Silent Witness (A Dylan Scott Mystery)

by Wells, Shirley

  He hammered on the door but no lights appeared and there were no sounds from within. It seemed unlikely that a huge Rottweiler lay in wait behind the door.

  He knocked again, gave up and walked to the back of the house. He went through the same procedure. The house had been abandoned.

  The back door was blessed with two locks and a couple of bolts. The front door, as far as he could remember, relied on a simple Yale lock to keep out intruders. As it was so long since he’d tested his breaking and entering skills, Dylan decided to test them out on that one.

  He winced as he walked round the corner of the house, and a gust of wind grabbed at his shoulder.

  He stood for a moment to listen but could hear no approaching vehicles over the roar of the wind. Not that he cared either way.

  He took his makeshift torque wrench and picks from his pocket. He inserted the torque wrench and hoped to God he hadn’t lost his touch. Not, it had to be said, that he’d ever had a real touch. Cat burglar hadn’t featured highly on his list of career choices.

  He inserted the pick and began the arduous task of trying to set the pins. It would have been easier if he’d been able to hear the clicks over the angry wind. And a lot easier if his shoulder wasn’t throbbing.

  Eventually, the lock gave. It had probably taken him fifteen minutes. Not bad for someone out of practice, but no good for anyone wanting to take up burglary.

  He stepped inside the house, breath held as he waited for the dog from hell to rip him to pieces. All was quiet. He switched on the light. A cat ambled into the hall, looked at him, spat and, with its back arched, scampered up the stairs.

  Dylan followed. He might as well start on the first floor.

  He had no real idea of what he was looking for. He wouldn’t until he found it.

  He switched on the light and the sight of Sue’s bedroom took him by surprise. Kaminski’s coat hung from the back of a chair. His boots waited to trip someone up or to be put away. It was as if Kaminski had stepped out of the room and would return at any moment to finish dressing.

  The wardrobe was split so that Kaminski’s clothes took up the right-hand side and Sue’s the left. On the shelf in Sue’s half was a large shoebox. Dylan opened it and found several letters from Kaminski. He skimmed a couple, but they gave nothing away.

  His legs were shaking and he sat on the bed to pull open drawers in an old dresser. On top of the dresser sat a framed photo of the couple taken on their wedding day. Sue looked fit to burst with happiness while her husband wore his usual unfathomable expression.

  He rifled through her underwear drawer, but found nothing of interest. A hairdryer had been shoved in another drawer. Belts in another.

  Sweat was pouring off him and he was still shivering. He needed to get to a hospital.

  He tried the small guest bedroom. Beneath a single bed were boxes crammed with junk. Out-of-date calendars, photos, an old mobile phone, screwdrivers, car air fresheners, picture hooks.

  A third room, this one much smaller, was in darkness. The switch worked but the bulb was missing. It didn’t matter because he could see enough courtesy of the light on the landing.

  The room could have been used as a nursery but the childless Kaminskis chose to store a lifetime’s accumulated mementoes in it. It would take Dylan a week to sort through this lot and life was too short.

  But he was nosy by nature. He moved a few boxes from the top of a wooden trunk, lifted the lid and peered inside. The contents would have delighted any child who longed to be Little Red Riding Hood or Goldilocks. There were dresses, shoes, hats with feathers and wigs.

  A flash of light lit the room as a pair of headlights bounced along the lane outside.

  Knowing he had to cut his search short, he walked down the stairs, leaning against the wall for extra support. He’d managed to reach the kitchen when Sue Kaminski let herself in. Her companion was a friendly spaniel, thank God. He couldn’t have coped with that blasted Rottweiler wanting a taste of his blood.

  She let out a scream when she saw him. Her hand went to her mouth as she tried to recover from the shock. “Dylan, what the devil are you doing here? How did you get in?”

  “The back door was open. I thought you must be out in the kennels.” Sometimes, lies come too easily.

  She stared at the back door as if expecting it to deny Dylan’s statement. “Oh, my God. What’s happened to your shoulder? You’re bleeding.”

