Only the Dead Know

by C. J. Dunford

  Another blow strikes his head. His ears begin to ring. It’s a nasty, vibrating sound.

  Truce opens his eyes. His body is slick with sweat again. It pools in the small of his back, seeping through his T-shirt. The sheet sticks to him as he pulls himself up and reaches for the lamp. Then he sees his phone is ringing. Rose’s name stands black against the bright blue screen. He turns on the lamp and picks up the phone.

  “Truce,” he says, voice gravelly from sleep. His eyes focus on the bedside clock. 5:30 a.m. Next to it, an empty whisky bottle and a glass he doesn’t remember bringing into the bedroom. For a moment he thinks he has slept the day away. The voice in his ear is talking quickly. It sounds annoyed. He’s still coming out of the dream but tries to focus.

  “Truce,” barks his superior’s voice. “Are you listening to one damn word I’m saying?”

  “Ma’am,” says Truce, deciding neither to confirm or deny.

  “Why am I phoning you at this goddamn early time in the morning?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am,” said Truce.

  “Could it be because you are a lazy little scroat? We have thirty open cases assigned to our department, and you’re wasting your time on a closed case.”

  Truce blinks. His brain starts to come online. This would be much easier if they were in the same room. It would be unpleasant, but there’s only so much he can tell from a voice. “You assigned me the case, ma’am,” he says.

  “I told you to shut the woman up. You didn’t do a very good job, did you?”

  “I treated her complaint seriously, ma’am, so she wouldn’t think I was brushing her off.”

  “You were meant to brush her off!” says Rose so loudly Truce wonders if his neighbours will wake up.

  “I know, ma’am,” he says. “But I didn’t want her to realise I was doing so.”

  “Save your amateur-psychology bollocks excuse, Truce. The woman is going to the fucking newspapers.”

  “What?” says Truce.

  “Yeah, I’ve been woken up by my boss because he’s friendly with the editor of a local rag. Your fucking complainant waited until you were out the door five minutes before she was on the phone to the Dunfarlin Evening News to say the police had sent her an expert to investigate her story.”

  “Ah,” said Truce.

  “Ah, indeed,” says Rose.

  Truce moves the phone a little further from his ear. He’s surprised it isn’t dissolving from the acid Rose is spitting down it.

  “That is unfortunate, ma’am,” says Truce. “I appear to have underestimated the way uniform treated her.” The moment the words are out of his mouth, Truce knows he has made a mistake. Rose and her ilk may make fun of uniform behind closed doors, but in her veins she is a true blue, dedicated officer to Queen and Country. Truce is the outsider here, and he just criticised the Force. A different part of the Force, it’s true, but that’s not going to make it any more acceptable.

  Truce holds the phone further from his ear and waits for the eruption. He doesn’t have to wait long. A part of him is impressed at how articulate and how crudely insulting Rose can be all at the same time. He doesn’t bother trying to interrupt. He knows that will only make things worse. Instead he picks up his watch with the other hand and times Rose’s rant. Four minutes and thirteen seconds. If she had been born into a different part of the world, thinks Truce, she would have made a great pearl diver. He doubts he will ever tell her that. Instead he breathes as quietly as he can and adds no further fuel to her mind.

  Eventually, Rose rattles to a stop with a commanding, “I take it you are still here, Truce.”

  “Listening to every word, ma’am,” says Truce and adds quickly, “I totally agree with you, ma’am. I was acting way beyond my experience and I wholeheartedly regret causing you or any member of the Force any inconvenience.” Then something makes him add, “Would you like my resignation, ma’am?”

  There is a long pause. Truce knows she would love to be rid of him. He’s kicking himself for giving her the chance. He cannot believe he actually offered. His head aches and the taste in his mouth as vile as Leighton’s socks.

  “No,” says Rose in a sudden show of humanity. “That won’t be necessary. You’re new to this kind of work. You’re bound to make a few mistakes, Truce.” He hears her take a deep breath. “In fact, on consideration, seeing as how you’ve accepted my comments without argument, I won’t even mark it on your file.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” says Truce, keeping his voice level with effort.

