Dead Silent (A Dylan Scott Mystery)

by Wells, Shirley

  “Everyone else has got one,” Sam had said, long curls hiding her eyes and twisting round her pouting lips. “A brother then? If I can’t have a sister, can I have a brother?”

  In the end, she’d had to settle for a hamster.

  Rob could remember turning to Marion that night in this same bed. His hand had rested on the curve of her belly. Three months had trundled past since they’d last made love and he ached for his wife.

  “Perhaps we should give her a brother or sister,’ he’d murmured. “Perhaps it’s time, Marion.”

  “Don’t start that again. Not tonight.”

  He stroked her soft pale skin and traced a line down to her thighs. She didn’t offer encouragement, or indeed give any indication that she noticed, but at least she didn’t push him away.

  He pulled the sheet back and dropped a kiss at the base of her throat. She lay tense beside him. “Sweetheart,” he murmured, licking a trail down to her breast.

  He inched closer to her, so close that she would be able to feel him hard against her thigh. The ache increased, sweat broke out, his heart raced. His fingers, trembling now, stroked her thigh and, of their own volition, moved upward until they touched her crisp hair.

  “Rob, stop it. Not tonight.”

  “Aw, come on, Marion.”

  He lifted his leg to rest it across her thighs. He moved against her, seeking to soothe the ache, and climbed on top of her.

  “Sweetheart,” he gasped, “I need you. Please, don’t push me away.”

  “Rob—”

  If he didn’t take her, he would explode. He forced her legs apart with his knee.

  “Rob!”

  “Rob, what? I’m your husband, remember? I have rights.”

  “You don’t have the right to force yourself on me.”

  “Don’t I? We’ll soon see about that.”

  He rammed himself inside her—God, it felt good. Blood pumped so furiously in his head that he couldn’t hear her protests. He was aware of nothing but easing his need. He held her arms immobile as he thrust deeper and deeper, pushing her body upward so that her head banged against the headboard.

  Minutes later, he slumped across her. Exhausted. Spent.

  “You bastard. You fucking bastard!” She brought her knee up sharply and wriggled from beneath him. “You fucking bastard!”

  She stormed into the spare room and, when Rob tried to gain entry to apologise, he realised she’d dragged the dresser in front of the door.

  They never made love again.

  Chapter Thirty

  Flashing lights competed with ear-splitting music and indecipherable lyrics to give Dylan a migraine.

  He’d been sitting on the bar stool at Indie Street for an hour and hadn’t recognised a soul.

  Three days on and, as far as he knew, there was no suspect for Roderick’s murder. There were no outpourings of grief, either. He’d expected tears at the least from Marion Roderick but she wasn’t the grieving widow. All Dylan had sensed from his brief chat with her was a sense of relief. If that was true, and life with him had been hell, why hadn’t she divorced him? She’d divorced Hunt, so she clearly didn’t have strong views on marriage being till death parted those concerned.

  Dylan had spoken to Hunt—the bloke was never off the phone—and, although he’d sounded shocked by the news, there was no sympathy for Roderick from that quarter. Dylan hadn’t expected any really. It was no secret that Hunt had disliked him. Jealousy, Dylan supposed.

  Jealous enough to kill him?

  Alan Roderick had been a big, strong brute of a man whereas Hunt was terminally ill. It seemed unlikely that Hunt would be capable of overpowering him.

  Dylan tipped back his glass, swallowed the contents and was ready to leave the club. He was two steps from the bar when James Carlton walked in.

  Dylan did an about-turn and reclaimed his glass. He could suffer another half hour in this place. Just.

  After reminding himself he was a TV producer, and deciding a drunk one would be even better, he turned to see Carlton approach the bar.

  “Hi!” Dylan waved his arm to attract the bloke’s attention. “What’s it to be? I’m just getting another.”

  “Oh, hello.” There was no way Carlton could refuse the offer but it was plain from the frown pulling his brows together that he wanted to.

  “I’m having whisky,” Dylan slurred. “I’ve had a few already.”

  The frown was replaced with a reluctant smile. “So I see.”

