With the demonstration successfully concluded, Samson, Sergeant Clayton, Danny Bradley and the detectives gathered around the Land Rover, to discuss some of the finer points of Samson’s theory. Herriot had already left, going to meet Gareth Towler to hand over Bounty, the spaniel no longer needing to be in the vet’s care. So, making the most of the sunshine, Delilah wandered round to the south-facing terrace of the impressive manor and sat on the steps. She was only there a matter of minutes before someone sat down next to her.
‘You’ve been avoiding my calls.’ The smile Frank Thistlethwaite gave her was lopsided. As though he knew it was a lost cause.
‘Sorry,’ murmured Delilah, feeling awkward. ‘I’ve had a lot on.’
‘I’ve noticed.’ Frank grinned. ‘Bruncliffe seems to be a right hotbed of activity.’
She laughed. ‘These days it is.’
‘Since O’Brien came home?’ It was said casually, but there was a sudden intensity to the detective.
Delilah could feel the burn on her cheeks, knowing they were scarlet. ‘He’s livened things up, for sure,’ she said.
Frank nodded, his smile turning into one of resignation. ‘I know when I’m beaten,’ he said softly. ‘He’s a lucky man. Don’t let him break your heart.’
Then he moved, as if to go, before turning back to her.
‘I know this is probably falling on deaf ears, but just be careful around him, okay? And if you ever need help, call me.’
‘Delilah? You ready to go?’ Samson had appeared with the rest of the men, looking over towards her, face impassive.
She stood, Frank catching her hand as she did. ‘I mean it,’ he said. ‘You can trust me.’
Delilah nodded mutely, and walked away. All the time Danny’s warning in the back of her mind. Perhaps this charming detective from Leeds wasn’t what he seemed – even if he was a Thistlethwaite with relatives in the town below, a pedigree she’d normally stake her life on.
Aware of Samson’s curious gaze on her, she followed everyone to the cars.
The drive back down Hillside Lane to town was a burst of colour. Up ahead of the Micra, the Royal Enfield was a dazzle of gleaming scarlet and chrome in the sunshine, the fells an abundant green flecked with the white of cavorting lambs, and Delilah found herself wishing she could be on the back of the bike, arms wrapped around Samson on a ride through the Dales. When she pulled up on Back Street, she was thoroughly miserable.
Which was mad. They’d just solved an impossible case. Her dating agency was doing amazingly well. And the sun was shining, which, living in the Yorkshire Dales, was not to be taken for granted.
But yet she felt deflated. It would have been easy to blame the disconcerting conversation with Frank Thistlethwaite, the man’s warnings getting under her skin as always. But Delilah knew that wasn’t what had unsettled her. No, the root of her malaise was far more trivial.
That bloody kiss.
‘For god’s sake,’ she muttered, getting out of the car. ‘Just deal with it.’
Or deal with him, more like.
Resolved to talk to Samson before the day was out, Delilah entered the office building, the back door slamming shut as she stepped into the hall.
‘Tha’s both back, then?’ called out Ida from the first-floor landing, Tolpuddle almost knocking her over as he raced down the stairs in welcome, tail wagging furiously.
‘Afternoon, Ida,’ said Samson, joining Delilah in the hall and patting the excited Weimaraner. With a wink at Delilah, he glanced back up at the cleaner. ‘Any sign of your missing bucket?’
Ida glared down at him. ‘Not a sausage.’
‘I mentioned it to Danny Bradley yesterday. He said he’d keep an eye out.’
The fierce expression on Ida’s face softened slightly. ‘Tha’s a good lad.’
‘Did you use your new bucket in Taylor’s when you were over there?’ asked Delilah, aware of Samson’s lips twitching and feeling a strong urge to start laughing. Or kissing him.
‘Happen I didn’t,’ replied Ida. ‘Bit of a commotion over there this morning so I just gave the place a lick and a promise and left them to it.’
‘What kind of commotion?’
‘That lad’s gone and Mr Procter and Mrs Taylor were having a bit of a set to as to how to go about replacing him.’
Confused by the reply, Delilah looked at Samson, who shrugged. ‘What lad?’ he asked.
