Date with Mystery Page 2

‘It never happened.’

  DI Warren nodded. ‘Best keep it under the radar.’ He opened the caravan door and then turned to hand the plastic bag he’d been carrying to Samson. ‘Here. Almost forgot. They’re for you.’

  Samson opened the bag and pulled out a box of expensive chocolates.

  ‘Valentine’s Day,’ said his boss with a laugh. ‘Walked into the office with them under my arm and now the lads all think I’m off seeing the mistress.’

  ‘Glad you didn’t choose lacy underwear instead,’ said Samson with a wry smile as they shook hands.

  ‘Look after yourself, son.’ With one last nod, DI Warren walked down the steps and away from the caravan.

  Standing in the doorway, Samson watched the only person on the planet who truly knew him recede into the distance. He had a disturbing sense that his chances of surviving the impending trouble were receding just as quickly.

  Jimmy Thornton was staring at the document on the glass table in front of him. ‘There must be some mistake,’ he said. ‘This must be one she made years back, before Livvy . . .’

  Matty Thistlethwaite shook his head, leaning across to point at the date. ‘It was drawn up over a year ago, Jimmy,’ he said softy. ‘Your mother knew what she was doing.’

  A year ago. Jimmy didn’t need to count back the months. He was a farmer, he marked time in seasons and the cycle of life, and he knew for certain that the day he found out his mother had terminal cancer had been in the middle of the tupping season. After a day on the hills checking the sheep – happy to see the coloured rumps that told him his rams were working hard – he’d called in at the house in the shadow of the quarry. Expecting her to be busy cooking or gardening as usual, he’d been surprised to find his mother sitting at the kitchen table, the stove unlit, the house cold.

  She’d got the diagnosis that morning. Hadn’t said a word about the tests until she had conclusive news. No point in worrying him – that had been her excuse for not telling him earlier. Now that there was no avoiding it, she’d told him bluntly. With no drama.

  She hadn’t told him about this, though.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he said, tapping the will with a broad finger. ‘Why would she do this?’

  The mixture of puzzlement and hurt in his client’s voice moved Matty Thistlethwaite. Bruncliffe born and bred, he knew all about the Thornton family and the tragedies that had beset it, Jimmy having been in the year above him at school. The last remaining Thornton didn’t need more trauma to add to the total he’d suffered already.

  ‘I can’t answer that,’ said the solicitor. ‘And I’m so sorry to be putting this before you so soon after your bereavement. But I didn’t want to keep you in the dark.’

  ‘Aye, I appreciate all that.’ Jimmy lifted his troubled gaze to the solicitor. ‘But what does this mean?’

  ‘A bit more paperwork, unfortunately,’ said Matty. ‘We’ll need to get a copy of Livvy’s death certificate before we can proceed and settle the estate.’

  Jimmy nodded absent-mindedly. ‘Right, right,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave it with you.’ He stood, itching to be outside on the fells where he could think about this strange turn of events in comfort.

  ‘I’ll keep you posted,’ said Matty, coming round the desk, hand outstretched. ‘But it’s just a formality. We’ll have it sorted in no time.’

  2

  ‘How was York?’

  Samson looked up from petting Tolpuddle to see Delilah standing in the doorway, hand on her hip. He’d left the coast early that morning, deciding to make the most of the caravan for one more night after his meeting with the boss. Riding along quiet roads in the dark, his Royal Enfield ate up the miles and he arrived at the office just after eight-thirty. Too late for his usual morning cuppa with the cleaner, Ida Capstick, but crucially Samson had been early enough to get his rucksack up to the second floor before Delilah arrived for the day.

  Delilah, who had no idea that, thanks to a cashflow problem, he was not only renting the office space on the ground floor, but was also surreptitiously spending his nights in the spare room at the top of the house amidst her stored furniture. Sleeping in her old bed. It was a situation that required a lot of stealth and deception, so it had been a luxury to sleep without guilt in Whitby. And without the threat of being discovered.

