Dead Silent (A Dylan Scott Mystery)

by Wells, Shirley

Dylan wasn’t surprised to see small owls dotted on the white uPVC windowsills in the conservatory. A circular piece of stained glass, depicting a barn owl, hung from a plastic sucker.

  The furniture was wicker, covered with thick blue cushions. Dylan set the tray on the glass top of a matching wicker table.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything about Sam?” Alice peered at the tea, decided it was strong enough, and began to pour.

  “Not really, Alice. It’s a mystery, isn’t it?”

  “That it is.”

  “I do know who you saw her with that night, though. The married man, remember? That was her boss.”

  Alice frowned and tutted, disapproval in every wrinkle.

  “She might have been kissing him,” Dylan said, “but I don’t think there was anything between them. I think she suspected him of dodgy dealings. He’d made a couple of insurance claims and Sam believed he was on the take.”

  Alice’s eyes widened at that. “And was he?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  “Well, well. So she wasn’t cheating on young Jack?”

  “On the contrary. It was Jack who told me why Sam was with her boss.”

  “You see? I knew she wouldn’t have done something—bad. She hated cheats. If her boss was on the fiddle, she wouldn’t have liked it.”

  “I can understand that. But if he was—well, there was a fair bit of money involved, Alice. He wouldn’t have taken kindly to her meddling in his affairs.”

  Alice was about to take a sip of tea, and the cup shuddered to a stop two inches from her mouth. “You don’t think—”

  “I don’t know, Alice. I’m not sure he even knew she was trying to find out what he’d been up to.”

  “He sounds a nasty piece of work, if you ask me.” Alice took a sip of tea and, deep in thought, returned the cup to the tray. “Oh, look at me. I’ve forgotten the biscuits.”

  Dylan had finished a full English breakfast less than an hour ago, but he didn’t have the heart to tell her so. Besides, like a bird darting from tree to nest, she was gone.

  A few moments later, she returned with a plate of homemade biscuits and two small muffins. “I was so surprised to see you, I forgot the biscuits. I am sorry.”

  “You spoil me, Alice.”

  She chuckled at that and pushed the plate toward him. “Help yourself. Don’t be shy.”

  Dylan had been called a lot of things in his time but shy wasn’t one of them. He took a biscuit and murmured his pleasure as the buttery taste melted in his mouth. As far as he could remember, his mother had never baked a biscuit or a cake in her life. She adhered to the “chew on a few seeds” philosophy. As for Bev, she could never be bothered to cook when Tesco was just around the corner. You couldn’t buy biscuits like these at a supermarket, though.

  Dylan didn’t know what he wanted from Alice. Any information he could get on Sam, he supposed. And anything on her family and friends.

  “Between you and me, Alice, I feel quite bad about this. For not finding out much about Sam, I mean. I’m quite costly, you see. It’s the expenses that mount up. I hope Rob isn’t going to be too shocked when I hand in my final account.”

  Dylan wasn’t worried because, given his current dodgy financial situation, he’d asked for, and received, a substantial advance up front.

  “Oh, I’m sure he won’t. He’ll understand, just as I do. I’m sure he knew how expensive it would be.”

  “I hope so.” Dylan tried to make light of it. “I’d hate to think I wouldn’t get paid.”

  “Goodness me, you’ve no need to worry on that score. Rob always pays promptly.” Alice dropped her voice to a whisper. “He’s very well off, you know.”

  “I’ve come to realise that. I still can’t get over the size of his house. Still, so long as he can afford it, it’s his choice, isn’t it?”

  “It is a big place, especially now he’s rattling around in it on his own. Mind you, none of us like change, do we? I wouldn’t want to move house. Such an upheaval.”

  “True.”

  Dylan remembered something else. “The other day—” Dylan, too, dropped his voice to a whisper despite knowing that only the parrot was within earshot. “The other day, I saw a bundle of cash at Rob’s. We’re talking a lot of cash too. At least a thousand pounds. Maybe even two. It was lying on the table. I mean, it’s good for me to know he has money, but that’s not wise, is it?”

