Silent Witness (A Dylan Scott Mystery) (7 page)

“Dr. Walsingham?”

“Yes.” He came toward Dylan.

“Dylan Scott.” He offered his hand.

“Ah yes, the private investigator.” He looked Dylan up and down, his gaze lingering on Dylan’s scuffed shoes before returning to his face. “What would a private investigator want with me?”

“I’m working for Aleksander Kaminski,” Dylan explained. Walsingham didn’t even blink. “I’m sorry for your loss, Dr. Walsingham, truly sorry, but I wondered if I might ask you a few questions.”

“No. I’m sorry, but I don’t have the time.” Walsingham was broader across the shoulders than was evident from the photos Dylan had seen. His dark suit looked handmade. A gold watch, slim and expensive-looking, peeped out from a crisp white shirt cuff.

“I could come back later. Six o’clock? Seven?”

“No. Sorry.”

“Tomorrow?”

“No. Look, Mr.—”

“Scott. Dylan Scott.”

“Mr. Scott, I’m sorry but I have nothing to say to you or to anyone else. As you can imagine, it’s all been very difficult. For my sons, too. We had reporters camped out on our doorstep for months. We’re slowly starting to move on and get our lives back together and we don’t want it all dragged up again. No. I’m sorry, but it’s too distressing.”

“I can appreciate that, and I promise it’ll only take a couple of minutes. Five minutes tops.”

“No. Sorry.” Walsingham strode back to his car, took a sports bag from the passenger seat and headed for the front door. “I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted journey, Mr. Scott. Goodbye.”

The front door that had once been covered with Aleksander Kaminski’s fingerprints opened and closed. Dylan was left standing in the middle of the driveway.

It irked him that he’d learned nothing from Dr. Walsingham, but something, and he had no idea what, had convinced him to take this case.

For all he knew, Kaminski could have planned Carly Walsingham’s murder for months and carried it out in a calm, cold-blooded, exacting manner. On the other hand, Dylan wasn’t convinced and, so long as that albeit small element of doubt remained, he wouldn’t rest.

One way or another, he had to learn the truth. He had to prove Kaminski’s innocence or his guilt.

Jamie Tinsley bowed his head.

“For what we are about to receive may the Lord make us truly grateful.” His father recited the words that came before every meal in this house. “We also ask You, Lord, to take good care of our son Peter, and we thank You for seeing fit to take him to Your side. We thank You for Peter and we ask that You watch over him.”

“Amen,” they said dutifully.

Jamie sat opposite his mother at the dining table that had dominated this room for as long as he could remember. His father took his place at the head of the table.

“It’s good to see you, James,” his mother said as they picked up cutlery and prepared to slog their way through roast beef with all the trimmings.

“And you, Mum.” He nodded at his father. “You too, Father.”

His father was sixty-two yet looked much older. He’d always appeared old to Jamie. The thick hair was completely white now. Lines were deep around lifeless green eyes. Not laughter lines. Never laughter lines.

His mother looked the same as she always had. A little nervous perhaps, but that wasn’t surprising. Her every waking thought was concerned with trying to do the right thing, trying to win her husband’s approval. It was an impossible task.

She wore the plain long-sleeved blue dress that she seemed to be wearing every time Jamie saw her. Looking at her now, her face pale, her hair pulled back in a severe style, a stranger wouldn’t know how she loved to laugh. Jamie couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard that laugh, but that was because, these days, he only saw her with his father.

He loved his mother, despite her funny ways, and longed to make her laugh. Sadly, that was out of the question.

The sun was shining today, but it never reached this room at the back of the Victorian terraced house.

They’d always eaten their meals in this room. The table could accommodate eight easily, but no friends came. Years ago, it had been just the four of them. These days, his parents had it to themselves except on the rare occasions Jamie knew he could put off visiting no longer.

The only thing that had changed was the number of photographs. The dresser was now filled with pictures of Pete, the son the good Lord had seen fit to take to His side. Or, as Jamie thought of it, the poor bugger who’d been blown to pieces in Afghanistan.

There were pictures showing him swamped by a school uniform that he’d eventually grown into and looking dashing in his army uniform. Jamie couldn’t bear to look at them. Pete, the favourite son, was smiling in every one.

“You’re still keeping busy at work then?”

Jamie swallowed a piece of beef. “I am, Father, yes. It’s very rewarding.”

“That’s good,” his mother said. “And you managed to get to church before coming here?”

“Of course.” He hadn’t been inside a church since he’d left home, but it was easier to lie. He’d learned that long ago. “This is delicious, Mum. You’ve excelled yourself.”

She smiled with almost childlike delight. “It’s such a pleasure to cook for my boy. I only wish Peter—”

She broke off. Jamie sucked in a breath. They knew what was coming.

