Silent Witness (A Dylan Scott Mystery)

by Wells, Shirley

  Neil squatted down at the graveside to arrange the flowers to the boys’ satisfaction. Both wished her a happy birthday and told her they were being good boys.

  Thankfully, to prove there was a god, a couple of fat raindrops landed on them and Neil was able to shoo them back to the car.

  They stopped to buy a bottle of malt whisky for Eric Smith. Pearls before swine…

  Finally, they were heading for the motorway. The boys had DVDs to watch while Neil concentrated on the traffic and prayed for the day to end. They were no more than ten miles from Dawson’s Clough when the sun burst out from behind a cloud. As they drove south, the sky cleared and the temperature rose.

  A couple of hours later, they were in Birmingham. Neil drove along leafy suburbs, then streets lined with rundown shops before reaching the area he wanted. Not wanted, needed. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this. Houses became smaller and scruffier, and gardens became dumps for litter and unwanted furniture.

  “We’re nearly there,” William piped up, his DVD forgotten.

  “Yes.” Another mile or so of this despairing, rotting landscape and they would reach the Smiths’ house.

  Neil often wondered if he would have married Carly if he’d known where she came from. All he’d seen was an exceptionally pretty, extremely bright radiographer who knew how to flirt and who was, he soon found out, great in bed. He’d asked about her past, of course, but she’d been one of those who lived for the moment. It had taken her two minutes to explain how she’d grown up in Birmingham and married her childhood sweetheart.

  It wasn’t until their wedding day that he met her parents and he’d been appalled by everything about them, from their cheap clothes and broad accents to their loud, uncouth behaviour. Carly was pregnant when he first visited their home and he could still remember the sense of shock he’d experienced. There were council houses and then there was the Smiths’ home. Slum didn’t even begin to describe it.

  All credit to Carly, he supposed. Somehow, she’d managed to drag herself out of this mire.

  “Here we are, boys.”

  Suppressing a shudder, Neil glanced at the grimy windows of the house. God knows what diseases lay in wait behind those walls. The white PVC front door was new and, surprisingly, someone had spent an hour or so tidying the small patch of garden at the front.

  That new front door opened and Laura Smith, who was at least sixty pounds overweight, did a fast waddle up the path. Her arms were wide as she waited. Harry and William obliged by racing into those arms and covering her face with kisses.

  If Neil lived for another century, he would never understand how the boys could love this woman so much. When Carly had been alive, they’d probably visited this house three times a year and they hadn’t seen Laura once since the funeral. Yet they adored her.

  She had her good points, Neil couldn’t deny that. She’d pushed her daughter to make something of her life. “Qualifications are what you need, Carly. Qualifications. You can do anything then.”

  If only she didn’t live in a slum.

  Still holding her grandsons’ hands, she reached up and dropped a wet kiss on Neil’s cheek. “How’s my lovely boy, eh?”

  Neil resisted the urge to reach for his handkerchief and rub dry the place her lips had touched. “I’m doing okay, thank you, Laura. How are you?”

  “Oh, you know. Good days and bad days. Today—” She glanced down at the boys and gave a wan smile. “These two young scamps will make today better.”

  As always, she had presents for them. Cheap toys that, if they didn’t maim the boys first, would fall to pieces before the day was over.

  Neil had hoped that Eric was out, but no such luck. His father-in-law’s great bulk was wedged in his usual dirty armchair surrounded by well-read newspapers and an overflowing ashtray. The TV was off for once but the remote control sat on his lap poised for action.

  “Well, Neil.” He didn’t get out of his chair. “Long time no see.”

  “Yes.” It would have been much longer if Neil had had his way. “How are you, Eric?”

  “Can’t complain. No point, is there? I keep taking the tablets, but they don’t do no good. They can’t find out what’s wrong with me.”

  Neil’s diagnosis was a chronic case of laziness. Eric had hurt his back, or so he claimed, over twenty years ago and he hadn’t done a day’s work since. He preferred to claim benefits. Let those people daft enough to work pay to keep him, that was his motto. Eric could afford to drink and smoke, to subscribe to Sky Sports channels and bet on the horses. He lacked for nothing.