  But it was better to be back in Bruncliffe. Walking into his office with its peeling lino, old filing cabinet and red-flocked wallpaper, a slice of weak sunlight filtering through the window and highlighting the gold letters D D A that spanned the glass, it had felt like home. He’d let out a loud laugh at the irony of it. Being anxious to be back in Bruncliffe, a town he couldn’t wait to leave when he was younger. He’d never have thought he could miss the place so badly when he was only away for four days. He was getting as bad as the locals. Next thing he’d be talking about visiting Skipton – thirty minutes down the road – as if it was a big deal. But he’d found himself pining for the fells and the dales. For the sheep dotted across the hills. And the stone walls that marched up and down the landscape. He’d even missed the unpredictable weather.

  More than anything, Samson had missed the woman standing in front of him. Delilah Metcalfe, younger sister of his best friend. And her hound, who’d come crashing into his office with unfettered delight to welcome him home.

  ‘York was lovely,’ he said, rubbing Tolpuddle’s stomach, the Weimaraner writhing on the lino in ecstasy. ‘It was nice to get away.’

  ‘And your friend?

  He smothered a grin, knowing Delilah was ablaze with curiosity. ‘Great. It was like old times.’

  ‘When did you last see her?’

  He noticed with interest the casual assumption as to the nature of his brief holiday. When Delilah had surprised him on Thursday evening as he was leaving, he’d given her the first destination that popped into his head. York. Although, to be truthful, he hadn’t had many details to give. The call had been succinct, his boss merely telling him to set up a safe location for a meet sometime over the next four days. Samson had chosen Whitby. Far enough from Bruncliffe to avoid the chance of bumping into someone who knew him. And not close enough to London to feel the repercussions of the trouble that was stirring.

  Yet despite the lack of information, Delilah had turned his impromptu long weekend into a romantic tryst. Enjoying her unfounded suspicions, Samson didn’t feel the need to set her right. It only helped maintain his cover. But he didn’t lie either. ‘Not since I came home.’

  Delilah gave a slight tip of her head, her pursed lips the only indication that his truncated answers were as frustrating as they were intended to be. ‘Are we going to get to meet her?’

  ‘Maybe,’ he shrugged. ‘How about you? How was your Valentine’s event?’

  She pushed her hair back behind her ears, a bright smile lighting up her face. ‘Very successful. A full house and lots of happy customers. And then Rick had a party Saturday night at his restaurant in Low Mill. It was brilliant.’

  Just like that, Samson’s mood soured.

  Rick Procter. Bruncliffe’s successful property developer. A man revered by many in the town for his work ethic, his philanthropy, even his classic good looks.

  Samson hated him.

  He couldn’t help it. Rick had been a bully at school, and nothing Samson had witnessed since returning to town had led him to revise that opinion. The fact that his own father had been swindled out of the family farm by Procter Properties during Samson’s absence didn’t help, even if an addiction to alcohol on Joseph O’Brien’s part had aided that particular deal.

  And it was a hatred that was mutual.

  Rick Procter had made his feelings clear several times in the four months Samson had been back. Samson was to leave town. Quickly. And Delilah Metcalfe was off-limits.

  Watching the woman in question, Samson wondered how she’d react if she knew that Bruncliffe’s property magnate was so high-handed in relation to her; that Rick Procter considered her his. Samson suspected that
famous temper would fly, and possibly a fist too – something he himself had experienced on his first day home. Delilah Metcalfe had a right hook to be feared.

  But Samson wasn’t about to enlighten her as to how the property developer viewed her. Not yet. He had a score to settle with Rick Procter, so he was biding his time. Plus, the little he’d witnessed of the man in the last few months had been enough to trigger his suspicions. Having spent fourteen years in the police force and six of those years working as an undercover operative, Samson’s instinct for wrongdoing was finely tuned. That pile of cash he’d seen Rick with at Fellside Court, the retirement complex Procter Properties owned, had set it twitching. What had that been about? There was something shady about the property developer. Something Samson would enjoy investigating further, especially if it gave him the means by which to bring about Rick’s downfall. And then he would tell Delilah.

  Spirits rallying at the thought of Miss Metcalfe taking a swing at Rick Procter, Samson listened to the end of her tale about the Valentine’s celebrations.

