Silent Witness (A Dylan Scott Mystery) (24 page)

Dylan pulled into Tesco’s car park, switched off the engine and made a mental note to book a service for the Morgan. It was sprinting up and down motorways too much for his liking and, although it hadn’t missed so much as a beat, there was no point in feeling smug or pushing his luck.

He grabbed his phone and punched in his home number. Bev answered on the second ring.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“It’s fine. Where are you?”

“Dawson’s Clough. I’ve just arrived.”

They spoke for a couple of minutes, just long enough to put Dylan’s mind at rest. Luke was at school, Freya was chortling in the background and Bev sounded cheerful enough. All was well with his world.

When he ended the call, he went into the store, grabbed a coffee and wondered what to do for the best. He couldn’t decide whether to phone Tinsley or call at the veterinary surgery and hope he was available for a quick chat.

Other than that, he wasn’t sure which direction to take. Leads, or even hunches, were distinctly lacking right now. He uncovered a lie at every turn, but as yet he hadn’t found a single thing that might prove Kaminski’s innocence. He had to hope that, as unlikely as it sounded, Tinsley had something worthwhile to tell him.

There was no point in alienating Tinsley. Dylan would call at the surgery, apologise profusely yet again, and ask if they could meet during Tinsley’s lunch break or later in the evening.

Moor Lane Veterinary Practice was an impressive double-fronted, three-storey building in the middle of Cooper Road. A sign pointed to a small car park at the rear, but Dylan parked on the road in front of the building. After a quick look to make sure there weren’t any No Parking signs or traffic wardens about, he went inside.

The reception room was large, light and airy, and the walls were dotted with pictures of giant-sized fleas and instructions on how often pets should be wormed. Three young women sat behind a curving counter using state-of-the-art computers that told how well the practice was doing. Behind them were shelves stacked with pills and potions, pet carriers, expensive collars, dog coats and anything else the pampered pet might require.

“Can I help you?”

Dylan turned his best smile on the receptionist. “Sorry to bother you. I’m actually hoping for a word with Jamie. Jamie Tinsley. Is he here?”

“He is, but he’s with a client at the moment. If you’d like to take a seat, I’ll tell him you’re here when he’s free. What name is it?”

“Dylan Scott.”

“As in Thomas?”

“Sorry?”

“Dylan Thomas?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, that’s right.”

As he sat to wait, he considered giving the girl a medal. Everyone else asked if he was Dylan as in Bob Dylan. He couldn’t remember anyone mentioning Dylan Thomas.

Whenever he asked his mother why she couldn’t have called him John or Peter instead of naming him after her favourite singer-songwriter, she just laughed. “I had a soft spot for Engelbert Humperdinck too. Count your blessings, love.”

She had a point. Not an excuse, a point.

The large clock ticked on until a woman carrying a caged cat emerged from one of the side doors.

The receptionist picked up the phone, tapped in a number and said, “There’s a Dylan Scott to see you, Jamie.”

She ended the call and didn’t even glance in Dylan’s direction. He was about to enquire when that door opened again and Jamie, clad in a green overall, appeared.

“Dylan. Come on through.”

Dylan followed him along a corridor, past a couple more doors, and into a small examination room.

Jamie stood behind a rubber covered table. “What can I do for you?”

“I came to apologise again for missing our appointment. I’m so sorry, but my daughter was rushed into hospital and I had to dash down to London. In the panic, it went right out of my head.”

Jamie nodded, a sign perhaps that he accepted Dylan’s apology. Anyone else would have asked after Freya’s health. Not Tinsley.

“I wondered if you had a couple of minutes spare,” Dylan said.

“Sorry, this is a busy time and I need to leave soon to go on my rounds.”

“I understand that. You said you have something to tell me about Aleksander Kaminski?”

Tinsley gave a short humourless laugh. “I can tell you he’s guilty. If you knew him, really knew him, you’d realise that. You’re wasting your time. You’re also giving Sue false hope and that’s unforgivable.”

“So you don’t know anything about the murder of Carly Walsingham?”

Behind the glasses, Tinsley blinked several times. “I know for a fact that Aleksander Kaminski is guilty. Justice has been done. Leave it alone.”

