Silent Witness (A Dylan Scott Mystery)

by Wells, Shirley

  “Of course. When suits you? Tell you what, I’ll be home early this evening. By five or five-thirty at the latest. Well, barring any emergencies. Why don’t you call at the house at, say, sixish?”

  Trying to fathom Neil Walsingham was more difficult than understanding the meaning of life. “That would be good. Thank you. I appreciate it.”

  “Any time. See you later then. I’ll give you a ring if I’m delayed at the hospital for any reason.”

  Dylan was so unsettled by the ease with which he’d set up a meeting with Walsingham that he was no longer interested in CCTV images. Besides, he could describe every person, recall every vehicle and name every bird that knew Darwen Road. It was a pointless exercise.

  Instead, he grabbed his jacket and walked into the centre of town. His thought processes worked much better when he walked, and he wanted his intended conversation with Neil Walsingham clear in his mind.

  He was in the pedestrianised shopping centre before he knew it.

  “Dylan?”

  He turned at the sound of Frank’s voice and saw his ex-boss striding out to catch him up. He waited, smiling at Frank’s erect carriage and military stride.

  “Hello, Frank. How’s things?”

  “About the same. What about you?”

  He told Frank about his dash to London, how Freya was fully recovered, and how he’d managed to get an appointment at the doctor’s home. “Do you fancy a coffee, Frank?”

  “I’d rather have a beer, but I suppose it’s a bit early.”

  “Is it ever too early? I need a clear head though. Walsingham’s a slippery individual.”

  They went inside the crowded coffee bar and ordered cappuccinos. Most of the customers were women who’d decided to take a break from shopping. Some had babies or toddlers with them so peace and quiet was out of the question. Fortunately, the woman with two noisy toddlers at the table next to theirs didn’t stay long.

  “Help me out, Frank.” Dylan spooned the froth from the top of his coffee. “Think of the vet, Tinsley, and how much he wants Sue Kaminski to himself. Why would he kill Carly Walsingham?”

  Frank was reaching for his cup but he stopped. “You think he did?”

  “It’s a possibility. He wants me off the case, that I do know.”

  “Well, he would, wouldn’t he? If, as you say, he has plans for Kaminski’s wife, he’ll be more than happy for the bloke to stay in Strangeways.”

  “True.” Perhaps that’s all there was to it. “And he tells me he doesn’t want me raising Sue’s hopes. Maybe that’s true too.”

  “You think there’s more to it?”

  “I didn’t until this morning.”

  His train of thought was interrupted by his phone. He glanced at the display and his brain cells worked at a painfully slow rate. Someone was calling him from that bloody phone box again. The one he was currently sitting less than five hundred yards from.

  “Don’t go away, Frank.”

  Phone in hand, Dylan raced out of the coffee bar and dodged dawdling shoppers and mothers pushing buggies, but he was too late. The phone box was empty.

  While he stood to catch his breath, he watched the pedestrians. No one looked out of place. He was a jerk. He should have answered the damn phone and kept his anonymous caller talking.

  Just as he was about to return to the coffee bar, he spotted a familiar figure hurrying in the opposite direction.

  He ran to catch her up. “Hello, Sonia.”

  “Oh, er, hi. Hi, Dylan.” Her face was the colour of the red leather handbag slung over her shoulder.

  “Did you just try to call me?”

  She had, he was sure of it.

  “What?” Eyes wide, she took a step back, as if she expected him to cast a spell and turn her into a frog.

  “My phone rang,” he said. “I saw you in the phone box at the same moment. Before I could answer it, you rang off.”

  “Well, yes, as a matter of fact I did.” She looked at the ground before concentrating on a group of teenagers outside the bookshop. “I, er, just wanted to apologise for Terry’s behaviour. He gets a bit—”

  “Jealous?” Dylan asked.

  She nodded. “Yes. Usually, he’s fine. A good husband. But mention of Neil—” She shrugged.

  “I see.”

  “He thinks Neil stole me from him and nothing I say will make him see sense. I’ve told him fifty times that it meant nothing, but—” She shrugged again.

