Dead Silent (A Dylan Scott Mystery)

by Wells, Shirley

  “Ah. Well, it’s none of my business, I’m sure.”

  Damn it. Dylan and his mother both shared the same knack of making her feel guilty.

  “Dylan stayed here last night,” she said, and her mother-in-law nodded.

  “I assumed he had.”

  No questions were asked and for that Bev was grateful. She made the tea and put Vicky’s cup in front of her. “Do you want a slice of cake? Orange drizzle?”

  “That sounds good. Thanks.”

  It was easy for Bev to ooh and aah over cake, and make small talk, but impossible to forget the mess she was in.

  “Those flowers are gorgeous,” Vicky said.

  It was too much to hope that Vicky hadn’t noticed them. Or guessed who they were from.

  “Yes.”

  “It must be nice to know someone’s thinking of you when he’s a long way from home.”

  “We had too much wine,” Bev said. “That’s why Dylan stayed here. We—slept on the sofa.”

  There was no need to tell Vicky that she’d dragged Dylan to bed. Nor was there any need to tell her how good it had been.

  That was the problem, of course. Half of her, the stupid half that refused to listen to the sensible part of her brain, still loved him.

  “He’s changed, love,” Vicky said.

  “In what way?”

  “Lots of ways. I know he’s been—difficult.”

  “Difficult?” Bev laughed at the understatement. “He’s been impossible. Night after night—you can’t imagine what it was like to come home after a long day at work and listen to all his woes. Then, when he’d depressed the hell out of me, he’d get drunk and maudlin and—oh, downright unbearable.”

  Bev knew what was coming. Vicky would tell her—again—how difficult it had been for Dylan. How the shock of finding himself on an assault charge, winding up in prison and then losing his job had affected him. She’d remind Bev that Dylan had longed to join the police force almost from the moment he was born.

  “He felt useless and redundant,” Vicky said. “He worships you and Luke and he felt as if he’d let you both down.”

  “But I told him time and time again that we were right behind him. God, Vicky, I knew that piece of scum he arrested deserved everything he got. I knew it was wrong that he wound up in prison. I kept telling him he was the same man I married. Nothing made an iota of difference.”

  It was a trap Bev had no intention of falling into again. While Dylan was spending time in Lancashire, meaning they only saw each other briefly at weekends, it was easy to think they could get back together and everything would be great. Experience had taught her otherwise. She’d been there, done that and burned the T-shirt.

  “He’s changed,” Vicky insisted. “He’s more like his old self again. I think, although he probably wouldn’t admit it, that he’s enjoying his work every bit as much as he did when he was on the force. You know what he’s like, love. He likes to be in control. Now he can do the job his way. He doesn’t have to follow a rulebook.”

  Bev wasn’t convinced. She knew what Vicky meant, but she also knew it could be a novelty thing. Once that wore off, he’d probably revert to his depressed and depressing self. Besides, she was still enjoying life. These days, when she saw so little of him, she could enjoy his company. She’d certainly enjoyed it last night.

  “We’ll see,” she said. “Anyway, never mind me and Dylan. How are you? Did you have a good weekend with Luke?”

  “Yes, and that reminds me. I was thinking about the summer holidays.”

  “Oh?” Bev knew she sounded wary, but she couldn’t help it. There would be no mention of a fortnight in Tenerife.

  “I’ve found this great place—” Beaming with childlike delight, Vicky delved inside her cavernous leather bag and pulled out a brochure. When she’d found the page she wanted, she slapped it down on the table. “Camel trekking in the Sahara. How does that sound?”

  If there were words to describe how it sounded, Bev had never stumbled across them.

  “It’s not all camel riding,” Vicky explained. “You drive some of the way. But just imagine trekking across the desert on a camel. The photos are amazing.”

  The brochure showed artistic photos of camels. And sand. And more camels.

  “How many five-star hotels with twenty-four-hour room service are there in the desert, Vicky?”

