They’d run out of cover. Having reached the last of the majestic lime trees, Samson and Tolpuddle were looking out from behind its broad trunk at the gravel forecourt before them, the cars parked up, the front doors of the manor wide open, revealing the expansive foyer beyond. No one around. But they couldn’t stay here. They were too exposed. If anyone came out into the hall or even onto the terrace that swept down the south side of the building in front of the bow-shaped window, they’d be spotted.
The kitchen. That’s what they were looking for. It would probably be around the back. Scanning the terrain, Samson’s eyes settled on the thick copse that climbed the hillside to the north of the manor. It ran down the full length of the house and would offer the perfect solution, allowing them to get to the back of the building unobserved. But reaching it would be problematic. The expanse of gravel offered no shelter, apart from a hedge which separated it from the sloping pasture to Samson’s left and ran all the way round the parking area, almost to the copse. Between the lime tree and the start of the hedge, however, there was nothing but bare grass.
They’d have to make a dash for it, across the grass to the hedge and then crawl along behind it before making a second dash to reach the more substantial protection of the far trees.
A whimper from beside him brought his attention back to Tolpuddle, the dog’s nose in the air, catching the delicious aroma of cooking. Eager to sample the origin of the tantalising smell, he was pulling on his lead, glancing up at Samson in confusion when he didn’t budge.
‘Ready?’ whispered Samson, crouching down to the dog’s level, lead gathered in his hand.
It was only then he heard it. A tinny sound, like the buzz of a bee in a trapped room. He glanced down and saw his earphone snagged on his jumper. It must have fallen out earlier when he hit the ground. He slipped it back in place and a blast of loud laughter erupted in his ear.
Either he was back within range or Delilah had reactivated the camera – whichever it was, it sounded like the Bulgarians were enjoying the food and drink that had been laid on for them. Then, over the hubbub, a sound that made him freeze. The scrape of a door being opened. And suddenly he could hear voices in both ears.
The men were coming out onto the terrace. He twisted to his right and saw broad shoulders emerging through French windows. One of the bodyguards, his head already turning, surveying the landscape for possible threats—
‘Run!’ Samson hissed at Tolpuddle, and set off sprinting for the hedge.
Across the grass, totally exposed, the dog racing along beside him, Samson didn’t even dare look towards the house. Another couple of yards and they’d be there. Three long strides, expecting to hear a shout at any moment. Then a headlong dive to the ground, a roll and Samson was sitting on the grass behind the hedge, panting, Tolpuddle pulling up sharp next to him, barely out of breath.
‘Good boy,’ he whispered, and was rewarded with a lick on the ear.
Twisting to face the house, he peered through the thick laurel, the bodyguard now joined by most of the shooting party out on the terrace. Jesus – that had been close.
With a grin, Samson gathered up Tolpuddle’s lead and began crawling on his hands and knees along the back of the hedge towards the far side of the gravel forecourt.
‘What took you so long?’ demanded Lucy as Elaine entered the kitchen, the chef already pointing to several trays of food waiting to be taken into the guests, Ana busy at work preparing more. ‘And where the hell is Delilah?’
‘She got held up,’ said Elaine. ‘The Bulgarians have been causing mayhem—’ She broke off, an image of the shotgun left amongst the umbrellas coming to mind. ‘Damn. Sorry, I’ve got to go and get something—’
She was already turning, empty-handed, towards the door, but Lucy’s tone of voice stopped her in her tracks.
‘Don’t you dare!’ The chef thundered, pointing at the refreshments. ‘This has to be taken. Now! And by you, because of my other two supposed waitresses, one hasn’t been here all morning and the other can’t go in that room because Rick Procter might see her. So whatever it is you have to do can wait—’
‘But it’s a gun—’
‘I don’t care if it’s a bomb about to go off! I’ve spent all morning and the best part of three days working to get this ready – an event I wouldn’t have taken on but for your insistence – so the least you can do now is get the food in to the guests on time.’
Elaine wouldn’t normally have argued. Not with a chef this close to meltdown. But the thought of that gun and her promise to Gareth made her try one more time. ‘But Lucy, it’s a matter of health and safety—’
Lucy growled.
‘I can get it,’ Ana interjected. ‘I’ve finished here and I need the toilet. Where is it?’
‘Thanks, Ana. It’s in the umbrella stand in the hall. Can you leave it out in the gunroom in the stables?’ With a cheeky grin and a wink at the irate chef, Elaine picked up two trays and hurried out of the kitchen.
They were stuck behind the hedge. Squatting down on his haunches, Samson was peering through the laurel barrier at the cause of their confinement.
Two of the bodyguards, feeling sufficiently relaxed about their charges in this environment, had wandered down from the raised terrace outside the room hosting the elevenses and sauntered across the gravel towards the cars. At which point they’d promptly lit cigarettes and proceeded to chat.
