Silent Witness (A Dylan Scott Mystery) (20 page)

“Are you sure you still love me?” she asked.

“Er, let me think.” He put his arm round her and pulled her close. “Of course I do, idiot.”

“I love you, too.” And she promptly burst into tears.

Megan Cole couldn’t find bananas in Tesco and it had already taken her a good ten minutes to choose a decent bottle of wine. The store was quiet at this time on a Monday night, which was why she preferred it, but she was beginning to wish she hadn’t bothered.

She gave up on bananas, put grapes and pears in her trolley, and consulted her list. She needed coffee and that was on the far side of the store. Not wanting to face the morning without her caffeine, she set off, three wheels on her trolley going one way and one hampering progress by refusing to budge.

She rounded the corner to avoid the pet supplies and collided with another trolley.

“Sorry—oh, er, Sonia.” Shock rendered her incapable of speech.

Sonia had put on a little weight since she’d left the hospital. Maybe it was the sign of a contented life. Or perhaps that’s what happened when you stopped working long shifts. She was wearing black linen trousers, white shirt and wide red belt. Megan, in jeans and jacket, felt underdressed.

They struggled to disentangle their trolleys.

“Long time no see,” Megan said. “How are things?”

“Hello, Megan.” A cold smile ended a long way short of her eyes. “Things are good, thanks. How are you?”

“Fine. Overworked and underpaid. The usual.” She hoped her own smile was more successful than Sonia’s.

An awkward silence descended. Megan would like to talk to Sonia, but Neil, the only subject they had in common, was off-limits.

“Good to see you. Must dash though.” Sonia finally extricated her trolley and headed for the deli counter.

Megan continued in her quest for coffee. There were a couple of other things on her list but nothing she couldn’t survive without for a week and she was soon in the queue for the checkout. She was aware, as she put her goods on the conveyor belt, that her hands were shaking. She’d been a wreck ever since her canal-side meeting with Neil on Wednesday night, and seeing Sonia hadn’t helped.

She still wasn’t sure what had happened down by the canal that evening. She’d fumbled in her pocket for her key as she raced away from Neil, and she’d been in the house with the door locked behind her before he hammered on her door.

“Megan, what the hell’s got into you?” He’d tried the handle. “Megan, for Christ’s sake, have you gone bloody mad?”

Crouched in the hallway, in complete darkness, she thought she probably had.

She’d called in sick on Thursday and Friday and, although she’d gone to work today, she’d more or less managed to avoid Neil. Their paths had only crossed once. She and a nurse had been getting coffee from the machine when Neil strode along the corridor.

He slowed his pace. “Hello, Megan. Are you feeling better?”

“Yes. Much better, thanks. Just a stomach bug.”

“Good.” With a nod to them both, he’d gone on his way.

As she’d watched him march off, confident and handsome, she’d thought she was probably losing her mind. She couldn’t explain, even to herself, why she’d suddenly been so frightened of him. Yet she’d been terrified. The wind and the deep, dark water had seemed benevolent in comparison to Neil.

“Do you need any help with your packing, love?”

“Sorry?” While she’d been lost in her thoughts, the checkout operator had finished serving the customer in front of Megan. “Oh, no. Thanks. Sorry, I was miles away.”

“I know how you feel. I’m having one of those days myself and I’ve only just started. It’s going to be a long night.” She picked up Megan’s grapes to scan. “These are good value, aren’t they?”

“Yes. Very good.”

Megan threw her purchases in her bags and put her credit card in the machine. She had the usual brief panic that she’d forgotten her pin number, and the relief when she remembered it.

The cashier handed her the receipt. “There you go, love. Have a good evening.”

“Thanks. And you.” Megan thought of dumping her trolley and carrying her bags to her car, but she had visions of the thin bags giving way and discarding her purchases across the tarmac.

She left the building and was surprised to see Sonia outside. It looked as if she was waiting for her.

“Sorry, I must have sounded a bit abrupt back there.” Sonia jerked a thumb in the direction of the store.

“Not at all.”

