Silent Witness (A Dylan Scott Mystery) (11 page)

Or was it Pete’s doing? Was Pete watching over him, telling him to put an end to it all?

Jamie had no idea. He did know, however, that he’d be taking the gun home. Finally, he had the means. If his father returned from hospital, Jamie could make sure he never lifted a finger to his wife again.

There was the private investigator, too. So long as there was breath in Jamie’s body, Dylan Scott wouldn’t learn the truth behind Carly Walsingham’s murder. And Jamie had the means to stop him.

Teresa Simmons’s home was a semi-detached house on a new estate on the outskirts of Coventry. A child’s cycle, complete with stabilisers and pink ribbons dangling from the handlebars, had been abandoned on the small patch of lawn at the front. Bird feeders, crammed with nuts or seeds, hung from a small tree.

Dylan rarely phoned ahead as he preferred to speak to people
before
they could concoct works of fiction. It meant Teresa might not be home though.

She’d been surprisingly easy to find. When living in Dawson’s Clough, she’d been a keen beekeeper and it seemed she’d taken her bees with her to Coventry. She was a member of the British Beekeepers’ Association and had written pamphlets on beekeeping and the health benefits of honey. Copies of the pamphlets could be obtained by sending a stamped addressed envelope to her home address.

Giving the world your address was an open invitation to fraudsters and worse, but Dylan knew that few people heeded the warning. He was glad Teresa Simmons hadn’t. Her rash behaviour had saved him a great deal of work.

It was five o’clock and the ferocious wind hadn’t dropped all day. It tried to take the Morgan’s door off and Dylan rocked on his feet as he closed it.

He was bent almost double as he walked up the path and to the front door. His ring was answered almost immediately by a woman clutching a small kitten.

“Yes?”

He recognised her from a photo he’d seen on the internet showing her being presented with some beekeeping award or other. In the picture, she’d been smiling. Now she looked wary, as if she suspected him of trying to sell her something outlandishly expensive and useless.

“Mrs. Simmons?”

“Yes?” The frown deepened.

“My name’s Dylan Scott.” He smiled, trying to win her over. “Don’t worry, I’m not selling anything. I’m a private investigator and I’m working for Aleksander Kaminski. You may remember—”

“But of course I remember. He killed Neil Walsingham’s wife.”

“I wondered if I might have a quick word. Could you spare two minutes, please?”

He showed her his card which was worth less than the cost of the printing. Anyone could print something similar and claim to be a member of the Association of British Investigators. She studied it closely though.

“Yes. Yes, of course. You’d better come inside,” she said. “We’ve only had the kitten a couple of days and I don’t want her getting out.”

“Thank you. I appreciate your time.”

She was mid-thirties, Dylan supposed, and was several pounds overweight. Dark hair was long and lank around a face that already boasted a couple of spare chins.

Once the door was closed, she put the kitten, a ball of grey-and-white fluff, on the floor. It raced along the hall and into the kitchen, skidded on the floor and crashed into a cupboard.

“So what do you want with me?” she asked. “What’s going on? Has something happened?”

This woman was a joy to investigators. She was eager for any gossip that might be going spare.

“I really want confirmation that you were working with Dr. Walsingham on the afternoon his wife was murdered,” he said.

“But I’ve already told the police that.”

“I know, I know. It’s just that new evidence has come to light.” If only it had. “I’ve spoken to Megan Cole and she said that you and she were working with Dr. Walsingham all day. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“She also said it was so busy that day—”

“It was. There was an accident. A coach carrying a load of kids was involved. That’s why Megan was working there. She didn’t usually work anywhere near A&E but we needed every spare pair of hands.” She nodded at the sitting room. “Sorry. Would you like to sit down?”

Dylan wasn’t bothered one way or the other, but she looked eager to talk and he was more than happy to listen. “Thanks.”

All the furniture was cheap but serviceable and Dylan chose to sit on a tan sofa. A low coffee table in front of him was hidden by glossy magazines. Curtains were fraying at the hem and he wondered if the kitten was responsible.

“What do you mean, new evidence?” she asked.

“It’s possible that Kaminski may be innocent.”

“No. Really? Then who—?”

