‘Bullseye!’
The raucous shout from darts captain Harry Furness made Delilah leap in her seat, her mobile falling from her hand and her sudden movement triggering a loud bark from Tolpuddle.
‘It’s okay,’ said Samson, putting a soothing hand on the dog’s head as Delilah glanced wildly around the crowded pub. ‘Nothing to panic about.’
He’d have liked to have calmed Delilah in the same way, her nerves at breaking point twenty-four hours after Speedy Date night. But with Will Metcalfe and Rick Procter over by the bar casting dark glances his way, the last thing he wanted to do was start another brawl. If he was going to be attacked by the phantom murderer anytime soon, he’d prefer to be in a state to fight back.
‘I don’t know how much longer I can stand this,’ muttered Delilah, picking her phone up from the floor.
‘What, Harry’s relentless crowing?’ asked Samson with a grin, as the auctioneer did a jig on the oche to boisterous cheering from the partisan spectators.
She glowered at him. ‘You know what I mean.’ She placed her mobile on the table and folded her hands on her lap, so no one in the Fleece could see them trembling.
The pub was packed. Word had travelled fast through Bruncliffe and the outlying villages – helped undoubtedly by the posters which had appeared overnight on community noticeboards up and down the dale – that Harry Furness had persuaded the legendary Samson O’Brien to play darts for the Fleece. Against none other than the Mason’s Arms.
Only Seth Thistlethwaite and his contemporaries could recall the last time the smallest pub in Bruncliffe had beaten the team from Gargrave, Troy Murgatroyd never having had the honour of victory in his lifetime as landlord. Tonight, after a blazing start by the home side with Will, Harry and Rick Procter winning their games, it looked like history could be rewritten. The locals had already secured a lead of three games to love, and Samson had yet to play. And for the first time since Troy took over the pub, no one had heard him grumbling about the money he wasted paying the league fees for the darts team every year. He was too busy serving pints to be complaining.
Delilah Metcalfe, however, wasn’t feeling the joy.
She’d spent the day in her office, checking and rechecking the dating agency systems, making sure the net she’d created had no holes in it. So far, it seemed to be working. Only Samson’s date requests had made their way to Hannah Wilson and Sarah Mitchell, all others having been blocked by the modifications she’d made to the program. Likewise, any moves by Hannah or Sarah to take things further with any of the men they’d met had been intercepted. As a result, Hannah had four would-be suitors she didn’t know about; Sarah, despite her timidity, had captured the attention of two. Delilah had made sure these unlucky admirers received the softest of rejections – Leave it for now – and had even gone so far as to delay the replies, hoping to console the men with the thought that the two ladies had at least deliberated over their decisions.
Her role as Cupid’s evil twin hadn’t made her mood any better. But it had to be done. Until Hannah Wilson and Sarah Mitchell could be ruled out of any involvement in the suspicious deaths besetting the Dales Dating Agency clients, Delilah had to protect not just the hearts of her male customers, but their lives too.
Not knowing whether her attempts to safeguard them had been effective, however, was unbearable.
‘One-hundred-and-eighty!’ Harry bellowed, his voice trained from years in the auction ring to travel greater distances than the two rooms of the Fleece, and consequently deafening at close quarters.
Delilah sat on her hands and forced herself to relax. If someone was going to try and bump Samson off, they would hardly choose darts night in the Fleece to do so. Unless, of course, you counted her brother Will in that number. Currently standing at the bar, pint in hand, his black stare hadn’t strayed from the detective for the duration of the evening.
If looks could kill, Samson would already be dead. At least, thought Delilah with a wry smile, her dating agency couldn’t be blamed for that one.
* * *
Eight-thirty in the evening. Who in their right mind would arrange a viewing for that time?
And what letting agency in their right mind would agree to go through with it?
Unfortunately for Stuart Lister, an agency desperate to rent out a property that had been on their books for over two months would. And had.
The estate agent stood in the porch of the empty farmhouse, staring out into the dark. Total dark. Unlike Skipton, where he was from, where street lights kept the night at bay, here there was nothing. Not even the moon or the stars as the clouds smothered the sky, making it as black as the desolate moorland below it.
No headlights dipping over the horizon, either. He’d wait another ten minutes and then he was heading back to Bruncliffe and the vibrant facade of Happy House. It would be a welcome beacon after this.