  ‘Anyway,’ she was concluding, ‘you missed a really good night.’

  ‘Sounds like it,’ he lied, noting the forced cheer, the over-sunny smile. Delilah would be rubbish undercover. Her Valentine’s weekend had been every bit as miserable as his. ‘Here,’ he said, reaching into his desk and taking out a plastic bag. ‘I brought you back a souvenir.’

  ‘From York?’ she said with a smile, already pulling out the box inside. A flutter of white paper drifted to the floor.

  The receipt. Samson could have kicked himself. A slip-up of the biggest order. He hadn’t checked the bag the boss had given him. Bending down, he casually picked up the piece of paper that was enough to expose his deceit, a Covent Garden address emblazoned across the top. He crumpled it in his fist and slid it into his pocket, Delilah too caught up in the pleasure of her unexpected gift to notice.

  ‘Wow – Hotel Chocolat!’ She laughed as she took in the elaborate box. ‘Business must be going well.’

  Samson shrugged nonchalantly, thrown by how lax he’d become. Four months in the Yorkshire Dales and he’d lost his touch, making the kind of errors that would get him killed undercover. Delilah Metcalfe had that effect on him.

  ‘Business is great,’ he said.

  It was yet another lie. When he’d arrived back in Bruncliffe in October, he’d set up the town’s only detective agency as a means to keep himself occupied while he served his time in exile from London. He’d also hoped it would be a much-needed source of funds. With a court case in the future a distinct prospect, Samson was reluctant to touch the money he was still being paid by the Metropolitan Police Service. In the coming months he might need every penny to pay for lawyers. So right now, with his bank balance depleted thanks to his unexpected trip to the coast, he needed a case. Something that would actually pay. Unfortunately the good folk of Bruncliffe weren’t exactly beating a path to his door. ‘You?’ he asked.

  ‘Inundated.’ Her eyes flickered down to the dog. ‘Run off my feet, actually.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Well, I’d best get to work. Thanks for these.’ She tapped the chocolate box and stood there for a pause, then turned to go. And at that moment the doorbell went.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ she said eagerly.

  ‘No need. It’ll be for me,’ he said, rising from his chair hopefully.

  But she was already in the hall, opening the front door. ‘Matty!’ he heard her exclaim. ‘Good morning. I don’t suppose you’re here looking for love?’

  Matty Thistlethwaite laughed. ‘No. Not today.’

  ‘Well, come in anyway.’

  Samson saw the disappointment on Delilah’s face as she turned to close the door. She was as desperate for business as he was.

  ‘Hi, Samson,’ Matty was holding out a hand. ‘How was York?’

  After the anonymity of London, which had only been enhanced by his clandestine life, Samson still found himself caught off guard by the efficiency of Bruncliffe’s grapevine and the fact that people knew all about his movements.

  ‘Great,’ he said. ‘How are things with you? Busy?’

  ‘Too busy! Christmas seems an age away already,’ laughed the solicitor.

  ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘That’s why I’m here. I’ve come for help.’

  ‘My help, I presume?’ asked Samson, getting a glare from Delilah in return.

  Matty nodded, oblivious to the office politics playing out behind his back. ‘Yes. Have you got time to discuss it now?’

  ‘Of course.’ Samson gestured towards his office, but not before Delilah could interrupt.

  ‘A cup of tea, Matty?’ she asked with a sweet smile. ‘I was just about to make one for Samson.’

  Matty’s eyebrows, thick and plentiful as befitted a Thistlethwaite, rose dramatically. ‘Why, yes. Thanks. That would be great.’

  He watched Delilah walk up the stairs to the kitchen on the first floor and then turned to Samson as they entered the office. ‘You’ve got Delilah Metcalfe making your tea?’ he asked, incredulous.

  Samson forced a smile. ‘She makes a wonderful secretary,’ he said, in a tone calculated to be heard in the kitchen upstairs, where he knew Delilah was at that moment making tea strong enough to fell an elephant. He also knew she would arrive back downstairs with three drinks and her notebook, fully intending to sit in on the meeting with the solicitor. And there wouldn’t be a thing Samson could do about it.

