Silent Witness (A Dylan Scott Mystery) (10 page)

“Ah, I see. So you were the only one who saw him there?”

“Yes. No. Teresa Simmons was with us so she knew we were there. Anyway,” she said, “why does it matter where he was? What does any of it matter? The man who killed her is behind bars.”

“There seems to be some doubt about that. Tell me, how long have you been having an affair with Dr. Walsingham?”

“What? Now look here—” Her face was the same shade as the cushions. “Who’s spreading lies about me? I’m not having an affair with anyone.” She paused briefly, guessing perhaps that Dylan had seen Walsingham leave. “He sometimes gives me a lift home after work, that’s all. He’s a colleague. Nothing more.”

And I’m the King of Siam.

“Not good enough.” Dylan thought of giving her the old it’s-none-of-my-business line, but he wanted answers now. “While you’re standing here throwing out your lies, a man is locked up in Strangeways. Ever been to Strangeways, have you? No? Then count yourself lucky. You’re a member of the so-called caring profession so I would have thought that you, of all people, would do all you could to make sure no one, and I mean no one, was locked up in that place unless they deserved to be.”

“I—but he does.”

“Says who? Not me. And not the people paying me to get justice for him.” Dylan was surprised to hear himself speaking with such conviction. He had no idea if Kaminski was innocent or guilty.

“But he is.” She was visibly shaking. “His fingerprints were there.”

Dylan shrugged. “So were the cleaner’s.”

“Well, yes, but—”

Dylan stepped closer to her. “If I murdered you tonight, Neil Walsingham’s fingerprints would be all over this house. It wouldn’t mean he’d killed you though, would it?”

Her skin was a ghostly hue, dominated by green eyes. She couldn’t have looked more terrified if she’d tried.

“She—she was sleeping with that Kaminski man.”

“So? You’re sleeping with that Walsingham man.” He took another step closer until she must be able to feel his breath on her face. “If Kaminski didn’t kill her, someone else did. And that someone else is still at large. Who knows? Maybe he’s posing as a private investigator.”

She jerked back from him.

“A word of advice, love,” he said, “never invite strangers into your home without checking their ID.”

A rush of scarlet flooded her face then ebbed away to leave it that sickly grey colour once more.

He snapped his fingers, startling her. She was still shaking. He didn’t care.

“Can you guarantee,” he said, “that Neil Walsingham was at the hospital on the afternoon his wife was murdered?”

“He—he was. Of course he was.”

Dylan didn’t know whether to believe her or not. He didn’t know who he could believe.

“How did he feel when he found out his wife was having an affair with Kaminski?”

“What? How should I know?”

“You were sleeping with him. Surely he mentioned it to you?”

“What does it matter?” she asked. “When we first—when we first started seeing each other, he said he didn’t mind. They had one of those open relationships. Both were free to do as they pleased.”

So Walsingham
had
known about his wife’s affair before she was killed.

“When did you first start seeing him?”

“About two months before—before she was killed.”

“Thank you. One more thing, the other person who said he was at hospital that afternoon, who did you say that was? Teresa…?”

“Teresa Simmons. She no longer works there. Her husband got a job in Coventry so they’ve moved down there.”

“Thank you.” He smiled at her as if they were the best of friends. “You’ve been most helpful. It’s okay, I’ll see myself out. Oh and remember, don’t let strangers into your house without checking their ID, okay?”

Her expression was one of shock and relief. Relief that he was going, and shock at having shared her home, albeit it briefly, with a madman.

Dylan stood for a moment on the pavement watching the house. A light came on in another room, the kitchen perhaps, to give him a shadowy glimpse of Megan Cole bending to pick something up, holding it to her ear and speaking.

Jamie wondered if it was a mistake bringing the dog with him. He hadn’t been given much choice though. He’d been on a farm inspecting a valuable herd of cattle, with Monty waiting patiently in the car, when the call came from his mother.

“I don’t want to worry you, James, but your father’s been rushed into hospital. They think it’s appendicitis. I’m here now, but they haven’t told me much.”

