‘I heard you were back.’ Joseph O’Brien held the door to his flat open and stood aside to let his son through, taking in the broad shoulders, the shoulder-length hair, the unforgiving blue gaze just like hers. He noticed the bruises, too. ‘Wasn’t sure if you’d come and see me.’
‘Neither was I,’ muttered Samson, entering the compact lounge. A two-seater sofa, an armchair, a TV and patio doors leading out onto a small balcony offering fantastic views of Bruncliffe and the hills beyond it. No cobwebs. No cigarette burns. And not a bottle in sight.
Joseph watched him appraise it all, then move into the kitchenette through the archway, opening cupboard doors, checking the fridge.
‘You won’t find any,’ the older man said quietly. ‘I’m sober.’
A harsh laugh was followed by a disbelieving look. ‘I’ve heard that before.’
Joseph shrugged. ‘It’s true.’
‘Since when?’
The older man’s head snapped up to challenge his son’s stare. ‘Does it matter?’
Samson blinked, cheeks reddening slightly as he returned to the lounge. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘Old habits…’
‘I know a lot about old habits, son.’ Joseph smiled and gestured at the sofa. ‘Take a seat. I’ll make us a cuppa.’
‘No … no, it’s fine. I don’t have time…’ Samson crossed to the balcony doors, tension radiating from him as he looked out. ‘Seems like a nice enough place.’
‘It’s grand. Suits me down to the ground. The people are great, and the facilities – you saw the lounge, and there’s even a gym where they hold yoga classes and the like. Nothing too strenuous, mind. Then there’s a cafe where they do a delicious Sunday roast. You should come sometime—’ Aware he was babbling like a desperate salesman, Joseph broke off, unnerved by his son’s rigid back. The silence swelled around them and a familiar dryness seized his throat.
He coughed and tried again. ‘I hear you brought the old bike with you. Good to know she’s still running well.’
The glass doors reflected the hint of a smile which flickered across Samson’s face. ‘She’s a beauty. Do you want her back?’
No apology. Not that Joseph expected one. Or wanted one. He’d driven his son out of their home. That the bike had been taken in the process seemed only fair. ‘No, son,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Me and your mother had our time with her. She’s yours now.’
Samson’s attention remained fixed on the balcony. Then he asked the question Joseph O’Brien had been expecting. And dreading.
‘What happened to the farm?’
‘I sold it.’
Samson turned to face his father, the telltale tightened jaw revealing the anger he was fighting to conceal. ‘So I gather. Why?’
‘Because … because I couldn’t cope any more. God knows, Samson, I wasn’t coping when you were there – how did you expect me to cope when you left?’
‘When I left? Don’t you mean when you kicked me out?’
Joseph thrust his hands in the pockets of his cardigan, his head dipping at the backlash. ‘I was drunk—’
‘You were always drunk. The only difference that time was that you were holding a shotgun. Pointed at me.’
Joseph swallowed hard, the urge to drink welling up out of nowhere. If he got through this without succumbing to temptation, he would be sober forever, he thought wryly.
‘I’m sorry. It wasn’t … I never meant to…’ He shook his head, annoyed at his inability to articulate what he needed to say. To explain why he’d done the awful things he had. But none of it was explainable. Not to someone who wasn’t in thrall to alcohol. The mess in his head. The emptiness in his heart. The misery that only drinking alleviated. Until it only made it worse.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, the word sinking into the gulf between them.
Samson waited a beat and then turned back to the view. ‘So you sold the farm. To Rick Procter, of all people?’
‘He offered me a good deal, son. A lifeline when no one else could. Or would.’
‘I’m sure he did! Probably rubbing his hands at the prospect of dealing with an alcoholic.’ He gestured at the flat around them. ‘You bought this in return?’
‘Kind of.’
‘Kind of?’ Samson was staring at his father now, frowning. ‘What does that mean?’
‘I rent it.’
‘You rent it? I don’t understand.’
It was Joseph’s turn to look out of the window, unable to bear the weight of his son’s judgemental stare any longer. ‘I didn’t quite have enough to buy anywhere—’
‘Christ, Dad! You drank it all?’
Joseph grimaced, the pleasure of having Samson acknowledge his paternity diminished by the pain of the accusation. But the truth was harder to explain, so he let it pass with a shrug.
‘Christ!’ Samson muttered again, running a hand through his hair. ‘What a mess.’
Disappointment. It was an emotion Joseph O’Brien had become used to seeing on his son’s face. He fought the urge to close the distance between them, to put his arms around his son’s strong shoulders and tell him not to worry. That things were different. But it was too early to tell. Two years dry. It was a mere drop in the stormy ocean of overcoming his addiction. So he wasn’t about to make any promises.
