Silent Witness (A Dylan Scott Mystery)

by Wells, Shirley

  “Eh?” She gazed at him through a cloud of smoke.

  “Carly’s husband claims Alek used to pester her a lot, that he refused to accept their marriage was over. Alek, on the other hand, claims he’d been seeing Carly for a while.”

  “Bloody hell.” Kirsten shook her head and scowled. “I wouldn’t believe either of them. Carly never said anything to me about Alek pestering her, as you put it. She didn’t say anything about seeing him either.”

  “But do you think she could have been?” Dylan asked. “That way, she’d have had everything, wouldn’t she? She’d have had the children she longed for and the man you claim she still loved.”

  “Bloody hell,” Kirsten said again.

  “Did you attend the trial?” he asked.

  “No.”

  It was all well and good blaming judge and jury for Kaminski’s predicament, but what the hell had his lawyer been thinking? Surely, a defence lawyer worthy of the name would have called Kirsten as a character witness. He would have made her tell the jury how Carly had only ever loved Kaminski, how it was possible she’d been seeing another man.

  “How did you find out what had happened to her, Kirsten?”

  “Bloody coppers. And bloody Neil sodding Walsingham, come to that. You’d think he could have phoned me, wouldn’t you? He knew damn well she was coming down here so it wouldn’t have hurt the pompous shit to let me know what had happened. But oh, no. I was waiting for her on the Thursday. I kept phoning her mobile and thought she was stuck in traffic on the motorway or something. It was about seven o’clock that night when a copper turned up asking me if I was supposed to have spent the day with her. He told me what had happened.”

  “Then what?”

  “The next day another copper came. He asked me loads of questions about her state of mind, how often we spoke, where we’d planned to go, what we were going to do and stuff like that. That was the last I heard from anyone. My mum saw Carly’s mum and it was her who told us what was happening. Her who told us that Alek had killed her. I never heard a word from the pompous shit of a doctor.”

  “What was your reaction?” Dylan asked. “Did you believe him capable of such a thing?”

  “Not at first, no, because they’d been friends forever. But he was locked up so we soon knew he’d done it.”

  Kirsten’s faith in the judicial system was touching. And frightening.

  She looked at him. “Don’t you reckon he did it?”

  Dylan didn’t know what to think. “I think it’s possible he’s innocent.”

  “Perhaps he didn’t then,” she said.

  So much for her conviction that Kaminski should rot in hell. She had doubts. She was thinking that maybe, just maybe, the man was innocent.

  “So if he didn’t do it, who did?” she asked.

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  They talked for another ten minutes, but there was nothing Kirsten could tell him that he didn’t already know. Like almost everyone else, she’d assumed that, because Kaminski had been tried and found guilty, he’d killed her best friend.

  Perhaps he had.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Dylan soon found the house he was looking for. Outside a large terraced house on Peebles Road was a sign: Trueman’s Private Hire for all your travel needs. Dylan jotted down the phone number, just in case.

  He parked on the road outside and was getting out of the Morgan when a woman, late thirties or maybe early forties, came out of the house. She checked that the door was locked and walked down the path.

  She was all smiles when she spotted him. “Hello, did you want me? Are you hoping to make a booking?”

  “Not a booking, no. I’m looking for a Mrs. Sonia Trueman. Would that be you?”

  The smile became curious. “Yes. What can I do for you?”

  “Ah, good. My name’s Dylan Scott.” He put out a hand which, after transferring a shopping bag to her left hand, she shook. “I’m a private investigator working for Aleksander Kaminski.”

  Her hand fluttered in his. “Oh?”

  “Yes, I’d like to ask you a couple of questions, if I may. It’s about your relationship with Neil Walsingham.”

  She snatched her hand back. “My—well, I’m sorry, but you’ll have to come back another time. I’m going out now.” She nodded at her shopping bag. “I need to get to the bank. Sorry.”

  There was no car in sight so she had to be walking.

