‘What the hell are Rick and Bernard playing at, inviting this lot to a shoot?’
Watching the Bulgarians carrying on rowdily as they stood around the table of refreshments, Will Metcalfe was seriously bemused. In all the years he’d known Rick Procter and Bernard Taylor, the men had never put a foot wrong when it came to business. But this was a disaster waiting to happen. One that had already happened, judging by the animated discussion the mayor was having with the property developer to one side.
Face puce, Bernard Taylor was leaning into his business partner in a manner that wouldn’t go down well at a council meeting, while Rick seemed to be trying to placate him.
Ash shook his head, equally puzzled. As a carpenter, he’d worked for the Procter Properties group on and off for a couple of years, supplying and fitting bespoke kitchens for their high-end developments. Like his brother, he’d never seen Rick make a mistake when it came to investments or to partnerships. But he was looking at one now. ‘I just don’t get it,’ he muttered. ‘That lot don’t look like business investors to me.’
‘Me neither. Especially not that Milan. That scar wasn’t the product of a boardroom dispute.’ Will turned his attention to Denise, who was pouring coffee and cutting cake, all the time keeping her eye on the men. ‘She’s got her head screwed on,’ he said grimly. ‘Thank God she’s here instead of Delilah.’
Ash grunted, and raised his mug to his lips.
‘Do you know her?’ continued Will, still watching the waitress, unable to shift that feeling of recognition.
Another grunt from his brother, this time with a shake of the head.
‘She doesn’t remind you of anyone?’
‘Nope.’ Ash took a long drink, mug lifted high.
Will shrugged. ‘Must be just me,’ he muttered.
Across the grass, Gareth was approaching Rick Procter, the gamekeeper frowning and tapping his watch.
‘Looks like we’re about to restart,’ said Will. ‘I’d best get some of that cake before we’re back at it.’
As he walked off, Ash Metcalfe lowered his mug and let the smile he’d been hiding stretch across his face.
Recognise her? He’d known Denise the minute he’d clapped eyes on her outside Bruncliffe Manor – the way she stood, that little tick she had of tipping up her chin when she was trying to be defiant. He’d also recognised the sheer effort she’d had to make in keeping her temper after Milan’s callous attack on the hare. But if his brother was fooled, far be it from Ash to set him straight. Their little sister clearly had her reasons for being here in disguise and Ash wasn’t about to ruin it by alerting their hot-headed older sibling and creating a fuss. Which is exactly what Will would do if he twigged. And in the current company, creating a fuss and unmasking Delilah could create a situation of the sort none of them wanted.
‘This isn’t something we can rush, Bernard,’ Rick was saying, one eye on the man in front of him and the other on the rest of the group, aware of the Metcalfe brothers watching them. He forced a smile. ‘As soon as I get the right moment, I’ll speak to Niko. But until then, please, leave it with me as we agreed.’
‘We agreed that when I didn’t know what today entailed,’ hissed the mayor, the white patches of strain around his eyes vivid against a florid face. ‘So either you tell them soon or I will. I can’t keep this up any more. These men . . .’ He cast a look towards the group over by the table and swallowed, no need to verbalise the fear that held him as taut as a bow.
‘And that is exactly why I need to do this carefully,’ murmured Rick, keeping his voice steady. They were at the edge of the abyss he’d foreseen and the weight of his business partner had never felt heavier on his back. One wrong move and they would both be damned. ‘I’ll do it, I promise. I’ll speak to Niko when I get a chance and organise your withdrawal from the business. But this whole shoot was his idea, don’t forget. If I’m to have any chance of getting what you want, we need it to go smoothly in order to keep him sweet. So for God’s sake, play along for the rest of the day. That’s all I ask.’
Taylor made a guttural sound, part terror, part acceptance. Then his shoulders slumped and he nodded. ‘I just want out,’ he said.
It was the statement of a child. Someone who had no idea of consequences, or of how deadly they could be. Someone who wasn’t going to have to clean up the resulting mess.
Conscious of his temper building, Rick was almost relieved to see the large figure of Gareth Towler approaching, a suggestive tap of his watch in the property developer’s direction. Despite having no appetite for the resumption of what already felt like the longest day of his life, Rick nodded in response and the gamekeeper’s voice boomed out.
‘Second drive is about to start. Take your positions please, gentlemen.’
Praying this one would go smoothly, Rick Procter followed the reluctant steps of the mayor across the grass towards the pegs.
