The cold slobber of reality brought Samson O’Brien to. A tongue, rough, wet, rasping the length of his face. His eyes opened to a grey shadow looming over him.
‘Tolpuddle, that’s enough,’ snapped a female voice.
Samson’s focus swung onto the blurry figure of Delilah Metcalfe tugging at the dog’s collar, trying to pull him away, the dog resisting.
‘Yeah, Tolpuddle, cut it out. You don’t know where he’s been.’
The retort provoked laughter, its instigator slouched against the pub doorway, pint in hand. Rick Procter, a half-smile gracing his handsome features, stared at the man slumped on the pavement opposite.
‘Tolpuddle, eh?’ managed Samson, his hand coming up to the large grey head, fingers scratching behind the ears. The licking stopped, replaced by an ecstatic panting, bellows of hot dog breath fanning the last of the dizziness away. Resting lightly on the dog, the only sentient being showing him any kind of favourable reception, Samson got slowly to his feet as the hostile crowd watched on.
‘I see you’ve still got the right hook, Delilah,’ he muttered, concentrating solely on her as his blurred vision cleared.
‘And you’ve still got a glass chin,’ she spat back.
He grinned at the typical riposte, felt a twinge of pain shoot up his face from injuries old and new and let the grin subside. ‘Didn’t realise Bruncliffe had abandoned the handshake as a form of greeting.’
‘We save that for those who are welcome round here,’ said Rick.
‘And you’re not one of them, O’Brien,’ growled Will Metcalfe, Elaine Bullock still holding onto his arm.
One eye on the burly farmer, Samson raised fingers to his tender chin. ‘So I gather.’
‘It’s probably best if you just head home, Samson.’ There was a hint of apology in Ash Metcalfe’s suggestion as he stood to one side. ‘Best for everyone.’
A grumble of consent came from the onlookers and Samson could almost feel the wave of belligerence that carried it. He was outnumbered. Not for the first time. If this was an undercover operation, he’d be considering his escape route, looking for a rapid exit and praying to get out in one piece. But these were Dales folk, his friends and neighbours. Former friends and neighbours, if the current mood was anything to go by. So how to deal with it?
As he had nowhere else to go, he didn’t have an option.
‘Problem is,’ he said, arms folding across his chest, ‘this is my home.’
‘Since when?’ Will took a step forward, dragging a protesting Elaine with him. ‘You left this place over a decade ago and never looked back, leaving the rest of us to clear up after you. You can damn well do the same today.’
‘Sorry. Not possible. I’ve moved back and I’m setting up business here.’ Samson gestured towards the window behind him. The window with the bright new lettering.
‘You mean…?’ Delilah looked from Samson to the young estate agent, Stuart, who was shuffling nervously in the doorway of her building. ‘This is my new tenant?’
Stuart gulped, his Adam’s apple tracing a sharp line up and down his thin neck as Delilah’s anger shifted in his direction. ‘Mr O’Brien … yes … he’s rented—’
‘O’Brien! The clue’s in the name, you halfwit! You should have known I would never rent to him.’
The young man gulped again. ‘Sorry … I didn’t comprehend … you didn’t say…’
‘Let him be, Delilah,’ came an older, calmer voice from the pub doorway. Seth Thistlethwaite stood surveying the scene, a bit more grizzled than at the disastrous christening fourteen years ago when Samson had last seen him. The old man’s head dipped in a muted greeting before his attention passed back to Delilah.
‘How was the lad to know?’ he continued. ‘He’s from Skipton.’
Samson’s lips tweaked into a grin, despite his aching jaw. Only in Bruncliffe could a place a mere thirty minutes’ drive away be considered an entire universe apart when it came to local politics. The lad was now nodding in terrified agreement, willing to sacrifice himself on the altar of ignorance if it meant deflecting the wrath of the woman before him.
‘Yes, yes … precisely. Besides,’ Stuart mumbled, fumbling at the folder he was holding, ‘it was rented under a different name.’