“You know for a fact?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you more than that. I thought perhaps I could, but I can’t. And now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“Yes, of course.” Dylan walked out of the surgery and back to his car deep in thought. As crazy as it sounded, he’d got the impression back there that Tinsley
did
know something. What the hell could that be?

He’d assumed that Tinsley was determined to convince him of Kaminski’s guilt simply because he wanted Sue for himself and liked the idea of Kaminski being behind bars for a good number of years. He should have remembered his own mantra,
Never Assume
. Perhaps Tinsley knew exactly who the killer was.

He put the Morgan in gear and drove to his hotel. It was time to make peace with the staff. He pulled into the hotel’s car park and grabbed his bags.

If anyone asked, he’d tell them he loathed hotel life. It had its plus points, though, the main one being the breakfasts. What could be better than waking to sizzling bacon, hot sausages, and eggs fried to perfection?

As a teenager, he’d vowed that when he was old enough to leave home and his mother’s hopeless attempts to throw a few seeds in a bowl, he wouldn’t get involved with any woman unless she could cook. In the event, of course, he’d ended up with Bev, and her talents ended at stacking an Asda trolley.

“Hi,” he greeted the girl on the reception desk. He didn’t recognise her and he thought he knew all the staff. “I’m Dylan Scott. I’ve been staying here but had to rush off on Wednesday.”

“Ah, yes.” She reached for a key card. “We received your message. Here. Your room’s all ready for you.”

“The same room?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Have a nice day.”

Dylan would settle for a fruitful day. A useful day. “Thanks. You too.”

He took the lift to his room, threw his bags on the bed to unpack later and decided to spend an hour looking through those CCTV images again. But first he tried Neil Walsingham’s mobile.

Much to his surprise, it was answered almost immediately. “Dylan? Hello, how are you? What can I do for you?”

The doctor was a good actor. Dylan must be the last person he wanted to hear from, yet his effusive greeting was almost convincing. Almost.

“Hello, Neil. I’m good, thanks. I was wondering if I could have a chat with you. There are just a couple of points I need clearing up and it would be easier face to face than over the phone.”

“Of course. When suits you? Tell you what, I’ll be home early this evening. By five or five-thirty at the latest. Well, barring any emergencies. Why don’t you call at the house at, say, sixish?”

Trying to fathom Neil Walsingham was more difficult than understanding the meaning of life. “That would be good. Thank you. I appreciate it.”

“Any time. See you later then. I’ll give you a ring if I’m delayed at the hospital for any reason.”

Dylan was so unsettled by the ease with which he’d set up a meeting with Walsingham that he was no longer interested in CCTV images. Besides, he could describe every person, recall every vehicle and name every bird that knew Darwen Road. It was a pointless exercise.

Instead, he grabbed his jacket and walked into the centre of town. His thought processes worked much better when he walked, and he wanted his intended conversation with Neil Walsingham clear in his mind.

He was in the pedestrianised shopping centre before he knew it.

“Dylan?”

He turned at the sound of Frank’s voice and saw his ex-boss striding out to catch him up. He waited, smiling at Frank’s erect carriage and military stride.

“Hello, Frank. How’s things?”

“About the same. What about you?”

He told Frank about his dash to London, how Freya was fully recovered, and how he’d managed to get an appointment at the doctor’s home. “Do you fancy a coffee, Frank?”

“I’d rather have a beer, but I suppose it’s a bit early.”

“Is it ever too early? I need a clear head though. Walsingham’s a slippery individual.”

They went inside the crowded coffee bar and ordered cappuccinos. Most of the customers were women who’d decided to take a break from shopping. Some had babies or toddlers with them so peace and quiet was out of the question. Fortunately, the woman with two noisy toddlers at the table next to theirs didn’t stay long.

“Help me out, Frank.” Dylan spooned the froth from the top of his coffee. “Think of the vet, Tinsley, and how much he wants Sue Kaminski to himself. Why would he kill Carly Walsingham?”

Frank was reaching for his cup but he stopped. “You think he did?”

“It’s a possibility. He wants me off the case, that I do know.”

