Less than a mile as the crow flies. But a bloody crow wouldn’t have to run up the steps to the top of the Crag.
Chest burning, legs on fire, Delilah forced herself to pick up the speed as she cleared the rocky outcrop that towered over Bruncliffe and finally hit the open fells. If she’d looked back, she’d have seen the Lake District peaks, hazy in the distance; the stone-built houses of the town behind her with the river snaking between them; and the smoke still hanging in the air above the ruins of the rugby club.
But she didn’t look back. She looked ahead, following the path uphill that she knew from years of training, concentrating as she sped across the distance between Bruncliffe and the caravan where her friend lived.
Alongside her, Tolpuddle kept pace, his grey body covering the uneven terrain in easy strides.
Less than a mile as the crow flies. They would be there in minutes.
* * *
The wind wasn’t the only thing that had shifted.
As Rob Harrison raised his head, Samson O’Brien felt the change in atmosphere, an undercurrent of tension now shimmering between the two men.
‘Is that Nathan’s phone?’ he asked, tone light, as though they were having a relaxed conversation in the pub, while his brain turned cartwheels trying to work out the puzzling implications of this new piece of information.
Nathan’s phone. Rob Harrison had access to Nathan’s phone. Which meant he had access to Lucy’s date requests. The loyal friend. The self-appointed protector. Perhaps Nathan wasn’t the only one who didn’t want Lucy dating. In which case …
He kept his focus on the stonemason, who seemed to be doing some re-evaluating of his own, attention flicking from the mobile in his hand to Samson with growing anger. All the while, the scent of petrol grew stronger.
Petrol. Lucy. She was in serious danger.
‘What have you done with her, Rob?’ Samson asked, beginning to circle slowly in the direction of the caravan.
The stonemason shook his head, so Samson tried again, edging nearer to the steps that led to Lucy’s front door. ‘If you’ve harmed her, Nathan will never forgive you.’
‘You hypocrite!’ Rob finally snarled, brandishing the mobile.
A date request was showing on the screen – from Samson to Lucy.
Whatever had prompted Delilah to send it, Samson didn’t know. But it had handed him the edge. Because Rob Harrison was furious. And an enraged man is a lot easier to overcome than a rational one. Especially one as large as the stonemason.
Rob took a step towards him, fists clenched, shoulders tense. ‘You’re as bad as the rest of them,’ he shouted. ‘Making out you’re concerned about Nathan while trying to date his mother behind his back. You’re his godfather, for Christ’s sake!’
His temper had brought him closer. Samson needed him closer still if he was to negate the difference in size between them.
‘Where’s the harm?’ asked Samson. ‘Lucy’s young. And pretty. It’s not like I’m asking her to marry me or anything.’ He shrugged, as though Lucy’s connection to his dead friend was of no account. ‘Just looking for a bit of fun. Ryan would understand.’
It was the catalyst he’d wanted.
With a roar of rage, Rob attacked, and the detective had seconds to brace himself before eighteen stone of muscle and bone fell upon him.
Twisting slightly as the huge man lunged, Samson let the full impact land on his right side, hands grasping the man’s jacket to continue the forward momentum, throwing the stonemason to the ground.
But the power behind the movement was too much and as the heavier man fell, the detective was pulled after him, the two of them collapsing onto the gravel close to the wooden steps of the caravan. Landing on top of the stonemason, Samson heard the air rush out of the man’s lungs, but still Rob Harrison had the capacity to throw a powerful punch, catching the detective in the ribs. Rearing back in pain, Samson yielded too much space and two large hands were on his chest and thrusting him backwards, his head smacking into the side of the steps.
Dazed, he scrambled to his feet, a warm trickle of blood on his scalp. And a pungent smell on his clothes. Petrol. They’d been rolling around in petrol, the gravel dark where the liquid had been poured in a wide trail around the caravan.
He looked up, suddenly aware of the danger, only to see Rob Harrison standing opposite him, hemming him in between the caravan and the steps. He was holding a knife in his right hand, the blade ugly and serrated. Far more worryingly, in his left, he was holding a lit Zippo lighter.
* * *
An oblong of green in front of a stone barn. That’s all Delilah saw of the caravan as she crested the fell above it, breath coming in short gasps, thighs trembling. Then she was hurtling downhill, concentrating only on the tussocky grass and the bits of limestone passing beneath her feet as she negotiated the tricky route which would take her to the road. Tolpuddle, as if sensing they were almost at their destination, started pulling ahead.
By the time Delilah ran across the tarmac, Tolpuddle was already racing down the track, towards the motorbike, the van with its open doors. And the two men standing by the caravan, one of them holding a knife.
Delilah started sprinting.