  “Just go see this fucking woman and shut her down today,” says Rose and rings off.

  Truce returns his phone to the bedside table and leans back on his pillows. “Well, that was interesting,” he says aloud.

  Leighton cracks the door and sticks his head inside. “Hey, I could hear her through the wall. That your commander? What got up her skirt?”

  “I have no idea,” says Truce. “But I’d like to know.”

  “Would I?” says Leighton with a leer.

  “No. Go back to bed.”

  “Ah,” says Leighton. “A ball shriveller.”

  ***

  June’s irises narrow, and her pupils widen. Behind him, the light casts his shadow diagonally and not over the doorway. For one horrible moment Truce thinks he is spotting a sign of attraction from her. He notices the quick tics of her pulse at the base of her throat. But there is no rush of blood to her lips or cheeks, and he realises she is merely nervous.

  “Are you angry with me?” she asks.

  He’s left it until 8:30 a.m. Which is still going to be early by June’s standards. He had an instinct she might well be expecting his visit. He’s relieved she’s up and about. June is dressed conservatively in a dark-blue skirt suit. Although she has paired this with sneakers. Truce raises one eyebrow, so he can quiz her without any words and without giving anything away.

  “I know I shouldn’t have rung the newspaper back,” says June. Her voice is thin. “It was pride. Pride. I’m a foolish old woman.”

  Still Truce says nothing, composing his features as well as he can to give nothing away. She still hasn’t invited him in. She’s staying on her own turf and keeping him outside. Truce realises she is afraid and wonders if she thinks he will arrest her.

  “The young newspaper lad — the one who saw me when I went in with my story — when I was getting nowhere with the local station — he laughed at me. When I was leaving, I heard him describe me to his colleague as a daft old bat.” June gulps. “It got me so riled up ‘cos I was afraid— afraid …” She drops her gaze, unable to go on.

  “That you were a daft old bat,” finishes Truce gently for her.

  “I only said that a special policeman was looking into things for me.”

  “Did you give my name?” asks Truce.

  June nods. Her eyes slide away from him. “I got you into trouble, didn’t I?”

  Truce smiles. “Nothing I can’t handle,” he says.

  “So it’s all okay?” says June.

  Truce eyes her obviously up and down. “Did you think I’d be taking you to court?”

  “Nah,” says June, her voice brightening. “Everyone round here knows how it works.” She hesitates. “But I did think you might come back and tell me to forget about it all. I thought I might be able to make you take me more seriously …”

  “Without the animal prints?” says Truce.

  “Fuck,” says June. “Ten years ago,” she wrinkles her nose, “okay, twenty years ago I’d have tried my negligee.”

  Despite himself, Truce laughs. “I’m sure you would have been a fine sight, ma’am,” he says.

  “Still am,” says June with a wink. “Just not something a youngster like you would appreciate!” Then her expression changes. “What happens now?” she asks.

  “Have you ever been to a mortuary, June?” asks Truce.

  “A mortuary?”

  “Where they …”

  “I know what it is and yes, I have. I ca
n’t believe you’d do this to me.” A tear forms in her left eye and she brushes it angrily away with a wrinkled hand. “That’s a low one. Even from one of the polis.”

  Truce doesn’t hide his confusion. The only explanation hits him hard. “Your husband?” he asks.

  June nods. “Car crash. I had to identify him.”

  “I’m sorry,” says Truce. “I was in the forces for a while. I know what that can do to someone. But I swear to you I had no idea.”

  June purses her lips and he knows it’s touch or go if he’s thrown out on his ear. “You should do your background checks more thoroughly,” she says at last.

  “Yes, ma’am,” says Truce. “Only you were handed off to me rather quickly.”

  “Drew the short straw, did you?” says June. “What makes you think the killers left the body lying around to be found. They took it away in the car. Can’t they do things with acid now that means it might never be found?”

