Silent Witness (A Dylan Scott Mystery)

by Wells, Shirley

  “It seems to be a roaring success,” he said.

  “It’s busy, and that’s good, but I’ll wait until I’ve added up the takings. Fingers crossed.”

  “I was talking to Jamie earlier and he was telling me how expensive it is to keep the animals.”

  “It’s all outgoings.” She took a sip of what looked like weak tea. “People give a donation when they take an animal, we insist on that, but otherwise we rely on fundraisers like this. Having said that, a lady remembered the centre in her will last year. She left us five thousand pounds so that was an enormous help.”

  “It must be a worry for you.”

  “It is.” She gazed across at the house. “When my dad died, I sold his house and my flat, and bought this place. It’s what I’d always longed to do.” She smiled suddenly. “But just when I start to panic, something turns up. Like the lady leaving us that money in her will.”

  “Yes, life’s like that. And you have good friends. Like Anne. And Jamie, of course.”

  “Anne’s a star,” she said. “She can’t do enough to help. Jamie’s a good vet, too. Very thorough. We’re lucky to have him.”

  Jamie would like to be more than the centre’s vet, Dylan was sure of it. Jamie wanted Sue.

  “You don’t see Jamie socially?” he asked.

  “Good God, no.” The idea amazed her. “To tell the truth, this place doesn’t leave much time for a social life. I visit Aunt Joyce, of course. Well, she has no one else now. When I’m not with her, or working with the animals, I’m writing to Alek. He’s brave and doesn’t complain, but I can’t bear to think of him locked up in that place. At least my letters are a way for him to not feel so left out.”

  “Of course.”

  She put her hand on his sleeve. “You will get him out of there, won’t you, Dylan?”

  What could he say? For all he knew, Kaminski could deserve to end his days in Strangeways.

  “I’ll do my best to find out what happened that day, Sue. You have my word on that.”

  She nodded, satisfied. “That’s all we ask.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Dylan spent so long pounding the streets on Tuesday morning, he felt like a bobby back on the beat. He walked from Hilltop Avenue, where Kaminski claimed he parked his car when visiting Carly Walsingham’s bed, to number two, Lakeside Drive. He passed a hairdresser’s, a fish and chip shop and the newsagent’s where Kaminski stopped for cigarettes on the day of the murder.

  A gale whipped occasional spots of rain into his eyes and he walked with his hands deep in the pockets of his overcoat. He looked for cameras but there was a surprising lack of CCTV in this area. Perhaps the wealthy side of town didn’t need it.

  He walked up to the front door of number two, Lakeside Drive and rang the bell. There was no response.

  The schools were closed for the Easter holidays, but if Walsingham was working and unable to spend time with his sons, he’d probably take them to a grandparent or a favourite aunt.

  He moved to the side of the house and looked around. Only someone in a light aircraft or hot air balloon would be able to see him.

  The back garden was secluded and private.

  He strode the length of the garden to the gate in the rear fence and turned to look at the property. Anyone in Walsingham’s house would be able to see him clearly. To the neighbours, however, he would be invisible unless they happened to be paragliding. Or clearing leaves off their conservatory’s roof.

  This had to be one of the best properties in the country for coming and going without being observed.

  He went through the gate, closed it behind him and walked along Peebles Road. The first shop he came to, about a hundred yards from the Walsinghams’ home, was the Sandwich Box. Offering tasty sandwiches and hot pies, it would be a godsend for anyone taking a quick break from work on Lakeside Drive. Next to that was a newsagent’s.

  If Kaminski really did leave via the back garden, as the police believed, presumably he would have entered the property the same way. Therefore, he would have bought his cigarettes from the shop on Peebles Road and not the one half a mile away.

  And would a man with murder on his mind stop to buy cigarettes? Well, yes, he might. But it was unlikely he’d buy them from a man who knew him.

  Dylan walked on to Hilltop Avenue where Kaminski claimed he parked his car that afternoon. There were no cameras to prove or disprove that.