The request had come mid-morning. Julie, the receptionist, had received an email from a Dr Howson wanting to look at a property on Henside Road that evening. As head of the rentals department – which was not as impressive as it sounded as Stuart was the only member of said department, although Mr Taylor assured him they would be taking on more staff soon – it fell to Stuart to deal with it. So he’d got out the files and looked it up.
It was a remote former farmhouse that was up for sale, the owners having relocated back down to London after their dream life of working from home in the countryside had turned sour – turned into divorce, if Julie was to be believed. And no wonder. All this space with no one in it, just the two of them rattling around. It was enough to test the strongest of relationships. With no sign of a sale in over twelve months, they’d decided to rent it out in the interim. But that hadn’t produced many takers either. If Stuart could land a tenant tonight, it wouldn’t hurt his long-term prospects with Taylor’s.
He checked the time on his mobile. Dr Howson was twenty minutes late already and Stuart had no way of making contact, the screen on his phone indicating that not only was there a lack of lighting in the area, but there was a lack of mobile signal, too.
It was looking like this was going to be a no-show. Stuart sighed, thinking about the tricky drive over from Bruncliffe, the innocuous-sounding Henside Road turning out to be a single-track road that wound up onto bleak moors near Fountains Fell. Hemmed in by the Dales-defining stone walls on either side and with several steep hills thrown in, it hadn’t made for a pleasant journey. He hated to think it might have been for nothing.
Willing twin beams to appear at the end of the lane that led to the house, or the sound of an engine to drift across on the wind, Stuart shifted his weight against the door frame and wished that he smoked. It would help pass the time. Maybe make him look a bit older, too. Because he could do with looking older. Twenty-eight and still people mistook him for some fresh-faced lad straight out of college and damp behind the ears. His mother was always telling him it was a blessing. That when he was fifty he’d be glad to lose a few years. But right now, it felt like a curse.
If he looked older, perhaps the blunt rejection he’d got after the Speedy Date event would have been different.
Staring wistfully into the dark, Stuart Lister made the decision to wait five minutes more. It was a decision that would change his life.
* * *
Three all. Three games left to play. A tense captain of the Fleece darts team was pacing around by the bar as the players took a break to savour the delicious spread laid on by Kay Murgatroyd, despite her husband’s objections.
‘I don’t understand it,’ muttered a disconcerted Harry Furness, his swagger of the previous hour replaced by a nervous hunch of the shoulders. ‘Total collapse!’
‘Maybe you should have broken for food earlier,’ said Samson, winking at Lucy Metcalfe and Elaine Bullock who were standing next to him, both of them enjoying a slice of cheese-and-onion tart. ‘These athletes need to keep their stamina up.’
Elaine spluttered on a laugh, looking pointedly at the crowd of men bustling around the trays of sandwiches and tarts, pints in hand, the average shape of the participants a long way from athletic. Even young Danny Bradley, who was at the opposite end of the scale from the majority of his teammates, was hardly a model of vigour, his skinny arms sticking out of a flapping T-shirt. But Harry Furness was desperate enough to grasp at straws.
‘Do you think that was it?’ he asked, with a worried frown. ‘Perhaps I should have brought some energy bars along? I mean, it’s a total collapse. Three games on the trot … They’re coming back at us and they still have their strongest player to throw. Two more games – that’s all we need. But it’s not as if we have a lot of quality left on our side. No Rob Harrison for a start, and it’s not like Danny Bradley’s much of a substitute … so it could all come down to you, Samson—’
The witterings of the panicking captain came to an abrupt halt as a mini-Yorkshire pudding filled with beef and garnished with horseradish sauce was thrust at him.
‘Try one of these,’ said Samson, hoping the food would serve two purposes – take Harry’s mind off the match and shut him up at the same time. The approach of Ash Metcalfe helped his cause.
‘Thanks for stepping in tonight,’ said Ash, shaking hands gingerly, his wrist heavily bandaged. ‘Don’t know what we’d have done without you.’
‘I’m sure you’d have managed,’ Samson replied, aware of the unrelenting scrutiny of Ash’s older brother from the other end of the bar, as yet another Metcalfe dared to fraternise with the devil.
‘Any chance of Rob making a last-minute appearance?’ demanded Harry through a mouthful of Yorkshire pudding.
