Dead Silent (A Dylan Scott Mystery)

by Wells, Shirley

  “Leave it,” Marion said as Alan lifted his weight. “It’ll only be Rob.”

  It could be Sam. Dylan quashed the thought. Sam hadn’t phoned for ten months. Of course it wouldn’t be her.

  After such a long absence, the most likely outcome was that Sam was dead. Did the people sitting opposite him know that? They must.

  Everyone spoke about Sam in the present tense. Dylan struggled to do that.

  “What about her boyfriend?” he asked. “Do you know him well?”

  “Not really,” Marion said. “I know Rob doesn’t like him.”

  “We all know Rob doesn’t like him.” Alan spoke through thin lips. “The bloke was on the phone morning, noon and night when she started seeing him. As if we could do anything about it. Sam was twenty. More than old enough to make up her own mind.”

  “Jack’s called here a few times with her,” Marion said. “He seems all right to me. Polite. Sensible.”

  “A criminal record,” Alan put in.

  “Yes, I heard about that.” Dylan liked Jack, but he knew how deceptive appearances and first impressions could be. “He had trouble with a previous girlfriend, didn’t he?”

  “Well, yes, but I expect the story was exaggerated,” Marion said. “They had a row and he locked her in her flat. I think he smashed one of the windows too. He didn’t physically harm her though.”

  He did enough to get himself arrested. Yet Marion seemed totally unperturbed by that.

  Something else struck him. “Are your daughters out this evening?”

  “No, they’re upstairs in their rooms.” Marion frowned at the question. “There’s nothing they can tell you.”

  “They’re—how old? Six and eight?”

  “Lydia’s nine and Emma’s seven.”

  He was reminded of something Jack said about Sam believing the children were too quiet and too well behaved. Dylan could understand that. Few children would remain in their rooms when visitors were in the house. They were too inquisitive. Even if they’d been sent there, they would make some excuse to see what was going on. They’d want a drink or something to eat.

  “They’re quiet.” Dylan gave them a rueful smile. “My son’s eleven and doesn’t stop talking.”

  “We believe in discipline,” Alan said.

  They were in their rooms, plural. So they weren’t even playing together. Unusual.

  “Me too,” Dylan said. “But children will be children.”

  Marion smiled but neither commented.

  “I’ve been at the library today,” Dylan said, “going through newspaper reports from around the time Sam disappeared. About three months beforehand, a young girl of nineteen vanished, did you know that?”

  “Isobel Connor.” Marion almost whispered the name.

  “That’s right.” Dylan too lowered his voice as a mark of respect. The girl’s body had been found in a disused quarry. “Did Sam know the girl?”

  “No. God, it was a terrible time, though. I remember thinking how awful it was for her parents.” She shook her head as if to rid herself of the image of the dead girl. “Of course, the next thing, I knew exactly how it felt. Terrifying.”

  To imagine the two cases were related had been a long shot. A month after the discovery of Isobel’s body, police had arrested a man who was currently serving a life sentence.

  “She was a prostitute.” Alan spoke as if that had made the girl fair game for any killers on the loose.

  “But the world’s oldest profession shouldn’t bring a death sentence with it,” Dylan said.

  Alan shrugged as if he wasn’t convinced. “I’m sure they know the risks they’re taking.”

  He was right in that the girls had been totally different. Isobel had been a drug addict working as a prostitute to feed her habit whereas Sam, by all accounts, would have worked from dawn till dusk and had never even tried a cigarette.

  “I gather Sam was fourteen when she went to live with her father,” Dylan said. “Is that right?”

  “Yes.” Marion twisted a ring round her finger. “It happens. She was seeing Rob, and getting spoiled rotten of course, at weekends. She kept on about how great it would be to live with him fulltime.”

  “I never told her she wasn’t welcome here,” Alan said.

  Dylan wondered if he’d told her she was welcome. “The two of you were married by then, were you?”

  “Yes.” That was Marion’s only word on the subject.

  Dylan put on his all-pals-together smile. “I imagine she wasn’t happy at no longer being the centre of her mum’s universe.”

