‘What the hell was all that about?’ asked Delilah as she picked up the carrier bag, now leaking coffee and containing two soggy sandwiches. She dumped it in the metal bin next to the desk, wiping her hands on a tissue.
Samson suppressed a groan as his anticipated meal was summarily dismissed.
‘Well?’ Delilah was looking at him.
He shrugged. ‘I tripped as I came in the door.’
‘And just happened to throw your lunch at me with uncanny accuracy?’
‘It didn’t hit you.’
‘Only because I ducked! Who on earth did you think I was?’
‘No one,’ he snapped, hunger and spent adrenalin making him irritable. Plus she was touching on a subject he didn’t want to talk about, the shadow of his suspension looming over them. ‘What were you doing in here with the door closed anyway?’
Two hands slapped onto indignant hips. ‘I was waiting for you and he’ – Delilah glared at the hound nudging Samson’s legs – ‘closed the door while chasing after a ball of paper.’
Tolpuddle gave a bark of verification, a tight wad of crushed-up paper bag between his paws which Samson recognised as the wrapper off his prawn crackers from the night before. After he’d finished his meal, he’d lobbed it at the bin and missed. And had forgotten to pick it up.
‘Besides,’ she continued, voice decidedly waspish, ‘you’re a fine one to talk. Perhaps you’d like to tell me what you were doing in my office with the door closed last night?’
Samson did his best to prevent his jaw from dropping. How did she know? What had given him away? A delightfully triumphant smile traced itself across Delilah’s lips and suddenly, stomach rumbling at the thought of food, his appetite for argument waned. He held up both hands in surrender and gave a tired smile.
‘Okay, I’m sorry. But before we discuss that, I need to eat. Have you had lunch?’
‘Not unless you count two fat rascals which I shared with Tolpuddle. I’ve been too busy.’
‘So how about you risk the wrath of Bruncliffe society and accompany me?’
‘To the Fleece?’
Samson looked over his shoulder at the facade of the pub across the road. It wasn’t a place he’d graced with his custom when he’d lived here. Not when it was his father’s favourite haunt and the landlord had no scruples about taking money from an alcoholic who was already drunk.
‘Would you rather go elsewhere?’ Delilah’s tone had lost its sting. She was no doubt aware of the reasons for his hesitation.
‘No,’ he decided. ‘Let’s go there. As long as it won’t get you blacklisted. Being seen with me, I mean.’
She laughed, the sound clearing the lingering antagonism from the room. ‘I think I’ll take the risk.’
Which was exactly how Samson felt about it. He’d take the risk of entering the one establishment in Bruncliffe he’d vowed never to support. Because he was investigating a murder. Possibly more than one. And if he was to get any information, the Fleece, with its cast of diehard locals, was the best place to start.
Fixing a neutral smile on his face, he followed Delilah and Tolpuddle across the road.
* * *
She waited until their food was served and then she hit him with it.
‘I want to hire you,’ she said, eyes studiously fixed on the ham sandwich in her hand.
Nostrils already twitching at the delicious aroma coming from his plate, Samson paused, a forkful of steakand-ale pie tantalisingly close to his lips. ‘Sorry?’
‘You heard,’ she hissed, shooting him a black look.
He couldn’t resist. Despite his hunger. He laid the fork back on his plate and grinned.
‘You want to hire me? A detective? I thought you said Bruncliffe had no need of detectives?’
Delilah bit into her sandwich, chewing slowly, and he could see the effort it was taking for her not to retort. Or storm out. He could also see something else. Fine lines of worry on her forehead, and apprehension in her eyes.
‘Sorry,’ he said, lifting up his fork once more. Given what he already knew, he shouldn’t be making fun of her. No matter how tempting it was. ‘I’m all ears.’
‘And eyes, judging by last night. Did you find anything interesting in my desk?’
His head snapped up, food still not in his mouth.
‘I work in IT, remember,’ she said, ‘which means I know a thing or two about cybersecurity. As a result, your uninvited visit to my office was captured on video, including you reading the papers you took from my drawer. So tell me, did you find anything interesting?’