Ash shook his head. ‘He’s torn a muscle in his shoulder repairing a wall. He’s in a bad way apparently.’
Harry groaned, casting a despairing glance at Danny Bradley, the slight figure of the constable a mere shadow of the stonemason, both in physique and ability with the darts.
‘Have faith,’ Ash counselled his captain. ‘Samson and Danny will save the day.’
‘Don’t speak too soon,’ said Samson. ‘We’ve got to win our games yet.’
‘Speaking of winning,’ continued Ash with a grin. ‘How did everyone get on last night? Are your dance cards filled?’
‘Not mine,’ muttered Harry, a second Yorkshire pudding gone and a third in his hand. ‘I got knocked back for the only date request I sent.’
‘You sent a date request?’ Ash asked, eyebrows raised. ‘Who to?’
Harry shook his head and tapped a finger against his nose. ‘Not telling.’
‘What about you two lovely ladies?’
Elaine grinned, reaching for a second slice of tart. ‘I didn’t send out any, but I did get one response.’
‘And?’ Lucy nudged her. ‘Are you going to accept?’
‘Not on your life. It was some farmer with bad breath who didn’t even take the hint when I started reading before the four minutes were up.’
‘You read? During the dating event?’ asked Samson, suddenly recalling the book she’d been carrying the night before.
Elaine nodded, licking her fingers and reaching for her pint. ‘Yes. Why not? I’d rather be immersed in the world of rocks I’m interested in than in some bloke with rocks for brains.’
Lucy laughed, while the men regarded the geologist with something between awe and terror, none of them wanting to be on the receiving end of such a snub.
‘And you, Samson?’ asked Elaine. ‘Have you been inundated with requests?’
‘A few.’
‘How many’s a few?’
A snort from behind made her turn to where Delilah was standing, a plate of food in her hand and a glint in her eye. ‘Try ten,’ she said, bestowing a disbelieving look on Samson as she spoke. ‘There is no accounting for taste.’
‘Ten?’ Harry almost dropped the sandwich he was holding, head flicking between Delilah and Samson. ‘You had ten women send you a date request?’
Samson gave a boyish grin. ‘What can I say? The ladies of Bruncliffe appreciate me, even if their male counterparts don’t.’
His response prompted a groan from Ash and a loud laugh from Elaine, while Delilah shook her head and wandered off to talk to Seth and Matty Thistlethwaite.
‘I’m pleased for you, Samson,’ said Lucy, patting him on the arm. ‘Even though I didn’t get any.’
‘Not one?’ asked Harry, still eating.
‘Nope. I didn’t get any after the October event, either.’
‘Don’t let Delilah hear you say that,’ warned Samson with a grin. ‘She’ll tell you it simply means you need to sign up for the next one.’
‘I don’t know about that. I think Tuesday night was my last foray into the speed-dating world. It’s too difficult … with Nathan. I didn’t tell him about this last one and I’ve felt guilty all week.’
‘There’s nothing to be guilty about,’ said Ash, putting an arm around his conscience-stricken sister-in-law. ‘Ryan wouldn’t have wanted you to stay at home for the rest of your life. Isn’t that right, Elaine?’
‘Totally,’ concurred the geologist through another slice of tart. ‘Although I think he’d have been happy for you to stay at home and bake us all a bunch of these. You need to get the recipe off Kay Murgatroyd.’
‘I already have,’ said Lucy. ‘Swaledale cheese. That’s the secret.’
‘So can I expect some next time I pop in to Peaks Patisserie?’
‘Only if you’re paying,’ quipped Lucy.
‘Paying? Huh! Seems like Troy isn’t the only one willing to fleece his friends…’
Samson turned from the banter between the two women to see Ash and Harry huddled together over Harry’s phone.
‘He’s sending Lucy a date request,’ whispered Ash with a wink.
‘Can’t have her feeling left out.’ Harry Furness slipped his phone back in his pocket. ‘And at the very least, she might make me one of those cheese tarts!’
Samson laughed and slapped him on the back. ‘Enough about cheese tarts. We’ve got a darts match to win. You’d best call the lads to order before they eat too much to play.’
The captain of the Fleece team pushed back his shoulders, stuck out his chest and then bellowed for the players to resume the match. There was no possibility of anyone not hearing.