The call was so unexpected, and the news so shocking, that he’d simply promised to get to the house as soon as he could. House, not hospital. He had no wish to see his father. Besides, if it was appendicitis, they’d be operating and visitors wouldn’t be allowed.

But the dog—

The house was locked so his mother must be still at the hospital. He’d always had his own key and, when he let himself in, Monty raced the length of the hall and into the sitting room where he stopped to sniff everything. It was the first time a dog had been in these rooms since Ben. Even now, all these years later, the walls echoed with Ben’s memory.

“Settle down, Monty.”

He couldn’t blame the dog though. It was natural to check out any strange surroundings.

Jamie paced from room to room. He went to the kitchen, switched on the kettle, decided he didn’t want coffee after all, and switched it off before it boiled.

The possibility, albeit slim, refused to go away. His father might die.

Few people died of appendicitis, of course, but his mother had said they weren’t a hundred percent sure of their diagnosis. Perhaps it was something more serious. Maybe there would be complications. His father could be dead at this very moment.

Monty stretched out in front of the hearth. Years ago, Ben had warmed himself in that same spot. In those days, coals had sparked and flames had danced up the chimney. A gas fire with fake logs was considered cleaner and easier now.

Monty looked a lot like Ben. They were similar in temperament, too, although Monty, despite being abandoned to his fate at the sanctuary’s gates, had an easier life and was more confident and outgoing.

Jamie never knew why he’d been allowed to keep Ben. He’d been a quiet child—it had paid to be, in this house—but he’d been insistent about wanting a dog. He’d nagged and nagged his mother. Of course, his father had put his foot down.

But one day, Jamie had walked home from school with Ben following him.

“You’d better go home,” Jamie had said, but Ben had simply wagged his feathered tail and continued to walk beside him.

Jamie, not knowing what else to do, had taken the dog into the house and fed him some bread.

Miraculously, the dog had been allowed to stay and Jamie had no idea why.

It was almost ten o’clock when he heard a car pull up outside. He pulled back the curtain and, courtesy of a streetlight that had flickered outside the house for years, saw his mother paying a taxi driver.

He went to open the front door for her.

Her tired face broke into a smile when she saw him. “Aw, James, I knew you’d come. Thank you, dear.”

“Of course I came. How are you, Mother?”

“All right. He’s—” She broke off, and anxious shadows flitted across her face as she spotted Monty.

“He won’t know, will he?” Jamie said. “How is he anyway?”

“Not too bad.”

Jamie had almost convinced himself that his father was dead, and it was a bitter disappointment to learn that he was still breathing.

“He’s sleeping now,” she said. “They’ve run some tests and will see what the morning brings.”

They walked into the sitting room, where she took off her coat and put it on the back of the armchair before bending to switch on the fire. Monty was following her, swishing his tail, but she acted as if he wasn’t there.

She warmed her hands. “Will you stay tonight, James?”

“Stay?” Jamie hadn’t spent a night under this roof since he’d graduated from university. He hadn’t wanted to. Didn’t want to now. Besides, he had Monty to think about now.

“He won’t know about the dog,” she said as if she’d read his mind. “Please stay.”

“Of course I will.” It wouldn’t be too bad. As soon as they had news from the hospital in the morning, he and Monty would leave.

Happy to have company, his mother fussed around him. Did he want something to eat or drink? The bed was aired, but would he want extra blankets? She’d cook a full breakfast in the morning so what time would he like it?

“Your father won’t like being in hospital,” she said.

“No one does.”

His father would dislike it more than most, though. Instead of barking out orders to his wife, he’d be confined to a crisp white bed where he’d be at the mercy of busy doctors and nurses. They’d soon put a stop to his bullying tactics.

“No, but you know what he’s like,” she said.

“I do. He’s a—”

“James, stop it.” She put a finger to his lips to silence him. “He’s your father. You can’t say bad things about him.” She made a hasty sign of the cross and looked heavenward, as if hunting out the thunderbolt that must surely strike Jamie down.

