Date with Malice Read online

  Neither could the farm, thought Samson. Poor land or poor management? Surveying the fields, it was hard to tell which had caused the rundown condition of Mire End. And Samson O’Brien knew only too well how closely the two could be connected. There had been days working on Twistleton Farm when he’d cursed his parents for buying it. Nestled between two streams at the head of Thorpdale, the O’Brien property had had its fair share of soggy land and the problems that brought with it. Not to mention an alcoholic owner drinking all the profits. But it was a pleasure to manage, compared to this. Or it had been.

  ‘How long have you had Ralph?’ he asked.

  ‘Bought him at the end of October last year. More than I’ve ever paid for a tup.’

  ‘He’s a Swaledale?’

  Clive Knowles nodded. ‘Pure-bred. Worth a lot.’

  Samson didn’t doubt it. The hardy breed, with their distinctive black-and-white faces, had grown popular, known for an ability to withstand harsh winters on exposed land. He could remember auctions at Hawes where the top rams had fetched thirty grand or more.

  ‘You said he’s escaped before?’

  ‘Several times, the bugger.’ The farmer pointed at the far side of the field where an upsurge of rock beneath the soil raised the level of the ground. ‘He gets up on top of that and leaps the wall. I put a length of barbed wire across the top of the stones, and that stopped him. But not this time, clearly.’

  ‘He burst through the wire?’

  ‘No. It’s still there. He must have jumped over it.’

  ‘That’s pretty impressive,’ said Samson, assessing the height of the distant wall. ‘You don’t think someone might have taken him?’

  The farmer shrugged. ‘That’d be a first. Someone bothering to come to Mire End to steal. Not much round here worth taking.’

  Samson didn’t contradict him. Even with the upsurge in sheep-rustling across the Dales, it would take some finding to arrive at Mire End Farm. And a lot of optimism, once arriving there, to think there was anything of value on it.

  ‘Well, are you going to have a look around or what?’ A glare accompanied the words. ‘Like I said, I need him back. The farm’s depending on it.’

  ‘I can’t promise anything,’ said Samson, opening the gate and entering the field, the sheep looking up before resuming their relentless grazing.

  ‘That’s all right. I don’t set much store by promises,’ the farmer muttered. ‘Been stung by them before. Make sure you take your time, mind. You might catch something I missed.’

  With that, Clive Knowles wandered back towards the crumbling farmhouse, leaving Samson in a field full of sheep. Bizarrely, the former policeman turned private detective felt completely at home.

  Trying to ignore the surge of nostalgia for his farming youth, he started walking towards the far gate which gave out onto the lane that led back to civilisation. He had no particular purpose in mind, no belief that he would find anything concrete to help restore the missing Ralph to Mire End. But he had to start somewhere. And there was something about the gate that intrigued him. He was almost at it when he realised.

  The tracks. Twin tyre marks coming inside the field a short distance, as though something had been unloaded.

  Nothing unusual about tracks on a farm, though. So what else was it?

  He stared at the gate. It was a typical Mire End design; a rusting metal contraption that was tethered to a post with barbed wire at one end. At the other, a padlocked length of chain wrapped around another post held it upright.

  It wasn’t used much. If ever. With the land inside the gate a sodden morass of churned-up mud, it would make driving difficult, if not impossible. But someone had braved it. And recently, too, as the tracks hadn’t dried out.

  Soil oozing around his boots, Samson stepped forward and inspected the chain looped around the left post. Like everything else on the farm, it was corroding, the old padlock bleeding red water into his hand as he caught hold of it. He ran a thumb across the keyhole cover. It was stuck, seized up with years of rain and rust. There was no way this had been opened in the last few days.

  He let the chain drop back into place and to his surprise, it fell against the post and then slithered to the ground, the gate yawning open at the top in response.

  ‘What the hell?’ Shining up at him, silver against the black mud, was a severed link. The chain had been cut.

  Someone had been in the field. Probably without authorisation.

  Intrigued, Samson pulled the gate towards him and it immediately sagged, dragging across the wet ground before sticking fast. He squeezed through the narrow opening onto the verge that ran beside the lane, brown strands of dead or dying grass brushing against his trousers.