  Her mother-in-law laughed at that. “Who needs room service?”

  “Me.”

  “Nonsense. A holiday is supposed to be something special, an adventure, something to look back on in your old age. Just imagine sleeping under the stars in the desert.” She prodded the brochure. “You get a guide and everything. They don’t just let you loose with a camel and a map.”

  “There’s a relief.”

  “Doesn’t it sound fun? I haven’t mentioned it to Dylan, you know what a stick-in-the-mud he is when it comes to holidays, but I think it would be great. All four of us could go. We’d have a marvellous time, wouldn’t we?”

  Bev looked from the camels to Vicky. “Do you know what Dylan said to me on our first date?”

  “What was that, love?”

  “He said ‘I’m perfectly normal but my mother’s as mad as a box of frogs.’ I thought he was joking.” She spluttered with laughter. “My God, Vicky, he’s right. You are.”

  “Ah, but I’m not sleeping hundreds of miles away from the man I love.” Vicky returned the brochure to her bag. “I’ve sent off for more information so we’ll talk about it then, shall we? Now then, let’s have another piece of that cake.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  It took a moment for James Carlton to remember where he’d seen the yellow Morgan before and, when he did, irritation tensed his muscles. He disliked Dylan Scott as much as he disliked all the probing questions. However, if there was the slightest chance of seeing Carlton’s Classics on TV, he had to impress.

  It was almost seven and Kerry had gone home over an hour ago. James was alone.

  He stood his ground, king of his glass showroom, and smiled a greeting. “Hello. Dylan Scott, isn’t it?”

  “You’ve got a good memory.” Scott’s gaze rested on the highly polished Ferraris.

  “What can I do for you?” James asked.

  “I’d like another word, if I may.”

  “I’m about to lock up for the evening, but I can spare a couple of minutes. Naturally, I want to help. Have a seat.” James sat behind the smoke-grey glass desk and spoke briskly. “So what can I do for you?”

  “As you might imagine, I’ve got my boss breathing down my neck. He’s a right bastard, believe me. If you promise him something, you make sure you deliver. It’s more than my life’s worth not to find Sam Hunt.” Scott had a jovial way of speaking that irritated. “What I’d like is for you to tell me about your relationship with her.”

  “I’ve already told you. She was an employee. A good one. Hardworking. She worked for me, I paid her. End of.”

  “Look, James, we’re both men of the world. She was an attractive girl—”

  “Whenever I saw her, she was wearing overalls and a baseball cap.” Not strictly true but it was none of Scott’s business. “I don’t know about you, but I’m more a stockings, suspenders and high-heels sort of bloke.”

  “Name me a man who isn’t? But I’ve been asking around, speaking to her friends, and there are rumours that you got together out of work.” Scott smiled again. “That doesn’t interest me. Live and let live, I say. But it might help if you’d give me a bit of background. How you got together—socially, I mean. Where you used to go. If anyone found out and objected to the relationship. It could just lead us to Sam.”

  Only the thought of seeing Carlton’s Classics on TV, with the accounts reflecting that glory, stopped James showing Scott the door.

  He wasn’t in the best of moods and Scott was doing nothing to improve it. James had had a row with Sarah over breakfast, and he was still fuming about her presumption that all she had to do
was say “jump” and he’d dash out for a bloody pogo stick. Day in, day out, she reminded him that without her financial backing, he wouldn’t be able to “idle days away” at Carlton’s Classics. If he could afford to, which he couldn’t, he’d head straight for the blasted divorce courts.

  “Okay,” he said, “we went out for a drink a couple of times. Three times in total, I think.”

  “Where?”

  “There’s a club on Yorkshire Street, Indie Street. We went there a couple of times—just for a drink.”

  “I know the place. And the last time you saw her was?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “Come on, James. Think.” Scott tapped his fingers on the desk. “Just think. It’s in both our interests to find her. It isn’t just me, you know. You’ll make a packet with the right TV exposure.”

