‘So, what have we got?’ Showered, changed and sitting in Samson’s office, notepad on lap, Delilah was all business.
‘Not a lot,’ said Samson. ‘We have three primary witnesses – one of whom is about to be charged as a suspect – and they all agree on two things: that they all reached the courtyard about the same time, and the Land Rover doors were all closed.’
‘Which rules out suicide, thanks to the lack of blood on the passenger door.’
‘That and the absence of the victim’s fingerprints on the weapon. Which is another thing we’ve got. While Bernard’s prints aren’t on the shotgun, the other three had all handled it.’
‘As had Milan,’ added Delilah.
Samson nodded. ‘All of them also tested positive for gunshot residue, which, in the case of the men, is hardly surprising considering they were at a shoot.’
‘So, on the surface,’ Delilah said, tapping her pen against the list of names she’d written down, ‘it looks like one of these three – possibly four, if we include Milan – must be the killer. And with Ana closest to the Land Rover at the time of the murder, combined with a less credible explanation for the residue on her hands, she remains the main suspect. However, if we accept Lucy’s sighting of something brown moving out in the yard . . .’
‘Ana’s eliminated because she was dressed in a white shirt, while all of the men were wearing something brown.’
‘Right.’ Delilah flipped the page over on her pad. ‘Moving on to motive—’
‘Weak to non-existent,’ muttered Samson. ‘A dubious accusation of blackmail for Ana or, even more tentative, a result of having had her presence at the shoot uncovered. Likewise a weak blackmail claim laid against Gareth or, more believably, the desperate act of a man about to lose his job.’
‘While for Rick Procter, we have an argument caught on video with his business partner, but given their business interests are so intertwined, he probably stands to lose a great deal because of Bernard’s death. That weakens that motive a bit.’
‘And Milan?’
Delilah pulled a face. ‘He’d been harassing Bernard all day. And then he lost face when the shoot was called off. Is that enough to make him go and kill someone?’
‘Maybe, if he was hopped-up on cocaine.’
‘But . . .’
Samson sighed. ‘Yes, but. After your amazing efforts this afternoon, I don’t see how any one of these suspects can have committed the murder and not have been seen. It’s just not possible.’
‘It has to be,’ said Delilah. ‘Because between the missing fingerprints on the gun and the lack of blood on the passenger door, the test results have shown that Bernard Taylor didn’t kill himself. Which means somebody there had to have pulled the trigger, closed the passenger door and then run off.’
‘Reappearing seconds later in a time even you couldn’t produce?’ Samson let his head drop into his hands and groaned. ‘Ana’s relying on us and we’re letting her down.’
‘We’re missing something,’ said Delilah, putting a hand on his arm. ‘That’s all it is. Just a little something which, if we go back over it all, we’ll see. How about I go upstairs and watch the spy cam footage again?’
Samson raised his head and nodded. ‘Okay. I’ll work on the audio clips and go through the statements. Let’s hope we can find something that will finally break this case.’
With a last pat on his arm, Delilah left the room, and, out of an obligation to Ana Stoyanovic more than a belief in his own abilities as a detective, a despairing Samson pulled his laptop towards him.
Over in Fellside Court, Arty Robinson was far from despair.
Things were back as they should be amongst his friends. In fact, in some ways, they were even better. While indignant on first hearing that they’d been interfering in her love life, Clarissa had soon backed down when the lads confronted her with Josephine Shaw, Edith both shocked and fascinated to discover her sister had an online alter ego. Once all the deceptions were out on the table, they’d spent a companionable afternoon, discussing what they’d all been up to, the tale of Arty, Eric and Joseph being the most adventurous.
‘I can’t believe you were ready to fight someone over me,’ laughed Clarissa. ‘And all the time I was perfectly safe. Even if Bob hadn’t told me his real identity, I would have found it anyway. I know better than to get involved with anyone online without googling them first!’
‘How were we to know you were such a whizz on the internet?’ grumbled Arty good-naturedly. ‘But this Bob character! What a card. You should go over and meet him one day.’
‘We all should,’ said Edith. ‘Do us good to get out a bit.’
‘Agreed,’ said Arty.
‘And as for you, little sister,’ said Edith, looking at Clarissa, ‘what on earth possessed you to get involved in all that imaginary nonsense in the first place?’
Clarissa shrugged, her smile dimming slightly. ‘I wanted a bit of sparkle in my life.’
‘You mean romance?’ asked Arty.
She nodded. ‘Yes. Why not? Just because we’re older doesn’t mean we have to stay on the shelf.’
