Silent Witness (A Dylan Scott Mystery)

by Wells, Shirley

  “Don’t even think it. Anyway, on a lighter note, I’ve applied for a job in Cornwall.”

  “Cornwall? Why?”

  Four golfers, all talking loudly or laughing at their own jokes, came in and took up residence on stools around the bar. Each was trying to be funnier and heartier than his neighbour. Neil hated people like that.

  “I think it’s time for a change of scene,” he said. “A new start for us all. I think it’s time.”

  Tony nodded slowly. “I can see why you might feel that way. Especially now that some prick’s trying to get Kaminski out of jail.”

  “I haven’t got the job yet and there are sure to be a lot of applicants. Jobs in the south are more sought-after than they are up here.”

  Neil would miss Tony, but he really hoped he was offered the job. Although they wouldn’t even be considering applicants for interview for a fortnight, he couldn’t stop imagining a new life on the south coast. He pictured himself teaching the boys to play cricket or showing them the magic of flying kites on a sunny beach.

  He needed to get away from Dawson’s Clough. From the hospital, too. And yes, from Megan.

  She wouldn’t be happy if he was lucky enough to land the job, but that was something else that had run its course. At the start, he’d been grateful to her and it had been a pleasure to be with her. The hints had changed to demands though, and he wasn’t ready or willing to have anyone influencing his life.

  He wanted a new start. Just him and the boys.

  “I’ll wish you well, of course,” Tony said, “but we’ll miss you.”

  “I’ll miss you and Amy, too.”

  “Still, holidays will be cheaper.” Tony always looked on the bright side. “Far easier to visit you in Cornwall than fly to Thailand.”

  “True. Oh, and keep it to yourself for a while, will you?”

  Neil immediately wished he hadn’t said that. Tony didn’t talk out of turn, never had and never would. He didn’t gossip, he wasn’t one of those who had to spread the latest rumour. He was a good, honest, decent man, a man Neil was lucky to call friend.

  He didn’t deserve such a friend. Some would say he didn’t deserve any friends, but, over the years, Neil had felt able to talk to Tony about anything. Well, anything except the women in his life or the state of his marriage.

  He emptied his glass. “I’ve got things to do, so I’m going to run. I’ll give you a ring about Thursday.”

  “Okay, mate. Oh, and don’t forget you’re invited to dinner on Saturday. Let us know.”

  Neil patted Tony’s shoulder. “Will do and thank Amy for me, won’t you? Be seeing you.”

  Traffic was clogged up at roadworks in the town centre, but Neil wasn’t bothered. He felt aimless. He was driving home, but he wasn’t sure what he’d do when he got there.

  Refusing to speak to Scott had been a mistake. It made him look…uncooperative. Scott would believe he had something to hide.

  What was Scott up to and why the hell was he speaking to Megan and Sonia? Neil had to be his chief suspect, that’s why. He’d read the statistics, he knew that most murders were committed by people close to the victim, and it was difficult to be closer than a spouse.

  As soon as he got home, he’d call Megan and ask her again exactly what she’d said to Scott. Then, much as it pained him, he might even speak to Sonia. He wasn’t in the mood for a torrent of her verbal abuse, but he needed to know what Scott was doing.

  The traffic started moving again.

  “Shit!” The engine stalled and the driver behind tooted his horn.

  Neil was so tense he couldn’t even drive. He restarted the engine and pulled away. His heart was racing, and his throat was dry.

  Damn and blast Scott.

  Neil had looked up Scott on the internet and discovered that he was either the best private investigator ever or he wrote his own press. An ex-copper, as most of them were, he’d served time in prison for assaulting a member of the public. People said it was wrong, said he shouldn’t have been locked up just because some piece of scum with a criminal record claimed he’d used excessive force when arresting him.

  Scott didn’t matter though. The police, judge and jury were who mattered, and they’d done their bit. A private investigator, no matter how clever he was, simply didn’t matter.