  Truce sighs. “Yes and no. My instinct is they didn’t mean to kill him — at least not on the edge of a golf course. Even taking him out of that place was dangerous.” He takes a breath. “But the thing is, this isn’t the movies. It’s not that easy for your average criminal to get rid of a body completely. They have a habit of turning up.”

  June raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced.

  “Or putting it another way,” says Truce. “If we can find your body in a mortuary then …”

  “We have proof someone was killed,” says June.

  “It might even be someone who looks like Whiles,” says Truce. “It’s not like you knew him well.”

  “Aye,” admits June. She reaches back into the flat and picks up her handbag. “I’m not afraid of the mortuary,” she says. “It’s not like I’m going to see my man in there.”

  It takes Truce a second to realise she is talking about her husband. “I want to show you photos of the John Does we’ve had in at the time you think you saw that man die — and any bodies they may have in. I need to be sure you didn’t make a mistake.”

  June gives him a quirky grin. “Aye, alright. I’ll go with you. But I tell you now I’ve always been able to tell one man from another — and not just by his face.”

  ***

  In the mortuary Truce bears down on the lone attendant with all the authority at his command. June looks through the “picture book” and even consents to consider the bodies drawn out for her attention. None are the man she saw killed. Truce manages to usher them both away before the doctor on duty comes back from his coffee.

  In the car June sits next to him looking wrinkled and deflated. “So that’s it, then,” she says. “I’ll have to make an appointment with my GP and get some tests done.”

  Truce throws her a puzzled frown before he clicks. “You think you’re losing your marbles?”

  “Aye well, there wasn’t any body I could recognise on the slab,” says June. She looks up at him. “I know you were thinking that perhaps the man had been misidentified. It was good of you to give me the chance.”

  “No harm done,” says Truce. “It happens.”

  “Should I ring the newspaper back and apologise?”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary,” says Truce.

  “Aye, well. Thanks for the lift.”

  They draw up outside June’s flat. She opens the door slowly, as if she's aged ten years on the journey. Truce’s heart goes out to her. She pauses, taking a deep breath before she swings her legs out. Either she is more tired from the visit to the mortuary than Truce expected, or she’s hoping he’s somehow still going to come to her rescue. She needs him to tell her she’s not losing her marbles. But what if she really is? In fact, she is exactly where Rose asked him to put her. Confused. Unsure. And there is no way she is going to keep visiting the local station.

  She twists towards him one last time and lays a hand on his arm. “Thanks, son, for trying. Means a lot.”

  Truce knows that touching someone on the arm while you’re speaking gives an illusion of closeness, that it fosters empathy. Heaven knows he’s used the trick more times than he can count. But unlike the times he’s touched someone’s arm for affect, whether it’s to get a date into bed, or get a perp to confess, June’s action, he knows, is natural and unrehearsed. Ah shit, he thinks with a heavy heart. But instead he says, “Just because we didn’t find a body in the mortuary doesn’t mean you didn’t see someone being killed. Sometimes it takes a while for bodies to turn up.”

  June’s face splits into a hopeful grin. “And you’ll go and see the mannie they say is still alive? Maybe he had a cousin coming to town?”

  “You could come with me,” says Truce.

  June shakes her head. “No.”

  Truce doesn’t press her. He doesn’t want to visit Whiles with or without her. He knows this has all been checked and double-checked. And he’s still enough of a military man to respect that due procedure has been done. Rose would blow a fuse if he spent any more time on this case, so he gives a noncommittal smile and an askew inclination of his head. It’s enough for June. She fairly bounces out of the car.

  “Let me know when you’re coming back,” she says, leaning in through the open door. “I’ll make my best chocolate cake.”

  Truce gives another smile. “My favourite,” he says, though he despises chocolate in all its forms.

  June slams the door. As he drives away, he glances up to the rearview mirror in time to see her standing at the side of the road, waving.

