Silent Witness (A Dylan Scott Mystery)

Silent Witness

By Shirley Wells

After his ex-wife bled to death in a bathtub covered in his fingerprints, the case against Aleksander Kaminski seemed open and shut. Though sentenced to life in prison, he swears he’s innocent, a claim supported by his current wife.

Private investigator Dylan Scott finds himself drawn back to dreary Lancashire in a search for justice. The evidence against Kaminski is damning, but having been unjustly jailed himself, Dylan is compelled to pursue the case; if there’s even a small chance the man is innocent, he has to help. The other obvious suspect—the victim’s second husband—has a watertight alibi. But Dylan has a strong hunch that as usual, there’s more going on than meets the eye in Dawson’s Clough.

The deeper Dylan digs, the more secrets he unearths. The question remains: If Kaminski didn’t murder his childhood sweetheart, who did?

87,000 words

Dear Reader,

It’s hard to get excited about the month of March. The weather in this part of the world isn’t quite spring, and if it’s still cold, can make a long winter feel even longer. There are no fun holidays to look forward to except the green beer, corned beef and cabbage of St. Patrick’s Day, and the school season is at a point where the kids are starting to whine about having to wake up in the morning and go.

That’s why I’m excited about our 2012 March releases at Carina Press. The variety and excellence of the stories give us a reason to anticipate and enjoy the month of March! The rich diversity of these books promises a fantastic reading month at Carina.

Kicking off the month is mystery author Shirley Wells, returning with her popular Dylan Scott Mystery series. Joining her book
Silent Witness
at the beginning of March is BDSM erotic romance
Forbidden Fantasies
by Jodie Griffin; Christine Danse’s paranormal romance
Beauty in the Beast;
and a romantic steampunk gothic horror that’s like no steampunk you’ve ever read,
Heart of Perdition
by Selah March.

Later in the month, fans of Cindy Spencer Pape will be glad to see her return with another paranormal romance installment,
Motor City Mage,
while Janis Susan May returns with another creepy gothic mystery,
Inheritance of Shadows.
Historical romance lovers will be more than pleased with
A Kiss in the Wind,
Jennifer Bray-Weber’s inaugural Carina Press release.

I expect new Carina Press authors Joan Kilby, Gillian Archer and Nicole Luiken will gain faithful followings with their books:
Gentlemen Prefer Nerds,
an entertaining contemporary romance;
Wicked Weekend,
a sexy and sweet BDSM erotic romance; and
Gate to Kandrith,
the first of a fantasy duology that features wonderful world-building. Meanwhile, returning Carina authors Robert Appleton and Carol Stephenson do what they do best: continue to capture readers’ imaginations. Grab a copy of science-fiction space opera
Alien Velocity
and hot romantic suspense
Her Dark Protector.

Rounding out the month, we have an entire week of releases from some of today’s hottest authors in m/m romance, as well as some newcomers to the genre. Ava March kicks off her entertaining and hot m/m historical romance trilogy with
Brook Street: Thief
. Look for the other two books in the trilogy,
Brook Street: Fortune Hunter
and
Brook Street: Rogue,
in April and May 2012. Erastes, who can always be counted on to deliver a compelling, well-researched historical, gives us m/m paranormal historical romance
A Brush with Darkness,
and science-fiction author Kim Knox makes her debut in the m/m genre with her sci-fi romance
Bitter Harvest.
KC Burn gives us the stunning m/m contemporary romance
First Time, Forever.
Joining them are new Carina Press authors Dev Bentham, with a sweet, heartfelt m/m romance,
Moving in Rhythm,
and Larry Benjamin with his terrific debut novel, m/m romance
What Binds Us.

As you can see, March comes in like a lion but will not go out like a lamb. All month long we offer powerful stories from our talented authors. I hope you enjoy them as much as we have!

We love to hear from readers, and you can email us your thoughts, comments and questions to [email protected]. You can also interact with Carina Press staff and authors on our blog, Twitter stream and Facebook fan page.

Happy reading!

~Angela James

Executive Editor, Carina Press

www.carinapress.com

www.twitter.com/carinapress

www.facebook.com/carinapress

Dylan liked dogs. Most dogs, at least. The sort he didn’t like were Rottweilers weighing in excess of a hundred and fifty pounds. Like the one showing him yellow sharklike teeth right now.

