Silent Witness (A Dylan Scott Mystery) (6 page)

Early the next morning, Dylan called Dr. Neil Walsingham’s home phone. Receiving no reply, he called the hospital and was soon thanking God it wasn’t an emergency. The phone rang out for a full two minutes before Dylan gave up and redialled. Again, it rang out unanswered. He ordered himself a coffee in the hotel’s lounge, carried it to a table near the window, and tried the number again. This time it rang out for just over a minute.

“Dawson’s Clough General Hospital. How may I help you?”

Dylan decided that “by answering the damn phone more quickly” wasn’t a suitable response.

“I’d like to speak to Dr. Walsingham, please,” he said.

“Just a minute.” Papers rustled. “He’s on duty in Accident and Emergency at the moment. I can leave a message for him if you like.”

“Will you ask him to call me? My name’s Dylan Scott. I’m a private investigator.” He gave her his number and, because she didn’t inspire confidence, he made her read it back to him.

“I’ll pass on the message,” she said.

“I’d be grateful. It’s important. What time will he be off duty?”

“Six o’clock this evening.”

Dylan thanked her and, as he drank his coffee, he wondered how to spend time until Walsingham called.

He still wasn’t sure what to make of Aleksander Kaminski. It was impossible to know if he was innocent or guilty, or why he was so damned unconcerned about spending years of his life locked up like an animal.

Assuming he was innocent—Dylan’s mantra was
Never Assume
—but assuming he was, the finger of guilt might point toward Walsingham. If he was having affairs, as Kaminski claimed, he’d be more or less guaranteed an alibi, and if he wanted his wife out of the way, he’d be a man with plenty of surgical blades at his disposal. How many people knew that severing the carotid artery would have a victim bleeding out in seconds? How many people even knew what or where the carotid artery was?

Or maybe the killer simply slashed and got lucky. Or unlucky. Maybe a burglar hadn’t realised she was in the house, panicked, intended to cut her as a warning and watched her bleed out in record time.

Or maybe, and this was far more likely, Kaminski had tired of her games and decided it was time to stop them once and for all.

His coffee cup empty, Dylan returned to his room and switched on his newly acquired laptop. He was getting to be quite a whiz on the machine, even if he did say so himself. Admittedly, he had a good teacher in Luke.

He conducted another online search for Dr. Neil Walsingham. There were several mentions of him working at Dawson’s Clough hospital. He also considered himself something of an artist and a couple of his works—awful, childlike daubs of red and blue paint—were showcased on a website promoting local artists’ work. Dr. Walsingham was also on the committee of the local camera club. A head-and-shoulders shot showed a smiling slim man with fair hair flopping across his forehead. Another picture showed him with a medal round his neck after completing a marathon and raising over two thousand pounds for a children’s charity.

Still he didn’t return Dylan’s call.

Dylan hunted out ex-DI Cameron’s phone number. There were a couple of questions he wanted to ask him.

Here, at least, was someone willing to answer their phone.

“Lewis? It’s Dylan.”

“Hi. Are you back in London? You saw Kaminski, I assume?”

“I’m still in Lancashire but yes, I did see him. That’s why I’m calling. I wondered if you’d clarify a couple of points.”

“You surely didn’t fall for his story, did you?”

“I’m keeping an open mind.”

Dylan neither believed Kaminski’s story nor disbelieved it. If there was a possibility that the man was innocent, though, it was up to Dylan to get him out of Strangeways. He knew only too well what wrongful imprisonment felt like.

“You’ve been off the force too long, mate.”

Dylan didn’t suppose there was any malice in his words, but he still resented them.

“Maybe. Right, first off, Kaminski claims that he left Mrs. Walsingham’s property at about three o’clock. Now, your witness says she saw him, or someone else, leaving at around three forty-five. Is that right?”

“That’s right.” Lewis chuckled down the phone. “He says he left about three o’clock. About. That could mean anything from half past two to half past three. The neighbour says she saw someone at about a quarter to four. That little word
about
again.”

He spoke as if he were trying to explain the theory of relativity to a four-year-old.

“What else do you want to know?” Lewis asked.

“Dr. Walsingham’s alibi. Who verified it?”

