Date with Mystery Read online

  Julia Chapman

  DATE WITH MYSTERY

  PAN BOOKS

  For Brenda

  One of Yorkshire’s finest

  Contents

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  DATE WITH DEATH

  DATE WITH MALICE

  Prologue

  Winter had a firm hold on the Yorkshire Dales. Bare trees scratched at the sky, the morning’s frost still coating the land. Beyond the window the vegetable garden lay dormant, soil hard under the white layer, a few scraggly heads of cabbage left. February was proving to be a bitter month.

  He hoped they were checking on the sheep. With lambing imminent, a few more nights like the last couple and there’d be trouble. Surely someone would have the sense to hop up and see they were right? Maybe not. He’d text them. When he got back to civilisation and could get a decent signal.

  Whenever that would be.

  Fighting a familiar feeling of confinement, Jimmy Thornton lifted his gaze to the scar that cut across the hillside behind the house. The quarry. Abandoned these many years, it remained a stark imposition, a coarse break in the fellside where the machinery had scythed through the rock. Funnily enough, it didn’t look so bad in winter, the exposed limestone more fitting in this harsh season than when contrasted against the summer’s green.

  Even so, it felt like a cage around him. A violent interruption in the landscape he loved. It had ever been thus. Him here in the house, wishing he was elsewhere, hating the restrictions that chained him to the place. Hating the memories. Of this room in particular.

  She should have left here, he thought. Long ago, when it all ended.

  A sigh came from the darkened room behind him. His name, a mere susurration of air with very little sound.

  ‘I’m here, Mother.’ He crossed the threadbare carpet to the bed, her presence in it no more than a slight comma in the bedcovers, and gently took her hand. He felt the bones under his calluses. She was as fragile as a newborn chick. ‘You’re not missing much out there,’ he said, voice hearty in the hope it would revive her, that his rude health would infect her and overcome the disease. ‘Been a right old frost. Proper white and all.’

  She sighed again, a longer one this time, her fingers twitching under his.

  ‘What did you say? Ears aren’t working right good this morning.’ He leaned closer, aware of his bulk looming over her, cutting out the sunlight.

  ‘Sorry . . .’ She was looking at him, eyes clouded with pain, but she was seeing him. Struggling to make herself heard. ‘So sorry . . .’

  ‘You’ve nowt to be sorry for, Mother.’ He patted her hand, his fingers clumsy. Throat thickening. ‘You hear me?’

  He felt the slightest of pressure returning his touch. Then her gaze slid towards the photograph on the bedside table and he knew he was losing her.

  ‘Come on, lass,’ he muttered, the way he would to an ailing beast. ‘Come on. Don’t leave me.’

  Downstairs he heard the click of the latch. The Macmillan nurse. Here too late. He’d been around death enough to know what it looked like. He heard the firm tread on the stairs, the footsteps on the landing.

  By the time the nurse reached the bedroom door, Jimmy Thornton was all alone.

  1

  Delilah Metcalfe needed money. Lots of it. With everything that was coming round the corner, she was going to need substantially more income than she was used to making.

  Taking the steps that led down to town from her cottage in energetic strides, she tried to convince herself that it would all be okay. Her bank manager, who also happened to be her uncle, wouldn’t foreclose on the loans against her two businesses. Or the mortgage on her house. And her ex-husband would drop his demands for custody of their dog.

  Up ahead, already turning at the bottom of the steps, Tolpuddle was eager to get to work. A grey shadow against the walls of the ginnel, he loped along and then stopped to wait outside the third gateway on the right, looking back at her with a distinct air of impatience.

  The best thing to come out of Delilah’s short-lived marriage – a Weimaraner with anxiety issues. She couldn’t imagine life without him. But if Neil Taylor got his way, Tolpuddle would be heading south to live in London with Neil and his new girlfriend.

  No more coming to work with her. No more running on the fells. No more chasing rabbits – a talent the dog was surprisingly lacking, choosing merely to hold point, indicating the direction of any bunnies he stumbled across rather than running them down. The experts would say this was typical Weimaraner behaviour; Delilah preferred to think Tolpuddle had a soft heart.

  If she was going to keep that soft heart up here in Bruncliffe, she was going to have to find money.

  It was the first working day of a brand-new week, she told herself as she opened the gate and entered the back yard of the office building. Surely that would bring customers to her door? People seeking her IT skills, looking for a website designer. Or even better, seeing as it was Valentine’s Day, people looking for love. As the owner of the town’s only dating agency, she ought to have the market sewn up. But in the lead-up to Christmas, that aspect of her business had taken a downturn, clients declining to renew subscriptions to the Dales Dating Agency and no new customers signing on. The weeks following the New Year had been just as fallow, Cupid’s arrows falling short for the whole of January. And while the agency’s speed-dating event to celebrate the patron saint of love the Friday before had been a success, it hadn’t produced the surge of singles she’d been banking on.

  All she could hope was that it was a winter blip. For her sake, and for Tolpuddle’s. Because if she was going to fund a court case to fight for custody of her dog, she would need a lot more lovelorn souls turning up to seek her help.

