Silent Witness (A Dylan Scott Mystery)

by Wells, Shirley

  Grinning, Luke skipped off to his friends.

  Dylan’s spirits sank.

  “What holiday?” And more important. “My mother’s not involved, is she?”

  “Of course not,” Bev replied in an airy what-a-ridiculous-suggestion sort of way. “She’s coming with us, though. That’s a good thing, isn’t it? It means we’ll be able to go out for the evening without worrying about Luke and Freya.”

  Dylan would never describe his mother’s presence as a good thing.

  “And I haven’t booked it yet,” she added. “Obviously, I wanted to talk it over with you first.”

  Obviously.

  “So where are you thinking of dragging me?”

  Dylan watched her take a long breath before saying, “On a cruise.”

  Dylan knew one thing about cruises and one thing only. They were hellish expensive.

  When you’d just banked a cheque that only covered a month’s expenses, you couldn’t go booking expensive cruises.

  “Where to?”

  “Norway.”

  Perhaps it wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. No one would want to cruise round Norway so it would be cheap. People cruised the Mediterranean or—

  “In November,” she added.

  Even better. She’d obviously spared their finances a thought and found a bargain holiday.

  Cheap or not, it couldn’t be classed a holiday. A holiday was something you looked forward to, and shivering in Norway would be more penance than treat.

  “Bev, your idea of a holiday is reading as many books as possible while slowly roasting until you’re medium rare. Norway is—cold. It’ll be cheap, yes, but we’d have no fun at all shivering on a boat round Norway. Let’s look for something else. There are sure to be cheap offers for Spain, Italy or Greece.”

  She busied herself putting baking trays in the cupboard.

  “It was when I booked a week in Spain that I saw this cruise,” she said, and he still couldn’t see her face.

  “So we’re having a week in Spain then—”

  “Ten days.”

  “Ten days in Spain then a cruise round Norway?”

  She slammed the cupboard door shut and faced him. “You dare utter one word about money not growing on sodding trees and I won’t be responsible for my actions. I’ve had a baby, a sick baby, and life’s been hard. It’s all right for you swanning around bloody Lancashire, but it’s been hard work here. So yes, we’re having ten days in Spain in August and a cruise in November.”

  Before he could say anything, she stormed into the hall and returned with a thick brochure that she banged down on the table in front of him.

  Freya, blissfully unaware of her mother’s temper, slept on.

  “Holy—” He clamped his mouth shut, but bloody hell. “So when you say Norway, you really mean the Arctic Circle.”

  “No. I mean Norway. The cruise starts and ends in Norway. You do travel north, yes.”

  The brochure enticed people to book for the cruise of a lifetime, to celebrate the Northern Lights Festival. Hell, you could even arrange a wakeup call as soon as the aurora borealis was spotted.

  “My mother put this notion in your head, didn’t she?”

  “It’s not a notion, Dylan.” The words were forced through gritted teeth. “I want to see the northern lights. That shouldn’t be too difficult to understand, even for you. Vicky, Luke, Freya and I are going on the cruise. You can stay here and be a miserable git if you so choose.”

  “Hang on a minute, I thought we were going to talk it over?”

  “And that’s exactly what we are doing. But I’ve paid the deposit.”

  Dylan turned pages that were dotted with photos of spectacular scenery beneath green swirling skies. He came to a page showing available dates, choice of cabins and suchlike. It was supposed to show prices but—surely not. No one in their right mind would pay over two grand for a week on a blasted boat in the frozen north. Not even Bev would be so stupid. His mother might, but not Bev.

  The doorbell rang and there followed a flurry of activity for the next hour or so as parents came to collect their offspring and stopped to admire the still-sleeping Freya.

  Having shown off his beautiful daughter, Dylan thought he could safely put her in room to sleep undisturbed.

  “A daughter is a very precious thing,” he whispered as he tucked her in, “but I hope to God you grow up with more sense than the rest of your breed.”

