Silent Witness (A Dylan Scott Mystery)

by Wells, Shirley

  “How is she? Are they?”

  “Freya’s okay. I told you, there’s nothing to worry about.”

  Dylan couldn’t stop worrying. And he couldn’t be bothered to waste his breath by explaining that, given the current state of the NHS, you had to be at death’s door before they found a spare bed. Even a small bed.

  “What about Bev?”

  His mother pulled a face and shrugged. “She’s okay.” She looked a little wistfully at her cigarette before stubbing it out. “Come on, I’ll show you where they are. It’s a bit complicated.”

  There couldn’t be a more depressing smell than that of disinfectant and rotting food that seemed to pervade every hospital in the land. It clung to everything and everyone, and it made Dylan shudder.

  Given the choice between Strangeways and a hospital, he’d have to take his luck with those sixteen-feet-thick prison walls. He wasn’t squeamish, or no more than most people, but he loathed hospitals with every fibre of his being. He couldn’t bear the thought of Freya being in this place.

  Worried visitors walked the long corridors. Doctors who looked no older than Luke dashed about with stethoscopes hanging round their necks. A cleaner was pushing a floor polisher from side to side.

  The air was stuffy. And too warm. Sweat trickled down between Dylan’s shoulder-blades. He had to get out of here. More important, he had to get his daughter out of here.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Jamie arrived in the small car park that gave access to Crown Point at a quarter to seven. He was early, but Monty had sensed that something different was happening and had been pacing around the house in excitement with his leash in his mouth.

  “Okay, let’s give you a good run.” Jamie let the dog out of the car.

  He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out Pete’s Glock. He removed the protective black cloth and slipped the gun into his coat pocket.

  “Come on then.”

  The wind tried to blow him off his feet as he walked in the direction of the sculpture, the Singing Ringing Tree. At three metres tall, the sculpture took the form of a tree bending in the breeze. Galvanised steel pipes were supposed to harness the wind’s energy and produce a choral sound across several octaves, but all Jamie could hear was a low hum.

  Monty ran on ahead, only pausing to investigate an interesting scent. The dog was oblivious to the thoughts racing through his master’s head.

  Jamie often walked up here and, at this time of year, it was deserted in the evenings. On summer days it could be busy with dog walkers and hikers. This evening there wasn’t a soul in sight, just as he’d hoped.

  The gun weighed heavy in his pocket, but he found it reassuring. He’d planned everything to the last detail. Nothing could go wrong.

  He would stay outside with Monty and, as soon as Scott’s car drove into the car park, Jamie would approach him. His first thought had been to walk with Scott and find out how far his so-called investigation had progressed. He’d soon dismissed that idea though. Scott was a well-built man. It would take Jamie too long to drag his body back to the car park. The risk of being seen was much too great.

  No, he’d approach Scott in the car park and tell him he’d already given Monty his walk. As soon as Scott was out of his car, Jamie would lift the gun and fire. In the unlikely event there was anyone around, he’d make conversation. He’d talk about Kaminski, tell Scott what a piece of shit he was and how rotting in prison was a lot less than he deserved.

  The second they were alone, Jamie would put a bullet between Scott’s eyes. He would then bundle the body into the boot of his car and drive.

  He’d spent sleepless nights wondering how best to dispose of Scott’s body. For a while, he’d thought it could go where the euthanised pets ended up. A cremation was by far the best solution. Jamie wasn’t sure he could manage it though. Others would be involved. It was too risky.

  He’d thought about dumping the body in a local quarry. Lee Quarry at Bacup had appealed to him, but he’d had to forget that idea as it meant dragging Scott’s body too far. Impossible.

  In the end, he’d come up with the best solution. He would drive north to the Lake District. Thanks to annual summer holidays as a child, he knew the area well.

  For two blissful weeks each August, he and Pete had known a kind of freedom only dreamed about the rest of the year. He supposed it was because no one knew them, so his father didn’t have to rule with his usual rod of iron and show friends and neighbours that he had the best-behaved kids in the area. Whatever the reason, he and Pete had roamed the lakes and let the sun brown their skin or the rain soak them through.