“I can’t remember offhand, but several people confirmed it. I tell you, his alibi’s watertight.”

Call me a bluff old cynic, Dylan thought, but all alibis were watertight until someone punched a hole in them.

“Hmm. What about motive?” he asked. “What was Kaminski’s motive for killing her, Lewis?”

“Who knows? Maybe Carly had threatened to tell his wife he kept pestering her.”

Dylan wasn’t convinced. “Was there any money in it? Did anyone gain financially from her death?”

“Nope. The money was all the doctor’s.” He laughed, but it was a tight, humourless sound. “I don’t know how much evidence the elite southern police forces need but, up north, we find phone calls, witnesses and fingerprints pretty convincing.”

Dylan didn’t miss the sarcasm. Or the resentment. Lewis Cameron didn’t appreciate people looking for holes in his casework.

They chatted for a few more minutes, but Dylan was no wiser when he ended the call than he’d been at the start.

Either Kaminski was lying or confused about the time he left, the witness was mistaken about the time, or someone else left the house that day. Or, as Lewis Cameron would say, all timings were approximate. In Dylan’s book, approximate equalled meaningless.

Dylan called the hospital again and was told, again, that a message would be passed on to Dr. Walsingham.

“He knows you want to speak to him,” the receptionist said, “so I’m sure he’ll call you back when he has a free moment. He’s a very busy man, you know.”

To pass time more than anything else, Dylan drove to Lakeside Drive and found number two, home of Dr. Walsingham and his sons.

Kaminski was probably right in that the front of the property was more private than the back. Dylan would guess that the twelve houses making up Lakeside Drive had been built between ten and twenty years ago. They sat on the edge of a road that circled a manmade lake. Each was large, detached and sat within its own good-sized garden. Each was different too.

To see the front of the Walsinghams’ home, Dylan had to park the Morgan at the bottom of their driveway. Tall evergreen trees shielded the building from prying eyes. As Kaminski had said, it was impossible to see the properties on the other side of the small lake. They were a fair distance away too.

Property prices in this northern mill town were lower than most in the UK but—thanks to a good motorway network that gave the town easy access to Manchester, Liverpool, Leeds, Preston and Glasgow—were increasing. These properties had five bedrooms minimum, double garages, large gardens and, more sought-after than anything else, privacy. A Lakeside Drive address wouldn’t come cheap.

Dylan left his car blocking the driveway and walked a circle round the lake. Each home boasted a sophisticated alarm system. He supposed that meant very little though. People tended to activate alarms when they went to bed at night and when they left the property. If they were at home during the day, alarms were often ignored.

Feeling aimless, he returned to his car and drove into the centre of Dawson’s Clough. At least the weather was better today. The wind had died down a little and, although the sky was still a menacing battleship grey, it wasn’t raining.

He walked past the indoor market, bought himself a newspaper and headed to Starbucks. The coffee bar was busy, tables taken mostly by female shoppers, but he got a coffee and carried it to the one free table in the corner.

Still Walsingham didn’t return his call.

It was unlikely that the doctor would tell him anything he didn’t already know. With or without talking to him, Dylan needed to make up his mind. Did he take this case or not? The money would be more than useful and he had nothing else to do. On the other hand, Kaminski’s parents weren’t wealthy and he didn’t like the idea of wasting their life savings.

He’d talk to Walsingham and then make up his mind.

First and foremost, he wanted to hear more about that phone call. Walsingham had said his wife was being threatened, and Kaminski claimed that all they’d done was arrange to meet the following day. Who was lying?

A harassed-looking woman at the next table balanced several carrier bags on a chair before ticking items off on a shopping list. She peered inside one of bags and counted the number of chocolate eggs she’d bought. Dylan mentally thanked her for the reminder.

It was Easter which meant that flowers for Bev wouldn’t be considered an unexpected treat, they were a necessity. Experience had taught him that he needed to buy her a card, flowers and a huge beribboned egg if he wanted to keep on the right side of her.

Luke was the child in the house, but he’d be content with any old egg. Madness.

