“But it was mentioned in the file?” asks the woman, raising her eyebrows above the rim of her glasses.
“No.”
“A witness report?”
“No.”
“You saw it?”
“No.”
“Are you telling me the only record of a suicide note is a memory of Dr Pettiman’s?”
“Yes.”
“And you give this credence because of the crime scene?”
“I’m not saying I give it any credibility,” says Truce. “But I went to what I thought was going to be the funeral, and it turned out to be a memorial. I don’t recall reading that the body had been kept here, but I would like to see the files again and, if possible, speak to Dr Pettiman.”
“Yes,” says the woman. “I understand. I’m not a fan of shoddy work either. And, of course, the deceased would have had a family. Such discrepancies can cause a great deal of distress.”
“Thank you,” says Truce. The woman blinks “You’re the first person I’ve spoken to, who has thought of the human implications of this— situation. I’m not here to cast blame on anyone.”
“You want to ensure it doesn’t happen again, and you want answers.”
“Exactly,” says Truce. “I’m glad to find someone on the same wavelength.”
“We are rare,” says the woman, “and I’m afraid Dr Pettiman will not be that understanding. If he feels he may be blamed, he is prone to, um, react.”
Truce nods. “He likes lawyers, I’ve heard.”
“The name of the client?”
“Mrs June Mills, road traffic accident.” He adds the date, location, her home address, height and build without consulting his notebook. The woman nods in approval.
“I have the file here.” She swivels the screen, so he can see it too. “Exactly as you described.” She looks up. “I may be misreading things, but I think you liked this woman, so you may find going through the PM details unpleasant. If you wish me to …” Her hand hovers over the screen.
“I’ve read most of it before,” says Truce. “You’re right, it did bother me. More than I thought it had — because I missed this.” He points with his finger at a line that says, “Body sent for early cremation at family request.”
“Unusual, but not unheard of.”
“I’ll need to check what the family were told,” says Truce.
The woman sits back in her chair and takes off her glasses. “Take care, Mr Truce. You may be opening a hornet’s nest. Mrs Mills is dead. Nothing can change that. Unless you have reason to suspect she was murdered, I would let sleeping dogs lie.”
Truce says nothing.
“If Pettiman made a mistake — and I’m not saying he did — the easiest way to cover that up would be with cremation. But he’d drag you through every court on earth before he admitted it.”
“You don’t like him, do you?”
“It isn’t my job to like him. I do my best to keep the mortuary in order and to respect our clients.”
“So you’re saying this isn’t the first time ‘early cremation’ has happened?”
“I’ve said nothing of the sort. I have merely advised you not to follow a line of inquiry that I foresee will lead to no good outcome. If I thought there was a chance Dr Pettiman might—”
“Lose his job?”
“—decide to move on, I’d encourage you to go ahead. But he has friends in important places, and I suppose the fact he isn’t working with live human beings is some consolation.”
“I keep coming across influence …”
“Scotland is a small country, Mr Truce. Once you move in certain circles, it’s never hard to find someone who has been to school with someone else or is married to someone’s cousin’s cousin.”
“I thought that was Glasgow gangsters,” Truce says with a smile.
“Where do you think they got the idea? Clans stick together, even today.”
“I’m assuming you don’t mean clans literally,” says Truce.
“Of course not. Do you still wish to see Dr Pettiman?”
“You’ve been a big help. I believe my only reason to see him now would be to punch him in the face.”
“Then, sadly, I must tell you Dr Pettiman is unavailable.”
“Shame,” says Truce.
“Indeed,” says the woman.
“Well, thank you.”
The woman reaches out her hand. “Any time I can be of help, Mr Truce. Don’t hesitate to call. My name is—”
“I know,” says Truce with a wink. “Cerebus.”
Rather than taking offence, the woman smiled. “I rather like that. The three-headed guardian of the underworld.”
***
Truce goes back to the office and works through some routine paperwork. His mind is buzzing with ideas to the extent he does much of it on automatic, so that by the end of the day his in-tray is empty.