  People felt less vulnerable when talking to drunks. They dropped their guard.

  “I’ll have the same then,” Carlton said. “Thanks.”

  The heavy thump of music vibrated the bar. Dylan would be glad to get away from it and to his bed.

  “Two doubles—on the rocks,” he told the young barmaid. “And have one yourself, love.”

  “Oh, thanks. I’ll have it later,” she replied.

  While she dropped ice into their glasses, Carlton sat on the stool next to Dylan.

  “What brings you here?” he asked.

  “I thought I’d give it a try.” Two glasses were plonked in front of them. “Thanks, love.” Dylan raised his glass in a toast. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers,” Carlton echoed, taking a sip.

  “What about you, James? Is this one of your regular haunts?”

  “I nip in for a nightcap sometimes.” He nodded at the dance floor where a small crowd, mostly young girls in various states of undress, were dancing. “The scenery’s good.”

  “Too true.”

  They both swivelled round to get a better a view of the dancers, and Dylan tried to gauge the ages of the girls. Apart from two who were probably in their thirties, the others looked to be about eighteen.

  “I thought you’d be long gone,” Carlton said.

  “I wish. Nah, I’ve got my boss breathing down my neck. I have ten days to find Sam, otherwise—” He ran a finger across his neck.

  “You won’t find her.”

  “I’m beginning to believe that.” He winked at Carlton. “Still, I’m in no hurry. As you say, the scenery’s pretty good and my wife’s more than two hundred miles away.”

  Carlton laughed at that.

  “Anyway,” Dylan said, “I haven’t given up hope on Sam. I might be lucky. Who knows?”

  “No chance, mate.”

  “You reckon she’s dead?”

  “I’ve no idea.” Carlton shrugged.

  “It’s funny,” Dylan said, wobbling on his stool as the finest drunks did, “but usually, when I tell girls I work in the TV business, they’re mine for the taking.” He tossed back his drink. “Admittedly, I only saw Sam briefly, but I got the impression she wasn’t interested in anything—er, extracurricular, if you get my gist.”

  “You didn’t try hard enough.”

  “Obviously.” Dylan laughed as if they were the best of pals. “You had more luck than me?”

  “No, I didn’t. I was getting there though.” Carlton returned his gaze to the gyrating bodies on the dance floor. “Plenty more fish in the sea, eh?”

  “More than enough. Hey, you know that bloke—Christ, I’ve forgotten his name. The bloke who married Sam’s mother—”

  “Alan Roderick. Yeah, I heard about that.”

  “Alan Roderick.” Dylan pretended to try the name for size. “That was bloody odd, wasn’t it? Christ, if I was a member of that family, I’d be demanding police protection.”

  “He wasn’t family. Well, not really. He just happened to marry her mother.”

  “All the same. Did you know him?”

  “No.”

  “Murdered.”

  “That’s about the height of it.”

  Talk about blood and stones…

  Dylan’s phone rang and he hunted in his pocket until he found it. A quick glance at the display told him his mother was calling for the eighth time that day. He hit the button to reject the call.

  “That was my boss again,” he lied for Carlton’s ben
efit. “Time’s running out for me. I have to find Sam.”

  “You won’t do that, believe me. What I can’t understand is why your boss is so hung up on her. There are dozens of suitable girls out there.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the dance floor. “Any of those for a start.”

  “It’s a nice thought, but I doubt they even know what a carburettor is.” He didn’t like Carlton, but he didn’t want to alienate him yet. “I’ll keep feeding my boss the plenty-more-fish-in-the-sea line and hope he takes the bait. If he does, I’ll be in touch with you and see if we can use your expertise.”

  “Thanks for that. I’ll be only too pleased to help in any way I can.”

  “The biggest help would be to find Sam and make my boss’s day.”

  “I wish I could.” Carlton emptied his glass. “There’s nothing happening here tonight so I’m heading home. I’ll buy you one before I go—”

  “No.” Dylan waved the offer aside. “Save it till next time. I’ll be off myself in a minute or so.”