  ‘Let me get this right,’ said Samson as the three of them sat around his desk fifteen minutes later, mugs of tea to hand, Tolpuddle dozing in his bed in the corner. ‘Mrs Thornton made a will leaving half her estate to Livvy, knowing that her daughter died years ago?’

  Matty nodded. ‘That’s it in a nutshell.’

  ‘So why do you need help?’ asked Delilah. ‘Surely it’s an open-and-shut case?’

  ‘It should be,’ agreed the solicitor. ‘Usually in a situation where there are only two beneficiaries, both issue of the testator, if one has predeceased the testator without issue themselves and there are no substitution clauses in the will, all assets pass to the remaining named beneficiary. Which, without the legalese, means that with Livvy having died without leaving any surviving children, all of Mrs Thornton’s possessions should simply transfer to Jimmy.’

  ‘But it’s not that straightforward?’ queried Samson.

  ‘I wish it were.’ Matty grimaced. ‘As the executor of the will, I have to follow due process and establish proof of death for any beneficiaries before I can proceed.’

  ‘Well, that’s not going to be hard,’ said Delilah. ‘All of us can remember Livvy dying.’

  Samson nodded, the incident shocking enough to have penetrated his own fog of grief all those years ago. ‘Difficult to forget. She was such a gorgeous girl.’

  For a second he saw her again. Auburn hair, a dazzling smile, against the backdrop of the scarred limestone behind her house – it had always seemed odd to him as a child that someone so vivacious could live up in the desolation of the quarry. He’d been eleven when she died. Caught up in the struggle to keep Twistleton Farm afloat and his father sober, he’d become a less frequent attendee at school, so he didn’t hear the news straight away. It was his neighbour, Ida Capstick, who’d told him.

  ‘That Thornton lass has died,’ she’d said in her typically blunt manner, shaking her head and tutting at the loss. ‘Another one gone who was too good for this place.’

  She’d looked pointedly at Samson, letting him know that his mother wasn’t forgotten. Even if his father was doing his best to drink away every memory he had.

  Samson had made a rare appearance at school the next day. And the next. And every day after that, until young Jimmy Thornton came back to class. At the first break Samson had gone up to him, recognising the hunched shoulders, the defiant glare of a lad trying to hide his sorrow. He also recognised the absence around the boy, his friends unable to handle the magnitude of loss.r />
  ‘You okay?’ he’d asked.

  Eight-year-old Jimmy had nodded, bottom lip trapped between his teeth.

  ‘Let’s play football then,’ said Samson, leading the way across the playground to a group of lads his age who were kicking a ball around, a couple of the Metcalfe lads amongst them.

  Jimmy had followed, mesmerised. He was being invited to play with the big boys.

  For the next month Samson had attended school every day, and Jimmy Thornton had been a part of every playground activity. He still wasn’t laughing much. And the aura of sadness never left him. But at least he wasn’t on his own.

  By the following September, Samson had moved up to the big school, where his attendance was to become even more sporadic. So he didn’t really know much about Jimmy beyond that brief period after Livvy’s death. But he knew the lad’s pain.

  And he knew the lad’s sister had been a special person. For on Samson’s own return to school after the death of his mother when he was eight, it had been Livvy Thornton who’d had the courage to cross that invisible line of grief. Just turned fifteen and already carrying the features that would make her beautiful, she’d walked up to him at the school gate and thrown her arms around him. He’d been entranced. By her vibrant hair. By her softness. By her smile. She’d kissed him on the forehead, told him how wonderful his mother was and, in doing so, added the young O’Brien to a list of boys in Bruncliffe who worshipped the ground Livvy Thornton walked on.

  ‘What a woman she would have been,’ Samson murmured, his sense of loss acute despite the intervening years.

  ‘I can just about remember her,’ said Delilah, casting a cheeky grin at the other two, ‘not being as old as you. But I remember Will being devastated when he came home from school that day.’

  ‘Him and most of Bruncliffe,’ said Matty. ‘There was something exceptional about Livvy. She was one of those people you just knew was going to go on and do something amazing. And instead of that, she’s killed in a traffic accident. It’s like all of us were robbed of something when she died.’