Coop passes and flicks his fingers at the out-tray. Truce is too quick to let the lot tumble to the floor.
“Not a good idea to make the rest of us look bad, chum.”
Truce shrugs, gets up, and takes his jacket off the back of the chair. “Not my intention. I’ll go slower tomorrow. I don’t doubt Rose has a ton of shit to dump on me.”
Coop’s face relaxes.
“What about I take you for a beer later tonight,” Truce says “You stay in Edinburgh, too, don’t you? I owe you for the other night.”
Coop scowls. Truce knows the man’s innate dislike of him is warring with the reality of a solitary, overweight divorcee’s lack of social life.
“Okay, a couple of beers,” says Truce.
“My local then. Minty Chimes at 9 p.m.,” says Coop.
Truce nods.
Back at the flat Truce brings Leighton up to date with his latest findings.
Leighton, who now seems to be ever-melded to the length of his sofa — so Truce has to sit in the armchair — sips a cold drink in a tall glass through a straw and rolls his eyes. He ticks the points off on his fingers. “So now it’s one — poisoning, two — body snatching, three — you’re being followed by a strange man in a Mondeo. Why a Mondeo, I ask myself?”
Truce goes into his bedroom to change. He leaves the door open, so he can call through to Leighton. “I know. The perfume thing is a long reach without a toxicology report to confirm it.”
“And we know June could be a bit of a goer, so it may have been a genuine admirer.”
“And before you say it, Pettiman is a right screw-up, so there’s no way I can think of to find out if it’s his fault or if something underhand was going on.”
“In fact,” says Leighton, “if someone wanted to obscure the truth they would have been hard done to do it better.”
Truce comes back through in jeans and a polo shirt. “You think I might be on to something?”
“Man, how many times do I have to tell you not to put creases in your jeans? Makes you look like a weirdo.”
Truce sighs and sits down. “Leighton, be serious.”
Leighton swings his legs onto the floor and gets up to stretch extravagantly. “If you spotted a tail — and I know you’d not make a mistake on that — then you’ve certainly put a squid up someone’s arse. This whole June Mills thing is flimsy as fuck, but somewhere there are cages rattling. You need to take care. I’ll come out with you.”
“Ah, no,” says Truce, shaking his head. “I don’t think you’ll like Coop.”
“Pretty sure I won’t from what you’ve said about him,” says Leighton. “Wait a mo, while I dig out my jacket and wallet — unless you can lend me a twenty?”
Truce passes over the money. “Go to a different pub,” he says, “and I won’t ask for it back.”
Leighton gives him a wicked grin. “Ask all you want, man.” He slips the note into his jeans pocket. “Tell you what, I’ll make sure your man, Coop, never sees me.”
***
“Perfect heads on both of them,” Truce says, sliding one of the pints acros
s the table to Coop. The pub is crowded. It’s the Minty Chimes happy hour, earlier than most, so the place is rammed with workers from the office block who haven’t quite made it home, and locals starting out for the night.
The place is a mixture of tall tables with stools, impossible to stay on when you’re drunk, and tables scattered round the edges of the room. The parquet floor is already sticky under foot, and the music is no more than a dull thumping under the crescendo of excited conversations. Truce chooses a table. Coop’s already a couple of pints down. He arrived early.
“How did you do that?” says Coop, nodding towards Truce's pint. “I spilled half of mine on the way across the room.”
“Dexterous body swerving,” says Truce. “Now are you ready for your lesson? This isn’t an easy thing to do. Normally, I’d get you to practice a few times before you went in. On the plus side, the guy she’s talking to is a complete dick-wad.”
“Hit me, professor,” says Coop, taking a big swig and acquiring a white moustache. He doesn’t wipe it away, or even seem to notice. Truce sighs. This is going to be quite the challenge.
Twenty minutes later, the girl is still being talked at by the guy with the phone, and Coop is trying to get his head around what he appears to find increasingly complex instructions.
“First, I get her to look at my penis,” he says.
