Dead Silent (A Dylan Scott Mystery)

by Wells, Shirley

  Dylan didn’t comment, but she sensed the anger in him.

  “The next day, the two foreign girls joined me in that bloody cellar. And then, the three of us were packed away in that horsebox and taken to that other place—where you found us.”

  A sparrow danced at her feet, looking for crumbs, and she broke a small piece of muffin and scattered crumbs for the bird.

  “What happened to Alan Roderick?” she asked. “Who killed him?”

  Dylan shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  She had the feeling he was lying.

  “Your boyfriend was arrested,” he said, “but they let him go. Apparently, Jack was snooping around the house.”

  At mention of Jack’s name a whole gamut of emotions caught her. He was still spoken of as her boyfriend. He was snooping round Alan’s house so he must still care about her.

  “Why was he arrested? And why was he snooping?”

  Dylan made a steeple of his fingers and rested his chin on them. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  “Me? I’ve no idea.”

  Three teenagers sat at a nearby table, but Dylan paid them no heed. “Why did you think Alan Roderick was involved? Was it something to do with the message you left on Jack’s answer machine? Do you remember leaving a message?”

  She remembered the message. “I’d been trying to find out if James Carlton—he’s my boss, was my boss—was fiddling the books. He wasn’t. At least, I don’t think he was. But when I phoned Jack, I’d just walked Lydia and Emma home from school.”

  The thought of Alan Roderick still sickened her. She was glad he was dead. Glad that he’d never touch those girls, or any other girls again.

  “It was something Lydia said,” she said. “I think—no, I’m sure of it. He was abusing my sisters. Sexually.”

  She saw Dylan wince.

  “I didn’t know what to do,” she said. “I had to leave the girls with him and Mum on the Thursday. I had no choice. But it was okay because I knew they’d be safe while Mum was there. I didn’t know what to do, who to talk to. I couldn’t keep it to myself though.”

  “You confronted Alan Roderick?” Dylan was frowning as if he didn’t understand.

  “Not exactly. He knew when I dropped the girls off at the house that I was as angry as fuck with him. He raced after me when I left the house, but I kept running. I couldn’t bear to even look at him let alone talk to him.”

  He was dead, she reminded herself. He’d never hurt Lydia and Emma again.

  “Later, though—well, I had to tell him what I knew. I phoned him that night on his mobile. He was at a club, Indie Street. I said I was going to the police in the morning. I told him what Lydia had said and he just laughed at me. He said I knew nothing. I did, though, didn’t I? It’s obvious. The next day, I was—kidnapped.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t know.” He gave her that half-smile of his.

  She’d pushed her muffin aside but, damn it, she wasn’t letting a pervert like Alan Roderick spoil her enjoyment of the first muffin she’d eaten for ages. “Well, I’m glad he’s dead. What Mum ever saw in him, I don’t know.”

  “Was he—? I mean, did he ever try anything on with you?”

  “What? Oh, my fucking—no!”

  “I just wondered if that was why you went to live with your father.”

  “No. God, if that bastard had laid a finger on me, or tried to, I would have killed him.” She washed the thought away with the last of her coffee. “No, I didn’t like living in the same house as him because he’s a—was a pain in the arse. But it was Mum and me really. We seemed to be fighting day in, day out. I was fourteen and thought I should be able to do as I liked. All the other girls were seeing boys and going to dances. She thought I was too young. I left because I thought Dad would give me more freedom.” She wasn’t sure he had though. In a different way, his fussing had been worse. “Is Mum all right?”

  “She’s fine. She has a flat in town and they’re staying there at the moment. But yes, they’re all fine.”

  She’d missed her mother desperately, more than she would have believed. They’d spent so much time arguing but Sam would have given anything to be able to spar with her, to fight and make up.

  She knew the flat. It was small, pokey. She couldn’t imagine them living in it.

  “How did you know where I was?” she asked.