  Laura worked at a couple of local pubs, both as cleaner and occasional barmaid.

  “I come bearing gifts,” Neil said, seeing Eric spot the whisky. “I hope it’s to your taste.”

  Highland Park whisky would be to anyone’s taste, and far superior to the cheap blended stuff Eric served up.

  “Thank you. Very kind.”

  Damn it, there was no way Neil would have asked Carly to marry him if he’d known that she came from this hellhole. By the time he found out, it had been too late. It would always irk him to know that these people’s genes had been passed on to his sons.

  The living room was awash with photos of Carly from the age of two onwards. It was like a bloody shrine. Neil would have been more impressed if someone had bothered to flick a duster over them now and again.

  Eric ran a finger over the bottle’s label. “I wish I could afford to drink stuff like this. You’re a lucky bugger, Neil.”

  Neil was tempted to tell him that, if he got off his fat arse and did a day’s work, he’d be able to afford lots of life’s luxuries. Instead, he muttered something like, “It’s good stuff,” and left Eric alone.

  He joined Laura and the boys in the kitchen. He could tolerate Laura.

  She’d been seventeen when Carly was born and Neil didn’t suppose she’d changed much over the years. She was vastly overweight, yes, but her complexion would be envied by women twenty years younger. It certainly didn’t hint at the life she’d had with Eric. He drank and gambled, and she worked. It was the way it had always been. It had been Laura who’d earned the money to put decent clothes on Carly’s back.

  She was showing the boys how to make cookies, and the messier the process became, the more they enjoyed themselves.

  When the cookies went in the oven, the boys raced into the garden to explore the wilderness. God knows what they’d find among the tall docks and thistles.

  “So how are you really doing, Neil? Are you coping?”

  “What else can we do, Laura? As much as we hate it, life has to go on, doesn’t it?”

  “I suppose it does. It’s a bloody horrible life though.”

  “Yes.”

  “Has that private investigator spoken to you?” she asked.

  “He has, yes.”

  “Eric won’t speak to him. He said we shouldn’t.”

  “It’s up to you, of course.”

  Her fat arms wobbled as she nodded. “I gather he’s going to try and get Alek off the hook?”

  “He seems to think he could be innocent, yes.”

  “He can’t be, though. Can he?”

  He saw the light of hope in her eyes. She’d liked Kaminski and, although she’d turned against him now, nothing would make her happier than hearing he was innocent of her daughter’s murder.

  “Of course he’s not. How can he be? The judge and jury heard everything. Everything. God, I heard him threatening her, and a neighbour saw him leaving the house. For him to protest his innocence is just laughable.”

  He always lost patience with his in-laws. It wasn’t only the mess they lived in, it was the way they were incapable of using the few brain cells they’d been born with. They couldn’t think for themselves, it took far more effort than they were willing to expend. Eric and Laura both read the tabloids from cover to cover and believed every sensational word printed, but couldn’t or wouldn’t make up their own
minds about anything.

  Thankfully, Harry and William raced back inside to check on their cookies, and the murder of their mother wasn’t considered a suitable topic of conversation.

  Lunch was soon ready and Neil sat down to a colourful mess of sandwiches, crisps, jelly, ice-cream and an iced sponge cake to celebrate Carly’s birthday. He was starving, but he only ate a sliced ham sandwich and a small piece of cake for the sake of politeness. No one noticed. The boys wolfed down the sugar-laden concoctions with glee, and Eric and Laura ate sandwich after sandwich before moving on to the cake. It was like feeding time at the zoo.

  When the table was bare, Eric lit a cigarette and the boys returned to the garden. Neil wished he could join them.

  “Carly would have loved this, wouldn’t she?” Laura said. “She loved birthdays and parties.”

  “Yes.” Neil nodded and smiled, as was expected.

  “I’ll tell you summat,” Eric said. “If that bastard Kaminski ever gets out of jail, he’ll wish he bloody hadn’t.”