Truce blinks. “You get that you don’t actually take it out, right?”
“I’m not a total idiot! I do the framing thing you mentioned.”
“Hands over your front jeans pocket, fingers pointing down. And keep them still. No stupid suggestive waggling. This is meant to be a signal she picks up subconsciously.”
“Right, subconsciously,” says Coop, nodding in an automatic way.
“Let’s go over it again. You find …”
“A spot in her eyeline,” continues Coop, “and I take up the pose. Thumbs in the waistband, fingers down, framing the package. And make sure she sees me. When she does, I take my hands out of my pockets. Turn my palms to face her …”
“But not like you’re holding up traffic. Arms by your sides, face forward.”
“Yeah, right. Don’t interrupt. I’m getting it. I walk towards her with neck slightly tilted — and looking like a right prick.”
“Like you are signalling non-confrontational interest.”
“Like I said, looking like a right prick.”
“And when you get closer?”
“I look away briefly, close my eyes, and then open them, raising my eyebrows at the same time, while looking straight at her.” Coop takes a sip of beer. “Why?”
“That’s your body signalling ‘wow!’” says Truce.
“Can’t I just say wow?”
“No, cos that’s cheesy, and it’ll put her off. If you signal it silently, it goes straight into her brain …”
“Without me having to say anything,” says Coop. “Nice. Right, I make sure I don’t frown, even at the dickhead. I keep my face relaxed, and when I smile I push up the corners of my mouth, so there are lines around my eyes. Doesn’t that make me look old?”
“No, it signals — silently — that your smile is for real. That you are genuinely pleased to see her.”
“But I am,” says Coop.
“No, if you don’t do what I tell you, you’ll end up with your usual leer on your face.”
“Fair point,” says Coop. “I’m an open book. Always have been. Oh yeah, I mustn’t purse my lips, and when I get close enough to the counter I put my forearms on it, not too far apart. And, if I get the chance, I brush my arm very lightly against hers.”
“Very, very, very lightly,” says Truce.
“Then if it’s still going well, I reach out and touch above the elbow, but not too high up. After that I ask for her number.”
“Got it?” says Truce.
“Got it,” says Coop. “Well, here goes nothing.” He stands up, pushes his chair back and rises, setting his shoulders as if he is about to go into battle.
Then as if he’s been coshed on the back of the head he collapses back into his seat.
“What the hell do I talk to her about?”
“Really?” says Truce. “What do you normally talk to girls in bars about?”
Coop takes a long draft of ale. “Silly idea anyway. I’d make a right prick of myself. I bet you’d have a good laugh.”
“You haven’t been on a date since your divorce, have you?”
Coop doesn’t answer.
“Hello Kitty,” says Truce.
“What?”
“You talk to her about Hello Kitty. It’s a cartoon character. Girls love it — and she’s got a badge on her bag. You tell her that in Japan they have whole cafes dedicated to Hello Kitty. She’ll probably ask if you’ve been there …”
“I haven’t,” says Coop.
“Right, so you say you haven’t been to Japan, but you’d like to go sometime. That shows you’re a man interested in exploring the world, but you’re not a prick like the portfolio guy trying to impress her with cash.”
“Ha!” snorts Coop.
“Then you ask her if she’s heard about the cat café in Edinburgh. It’s a place where you can get a coffee, and they have cats for you to pet.”
“Urgh,” says Coop.
“Pretend you like them. It shows you’re up on local knowledge and you like fluffy animals — both very endearing traits.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” says Coop. “You think I can get that girl’s number.”
“Of course you can. I’ve given you all the tools.”
“Right then, bugger off. I’m not doing this while you’re around.”
“But—”
“I’ll tell you if I get anywhere. When it comes to a bet, I’m a man of honour. That’s about the only time.” Coop gives an ugly leer.
“Right, if it works, I want a copy of the report Senga McKay gave to the police about June Mills on the evening of her death. It’s gone missing from the file.”
“And I’m supposed to find it? Do your own clerical work,” says Coop.
