Silent Witness (A Dylan Scott Mystery) (13 page)

“When was the last time you saw Carly?” he asked.

“February last year,” Kirsten said. “She came to her mum and dad’s for the weekend, and we went round the pubs and to a couple of clubs. It was like old times. We had a good laugh. Her kids stayed up in Lancashire with their dad, so she was free to go out and get legless.”

“Neil didn’t visit Birmingham with her?”

If Dylan struggled to see Carly in this environment, he certainly couldn’t picture her husband here.

“No. I only ever met him once.”

“Oh?”

“He was too much of a snob for my liking. Thought he was a cut above everyone else.”

“Carly was happy with him though, wasn’t she?”

“She was happy with the money he gave her. And she was happy with her kids.” Kirsten stubbed out her cigarette. “She’d have been as happy with anyone though.”

“How do you mean?”

“Like I said, she was eleven when I first met her and, even then, she was obsessed with kids. You know how most kids want a puppy or a kitten? Carly wanted a baby of her own. Anyway, as soon as they found out Alek couldn’t have kids, that was that. She didn’t care about anything but having one of her own. If she couldn’t have them with Alek, she’d have them with someone else. I tell you, anyone would have done. She didn’t care who it was.”

Kirsten lit another cigarette.

“She never loved the snobby doctor,” she said. “It was only ever Alek.”

Interesting.

“Didn’t she consider adopting a child?”

“Nope. She had to go through the whole childbirth thing. She said she didn’t want someone else’s.” She blew a cloud of smoke into Dylan’s face.

“But if you say she loved Alek—”

“She did, but it didn’t matter. She had to have kids of her own. Said she couldn’t feel like a complete woman without them. I’ll tell you something else, too. Now, I couldn’t swear to this, but I think she was seeing someone else before she was killed.”

“Oh?” he asked. Kirsten might not have wanted to talk to him but, now she’d started, she was keen to gossip. “What makes you say that?”

“She phoned me the day before—the day before that bastard killed her. She wanted to see me the next day, but I still had my job then and couldn’t get the time off work. I managed to do a swap for the Thursday, though, and I phoned her back to see if that was any good to her. She was laughing and messing around, said she was busy on Thursdays and couldn’t miss her afternoon fix. She didn’t tell me, but something in the way she spoke made me think she was seeing someone, a man.”

“And you’ve no idea who that might have been?”

“No. I would have asked her when we met up on the Thursday but, of course—” She left the sentence unfinished.

They never had met up on that Thursday. A person or persons unknown had seen to that.

“Could she have been seeing Alek, do you think?” Dylan asked.

“Eh?” She gazed at him through a cloud of smoke.

“Carly’s husband claims Alek used to pester her a lot, that he refused to accept their marriage was over. Alek, on the other hand, claims he’d been seeing Carly for a while.”

“Bloody hell.” Kirsten shook her head and scowled. “I wouldn’t believe either of them. Carly never said anything to me about Alek pestering her, as you put it. She didn’t say anything about seeing him either.”

“But do you think she could have been?” Dylan asked. “That way, she’d have had everything, wouldn’t she? She’d have had the children she longed for and the man you claim she still loved.”

“Bloody hell,” Kirsten said again.

“Did you attend the trial?” he asked.

“No.”

It was all well and good blaming judge and jury for Kaminski’s predicament, but what the hell had his lawyer been thinking? Surely, a defence lawyer worthy of the name would have called Kirsten as a character witness. He would have made her tell the jury how Carly had only ever loved Kaminski, how it was possible she’d been seeing another man.

“How did you find out what had happened to her, Kirsten?”

“Bloody coppers. And bloody Neil sodding Walsingham, come to that. You’d think he could have phoned me, wouldn’t you? He knew damn well she was coming down here so it wouldn’t have hurt the pompous shit to let me know what had happened. But oh, no. I was waiting for her on the Thursday. I kept phoning her mobile and thought she was stuck in traffic on the motorway or something. It was about seven o’clock that night when a copper turned up asking me if I was supposed to have spent the day with her. He told me what had happened.”

“Then what?”

“The next day another copper came. He asked me loads of questions about her state of mind, how often we spoke, where we’d planned to go, what we were going to do and stuff like that. That was the last I heard from anyone. My mum saw Carly’s mum and it was her who told us what was happening. Her who told us that Alek had killed her. I never heard a word from the pompous shit of a doctor.”

“What was your reaction?” Dylan asked. “Did you believe him capable of such a thing?”

“Not at first, no, because they’d been friends forever. But he was locked up so we soon knew he’d done it.”

Kirsten’s faith in the judicial system was touching. And frightening.

She looked at him. “Don’t you reckon he did it?”

Dylan didn’t know what to think. “I think it’s possible he’s innocent.”

“Perhaps he didn’t then,” she said.

So much for her conviction that Kaminski should rot in hell. She had doubts. She was thinking that maybe, just maybe, the man was innocent.