“So how’s it going?” Sonia asked. “Is work still good?”

“The same as ever. You know how it is.”

“I certainly do.” Sonia grinned. “Still, they say sleep is overrated, don’t they?”

Megan smiled at the tired joke.

“And are you and Neil okay?” Sonia asked.

So she knew about their affair. What was the point in sneaking around like thieves in the night when it was impossible to keep a secret in Dawson’s Clough?

“We’re fine, thanks.”

Perhaps Dylan Scott had told Sonia about them.

“That’s good,” Sonia said. “I’m pleased for you. Truly. Are we to expect wedding bells?”

“Good grief, no. No, nothing like that.”

“Oh, I thought with—well, you know. Neil’s a free man now, isn’t he? He can marry the woman he loves without all those divorce excuses.”

So Sonia wanted to gloat. She was saying, in her roundabout way, that Neil would discard her, just as he’d discarded Sonia.

“I’m not the marrying type, Sonia. I never have been. I like to enjoy life, if you get my drift.”

“I can’t say I blame you.” She gave a chuckle that was supposed to convey the message that they were both women of the world. “All things being equal though, I quite like being married. Only if it’s going well, of course. There was a time, you’ll know this, when my marriage hit a rocky patch. That’s why I turned to Neil. He did me a favour really in showing me that I wanted my marriage to work. Thankfully, it did. It is.”

It never failed to amaze Megan that Sonia had ended up with Terry Trueman. The bloke was big, not particularly fat perhaps, but broad and chunky in a repulsive way. He never smiled, and everyone within a fifty-mile radius of Dawson’s Clough knew about his temper.

“I’m glad.” Megan tried to push her trolley forward but that obstinate wheel must have drummed up support from the other three.

“It’s funny, isn’t it,” Sonia said, “how this private investigator has come to the Clough asking questions? After all this time, I mean.”

“I suppose it is. Has he spoken to you?”

“Oh, yes.” Sonia shrugged. “I gather he’s talking to everyone who works or used to work at the hospital. Everyone who knows Neil too.”

Neil had assumed Sonia’s name had come from her. Perhaps Sonia believed the same thing.

“How did he find out about you and Neil?” Megan asked, trying to sound casual.

“I’ve no idea.”

Megan didn’t believe her.

“What about you?” Sonia asked. “I suppose you’ve spoken to him?”

Megan nodded. “Yes.”

“What did you tell him?”

“The truth. What else? That I was working alongside Neil that day.”

Sonia laughed. “Which one? The truth? Or that you were working alongside him?”

Megan wanted to slap the stupid smile from her face. “They’re one and the same, Sonia. We were working together that day. All day.”

The smile was still there. “You don’t have to lie to me, Megan. It doesn’t matter to me what you told that private investigator.”

“I’m not lying, Sonia.”

Sonia rolled her eyes. “I know where you were that day, Megan. Both of you. But don’t worry, I didn’t say a word.” She tapped the side of her nose. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

A woman struggling with a fully laden trolley and three toddlers was trying to get around them.

“I’d better be going,” Sonia said. “Nice to see you, Megan.”

Sonia strode off to her car. The lights flashed briefly as she hit the remote to unlock it. She climbed inside, fastened her seatbelt and drove out of the car park.

“Fuck!” With a burst of strength she didn’t know she possessed, Megan forced her trolley forward. She wished she’d never heard of Sonia Trueman or Neil Bloody Walsingham. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Dylan needed inspiration, as he couldn’t bear the thought of another wasted day, but he wasn’t sure a cemetery was the place to find it.

He’d been late leaving London yesterday, thanks mainly to waiting for Bev to recover from her hangover, and had achieved little. Or perhaps nothing was a better description. An early night meant he’d been wide awake at six o’clock this morning. As it was too early for breakfast, he’d decided to take a walk and had ended up at the deserted cemetery.

Someone had provided a convenient bench almost opposite Carly Walsingham’s headstone and he’d spent half an hour sitting on it. Thinking.