One look at her face and he knew he wasn’t going to be able to brazen it out. Slowly he closed his lips around the pie, sent a prayer of thanks to the god of food that had inspired such a divine morsel, and thought about his answer.
The truth. It was time.
‘Yes,’ he finally said. ‘You think your clients are being murdered. I think you’re right.’
If he’d thought it would shock her, he was disappointed. Instead her mouth tightened, the lines on her forehead deepening and the colour draining from her face.
‘You have proof?’ she asked, leaning in across the table.
He glanced around. It wasn’t the best venue for such a conversation, but then, given that it was market day and the pub was packed with lunchtime customers, there was a steady thrum of noise beneath which they could talk openly.
That hum of voices had gone quiet when they walked in, Delilah first, Samson following, the large grey dog shadowing him as though offering protection from what could be a hostile crowd. How well Tolpuddle knew his home town.
‘Sorry,’ Delilah had muttered. ‘I forgot it’s market day. Everyone will be in here.’
‘Should I go back and get my boxing gloves then?’
He was pleased to see her laugh, a reaction that triggered even more curious looks.
They’d made it as far as the bar unaccosted, receiving the odd nod of recognition from the older men, wary glances from the younger ones. But with no Will Metcalfe or Rick Procter in their midst, Samson began to relax. When they’d placed their order with Troy Murgatroyd – the landlord as morose as Samson remembered – Delilah steered them towards a table in the far corner of the smaller room in the rear of the pub, which provided some privacy.
‘They’ll forget about you soon and carry on with their gossiping,’ she’d said as they sat down, both of them choosing to put their backs to the wall, offering a clear view of the room.
‘Only now they’ll be talking about me,’ said Samson.
‘And me. They’ll be saying that you’re leading me astray!’
She’d been right on both counts. The volume had gradually increased, the looks cast in their direction abated, and every so often they caught their own names in the current of conversation. Samson had to restrain a smile as he wondered what the pub clientele would make of it if they knew the young Metcalfe lass and Boozy O’Brien’s boy were discussing murder.
‘Proof?’ he said, resuming their conversation. ‘Nothing that would stand up in court.’
‘But you’ve found something?’
He nodded. ‘George Capstick found it over in Gayle this morning.’
‘You’ve involved George Capstick in this?’ Delilah’s voice rose dangerously high, bringing heads swinging in their direction once more before she resumed in a more muted, but equally acidic tone. ‘Who else have you broadcast it to?’
‘No one.’ He thought about Constable Bradley and the pensioners of Fellside Court. And Matty Thistlethwaite. All of them aware of his investigations. He concluded that now wasn’t the time to tell Delilah that.
‘So what did George uncover – you were at the Aldersons’ farm, I presume?’
‘Yes. We went to look at the quad bike.’
‘And?’ Her fingers were digging into the soft bread of her sandwich.
‘George spotted that someone had taped the throttle open.’ He didn’t need to explain what that meant to her – someone who’d grown up around dirt bikes and quad bikes and farm machinery. She blinked, glanced down at the table and frowned.
‘But how would that have killed Tom? Surely he’d have spotted the tape?’
‘Precisely. Which means that when Tom Alderson got on the quad bike in the farmyard and prepared to ride up onto Wether Fell Side, there was no tape on the throttle.’
‘So when…?’
He let her think about it, her grip on her sandwich still vice-like. Then she looked up at him, mouth forming a silent O.
‘The killer was waiting for him!’
Samson nodded again. ‘Worse than that. Bill Alderson said Tom went out to collect a dead sheep that someone had called in to complain about.’
‘You mean someone … set a trap? They lured him onto the hillside with a dead sheep?’
‘Exactly. They waited in the dark, attacked him as he came through the gate on foot or on the bike—’
‘And then taped the throttle open, with the quad pointing up the hill and him astride it.’ She grimaced and placed her sandwich back on the plate, paler than he’d ever seen her. ‘Poor bloke didn’t stand a chance.’