  Alice tutted. “I’ve told him about that. One day—oh, it was two or three months ago—I saw him putting a huge amount of cash in an envelope. ‘You can’t do that,’ I tells him. It looked for all the world as if he was going to mail it to someone. Well, I tells him, that’s just asking for trouble. You can’t trust the mail these days. What doesn’t go missing gets pinched.”

  “Isn’t that the truth.” Dylan nodded sagely. “Did he take note of your warning?”

  “He got a bit stroppy, to tell the truth. I suppose that’s only natural. After all, he’s got money to burn and I get by on what he pays me. All the same…” Her voice trailed away.

  “I expect there’s nothing to worry about. He was probably going to pay it into his bank account. He’s far too sensible to have that much cash lying around.”

  “Maybe.” Alice looked doubtful. “More likely is that a builder, a tradesman of some sort, had persuaded him to pay a bill in cash. They do, don’t they? That way they don’t have to tell the taxman about it.”

  “I’m sure Rob’s wise to that one. We’ll be worrying about nothing.”

  He beamed at her and helped himself to another biscuit. Despite having demolished a huge breakfast, he could, quite easily, clear the plate.

  His mind was working overtime though. Why would Hunt have large amounts of cash lying around?

  A distant rumble of thunder was heard and Alice scowled out at the darkening sky. “I thought we were supposed to have a nice day today. What with the heat, the thunder and lightning and all that rain, I won’t be sorry when winter’s here. I know you shouldn’t wish your life away, but it’s too hot for me. I don’t like it at all.”

  “Me neither.” His mind was still ticking over. “A friend of mine has just come back from Scotland and he said they’d had lovely weather. No thunder. No rain. He said it was glorious.”

  “I can believe that.”

  “Someone else—” He pretended to think. “Oh yes, I saw a postcard that came for Rob. He must know someone who’s holidaying up there.”

  “Oh no, they’re not on holiday. Those postcards come all the time. They’re from someone who lives there.”

  “Really?” What did “all the time” mean?

  “It’s a man.” Alice frowned. “Oh, it’ll come to me.”

  “Alan Roderick must have had friends there too.” Dylan helped himself to a muffin and took a bite. “At least, I assume he did. He used to volunteer for the Scottish trips so I imagine he had friends there.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that. I expect it was good money driving up there. These drivers can make a fortune, can’t they?”

  Not as large a fortune as Alan Roderick had managed.

  “It’s long hours, though, and half the time they sleep in their cabs.” He took another bite of muffin. Delicious.

  “It’s Mattie,” Alice said. “That friend of Rob’s. I’m sure he said his name was Mattie. He’s an old army chum, I think. I asked him once. I mean, I don’t like to be nosy but I can’t help seeing them when I pick up the mail for him. Anyway, they’re signed with an M. It’s nice that they keep in touch after so long, isn’t it?”

  “It is. People form strong bonds in the army, don’t they? I suppose it’s a different world and they gel together. Some find it hard to accept life as a civilian.”

  “I don’t think Rob ever did.”

  “No. Some do, though. All those postcards, Alice, how long have they been coming for Rob?”

  “Oh—” She thought hard. “About six months, I’d say.”

&nbs
p; “Really?”

  “Possibly longer. There have been more of them lately, sometimes four a month. It’s lovely that they keep in touch. Nice for Rob to have friends when he has so many problems. Sam, I mean.”

  “Yes.” Dylan emptied his cup and resisted the very strong temptation to have another biscuit. “Talking of Rob, it’s time I was off, Alice. Thank you for feeding and watering me. You’re very kind.”

  “You’re more than welcome. Any time you’re passing, just call in. I’m usually here if I’m not up at Rob’s.”

  “You’ll never get rid of me.” Dylan gave her his warmest, most teasing smile as he left.

  When he started the car, Alice was waving from the window. He returned the wave and pulled away.

  Hunt had been seen with large bundles of cash on two separate occasions and there had to be times when he hadn’t been seen. There could be all sorts of reasons for that.

  Blackmail made it to the top of Dylan’s list as he drove the short distance to Hunt’s house. Who might enjoy a spot of blackmail? Who had lived beyond his means?

  Alan Roderick.