“No one knows,” he said. “The problem is that no one seems sure of people’s movements. That’s why I’m here, Mrs. Simmons. I’m hoping you can tell me exactly what time Dr. Walsingham and—or—Megan Cole went home that day.”

“Dr. Walsingham? Neil? You surely don’t think—I mean, he can’t have anything to do with it, can he?”

“I wouldn’t think so, but you never know, do you?” Dylan wasn’t in a position to point fingers at anyone. Yet.

“Well, well.” She leaned forward and said in a low voice, “Mind you, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.”

“Really? What makes you say that?”

“Rumour has it that his marriage wasn’t happy. Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? He was—and still is, I shouldn’t wonder—a terrible one with the ladies. An out-and-out flirt. We had to warn all the new staff members about him. The young female new staff members, that is.”

“Ah.”

“Everyone felt sorry for his wife. We thought, well, there’s him, carrying on behind her back and she doesn’t have a clue. It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

It certainly made Dylan wonder. “So can you let me know the times you can say for certain that he was at the hospital? For instance, were you there when he received the phone call? The one from the school asking him to collect the children?”

“I was in the building, yes.”

“So you saw him leave? You knew of the call?”

“No.” She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Blimey. Who would have thought it?”

“I’m sure Dr. Walsingham had nothing to do with his wife’s murder,” Dylan said. The expression on her face already had Walsingham proved guilty and charged.

“I always thought there was more to him than met the eye,” she said.

Dylan suspected he was being served a generous helping of sour grapes. Perhaps the ladies’ man that was Walsingham had never made advances to the overweight and not particularly attractive Teresa.

“Did you say as much to the police?” he asked, already guessing the answer.

“No, but they never really asked me much. They spoke to us at the hospital, that would have been the following morning. News had broken of Carly’s murder by then, of course, and three or four of us were talking about it when the police came. There was me, Megan Cole, Bruce Taylor who worked as a porter and Daisy who worked on the main switchboard. Everyone was shocked. Well, who wouldn’t be?”

“Quite.”

“The police wanted to know if we’d seen anyone unusual coming to or leaving the hospital. Daisy would have, if there’d been anyone to see, but she noticed nothing or no one out of the ordinary. It was Megan who told them that me and her had been working with Neil all day. The police asked me later, when they were taking statements, if I’d been in the emergency department with Neil all day and I—well, I said yes.”

“But you were too busy to notice if he was there or not?”

“I just assumed, because Megan said he’d been there, that he was. It’s possible he wasn’t. I mean, perhaps Megan just assumed too.” Her eyes widened as a new thought struck her. “I can’t even say for sure what time Megan was there. You know about Neil and Megan, do you? You know they’re having, or were having, an affair?”

“I suspected as much, yes.”

“You wouldn’t think Megan would be so stupid, would you? Before her it was Sonia and what a mess he left her in.”

“How do you mean?”

The kitten raced into the room and, without pausing, scaled the curtains. Realising it was stuck at the top, it clung to the rail and meowed pitifully until Teresa lifted it down.

“There were rumours going around the hospital that Neil and Sonia were having an affair.” Teresa was too eager to gossip to be distracted by a kitten with a death wish. “No one knew for certain, but there’s no smoke without fire, is there? Then one day, Sonia came to work and she was in a right state. You could tell she’d been crying all night. Then, along comes Neil. Well, he totally ignores her, doesn’t he? She burst into tears and told everyone how he’d led her on, promised her the earth, said he’d divorce Carly and everything.”

“Really?”

“Yes, and it was difficult to tell who was the more furious, Neil because she’d told everyone or Sonia because he’d treated her so badly. She was in a right state, threatening to make him pay and everything.”

Who needed TV soaps when all you had to do was wander down to your local hospital?

“What happened?” Dylan asked.

“It all blew over.” She sounded disappointed about that. “Sonia left the hospital about a month before Carly was killed. Actually, she left quite suddenly, now I come to think of it.”

“Oh? What reason did she give?”

“Her husband had his own business—I can’t think what it was now—and she left to help him with that. I bet there was more to it than that though.”

“What’s her name?” Dylan asked.

“Sonia Trueman. They live on Peebles Road—ah, that’s it. I remember now. Her husband set up his own taxi business. She preferred to call it private hire though. You had to book him in advance and he did trips to the airport, stuff like that.”

