She’d kissed him.
He’d been desperately trying not to think about it, the way she’d made him feel in that brief moment of pure joy. Before she’d walked away and left him standing there in the fading daylight of the back yard, feeling like she’d taken the sunshine with her.
What the hell had that been about? Did it mean anything? Or was he getting ahead of himself?
Sunday morning, at an hour even church-goers would have considered early, Samson was astride his Royal Enfield, riding out the Horton Road, relishing the sound of the engine, the sharp blue of the sky, and the brooding mass of Pen-y-ghent rising up from the fells on his right.
Anything but dwell on the thoughts that had been plaguing him all night.
Thanks to a combination of Bernard Taylor’s suicide the day before, the news about his court case, and that bloody kiss from Delilah, he hadn’t slept much. And when he had drifted off, he’d had tortured dreams which had concluded with him in a prison cell watching Delilah walk away with Frank Thistlethwaite. Waking up to the first trill of birdsong, alone in his bed in the top room of the office building, Samson had known that there was no point trying to go back to sleep. A ride out on the Enfield had seemed like a good alternative.
The bike swept around the last curve of the Horton Road and the long span of Ribblehead Viaduct came into sight, arching across the dale below. Samson rode to the T-junction and stopped. Not a car in sight. No coffee van either. With the bike idling, he sat there, staring at the immense structure that blended in so well with the landscape.
But he wasn’t seeing it. He was seeing Delilah. The curve of her lips when she laughed. The tilt of her chin. That way she had of looking at you—
‘Jesus!’ Samson shook his head in disgust. He was like a lovesick teen.
Feeling a curdle in his stomach and not sure whether it was yet another symptom of his emotional affliction or simply hunger, he turned the bike around. He needed help. There was only one place he could think to get it.
He heard the bike coming up the steep kick of Fell Lane, that familiar throb of the engine; an engine he’d spent hours tinkering with back when they were a family, living out in Thorpdale. Before Kathleen had been diagnosed with cancer. Before he’d started drinking to block out his grief, never realising that he was blocking out his young son at the same time.
Feeling the years slipping through his mind, Joseph O’Brien watched the scarlet-and-chrome Enfield pull around to the back of the building. He glanced at the clock on the bookshelf. Not yet eight. Whatever had pushed Samson into calling round this early, he was going to need sustenance.
By the time the doorbell went, Joseph already had the frying pan on the stove.
‘Bacon!’ Samson stepped in to his father’s small apartment, nose twitching, a grin lifting his weary features.
‘Of course.’ Joseph patted his son on the arm, gesturing towards the small table tucked into a corner of the open-plan space, two mugs of tea already on it. ‘Sit yourself down, son.’
Samson did as he was told, struck by the normality of it. Him sitting at his father’s table waiting to be fed. It had been far from normal, however. Probably no more than six months after his mother died before things began to tip and sway, the relationship between father and child getting skewed through the medium of alcohol. After that, it was more likely to be Samson at the stove, trying to persuade his father to eat while he sat slumped in his chair, cradling whatever bottle he was hell-bent on emptying.
‘Two eggs?’
Samson nodded. Watched his father crack the eggs into the pan, flip the bacon and turn to spread butter on bread. Proper butter and a liberal amount of it too.
‘I heard about yesterday,’ Joseph said, back to his son as he cooked. ‘Dreadful business.’
‘Sure was.’
‘And Delilah at the heart of it, too.’
‘I didn’t mean for her—’
Joseph cut across his son’s protestations with a shake of the head. ‘No reproach on my part, Samson. Delilah knows her own mind. I doubt she’d be one for taking no for an answer.’
‘Understatement of the year,’ muttered Samson.
From the kitchenette came the hiss of the bacon and then a sound he hadn’t heard in decades. The slow tuneful hum of his father, a beautiful lilting melody, one that brought back memories of happier times. Before his father had turned into an alcoholic and long before that fateful day when Joseph O’Brien had chased his own son off the doorstep with a shotgun.