“Well, he would, wouldn’t he? If, as you say, he has plans for Kaminski’s wife, he’ll be more than happy for the bloke to stay in Strangeways.”

“True.” Perhaps that’s all there was to it. “And he tells me he doesn’t want me raising Sue’s hopes. Maybe that’s true too.”

“You think there’s more to it?”

“I didn’t until this morning.”

His train of thought was interrupted by his phone. He glanced at the display and his brain cells worked at a painfully slow rate. Someone was calling him from that bloody phone box again. The one he was currently sitting less than five hundred yards from.

“Don’t go away, Frank.”

Phone in hand, Dylan raced out of the coffee bar and dodged dawdling shoppers and mothers pushing buggies, but he was too late. The phone box was empty.

While he stood to catch his breath, he watched the pedestrians. No one looked out of place. He was a jerk. He should have answered the damn phone and kept his anonymous caller talking.

Just as he was about to return to the coffee bar, he spotted a familiar figure hurrying in the opposite direction.

He ran to catch her up. “Hello, Sonia.”

“Oh, er, hi. Hi, Dylan.” Her face was the colour of the red leather handbag slung over her shoulder.

“Did you just try to call me?”

She had, he was sure of it.

“What?” Eyes wide, she took a step back, as if she expected him to cast a spell and turn her into a frog.

“My phone rang,” he said. “I saw you in the phone box at the same moment. Before I could answer it, you rang off.”

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact I did.” She looked at the ground before concentrating on a group of teenagers outside the bookshop. “I, er, just wanted to apologise for Terry’s behaviour. He gets a bit—”

“Jealous?” Dylan asked.

She nodded. “Yes. Usually, he’s fine. A good husband. But mention of Neil—” She shrugged.

“I see.”

“He thinks Neil stole me from him and nothing I say will make him see sense. I’ve told him fifty times that it meant nothing, but—” She shrugged again.

“I see,” Dylan said again. “And that was all you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Yes. Well, I wondered how you were getting on, of course. Are you having any luck?”

“Not really, no.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” She gave him a bright smile. “Anyway, that was all. I would have left a message for you, but I’ve just remembered an appointment. I have to dash. Sorry.”

He caught her arm to halt her flight. “You do know, don’t you, that failing to offer information during a police investigation—”

“I don’t have any information. There was nothing I could have told them.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“It’s the truth. Look, I have to go.”

Again she tried to leave and again Dylan stopped her. “What do you know, Sonia?”

She tossed back her head, her stance suddenly defiant. “I know that lying bastard Neil Walsingham wasn’t at the hospital when his wife was murdered. And that’s all I do know.”

She wrenched her arm from Dylan’s grip and strode off.

Dylan walked slowly back to the coffee bar deep in thought. How did she know? And why, bearing in mind she hated Walsingham with every breath in her body, hadn’t she mentioned it to the police? She could have landed Walsingham right in the sticky brown stuff. So why hadn’t she?

As ever, he had more questions than answers. Still, at least he had something to offer Walsingham when he visited him this evening.

Jamie strode along the familiar streets with a spring in his step. A playful wind pinched at his face and flicked his hair. A swirl of fallen leaves danced around his feet.

He’d known his chance would come, and his patience was rewarded when his mother phoned him shortly before Dylan Scott visited the surgery that morning.

Jamie had been too excited to care about Scott. Thinking about it afterwards, though, he wished he’d set up a meeting with him tonight. No matter. He’d deal with Scott later.

“Your father’s much better, Jamie,” his mother had said. “The doctor’s just been and said he should be fine now. They don’t want to see him again unless he has problems.”

“I’m glad, Mum.”

“It’s a relief, isn’t it? He’s feeling so good, he’s said I must go to the guild meeting this evening. It’s the AGM. I thought I’d have to miss it, but no.”

“That’s excellent news.” Better than she could know.

Jack Reynolds would escort his mother to and from the meeting. He was an old fusspot and wouldn’t allow her to walk home alone in the dark. He’d even call in for a polite word with the invalid. It couldn’t have been better.

Jamie crept round the back of the house, took his key from his pocket and let himself in. All was quiet.

He tiptoed into the sitting room where his father sat with the table light angled to shed light on his book. He was reading the Bible.

