Truce stands up. “I’m not done with it.”
Leighton says, “If you must keep poking this bear, then stay away from officials until you’ve got something concrete.”
“Then who do I question?” asks Truce in frustration.
“Go back and see that old bird from the funeral. Get her to talk you through the evening step by step. She didn’t sound like the type who would complain to the coppers.”
“I suppose,” says Truce. “But it’s still adding fuel to the fire.”
“But not as much as visiting the litigious Pettiman or even the desk sergeant at the local station. He must be getting suspicious if he’s as canny as you thought.”
“I want a level of suspicion,” says Truce. “If anything happens to me I want—”
“The lovely Wendy to avenge you.”
“Well, you certainly won’t.”
Leighton clutches dramatically at his chest. “I’m wounded to the heart,” he says.
Truce snorts and goes to leave, but before he is out the door, Leighton calls after him, “Watch your tail, man.”
Truce pulls up outside June’s flat. He checks the rearview mirror one last time. He hasn’t noticed any car in particular behind him. His mind wanders to Leighton’s warning. Watch your tail, man. He wonders if Leighton is into drugs again and if that's what is making him paranoid. He never used them on base, but when they were on leave, he made up for lost time. Now that he’s permanently on leave, it might not be a bad idea to toss his room, Truce considers. Especially since Leighton appears to have become the eternal roommate.
It’s a grey, rainy day, but from what Truce can see, it’s the same small kids outside playing with a ball. Only this time they are staying under the cover of the trees. As he watches, one of the boys, in a Luis Suarez top, grabs the ball from the others, runs to the tree, and sitting with his back against the trunk, he bites it aggressively. Life goes on, thinks Truce, as he walks by the kids, who follow him with wide, inquisitive eyes. As he ducks under the entrance to the stairway, he notices one girl is challenging the boy with the ball. A tiny thing, she is wearing a bright orange raincoat and her rain-darkened hair hangs in lank locks about her face. She’s standing with her legs astride and her hands on her hips, talking in a stern babble of nonsense, clearly copying some adult she knows. Order and chaos, even in childhood: Truce following the rules, doing his homework, keeping his bunk tidy, hoping beyond hope someone would come and adopt him; Leighton rebellious, the first to try smoking, losing everything from shoes to underwear, carelessly offensive whenever prospective parents visited. Like he knew he’d never be chosen anyway. Leighton relished the chaos.
June’s flat is dark and eerily still. It was always a long shot he would find anyone here, but he’d hoped that maybe friends or family would have started clearing the place. He notes it’s not up for sale yet. No disrespecting money grabbers here.
He knocks on the neighbour’s door, but no answer. He tries the flat on the other side. No answer. He starts towards the stairs, and hears a dog bark. Three doors away, from behind a bright yellow door. He quickens his stride, his heart beating fast as he taps on the door. Behind his back, he’s crossed his fingers. The door opens, and a dishevelled-looking girl stands there. She doesn’t look old enough to be anyone’s mum, but she cradles a baby in her arms.
The girl has long black hair. It’s straight, and could do with a good brushing. Her skin is pale and freckled. Her lips are unusually wide and a pale rose, but it is her eyes that capture his attention. They are so blue — almost violet — and too large for her heart-shaped face and, Truce thinks, quite the most lovely eyes he has ever seen. She’s a diamond in the rough at the moment.
“Wit d’ye want?” she asks. Behind her, the dog barks again. She turns her head and yells, “Frankie, will ye quit bothering the dug. He doesnae want to play. He wants a wee nap.”
A small voice yells back something unintelligible. “No, ye cannae go outside with that sniffle.” She turns her attention back to Truce, who has had the forethought to hold up his warrant card. Her eyes flicker across it, unconcerned. “Ye have bairns?” she asks. “Cos on days like these, they fair drive ye mental.”
“You’ve got a dog, too,” says Truce. “Can’t be easy.”
“You’re that copper that was looking into crazy June, are ye no?”
“Do you think she was crazy?” says Truce. He shivers as rain blows in across the landing and sneaks down his neck.
