Four o’clock on the dot. Not a moment sooner. The tight bugger had made her hang around and fold napkins while the anxiety gnawed a hole in her stomach and Delilah’s phone remained unanswered. If she hadn’t needed the job, Elaine Bullock would have told Titch where to stuff it. But her part-time hours as a lecturer in geology weren’t enough to cover her living expenses and the field trips so essential to her work. Iceland last year. The Vosges Mountains the year before. And, if she got the money together, Monument Valley next September. So she’d bitten her tongue, got on with her work, and kept an eye on the clock. When the little hand reached the four, she’d flung down her apron and fled.
Grabbing her bike from behind the cafe, she slipped her bag across her chest and started cycling. Downhill all the way to town and she wasn’t going to touch the brakes once. This was an emergency, after all.
* * *
‘Easy!’ His hands rose into the air, the shotgun unwavering as it pressed against him. ‘It’s me.’
A middle-aged man, eyes focused with a strange intensity, George Capstick hadn’t changed much. Although it was the first time he’d turned a gun on a neighbour.
‘It’s me, George.’
‘You’re back.’ Not a question. A statement. No surprise, either, because George didn’t like surprises.
‘I’m back.’ Still the gun remained prodding the soft underneath of his chin.
George blinked slowly. Processing, that’s what Dad had called it. A lot of locals had a meaner way to describe it. ‘That’s your dad’s motorbike out there.’
He nodded, no stranger to the odd slide of conversation. ‘He gave it to me.’
A shake of the head. ‘You stole it. 1960 Royal Enfield Bullet 500. It’s your dad’s.’
He didn’t argue. Wasn’t inclined to, when the weapon was still pointing at him. ‘I brought it back. So do you think you could lower the gun?’
Another slow blink. ‘Can’t. You’re trespassing.’
It was his turn to blink. ‘Trespassing? This is my home, George. Remember? Me and Dad live here.’
George shook his head once more, the pressure on the gun intensifying. ‘Not your home any more. It’s Mr Procter’s home. And he pays me to guard it.’
‘Rick Procter? You mean…?’ He looked around. Empty. Not just for the day, but vacated. ‘He owns the farm? Since when?’
George shrugged and stepped back, lowering the gun. ‘Sorry. You need to talk to your dad.’
Anger shimmered through his veins. ‘I intend to. Once you tell me where I can find him.’
* * *
Down past the church, whipping past a turning car and bunny-hopping up onto the pavement, provoking disgruntled responses from a couple of pedestrians. She left the bike against the handrail, ran up the three steps into the cafe and collided straight into something solid.
‘Watch out!’ The stonemason, Rob Harrison, no less well built than his brother Titch, caught hold of Elaine as she bounced back off what the geologist could only term a corundum-like chest – corundum having a hardness rating of nine and being one of her favourite minerals – leaving her glasses askew and her head reeling. ‘Where’s the fire?’
‘Sorry, Rob. Emergency!’ She twisted out of his grasp and hurried towards the counter. ‘Lucy … Lucy!’
Her cries brought the owner of Peaks Patisserie rushing out of the kitchen, flour all over her hands. ‘Elaine, whatever—?’
‘Delilah – I need to talk to her and she’s not answering her phone. Where is she?’
Lucy Metcalfe glanced at her watch. ‘The bank, most likely. She had a meeting with—’
The door crashed shut. Elaine Bullock was already gone, tearing across the marketplace on her bike and leaving the cafe owner and the stonemason to wonder what on earth was going on.
* * *
Two cushions torn to shreds. Her old running shoes, which she’d stupidly left in the rear porch with him, chewed and mauled. And paw prints all over the glass.
A lot better than expected, thought Delilah, surveying the damage. Clipping a lead onto the culprit, she left the cottage by the back door, crossed the tiny yard that looked out from a height over the roofs of Bruncliffe, and turned right out of the gate onto Crag Lane to begin the walk back into town, Tolpuddle by her side.
