She didn’t want him to stay but couldn’t say so. “Okay. How’s your father, by the way? Is he back home now?”
“Yes. He’s fine, thanks. Almost back to normal.”
He hadn’t welcomed the enquiry. She’d noticed before how reluctant he was to talk about his family. His brother, a soldier, had been killed in Afghanistan. Things must be difficult for them all.
“That’s good. It’s a worry when our parents are ill, isn’t it? They don’t fight off things as easily.”
“He’s fine,” Jamie said again. “I’ll go and check out the staffie. I’ll see you when you get back.”
Sue set off with Misty but her cheery mood had darkened. It was Dylan Scott who’d put the idea in her head and, ever since, she’d noticed that Jamie called in far more often than necessary. Sometimes, even when Anne had told him all he needed to know, he’d hang around to see her. There was no reason for him to call today and, although he might want to check on their new resident, a Staffordshire Bull Terrier, there was no reason for him to linger and certainly no reason for him to wait to see her.
She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t want to say anything to Jamie because she might be imagining things, but nor did she want him getting any ideas. There was only one man for her and that man was currently locked up like an abandoned animal.
It seemed ridiculous that Jamie should be thinking of—well, she didn’t know what he was thinking. Since Dylan Scott had commented, though, she’d noticed that Jamie spent far more time at the centre than was necessary. And he watched her.
It was beginning to unnerve her.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Dylan felt at home in the Dog and Fox these days. Last night he’d called in a couple of pubs within walking distance of his hotel, but neither had appealed to him. They’d both been dark, miserable places. Residents of Dawson’s Clough must have shared his verdict because both were short on customers.
He was at the bar, ordering his drink, when ex-DCI Frank Willoughby came in.
“Frank, what are you having?”
“A pint of whatever you’re having. IPA, is it? Thanks.”
They carried their drinks to what Dylan now thought of as his table and sat down.
“Lewis is going to try and get here,” Frank said. “He’s got a lot of stuff on, though, and he’s off to some conference or other in London in the morning. He said to apologise if he didn’t make it.”
Dylan didn’t suppose it mattered one way or the other. Lewis had told him all he knew.
“He still looks like a copper, doesn’t he?” Dylan said. “In fact, I couldn’t help thinking that you both looked like coppers. Why’s that?”
Frank grinned. “I know exactly what you mean. I’ve always thought Lewis will go to his grave looking like one. There’s no way he could work undercover.”
Dylan would have said the same about Frank, yet it was when Frank was on one of his many successful undercover jobs in London that they’d met.
“I’m quite happy to look like a copper,” Frank said, “but I know I could disguise the fact if I tried.”
Dylan nodded at the truth of that. “What about me? Do I look like a copper?”
“Nah. You don’t even look like a disgraced one.” Frank’s gaze was appraising. “You look more like a used-car salesman. Or perhaps one of those moody second-rate actors.”
“Christ, you’re hot with the compliments tonight.”
Frank laughed. “Or maybe you look like a private investigator. How’s it going?”
“Bloody badly.”
“Of course,” Frank said, “it could be that you’re wasting your time? There was no doubt in anyone’s eyes that Kaminski is guilty.”
Dylan took a long drink from his glass. Pure nectar.
“But the more I speak to people, the more convinced I am that he’s innocent.” Convinced was pushing it a bit. Dylan wouldn’t bet his house on it. “The good doctor’s lied for some reason. According to his current mistress, he knew damn well his wife was having an affair with Kaminski.”
Frank dried the bottom of his glass on a beer mat. “Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. It means nothing.”
“It means he’s lying,” Dylan said. “It’s not conclusive, I agree, but if he’s lied about that, who’s to say he hasn’t lied about everything else? Also, his whereabouts on the afternoon in question, along with the whereabouts of the people who gave him his alibi, are in doubt.”
“What?”
Before Dylan could answer, ex-DI Cameron breezed inside and to their table.