  Which way? Right, back into Horton and civilisation? Or left into the fells? Right made more sense. He was only a few steps along the road in that direction, scanning the bedraggled growth on either side of the tarmac, when his eye was caught by a glimpse of something red.

  It was lying up against the stone wall, the brown leather making it difficult to spot amongst the winter vegetation. A contraption of straps and red crayon, he knew what it was straight away.

  A tup harness, fastened onto the ram before releasing him into the field with the ewes. Thanks to the block of crayon that rested on the ram’s chest, a farmer could tell which ewes had been serviced and, by changing the colour of the crayon periodically, when they were due to lamb.

  It was standard kit for most farmers, although the one in Samson’s hand had seen better days – the leather straps worn, the rivets tarnished and the pin that held the red crayon in place sheared off at one end, leaving a jagged edge.

  He took out his phone. Something was amiss here. A record of the scene might be useful.

  Stooping down, he photographed the spot where he’d found the harness. Then he returned to the gate to take pictures of the scored land and the field beyond. But as he twisted to get a shot of the broken chain, his boot brushed against something in the long grass at the foot of the gatepost. There was a rattle of metal on stone as whatever it was fell onto the tarmac. Samson turned, stared at the object now resting in the lane, then bent over to pick it up.

  He weighed it in his palm, deep in thought. Then he retrieved the ram harness, closed the gate, and retraced his path across the field. He needed to talk to Clive Knowles. Urgently.

  For the residents of Fellside Court, the post-aerobics coffee-and-cake session on Mondays and Wednesdays was one of the highlights of the week. Along with the communal Sunday lunch. And the occasional group jaunt down the hill to the chippy to take advantage of the early-bird special. So when Alice Shepherd entered the cosy cafe that took up a corner of the building, she wasn’t surprised that it was already busy.

  ‘Here, Alice!’ The tall figure of Edith Hird, retired headmistress of Bruncliffe Primary School who still had a commanding presence and a tendency to organise, was waving her over to a crowded table by windows that looked out onto the road and the town below.

  ‘Room for a little one,’ quipped Arty as the petite figure of Alice made her way towards them.

  ‘There’d be room for a few more if you weren’t here,’ retorted the frail man next to him, eliciting laughter from the group.

  ‘Aye,’ said Arty, patting his rotund belly ruefully. ‘Fair to say I’m not as thin as I once was.’

  ‘Apart from on your head!’ This time Eric Bradley accompanied his comment with a laugh that was somewhere between a cough and a wheeze, rattling the oxygen cylinder next to his chair. From beneath his bald crown, the former bookmaker gave him a wounded look.

  ‘I’ve already ordered your coffee,’ said Edith as Alice sat down beside her. ‘But I wasn’t sure what cake you wanted.’

  ‘I can recommend the scones.’ Clarissa Ralph, sister of Edith, looked up from spooning strawberry jam onto the remaining half of her treat. ‘They’re fresh out of the oven.’

  ‘I don’t know how you two do it,’ moaned Arty, gesturing at t
he plates before the sisters. ‘You never seem to put on weight. I only have to look at that carrot cake and I’m two pounds heavier.’

  ‘Good genes,’ said Edith. ‘Sister and I come from a long line of lean Hirds.’

  Clarissa was nodding. ‘It’s true. Father was as thin as a rake. Whereas poor Mother . . .’ She shook her head, musing on the lottery of nature as she bit into the scone.

  ‘What about you, Joseph?’ Arty turned to the man sitting contentedly at the end of the table, watching the banter with a smile on his gaunt face. Some ten years younger than most of the group, he looked older, more battered by life. ‘Can your svelte shape be put down to genetics?’

  Joseph O’Brien smiled. ‘No,’ he said, his soft lilt a contrast to the Yorkshire brusqueness of his friends. ‘It’s mostly due to excessive consumption of alcohol. Not a diet I would recommend.’

  Arty’s deep bellow of a laugh had the room looking round at him and, not for the first time, Joseph O’Brien – sober two years, eleven weeks and six days – gave silent thanks to the fates that had contrived to see him arrive at Fellside Court. The place and the people in it had saved his life.

  ‘We’ll take your word for it, Joseph. Think I’ll stick with my curves. I know the ladies like a fuller figure.’ Arty’s wink was directed at fellow resident Geraldine Mortimer, who was passing the table.