  “It won’t take long and I don’t want to bother you again. It’s okay, I’ll walk with you. I’ve been sitting in a car for hours so I could do with stretching my legs.” He gave her his most charming smile.

  “But—” She broke off, and he could see her searching for inspiration, a way of getting rid of him. “It’s quite a walk. Listen, if you come back this afternoon, I can see you then.”

  “I don’t want to put you out,” he said. “Besides, a trip to the bank will be safer with two. You can never be too careful these days, can you?”

  He had no idea what she was going to the bank for but, as she didn’t argue, it was safe to assume she was paying in cash.

  “Let’s go,” he said. “You’re in a hurry.”

  She gave in, although not gracefully. Dylan wouldn’t have been surprised to see her stamp her feet and throw a tantrum worthy of a five-year-old. She resisted the temptation and merely strode off with her teeth gritted.

  Without the frown, she would have been beautiful. Even with it, she was attractive enough for the ladies’ man that, allegedly, was Dr. Walsingham. Her hair was well cut, and makeup had been carefully applied. Slim ankles balanced on heels that were high enough to stretch her calf muscles. Her grey knee-length coat was of good quality.

  “At least it’s stopped raining,” he said as they walked.

  “Yes. So what do you want to know? Has someone from the hospital been tittle-tattling?”

  “I wondered what you could tell me about Neil Walsingham.” He ignored her last question.

  “I can tell you he’s a good doctor and a crap painter. He likes to think he’s a bit of an artist but my five-year-old nephew has more talent. He’s a social climber, a two-faced liar and he believes he’s God’s personal gift to the female population. Anything else?”

  “You’re not a fan, I take it?” He decided to state the obvious.

  “No, Mr.—”

  “Dylan. Dylan Scott.”

  “No. I’m not a fan.” She sighed. “But I’m probably on my own. His patients think he’s wonderful, as do his colleagues. I doubt you’ll find anyone who has a bad word to say about him.”

  She slowed her pace slightly. Perhaps she felt better for having given her opinion of the doctor.

  “You worked with him until quite recently, I gather,” Dylan said.

  She stopped abruptly to look at him. “Someone has obviously been talking about me so you know we had an affair.”

  “I heard a rumour.”

  She laughed, a bitter sound, and carried on walking. “The whole hospital knows about it. That’s my fault, obviously, because I created a scene. And do you want to know something else? I’m glad I did. It embarrassed him and showed people he wasn’t the goody-goody doctor and family man he liked people to see. They found out he’d been living a lie. And I’m glad.”

  Sonia’s steps were fast and angry, and her breathing was becoming laboured. Hell hath no fury…

  “Of course,” she said, “I’ve only myself to blame. I was the stupid one who fell for his lies in the first place. He’s good, I’ll give him that. He can be utterly charming and make you believe you’re the only person who matters in his universe. Ha.”

  “You weren’t working at the hospital when his wife was killed, were you?”

  “No. I couldn’t bear to be anywhere near him. Being in the same town was bad enough, and I still live too close to him, but I was damned if I could work in the same building. Fortunately, Terry’s business took off so I was able to leave the hospital and hel
p him with that.”

  “When did you leave?”

  “Last July.”

  A month before Carly Walsingham was murdered.

  “When I discovered I wasn’t important to him,” she said, “I decided to try and get my marriage back on an even keel. We’d been having problems before Neil. I suppose that’s why I fell for his lies. So I left the hospital, helped Terry with the business and tried to sort out my marriage.”

  She gave another sour laugh. “But people love to gossip, don’t they? In a town like this, where everyone has to know everyone else’s business, I knew it wouldn’t be long before someone told Terry.”

  “Ah.” Dylan didn’t know what else to say. He had little sympathy. If people opted to jeopardise their marriages, they had to take the flak. Their choice.

  “You’re still together?” he asked. “You and Terry?”

  “Yes, we’re still together. Just. When your husband discovers you’ve cheated on him, you reach rock bottom. The only way is up, I suppose, but, believe me, it’s a long, slow, painful climb.”