  James knew that. It was the only reason he was tolerating Scott.

  “Someone told me,” Scott said, “that you were together the night before she vanished.”

  A silver letter opener lay on the desk between them and James knew a sudden urge to plunge it into Scott’s body. “Really? I can’t remember.”

  “You must remember.”

  “Okay. Perhaps I did. So what?”

  “So you saw her on Thursday night and she doesn’t turn up for work the next day. That must have struck you as odd.”

  “Not at first. I assumed she was throwing a sickie.”

  “But you said she was a good worker. She doesn’t sound like the kind of girl who’d pretend to be ill to get a day off work.”

  “She knew I wouldn’t be here that day. I was at an auction in Manchester.” James was sounding snappy, but he couldn’t help himself. “If she’d turned up for work on the Monday, I’d have been none the wiser. By then, of course, she’d been reported missing and the police were here asking questions.”

  “I see.”

  Scott gazed straight at him but didn’t speak. James had trouble holding that gaze and he was reminded of children who tried to outstare each other.

  “I’m a married man.” James had to break the silence. “She had a boyfriend. Nothing happened. We had a couple of drinks together, that’s all. I have no idea where she went or what happened to her.”

  Scott drummed his fingers on the glass desk for a few moments. “I don’t suppose there’s a possibility that your wife found out?”

  “No. You can rest assured I would have heard about it if she had.”

  Scott smiled knowingly at that and, not for the first time, James wished to God he’d never heard Sam Hunt’s name mentioned. What the hell had possessed him to give her a job he would never know. He’d had doubts from the start but, stupidly, the idea of an attractive female mechanic had appealed to his sense of humour.

  There was nothing remotely amusing about Sam Hunt though. She was as big a busybody as Scott. James had to charm her, laugh off her crazy notions—

  “But what if she had found out?” Scott asked and James had to drag his mind back to the earlier question.

  “My wife? Who knows? Maybe she would have believed me when I said nothing happened.”

  “I gather her money is behind Carlton Classics?”

  Bloody hell. Was there anything this man didn’t know?

  “She invested some of her money, yes. So did I. But the business is thriving so she’s getting a good return.”

  Thriving was an exaggeration but, for the last quarter, they hadn’t made a loss. Given the current financial climate, that meant they were doing well. All they needed was TV exposure. He was about to turn the conversation toward that when Scott spoke.

  “Someone mentioned an insurance claim you were forced to make. What can you tell me about that?”

  “I can tell you it’s none of your damn business.” James wasn’t going to lose his temper, but he was close. Instead, he tried to use the same jokey manner than Dylan Scott used, as if they were all pals together. “For your information, I made two claims. After the first break-in, I upped security. After the second, I installed the state-of-the-art system you see now. It was hellish expensive, but worth every penny. This place is impregnable.”

  Scott looked up at the tiny camera in the corner of the room. Nothing else was visible but all windows and door had motion sensors—

  “What did Sam think about the insurance claims?” Dylan Scott asked.

  “What was there to think? And what the hell does it have to do with anything?”

  “I don’t know.” Scott chuckled. “I’m so desperate to find her, I’m clutching at anything. I think of those insurance claims then wonder if she thought you were acting fraudulently.”

  James managed an incredulous laugh at that. “Why would she think that?”

  “I’ve been told she saw herself as a modern-day Miss Marple.” Smiling, Scott shrugged. “She strikes me as the type to see crime in the most unlikely of places.”

  “If she did, she never mentioned it to me. I’m sure she wouldn’t have suggested having me—the business—on your TV programme if that were the case.”

  Scott nodded. “I expect you’re right.”

  “Look, Dylan, I really can’t see why Sam is the only person capable of working on your programme. There must be hundreds of more qualified, attractive young women out there. Surely you can make your boss understand that?”

  “I’ve tried, believe me. At the moment, it’s Sam or no one. Of course, if I don’t find Sam—”

  “You’ll have to find someone else. Exactly.”