  ‘Arty Robinson, are you flirting again?’ asked Geraldine, pausing to pat her sleek, platinum-blonde hair and give him a coquettish smile. ‘You’ll get me into trouble!’

  ‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ muttered Edith Hird, prodding her carrot cake with a fork.

  ‘Alice!’ A voice from the doorway took their attention to a young woman who had just entered the cafe. Blonde hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, Ana Stoyanova, manager of Fellside Court, surveyed the room from over high cheekbones, her skin alabaster-pale in the winter sunlight. She fixed a cool gaze on the group by the window as she made her way towards them.

  Geraldine Mortimer grimaced. ‘Here comes the Ice Queen.’

  ‘Alice,’ Ana said again while she was still some distance away, her clipped words betraying her Eastern European origins even if her grammar didn’t. ‘This is yours, I think. It was on the floor in the lounge.’

  She held out a rainbow-coloured pillbox, rattling it as she did so with a disapproving tut. ‘Your tablets,’ she said. ‘You’re supposed to take them first thing in the morning.’ Alice Shepherd stared at the object in the manager’s hand in confusion. ‘It’s not mine.’

  Ana frowned. ‘I think it is.’

  ‘It can’t be,’ murmured Alice, struggling to remember. The box by her bedside table – had that been today? Yesterday? Last year? Her chest tightened and her lungs constricted, making her wheeze with anxiety. ‘It’s upstairs,’ she insisted. ‘Mine’s upstairs, and I’ve taken my tablets already.’

  Long white fingers ran across the inlaid stones, along the lines of colour, and came to rest on the initials engraved on the silver base. ‘This is definitely yours, Alice.’

  ‘No! It isn’t.’ Alice was aware of her voice shaking, felt the tension spreading across her shoulders, into her neck. Into her bloodstream. Then a calm hand was on her trembling wrist.

  ‘Steady on, Alice,’ Arty was saying. ‘No point in getting het up over this. There’s probably been some mistake.’

  But she could tell from the way he said it, and from the looks on her friends’ faces, that they didn’t believe her. Because there couldn’t be any mistake. The pillbox in Ana Stoyanova’s palm was too unique. It was the very same one that Elaine, Alice’s geology-loving god-daughter, had given her last Christmas. Compact enough to fit in the hand, the silver box had a spectrum of colour across the lid, each day of the week designated by a different slice of semi-precious stone, with the interior segmented into seven corresponding sections.

  It was beautiful. It was practical. Right now, it was terrifying.

  Alice had a sudden memory of the desk at young O’Brien’s when she’d emptied her bag onto it. The pillbox had been there with her other stuff. Hadn’t it? Which meant . . . She reached for her handbag, frantically searching amongst her things, feeling for the hard edges, the cool of the stones.

  Nothing.

  ‘I thought . . . it was in here,’ she whispered, staring into the depths of her bag.

  ‘It probably fell out during the aerobics session,’ said Ana, a smile turning the corners of her lips. ‘Don’t worry, Alice. No harm done. Just make sure you take your medicine.’ Slender fingers picked two capsules from the section marked ‘Wednesday’ and left them on Alice’s saucer. Then, with a sharp tip of her head, Ana turned towards the door.

  ‘Honestly,’ muttered Geraldine, as the manager left the cafe, ‘the way that woman speaks to people. So rude! I don’t know why they couldn’t have got someone more local for the job.’

  ‘More British, you mean?’ asked Edith with a wry smile.

  Geraldine pouted. ‘Just because I don’t approve of the woman doesn’t make me a racist.’

  ‘Technically, I suppose it would if you don’t approve of her because she’s from Eastern Europe,’ said Clarissa, eyes round and innocent.

  Her reply brought a huff from the other woman and in a sweep of expensive perfume and cashmere, Geraldine strode off.

  ‘What?’ asked Clarissa as Edith doubled up in mirth, revelling in her younger sister’s artlessness. ‘Did I say something wrong?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Edith, wiping her eyes. ‘Not at all, eh, Arty?’

  But Arty was watching Alice reaching for her pills, a tremor in her hand. A sign of old age, he thought, like us all.

  It was only as Alice looked up that he saw the fear in his friend’s eyes.

  ‘Do you recognise this?’