“I didn’t write or handle the report. I only know it’s missing.”
“Shit,” says Coop.
“That’s my favour,” says Truce.
Coop scowls, but nods.
Truce stands. His stomach is rolling. He’s beginning to regret what he’s done. What had that girl ever done to him? But it’s only a number, and Coop will probably balls it up anyway. It’s not as if he told him how to get her into bed. Truce has a sudden vision of Coop doing everything perfectly. A wave of nausea overcomes him. “Okay, I’m off,” he says.
He doesn’t look back as he exits the pub. He’s feeling ashamed. This isn’t the way he does things. It isn’t the way …
He turns into an alley he knows will get him home faster. It’s reasonably lit. A few shadows here and there, but it’s not late and Truce tells himself not to be paranoid.
He’s going over in his head whether he should go back and warn the girl when he hears a whisper from behind, “Hey, Uneasy!”
The voice is so soft he barely registers it. He swings around and a fist collides with his face. It lands on his left cheekbone and pain explodes through his head. But he’s an army man, and he’s already reacting. The pain sends adrenaline flooding through him. The blow has turned his head to the side, but it was a curling punch, a roundhouse. He knows his assailant is coming in with the other fist. He stops this the best way he knows how by punching the guy directly in the face — a straight on rising jab, his fist vertical. He feels cartilage and bone give under his hand. He hears the crunch. It takes a couple of seconds, but soon the other guy’s warm blood courses over his wrist. The guy raises his hands instinctively to his face. He staggers back, and Truce gets a good look at the man. He’s dressed in black with dirt smeared over his face. Slim build, maybe mid-twenties, a bit of Caucasian flesh showing at the cuffs.
Truce kicks the guy hard in the balls, but even as he is
doing so, he registers something incoming from his left.
Bloody Nose now has no idea whether to clutch his nose or his balls, but Truce doesn’t have his leg back on the ground before someone else barrels into him and smashes him against the wall.
His right shoulder and upper arm smash into unyielding brick. He feels movement in his shoulder, something in the joint, but he doesn’t think it’s broken. The new guy swings round in front of him, still doubled over from the charge, Truce brings his knee up into his face. There is a loud crunch. The new guy gives a muffled cry, and Truce feels a sharp pain in his knee. New guy backs up and spits out a mouthful of blood and teeth. Truce registers the teeth falling at the back of his mind. These guys are coming in hard. Not your average street muggers.
Bloody Nose staggers to his feet. One hand clutches his crotch, the other holds a switch blade. Toothless moves in behind to block his exit. Bloody Nose charges. Truce tries to block, and the knife slashes into his forearm. His leather jacket and even the thin layer of his shirt have offered some protection. But the blade slices into his arm.
Bloody Nose backs off, waving the knife in front of him. Toothless melts away behind him. Blood gushes out of Truce’s arm. Thick, wet, warm, and far too fast. He sinks against the wall, clasping his arm in his hand. Bloody Nose points his knife at himself and then at Truce, as if suggesting this isn’t over. Then he legs it. Only when they have turned away does Truce crumple.
Slumped against the wall, he watches his blood spill out over his legs. The red rain is falling again.
CHAPTER 13
Truce’s vision swims, and he retches. He knows he’s coming down hard from the adrenaline of having been in a fight. There’s no pain, so either his body is clinging on to survival mode, or it’s worse than it looks.
His jeans are soaked in blood, but the flow has slowed. Blood pools always have less in them than it seems. Blood spreads. Spreads like a real bugger. When the bomb went off, it was as if the whole world had been spray-painted red. Of course, that was hardly surprising, considering …
He pulls his mind back from the memory. Right now, even if he’s not going to bleed out, which minutes ago seemed a real possibility, he needs help. Preferably before his body goes into shock. Once that happens he’d have to be hospitalised. Emotional shock he can manage, but once the blood starts leaving his vital organs, there’s nothing he can do. He wonders if he is cold, but he can’t tell. That’s bad.
Only the Dead Know Page 11
