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