Only the Dead Know

by C. J. Dunford

  The name of the woman is not being released until her family has been informed, but the news understands she was a colourful, community-minded character who will be missed by many.

  A sudden chill washes across him. “It can’t be,” he mutters. “The age is wrong. There’s no reason it would be …” But he puts the newspaper down and pours his untouched whisky down the kitchen sink.

  ***

  The next day, Truce is up early and without a hangover. He diverts on the way to the office to drop in at the local nick where June made her 11 a.m. drop-ins.

  The desk sergeant recognises him at once. “Good morning, sir,” he says. “Sad, isn’t it? I’d got used to her coming in with her treats. Reckon I’ll miss her more than I’ll miss her ginger cookies, and that’s saying something. And that paper added what? Four years onto her age. Bloody journalists. Never get anything right.”

  Truce leans on the counter and takes a couple of breaths to slow his heart. “Have you got any details about how it happened?”

  The sergeant doesn’t blink. He reaches over to the files on his desk and pulls a report. “Just in from the beat copper. Made an impression on you, didn’t she? Our June might have been nutty as a fish planning a trip to Mars, but she was a good ‘un.” He sighs. “But I reckon even the best can fall off the wagon.”

  Truce nods, barely listening as he skims through the report. June Mills, 65, seen leaving the Good Luck Bingo Hall by manager Jamie Begbie, stumbled into traffic and was hit full force by a taxi driven by Armid Mustafa. The angle of incident was such that she did not rebound from the vehicle, but entered through the front windscreen, severely injuring Mr Mustafa. Begbie and other witness (detailed below) report that Mrs Mills gave no warning she was about to step into the road and that Mr Mustafa was in no way at fault. His employers, Red Letter Day Taxis, confirm he has worked with them for three years without incident and has a clean driving licence.

  Begbie also commented that when leaving the Bingo Hall, Mrs Mills did not seem steady on her feet. He also says Mrs Mills had had three successive wins and had been celebrating with friends. He confirms that alcohol had been ordered to her table — the hall has a limited licence, but cannot positively state whether Mrs Mills was drinking herself. Officers have been dispatched to interview the three other elderly ladies she was with. At the time of the incident, the officer in charge deemed them to be both in shock and under the influence of alcohol, and deferred questioning to home visits, as there is no reason to believe this is anything other than an unfortunate accident.

  Mr Mustafa remains in St Mark’s hospital. He has undergone surgery and will not be able to answer any questions until at least forty-eight hours have passed, according to the Senior House Doctor on duty, Dr Ramid Patel.

  “I think he’s got the main bits down there,” says the desk Sergeant. “Lad’s new. First time he’d attended a fatal accident. There’ll be all the proper reports later if you want me to send them on to you? Inspector …?”

  Truce straightens up and hands the file back. “That won’t be necessary,” he says, ignoring the man’s attempt to get his name.

  “Sad,” says the sergeant again. “At least she went out happy. Got to be something said for that.”

  Truce gives a grin so swift it is more like a grimace, and thanks the man for his help.

  Truce returns to his car and drives away. At the junction at the end of the street, he indicates left, the way to the Barn. He pulls out, but he has gone less than a quarter of a mile before he pulls into a lay-by and punches St Mark’s hospital into the satnav.

  St Mark’s is comparatively new. There is almost no parking on the street. Double yellow lines everywhere and half of the site seems to be in permanent building mode. Truce parks on a double yellow line, the purpose of which he can see no point, except to force visitors to use the over-priced car parks. He slides his “this is a police car” disc in the window and ambles inside.