“Peebles Road? That’s the road behind Lakeside Drive where Dr. Walsingham lives?”

“Yes, that was handy, wasn’t it? It’s a long road. At one end, the end that backs onto Lakeside Drive, there are shops. The houses are at the other end. They’re big old terraced houses. Quite nice if you like that sort of thing. I prefer something modern but we can’t all be the same, can we?”

“The world would be a dull old place if we were.”

They talked, or rather Teresa gossiped about hospital staff and Dylan listened, for another half hour.

“Thanks so much, Mrs. Simmons,” Dylan said, standing up. “You’ve been very helpful.”

“What do you think will happen?”

“I don’t know. Probably nothing. It may be that justice was done and Aleksander Kaminski is where he deserves to be. We’ll have to wait and see.”

“You’ll let me know, won’t you? And if you want to know about anyone else who worked at the hospital, you only have to ask. I sometimes think I could write a book about the goings-on in that place.”

The kitten had worn itself out and was stretched out, fast asleep, in the middle of the hall. She picked it up, presumably so it didn’t escape when she opened the front door.

“Thanks again,” Dylan said. “I appreciate your help.”

“Any time. Bye.”

Dylan was blown to his car and, once inside, wondered whether he should turn around and drive north, back to Dawson’s Clough for a chat with Sonia Trueman. But no, it would have to wait. He was driving south. Going home for another long weekend.

He’d promised Bev he’d be home early to take care of the children while she and her friend Lucy had a night out.

Of course, if Dylan was late, or couldn’t make it, then his mother would be more than happy to babysit. Bev wouldn’t be too pleased with him though.

He fired the engine and drove off. It would be more than his life was worth to upset Bev right now.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Bev said. “Who in their right mind pays to feel this bad?”

Lucy was pounding out miles on the adjacent treadmill. “Nonsense, it’ll do you good. Do us both good.”

“Speak for yourself. I need sleep not exercise.”

Lucy grinned across at her. “You’ll sleep well after this. Anyway, Dylan’s home so he can deal with everything. It’s not as if you’re breastfeeding so there’s nothing he can’t do.”

Bev had decided against breastfeeding simply because she’d hated the experience so much with Luke. She’d come to realise that she hated feeling like A Bad Mother just as much, though.

She checked the timer on her treadmill. Only ten more minutes of this torture.

Buying a gym membership had seemed like a good idea at the time, but she’d forgotten just how boring exercise was. Thankfully, she had an excuse. As she’d had a baby, she was on the gentle program. Lucy, in a moment of madness, had opted for the moderate exercise plan and was battling with a steep incline.

Still, it was good to get out of the house and even better to spend time with Lucy. Once they got their breath back, they’d have a few laughs.

About a dozen people were making use of the weights or machines and Bev didn’t think any of them were good advertisements for the gym. Lucy was tall and slim, but the rest of them, including Bev, who hadn’t yet got her figure back, looked podgy and out of condition.

A man on one of the rowing machines had sweat pouring off him and looked a breath away from a heart attack. Two women on static cycles were debating whether five minutes on the machines was enough.

Above them, silent but mesmerising TV screens were tuned to BBC News 24.

“You ought to take out a membership for Dylan,” Lucy said. “They’ve got a special offer on and you’d get him in for half price.”

“He hates gyms.” Bev was beginning to think he had a point. “He keeps threatening to take up running again though. Mind you, he went for a run a couple of weeks back and it almost killed him.”

“Yeah? How far did he go?”

“Three miles. Before he ended up in prison, he did that most mornings.” She smiled at the memory of his last run. “He reckoned his shoes weren’t right. I thought it had more to do with all the cooked breakfasts he eats. He spends so much time in hotels that he’ll soon look like a full English.”

“God, I could just eat a good fry-up.”

“Me too. Sausage, bacon, fried egg.”

“Mushrooms, tomatoes and—yum—fried bread.”

“Which would rather defeat the object of this,” Bev said.

“True. We’ll take some liquid calories when we’ve finished.”

“Oh yes, because liquid calories don’t weigh as heavy, do they?”

“Of course they don’t. Not much longer now.”

They carried on. To take her mind off her boredom, Bev tried to guess what the newsreader was saying on the silent screen. It was impossible.

