Sitting at the large table that spanned the length of the dining room, Sergeant Clayton didn’t know what to think. On the one hand, things were turning out to be less of a nightmare than he’d first feared. Still a nightmare – the town’s mayor was dead, for goodness sake. But with the angle the Harrogate detectives were taking, it would at least be a manageable nightmare.
Suicide was what they’d decided on, having heard the testimony from the key witnesses. It was the sergeant’s opinion too. They had three people all stating that the doors on the Land Rover were closed when they got there, Bernard Taylor already shot inside it. At which point Ana Stoyanovic had raced to the passenger door, opened it, and the shotgun had fallen out. The preliminary findings of the forensics team backed up what the witnesses had said. It seemed clear beyond all doubt that Bruncliffe’s mayor had taken his own life.
So, pending the more detailed results from the crime scene, it was looking like the investigation could be tied up in a neat parcel. No need to arrest anyone – although they were discussing the steps to take against the big Bulgarian lad who’d been found to have cocaine in his possession. The cocaine that seemed to have kicked the whole thing off. But other than that, it was looking like the incident, while tragic and devastating, wasn’t criminal.
And yet, Sergeant Clayton was uneasy. He could tell from the drawn appearance of his constable as the lad joined him in the dining room, that he felt the same.
‘What a mess,’ Danny muttered, taking a seat next to his boss as the two Harrogate detectives came back in from the courtyard, where they’d been having one last look around the stables and the gunroom with Gareth Towler.
‘Look on the bright side,’ said the younger of the detectives, his smile jarring with the sergeant. ‘Better than it being murder.’
Sergeant Clayton bit his tongue. What did they know? They came from a large town where something like this wouldn’t reach into every corner of every home and shake the very foundations. Where there wouldn’t be repercussions that would echo down the years amongst people blessed with long memories and a predisposition to condemn. A town that hadn’t already been set reeling by murder and mayhem over the last six months. And when you considered who was going to get some of the blame for this latest tragedy – a black sheep cast out fourteen years ago and reluctantly welcomed back only recently. The same person who’d been at the centre of the dramatic events that had rocked the place of late. Forgiveness would definitely be in short supply.
But worse than that was the other person who was going to be implicated. Someone a lot less able to take on the role of town pariah. Someone the community would be horrified to learn was at the heart of what had happened here today. She was one of their own, after all.
‘This Delilah Metcalfe,’ continued the detective, ‘do you think she’s right? What she said about the trigger for the suicide?’
Sergeant Clayton nodded slowly. ‘I’m afraid she is.’
Afraid, because he knew what would happen when the news broke in the town below. And it would break, because there was no way to stop something of this magnitude leaking out, no matter how much he and his constable tried.
A gentle knock on the door to the breakfast room prefaced a pale face appearing at the door.
‘I don’t know if this is a good time,’ said Lucy Metcalfe, ‘but I’ve got some hot beef sandwiches here if you can manage them.’
One of the detectives was already walking towards her, hands out. ‘You’re an angel,’ he declared, taking the plate of sandwiches from her.
She nodded in the direction of the two local policemen before closing the door behind her.
‘Here,’ said the detective, offering the plate around, ‘help yourself.’
But the sergeant didn’t partake. For the first time in his life, Gavin Clayton simply didn’t have an appetite.
‘Who is she? This Delilah Metcalfe?’
The enquiry from Niko was delivered quietly, calmly, but shot a bolt of panic through Rick Procter just the same. A Rick Procter already teetering on the edge.
He’d just about held it together for the police interview, faltering only on the last question. Had he known anything about the investigation the Dales Detective Agency had been carrying out into his business partner and did he think that could have been a cause for the deceased to take his own life?
The deceased. It had such a permanent ring to it. It had thrown Rick as much as the question, seeing again the figure of Delilah Metcalfe, wig off, glasses abandoned as she held Bernard Taylor in her arms. And then Samson O’Brien hurtling around the corner moments after Rick had arrived on the scene, the private detective clearly having been hiding out somewhere on the premises.
A full-blown undercover operation from the Dales Detective Agency, mounted at a shoot organised by Procter Properties when the Karamanski brothers just happened to be in town. Was it a coincidence? Rick didn’t think so. He was damn sure the man next to him wouldn’t view it that way either, if Rick were to give a truthful answer to his question.
‘Delilah Metcalfe?’ echoed Rick, as he took a seat next to Niko out on the terrace, feeling like he couldn’t breathe despite the copious amounts of fresh air. ‘She’s no one.’
‘No one?’ Niko’s tone became frosty. ‘She does not seem like no one. Wearing a disguise. Lying about who she is. Do you have any idea why she was doing this?’
Rick shook his head, beads of sweat beginning to form along his hairline. ‘Not a clue.’
It was the truth. He didn’t know. He only suspected. And he wasn’t foolish enough to share that suspicion with Niko Karamanski.