  “I see,” Dylan said again. “And that was all you wanted to talk to me about?”

  “Yes. Well, I wondered how you were getting on, of course. Are you having any luck?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” She gave him a bright smile. “Anyway, that was all. I would have left a message for you, but I’ve just remembered an appointment. I have to dash. Sorry.”

  He caught her arm to halt her flight. “You do know, don’t you, that failing to offer information during a police investigation—”

  “I don’t have any information. There was nothing I could have told them.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “It’s the truth. Look, I have to go.”

  Again she tried to leave and again Dylan stopped her. “What do you know, Sonia?”

  She tossed back her head, her stance suddenly defiant. “I know that lying bastard Neil Walsingham wasn’t at the hospital when his wife was murdered. And that’s all I do know.”

  She wrenched her arm from Dylan’s grip and strode off.

  Dylan walked slowly back to the coffee bar deep in thought. How did she know? And why, bearing in mind she hated Walsingham with every breath in her body, hadn’t she mentioned it to the police? She could have landed Walsingham right in the sticky brown stuff. So why hadn’t she?

  As ever, he had more questions than answers. Still, at least he had something to offer Walsingham when he visited him this evening.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Jamie strode along the familiar streets with a spring in his step. A playful wind pinched at his face and flicked his hair. A swirl of fallen leaves danced around his feet.

  He’d known his chance would come, and his patience was rewarded when his mother phoned him shortly before Dylan Scott visited the surgery that morning.

  Jamie had been too excited to care about Scott. Thinking about it afterwards, though, he wished he’d set up a meeting with him tonight. No matter. He’d deal with Scott later.

  “Your father’s much better, Jamie,” his mother had said. “The doctor’s just been and said he should be fine now. They don’t want to see him again unless he has problems.”

  “I’m glad, Mum.”

  “It’s a relief, isn’t it? He’s feeling so good, he’s said I must go to the guild meeting this evening. It’s the AGM. I thought I’d have to miss it, but no.”

  “That’s excellent news.” Better than she could know.

  Jack Reynolds would escort his mother to and from the meeting. He was an old fusspot and wouldn’t allow her to walk home alone in the dark. He’d even call in for a polite word with the invalid. It couldn’t have been better.

  Jamie crept round the back of the house, took his key from his pocket and let himself in. All was quiet.

  He tiptoed into the sitting room where his father sat with the table light angled to shed light on his book. He was reading the Bible.

  “James? What are you doing here? Your mother’s out for the evening.”

  “So I gather. She’s at her church guild meeting, isn’t she?”

  “Yes.” He closed the Bible and placed it on the table by his side. “What are you doing here?”

  “Euthanasia,” Jamie said. “There’s a thing, isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “I deal with that day in, day out, you know. Old dogs with cancer, cats with kidney failure. I put them out of their misery, console their grieving owners and pass on to the next.”

  “So you do, James, but you haven�
��t answered my question. What are you doing here?”

  “It’s not just sick animals I deal with,” Jamie said. “If an animal is bad-tempered, mean-spirited or just plain vicious, I send it on its way to the next life. It’s so easy.”

  Shaking his head in confusion, Victor Tinsley laughed. “You’re full of words, aren’t you? Stupid words. You’re all talk. Always have been and always will be. You take after—” He broke off and Jamie thought he saw something akin to fear in his expression.

  “Who do I take after?”

  “Nothing. No one. I didn’t say anything.”

  “Who?” Jamie lunged at him and grabbed a handful of shirt collar and throat. “Who do I take after?”

  “Hey, stop this now. I can’t breathe.”

  Jamie gave him a good shake. “Then you’d better answer my question, damn you.”

  “All right. Daniel Wright. You take after Daniel Wright. Satisfied?”

  Jamie released his grip and his father sank back into his chair, pulling air into his lungs.

  Daniel Wright. He knew the name. Daniel Wright. He paced the room, dragging up long forgotten memories.