  He shrugged, and the pain was so intense he wished he’d put twenty thousand volts through his body instead. “Just a bit of an accident. It’s fine.”

  “Are you sure? You look very pale.”

  He felt very pale.

  “God,” she breathed. “What a night this is turning out to be. You’ll never believe what’s happened.”

  “Try me.” Nothing would surprise him.

  “The police phoned me because they were trying to find Jamie. I drove over to his place to see if he was there. There’s no sign of him, but Monty was there. He was barking. Anyway, there was a reporter outside and he said Jamie’s father has been shot. According to him, someone broke in to Jamie’s parents’ house and shot Mr. Tinsley.”

  Dylan waited. Nope. He wasn’t surprised.

  “Really,” he said. “And you don’t know where Jamie is?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “I’m surprised he’s far from you.” Dylan had to sink onto a chair before he passed out. He took the gun from his pocket, making her gasp. “I imagine the police will be looking for this then. It looks like a murder weapon, don’t you think?”

  Sue wrapped her arms around herself. “What’s going on, Dylan?”

  “At a rough guess, I’d say that Jamie killed his father and decided he liked the experience so much, he’d come after me. He’s always wanted me off this case and I couldn’t fathom out why.”

  “Jamie? You think Jamie killed his own father?”

  “I do, yes.”

  “But that’s—”

  “Against the law? So it is.” Dylan tried to relax his shoulder but it was impossible. “He shot me too. That’s why I’m bleeding all over your kitchen and why I have his gun.”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “No. Oh, no, Dylan. Not Jamie. He wouldn’t do such a thing.”

  “Wouldn’t shoot me? Ah, but he did.”

  “Surely not. He’s good and kind. He’s been so good to me.”

  “I’m sure he has, and by getting rid of me, he believed he was doing you a favour. You see—” He broke off.

  He walked over to the notice board, the one festooned with pictures of her great-aunt’s ninetieth birthday celebrations. A totally unrelated photo showed Sue with three big dogs, smiling into the camera. Off to her right were the kennels. Off to her left, poking its bonnet into the edge of the picture, was an orange Volkswagen Beetle. One mirror had been fastened to the vehicle with gaffer tape, just as Walsingham had described it. It was the same Volkswagen Beetle Dylan had seen driving along Darwen Road. The same Volkswagen Beetle that DS Pike had checked out.

  “Whose is this car?” he asked.

  “What? Well, it’s mine. Was mine. The one I have now was going cheap so I sold the Beetle.”

  “You’re lying.” He didn’t have time for this. “I checked this vehicle with a friend of mine, a detective. This car isn’t, and never has been, registered in your name.”

  “Oh, no. It was registered in Aunt Joyce’s name. She’d had it from new but, when she could no longer drive, she let me have it. We never got around to dealing with the paperwork.” She frowned at him. “Why are you asking about it?”

  “I see.” He removed the photo from the board. “We were talking about Jamie, weren’t we? Yes. As I was saying, he follows you everywhere.”

  She was still frowning at him. She had no idea what he was getting at, and his own brain was slowly turning to mush.

  “Everywhere,” he said again. “He didn’t want me here looking in
to the murder of Carly Walsingham because he didn’t want to risk me learning the truth. He knew who killed Carly because he follows you, Sue.”

  Her eyes widened and all colour drained from her face.

  “He knows the truth, Sue, because he followed you that afternoon.” He nodded at the photos of the famous ninetieth birthday party. “You called to see your aunt, dropped off the cake, took a couple of photos and, hey presto, you had the perfect alibi. Your great-aunt wouldn’t have known if you were there or not, would she? You told me yourself that she was suffering from Alzheimer’s. The nursing home staff would have seen you arrive, you’d make sure of that by giving them cake and gifts, but they wouldn’t have noticed you leaving almost immediately.”

  She wasn’t saying a word. Her bottom lip was trembling and she clutched the sleeves of her jumper in tense fists.

  “You then drove your orange Volkswagen—” He waved the photo under her nose. “You drove along Darwen Road and—yes, I’ve seen this car on CCTV—and parked on Peebles Road at the back of the Walsingham’s property.”