He gave her a moment, watching her digest the news that one of her clients had been murdered. She took a deep breath, pulled her shoulders back and looked up, face determined.
‘And the other two? Richard Hargreaves and Martin Foster? Have you uncovered anything that might suggest they were killed, too?’
‘Not for Martin Foster.’ He shrugged. ‘The man died in a fall at Gordale Scar. You know yourself that it’s not uncommon for accidents to happen there.’
It was true. A limestone ravine north-east of Malham, Gordale Scar featured towering cliffs and a deep gorge, creating a sinister atmosphere even on the sunniest of days. One slip on the walk to the top and a rocky reception lay below.
‘So you’re suggesting that he might have died naturally?’
‘Not at all. I’m just saying that proving otherwise would be difficult. Whereas with Richard Hargreaves…’ Samson lowered his voice even more. ‘I’ve got a feeling the CCTV at the station might yield something.’
‘You mean there could be footage of the murderer?’ Delilah’s question was edged with tension.
But Samson, while taking another mouthful of pie, was already shaking his head. Delilah pushed her plate away, waiting for him to speak. If she noticed him cast an avaricious eye over her abandoned sandwich, she never commented.
‘I doubt we’ll be that lucky,’ Samson finally said. ‘Whoever is involved in this has been very careful throughout. They removed the tape from the bike. If I’m right about the CCTV, they covered their tracks there, too. And if it wasn’t for Mrs Hargreaves, I probably wouldn’t be investigating any of these so-called accidents. So I don’t have any expectation that they’ll have been so sloppy as to appear on video. But it might yield something. I’ll find out later today.’ He mopped up the last of his gravy with a chip and shrugged his shoulders. ‘That’s all I have. Not enough to go on. And no motive. What about you? What’s made you eager to hire me all of a sudden?’
Delilah rested her elbows on the table and leaned in. ‘I think I might have a connection between the men. Something other than just being members of the dating agency.’
‘Like what?’
‘They were all on the last Speedy Date night.’
Samson looked unimpressed. In fact, his attention had wandered to the ham sandwich sitting forlornly on Delilah’s plate, an expression not unlike Tolpuddle’s on his face as he contemplated the food going spare.
‘Have it,’ she said on a sigh, pushing it towards him. A whine from next to her revealed that he hadn’t been the only one eyeing it. She gave the dog a consolation pat on the head and resumed her tale. ‘As I said, they all attended the last dating event.’
‘And?’
‘And that’s more than we knew this time yesterday!’ she snapped. ‘Plus, I’ve been through their records. There are no patterns amongst the women they rejected. But they all chose the same two women for potential future dates.’
She had his attention now, even though he was still eating.
‘Only those two women?’
‘No. Martin Foster chose all twelve—’
Samson choked on the sandwich, eyes wide. ‘All twelve?’ he gasped. ‘Was he mad?’
Delilah resisted a retort, knowing what she was about to ask of him. ‘Whereas Richard,’ she continued, ‘chose five and Tom three.’
‘And out of those, the men had two choices in common?’
She nodded.
‘Did anyone else list either of the women in their preferences?’
‘No. More than coincidence, don’t you think?’
‘I’d say so. I presume you have the names of these particular ladies?’
‘Names, addresses, likes, dislikes. Even a bit of past history.’
‘So when are we going to see them?’
‘Next Tuesday evening at seven-thirty.’
Samson, finishing off the last of the sandwich, glanced sideways at Delilah’s precision, an eyebrow arched.
‘I told you I want to hire you,’ Delilah said. ‘Well, I want you to go undercover.’
Puzzlement replaced curiosity on Samson’s face. ‘I don’t understand…’
‘The next Speedy Date night – it’s on Tuesday. I want you to join my dating agency and be one of the dates.’
* * *
He reacted exactly as she’d known he would. Hands up, jerking away from her as though she’d lobbed something toxic on the table between them.
‘No way!’ he was saying. ‘Absolutely no way.’