  Truce flips on the radio, turning it to a rock station and cranking up the volume. He can’t drown out the thoughts in his head. None of this is right. It doesn’t seem to him that anyone he has met is lying. He didn’t even get that vibe from Rose when she assigned him the case. He’s certain she only wanted to hand him a nuisance file. When she was yelling at him this morning, all he heard was a woman terrified of getting any stain on her reputation that would hold back her advancement. Her anger sounded like she’d been chewed out herself. He’d seen that plenty of times from officers in the MPs. Someone shits on you, you double shit on someone lower.

  There’s a mystery here. A mystery no one wants him to solve. Yet everything about it is impossible. And there’s an old lady who trusts him. The only real question on his mind is how he is going to pursue this without incurring Rose’s wrath.

  CHAPTER 5

  When Truce parks his car outside headquarters, he can almost hear Rose pacing up and down in her office. The desk sergeant barely looks up at his passing. Other colleagues shift uncomfortably in their seats as he goes by. Dead man walking. He doesn’t wait to be summoned and goes directly to Rose’s office and taps on the door. He’s only been here a short time, but he knows no-one willingly walks into the lion’s den. To her credit, Rose’s invitation to enter doesn’t sound the least bit surprised. Perhaps, hopes Truce, they are beginning to understand each other.

  She’s standing in front of her desk. She’s a lot shorter than Truce. The sun is shining off her honey-blonde hair that’s tied back into a granny bun. From his perspective, he can see she has no grey at her roots. She’s even younger than he thought, but when she tilts her head up to look at him, there are dark shadows beneath her eyes. Truce steps back immediately. If he makes her crane her neck, she will get even more annoyed.

  He speaks before she can. “Good morning, ma’am. I wanted to assure you I have convinced the witness that she did not see anyone who has recently been reported dead.”

  Rose raises an eyebrow.

  “But does she still think she saw a murder?” asks Rose.

  Truce, who is trying not to lie, says, “She’s not sure, ma’am. But she understands no one who looks like the man she claims to have seen has been found dead. She’s confused.”

  “And?”

  “She thinks she might be developing Alzheimer’s.”

  “Good,” says Rose, returning to her chair and sitting down. “So, we can put all this behind us and move on to the serious work?”


  Truce nods. What can be more serious than reassuring vulnerable people they are safe? Isn’t that what policing is supposed to be all about?

  “We’re overloaded with cases and that leaves no time to pander to the deluded. Leave that to the NHS,” says Rose and hands him a sheaf of paperwork. “I’m sure you’ll understand that it’s best for everyone if you keep your head down for a while. After all, we don’t want to damage your career prospects, do we?”

  “Not really the ambitious type, ma’am,” he says. With effort he keeps his voice level and doesn’t grit his teeth. He recently signed an online petition to support the NHS and he’s wondering how Rose would fair under the workload of a junior doctor. He thinks if she turned up in his casualty unit, he’d lose her trolley and let her die in agony.

  The bland expression obviously doesn’t do it for Rose. She gives him a disbelieving look and nods towards the door.

  Outside Wendy is waiting for him, holding a coffee. She gives it to him. “I saw you go in,” she says. “How bad was it?”

  Truce shrugs and leads them away from Rose’s office to his desk. “Wasn’t sure if I should back out slowly.”

  “Like they do with royalty?”

  Truce grunts. “And rabid dogs.”

  “So, the case of the not-dead murdered man is over?”

  “We need to come up with a better title,” says Truce.

  Wendy sits down on his desk. “Are you kidding me? After all those bollockings, you’re still going to pursue this?”

  “Me, no,” says Truce. He gestures to the pile of papers he’s been holding in his other hand and lets them flop onto the desk with a loud bang. “I’ve got all this to wade through.”

  Wendy tucks her curls behind her left ear. Truce has noticed she does this immediately before she says something she thinks is important. “If you think there’s something to this case — that something has been missed — talk to Coop. He’s good.”