Silent Witness (A Dylan Scott Mystery) (27 page)

She dropped to her knees and began to howl. Dylan used the time to call the men in blue. It wasn’t easy explaining that he’d been shot by Jamie Tinsley, that he was in possession of a murder weapon and that he was with a woman who’d confessed to the murder of Carly Walsingham.

“You can’t have me put away, Dylan.” She was on her knees, tugging on his wet jeans. “I’m claustrophobic. I’ll go mad. You can’t have me put away.”

“I’m sorry, but the police are on their way.”

“Alek shouldn’t have gone there that day.” She looked up at him. “He shouldn’t.”

“No, he shouldn’t.”

“I couldn’t tell the truth, could I? What about the animals? Who’ll care for them? What about Aunt Joyce? Who’ll visit her? Who will care if she’s alive or dead?” Her teeth started to chatter. “I can’t spend my days and nights locked in a cell. I can’t do it. I’ll go mad.”

She was screaming hysterically when the police arrived.

Dylan flexed his shoulder and waited for a twinge of pain. It didn’t come. He’d be scarred for life, but as the doctor who’d looked Luke’s age had told him so cheerfully, he’d live. They’d given him huge painkilling tablets when he left the hospital. He’d only taken a couple because they didn’t so much deaden the pain as render him unconscious. He got the same effect from whisky and it tasted better.

He dodged around Bev, who was tidying the kitchen after a rare cake-baking session, poured himself a glass of Lagavulin and took an appreciative sip.

Freya was asleep in the crook of his arm and, given the way her fingers and toes twitched now and again, she was having pleasant dreams. Luke was in the sitting room with half a dozen friends. All was well.

“Have the Kaminskis paid you?” Bev asked.

All
had been
well.

“They sent a cheque by return. Case closed.”

The case hadn’t been closed in a very satisfactory manner, but justice had been done. Aleksander had his pardon but his wife was now awaiting trial and sentence.

It wasn’t the outcome Dylan had expected or wanted yet there was something satisfyingly right when justice was done. Carly Walsingham hadn’t deserved to die, and her sons shouldn’t be facing a life without their mother. Sue Kaminski, no matter how hurt she was by her husband’s infidelity, had no right to decide who lived and who died. Dylan quite liked her, but she’d made her choice and she must live with the consequences.

Aleksander Kaminski was a seething mass of rage spiced with shock. He longed to take his own revenge on the person who’d ended Carly’s life, and he was struggling to accept that the object of his hatred was his own wife. He’d never loved Sue, but he had cared about her. He was torn between longing to strangle her and weeping for the future that stretched ahead of her.

His feelings would change, though, Dylan was sure of it. The rescue centre had closed and Kaminski was living in Birmingham with his parents. He’d get his life back together.

Sue’s great-aunt would cope without her regular visits. Her absence might not even register with the old lady.

Frederyk and Agata were in a state of shock, but pleased that their son’s name had been cleared and even more pleased that they could be with him.

As for the cheque—

Bev had printed out Dylan’s final account and Dylan, horrified by the idea of taking such a large amount from the couple’s life savings, had then printed out a fresh account. He didn’t intend to be out of pocket, but he didn’t want the Kaminskis on starvation rations either.

Frederyk had phoned Dylan to query the account.

“It doesn’t look right,” he’d said. “We only paid you five hundred pounds at the start. There must be more than this owing to you.”

Dylan had assured him it was correct. Frederyk had sent the cheque by return, with yet another gushing note of gratitude, and Dylan had banked the cheque. There was no need for Bev to know anything about it.

It did mean they were still broke though.

Thanks to his new all-singing website that hailed him as the greatest private investigator ever—another of Bev’s big ideas, which came with a price tag to match—he’d been offered a couple of jobs that he’d have to take. They didn’t grab his interest, but they would at least put food on the table.

The sound of the TV burst out as Luke raced into the kitchen. “We’re starving.”

He grabbed half a dozen bags of crisps from the cupboard and was heading back to the sitting room and his friends when he stopped and looked at his mother. “Have you told Dad about the holiday yet?”

“What?” She blushed. “Oh, no. Not yet.”

Grinning, Luke skipped off to his friends.

Dylan’s spirits sank.

“What holiday?” And more important. “My mother’s not involved, is she?”

“Of course not,” Bev replied in an airy what-a-ridiculous-suggestion sort of way. “She’s coming with us, though. That’s a good thing, isn’t it? It means we’ll be able to go out for the evening without worrying about Luke and Freya.”