* * *
A no-show. All the way out here for a no-show. Stuart Lister turned the orange company Mini out of the lane that led to the farmhouse, glad to be back on the properly surfaced Henside Road, and tried not to be too annoyed.
What would he have done with his evening anyway?
Gone and watched the darts at the Fleece probably. From the way everyone had been talking in the office this morning, it sounded like a big deal. Samson O’Brien – the man whose arrival had caused such a commotion a couple of weeks ago – was now being touted as the saviour of Bruncliffe darts.
It might have been good to see the match. Better than standing around in the dark waiting for Dr Howson to make an appearance and jumping every time there was a noise. For despite what people thought, the countryside was far from quiet. The sudden low of a cow as he’d been locking up the house had nearly frightened him to death.
Headlights travelling ahead of him and picking out the stones that walled in the narrow road, Stuart drove carefully back towards the town. He made better time than he had on the way out, being more prepared for a road that rose and fell as it twined itself around the contours of the fellside, and he was beginning to think it might be worth stopping by the pub after all. It was only just gone nine. The match wouldn’t have finished yet. But first he had to negotiate the steep descent and climb that led up to the turning for Goat Lane.
With his headlights pointing out into dark nothingness, Stuart paused at the top of the hill, the road plummeting away beneath him in a gradient that would be dizzying in daylight. At night, it was a step into the unknown. He eased the Mini into a low gear and, foot firmly on the brake, guided it cautiously down the twisting drop. By the time he reached the cattle grid at the bottom, his heart was in his mouth and his hands were sweating on the steering wheel.
Now to get up the other side. He looked at the two precipitous lines of stone wall rising above him into the inky sky, a slender strip of tarmac between them.
Slow and steady. And pray nothing came down the hill towards him.
Switching brake for accelerator, he began to climb. He was halfway up the sharp incline when they came over the crest – two dazzling beams of white light glaring down at the orange Mini.
He stamped on the brake, waiting for the lights to stop. But they didn’t. They were rolling towards him at tremendous speed. And from such a height.
A tractor. It had to be. He flashed his lights. No response. Hadn’t they seen his car? How couldn’t they have? He flashed again and sounded the horn. Still the lights bore down on him.
Panicking now, he shifted the car into reverse.
Was there space down below at the cattle grid? Could he pull in there and let the maniac past? He couldn’t tell, the road behind bending away from the reversing lights. He’d have to try it or this idiot would hit him.
Easing off the brake, he let the car roll gently backwards, hand on the horn at the same time. He turned to look out of the rear window, but there was little to see, the stone walls disappearing into the blackness of night. Then he twisted forward and knew it was all futile. The massive tyres of the tractor were there, right in front of him. And in a screech of metal, the Mini and its passenger were pushed backwards down the road.
‘Stop!’ screamed Stuart, foot pumping the useless brake. ‘Stop!’
He was still screaming when the car was slammed into a wall.
* * *
‘Double top!’ yelled Harry Furness, throwing his arms around Danny Bradley, who had just secured a vital point for the Fleece. The constable, appearing even younger out of his uniform, was grinning widely, elated at his part in this spectacular match.
‘Four all,’ said the opposition captain, shaking his head in disbelief. Normally the Fleece was known as a team of non-starters. A team that the Mason’s Arms looked forward to trouncing on a twice-yearly basis. But tonight …
Something had got into them. They’d led at the outset, which was unheard of. And now they were pulling themselves back from the dead, the latest contender a string-bean of a young man whose arms didn’t look strong enough to hold a dart, let alone throw it, somehow beating one of the best players the Arms had.
‘Must’ve been summat in that tart,’ his teammate next to him muttered as he picked up his darts.
‘Aye. Well see as you have a slice of it before you play their last lad then,’ grumbled the captain, as the final Fleece player stepped up to the oche.
‘Go on, Samson,’ shouted Elaine. ‘Beat the buggers!’
‘Go on, lad,’ echoed Seth Thistlethwaite, his nephew Matty standing next to him.
‘Make sure I finally get something back for the blasted league fee,’ grumbled Troy Murgatroyd.
The tension rose. Silence fell. Four all, with one game left to play. Samson tried not to think about the weight that was resting on his shoulders.
* * *
There was a weight. On his chest. Pinning him down. And his legs. Trapped. He couldn’t move. He could hear a scream, thin and sharp, coming from somewhere beyond him. Or from him. He couldn’t tell.