‘He’s right.’ Samson was openly smiling now as the hapless estate-agent-in-training held out a quivering piece of paper towards his seething client. ‘I used the company name on the paperwork.’
‘I don’t care what you used,’ snapped Delilah, ‘we have no agreement.’
‘But … but … you’ve signed the contract,’ stuttered Stuart, that very document now in his trembling hand.
‘Sod the contract!’ Delilah snatched the offending piece of paper and tore it in two. ‘I am not having this man renting my office.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Seth Thistlethwaite, with a nod towards the curious faces that were crowding the narrow backstreet, ‘you would be better off finishing this discussion inside? Unless you want Bruncliffe to know all your business, Delilah?’
Delilah Metcalfe turned to see a host of people behind her, some with hair in rollers from the salon next door, others spilling out of the antique shop or drawn down the road from the hardware store by the noise. Neighbours. Friends. All of them known to her. And all watching with interest as she provided the headlines for the Bruncliffe news. Her cheeks went crimson.
‘Inside,’ she hissed to the estate agent, tipping her head towards the office before turning to Samson. ‘And you! But don’t expect to be staying long.’
And to the dismay of those gathered outside, Delilah Metcalfe ushered Samson O’Brien, the terrified young man from Skipton and her dog, Tolpuddle, into the disputed office space and firmly closed the door.
* * *
‘If only she’d answered her phone, all this could have been avoided,’ bemoaned Elaine Bullock, ensconced at the bar of the Fleece, where most of the onlookers had repaired once the drama outside had been concluded. Much to Troy Murgatroyd’s delight.
‘Avoided? Where’d be the fun in that? I was hoping she was going to hit him again,’ laughed Harry Furness.
‘She might have to join the queue,’ said Ash. ‘Did you see those bruises? Delilah wasn’t the first to take a swing at him this week.’
Eyes on the office window across the road, beyond which three figures could be seen, Will Metcalfe grunted, anger still simmering on his ruddy features. ‘Probably nothing less than he deserved.’
‘Huh! All seemed a bit harsh, if you ask me.’ Seth thumped his empty glass on the counter, eyebrows beetled into one harsh line of disapproval.
‘Good job no one’s asking then, eh, Seth?’ responded Rick Procter. ‘Because you’re in the minority. Folk round here know exactly what O’Brien is. And they’ll be slow to forgive the way he’s treated people in this town. His own father, for Christ’s sake!’
Ash nodded. ‘It’s true, Seth. He walked out on his dad, left the farm in a mess. And our Ryan would be turning in his grave if he knew how Samson had treated Lucy. He didn’t even come back for the bloody funeral.’
Seth bit his tongue – not an easy task for a veteran Dalesman used to venting his opinions. But this was tricky. Whereas it could be argued that the young Samson had had no choice but to leave a failing farm caught in the ravages of foot-and-mouth, and with a drunkard at the helm boozing away whatever meagre profits came in, it had to be acknowledged that the Metcalfes had every right to feel aggrieved with him. Best man at his best friend’s wedding, godfather to the same man’s son, yet when Ryan Metcalfe, the friend in question, had been killed in action in Afghanistan two years ago, not a word had been heard from Samson O’Brien. Until now.
‘I still think we ought to cut him some slack,’ he muttered.
Rick Procter let out a disparaging snort. ‘He’s a reprobate, Seth, and you know it. He left here under a black cloud and, from what I hear, he’s back under another.’
The property developer’s words caught the attention of the pub. ‘What do you mean?’ asked Will, dragging his gaze from the window across the road.
‘Rumour has it he’s been suspended.’
‘From the force?’
Rick nodded. ‘Gross misconduct. There’s likely to be a criminal investigation.’
‘Come on, Rick, you’re making this up,’ said Elaine. ‘Samson has his faults, but I can’t see him as a bent copper.’
‘I’m just reporting what I’ve heard.’ He shrugged. ‘Personally, I’d believe every word of it.’
‘That’s hardly an endorsement,’ said Seth dryly. ‘And as we’ve yet to hear his side of the story, I still maintain it’s not right treating a man like that when he comes home.’