‘I wonder how Delilah’s undercover operation is going,’ mused Arty Robinson. ‘Do you think she’s seeing more action than we are?’
Head propped on a hand, his third cup of coffee in front of him, his second scone already eaten, he was staring out of the window of Peaks Patisserie, the front door of Taylor’s not having moved since the receptionist opened up the premises first thing. If it was a slow day for Bruncliffe’s property market, it was an even slower one for an amateur detective.
‘You’d have to hope so,’ said Joseph.
Arty yawned and rubbed his eyes. ‘Honestly, I don’t know how Samson did this day after day. I mean, it’s not exactly high-octane.’
Edith tutted and gave him her ‘look’, refined over years as headmistress of Bruncliffe Primary School. ‘If you’d adhered to the schedule, you wouldn’t be here. Clarissa and I were down to do the first shift. You boys weren’t meant to relieve us for another hour.’
The boys in question, Arty, Joseph O’Brien and Eric Bradley, totalling over two hundred years on the planet between them, looked bashful. Caught up in the excitement of a stake-out, they’d been unable to resist the lure of joining the sisters at the cafe, throwing Edith’s schedule into disarray.
‘Besides,’ said Edith, with a softer tone, ‘where would you rather be – here or at armchair aerobics in the residents’ lounge?’
‘If he keeps eating cake at this rate, he’s never going to fit in an armchair again,’ wheezed Eric Bradley.
Arty laughed. ‘Good point,’ he said, slapping his protruding stomach.
‘My Robert doesn’t have to worry about his weight,’ said Clarissa. ‘Which is just as well, seeing as we’re going to Bettys for our first date. I’m thinking I’ll just have a plate of macaroons . . . or maybe push the boat out and order afternoon tea . . .’ Her face had taken on a dreamy smile. ‘What would you have, Edith?’
‘Neither. I’ve no time for idle pipe dreaming.’ The words came out brittle, casting a pall across the table, Joseph toying with his teaspoon and Eric leaning over to fiddle with his oxygen tank.
Clarissa’s cheeks reddened. Her smile dimmed slightly, then grew even brighter as she stood up and excused herself, heading towards the ladies. Arty waited until she was out of earshot before speaking.
‘That was a bit harsh, Edith.’
Edith turned to face the three men, no sign of contrition. ‘Was it? You don’t think she needs telling?’
The men looked at each other, nonplussed. ‘Telling what?’ asked Joseph.
‘That this is all a bit suspect. I mean, the man keeps making all these promises—’
‘It’s a trip to Harlow Carr and a bite to eat at Bettys,’ said Arty. ‘Where’s the harm in that?’
‘The harm is that he might not be who he says he is. And Clarissa is already throwing her heart into this. You know how soft she is. I just don’t want her to get hurt.’
‘You mean you think he’s out to trick her?’ Arty had read about such people in the paper. Scamming folk online by pretending to be what they weren’t. Conning old dears out of their life savings by offering the promise of romance. Or even love. ‘You think this Robert is a cuttlefish?’
Eric let out a snort of laughter. ‘Catfish,’ he said. ‘They’re known as catfish.’
Arty shrugged. ‘Catfish, cuttlefish, they’re both ugly buggers.’
‘That’s exactly what I think,’ said Edith, nodding.
But Arty was shaking his head. ‘I think you’re overreacting. A meal in Bettys isn’t exactly going to yield much if he is a scam artist.’
‘I don’t know,’ muttered Eric. ‘Have you seen the price of the macaroons?’
Joseph laughed but Edith didn’t join in, her lips remaining pursed. And Arty realised this was it. This was what had been bothering her. She was fretting about her sister.
‘Look,’ he said, reaching out to put a hand on her arm, ‘if you’re that worried, perhaps you ought to do something about it.
‘I already have,’ said Edith, a hint of red on her cheeks. ‘I’ve asked Samson to look into it.’
The three men stared at her, Arty finally finding his voice. ‘You’ve got Samson spying on your own sister?’
Edith nodded, chin tipping up in defiance.
‘So,’ asked a breezy voice – Clarissa was sitting back down, ‘have I missed anything exciting?’
‘Not a thing,’ said Arty, turning back to stare out of the window, more concerned about Edith than ever.
By the time Delilah had packed away the crockery and what remained of the cakes, ready to transport everything back to the Land Rover, the second drive was well underway.
It had begun with a truce of sorts. Having reiterated his warnings about shooting live game, Gareth had rejigged the order on the pegs to give each man a turn at the better positions and, so far, everything seemed to be progressing calmly. As calmly as it could when clays were whizzing overhead and a line of men were trying to shoot them.
