Assuming he was innocent—Dylan’s mantra was Never Assume—but assuming he was, the finger of guilt might point toward Walsingham. If he was having affairs, as Kaminski claimed, he’d be more or less guaranteed an alibi, and if he wanted his wife out of the way, he’d be a man with plenty of surgical blades at his disposal. How many people knew that severing the carotid artery would have a victim bleeding out in seconds? How many people even knew what or where the carotid artery was?
Or maybe the killer simply slashed and got lucky. Or unlucky. Maybe a burglar hadn’t realised she was in the house, panicked, intended to cut her as a warning and watched her bleed out in record time.
Or maybe, and this was far more likely, Kaminski had tired of her games and decided it was time to stop them once and for all.
His coffee cup empty, Dylan returned to his room and switched on his newly acquired laptop. He was getting to be quite a whiz on the machine, even if he did say so himself. Admittedly, he had a good teacher in Luke.
He conducted another online search for Dr. Neil Walsingham. There were several mentions of him working at Dawson’s Clough hospital. He also considered himself something of an artist and a couple of his works—awful, childlike daubs of red and blue paint—were showcased on a website promoting local artists’ work. Dr. Walsingham was also on the committee of the local camera club. A head-and-shoulders shot showed a smiling slim man with fair hair flopping across his forehead. Another picture showed him with a medal round his neck after completing a marathon and raising over two thousand pounds for a children’s charity.
Still he didn’t return Dylan’s call.
Dylan hunted out ex-DI Cameron’s phone number. There were a couple of questions he wanted to ask him.
Here, at least, was someone willing to answer their phone.
“Lewis? It’s Dylan.”
“Hi. Are you back in London? You saw Kaminski, I assume?”
“I’m still in Lancashire but yes, I did see him. That’s why I’m calling. I wondered if you’d clarify a couple of points.”
“You surely didn’t fall for his story, did you?”
“I’m keeping an open mind.”
Dylan neither believed Kaminski’s story nor disbelieved it. If there was a possibility that the man was innocent, though, it was up to Dylan to get him out of Strangeways. He knew only too well what wrongful imprisonment felt like.
“You’ve been off the force too long, mate.”
Dylan didn’t suppose there was any malice in his words, but he still resented them.
“Maybe. Right, first off, Kaminski claims that he left Mrs. Walsingham’s property at about three o’clock. Now, your witness says she saw him, or someone else, leaving at around three forty-five. Is that right?”
“That’s right.” Lewis chuckled down the phone. “He says he left about three o’clock. About. That could mean anything from half past two to half past three. The neighbour says she saw someone at about a quarter to four. That little word about again.”
He spoke as if he were trying to explain the theory of relativity to a four-year-old.
“What else do you want to know?” Lewis asked.
“Dr. Walsingham’s alibi. Who verified it?”
“I can’t remember offhand, but several people confirmed it. I tell you, his alibi’s watertight.”
Call me a bluff old cynic, Dylan thought, but all alibis were watertight until someone punched a hole in them.
“Hmm. What about motive?” he asked. “What was Kaminski’s motive for killing her, Lewis?”
“Who knows? Maybe Carly had threatened to tell his wife he kept pestering her.”
Dylan wasn’t convinced. “Was there any money in it? Did anyone gain financially from her death?”
“Nope. The money was all the doctor’s.” He laughed, but it was a tight, humourless sound. “I don’t know how much evidence the elite southern police forces need but, up north, we find phone calls, witnesses and fingerprints pretty convincing.”
Dylan didn’t miss the sarcasm. Or the resentment. Lewis Cameron didn’t appreciate people looking for holes in his casework.
They chatted for a few more minutes, but Dylan was no wiser when he ended the call than he’d been at the start.
Either Kaminski was lying or confused about the time he left, the witness was mistaken about the time, or someone else left the house that day. Or, as Lewis Cameron would say, all timings were approximate. In Dylan’s book, approximate equalled meaningless.