“Okay, Sunshine, we’re keeping this gate between us.” Dylan tried to speak with authority, to show it who was master here.

The dog already knew who was controlling the standoff and it wasn’t Dylan. Mud puddled around the creature’s enormous feet as it emitted a menacing growl that shook its well-muscled body.

“Right. I can stand here all day,” Dylan said.

The evil-eyed creature came a step closer. Still growling. Still putting Dylan at the top of the day’s breakfast menu.

Dylan couldn’t really stand here all day. Rain was soaking through his jeans, and a force eight was threatening to knock him off his feet.

The house he was trying to reach looked like something from a child’s painting. Square and built of red brick, it had four symmetrical windows, two on the ground floor and two above. The front door was in the middle of the windows, and a chimney was dead centre in a red-tiled roof. A curl of smoke twisting skyward completed the picture.

That front door was about twenty yards from the gate. Dylan wondered if he could find a stone to throw at the door and alert the occupant’s attention. Another thought came—

“Right, Sunshine.” Dylan wandered into a lane where a vehicle had churned up deep ruts in the mud. He picked up a stone and hurled it the length of the garden at the side of the house. “Fetch!”

The dog simply curled its lip and gave a warning growl.

“Fallen for that one before, have you?” Dylan asked.

A large blue-and-white painted sign told him he was outside the Pennine View Rescue Centre so he couldn’t even hope he had the wrong property. Another sign begged for donations. Anything from blankets to pet food and cash was welcomed.

“Hello!” Dylan called as a figure, it was impossible to guess the gender, came into view at the corner of the house.

“Trudy, are you up to your old tricks? Come here, sweetheart.” It was female, and she walked up the path, laughing at Dylan’s plight. “Don’t worry about Trudy. She only wants to play.”

Who in hell’s name would christen the evil creature
Trudy?
Probably the same person who thought Dylan was daft enough to open the gate.

“It looks like she’d rather have breakfast than play,” he said.

“Nonsense. She’d play all day.” The woman fondled Trudy’s ears. “Wouldn’t you, sweetheart?”

“I’m looking for Mrs. Kaminski,” Dylan said as the woman reached for the gate.

“Oh, my—” A shocked hand went to her mouth. “You must be Mr. Scott. You’re early. Thank you. I mean, thank you for being early. Thank you for coming at all. Sorry, I’m Mrs. Kaminski. Sue.”

She thrust out a hand. The closed gate was still between them, the way Dylan would like to keep it.

“Good to meet you, Sue. I’m Dylan.” He shook her hand.

She nodded at his car, a 1956 Morgan in Daytona Yellow. “Is that what the best private investigators are driving?”

“It’s what
I’m
driving.”

“Aw, isn’t it pretty?”

He was about to explain that under no stretch of the imagination could his pride and joy be described as
pretty
when she yanked open the gate. The dog lunged. Dylan sucked in his breath, waiting for the crunch of teeth on bone, but the dog merely sniffed at his sleeve and wagged its vast backside in greeting.

“You see?” Sue said. “You’re friends already. Come into the house, Mr. Scott. Dylan. This rain’s getting heavier. We’ll be soaked through.”

Dylan, the dog trotting at his side, followed her along a path littered with rope toys, balls and bones that had been well chewed.

“I wanted to keep myself busy until you arrived,” Sue said, “so I’ve been painting one of the kennels. You know what they say about a watched clock. Still, you’re here now. And I’m so pleased to see you. I was too excited to sleep last night.”

“Oh, I really don’t think—”

She was striding on ahead and Dylan’s words were lost to the wind.

He followed her around the side of the house to the back. Here, the garden looked like a mini show-jumping arena. There were small red-and-white painted jumps, a long plastic tunnel and a see-saw. Beyond that was an untidy range of mostly wooden outbuildings. Kennels, Dylan assumed. From what he knew of Sue Kaminski, which wasn’t much, she devoted all her time, energy and money to caring for the area’s stray dogs and cats.

She pushed open a door and led him into a small porch crammed with several pairs of Wellington boots, more dog toys and several waterproof jackets for humans. She yanked off her boots and added them to the pile.

“Come in,” she said. Another door led to a large square kitchen. “It’s nice and warm in here.”