“James? What are you doing here? Your mother’s out for the evening.”

“So I gather. She’s at her church guild meeting, isn’t she?”

“Yes.” He closed the Bible and placed it on the table by his side. “What are you doing here?”

“Euthanasia,” Jamie said. “There’s a thing, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“I deal with that day in, day out, you know. Old dogs with cancer, cats with kidney failure. I put them out of their misery, console their grieving owners and pass on to the next.”

“So you do, James, but you haven’t answered my question. What are you doing here?”

“It’s not just sick animals I deal with,” Jamie said. “If an animal is bad-tempered, mean-spirited or just plain vicious, I send it on its way to the next life. It’s so easy.”

Shaking his head in confusion, Victor Tinsley laughed. “You’re full of words, aren’t you? Stupid words. You’re all talk. Always have been and always will be. You take after—” He broke off and Jamie thought he saw something akin to fear in his expression.

“Who do I take after?”

“Nothing. No one. I didn’t say anything.”

“Who?” Jamie lunged at him and grabbed a handful of shirt collar and throat. “Who do I take after?”

“Hey, stop this now. I can’t breathe.”

Jamie gave him a good shake. “Then you’d better answer my question, damn you.”

“All right. Daniel Wright. You take after Daniel Wright. Satisfied?”

Jamie released his grip and his father sank back into his chair, pulling air into his lungs.

Daniel Wright. He knew the name. Daniel Wright. He paced the room, dragging up long forgotten memories.

“
Father
Daniel Wright?”

The Roman Catholic Church had its large plot at the end of this road. The priest’s house, a dark, forbidding building, was opposite. Long ago, the resident priest had been one Daniel Wright.

But the Tinsleys were Church of England. They had nothing to do with the priest.

Jamie dragged the man’s image to mind. He’d been tall. His hair had been thin and sandy-coloured. His hair had been a lot like his own, now he came to think of it.

“Some call him Father.” Victor Tinsley was scowling. “I call him the devil’s offspring.”

Wright had left the area around the time Ben died. It was a long time ago, so the image Jamie pulled to mind was probably blurred by the years.

He sank onto the worn sofa and Victor Tinsley laughed.

“Yes, you’re a bastard, James. A priest’s bastard.”

Bile rose in Jamie’s throat. He ran to the kitchen, wanting to be sick, but all he could do was retch. Sweat soaked his shirt.

His father had to be lying. And yet—

He could remember a smiling man in priest’s robes giving him a few coins, talking to him, taking an interest. And what had his mother said? That he was the son born out of love?

“You’ve always thought yourself a cut above the rest of us, haven’t you?” His father had come into the kitchen. He was leaning against the door frame. “You thought you were cleverer than all of us. Cleverer than Peter, cleverer than me. The truth is, you’re nothing more than a priest’s bastard.”

Jamie should kill him now but he felt too weak.

“Your mother acted like a common whore. We hadn’t been married above a year when she went with that man.”

Jamie covered his ears with his hands, but he could still hear the hated voice.

“She wanted to keep you. Said it wasn’t your fault. We didn’t want the scandal. Who would? He gave us money to keep you. He even gave us money to feed that mangy dog you brought home.”

“Don’t you dare—” Jamie swallowed the bile that surged into his throat. “Don’t you dare call Ben mangy. That dog was worth ten of you. He lived his life with dignity, right up to the end. He wasn’t a bullying piece of shit like you. He didn’t rape anyone, did he? You raped her, I know you did. I’ll tell you something else, too. I’d rather be a priest’s bastard than have any of your DNA in me.”

Jamie straightened. He pushed past his father and strode into the sitting room. He switched on the TV and turned up the volume till it was so loud, the laughing game show contestants almost deafened him.

His father followed. “What in God’s name are you doing?”

“I’m doing fuck all in God’s name. This is in my name.” Jamie reached into his pocket and pulled out the gun. His father reeled back from him.

“This,” Jamie said, “is for Ben.”

His father screamed as the bullet shattered his kneecap.

“And this one’s from me.”

The second bullet left a gaping hole in his father’s head.

Jamie stepped over his father’s body, crossed to the TV, switched if off and walked out of the house.