“How can you wish such a thing, you ungrateful woman?” Victor Tinsley demanded. “Our son was chosen, Margaret. We’re the
lucky
ones.”

“Oh, yes.” Now she was flustered. “Yes, of course I know that. Sometimes, I just wish that Peter could be here, just for a few minutes.”

Jamie watched his father nod. He wasn’t happy, but he wasn’t going to make a scene. Not today. Not on Easter Sunday.

“So long as you’re not questioning God’s will,” he murmured, spearing a roast potato.

“Of course not.”

Silence descended once more. All Jamie could hear was the occasional chink of cutlery on plates and the angry thump of his heart.

He wanted to shout and scream at his father until he saw sense. Which side was God actually on? Of all the senseless killings in Afghanistan, who was to say that God was on the side of the British or the Americans? God hadn’t
chosen
Pete. Even the young Afghan who’d planted the roadside bomb that killed Pete and one of his colleagues hadn’t
chosen
him.

Everything in this house, from the weather to blasted wars, was God’s will.

Jamie had been six when he’d first seen his father hit his mother. That had been God’s will too. It wasn’t his father behaving like the bully he was. Oh, no. It was God who wanted this tall, strong man to raise his hand and knock his wife to the floor.

Pete had understood Jamie’s anger, but he’d never shared it. He’d been the special son, though, so he’d had more freedom and, therefore, more opportunities to make friends. People had laughed at their parents, and Pete, always the joker outside these four walls, had laughed with them. Jamie had simply cringed with a mix of anger, embarrassment and humiliation.

He’d spent years wishing his father dead. He looked at him now and imagined him clutching his chest, exactly as people did in films, before falling headfirst into his beef and gravy. Better still, he imagined him having a stroke, of being paralysed and being taught to eat again in an anonymous nursing home.

Sometimes, he even fantasised about killing him. He’d give him a lethal injection perhaps. Once, he dreamed that his father fell down the stairs in this house and broke his neck, dying instantly. Years later, he could still remember the feeling of disappointment when he’d woken to find it was nothing more exciting than a dream. The bastard would live forever out of spite.

“I’m getting a dog,” Jamie said.

Cutlery was stilled. The only sound was the relentless ticking of the clock.

“It’s a collie crossbreed,” he said. “It’s the image of Ben.”

“Have—have more potatoes.” His mother pushed the bowl toward him. “A growing lad like you—”

“And how do you plan to fit that in your life?” Victor laid down his knife and fork. “As things stand, you’re even too busy to visit your own mother. How will you find time for your mother, and for worshipping our Lord, for studying His Word? Hmm?”

“Plenty of people live good, honest, decent lives and have pets,” Jamie replied.

“Some people do, yes. Not you though, James. You proved that you’re incapable of such things, didn’t you?”

In his imagination, Jamie was upending the table, sending plates, cutlery and food flying in the air. “I was fourteen,” he was yelling at his father. “I was a fucking kid, that’s all.” In reality, his father was waiting patiently for his response, and his mother was holding her breath and in all probability praying to God that they didn’t have a fight on Easter Sunday of all days.

“I’ve grown up since then, Father.” He couldn’t look at the man whose blood ran in his veins. “I made a mistake and I learned my lesson.”

A nerve twitched near Victor’s right eye. The world seemed to stop turning for a beat.

“I hope so, James. I would hate to think that you could bring yet more shame on your mother’s head. You’ve disappointed us enough over the years, don’t you agree?”

“Yes, Father.”

“You’ve not been fit to be called son, have you?”

“No, Father.”

Victor blew out a considering breath before, finally, picking up his knife and fork. “I’m sure you’re keen to read to us when we’ve enjoyed the Lord’s offering.”

Jamie longed to scream
Fuck you!
but, although he’d grown up and learned to take care of himself, he couldn’t bear to see the bruises that would appear on his mother’s face if any disagreements raised their ugly head. “I am, Father.”

“Then let us eat.”

To get the food past the wedge of anger lodged in his throat, Jamie lost himself in his imagination. By the time the apple pie and custard appeared in front of him, he’d already seen his father smashed to a pulp by a speeding train and drowned in a bubbling bath of acid.

Die,
he silently urged him.
Just fucking die
.

Nothing happened, of course. Jamie was more likely to get struck by lightning or win the lottery than watch the bastard die.

He often thought his birth must have been the only thing in his father’s life that didn’t come under the God’s Will category of events. Jamie must have been a mistake. Unplanned. His arrival in the world must have occurred at an inconvenient time because never once had it been attributed to God’s will.

Pete, on the other hand, had come along five years later and been hailed a gift, a blessing from God. None had welcomed his arrival more than Jamie. He’d loved his brother dearly and his death was still a raw wound that wouldn’t heal.