Jamie remained silent. He often wondered how she’d react if her husband died. Would she smile again? Would she ever admit that he was a vindictive, bullying bastard? He sometimes thought she’d been so brainwashed into thinking the man must be worshipped that she’d be unable to believe anything else.

“I’ll take Monty for a quick walk round the block,” he said, “and then I’ll turn in for the night. You should too, Mother. You’ll be worn out.”

She patted his arm, relieved that there would be no further discussion on his father. “Good idea. Everything will look better in the morning.”

Only if his father died, but if the medical staff were correct in their diagnosis, that was unlikely. He’d have an appendectomy and return home expecting to be waited on hand and foot.

Jamie set off with Monty trotting beside him. They walked along roads, deserted and mainly unlit, that Jamie had once walked with Ben. Ben used to carry a stick in his mouth, waiting until they reached the park, at which point he’d drop it at Jamie’s feet and wait for it to be thrown. Jamie wasn’t going to the park now. It was too late.

Twenty minutes later, they were back and in time to see Jamie’s mother heading up the stairs.

“Goodnight,” she said. “Sleep well, James.”

“Night, Mother.”

Jamie wasn’t ready for sleep. He went to the kitchen and made himself a coffee. Monty settled down under the table, head on paws, and went to sleep. The dog was happy to sleep anywhere.

Ben had been the same. That dog would have run all day but, if he wasn’t racing around with sticks, he was asleep.

Jamie had owned Ben for five years. In one way, he was amazed that he’d been allowed to keep a dog for so long. In another, it seemed unfair that they’d only had those five short years together.

They’d been good years, the best Jamie could remember. At last he’d had a friend, a real friend of his own. Ben had had to stay in the shed when Jamie had been at school, although sometimes Jamie’s mother would let him out into the garden, but when Jamie was home, and throughout the long school holidays, Jamie spent every spare moment with his dog.

Church was another occasion when Ben had to be locked in the shed. The family went twice on Sundays and Jamie’s father always insisted on long Bible reading sessions in the afternoon.

At night, on condition Ben didn’t make a noise, Jamie was allowed to have Ben sleeping in his bedroom. They were happy times.

It was a Sunday evening during the summer holiday that Ben wandered off. He’d never done it before and Jamie panicked. He raced to the park to see if his dog was there. He walked the streets calling Ben’s name. He ran home, hoping the dog had returned, but there was no sign of him.

“It’s time for church, James,” his father said. “You need to put the animal from your mind, don’t you?”

“Yes, Father.”

Jamie changed into his best suit for the second time that day and set off for church with his parents and Pete. On that short walk, he’d looked for the dog. All the while, his mind was a Technicolor horror show. His dog could be trapped in a shed or perhaps he’d been hit by a car.

“I can’t go in,” he whispered to Pete as they approached the church.

“He’ll kill you if you don’t. Get inside.” Pete, only nine years old to Jamie’s fourteen, had been the wiser.

“I can’t,” Jamie said.

Had he been able to see the future, Jamie would have stepped inside that church. All would have been well, and Ben would have lived for his allotted span.

Jamie hadn’t possessed a crystal ball, though, so, frightened for his dog, he’d taken off at a run and continued the search. A beating would follow, he knew that, but it was a beating he was prepared to take. So long as Ben was safe, he’d suffer anything.

A little over an hour later, his family was back from church. Ben was still missing.

His father didn’t ask after Ben. Instead, he slammed Jamie against a wall and pinned him there. Words and spittle landed on Jamie’s face.
Disobedient
…
brought shame on your mother’s head
…
not fit to be called son
…
will not tolerate your defiance
…

When the words ran out, Jamie was beaten. Pete tried to pull his father away but the boy was only nine. He was no match for their enraged father.

Jamie was bending over the table in the kitchen being lashed by his father’s leather belt when Ben, wondering what was amiss, sauntered into the kitchen as if he’d only been gone five seconds.

Jamie could have shouted with joy. Ben was home and safe so what was a beating? It was nothing. The pain would subside.