‘What brings you back?’ he asked, shifting the focus.
‘Work. Or lack of it.’
‘You’ve quit the police?’
‘Kind of.’ Samson gave a half-smile, offering no more than his father had.
‘So what are you going to do? And where are you staying?’
‘I’m setting up a business here. A detective agency. It’ll tide me over until things are sorted and then…’
‘This isn’t long-term?’
‘I doubt it.’ Samson turned once more to the window and then to the small bookcase in the corner, a photograph in a silver frame atop it. ‘There’s nothing much here for me.’
Joseph followed his son’s gaze. She was beautiful. Would always be. Long, dark hair falling across part of her face, blue eyes full of laughter as she looked into the camera, mouth split into a wide smile. Twenty-six years dead, and still she filled him with longing.
‘At least you brought Mum with you.’ Samson was crossing the room now, heading for the door. ‘Although I doubt she’d approve of you selling the farm.’
He stopped, hand on the doorknob, as though regretting his last retort. Then he shrugged. ‘Look after yourself, Dad. I’ll see you around.’
The door closed behind him and Joseph O’Brien’s first action was to check the time. The Spar would still be open. He could get down there and back in the growing dark without anyone noticing. And he’d be set for the evening, a bottle in his hand. Something to take away the chill.
Then he lifted his gaze to the photograph, to her laughing face. At least you brought Mum with you. What a fool that boy could be. For next to the young mother in her best dress, standing so proudly over the prize-winning sheep at the Malham Show, was an equally proud child. Dark hair like hers. Eyes as blue as hers. And his face lit up with happiness.
‘I brought you too, Samson,’ he said bleakly, blinking away tears in the darkening room.
‘Knock, knock!’ The announcement and the door opening coincided and Arty Robinson stood in the doorway, a posse of elderly people craning over him to see into the flat. ‘We’re off to the chippy. Look smart or we’ll miss the early-bird special.’
‘I don’t want—’
‘Not a matter of what you want, my lad. I need your help. How else am I going to get all these geriatrics down the hill?’ He tipped his bald head at the crowd behind him, walking frames and an oxygen trolley making his point.
‘Don’t know who you’re calling geriatric,’ sniped Edith, tapping Arty sharply on the ankle with her stick. ‘At least my heart is sound.’
‘And so would mine be, if I didn’t have to put up with you lot! Come on, Joseph, don’t leave me at their mercy.’ Arty’s face was pulled into an expression of entreaty that would have weakened a man of stone.
‘Okay, okay.’ Joseph laughed despite himself. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute.’
Arty grinned and then shooed the rest of the group out into the corridor, the door closing on a resumption of their good-natured bickering.
It was what he needed – a distraction. No doubt Arty and the others were well aware of that, being no strangers to the O’Brien saga that had been entertaining Bruncliffe for almost two decades.
Feeling the flicker of desire for drink fading, Joseph crossed to the bookcase, picked up his wallet, ran his finger over the two laughing faces, and headed for the door. He would make it through today. And tomorrow morning he would wake up sober, knowing his son was back in town.
It was only as he caught up with the others at the far end of the corridor that he realised Samson hadn’t said where he was staying.
* * *
The body was a dead weight. Lifting it, slumping it over the quad bike, the dark coming down fast. Soon it would be total, pierced only by the headlights pointing into the hillside. It would provide the perfect cover.
A push of the throttle and the bike began moving, heading up the steep fell, carrying its inert load on a final journey.
* * *
‘He’s staying?’ Towards the back of the now-closed Peaks Patisserie, Elaine Bullock was sprawled on a sofa, staring across the coffee table, a muffin suspended halfway to her mouth. ‘Blimey, Delilah. I can’t see that going down well in town.’
Delilah collapsed into an armchair, dropped her head into her hands and groaned. ‘I know. I’m going to be a pariah when people find out. And when Will hears … I won’t be allowed to set foot on the farm.’
A hand stretched out to grasp the despairing young woman’s arm. ‘It won’t be that bad. I’m sure you have your reasons, and people will understand.’
Delilah looked up at the serene face of Lucy Metcalfe. ‘No they won’t. Because my life is such a mess, I’ve had to give in and allow that man a base to build a business, here where he’s not welcome. In Bruncliffe terms, I’ve sold out.’
Lucy laughed and passed the plate of muffins over to her upset friend before her other friend ate them all. ‘There’s plenty would have done the same, Delilah – Will amongst them. Don’t tell me he wouldn’t abandon his high morals if it meant saving Ellershaw. He lives and breathes for that place.’