  “Too right he will,” Laura chipped in. “I saw his mother a couple of weeks back. Do you know what? She only tried to speak to me. I soon showed her what I thought of her. If she was on fire, I wouldn’t bloody piss on her.”

  Eric cackled with laughter.

  Neil could stand no more. “It’s time we were off. It’s a long drive and I don’t want the boys to be late home. Thank you for lunch and for everything. It’s been lovely. We must see each other more often.”

  “We must,” Laura said eagerly. “Me and Eric could get the train up. Stay with you for a few days.”

  “That would be great.” He hoped his horror didn’t show. “We’ll fix something up. As soon as I can get some free days, we’ll arrange something.”

  “Before you race off, I’ve got something for you. Can’t have you being the only one not to have a present to open, can we?” Laura waddled off and returned clutching a parcel wrapped in pink paper. “Here.”

  “Thank you.”

  Guessing what was inside, he pulled off the paper. He was right. Carly, at least he assumed it was Carly, looked back at him from a cheap plastic frame.

  “Thank you,” he said again. “I’ll treasure it.”

  “That was her on her first birthday.” Laura spoke with pride. “I hunted through the box of snaps and as soon as I saw it, I knew you’d like it. There’s a bloke on the market who enlarges them. You take him a photo and, a couple of days later, you collect something like this. It’s good, isn’t it?”

  “It’s excellent. Very clever. Thank you, both.”

  Twenty minutes later, he was driving off and welcoming the relief as the tension gradually ebbed away.

  The boys sat in the back, laughing and giggling. From the passenger seat, Carly’s face stared up at him. He turned the frame over, putting her facedown, and headed for the motorway.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Dylan pulled into Tesco’s car park, switched off the engine and made a mental note to book a service for the Morgan. It was sprinting up and down motorways too much for his liking and, although it hadn’t missed so much as a beat, there was no point in feeling smug or pushing his luck.

  He grabbed his phone and punched in his home number. Bev answered on the second ring.

  “Everything okay?” he asked.

  “It’s fine. Where are you?”

  “Dawson’s Clough. I’ve just arrived.”

  They spoke for a couple of minutes, just long enough to put Dylan’s mind at rest. Luke was at school, Freya was chortling in the background and Bev sounded cheerful enough. All was well with his world.

  When he ended the call, he went into the store, grabbed a coffee and wondered what to do for the best. He couldn’t decide whether to phone Tinsley or call at the veterinary surgery and hope he was available for a quick chat.

  Other than that, he wasn’t sure which direction to take. Leads, or even hunches, were distinctly lacking right now. He uncovered a lie at every turn, but as yet he hadn’t found a single thing that might prove Kaminski’s innocence. He had to hope that, as unlikely as it sounded, Tinsley had something worthwhile to tell him.

  There was no point in alienating Tinsley. Dylan would call at the surgery, apologise profusely yet again, and ask if they could meet during Tinsley’s lunch break or later in the evening.

  Moor Lane Veterinary Practice was an impressive double-fronted, three-storey building in the middle of Cooper Road. A sign pointed to a small car park at the rear, but Dylan parked on the road in front of the building. After a quick look to make sure there weren’t any No Parking signs or traffic wardens about, he went inside.

  The reception room was large, light and airy, and the walls were dotted with pictures of giant-sized fleas and instructions on how often pets should be wormed. Three young women sat behind a curving counter using state-of-the-art computers that told how well the practice was doing. Behind them were shelves stacked with pills and potions, pet carriers, expensive collars, dog coats and anything else the pampered pet might require.

  “Can I help you?”

  Dylan turned his best smile on the receptionist. “Sorry to bother you. I’m actually hoping for a word with Jamie. Jamie Tinsley. Is he here?”

  “He is, but he’s with a client at the moment. If you’d like to take a seat, I’ll tell him you’re here when he’s free. What name is it?”

  “Dylan Scott.”

  “As in Thomas?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Dylan Thomas?”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, that’s right.”