  He dropped a kiss on her unconcerned forehead and walked downstairs in time to hear Bev on the phone to someone.

  “Here he is,” she said when Dylan walked into the kitchen.

  She put her hand over the microphone and whispered, “It’s Lewis Cameron.”

  He took the phone from her. “Hi, Lewis. How are things in Lancashire?”

  “Pretty much as you might imagine.”

  Yes, Dylan could see how the local media might enjoy slagging off the inefficiency of the police. Reporters had kept Dylan’s own phone busy.

  “I’m ringing,” Lewis said, “because I’m getting a little tired of seeing your quotes splashed all over the papers. You chose to come up to Lancashire and interfere, that’s fine. But don’t presume that you have any idea of how my team conducted the initial investigation. And don’t you dare say that I rushed through the case because I was eager to retire.”

  “I never said anything about the investigation being rushed.”

  “It’s splashed all over today’s papers. How do you explain that?”

  Dylan couldn’t. “You know as well as I do that journalists have to twist things.”

  “Ah, so you didn’t say that our investigation, my investigation was third-rate?”

  “Ah.”

  “Quite. In future, if you have any views about things of which you’re ignorant, I for one would be grateful if you’d keep them to yourself.”

  “Fine.”

  “You have no idea—”

  “I know that an innocent man faced a life sentence in Strangeways.” Dylan didn’t add “because of your inefficiency” but it hung in the air between them. “Look, Lewis, I’m sorry for all the crap that’s being printed in the papers, but I can’t apologise for seeing justice done.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to, but don’t ever—ever—call my work third-rate. Just take a long hard look at yourself. You’re an ex-con. Someone judged not fit to be a member of the police force. Look at yourself before you judge other people.”

  Dylan rolled his eyes in Bev’s direction.

  “Fine,” he said. “Was there anything else you wanted, Lewis?”

  “Nothing.” The connection was cut.

  “What was that about?” Bev asked.

  “Ex-DI Cameron wanted to remind me that I’m an ex-con who’s not fit to lick his boots. He’d rather have watched Kaminski rot in jail than have his investigation called into question.” Dylan couldn’t care less. In fact, he felt a certain degree of satisfaction at the idea and couldn’t help smiling. “Never mind. I think I’ll have another drink.”

  Bev, furious on Dylan’s behalf, was prevented from giving vent to her thoughts by the arrival of Luke.

  “When we do Freya’s room—” he said, only to receive a warning glance from Bev.

  Dylan shook his head in despair. It was far, far easier to solve a murder case than it was to live in this house.

  The thought brought Jamie Tinsley to mind. The vet’s face was on every news bulletin but police still hadn’t traced him. He’d achieved the impossible and vanished off the face of the earth. Dylan almost envied him.

  “So we’re decorating Freya’s room, are we?” he said. “Well, I don’t like to say I told you so, but I knew those yellow elephants would have to go.”

  Luke grinned. “Bye, bye, yellow elephants. Hello, big new room in the roof.”

  Bev gave him another warning glance.

  Luke sampled Bev’s cake, hot out of the oven. He chatted about football—the boring close season was upon them—an
d school—too boring to believe—and then decided he’d go to his bed and chill with his music before sleep.

  Bev switched on the small portable TV in the kitchen, a sure sign she didn’t want to talk. That was worrying in itself.

  “What plans for Freya’s bedroom then?” he asked.

  “Hmm? Oh nothing, really. I’ve had some plans drawn up, that’s all.”

  “Plans? It’s a twelve by twelve room with a window. What do you need plans for?”

  “Well.” She thought for a moment. “Your mum’s a regular babysitter and it’s not fair to expect her to sleep in Freya’s bedroom, is it? So, I thought we’d knock Freya’s room and the bathroom into one. That way we’d have a nice big bathroom instead of the pokey thing we have now. We could then have a loft conversion and have two rooms up there, one for Freya and one for your mum.”