‘How little you know him,’ mumbled Delilah, gazing disconsolately at the pile of blueberry muffins before her. ‘He’s made of granite when it comes to forgiveness.’
‘Actually, granite isn’t as hard as you think,’ Elaine interjected through a mouthful of cake. ‘Topaz is tougher. And prettier. And then there’s—’
‘Either way,’ said Lucy, cutting off Elaine’s mineral-based digression, which wasn’t helping Delilah’s mood. ‘I don’t see how it’s Will’s place to be doing the forgiving. It was Nathan’s christening that Samson interrupted and it was Ryan’s funeral he didn’t attend, so if anyone has a right to hold a grudge, it’s me.’
‘And you don’t?’ Elaine asked, stretching for another muffin.
Lucy shook her head. ‘No. And neither did Ryan.’ She glanced over at the photo of her young husband above the counter, her face a mixture of pride and sorrow. ‘He didn’t have a bad word to say about Samson, despite that ruckus at the christening. All he regretted was that he lost touch with him…’ She shrugged. ‘Makes me think that if Ryan was here now, he’d be welcoming Samson back with open arms.’
‘He’d be the only one,’ muttered Delilah.
‘Not if I can help it!’ Lucy tilted her chin, face uncharacteristically defiant. ‘I think he’ll be a breath of fresh air for the town and I, for one, am happy he’s come home. And if that sets me at odds with my brothers-in-law…’ She shrugged again and reached out for a muffin, as though in a further act of rebellion.
Elaine grinned with blue-stained lips. ‘She’s right, Delilah. Will has no right to be getting indignant. And as for the rest of folk in Bruncliffe, perhaps they’ll all benefit from a bit of O’Brien charisma around the place.’
‘Charisma?’ spluttered Delilah. ‘Sheer bloody-mindedness more like. I don’t know how I’m going to survive the next six months.’
Lucy patted her on the arm. ‘Easy,’ she said, beginning to smile. ‘Sign him up for the dating agency. When word gets out, you’ll have a flock of women wanting to join. You might as well make money out of all this.’
‘Lucy Metcalfe!’ exclaimed Delilah through a grin, as Elaine collapsed in laughter. ‘Just when did you get to be such a capitalist?’
‘When you two started coming round here and eating all my profits,’ replied Lucy, as her friends continued to laugh. ‘Joking aside, though, I don’t feel any resentment towards Samson over the christening or the funeral. As for that business with his dad – that’s their concern.’
‘Might be Rick Procter’s concern, too,’ said Elaine, face serious once more. ‘I wouldn’t like to be him when Samson confronts him over the sale of Twistleton Farm.’
‘But Rick was doing Mr O’Brien a favour,’ protested Delilah. ‘How can Samson possibly object, when he wasn’t even here and his dad didn’t know how to get in touch with him?’
‘Even so, you know how Samson felt about the farm. The connection to his mother…’
‘Such a connection that he buggered off and left it!’
‘Talking of the farm being sold,’ said Lucy, refilling their coffee cups. ‘Where’s Samson staying? Do you know?’
Delilah shook her head. ‘No. He could be sleeping rough for all I care.’ And with that, she finally reached out to take a muffin.
* * *
‘Tom’s taking his time.’ Lynn Alderson cast the words over her shoulder as she drained the potatoes, plumes of steam curling around her arms.
‘He is that,’ agreed her husband, rising from his chair to stand at the long window which looked up the darkened dale towards Wether Fell. Twin points of light in the distance located his son. ‘He’s not on his way back yet, either, by the looks of things. Must have met a problem.’
‘Or been on his phone while his tea spoils!’
Bill Alderson laughed. ‘Don’t be too hard on him, love. He’s a good lad—’ He paused, leaning closer to the glass. ‘That’s odd…’
‘What?’
‘The lights. They just went out.’
‘Probably a sheep standing in front of the bike.’
But Bill Alderson wasn’t convinced. Partly because he knew just how powerful those lights were. And partly because a sense of unease had assailed him at seeing them extinguished.
‘I’ll go check on him,’ he said, reaching for his jacket hanging on the back door. ‘Won’t be long.’
‘Tell him his tea is ruined,’ said Lynn with a smile. ‘And yours too, if you don’t get back soon.’
The door had already closed on her departing husband and he was jogging to the Land Rover. In a scatter of gravel he pulled out of the drive.
* * *
Where to stay? The evening was upon Bruncliffe, shops shuttered, street lights fighting a battle against the growing dark.