Stacking the last crate of repacked supplies on the grass, Delilah straightened up and stretched her aching back. The sun was high in the sky now, a fine May day shining down on the narrow dale where the drive was taking place. Sheltered from the light breeze that was wafting soft clouds across the blue above, it was getting warm. In fact, thought Delilah, as she fanned her face, it was getting downright hot.
Blasted padding.
She felt like she was slowly cooking, the huge doughnut around her middle making her combust. Wiping a tissue across her forehead, she was startled to see it come away with a streak of tan across it. Her make-up. The sweat was making it run.
If she had to stand out here much longer, Denise would melt into Delilah.
‘Want a hand with that?’
Delilah quickly stuffed the tissue in her pocket before turning to see Will behind her, pointing at the bare table. Not even waiting for an answer, he flipped it onto its side, smoothly folded down the legs and stacked it next to the crates.
Already hot and tired, a familiar flare of annoyance surged through Delilah at his presumptuous manner and she was about to make a sharp comment, but caught herself just in time. She was Denise, a woman working as a waitress for a caterer; not Will’s little sister who’d spent a lifetime trying to prove she was his equal. Maybe Denise, flushed with heat and beginning to feel weary, wouldn’t mind a little help. In fact . . .
‘Thanks,’ she said with a wide smile before making a show of rubbing her back. ‘I don’t suppose you could carry this lot over to the cars for me while you’re at it?’
Will smiled back at her. ‘Not at all. Glad to be of help. Here,’ he said, passing over his shotgun, which he’d been holding broken over his arm, ‘look after that for me. And don’t worry, it’s not loaded.’
Delilah gave what she hoped was a cautious smile and took the shotgun with tentative fingers like she’d never handled a gun before, all the time fighting the urge to grab a few cartridges, snap them in the barrels and show the Bulgarians how to shoot clays.
Another four hours of being Denise. Sweltering in this plump body, make-up running, eyes irritated by the contact lenses and her head itching like a family of ants had taken up residence beneath the wig, let alone constantly curbing her behaviour. Delilah didn’t know if she’d be able to stick it.
Or, to be frank, if it was worth it. She’d seen nothing of note in terms of the Dales Detective Agency investigation and had overheard even less, the one conversation that might possibly have been of interest – the heated discussion between Rick and Bernard – having taken place out of hearing distance when she was busy serving tea and coffee to the others.
Perhaps she should call it quits. Plead a headache at the end of this drive and get Will to drop her back at the manor. Lucy would be glad of the extra help in the kitchen in the run-up to lunch.
Buoyed by the thought that she could soon be shedding her fake persona, padding and all, Delilah turned her attention to the shoot with renewed enthusiasm.
The coffee break hadn’t done anything to improve skill levels. She watched with a critical eye as the line of guns fired up at the clays whipping over the fellside, Niko and Andrey by far the best shots, their bodyguards standing alert behind them, no ear defenders, impervious to the loud blasts. Rick Procter was next to Niko, appearing competent as he reloaded and fired in a smooth movement, but still looking like he was holding something back. The rest of the Bulgarians, however, were no better than they’d been in the earlier drive. In fact, if anything, they were slightly more haphazard, snatching at targets and missing wildly, a crazed recklessness to them.
And Bernard Taylor? He wasn’t even trying to pretend any more, his gun held down towards the ground, the man twitching at each shot from the men either side of him despite the ear defenders he was wearing.
It would have been better if he’d at least made an effort. Particularly as his neighbour was Milan, who’d once more grown frustrated at his lack of success with the clays and looked to be itching for trouble. As the Bulgarian lowered his gun from a spectacular miss, shouting what were no doubt obscenities in his own language and clearly blaming his weapon yet again, his gaze fell on the immobile mayor and he let out a laugh devoid of humour. He snapped open his shotgun, the cartridges flying out, and quickly reloaded, focus on the mayor the entire time.
Delilah recognised his expression. It was the same look he’d had before he started shooting at the hare; a predator lining up its prey. Sensing trouble, she took a step forward, aware of the useless gun draped over her elbow. Aware that Milan now had a loaded shotgun, which he was swinging to his left. Not up into the air where the clays were. At shoulder height now, pointing towards the rotund figure in plus fours on the next peg—
‘No!’ she shouted, moving forward in horror.
Her voice was lost in the boom of the gun as Milan let loose both barrels, right across the front of Bernard Taylor’s peg.