  Kaminski was behind bars and he could damn well stay there.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Dylan stood and gazed up at a couple of cameras. They watched a large car park and, possibly, although he couldn’t be sure, captured the comings and goings along Darwen Road.

  If he was travelling from his hotel to Neil Walsingham’s home on Lakeside Drive, Dylan would come along Darwen Road and turn left at the lights. It had to be said, however, that if he was going to a lot of places he’d come this way and turn left at the lights.

  It was a reasonably direct route to Peebles Road too. Since their acrimonious encounter, Dylan had done a little research into Terry Trueman. Surprisingly, given his angry demeanour, he’d never been involved in so much as a brawl. He had a motive for killing Carly Walsingham though. Neil had tried to steal Sonia so maybe Trueman had decided to take away Walsingham’s wife. Perhaps he’d even hoped that Walsingham would be found guilty.

  What had Sonia said? When your husband discovers you’ve cheated on him, you reach rock bottom. The only way is up, I suppose, but, believe me, it’s a long, slow, painful climb.

  Dylan was still gazing up at the security cameras. They were set up to watch proceedings in a car park belonging to T&T Securities. Signs in the office’s windows boasted unbeatable prices for all security needs including alarms, cameras, guards and dogs.

  Dylan crossed the road and stepped inside the office. A man in his thirties was busy at a computer but he leapt to his feet. “Hi, there. What can I do for you?”

  “Sorry, but I’m not a customer.”

  “I’ve forgotten what a customer is.” He spoke with a wry smile but seemed undaunted.

  “I’m a private investigator,” Dylan said, “and I’ve just spotted your security cameras overlooking the car park. I was wondering if they record traffic on this road.”

  “They certainly do.”

  “I don’t suppose you keep the recordings, do you?”

  “We do, yes. They’re cracking good video cameras. Great colour, you know, and a good range. They’re not terrific in the dark, but if you can see the camera, it’s odds on you’ll be caught. We don’t sell many for use outdoors, but the indoor version really comes into its own in shops. As I said, you get crystal clear videos and you’d easily catch thieves.”

  They sounded like must-haves, but no use to Dylan if images were only stored for a few hours. “And you keep the recordings for quite a while?”

  “Not for any definite length of time. We put the cameras outside for security reasons, obviously, but mainly, they’re demonstration models. We show people the results, you see. As I said, they’re great cameras. You’d be hard pushed to find a better one for the job.”

  Dylan wondered if he ought to tell him again that he wasn’t a customer.

  The chap pointed to a small domed camera in the corner of the shop. “That does a good job, too, but only for an area this size. If you had a large store, you’d need something better.”

  “I see.” He was getting nowhere fast. “How about last August? Is it likely you’d still have recordings for that far back?”

  The chap sucked in a breath. “Oh, that’s doubtful. I’ll have a look for you, but that’s a long time. Come with me.”

  He led the way into a large room at the back of the building, one crammed with boxes and where a wall was taken up completely by computers.

  “It’s good of you to check. I appreciate it, Mr.—?”

  “Eddie.” He pushed hair from his eyes and shook Dylan’s hand.

  “Dylan. And thanks for your help.”

  Eddie patted a box. “This is a good camera, probably the best model on the market. We sell q
uite a few of those.”

  “Really?” Dylan didn’t want to encourage him, but he wanted to stay on the right side of him.

  Eddie sat at a desk in front of a computer. “Let’s see.”

  As he clicked open files, Dylan received a not so quick lesson in every type of camera available.

  “But just look at these images.” Yet more mouse clicks. “Ha. There we are.”

  Dylan was impressed. He was convinced he was taller than he looked on screen, but the clarity was stunning. As he was standing directly in front of the camera, albeit some distance away, and looking straight at the lens, he supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised by the clear image of himself.

  Cars passing him were equally clear. Impossible to see the vehicle’s occupants, but thanks to the camera’s angle, it was reasonably easy to read the registration plate of cars travelling north.

  “What do you think?”

  “Very impressive,” Dylan said.