  The downside was that his dog hadn’t been allowed to accompany them. Despite Jamie’s pleas, Ben had been left in boarding kennels for the fortnight.

  Jamie had refreshed his memories of the area by reading up on the murder case that the media had quickly dubbed the Lady in the Lake trial.

  Whether Gordon Park actually did murder his wife, Jamie had no idea. The man had claimed he was innocent right up until he hanged himself in his prison cell. Jamie didn’t care about that. All he knew was that Carol Ann vanished in 1976 and it wasn’t until 1997 that her body was found at the bottom of Coniston Water, the third biggest lake in England. The interesting part, as far as Jamie was concerned, was that her body was dumped from a boat and found on a ledge. Experts claimed that, if her body had landed a few more metres from the shore, it would never have been discovered.

  Jamie knew every inch of the area. He knew where to park his car so that it was close enough to the water yet unlikely to be spotted. Small boats were often moored there and it might be possible to borrow one, but that was another risk too far. Instead, he’d bought the small cheap inflatable dinghy that was in the boot of his car.

  It was barely big enough for him and Scott, but he’d have to manage. He knew how far he had to row before pushing the body overboard and he should manage it easily enough.

  He’d worried about Scott’s car. He could dispose of the Morgan easily enough. It wouldn’t take too much effort to drive it to a nearby quarry, push it over the cliff and walk back for his own car. Or he could call the police and claim to have seen car and driver being hijacked. In the end, he’d decided to forget about the car. Someone would report Scott missing and it wouldn’t be too long before the car was spotted. It didn’t matter. By the time that happened, Scott would be at the bottom of the lake. Police would assume Scott had parked up and gone for a stroll. They’d spend days searching the moors for his body.

  Jamie’s heart raced with excitement. He picked up a stick and threw it for Monty to retrieve. It was impossible to hear any cars over the noise of the wind, but he could see the car park and would know when Scott arrived. He snorted with laughter. It was impossible to miss that yellow Morgan.

  Half a dozen plump raindrops landed on him, so he whistled Monty to heel and walked back to the car park. It was seven-fifteen and there was still no sign of the Morgan or its owner.

  Jamie was always early for appointments. As a child, punctuality had been drummed into him on a daily basis so that now, as an adult, he couldn’t be late for anything. It simply wasn’t in his nature. If he had a dental appointment at eleven, he was sitting in the waiting room at ten forty-five. If he needed to be at the airport by eight, he was waiting for the desk to open at seven. Most people didn’t bother if they were late, and then complained if people couldn’t see them or if they missed their planes. Idiots. Jamie was never late.

  Scott didn’t have far to come and as they’d arranged to meet at seven-thirty, the private investigator still had fifteen minutes grace.

  Jamie passed those minutes by sitting in his car and flicking through radio stations. The presenters irritated him with senseless chat and loud laughter.

  The news bulletin came on at seven-thirty. Jamie’s watch and the car’s clock both agreed it was seven-thirty. There was no sign of Scott.

  Jamie drummed angry fingers on the steering wheel
as he waited. Scott’s behaviour was bloody rude and inconsiderate.

  Minutes ticked by slowly. Jamie silenced the radio and the childish presenter.

  He wondered if Scott had had the manners to phone him to say he’d been delayed. He’d removed the SIM card from his phone. He knew how easily police could track mobile phones and he hadn’t wanted to take any chances.

  Cursing, he reached into the glove compartment for his phone and inserted the SIM card. He switched the phone on and waited for the ping that would announce messages. His phone remained stubbornly silent.

  He switched it off again.

  Rain was bouncing off the car’s roof now and Jamie was finding it increasingly difficult to hear himself think.

  He waited another five minutes then switched his phone back on. Reception was good out on the hill, but still he received no message alerts. Furious, he switched off the phone and removed the SIM card again.