“Och, come away in,” she says, noticing his reaction.
“I don’t want to cause any trouble,” says Truce.
“Then come in before all the heat gits oot,” says the girl, but she gives a smile to make the words warmer. Truce steps across the threshold and closes the door behind him. Immediately he is hit by the overwhelming smell of used nappies and all the incidental aromas young children cause. But the hallway is tiled and scrubbed clean. A moment later, a mixed-breed dog, half-Labrador and half something massive, black and most closely resembling a mastiff, barrels into the hall and collides with Truce’s legs. It jumps up at him. “Away, Dexter,” says the woman, looking distressed. “Frankie, come and git yer dug.”
But Truce kneels down and fusses over the dog. It rewards him with big, dripping licks. It is obviously as dim as a log, but with not a bad bone in its body. “It’s okay,” he tells the girl. “I like dogs, Mrs?”
“Anne Blackie,” she says. “My husband works away on the rigs, so it can get a big messy.” She shrugs. “He got us the damn dug as protection.”
“But all he’d do is lick a burglar to death?” says Truce, looking up at her and smiling. “Look, I can see you’ve got your hands full. I’m looking for one of June’s friends. The one who read the poem at the funeral — if you were there? Senga, isn’t it?”
“Ah, yes, Senga McKay — I think it’s McKay. She fair goes through husbands. Mine calls her and her pals the Grotesque Grannies behind their backs, but round here we call them the Geriatric Go-go girls. They don’t mind that. And I mean, what’s the harm? They’ve raised their families, why shouldn’t they have a bit of fun in their twilight years. They also know what it’s like.” Her glorious eyes well up, and she leans against the wall, rocking the sleeping baby quietly. Frankie, all snotty nose and food stains, has crept in and is watching Truce pet his dog. “I feel bad. It all happened when she was walking yon monster. She was no match for him. I should never have agreed, but I was up to my ears.”
“I don’t believe anyone could consider you to blame in any way,” says Truce. “But I do have to ask a question. Did you let June take the dog, Dexter” — the dog gives a yip of excitement at hearing its own name, “because you didn’t want her to baby-sit the kids?”
Anne steps away from the wall and straightens her shoulders. Her eyes blaze. “Whit are ye saying?” she says. “June was a fine woman. She’d never hurt a bairn.”
“Oh no.” Truce puts up his hand to protest. “I wasn’t suggesting that. It’s just that when I spoke to June herself she said she was afraid she was getting a bit forgetful.” He lowered his voice. “There’d been dementia in her family.”
Anne visibly relaxes. “No. She could be a wee bit forgetful, I suppose. I kept a spare set of keys in case she locked herself out. And she forgot to take the milk in for two days one time. That had us all in a right flap. I was all for calling the polis, rather than going in and finding her dead. It’s was wee Frankie who sorted that, just ran up and chapped on her door. She opened it. Turned out she’d been binge watching Sex and the City on DVD and lost track of the time. But I wouldn’t have said there was any real issue there. No more than you’d expect when you get on a bit. Certainly she was more on the ball than I am half the time.”
“Did you ever think she might have been drinking?”
“No. She had her troubles a while ago, so her neighbour tells me, but since I’ve been here — and that’s six years- I’ve never seen her drunk or smelt alcohol — or mint — on her breath. And
certainly not on the night she took the dug out, if that’s whit you’re working up to ask.”
“I’m very grateful to you,” says Truce. “Now, if you know where Senga lives, you’ll have made all my dreams come true.”
Anne laughs. “Long time since I’ve done that for a man,” she says, “but aye, Senga lives at Logan Crescent. Other side of the High Street. It’s the old school building.” She gave him the number.
“Thank you,” says Truce, standing up to leave.
As he heads out the door, Frankie calls after him, “Come back and see us, Mister. Dexter likes you.”
***
Senga’s flat is as tidy as a polished pin. Long windows, which pupils of yesteryear must have gazed longingly out of, light up the flat even on a day as miserable as today. The walls are painted bright white. Canvases of abstract art, garishly coloured, hang centrally on each wall.
