Dead Silent (A Dylan Scott Mystery)
Page 1
Dead Silent
By Shirley Wells
Ten months ago, Samantha Hunt set off for work…and was never seen again.
Despite the statistics of cold cases, Dylan Scott wants to believe the young woman’s alive—and not just because her father, his client, is desperate to find his missing daughter before he dies of cancer. By all accounts Sam was a lovely girl, devoted to her younger stepsisters, well-liked at her work, in love with her boyfriend.
But as usual not everything is as it seems in sleepy Dawson’s Clough. Sam’s boyfriend has a violent past. She may have been having an affair with her boss. And Dylan can’t shake the feeling that her stepfather is hiding something. Meanwhile, someone is trying to scare Dylan off the case.
Who wanted to silence Sam, and why? The truth turns out to be worse than anyone expected…
Dear Reader,
I feel as though it was just last week I was attending 2010 conferences and telling authors and readers who were wondering what was next for Carina Press, “we’ve only been publishing books for four months, give us time” and now, here it is, a year later. Carina Press has been bringing you quality romance, mystery, science fiction, fantasy and more for over twelve months. This just boggles my mind.
But though we’re celebrating our one-year anniversary (with champagne and chocolate, of course) we’re not slowing down. Every week brings something new for us, and we continue to look for ways to grow, expand and improve. This summer, we’ll continue to bring you new genres, new authors and new niches—and we plan to publish the unexpected for years to come.
So whether you’re reading this in the middle of a summer heat wave, looking to escape from the hot summer nights and sultry afternoons, or whether you’re reading this in the dead of winter, searching for a respite from the cold, months after I’ve written it, you can be assured that our promise to take you on new adventures, bring you great stories and discover new talent remains the same.
We love to hear from readers, and you can email us your thoughts, comments and questions to generalinquiries@carinapress.com. You can also interact with Carina Press staff and authors on our blog, Twitter stream and Facebook fan page.
Happy reading!
~Angela James
Executive Editor, Carina Press
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Dedication
To my partners in crime.
(You know who you are.)
Acknowledgements
Many people helped make this book possible.
Thanks must go to family and friends for their unfailing support, and to the amazing team at Carina Press, especially my awesome editor, Deborah Nemeth, for taking this story and making it so much better.
The biggest acknowledgment of all goes to my husband who is my sounding board, critic, first reader, best friend and bringer of chocolate and whisky. Thank you!
Contents
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
About the Author
Chapter One
Dylan didn’t believe in spirits, vampires or zombies, but if the undead were stalking the planet, they couldn’t feel any worse than he did right now. He’d only managed a couple of hours’ sleep and his eyes felt like gravel pits. The motorways had been stop-start because of roadworks, and later a collision, so he’d spent six hours in his car.
He was awake enough to know that a black Jeep had been tailing him for the last ten miles though.
He left the motorway and drove down into Rawtenstall, where a Tesco superstore loomed on his right. He turned in to the car park and checked his rearview mirror. Sure enough, the Jeep followed.
Dylan parked his Morgan as near to the store’s entrance as he could. It was bliss to get out and stretch his stiff muscles.
God knows what was happening with the weather. An ominously dark sky glowered at him. The air was heavy with moisture and it was as hot as hell.
He ambled slowly toward the store’s entrance and stood for a moment to gaze at the window, where he saw the reflection of a tall, well-muscled man wearing a white T-shirt and ill-fitting black jeans.
Dylan strolled into the store and stopped to look at the newspapers’ front pages. He walked on, past the café where the smell of roast beef made him salivate, and to the door marked Customer Toilets.
No one else was in the Gents, and he stood behind the door, muscles tensed. God, he could do without this.
Moments later, the door opened to give him a brief glimpse of black jeans and white T-shirt. It was enough. He lunged at the figure and slammed him against the white tiles. “Right, Sunshine, what’s your game?”
“Hey, steady on. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He spoke with a local accent.
“I’m sure you do. Out with it.”
Dylan released his grip slightly. Big mistake. The lump of muscle landed a punch that had blood spurting from Dylan’s mouth.
“I’ve got a message for you, mate. Stay away from Dawson’s Clough. Stay. Away. Got that?”
Dylan spat out some blood. “Says who?”
“Says me. Crawl back to where you came from, okay? If you’re seen round here again, you won’t be walking away.”