As graveyards went, this was pleasant enough. Sturdy old trees provided shelter in winter and shade in summer, the winding roads were smooth, and the grass was short and neat.

Many of the headstones had been erected centuries ago. Some only weeks ago. The newer graves had flowers. One had a selection of toys around it. Was there a sadder sight, he wondered, than a child’s grave? One headstone read
Born asleep.

Carly Walsingham’s inscription was a simple one.
In Loving Memory of Carleen June Walsingham. Died 3rd August, 2011. Aged 44 years. Loving Wife, Mother and Daughter. Always in our thoughts.

If he’d been hoping that his nearness to Carly’s resting place would provide inspiration, he was disappointed.

To find her killer though, if indeed her killer wasn’t currently banged up in Strangeways, he needed to know the woman. It was often the victim that led the way to the killer.

Although he’d seen plenty of photos of Carly, he didn’t feel as if he knew her. She’d come from humble beginnings and could easily have stayed in Birmingham near her friend Kirsten. Instead, she’d worked hard to improve herself. Her job as a radiographer had introduced her to Neil Walsingham and given her the children she’d longed for.

There was no doubt in Dylan’s mind that she’d loved her children with every breath in her body. Everyone agreed on that.

What about Kaminski? Had she loved him? Despite what Kaminski liked to believe and what Kirsten had said, Dylan wasn’t convinced. If she had, would she have divorced him? If Bev had discovered that he’d been unable to father children, he couldn’t imagine her going off with any bloke she could find. But Bev wasn’t Carly, and he knew of many women who put themselves through a great deal of personal and physical agony to become mothers.

Maybe Carly really had loved Kaminski.

What else did he know about her? She was reckless. If Kaminski was to be believed, she’d enjoyed living dangerously. Having Kaminski in the marital bathroom and bedroom had given her some sort of thrill.

Maybe she’d been pushing Walsingham. Perhaps she’d wanted him to discover her unfaithfulness and divorce her. Would she have taken the children from their father? Probably. Her life would possibly have been perfect if she could have had her children
and
Kaminski.

If Walsingham had discovered she wanted a divorce and planned to take his children from him, what would he have done? What would Dylan do if, God forbid, Bev decided to up sticks and take Luke and Freya to live with another man? He didn’t know. He wouldn’t go so far as to end Bev’s life in a bath of blood, but he wouldn’t like it.

Life would be so simple if couples married, had the obligatory two point four children and lived happily ever after. Their children, having been set the perfect example of the perfect life, would marry and have their two point four children. The world would revolve in complete harmony. Private investigators would be out of work, true, but that seemed a small price to pay.

Dylan’s stomach grumbled as a reminder that a full English breakfast washed down with a couple of coffees awaited him.

He was about to surrender his bench when he realised he no longer had the cemetery to himself. He checked his watch. It was just after seven o’clock.

If a visitor to a cemetery at such an early hour surprised him, it was nothing to his shock on recognising the woman. She had her back to him and was carrying a container and a large bunch of yellow and white flowers.

Dylan wondered whether he should make himself known. Not wanting to intrude, he decided against it. Besides, he wasn’t in the mood for chirpy conversation.

She knelt in front of a black headstone with gold lettering. Dylan was too far away to read the inscription, but close enough to hear her talking to herself. Or talking to the body six feet under the damp earth, which amounted to the same thing.

She spent fifteen minutes gathering up faded flowers and replacing them with the new blooms. All the while, she talked. Finally, she stood and took one final look at the grave before striding off in the direction she’d come.

When she was out of sight, Dylan crossed the grass to inspect the headstone.
Frank Arthur Blackman, a loving husband and father, who passed away 17th January, 2002 aged 49. In our hearts you will always stay, loved and remembered every day.

Along with the flowers, Sue Kaminski had signed a small card that read,
Miss you, Dad
.

Her father had been too young to die. Her first husband had barely started out on life when a tragic accident cut his time on the earth short. Now, with a husband behind bars for a murder he possibly didn’t commit, Sue must think the gods had something against her.