“So if he didn’t do it, who did?” she asked.

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

They talked for another ten minutes, but there was nothing Kirsten could tell him that he didn’t already know. Like almost everyone else, she’d assumed that, because Kaminski had been tried and found guilty, he’d killed her best friend.

Perhaps he had.

Dylan soon found the house he was looking for. Outside a large terraced house on Peebles Road was a sign: Trueman’s Private Hire for all your travel needs. Dylan jotted down the phone number, just in case.

He parked on the road outside and was getting out of the Morgan when a woman, late thirties or maybe early forties, came out of the house. She checked that the door was locked and walked down the path.

She was all smiles when she spotted him. “Hello, did you want me? Are you hoping to make a booking?”

“Not a booking, no. I’m looking for a Mrs. Sonia Trueman. Would that be you?”

The smile became curious. “Yes. What can I do for you?”

“Ah, good. My name’s Dylan Scott.” He put out a hand which, after transferring a shopping bag to her left hand, she shook. “I’m a private investigator working for Aleksander Kaminski.”

Her hand fluttered in his. “Oh?”

“Yes, I’d like to ask you a couple of questions, if I may. It’s about your relationship with Neil Walsingham.”

She snatched her hand back. “My—well, I’m sorry, but you’ll have to come back another time. I’m going out now.” She nodded at her shopping bag. “I need to get to the bank. Sorry.”

There was no car in sight so she had to be walking.

“It won’t take long and I don’t want to bother you again. It’s okay, I’ll walk with you. I’ve been sitting in a car for hours so I could do with stretching my legs.” He gave her his most charming smile.

“But—” She broke off, and he could see her searching for inspiration, a way of getting rid of him. “It’s quite a walk. Listen, if you come back this afternoon, I can see you then.”

“I don’t want to put you out,” he said. “Besides, a trip to the bank will be safer with two. You can never be too careful these days, can you?”

He had no idea what she was going to the bank for but, as she didn’t argue, it was safe to assume she was paying in cash.

“Let’s go,” he said. “You’re in a hurry.”

She gave in, although not gracefully. Dylan wouldn’t have been surprised to see her stamp her feet and throw a tantrum worthy of a five-year-old. She resisted the temptation and merely strode off with her teeth gritted.

Without the frown, she would have been beautiful. Even with it, she was attractive enough for the ladies’ man that, allegedly, was Dr. Walsingham. Her hair was well cut, and makeup had been carefully applied. Slim ankles balanced on heels that were high enough to stretch her calf muscles. Her grey knee-length coat was of good quality.

“At least it’s stopped raining,” he said as they walked.

“Yes. So what do you want to know? Has someone from the hospital been tittle-tattling?”

“I wondered what you could tell me about Neil Walsingham.” He ignored her last question.

“I can tell you he’s a good doctor and a crap painter. He likes to think he’s a bit of an artist but my five-year-old nephew has more talent. He’s a social climber, a two-faced liar and he believes he’s God’s personal gift to the female population. Anything else?”

“You’re not a fan, I take it?” He decided to state the obvious.

“No, Mr.—”

“Dylan. Dylan Scott.”

“No. I’m not a fan.” She sighed. “But I’m probably on my own. His patients think he’s wonderful, as do his colleagues. I doubt you’ll find anyone who has a bad word to say about him.”

She slowed her pace slightly. Perhaps she felt better for having given her opinion of the doctor.

“You worked with him until quite recently, I gather,” Dylan said.

She stopped abruptly to look at him. “Someone has obviously been talking about me so you know we had an affair.”

“I heard a rumour.”

She laughed, a bitter sound, and carried on walking. “The whole hospital knows about it. That’s my fault, obviously, because I created a scene. And do you want to know something else? I’m glad I did. It embarrassed him and showed people he wasn’t the goody-goody doctor and family man he liked people to see. They found out he’d been living a lie. And I’m glad.”

Sonia’s steps were fast and angry, and her breathing was becoming laboured.
Hell hath no fury…

“Of course,” she said, “I’ve only myself to blame. I was the stupid one who fell for his lies in the first place. He’s good, I’ll give him that. He can be utterly charming and make you believe you’re the only person who matters in his universe. Ha.”

“You weren’t working at the hospital when his wife was killed, were you?”

“No. I couldn’t bear to be anywhere near him. Being in the same town was bad enough, and I still live too close to him, but I was damned if I could work in the same building. Fortunately, Terry’s business took off so I was able to leave the hospital and help him with that.”

“When did you leave?”

“Last July.”

A month before Carly Walsingham was murdered.

“When I discovered I wasn’t important to him,” she said, “I decided to try and get my marriage back on an even keel. We’d been having problems before Neil. I suppose that’s why I fell for his lies. So I left the hospital, helped Terry with the business and tried to sort out my marriage.”