Down the road in the layby, Delilah’s panicked shout had an impact on both occupants of the Micra, Samson snapping upright in his seat, causing his left calf to cramp, and Tolpuddle waking abruptly from his dreams with a confused bark.
‘It’s all right, boy,’ murmured Samson, reaching back to pat the dog gently while simultaneously rubbing his own aching leg muscle.
But it wasn’t all right at all. Samson was staring in disbelief at his mobile, the image breaking up but good enough to show Bernard Taylor staggering back from a hail of pellets, a shrill yelp of terror escaping from him as he fell to the ground, seemingly uninjured. In the background, Milan was laughing wildly, impervious to the furious remonstrations of the gamekeeper, who’d brought the drive to an abrupt halt with his whistle.
Jesus! The big Bulgarian was lethal. First the hare and now he’d almost shot someone, and he thought it was just a joke.
The situation was far from ideal. Especially when the camera that was Samson’s only link to Delilah seemed to be going on the blink. What if the battery was running out? How long should it last? Or was it internet reception that was the problem?
Having used cheap burner phones for the majority of his life, as befitted his clandestine profession, Samson hadn’t acquired much technical knowhow and the person who could tell him the answers to those questions was on the other end of the staccato images.
One last flicker of video and his screen froze.
‘Damn it!’ he muttered.
He sat there for a few minutes, considering his options. It was so tempting to interfere. A simple text and he could tell Delilah to call the whole thing off. It wasn’t like she was getting anywhere in terms of the Taylor case and from what he’d just seen, she was putting herself in jeopardy for nothing. There was no telling what the crazed Milan might decide to do next. And God forbid her disguise should be rumbled . . .
But on the other hand, she was doing so well, handling herself like an undercover professional in an environment that was proving more and more complex. She’d be furious if he suggested she stop now, taking it as a sign he had no faith in her.
It was a risk he’d just have to take, Samson decided. Being on the brunt of Delilah’s temper was a small price to pay to ensure she was safe. Keeping his message short and to the point, he sent the text. Of course, whether or not Miss Metcalfe would heed his advice was another matter.
A whimper came from the back seat and Samson glanced over his shoulder at Tolpuddle, the dog looking anxious as though he could sense Delilah was in trouble. And alone.
‘It doesn’t feel right, does it?’ said Samson, scratching the grey head. ‘Not being with her.’
Even when they’d been locked in that blasted freezer a month ago, facing an uncertain outcome, at least they’d been together. He’d been able to tell himself he’d done all he could for her. This time he was sitting idle in a Micra over a mile away and she didn’t even have her faithful hound with her.
Soothed by the affection, the hound in question began to relax. He stretched. Yawned. And then pushed his nose towards the discarded Polo Mints wrapper, sniffing optimistically. He looked up, eyes forlorn, and a small whine escaped his throat. Another. Then a third, the gap between them getting smaller as the Weimaraner geared up to his infamous howl, which he could sustain indefinitely and which could drive a person to distraction.
‘Oh no you don’t!’ said Samson, recognising the signs of hunger, his own stomach growling in response. ‘Come on, let’s get out and stretch our legs. Take our mind off food.’
And off the perilous situation that Delilah seemed to have got herself into.
Slipping one of his wireless earphones in his right ear and his mobile in his back pocket so he could at least hear if the camera started working again, Samson got out of the car, the dog scampering after him. A walk. That would do them both the world of good. Without really thinking, he put a lead on Tolpuddle and began crossing the road. It was only as he stepped through the open double gates that he realised where he was going.
Bruncliffe Manor.
He paused, the Weimaraner pulling on the lead and looking back at him, as if Tolpuddle too felt the same urge. Whether the dog’s urge was motivated purely by hunger pangs, Samson couldn’t say. But either way, his own gut instinct was to head up to the manor. It wasn’t an instinct he felt inclined to ignore, even if it ran the risk of wrecking everything, including his relationship with Delilah if he blew her cover.
He glanced at his watch. According to what Gareth had said at the introduction, the shooting party were staying on the fells for elevenses. Which meant the coast was clear. Samson could go up to the manor, beg some sustenance for him and his canine partner from Lucy, and be that bit nearer to Delilah. Maybe get access to the WiFi for better coverage from the camera too. It was the sensible thing to do and not motivated at all by concerns over Delilah’s ability to look after herself.
Samson was still telling himself this as he resumed following Tolpuddle up the tree-lined drive.