As Friday dawned on Bruncliffe, news of the previous day’s events had spread right across the town. The breakfast table at Fellside Court was alive with chatter, Eric Bradley bringing the residents up to speed over their porridge with the latest news from his grandson in the police station. In the marketplace Elaine Bullock was opening up Peaks Patisserie, marvelling at the way the world worked, having been simultaneously sacked and hired in the aftermath of yesterday’s adventures. Her old boss, Titch Harrison, was in a state, given the involvement of his brother in such terrible deeds, and had closed his cafe indefinitely as a result; her new boss, Lucy Metcalfe, was lying in hospital overcoming the effects of smoke inhalation and being drugged. None of it sounded like a typical Bruncliffe day.
On Back Street, the Fleece – ideally located opposite the very offices at the heart of the whole thing – already had its door open. Inside, Troy Murgatroyd was wiping down the bar and calculating his profits from what would be another busy day as his pub filled with locals eager to catch up on events. He was also wondering if the team’s top dart player would be in a fit condition to compete in the upcoming match, given the state of his ribs.
Meanwhile, up on the fells, as the sky grew lighter and the day began, Seth Thistlethwaite walked alone, knowing that this morning he probably wouldn’t be granted a glimpse of his former star pupil striding in the distance, that familiar grey shape shadowing her. But there would be other days. Especially now her secret was out and everyone knew she was running again.
With all the excitement, no one in the town – not even the children gathering in the school playground, who were staring across at the burnt ruins of the rugby club – was complaining about the last-minute cancellation of the Bonfire Night celebrations. After all, there’d been plenty of fireworks in the end.
As Ida Capstick wheeled her bicycle into the backyard of the dating agency offices that Friday morning an hour later than normal, she was no less gripped by the revelations of the day before than the rest of Bruncliffe. She’d heard the news first from Mrs Pettiford in the bank in the afternoon, as dispatches began to filter back to the town. She’d been cleaning the glass partition that separated cashier from customer, grumbling about greasy handprints and people breathing too much, when Mrs Pettiford had come rushing over to inform her that there’d been a fire up at High Laithe, the Metcalfe place. And that Samson O’Brien had saved Lucy Metcalfe’s life by leaping out of an inferno in his boxer shorts, while carrying her and a cake.
Mrs Pettiford seemed most flustered at the idea of Bruncliffe’s black sheep in his boxers – making Ida mutter enigmatically that they should be thankful that at least he’d been wearing them – while Ida was much more interested in the last snippet of information. Why had he been carrying a cake? But Mrs Pettiford hadn’t been able to shed any more light on that.
Then Ida had gone over to the estate agent’s to do a quick bit of cleaning and heard from Julie, the receptionist, that one of their agents was in hospital, having been caught up in the dreadful events and nearly killed. And by the way, added Julie, did Ida know that Samson O’Brien had jumped from the top of a blazing caravan in his boxer shorts with Lucy Metcalfe and a cake in his arms? Again, the young lady was far more interested in the man’s attire – or lack of it – than in the absurd presence of the cake. It was the same all over town. Everyone talking about Samson’s heroics and his semi-nudity, and no one asking about the blasted cake.
By the time she’d got home to George, Ida had enough news to keep the pair of them up all night. And enough of a puzzle in her mind to keep her awake when she finally did get to bed.
It was no wonder then that she entered the offices the following morning with a sense of anticipation. She pushed open the back door, walked through the kitchen and was about to shout up a warning, just to prevent a recurrence of the previous morning’s mishap, when she smelled the most delicious of smells.
Bacon. Drifting down the stairs.
‘Morning, Ida!’ Samson was standing on the landing above – fully dressed, thank goodness – with a spatula in hand. ‘Fancy a bacon butty?’
She didn’t reprimand him for dripping grease on the carpet. She just opened her mouth and said the first thing that was on her mind.
‘Why was tha carrying a cake?’
* * *
‘It’s true then? Tha went back in for a cake?’
‘It’s hard to explain,’ said Samson, sensing Ida Capstick’s disapproval as she sat opposite, eating her bacon butty. He’d already given her a first-hand account of yesterday’s events but, out of all the madness that had happened, Ida was only interested in the cake.
‘I’d say! Bloody daft, if tha asks me. Must’ve been something special, that cake.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Samson, thinking of the box still on his desk downstairs. ‘I haven’t opened it.’
She took another bite of her sandwich, shaking her head in amazement, and then nodded towards the frying pan on the hob. ‘So what’s with the bacon? Can I expect this every morning?’