He opened his eyes, something wet on his face, stinging, and through the cracked windscreen, beyond the shadow of the tractor that was so close – too close – he saw a blurred shape.
A person. Coming towards him.
‘Help!’ he cried. ‘Help!’
But the only help Stuart Lister was about to get was not the kind he wanted. He was about to be helped out of this life and into the next.
* * *
‘Three more darts, lad. That’ll do it!’
Samson closed his eyes and tried to ignore the well-meaning advice from the crowd.
It had been a closely contested game, both players starting well. But the man from the Mason’s Arms, a burly, red-faced butcher, had started pulling away, capitalising on Samson’s rustiness. So when the man had stepped forward with a score of one hundred and sixty left to achieve, it had seemed the dreams of the home crowd were about to be crushed.
But the butcher had crumpled under the pressure, his final dart clipping a wire and landing on the floor to give him a total of one hundred and twenty. Only forty left to get. He wouldn’t miss next time. Which meant Samson had this one opportunity to win the match for the Fleece.
Trouble was, he had to score one hundred and seventy, the highest score that could be achieved while meeting the criteria of finishing on a double or the bull.
Treble twenty, treble twenty and the bull. That would do it.
No pressure then.
He took a deep breath, opened his eyes and settled himself, letting the creaking seats, the muffled coughs, the tense breathing around him fade into the background. Focus on the circle in front of him, he raised his arm and let the first dart fly.
‘Treble twenty!’ shouted Harry and the room sucked in its breath.
Two more to go. He lifted his arm again, concentrating on that wedge of red towards the top of the board, which looked smaller now, a dart already stuck in it. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he released his second throw.
‘Treble twenty!’ Harry’s shout was met with a roar from the pub, people jumping to their feet, a couple of pints spilled.
‘Quiet, please; quiet, please,’ called the captain of the Fleece team, flapping his arms in an effort to curb the excitement. ‘Give him a chance, folks.’
The crowd hushed, their expectation making the air thick, bodies craning forward waiting for the last throw … which had to land in the bullseye.
Samson stared down at the gaudy carpet, threadbare at his feet, and forced himself to relax. And an image of his mother came to him, standing in her stockings in the kitchen, aiming at the dartboard on the back door. Hair pulled back, a smile lighting her face, and to her side, his father, laughing.
On that beautiful memory, he looked up, bent his arm and, without hesitation, sent his dart winging towards the red circle at the centre of the board.
‘Bullseye!’ screamed Harry Furness, sending the pub into wild celebrations. Lucy and Elaine were jumping up and down, Seth Thistlethwaite was slapping his nephew on the back, and Delilah was grinning, Ash’s arm around her shoulders. Even Troy Murgatroyd was allowing himself a satisfied smile.
Samson wished with all his soul that his father was there to see it.
* * *
‘Help!’ The sound faded to a whimper as Stuart Lister’s body began to shut down. Blood poured from his forehead, his crushed ribs hampered his breathing, and his legs … his legs – he couldn’t feel his legs.
Blackness encroaching at the edges of his vision, he struggled to see the blurred figure. Next to the car now. Reaching in through the broken window.
‘Help…’
He tried to turn his head but his neck wouldn’t cooperate. Tried to welcome his saviour.
‘Please…’ A gurgle of air, blood trickling over his bottom lip. ‘Please…’
Then a broad hand, placing something across his nose and mouth, pushing his head back into the headrest. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t struggle. He was about to die.
Lights flickering at the periphery of his consciousness, Stuart Lister began to lose the tenuous grip he had on his life.
* * *
‘From zero to hero in two easy weeks!’ Delilah was grinning up at him, punching him on the arm, all her fears of earlier forgotten for now.
Samson grinned back. ‘I wouldn’t say I’ve won over everyone.’ He threw a glance at Will Metcalfe and Rick Procter at the bar, neither of them looking like they were in a joyous mood, despite the jubilation around them and having been part of a winning team.
‘Oh, those two!’ Delilah tossed her head. ‘They’ll come round.’
‘Only when they hear I’m leaving.’
‘Who’s leaving?’ demanded an exuberant Harry Furness, bouncing up with a slice of cheese-and-onion tart in one hand and a pint in the other. ‘You can’t leave yet, Samson, lad! The night’s still early. Get yourself a real drink and celebrate properly.’