‘You’re forgetting, he doesn’t have a home here any more.’ Rick Procter stared down at the old man, a smug glint in his eye. ‘Old Boozy sold it.’
Seth shot him a look of distaste. ‘Aye, a nice piece of business that was, too. You should be proud of yourself. Negotiating such a good deal with an alcoholic.’
Rick bristled, broad shoulders pushed back as he leaned towards the retired teacher. ‘I am proud of it. Old Boozy was rotting away on that crappy farm, not able to afford to get the help he needed. At least he’s getting support now. Not that his son cares.’
‘Easy, easy…’ Harry Furness placed a hand on the tensed arm of the property developer. ‘No point in us all falling out over this. How about another pint? Eh, Seth?’
Troy Murgatroyd moved over to the Black Sheep pump in anticipation, never knowing Seth Thistlethwaite turn down a free beer. But his hand stalled in mid-air as the old man stood up off his stool, his head shaking furiously.
‘I’d rather take a sup with the devil,’ he snarled as he brushed past the property developer and headed for the exit. ‘Happen as he’d have more morals!’
The door slammed in his wake, leaving a hiccup of silence before Rick’s booming voice smothered it. ‘If that pint’s still on offer, Harry…’
Laughter filled the bar as the auctioneer pulled a face and reached reluctantly into his pocket.
Elaine leaned towards Ash, her gaze on Rick who was now holding court, telling some ribald rugby tale. ‘Do you think there’s any truth in what he said?’
‘About the dismissal?’ Ash gave a soft laugh. ‘You know Samson. He’s capable of all sorts.’
‘But corruption?’
Ash grimaced. ‘Once upon a time I’d have said no way. Now…? Who knows? He’s been gone a long time.’
He stared across the road at the bright lettering covering the glass, and then at the fierce profile of his brother, who had maintained his position by the pub window, pint held in a tight grip. ‘Either way, Samson’s not welcome. I can’t see this ending well.’
* * *
While Ash Metcalfe was making his dire predictions, in the ground-floor office of the Dales Dating Agency things were getting heated. And Stuart Lister was beginning to reassess his capability to be an estate agent. Or a peacemaker.
‘Perhaps … perhaps we could try to resolve this without … without any further animosity…?’ he stuttered as his two clients faced each other, one like a cat about to strike, the other with a disdaining demeanour that poured more fuel on the fire, while the massive grey dog turned restless circles between them.
‘How’s the hand, Delilah?’ The sardonic question from the man lounging on the window seat prompted a feral growl.
‘Fine,’ came the retort, the scarlet welt along her knuckles telling a different story. ‘Better than your chin, I’ll bet.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure. I’ve taken harder shots. This week, in fact.’ He pointed at his discoloured cheek.
‘All merited, no doubt.’
He grinned. ‘Probably. But none of them from someone as attractive.’
She growled again, the dog beginning to whimper in response.
‘Here, Tolpuddle.’ Samson held out a hand and the dog responded, settling by his side, large head leaning against Samson’s thigh as mournful eyes regarded his mistress.
Delilah’s lips thinned into a narrow line. ‘I can’t believe you had the audacity to come back. And to do it in such an underhand manner, not even using your real name on the contract.’
He shrugged, still fondling the dog’s ears. ‘I didn’t think I’d be welcome. Not with the way I left.’
‘Yes, not your finest hour. Fighting with your own father at Nathan’s christening. It was low, even by your standards.’
‘Is that why you hit me?’
‘No,’ snapped Delilah. ‘I hit you so Will wouldn’t!’
Samson laughed. ‘You haven’t changed a bit.’
‘What the hell would you know? You haven’t been here. You couldn’t even be bothered to make it back for—’ She faltered, then blinked furiously, face turned away.
‘Make it back for what?’ he asked, tone softer, sensing the change in her.
‘You know bloody well for what!’ She whipped back to confront him. ‘Ryan’s funeral.’
His hand froze on the dog’s head and his eyes dropped to the floor.