Samson grinned. ‘No, so don’t go getting used to it,’ he said. ‘It was a gift. I found it hanging on the back door when I got home last night.’
‘Mrs Hargreaves?’
He nodded. Prior to leaving High Laithe the day before, he’d phoned Mrs Hargreaves to tell her what had happened and, once back in town, showered and changed, he’d walked over to the marketplace to see her, Delilah accompanying him. A subdued Mr Hargreaves had let them in and led them to a small office behind the shop where his wife was already sitting, a pot of tea on the table before her and a plate of biscuits next to it.
‘Thanks for calling me,’ she’d said, eyes red from crying. ‘I’d hate to have heard that news over the counter.’
‘It was definitely Rob Harrison?’ asked her husband.
Samson nodded. ‘No question.’
His words seemed to deflate the man. He lowered himself into a chair. ‘It just doesn’t make sense,’ he muttered, staring at the floor.
Mrs Hargreaves reached across and took his hand. ‘I doubt death ever does,’ she said. ‘But at least we know Richard didn’t … that he wouldn’t have done that to us.’
They’d stayed and talked for a while longer and then, as Samson made to leave, Mrs Hargreaves had got to her feet and reached across to a bookcase filled with folders and files. She’d taken an envelope from the middle shelf and held it out.
‘Here,’ she said with a small smile. ‘You told me you’d find out who did it, and you did. So there’s a bonus in there.’
But Samson backed away, both hands held up. ‘No. I can’t. Not with how things turned out.’
‘You earned it,’ she’d said, pushing it towards him again.
He’d shaken his head. ‘Not this time. And besides, I still owe you for years of free meat.’
She tutted at him, putting the envelope on the table. ‘You’ll never last in business at this rate, lad,’ she’d said, wiping a tear from her eye.
‘I can live with that,’ he’d replied. Then Delilah and he had ridden out to the Aldersons’ farm in Gayle to talk to two more bereaved parents. They’d returned to the office to find the bacon hanging on the back door.
‘Aye,’ said Ida, finishing off her butty. ‘I heard tha turned down good brass from the Hargreaveses, all right.’
‘Does that make me more of a fool than for rescuing the cake?’ he asked with a grin.
She flashed a dark look at him and he decided it probably wasn’t the best time to tell her that the Hargreaveses weren’t the only ones whose money he’d turned down. Nor was he in a rush to inform her that the Aldersons had pressurised him into taking the little grey Ferguson in lieu, and that the very same tractor was on its way to her brother George’s already-cramped barn.
‘Here,’ said Ida, picking a large reusable shopping bag up off the floor and thrusting it at him. ‘Seeing as tha’s staying a while, this is for tha dirty laundry. Leave it with me and I’ll sort it.’
He began to protest, but she quietened him with a glare.
‘If tha thinks I’m letting thee mucky that bathroom with soggy underpants dripping all over the place, tha can think again.’
‘I’ll use the launderette—’
‘Pah! Waste of bloody money. Tha’ll fill this bag and be done with it.’
He took the bag. ‘But I’ll have to pay you,’ he said. ‘The same as a service wash.’
She glared at him again. ‘No need,’ she snapped. ‘I’ve taken on cleaning at Fellside Court. Happen as Rick Procter will be paying me enough to cover a bit of washing on the side.’ Then her gaze softened and a twinkle danced in her eyes. ‘Happen as tha’d appreciate him paying to have tha underpants washed!’
Samson burst into laughter which, even when his broken ribs started screaming, he didn’t regret for an instant.
* * *
When Delilah opened the door of her office building an hour and a half later, she thought she could detect a lingering trace of bacon beneath the sharp scent of pine floor polish. But Samson gave her no time to investigate further, turning her round and marching her back out of the door.
‘We were supposed to be at the police station ten minutes ago,’ he said as he hustled her towards the marketplace, walking as fast as his injuries would permit.
‘I’m sure your new friend Gavin won’t mind us being a bit late,’ she teased.
He grinned, his face a patchwork of scratches and cuts. ‘Sergeant Clayton to you. Want to bet on him having doughnuts for us?’
Delilah laughed. ‘I’m still reeling from his about-face yesterday.’
‘You and me both,’ muttered Samson.