‘This’ll do me fine,’ Samson replied, raising his bottle of ginger beer. ‘I can get drunk on the victory.’
‘And what a victory!’ Harry crowed. ‘We’re the stuff of legend now. The team that beat the Mason’s Arms!’
Delilah rolled her eyes. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll leave you two to revel in your own glory. But don’t praise him too much, Harry.’ She pointed towards the window and the Dales Detective Agency across the road. ‘That office isn’t very large. I’d hate to lose a tenant because his head was too big to fit inside.’ And with a laugh cast over her shoulder, she walked over to Lucy and Elaine.
‘So,’ said Harry, cutting straight to the point. ‘Can I sign you up as a permanent member of the team?’
Samson lifted both hands. ‘Whoa! Steady on. I stood in as a substitute for Ash. I’m not sure I’m ready to make any long-term commitments.’
The auctioneer regarded him through narrowed eyes. ‘Aye. I can understand that. It’s not as like folk round here welcomed you with open arms, myself included. But this has changed things. You must see that?’
Looking across the room at the glowering countenance of the oldest Metcalfe, Samson didn’t see anything of the kind. Plus, his own plans didn’t include being around long enough to complete the darts season. When that phone call came, he’d be leaving.
‘We’ll see,’ he said.
‘Well, if I can’t sign you up for the team, can I sign you up for tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Bonfire Night. The rugby club is holding its annual celebrations. I could do with a hand in the morning setting the fireworks out. You up for it?’
But Samson wasn’t listening. He was revisiting the past, hoisted on his father’s shoulders, watching rockets scream into the dark sky, his mother’s hand in the small of his back offering security. The rugby club’s annual party on November the fifth had been legendary. Huge fire. Lots of fireworks. Baked potatoes and toffee apples. It had been a highlight of his childhood. Until he was eight.
It was just after his mother died. His father was already struggling to control his drinking by then, but had yielded to Samson’s relentless pleading and taken him to see the bonfire. Once at the rugby club, however, memories had overcome the recently widowed father and he’d got blind drunk, staggering around, causing a nuisance and getting in the way. It had been towards the end of the evening, the fireworks finished but the fire still blazing, when Joseph O’Brien tripped over and fell into the flames.
Two quick-thinking men had dragged him out of the fire before any real damage had been done. His hair and eyebrows were singed and he’d had burns on both hands. But the main talking point as the story made its way around town over the next few days was that Boozy O’Brien – as he would forever be known – had kept a tight hold of his can of beer the whole time. Mortified, his son had never asked to be taken to the Bonfire Night celebrations again.
‘Come on,’ cajoled Harry, taking Samson’s lack of response for reluctance. ‘You owe me. I went through the torture of that date night and got two kicks in the teeth for my trouble. So the least you could do is help me out.’
‘Two kicks in the teeth?’ asked Samson, dragging his attention back to the present.
‘The Patisserie Queen gave me the cold shoulder. An outright no, not even the offer of leaving it until later.’ The auctioneer’s show of being indignant was belied by the twinkle in his eyes as he looked over at Lucy Metcalfe.
Samson laughed. ‘Serves you right! Teasing her like that. She’s giving you a taste of your own medicine.’
‘That’s as maybe, but it doesn’t change the statistics. Two blows to the heart. The least you could do is help me out tomorrow.’
‘Okay, okay,’ Samson grinned. ‘But then we’re quits.’
‘Ten o’clock in the clubhouse, then. See you there.’
Harry Furness swaggered off, accepting a hail of congratulations as he made his way to the bar, where he started hassling Rick Procter to buy a round of drinks for the successful darts team. Samson was watching the shark-toothed smile of the property developer as he faced Harry’s persuasive powers, when there was a tentative tug at his sleeve.
‘Mr O’Brien?’ Danny Bradley was standing next to him.
‘After your performance tonight, Danny, I think it’s time you started calling me Samson.’
A flush stole up the lad’s skinny neck, settling in the hollows of his cheeks. ‘Yeah, that was fun. Worth giving up a run out with the Harriers at any rate.’
‘They still run on a Thursday evening?’ asked Samson with a pang of nostalgia for his weekly outings with the Bruncliffe Harriers.
‘Every week. You should come with us, now you’re back. Persuade Miss Metcalfe … Delilah … to come too.’