  Clive Knowles leaned a pitchfork laden with foul straw against the doorframe and approached Samson in the yard. Behind him, a cow lowed sadly from the depths of the dark barn. ‘Recognise what?’ he asked.

  ‘This.’ Samson lifted his arm, the tup harness dangling from his hand.

  The farmer’s mouth dropped open. ‘That’s Ralph’s. How the hell did the bugger get out of it?’

  Samson ignored the question, holding out his left hand instead. ‘What about this?’ Lying in his palm was what looked like a miniature hand grenade, dark green with a black top, a chain looping between the two.

  Clive Knowles shook his head, puzzled. ‘What is it?’

  Samson flipped off the cap and pressed down on the side, the farmer flinching back instinctively as a bolt of flame flared up. ‘A cigarette lighter.’

  ‘Bloody fancy for a lighter.’

  ‘It’s not yours then?’

  ‘Don’t smoke. It’s bad for the health,’ came the pious reply. His attention wandered back to the harness. He took it from Samson and inspected it closely. ‘Aye, that’s Ralph’s all right,’ he said, running his hands over the leather straps. ‘Beats me how he slipped it off without breaking it. Where’d you find it?’

  ‘Out on the lane. And the lighter was just beyond the gate.’

  The farmer’s head snapped up. ‘The gate at the top of Ralph’s field?’

  ‘Yeah. Is it used much?’

  ‘Never. Got stuck in the mud coming in through it once too often. There’s bad drainage up there, so I always go in from down here.’

  Thinking that the bad drainage wasn’t confined to that one patch of field in Mire End Farm, Samson pointed towards the lane that ran across the top end of the property.

  ‘Where does that take you?’ he asked.

  ‘Horton,’ came the brusque reply.

  Samson stifled a sigh. ‘I know it goes to Horton. That’s where I came from. But where does it go beyond here?’

  ‘Nowhere.’

  ‘It must go somewhere.’

  ‘Aye. It goes up the hill.’

  ‘What’s up the hill?’

  A frown formed on the farmer’s brow. ‘Nothing.’

&nbs
p; ‘So the road just goes up the hill and then ends?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So no one would go past here normally?’

  ‘What for? I just told you, there’s nowt beyond Mire End.’

  ‘What about hikers? Mountain bikers? Get anyone like that up here?’

  ‘Oh aye, get quite a few of them buggers. All laden up with rucksacks and waterproofs.’

  ‘So where are they heading?’

  ‘Langstrothdale,’ said the farmer, naming a valley on the other side of the hills to the east.

  ‘So the lane does lead somewhere,’ said Samson with a burst of exasperation.

  ‘No, it doesn’t. The lane ends up the hill. Then it becomes a track.’

  Deciding that any attempt to deflect Clive Knowles from his literal responses was useless, Samson changed tack. ‘So you haven’t been in through the top gate recently then?’

  ‘Not in more than five years. I keep it padlocked.’

  ‘And when did you last check the padlock?’

  Clive Knowles removed his cap and scratched at his bald head. ‘Must’ve been two weeks ago. When I put Ralph in there with the yows.’

  ‘Everything was all right?’

  ‘Gate was locked, if that’s what you mean. Why?’

  Samson held up the chain that he’d brought down with him, the broken link a stark silver against the rust. ‘Because it’s not now.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ The farmer stared at the now-useless gate tether, his face flushed as he noticed the severed end. ‘Someone’s been in the top field?’

  ‘Without a doubt. There are fresh tyre tracks up there.’

  ‘You mean . . . ?’

  ‘Ralph hasn’t wandered off. He’s been stolen.’

  The harness slipped from Clive Knowles’ hand and fell to the morass of mud at his feet. ‘Someone’s taken Ralph?’ He blanched as the implications hit home. ‘You have to find him,’ he begged, grabbing hold of Samson’s sleeve. ‘You have to, or it’ll be the ruin of this place.’

  By early evening Arty had noticed that Alice Shepherd was feeling out of sorts. She seemed more befuddled than usual, struggling to complete her bingo card and mixing up the names of her friends. They were all used to it. She’d been getting more forgetful of late. It made her anxious, too. So when she declared at seven-thirty that it was time for her to retire, Arty didn’t protest like he would have done normally.