In the bleak atmosphere that had greeted the return of the mountain rescue team to High Laithe the day before, Rob Harrison’s body carried on a covered stretcher between them, Samson had found himself standing next to Sergeant Clayton. The policeman, as shaken as those around him – many of whom were well acquainted with the stonemason, and so doubly stunned by his death and the revelations about what he’d done – had turned to Samson and offered him an apology. Swaddled in a foil blanket and staring at the smouldering remains of the caravan, Samson hadn’t been in the best frame of mind to accept. But Delilah had taken pity on the shamefaced sergeant.
‘I don’t think anyone would have believed what Rob Harrison was up to,’ she’d said. ‘I mean, even we didn’t really want to accept that someone was targeting the dating agency clients.’
The policeman had looked grateful. Then he’d invited them to come down to the police station to talk, managing to make it sound like a favour rather than a summons. Still, Samson was looking forward to it being over.
They crossed the marketplace, walked past Peaks Patisserie where a hassled Elaine was working hard inside, and turned the corner onto Church Street. Straight away it was clear that something momentous had happened in the town. For unlike the previous times Samson had been there, the old Victorian police station was buzzing.
Several official cars were parked outside, police in plain clothes were coming and going, and when Samson and Delilah entered the reception area, Sergeant Clayton emerged against a background of ringing phones, looking like a man used to sailing calm seas who’d suddenly found himself in the centre of a maelstrom.
‘It’s manic!’ he said, escorting them into the back office. ‘I’m understaffed for something of this magnitude. But at least I’ve got the two men back from the hospital, now that we know Harry Furness and Stuart Lister are no longer under threat.’
‘How are they?’ asked Samson as he copied Delilah in taking a seat before a desk piled with paperwork.
‘Both are doing well. Stuart had an operation on his left leg yesterday, so he’ll be in a while longer, but Harry should be released later today. He came round about an hour after all that commotion up at High Laithe and was able to shed a bit more light on the day’s events.’
‘In what way?’
‘He identified Rob Harrison as the man who attacked him.’
‘He actually saw Rob?’
Sergeant Clayton nodded. ‘According to the statement he gave Constable Bradley, he went out into the entranceway of the club and saw someone coming in. He thought it was you, but it wasn’t. It was Rob. Then he was hit over the head and remembers nothing else.’ The policeman looked grave. ‘It shows how ruthless Rob Harrison was. He didn’t care about being seen, because he didn’t expect his victims to survive. Harry and Stuart were very lucky.’
‘Or unlucky, depending on how you look at it,’ said Delilah, feeling guilty all over again.
The door opened and Danny Bradley came in, carrying a tray of tea and a plate piled high with doughnuts. Delilah put a hand over her mouth to hide her smile.
‘Thanks, Danny,’ said Sergeant Clayton. ‘You missed all the action while you were over at the hospital yesterday.’
‘Action, Sarge?’ asked Danny, face innocent.
‘Turns out we had a murderer on the loose. Who’d have thought it? In Bruncliffe, of all places. You won’t be wanting to leave us for the Met now, will you?’
Danny winked at Samson and Delilah from behind his boss’s back.
‘Tell you what, lad, pull up a chair and you can take the notes. Give you your first taste of a murder investigation.’ Sergeant Clayton extracted a notepad from the mountain of paper on the desk and passed it to the young constable with a pen. ‘Right, then. Where’s the best place to start?’
* * *
It took them over an hour. To explain about the Speedy Date nights. To describe how their suspicions had come about. To justify why they hadn’t come forward earlier. And to outline their theories as to how the murders had been carried out. All the while, Danny Bradley made notes and Sergeant Clayton listened with growing astonishment.
‘So you’re telling me Rob Harrison was killing these men because they tried to date Lucy Metcalfe?’ he finally asked, eyes wide with disbelief.
Delilah nodded.
‘Bugger me! That’d put you off dating for a while. What was he – jealous or something?’
‘I don’t think it was that simple,’ said Delilah. ‘Rob served with Ryan out in Iraq and he’d been something of a mentor for him. Then he quit the army and, a couple of years later, Ryan gets killed in Afghanistan. I think Rob was left feeling responsible for looking after Lucy. And maybe even guilty that he’d survived and Ryan hadn’t.’
‘So when Lucy started getting attention from other men, he felt it was his place to stop it,’ said the sergeant. ‘Some twisted version of loyalty to Ryan.’
Delilah shrugged. ‘Something like that. Although I doubt we’ll ever know the whole truth of it.’ She thought about the stricken look on the stonemason’s face as the caravan had exploded. And the fact that he’d fallen to his death without so much as a scream.
‘But you reckon it was premeditated enough that Harrison turned round the CCTV camera at the Old Station?’
