight as he swung his gun across the land towards the creature.
Finally realising the danger, the hare began racing back the way it had come, but Milan was cunning. He fired both barrels ahead of it, between the animal and the cover of the trees. Wheeling around, the hare broke up the hill, across the exposed fellside, legs pushing it on to the safety of the gorse on the ridge as Milan raced to reload. His compatriots were turning now, seeing the live target for the first time. And they were changing their aim too, only Rick and Bernard holding back, a look of distaste on the property developer’s face; one of terror on the mayor’s.
Six shotguns. One hare.
It wasn’t a fair fight.
A hail of shots rang out, Delilah, breath caught in her chest, willing the animal on. Urging it upwards, away from the guns which were firing wildly, her own legs tensed at the effort she knew this uphill dash was taking. The men were shouting and hollering against a volley of gunfire. And over it all, the shrill sound of Gareth’s whistle going ignored.
The hare was so close to safety. Only a few leaps away from the yellow flowers of the thick gorse that would allow it to disappear. But the men were determined, adrenalin pumping as they fired and reloaded, Delilah holding her fists clenched, eyes fixed on the fleeing creature—
She didn’t see who shot it. All she saw was the brown body flip up into the air and then down, still, the gorse a whisker away. And then the men were cheering and hooting, Milan holding his shotgun above his head in triumph, while an annoyed Gareth tried to bring order back to the group.
‘The drive is over!’ he was shouting. ‘Put your guns down!’
The men were ignoring him, until Niko barked something in Bulgarian and a resentful silence settled on the gathering, shotguns broken and laid over arms as they stared at the gamekeeper.
‘What the hell was that all about?’ Gareth seethed at Milan. ‘No live targets, I said. Was I not specific enough?’
Milan shrugged, not looking apologetic in the least.
‘Sorry,’ said Niko, smiling. ‘It’s the red blood, you know?’
Gareth took a deep breath, clearly wrestling with his temper. Then, with a calm command, he cast his arm out towards the hillside. ‘Fetch, Bounty.’
In a streak of muscle, the springer spaniel scarpered up the steep rise straight towards the fallen hare and then gently, almost respectfully, gathered it into her mouth and came back to lie it at the gamekeeper’s feet.
‘Good girl,’ murmured Gareth, patting the dog. He stared down at the limp creature she’d retrieved, and slowly turned back to the men. ‘No more bloody live targets. Understand?’
Milan just glared at him. But Niko nodded.
‘Right, let’s all have a break and try to cool off a bit,’ said Gareth. ‘I suggest coffee and cake.’ He turned his back on the group, heading for Delilah and the table of refreshments, and as his broad back presented itself to the Bulgarians, Milan, like a surly teenager, lifted his right hand into a mime of a gun and mock-fired several rounds into it.
‘You okay, Denise?’ Ash had moved up next to Delilah, face concerned, almost undoing the tight hold she had on herself and her disguise. She bit her cheek and forced back the anger that was threatening to undo all her hard work.
‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘Kind of.’
‘That was all a bit barbaric,’ he muttered with a shake of his head.
She knew what he meant. They’d grown up around guns and had witnessed plenty of shoots. But nothing Delilah had ever seen had been as savage as this. Judging by the disdain on Rick Procter’s face as he followed the men to the table, he wasn’t enamoured with what had just happened either. But it was Bernard Taylor’s reaction that caught Delilah’s attention. As the Bulgarians crowded around her, laughing and joking at their prowess, she caught a glimpse of her former father-in-law standing alone at the pegs, staring down at the dead hare with horror, his lips working silently as though he was murmuring a prayer.
For some reason, Delilah didn’t think it was for the slaughtered creature.