  It’s busy. The main doors open into a lobby with a central desk surrounded by cafes and shops. Uniformed nurses walk at the crisp measured pace of people who know they will be on their feet all day and have to eek out their energy. Some men and women in green scrubs stalk by with the usual self-absorption of surgeons. And, between the official workers, the general public scurries. Old people, hesitant and worried, on their way to long-awaited appointments or to visit yet another sick member of their generation. Giggling young women with their arms full of balloons and teddy bears dressed in pink or blue about to visit their niece or nephew for the first time. Soon-to-be-fathers sent off to get coffee, wandering around with dazed expressions. And then there are those with their hands around long-cold beverages, staring at curled sandwiches as they wait to hear news on loved ones, or try to take in the news they have been given.

  Truce is torn between admiring the place’s efficiency and avoiding the obvious waves of emotion. He goes over to the desk and explains who is and who he’s looking for.

  The man in the blue jumper, with a security emblem on his shoulder, a sort of half-hearted military flash, and the faded shade of a black eye, shrugs. “Sorry, mate. I can help you with your parking ticket or tell you where a ward is, but I can’t look up patient information. Don’t have the equipment. All confidential anyway.”

  Truce thinks for a moment about the best way to communicate with this man. He’s slumped in his chair, belly going to fat, though he can’t be much over thirty. He’s more security than help, but he doesn’t hold himself like a man who could deal with a recalcitrant toddler, let alone a would-be terrorist or angry car owner. He’s obviously come out the worst in a recent set-to — though Truce guesses pub rather than work brawl. His skin has the patchy greasiness of a drinker. From the twitch of the end of his lips and the set of his chin, Truce is pretty sure he’s enjoying getting one over on an actual member of the police force.

  “You must see a lot of people come through here,” Truce says mildly. “I bet you can tell what’s up with them before they even ask. You strike me as the observant kind.”

  The guy leans back in his chair and places his hands over his stomach. His chin raises and he gives a cold smile. “Oh, yeah, I know all the types.”

  “Must help in your line of work,” says Truce. “Being able to see the trouble before it happens. Me, I spend most of my life in front of a computer screen.”

  The man nods. “Yeah, I’m at the grass roots level of security. The things I could tell you … But the hospital doesn’t like us to talk.”

  “Of course not,” says Truce — though he seriously doubts there is anything worth mentioning beyond the occasional theft of a cheese roll from the café. He pauses.

  “Thought of entering the police force myself once,” says the man. Truce waits, keeping his face calm and interested. “Too much paperwork though. I prefer to be more hands on — if you know what I mean.”

  Truce nods and tries for a sage expression. “Tell me about it,” he says.

  The guy leans forward. Truce leans in. “Ward fifteen, section C, bed seven. Quite a to-do there was when he was brought in. My aunt cleans that ward, and the newspapers were offering cash for information. Didn’t take it though. Straight as a die, she is. Now, don’t let on I told you.” He taps the side of his nose. “Us protection people have to stick together.”

  Truce thanks him sincerely. He doesn’t let the bubble of laughter rise up inside him until he is in the lift.

  When he reaches the ward, he’s happy to see it’s one of those with a central nurses’ desk and sub wards, or rather large rooms, branching off in all directions. There’s a mass of people milling around. Breakfast trays are being taken away, and the first visitors are arriving. There’s a posse of doctors finishing their rounds. It’s ordered chaos. Certainly no one has the time to intercept him before he reaches section C and walks up to bed seven.

  The man lying there is in his late forties, his head is bandaged and his left leg is in a cast. He has tubes and wires running in
, out, and over him. Monitors form a bank of screens around one side of his bed. He looks as if he is an inch away of being taken into intensive care. But his eyes are open. Someone has switched on the TV that hangs above his bed on a levered arm. It’s chattering some early morning weather report, and the man is gazing out of the window, although the only thing to see is grey sky.

  “Mr Mustafa?” Truce asks softly.

  The man turns his head with obvious effort. “Yes,” he says. His voice is deeper than Truce expected. He should have a good singing voice. The man regards him with sad brown eyes. “Have you found something else?” he asks. There is no fear in his voice. In fact, it seems devoid of any emotion at all. Truce realises that most of the cues he would judge someone on he cannot use. The man is in obvious pain and minimising his movements. There is a heart monitor, but Truce recoils at the idea of pushing an injured man’s heart rate up to ascertain the truth.