  A stray tear rolled down her cheek and she brushed it away with her sleeve. She wasn’t looking at Dylan. He couldn’t even be sure she was listening to him.

  “You pulled on a hooded jacket and slipped inside the Walsinghams’ home. You’d done your own bit of sleuthing, hadn’t you? You knew Alek was having an affair with his ex-wife. You knew that every Monday and Thursday, Alek was enjoying some afternoon delight at Lakeside Drive. So you chose Wednesday. You always visit your great-aunt on Wednesdays so you had the perfect alibi. What could be better than a muddled, confused relative, an Alzheimer’s patient, and a couple of photos of a birthday cake?”

  Still she didn’t speak.

  “When you went into the Walsinghams’ house, you had no idea that your husband had left only minutes earlier via the front door. You crept inside and you found Carly enjoying a nice hot soak in her bath. You grabbed a cushion, intending to drown her, but you had to see her face, didn’t you? You hated her so much that you wanted to watch her suffer. So you slashed her throat and watched her bleed. Then, happy in the knowledge that the competition for your husband’s affection had breathed her last, you pulled on your hood and left through the back garden. You jumped in your car and drove home to tell your husband what a wonderful time you’d had celebrating your aunt’s milestone birthday.”

  She gave a choked cry but didn’t speak.

  “Where’s the murder weapon, Sue? What did you use?”

  A brief shake of the head said she wasn’t going to answer his questions.

  “When you discovered that Alek had been there that afternoon, and that he’d left his fingerprints all over what became a crime scene, no one could have been more surprised than you.”

  She still didn’t speak, but tears and snot were running down her face. She dragged her sleeve across her face but fresh tears soon fell.

  “That’s what happens, Sue. Plans have a nasty habit of backfiring.” Dylan swayed on his feet as another wave of dizziness threatened to swamp him. “I suspected Jamie of murder at one point, but I couldn’t understand why he’d do such a thing. Then I realised, somewhat belatedly, that he followed you around. He was trying to protect you.”

  “Jamie came to check out the animals one day.” Her voice was husky with tears and emotion. “His bag was open and I saw several scalpels. All different sizes. I stole one. I already knew that the vein in the neck was the best place to cut. Everyone does, don’t they?”

  Dylan had been wrong. He was still capable of feeling surprise.

  He wondered if Bev knew the best place to cut someone if you wanted them to bleed to death in record time. Doubtful. He wondered if she would discuss the mechanics of murder while showing no remorse. Of course she wouldn’t. Sue’s tears weren’t for Carly Walsingham or the terrible deed, they were for herself.

  “I put it back,” she said.

  “Sorry?”

  “Jamie’s scalpel. I returned it to his bag a few days later.”

  “How did you find out?” Dylan asked. “About Alek and Carly, I mean.”

  She was shaking. Her breath was coming in painful gasps.

  “A woman came here. She’d adopted a cat and wanted to see if I’d look after it for a week while they went on holiday. We got talking and I realised Alek was doing a job for her.” Her teeth were chattering and she wrapped her arms around herself. “She said something about him not being there that afternoon. I thought nothing of it because he’ll often leave a job early if he needs to go and price a job for another customer.” She fell silent.

  “And?” Dylan prompted.

  She looked at him as if she’d just remembered he was there. “He was late home, only about half an hour, but he said he’d been finishing the job and didn’t want to leave it. He lied to me, Dylan. I knew he was lying.”

  “But how did you know where he’d been?”

  “I followed him the next week. He was where he said he was except for Monday and Thursday afternoon. I assumed he was seeing someone on Lakeside Drive about a job.” She took a deep shuddering breath. “There was something in the local paper about residents at Lakeside Drive complaining about a planning application. The report said that one of the residents was Neil Walsingham. I knew then. I knew Alek had been to see that woman. I soon found out he was going there every Monday and Thursday afternoon.”

