Date with Poison, page 1
Julia Chapman
DATE WITH POISON
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
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
In memory of Jill Shaw
A true fan of Bruncliffe and the Dales
Prologue
Half a kilo of minced pork. Half a tablespoon of salt. A light sprinkling of nutmeg and sage – not enough to overpower. Then a careful measurement of the secret ingredient, mixed in with a wooden spoon.
Outside, beyond the grime-covered window high above the worktop, darkness held the dale in its grip. But here, in the makeshift kitchen, the contents of the mixing bowl glistened beneath a stark bulb, a grey skein of empty casings spooled beside it.
Skins.
Fingers working them now, pulling them into place over the funnel, a routine so familiar. Slowly, to avoid any splits, the mixture was oozed into place.
A twist. A cut. Repeated.
Before the first light of dawn could penetrate the room, six sausages lay fat and tempting on a metal tray. Tempting. But toxic.
1
On an early spring morning, with a pale sun casting more light than warmth upon the town nestled amongst the fells, Bruncliffe’s private detective was feeling none of the joys commonly associated with the season. In fact, he was feeling besieged.
Sitting in the office he’d occupied for the last four and a half months, Samson O’Brien was wishing he was as far away as possible. Up on the hills running. Down in London working undercover like he’d done in the life that now seemed a century ago. Anywhere but here in the room with the metal desk and rickety chairs, lino curling up at the edges of the floor and garish red-flocked wallpaper decorating the walls. With Ida Capstick sitting opposite him, her head thrust forward and a grim expression on a face that hardly ever relaxed into mirth.
‘Tha has to help me,’ she stated.
‘What can I do?’ Samson asked. ‘This is a family matter. You’ll just have to sit her down and tell her how you feel.’
Ida snorted, her head snapping away from him in disgruntlement. ‘I’ve tried that. And I’m done trying. This needs sorting.’ She turned the full glare of her gaze back onto him. ‘Permanently.’
Silence fell on the room, broken only by the clank of the radiator as it struggled to combat the cold of the March morning which had blurred the glass of the window with condensation.
‘I’m not sure I know what you mean,’ said Samson, still captured by Ida’s powerful stare.
Ida shrugged. Glanced towards the closed door and pursed her lips. ‘She’s got to go. By whatever means necessary.’ The determined nod of her head underlined her resolve.
Samson gave a startled laugh, quickly choked back as that formidable gaze refocused on him. ‘You’re not serious?’
‘I most certainly am. Tha must know someone? Someone from down in London? I’m willing to pay.’
And with that, Ida Capstick, Samson’s former neighbour and current cleaner of the Dales Detective Agency, reached into her pocket and pulled out a roll of banknotes held tightly with an elastic band. She threw it onto the desk, where it rolled to a halt in front of him.
‘I want thee to hire someone to persuade my cousin to leave. Before I kill her.’
Samson stared at the money and then up at the granite features he knew so well. ‘I think,’ he said, rising from his chair, ‘we could both do with a cup of tea.’
In the office one floor above, Bruncliffe’s purveyor of love, Delilah Metcalfe, was struggling to placate a customer of her own.
‘He’s an animal!’ exclaimed the stylish lady sitting on the other side of the desk from the youngest of the Metcalfe clan. ‘He smells like a farmyard, he could do with a good wash and as for his house . . .’ A shudder rippled across the woman’s shoulders as her face pulled into an expression of disgust. ‘And if that wasn’t bad enough, he knows nothing about romance. His idea of a first date was to take to me to the auction mart in Hawes!’
Delilah felt a bubble of laughter escape her, which she smothered into a hiccup. ‘I’m sorry—’
‘Sorry? I should think so. A day spent inspecting sheep is hardly an ideal backdrop for courtship. I half expected him to demand to see my teeth so he could assess my viability.’ The woman drew herself upright in indignation. ‘Anyway, I called in to say that if this is the calibre of clients on the Dales Dating Agency’s books, I will be cancelling my membership immediately.’
The words were enough to quell any levity on Delilah’s part as, with loans weighing down both her dating agency and her web-design business, the bank manager was shadowing her door. She could ill afford to lose a customer.
‘I’m sure we can find someone more suitable for you,’ she swiftly countered, turning to her computer and pulling up the disgruntled woman’s file. ‘In fact, how about taking part in a speed-dating evening? They’re a great way to meet people in a relaxed environment and the next one just happens to be a week on Friday. I’m happy to waive the normal fee on this occasion . . .’
The woman’s tense grip on her handbag eased somewhat and a small smile graced her lips. ‘Thank you. I’d like that.’
Delilah nodded, adding the woman’s name to the list of clients who had signed up for the event. An event that was technically already fully booked and now boasted a lopsided list of names. She was going to have to find another man to take part. And quickly.
‘You’re welcome,’ she said, allowing none of her frustration to show. ‘And again, please accept my apologies for your unfortunate experience.’
