Down in Bruncliffe’s marketplace, blissfully unaware of the events playing out on the hills above them, the pensioners finally had some excitement of their own.
‘Oh!’ exclaimed Clarissa, reaching for her pen and the notebook in front of her. ‘Action stations!’
Three grey heads and one bald one swivelled to look out of the window as a gangly figure approached the door of Taylor’s.
‘Is that the lad that was nearly killed back in the autumn?’ asked Arty, peering at the young man who was now entering the estate agent’s. ‘In that near miss with a tractor?’
‘The very same,’ said Joseph. ‘Stuart Lister – he’s the lettings manager over there. Poor soul got caught up in that whole mess when Samson first arrived home.’
Mess was putting it lightly. Several people murdered, Stuart almost one of them, and a dramatic opening case for the Dales Detective Agency. It had been a homecoming for Joseph’s son like no other.
‘Subject duly logged.’ Clarissa checked her watch and bent over the notebook, the page split into three columns. Carefully writing down the time in the left hand column, she then added Stuart’s name in the centre, along with his professional position, and in the final column she wrote ‘subdued’.
‘Subdued?’ queried Arty, glancing at the neat copperplate handwriting. ‘What’s that about?’
Clarissa shrugged. ‘That’s how he looked. Subdued.’
Edith nodded. ‘Yes, he definitely didn’t seem eager to get to work, slouching along like he’s got a lot on his mind.’
Clarissa was busy adding Edith’s comments to her notes while Arty watched on, incredulous.
‘What the hell has any of that got to do with our stake-out?’ he asked. ‘This is supposed to be an exercise in observation. Not speculation!’
‘It’s not speculation,’ argued Edith. ‘Observation is all about noticing significant details. The more meat we can put on the bones of our notes, the better.’
‘But you can’t just guess at a man’s mood by the way he walks,’ protested Arty. ‘You might as well claim that you can tell a person’s character by the way they take their tea. It’s illogical!’
Edith pointed to the mug of milky tea in front of her friend. ‘I could tell you straight away that you’re from Yorkshire just by looking at that. And seeing as you’re being stubborn and have yet to buy a round of drinks, I’d say you’re living up to that stereotype.’
A laugh from Eric turned into a gasping cough while Joseph smiled, patting an indignant Arty on the back.
‘I think the girls have a point,’ he said, apologetically.
‘Huh!’ grumped Arty to his friend. ‘So much for male solidarity. You’ll be telling me you believe in women’s intuition next.’
Joseph grinned and turned back to the window, just in time to see a police car go screeching across the square, lights flashing, its siren starting as it reached the other side.
‘Bloody hell!’ exclaimed Arty.
Edith Hird didn’t say a word about the profanity. She was too stunned. As was the entire cafe. It had to be something very serious indeed to make Bruncliffe’s Sergeant Clayton resort to blues and twos.
‘What on earth can that be about?’ asked Clarissa, face troubled as the siren faded into the distance.
Arty glanced at his friend, both men having the same thought. While Joseph O’Brien didn’t know much about women’s intuition, something was telling him his own son and the lovely Delilah Metcalfe might be in trouble.
Resurrecting a habit long since idle, he found himself muttering the rosary beneath his breath.
Staring at the Land Rover in the courtyard of Bruncliffe Manor, Sergeant Clayton had never felt more out of his depth.
On the other end of the phone back at the police station, he’d heard everything. The shotgun going off. The scream. The panic in Samson O’Brien’s voice before the line went dead. The sergeant had been running for the door, Danny on his heels, not even knowing who’d been shot. That news had come through as they were racing up the steep hill out of town, Danny taking the call.
Bernard Taylor.
Not just shot. Dead. The mayor of Bruncliffe already beyond help by the time the paramedics arrived, the air ambulance not even having to land.
With backup on its way in the form of two detectives and a forensics team from Harrogate, the local sergeant should have been reassured. But, with all due respect to his urban-based colleagues, they wouldn’t understand the magnitude of what they were dealing with here.
Not only was the deceased the mayor of the town, but one of the key witnesses – or suspects, depending on what forensics revealed – was none other than Rick Procter, another of Bruncliffe’s leading lights. The whole thing was a powder keg, with a lit match being held way too close for comfort.
And at the heart of it, Samson O’Brien and his sidekick, Delilah Metcalfe.
‘What do you think, Sarge?’ Danny Bradley was by his side, the normal flush of youth that graced his cheeks blanched by the sight before them.
‘I think we’d best call Frank Thistlethwaite.’
At the mention of the Leeds-based detective, Danny glanced at his boss. ‘You think that’s wise? I mean, it’s not even his jurisdiction.’
‘I’ll tell you what’s wise – not going on a bloody diet while Samson O’Brien is still in town! Even the mention of his name makes my stomach burn in anticipation of trouble,’ snapped the sergeant. ‘DCI Thistlethwaite has requested we keep him in the loop about O’Brien and I’d say this is a big bloody loop. So just do as I say!’