  “I didn’t.” He spoke calmly, but his lips were a thin, angry line. “I met someone who recognised my photo of Alan Roderick. He told me he’d seen him with a man called Sullivan, a man who owned properties on Westray and Hoy, and who towed a horsebox. If I hadn’t met that man, I would have been back in England on Wednesday.”

  She shuddered. “But how did you find us at the cottage?”

  “I was looking for horseboxes, and having no luck, so I walked up to see the Old Man of Hoy. I got lost. I was hoping someone at the cottage could put me back on the right track. But then I spotted the horsebox. I was having a good look round when I found your locket. I recognised it from your photos. It was then that I knew I should break into the cottage.”

  The muffin turned to dust in her mouth. “So if you hadn’t got lost—”

  “Quite.”

  She would still be there. Or she would have been pushed over the cliffs. It was impossible to say what would have happened, but she suspected that she and the two foreign girls had been destined to meet their end at those tall cliffs.

  “It’s over now,” he said, and he smiled.

  “Yeah. I kept hoping the police would find me or—”

  “They would have. Eventually.”

  She didn’t believe him. “How’s my dad?”

  “He’s okay.” Another smile that was meant to reassure. “And Rusty.”

  Rusty was waiting for her. It was thinking of him and imagining burying her face against his warm body that had kept her sane.

  “And Jack?” She’d tried not to think about Jack and she refused to think of the baby she’d lost—

  “He’s okay too. He’s been arrested more times than I’ve had clean shirts but, yes, he’s good.”

  “What else has he been arrested for?” Another question she didn’t like to ask.

  “When you vanished. Apparently the neighbours heard you fighting.”

  “Oh, for—”

  “And then when Alan Roderick was murdered.”

  “But they know he’s innocent now, don’t they?”

  “Yes. Yes, he’s fine.”

  “Is he—I mean, do you know if he’s got a girlfriend or—”

  Dylan smiled at that. “You’ll get a warm welcome from Jack.”

  She felt herself sag with relief. Alan was dead and everyone else was waiting for her.

  “With this hair?” She had to joke to hide the lump that had jammed in her throat.

  “With any hair.”

  “It’ll grow.” That bastard had shaved it off and dyed it. Why he’d done that she had no idea. It wasn’t as if she ever saw anyone.

  “Of course it will.” He drained his coffee cup. “He said—Jack said you were pregnant. Is that true? Was it a false alarm?”

  “I don’t know.” She put up a hand to prevent him from saying anything else. “And I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Okay.” He stood up. “Come on, let’s hit the road. Are you driving or am I?”

  She grinned. “I’ll fight you for the keys.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Sam Hunt was a pretty amazing young woman. Given all she’d been through, Dylan thought her incredibly brave.

  She was a damn good driver too. She drove like someone who knew how precious the Morgan was, how the gear lever should be coaxed into action, how the engine revs should be made to purr like a satisfied tiger.

  Bev—Dylan offered up a silent apology, but Bev forced her car into gear and braked or accelerated too fast for comfort. That was when she wasn’t checking her hair in
the rearview mirror, applying makeup or fumbling for a toffee.

  “God, it’s been forever since I drove a car.” Sam was keeping the Morgan to a steady seventy miles per hour. “I’ve got a Porsche, you know.” That familiar frown marred her features. “At least, I had a Porsche.”

  “It’s in your father’s garage.”

  She smiled at that and put a little more pressure on the accelerator.

  She was more relaxed—until they drew level with the sign for Dawson’s Clough. Two tears ran down her face and she brushed them away with an impatient hand.

  “Take a left here,” he said.

  “But it’s straight on for Dad’s.”

  “We’re going to your mother’s.” He would stand for no argument on that score.

  “Can’t we see Dad first? All Mum will do is tell me my hair looks a mess.”

  “Then she’ll be right, won’t she?”

  A reluctant laugh sprang from her lips.

  “Your mother loves you very much,” he said.

  “If you say so. And then we’ll go to Dad’s?”

  “Just watch the paintwork.”

  When they arrived at Marion Roderick’s, she’d just got home and answered the door while taking off her jacket.