Separation anxiety was how the experts described it. The minute Delilah was out of sight, her dog went berserk. Which, if he were a poodle or a dachshund, might not be such a problem. But for Tolpuddle …
She glanced down at the large grey dog walking happily next to her. He’d been fine at first, fitting into their lives without a problem. But when the arguments started, closely followed by the break-up and then the divorce, Tolpuddle had begun to show signs of stress whenever Delilah wasn’t around. Which was why she’d nipped home to pick him up before going to meet her new tenant. It was either that or come home to bedlam.
She sighed. A small cottage heavily mortgaged, a business premises also mortgaged, a struggling website design business and a dating agency yet to find its legs. Plus a Weimaraner with anxiety issues – albeit the only good thing to come out of her divorce. No wonder Uncle Woolly had reservations about her future. No wonder she was finding it harder and harder to smile these days.
The dog leaned against her, as if sensing her unease.
‘We’ll sort it, eh, you daft dog.’ She scratched his head and hoped she was right. At least, with someone renting the ground-floor office at long last, there would be a bit of guaranteed money coming in. It wouldn’t cover the mortgage, but it would be a start.
With a lighter step, Delilah Metcalfe continued along the lane, the outcrop of rock which gave it its name looming over her on the left, a view out across the town on her right. She loved living up here, above it all. Even if the walk home was an effort sometimes, particularly after a visit to the pub. Not that she went out drinking much now – a lack of money and a sensitive dog being effective deterrents.
Feeling her thoughts sliding back into despair as she approached the steep drop down Crag Hill to the marketplace, she decided to continue along the higher road a bit further before descending. It would give her more time in the last of the sunshine and she was glad of the warmth on her face.
‘We’ll sort it,’ she said again. This time with more confidence.
* * *
‘She’s not here, love.’ Mrs Pettiford gestured towards the empty office at the back of the bank, before turning to the flushed face that was breathing heavily all over the partition.
‘What time did she leave?’
‘Oh, it must have been at least thirty minutes ago. She was heading home,’ added Mrs Pettiford, noting the hot hands now splayed on the glass.
‘Thanks, Mrs P,’ Elaine Bullock hurried back out of the door.
‘I hope you catch her,’ Mrs Pettiford called after the retreating figure, who was already out of the door and on her bike, cycling away. ‘And I hope I’m not here when Ida Capstick sees what a mess you made of the glass,’ she said to the empty space before her.
With that in mind, Mrs Pettiford started clearing her desk. It wouldn’t be long before the formidable cleaner arrived.
* * *
Homeless. He raced faster than was sensible across the rough track, bike jerking and bucking beneath him as he headed for the road. How the hell was he homeless?
George Capstick had watched him carefully across the yard, the gun trained on him the entire time. Then he’d apologised once more, a hint of tears in his eyes as he’d stood aside to let him go.
He bore George no malice. The man had done more than enough for Twistleton Farm and its occupants in the last twenty-six years, working alongside a boy out with the sheep during the day and then helping put a drunken wastrel to bed every night. All for a pittance, often nothing more than a cobbled-together meal and a cheap beer – there’d always been plenty of beer.
George Capstick owed him nothing.
Tarmac sighed under his wheels. He revved the engine and roared back down Thorpdale. He’d been made homeless twice in one week. He had precious little money. And he was facing dismissal and criminal prosecution.
Feeling even more like the black sheep of Bruncliffe than he had when he left, he raced towards the town. He had an appointment to keep.
* * *
‘Delilah?’ Elaine Bullock hammered on the back door of the cottage perched on the hill above the town. But she knew she was out of luck. Tolpuddle’s lead wasn’t hanging on its hook in the porch. And if Tolpuddle was out, so was Delilah.