“I’m rushing about like a bloody lunatic, but I’ll have a quick pint with you. It will be quick too.” He was out of breath. “What’s anyone having?”
“Thanks, Lewis, but I’ve still got one,” Dylan said.
“Me, too.” Frank lifted his pint glass. “Don’t worry, we’ll remember it’s your round next time.”
They watched him ordering his drink at the bar. Even as he spoke to the barmaid, he was watching everyone.
“You’re right,” Frank said. “He might just as well be in uniform.”
When Lewis was sitting at their table with his pint, Frank brought the conversation back to Dr. Walsingham.
“Dylan thinks there’s some doubt about the doctor’s whereabouts on the day in question,” he told Lewis.
“How come?”
Dylan noted the tight lips and sensed a little hostility. He couldn’t help that. Lewis should have done his job properly in the first place.
“Dig deep enough,” he said, “and you find that no one can say for sure who was in the Accident and Emergency department that afternoon. It was so chaotic, no one knows who was there and who wasn’t.”
“That’s interesting,” Frank said.
“Yeah. Interesting but inconclusive.”
“What you have to bear in mind,” Lewis said, “is that Walsingham is a highly respected member of the community. If he is having an affair—”
“He’s had more affairs than I’ve had good pints.”
“Okay, but that’s not against the law. At least, not in these parts.” He smiled, but it clearly didn’t come easily. “As I was saying, he’s a highly respected member of the community and I imagine he likes his position. He’s a bit of a social climber, I gather, so he’ll probably tell the odd white lie to maintain that position.”
“Hmm.”
Dylan knew what he meant but he still wished he could pin something on the doctor. He didn’t like him.
“His current mistress, Megan Cole, is a nurse at the hospital,” Dylan said. “If she’d wanted the doctor for herself, she might have grabbed a scalpel from the cupboard and set off to kill Carly Walsingham.”
Frank rolled his eyes. “Are you sure you’re just not looking for someone to blame?”
“Exactly.” Lewis had the superior expression of a respected copper indulging a rookie who’d been thrown off the force.
“I do want someone to blame, yes,” Dylan said, “but there’s something odd about those two. Maybe Walsingham killed his wife. Maybe Megan wanted to be the second Mrs. Walsingham and decided to get rid of the competition. Maybe they were both in it together.”
That made sense to Dylan. They could cover for one another easily. Doctor and nurse. The lovers could give each other an alibi.
“Have you got any real proof of anything?” Frank asked.
“Nope.”
“Ah.”
“I have found some CCTV though.” Dylan supped his pint.
“What?” Lewis didn’t seem to like that idea.
“Yes. There’s a security firm on Darwen Road and their cameras catch all the comings and goings along there. I’ve got all the footage from the end of July to the middle of August.”
Frank looked at him as if he were mad. “Darwen Road?”
“Bloody hell, Dylan.” Lewis looked as if that was the funniest thing he’d heard all year.
“People driving from the hospital or from Dawson’
s Clough centre might go along that road if they were visiting Lakeside Drive or Peebles Road.”
“They might.” Frank’s tone was dry. “And they might not. Kaminski, by his own admission, didn’t use that road.”
Frank had a point.
“I’ve already spotted Neil Walsingham on the images.”
“On the day of the murder?”
“Well, no.” He’d gone over and over the footage from that afternoon and found nothing interesting. “I’m still working on that.”
“Dylan,” Frank said, “you could see him walking along that road on the day of the murder with a scalpel in his hand, and still not be able to prove anything.”
He was painfully aware of that.
“I can understand how you want to make money out of this case,” Lewis said, “but come off it, Dylan, there are limits. Have you ever wondered why you were considered unfit for police work?”
Dylan bristled at the insult, but ignored it.
“I tend to concentrate on people who don’t like me delving into cases,” he said. “Walsingham refused to talk to me at first. Now, having thought about it, he’s apologised, said it’s all too distressing to go over again and assures me that no one hates the thought of an innocent man behind bars more than him. Blah, blah.”