  Delilah followed the Weimaraner down the path towards the back door of the old three-storey house that was now her office, noting the absence of the scarlet-and-chrome Royal Enfield on the concrete inside the gate. Samson wasn’t back yet, then.

  She stifled the feeling of disappointment that had soured her days since his abrupt departure. Bruncliffe had felt a duller place without him. Not just for her. Tolpuddle had been crestfallen all day Friday with no one to make a fuss of him. And she’d be lying if she said it hadn’t crossed her mind that her troublesome tenant wouldn’t come back at all. The way he’d shot off like that – if she hadn’t bumped into him on Thursday night, she wouldn’t have known where he’d gone. Calling in to pick up some paperwork she’d left on her desk, she’d met Samson coming out of the back door, a rucksack in his hand, startled to see her. When she’d asked where he was off to so late, he’d mumbled something about a long weekend in York with a friend. About needing a break.

  ‘He’s a free agent,’ she muttered as she opened the door and entered the porch, Tolpuddle pushing past her in his haste to get to the downstairs office.

  But Delilah Metcalfe couldn’t help feeling hurt. After all they’d been through since October – Samson’s unwelcome return to Bruncliffe; the way they’d been thrown together by the events that had shaken the town; and the fact that they’d celebrated Christmas in the heart of her family at Ellershaw Fa
rm – after all that, to arrive at the office and catch Samson mid-flight had been like a punch to the stomach. She’d thought the last four months had brought them closer, repaired the fractures in their relationship caused by events fourteen years ago. Yet there he was, fleeing once more.

  It was his background, she told herself. All those years undercover with the police down in London. It was second nature for him to dissemble. To be secretive. Why was she so upset?

  Because she suspected she knew what was behind his sudden visit to York. What else merited a midnight flit in February?

  It had to be the sophisticated woman whose call Delilah had intercepted on Samson’s mobile before Christmas. One word from her and he’d gone scurrying over there. To spend Valentine’s Day with her.

  With her mood less optimistic about the future than it had been, Delilah walked through the small kitchen and into the hall. As expected, the door to the right of the hallway was open, revealing Tolpuddle sitting in the middle of Samson’s empty office, a forlorn expression on his face.

  ‘He’s not here, boy.’ She crossed the tattered lino and rubbed the dog’s head, a small whine answering her affection.

  Tolpuddle and Samson O’Brien. Between the pair of them, very little else had occupied Delilah’s mind since Christmas. Now she had a feeling she would lose them both before the year was out. One to her ex-husband. And the other to the mystery woman with a voice like velvet, who was no doubt in some luxurious hotel bedroom in York at this very minute, whispering sweet nothings into Samson’s ears.

  ‘Bloody Valentine’s Day!’ cursed Delilah, heading for the stairs in a foul mood.

  ‘Did you miss me?’

  Samson O’Brien tore his gaze away from the grey stretch of sea beyond the rain-smeared window of the caravan and glanced across the Formica table that separated him from his guest.

  ‘More than I thought possible,’ he laughed.

  The bald head opposite dipped in acknowledgement, a grin forming on the weathered face. ‘Thought as much.’

  DI Dave Warren – more commonly known as Boss by those under his command – let the grin linger for a few moments, before turning serious. ‘You weren’t followed?’

  Samson lifted an eyebrow in surprise. ‘You think that’s possible? Even up here?’

  ‘With what’s going on, anything is possible. You’re up against ruthless people, son. Don’t forget that.’

  Turning back to the bleak seascape of Saltwick Bay, Samson didn’t see how he could forget it. His entire life had been turned upside down because of events down in London. Events he didn’t really understand.

  ‘How’s life in the sticks?’ His boss was casting a disparaging eye at the interior of the caravan, which had seen better days. ‘The locals treating you well?’

  Samson gave a dry laugh. ‘That’s one way of putting it. Not everyone has welcomed me with open arms.’

  ‘But you’re okay? You know . . . up here?’ A stout finger tapped a wrinkled forehead. ‘Not planning on doing anything stupid?’

  Suicide. Common amongst police officers cast out into the cold. It wasn’t something that had crossed Samson’s mind. Not even at the beginning when it was all so confusing; when he was being told to flee the city by his boss. And being encouraged to do so quickly by three men in balaclavas who’d used him for kicking practice.

  And now? He thought of Bruncliffe and felt a sudden pang for the fells and the dales. For his office in the building on Back Street. And for the company of Delilah Metcalfe and her dog, Tolpuddle.

  He wasn’t planning on dying any time soon.

  ‘You’ll be the first to know,’ he replied.

  ‘Good . . . good.’ DI Warren fidgeted on the bench seat, as uncomfortable being at rest as Samson was. ‘And you’re keeping your head down? Staying out of trouble?’

  The image of a burning caravan played across Samson’s mind. Closely followed by a delightful vision of Delilah in pyjamas as she accompanied him on a stake-out.

  ‘Yes,’ he lied. The drama that had arisen as a result of his newly formed Dales Detective Agency was better left untold. For a start, he wasn’t sure how the higher powers in the police would take his new enterprise.

  ‘Make sure it stays that way. You don’t want to attract attention.’