  “Dylan, hi. I’ve—” Her gaze travelled past him to Sam and she gave a tight little cry. She stepped forward, touched Sam’s arm as if she didn’t trust her own sight, and then almost squeezed the breath from the poor girl. “Oh, my God. Sam!”

  Dylan managed to usher them inside, away from the neighbours’ line of sight, but they didn’t let each other go. They simply stood in the hallway, arms clinging, tears racing down their faces, sobs racking their bodies.

  “I thought I’d never see you again!” Marion crushed Sam’s body.

  “So did I.” Sam tried to dry her eyes but fresh tears fell and Marion had to wipe them away.

  “What have you done to your hair?” Marion asked, and Sam half laughed and half choked.

  “What did I tell you, Dylan?”

  Marion couldn’t take her eyes off her daughter. “What happened, Sam? Why did you go? Where have you been?” She lifted her daughter’s chin. “Why didn’t you call me? Just to let me know you were safe? And Dylan said—thought—you might have been pregnant?”

  Sam grasped her mother’s hand and led her into the small sitting room. “I don’t know if I was pregnant, or if the test gave me the wrong result. Two weeks after—after I took the test, I started bleeding heavily. I think I might have lost it. My periods have been like clockwork since.” She drew in a shaky breath. “I don’t know, but I must have lost it, mustn’t I? Anyway, I don’t want to talk about it yet.”

  “But surely you’ve seen a doctor? Sam, you have, haven’t you? My God, what’s been happening? Where have you been…?”

  Dylan could allow them a little privacy. He owed them that much before he shattered their newfound happiness.

  He crossed to the kitchen where a bottle of whisky sat invitingly on the counter. He felt sure Marion wouldn’t mind if he helped himself. Unable to find a glass, he poured a good measure into a blue and white mug and took a swig.

  Sam’s sisters arrived and yet more mayhem followed.

  Dylan poured himself another drink and sipped it slowly while listening to the noise coming from the adjoining room.

  Marion came into the kitchen, reached for his hand and squeezed it. “Thank you. I can’t make sense of anything, but Sam’s back with us. Nothing else matters, does it? She’s trying to persuade Lydia and Emma to go and play outside. Then we’ll be able to talk. Dylan, I really can’t thank you enough.”

  “I did nothing.” He could put it off no longer. “Will you do something for me? Call Rob and ask him to come over? Don’t mention Sam.”

  Her smile was bright with tears. “It’ll be such a surprise for him.”

  “It certainly will.”

  Her call was quick and to the point, but she failed to keep the excitement from her voice. Dylan wondered if Hunt suspected anything.

  When she ended the call, Marion drummed long, slender fingers on the worktop. “You probably haven’t heard about Alan. The police took away his computer and found some—” She broke off, unable to continue for a moment. “Images of children,” she managed at last.

  “Oh, Marion.” Dylan hated the loss of anyone’s life but, in Alan Roderick’s case, he was prepared to make an exception. “I think Sam knew—” He stopped. How could he tell Marion that her own children may have suffered at his hands?

  She tugged on his arm. “Sam knew? About Lydia and Emma?”

  “Oh, God.” Everything dropped into place. “So did you, didn’t you?”

  She looked away.

  “Marion? You knew, didn’t you? That’s why you did what you did.”

  She dropped his hand and walked to stare out the window. “I came out of the library one night and some—thug threatened me at knifepoint. He wanted money. Said Alan owed him money. A thousand pounds. Alan paid—or rather he didn’t pay—that man to frighten you off. Do you know where Alan’s money came from? Selling those images. Probably worse.”

  There was no probably about it. Add smuggling in young girls from Eastern Europe for the sex trade among other things.

  “I suppose he thought that, while you were looking for Sam,” she said, “you’d find out what he was up to. I don’t know. Anyway, he—this thug said I had to get the money and meet him the following night. I planned to confront Alan. I wanted to know exactly why he didn’t want you looking into Sam’s disappearance. I—” She was shaking, and her teeth were chattering. Dylan struggled to catch her words. “I went home unexpectedly and—and found Alan with Lydia.”