Dylan called the hospital again and was told, again, that a message would be passed on to Dr. Walsingham.
“He knows you want to speak to him,” the receptionist said, “so I’m sure he’ll call you back when he has a free moment. He’s a very busy man, you know.”
To pass time more than anything else, Dylan drove to Lakeside Drive and found number two, home of Dr. Walsingham and his sons.
Kaminski was probably right in that the front of the property was more private than the back. Dylan would guess that the twelve houses making up Lakeside Drive had been built between ten and twenty years ago. They sat on the edge of a road that circled a manmade lake. Each was large, detached and sat within its own good-sized garden. Each was different too.
To see the front of the Walsinghams’ home, Dylan had to park the Morgan at the bottom of their driveway. Tall evergreen trees shielded the building from prying eyes. As Kaminski had said, it was impossible to see the properties on the other side of the small lake. They were a fair distance away too.
Property prices in this northern mill town were lower than most in the UK but—thanks to a good motorway network that gave the town easy access to Manchester, Liverpool, Leeds, Preston and Glasgow—were increasing. These properties had five bedrooms minimum, double garages, large gardens and, more sought-after than anything else, privacy. A Lakeside Drive address wouldn’t come cheap.
Dylan left his car blocking the driveway and walked a circle round the lake. Each home boasted a sophisticated alarm system. He supposed that meant very little though. People tended to activate alarms when they went to bed at night and when they left the property. If they were at home during the day, alarms were often ignored.
Feeling aimless, he returned to his car and drove into the centre of Dawson’s Clough. At least the weather was better today. The wind had died down a little and, although the sky was still a menacing battleship grey, it wasn’t raining.
He walked past the indoor market, bought himself a newspaper and headed to Starbucks. The coffee bar was busy, tables taken mostly by female shoppers, but he got a coffee and carried it to the one free table in the corner.
Still Walsingham didn’t return his call.
It was unlikely that the doctor would tell him anything he didn’t already know. With or without talking to him, Dylan needed to make up his mind. Did he take this case or not? The money would be more than useful and he had nothing else to do. On the other hand, Kaminski’s parents weren’t wealthy and he didn’t like the idea of wasting their life savings.
He’d talk to Walsingham and then make up his mind.
First and foremost, he wanted to hear more about that phone call. Walsingham had said his wife was being threatened, and Kaminski claimed that all they’d done was arrange to meet the following day. Who was lying?
A harassed-looking woman at the next table balanced several carrier bags on a chair before ticking items off on a shopping list. She peered inside one of bags and counted the number of chocolate eggs she’d bought. Dylan mentally thanked her for the reminder.
It was Easter which meant that flowers for Bev wouldn’t be considered an unexpected treat, they were a necessity. Experience had taught him that he needed to buy her a card, flowers and a huge beribboned egg if he wanted to keep on the right side of her.
Luke was the child in the house, but he’d be content with any old egg. Madness.
As he drank his coffee, he wondered how much the various celebrations cost over the course of the year
. Christmas, birthdays, wedding anniversaries, Valentine’s Day, Easter—the expense was vast. He’d just spent a fortune to celebrate Freya’s birth too.
He made another mental note. He must stop being such a grumpy bastard. He had a wonderful family, the best.
With his coffee drunk, he went on a shopping spree. The flowers would wait until he was on the way home, but he soon had a suitably romantic card, two sickly chocolate eggs for Luke, a fluffy Easter bunny for Freya and the biggest, most expensive egg in the shop for Bev. Sorted.
He stowed his purchases in the Morgan and set off in a more determined mood for Dawson’s Clough General Hospital.
The building was new and several people stood puffing on cigarettes outside glass automatic doors. Inside, there was less activity. He walked up to the deserted reception desk. The phone rang out. Unbelievable.
A dark-haired woman in her thirties eventually strolled over, nodded at Dylan, and answered the phone.