  “Father Daniel Wright?”

  The Roman Catholic Church had its large plot at the end of this road. The priest’s house, a dark, forbidding building, was opposite. Long ago, the resident priest had been one Daniel Wright.

  But the Tinsleys were Church of England. They had nothing to do with the priest.

  Jamie dragged the man’s image to mind. He’d been tall. His hair had been thin and sandy-coloured. His hair had been a lot like his own, now he came to think of it.

  “Some call him Father.” Victor Tinsley was scowling. “I call him the devil’s offspring.”

  Wright had left the area around the time Ben died. It was a long time ago, so the image Jamie pulled to mind was probably blurred by the years.

  He sank onto the worn sofa and Victor Tinsley laughed.

  “Yes, you’re a bastard, James. A priest’s bastard.”

  Bile rose in Jamie’s throat. He ran to the kitchen, wanting to be sick, but all he could do was retch. Sweat soaked his shirt.

  His father had to be lying. And yet—

  He could remember a smiling man in priest’s robes giving him a few coins, talking to him, taking an interest. And what had his mother said? That he was the son born out of love?

  “You’ve always thought yourself a cut above the rest of us, haven’t you?” His father had come into the kitchen. He was leaning against the door frame. “You thought you were cleverer than all of us. Cleverer than Peter, cleverer than me. The truth is, you’re nothing more than a priest’s bastard.”

  Jamie should kill him now but he felt too weak.

  “Your mother acted like a common whore. We hadn’t been married above a year when she went with that man.”

  Jamie covered his ears with his hands, but he could still hear the hated voice.

  “She wanted to keep you. Said it wasn’t your fault. We didn’t want the scandal. Who would? He gave us money to keep you. He even gave us money to feed that mangy dog you brought home.”

  “Don’t you dare—” Jamie swallowed the bile that surged into his throat. “Don’t you dare call Ben mangy. That dog was worth ten of you. He lived his life with dignity, right up to the end. He wasn’t a bullying piece of shit like you. He didn’t rape anyone, did he? You raped her, I know you did. I’ll tell you something else, too. I’d rather be a priest’s bastard than have any of your DNA in me.”

  Jamie straightened. He pushed past his father and strode into the sitting room. He switched on the TV and turned up the volume till it was so loud, the laughing game show contestants almost deafened him.

  His father followed. “What in God’s name are you doing?”

  “I’m doing fuck all in God’s name. This is in my name.” Jamie reached into his pocket and pulled out the gun. His father reeled back from him.

  “This,” Jamie said, “is for Ben.”

  His father screamed as the bullet shattered his kneecap.

  “And this one’s from me.”

  The second bullet left a gaping hole in his father’s head.

  Jamie stepped over his father’s body, crossed to the TV, switched if off and walked out of the house.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Dylan was taken aback when the front door of Neil Walsingham’s home was opened by a homely, dark-haired woman in her mid-fifties. She was too young to be his mother, but too old for the doctor’s taste and not even close to glamorous enough.

  “You’ll be Mr. Scott, yes?”

  “Yes. And you are?”

  “Mary Bell. I’m Dr. Walsingham’s housekeeper. Please, come in. He is expecting you.”

  “Thank you.” Dylan had assumed that, given the doctor’s work shifts, he had reliable babysitters in place. He should have known that, being on call at times, the doctor would need a live-in housekeeper. “How long have you worked for Neil?”

  “Coming up to six months.” Smiling, she led him into a vast sitting-room. “Have a seat, Mr. Scott, and I’ll go and tell Neil you’re here. He won’t be a moment.”

  The room was as tastefully furnished as Dylan would have expected. Two leather sofas and three chairs didn’t boast so much as a scratch. A large, but not too large, TV shared a wall with various works of art. The oak floor was partially hidden with tasteful rugs. Oak coffee tables were spotless. On a bureau in the corner sat the obligatory framed photo of Walsingham and Carly on their wedding day.

  “Dylan, good to see you.” Neil strode into the room, a broad smile on his face. He was dressed casually in open neck shirt and chinos. “Can I offer you a drink?”

