Free Silent Witness (A Dylan Scott Mystery) by Shirley Wells

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.
    “Dr. Walsingham?”
    “Yes.” He came toward Dylan.
    “Dylan Scott.” He offered his hand.
    “Ah yes, the private investigator.” He looked Dylan up and down, his gaze lingering on Dylan’s scuffed shoes before returning to his face. “What would a private investigator want with me?”
    “I’m working for Aleksander Kaminski,” Dylan explained. Walsingham didn’t even blink. “I’m sorry for your loss, Dr. Walsingham, truly sorry, but I wondered if I might ask you a few questions.”
    “No. I’m sorry, but I don’t have the time.” Walsingham was broader across the shoulders than was evident from the photos Dylan had seen. His dark suit looked handmade. A gold watch, slim and expensive-looking, peeped out from a crisp white shirt cuff.
    “I could come back later. Six o’clock? Seven?”
    “No. Sorry.”
    “Tomorrow?”
    “No. Look, Mr.—”
    “Scott. Dylan Scott.”
    “Mr. Scott, I’m sorry but I have nothing to say to you or to anyone else. As you can imagine, it’s all been very difficult. For my sons, too. We had reporters camped out on our doorstep for months. We’re slowly starting to move on and get our lives back together and we don’t want it all dragged up again. No. I’m sorry, but it’s too distressing.”
    “I can appreciate that, and I promise it’ll only take a couple of minutes. Five minutes tops.”
    “No. Sorry.” Walsingham strode back to his car, took a sports bag from the passenger seat and headed for the front door. “I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted journey, Mr. Scott. Goodbye.”
    The front door that had once been covered with Aleksander Kaminski’s fingerprints opened and closed. Dylan was left standing in the middle of the driveway.
    It irked him that he’d learned nothing from Dr. Walsingham, but something, and he had no idea what, had convinced him to take this case.
    For all he knew, Kaminski could have planned Carly Walsingham’s murder for months and carried it out in a calm, cold-blooded, exacting manner. On the other hand, Dylan wasn’t convinced and, so long as that albeit small element of doubt remained, he wouldn’t rest.
    One way or another, he had to learn the truth. He had to prove Kaminski’s innocence or his guilt.

Chapter Eight
     
    Jamie Tinsley bowed his head.
    “For what we are about to receive may the Lord make us truly grateful.” His father recited the words that came before every meal in this house. “We also ask You, Lord, to take good care of our son Peter, and we thank You for seeing fit to take him to Your side. We thank You for Peter and we ask that You watch over him.”
    “Amen,” they said dutifully.
    Jamie sat opposite his mother at the dining table that had dominated this room for as long as he could remember. His father took his place at the head of the table.
    “It’s good to see you, James,” his mother said as they picked up cutlery and prepared to slog their way through roast beef with all the trimmings.
    “And you, Mum.” He nodded at his father. “You too, Father.”
    His father was sixty-two yet looked much older. He’d always appeared old to Jamie. The thick hair was completely white now. Lines were deep around lifeless green eyes. Not laughter lines. Never laughter lines.
    His mother looked the same as she always had. A little nervous perhaps, but that wasn’t surprising. Her every waking thought was concerned with trying to do the right thing, trying to win her husband’s approval. It was an