Only the Dead Know

by C. J. Dunford

  “Big men?” questions Truce.

  “I wouldn’t give them the dignity of calling them gangsters. Just a few bad lads, who’ve grown into bad men and aren’t above walking on the wrong side of the law when it suits them.”

  Truce sees the fluttering hand again and realises she is too uncomfortable to say more, so he lets it pass for now.

  “… and it would be just my luck to come across one of them with a school girl.”

  “Could you see anyone in the car?”

  “Just the head and shoulders of a man.”

  “What made you think there was a girl there then?”

  “I thought she might be, you know, on her knees in the footwell.” June’s right hand is fluttering to her throat and back like a moth looking for a flame.

  “And anyway, then these other two men come over.”

  “Can you describe them?”

  “Not really. It was getting dark by this time.”

  “Were the two men walking normally?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Was one coercing the other?”

  “Oh, no, he didn’t have him in a strangle-hold or anything like that. No, they were chatting in low voices, like.”

  “OK. Carry on.”

  “The guy in the car gets out. Tall man with broad shoulders, and I can see he has something in his hand. He swings it up and shines a torch right in the face of one of the other men. That’s how I saw him so clearly. And as he does this, the other man — he was shorter and thinner than the man in the car — knocks the man, who is blinded with the torch, over the head with something. I didn’t see what, but it must have been heavy, cos he went down like a stone. Then the two of them heave the man into the boot.” June stops. She’s breathing quickly and there is a thin layer of sweat on her forehead.

  “What made you think the man was dead?” asks Truce.

  “Apart from him dropping down like he’d been smitten from heaven?”

  “I don’t mean to be rude, June, but some people have thick skulls.” He changes to using her first name now she’s in the middle of her tale, encouraging a sense of intimacy and trust, he hopes.

  “Aye, I suppose that’s fair enough, but the thing was when they were hauling his body into the boot of the car, they got all agro with one another. Like one of them was blaming the other for something.”

  “Did you hear what they said?”

  June shakes her head. “No. Only a couple of words. ‘Not here.’”

  “And you took that to mean that they hadn’t meant to kill the man — or kill him there?”

  “I know,” says June. Truce sees her wring her hands, once, quickly and he senses frustration rather than lies. “There was something else. I didn’t say because it didn’t make sense.”

  “But it was why you knew he was dead?” says Truce, making a leap.

  June nods. “His neck was broken. I saw it when they put him in the car. It hung all wrong.”

  Truce offers her his notebook. “Can you draw what you saw?” he asks.

  June takes the paper nervously. “I’m not much of an artist.”

  “Only a rough sense of what you saw of the man’s head and neck. The one who was hit.”

  June’s breathing is louder as she concentrates. She’s right, she’s not a good artist, but when she hands the notebook back to him she has competently drawn the outline of a man with his neck at a disturbing angle. Even if he’s not dead, Truce doubts this character would ever walk again.

  “Why didn’t you tell the station his neck was broken?” asks Truce.

  A quick flush of pink runs up her throat. “I thought they would think I was all confused. They hit him on the head. That shouldn’t have broken his neck. But I know what I saw.”

  “Could you autograph this for me?” he says, handing her back the paper. She does so, and then he adds the date, time and his own signature.

  June hangs her head. “I should have said, shouldn’t I? But I was sure they wouldn’t believe me. It’s different talking to you here. I feel like I can tell you.” Truce smothers a slight smile. His technique is working. She trusts him.

  “Head injuries are funny things,” says Truce. “It’s likely he broke his neck when he fell. Especially as you said he dropped with some force.”

  “Shit,” says June. Her hand rushes to over her mouth. “That happens? I was right?”

  “Well, rarely, but it can,” says Truce. “But a less experienced officer might have thought …”

  “That my story didn’t make sense?” finishes June.

  Truce nods. “What did you do next?”

  “What do you think I did? Once I’d got over the initial fright of what I’d seen, I ran like a scalded cat back to the house and phoned the police.”

  “You left the dog?”

  “It’s a nice dog, but it’s a dog. Not worth risking my life over. Came back anyway when it was hungry.”

  “Did you recognise the dead man?”

  “Aye, only cos I’d knocked on his door and asked for money for the school the week before. He’s on the primary school’s list of old attendees. Got a big house, so the PTA thought he was worth a shot. My pal’s the secretary. I only went along for the ride. Wish I’d never gone.”

  “Was he helpful?”

  “No, but he didn’t deserve what happened to him.”

  “You believe it was a deliberate murder?”

  “I don’t think they were taking him to a stag night if that’s what you’re asking! If you knock someone over the head and shove them in the car boot with a broken neck, then I think there’s only one thing on your mind, wouldn’t you say?”

  “That is?”

  “They were driving off to dump the body.”

  “But when the police called on the man, Davie Whiles, he answered the door alive and well.”

  June’s face took on a mulish look. “I know what I saw.”

  “But you must admit, June, that it doesn’t make sense to think Mr Whiles was murdered earlier in the evening if he was able to answer his own door later on.”

  “Then he must have a twin.”

  “We checked. He doesn’t.”

  June folded her arms. “Then it’s your job to explain it.”