  “Something like that.” Marion stood in one fluid movement. “The police found her scarf, did you know that?”

  “I know they found a scarf.”

  She acknowledged that with a nod. “It might not have been hers, I suppose. Rob refuses to accept it was hers. And it doesn’t necessarily mean anything, does it? I mean, even if it was hers—well, she could have dropped it and not noticed, couldn’t she?”

  “Easily.”

  Dylan couldn’t fathom the pair. Alan didn’t seem bothered about any of it. It wasn’t his daughter who was missing though. It wasn’t his flesh and blood. Marion was tense, and definitely unsettled by the thought of the scarf.

  The phone rang out again, making Marion start. No one made any attempt to answer it.

  “Did Sam talk to you about her boss, James Carlton?” Dylan asked.

  “Not that I remember,” Alan said. “We didn’t see that much of her, though. If I asked her how work was, she’d say fine. She could be a bit stuck up.”

  “She loved her job.” Marion was still twisting that ring round and round her finger. “Alan’s away a lot, driving, so he didn’t see as much of her as I did.” She nudged her husband. “Did you, Alan?”

  “No.”

  “Where do you drive?” Dylan asked. “Long distance?”

  “Very.” Marion answered for him. “Romania, Hungary—”

  “Scotland mostly.” Alan’s mouth was a hard line.

  Dylan smiled. “What an odd mix.”

  Alan shrugged. “You go where you have to.”

  A noise had Dylan spinning round in his seat to see that two girls had appeared in the doorway.

  “It’s seven o’clock,” the older one said.

  Both were tall and slim. Both had red hair. Both were pale and both wore uncertain expressions.

  “It’s your lucky night,” Alan told them. “We’re busy so you can both have another half hour.” For Dylan’s benefit, he added, “Homework time.”

  “Off you go.” At Marion’s command, both girls left the conservatory as soundlessly as they’d entered.

  Now Dylan knew exactly what Sam had meant when she’d said they were too quiet. Neither child had seen her father since he’d come in from work, yet there hadn’t been so much as a hello, never mind a hug.

  In his own home—not that Dylan had been in his own home for months—but when life had been normal, Dylan had always sought out Luke. Or sometimes, if Luke had been in front of the TV or in his room, Bev would have shouted to him, “Your dad’s home.” Wasn’t that normal?

  The Rodericks’ children had looked too nervous to make a sound.

  “They usually do their homework with us at seven o’clock,” Marion said. “Children like a routine, don’t they?”

  Not when it involved homework. At least, Dylan’s son didn’t. From memory, Dylan hadn’t either.

  “Perhaps they do,” Dylan replied. What did he know? His own childhood, with a dope-smoking hippy, couldn’t be classed as normal. “To get back to Sam, her boyfriend thought she had suspicions about her boss. Did she say anything to you?”

  Marion smiled at that. “No, but Sam likes a mystery. Sometimes, I think real life’s too boring for her.”

  “Hmm. There was something else that Jack said. He thought she’d discovered something horrible. Did she mention anything to you?”

  “Like what?” Alan asked.

  “I
haven’t the remotest idea. I was hoping you might be able to tell me.”

  “What did she say exactly?”

  “Just that,” Dylan said. “She found out something horrible.”

  Alan shook his head. “She has a very vivid imagination. But there, we didn’t see that much of her. Most of the time, she called in to see the girls. Sometimes she’d take them out.”

  “I see.”

  “The last time we saw her was the day before she vanished,” Marion said, “but she was only here five minutes max. She had a quick chat with the girls, promised to take them to school the next morning and was gone.”

  Rushing off to her date with James Carlton.

  Dylan stayed another half hour, but there was nothing they could tell him.

  Marion was tense enough to snap in two. Alan was remote. The children were too—spooky. There was something unnatural about their quiet behaviour. Or perhaps they were naturally shy children. Dylan’s only experience of children was Luke, and he’d talk to anyone. All day if they could be persuaded to listen.

  As he drove away though, Dylan couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was wrong at the Rodericks’ home.