  They’d reached the bank, a small building crafted from local stone a century or more ago.

  “I’ll wait outside for you,” Dylan said.

  She nodded and strode inside.

  Earlier, a small square of blue sky had been visible. All Dylan could see now were heavy dark clouds. So much for spring. He just hoped the rain held off until he was back at his car. It was cold too. Despite the brisk walking pace, Dylan was frozen and he stamped his feet while he waited.

  There were few people about today. Those who didn’t have to be in shops, offices or factories would stay at home on this miserable Monday. It wasn’t the weather for strolling round the town.

  Sonia came down the steps and, without saying anything, began walking. Dylan fell into step with her.

  “Anyway,” she said after a minute or two, “what does any of this have to do with that Kaminski bloke?”

  Dylan was wondering when she’d get round to asking that. “He claims he’s innocent.”

  She rolled her eyes at that. “Well, he would, wouldn’t he?”

  “Not necessarily. If he’d pleaded guilty, he might have been given a shorter sentence.”

  “And you think he could be telling the truth?”

  “It’s possible, yes.” Dylan shoved his hands in his jeans pockets for warmth. “There’s also some doubt about Dr. Walsingham’s movements on the afternoon of his wife’s murder. Some say he was at the hospital. Some say he wasn’t.” That wasn’t strictly accurate.

  “What do you mean? Where do people say he was? Has someone said he was with me that day?”

  Her questions surprised him. “Was he?”

  There was a pause before she answered. “No.”

  They put a yard of space between them as they avoided a woman walking toward them pushing a stroller. Sonia went right, Dylan went left.

  “Of course he wasn’t with me,” Sonia said when they were side by side again. “I told you, I had nothing to do with him by then.”

  They walked on in silence for several yards. How Dylan wished he could read minds.

  “What can you tell me about his relationship with his wife?” he asked.

  “His marriage?” She dragged the words out, speaking slowly as if choosing her words with care. “Well, it wasn’t very good, was it? If someone has an affair, well, it speaks for itself, doesn’t it?”

  “I suppose it does.”

  “I mean,” she said, “you can’t believe a word he said to me, but—”

  “But what?”

  “As I said, you can’t believe a word he says. When I was with him though, he sounded convincing. He said he couldn’t stand living with her, that marrying her had been a mistake, that he wished she hadn’t been born.”

  “He said that?”

  “And a whole lot worse. He promised me the moon. It was all talk, I know that now, but even when I was falling for it, I wondered if it was me he wanted or just an escape from his marriage. He told me he was going to divorce her as soon as he’d moved his money round a bit. He reckoned she’d take him for every penny he had.”

  They turned the corner and there was Dylan’s Morgan.

  “Where do people think he was when she was killed?” she asked.

  “No one seems to know. He claims he was at the hospital but there’s some doubt about it.”

  “Really? Well, who knows? A word of advice from me though. Don’t take anything that man says as gospel.”

  Dylan didn’t take anything anyone said as gospel.

  They stopped by the Morgan and both looked up as a black Mercedes Viano turned the corner.

  “Oh, no.” Sonia’s voice shook.

  Trueman’s Private Hire was emblazoned across the vehicle. The Viano would take seven or eight passengers and loads of luggage. It was ideal for driving people to airports.

  “Your husband, I take it,” Dylan said.

  “Please, don’t—”

  She wasn’t given time to finish the sentence as a huge man lumbered out of the car and put himself two inches from Dylan’s face.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  Dylan had always found northern people to be warm and friendly. Unlike their southern counterparts, they were happy to chat to strangers. Terry Trueman—he was sure she’d said his name was Terry—was obviously the exception. He was so close that Dylan could smell garlic on his breath.

  “I’m Dylan Scott, a private investigator. I called for a couple of words with your wife about the murder of Carly Walsingham.”

  “A couple of words? Well, you’ve had your couple of words so you can fuck off.” He leaned in even closer to Dylan’s face.