  Dylan, who’d been thinking along the lines of choosing paint or wallpaper, despaired. Bev taught English and Drama and she put too much effort into the drama side of life outside school. He’d be eternally thankful when her maternity leave ended and she got back to her pupils. She’d have less time to think.

  “I had plans drawn up and got a few quotes, that’s all,” she said.

  “Are any of those quotes under ten grand?” he asked.

  “Dylan, don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Are any under twenty grand?”

  “One was.” She concentrated all her attention on the TV. Chefs were showing viewers how to dish up some exotic concoction which would be of no interest to Bev whatsoever.

  Dylan supposed he’d hate a boring life. He didn’t know, he’d never had experience of such a thing, but the idea didn’t appeal.

  His wife was busy making plans that included him and his children, his son was happily listening to his music and dreaming of the giddy heights Arsenal FC would achieve next season, his daughter was contentedly dreaming of yellow elephants, and his mother was in her own home on the other side of the city. Life wasn’t bad at all.

  Bev spun around and, seeing him looking at her, glared at him. “What?”

  “I was just thinking I’d better put my coat on, head out to the streets and see if I can sell my body.”

  Bev looked him up and down and a smile tried to work its way to her lips. “It might work. I’d give you a couple of quid.”

  “You would?”

  “Yes.” She gave him a long appraising look, then walked over to sit on his knee and put her arm round his neck. “I’d want enough change for a coffee though.”

  The cookery programme ended and a newsreader began updating viewers on the latest headlines. Dylan wasn’t paying attention.

  If Bev was coming clean about her expensive plans, maybe he should tell her about the revised account he’d given the Kaminskis. But, no. There was little point. All he wanted was a quiet life.

  “Fifty pence and my body’s all yours,” he said, holding out his hand.

  She went to her purse, grabbed a fifty-pence piece and dropped it into his hand. “You always were cheap.”

  She grabbed his hand and led him up the stairs, leaving the newsreader to talk to the empty kitchen.

  “A body, believed to be that of James Tinsley, a man wanted by Lancashire CID in connection with the murder of his father, Victor Tinsley, has been found at Coniston Water. Police are not treating the death as suspicious.”

  For further adventures with our stalwart sleuth, check out the first two Dylan Scott mysteries, available now.

  Presumed Dead

  Dylan Scott has problems. Dismissed from the police force for assaulting a suspect, he has no job, his wife has thrown him out and—worse luck—his mother has moved in. So when Holly Champion begs him to investigate her mother’s disappearance from the dreary Lancashire town of Dawson’s Clough, he can’t say no. Dylan’s inquiries turn up plenty of potential suspects—and he soon finds that one sleepy town can keep a lot of secrets.

  Dead Silent

  Ten months ago, Samantha Hunt set off for work…and was never seen again. Dylan Scott wants to believe the young woman’s alive—and her father, his client, is desperate to find his missing daughter before he dies of cancer. But as usual not everything is as it seems in sleepy Dawson’s Clough.

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  About the Author

  Shirley was born and raised in the Cotswolds, where her headmaster wrote on her school report—Shirley is content to dream her life away.

  Years later—as an adult living in Cyprus—it dawned on her that this wasn’t necessarily a bad thing and that fellow dreamers, in the guise of fiction writers, had been getting away with it for centuries.

  A move to the Orkney island of Hoy followed and, during the twelve years she spent there, she wrote short stories as well as full-length romantic fiction for UK women’s magazines.

  She’s now settled in Lancashire, where the Pennines provide the inspiration and setting for her popular mystery novels. She and her husband share their home with an ever-changing selection of deranged pets, who often insist on cameo roles in Shirley’s novels.

  When she isn’t writing, Shirley loves reading (anything and everything), listening to live music, watching TV, eating chocolate and drinking whisky—though not necessarily at the same time. She’s also a season ticket holder at Burnley Football Club and can often be seen in the biting wind and pouring rain cheering on her favourite team.

  And she’s still content to dream her life away.

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  ISBN: 978-1-4268-9334-6

  Copyright © 2012 by Shirley Wells

  All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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