A few minutes later, it was over. And not a second too soon.

Bev was feeling okay, quite smug in fact, until she’d showered and dressed. At that point, her legs resembled jelly rather than muscle and bone.

“The wine bar?” Lucy suggested.

“Lead on.”

Unlike the gym, the wine bar was packed with people enjoying themselves. Drinkers talked and joked, laughter rang out. Eighties music was playing.

“This is more like it,” Bev said.

They handed over a ridiculous amount of money for a not particularly large glass of white wine each and grabbed one of the vacant tables and benches.

“A seat and a glass of wine.” Lucy lifted her glass. “Cheers.”

Oh yes, this was much more like it.

“So how are things?” Lucy asked.

“Great.” Bev didn’t stop to think before answering. She rarely did at the moment. “I’m gradually getting into a routine. Yes, things are great. What about you?”

While Lucy updated her on her own life, Bev wondered if this was the first time she’d lied to Lucy. Over the years they’d shared everything. Not now.

Bev supposed she was too ashamed to tell it how it really was. She trusted Lucy, of course she did, but she couldn’t tell her how she’d longed to escape the house and how she dreaded walking back into it.

It wasn’t Dylan, she’d love to spend some time with him. It was Freya. Her heart still dropped like a stone every time her baby so much as whimpered.

Other mums she knew, all of them younger than her, couldn’t get enough of their children. Bev wouldn’t much care if she never saw Freya again.

Dylan melted when he saw his daughter. It wouldn’t be long before he was hers to command. But Dylan was different. He took life in his stride and accepted what the gods threw at him. Bev longed to put back the clock a few years. She’d love to go back to the time before Freya, before Dylan lost his job and served his prison sentence, before Luke even—

“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?”

“What? Oh, sorry, Luce. I was miles away.”

“Where?”

Bev took a swallow of wine. It was crisp and cool. “I think I was about to walk down the aisle.”

“Wow. Who with?”

“Dylan.”

Bev expected a witty retort that involved Brad Pitt or Hugh Jackman, but Lucy simply looked at her, expression serious.

“What’s wrong, Bev?”

“Wrong? Nothing. I was daydreaming about marrying my husband all over again. What could possibly be wrong?”

Lucy didn’t look convinced. “Everything’s okay, isn’t it? You and Dylan, I mean?”

“Everything’s great. Come on, let’s get these glasses refilled.”

It was far easier to drink, joke and pretend than it was to admit the truth. Bev couldn’t tell Lucy that she couldn’t find it in herself to love her daughter.

And she certainly couldn’t tell Dylan.

The taxi dropped her outside the house just before eleven. The driver was long gone when she finally walked down the path and opened the front door. Silence met her. She couldn’t believe it.

She crept along the hall—this was what she was reduced to, sneaking around her own home like a thief.

Dylan was alone in the sitting room. He’d been stretched out on the sofa, hands linked behind his head, but he got up. “You survived it then? How did it go?”

“It was okay. More boring than anything. Why is it so quiet?”

“Luke’s asleep and Freya might be asleep. She’s been quiet for, oh, about two minutes now.” He gave her a quick kiss. “Coffee? Wine?”

It was so rare that she didn’t have a screaming baby to deal with that she couldn’t decide. She’d already had wine and ought to have a coffee. It would keep her awake though.

“Get me a glass of wine, Dylan. Be quiet, though, won’t you?”

While he went to the kitchen, she sat on the sofa, put her feet on the stool and closed her eyes. This had to be too good to last.

Perhaps Dylan was better with Freya. Perhaps she liked her dad more and felt calmer with him.

“Thanks.” She took the wine from him. “So has Freya behaved herself?”

“She’s given her lungs a bit of exercise. Hopefully, she’s worn herself out.”

“Hopefully.” She sighed. “Wouldn’t it be lovely to just sit and relax.”

“You can. We are.”

But she wasn’t. Couldn’t. She was on edge, waiting for the first whimper that would escalate into full-scale screaming. She knew she’d be awake most of the night just as she knew she’d feel like death tomorrow.

She couldn’t sit and pretend that life was great because it wasn’t. Nor could she tell the truth, that she wished to God she’d never had this baby.