Feeling a sense of betrayal, Danny reluctantly did as he was told.
Detective Chief Inspector Frank Thistlethwaite was already out of his jurisdiction when his mobile rang. In fact, he was sitting in the sunshine outside a camping pod a mere seven miles north-west of Bruncliffe. Which meant he was firmly in Sergeant Clayton’s patch.
As to what he was doing there? Officially, he was on two weeks’ leave, starting the day before. Unofficially? He was keeping an eye on the magnet for trouble that was Samson O’Brien.
The man had got under his skin. A suspended police officer facing accusations of corruption who’d somehow become involved in an unsolved murder in Frank’s own city of Leeds – not to mention the drama that had unfolded the last time Frank was in Bruncliffe, O’Brien at the centre of things yet again. There were too many questions left unanswered when it came to him, and Frank wanted to get to the bottom of it all.
That’s what he told himself. That his determination to bring down O’Brien might have more to do with the attractions of a certain Delilah Metcalfe, or even residual jealousy from a son whose chief superintendent father had paid far more attention to O’Brien’s career over the years than he ever had to his own child’s, was something Frank was forced to admit in his more candid moments.
Whatever the real motive, the desire to nail Bruncliffe’s reprobate had brought him here. But now that he was in touching distance of the town and the disgraced officer, Frank had been wondering how to proceed with his private investigation.
And then his mobile rang.
Constable Danny Bradley kept it concise. A shooting up at Bruncliffe Manor with both Samson O’Brien and Delilah Metcalfe as witnesses.
Frank hung up, thinking that he should have known not to worry about finding a way to get O’Brien. Because O’Brien had a very good habit of putting himself right in the frame. And with what Frank happened to know was coming down the line in the corruption case, the net was about to close even tighter on the former undercover officer.
They’d commandeered the breakfast room and the dining room for holding interviews, Sergeant Clayton claiming that the proximity of both to the crime scene made this a logical choice. Constable Danny Bradley couldn’t help but think that it was also the proximity to the kitchen, and the array of wonderful smells coming out of it, that had swung the decision for his sergeant.
Not that they’d had much time for eating.
By the time they’d cordoned off the Land Rover and calmed down the irate bunch of Bulgarians, who were complaining about being held unnecessarily – Rick Procter’s pleas for his guests to be allowed to leave having fallen on the sergeant’s deaf ears – the forensics team had arrived. They were closely followed by DCI Thistlethwaite and the two detectives from Harrogate, and the interviews had begun, Sergeant Clayton insisting that himself and Danny provide a local presence across both rooms.
With Gareth Towler and Ana Stoyanovic having already been questioned, and Rick Procter currently undergoing the same under Sergeant Clayton’s watchful eye – with DCI Thistlethwaite in attendance – Danny had the pleasure of being on hand for Delilah’s turn.
‘Miss Delilah Metcalfe?’ The detective from Harrogate looked at his notes and then across the table at the woman who’d just entered the room. ‘Take a seat.’
Delilah sat, a small smile in Danny’s direction. She looked more like the Delilah he knew, having lost the wig and padding she’d been wearing when the Bruncliffe police arrived. Devoid of the heavy make-up, her face was pale, the strain of the day telling in the dark smudges under her eyes. Eyes which were back to her natural shade.
‘So, Miss Metcalfe—’
‘Call me Delilah, please.’
‘Delilah, then,’ continued the detective. ‘You arrived on the scene shortly after the shooting?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you tell me what happened, from your perspective?’
She shrugged. A bemused look on her face. ‘I don’t know what happened. All I know is I was heading out towards the courtyard when the shotgun went off. I started running, and then I heard Ana scream. When I got out there, I saw Bernard—’
She broke off. Blinked. And Danny had to fight the urge to console her. Offer her a cup of tea or something. But the detective didn’t even pause.
‘So Ana Stoyanovic was already in the courtyard when you got there?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Can you tell me exactly where she was?’
‘By the passenger door of the Land Rover.’
‘Was the door open?’
‘Yes.’
‘And was there anyone else in the vicinity?’
Delilah nodded. ‘Gareth Towler and Rick Procter were already out there.’
The detective wrote something down and Delilah shot a glance at Danny. He smiled at her. Tried not to be too disconcerted by the bloodstains on her shirt.
‘Right,’ said the detective, looking back up. ‘The victim, Mr . . .’
‘Bernard Taylor,’ said Danny, barely managing to conceal his frustration with the out-of-town detective. ‘The town’s mayor.’
The detective didn’t even break stride at the implied criticism. ‘Yes, Mr Taylor. What can you tell me about his mood today, Delilah? Did he seem any different to normal?’
Delilah didn’t reply straight away, as though getting her thoughts straight. ‘He seemed . . . preoccupied. Frightened almost.’