  “I’m Inspector Daniel Truce,” he says, showing his warrant card. This is the first time he’s used it and it feels odd. He hadn’t intended to do that, but something about this man demands his respect.

  “Another policeman,” says Mustafa. “I guessed.”

  “I appreciate you must have answered a lot of questions already,” begins Truce.

  “There’s no problem. I’m eager to help.”

  “You said something about us finding something else?” says Truce.

  “I keep thinking it must be my fault,” says the man. His eyes half-fill with tears. “I killed that woman. That poor old lady. She landed in my lap and she died there. Allah bless her soul.”

  “The report I read said that she stepped out in front of you,” says Truce.

  “She did,” says Mustafa. “Straight out. But I should have seen her. I should have known she was about to enter the road. I saw her at the edge of my vision, weaving. Under the influence, I fear. I should have seen that. I shuttle around drunks every weekend. But she was an old lady — I didn’t expect her to be under the influence. It is my fault.”

  Truce recognises that the man is so upset, his English, which he speaks without accent, is slipping. “I don’t mean to upset you, sir,” he says. “I’m checking over things. It’s totally routine. No reason for concern.”

  “But I want there to be reason,” says Mustafa. “I want to be told it is my fault.”

  “Why?” says Truce, taken aback.

  “I want there to be a reason why the sweet old lady died. Even if it is my own incompetence. Even if you take me away from my family and send me to jail. I would rather that than think a moment’s inattention cost her her life.”

  Truce takes a deep breath. “I see. Well, I can assure you we have no new information at this time.” He thinks about adding that the man could not have predicted the actions of a drunk, but he doesn’t want to think about June like that, and he also fears the man will start on again about his experience with drunks and how he should have known.

  He steps away from the bed and exits quickly. At the nurses’ desk he catches the attention of one of the senior nurses. “Do you think you could arrange for Mr Mustafa to see an Iman?” he asks. “He has been through a lot, and I think he is having a crisis of faith.”

  The nurse looks startled for a moment, but then nods. “I should have realised he was a religious man myself,” she says, “when he asked for a male nurse for his bed bath.”

  “Difficult, is he?” asks Truce.

  The nurse shakes her head. “Not at all. He’s the perfect gentleman. No fuss even when his pain meds were late due to another patient …” She breaks off.

  Truce nods. “I know. Patient confidentiality. He seems like a nice man to me, too. But I think he is extremely distressed, even if he is hiding it well.”

  “I’m on it,” says the nurse. “I’ll call the chaplain right now before something else comes along, and he can arrange it. I’m pretty sure he has a list of …” But Truce is already gone.

  ***

  That night at home, Truce tells Leighton about June’s death. For once, Leighton doesn’t crack any jokes and listens sympathetically. “Ah, man,” he says, “that’s bad luck all round. She sounded like quite a character. At least it would have been quick,” he adds, unconsciously echoing the sergeant.

  “Why?” says Truce. “Why should it have been quick? Who is to say that when you’re dying time doesn’t extend? That it doesn’t blow out to fill the entire universe? That the extinguishing of a life would not seem like forever to the one dying?”

  “That’s a bit heavy,” says Leighton. “Kind of what I normally might say.”

  But Truce ignores his comment. “All your days exploding into fire, pain, and the realisation of everything you have to lose.”

  “Well, at least the case is over,” says Leighton, looking worried. “Can’t be any grand conspiracies here. Just bloody awful luck.”

  “What if Mustafa was right?” says Truce. “What if there was a reason?”

  “Nah,” says Leighton. “There’s enough evil in this world without you making up more.”

  CHAPTER 7

  This time when the world explodes into orange light and white-hot heat that burns through to his bones, he does not succumb to the usual welcoming blackness. Instead June Mills, her short hair crowned with fire, blocks his way to oblivion.