  “Isn’t it just? We don’t sell so many of these, more’s the pity.” He gestured to the boxes of cameras piled up behind him. “Most people want cheap and cheerful. Of course, most people don’t expect they’re going to be targeted by thieves.”

  “I suppose they don’t.”

  “What are you interested in particularly?” Eddie asked.

  “I want to see who was using this road last August.” As Eddie was being so helpful, Dylan knew he had to explain. “As I said, I’m a private investigator and, last August, a woman was murdered not far from here.”

  “Yes, I remember hearing about that. She was a doctor’s wife, wasn’t she?”

  “That’s right, and a man’s currently serving a life sentence for her murder. However, there’s a slim possibility that he might be innocent and I’m working on his behalf.”

  “Wow.” It was Eddie’s turn to be impressed. “Hmm, I wonder if we can help you. Let’s see.”

  Dylan didn’t know what amazed him most, the speed at which geeks like Eddie used computers or the speed at which this particular computer reacted. Dylan often thought he could drive to town, buy all he wanted and drive home in the time it took him to purchase something online.

  “I don’t suppose the police asked you about CCTV at the time of the murder?” Dylan asked.

  “No.”

  Dylan wasn’t surprised. As usual, he was clutching at straws. The killer could perform cartwheels in front of the cameras, but it wouldn’t prove he’d been anywhere near the Walsinghams’ property.

  Dates flashed up on the screen so fast it was difficult to read them. October 21. October 3. September 19. This was looking promising.

  “Here we go. It looks like you’re in luck.” Still the dates flashed past until the screen stilled with June 14 emblazoned across it. “Wow. Just look at that. The last time we deleted files was June the fourteenth. So, you want to look at August?”

  “The victim was murdered on the third,” Dylan said, “so I’d really like to look at images from the middle of July to the first week in August. Really, this is amazing.”

  “Isn’t it just? But—”

  Why did there always have to be a but?

  “It’s going to take you hours—make that days to look through this lot.” Eddie drummed his fingers on the desk. “What sort of computer do you have?”

  “Just an ordinary laptop.”

  “Processor?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Hmm.” More finger drumming. “Tell you what, I can put the files you want on an external hard drive. If your laptop’s a fairly new model, you should be able to cope okay.”

  “An external hard drive? What’s that?”

  Smiling, Eddie pointed at a slim silver box on his desk. A tiny 2TB glowed blue. “It has a USB cable which you can attach to your laptop. You just use it as another storage device. Simple.”

  “I see.” Dylan wasn’t sure he did, but he’d muddle through somehow.

  “Yes. As soon as you attach it, your laptop will show it as an extra device. Just click on it and hey presto.”

  “How much do I owe you?”

  “Just bring the hard drive back when you’re done,” Eddie said. “There’s no rush.”

  People’s trusting natures surprised Dylan. There was nothing to stop him selling this hard drive to the first buyer. “You don’t want a deposit or something?”

  Eddie smile. “No. You’ve got an honest face.”

  Dylan smiled, but he knew better than most that Strangeways was heaving with honest faces.

  He left the building clutching the external hard drive. Attaching it to his computer and managing to see the images would be a miracle in itself. That it would provide anything of interest was probably asking too much.

  He was almost back at his hotel when his phone rang. He looked at the display. Neil Walsingham? That had to be a mistake, surely.

  Chapter Twenty

  The Conservative Club struck Dylan as an odd choice of meeting place. He couldn’t complain though. It was Neil Walsingham’s choice and that was good enough.

  Dylan had offered to call at Walsingham’s home, but the doctor had declined.

  “I’ve got something on this evening,” he’d said, “so it will be easier for me to call at the Con Club for a quick chat. If that’s okay with you, of course.”

  The building was a couple of hundred years old, solid and timeless, and only a very small blue sign gave any indication as to what it was. It was busy, even at seven o’clock on a Tuesday evening. A lot of young people clustered round the bar or gathered in a side room to play snooker or pool.