With the men too close for comfort, Samson had pulled the Weimaraner down beside him out of sight, calling a halt to their journey towards food – much to Tolpuddle’s consternation. But the bodyguards were taking their time over their cigarette break.
‘Not long now boy, I promise,’ Samson murmured, stroking the dog’s head.
Tolpuddle replied by issuing a low whine, leaning into Samson and almost knocking him over. With the beginnings of cramp in his left leg and an impatient Weimaraner next to him, Samson wasn’t sure how much longer they could stay hidden.
While Samson was concealed behind a hedge, Ana Stoyanovic was hiding in the ladies’ toilets.
She’d tried to time her visit as best as she could, having waited a while after Elaine left the kitchen so that the guests in the drawing room would be preoccupied with the snacks the waitress had delivered, and thus less likely to notice someone walking past. As it turned out, the outward journey had been easy. But getting back to the kitchen was going to prove tricky.
The problem was, the corridor that led out from her current hiding place joined the hall exactly opposite the opening to the drawing room, which would leave Ana completely exposed as she made her way back to the foyer to retrieve the shotgun. Anyone coming out of the gathering would see her. Face on. So she had to get this right.
Peering around the toilet door, she could see the path was clear. So she crossed her fingers and slipped out into the corridor, hurrying towards the grand entrance space, her steps sounding loud on the tiles. Reaching the hallway, she looked to her right. There. The umbrella stand, tucked around the corner. A shotgun sticking out of it.
A burst of laughter came from the open door opposite, beyond which she could see Elaine and Delilah silhouetted against the light streaming in the large bow window, hard at work carrying trays of food around the guests. And there, in the background, Rick Procter, blond hair unmissable as he spoke to two short, thickset men.
It was enough to galvanise Ana into motion. Grabbing the gun, she scuttled across the vast space and back towards the sanctuary of the kitchen, a smile lifting her lips, thinking that she had the makings of an undercover operative herself.
Only she didn’t. Because she hadn’t looked behind her. If she had done so, she would have noticed the door to the other downstairs toilet easing open. A figure emerging just as Ana turned to take the gun. A figure that saw her profile before she hurried away in a manner that could only be described as furtive.
‘Ana Stoyanovic!’ muttered Bernard Taylor. For a man already under a lot of stress, the unexpected appearance of a woman who used to work for Rick Procter could only be interpreted in a negative light.
‘I’ve been to funerals that were more joyous,’ muttered Elaine as she joined Delilah at the back of the grandiose room that was hosting the shooting party.
She had a point. In the midst of the antique furniture and opulent furnishings of the stately space that looked out through a huge curved bay window over meticulously maintained lawns, the atmosphere was strained. While some of the men had moved through the bay’s French windows onto the terrace and were laughing and carrying on loudly, there was an underlying tension between the main protagonists.
Rick Procter was talking quietly with the two brothers, Niko and Andrey, but from the facial expressions, Delilah doubted they were discussing their earlier performances with the clays. From all appearances, it looked like Rick was getting a telling off. And while Gareth was deep in discussion with Will and Ash, it was clear the gamekeeper had a wary eye on his troublesome guests, waiting for yet another ruckus to claim his attention.
‘You’re not going back out there with these idiots for the next drive, are you?’ Elaine asked. She’d been appalled when, in a lull between serving the men, Delilah had given her an edited version of the morning’s activity, and that was without even hearing about the incident with the hare. Delilah had deliberately failed to mention it – not out of sensitivity for Elaine so much as for the sake of the Bulgarians. Because Delilah knew Elaine was capable of walking up to Milan and cracking him over the head with her tray if she knew the full story.
‘No, thank God,’ confessed Delilah, fighting the urge to scratch, her scalp on fire under the wig. ‘This is Denise’s last outing. I’m officially retiring her once this lot head out on the fells. Although part of me feels I ought to go, just to keep an eye on him.’
She gestured towards the lone figure of Bernard Taylor, who’d just re-entered the room, the rigid set of his face suggesting that he wasn’t finding the morning enjoyable.
‘What’s up with our esteemed mayor?’ asked Elaine with a dry tone.
‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen him like this. He tore into Gareth before we’d even set off for the shoot and then had a barney with Rick while we were up there. He just seems totally on edge. And being almost shot hasn’t helped things. I’m worried about him.’
Elaine snorted. ‘I didn’t see him showing the same concern for you when you were going through a very public divorce from his cheating son.’
The response drew a shrug from Delilah. ‘I know. But he was my father-in-law for a while, for what that’s worth.’
‘Well, I’m just glad you’ve seen sense. This lot are dangerous and you’d be putting yourself in harm’s way if you went back out there—’
‘More food!’ came a rough demand from the terrace.