Dylan gave the hospital the benefit of the doubt. No emergency calls would come through on this number, and staff would be too busy dealing with patients to worry too much about people phoning with general enquiries. Presumably relatives enquiring about patients would call the specific wards.
The call ended and she looked at Dylan. “Can I help?”
“I hope so.” Dylan gave her his best smile. “I’d like to speak to Dr. Neil Walsingham.”
“You phoned earlier. You’re the private investigator, right?”
“That’s right.”
Unimpressed, she turned away and flicked through charts on a clipboard. “Just a minute.”
She lifted a phone, and tapped in two numbers. “Is Dr. Walsingham there?”
After a lengthy conversation, she ended the call. “Sorry, but he’s not on duty. He finished at twelve.”
“Really?” It was almost two o’clock. “I was told he’d be here till six.”
She shrugged in a that’s-your-problem way.
“I’ve tried his landline,” he said, “but he’s not home, and I seem to have lost his mobile number. I don’t suppose you’d give me that, would you?”
“Sorry, I’m not allowed to do that.”
“Ah, yes. Very sensible. You couldn’t do me a huge favour and phone his mobile and ask him to give me a call, could you?”
“Well—”
“Thanks. My name’s Dylan Scott and if you could give him my number again, just in case he’s lost it, that would be great.” He took his phone from his pocket and pretended to search for his own number. “I always forget it—ah, here we are.”
He wrote it down for her.
Still reluctant, but probably eager to get rid of him, she turned to her side and called Walsingham’s number. Dylan made a careful note of the number she tapped in on his own phone.
The receptionist’s call was answered immediately and she passed on the message. Looking pleased with herself, she finished the call.
“He’s going to call you straightaway, Mr. Scott.”
“Thanks so much. Right, I’ll leave you to it. Thanks again.”
Dylan ambled across the car park to the Morgan and waited for his mobile to trill into life. It didn’t. Dr. Walsingham was annoyingly slow at returning calls. Either that or he didn’t want to talk to a private investigator.
Dylan decided that another trip to Lakeside Drive was in order.
Once again, he parked in the Walsinghams’ driveway. This time, he strode up to the front door and rang a bell. A loud irritating tune played inside but no one responded. Dylan walked round to the back of the house. The garden was large with a couple of apple trees, a greenhouse and a wooden summerhouse. Off to the right, above a wooden fence dividing the two properties, he could see the roof of the neighbours’ conservatory. Presumably, the witness who claimed to have seen Kaminski had been washing leaves off that roof. One of the Walsinghams’ apple trees was probably the culprit.
Anyone who knew the Walsinghams’ property, anyone who wanted to remain hidden from prying eyes, would use the front entrance. Only someone who assumed, as is usually the case, that the back was more private would make his escape this way. And that someone would have to walk the considerable length of the garden to reach the gate in the fence that led to a road at the back of the properties.
Dylan returned to the front of the house and prodded the doorbell again.
A car horn sounded. Dylan turned round and saw that a man with fair hair flopping over his forehead was leaning on the horn of a blue Mercedes.
“Sorry.” Dylan waved his arm and dashed back to his car. He moved the Morgan five yards, allowing the man access to the drive.
The Mercedes slid into the left side of a double garage and Dylan had the feeling that the door would have been closed if he hadn’t called out.
“Dr. Walsingham?”
“Yes.” He came toward Dylan.
“Dylan Scott.” He offered his hand.
“Ah yes, the private investigator.” He looked Dylan up and down, his gaze lingering on Dylan’s scuffed shoes before returning to his face. “What would a private investigator want with me?”
“I’m working for Aleksander Kaminski,” Dylan explained. Walsingham didn’t even blink. “I’m sorry for your loss, Dr. Walsingham, truly sorry, but I wondered if I might ask you a few questions.”
“No. I’m sorry, but I don’t have the time.” Walsingham was broader across the shoulders than was evident from the photos Dylan had seen. His dark suit looked handmade. A gold watch, slim and expensive-looking, peeped out from a crisp white shirt cuff.