“My daughter’s,” says Senga, pride in her voice. “First artist in the family. Went to art school and everything.”
She welcomes Truce in, and doesn’t seem at all surprised to see him. She produces tea and a choice of Bakewell tart or Victoria sponge, both homemade. Truce settles into her plushy, over-cushioned sofa, and she takes him through the bingo night step by step.
Even though she admits to having a glass or two of the celebratory prosecco the management sent over, she tells a coherent story. “You could have knocked me down with the proverbial feather when her numbers came up a second time. I mean, what are the odds?”
Truce knows the odds are the same for each game, but he nods in agreement, not wanting to stop the flow of her thoughts.
Senga smooths down her skirt, blue linen today, and then runs her finger along her matching bead necklace.
Truce suppresses a shiver of apprehension. He’s aware she is unconsciously drawing his attention to parts of her body she wants touched. “How much did she win?”
“Oh, the jackpot,” says Senga. “Each time. Three times. So that’s three times two hundred and fifty pounds.” She runs a finger around her lips as she contemplates the sum.
Truce takes a big gulp of tea and swallows. It’s strong stuff, but he could do with something even stronger, like a brandy. He wonders if this is how women feel in Leighton’s company when he’s had a few and is on the lech. “Seven hundred and fifty pounds,” he finishes for her. “Was there anything else unusual that night? Anything different? Usual crowd?”
“It was a wee bit more crowded than normal, but the usual suspects were there.” She laughs. “You know, like the film?”
“Gangsters?” says Truce, confused.
Senga laughs again and edges further forward in her seat. Truce suppresses the desire to move backwards. “No, love. Just the same old faces looking for something more interesting to do than watch Corrie on the telly.” She turns her torso full on to him, her feet totally still. Her hands are in her lap. She idly moves them slowly along her upper legs. Truce’s gaze snaps back to her face. “Apart from poor June winning all that money, nothing odd about that night at all.”
“But June left before the rest of you?”
“The rest of us decided to buy another bottle and then move on to the local pub, The Crossed Keys. Do you know it? Nice place. Does great little pub lunches and real ale. Are you into real ale, Mr Truce?”
“No,” says Truce. “And June didn’t want to go with you?”
“I think she was tired,” says Senga. “She was older than me, of course. Quite a bit older.”
“You don’t think it had anything to do with the alcohol?”
Senga gives him an exasperated look, and flops back in her seat, crossing her legs impatiently. “Possibly. She didn’t like to expose herself to temptation.”
“Give in sometimes, did she?” Truce asks. He edges forward slightly and leans in, hating himself. “You can tell me,” he says.
But Senga notices the gesture, and she purses her lips. “No, I won’t speak ill of the dead. But I will say she had a hard time trying to get off the sauce. We all thought she’d never manage, but she did. And once she was off it, as far as I know, another drop never passed her lips. She certainly didn’t drink that night. I was with her. I’d have known. I’ve nothing more to say. I was quite clear with the young copper who took my statement that she was stone-cold sober the night she died.”
Truce gets up. “Thank you, Senga.” He gives her his card. “If you do remember anything …”
“And there was me thinking you were giving me your number,” says Senga.
“’Fraid not,” says Truce. “I mean, it is on there, but my boyfriend wouldn’t like it.”
“Oh,” says Senga, and her face softens. “I didn’t realise. I can usually tell. Here, love, I’ll wrap up a couple of slices for you to take home to him.” Before Truce can protest, she has bustled into the kitchen to get some cling film.
He wonders how Leighton will react when he tells him about this interview. Will he be offended that Truce has falsely labelled him gay? A smile tugs at his mouth. No. Leighton will just eat the cake.
Senga returns with a Tupperware box. “You can return it next time you’re passing,” she says. “I don’t want my cake getting squished before you get home and it ruining my reputation.” She gives a throaty laugh and pats Truce affectionately on the arm. This time it doesn’t feel predatory.
“Thank you,” says Truce. “I’m sure he’ll like it as much as I did.”