‘She doesn’t run with you any more?’ Samson glanced over to where Delilah was talking to Will and Rick Procter.
Danny shook his head, eyes also settling on Delilah, but with a look of adoration. ‘Not for a long time. Wish she did. She’s a legend in fell-running circles and I reckon I could learn a lot from her.’
Samson didn’t disagree, partly because it was true, but also because he was puzzling over what could have made Delilah give up something she’d been so passionate about. And something she’d been so naturally good at.
‘But Mr—Samson,’ Danny continued, ‘I wanted to ask if you’d discovered anything else. You know, about … Mr Hargreaves.’
‘Not exactly,’ Samson said, keeping his reply vague, aware that there was a lot the constable didn’t know. The connection with the two other dead men, for a start.
‘It’s just that … I feel bad not telling Sergeant Clayton what we saw on the CCTV footage.’
‘I understand. But I don’t think it’s time to be telling him anything just yet. It’s not as if we have anything concrete to offer him.’
Danny bit his lip, clearly in a quandary.
‘Look,’ said Samson, feeling for the lad he’d placed in such an awkward position. ‘How about you call in at the office tomorrow after lunch? I’ll bring you up to speed with everything I’ve got on the case.’
The clouds cleared from the constable’s face. ‘Thanks, Mr—Samson. I’d really appreciate that.’
Knowing that Delilah wouldn’t be as appreciative when she heard the dating agency’s problems were going to be divulged to an outsider, Samson was left wondering how he would tell her what he was planning to do.
* * *
Lights. Bobbing over the dark slope of the fellside. Close now. Voices shouting. It was time to go.
Like a shadow slipping back into the night, a dark figure peeled away from the orange Mini, leaving the inert figure of the estate agent pinned in the bright beams of the tractor.
* * *
When a tipsy Harry Furness started begging Troy Murgatroyd to get out the karaoke machine, Samson knew it was time to go. He scanned the noisy crowd for Delilah, needing to make sure she wasn’t going back to the office before he settled in for the night. After all the excitement of the last couple of days, the last thing he wanted was his landlady discovering that he was sleeping in her spare room on the quiet.
He pushed his way through the mass of people still celebrating, to the small room at the back of the pub. There, in a corner, Delilah was sharing an intimate conversation with Rick Procter. The property developer was bent over her, his blond head close to hers, a large arm draped over her shoulders as he whispered in her ear.
The running shoes in the back porch. The yeti-boots that he’d tripped over the first day. It made sense to Samson now. Delilah was dating Rick Procter.
Feeling like he’d been punched in the stomach, he turned away. Rick Procter, of all people. The man was a snake. A bully who hadn’t left his schoolyard habits behind when he grew up. Delilah could do so much better—
‘Samson?’ She was at his elbow. ‘Do you want another drink?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m heading home. Say goodnight to Lucy and Elaine for me and thank them for their support.’
‘Lucy’s already left. She’s got the caravan to herself tonight, so she’s gone back to watch Dirty Dancing.’
Samson laughed and made to go, but Delilah held his arm.
‘Be careful,’ she murmured, concern on her face.
‘Weren’t you leaving, O’Brien?’ Rick Procter had moved to join them and Delilah let her hand fall. Samson chose to ignore him.
‘Well … erm … I’ll see you tomorrow,’ Delilah stammered. Then she nodded towards Tolpuddle, who had crept out from under a table and was now leaning against Samson’s thigh. ‘Take him with you, if you want,’ she said with a light laugh, her gaze much more serious.
Samson fondled the dog’s ears, aware of what she was offering. Security. A guard dog. But he shook his head. ‘Think I’ll leave you the pleasure of recycled beer,’ he said as a sour, hoppy odour crept up from the region of the dog. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. Sometime late morning, as I’m helping Harry at the rugby club first thing.’
She reached out to squeeze his arm and then headed for the bar, leaving Samson face-to-face with Rick Procter. Tolpuddle issued a low growl and Samson’s affection for the dog increased at their shared distaste of the man opposite. Even so, he gently curled his fingers under the collar around the Weimaraner’s neck. Just in case. Oblivious to the danger, Rick Procter leaned in, his voice dropping, the tone hostile.
‘I don’t get you.’ He held Samson with his glare. ‘You’ve had ample chance to bugger off for good yet you’re still here, hanging around like a bad smell. Are you thick or something?’