  As he sat to wait, he considered giving the girl a medal. Everyone else asked if he was Dylan as in Bob Dylan. He couldn’t remember anyone mentioning Dylan Thomas.

  Whenever he asked his mother why she couldn’t have called him John or Peter instead of naming him after her favourite singer-songwriter, she just laughed. “I had a soft spot for Engelbert Humperdinck too. Count your blessings, love.”

  She had a point. Not an excuse, a point.

  The large clock ticked on until a woman carrying a caged cat emerged from one of the side doors.

  The receptionist picked up the phone, tapped in a number and said, “There’s a Dylan Scott to see you, Jamie.”

  She ended the call and didn’t even glance in Dylan’s direction. He was about to enquire when that door opened again and Jamie, clad in a green overall, appeared.

  “Dylan. Come on through.”

  Dylan followed him along a corridor, past a couple more doors, and into a small examination room.

  Jamie stood behind a rubber covered table. “What can I do for you?”

  “I came to apologise again for missing our appointment. I’m so sorry, but my daughter was rushed into hospital and I had to dash down to London. In the panic, it went right out of my head.”

  Jamie nodded, a sign perhaps that he accepted Dylan’s apology. Anyone else would have asked after Freya’s health. Not Tinsley.

  “I wondered if you had a couple of minutes spare,” Dylan said.

  “Sorry, this is a busy time and I need to leave soon to go on my rounds.”

  “I understand that. You said you have something to tell me about Aleksander Kaminski?”

  Tinsley gave a short humourless laugh. “I can tell you he’s guilty. If you knew him, really knew him, you’d realise that. You’re wasting your time. You’re also giving Sue false hope and that’s unforgivable.”

  “So you don’t know anything about the murder of Carly Walsingham?”

  Behind the glasses, Tinsley blinked several times. “I know for a fact that Aleksander Kaminski is guilty. Justice has been done. Leave it alone.”

  “You know for a fact?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you more than that. I thought perhaps I could, but I can’t. And now, if you’ll excuse me—”

  “Yes, of course.” Dylan walked out of the surgery and back to his car deep in thought. As crazy as it sounded, he’d got the impression back there
that Tinsley did know something. What the hell could that be?

  He’d assumed that Tinsley was determined to convince him of Kaminski’s guilt simply because he wanted Sue for himself and liked the idea of Kaminski being behind bars for a good number of years. He should have remembered his own mantra, Never Assume. Perhaps Tinsley knew exactly who the killer was.

  He put the Morgan in gear and drove to his hotel. It was time to make peace with the staff. He pulled into the hotel’s car park and grabbed his bags.

  If anyone asked, he’d tell them he loathed hotel life. It had its plus points, though, the main one being the breakfasts. What could be better than waking to sizzling bacon, hot sausages, and eggs fried to perfection?

  As a teenager, he’d vowed that when he was old enough to leave home and his mother’s hopeless attempts to throw a few seeds in a bowl, he wouldn’t get involved with any woman unless she could cook. In the event, of course, he’d ended up with Bev, and her talents ended at stacking an Asda trolley.

  “Hi,” he greeted the girl on the reception desk. He didn’t recognise her and he thought he knew all the staff. “I’m Dylan Scott. I’ve been staying here but had to rush off on Wednesday.”

  “Ah, yes.” She reached for a key card. “We received your message. Here. Your room’s all ready for you.”

  “The same room?”

  “Yes.”

  “Excellent. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Have a nice day.”

  Dylan would settle for a fruitful day. A useful day. “Thanks. You too.”

  He took the lift to his room, threw his bags on the bed to unpack later and decided to spend an hour looking through those CCTV images again. But first he tried Neil Walsingham’s mobile.

  Much to his surprise, it was answered almost immediately. “Dylan? Hello, how are you? What can I do for you?”

  The doctor was a good actor. Dylan must be the last person he wanted to hear from, yet his effusive greeting was almost convincing. Almost.

  “Hello, Neil. I’m good, thanks. I was wondering if I could have a chat with you. There are just a couple of points I need clearing up and it would be easier face to face than over the phone.”