Unfortunate experience. It was a phrase that summed up Clive Knowles in a nutshell. A farmer from out beyond Horton to the north of town, with his low standards of hygiene and stubborn personality he was proving a hard man to find a bride for. The hovel that was Mire End farmhouse didn’t help. But the man was desperate to get married – desperate enough to have offered Delilah a healthy fee if she managed to find him a wife in two months. Of which only just over a month remained. The prospect of that much-needed payment slipping through her grasp was a very real one because, as Delilah had suspected when she’d agreed to take him on, Clive Knowles was turning out to be a lost cause.
‘For what it’s worth,’ said the woman, rising to her feet, her tone sympathetic now, ‘I think you’re wasting your time. Mr Knowles doesn’t need a wife. What he needs is a cleaner!’
Delilah waited for the woman to descend the stairs and the front door to close in the hallway below before she allowed her head to hit her desk.
Across the other side of town, in a farmhouse just off the road that leads out past the dairy towards Bruncliffe Old Station, Liam Jackson was stepping out of the back door.
‘You coming, old fella?’ He glanced behind him at the border collie shuffling across the kitchen floor. ‘Get a load of that fresh air. Spring’s here!’
Alf, former English National Sheepdog Trials Champion but now well past his prime, stepped stiffly over the threshold and out into the yard. He lifted his head and sniffed: daffodils from the verge that lined the road, and sheep from the lambing sheds down the track. Spring had indeed arrived.
In a routine established over the last two years since his working days had ended and he was granted the privilege of sleeping by the Aga, Alf hobbled forward, nose working overtime to compensate for his failing sight and muffled hearing. Making his way slowly around the perimeter of the large yard, he took in the scents that marked his world. The farm cats; oil seeped from the quad bike; sheep – always sheep; and . . . what was that? He lifted his head and sniffed again.
‘I’ll leave you to it, lad,’ said Liam as Alf paused, head raised, nose twitching. Pained by the changes age had wrought in his former champion, Liam turned away, heading for the kennels where the younger dogs were waiting in eager anticipation of a training session.
Alf didn’t hear him go. He was concentrating too hard on that unfamiliar yet tantalising aroma. Nose fixing on a direction, he shuffled towards the stone wall nearest the lane that ran between the farm and the back of the dairy. It was stronger there. A meaty smell. Tasty.
He almost walked past it, his eyesight so weak.
A treat. Tucked in by the wall.
Instinct made him glance back to where Liam had been standing, expecting to be told off. Warned away from an unauthorised snack.
But the yard was empty.
Alf lowered his head and bit into the unexpected delicacy. Two bites. Three and it was gone.
Warmed by the sunshine and the promise of life the season brought, he crossed to the house and settled down by the back door with a contented sigh. Head on paws, he was soon asleep.
2
‘Tha’ll sort it?’
‘I’ll do what I can,’ said Samson as he escorted Ida Capstick down the hallway and through the ground-floor kitchen to the back porch. He had no idea how he was going to make good on that promise.
‘Oh, and here,’ said Ida, turning at the door and pulling a letter out
Samson took the envelope she was holding out towards him, the line of disapproval that was her mouth letting him know, not for the first time, that she didn’t approve of the lies he told on a daily basis. Lies about where he lived, concealing the fact from Bruncliffe – and his landlady, Delilah – that, thanks to a cashflow problem, he was temporarily camping out on the top floor of the office building amongst Delilah’s old furniture.
‘Thanks.’ He glanced at the postmark. London. Five days ago. An official letter. It could only be one thing.
‘Like I said, George didn’t pick it up until yesterday. But then he won’t have to fetch tha mail for much longer, will he?’ Ida glared at him. ‘Not now tha’s been paid for the Thornton case.’
It was an arrangement Ida had never been happy about: Samson living illicitly above his office while having his mail sent to his old address in the remote Thorpdale; an address where George Capstick, brother of Ida, was caretaker, looking after the farmhouse that had once been the O’Brien home but now lay empty, awaiting whatever plans the new owner had for it.
It was an arrangement Samson had felt was necessary for his safety – as well as his bank balance – protecting him from the dark past of his London life. But it was getting too difficult to sustain. And now that he had cash in his pocket following his last case, he was indeed taking steps to change it.
‘I’m seeing a flat tonight,’ he said.
Ida nodded, as much approval as she was going to show. ‘Where?’
‘Out by the Crown.’ It was the best he could afford. A cramped one-bedroomed apartment in a converted Victorian house next to a pub on the outskirts of town. But at least the views would be good, out across the fells. And he’d be able to walk to work.
Ida’s eyes narrowed. ‘The Etherington place?’ She didn’t wait for his corroboration. Not that he could have provided it; after fourteen years in exile he’d lost track of the intricate network of connections that formed the social web of Bruncliffe. ‘She’s Mrs Pettiford’s cousin. Shares the family trait for gossip, too. So tha’ll have to watch thyself. Not one for cleaning, either. I’ll call in when tha’s settled and get it sorted.’
Samson smiled. Ida, doing her best to help. Like she’d always done, back when the O’Briens were the Capsticks’ nearest neighbours. Back when Samson’s world had started to fall apart.
‘And if tha needs a reference,’ Ida continued, stepping out of the door and into the fresh morning, ‘I’d be happy to provide one.’