‘You’re happy, Dad.’ If the statement contained an element of incredulity, it was because Samson couldn’t really remember the last time he could have said that about his father.
Joseph turned, smiled, nodded. ‘Yes, son.’
‘Living here? You know, instead of up at the old place?’ This time Samson didn’t hide his bafflement, his eyes taking in the cramped apartment and comparing it – unfavourably – with the rambling old farmhouse and the spectacular scenery that surrounded the isolated Twistleton Farm.
His question was met with a philosophical shrug. ‘Sure, I know that Rick Procter pulled a fast one when he bought the farm. But the truth of it is, Samson, if it wasn’t for this place and the people who live here, I’d still be drinking myself to oblivion every day. If I was still here at all.’
Joseph ended the pronouncement by placing a plate in front of his son, piled high with sausages, bacon, eggs, black pudding and—
‘White pudding!’ exclaimed Samson at the sight of the treat he hadn’t tasted in over twenty-five years. It had been a staple of Sunday morning in Thorpdale before his mother died, Joseph adhering to his Irish roots when it came to fried breakfasts. ‘Where did you get this?’
His father laughed, tapped his nose and took a seat opposite his son, a much smaller plate of food before him. ‘I have my sources.’
They ate in companionable silence, the clink of cutlery on china, the odd murmur of appreciation the only sounds. When they’d finished, Samson wiping the last piece of bread around his plate, savouring every last bit, Joseph smiled.
‘So,’ he said, reaching for his mug and then leaning back in his chair to look at his son. ‘What brings you here?’
Samson sighed. Part contentment. Part agitation. ‘I’m in a mess, Dad,’ he said. ‘And I couldn’t think of anyone better to turn to.’
It didn’t take any detective skills to spot the surprise on his father’s face, eyebrows lifting, and then a pained expression in his eyes which he tried to mask with a slow smile. A surprise triggered by the simple fact that Samson had never sought his father’s advice on anything. Not since the drinking started.
‘Right,’ said Joseph, a wariness about him now. As if he were afraid he wouldn’t be up to the task. ‘Something important?’
‘You could say that.’
‘A case perhaps? I hear Arty and Edith came to see you about Clarissa’s fella.’
For a moment Samson was tempted to pretend that’s what it was. Talking about online scam artists suddenly seemed infinitely more suited to a conversation between two men who hadn’t really interacted in over fourteen years than the personal matter he was about to raise.
‘No, not a case.’
‘Whatever it is, son, fire away. You know I’ll do my best to help.’
And with those words, Samson was back at the kitchen table in Twistleton Farm, struggling to comprehend fractions, his father sitting opposite, using the segments of an orange to make clear what Samson’s young mind was grappling with. They’d solved the maths problem and then eaten the orange, both laughing at the idea that homework could be so tasty.
‘It’s about women,’ Samson said, staring at his mug, feeling his cheeks burning.
‘Oh.’ Joseph coughed. ‘Anyone in particular?’
Samson looked up and saw the grin on his father’s face. ‘Maybe,’ he said, grinning back. ‘But my question is this: does it mean anything when they kiss you?’
‘Ahhh!’ Joseph shook his head, reached out and picked up his mobile off the table. ‘To answer that, I am going to need reinforcements.’
While Joseph was about to tackle Samson’s burning question, Stuart Lister was breaking into Taylor’s Estate Agents.
At least, that was how it felt as he turned the key and slipped inside, unseen by anyone, the marketplace deserted at what was still an early hour for a Sunday. He stood for a moment, wondering if this was all a mistake, before picking up the courage he’d spent so long gathering in his flat. Resolute, he moved towards the rear of the reception area. Towards the closed door of Bernard Taylor’s office.