Silence met his reply. A long silence, against the backdrop of the murmuring chatter coming from the rest of the Bulgarians on the terrace. Rick couldn’t understand a word of it. But he didn’t need to. There was only one topic of conversation.
‘Interesting,’ Niko said finally. ‘And this man with the grey dog?’ He turned his laser-like regard onto the figure sitting on the steps with the Metcalfe brothers, talking to a man Rick didn’t recognise. ‘Who is he?’
‘That’s Samson O’Brien. He’s . . .’ Rick stumbled. How to describe O’Brien and not cause alarm? ‘He’s a corrupt copper. Kicking his heels in town while he waits for his court case.’
‘Samson, eh?’ Niko laughed softly. ‘He has the look of a rogue policeman. I wonder what brought him here today.’ He turned back to Rick. ‘Most interesting. I will have to do a bit of research. Find out who these people are, this English “Samson and Delilah”. And why they were here. As for the rest of this,’ – he cast a hand in the direction of the police cars and the forensic vans – ‘it is most inconvenient.’
It was said with typical understatement. A weekend of low-key activity for the Karamanski brothers and their entourage had resulted in a fatal shooting and a police presence. It wasn’t something they were going to forget in a hurry. Or forgive.
‘I trust I can rely on you to sort it all?’
‘Yes.’ It was all Rick could manage, a single word, his heart drumming in his chest.
‘Good. And as for poor Mr Taylor . . .’ Niko shrugged, eyes narrowed as he held Rick in his sights. ‘While his . . . unexpected . . . death is of course tragic, it has to be said it is somewhat beneficial for our joint business interests. I hope you understand?’
Rick feared he did indeed understand. All too well.
While Niko was assessing Samson, Frank Thistlethwaite was doing some assessing of his own, his gaze coming to rest on the group gathered on the terrace. ‘What’s their story?’
‘That’s the shooting party,’ said Samson. ‘Guests of Rick Procter.’
‘Not local, I’m guessing.’ Eyes narrowing, Frank was all policeman now.
‘From Bulgaria. They’re supposed to be property investors.’
Ash gave a soft snort. ‘Mafia more like, according to Ana Stoyanovic. Elaine said Ana “recognised their type”.’
Samson’s look said it all.
‘You didn’t know?’ asked Ash.
‘Not a clue. Did Delilah know?’
Ash nodded and Will’s glower got darker. Frank too was staring at him, as though this was yet another fault to lay at Samson’s door. Which Samson couldn’t disagree with. He’d had his suspicions that the Bulgarians weren’t your typical businessmen, but if he’d heard Ana’s theories, he’d have insisted Delilah drop her disguise there and then. Delilah, of course, knowing this, hadn’t said a word . . .
He felt sick to the stomach at just how much danger he’d put her in.
‘Interesting.’ Frank had turned his attention back to the camouflaged men. ‘Bulgarian mafia, you say?’
‘That’s piqued your curiosity,’ muttered Samson, observing the DCI in turn. ‘Wouldn’t have anything to do with the body you found in the Leeds and Liverpool canal? You know, the one that was conveniently wearing my jacket around its neck?’
Samson could tell he’d hit a nerve. Frank stared at him and then gave a reluctant nod.
‘You’re good, O’Brien. I’ll give you that.’
Samson shrugged. ‘I find that being falsely accused of murder makes you develop an interest in a case. Going to tell me what you’re thinking?’
A dry laugh came in response. ‘You might be good, O’Brien. But you’re a copper currently on suspension, so forgive me if I don’t share details of an ongoing investigation with you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go have another chat with those who are here in an official capacity.’
The policeman turned to leave just as Will got to his feet, a hand raised in the direction of the main entrance.
‘Delilah!’ he said.
The figure that had appeared underneath the portico turned towards them. She looked so small. Without the padding and the wig and with that look of shock. She started to move towards them, her face blank. And then Samson realised she was crying. Tears tracking down her cheeks. Her appearance was enough to still all conversation, every man turning to watch her.
‘It’s my fault,’ she said, as she reached the terrace, Frank by her side now, Samson unable to move, knowing that if he moved at all, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself taking her in his arms. ‘It’s all my fault.’
‘It’s no one’s fault,’ Frank was saying, an arm going around Delilah’s shoulders. ‘You can’t blame yourself.’
But she wasn’t even aware of him or her brothers or the Bulgarians and Rick Procter, who were all listening. She didn’t even seem to see Tolpuddle, who had trotted over to her with a low whimper and was leaning into her legs. The only person Delilah was focused on was Samson, staring at him, her eyes wide with panic, cheeks wet with her tears.
‘He saw me,’ she whispered. ‘Bernard saw me just before he killed himself. He knew I’d been in disguise. That’s what made him—’ She broke off, a hand going to her mouth.
‘Christ!’ Will turned to Samson, furious. ‘What the hell have you done?’