Muttering curses, Elaine hurried back to her bike, her bad temper momentarily alleviated by the sight of the low sun burnishing the rock face overhanging the narrow lane. Limestone. Her favourite of all rock types. Although the red siltstone of Monument Valley had to be up there. Along with the glassy-black depths of obsidian. Which technically wasn’t a rock, but was too beautiful to be argued over. Then of course there was bog iron, its name alone making it a contender. And serpentinite, she ought to consider that—
‘Afternoon.’ A passing jogger disturbed her geological daydreams.
‘Afternoon.’ Elaine raised a hand in greeting and, in doing so, saw her watch. She’d just spent several minutes with her head in the clouds. Or rather, the ground, given that she’d been thinking about rocks. She was never going to find Delilah in time at this rate.
With a tut of reproach for herself, Elaine Bullock cycled back the way she’d come, her mind still so full of minerals that she failed to register the flash of red as a motorbike roared past on the road below. Reaching the junction at the bottom of Crag Hill, she paused. Where next? She thought for a moment and then turned, unheedingly, in the wake of the motorbike towards Back Street.
There was only one place left that Delilah was likely to be.
* * *
‘I’ve never seen owt like it.’
‘Daft, is what it is.’
‘Perhaps there’s more to it than we know?’
‘Don’t see how that’s likely.’
Soaking up the conversation from the large group that had gathered at the windows, Troy Murgatroyd pulled another pint, face as sombre as the decor of his bar. But on the inside he was smiling.
A funeral. And then something out of the ordinary, right outside the pub. There could be nothing better for business than this coming together of two such occurrences – the former bringing the people in to seek solace, the latter keeping them entertained and on-site, once the beer had helped restore their downcast spirits.
‘What time’s Delilah due down, Ash?’ Seth Thistlethwaite asked the Metcalfe brother next to him, who was also keeping watch at the window.
‘Any moment now. Here’s the new bloke from Taylor’s.’ Ash nodded towards a bright-orange Mini which had pulled up outside, emblazoned with the slogan ‘Taylor-Made Homes’. A young man in a crumpled suit, the cuffs and ankles some inches short of the end of his limbs, was getting out, a folder clutched business-like under his arm.
A buzz of anticipation went through the spectators as the estate agent crossed to the building that was under such scrutiny, selected a key from a large collection and let himself into the ground-floor office, unaware of the crowd opposite. Or the reason for their interest.
The throb of a motorcycle came next, cutting to silence as it parked behind the Mini.
‘Oh, Christ!’ muttered Seth, before taking a long drink from his pint.
‘What?’ Ash glanced at the old man and then back at the motorbike and the man getting off it. ‘Do you know him?’
Seth didn’t reply, just watched as the man strode towards the open door where the estate agent was waiting. How they didn’t recognise the bike, Seth didn’t know. That flash of scarlet. The chrome. It was so distinctive.
But then they were too busy watching the man who was now easing off his helmet, rucksack slung over one arm, his back turning to the onlookers as he approached the estate agent in the doorway. A mass of black hair touching broad shoulders. Lean body. Still they didn’t realise. Seth cast a sideways glance at Will Metcalfe, who was as oblivious as the others. There was going to be trouble. Once they cottoned on.
* * *
Perfect timing. Delilah had extended her walk by taking the furthest of the two sets of steep stone steps that led down from Crag Lane to Back Street and it had brought her out just beyond the antique shop, with a couple of minutes to spare. Turning right, back towards town, she could see Stuart from Taylor’s already leading someone into the office. She picked up her pace. Things were going to be okay.
* * *
‘… So I trust it’s to your liking?’ Stuart Lister smiled, trying to hide the nerves that his shaking hand betrayed as he rifled through his folder for the paperwork. He was also trying not to stare at the various shades of black and blue on his client’s cheek.
This was the first step in his new life in this town, his first transaction for Taylor’s, all conducted over the internet in the space of twenty-four hours with a client who had never seen the premises but was in a hurry. Hoping the deal wouldn’t fall through now that the man could see the office in person, the trainee estate agent pulled out the relevant papers and reached in his pocket for a pen.