The Kingston Holdings files were what he was after. He’d spent a long sleepless night, turning over the events of the past week in his restless mind. The bogus rentals. The repeated mentions of Kingston Holdings in the fabricated paperwork. His visit to Matty Thistlethwaite. And now the shocking suicide of his boss. While Stuart had never been described as having a fertile imagination – his English teacher at school having accused him of the exact opposite on many occasions – during the hours when he should have been sleeping, the lettings manager had been dwelling on the possible links between the things that were keeping him awake. So by the time dawn had crept through the window of his cramped bedroom, bringing with it the first birdsong, Stuart had been determined.
He would continue to be proactive, despite his promises to himself after his last attempt nearly backfired. After all, with Mr Taylor deceased and the business without a boss, there was less risk than ever, offering the ideal opportunity to get to the bottom of whatever was going on. He would go and get the files and bring them back to his flat. There he would have time to go through them at leisure and take photographs of the ones he hadn’t already got, before deciding what to do with them.
It was a decision which had seen him rise from his bed, pull on his clothes, slip down the stairs past the closed Chinese takeaway and out into the fresh air of a brilliant May morning. He hadn’t seen a soul, which should have calmed his nerves, but the unusual silence of the marketplace only served to make him more jittery.
With his hand now on the door of his boss’s office, he had one last attack of cold feet. Turn around, and he could justify everything should he be seen exiting the premises on a Sunday. Get caught in Mr Taylor’s private quarters and there would be no explaining it.
Persuading himself the chances of being interrupted were virtually nil, Mr Taylor in the mortuary and Julie visiting friends in Leeds, Stuart Lister turned the handle and entered, swiftly closing the door behind him. Then he made a beeline for the filing cabinet.
‘I’m sorry it’s so early.’ At the top end of the marketplace, Rick Procter was standing on the doorstep of the Taylor residence. ‘And I’m sorry to be bothering you at a time like this. But like I said on the phone last night, I really need that paperwork and I know Bernard was working on it. It’s probably on his desk . . .’
‘Not at all.’ Nancy was dressed, make-up immaculate. It had taken an immense effort but she was determined not to show the grief that was tearing her apart. She gestured for him to come inside, closing the door behind him.
‘How are you holding up?’ he asked gently.
She grimaced. ‘As good as could be expected.’
He nodded, his handsome features drawn down in shared sorrow. ‘I just feel so responsible,’ he said. ‘Bernard’s been under so much pressure. I feel like I should have seen it coming.’
‘Ha!’ She didn’t mean the laugh to sound quite so cynical but in the silence of the empty hallway, it did. ‘You and me both. I lived with him and I didn’t spot a thing.’
Although that wasn’t quite true. She’d spotted something, a pattern of behaviour that had her suspecting the worst. Yet instead of confronting Bernard, she’d set Samson O’Brien onto him, a move that had culminated in suicide.
That was the bit she was having trouble coping with. Suicide. The finality of that action hurt her more than the infidelity – because there was no doubting now that her husband had been cheating, the message he’d left on her voicemail as good as a confession. But Nancy could have lived with that. Worked it out with him. Instead, she’d never get the chance, the police claiming that Bernard was pushed over the edge by spotting Delilah Metcalfe at the shoot, driven to take his own life because his wife had set detectives on his trail.
Nancy may as well have pulled the trigger herself. And it was that which was destroying her. That and the declaration of love before the dreadful sound of the shotgun . . .
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself,’ Rick was saying, touching her arm, concern in his eyes. ‘None of us could have predicted this. That he would be capable of . . .’ He made a helpless gesture.
‘You think he did kill himself, then?’ She asked the question in desperation.
‘You don’t?’ There was genuine shock in the reply. ‘I mean, all the evidence points that way—’
Nancy shook her head. ‘I’m just finding it hard to believe. That Bernard would . . . I think there must have been some mistake.’
‘But . . . the evidence . . . it’s clearly suicide . . .’
She folded her arms without even noticing, defiant. ‘He wouldn’t have done that to me.’
‘Listen, Nancy, I was there.’ Rick had his hands on her shoulders now, his tone sympathetic but firm. ‘Bernard took his own life. I know it’s a shock but you’ll only make things harder for yourself if you refuse to accept it.’