“I could come back later. Six o’clock? Seven?”
“No. Sorry.”
“Tomorrow?”
“No. Look, Mr.—”
“Scott. Dylan Scott.”
“Mr. Scott, I’m sorry but I have nothing to say to you or to anyone else. As you can imagine, it’s all been very difficult. For my sons, too. We had reporters camped out on our doorstep for months. We’re slowly starting to move on and get our lives back together and we don’t want it all dragged up again. No. I’m sorry, but it’s too distressing.”
“I can appreciate that, and I promise it’ll only take a couple of minutes. Five minutes tops.”
“No. Sorry.” Walsingham strode back to his car, took a sports bag from the passenger seat and headed for the front door. “I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted journey, Mr. Scott. Goodbye.”
The front door that had once been covered with Aleksander Kaminski’s fingerprints opened and closed. Dylan was left standing in the middle of the driveway.
It irked him that he’d learned nothing from Dr. Walsingham, but something, and he had no idea what, had convinced him to take this case.
For all he knew, Kaminski could have planned Carly Walsingham’s murder for months and carried it out in a calm, cold-blooded, exacting manner. On the other hand, Dylan wasn’t convinced and, so long as that albeit small element of doubt remained, he wouldn’t rest.
One way or another, he had to learn the truth. He had to prove Kaminski’s innocence or his guilt.
Chapter Eight
Jamie Tinsley bowed his head.
“For what we are about to receive may the Lord make us truly grateful.” His father recited the words that came before every meal in this house. “We also ask You, Lord, to take good care of our son Peter, and we thank You for seeing fit to take him to Your side. We thank You for Peter and we ask that You watch over him.”
“Amen,” they said dutifully.
Jamie sat opposite his mother at the dining table that had dominated this room for as long as he could remember. His father took his place at the head of the table.
“It’s good to see you, James,” his mother said as they picked up cutlery and prepared to slog their way through roast beef with all the trimmings.
“And you, Mum.” He nodded at his father. “You too, Father.”
His father was sixty-two yet looked much older. He’d always appeared old to Jamie. The thi
ck hair was completely white now. Lines were deep around lifeless green eyes. Not laughter lines. Never laughter lines.
His mother looked the same as she always had. A little nervous perhaps, but that wasn’t surprising. Her every waking thought was concerned with trying to do the right thing, trying to win her husband’s approval. It was an impossible task.
She wore the plain long-sleeved blue dress that she seemed to be wearing every time Jamie saw her. Looking at her now, her face pale, her hair pulled back in a severe style, a stranger wouldn’t know how she loved to laugh. Jamie couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard that laugh, but that was because, these days, he only saw her with his father.
He loved his mother, despite her funny ways, and longed to make her laugh. Sadly, that was out of the question.
The sun was shining today, but it never reached this room at the back of the Victorian terraced house.
They’d always eaten their meals in this room. The table could accommodate eight easily, but no friends came. Years ago, it had been just the four of them. These days, his parents had it to themselves except on the rare occasions Jamie knew he could put off visiting no longer.
The only thing that had changed was the number of photographs. The dresser was now filled with pictures of Pete, the son the good Lord had seen fit to take to His side. Or, as Jamie thought of it, the poor bugger who’d been blown to pieces in Afghanistan.
There were pictures showing him swamped by a school uniform that he’d eventually grown into and looking dashing in his army uniform. Jamie couldn’t bear to look at them. Pete, the favourite son, was smiling in every one.
“You’re still keeping busy at work then?”
Jamie swallowed a piece of beef. “I am, Father, yes. It’s very rewarding.”
“That’s good,” his mother said. “And you managed to get to church before coming here?”
“Of course.” He hadn’t been inside a church since he’d left home, but it was easier to lie. He’d learned that long ago. “This is delicious, Mum. You’ve excelled yourself.”
Silent Witness (A Dylan Scott Mystery) Page 6