As he drank his coffee, he wondered how much the various celebrations cost over the course of the year. Christmas, birthdays, wedding anniversaries, Valentine’s Day, Easter—the expense was vast. He’d just spent a fortune to celebrate Freya’s birth too.

He made another mental note. He must stop being such a grumpy bastard. He had a wonderful family, the best.

With his coffee drunk, he went on a shopping spree. The flowers would wait until he was on the way home, but he soon had a suitably romantic card, two sickly chocolate eggs for Luke, a fluffy Easter bunny for Freya and the biggest, most expensive egg in the shop for Bev. Sorted.

He stowed his purchases in the Morgan and set off in a more determined mood for Dawson’s Clough General Hospital.

The building was new and several people stood puffing on cigarettes outside glass automatic doors. Inside, there was less activity. He walked up to the deserted reception desk. The phone rang out. Unbelievable.

A dark-haired woman in her thirties eventually strolled over, nodded at Dylan, and answered the phone.

Dylan gave the hospital the benefit of the doubt. No emergency calls would come through on this number, and staff would be too busy dealing with patients to worry too much about people phoning with general enquiries. Presumably relatives enquiring about patients would call the specific wards.

The call ended and she looked at Dylan. “Can I help?”

“I hope so.” Dylan gave her his best smile. “I’d like to speak to Dr. Neil Walsingham.”

“You phoned earlier. You’re the private investigator, right?”

“That’s right.”

Unimpressed, she turned away and flicked through charts on a clipboard. “Just a minute.”

She lifted a phone, and tapped in two numbers. “Is Dr. Walsingham there?”

After a lengthy conversation, she ended the call. “Sorry, but he’s not on duty. He finished at twelve.”

“Really?” It was almost two o’clock. “I was told he’d be here till six.”

She shrugged in a that’s-your-problem way.

“I’ve tried his landline,” he said, “but he’s not home, and I seem to have lost his mobile number. I don’t suppose you’d give me that, would you?”

“Sorry, I’m not allowed to do that.”

“Ah, yes. Very sensible. You couldn’t do me a huge favour and phone his mobile and ask him to give me a call, could you?”

“Well—”

“Thanks. My name’s Dylan Scott and if you could give him my number again, just in case he’s lost it, that would be great.” He took his phone from his pocket and pretended to search for his own number. “I always forget it—ah, here we are.”

He wrote it down for her.

Still reluctant, but probably eager to get rid of him, she turned to her side and called Walsingham’s number. Dylan made a careful note of the number she tapped in on his own phone.

The receptionist’s call was answered immediately and she passed on the message. Looking pleased with herself, she finished the call.

“He’s going to call you straightaway, Mr. Scott.”

“Thanks so much. Right, I’ll leave you to it. Thanks again.”

Dylan ambled across the car park to the Morgan and waited for his mobile to trill into life. It didn’t. Dr. Walsingham was annoyingly slow at returning calls. Either that or he didn’t want to talk to a private investigator.

Dylan decided that another trip to Lakeside Drive was in order.

Once again, he parked in the Walsinghams’ driveway. This time, he strode up to the front door and rang a bell. A loud irritating tune played inside but no one responded. Dylan walked round to the back of the house. The garden was large with a couple of apple trees, a greenhouse and a wooden summerhouse. Off to the right, above a wooden fence dividing the two properties, he could see the roof of the neighbours’ conservatory. Presumably, the witness who claimed to have seen Kaminski had been washing leaves off that roof. One of the Walsinghams’ apple trees was probably the culprit.

Anyone who knew the Walsinghams’ property, anyone who wanted to remain hidden from prying eyes, would use the front entrance. Only someone who assumed, as is usually the case, that the back was more private would make his escape this way. And that someone would have to walk the considerable length of the garden to reach the gate in the fence that led to a road at the back of the properties.

Dylan returned to the front of the house and prodded the doorbell again.

A car horn sounded. Dylan turned round and saw that a man with fair hair flopping over his forehead was leaning on the horn of a blue Mercedes.

“Sorry.” Dylan waved his arm and dashed back to his car. He moved the Morgan five yards, allowing the man access to the drive.

The Mercedes slid into the left side of a double garage and Dylan had the feeling that the door would have been closed if he hadn’t called out.