  “Okay. Be seeing you.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Dylan watched as Carlton, hands in the pockets of his jacket, walked toward the exit. He was still watching when the bouncer Stripes walked in. The two almost collided. Words were exchanged. Carlton left the building and Stripes, after looking round the room, spotted Dylan and walked over to him.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Dylan slurred, “you don’t want me here. I already got the message.”

  Stripes shrugged and settled his muscular bulk on the stool Carlton had vacated. “I’ve done my bit. I gave you a warning. If you don’t take any notice, that’s not my problem, is it?”

  So the person wanting Dylan warned off had given up. Or was dead. If Dylan were a betting man, he’d stake his house on the latter.

  “It’s not Alan Roderick’s problem either now, is it?” Dylan said.

  “Alan Roderick? Nope, the name means nothing to me.”

  “A pity you never learned to read then. He’s on the front page of all the papers.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. A murder in Dawson’s Clough always ranks higher than a stolen Mars bar.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’ve been in Birmingham.”

  “How convenient.”

  “I was visiting my sister and my new nephew. I haven’t heard any local news.”

  Dylan glanced up to see if any neon blue pigs were flying in formation.

  “You must have known him though,” he said.

  “What was his name again?”

  “Alan Roderick.”

  “Nope. Never heard of him.”

  “Funny.” Dylan shook his head in bewilderment. “I saw the two of you chatting in this very club.” There were times, as he often told Luke, when a lie was necessary.

  “Yeah? Perhaps he was asking me for a light.”

  “Perhaps he was.”

  The barmaid finally came to take his drinks order.

  “Same again?” she asked Dylan.

  “No, thanks. It’s time I was off.” He wasn’t going to learn anything from Stripes.

  “Watch how you go,” Stripes said.

  “Don’t worry, I will. I don’t want to end up like Roderick.”

  It was bliss to step outside. The bouncer stood at the bottom of the steps, arms folded across his broad chest, feet spaced the regulation twelve inches apart. He nodded as Dylan reached the bottom step.

  “You on your own tonight?” Dylan asked. “I’ve just been talking to Stripes.” He nodded back at the building and the noise. “He’s not on tonight, is he?”

  “Nope, just me. They won’t waste money paying two of us. Unless they’re expecting trouble, that is.”

  “Do they get much trouble?”

  “Not really. It can get a bit lively on Friday nights—well, the early hours of Saturday mornings—but that’s about all.”

  “Sounds a cushy number you’ve got then.”

  “It is. So long as you can handle yourself.”

  “Yeah.” It was at times like this that Dylan wished he smoked. Stepping outside for a cigarette was the perfect excuse for striking up conversations with strangers. Instead he had to make do with shoving his hands in his pockets, gazing up at the cloud-laden night sky and pretending he was taking a few deep breaths and enjoying the air. “That was a surprise, wasn’t it? Alan Roderick getting done in.”

  “It was. Have they got the bloke who done it yet?”

  “Not that I heard.”

  “Me neither.” The bouncer, probably breaking club rules, did light a cigarette. He put a Zippo lighter back in his pocket as he inhaled. “He was a funny bugger though, wasn’t he?”

  “Yeah, but he didn’t strike me as the sort of bloke to argue with.”

  “There’s all sorts of tales going round.” The bloke leaned closer to Dylan to whisper. “Mafia. In Romania. He sometimes drove his lorry there.”

  “Mafia?”

  “Yeah. It makes sense too. He wasn’t making the money he spent driving a bloody lorry.”

  “That’s what I always thought,” Dylan agreed.

  “You don’t tangle with them bastards if you’ve got any sense. There’s loads of mafia in Romania, you know.”

  “I wonder why they didn’t kill him there then. Seems odd to come over to England and kill him in his own home.” Dylan smiled at his companion. “I thought the mafia walked into restaurants with machine guns hidden in violin cases.”

  “Dunno.” He pulled deep on his cigarette. “Now you mention it, it does seem bloody odd that they’d come over here.”