‘The lanky one. Him as got almost run over last autumn by the tractor.’
‘Stuart Lister? The guy that does the lettings?’
‘Aye, him. Seems he’s up and gone. Left a note for young Julie on Tuesday morning, saying he was off travelling. Leaving Mrs Taylor in the lurch like that. Husband murdered and now this lad does a runner.’ Ida gave a sharp tut of disapproval. ‘He picked a right time to get itchy feet.’
‘Poor Nancy,’ Delilah murmured. ‘She’ll be in a right state.’
‘I’ll give her a call,’ said Samson. ‘I need to talk to her about this morning anyway. I doubt the Harrogate detectives will give her the full story and I’d rather she heard it from me.’
‘And tha needs to call Mrs Hargreaves,’ Ida said, addressing Delilah sternly. ‘She rang again earlier, after I told thee yesterday to call her.’
‘Right,’ Delilah sighed, not keen on wading through more hours of CCTV footage. ‘I’ll be straight up.’
Ida turned towards the kitchen and the sound of the kettle being filled broke the awkward silence that had fallen between Samson and Delilah.
‘Tea,’ said Delilah.
‘Great!’ said Samson with a grimace, making her laugh. ‘Thanks for your help this morning,’ he continued. ‘Sorry I didn’t fill you in on what was happening but I thought it would have more of an impact on Sergeant Clayton and the others if you were seeing it for the first time too.’
‘That’s okay. Pretty good sleuthing on your part.’
Samson shook his head. ‘Our part. If it hadn’t been for you, I’d never have taken all three cases. And it was your comment that made me consider Bounty as a possibility. We’re a team, don’t forget. Us two and this gorgeous fella.’ He bent over Tolpuddle, making a fuss of him until the Weimaraner flopped on the tiles in ecstasy.
Delilah felt her heart swell with love. She swallowed, took a big breath, and was about to speak when Samson turned to her.
‘There’s something we need to talk about,’ he said, looking at her in a way that made her limbs wilt. ‘Not now. But later. When I’ve told our three clients the good news and you’ve dealt with Mrs Hargreaves, and Ida’s gone.’
She nodded. Mouth full of words about to spill out. ‘Right.’ She nodded again and turned to walk up the stairs. Suddenly, combing through a CCTV video was about all she thought she could manage.
Some time later, sitting at Bernard Taylor’s desk, Rick Procter was marvelling at how fortune had favoured him.
He’d just had a call from Samson O’Brien – a call that totally justified the risk he’d taken in going to Bruncliffe’s private detective. By some miracle, O’Brien had managed to prove that Taylor had been shot by the gamekeeper’s dog! No charges were to be brought against any of the three witnesses, including Rick himself.
Rick felt like ordering in champagne. He was off the hook, the threat of a police investigation removed. Not only that, but the fears that had been plaguing him since he’d come round the corner and seen Taylor dead had all been unsubstantiated. Fears that he’d held even when the police were saying it was suicide. Fears he hadn’t wanted anyone else sharing, so he’d pushed the idea that Bruncliffe’s mayor had taken his own life; had actively encouraged folk to believe that the only guilty party was Delilah Metcalfe and her ridiculous disguise. When the verdict became one of murder, those same fears had threatened to engulf him. But finally they had been allayed.
Bernard Taylor hadn’t been eliminated in a callous act by the Karamanski brothers, after all. He’d been killed by a bloody dog!
In his elation, Rick sent a brief text to Niko to update him on the conclusion of the investigation, the brothers and their entourage having finally flown back to Bulgaria, and then sat back, savouring the sense of relief. It was worth the bill O’Brien would be sure to send through. Every last penny of it.
Sitting there in his deceased partner’s chair, the property developer mused over the sudden twist of fate, the fact that Taylor’s death had turned out to be caused by something as trivial as an over-excited mutt – such a meaningless end to a life. Then the thought came to him.
What if he were to take over the estate agency permanently?
It was the perfect solution. With Taylor gone, this was the ideal opportunity to charm Nancy into selling the company. Persuade her she was doing it for her health. That she didn’t need the stresses and strains that came with a business like this. And who better to take Taylor’s off her hands than her husband’s best friend?