At least he should be safe here. Despite the reception he’d received. The punch from Delilah had been nothing compared to the assault he’d sustained at the beginning of the week. Samson touched his cheek, the flesh still tender, the bone bruised. He had more bruises under his clothes. His ribs. His back. There’d been three of them in balaclavas, waiting for him as he returned home late at night. The attack had been vicious and only interrupted by a passing Good Samaritan who’d chased the men off and helped Samson into his flat. He’d tried his best to get the police involved, but Samson wouldn’t hear of it.
He was the police. And he was more than involved.
Taking the advice of the one person he could trust, he’d decided to leave town, put distance between himself and the trouble he was caught up in. He’d thought only of Bruncliffe. With everything that was brewing – the suspension, the accusations – it had seemed like the best option. A quick search on the internet and he’d found the vacant office space that would provide him with an income. He’d presumed he’d have a place to stay. Maybe even a welcome of sorts.
How wrong he’d been. He was stranded up here in a hostile environment, waiting for a call to tell him things had blown over and he could head back to London. He’d been warned it could take months.
Basically he was in exile in his own home town.
Samson walked wearily back to his office. He’d stopped at the Spar off the marketplace to pick up a couple of sandwiches, shunning the idea of eating out, both on economic and social grounds. He wasn’t in the mood for anyone else to try picking a fight. Not tonight. Not after that meeting with his father.
It hadn’t gone how he’d planned it – his shock at seeing Joseph O’Brien bringing a surge of guilt and regret to the surface, which he’d then masked with anger. Typical O’Brien reaction. Bury the real emotion with aggression.
He hadn’t intended to be so curt. But then he hadn’t been expecting his father to look so old. A good ten years younger than some of the folk who’d been in the lounge at Fellside Court, yet Joseph O’Brien could have passed as their contemporary, the decades of hard drinking having taken their toll. Hollow-cheeked, nose patterned with broken capillaries and a shake that accompanied his movements – even his voice, that soft Irish accent which had wooed his wife with its ability to break into beautiful song, was cracked and strained. He was a shadow of the vibrant man Samson remembered from his early childhood. Before his mother died and the drinking began.
At least he was sober. That was one thing Samson hadn’t been banking on, having learned the hard way not to hold out hope when it came to his father’s ability to abstain from alcohol. How long would it last, though?
Samson turned down Back Street, the hardware shop on the corner closed, likewise Plastic Fantastic next to it, the collection of colourful buckets and basins that decorated its exterior during opening hours removed for the night. And there, looking forlorn underneath a street light, his scarlet motorbike.
Damn! He’d forgotten all about it. He couldn’t leave it out here on the road. While he doubted crime had rocketed since he’d been away, he didn’t trust the members of his welcoming committee not to tamper with it out of malice.
Throwing his leg over the bike, he switched it on, the engine’s throaty rumble loud in the confines of the small street. It was enough to bring a couple of faces to the window of the Fleece. Ignoring them, he turned the Royal Enfield around, turned right at the hardware store and then took a sharp right, down the narrow ginnel that ran at the back of the shops. A high wall marked one side, holding back the gardens of the houses perched above on Crag Lane. On the other side were a series of gates. He stopped outside the third one, got off the bike and let himself into a small yard with a key from the bunch Delilah had reluctantly given him.
He’d leave the bike here for now. Then he’d go round to the Coach and Horses on High Street and get a room. If he could afford it. He wheeled the bike inside onto the concrete paving and was about to close the gate when he remembered his rucksack, propped next to the desk in his new office.
Might as well go in through the back door, now he was here. It would avoid the attention of the drinkers in the pub.
Gate locked behind him, he walked up the path through deep shadows, with barely enough light for him to locate the lock. Country-dark. And this was in Bruncliffe. By now, Twistleton would be isolated in a world of black, the moon and the stars on a clear night the only illumination. God, how he missed that. The thought blind-sided him.
Opening the back door, he felt for a light switch and let the bare bulb of what seemed to be a boot-room chase away his nostalgia. Walking boots. Muddy trainers. Wellingtons. Discarded around the floor, barely space to step without tripping over footwear. And that damp, musty smell of soil. He picked up the nearest shoe, a size twelve. Yeti-feet! Unless he’d missed something earlier, some of these weren’t Delilah’s.
Curiosity aroused, he threw it back on the floor. So, Miss Metcalfe had her love life sorted without need of her own dating agency. Hopefully the lucky man had a strong chin. He’d need it, thought Samson ruefully, rubbing a hand over his own tender face.