‘In what way?’
‘As though today had a lot riding on it. You know, in business terms.’ She shrugged. ‘He just didn’t seem himself.’
‘And how long have you known Mr Taylor?’
Delilah looked surprised at the question; Danny suppressed a snort.
‘All my life,’ she said. ‘He was my father-in-law for a while.’
‘Oh. Right.’ The detective scribbled away, making notes that Danny and Sergeant Clayton would have had no need for. ‘So you know – sorry, knew – him well?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Final question,’ said the detective, leaning back in his chair to better focus on Delilah. ‘Do you know of any reason why Mr Taylor might have wanted to take his own life?’
The last vestiges of colour drained from Delilah’s face.
‘She’s been in there a long time,’ said Will, looking at his watch.
With their presence still requested by the police, the remainder of the shooting party had congregated on the terrace outside the drawing room, the Bulgarians dragging out chairs to sit on, while Samson and the Metcalfe brothers sat on the steps that led down to the wide expanse of lawn, Tolpuddle lying at Samson’s feet. At odds with the gorgeous sunshine and the glorious surroundings, a subdued air had settled on the two groups, the impact of the morning’s fatal events sobering even the raucous Milan. What conversation there was, was muted.
‘A man’s died,’ said Ash. ‘They’re going to want to take their time over this.’
‘Going to want to know what the hell Delilah was doing in bloody disguise, too,’ Will muttered, the dark mood that had been building in the oldest Metcalfe brother since he’d discovered his sister’s subterfuge in danger of breaking.
‘They certainly are going to want to know that.’ The voice came from behind, Samson turning to see a casually dressed DCI Frank Thistlethwaite coming down the steps to where they were sitting. He leaned against the balustrade, his expression every bit as dark as Will’s as he stared at Samson. ‘Care to explain?’
‘You’re a bit off your patch, aren’t you?’ Samson couldn’t help it, the churlish reply rising unbidden at this unexpected arrival. It was the second time in recent months that the Leeds detective had turned up in the middle of one of Samson’s investigations. And Samson didn’t believe in coincidences.
‘I heard it on the radio and I was in the area so decided to pop up and see what was happening. If that’s okay with you?’
‘In the area? Or did someone tip you off? I wouldn’t like to think you’re keeping tabs on me.’
Frank gave a dry laugh. ‘Don’t flatter yourself. I’m far more interested in Delilah. Which brings me back to my question. What the hell were you thinking, O’Brien?’
Samson dropped his gaze to the floor. He’d been asking himself the same question since the police arrived. When he’d come round that corner into the courtyard and seen Delilah there, looking like she’d been shot, his whole world had stopped. Then training had kicked in. The attempt to revive Bernard, Gareth helping him manoeuvre the mayor out of the car so they could get better pressure on the wound, Lucy and Elaine looking after a traumatised Ana while Delilah gathered the frantic Bounty out of her cage and tried to soothe her. Rick Procter had been the only one to remain frozen, rooted to the spot as he watched Samson’s futile efforts, his Bulgarian guests keeping their distance, as though they wanted no part of this drama.
The turmoil had prevented Samson from dwelling on what was actually happening. But now, hanging around, waiting for the police to carry out their enquiries, all he’d been doing was thinking. About Bernard Taylor. About the investigation. And about how reckless it had been to involve Delilah.
He was such an idiot. For the last few weeks he’d been pushing her away because there was a chance his past might come calling and place her in danger. Yet here he was, for the second time in as many months, having thought his worst fears had been realised in an incident that had nothing whatsoever to do with the corruption case being filed against him, and everything to do with him having embroiled Delilah in one of his investigations.
While Frank Thistlethwaite’s concern was something Samson couldn’t stomach, Will Metcalfe had every right to be angry.
‘It was a straightforward case. It wasn’t supposed to be dangerous,’ Samson murmured.
‘Funny how things never turn out that way when you’re involved!’ snapped Will.
‘Give it a rest, Will,’ said Ash. ‘No one could have predicted what would happen. I mean, Bernard Taylor, of all people . . . Was it suicide?’ The question was aimed at Frank.
‘Seems that way. Three witnesses all arrived on the scene at the same time, moments after the gunshot. They’re all telling the same story. I’d say it’s pretty clear-cut.’
‘Jesus!’ Will ran a hand over his face. ‘I just hope for your sake, Samson – but mostly for Delilah’s – that whatever you were up to has no connection to this.’
‘It can’t have,’ said Samson. ‘Bernard wasn’t even aware we were here.’
He said it confidently. But whether he’d fooled his audience or not, he hadn’t fooled himself, and he found himself hoping, as fervently as Will, that there was no link between the mayor’s death and the Dales Detective Agency’s investigation. Because he didn’t think that would be something the town of Bruncliffe would forgive very lightly.