‘Worse than that. He killed a sheep to use as bait for Tom Alderson,’ said Samson. ‘And when I spoke to Bill Alderson yesterday, he told me Rob had worked on the farm repairing the stone wall next to the barn where the quad bike was kept.’
‘What are you suggesting? That he checked out the bike while he was there?’ The sergeant looked unconvinced. ‘That’d be a hell of a coincidence. The wall falling down and him getting the call to fix it.’
Samson shook his head. ‘Ask the Aldersons. You’ll probably find that the wall fell down suddenly and Rob turned up just at the right moment.’
‘You mean he knocked it down so he could work there?’
‘So he could check out the bike. Like I said, the man was thorough, so I wouldn’t put any of that past him.’
‘He was thorough all right,’ conceded Sergeant Clayton. ‘We found a laptop in his van with a Hotmail account on it under the name of Dr Howson. That’s how he set up the viewing that nearly cost Stuart Lister his life.’
‘Then he claimed a shoulder injury to get him out of the darts match…’
‘Which left him free to try to kill Stuart.’ Delilah shuddered. ‘Are you going to carry out a full investigation?’
The sergeant nodded. ‘We’re hoping to discover enough up at High Laithe and at Harrison’s place to tie him to all of the deaths,’ he said. ‘We’ve already recovered a section of pipe with blood on it, which we think is the weapon that was used to knock Harry Furness out. Plus a roll of gaffer tape which could have been used to hold open the throttle on Tom’s quad bike. Forensics are heading out to the Alderson farm to see if they can gather any fibres off the bike, so we can do a comparison.
‘Then there’s the empty jerrycan of petrol of course, which is pretty damning; and we found Lucy’s car tucked out of sight behind the barn, so that might provide more evidence. I’ve also got men checking the stolen tractor that was used in the attack on Stuart Lister for fingerprints, in the hope Harrison got careless. But we don’t have much to go on for the deaths of Richard Hargreaves or Martin Foster.’
‘It’s probably worth going over the CCTV footage from the Old Station again,’ said Samson, glancing over at Constable Bradley with a discreet wink. ‘You never know, something might turn up that points the finger of suspicion Rob’s way.’
Danny cleared his throat. ‘I’m happy to do that, Sarge,’ he said, face completely straight.
‘Good lad,’ said his sergeant.
‘And maybe you could try soil analysis in Martin Foster’s case,’ said Delilah. ‘I’m sure Elaine Bullock will be able to tell you if there’s any substance unique to Gordale Scar, where Martin was killed. If that could be matched to something on Rob Harrison’s shoes…’
‘Crikey, Delilah!’ Sergeant Clayton raised his eyebrows in amusement. ‘You want to watch it. O’Brien’s turning you into a proper detective.’
Delilah blushed.
‘But what I can’t understand,’ continued the sergeant, ‘is how Harrison knew who’d tried to contact Lucy through the dating website.’
Delilah was about to speak when Samson interrupted. ‘He used to sneak a look at Nathan’s phone. Whenever the kid was around, which was a lot, Rob would make some excuse to borrow his mobile and he’d check the dating app.’
‘You mean, this app that Nathan had rigged to stop his mother getting any date notifications? Harrison got the men’s names off that?’
‘Exactly.’ Samson could feel the weight of Delilah’s stare, but he didn’t look at her. ‘And he told me up at the caravan yesterday that when he heard the lad was going away for a few days and leaving the mobile behind, he seized the opportunity and stole it.’
‘So he could monitor the app in Nathan’s absence? Which is how Stuart Lister and Harry Furness were attacked.’ Sergeant Clayton scratched his head while Delilah studied her nails, which she was suddenly fascinated by.
‘Makes sense, I suppose,’ said the sergeant, sitting back in his chair. ‘Right, I think that’ll do us for now. If we have any questions, we know where to find you.’ And with a flourish, he pulled Samson’s business card out of a drawer and placed it on his desk. ‘Good to have you around, O’Brien,’ he said, holding out a hand.
Samson smiled, shook hands and followed Delilah out of the station. She waited until they were across the road before accosting him.
‘Why did you lie?’ she asked, pausing on the corner of the marketplace.
‘About what?’
She elbowed him and he groaned. ‘Sorry, I forgot about your ribs,’ she said. ‘But you know what I mean. Why did you say Rob stole Nathan’s phone?’