She gave another sour laugh. “But people love to gossip, don’t they? In a town like this, where everyone has to know everyone else’s business, I knew it wouldn’t be long before someone told Terry.”

“Ah.” Dylan didn’t know what else to say. He had little sympathy. If people opted to jeopardise their marriages, they had to take the flak. Their choice.

“You’re still together?” he asked. “You and Terry?”

“Yes, we’re still together. Just. When your husband discovers you’ve cheated on him, you reach rock bottom. The only way is up, I suppose, but, believe me, it’s a long, slow, painful climb.”

They’d reached the bank, a small building crafted from local stone a century or more ago.

“I’ll wait outside for you,” Dylan said.

She nodded and strode inside.

Earlier, a small square of blue sky had been visible. All Dylan could see now were heavy dark clouds. So much for spring. He just hoped the rain held off until he was back at his car. It was cold too. Despite the brisk walking pace, Dylan was frozen and he stamped his feet while he waited.

There were few people about today. Those who didn’t have to be in shops, offices or factories would stay at home on this miserable Monday. It wasn’t the weather for strolling round the town.

Sonia came down the steps and, without saying anything, began walking. Dylan fell into step with her.

“Anyway,” she said after a minute or two, “what does any of this have to do with that Kaminski bloke?”

Dylan was wondering when she’d get round to asking that. “He claims he’s innocent.”

She rolled her eyes at that. “Well, he would, wouldn’t he?”

“Not necessarily. If he’d pleaded guilty, he might have been given a shorter sentence.”

“And you think he could be telling the truth?”

“It’s possible, yes.” Dylan shoved his hands in his jeans pockets for warmth. “There’s also some doubt about Dr. Walsingham’s movements on the afternoon of his wife’s murder. Some say he was at the hospital. Some say he wasn’t.” That wasn’t strictly accurate.

“What do you mean? Where do people say he was? Has someone said he was with me that day?”

Her questions surprised him. “Was he?”

There was a pause before she answered. “No.”

They put a yard of space between them as they avoided a woman walking toward them pushing a stroller. Sonia went right, Dylan went left.

“Of course he wasn’t with me,” Sonia said when they were side by side again. “I told you, I had nothing to do with him by then.”

They walked on in silence for several yards. How Dylan wished he could read minds.

“What can you tell me about his relationship with his wife?” he asked.

“His marriage?” She dragged the words out, speaking slowly as if choosing her words with care. “Well, it wasn’t very good, was it? If someone has an affair, well, it speaks for itself, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose it does.”

“I mean,” she said, “you can’t believe a word he said to me, but—”

“But what?”

“As I said, you can’t believe a word he says. When I was with him though, he sounded convincing. He said he couldn’t stand living with her, that marrying her had been a mistake, that he wished she hadn’t been born.”

“He said that?”

“And a whole lot worse. He promised me the moon. It was all talk, I know that now, but even when I was falling for it, I wondered if it was me he wanted or just an escape from his marriage. He told me he was going to divorce her as soon as he’d moved his money round a bit. He reckoned she’d take him for every penny he had.”

They turned the corner and there was Dylan’s Morgan.

“Where do people think he was when she was killed?” she asked.

“No one seems to know. He claims he was at the hospital but there’s some doubt about it.”

“Really? Well, who knows? A word of advice from me though. Don’t take anything that man says as gospel.”

Dylan didn’t take anything
anyone
said as gospel.

They stopped by the Morgan and both looked up as a black Mercedes Viano turned the corner.

“Oh, no.” Sonia’s voice shook.

Trueman’s Private Hire was emblazoned across the vehicle. The Viano would take seven or eight passengers and loads of luggage. It was ideal for driving people to airports.

“Your husband, I take it,” Dylan said.

“Please, don’t—”

She wasn’t given time to finish the sentence as a huge man lumbered out of the car and put himself two inches from Dylan’s face.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Dylan had always found northern people to be warm and friendly. Unlike their southern counterparts, they were happy to chat to strangers. Terry Trueman—he was sure she’d said his name was Terry—was obviously the exception. He was so close that Dylan could smell garlic on his breath.

“I’m Dylan Scott, a private investigator. I called for a couple of words with your wife about the murder of Carly Walsingham.”

“A couple of words? Well, you’ve had your couple of words so you can fuck off.” He leaned in even closer to Dylan’s face.

“I was just going.”

“Lucky for you.” Trueman flexed his muscles. “And keep away. Walsingham has nothing to do with us, do you hear me?”

“I hear you. I just thought that maybe your wife, having worked at the hospital, might be able to provide some information about Dr. Walsingham.”

“Well you thought wrong, didn’t you? Now clear off.”

“Terry—”

Sonia’s pleading was cut off as Trueman grabbed his wife by the shoulder and frog-marched her toward the house. Dylan felt guilty. Trueman was good and ready to pick a fight and Sonia was the one about to suffer.

And there wasn’t a thing Dylan could do about it.