  As he was mentally cursing the strength of the wind and wondering what to do next, a familiar blue Mercedes swept round the corner. In the passenger seat, sitting next to Neil Walsingham, was a young woman with red hair.

  Dylan had left his car at the hotel so there was no hope of catching the Mercedes. He began walking in the opposite direction, took his mobile from his pocket and called the hospital. He wasn’t surprised when it rang and rang.

  Eventually, it was answered by a bored-sounding woman who asked if she could help.

  “I’d like to talk to Dr. Walsingham, please,” Dylan said.

  “Hold the line, please.”

  An unfamiliar and irritating sample of classical music kept Dylan company.

  “I’m sorry, but he’s at lunch at the moment. Perhaps you’d like to call back after two o’clock.”

  Dylan thanked her, and said he would.

  It was a quarter to one, which would indicate that the doctor had at least an hour and a half’s lunch break.

  He used up more shoe leather to walk back through the centre of town and on to Dawson’s Clough General Hospital. Visitors weren’t welcomed until two o’clock so the car park was almost empty, and benches dotted here and there were vacant. He chose to sit where he could see the access road to the staff parking area. His collar was turned up but the wind still tried to claw its way inside his coat.

  If he’d had a less conspicuous car, he would have used it, but something more eye-catching than a Daytona Yellow Morgan would be hard to find. He wasn’t parting with it, though, and he certainly wasn’t leaving it at home where Bev might be tempted to reverse it into a wheelie bin. For now, despite the howling wind, he was happy enough with his bench. If it rained, he’d seek out the hospital’s cafeteria and hope it had a view of the car park.

  Visitors began arriving around one-thirty. They grabbed parking spaces, queued at the ticket machine, and headed inside to wait for wards to open their doors.

  Dylan stayed on his bench.

  At one-fifty, the blue Mercedes drove through the barrier, along the front of the building and turned for the staff car park. The driver, Neil Walsingham, was alone.

  Dylan was about to head inside, find the cafeteria and get a hot coffee, when a redhead wearing a nurse’s uniform walked smartly into the car park. Interesting. Walsingham must have dropped her off nearby, something he’d only do if he didn’t want colleagues knowing he’d been with her.

  Dylan strode to the main entrance and collided with her.

  “Sorry,” he said, striving for breathlessness. “More haste, less speed, eh? Oh, it’s—wait a minute, I’m sure I recognise you. I wonder, do you work on my uncle’s ward?”

  “Not unless he’s given birth to a premature baby.” Attractive dimples appeared as she smiled.

  “You work in the maternity department? What a terrific job.” Eager to keep her talking, Dylan took out his wallet and showed off the photograph of Freya. “My daughter. She’ll be a fortnight old tomorrow.”

  “Congratulations.” She was about to walk away.

  “Do you have children? No, you’re too young, aren’t you?”

  “I wish. But no, I don’t have any. I’m too busy caring for other people’s.” She moved forward and the automatic doors slid open. “Thanks for the compliment though.”

  She carried on walking.

  “Megan!” The receptionist waved her arms to attract her attention. “A couple of messages for you.”

  Dylan wandered off before the receptionist recognised him. He found the cafeteria, decided he didn’t fancy a
coffee in a hospital after all, and strode back to the town centre.

  When he was sitting in Costa’s, with a coffee and a muffin in front of him, he took his phone from his pocket and called the hospital. Amazingly, his call was answered immediately.

  “Oh, hello, there,” he said, “I wonder if you can help me. I was told to call someone this afternoon and I can’t remember her name. My son was born prematurely and she said to call her before—oh, wait, it was Megan something.”

  “Megan Cole. Do you want me to—?”

  “Hang on a minute.” Dylan covered his phone with his hand, and made rustling noises with a serviette. “Apparently, my wife’s already made the call. I’m sorry to have bothered you. Thanks for your help.”

  “You’re welcome. Bye.”

  Dylan walked back to his hotel and spent the next hour sitting on his bed, his computer whirring as he searched the internet for anything on Megan Cole. Apart from a photo of her at a hospital fundraising ball, and a mention of her running a half-marathon for a breast cancer charity, she lived a quiet life.