  “I understand the police offered to take you over to the man’s house,” says Truce gently.

  “Whoever is answering that door isn’t him. And I’m too old to get mixed up in something shady. I know what I saw.” She stares defiantly at Truce. Her eye contact doesn’t waiver.

  CHAPTER 3

  “The worst of it is, I don’t think she was lying,” Truce says to Wendy over a coffee back at the base. “And now I’ve got to go in and tell Rose that.”

  Wendy cradles her cup in her hands and looks at him over the rim. “June Mills may believe what she is saying and still be wrong.”

  “I thought about that,” says Truce. “I went over her story. It sounds plausible. Or it would be if the guy wasn’t still alive. I guess I could go over and check him out, but how would I know he’s not the real deal? I can hardly ask him for fingerprints, even if they were on record, without Rose going ballistic.”

  “Could someone have been playing a joke on June?”

  “Why would they? And how would they know she would be there?” says Truce. “It was chance she decided to walk the neighbour’s dog. It’s odd that she had called on Whiles shortly before the incident. Looking to get donations for a school.”

  “That’s the one bit I don’t doubt,” says Wendy. “Coincidence and the interconnectedness of some small communities play far more of a role in our everyday lives than most people think. Did she say why she kept on reporting what she’d seen?”

  “Eventually,” says Truce. “It’s 11 a.m. because that’s when she’s finished clearing up after breakfast.” He gives a slight smile. “Not an early riser, Mrs Mills. But as for the rest, it’s a combination of trying to be a good citizen and a deeply rooted fear that she might go batty like her m
other. Dementia. Not, she said, that they knew what it was at the time. But Mrs Mills watches all those programmes with those handsome young doctors and is very up on modern medicine.”

  “And her grandkids being in the profession too.”

  Truce nodded. “She’s a smart lady. Born later, she’d probably have had a career herself. And I like her.”

  “That doesn’t mean she’s right,” says Wendy.

  Truce sighs. “No, but I did my best to poke holes in her story, and I can’t.” He laughs. “Except for Whiles not being actually dead.”

  “There isn’t much to dispute. Her story is simple,” says Wendy.

  “Part of my problem,” says Truce. “People tend to over-complicate lies.”

  “You should run this past Coop. He’s a dick, but he’s also a good copper. He might see something we’re missing,” says Wendy.

  Truce groans.

  “You could always ask around at the golf course.”

  “I don’t think Rose meant me to start working the case.”

  “Then be discreet. Do you play?”

  “Nah,” says Truce. “I’m in agreement with the guy who said golf spoils a good walk. But thanks, Wendy. I’ll think about what you’ve suggested.”

  “Anytime. We’re on the same team.”

  Truce manages to dodge Rose for the rest of the day. He’s found, to his astonishment, that civilian police have even more paperwork to do than the Military Police. He hunkers down at a desk in the corner and ploughs through reports.

  ***

  When Truce eventually escapes, back home Leighton is lounging in front of the telly shouting the answers to questions on an afternoon quiz show. The voice of the over-cheery host chimes irritatingly against his mood. “Are you never going to turn that bloody thing off?”

  “You’re home early,” Leighton says, not bothering to lift his gaze from the TV. “I didn’t expect you until later. I’ve been reading these books on police work,” he gestures to a number of crime novels strewn around the room, “and they have the coppers working all hours.”

  “Hmmf,” says Truce throwing himself down onto the sofa and undoing his tie. “Isn’t it time you found yourself something to do other than hang around the house?”

  “Why?” asks Leighton.

  Truce struggles to think of a reason Leighton will find good enough. Apparently contributing to the bills isn't a good reason. “You’re untidy,” he says at last.

  “I’m taking the rough edges off your military precision. No lass is going to go out with a man who puts creases in his jeans like you do.”

  Truce gets up. “I’m going to shower,” he says. “While I’m gone, make yourself useful and think of how a man could be murdered one day and be walking around the next.”

  ***

  Truce is in the kitchen rolling up the edges of the paper bag with his salmon and herbs when suddenly hearing the word “Doppelganger” makes him jump.

  “What?” he says.

  Leighton peers over his shoulder. “I don’t see why you can’t eat fish and chips out of a newspaper like anyone else.”

  Truce puts his food in the pre-heated oven. “What did you say?”

  “I said doppelgänger.”

  “Doppelgänger? You’re kidding?”

  “Doppelgänger, a mythological term. A supernatural double.”

  “Uh-huh,” says Truce.

  “Although,” continues Leighton, “it’s probably more likely he’s a ghost or been brought back from the dead by modern medicine or voodoo.”

  “I suppose he could have been resuscitated and have partial amnesia,” says Truce thoughtfully. “They might have thought he was dead from the blow on the head, but he could have come round later. But that wouldn’t explain why he’s suddenly walking around again when they called on the fellow at home.”

  “That would depend on how thorough they were. I’d lay you odds they didn’t look into voodoo zombies.”

  Truce rolls his eyes. “I’m guessing not.”

  “Interesting fact,” says Leighton. “Zombies do exist — or did among those who believed in voodoo — and bear in mind that voodoo practices are based around Christian beliefs …”

  “What are you …?”