  Then there was the matter of the postcards. Was it rare for two men, ex-army colleagues, to keep in touch via frequent postcards? Yes, it was. Damned odd. It was odd for blokes to keep in touch at all in Dylan’s experience. Even if they were the best of mates, a phone call now and again would be more usual. They lived too far apart to meet up for a quick beer so what the hell did they have to say to each other?

  He wasn’t sure it mattered whether they kept in touch via postcards, phone calls or homing pigeons. Nor did it matter if Hunt was being blackmailed. His job was to learn the truth behind Sam’s disappearance. Nothing more.

  Something was niggling though.

  Hunt was waiting for him. The front door was open before Dylan was out of his car.

  “Morning,” he greeted Dylan, ushering him inside. “How’s it coming along?”

  Hunt was hard work. He was also paying Dylan a lot of money and it was difficult to admit that, so far, he was paying for nothing. Dylan was no nearer to discovering the truth behind Sam’s disappearance than he had been the first time he heard her name mentioned.

  Today, though, he had questions for Hunt. For once, the conversation wouldn’t be one-sided.

  He refused offers of tea and coffee—he’d be awash with the stuff if he had any more—and they were soon settled in Hunt’s study. Apart from Sam’s bedroom, it was the only room Dylan had seen.

  “What have you heard about Alan Roderick’s murder?” Dylan asked.

  “Only that someone broke into his house and stabbed him. I assume he disturbed a burglar. Why do you ask?”

  “I wondered if it struck you as odd—Sam disappears, Roderick is murdered.”

  Hunt didn’t bother to hide his surprise. “He was nothing to Sam. Just because her mother chose to marry him—no, he was nothing to her.”

  Dylan was sitting. Hunt was up and down like a fiddler’s elbow. He seemed even more fidgety than usual, if that were possible.

  Dylan wondered just how frail he was. If Hunt hadn’t told him he was terminally ill, Dylan would have put the dull pallor and the occasional breathlessness down to a man out of condition. Dylan had seen heavy smokers who looked worse.

  Hunt wasn’t a strong man but anger and jealousy could pump adrenaline like nothing else. The element of surprise was a strong ally, too, although it was unlikely he’d be able to overpower a man like Roderick.

  “No one seems sorry he’s dead,” Dylan said.

  “Low life.” Hunt spoke as if that explained everything from his murder to the lack of outpourings of grief.

  “How’s Marion coping? I assume you’ve spoken to her?”

  “Of course. She’ll be fine. I’ve told her there’s a home here for her. His daughters too.”

  His daughters? Such bitterness.

  “Tell me,” Dylan said, “have you been a victim of blackmail?”

  “I—sorry?”

  “I asked if you’d been blackmailed by anyone.”

  Hunt shook his head as if Dylan were crazy. “Of course not. Why the hell would anyone want to blackmail me?”

  Dylan only wished he knew.

  Why, though, would a man like Hunt have a thousand pounds, maybe more, lying around as he had on Dylan’s first visit and on the occasion his cleaner had felt obliged to warn him? Hunt was wealthy. Why would he pay for anything in cash? American Express was accepted everywhere.

  “We all have skeletons,” Dylan said. “Everyone’s done things they’d like to keep secret.”

  “Not me. What the hell are you suggesting exactly?”

  Hunt was growing angry, with every right probably. Even if Roderick had blackmailed him, it wasn’t Dylan’s problem. If Hunt had decided to put an end to it, to put an end to Roderick, that wasn’t his problem either.

  His job was to find Sam Hunt. Dead or alive.

  “Oh, I was just curious,” Dylan said. “Ignore me.”

  Hunt visibly relaxed. “It’s the heat. It makes us all a bit frazzled. Let’s sit outside, shall we? It’s probably cooler out there.

  “Good idea. Do you think I could use your bathroom first?”

  “Of course. Along the hall—third on the left.”

  “Thanks. You go ahead and I’ll join you.”

  Dylan wasn’t sure why he wanted to see the rest of the house. He wasn’t going to find bloodstained clothes or the knife used to kill Roderick. Nor was he going to find a blackmail note from Roderick. It was doubtful he’d find evidence of another woman in Hunt’s life.

  As he walked along the hall, he heard Hunt slide open the French windows. Moving quickly, Dylan opened a door into the dining room. Like the rest of the house, apart from Sam’s bedroom, this was furnished in an ultra-modern style. It didn’t hold his interest.