  He then did a little research on scalpels and soon lost the will to live. One could read more than enough about the blades most suited to different applications involved in surgical, dental and veterinary procedures.

  Outside, the wind was becoming increasingly angry. It rattled his window and roared around the old walls as it sought a way inside.

  It was four o’clock. Time to return to the hospital.

  This time he took his car and parked on a side street where, courtesy of the rearview mirror, he was able to see the car park’s exit fairly easily.

  Minutes passed slowly. Eventually sixty had passed. An eternity later, sixty more had passed.

  Half a dozen women, wrapped in thick coats to ward off the wind, walked out of the main gates to the road. He recognised one as Megan Cole. They chatted for a few minutes, then went their separate ways. Three went one way, one crossed the road toward him and Megan Cole headed for the bus stop that he could just see.

  He watched her as she waited with a couple of other people.

  A bus trundled into view. Her companions got on the bus. Megan continued to wait.

  A little over ten minutes later, her patience—and Dylan’s—was rewarded. A blue Mercedes exited the hospital car park, drove slowly to the bus stop and pulled up. Megan, coat belted tight, jumped in.

  Dylan put the Morgan into gear and drove off slowly. He didn’t want to lose them. Nor did he want to attract their attention.

  He followed the Mercedes for just under a mile, until it pulled up outside a row of small stone-built terraced houses.

  It wasn’t dark yet and Dylan’s car was the only splash of colour in the street. He had to park some distance behind the Mercedes and hope Walsingham’s mind was too preoccupied with other things—like taking Megan Cole to bed—to notice.

  Megan was first out of the car. She dashed up to the front door, keys in her hand, and only when the door was open did Neil Walsingham follow her.

  It was at times like this that Dylan wished he had a sidekick as Luke suggested. His assistant could sit, wait and watch and Dylan could head for the nearest pub.

  Only residents used this quiet road. It was a tidy area, and the houses, although small, were well cared for. They would be sought-after and cherished by first-time buyers and newly-weds.

  An hour passed and Dylan left his car to stretch his legs and walk the length of the street. It was dark now. Lights shone inside number seventeen, Peel Avenue but Dylan couldn’t see the occupants.

  What had Walsingham said? We’re slowly starting to move on and get our lives back together. Progress in that department seemed to be going along very well indeed.

  Dylan returned to his car. It was almost eight o’clock. Maybe Walsingham was spending the night with her. Given the long and probably unsociable hours he worked at the hospital, it was fair to assume he had reliable babysitters. His parents perhaps.

  Dylan was starving. He toyed with the idea of phoning the nearest pizza delivery house and giving his address as the yellow Morgan parked on Peel Avenue. He could buy himself—

  The front door of number seventeen opened, putting paid to his salt and vinegar laden fantasies. Walsingham ran down the path and jumped into his car.

  Dylan had the Morgan’s engine fired and first gear engaged when the Mercedes pulled away, but changed his mind. He knew what he’d get from Walsingham, more of the “too distressing to talk about” crap.

  He killed the engine, left his car and walked to the house. He had a brief glimpse of Megan Cole through the ground floor window as she pulled the curtains closed to shut out the night.

  He walked up the path and rang the bell, and a light came on in the hall before the door was pulled open.

  “Yes?” She gave a start as recognition dawned, as if trying to decide if he was an axe murderer or rapist. Her anxious gaze darted up and down the street but there was no one to hear any cries for help. “What do you want?”

  “I wondered if I might have a quick word.” He gave her his best smile. “Sorry, we haven’t been introduced, have we? I’m Dylan Scott. Private investigator. I’m working on a case up here.”

  There was a brief flicker of understanding, which meant Walsingham had mentioned him. “Why do you want to talk to me? It has nothing to do with me.”

  She was jittery. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly.

  “It’s about Dr. Walsingham’s movements on the day his wife was murdered.” Dylan kept his smile in place. “I understand you told police he was at the hospital—”

  “So?” Arms were folded tight across her midriff. She was hugging her fear close.