‘Because, Delilah, that’s what Rob told me.’ He stared at her and then looked away. ‘Nathan’s fourteen. He’s lost his dad. He’s worried about his mother moving on, and losing the memory of his father. So he tries to stop it by changing her online dating account. And in his misery, he talks to the man who’s always up at the caravan. The man who seems to understand his concerns. But that man takes the information and decides to go one step further, by killing the men trying to date Nathan’s mother.’ Samson shook his head. ‘No one should have to carry the guilt for the actions of someone that deranged. Even if Nathan left his phone with Rob, it was done simply to prevent any contact with Lucy getting through. Not for the purposes it was used for.’
He looked back at Delilah. ‘So, like I said. Rob told me he stole Nathan’s phone from the caravan. And I defy anyone to prove that he didn’t.’
Delilah held his gaze and then she smiled and slipped her arm carefully through his, mindful of his bandaged sides.
‘Miss Metcalfe,’ said Samson with a wicked grin, ‘are you aware that you’re linking arms with the black sheep of Bruncliffe? And in such a public place?’
She nodded, head held high. ‘Yes, I am. And I defy anyone to say anything about it.’
He laughed and they walked back to the office, turning quite a few heads as they went.
* * *
By late morning they were still turning heads as they walked along the sterile corridors of the hospital. This time, however, it was Samson that was the cause, nurses staring as he passed, his face peppered with cuts and his gait stiffened by his broken ribs. Not all of the attention was from a purely clinical perspective, Delilah noted wryly, as yet another young member of staff flashed him a warm smile.
‘Who knew the maimed look could be so appealing?’ she remarked, subconsciously lengthening her stride.
Samson grinned, matching her step-for-step, despite the twinges in his side. ‘It’s not my fault if the female species is naturally attracted to men of action—Oof!’ He doubled over as the box Delilah was carrying caught him in the stomach.
‘You can carry your own cake, Mr Action Man,’ she muttered with a dark look. ‘And if you like all this medical attention, I can easily arrange for you to have that spare bed next to Stuart Lister.’
She gestured back in the direction of the side ward they had just left after visiting the hapless estate agent. Badly bruised and with his left leg in a cast following his operation, Stuart had looked even more delicate than normal. But he’d been in good spirits, and when Delilah had expressed regret for placing him inadvertently in harm’s way, he’d brushed aside her apologies. Instead, to Samson’s astonishment, he’d asked shyly if she could sign him up for the Christmas Speedy Date night.
Shaking his head at the foolhardiness of youth – and the quicksilver temper of the woman now stalking down the corridor ahead of him – Samson resumed walking. When he turned a corner and heard loud laughter, Delilah waiting for him at an open door, he froze.
‘They won’t bite,’ Delilah murmured, reading his thoughts.
‘I’m not so sure,’ he muttered. Holding the cake box in front of him like a shield, he stepped into the doorway.
The room was full of Metcalfes.
Lucy Metcalfe was propped up in bed, dark-blonde hair tied back, features pale and smudges of exhaustion under her eyes. But at least those eyes were clear and alert, free of the drugs Rob Harrison had given her the day before.
Gathered around the bed were her family. Nathan was sitting at the top end, looking every bit as pale as his mother; her parents were next to him; Peggy and Ted Metcalfe were sitting opposite; Will and Ash were standing behind them; and Harry Furness, dressed and ready to be discharged with only a white bandage around his head as proof of his ordeal, was perched on the foot of the bed, saying something that had them all laughing.
‘My hero!’ said Lucy, spotting Samson on the threshold, a huge smile lighting up her face.
‘And he’s brought the cake!’ said Harry, making the room dissolve into laughter again.
‘Morning, all,’ said Samson, passing the box to Lucy, the card that he’d rescued on top of it. ‘Good to see everyone in such fine spirits.’
‘Morning, Samson,’ said Lucy, pulling him down into a hug as he bent to greet her. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, holding onto him fiercely. ‘You saved my life. And you too, Delilah!’
Samson blushed, straightening up and stepping back to stand next to Harry. ‘Not sure about that. Will and Nathan were there, too.’
‘Aye, but they wouldn’t have done it in such style,’ said Harry, grinning. ‘Underpants and no cape. You’re a regular superhero now, lad!’
‘He’s already had the Craven Herald calling,’ said Delilah, enjoying Samson’s discomfort. ‘And Look North have asked him to go on TV tonight.’
‘Are you going to do it?’ asked Ash.
Samson glowered at him. ‘Not bloody likely.’
‘It could be good for business,’ said Harry, only half-joking.