  “Did you know Sam was pregnant?”

  James was picturing himself on the small screen but the question quickly brought him back to reality. “No.” He gathered himself. “Not that it has anything to do with me. Or you, come to that.”

  “It couldn’t be your child?”

  “What? Of course not.” At least he was confident on that score. If she’d been willing, which she wasn’t, he would have enjoyed a few afternoon romps with her. He would have protected himself, though. “I told you, nothing happened between us. But even if it had, it’s no business of yours.”

  “You’re right. Sorry. As I said, I’m so desperate to get the show up and running, I’m clutching at anything.”

  James was relieved to see Scott get to his feet.

  “Thanks for your time, James. I appreciate it.”

  “You’re welcome. And if you need me for your show—”

  “I’ve got your number.” Scott tore a scrap of paper from a notebook, scribbled his name and cell phone number on it, and handed it over. “Here’s mine.”

  “Thanks.”

  A couple of minutes later, the Morgan was pulling off the forecourt.

  As James headed for the coffee machine, he gazed at the scrap of paper with Scott’s name and mobile phone number scrawled across it. What sort of TV producer didn’t have professional business cards? Tosser.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Dylan longed for a bed. Any bed. It was an age since he’d hauled himself off the wonderfully comfortable marital mattress this morning for the drive to Lancashire. It was too early for sleep though. Besides, he was going to keep his eye on the nightclub, Indie Street, and see what that bouncer got up to. He’d said he was expecting payment on Wednesday night. Dylan hadn’t believed a word of it so he was going to spend his evenings getting to know all he could about the club and its bouncer.

  Even at ten o’clock, it was warm. They’d had a couple of thunderstorms but the air remained heavy with the threat of more. No wonder Brits spent all their time talking about the weather. There was more than enough to complain about.

  Sadly, there was no pub that offered a view of the club, only a rundown café offering hot drinks, burgers and very little else. Deciding it would have to suffice, Dylan went inside and ordered a coffee.

  A young couple left and he slid into a seat at the table they’d vacated. It gave him an uninterrupted view of the club’s entrance. A different bouncer manned the door this evening. He was
shorter and lighter than his colleague but he wasn’t the type you argued with. Like his chum, he opted for the shaved head look.

  A few people came and went but it appeared that Monday nights weren’t popular with clubbers in Dawson’s Clough.

  There was no sign of Dylan’s chum. If, as might be assumed, it was his night off, there was no point hanging around in this empty café.

  He downed his coffee and, just as he stood to leave, he saw him. Dressed in a tight black suit with black tie and black boots, his favourite bouncer looked as if he could be doing a shift on the door after all. Dylan stood for a moment as the bloke spoke to his colleague. They both looked up and down the street as they talked.

  Dylan’s friend went inside the club. Reluctantly, as the last had tasted like something scooped from one of the puddles in the street, Dylan ordered another coffee and retook his seat with a view.

  While he watched, he phoned Frank.

  “Fancy a pint tomorrow night?” he asked him.

  “Sounds good to me. I was planning to phone you anyway. I’m going to the nick tomorrow to see what I can find out. I don’t suppose it will be any more than you already know, but there’s no harm in poking around.”

  Unlike Dylan, who was definitely persona non grata since his fall from grace and a spell behind bars, ex-D.C.I. Frank Willoughby was hugely popular and well respected among members of the police force. They took him seriously and, if he said he wanted to look at files, they didn’t ask questions. Or not too many.

  “Great stuff. Thanks for that, mate.”

  “How are you getting on?” Frank asked him.

  “Badly. Beaten up twice—”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, a bouncer at the Indie Street club claims he was paid by someone unknown to send me back to London. I’m watching the place as we speak.”

  “Any ideas?” Frank asked.

  “None. I can’t say I’m making many friends though. Do you know anything about a James Carlton, Frank? He owns Carlton’s Classics in the town.”

  “I know of the business but I don’t know who’s behind it. Why do you ask?”