  She dropped to her knees and began to howl. Dylan used the time to call the men in blue. It wasn’t easy explaining that he’d been shot by Jamie Tinsley, that he was in possession of a murder weapon and that he was with a woman who’d confessed to the murder of Carly Walsingham.

  “You can’t have me put away, Dylan.” She was on her knees, tugging on his wet jeans. “I’m claustrophobic. I’ll go mad. You can’t have me put away.”

  “I’m sorry, but the police are on their way.”

  “Alek shouldn’t have gone there that day.” She looked up at him. “He shouldn’t.”

  “No, he shouldn’t.”

  “I couldn’t tell the truth, could I? What about the animals? Who’ll care for them? What about Aunt Joyce? Who’ll visit her? Who will care if she’s alive or dead?” Her teeth started to chatter. “I can’t spend my days and nights locked in a cell. I can’t do it. I’ll go mad.”

  She was screaming hysterically when the police arrived.

  Chapter Forty

  Dylan flexed his shoulder and waited for a twinge of pain. It didn’t come. He’d be scarred for life, but as the doctor who’d looked Luke’s age had told him so cheerfully, he’d live. They’d given him huge painkilling tablets when he left the hospital. He’d only taken a couple because they didn’t so much deaden the pain as render him unconscious. He got the same effect from whisky and it tasted better.

  He dodged around Bev, who was tidying the kitchen after a rare cake-baking session, poured himself a glass of Lagavulin and took an appreciative sip.

  Freya was asleep in the crook of his arm and, given the way her fingers and toes twitched now and again, she was having pleasant dreams. Luke was in the sitting room with half a dozen friends. All was well.

  “Have the Kaminskis paid you?” Bev asked.

  All had been well.

  “They sent a cheque by return. Case closed.”

  The case hadn’t been closed in a very satisfactory manner, but justice had been done. Aleksander had his pardon but his wife was now awaiting trial and sentence.

  It wasn’t the outcome Dylan had expected or wanted yet there was something satisfyingly right when justice was done. Carly Walsingham hadn’t deserved to die, and her sons shouldn’t be facing a life without their mother. Sue Kaminski, no matter how hurt she was by her husband’s infidelity, had no right to decide who lived and who died. Dylan quite liked her, but she’d made her choice and she must live with the consequences.

  Aleksander Kaminski was a seething mass of rage spiced with shock. He longed to take his own revenge on the person who’d ended
Carly’s life, and he was struggling to accept that the object of his hatred was his own wife. He’d never loved Sue, but he had cared about her. He was torn between longing to strangle her and weeping for the future that stretched ahead of her.

  His feelings would change, though, Dylan was sure of it. The rescue centre had closed and Kaminski was living in Birmingham with his parents. He’d get his life back together.

  Sue’s great-aunt would cope without her regular visits. Her absence might not even register with the old lady.

  Frederyk and Agata were in a state of shock, but pleased that their son’s name had been cleared and even more pleased that they could be with him.

  As for the cheque—

  Bev had printed out Dylan’s final account and Dylan, horrified by the idea of taking such a large amount from the couple’s life savings, had then printed out a fresh account. He didn’t intend to be out of pocket, but he didn’t want the Kaminskis on starvation rations either.

  Frederyk had phoned Dylan to query the account.

  “It doesn’t look right,” he’d said. “We only paid you five hundred pounds at the start. There must be more than this owing to you.”

  Dylan had assured him it was correct. Frederyk had sent the cheque by return, with yet another gushing note of gratitude, and Dylan had banked the cheque. There was no need for Bev to know anything about it.

  It did mean they were still broke though.

  Thanks to his new all-singing website that hailed him as the greatest private investigator ever—another of Bev’s big ideas, which came with a price tag to match—he’d been offered a couple of jobs that he’d have to take. They didn’t grab his interest, but they would at least put food on the table.

  The sound of the TV burst out as Luke raced into the kitchen. “We’re starving.”

  He grabbed half a dozen bags of crisps from the cupboard and was heading back to the sitting room and his friends when he stopped and looked at his mother. “Have you told Dad about the holiday yet?”

  “What?” She blushed. “Oh, no. Not yet.”