Dylan was about to argue when a fist flew into his face. A punch in the ribs had him dropping to his knees. A kick in the stomach followed.
He managed to twist away from the boot that was aiming for his teeth by falling back and hitting his skull on the hard tiled floor. His head screamed in pain before the silent blackness wrapped around him like a blanket. He welcomed it. Sank into it willingly.
Chapter Two
“Christ, you look like crap, mate.”
“As good as that, eh?” Dylan shared an awkward embrace with Frank, ex-D.C.I. Willoughby, the man who had once been his boss and who had since become a good friend. “You reckon I’ll survive then?”
“What happened?”
Dylan nodded at the pub. “Let’s go inside, shall we? And I’m sorry I’m late.”
“What happened?” Frank asked again as they crossed the car park to the pub.
“I ran into a spot of bother on the way here.”
“What sort of bother?”
Dylan pushed open the door and
headed for the nearest table and chairs. Sitting was slightly less painful than standing, he’d discovered. “Some bastard tailed me along the M66. We met up at Tesco’s and had a bit of a disagreement.”
“About what?”
Dylan wasn’t entirely sure. He’d been warned away from the area, but not from any specific person. “He said I was to keep away from Dawson’s Clough. Threatened me with broken kneecaps if I went poking my nose where it wasn’t wanted.”
“Bloody hell, Dylan.”
That about summed it up.
When he’d regained consciousness, he’d been lying beneath the washbasins. He’d struggled to his feet and leaned against the cool tiles for a good five minutes until the dizziness subsided.
It was impossible to tell if any ribs were broken, but a quick and very gentle exploration with his tongue reassured him that no teeth were missing. His lip was bleeding badly though and he had to wash his face in cold water several times.
Did he have the registration plate of that Jeep? Did he hell. RW. He was sure there was a RW in the registration.
He left the supermarket with his hair sticking up everywhere—not that he could entirely blame that on the lump of muscle—his lip swelling to the size of a small country, his ribs screaming in agony, and his shirt spattered with blood.
He’d had better days.
After checking in at his hotel, he’d washed his mouth yet again and changed his bloodstained shirt. He knew he still looked a mess.
“So what are you going to do?” Frank asked.
“Avoid big ugly brutes in black Jeeps.” Dylan was going to do what he’d come to Lancashire for, and that was look into the disappearance of a young woman, one Samantha Hunt. “Perhaps he got the wrong bloke. Why the hell would anyone want me warned off? More to the point, how would anyone know I was here?”
“Search me.” Frank scratched his head. “Unless Rob’s told people. I know he’s grown friendly with one of the local reporters. You can’t blame him for that as he wants people to know Sam’s still missing.”
“Christ, Frank.” When they’d spoken on the phone, Dylan had specifically asked Rob Hunt not to announce his involvement. “If he’s told some bloody reporter, I won’t be going anywhere incognito, will I? It won’t make the job easy.”
Dylan would think better on a full stomach. “Let’s get something to eat. I’m starving.”
They’d chosen to meet at the Mill, a pub on the outskirts of Dawson’s Clough that offered a menu of traditional English food. Dylan’s breakfast had been a mug of strong coffee, and the aroma coming from the dining room was delicious. If his mouth hadn’t been throbbing like something from a Tom and Jerry cartoon, it might even have watered.
Their table overlooked a lake at the rear of the pub. A chevron of ducks flew in to land with a splash. The sun peeped out from heavy dark clouds to glint on the water as the ducks splashed.
The hills swept down to the valley and the town. From above, Dawson’s Clough looked to be a haphazard sprinkling of old townhouses and tall chimneys that served as a reminder of the town’s once-thriving cotton industry. The mills had long been silent. Some had been abandoned to the elements, others had been redeveloped to offer luxury accommodation.
Several people had chosen to sit at tables outside and were being mobbed by greedy, squawking ducks. It was as noisy inside until a mother grabbed her two shrieking children and ushered them out to the small play area.
“Never mind my problems,” Dylan said. “How are you, Frank? You look pretty good.”
Frank looked in great shape. No one would have guessed that, since his heart attack, he spent half his life attending hospital appointments and the other half concentrating on his diet.
“I’m fighting fit.”
Fit but lonely, Dylan guessed. Frank had divorced three wives and was then forced to retire from the job he loved because of ill health. He had too much time on his hands.