He put up his hand to fend off Frank’s interruption. “Yes, I know what you’re going to say, and yes, that could well be how he feels. However, another who’s very anti me being in Dawson’s Clough is Jamie Tinsley.”
“Who?” The name obviously wasn’t familiar to Lewis.
“I don’t suppose he figured in the original investigation, and there’s no reason he should. He’s a vet at a local practice and is the one used by Sue Kaminski for the animal shelter. That he’s got the hots for Sue is obvious. That he doesn’t want me investigating this case is equally obvious.”
“Right.” Lewis drew the word out. “And you’re saying that makes him a suspect? I can’t see that.”
Dylan couldn’t either.
“Oh, really. This is laughable,” Lewis said.
“Not if your name’s Aleksander Kaminski,” Dylan replied.
The atmosphere at their table was becoming a little frosty, but there was nothing Dylan could do about that.
“Why would he want Carly Walsingham out of the way?” Frank asked. “If he has got the hots for Sue Kaminski, I expect it’s far more likely that, with her husband behind bars, he’s suddenly realised that, for the next twelve years, Sue is on her own and available. He wouldn’t want Kaminski walking free, would he?”
Dylan enjoyed bouncing ideas around with Frank. Or, to be more accurate, he enjoyed giving Frank ideas only for Frank to return them with the harsh voice of reason.
Frank was right. For all Dylan knew, Jamie Tinsley probably hadn’t looked at Sue twice before Kaminski was detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Sue certainly had no idea that he was interested in her.
Dylan was drawing a blank. He had several half-baked ideas as to what might have happened that afternoon, but none that made any sense and certainly none that he had a hope in hell of proving.
“A motive would be good,” he said.
“Christ, you’re master of the understatement.” Frank grinned.
Lewis finished his drink and got to his feet. “Sorry, but I have to dash. I can’t sit here wasting time. And that’s all you’re doing, Dylan. Wasting everyone’s time.” He leaned down to add, “You’re also wasting your client’s money.”
“Maybe.”
There were smiles all round as Lewis said his goodbyes.
“He’s getting a bit niggled,” Frank said when Lewis had left them.
“I thought I was supposed to be master of the understatement.”
“I’m just saying that it might not be wise to antagonise him.”
“He should have done his job better then. There’s a shoddiness to his investigation.” Dylan emptied his glass. “I’ll get the refills. You have a think about motive.”
Dylan walked over to the bar where Zoe and Christine were dealing with a rush of customers. They worked well together and no matter how brisk trade became, no one was kept waiting too long.
“Same again, Dylan?”
“Please, Zoe.” He was even on first-name terms with the barmaids in this pub. Yes, it felt very homely here.
He weaved his way through people wanting to be served and back to their table where Frank was sitting with the same blank expression.
“Cheers,” he said as Dylan put a pint in front of him. “Remind me that I need to get the next two rounds.”
“Don’t worry. I will.”
Before he could take a swallow, Dylan’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out and saw from the display that his mother was calling. In the past, he’d ignored her calls effortlessly. Now, he still ignored them, but they worried him.
“My mother,” he said for Frank’s benefit. “If it’s important, she’ll leave a message.”
No message was left so he assumed she’d only been ringing for a chat. If there was anything wrong with Bev, she would have left a message. In any case, there was nothing he could do about it from nigh on three hundred miles away.
“Motive,” he reminded Frank. “I can’t think of a single person who might want Carly Walsingham dead.”
“Someone did.” They’d soon have a PhD each in stating the obvious.
“Let’s take Kaminski,” Dylan said. “He may or may not have been having an affair with her. We assume he was, and we assume it had been going on for a while. He may or may not have threatened her by phone the previous evening. It’s possible that, if she wanted to end things between them, or even if he did, he could have decided to end it permanently. Possible. But highly unlikely.”
Frank shrugged.