‘I agree,’ Eric piped up. They all stared at him and he rattled his oxygen tank crossly. ‘What? You think this ties me down? Look at that poor bugger today. I can do a lot more than he can and it’s time I did!’
Joseph let out a burst of laughter, Arty joining in, and that was it, they were all laughing, quietening down only when Eric’s laughter turned to coughing.
‘So, what do we do about it?’ asked Joseph.
‘Talk to Delilah,’ said Edith. ‘Get her to set up a dating group just for folk like us.’
‘We could call it “Grey but Game”!’ said Arty.
‘Sounds like a pheasant that’s been hung too long!’ quipped Eric, setting them all off again.
‘I’ve got it,’ said Joseph. ‘How about “Silver Solos”?’
‘Ooh, that’s good!’ said Clarissa, to nods of agreement all round.
‘Except Arty would be excluded,’ said Eric, with a grin. ‘Seeing as he’s bald rather than silver.’
Edith leaned over and kissed Arty on the cheek. ‘We’d make an exception for Arty,’ she said, smiling.
Arty Robinson felt like his heart would burst.
By late evening, the search for a breakthrough in the Taylor case was proving even more hopeless than Samson had feared.
‘Damn it!’ He flung himself back in his chair, his office empty, Delilah and Tolpuddle both upstairs, trying to conjure something from the video footage.
He hoped to hell they were better magicians than he was, because so far all he’d conjured up from repeated listenings to the audio was a headache. Nothing that could be used to clear Ana Stoyanovic of the charges she was facing.
‘Damn it!’ he muttered again, staring at the computer screen.
In desperation, he picked up the phone and called Danny, the constable answering immediately.
‘Well,’ asked the lad, ‘have you found anything?’
‘Apart from having spent the afternoon basically ruling out all of the suspects, not much,’ muttered Samson. He quickly brought the policeman up to speed on the sprint tests, a soft whistle coming from Danny in response.
‘So you’re saying none of the primary witnesses could have killed Bernard Taylor, if they’re all telling the truth about who they saw where at the moment they arrived in the courtyard?’ Danny swore. ‘This case is insane.’
‘Which is why I want you to run the forensic results past me again – specifically the ones that ruled out suicide. Maybe we’ve all been too hasty to dismiss it.’
‘You’ve timed it well. I’ve just got a copy of the full set of tests – Sergeant Clayton has asked me to go over them during any downtime on my shift tonight.’
‘Is he having second thoughts about Ana being in the frame?’
‘I think he’s more concerned that the Harrogate lads are rushing things through just to get a tick in a box. Either way, I’ve got carte blanche to go through everything to do with the case. So, let’s see . . .’ There was the sound of pages being shuffled around a desk before the constable spoke again. ‘Right, the test results with regards to suicide being eliminated as a line of enquiry – the absence of Bernard’s fingerprints on the gun and the absence of blood spatter on the inside of the passenger doors are the main ones. Apart from that, the amount of gunshot residue on the passenger seat suggested that the gun was close to or on it when fired, and at that range, Bernard would have needed Inspector Gadget arms to pull the trigger.’
‘Damn,’ muttered Samson. ‘There’s no arguing with that. Okay, thanks.’ He was about to disconnect when he thought of one more thing. ‘Oh, Danny, before you go, what happened to Bernard’s mobile?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Where was it found in the vehicle?’
‘Let me check . . .’ More rustling of paper and then Danny spoke again. ‘Here we go, according to the report, the victim’s mobile was found in the front footwell on the driver’s side. Why do you ask?’
‘Just making sure I’ve covered all the bases,’ said Samson.
He bade the constable farewell a second time and as he sat back in his chair, he stared at his own mobile. There was something in what Danny Bradley had just told him, but he couldn’t think what it was. Something on the edge of his consciousness—
The front door closed, Delilah coming into the hall, Samson not having even been aware that she’d gone out.
‘So, are you getting anywhere?’ she asked, standing in the doorway, a paper bag in her hand that was giving out the most divine smells. ‘Got time for a curry?’
They didn’t linger long over the food, bringing each other up to date on their respective progress – or lack of – as they ate. Delilah had gone through the full footage from the spy cam and isolated a few key areas that were worth Samson’s consideration, a copy of the highlights now in his inbox. While the only good news Samson was able to pass on was that Danny was adding his weight to their search for a solution to this baffling case.
‘I just can’t help feeling we’re missing something obvious,’ muttered Samson, as they finished eating and began clearing up the takeaway containers.
Delilah sighed. ‘I know what you mean. It’s like we’re looking for the elusive “third man”.’ She gave a wry laugh. ‘Although in this instance, it’s more like a fourth man.’