‘It’s fine,’ said the man, propping his rucksack against the battered filing cabinet as he took in the red-flocked wallpaper, the coffee-stained desk, the two rickety chairs and the peeling lino flooring with a wry smile. ‘Just what I need.’
‘Wonderful, wonderful. And I organised the sign-writer as you requested—’ Stuart came to a halt, hand held out to indicate the results of his efforts. Because opposite, in the twin windows of the pub, a host of faces were peering out, staring at … what were they staring at?
His attention was drawn to the arrival of a woman and a grey dog.
‘Ah, your landlady is here. Shall we…?’
He gestured for the man to precede him and they headed for the door.
* * *
Delilah was almost at her office when she noticed. She froze, jerking Tolpuddle to a halt as his lead tightened.
Was it a joke?
She stared at the ground-floor window, gold lettering splashed across the glass. It couldn’t be right. There’d been a mistake.
She looked up at the floor above. Older lettering, faded and slightly tatty, there for a few years now – three letters to indicate her business.
D D A
Dales Dating Agency.
She lowered her gaze back down. Three letters, freshly affixed, to indicate goodness knows what.
D D A
Then she felt the eyes on the nape of her neck. The pub, full of people, all of them watching to see her reaction. She turned back to the offending window and felt her blood fizz. Two businesses with the same initials. It was bloody ridiculous. She’d throttle whoever had authorised this without her permission. Seeing a figure materialise in the open doorway, she began to cross the road.
* * *
Elaine spotted her quarry as soon as she turned down Back Street. She didn’t notice the Mini or the motorbike or the crowd of faces peering out of the pub windows. Or even the windows with the duplicate signs. She simply raised a hand off the handlebars and waved frantically at the figure crossing the road.
‘Delilah!’ she shouted. ‘Delilah! He’s back!’
* * *
They heard the shout in the pub. The Bullock lass calling out something about someone being back. But they were too preoccupied with the drama unfolding in front of them. Delilah had seen the sign. And her fists had clenched and her shoulders had tensed in a way Bruncliffe locals recognised.
‘Wouldn’t want to be that young lad right now!’
‘Or the new tenant…’
‘You not watching, Seth?’ asked Ash, as the old man eased to the back of the crowd.
A shake of the head was the only reply. Seth Thistlethwaite had no desire to watch. Because he knew what was coming. And he knew there was no way to stop it.
‘Look, look – they’re coming out,’ said Harry Furness, his auctioneer’s voice carrying across the room. Then there was silence. Stunned.
‘It’s…’
‘That’s…’
‘I’ll bloody kill him!’ Will Metcalfe dropped his pint and rushed for the door as mayhem erupted amongst the onlookers.
* * *
He’d noticed the faces in the pub. Deliberately kept his helmet on and his back to them as he walked up to the estate agent. But now there was no avoiding it. With an ironic smile for his audience, he stepped out onto the pavement and then he saw her. Delilah Metcalfe, no longer a scrawny teen but now a young woman, a large grey dog next to her. His smile became genuine as she stepped towards him. She was probably the only person in Bruncliffe he’d been looking forward to seeing.
His years of training should have alerted him. The furious expression that flickered into shock. The tension in her shoulders. The balled hands. But at that moment the pub door flew open and Will Metcalfe tumbled into the street, his brother Ash and chubby Harry Furness doing their best to restrain the much stronger man.
‘I’ll kill him!’ he heard Will roaring, the pub dwellers spilling out raucously behind, the large grey dog beginning to bark, Elaine Bullock jumping off a bike and grabbing the arm of the enraged farmer …
He turned back to Delilah just in time to see the blur of a fist flying in his direction.
‘You!’ she yelled, as her famous Metcalfe right hook connected with his chin and sent him sprawling into a heap on the ground.
‘Welcome home, Samson, lad,’ muttered Seth Thistlethwaite into his pint in the now-empty bar. ‘Welcome home.’