Samson lowered his gaze, eyes resting on the huge hands of the property developer, which were flexing, the tendons thick across the broad backs. Those hands were itching to hit something. And Samson had no desire to offer up his face as target practice.
He shrugged. ‘Guess it must be the latter.’
‘Well just so you know, Mr Detective, I’m digging into your past. Looking for whatever it was that made you come scampering home.’ Rick Procter pointed in the direction of Delilah, who was chatting to Seth Thistlethwaite at the bar. ‘And when I find out, we’ll see how welcome you are with the lovely Miss Metcalfe. So don’t go getting too cosy in Bruncliffe, because you won’t be in town for long.’
Samson willed himself to stay calm, fighting the tide of anger that was threatening to breach his self-control. ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ he said, teeth gritted.
‘Good lad.’ Rick Procter stepped back. Out of arm’s reach. His final words were delivered with a taunting smile. ‘Your dad took my advice, and look how well that turned out.’
Furious, as blinded by rage as he had been in his teens, Samson stepped forward, fists ready to fly despite the consequences. But Tolpuddle beat him to it. Tearing out of Samson’s grip, the large dog leaped up, thumped both front paws onto the chest of the property developer and knocked him back into a group of men from the Mason’s Arms, drinks spilling everywhere as Rick Procter fell to the ground.
‘Watch out!’
‘Clumsy oaf!’
‘Think you owe us all another round, mate.’
‘What happened?’ asked Delilah, returning from the bar just as Rick Procter was picking himself up from the floral carpet, cursing, the men around him cursing too.
Samson smothered a smile, Tolpuddle back at his side and looking as innocent as a puppy. ‘Not sure. Maybe he’s had one too many, eh, Rick?’
The property developer shot him a look that Samson recognised. A look he’d seen countless times in his work undercover. It was the look of a ruthless man.
Turning his back on the menace contained in that stare, Samson patted Tolpuddle one last time. ‘I’m off,’ he said.
‘I mean it, be careful,’ Delilah said again.
Samson acknowledged her with a nod of the head and, with the blood still pounding behind his temples, made his way out into the night.
Danger. Delilah was worried that he was in danger. But he knew his biggest threat didn’t come from external factors. It came from within himself. It was what had got him in trouble down in London. And if tonight was anything to go by, it would get him in trouble back here in Bruncliffe, too. If it hadn’t been for Tolpuddle …
He grinned ruefully at the thought of planting a fist in Rick Procter’s face. The man deserved it. But he knew that if he was going to confront the property developer over Twistleton Farm and the way his father had been treated, fighting wasn’t the solution. He needed to think it through. Get his facts sorted. Use the time he was here to try and get the farm back.
Calmer now, he started walking, heading up Back Street towards the marketplace and then turning right down the dark ginnel towards what was now his home. Although how long he’d be calling it that, once Rick Procter uncovered his past, was debatable.
* * *
From the bar, Rick Procter watched him go. That confident stride he’d had even as a child. The easy way he had with people as they patted him on the back and congratulated him. The man was becoming a problem – joining the dating agency, playing for the darts team, helping out at the rugby club. And cosying up to Delilah.
So much for him being gone by Christmas. O’Brien was settling in and becoming part of the town. It wasn’t what was needed. It wasn’t part of the plan.
Six months. He’d give O’Brien six months to move on. And if he was still here after that, he would just have to be dealt with. In whatever way was necessary.
‘You ready to order or are you going to stand there dreaming all night?’ Troy Murgatroyd stood before him, expression surly as always.
‘A round of drinks for my friends over there,’ said Rick with a large smile, pointing at the group of players from the Mason’s Arms who were still grumbling. ‘And one for yourself too, my friend.’
He could afford to be generous. With what the future had in store, he could afford to be very generous indeed.
* * *
‘Bloody hell—’
‘There’s a man in there—’
‘It’s one of Taylor’s cars—’
‘Call an ambulance—’
Away from the cosy interior of the Fleece and up over Bruncliffe Crag, across Bruncliffe Scar and a deserted landscape scattered with limestone, the dark fellside above Henside Road was now lit up by the bobbing headlights of twelve fell runners from the Bruncliffe Harriers. Soon it would be welcoming the strobing lights of the emergency services, too.