‘Good for business?’ Samson laughed. ‘I don’t need the TV for that. My phone hasn’t stopped ringing all morning. You’d be surprised how many people in Bruncliffe suddenly need a detective.’
‘Especially one who looks so good in boxers,’ said Delilah dryly.
Samson grinned. ‘I can’t help it if word’s got round.’
‘What about you, Delilah?’ asked Lucy, concern clouding her face. ‘Won’t all this have an impact on the Dales Dating Agency?’
Delilah shrugged. ‘It’s too early to tell. Although that didn’t stop Uncle Woolly from calling me from the bank this morning, anxious that another Bruncliffe enterprise might be about to meet its demise. Thankfully I was able to reassure him that the next Speedy Date night is almost full. I suppose if people don’t like the connection to what happened, I’ll start to get cancellations. But so far, there haven’t been any. In fact I had two messages on my phone this morning from people wanting to join.’
Ash shook his head. ‘As Seth would say, there’s nowt so queer as folk!’
‘Enough about business,’ said Will, pointing at the soot-stained box on the bed, which was looking slightly crushed around the edges, its ribbon bedraggled and torn. ‘What’s so special about that cake?’
‘Yeah,’ said Samson, looking at Lucy. ‘You were begging me not to forget it. Thought you weren’t going to leave without it, at one point. Why was it so important?’
Lucy looked shamefaced. ‘I don’t know. I was out of my mind having all sorts of hallucinations, and in all of that delirium, it was the only lucid thought I had. Save the cake.’ She shrugged, unsure how to tell them that, in her befuddled state, the cake had become synonymous with her son and she’d been paralysed with fear at the thought of abandoning it. ‘Here,’ she said, pushing the box towards Nathan. ‘I made it for you coming home, love. To celebrate your Duke of Edinburgh Award adventure.’
Nathan glanced down at the box and then up at his mother, blinking away tears. Then he ripped off the paper, lifted the lid and they all craned forward.
‘Damn!’ said Samson. For he was staring down at something that had once resembled a cake – before it had been catapulted through the air and back to earth with a tremendous jolt. Now it was a squashed slab of green sponge with a blue streak in the middle, and cream oozing out of the side. But still, despite all the trauma, perched atop this misshapen creation was a perfect ridge tent, a small figure lying in it with his hands behind his head.
‘It was supposed to be a tent by a mountain stream,’ said Lucy, with a rueful smile. ‘And that’s you.’
‘It’s brilliant, Mum,’ said Nathan, voice hoarse. ‘Thanks.’
Lucy nodded and reached her hand out to her boy. ‘And guess what,’ she said, pulling him close and striving for a lighter note. ‘Now we don’t have the caravan, there are no more excuses for not getting the barn finished. With a bit of luck, you might have a proper bedroom by Christmas. But there’ll be some rough living before that, as we’ll be camping out in there to start with.’
‘I don’t mind where we live,’ Nathan muttered. ‘As long as you’re okay.’
‘I’ll sort the barn out, Lucy,’ said Ash. ‘I’ve got a few favours I can call in and I’ll work weekends on it. Will can help when he’s free, can’t you, big brother?’ Will was already nodding in agreement. ‘And Samson? You game to pitch in with some free labour?’
‘Not totally free,’ protested Lucy. ‘I can pay. And I make a mean lunch!’
Samson grinned. ‘You had me at lunch,’ he said, choosing to ignore the frown that had darkened Will Metcalfe’s brow.
‘Talking of food,’ said Ash. ‘Anyone got something for cutting that cake? I’m starving.’
‘Here.’ Delilah passed her brother a knife and a pack of paper plates. ‘Thought I might get a taste if I brought these.’
‘Seeing as I risked my life for it, I reckon I deserve a bit more than a taste,’ said Samson. ‘In fact, make mine the biggest slice, Ash.’
‘Seeing as Harry and I nearly died yesterday, I reckon we get the biggest slices,’ countered Lucy.
But Harry was shaking his head. ‘None for me,’ he said, regret in his eyes. ‘I’m watching my weight.’
‘As of when?’ asked Ash.
‘As of a certain person paying him a visit yesterday evening,’ said Delilah with a knowing wink, making Harry squirm.
‘Who came to see you?’ demanded Ash, and the auctioneer began to blush.
‘Sarah Mitchell,’ he said.
‘What? From the Speedy Date night?’ asked Samson. ‘How did she know you were here?’
‘Beats me.’