Glad to leave the odour of feet, he entered the small kitchen which, with the cloakroom next to it, was all part of his rental package, according to his new landlady. He looked longingly at the kettle. A coffee would be perfect with his sad meal for one. In hope rather than expectation, he opened the fridge.
Empty. Nothing in the cupboards, either. But there was a second kitchen upstairs. There must be, as Delilah had made that awful tea up there earlier.
He opened the door onto the hallway. Afterwards, he couldn’t give an explanation for his behaviour, but for some reason he didn’t put the light on. Perhaps it was the fact that the fanlight above the door was allowing ample illumination from the street lamp outside. Or perhaps he knew, even then, what he was intending to do.
He headed upstairs, to be greeted by a locked door. Delilah’s office, spanning the back of the property. Along the landing, at the front, he found another kitchen, larger than the one downstairs and, more importantly, with coffee and milk. And Dog-gestives, should his Spar sandwich prove insufficient. He filled the kettle – again using only the light from the street, which was filtering past the three initials decorating the window – and while it was boiling, decided to investigate the second floor. He was a detective after all.
Stairs creaking, he climbed up to arrive at a narrow landing, three rooms giving off it. The first door yielded a small bathroom in which he could just about discern the outlines of a shower, toilet and sink. Being at the back of the building and with a skylight above, he risked pulling the light cord to reveal a line of soaps and shampoos on the inset shelf in the shower cabinet, a faint smell of coconut perfuming the air. Only one towel on the radiator. One toothbrush in the mug above the sink.
Intrigued, he returned to the landing and went to the next door, which opened halfway before being blocked by something. Thick curtains pulled over the window, again overlooking the backyard; he flicked on the light. Junk. Piled high. A dining table. A sofa. Two easy chairs. Lots of boxes. Even a bed, which was what was stopping the door from opening fully. Looking more closely, he saw the quality. This wasn’t junk. So what, then? The contents of someone’s house, stored up here. For what?
He turned off the light, pulled the door to and crossed to the final room. This door opened wide, looking out onto the pub opposite through an unadorned window. And in between was a mountain of boxes, all labelled in a clear hand. He squatted down next to the closest stack, squinting to make out the words in the weak light. N’s LP collection. N’s books. N’s maps. N’s kitchenware.
Storage. Delilah was storing furniture and belongings for the mysterious N. Samson closed the door, his mind already ticking over.
She wouldn’t notice. Not if it was for a few nights. Just while he got on his feet.
He returned to the room next to the bathroom. A bed. It’d be a sin not to use it. Especially when he had his sleeping bag in his rucksack. And she’d never know. He’d set the alarm on his mobile to go off early, grab a shower and be down in the office before she even got here.
Where was the harm in that?
None, he told himself, choosing to ignore the fact that he’d been skulking around in half-light to avoid alerting the neighbours to his presence. With a clear conscience, he descended to the ground floor to collect his rucksack. Might as well get settled in.
* * *
Sheep. In the middle of the road. The headlights picked out the startled flash of eyes as the animals scattered before the approaching vehicle. How the hell had they got loose?
Concerned, Bill Alderson pulled up at the gate into the lower field. It yawned widely onto an expanse of black, supplying the answer to his question. The bloody gate was open. Cursing roundly, he turned the Land Rover off the road and got out, the closing door loud in the darkness. Torch providing a narrow path of light, he started up the sloping pasture towards the top field. He was halfway across the grass when he realised what was missing.
The quad bike. He couldn’t hear it. Or see it.
‘Tom?’ he called out, worried now. ‘Tom, lad? Can you hear me?’
An owl hooted sharply in response, triggering the bleat of a sheep somewhere ahead of him. Nothing else other than the wind swirling mournfully around the dale. Then the beam of the torch plucked a gatepost from the night. Bill flicked the light to the left, expecting wooden rails and the solid brace that he’d repaired numerous times. But the gate wasn’t closed, two sheep standing nervously in the space it should be occupying.
‘What the hell—?’ No wonder the animals were out – both gates left open. It wasn’t like Tom to be so careless.
Anxiety growing, Bill Alderson entered the top field, the land rising sharply under his boots. Directing the light along the wall next to him, he began to work it slowly across the dark. There. About a hundred yards away, the unmistakable shape of the quad bike, overturned, wheels silhouetted against the night sky. Bill was already fumbling for his mobile. When his torch caught the contrasting pallor of an arm protruding from beneath the dark mass of bike, he started running.
‘Ambulance,’ he screamed into the phone. ‘There’s been an accident…’
Across the black fields and the stone walls, within the cosy confines of the farmhouse, Lynn Alderson watched the bobbing torchlight and wondered just how much longer her menfolk would be.