  Dylan would have preferred to meet Walsingham on his own territory, but he could picture the doctor’s home. It would be uncluttered, spotless and tidy thanks to a cleaner who was sure to be paid well to take good care of it, and there would be the obligatory photos of a happy, smiling Carly Walsingham with her husband.

  He bought himself a pint of beer and discovered why the club was so busy. The drinks were much cheaper than in the local pubs. He couldn’t imagine Walsingham choosing this place for financial reasons though.

  Dylan sat in one of four comfortable blue armchairs that hugged a circular table. From his vantage point, he could see who came and went through the tall oak door.

  He had twenty minutes to kill before Walsingham arrived and he spent the time wondering why the doctor had had a change of heart about talking to him. Whatever the reason, Dylan would heed Sonia’s advice. Don’t take anything that man says as gospel.

  The club was noisy and perhaps that’s why Walsingham had chosen it. People were talking, laughing, shouting to each other. No one would notice two men having a quiet chat.

  Or perhaps he was reading too much into the choice of venue.

  Dylan was grateful to be away from the hotel, or at least from his computer screen. He’d spent all afternoon staring at it and had started to wonder if anyone had yet invented a more boring waste of time. Watching grass grow would be a thrill a minute by comparison.

  At two minutes to seven, Walsingham dashed inside the club—smart suit, expensive shoes, silk tie and a smile—spotted Dylan and came over.

  “Sorry I’m late, Dylan. What are you drinking?”

  “That’s generous. A pint of IPA, please.”

  “Won’t be a second.”

  Dylan watched Walsingham at the bar. His smile didn’t slip. He chatted to the barmaid and said something to make her laugh. She blushed, too. Walsingham was a handsome, charming man.

  Was he also a killer?

  There were smiles and handshakes when Walsingham returned to the table with drinks.

  “Dylan—may I call you Dylan?”

  “Please do. Neil, is it?”

  “Yes, and let me say again how sorry I am about our first meeting.” Walsingham sat in the chair next to Dylan’s and pulled it closer, probably so he wouldn’t have to shout to make himself heard above everyone else’s chatter. “It was the shock, I suppose. When you go through something lik
e that—and believe me, I hope you never do—it takes much longer than you imagine to come to terms with it. You crave peace. You need the quiet. You have to heal, you see.”

  “I understand. Thanks, by the way.” He lifted a glass and chinked it against Walsingham’s. The doctor was drinking a large whisky with plenty of ice.

  “My pleasure. And needless to say, if there’s anything I can do to help, you only have to ask. I don’t like the idea of it being raked over again, but nor do I like the idea of an innocent man being behind bars. You believe Kaminski’s innocent of my wife’s murder, I take it?”

  Saint Neil. The sudden willingness to help and the belated worry about a man being wrongfully imprisoned were making Dylan cringe.

  Or perhaps Sonia had tainted his views on the doctor. Maybe, after all, Walsingham was genuine.

  “I believe it’s possible,” Dylan said. “He claims he is, and there are several discrepancies between the various stories.”

  “Really? Well, yes, I can understand that. Innocent people, as I’m sure you know only too well, don’t assume they’ll need to state their whereabouts for an alibi. People go about their daily business and, half the time, can’t remember where they are at a specific time. Take us, for example. In a fortnight’s time, if asked to tell police where we were at—” he paused to study his watch like a child who had only just learned to tell the time, “—five past seven on the evening of Tuesday, seventeenth April, I bet we wouldn’t be able to.”

  Given the way he’d immediately felt obliged to discuss alibis, Megan Cole must have told Walsingham that she wasn’t terribly convincing when confirming his whereabouts on the day in question.

  “Probably not.” Dylan gave him an understanding smile, but he resented being treated like an idiot. He knew how innocent people struggled to remember where they’d been at a given time. Just as he knew the way guilty people concocted the most elaborate to-the-second alibis.

  “On the day my poor wife was—murdered—”

  He broke off and Dylan wished he had an Oscar in his back pocket. He would present the award with a flourish.