* * *
‘Don’t be stupid, Rob. This isn’t what Ryan would have wanted.’
Samson had both hands spread in the instinctive gesture of surrender, the metal side of the caravan against his back. He tried not to let the fumes from the petrol alarm him. Tried to concentrate only on the man opposite and the naked flame in his hand.
‘At least let Lucy go.’
Rob’s eyes flicked tellingly and Samson knew Lucy must be inside the caravan, incapacitated in some way or she’d have been making a racket by now. The situation wasn’t looking good. For either of them.
His only hope was to keep Rob occupied. To talk to him, in the chance of overpowering him.
‘Please, Rob. For Ryan’s sake.’
‘Don’t use his name!’ the stonemason snapped, the lighter jerking dangerously in his hand. ‘You abandoned him. And now you’re back trying to steal his wife. You’re scum, just like the others.’ He spat on the ground at Samson’s feet. ‘Well, I took care of them. Like I’m going to take care of you.’
Samson fought the panic welling inside him. ‘And Nathan?’ he managed. ‘Does he know what you’re doing? That you’re about to kill his mother?’
Confusion passed across Rob’s face. He glanced at the caravan again and a blur of movement over his right shoulder caught Samson’s eye.
Tolpuddle, racing down the track, Delilah following in his wake.
‘Does Nathan know?’ pressed Samson, trying to keep the stonemason’s attention away from the fast-approaching dog.
‘Leave him out of this,’ shouted Rob, glare focused back on Samson. ‘Nathan’s a good kid. All he did was change the dating account to stop those men contacting his mother.’
‘Then you need to let Lucy go,’ said Samson. ‘For Nathan’s sake.’
The stonemason growled. ‘I need to do no such thing. Nathan’s better off without her despoiling his father’s memory.’ He raised his left arm, the flame flickering in the wind. ‘See you in hell, O’Brien.’
Samson flinched, waiting for the burst of fire that would be triggered by the dropped lighter. But a sharp bark cut through the air and Rob Harrison began turning to his right, leading with the knife as Tolpuddle hurtled towards him.
* * *
She saw the two men. Samson facing her. Rob Harrison the stonemason with his back to her, holding a knife in his right hand. And a lighter in his left. As she raced closer, the smell of petrol drifted across the space between them and terror clutched at her chest.
Tolpuddle was some way ahead and closing fast. When she heard his warning bark, she knew what was coming, the muscles in his haunches bunching as he prepared to leap. Then Rob Harrison was turning and the sun was glinting off the blade in his hand.
‘Tolpuddle, no!’ Delilah screamed.
But the dog was already committed, leaping at full stretch, front paws landing on the stonemason’s right shoulder. The unexpected weight was enough to cause the man to lose his balance and he stumbled to his left, Samson lunging for the lighter. In a blur of motion, the dog and both men fell to the ground.
* * *
The lighter! Samson’s hand closed around the thick wrist of Rob Harrison, trying to hold the flame away from the petrol-sodden gravel. But he was falling – him and the stonemason and the dog, a jumble of limbs as they hit the ground. He felt his already-sore ribs crunch against the hard surface, heard the dog yelp in pain, and he saw the fingers gripping the Zippo let go.
Then his head smacked into the ground and the lighter clattered out of sight.
* * *
It was a miracle, of sorts. The lighter tumbled from the stonemason’s grasp, yellow flame still burning, and bounced on its bottom edge on the gravel, before landing on the concrete base under the caravan. It skittered across the smooth surface and was still alight as it came to rest against a pile of dead leaves that had been blown there by the autumn winds. It wouldn’t be long before they began to smoulder.
* * *
The lighter. Where was it?
Shaking his head to clear his vision, Samson scanned the ground around him. No fire. The petrol still damp on the gravel. No lighter, either.
Heavy footsteps pulled his attention back to Rob Harrison, the stonemason up on his feet and running, cutting right between the caravan and the barn and heading towards the path that led up the fellside. Already veering after him was the much smaller figure of Delilah.
Head throbbing, his arm clamped to his side where his damaged ribs were making every breath painful, Samson struggled to pick himself up. ‘Let him go, Delilah!’ he called out as she approached. ‘He’s dangerous.’
She didn’t even break stride. ‘I’ll be fine. Call the police and tell them to follow us, then see if Lucy’s in there,’ she yelled, pointing at the caravan. ‘And check on Tolpuddle, too.’
‘Delilah, no!’ Samson shouted after her. Because the path they had taken led to only one place – Thursgill Force. If the stonemason ended up cornered, trapped between the waterfall at the end of the path and Delilah behind him, he wouldn’t hesitate to confront her. He had too much to lose. But with a last worried glance at her dog, who had crawled towards the motorbike before collapsing, she was gone, chasing the huge silhouette of Rob Harrison up the hillside.