“Kaminski’s a lot of things, but I don’t think he’s particularly stupid,” Dylan said. “He doesn’t seem to care about spending a dozen years in Strangeways so I doubt he’d be beside himself if Carly threatened to tell his wife about their affair. No, I can’t find a solid motive for Kaminski.”
“Okay, what about Neil Walsingham? Why in hell’s name would he want rid of her? There was no great windfall coming to him on her death. She wasn’t insured. She had no money of her own. They existed on his income.”
“I know. If he’d wanted her out of his life, he would have employed a good solicitor and divorced her as quickly, quietly and cheaply as possible.”
Dylan was aware of the sound of the wind. Logs had been crackling in the fireplace but now, the wind had increased and was roaring inside the chimney. It was difficult to say for sure, but he thought he heard a deep rumble of thunder too. He and Frank were in the best place.
“There’s his mistress, Megan Cole.” Dylan wasn’t sure that a woman who tried to give premature babies the best welcome to the world could turn killer. Stranger things had happened though. “If she wanted Walsingham to herself, and if he wasn’t rushing to divorce his wife, perhaps she lost patience and decided to hurry things on.”
“Possible,” Frank said.
“There’s his ex-mistress, Sonia Trueman too. She loathes Walsingham with a passion. She believed they were about to sail into the sunset together and he made it clear it was just a fling. She dreams of him meeting a sticky end and, given very little incentive, I can imagine her killing him. I can’t imagine she’d kill his wife.”
“Jealousy maybe?” Frank said. “Maybe she believed that only his wife was preventing them sailing into the sunset.”
Dylan couldn’t see it. Sonia hated Walsingham. If she was planning to butcher anyone, it would be him. If she’d harboured even the tiniest hope that only Carly stood in her way, her hatred for the doctor wouldn’t have been as great.
“There’s her husband, Terry Trueman,” Dylan said. “Walsingham was trying to steal his wife so maybe he decided to take Walsingham’s wife. Maybe he even thought Walsingham would take the blame for her murder.”
“What
’s he like?”
“Angry.” Dylan sighed. “At least, he was when I saw him. He’s got no previous form for anything. Even his driving licence is clean.”
“So he’s not your typical killer,” Frank said.
“No.” Dylan supped from his pint. “The only other person who raises question marks is Jamie Tinsley, the vet, and I can’t see that, either. If he’d been planning to remove someone from the planet, it would have been Kaminski. And although he’s got his wish, he couldn’t possibly have known that Kaminski would take the rap for the murder.”
“Did he have dealings with the Walsinghams?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“I see. So, basically—”
“I don’t have a clue. That’s about the height of it, Frank.”
A heart attack might have ended Frank’s distinguished career with the police force, but it had done nothing to slow his brain. His hair was greying, his mind was as sharp as ever.
“Forget motive for the moment,” he said. “Picture the murder scene.”
“I’ve done little else,” Dylan said, “and I still can’t make sense of it. It’s the pillow that confuses the issue.”
“Forensics know it was used because they found fibres in her nose and mouth.”
Dylan knew that. “I can see why a killer would be reluctant to look his victim in the eye but, if that were the case, he’d drown her. That he slashed her indicates he had no qualms about looking at her. That takes anger. The knife, yes. The pillow, yes. The knife and pillow? It doesn’t add up.”
“Exactly how I feel about it,” Frank said. “And what about the knife? Was the killer skilled with a blade or did he just get lucky?”
Dylan hadn’t the remotest idea.
Over a third pint, they talked about their plans for the weekend. Frank was aiming to spend a couple of days in his garden avoiding the advances of his amorous neighbour. He’d been married three times and, despite her best efforts, was determined not to make it four. Dylan was spending time with his family and had vowed to go out for a good run and see if that dragged his brain cells into action.
Over a fourth pint, they went through Dylan’s painfully short list of suspects again.
Silent Witness (A Dylan Scott Mystery) Page 18