  A silence settled between the two men, awkward with the anticipation of bad news. Samson didn’t believe that his boss had set up this meeting, stressing the need for secrecy, simply to enquire after his well-being. He decided to bite the bullet.

  ‘Have they made any progress? With the investigation?’

  DI Warren tapped his fingers on the table, the cigarettes that used to occupy his restless digits missing in the wake of his decision to quit smoking several years ago; his habit of playing with the packet was proving harder to shake. ‘That’s why I’m here,’ he said. ‘Thought you’d want to know in person.’ His hands went still and he fixed Samson with the grey stare that had been one of the only constants through the six turbulent years Samson had spent undercover. ‘They’re going to suspend you. Formally.’

  Samson leaned back against the wall of the caravan. Finally. It was happening. For the past four months he’d hoped his boss was being paranoid. That the threat of an investigation was nothing but rumour in a profession that thrived on whispers and speculation.

  But here it was. His career was about to be stripped from him. Because no matter how innocent, no one came out of the other side of a suspension without stigma.

  ‘When?’ he asked.

  ‘Soon. A week. Maybe four weeks. But sooner rather than later. And you need to know,’ his boss added with a grimace, ‘they’re talking about a prison sentence.’

  Samson O’Brien stared back out to sea and wondered if it was too late to change his mind about dying.

  Jimmy Thornton had lost his entire family. In the space of two and a bit decades he was the sole surviving Thornton.

  He shuffled his feet on the plush carpet of the solicitor’s office, glad he’d changed his boots before coming. Although why it couldn’t wait, he didn’t know. Mother was dead only a couple of days, the funeral not for another couple more. But Matty Thistlethwaite had been insistent and had asked him to drop in when he was next in town.

  So here he was, feeling out of place amongst the glass table and the ash shelving. It felt more like a trendy cafe than a place of law. Old Mr Turpin, whose name still adorned the practice, had inhabited a much more traditional office with lots of oak and heavy furnishings, old books on the dark shelves. It had been a proper lawyer’s den.

  ‘Jimmy, thanks for stopping by.’ Matty was at the door, extending his hand. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss. Your mother was a good woman.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Jimmy, shaking hands and resuming his seat. ‘She was that. Too good for what she had to endure.’

  The solicitor nodded, sitting down across the desk. ‘Actually, that’s the reason I asked you to call in.’

  Jimmy fixed him with the unwavering stare of the outdoor man. And waited, in no hurry to pad life with words when others needed to be talking.

  ‘It’s about your mother. Was she in sound mind of late?’

  ‘Not the last day or so, not with the morphine. But before that, aye. She was sharp as a tack.’ He gave a dry laugh. ‘Sharp enough to remind me more than once to look after the garden. Why?’

  Matty arched his fingers in a steeple and looked down at the desk. Then he looked up at Jimmy. ‘The thing is . . . it’s her will.’

  ‘Mother’s will?’

  The solicitor nodded again. ‘There’s a bit of a problem. Your mother has left half of her estate to you.’

  ‘Half?’ Jimmy scratched his head, wondering where this bizarre conversation would take him. ‘Who got the other half? The Church?’

  ‘No, not the Church. Your sister.’

  ‘Livvy?’ The shock propelled the big man to his feet. ‘Our Livvy? You’re joking, right?’

  ‘It’s not a joke. In a will
deposited with us last month, your mother, Mrs Marian Thornton, left half of her estate to Miss Olivia Thornton.’

  ‘But . . . but . . .’ Jimmy turned towards the window, perplexed. ‘But our Livvy . . .’

  And he gestured towards the grey bell tower of St Oswald’s that could be seen across the marketplace, the church where his sister’s brief life had been commemorated a full twenty-four years before.

  ‘Sorry to have been the bearer of such news,’ said DI Warren, standing by the caravan door and preparing to leave. ‘But it’s best that you’re forewarned.’

  Samson nodded, still trying to take in the magnitude of what a formal suspension meant.

  ‘And don’t go thinking this means the people behind all this will back off. I’d be even more on my guard now, if I was you.’

  ‘You think they’ll still come after me? Even now that I’m in the frame?’

  The older policeman frowned, fixing Samson with the stare he saved for stupid questions. ‘Are you innocent?’

  ‘Of course I am!’

  ‘So there’s your answer. They’ll be doing everything in their power to make sure you don’t look it. So watch your back. And trust no one.’

  ‘Just like old times,’ Samson muttered, trust not being something he’d granted to many of his acquaintances when he was living in London and working undercover.

  His boss turned the door handle and then paused, twisting back to look at Samson.

  ‘This is serious, son. Really serious. Don’t underestimate the mess you’re in.’

  Being accused of corruption. Theft. Of running a racket that involved stealing drugs from evidence and selling them on the open market. Samson knew very well just what a predicament he was in.

  ‘Believe me, I’ve no intention of taking it anything but seriously.’

  A firm slap landed on Samson’s back. ‘I’ll be doing everything I can to help. I’ll have my ear to the ground and if anything comes up from the investigation, I’ll let you know. Until then, just keep your head down and go along with the formalities. As for this conversation . . .’