  Chapter Twelve

  The first thing Dylan noticed on entering his flat on Friday evening was the noise. The TV was blaring out and above that came a burst of laughter from his son. For some reason he’d never fathomed, Luke got on well with his grandmother. Dylan just hoped she wasn’t rolling joints or convincing Luke he’d enjoy backpacking through darkest Peru.

  “Hey, Dad!” Luke raced into the tiny hallway and threw his arms round Dylan’s waist. “D’you want a beer? We bought some specially.”

  “You did? Then, yes. I can think of nothing better.” They walked into the minuscule kitchen. Dylan opened the fridge where, sure enough, half a dozen bottles were chilling nicely.

  “Hey—your face looks cool. What happened?”

  “Cool? So it hasn’t marred my good looks?”

  “Nah. So what happened?”

  “A door took a dislike to me.” He wasn’t going into details with Luke. “You all ready for the match tomorrow?”

  “Can’t wait,” Luke said. “We’ll get an easy three points.”

  Of course they would. Manchester City would stand no chance.

  Dylan’s mother came into the kitchen, making it impossible to take a deep breath. He mentally cursed Bev again. She was swanning around the spacious marital home while he existed in this glorified shoebox.

  “Hello, love.” Vicky Scott dropped a kiss on Dylan’s cheek. “Good grief, what happened to you?”

  “I walked into a door.”

  “Really? What a coincidence. I walked into a flying pig.”

  “Ha, ha. Very droll.”

  “I’m making myself a camomile tea and taking it to bed,” she said. “You’ll have to amuse yourselves for the rest of the night.”

  “Bed?” Dylan checked his watch. “It’s only nine o’clock.”

  Vicky grinned at Luke. “See? I told you your dad was clever. Thirty-eight and he can tell the time already.”

  Luke hooted with laughter and gave his grandmother a high five.

  Dylan was about to take the top from his bottle with his teeth until he remembered that his still-swollen lip might object. He took the opener from the drawer and was soon swigging from the bottle.

  “You all right, Mum?” Wearing a long dress that would have camouflaged a peacock and bangles that jangled at her wrists, she looked exactly as she always did. “It’s early for bed.”

  “Good grief, Dylan, it’s no wonder Bev’s taken off for the Highlands of Scotland. What a fusser you are.” She edged past him to fill the kettle. “Have you had a good week?”

  “Fine. And Bev’s in Edinburgh not the Highlands.”

  “Same thing.”

  “What’s she doing there anyway?” He took another swig of beer.

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Me neither,” Luke said. “All she told me was that she was meeting a friend. I didn’t know she had any friends in Scotland.”

  So she hadn’t even told Luke why she was going. Or perhaps she knew that Luke would blab to Dylan. All the same, it was odd.

  “It’ll be an old school friend, I expect,” he said. “Perhaps someone she was at university with.”

  “Yeah.” Luke nodded agreement. “It won’t be a bloke, will it?”

  “No.”

  Smiling, Vicky shook her head in a despairing way.

  They danced around the tiny space until Vicky had her tea made and Dylan’s beer was in a glass.

  “Right, see you both in the morning.” Vicky kissed Dylan and gave Luke a big squeeze before heading off for the spare room.

  This weekend, with Luke in residence, Dylan would be sleeping on the sofa. That was all thanks to this nonsense Bev insisted on.

  “How’s your Gran been today?” he asked as they walked into the sitting room.

  “All right, why?”

  “Oh, just wondered.” He made a mental note to keep an eye on his mother. She drove him totally nuts, but he didn’t like the thought of her being ill. “So how’s your week been, Luke?”

  “Great. Well, school’s been boring, but Tom had a party and that was brill.”

  Luke had to be the easiest person to be with Dylan had ever known. He didn’t talk for the sake of it, he was interesting. Also, he never failed to see the funny side of life.

  A little before nine-thirty, Bev phoned.

  “I suppose Luke’s still up?” she said.

  “Of course he is. It’s the weekend.” Dylan was more interested in her evening. “How’s Edinburgh?”

  “Brilliant. We’ve found this amazing restaurant near the castle.”