Delilah held back a smile. It hadn’t taken much. In a small attempt to make amends for all the lives that had been manipulated and upset by the actions of Rob Harrison, she’d spent a bit of time on the dating agency website when she got back to the office the day before. As a result, Hannah Wilson – the flame-haired librarian who’d been briefly cast in the role of chief suspect, thanks in part to what had transpired to be an innocent trip to the school with the mobile library – would have received a flurry of date requests, all delivered a few days late with apologies for a glitch in the Dales Dating Agency app. Hopefully that would compensate for Samson cancelling their date.
Likewise, Delilah had accessed Sarah Mitchell’s data from the last Speedy Date night and had been overjoyed to see there was a direct match: someone who’d tried to contact the ecologist was the one person she herself had singled out for a follow-up date.
Drawing back the strings on her bow, Delilah had played Cupid and made it happen. After breaking the news that Samson would not be able to make the planned rendezvous in the Coach and Horses, she’d given Sarah directions to the hospital instead. Judging by the smile spreading across Harry’s ruddy face, he hadn’t objected.
‘She brought him an otter,’ said Lucy, contributing to the red streak staining Harry’s cheeks.
‘An otter? A real one?’ Samson glanced at the auctioneer in amazement.
‘No, a bloody toy one. Honestly, this place,’ Harry Furness moaned, pulling a cuddly otter out of his pocket to great mirth. ‘You just can’t keep a secret!’
Under the cover of the laughter, Will Metcalfe headed for the door.
‘You off, Will?’ asked Ash.
Will nodded. ‘Work to do.’ He paused and held out his hand to Samson. ‘Thanks again,’ he said brusquely. With a wave at the rest of the room, he left as the arguments over the cake resumed.
‘Wow,’ murmured Delilah so only Samson could hear. ‘You’ve won him over. Wonders will never cease.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ said Samson, aware of the hesitation in the older Metcalfe’s farewell.
And he was right. For Will Metcalfe was walking along the hospital corridor thinking about Samson O’Brien. Thinking about the debt the Metcalfe family owed the man. But also thinking about his past. A past that Rick Procter had assured him was about to come back and haunt them all.
If there had been hesitation in that handshake, it was because he didn’t trust Samson O’Brien. Not for fourteen years. And not now.
* * *
It was gone lunchtime when Samson and Delilah left Lucy’s ward. Flagging from the long morning and the pain in his ribs, Samson was glad that he’d caved in to Delilah’s insistence that she drive them to the hospital, having borrowed her mother’s car for the day. He was barely able to put one foot in front of the other, let alone ride his bike back to Bruncliffe.
‘Do you want me to drop you in Hellifield?’ Delilah asked as they walked down the corridor.
He was so tired he almost asked her why he’d want to go to Hellifield. Then he remembered. The subterfuge. ‘Actually, the office would be better,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a bit of work to—’
‘Samson!’ A voice from behind made them turn and Nathan came running towards them.
‘I’ll wait by the main entrance,’ said Delilah, guessing this would be a private conversation. She walked off, leaving Samson and her nephew in the corridor.
He was tall, Samson noticed, surprised to see that his godson was almost the same height as he was. In their two brief interactions – once up at the caravan, when Nathan had stormed off; and then yesterday, when his shocked face had been on the other side of the flames – Samson hadn’t had a chance to have a good look at the lad. Now as Nathan glanced out from under his thick fair hair, Samson was struck again by the boy’s likeness to his father.
‘I wanted to thank you,’ the lad said, eyes cast on the floor.
‘I only did what anyone else would have,’ said Samson. ‘If Will had been there instead of me, he’d have got your mum out of the caravan just the same.’
Nathan nodded, then bit his lip. ‘But he wouldn’t have lied.’
‘Lied?’
The lad stared at him. ‘You lied. About how Rob knew who those men were. About him stealing my phone.’
‘Ah. That.’
Nathan looked back down at the floor. ‘I told Mum. About changing the account. She started crying, apologising for rushing things.’ He gulped. ‘I feel so bad. All those people – I only told Rob about it because he seemed to care. I didn’t think he would…’
His shoulders heaved and Samson put out an arm and drew his godson towards him.
‘It’s okay, son,’ he said as the lad broke down. ‘No one can blame you for that. Rob Harrison was troubled. He was carrying a lot of guilt all of his own. And in the end, that’s what made him do what he did. You had nothing to do with it. Okay?’
He felt the lad nod against his chest.
‘As for your phone, Rob told me he stole it, so that’s what happened. It’s in a police report with my signature at the bottom. So if you go saying any different, I’ll get in trouble. Understand?’ He eased the boy back to see his face, the tracks of fresh tears on his cheeks.