Making a mental note never to visit cemeteries at such an ungodly hour, Dylan set off. Breakfast called.

He was in time to see Sue driving out of the cemetery’s small car park. Another vehicle had been parked under the tall trees and it followed. Coincidence? As far as Dylan was aware, the driver of that car hadn’t been inside the cemetery.

Dylan didn’t like coincidences. He took his phone from his pocket, searched through his list of contacts and hit the Call button. It rang twice before a familiar voice answered.

“Pikey, me old mate,” Dylan said. “How are you?”

“Pissed off with people who only call when they want something. But never mind me, how does it feel to be a father again?”

Dylan was taken aback. “How do you know about that? I was calling to tell you.”

“Liar. You’re calling because you want something. Something to do with the case you’re working on in Dawson’s Clough, I imagine.” Pikey laughed. “Your wife talks to mine now and again, you know. Congratulations, you old bastard.”

“Thanks. We ought to get together and catch up.” Dylan meant it. He’d spent most of his career in the police force working alongside DS Pike and he’d trust the bloke with his life. “What are you doing at the weekend?”

“I can probably make time for a couple of pints with you. What time?”

“Why don’t you and your better half come round to our place on Saturday afternoon?” Dylan said. “The women can talk babies and we can escape to the pub.”

“Sounds good to me. I’ll ring you to confirm on Friday. Okay?”

“Great. I’ll look forward to it.” Dylan would mention it to Bev at the first opportunity. The mood she was in, he’d be in trouble for making arrangements without consulting her.

“So,” Pikey said. “What are you wanting from me?”

“Who says I want anything?” Dylan wished they’d hurry up and get to the point because there was only so long he could repeat a car registration to himself.

“I do. What is it?”

“Well, if you could do me a quick vehicle check I’d be grateful. As much as you’ve got on the owner. And in a couple of days, I might ask about several more. Is that okay?”

“Fire away.”

He gave Pikey the number and, while he waited for his friend to call him back, he walked slowly in the direction of his hotel. Thoughts of his breakfast were making his mouth water now.

He was almost there when Pikey called.

“Okay, your vehicle is registered to a James—”

“Bloody Tinsley. I should have known. I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Well, his middle name is given as Matthew not Bloody, but yeah, ten out of ten, detective.”

“Have you got anything interesting on him?” Dylan asked.

“Nope. He’s as clean as a dog’s bollocks. Why? What’s he been up to?”

“Nothing, I suppose.” The worst he’d done, as far as Dylan knew, was have a crush on a young woman and follow her. “Okay. Thanks, Pikey. All being well, I’ll see you on Saturday.”

“Great. And don’t forget it’s your round.” Pikey was chuckling as he ended the call.

Dylan, in need of sustenance, walked on to his hotel.

Maybe, he thought, as he tucked in to bacon, sausage and egg, Tinsley had a family member buried in that cemetery. Just because Dylan hadn’t noticed him putting flowers on a grave didn’t mean he hadn’t done so.

When his second coffee was finished, he went to his room, switched on his computer and searched for information on the Tinsleys. He soon found what he was looking for. Lance Corporal Peter Tinsley’s funeral had been large, as befitted all dead heroes, and he’d been laid to rest in his parents’ hometown of Blackburn.

That meant nothing, though. For all Dylan knew, Tinsley could have other family members buried in Dawson Clough’s cemetery.

If Tinsley was following Sue Kaminski, it wasn’t a crime. Perhaps he aimed to bump into her, strike up a conversation and ask her out on a date. Maybe his nerve kept failing him. He might be a good vet, but Dylan thought he lacked the usual social skills. There was something about Tinsley that Dylan didn’t like. He couldn’t put his finger on that something, but he’d be reluctant to leave his kids with him. Or a dog come to that.

He’d have a word with him. Or with Sue.

Meanwhile, he passed the morning staring at CCTV images. There was a kind of method to his madness. He was making a note of every vehicle that travelled along Darwen Road during the day, and trying to match them with cars that used the road on the day Carly Walsingham had her date with a small, sharp blade. There were probably worse ways to spend time but, offhand, Dylan couldn’t think of any.