  She spun round, her face frighteningly pale. “So, yes, that’s why I did what I did. And I’ll tell you something else. I’d do it again if I had to.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Dylan wished the words didn’t sound so inadequate.

  “You were cheap, Dylan.” Marion couldn’t seem to stop talking. “It was a thousand pounds to rough you up a bit but, if you took no notice, it was going to cost a lot more.”

  “So you paid him off? And then paid him to visit your home while you and the children were at the swimming pool?”

  She nodded, her gaze on her feet. “I paid him. He paid someone else.”

  She lifted her face, but her eyes didn’t meet his. She examined her shaking hands. “What will you do about it, Dylan?”

  A few years ago, he would have known exactly what to do. That was before he’d lost all faith in the country’s judicial system. What would be achieved by seeing Marion behind bars?

  “What can I do?” he asked. “You were at the swimming pool, remember?”

  She threw her arms around his waist and squeezed him. “Thank you.”

  Before he could comment, the doorbell rang.

  How Dylan wished there was an easier way of doing this.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Hunt had obviously dressed up and splashed on some cologne, presumably for Marion’s benefit.

  “Marion, sweetheart, this is—” He broke off as he spotted Dylan and didn’t even try to hide his disappointment. “Oh, good to see you, Dylan. I didn’t realise you were here.”

  “I’ve come to give you my final account.”

  The sound of her father’s voice brought Sam dashing through from the bedroom. She stopped short and every last vestige of colour drained from Hunt’s face. Dylan half-expected him to keel over.

  “Dad!” Sam ran forward, hesitated for a fraction of a second, probably because his shocked reaction made her uncertain, then wrapped her arms tight around him. “I knew you’d keep looking for me. I knew you’d never give up.”

  Hunt, unsurprisingly, was incapable of speech.

  In the end, it was Marion who gave a high-pitched, false laugh. “You could say something, Rob.”

  Hunt, it seemed, couldn’t.

  “Dylan’s found Sam,” Marion said. “Say so
mething, for God’s sake.”

  “The thing is, Marion—” Dylan really wished there was an easier way to say this. “I didn’t find her. Sam was never lost.”

  Sam lifted her head. “What are you talking about?”

  This would break her heart, but she had to know the truth.

  “One phone call from your father, Sam, and you could have been home.”

  “What?” Marion’s voice was spiked with icy shock.

  Two pairs of eyes looked at Dylan as if he’d suddenly become fluent in Arabic. The other pair, Hunt’s, were the eyes of a dead man.

  “I thought it odd, Rob,” Dylan said, “that you’d employed me when you sounded sure I wouldn’t find her. I know you employed me on Marion’s suggestion, at her insistence even, but your lack of faith—especially considering the money you were paying me—seemed very strange.”

  “What are you talking about?” Sam asked again.

  “When I phoned you yesterday, Marion,” Dylan said, “I asked you about a man called Sullivan. You said you knew of a Matthew Sullivan, and that he was a friend of Alan’s.”

  “Yes.” She dragged the word out.

  “No,” Hunt cried.

  “You also told me that Rob couldn’t possibly have known him.” He switched his attention to Hunt. “You never knew that, did you, Rob? You had no idea that you and Alan shared a mutual friend.”

  “It’s not true!”

  “I asked Frank—ex-D.C.I. Willoughby—to check out Sullivan.” Dylan wasn’t giving Hunt chance to speak. “He still has friends on the force, thank God, and they checked army records. The police can be very efficient, you know. You and Sullivan—or should I say Mattie?—go back a long way, don’t you?”

  “What are you talking about?” Sam stepped away from her father and shook an accusing finger at Dylan.

  Instead of answering her, Dylan kept his attention on Hunt. “When did you meet up with Mattie again, Rob? That’s his name, isn’t it? Matthew Sullivan?”

  “He—he was in Dawson’s Clough on business. But—”

  “Business with Alan Roderick.”