She shows him to the door. As she opens it, she says, “I should have known. That aftershave you wear, all citrusy and soapy, so typical of your lot.” It’s said kindly rather than judgementally, but Truce is making a mental note to change his aftershave when she says, “Oh, there’s a thing. June had a new perfume. You know, proper bottle stuff, not the spray. Kept ladling it onto her skin all night. It smelt like almonds and roses.”
Truce’s attention snaps back to her. “Where did she get it?”
“That’s just the thing. She got it sent in the post. No idea where it had come from.”
CHAPTER 12
Truce is parked in the nice, neat car park below Senga’s flat. It’s perfectly square, built at the same time as the schoolhouse was remodelled into flats, all right angles and fresh pointed brick work, designed no doubt to attract just the monied old-age pensioner that Senga is, and who likes things just right. He can imagine her leaning out the window and yelling at the guy redoing the white lines to measure more carefully. No one is more demanding than an elderly woman who’s come up in the world, even if it’s taken her three husbands to do so.
But although he’s used to noticing things, and attributing them to social mores, he finds it personally difficult to understand. He knows there is something off about this nice, neat car park.
It’s only when he is reversing out of his space that he spots it. Among the polished city minis, baby BMWs and older cars, so lovingly cared for as to almost make them vintage, is a dirty Mondeo.
That’s all. One of the cars needs a wash. He pauses at the exit and looks in the rearview mirror. There’s a man in the car, and Truce finds his outline vaguely familiar. He’s too far away to see his face properly, but the set of his shoulders, and what is liable to be his height standing up — they all ring a bell. It’s only then that he realises that he’s seen someone like this twice before. Maybe even the car. But he can’t quite retrieve the memory.
Outside June Mills flat.
Of course, watching him would be less efficient. Watching June Mills flat makes more sense. See who is interested in her.
Then despite Leighton’s warnings, Truce pulls out of the car park and heads to the mortuary to pay Pettiman a visit. It’s a full ten minutes before he spots the Mondeo in his mirror. The guy is good at tailing cars — a proper pro to stay out of sight for so long. Truce leads him on a roundabout tour of some streets, giving a silent message that he knows he is being followed, and the car breaks away.
He feels a sense of triumph when the car vanishes,
but he knows two things: first, if whoever it is is serious, then they can simply call up another car to follow him; second, it was stupid to let them know he’d spotted the tail. He’s sent a challenge, and he has no idea what he is getting himself into.
But first he needs to answer the simple questions. The ones no one can avoid. When he arrives at the mortuary, there’s no sign of Sophie. Instead there is a middle-aged woman with a sleek silver bob and dark reading glasses, perched halfway down her nose.
“Yes?” she says before he even opens his mouth.
He shows her his warrant card. “I’d like to speak to Dr Pettiman,” he says.
The woman’s gaze flick back to her computer screen. Her eyes narrow slightly, but she is staring straight ahead. She’s broken his gaze, but she isn’t reading. Curious, thinks Truce.
“Concerning?” she says.
“A matter under investigation,” says Truce.
The woman looks up quickly. “My dear young man,” she says, “I don’t know how long you’ve been with your ‘special unit’,” the contempt in her tone is obvious, “but here we operate a certain system. If you want to see Dr Pettiman, you’ll need to inform me which one of our clients this concerns so I can find the appropriate files.”
As soon as he mentioned Pettiman, the woman had touched the side of her eye. A fleeting movement, but it is indicative, Truce knows, of dislike of the subject under discussion.
“Client?” says Truce and then he nods. “More respectful. I see.” He takes a risk, playing into the woman’s ego. “Dr Pettiman must find you a great help.”
“I doubt Dr Pettiman even notices my existence, but that won’t prevent me from doing my job properly.”
“Did she make a mess of things? The student covering your holiday leave?” says Truce, making a few leaps.
“No, overall, she didn’t do a bad job. Why, was there a problem with a client?”
“Yes, but I don’t know who was at fault,” Truce mentions June's name and the case number for reference. “Dr Pettiman claims there was a suicide note, but it wasn’t reproduced in the evidence scanned in, nor was it in the file.”
Only the Dead Know Page 10