‘You have to,’ she said, pressing forward. ‘What other choice do we have? We have no concrete evidence. The police won’t want to know. And if we go public with this, all we’ll succeed in doing is ruining my business. But if we do nothing…’
She let the threat of more deaths hang in the air over the empty plates. He snapped his gaze away from hers, looking out across the crowd of people, and she knew he was trapped.
‘There has to be something else we could do,’ he said.
She folded her arms and tried to stop her lips from settling into a smug smile. Her idea was brilliant and he knew it. An undercover date stalking the potential murderer. And thanks to Delilah, they could manipulate the outcome of the event so that only Samson chose the two suspects, thus reducing the risk to her other clients.
Quite how she was going to be able to pay him for his services, she hadn’t yet worked out. But she’d think of something.
Samson turned back to face her and she couldn’t hold in the laughter. His expression was one of pure terror.
‘It won’t be that bad. Fifteen lovely ladies to talk to. Most men would give their right arm for such a chance.’
‘I’m not most men,’ he muttered. He dropped his head in his hands. ‘But this is the best way to find out what’s going on.’
‘So I take it that’s a yes? You’ll go undercover?’
He nodded wearily. ‘How many people have already signed up?’
‘It’s fully booked for the women and with you on board, there’s only one more space available for the men. If I don’t have any takers by tomorrow evening, I’ll have to ask someone to help out—’
‘Delilah! Where’s that useless brother of yours? He’s supposed to—’ Harry Furness, emerging from the press of people at the bar, spotted Delilah’s companion only at the last moment. ‘Oh. Sorry, I didn’t realise…’
Samson stood, holding out a hand. ‘Good to see you in less threatening circumstances, Harry.’
The auctioneer grinned, making a show of checking Samson’s chin for bruises. ‘Yeah. You’re just lucky I had a good hold of Will that day. He’d have left you with a more permanent reminder.’
‘He’s not here with you, is he?’ asked Delilah, eyes nervously scanning the room as the two men sat down.
‘Nope. It’s Ash I’m looking for. I want to kick his backside.’
‘What’s he done now?’
Harry grimaced. ‘He’s sprained his bloody wrist fitting a kitchen sink, so I’m a man down for the darts competition next Wednesday.’
Delilah laughed. ‘No point asking me. I’m hopeless.’
The auctioneer was already looking terrified at the thought. On Delilah’s one and only trial for the Fleece darts team even loyal Tolpuddle had deserted her side, the random nature of her throws ensuring that no one in a wide radius had been safe.
‘Wouldn’t dream of it. Ash is meant to be finding a replacement, only they need to be good as we’re at home to the Mason’s Arms…’ Harry Furness let his words drift off as he stared at the man opposite him. Samson O’Brien. His prowess with the arrows was legendary. As was his stubborn refusal to ever play for the Fleece team. Or any other pub team, for that matter. All the years Harry had known him, he’d never seen Boozy’s lad set foot in the pub apart from to bring his dad home. Yet here he was having lunch with Delilah Metcalfe, in full view …
Not one to miss an opportunity, Harry decided that this new approach to life on the part of Samson O’Brien was worth further investigation. Especially if it meant solving a problem of his own.
‘Fancy playing, Samson?’ he asked with studied nonchalance.
But the detective had been watching the auctioneer’s face as it ranged from despair to hope to excitement, and he’d been anticipating the question. Long enough that he’d even had time to consider it. And surprise himself with the answer. Because Harry Furness wasn’t the only one capable of turning a situation to his advantage.
‘What’s it worth?’
The question caught both Harry and Delilah off guard. A point-blank refusal. A polite demurral. That’s what they’d been expecting. But this …
‘Anything!’ said the auctioneer, making a reckless offer in his haste to secure this unforeseen deal that could bring about a famous victory for the Fleece darts team.
Delilah noticed the gleam in Samson’s eyes, the grin already beginning to form.
‘Consider yourself signed up with me for the next Speedy Date night, then,’ said Samson, flashing a smile at Delilah and clapping a spluttering Harry Furness on the back. ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure there’ll be someone there to your taste.’