“So it is.” Dylan made for the large cream-coloured Aga that was throwing out the heat. Several towels hung from its rail to dry.

“Here.” Sue handed him a towel. “It’s clean. You can at least dry your hair.”

“Thanks.” He rubbed at his hair but his jeans were uncomfortably damp.

“Sit down and I’ll make us a drink.”

Dylan sat at a pine table, making sure he was close to the Aga. The dog, bored with Dylan, thank God, stretched out on the floor in front of the heat source.

Sue pulled off a blue knitted hat, black gloves, red-and-white scarf, dirty blue anorak and thick black sweater, dumping each item on a chair. Dylan had thought the outdoor clothing was responsible for adding inches to her size, but he was wrong. She wasn’t fat, but she was quite tall and certainly stocky. Her short fair hair was cut with a view to easy management rather than any thought of fashion.

Her chunky sweater looked hand-knitted and, given the rainbow of colours, Dylan wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that she’d used up scrap wool. Black jeans were plastered in mud and her feet were clad in scarlet woollen socks. The only visible jewellery was a scratched band of gold on the third finger of her left hand.

“I’m so excited to see you,” she said.

“I don’t know what you’ve been told, but I haven’t agreed to take on the case yet.” And probably wouldn’t. “Unless something convinces me that your husband is innocent—”

“But he is.”

“Maybe he is,” Dylan said, “but the police and jury thought otherwise. Nothing convinced them he was innocent. Maybe nothing will convince me.”

“You’re visiting him tomorrow, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’ll see for yourself. Once you’ve talked with him, you’ll know he’s innocent.”

Such belief was touching, but it meant nothing. Having been a respected member of the police force, Dylan knew that men weren’t convicted of murder without good reason. On the other hand, a spell in prison had taught him about the flaws in the judicial system.

“Right, let me make you that drink. Tea or coffee?”

“Whatever you’re making. Either would be welcome. Thanks.”

“Coffee okay then?” she asked, and he nodded.

“Thanks.”

While she filled the kettle and took mugs from a cupboard, Dylan looked around the kitchen. Cluttered didn’t begin to describe it. A total of three calendars, two showing pictures of dogs and one adorned with cute kittens, hung from the wall. The sink held around a dozen mugs and a plate waiting to be washed. A pile of mail sat on the table. One envelope contained a red final warning notice from her electricity supplier. Two jackets hung from the backs of chairs. Three plastic dog beds of different sizes were vacant. A vase of wilting daffodils sat on the window sill and blocked the light.

The room was untidy—or perhaps lived in was a better description—but it had a certain homely appeal. Although the surfaces were clean, the floor was speckled with muddy paw and boot prints. Dirty marks on the doorframe showed the height of resident dogs.

“There you go,” she said. “Here’s the sugar.”

“Thanks.” Coffee came in a thick blue pottery mug. Dylan stirred in a couple of spoonfuls of sugar and cradled the mug in his hands for extra warmth.

The door opened and closed, letting in a blast of cold wind and a tall, rangy man.

“Hi, Jamie,” Sue greeted the stranger. “Sorry, but you’ll have to make do with Anne today. I’m tied up for the moment.”

Jamie was early thirties, and he had to be at least six feet tall. He wore his sand-coloured hair short. Rimless glasses gave him a geek look. Beneath a green wax coat he wore a canary-yellow jumper. His trousers looked as if they’d quarrelled with his shoes and weren’t going within four inches of them.

Trudy roused herself to inspect the visitor. He was presumably known to her, judging by the way her rump wriggled as he stroked her ears. Losing interest in him and spying Dylan’s briefcase, the dog picked that up and began to circle the room. Dylan wasn’t about to argue with a Rottweiler, especially this one, but he didn’t want his briefcase decorated with bite marks.

Sue smiled indulgently, removed it from the dog’s jaw and put it on the table out of harm’s way.

Jamie was too busy looking miffed with his rejection to notice. “Anne’s nowhere to be seen.”

“She’s definitely here. I expect she’s walking one of the dogs.” Sue reached for a mobile phone, searched for a number, hit a button and held it to her ear. “Hi, Anne. How far away are you? Jamie’s here. Can you deal with him? Yeah? Great. Okay, I’ll send him down.”

“I’ll go and find her then, shall I?” Jamie asked.