‘Thanks, Ida,’ said Samson, genuinely moved. Although he wasn’t entirely sure that a reference in the cleaner’s trademark brusque tone would be the glowing testimonial he’d need to overcome the prejudice he regularly encountered as the black sheep of Bruncliffe.
He watched her walk down the path, past his Royal Enfield motorbike gleaming in the sunshine, and out through the gate into the narrow ginnel that ran behind the row of terraced houses. The gate slammed firmly behind her and Samson was left looking up at the dark shape of the Crag, the massive limestone outcrop that loomed over the town, still cast in shadow.
Wishing he could run up onto the fells above it and never come back, he reluctantly opened the letter in his hand.
‘Damn!’ He thrust it back in the envelope. His day had just got worse.
‘“Be discreet!”’ A disdainful laugh followed the pronouncement. ‘What kind of bloody order is that? Like he’s some kind of royalty or something.’
Detective Sergeant Steve Cooper allowed his annoyance to infect his driving, sweeping the car too fast around a sharp bend, the stone wall on the left coming a bit too close for the comfort of his colleague in the passenger seat.
‘Steady on, Sarge,’ muttered the younger man. ‘He’s not worth dying over.’
‘Not worthy of being on the force either,’ retorted DS Cooper as he accelerated along a rare stretch of straight on the sinuous A65. Either side of the road, fields rolled up the fells, walled in by grey lines of stone and populated with sheep. The bucolic setting only served to rile the policeman further. ‘Sending us out into the back end of nowhere all because of him. I hope they throw the bloody book at the reprobate,’ he growled.
DC Benson stayed quiet. He’d discovered that when it came to the topic of Samson O’Brien, it was best to let his boss rant, any interjections merely adding fuel to the fire. Not to say that he didn’t understand the root cause of the animosity. Having secured a position on the force only after years of trying, Josh Benson couldn’t fathom why anyone would be willing to throw away all that meant. Least of all someone who had attained near-mythical status within the ranks of Yorkshire’s police. Even though he’d trained in North Yorkshire, Benson had heard about O’Brien’s achievements – a star trainee in the West Yorkshire ranks, headhunted by the Met and then seconded onto the Serious Organised Crime Agency. When the organisation morphed into the National Crime Agency, O’Brien had stayed on, working undercover in the criminal fraternity of London. Until now.
Now he was living back in Bruncliffe and rumoured to be suspended, pending investigation, on allegations of corruption. And about to face—
‘Bloody idiot!’ A screech of brakes accompanied the exclamation as they came around a blind bend too fast and up behind a tractor, the two detectives thrown against their seatbelts.
From his position high up in the cab, the farmer glanced over his shoulder and lifted a lazy finger of acknowledgement. But he didn’t pull over. And as the road twisted and turned ever further into the Dales and closer to Bruncliffe, the car could do nothing but trundle along, the detective sergeant’s temper building through every tortuous mile.
DC Benson was beginning to think their assignment would be anything but discreet.
‘It’s impossible.’
‘Tell me about it!’
Ten minutes after their respective clients had left, the two occupants of the three-storeyed building that sat halfway along Back Street were sitting on the lower flight of stairs side-by-side, mugs of tea to hand, a large grey dog sprawled on the tiles below them.
‘I’ve got four weeks left to find someone stupid enough to marry Clive Knowles.’
‘And I’ve got forty-eight hours to find someone to scare off Ida’s cousin.’
Delilah swung round to stare at Samson. ‘You’re kidding!’
He shook his head. ‘Not a bit. Ida’s just spent the last half hour demanding I use my contacts to help her.’
‘But surely you haven’t—?’
‘Agreed?’ Samson grimaced. ‘I had to. With the mood Ida was in, I was afraid that if I didn’t, she’d make good on her threat to go home and kill her cousin herself.’
In the thirty-four years Samson O’Brien had known Ida Capstick – the entirety of his life – he had never seen her so distraught. Fingers worrying at the strap of her shopping bag, she’d pleaded with him to alleviate her distress, not even soothed by a cup of tea and a plate of homemade biscuits from Peaks Patisserie. The woman was in a state unlike any Samson had ever witnessed.
‘Her cousin,’ murmured Delilah, still wide-eyed. ‘I knew they weren’t getting along but this . . . It’s a bit extreme.’
‘Maybe. But then we’re not in Ida’s shoes.’
‘Agreed,’ Delilah said, thinking that there weren’t many who would cope with life lived in Ida’s sturdy shoes.
A woman of few words, Ida lived in Thorpdale with her brother George in the cottage they’d been raised in. Keeping herself to herself, she supported the pair of them with her earnings and was fiercely protective of her brother, whose unique approach to the world wasn’t understood by everyone. But this simple existence had been disturbed by the arrival of Ida’s cousin following the death of her husband over in Bridlington the month before. And in the short time that the bereaved Carol Kirby (nee Capstick) had been living under Ida’s roof, life for Ida had clearly become intolerable.
Enough for her to wish her cousin gone. However that came about.
‘It’s only just over a week since Carol moved in, though,’ continued Delilah. ‘What on earth can have happened in that time to provoke such a bizarre request?’