With a smothered sigh, Delilah reached out to pick up a tray of Lucy’s fabulous apple-sauce-topped mini pork pies from the table, but Elaine put a hand out to stop her.
‘Let me,’ she murmured, with a wink. ‘You’ve had to put up with them all morning.’
Delilah wasn’t about to argue. She’d had a gutful of the Bulgarian investors and, despite her concern for Bernard Taylor, was glad to know that soon she’d be able to divest herself of the infernal wig and the rest of Denise’s outfit. Even in the cool of the room, she was beginning to wilt underneath all the padding.
‘Thanks,’ she said, leaning over to kiss her friend. ‘You’re a star.’
‘And don’t forget it,’ retorted Elaine, walking away with a wide grin.
Delilah watched her go, still smiling. Then turned and caught the frowning regard of Rick Procter. He’d moved away from the Bulgarian brothers and was staring at her. Like she was a puzzle that needed working out.
She dropped her gaze and busied herself with loading the empty Bullshot glasses onto a tray, intending to make a hasty exit. But as she turned to leave the room, he was there, in front of her, a hand out to stop her.
‘I feel like I know you,’ he said, really staring at her now.
‘I’m sorry . . .’ she spluttered, heat rising through her. ‘I don’t see how . . .’
‘We haven’t met before?’
She shook her head, mute with panic, feeling like the disguise had been stripped from her, the tray in her hands beginning to tremble.
‘You’re sure? Because I’m really good with faces,’ Rick persisted.
‘I’m sure.’ It came out as a squeak, the man still fixing her with that intense scrutiny.
‘Funny, because I could have sworn—’
‘Idiot!’
The loud exclamation came from Milan out on the terrace and was followed by an almighty clatter of metal on concrete as the tray that had been in Elaine’s hands fell to the floor, a cascade of pork pies following it, most of them bouncing off the tall Bulgarian’s chest in the process.
‘Look what you did!’ He gestured furiously at his T-shirt, the brown camouflage pattern now smeared with apple sauce.
‘I’m so sorry! Let me wipe it!’ Elaine offered, glasses askew as she dabbed frantically at the man’s clothing with a napkin, knocking something out of his T-shirt pocket in the process and only serving to make things worse.
Cursing fluently in English, Milan swatted her hands away, and looked on the verge of reacting even more violently but for an interjection from Niko. It was quiet and in Bulgarian but whatever he said, it had the effect of making Milan pause.
Which was when Elaine noticed the small plastic bag on the floor.
‘I think this is yours,’ she said, picking it up, holding it aloft and only then realising what it was.
White powder. In a ziplock bag.
Milan went to snatch it from her, but for a big man Gareth Towler moved fast, crossing the room in long strides to take the bag from Elaine.
‘Is this what I think it is?’ he growled, the room completely silent now. ‘Well? Is it?’
The Bulgarian just stared at him, lips curled in a sneer.
‘Bloody cocaine? You’ve been taking cocaine while we were out on the shoot?’
‘It’s nothing—’ Milan started to say with a dismissive shrug. But the gamekeeper cut him off.
‘Nothing? You call nearly shooting someone nothing? You were off your head out there!’ He swung round to Rick Procter, who was watching on with a look of disquiet. ‘I warned you. One last straw. Well here it is!’ He shook the bag of drugs. ‘The shoot’s off.’
‘You can’t cancel it!’ The shout of protest came from an unexpected source, Bernard Taylor the only person to speak up in the tense silence that followed the gamekeeper’s pronouncement.
‘Yes I bloody can. And I just have done. So finish off your drinks, get in your cars and bugger off, the lot of you.’
Gareth made to move out of the room but the mayor was persistent, stepping into the bigger man’s path.
‘I strongly suggest you reconsider!’ he snapped, jabbing a finger in the direction of the gamekeeper. ‘Or the Luptons will be holding you to account when their planning permission goes awry.’
Delilah couldn’t believe her ears. It was a blatant threat, one that had made Rick Procter blanch. Yet Bernard Taylor, normally a master of small town politics, seemed unrepentant at his crass manoeuvrings, his face contorted in an inexplicable rage. For a man who’d looked like he was under duress for the entirety of the morning, his sudden fury at the thought of the shoot being terminated early made no sense.
‘Leave the Luptons out of this, Bernard,’ said Gareth, with a quiet calm that belied the tension radiating from him. Placing a firm hand on the mayor’s chest, he pushed him aside and strode out of the room.
‘I’m warning you, Towler!’ Bernard Taylor shouted after him. ‘You’ll lose your job over this.’
The hush that had held while the gamekeeper was in the room broke in his wake, voices rising, drowning out the mayor who was now being spoken to by an ashen-faced Rick Procter. Delilah felt the breath she’d been holding escape her lungs.