  He took the gun from his pocket and handled it.

  Monty was asleep on the passenger seat and Jamie put the gun between the dog’s eyes. Monty looked at him questioningly.

  “Stupid dog.” Jamie was torn between amusement and exasperation. “I could kill you and you’re too stupid to realise. Don’t worry, though. I won’t waste a bullet on you. I need them for Scott.”

  Monty closed his eyes again and Jamie returned the gun to his pocket. He still wasn’t sure about the dog. Monty looked like Ben, but he wasn’t Ben. He didn’t have that same sense of loyalty. Jamie felt that if anything happened to him, Monty would happily trot off and find someone else daft enough to feed him, shelter him and take him for walks. Ben had been grateful for everything, but Monty seemed to believe he was entitled to food and exercise.

  Jamie rubbed at the band of pain tightening around his forehead. He should be on his way to Coniston Water now. Scott had ruined his meticulous schedule. Damn the man to hell.

  Jamie had thought it unlikely that Scott would tell anyone he was meeting him but if, after Scott’s disappearance, the police had come to talk to him, Jamie had planned to say that Scott never turned up. Now it was true. The bastard hadn’t turned up.

  Damn him to hell!

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  On Thursday morning, it arrived. Sue was in the back garden, grooming Lennon, a scruffy spaniel, when she spotted the postman drive up and jump out of his van.

  “You might want this one, love!”

  Hardly daring to believe it, Sue forgot about Lennon and ran to snatch the envelopes from Mike’s hand. He had three for her. Two bills and a much-longed-for letter from Alek.

  “Thank you. Thank you so much.” She knew she sounded too grateful and a little pathetic. It wasn’t as if Mike had written it himself.

  “You’re welcome. Be seeing you.”

  Clutching the envelopes to her chest, Sue grabbed Lennon by his collar. “You can come inside while I read this.”

  She was fit to burst with excitement but she went inside, took off her coat and sat at the kitchen table to carefully slit open the envelope with a knife. Only when she’d read this letter enough times to memorise every word would she put it with his others. She kept them all. One day, when he was home with her, they’d read them together and maybe even smile about these long, lonely days.

  She removed the two sheets of paper with fingers that shook.

  Dear Sue, he began. She didn’t mind that. Although she had no real idea of the prison regime, she could imagine the taunts he’d suffer if someone saw him writing my darling or my dearest.

  Thanks for your letter. Sorry I haven’t written before now, but I’m sure you understand how things are. I was glad to hear that your aunt’s doing well…

  Sue felt a familiar bubble of despair inflate inside her as she read on. There was no I love you or I miss you or I’m counting the seconds until your visit. There was no part of him, the real him, to cling to.

  Perhaps he wrote about the mundane to stop her worrying about him. Or worse, perhaps he was struggling to cope and daren’t even think about how much he missed her and his home.

  Every time she received a letter, she hoped that, this time, Alek’s deepest feelings would be spread across the page. And every time, she was disappointed.

  He’d told her it was impossible to buy privacy though, so she supposed she could understand why he kept his letters a little impersonal. Added to that, staff at the prison checked all mail. He’d be embarrassed to make his words too flowery.

  The only mention made of their hopeless predicament was a reference to Dylan Scott. I don’t suppose there’s much point to any of it, he wrote, but at least he’s interested and at least he’s willing to talk to people. We’ll just have to put our faith in him.

  He wrote that it was time for breakfast so he needed to get a move on. And that was that. The letter was signed Love from Alek. Sue sent birthday and Christmas cards to people she’d only met half a dozen times and signed them Love from Sue and Alek.

  She dragged herself upstairs to their bedroom. It was becoming less theirs and more hers. A pile of loose change that Alek had taken from his pockets before climbing into bed that last time still sat on the dresser. His jacket hung from the back of the chair and his indoor shoes waited for him by the side of the bed. She couldn’t put any of it away.