And with that, Samson and Delilah stood to go, leaving a stunned Harry Furness staring into his pint. Wondering how a man of his business acumen had just been so outmanoeuvred – and how he was ever going to live it down, once word got out that he’d been to a dating event – the auctioneer tried to think about the glory that would come when they won the darts a night later with his secret weapon in their team.
It took a few seconds for the real impact of the conversation to sink in. Samson O’Brien had joined the Dales Dating Agency.
When Will Metcalfe found out, feathers were really going to fly.
* * *
Delilah was still laughing about the duped auctioneer when she entered the office building, Tolpuddle and Samson a step behind.
‘I can’t believe you did that. Poor Harry!’
‘What about poor me?’ exclaimed Samson with a wounded look that was belied by the teasing glint in his eyes. ‘At least this way I’ll have some moral support. And we get to limit the number of potential victims. I can’t see Harry electing to take things further with anyone.’
Delilah turned to reply, when the sound of a fist hammering on the back door startled her. ‘Who on earth—?’
Her question was rudely interrupted as Samson flung her to the side of the hallway, shielding her from the doorway through to the kitchen with his body.
‘Are you expecting anyone?’ he whispered.
‘No,’ she said, puzzled by his overreaction, tension emanating from him. It had been the same earlier when he’d charged into his office and thrown his coffee at her. As though he’d been anticipating trouble. He turned to stare down the hall, his face close to hers, and she could see the merging yellow and green of the faded bruise on his cheek.
Was it connected? And if so, what exactly was this man caught up in?
A second burst of pounding rattled the glass in the frame.
‘Wait here!’ Samson eased away, creeping down the hallway and into the kitchen.
Delilah and Tolpuddle, neither excelling in the art of obedience, followed. And when more clattering came from the back door, Tolpuddle let out a loud bark of warning, making Samson jump. He turned round, raining down curses on both dog and owner.
‘I thought I told you to wait in the hall,’ he snapped.
‘And I thought a detective would know that someone with criminal intentions doesn’t normally come calling wearing a high-visibility jacket!’ Delilah pointed at the yellow silhouette that could be made out on the other side of the opaque glass of the back door. ‘For God’s sake, open up and let whoever it is in before they break something.’
Accepting the wisdom of her observation, Samson strode across the room, unlocked the door, and a tall young man in a police uniform that was way too big for him stumbled into the porch, fist raised in anticipation of another bout of knocking.
‘Mr O’Brien!’ he exclaimed, as he tripped over the pile of trainers and wellies before righting himself. ‘You need to see this. Now!’
In his hand, the lad was holding a USB drive.
* * *
‘There! Look!’
Delilah leaned closer to the computer screen, eyes screwed up in concentration as she stared over the bony shoulders of the young man sitting at her desk. ‘What?’
‘That!’ Constable Daniel Bradley pointed at the image. ‘Do you see?’
Delilah shook her head, but a sharp intake of breath next to her suggested Samson had seen something she hadn’t.
‘I knew it!’ he said, patting Danny on the back. ‘Excellent work.’
Danny beamed. Delilah scowled.
‘Show me again,’ she said, ignoring the look shared between the two men as Danny pressed Play once more.
When the young policeman had made his dramatic entrance – his appearance at the back door apparently an attempt to remain undetected, given the clandestine nature of the evidence he was carrying – Samson had offered Delilah a brief explanation as he’d ushered all of them up the stairs to her office.
‘You mean you paid him to get the CCTV footage the police refused to show you?’ she’d asked when he finished.
‘Not exactly. He offered.’
‘Is that legal?’
Samson shrugged. ‘I can’t see there’s any harm in him looking at it. This, however…’ He’d grinned as he gestured at the constable sitting in front of Delilah’s computer and pulling up a video file from the USB.
Now, on her second viewing, Delilah was hoping to see something that might make risking a spell in prison worthwhile.
The screen flickered to life, showing a black-and-white image of Bruncliffe Old Station from a camera above the platform. The two lamps either side of the passenger shelter were on, spilling light into the dark of an October morning, and in the middle of the picture stood a man, overcoat and scarf giving tell to the chilly temperatures, the satchel slung across his chest suggesting a daily commute.