  “No, thanks. This won’t take long. I just need a couple of things clearing up.”

  Neil sat, left ankle balanced on right knee. He gave every indication of being relaxed and at ease. A man with nothing to hide. He gestured for Dylan to sit opposite.

  After a moment’s hesitation, he did so. He decided he might as well get straight to the point. “It would help enormously if you told me where you were on the afternoon your wife was murdered.”

  Smiling despairingly, Walsingham shook his head. “I’ve told you fifty times. I’ve told everyone fifty times. I was at the hospital. We were busy because—”

  “I know all about the children and the accident.” And he didn’t want to hear it again. “But I know for a fact you weren’t there. Where were you, Neil?”

  “Who says I wasn’t there?” The smile had slipped a little.

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t reveal the witness’s name.” For now, Sonia would have to be elevated to witness. “Where were you?”

  Neil looked at him for long moments and all the while his raised foot danced a merry jig.

  “Okay,” he said at last. “I wasn’t at the hospital.”

  Hallelujah!

  Dylan didn’t let him see how surprised he was by the admission. “Where were you?”

  “Hasn’t your witness told you?”

  “I’d rather hear it from you.”

  Walsingham leapt to his feet. “Are you sure I can’t get you a drink?”

  “Quite sure. Thanks.”

  Dylan regretted that as soon as Walsingham reached for a bottle of Laphroaig, but he needed two things—a clear head and the upper hand.

  Walsingham poured an extremely generous measure into a large crystal glass. He took an appreciative sip and returned to his seat. With his legs crossed at the ankle now, he still looked reasonably relaxed.

  “I can tell you where I was,” he said, “but you won’t believe me, the person I was with will deny everything, and it will only serve to muddy the water. Do you still want to know?”

  “I do.”

  “Right.” Walsingham took another swig of whisky. “That afternoon, I was supposed to be meeting Megan Cole. Occasionally, we’d sneak away from the hospital for an hour. The emergency department had been busy, but everything was under control by lunchtim
e. So Megan went home and I was supposed to follow her. Then I had a phone call.”

  Right on cue, a phone rang in the sitting room. Walsingham cocked an ear until someone, presumably Mary Bell, answered it.

  “It was Sonia Trueman,” he continued. “There had been no contact between Sonia and me since I broke things off, but someone had told her husband about us, God knows who. She was hysterical when she called me because he’d knocked her about. You won’t know him, but he’s a piece of scum who makes the Incredible Hulk look normal. Anyway, he’d hit her. She’d managed to flee the house and was on her way to the hospital. She was shouting and screaming, telling me—or warning me—that she was going to tell everyone who asked exactly why her husband had half killed her.”

  “Had he? Half killed her?”

  “Nothing was broken.” Walsingham sighed. “She was a mess, but it was only cuts and bruises. Her lip needed stitches.”

  Dylan winced on Sonia’s behalf. “What did you do?”

  “I didn’t want her coming to the hospital and spreading more ugly rumours about me so I threw a few things in a bag—bandages, sutures, anything else I might need—and went to meet her.”

  “So you treated her injuries?”

  “As stupid as it sounds, yes. There’s a small memorial garden behind the hospital. No one uses it. Few people even know it exists. Of course, calming her down was my first priority.” He let out a long sigh. “I managed that, cleaned her up, and then her husband called her. He was crying down the phone, saying how sorry he was, begging her to go home, that sort of thing.”

  Dylan wasn’t sure he believed Walsingham’s story or not. At least it was a story, though, and he had nothing better to do with his time.

  “Did she go home to her husband?” he asked.

  “Eventually, yes. Having made me promise not to tell him she’d called me or seen me.” He rolled his eyes. “As if I was likely to do that. No one would volunteer for a visit from Terry Trueman. Besides, I wanted the blasted woman out of my life. But yes, she went. I gave her money for a taxi—I didn’t think her bruiser of a husband would be too pleased if he saw me drive her home—and she left.”