  “How dare you, Daniel Truce,” she says. For a moment, Truce sees her as an avenging angel. Then he takes in the skimpy leopard-skin top and tight leather skirt. Instead of a sword of chastisement, she is carrying a small rhinestone bag. She raises her arm and hits him on the head with it. Some of the stones scratch the skin on his forehead, and he feels blood trickle down his face.

  “How bloody dare you?” she continues.

  “I’m sorry,” he says automatically. He realises now the explosion is frozen all around him. If only he could reel back time. If only he could call out a warning, it might be enough …

  June swings her bag at him again. With each blow she utters one word. “I WAS NOT DRUNK YOU STUPID SOD. I’VE BEEN ON THE WAGON SINCE MY FRANK DIED OVER A DECADE AGO. HOW DARE YOU …”

  Truce is now ducking and dodging, trying to get around her to the darkness he can see beyond. Somehow the blows from the bag are even more intense than the pain of his bones charring. The blows cease as suddenly as they began.

  Truce peeks through his hands. Tears are running down the wrinkles in her cheeks. “It’s all so fucking unfair,” June says. “I could have gone to Tenerife with that money. Miss just one of our bloody Scottish winters. Now, I’m gone. Why didn’t you save me?”

  The words stick in Truce’s throat like broken glass, but he forces them out. “I can’t save anyone,” he says.

  He jerks awake, sobbing violently, choking on his tears. He wonders if Leighton will come through and see him, but he doesn’t. Truce continues to sob, until like a child, he curls into position and cries himself back to sleep.

  ***

  In the morning, Leighton is eating smoked kippers. The smell is rank. He hails Truce as he comes through wet from his shower and indicates the cornflakes on the table. “You’re getting a bit too gutsy in the wrong kind of way,” Leighton says. “Don’t these civilian police ever do any training?”

  “We’re expected to keep fit,” says Truce. He sits down. “I should start running again.”

  “Running from what?”

  “Nightmares would be a good start,” says Truce.

  “Hmm,” says Leighton. “I don’t allow myself to have any.”

  Truce ignores him and carries on. “It was the usual. The incident.”

  Leighton nods, his mischievous eyes for once sympathetic.

  “And then June shows up. June Mills. The old lady that got hit by a car.”

  “Of course, I remember June. Did she have a camel?” Leighton asks between mouthfuls of fish.

  “Why should she have a camel?”

  “I was thinking about that old Turkish Delight ad. The one with the tent in the
desert and the guy offering the girl a tray of sweeties.”

  “You were imagining June as a harem beauty?” says Truce, shocked.

  “No,” says Leighton.

  “The girl in the ad was.”

  Leighton leans forward. “You’re ageist.”

  “I don’t want to see a granny in desert bikini,” says Truce. “Why are you trying to distract me?”

  “Cos you’re about to tell me about your nightmare and I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Call it the price of this week’s rent.”

  Leighton sighs. “That is so not cool.”

  “You know what’s also not cool? You freeloading. Anyways, in the dream I saw June. She said she wasn’t drunk and that I should have saved her.”

  “Yeah, well, I could have predicted that,” said Leighton.

  “Huh?”

  “I know you. I know you blame yourself. This isn’t the right job for you.”

  “But what if she wasn’t drunk?”

  “You spoke to the taxi driver, and you were convinced it was an accident. He even said he saw June, alone—there was no one around to push her. So what’s the conspiracy? She had one too many voddies and stumbled off the kerb. It’s tragic, but you’re not bloody superman flying in to the rescue.”

  “She said she hadn’t had a drink in decades.”

  “She’d won three jackpots on the trot. Can’t you imagine her friends egging on her to celebrate? Just one little glass of bubbly? And if she hadn’t drunk for ages, then it probably went straight to the poor old biddy’s head.”

  “I should check if they have done a toxicity report on the body.”