Grabbing his mobile out of his pocket, Samson started dialling as he staggered over to where Tolpuddle was lying with his eyes half-closed. He ran a hand along the dog’s grey flank and got a soft whimper in response.
‘Police and ambulance,’ Samson said as the operator answered. ‘High Laithe, the Metcalfe place.’
Then he noticed his hand. It was covered in blood. ‘And a vet,’ he said with urgency. ‘We need a vet, too.’
If the operator thought it a strange request, she didn’t say. Just took the necessary details and assured Samson that someone would be with him as soon as possible.
‘You daft mutt,’ said Samson, voice thickening with emotion as Tolpuddle whimpered again. ‘I thought I told you to stay in the office.’
Then he turned back to the caravan. And that was when he saw the smoke curling out from underneath it. If Lucy really was in there, she was in trouble.
* * *
Smoke. Seeping up though the floor. Lucy could smell it quite clearly despite her muddled state. But there was nothing she could do. Her mind touched briefly on the awful prospect of fire. Of her lying there, unable to move. But then it spiralled away, Ryan calling her from beyond the space she was in.
‘Lucy! Lucy! You need to get out!’
She smiled. Then she cried. Because there was no way she could join him when she couldn’t move. And besides, she couldn’t leave the cake. Not after the effort it took to bake it.
* * *
‘Lucy! Lucy! You need to get out!’
Samson rattled the handle of the locked door, conscious of the acrid smoke rising up between the steps. He’d glanced under the caravan and it hadn’t looked good. A small fire of leaves burning slowly but steadily, it had been enough to panic him. If the flames got as far as the petrol-soaked gravel, Lucy would be unreachable.
He pressed his face to the glass of the door once again, but Lucy was in the same position she’d been in when he’d raced over to the caravan moments before. She was lying prone on the floor, eyes closed, long hair draped across her face and a rag tied across her mouth.
‘Come on, Lucy!’ he shouted. ‘You need to move!’
A leg twitched and he saw her eyelids flicker, but nothing more. Lucy was unable to help herself.
He needed to get in there. Samson ran back down the steps and assessed the caravan. Big windows at the front. He’d be able to get her out through one of those. But first he had to get them open.
A loud pop from beneath the caravan made him jump and he heard the crackle of fire. It was catching hold. And there was a gas canister around the back.
He was running out of time. So was Lucy.
* * *
Delilah wasn’t taking risks. She’d managed to gain ground on the stonemason as they cut across the open fell, his heavier muscle counting against him as the hillside rose steeply. But when they’d gone over the stile and into the copse that led to Thursgill Force, the path began to flatten out and Rob Harrison had started to pull away.
Ahead she could see his lumbering figure crashing through the trees, reckless in his headlong flight along a path strewn with rocks and roots, and only the width of a footfall. Behind him, Delilah was a lot more careful, aware of her running shoes slipping on the greasy limestone and of the abrupt drop to the right.
‘One foot in front of the other,’ she muttered, quoting her old coach Seth Thistlethwaite as she continued the chase. ‘One foot in front of the other.’
There was no real rush after all. Because Delilah knew where the path ended. At the top of Thursgill Force, a waterfall that dropped thirty feet onto rocks below.
Rob Harrison was running into a dead end. She chose not to think about what might happen when he reached it.
‘One foot in front of the other,’ she said again as she kept up her pace.
* * *
Something to smash the double glazing.
Ignoring the slicing pain in his side every time he took a breath, Samson raced over to the stonemason’s van, its back doors still wide open. Inside, a jerrycan lay discarded alongside some rope, a roll of gaffer tape and, thankfully, a toolbox. Choosing a robust mason’s hammer from the array of tools, he sprinted back to the caravan, aware of the ever-denser swirls of smoke creeping out from under it.
Reaching the front windows, he pulled himself up onto the A-frame used for towing that jutted out beneath them. He balanced himself across it and then, concentrating on the middle of the three panes of glass, swung the hammer as hard as he could at the bottom right-hand corner.
The impact jarred his body, his ribs screaming in protest. But the glass remained intact. And the fire was growing in strength, the southerly wind breathing life into the flames and sending twists of grey curling up around his legs.
‘Come on,’ he grunted, tensing his body again in preparation. Spurred on by desperation and fear, he brought the hammer over his shoulder and crashing into the window.
The glass shattered, exploding into a thousand shards which rained down onto him, cutting into his face and hands. He barely noticed. Because at that moment a burning leaf blew out onto the gravel and the circle of petrol finally burst into flames.