  He opened the third door on the left. The bathroom boasted toilet, washbasin, shower and shimmering blue walls. A quick look in cupboards revealed nothing more than dozens of fluffy white towels and a few toiletries. The room looked as if it was rarely used. That wasn’t surprising as Dylan guessed Rob’s bedroom had its own. In case Hunt had ventured back inside and was within earshot, Dylan flushed the toilet.

  He headed for what he knew was the kitchen. If questioned, he’d claim a poor sense of direction. Again, the room looked more for display than use. There wasn’t so much as an unwashed cup to be seen.

  A pile of mail sat next to a gleaming stainless steel kettle and Dylan flicked through it—a letter from the local hospital, one from Sky TV, several leaflets from local Indian restaurants and kebab houses and there, right at the bottom, a postcard. Dylan assumed it was the one he’d seen on his previous visit until he turned it over. This one showed the same picture of the ferry in the harbour at Scrabster but read Thank you. Most welcome.

  Dylan pulled open a few drawers and cupboards but found nothing more than crockery, utensils and food. Hunt was supposedly terminally ill but Dylan hadn’t seen so much as an aspirin in kitchen or bathroom.

  Knowing he couldn’t poke around anymore, he marched to the study and stepped into the garden.

  Off to his right was a decked area complete with table and four chairs. Several stone tubs offered a burst of blue and yellow colour. Hunt sat in one of the chairs.

  Dylan sat opposite him and wondered again how ill Hunt was. Looking at him now, he seemed okay. Not a picture of health admittedly, but okay.

  “What a lovely spot,” Dylan said, looking around him. “A real sun trap.”

  “On the rare occasions we get any sun.” As he spoke, another rumble of thunder echoed round the hills.

  “A friend of mine has just returned from a holiday in Scotland.” Dylan watched Hunt closely but there wasn’t so much as a flicker. “He said the weather’s been better up there. Hard to believe, isn’t it? He’s been in the Highlands. I’ve had a couple of holidays there, but I can’t say I know the area. Do you?”

  “I don’t. All
I know is that you get eaten by midges in Scotland. The heather attracts them.”

  “True.” Dylan ran his hand over the wooden table, pretending to think. “Someone else—oh, of course, Alan Roderick knew Scotland well, didn’t he?”

  “I doubt he soaked up the culture.” Rob’s tone was sneering. “He drove his lorry there and back, that’s all.”

  “So he did. Someone said—can’t think who it was—that you have friends in Scotland?”

  “Me? No.”

  “I must have it wrong then. I could have sworn someone said an old friend of yours was up there.”

  There was a long pause. Even the birds held their breath as they waited for Rob’s response.

  “Not me. Now, to get back to Sam,” Hunt said. “What do you think of that boyfriend of hers, Jack Fleming? I’m sure you can understand why I didn’t want her seeing him.”

  Dylan wasn’t going to push the issue of the postcards, but he knew Hunt was lying. Why?

  “Jack seems okay to me. There’s nothing to suggest he had anything to do with Sam’s disappearance. Nothing at all.”

  “I’m not saying there is. No one would call him likeable though.” Hunt drummed his fingers on the table. “So what have you been doing?”

  “Talking to people.”

  Dylan wasted the next half hour by telling Hunt what he’d been doing. He told him about every meeting he’d had, every phone call he’d made, every place he’d visited. All the while, he tried to figure out why Hunt was lying…

  “Right,” Dylan said, standing up. “I’ll call you if I learn anything interesting. I’ll have to dash off now as I have an appointment, but I’ll be in touch.”

  “Of course. And thank you, Dylan. I appreciate all you’re doing.”

  Dylan put up his hand in acknowledgement and walked the length of the garden round to the front of his house and his car.

  At ten minutes to seven, Dylan sat in the Dog and Fox with a welcome pint of cold beer in his hand. Life wasn’t so bad after all. It was so good, in fact, that his glass was empty in under ten minutes.

  “Same again, please, love.” As soon as he’d spoken, he heard the echo of Bev telling him that calling young women “love” was “too patronising for words.” This one didn’t seem to mind.