  “I was just going.”

  “Lucky for you.” Trueman flexed his muscles. “And keep away. Walsingham has nothing to do with us, do you hear me?”

  “I hear you. I just thought that maybe your wife, having worked at the hospital, might be able to provide some information about Dr. Walsingham.”

  “Well you thought wrong, didn’t you? Now clear off.”

  “Terry—”

  Sonia’s pleading was cut off as Trueman grabbed his wife by the shoulder and frog-marched her toward the house. Dylan felt guilty. Trueman was good and ready to pick a fight and Sonia was the one about to suffer.

  And there wasn’t a thing Dylan could do about it.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Neil Walsingham cursed as the wind carried his ball into the bunker for the third time. Dawson’s Clough’s Golf Course offered stunning views but its vantage point, high above the town, brought its setbacks. The main being that one always had to compensate for the wind.

  “Looks like I’m about to beat you for the second time this month,” Tony said.

  “Don’t count on it.”

  Neil shouldn’t blame the wind for his poor game. It was the same for both of them and Tony was doing okay.

  No, the problem was Dylan Scott. What the hell was he up to? On the drive here, Neil had spotted Scott’s distinctive yellow car parked outside Sonia Trueman’s house.

  Megan had been adamant that she’d told Scott nothing but, if that was true, what the hell was he doing at Sonia’s? How else could he have found out about her? Megan had been close to hysterics when she’d phoned him to say Scott had been in her home asking questions so there was no knowing what she’d told him.

  Confound the blasted man. Neil shuddered to think what venom Sonia would inject into their conversation.

  “At least it looks as if we’ll get back to the clubhouse before the rain comes,” Tony said.

  “Let’s hope so.” Neil tried to forget Scott for a while. He enjoyed playing golf with Tony on the rare occasions their free time coincided. It was peaceful on the greens, the scenery was breathtaking and the exercise did him good. The contrast between busy hospital and tranquil course pleased him.

  He couldn’t enjoy himself today, though, and he wasn’t sorry when they were back at the
clubhouse. The place was quiet on Mondays and, thankfully, they had the bar to themselves for the moment. Neil wasn’t in the mood for small talk. He’d have a quick drink with Tony and then go home.

  To do what?

  “You okay, mate?” Tony asked. “You’re miles away today.”

  “Sorry. Thanks.” Neil took his drink and they walked to the easy chairs with a view of the course and sat down. “Yes, I’m fine. Busy at work, you know.”

  “Aren’t we all.”

  Tony was a GP at the town’s new medical centre, and there were times when Neil envied him the regular hours, the appointments system and the dragons on the reception desk who made life as difficult as possible for people wanting consultations.

  “How long is it before you jet off to Thailand?” Neil asked.

  “Four weeks on Wednesday. And I can’t wait.”

  Neil wished he was jetting off to foreign climes. Unlike Tony, however, he didn’t enjoy an uncomplicated GP’s life. Nor did he have an adoring wife who cared for husband, son and daughter, held the family together and arranged holidays. All Neil had was a mess.

  He didn’t begrudge Tony his good fortune. He and his wife were good friends. Some would call Tony dull, and perhaps he was, but he was also loyal and dependable. He didn’t gossip, he ignored rumours and could understand both sides of any argument.

  “What’s new then?” Tony asked.

  “Not a lot.” Neil took a swallow of his drink, a long, cold gin and tonic. “Well, actually, yes, there is something. A private investigator is working on Kaminski’s case.”

  “Kaminski? But why? Has something happened?”

  “Not that I know of. I imagine Kaminski’s still protesting his innocence. Name me a case that doesn’t go to appeal.”

  Tony shook his head in despair. “That’s plain crazy. There was more than enough evidence to put him away. I’m sorry, mate. The last thing you need is that dragging up again.”

  Neil gave him a careless shrug. “Unless some crack lawyer can get him off on a technicality, I expect it will soon blow over.”

  “Let’s hope so. You can’t have this cropping up every year or so.”