‘Thanks,’ muttered Nathan, wiping his eyes with a sleeve. ‘For everything.’
Samson thought about the fourteen years he’d been absent, the last two of them especially. ‘I’m not much of a godfather, am I?’ he said.
Nathan looked out from under his fringe, the beginnings of a smile tweaking his lips. ‘You have your uses,’ he said. ‘All the girls at school want to know me, now they’ve heard about you in your boxers.’
Samson laughed and pulled Nathan back into a hug, not caring how much his ribs were hurting.
* * *
‘Are you going to be okay riding back to Hellifield?’ asked Delilah as she pulled up outside the offices and noticed Samson wincing in pain when he opened the passenger door.
‘Hellifield? Oh … yes. I’ll be fine. I’ll take it easy.’ He smiled at her, fingers crossed behind his back, before easing his legs onto the pavement and gently hauling himself out of the car. He’d already ascertained that Delilah was picking Tolpuddle up that afternoon and was heading straight home. With the office building to himself, Samson was planning nothing more strenuous than a mid-afternoon snooze.
‘Okay. I’ll see you Monday, then. Oh, and can you let me know how much I owe you for your sterling detective work?’ She said it so breezily, but he caught the shadow of worry in her eyes at the mention of payment.
‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ he said, leaning on the car door. ‘How about we simply add on another month to my tenancy and call it quits?’
She blinked, eyes flicking to the gold letters spanning the downstairs window. ‘Are you sure?’ she asked.
He nodded.
Lower lip trapped between her teeth, she looked back at the office again and then at Samson. ‘Well, if that’s all right with you…’
‘More than all right. We can sort it out on Monday.’
‘Thanks. Have a peaceful weekend.’ She smiled brightly and he could sense the relief flooding through her. Then she paused, took a deep breath and leaned across the passenger seat, tone casual as she looked up at him on the pavement. ‘Why don’t you come to the farm for lunch on Sunday?’ she asked. ‘We’re all gathering to celebrate Lucy’s lucky escape. Even Craig and Chris are coming home. You’d be more than welcome.’
His reaction was instinctive. ‘I’ll see,’ he said.
She gave a soft laugh, as though it was the reply she’d been expecting. ‘So that’s not a no?’
He grinned. ‘It’s not a no.’ He closed the car door and watched her drive away.
He stood there for a while, thinking about Bruncliffe, the Metcalfes, Delilah, and how things had changed in the last fourteen days. He’d gone from being knocked out cold to being invited to Sunday lunch. And rather than being run out of town, judging by the number of calls coming in he was going to have enough work – and money – to last him the six months he planned on staying. As for that seventh month of rent he’d just negotiated – he had no intention of using it. He would be back in his adopted city by then.
Across the road, Seth Thistlethwaite was in the window of the Fleece, enjoying his lunchtime pint. The old man threw an arm up in greeting and Samson waved in response.
Was it really so bad being back? he wondered. Perhaps he shouldn’t be in such a rush to return to London once everything was sorted, and instead should consider settling here. Take the time needed to get Twistleton Farm back and make Bruncliffe home again.
Slightly stunned by this unexpected rush of affection for his home town, he turned and entered the office building and his phone began to ring. When he saw the caller’s name, his heart started thumping. It was the call he’d been waiting for.
‘Boss?’ he said, perching on the edge of his desk.
‘Samson. There have been some developments.’
‘And?’
‘Sorry, son, but there’s going to have to be an investigation. Things are going to get dirty. I won’t be able to keep a lid on it.’
Samson clutched the mobile, knuckles white. ‘Is there no other way?’
‘I’m sorry. I’ve tried. We’re going to have to let it run its course now. It’ll be at least six months before we know the outcome.’
‘What if I came back down? Tried to find proof—?’
‘Don’t be mad! You’d be putting yourself in danger again. Stay where you are. And keep a low profile. That way they won’t find you. In the meantime, I’ll keep doing all I can. We’ll resolve this one way or the other.’
‘If you’re sure…’
‘I’m sure. Take care.’
The line clicked dead before Samson had a chance to thank him. He stared at the desk, the peeling lino, the red-flocked wallpaper and the pub beyond the window. And he cursed himself.
Who was he kidding? He couldn’t make a life here. Not now, and not in the future. Because when his past caught up with him, the people who’d been making him welcome today would be queuing up to chase him out of Bruncliffe. So there was simply no point in trying.