  “That sounds nice.” He had to ask. “Who’s we?”

  “Just a friend. Pass Luke over, will you?”

  “Of course.”

  While Luke chatted to his mother, Dylan went to the fridge for another beer. Months back, when Bev had thrown him out, she’d called him a drunkard and a bloody loser. It was a Friday night and he was on his second beer of the day. Hardly a drunkard. He wasn’t a loser, either. Come hell or high water, he’d learn the truth behind Samantha Hunt’s disappearance.

  He sat opposite Luke, waiting for the call to end.

  “Okay, Mum. Do you want to talk to Dad again?”

  Dylan reached forward.

  “Oh, right. Yeah, okay, Mum, speak to you tomorrow.”

  With a shrug for Dylan, Luke put the phone back in its cradle and let out a long sigh. “I wish we were all at home. I mean, this flat’s cool, Dad, but I wish we were all together.”

  “Me too.”

  “Tom reckons Mum’s having a midlife crisis. Do you think he’s right?”

  “A midlife crisis?” At thirty-six? What could an eleven-year-old know of such things? “I don’t know, Luke. Could be, I suppose.”

  The thought of suggesting it to Bev as a possibility made Dylan smile. He’d see what sort of mood she was in on Sunday.

  They talked of simpler things, like the probable team lineup for tomorrow’s game, why beavers built dams, and the best ever barbecue food.

  “It’s eleven o’clock,” Dylan said. “Time you were in bed, Luke.”

  “Okay. Do you want me to have the sofa? I don’t mind. Honest.”

  “No, you’re fine. I’ve got a bit of work to do tonight so I’ll be better in here.”

  When Luke had gone to bed and all was quiet, Dylan got himself another beer, sat back with his feet resting on the coffee table and tried to think of things less confusing than his wife.

  Since his visit to the Rodericks’ home on Wednesday night, progress had been minimal. Correction, progress had been zero.

  He’d met with Frank again but his ex-boss hadn’t garnered much information from Lancashire CID and the officers who’d first worked on the case. He was a persistent sod though, so Dylan would be patient.

  Dylan had spoken
to a couple of parents of children who attended Marion Roderick’s preschool group but, while they thought highly of the care their children received, they didn’t know Marion well. One of them told him of an Elma Ritchie who’d taken her child out of the group and Dylan was meeting her on Monday morning.

  Next on the agenda, Dylan needed to dig into James Carlton’s life a little more. Sam had suspected him of fraud. She’d tried to get close enough to learn the truth. The day after she spent the evening with him, she vanished. Coincidence?

  Jack Fleming was another enigma. Dylan had liked him and taken his word. On the other hand, few people ended up with a criminal record without cause. Dylan had, of course, but that was different. Also, he only had Jack’s word for it that the child Sam was supposedly carrying was his. What if it was James Carlton’s? What if Sam had been trying to get close to Carlton and fallen for him? How would Jack have taken that?

  But no. Dylan had heard Sam’s voice. She’d told Jack she loved him.

  Dylan closed his eyes and mentally replayed that recording. On the surface, it all rang true. Sam had sounded breathless, her words coming in short bursts.

  Jack was a musician and Dylan would bet that he and his fellow band members played around, recording themselves and editing stuff on their computers. Assuming Sam had called Jack several times, it would have been easy enough for an expert editor to make her say anything. And who was to say that message had been left when Jack said it had?

  The fact had to be faced that Jack didn’t mess around where his girlfriends were concerned.

  Motive. Dylan needed to think of a motive.

  If Carlton had been on the brink of being exposed as a fraud, he could have wanted to silence Sam for good. If the child Sam may or may not have been carrying was his, he might have wanted that silenced too. Carlton’s wife was the one with the money. She might not hang around if she knew her husband was getting young women pregnant.

  If Sam had wanted to end her relationship with Jack, he might not have taken kindly to the news. Whether or not he’d do something quite so drastic about it, Dylan had no idea.

  As for the Rodericks, Dylan still didn’t know what to make of them. He felt sure they knew more than they were saying.