Read Online Silent Witness (A Dylan Scott Mystery) by Shirley Wells - Free Book Online
Authors: Shirley Wells
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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
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
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