Dylan would never describe his mother’s presence as a good thing.

“And I haven’t booked it yet,” she added. “Obviously, I wanted to talk it over with you first.”

Obviously.

“So where are you thinking of dragging me?”

Dylan watched her take a long breath before saying, “On a cruise.”

Dylan knew one thing about cruises and one thing only. They were hellish expensive.

When you’d just banked a cheque that only covered a month’s expenses, you couldn’t go booking expensive cruises.

“Where to?”

“Norway.”

Perhaps it wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. No one would want to cruise round Norway so it would be cheap. People cruised the Mediterranean or—

“In November,” she added.

Even better. She’d obviously spared their finances a thought and found a bargain holiday.

Cheap or not, it couldn’t be classed a holiday. A holiday was something you looked forward to, and shivering in Norway would be more penance than treat.

“Bev, your idea of a holiday is reading as many books as possible while slowly roasting until you’re medium rare. Norway is—cold. It’ll be cheap, yes, but we’d have no fun at all shivering on a boat round Norway. Let’s look for something else. There are sure to be cheap offers for Spain, Italy or Greece.”

She busied herself putting baking trays in the cupboard.

“It was when I booked a week in Spain that I saw this cruise,” she said, and he still couldn’t see her face.

“So we’re having a week in Spain then—”

“Ten days.”

“Ten days in Spain
then
a cruise round Norway?”

She slammed the cupboard door shut and faced him. “You dare utter one word about money not growing on sodding trees and I won’t be responsible for my actions. I’ve had a baby, a sick baby, and life’s been hard. It’s all right for you swanning around bloody Lancashire, but it’s been hard work here. So yes, we’re having ten days in Spain in August and a cruise in November.”

Before he could say anything, she stormed into the hall and returned with a thick brochure that she banged down on the table in front of him.

Freya, blissfully unaware of her mother’s temper, slept on.

“Holy—” He clamped his mouth shut, but bloody hell. “So when you say Norway, you really mean the Arctic Circle.”

“No. I mean Norway. The cruise starts and ends in Norway. You do travel north, yes.”

The brochure enticed people to book for the cruise of a lifetime, to celebrate the Northern Lights Festival. Hell, you could even arrange a wakeup call as soon as the aurora borealis was spotted.

“My mother put this notion in your head, didn’t she?”

“It’s not a notion, Dylan.” The words were forced through gritted teeth. “I want to see the northern lights. That shouldn’t be too difficult to understand, even for you. Vicky, Luke, Freya and I are going on the cruise. You can stay here and be a miserable git if you so choose.”

“Hang on a minute, I thought we were going to talk it over?”

“And that’s exactly what we are doing. But I’ve paid the deposit.”

Dylan turned pages that were dotted with photos of spectacular scenery beneath green swirling skies. He came to a page showing available dates, choice of cabins and suchlike. It was supposed to show prices but—surely not. No one in their right mind would pay over two grand for a week on a blasted boat in the frozen north. Not even Bev would be so stupid. His mother might, but not Bev.

The doorbell rang and there followed a flurry of activity for the next hour or so as parents came to collect their offspring and stopped to admire the still-sleeping Freya.

Having shown off his beautiful daughter, Dylan thought he could safely put her in room to sleep undisturbed.

“A daughter is a very precious thing,” he whispered as he tucked her in, “but I hope to God you grow up with more sense than the rest of your breed.”

He dropped a kiss on her unconcerned forehead and walked downstairs in time to hear Bev on the phone to someone.

“Here he is,” she said when Dylan walked into the kitchen.

She put her hand over the microphone and whispered, “It’s Lewis Cameron.”

He took the phone from her. “Hi, Lewis. How are things in Lancashire?”

“Pretty much as you might imagine.”

Yes, Dylan could see how the local media might enjoy slagging off the inefficiency of the police. Reporters had kept Dylan’s own phone busy.

“I’m ringing,” Lewis said, “because I’m getting a little tired of seeing your quotes splashed all over the papers. You chose to come up to Lancashire and interfere, that’s fine. But don’t presume that you have any idea of how my team conducted the initial investigation. And don’t you dare say that I rushed through the case because I was eager to retire.”

“I never said anything about the investigation being rushed.”

“It’s splashed all over today’s papers. How do you explain that?”

Dylan couldn’t. “You know as well as I do that journalists have to twist things.”

“Ah, so you didn’t say that our investigation,
my
investigation was third-rate?”

“Ah.”