‘Fifth if we include Milan as a suspect.’
‘God,’ she groaned. ‘What I’d give for an open-and-shut case!’ With a weary look, she headed back up the stairs to continue her efforts on behalf of their friend, leaving Samson to return to his desk.
He clicked on the first of her edited video clips and, chin on hand, began watching.
As the rest of Back Street turned in for the night – the Fleece long since closed, Plastic Fantastic shuttered up, the hairdryers in Shear Good Looks silent and the mannequins in Betty’s Boutique staring out into the dark – a sole light still burned in the downstairs office of the Dales Detective Agency. Past midnight, on into the new day, still the light stayed on as Samson went over and over every possible aspect of the case.
‘It’s got to be here,’ he murmured, rubbing his eyes and reaching for the mug of tea next to him. He took a swig and nearly choked. Cold. How long had it been there?
The clock in the corner of the computer screen told him it was twenty past two. Delilah had brought him the tea at midnight. Where the hell had the time gone? And what had he got to show for it?
Nothing.
He stretched his arms up above him, easing his aching back. One more look at the spy cam videos and then he was going to have to call it quits.
Delilah had sent him seven excerpts in total, mostly concentrating on the three main suspects but with a couple of oddities thrown in. Settling himself back in front of the screen, Samson started with Rick’s argument with Bernard, the two men some distance from where Delilah had been standing. It was impossible to hear what they were saying, but it was clear Bernard wasn’t happy. Samson watched the dispute unfold for the umpteenth time, nothing standing out as noteworthy.
Next he skimmed through the two clips showing Bernard threatening Gareth Towler, one in the gunroom, the other just as Gareth cancelled the shoot, again without any new insight that would help the case.
In terms of Ana, there was only one bit of footage and that was from the minutes following the shooting as Delilah burst out into the courtyard, the camera capturing a distraught Ana on the other side of the Land Rover. Samson could feel the weariness seeping into his bones as he tried to concentrate. The clip finished and he clicked on the next one.
Milan was up next, Delilah having included two short pieces of footage that showed him at his worst. Samson fast-forwarded through them, feeling his eyelids beginning to droop.
Last one. It was from inside the kitchen, Lucy sitting on a stool, clearly discouraged by the cancellation of the shoot. Delilah was opposite her, the camera showing the window and the boot of the Land Rover in the courtyard. In her email accompanying the clips, Delilah had explained that she’d included this bit of video to show what Lucy could see when she turned round to the window after the gun was fired. Samson let it play, but his focus wasn’t really on the screen. He was tired. His vision blurring.
Maybe that’s what it was. By not looking intently, he finally saw something of interest.
Suddenly he was sitting bolt upright, wide awake. Thinking. About Delilah. Only not in the way he’d been doing recently. He was thinking about the curry they’d just shared and the conversation that had come with it . . .
‘“Third man”!’ he exclaimed, slapping himself on the forehead. ‘“Open-and-shut case”!’
He went back to one of the other clips. Let it roll, looking at it differently now, in the light of what he’d just seen. And there it was. The answer.
He nodded, grinned, nodded again, and reviewed the spy cam footage once more. Then he reached for his mobile. Bruncliffe’s on-duty constable answered on the first ring despite the hour.
‘Danny? I think I’ve had a breakthrough, but I need your help,’ said Samson, wasting no time on small talk. ‘It’ll involve a ride on the Enfield.’
There was no need to dangle that particular bait. On the other end of the phone, Danny Bradley was already saying yes.
When the light finally went out in the downstairs office, it was an excited, but shattered, Samson O’Brien who climbed the stairs to the first floor. The door to Delilah’s office was still open, her desk lamp still on, but if Samson had been hoping to share his news with his partner, he was to be disappointed.
Not that he could ever be disappointed by her, he thought, looking down at the sleeping features of Delilah Metcalfe where she lay on her couch, curled up, her laptop on the floor. A soft whine came from the basket in the corner, Tolpuddle watching him from sleepy eyes.
It passed through Samson’s mind that he could carry her upstairs, let her have the benefit of his bed while he did the chivalrous thing and took the couch. It was a thought swiftly dismissed. This was Delilah. There was every possibility she’d wake up while they were halfway up the stairs and lash out in surprise, sending them both down to the landing below in a heap. Instead, he took the fleece blanket lying across the back of the sofa and spread it across her. Let her sleep. His news would wait.
With a stroke for Tolpuddle, Samson turned off the desk lamp and crept up to bed. He’d be able to grab a couple of hours kip before he had to be going.