  She lay on their bed, pulled Alek’s shirt from beneath his pillow, put it to her face and inhaled deeply. Sometimes she wore the shirt in bed, and sometimes she simply fell asleep with it clutched tight in her fists, but it was always there as a reminder. It was difficult to detect Alek’s smell now, though, probably because she’d worn the shirt too often or cried too many tears into it.

  She lay on the bed for long minutes, wallowing in her despair and knowing she should pull herself together and get outside. Keeping busy was the only way to survive.

  She’d learned that when her dad died. It hadn’t stopped her missing him, far from it, but it helped push the pain a little further to the back of her mind. She wondered if she’d ever stop missing him. Probably not, because he’d been everything to her. Even when she’d left home, it was rare that a day passed when she didn’t see him or speak to him on the phone. She longed for his gentle warmth and his sense of humour.

  She knew he still watched over her though. Two days after his funeral, when the enormity of his death was beginning to hit home, she’d felt a light touch on the back of her head. She’d spun round but there had been no one there. No cat had brushed past her and no door was open to provide a draught. People could say what they liked, but she knew what she knew. Her father had put a gentle hand to her head to comfort her, to remind her that, although his body might be in the ground, his spirit would always be with her.

  A car jolted along the track outside and she knelt on the bed to peer out. She’d hoped it was someone wanting a look at the animals, someone willing to offer a good home to a needy and deserving dog or cat, but it was Jamie.

  She watched him get out of his car and open the boot for his bag and a pair of boots. When he’d laced up more appropriate footwear, he strode off to the kennels.

  Sue knew she must rouse herself, forget her depression and be her usual bubbly self. It wasn’t easy. Sometimes she was so damn perky, she drove herself mad.

  She collected Lennon from the kitchen and set off to find Jamie.

  He looked so pleased to see her that she decided, there and then, that she must say something. After her chat with Dylan, she’d convinced herself that the PI was imagining things and that any feelings for her Jamie may or may not have were best ignored. Life wasn’t that simple though. She’d worried about it, had even started to obsess about it. As difficult as it was, she had to say something for Jamie’s sake.

  “Hi,” he said. “Everything okay?”

  She wondered if her bright vivacious self had deserted her, and forced an even wider smile to her face. “Everything’s great. I had a letter from Alek this morning.”

  “Right.”

  A spark
of anger flared briefly, but why should she expect him to talk about Alek? He wasn’t the one counting the seconds until he could be with someone again. He was the centre’s vet, that was all. He came to the centre to check out the animals, not listen to the owner’s problems.

  “Any new arrivals?” he asked, dismissing Alek.

  “No, thank goodness.”

  “Okay. I need to give booster inoculations to—” he flicked through his notes, “—Sam, the lab cross, and Caesar, the staffie.”

  “Really? Have the poor things been here a year?”

  “’Fraid so.”

  Sam had been abandoned at the side of the motorway and hit by a passing car. He’d healed physically but, mentally, he was still a handful. It was going to be difficult to rehome him. Caesar was fine, once you got to know him. The problem was that most people didn’t have enough time for that. He growled at prospective new owners and they passed quickly to the next kennel.

  Sue took a deep breath. “When you’ve done that, Jamie, could I have a word, please? If you’re not too busy, of course.”

  “I’m never too busy for you.” He looked delighted at the prospect. “You know that.”

  “Thanks. Let’s get these dogs sorted then.”

  By the time the two dogs had been given their boosters and Jamie had checked on a few of the other residents, an hour had passed. They were in the examination room, but it was too small for a difficult chat.

  “Would you like to come into the house for a coffee?” Sue asked.

  “That would be good. Thanks.”

  Lord, she was dreading this. On the other hand, she didn’t want Jamie getting ideas. He was a lovely young man and he should be dating someone who appreciated him and, more important, someone who didn’t have a husband.

  She was at the kitchen sink, filling the kettle and trying to find the right words, when Jamie spoke.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he said. “We should go out, you and me. To the cinema or something. Perhaps we could take in a show or go for a meal. Or both.”