‘Bloody hell!’ The muttered curse came from Elaine, who’d moved next to her. ‘All I did was spill a few pork pies to distract Rick Procter’s attention from you and look what happened!’
Delilah’s jaw dropped. ‘You did it deliberately?’
Elaine nodded, pushing her glasses defiantly up her nose. ‘Didn’t know this would be the result, did I?’
‘You two, okay?’ Ash had joined them, one eye on the large Bulgarian who was having a heated conversation with his cousins, dark looks being cast in Elaine’s direction. ‘Might be a good moment for you both to head for the kitchen. What do you think, Dee?’
Delilah was about to reply when Ash’s use of her family nickname registered. ‘You know?’ she said in a stunned whisper.
‘About who you really are? Yes. About why you’re in disguise? Not a clue. But I strongly suggest you and Elaine make a quick exit. This isn’t the time for someone else to figure out your true identity.’
She could see he was expecting an argument. And under normal circumstances, Delilah would have given him one. But the close call with Rick Procter and the overwhelming desire to shed her false layers swayed her.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘But if these guys kick off, don’t do anything stupid, Ash.’
Ash nodded. ‘Don’t worry. Will and I won’t be taking any chances.’
She gave his hand a discreet squeeze and then hurried out of the room after Elaine, wondering how they were going to break this news to a chef who’d spent hours preparing food that was no longer needed.
Ana Stoyanovic was oblivious to the drama unfolding in the drawing room. She was too busy trying to avoid a drama of her own.
The damn shotgun!
She’d carried it through the house and out into the courtyard, only to find that the gunroom, which was located in the old stables, was locked.
What to do? She couldn’t leave the gun just lying on the floor. It would be no safer than it had been in the umbrella stand. But she also couldn’t take much longer getting rid of it because a harried Lucy had already banged on the kitchen window, wanting her back at her workstation.
There was only one option.
The gamekeeper’s Land Rover was parked on the cobbles. Shotgun held gingerly out to one side, Ana crossed over towards it.
In the rear, a brown spaniel lay tucked up asleep in its cage, head on its paws. Careful not to wake it, she eased open the passenger door and laid the shotgun down on the seat, before gently closing the door again.
That would have to do for now. She’d get Elaine to tell Gareth where it was and the gamekeeper could take it from there.
Another frantic knock on the window from the chef had Ana running back to the kitchen.
Samson and Tolpuddle were still stuck behind the hedge, the dog lying on the grass, head on his paws looking desolate, while Samson was glued to the images on his mobile.
The video had proved compulsive viewing. The cascade of pork pies, the cocaine, the announcement from Gareth and the outburst from Bernard Taylor . . .
Drawing on all of his years of experience undercover, Samson had a horrible feeling that the whole thing was brewing into a potential catastrophe, something far more deadly than events so far. And Delilah and her friends were right in the middle of it.
As were the two bodyguards standing chatting by the Jaguars, muscles bulging under their leather jackets. Jackets which had remained resolutely on, despite the warmth of the day, making Samson wonder if there wasn’t a reason for that. A concealed weapon or two, maybe?
What a mess. A bunch of trigger-happy hoodlums strung out on cocaine, who’d just been told to bugger off . . .
The more he thought about it, the more Samson grew concerned. It wasn’t going to be easy if the Bulgarians dug their heels in and refused to leave the premises. Not only could Gareth be putting himself in danger, but the Metcalfe brothers and the Peaks Patisserie team, too.
Perhaps now was the time to put in a request for some official reinforcements, just as a precaution? It was amazing how folk calmed down a bit at the sight of a uniform or two.
He was still debating whether or not to make the call when footsteps descending the front stairs made him lift his head to peer through the thick laurel.
Gareth Towler had appeared, a hand to his temple as though his head was throbbing, face like granite. He was speaking into a walkie-talkie. Giving the bodyguards a wide berth, he walked along the front of the house. Towards the hedge.
‘Yes, I said cancelled, Tommy. So don’t bother setting the next traps. Just get yourself back down here.’ With a grunt, the gamekeeper shoved the radio in his pocket and stood for a moment, staring at the ground.
Tolpuddle let out a low whimper of hunger, Samson quickly laying a hand on his head to silence him as loud voices floated out from inside the foyer. The rest of the Bulgarians. Heading outside.
With a weary glance over his shoulder, Gareth resumed walking, picking up the pace before turning down the track on the north side of the building away from his troublesome guests, the curve of the hedge taking him out of Samson’s sight.
Make the call to Bruncliffe Police Station or not? Samson decided to give it a few minutes. Give the Bulgarians a chance to go quietly. Which he sincerely hoped they would, because the alternative was too concerning to contemplate.