When he had a list of interesting vehicles, he’d pass it on to DS Pike and see what came of them.

In the afternoon, sick and tired of staring at a screen, he drove out to Pennine View Rescue Centre. Sue’s battered heap of rust was outside the house and, as there were no dogs guarding the property, he decided it was safe to open the gate and venture to the front door.

Sue opened the door in an instant. Her hair, as short as it was, stuck up at every angle and her face was flushed.

“Dylan, what a nice surprise. Come in, come in.”

He followed her into the kitchen where the table was completely covered in papers. Looking more closely, he guessed she was doing her accounts and, given the two final demands he could see, finances weren’t a cheerful subject in this house. No wonder she looked as if she’d attempted to pull out her hair.

“Can I get you a tea or a coffee?” She was already reaching for the kettle.

“No, thanks. I was just passing so I thought I’d call in, but it’s only a quick visit. And, sorry, but I don’t have any news.”

She nodded as if she’d expected nothing more.

On the table, almost hidden by final demands, cheque stubs and invoices for dog food, was a cheque for a hundred pounds signed by Frederyk Kaminski. It was made payable to the rescue centre rather than Sue.

She saw him looking at it. “Agata fell in love with a cat while she was here on Wednesday. She took it home and phoned me yesterday to say that all was well, the cat had settled, and she’d put a cheque in the post, a donation for the sanctuary. It arrived this morning.”

“Ah.” Dylan knew the Kaminskis had little money. They were paying him out of their savings, but a cheque payable to Sue might have been more useful than one for the animal sanctuary. Or perhaps giving her money would have embarrassed them. And her.

“I’m so pleased,” Sue said. “It’s wonderful that Friday, the cat, has a good home, and it’ll be company for Agata, too. It’s funny, but we had quite a nice day together. I got the impression she was lonely though. Or, if not lonely, struggling to cope with Alek being in prison.” She sighed. “I know how she feels.”

“Alek’s parents are getting on a bit,” Dylan said. “I expect they worry that they won’t be around when he comes out of Strangeways.”

Sue bit her lip. She nodded at the truth of that but looked as if she couldn’t bear to agree with him.

She shoved some papers aside and pulled out a leaflet with Alzheimer’s UK blazoned across it. “At least they don’t have Alzheimer’s.”

“Well, no.”

“Aunt Joyce,” she said, and he thought she was a blink away from bursting into tears.

“Oh, I see. I’m sorry.”

She took a deep breath. “She has good days and bad days. She’s not too bad.” She crumpled up the leaflet and aimed it at the waste bin.

“How are the accounts looking?” Dylan thought finances might be a safer if no less depressing subject. “Are you managing without Alek’s income?”

“Barely. But we’ll be fine. The Easter fundraiser did well so that should keep us going until the next one in July. Thankfully, I have plenty of people willing to volunteer. They enjoy feeding the dogs, exercising them and grooming them. I don’t have to pay wages.” She gave a rueful smile. “I couldn’t afford to pay wages.”

“What about vet’s bills? They must be quite steep.”

“They are. No animal leaves here without being spayed or neutered, wormed and microchipped. It’s expensive, of course, but we’re lucky to have Jamie. He does all he can to keep the expense to a minimum.”

Dylan didn’t doubt it. “Ah yes, Jamie. I meant to mention him, Sue. I think, although I could be wrong, that he might be following you.”

She looked at Dylan as if he’d suddenly become fluent in Swahili.

“As I say, I could be wrong. I saw you when you were leaving the cemetery this morning,” he said. “Jamie was there too. He followed you out of the car park.”

She opened her mouth to speak but closed it. Her hands went into her pockets and then out again.

“I think I’ll have a coffee,” she said. “Are you sure you don’t want one, Dylan?”

“Quite sure. Thanks.”

She turned on the tap, and the sudden force sprayed water all over her and the kitchen window. “Damn.”