It would be an addition to the Procter Properties portfolio that made total sense, solving a lot of headaches and keeping the Karamanski brothers off his back. No need to move the cannabis farms. No need to worry about the funds being laundered through the bogus rentals. What’s more, it would give Rick a chance to lay his hands on those missing files.
Grinning at the way his luck was changing, the partner who’d become a liability no longer a threat and his own business about to expand, Rick got to his feet, intending to celebrate. To take the pretty receptionist out for a meal at his brasserie in Low Mill.
He’d reached the office door when his mobile went. A text from Niko that made Rick slump back against the filing cabinet.
No more mistakes. Bruncliffe can’t afford to lose
another leading figure.
He stared at the screen. Felt his throat constrict. Was it a simple warning, deadly enough in itself? Or was there a suggestion of something else? An insinuation that Taylor’s death might not have been—?
A knock at the door and the receptionist was standing there. ‘I’m off, Mr Procter. Is there anything you need before I go?’
Rick shook his head, aware of the sweat on his brow.
‘Is everything okay? You don’t look so well.’
‘I’m fine,’ he snapped, closing the door and collapsing into a dead man’s chair.
A dead man who’d allegedly been killed by a dog . . .
Rick’s fears came flooding back. Despite all his plans for the future, he was still standing on quicksand.
It was early evening, Ida long gone and the working day drawing to a close, when Samson heard the clatter of feet coming down the stairs. He could tell from the haste that Delilah had news. Grinning in anticipation of his partner’s appearance, he turned towards the doorway.
‘Guess what!’ she exclaimed before she was even on the bottom step, a huge smile on her face.
‘Ida’s signed up so many clients for the dating agency that you’re treating us both to dinner this evening?’
Delilah laughed. ‘Not quite. It’s to do with Mrs Hargreaves’ doorstep . . .’
‘You’ve found the dog?’ Samson jumped up and Delilah nodded, holding out her laptop to show him, her face alight with pleasure.
‘It wasn’t easy to spot,’ she said, pressing play as Samson leaned in next to her. ‘But it’s the culprit alright.’
And there on the screen, slinking around the edge of Bruncliffe marketplace shrouded in night, was what looked like a dog. On the grainy CCTV footage, it stopped by Rice N Spice before trotting across the cobbles to the butcher’s and then—
‘It’s a fox!’ exclaimed Samson, as the creature answered the call of nature in full view of the camera. ‘All this time and it was a fox!’
‘Yep. Don’t think that was what Mrs Hargreaves was expecting, but at least we’ve solved it. But that’s not all. Look.’
Samson watched as two smaller shapes appeared on the camera. ‘Cubs!’ he murmured. ‘A vixen and her cubs.’
He didn’t think. He grinned. Turned to Delilah, placed a hand either side of the face and kissed her. On the forehead.
He felt her jolt backwards. Like he’d just put a couple of extra volts through her.
‘Sorry . . . just it’s brilliant news . . .’ he stammered. ‘Good to have it tidied up. Mrs Hargreaves will be pleased . . .’
‘I’ve already called her,’ Delilah said, hurriedly taking a seat, putting the safety of the desk between them. ‘She said she’d deal with it.’
Composure regained, Samson raised an eyebrow. ‘That sounds ominous.’
‘To be honest, foxes are protected under law so there’s not much she can do. What about you?’ Delilah smiled. ‘Did you tell all three of our clients the good news?’
‘I did indeed. They’re over the moon. I also spoke to Nancy Taylor. She seemed relieved to hear that it was all just a terrible accident.’
‘The poor woman,’ said Delilah. ‘Losing your husband in any circumstances must be tough, but she’s really been put through the mill.’
‘And yet still remains a class act. She even offered to pay for our truncated investigation into Bernard, which I refused. I suggested she make a donation to the mountain rescue team instead.’
His words were met with a nod of approval. ‘That’s a lovely idea.’
‘Nancy also asked if we could continue to look into the origins of that holdall of cash,’ added Samson. ‘Seems she’s not comfortable not knowing where it came from. And finally, talking of cash,’ he grinned, ‘seeing as Rick has paid – in triplicate, as agreed – I’ve waived the charges for Ana and Gareth.’