Victor Tinsley saw the dog and snapped. He kicked the animal around the kitchen, oblivious to Ben’s terrified yelps or Jamie’s screams.

When Victor had finished, Ben was barely able to stand. Victor opened the door and Ben limped out to the garden.

There was no escape for the dog. If Ben had been able to get out through a hole in the fence, he might have wandered into the street. Someone would have seen him and perhaps taken him to a vet. But there was no escape.

Jamie, watching from the window, saw his dog crawl under the shed.

“You’ve hurt him. He needs help.” Jamie rained punches on his father’s chest, not caring about further beatings, but he wasn’t allowed to go to his friend.

Instead, he was made to remove his clothes. He was then locked in the cupboard under the stairs. His mother was sobbing and Pete was shouting, but Victor Tinsley was beyond all reason.

It wasn’t the first, or last, time Jamie spent the night in that cupboard. It was small and dark, and his father dragged a chest in front of it to prevent escape.

So Jamie spent the night in that cupboard and Ben spent the night under the shed.

Victor Tinsley was an early riser. He didn’t say a word when he finally released Jamie. Not a word.

Jamie pulled on his clothes and raced into the garden.

It was too late.

With tears rolling down his cheeks and a knot of anger that would stay forever in his heart, Jamie dragged the cold, stiff body from beneath the shed and began to dig a grave for the best friend he would ever know.

Time was supposed to heal, but Jamie had no experience of that. The pain of losing Ben in such a way was as raw now as it had been then.

“It’s time for bed,” he said and Monty cocked his head.

Jamie walked up the stairs, the dog following, and wondered what had persuaded him to stay in this house. Not even for his mother should he have to tolerate a night under Victor Tinsley’s roof.

The bedroom was just as he’d left it years ago. Wallpaper and curtains in an identical blue-and-yellow pattern still had the power to make him shudder. The single bed still sat beneath the window. Wardrobe and drawers probably held his long outgrown clothes.

He pulled open the bottom drawer of a set of three just to check. There were no clothes. Instead, the drawer was crammed with books. Pete’s books. He delved further. Everything was Pete’s.

It made sense. Pete’s bedroom, never to be used by Pete again, would be—

No, wait. It wouldn’t be placed at the disposal as guests as they didn’t have guests. No one was welcomed into this house.

More likely was that Victor Tinsley had ordered Pete’s room to be emptied and Jamie’s mother had been unable to throw out her son’s belongings. She wrote to Pete. Maybe she hoarded his possessions too.

Monty finally gave up sniffing every item that was taken out of the drawer and lay down, head on paws, to watch the process.

As well as books, there were school reports, photos, Pete’s camera and a few CDs. It was strange to touch things that Pete had held. It brought his brother closer. Perhaps that was why the items were still in the house. Perhaps his mother felt the same.

Jamie pulled out well-thumbed programs and tickets for various games Manchester United played. Earphones dangled from an old iPod. A heavy-duty torch needed new batteries.

A box had been pushed right to the back of the drawer, and he dragged it out. Even as he opened it, he remembered Pete telling him how he’d brought a pistol home from an army training exercise in Germany.

Jamie’s heart raced. Everything was in its place. The Glock, speed loader, magazine, even the cleaning kit. Jamie removed the Glock and turned it over and over in his hand. It was beautifully crafted and amazingly lightweight. Small but deadly. He’d bet it had never been fired.

Slowly, Jamie returned everything to the drawer. Everything but the Glock.

He dragged the old chair close to the window, sat down and gazed into the darkness. A pool of light from that stuttering streetlight fell on a short stretch of pavement but, other than that, it was completely dark. There were no lights shining from the houses opposite. The world was asleep.

His old room even smelled familiar. He couldn’t say what the smell was exactly. Fear probably. That was all he’d known as a child. Fear.

No more, though. He’d grown up and was past all that nonsense. He could take care of himself.

He turned in his chair to look at the Glock lying on the dresser. Was this God’s will? Had God sent his father to hospital and brought him to this house, this bedroom?