Richard Hargreaves. The date and time at the top of the image revealed it was the morning before he died. His last journey from Bruncliffe Old Station. The train arrived to the right of the screen, Richard boarded and the carriages rolled away, leaving the station deserted.
Danny scrolled quickly through the rest of the day’s footage, small figures moving in and out of view, but mostly the camera showing only the empty concrete platform, typical of such a rural station. Then, as the blur of darkness gave way to the teasing grey of dawn, he let the film roll again.
Another morning. Just before six-thirty the next day, according to the on-screen clock. But this time a thick mist makes it almost impossible to discern anything more than light and shade. In the left-hand corner a smeared brightness denotes the station lamp, then a dark shape lurches forward – the lens too fogged to give greater definition – as a blur of motion slices through the footage. The train.
Richard’s death was reduced to nothing more than a fatal smudge of movement.
Danny froze the video and turned round in his chair to look at Delilah.
‘Well?’ he asked.
She stared at the screen and then back at the young man sitting in her chair. ‘I’m sorry, I just don’t—’
‘Look at the positioning, Delilah.’ Samson leaned over and clicked the mouse, starting the morbid film all over again. ‘Here,’ he said, pointing at the two lights and then at the lone figure of Richard Hargreaves on the day before he died. ‘See where these are in relation to the camera? Now watch.’
He fast-forwarded and then paused. In the gloom of the following morning, Delilah could see the hazy aurora of the lamp and then …
She squinted at the screen and then jerked back. ‘The light…’
Samson nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘There’s only one visible.’
‘What else?’
She looked again as the film rolled once more. The dark shape, the train …
‘Oh! Richard. He’s only visible at the very end.’
Samson nodded again, Danny smiling at her from the chair as she considered explanations for this new information. There was only one she could think of.
‘The camera was moved!’ she said. ‘It’s not focused on the same spot as it was the morning before.’
‘Correct,’ said Danny. ‘You can only see one light, and you can’t see Mr Hargreaves until he begins falling onto the track.’
‘And the train is in the centre of the screen, not on the edge like a day earlier!’ Delilah exclaimed.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve checked the overnight footage, too?’ Samson addressed his question to the constable, who was already rewinding through the film. When the clock at the top of the image revealed it was just gone one-thirty in the morning, he let the video play. The screen consisted of two bright lights, a slice of platform between them and beyond that, nothing but the darkness of a country night.
‘Here,’ said Danny. ‘Watch.’
Even Delilah saw it first time. The shift in perspective. Suddenly the lens was no longer centred on the platform. It had swung round so that the track, just about discernible, cut through the middle of the screen and the lamplight was thrown to the left-hand side.
‘Could it have been the wind?’ Delilah asked. But Danny Bradley was shaking his head.
‘That’s what the train company claimed when I called them. They said it’s not uncommon for cameras to shift in high winds. But then I checked the Met Office for the night of October the fifteenth, the night before Mr Hargreaves died. It was still. Nothing strong enough to budge a camera, at any rate.’
‘So you’re saying someone moved it?’ Delilah turned to Samson, who was still staring intently at the frozen video. ‘What do you think? Was this a deliberate act by someone who didn’t want the events of the next morning recorded?’
‘I think this might give you the answer,’ he said.
He leaned in over the keyboard to play the overnight footage once again, and for the second time they saw the change of focus as the camera was repositioned, the view now of the darkened track. Then Samson pointed at the screen where, in the left-hand corner, a long shadow shifted briefly across the edge of the picture.
‘What’s that?’ asked Delilah, as Danny looked up at Samson in awe.
‘That,’ said Samson, expression grave, ‘is the person we’re searching for.’
‘You mean…’
‘They parked behind the camera. On its blind side. They moved it undetected and then drove off. Only, thanks to its new angle, the lens picked up the elongated shadow of the vehicle as it passed in front of the far light in the car park.’
He tapped the blurred image on the computer screen. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is our killer.’
Delilah felt her excitement distil into a bone-chilling fear.