Delilah’s face creased with laughter. ‘Brilliant thinking! So that’s two Dales Detective Agency cases successfully solved in one day. Think it’s you that should be buying dinner.’
Samson nodded, feeling suddenly nervous. ‘Before that, I’ve got something I want to say.’
‘Me too,’ said Delilah, a shy smile curving her lips. ‘You first.’
‘Okay. I want to apologise.’ He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a letter. ‘I got this on Saturday. DC Green brought it up with her.’
Delilah twisted the paper round so she could read it, then looked at him, worried. ‘You’re going to court? Next week?’
‘So it seems.’ He tried to keep his tone light. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t mention it until now. What with us just getting back from the shoot and everything that’s happened since . . . I didn’t think it was a good time.’
She glanced sideways at him, devilment in her eyes. ‘You weren’t trying to protect me, were you?’
He grinned. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’
And she laughed. The sound hit his heart, spreading warmth through him, making him just want to go round the desk and—
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ she was asking, gesturing at the letter.
‘Not really.’
‘Are you worried?’ She was looking at him now, really looking at him. And he made the decision. No more lying. No more deceit. Not when it came to Delilah.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I won’t get a fair trial. Not when someone in the force is behind all the fabricated accusations being levelled against me.’
‘But there must be a way to fight this?’ The fire in her eyes made him love her even more.
‘I think there’s too much stacked against me. I’ll just have to take my chances in court.’
‘And if you’re found guilty? Will you go to prison?’
He nodded.
‘Jesus!’ She stared at the letter and back up at him. Fists clenched. Like she was about to go into battle. ‘But Samson . . .!’
Samson smiled. He’d just laid bare his worst fears and yet, he’d never been happier. Because he was pretty sure this woman loved him. This amazing Delilah Metcalfe, with her passion and her ferocity and her heart that was capable of so much generosity.
‘I think we should have dinner,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘And then you can tell me whatever it was you wanted to say.’
But she was getting to her feet too. Crossing the room. Pulling his face down to hers and kissing him. Not on the forehead. But on the lips. Every ounce of her passionate nature contained in her embrace.
When she pulled away, Samson felt the world crash back around him.
‘Wow!’ he said.
‘Wow, indeed.’ She grinned. ‘I’m going to get dinner. Reckon it’s my treat. And then we’ll talk about how we keep you out of prison.’
He nodded. Still not able to form words of any meaning.
‘Don’t go anywhere,’ she said, a smile on her face that he knew was just for him.
He heard the back door close and he sank into his chair. It was a while before he was capable of coherent thought.
‘We’ve run out of time. We need to go with Plan B. Are you ready?’ The question was blunt and to the point, the speaker on the other end of the phone not one to mess around.
DC Jess Green didn’t hesitate. ‘More than ready.’
‘Good. My colleague is on his way to meet you. And remember, no more kid gloves. O’Brien can’t make it to court. It would ruin everything.’
‘I understand.’
‘Let me know when it’s done.’ The call ended as abruptly as always, Jess Green left holding a mobile with no one on the other end.
Heart racing, she got up and packed her bag. She wouldn’t be coming back to Mearbeck Hall Hotel that night. It was too risky. After what she was about to do, she’d be lying low for a while.
Bloody O’Brien. If only he’d trusted her, it would have all been a lot easier. Fewer people would have had to get hurt. But now . . .
Plan B. It wasn’t an option she favoured, but with the news coming out of London, their backs were against the wall. It was either this or the last two years of DC Green’s life would come crashing around her ears. And she wasn’t willing to pay that price. Not after everything she’d put into this.
She finished her packing, left the room and checked out of the hotel, the receptionist too polite to enquire what had prompted her departure at an hour when most guests would be heading out for an evening meal. When she got out into the car park, there was a man standing by her car. A large man. The kind you didn’t mess with. More than sufficient for what was needing to be done.
A few minutes later, DC Green drove towards Bruncliffe, her passenger sitting silently next to her. Plan B was in operation.