  “People were afraid of voodoo priests. They believed they could resurrect the dead alongside all the cursing and stuff. They’d give their victims a poison that slowed their heartbeats and paralysed them. Everyone, including the victim, thought they were dead, so when the voodoo priest digs them up they think they’re a zombie and become a slave to the black magician. Power of mind over matter!”

  “Tertrodotoxin,” says Truce. “Not readily available even on Stirlingshire’s black market.”

  Leighton looks disappointed. “Would make a cool case though, wouldn’t it?”

  Truce shrugs. “There’s no reason to believe civilian policing will be any more exciting than military work.”

  “Fewer bombs,” says Leighton meaningfully.

  “Yeah,” says Truce with a heavy sigh. “There is that. I fancy a whisky.”

  ***

  While Truce is waiting for his dinner to cook, he runs through the details of the case with Leighton.

  “It’s not surprising that when they found the guy alive, everyone wrote off June as batty,” says Leighton.

  Truce nods. “But she isn’t lying. I’m sure of it.”

  “That doesn’t mean she was right,” says Leighton.

  “Yeah, I know,” says Truce. “You’re the second person to say that to me.” He goes through to the kitchen to get his supper out of the oven.

  “Maybe she’s one of those people who aren’t good at faces?” suggests Leighton. “Or maybe she doesn’t think granny glasses go with her leopard-skin ensemble.”

  Truce barks a loud laugh and almost drops his tray of salmon. “Couldn’t you have saved that till I had the fish on the dish?”

  “There’s a song about that,” says Leighton.

  “No,” says Truce. “Do not go there.”

  “But I have a lovely singing voice.”

  “Yeah,” says Truce, with a grin. “I remember when those camels started following you, they liked it so much.”

  Leighton smiles. “You have to admit that was kinda cool. Like I could talk to the animals …”

  Truce walks back into the living room, slamming the door behind him in Leighton’s face. He sets his dinner down on the coffee table, picks up the remote, and starts flicking through the channels.

  “Ooh,” says Leighton, approaching from behind. “Action movie, let’s watch.”

  Truce’s stomach turns as a shoot-out scene plays on screen. He flips the channel to a gardening programme. “I want to watch this,” he says firmly.

  “We don’t even have a garden,” says Leighton.

  Truce ignores him. He forks over flakes of his fish. He’s nailed it tonight. Perfect-looking, pink flesh. Yet he can’t bring himself to take a bite. His mind replays the flash of the movie he just saw. Over and over. So much blood. Falling softly on his face.

  “Aren’t you going to eat that?” says Leighton, jolting Truce back to reality.

  Truce holds out the plate. “You want it?”

  Leighton wrinkles his nose. “Give me a pasta pie with mince,” he says. “I like traditional food.”

  Truce shrugs and sits back in his seat, acknowledging to himself all he is going to ingest tonight is whisky. On the television a man in a checked shirt is being enthusiastic about ferns.

  “Look, there are only two options,” says Leighton, breaking into his thoughts. “The guy is alive. The guy is dead. You could take her to see the guy at his home.”

  “I’m half-expecting Rose to have that staked out to see if I’m disobeying her. If Whiles lodges a complaint about police harassment, for example, I’m toast.”

  Leighton shrugs. “You’re being paranoid, but I get that the guy might get a bit pissy if people keep coming to check he isn’t dead.” He pauses and scrat
ches his beard. “Why don’t you take your new pal June to see him in the mortuary?”

  “What?” says Truce.

  “Either she says she’ll go, cos she’s sure the guy isn’t dead. Or she backs off. I’m betting that'll make admit she was mistaken. Then everything’s fine.” Leighton picks up a can from behind the side of his chair and cracks open a beer. “Unless of course he is a zombie. But then it could be the end of days. Did you know the worst curse you can give someone in Chinese is: ‘May you live in interesting times’?”

  “I’m going to bed,” says Truce, standing up.

  “What, and miss the rest of this botanical wonder?” says Leighton gesturing at the screen.

  Truce snorts and walks away. Before he closes the bedroom door, Leighton calls after him, “What's so compelling about this case, mate?”

  “It’s the first time she’s let me out of the office on my own — off the leash,” shouts back Truce. “I don’t want to screw it up.”

  Leighton says loudly, “You could have closed the old lady down easily. Why didn’t you? I think this case has got you by the psychic short and curlies. It has to be more than that. There has to be a reason.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Truce’s head is pounding. Or rather someone is pounding on it. Someone with a massive mallet. Like the ones issued only to Norse Gods. Jesus, it hurts. He can smell something cooking. But it’s been left in the oven too long. His nostrils burn with heat. It’s fucking awful, yet, at the same time, it reminds him of the barbecues one of his foster families used to organise. Truce feels his dream twisting and changing — adult memories giving way to childhood ones. The kids used to throw hot sausages at each other. Challenge each other to hold on to the burning meat for as long as they could. Not an approved game, but a typical hierarchical challenge. As important as who got the top bunk in those crowded little rooms they were packed into. Truce remembers people tried to be kind, but they didn’t understand. Couldn’t understand.