‘No answer? No futile excuse? How typically O’Brien,’ she goaded. ‘Your best friend dies in the line of duty in Afghanistan and you leave Lucy to cope alone – not a single bit of contact. Not even with your godson.’
He made no reply, just stared at the ground, face blank.
A heartbeat passed before Delilah wheeled on Stuart, standing in the corner, folder clutched to his chest like armour. ‘The contract is cancelled,’ she snapped. ‘Do what you have to do to sort it out.’
Stuart Lister felt his spirits sink. He’d had an inkling things weren’t right when Miss Metcalfe had decked her prospective tenant. Though he hadn’t been long in the business, he suspected it wasn’t the norm – even in Bruncliffe. But now, with her eyes flashing and her fists clenching once more, he knew his first deal for Taylor’s estate agents was about to amount to nothing.
‘Of course…’ he managed. ‘I’ll just need your signature to authorise the bank transfer.’
‘What transfer?’
‘The first month’s rent. It was paid in today. Under the circumstances … it has to be returned…’ Stuart stumbled to a halt under the ferocity of her gaze.
‘You mean that money is already in my bank account?’ Delilah asked.
He nodded. She turned away, bottom lip caught between her teeth, and he noted the pallor replacing the flush of anger. She paced over to the window, then back to the desk, the dog letting out soft sounds of anxiety as he tracked her restless movements. Then she crossed to the window once more, slapped her hands on the glass and stared at the vibrant letters spaced across it. Her shoulders lifted and she took a deep breath, as though coming to some momentous decision.
‘What does DDA stand for anyway?’ she asked, nodding at the lettering, her tone still clipped but the venom gone.
‘Dales Detective Agency,’ said Samson. ‘Catchy, don’t you think?’
‘A detective agency? Here? You must be mad. Who needs a detective in this place?’
‘You’d be surprised.’
‘I would! But as a landlady, I don’t want surprises. I want regular payment from a reliable tenant.’
‘Would six months’ payment up front be reliable enough?’ Samson was watching her now, smiling again.
The estate agent held his breath, unsure what had caused the sea change, but sensing a breakthrough nevertheless.
She shrugged. ‘Possibly. But there’s still a problem.’
‘Which is?’
‘The initials. In case you haven’t noticed, they’re already taken.’
‘By?’
‘The Dales Dating Agency.’
A roar of laughter escaped from Samson’s throat, making the dog jump. ‘A dating agency? In Bruncliffe? Who the hell had that half-arsed—?’
‘So,’ said Stuart, leaping into the gulf that was about to rip his tentative deal apart. ‘Perhaps I could get you both to sign a new contract to reflect this generous offer from Mr O’Brien? Six months’ rental up front…’
He let it dangle there, a much wiser negotiator than he gave himself credit for as, unbeknownst to him, Miss Metcalfe struggled between pride and desperation.
‘Yes,’ she finally snapped. ‘But one more condition. A six-month lease only. I doubt the Dales Detective Agency will still be in business after that.’
Stuart immediately had his folder open, rifling through the pages for a blank contract before either client changed their mind. Samson meanwhile was standing up, a grin across his face as he held out a hand.
‘You won’t regret it,’ he said.
‘I’m regretting it already,’ retorted Delilah, ignoring the hand and grabbing hold of Tolpuddle’s collar instead, pulling the disloyal dog over to her side. ‘But I will take great delight in watching you fail. Because no one around here needs a detective.’
A doorbell sounded and Samson, closest to the door, headed into the hall. A soft murmur of voices and then he was guiding a statuesque woman dressed from head to toe in black into the room.
‘Mrs Hargreaves!’ Delilah crossed to the bereaved mother, anger instantly forgotten in the face of such blatant grief. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’
The butcher’s wife, fresh from burying her only son, held out the local paper and pointed a shaking finger at the classifieds. ‘The detective agency … Is it open?’
‘Yes,’ said Samson. ‘It is. And I’m at your service.’
She nodded, tears beginning to spill over her lower eyelids. ‘Good. I need your help. I think our Richard was murdered.’