Dylan knew what that was like. After a spell in prison, he too had spent months being totally aimless. He’d felt like a waste of space.
He pushed the thought aside and studied the menu. He needed a decent-sized steak and chips. By the time Frank had decided on a chicken salad, the waitress was there to take their order.
“So how does it feel to be back in Lancashire?” Frank asked when they were alone again.
“Bloody painful.” Dylan dabbed at his lip to check that it wasn’t bleeding. “And it feels a long way from home.” Strangely, it had been good to see landmarks that had become familiar to him. Dawson’s Clough was a typical northern town that would struggle to find its way into a tourist brochure, yet, thanks to the sweeping Pennines that surrounded it, it had a beauty of its own. “It’s good really.”
It was thanks to Frank that he was in the county. Frank had given his contact details to his friend, Rob Hunt, and Dylan, reluctant at first, had agreed to look into the disappearance of Hunt’s daughter.
He’d thought getting registered as a private investigator was a good idea, but he had no real enthusiasm for the job. Other than some matrimonial work, which had to be the dullest pastime ever, he’d had one missing-person case. Thanks to his success—or luck—with that, he now had a second case.
On hearing it meant returning to Lancashire, he would have turned it down, not because he had anything against the place, but because it was over two hundred miles from his home, his wife and his son. Hunt had opted for the emotional blackmail card, though. He’d told Dylan he’d been diagnosed with terminal lung cancer and Dylan, probably foolishly, had let his heart rule his head and accepted the job.
“I don’t go much on the weather, though,” Dylan said. “It’s like a bloody sauna out there.”
“Too true. It’s too hot to sleep. Too hot to do anything. Still, a good thunderstorm will sort it.”
“Let’s hope so.”
“How’s Bev, by the way?” Frank asked.
“Fine.” Dylan expelled his breath. “Well, as fine as she ever is.”
“You’re still in that flat then?”
Give Bev her due, when she threw a tantrum, it was a damned impressive one. Most women would sulk for a couple of days. Bev had thrown him out, found him the smallest flat in the land—“She’s making noises about us living together again, just to see how it goes, and I know it’s only a matter of time before I’m back home, but yeah, I’m still in that sodding flat.”
That was another reason he’d felt obliged to look into the disappearance of Hunt’s daughter. He was paying the mortgage on the marital home, rent on the pocket-sized broom cupboard his bastard of a landlord insisted on calling a studio apartment, as well as maintenance on two cars. He had no idea where Bev’s salary was going, but he was broke.
“Can’t you just apologise to her?” Frank asked.
“Apologise for what? Being a drunkard and a loser? That’s why she threw me out. A drunkard and a bloody loser, she called me.”
Frank tried to hide his smile. And failed. “I expect it was difficult for her. You ending up on an assault charge, I mean.”
“It wasn’t a picnic for me.”
“True. But at least you understand the politics behind it all. Today, you’d be hailed a hero for taking a known thug off the streets.”
Infuriating to know that Frank was right. The force had been having one of its cleanup sessions to show the public that complaints about their officers were taken seriously. There was no use worrying about it now though. Dylan had served his sentence and lost his job, and Bev had thrown her strop.
“If you ask me, Bev reads too many magazines filled with articles about women intent on finding themselves. Whatever that means. Or she spends too much time with my crank of a mother.” He smiled as much as his lip would allow. “Bev flits from one idea to another and she’s busy applying for jobs at the moment. The headmaster where she teaches is quite young so his job won’t be coming vacant for a while. She wants a head’s job so says she’ll move out of London if necessary.
It’s just a funny phase she’s going through, that’s all. She’ll soon come round.”
Women, and Bev in particular, were a mystery to Dylan and he refused to dwell on his marital problems.
“I hope you’re right,” Frank said.
Of course he was right. “It’ll serve her right if they offer her a job in the Outer bloody Hebrides.”
Their food was brought to the table and Dylan tucked in. His steak, medium rare, was exquisite, but it was difficult eating with a lip that hit the fork ten seconds before the rest of his mouth.
“What about this bloke who split your lip?” Frank asked. “Would you recognise him again?”
“Too right I would. About six feet two. Tall. All muscle. Ex-copper or army perhaps. About my age. Dark hair. Yes, I’d recognise him.”