She felt her confidence waver, the convictions she’d had at dawn that her husband wouldn’t have taken this route – couldn’t have taken this route, given the weight of responsibility that would cast onto her – faltering in the face of Rick’s certainty. ‘But what about the cash?’ she asked quietly. ‘The police were asking me about it. Why would they be bothered with that if it was a simple suicide?’
‘What cash?’
‘I found a holdall with a hundred and twenty-five grand stuffed into it in Bernard’s wardrobe last week. Maybe it’s something connected to that?’
Rick was shaking his head. ‘No way. Bernard was an honest businessman. There’ll be a perfectly good explanation for that money.’
She bit her lip, feeling the tears rising. ‘So you don’t think it could have been murder?’
An emotion Nancy couldn’t identify flickered over Rick’s face. ‘No! Not at all!’ He squeezed her shoulders then let his hands drop. ‘I’m sorry, Nancy. I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but letting yourself get caught up in wild theories like this is just going to make it worse.’
She nodded. Wiped the back of her hand over her eyes. ‘Sorry. I’m all over the place. Here.’ She opened the drawer of the console table next to her and passed him a bunch of keys. ‘For the office,’ she said. ‘And thanks.’
‘For what?’
‘For being such a good friend to Bernard.’
Rick shrugged. ‘He was a good man. And if there’s anything I can do to help, you only have to ask.’
Minutes later, Rick Procter was walking down the marketplace, the keys to Taylor’s in his hand.
Samson wasn’t sure about the quality of the research panel Joseph had assembled. Sitting on the couch in his father’s apartment were Arty Robinson and Eric Bradley, neither in the first flush of youth, his father in his armchair and Samson still at the table.
‘What’s this in aid of?’ Arty asked, nose sniffing at the air. ‘And did you have a fry-up without inviting us?’
‘Yes, we did, and he needs your help,’ said Joseph, grinning over at his son, who was squirming in his chair.
‘Again? Who do you need tracking this time? And I hope it’s a damn sight more interesting than the last job, because that was a dud—’
‘It’s nothing to do with detective work,’ said Joseph, interrupting his friend’s rambling.
‘Oh.’ Arty looked surprised. ‘What, then?’
Joseph made a gesture with his hand, inviting his son to take the stage, his eyes twinkling. The old rogue was enjoying his son’s discomfort.
‘It’s a personal matter,’ muttered Samson.
‘Viagra,’ wheezed Eric. ‘I hear it works wonders.’
Joseph and Arty burst out laughing while Samson shook his head in despair.
‘Sorry,’ said Eric, grinning. ‘You were saying?’
‘That it’s a personal matter. And for some reason my dad thought you two would be able to assist.’
‘Go on, lad, we’re listening,’ said Arty, sobering up at the clear anguish on the young man’s face. ‘Whatever it is, we’re here to help.’
Not convinced of the efficacy of that promise, Samson was desperate enough to take the gamble. ‘It’s about women,’ he began. ‘When a woman kisses you, does it mean anything?’
‘That,’ said Arty, folding his arms across his chest like a sage about to dispense wisdom, ‘entirely depends on the woman.’
There were more files than he remembered. Lying in his bed, Stuart had come up with the idea that he would sneak them out under his jumper, and had subsequently dressed for just that, currently sporting a cable-knit pullover which wasn’t helping keep him cool. Nor, he realised as he stared at the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet, would it help him transport the documents out of the office unseen. Not unless he wanted to cross the marketplace looking like someone in the latter end of their third trimester of pregnancy. With triplets.
He needed some other way to get the folders out of there.
Stacking them in a bundle on the floor, he scanned the office, looking for something suitable. Nothing. But there was a box in the kitchen area, one that had contained paper towels and which hadn’t yet made it to the recycling. It would be perfect.
Stuart picked up the stack of files and crossed the office to the closed door. Pulled it open. And felt his already thumping heart rate rocket.
Coming across the marketplace straight towards Taylor’s was Rick Procter, keys in his hand.