  Odd because the mafia had nothing to do with it. Roderick’s killer was much closer to home, Dylan was sure of that.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Dylan stopped the car outside Alice’s bungalow just as his phone trilled into life. He unfastened his seatbelt and fumbled in his pocket for it. Expecting yet another call from his mother, he was pleased to see Frank’s name beneath Caller ID.

  He hit the button. “Frank? How’s things?”

  “I’ve just heard that they’re about to make an arrest for Roderick’s murder. You’ll never guess who it is.”

  It wasn’t Hunt because the bloke had been on the phone demanding a meeting with Dylan. “I won’t bother trying then.”

  “Jack Fleming.”

  “What?” A mental picture of Sam’s boyfriend came to mind—the confidences he’d shared with Dylan, the way he’d kept that last phone message from her—except, of course, there was no guarantee Sam had left that message. “Surely not.”

  “They’ve got a strong case. He was spotted on CCTV near the area, a neighbour swears she saw him at the back of the house, and a shoe print that matches his was found in the garden.”

  “Christ, that is a good case. What’s his story, Frank?”

  “I gather he denied all knowledge at first. Well, he would, wouldn’t he? He’s now claiming he was there, but that’s all.”

  “What the hell was he doing there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Hmm.” Dylan noticed curtains twitching at Alice’s bungalow. “Do you fancy a drink later?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “The Dog and Fox? Sevenish?”

  “Yup, suits me.”

  Dylan cut the connection and jumped out of his car. Judging by those moving curtains, Alice was growing curious.

  He strode up to the front door and rang the bell. She must have been expecting him, but he had to ring twice before she opened the door a crack and peered out at him.

  “Hello, Alice. I’m on my way up to Rob’s so, as I was passing your door, I thought I’d drop in and say hello.”

  “Come on in then. The kettle’s on.”

  “Thanks.” Dylan kept his elbows tight by his sides to avoid smashing owls that stood sentry the length of the hall.

  He followed her into the small, tidy kitchen where yet more owls stared at him from tea towels, cups, oven gloves and fridge magnets.

&nb
sp; “You like your owls, Alice.” Unable to think of anything else to say, he decided to state the obvious.

  “Oh, yes.” She smiled. “They’re wise old birds. People could learn a lot from owls.”

  It seemed to Dylan that people had learned a lot—like the art of silence.

  “Did you hear about Alan Roderick?” He had to raise his voice over the sudden whistle of the kettle.

  “What a shock. I couldn’t believe my own ears. Those poor daughters of his. What will life be like for them now?” She removed the teapot’s lid, but made no attempt to fill it. “You can’t take it in, can you?”

  “Terrible.”

  “And his poor wife. Rob’s ex-wife. How must she be feeling knowing she has to face life alone?” She finally filled the teapot and reached up to the top cupboard for what had to be her best cups. Surely, the ones she used most often would be within reach. “Life can be cruel, can’t it?”

  “It can, Alice.” Life hadn’t murdered Alan Roderick, though. Dylan wasn’t convinced Jack Fleming had, either. God, how he wished he had the resources of the local CID at his disposal.

  “You were passing then?” Alice asked.

  “Yes. I’m on my way to Rob’s and thought I’d nip in and say hello while I was here.”

  “That’s nice.”

  Her pleasure had Dylan feeling like a total heel. He felt obliged to make small talk.

  “My wife would love this kitchen. She longs for a kitchen that catches the sun. Ours is north facing and it’s like a freezer at times.”

  “Then tell her from me to be careful what she wishes for.” Alice pointed at the window. “I have to keep the blinds down in the summer or I’ll roast. There’s no need to have the oven on.”

  “Ah. Yes, I can see that being a problem.”

  The tea was made and Alice was about to pick up the tray. “We can go in the conservatory if you like. It’s not too hot yet. I’ve got the blinds down and the doors open.”

  Dylan took the tray from her. “Lead on, Alice.”

  “Ooh, look at that,” a familiar voice screeched.

  “Is the parrot still swearing?”

  “He is, and I’m at my wits’ end. It wasn’t as if Sean swore often. Just occasionally, you know?”