“Quite. In future, if you have any views about things of which you’re ignorant, I for one would be grateful if you’d keep them to yourself.”

“Fine.”

“You have no idea—”

“I know that an innocent man faced a life sentence in Strangeways.” Dylan didn’t add “because of your inefficiency” but it hung in the air between them. “Look, Lewis, I’m sorry for all the crap that’s being printed in the papers, but I can’t apologise for seeing justice done.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to, but don’t ever—
ever
—call my work third-rate. Just take a long hard look at yourself. You’re an ex-con. Someone judged not fit to be a member of the police force. Look at yourself before you judge other people.”

Dylan rolled his eyes in Bev’s direction.

“Fine,” he said. “Was there anything else you wanted, Lewis?”

“Nothing.” The connection was cut.

“What was that about?” Bev asked.

“Ex-DI Cameron wanted to remind me that I’m an ex-con who’s not fit to lick his boots. He’d rather have watched Kaminski rot in jail than have his investigation called into question.” Dylan couldn’t care less. In fact, he felt a certain degree of satisfaction at the idea and couldn’t help smiling. “Never mind. I think I’ll have another drink.”

Bev, furious on Dylan’s behalf, was prevented from giving vent to her thoughts by the arrival of Luke.

“When we do Freya’s room—” he said, only to receive a warning glance from Bev.

Dylan shook his head in despair. It was far, far easier to solve a murder case than it was to live in this house.

The thought brought Jamie Tinsley to mind. The vet’s face was on every news bulletin but police still hadn’t traced him. He’d achieved the impossible and vanished off the face of the earth. Dylan almost envied him.

“So we’re decorating Freya’s room, are we?” he said. “Well, I don’t like to say I told you so, but I knew those yellow elephants would have to go.”

Luke grinned. “Bye, bye, yellow elephants. Hello, big new room in the roof.”

Bev gave him another warning glance.

Luke sampled Bev’s cake, hot out of the oven. He chatted about football—the boring close season was upon them—and school—too boring to believe—and then decided he’d go to his bed and chill with his music before sleep.

Bev switched on the small portable TV in the kitchen, a sure sign she didn’t want to talk. That was worrying in itself.

“What plans for Freya’s bedroom then?” he asked.

“Hmm? Oh nothing, really. I’ve had some plans drawn up, that’s all.”

“Plans? It’s a twelve by twelve room with a window. What do you need plans for?”

“Well.” She thought for a moment. “Your mum’s a regular babysitter and it’s not fair to expect her to sleep in Freya’s bedroom, is it? So, I thought we’d knock Freya’s room and the bathroom into one. That way we’d have a nice big bathroom instead of the pokey thing we have now. We could then have a loft conversion and have two rooms up there, one for Freya and one for your mum.”

Dylan, who’d been thinking along the lines of choosing paint or wallpaper, despaired. Bev taught English and Drama and she put too much effort into the drama side of life outside school. He’d be eternally thankful when her maternity leave ended and she got back to her pupils. She’d have less time to think.

“I had plans drawn up and got a few quotes, that’s all,” she said.

“Are any of those quotes under ten grand?” he asked.

“Dylan, don’t be ridiculous.”

“Are any under twenty grand?”

“One was.” She concentrated all her attention on the TV. Chefs were showing viewers how to dish up some exotic concoction which would be of no interest to Bev whatsoever.

Dylan supposed he’d hate a boring life. He didn’t know, he’d never had experience of such a thing, but the idea didn’t appeal.

His wife was busy making plans that included him and his children, his son was happily listening to his music and dreaming of the giddy heights Arsenal FC would achieve next season, his daughter was contentedly dreaming of yellow elephants, and his mother was in her own home on the other side of the city. Life wasn’t bad at all.

Bev spun around and, seeing him looking at her, glared at him. “What?”

“I was just thinking I’d better put my coat on, head out to the streets and see if I can sell my body.”

Bev looked him up and down and a smile tried to work its way to her lips. “It might work. I’d give you a couple of quid.”

“You would?”

“Yes.” She gave him a long appraising look, then walked over to sit on his knee and put her arm round his neck. “I’d want enough change for a coffee though.”

The cookery programme ended and a newsreader began updating viewers on the latest headlines. Dylan wasn’t paying attention.

If Bev was coming clean about her expensive plans, maybe he should tell her about the revised account he’d given the Kaminskis. But, no. There was little point. All he wanted was a quiet life.

“Fifty pence and my body’s all yours,” he said, holding out his hand.