“Yes, she’s only out in the field,” Sue said. “Give me a shout if there are any problems.”

He nodded and, with the colour high in his cheeks, left them alone.

“That’s Jamie, our vet,” Sue explained. “He comes regularly to check out the animals, but I’m sure there’s nothing Anne can’t cope with.” She pulled a chair closer to Dylan, was about to sit and said, “Sorry, I haven’t offered you anything to eat. I forgot you’d had such a long journey.”

“I’m fine, thanks. I stopped at a service station on the way.”

Satisfied, she sat down. “How long are you staying up here?”

“That depends.” He was booked into a hotel in Dawson’s Clough, and was due to visit her husband, Aleksander Kaminski, at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon. Unless anything interesting was said, he’d drive straight back to London after that meeting. “As yet, I don’t know much about the case. I’m only here as a favour to my mother really. And to Aleksander’s parents. My mother used to live in Birmingham and knew Aleksander’s parents quite well.”

She’d know all that, just as she’d know that Aleksander’s mother had tried to get other people interested in her son’s case. They’d all turned her down. Dylan probably would too.

“At least you’re here,” she said. “At least you’re willing to see Alek.”

“Yes, but it’s only as a favour.”

That wasn’t strictly accurate. He had two reasons for coming to Lancashire and neither had any bearing whatsoever on Aleksander’s innocence or guilt.

First, Dylan was broke and this was the first offer of real work he’d had for months. That alone wouldn’t have convinced him to make the long journey north though. From the little he knew about Aleksander Kaminski’s case, it had been cut and dried. There had been no doubt from either police or jury that he was a cold-blooded killer.

“Have you left family behind in London?” she asked.

“Yes. A wife and two children.”

A wife and two children.
It was the first time he’d said that. Ever.

It was also the second reason he’d been persuaded to come to Lancashire. His house had become a never-ending discussion of baby’s feeding times and bowel movements.

“I’ve got a thirteen-year-old son, Luke,” he said, “and a daughter, Freya. Freya is six days old.”

Sue had taken a sip of coffee and she almost choked on it. “Six days?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, my God. Well, congratulations!”

What she probably meant was what the hell was he doing in Lancashire when his wife needed him. That was more or less what Bev had wanted to know.

“Thanks,” he said.

“And your wife doesn’t mind you coming here?”

Dylan wouldn’t go that far. “It’s fine.”

No point telling her that Bev had thrown a vase of flowers at him, complete with water, and called him the most selfish, self-centred bastard she’d ever met.

“Right then,” he said. “Perhaps you can begin by telling me why you believe your husband is innocent.”

She smiled at that. “Alek couldn’t hurt a fly.”

How many mass murderers had been bestowed with that particular compliment? Not that Kaminski was a mass murderer. As far as Dylan knew.

“You’d be surprised how few people really know the person they live with.” Dylan sometimes had his doubts about Bev. “Okay, tell me all you know about the case. What happened? How did Alek come to be suspect number one?”

She nodded at his briefcase. Surprisingly, there were no teeth marks on it. “Don’t you want to record this or make notes?”

“No. Just tell me your story.”

“Right.” She tugged on the sleeves of her sweater. A scarlet-sock-clad foot strayed to the Rottweiler’s back and she ran it back and forth. “Carly Walsingham, Alek’s first wife, was murdered in her own home one afternoon. It’s eight months ago now. The third of August to be precise. We saw it on the news that evening. We were in here, in this very room.” She nodded at a small TV on the counter in the far corner of the kitchen.

“We? You and Alek?”

“Yes.” She stood and crossed the room to a notice board where she jabbed a finger at a photo pinned there. “This was taken the same day.”

She took the photo from the board and handed it to Dylan. It showed Sue with an elderly lady. They were celebrating a birthday, judging by the candle in the centre of a decorated cake.

“It was a happy day,” Sue said. “I always visit my great-aunt, that’s my dad’s aunt, on Wednesdays, have done since she went into the care home a couple of years ago, and it was her ninetieth birthday that day. I’d baked the cake and made up little bags of chocolates for the staff. They’re really kind to her so, on her birthday and at Christmas, I like to bake a cake and give out small gifts. It was a good day, and I was telling Alek all about it when the news of Carly Walsingham’s murder came on TV.”