The pain was almost as raw as that of losing his beloved Ben. Pete’s death he could accept. The dog’s he couldn’t.

Jamie helped his mother tidy up and, when the table was clear, he took the old Bible from his father and sat to read. After half an hour or so, his voice grew a little croaky. At least he didn’t stutter though. He spoke slowly, forming each word in his head before daring to give it sound.

“That will do, James. I’m sure we all feel better.” Much to Jamie’s surprise, Victor rose to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to. Goodbye, James. I trust we’ll see you more often in future. And, please—” his expression was pained, “—think about the shame your mother has to bear before you act unwisely.”

“Yes, Father.”

He was going out. Jamie couldn’t believe it. His father was actually leaving the house. There should be drum rolls and fanfares. Birds should sing out and rejoice.

Jamie heard the garage door being opened and the old car being reversed onto the drive before chugging off.

“Where’s he going?” he asked.

“Church. He and several of the elders have a meeting today.” His mother patted his arm. “Let’s go into the garden. The sun’s shining and it would be a shame to waste it.”

“Good idea.” Jamie followed her into the kitchen, a warmer, sunnier room, and out into the back garden. “Lunch was lovely, Mum. Thank you.”

“I just wish you came more often,” she said.

“I can’t.”

She stopped walking to look at him. “I know. I know you can’t.”

Jamie would have liked to hold her, to comfort her, to take her away from this sad, dreary place. It would make her even more nervous, though. This was the only life she knew.

She sat on the wooden bench that had been there for decades. “Sit yourself down,” she said, patting the space beside her, “and tell me what you’ve been doing. I know you’re working hard, but what about everything else? Haven’t you met a nice young girl yet?”

“One that I could bring here? No.” He watched her eyes cloud and wished he hadn’t spoken so harshly. “Actually, there is someone. Susan. Sue. She runs an animal sanctuary in Dawson’s Clough. She’s nice.”

“Really?” Her face became animated once more. “And does she feel the same about you?”

“I hope so. I like to think so.”

He was about to tell her about how the dog had been dumped at Sue’s gate, but changed his mind. They never spoke of Ben. The reminder was always there, though. Off to Jamie’s right, too painful to look at, was the shed where the loyal sleek-coated pet, the best friend Jamie had ever known, had crawled to die.

“Peter was the one who would have been bringing young women home,” he said instead. He knew how much she longed to talk about Pete and how she wasn’t allowed to. “The girls all loved him.”

“Of course they did. He was so handsome, wasn’t he?”

“He was. Especially in uniform. They would have formed a very lengthy queue.”

She smiled, her expression dreamy as if she were picturing her dashing son leading beautiful debutantes across a vast ballroom. “He was clever, too, wasn’t he?”

“Very clever.”

Not clever enough to get the exam results Jamie had. Not clever enough for university as Jamie had been. But he’d been bright, funny and lovely.

“I write to him.” Her voice was almost a whisper.

“Sorry?”

“Peter. I write to him.” She wasn’t looking at him. “Your father doesn’t know, of course, but sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I come downstairs and write him a letter. I can’t talk to him so I—I write to him. I keep the letters at the back of the airing cupboard.”

Unsure what to say, and too filled with hatred for his father to speak anyway, Jamie patted her hand.

“I suppose it sounds crazy,” she said.

“Of course not. It’s all part of the grieving process.”

“Yes. I don’t think your father would understand though.”

Jamie was damn sure he wouldn’t. Victor Tinsley didn’t grieve. “Probably not. It’ll be our little secret, eh?”

“Yes, that would be best.” Her expression changed. “You must always remember that you were the son born out of love, James.”

“How do you mean?”

“Just that. Nothing more.” She held his hand and he could feel her trembling.

“But what—?”

“Hush now.”

The way she’d spoken, he, Jamie, had been born out of love whereas Pete hadn’t. That was madness, surely. Pete had been the favourite son.

Something jolted in Jamie’s stomach. “He didn’t rape—”

“Hush!”

“Oh, no.”

She shook her head in denial. It was clear she would say no more on the subject.

“Is that to be another of our secrets?” he asked.

Her throat worked, but her lips trembled and her face was ashen. “You’re a good boy, James.”

So good that he allowed his own mother to live like this. Soon, he would return to his own home. Normality. He would see normal people. Talk to normal people. She couldn’t even do that.

Despite his longings and fantasies, Jamie knew his father wouldn’t die for years yet. Not from natural causes, at least. The man enjoyed remarkably good health and didn’t take risks. Besides, it was a well-known fact that the devil looked after his own.

God wasn’t planning on putting an end to Victor Tinsley’s overbearing, bullying tactics so someone else would have to. Jamie would have to.

He patted his mother’s hand. “It won’t always be like this. I promise.”

It was a promise he intended to keep.