  So she had been the one to provide Walsingham with an alibi. How convenient. As Kaminski had said, life was full of surprises.

  “I wonder if you could tell me what you told them,” Dylan said.

  He wanted to suggest they go inside, but he wasn’t going to push his luck. He’d stumbled across the woman, or one of them, who’d provided the doctor with his alibi, and that was enough for now.

  “I was working alongside him that day, that’s all.”

  “Really? I thought you worked in different departments.”

  “We do, but there had been an accident on the motorway that day.” Her teeth started to chatter. Cold or nerves?

  “Would you rather go inside?” Dylan asked. “The neighbours will miss the show, but you’ll be warmer.”

  Dylan doubted the neighbours were watching, but he was pleased to see her look at the houses opposite.

  She nodded and stood back to let him enter. When she’d closed the door behind them, her arms crossed her midriff again.

  She walked into the centre of a living room that was tastefully if sparsely furnished. Two tan sofas were piled high with red and gold cushions. Light came from three art deco lamps. There were no photos, no books, no CDs, no magazines.

  “There’s nothing I can tell you.” Her eyes were wide. She couldn’t have looked more terrified if he’d been wielding an axe. “There was an accident that day. A coach had overturned. It wasn’t too serious but it was filled with Boy Scouts and Girl Guides going on a camping trip. They came in to be checked out. Apart from a broken arm, it was mainly cuts and bruises. There were about forty children, though, so it was all hands to the deck and I ended up spending the day in Accident and Emergency.”

  Dylan nodded his understanding. “You were with Dr. Walsingham all day?”

  “Yes.”

  Why did she look so nervous?

  “You were with him when he received the phone call?” Dylan asked.

  “Phone call?” Her eyes narrowed as if she suspected him of trying to trap her.

  “I thought the school called him at work to say his children hadn’t been collected.”

  “Oh, that. Yes, I was.”

  “What time was that?”

  “The time?” She licked dry lips. “About three-thirty. Four o’clock perhaps. H
ow can I be sure? It was busy. That department always is. All you do is race round treating people and it’s difficult to know who’s there, who isn’t, what time it is—anything.”

  “So you’re saying he may not have been there after all?”

  “Of course I’m not saying that. You’re twisting my words. I’m saying it was difficult to remember the time. He was there. I was working alongside him. I’m simply saying that it was busy so no one else could have known for sure if either of us were there or not.”

  “Ah, I see. So you were the only one who saw him there?”

  “Yes. No. Teresa Simmons was with us so she knew we were there. Anyway,” she said, “why does it matter where he was? What does any of it matter? The man who killed her is behind bars.”

  “There seems to be some doubt about that. Tell me, how long have you been having an affair with Dr. Walsingham?”

  “What? Now look here—” Her face was the same shade as the cushions. “Who’s spreading lies about me? I’m not having an affair with anyone.” She paused briefly, guessing perhaps that Dylan had seen Walsingham leave. “He sometimes gives me a lift home after work, that’s all. He’s a colleague. Nothing more.”

  And I’m the King of Siam.

  “Not good enough.” Dylan thought of giving her the old it’s-none-of-my-business line, but he wanted answers now. “While you’re standing here throwing out your lies, a man is locked up in Strangeways. Ever been to Strangeways, have you? No? Then count yourself lucky. You’re a member of the so-called caring profession so I would have thought that you, of all people, would do all you could to make sure no one, and I mean no one, was locked up in that place unless they deserved to be.”

  “I—but he does.”

  “Says who? Not me. And not the people paying me to get justice for him.” Dylan was surprised to hear himself speaking with such conviction. He had no idea if Kaminski was innocent or guilty.

  “But he is.” She was visibly shaking. “His fingerprints were there.”

  Dylan shrugged. “So were the cleaner’s.”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  Dylan stepped closer to her. “If I murdered you tonight, Neil Walsingham’s fingerprints would be all over this house. It wouldn’t mean he’d killed you though, would it?”