Only the Dead Know

by C. J. Dunford

  It’s not that his shoulder and his forearm don’t hurt like hell, they do. It the mess he’s made. Not even Leighton could live with a carpet like that. Damn, he thinks. He hopes she enjoyed herself at least half as much as he did last night, or she’s going to kill him.

  He leaves the flat again, shutting the door on the mess he has made. The pakora is in the fridge.

  When he gets home, he finds Leighton lying on his usual place on the sofa flicking through daytime TV.

  “Aye, aye,” he says, not looking up. “Who’s been a naughty boy? Did you pull at the pub, or did Cooper turn out to be more your type than you realised?”

  “Wendy,” says Truce. It doesn’t occur to him not to tell Leighton the truth.

  “Oh man, you said she was a looker. But a colleague? Shitting on your own doorstep, pal. I’m just saying …” He breaks off as he finally looks up and sees Truce. “Bloody hell, did she do that to you?”

  “Of course not,” says Truce slumping down in the seat and dropping the bag at his feet. “I got jumped after the pub.”

  “Christ!” says Leighton. “You must be getting old.”

  “There were two of them — and I didn’t expect it.”

  “That’s when stuff happens,” says Leighton. “How bad is it?”

  “Badly bruised shoulder, bruised cheekbone, and a slash down my left forearm, but all my teeth are still in place.”

  “So, come on, then,” says Leighton. “Take me through the fight.”

  “I’d rather try and work out who it was.”

  “Local thugs looking for a mug,” says Leighton as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

  “I thought I heard you warning me. You weren’t there, were you?”

  “Yeah, sure I was there. I like to stand around and watch my best friend get beaten to a pulp.” Leighton pulls a face. “Not,” he says. “Don’t you know me at all, man?”

  “Sorry,” says Truce. “I’m not thinking too clearly. I have big problems. I need money to buy Wendy a new carpet.”

  “Just how kinky did you get?” asks Leighton.

  Truce gives him a brief run-down on the previous night’s events. It takes a little time, as Leighton insists on acting out all parts of the fight — constantly interrupting Truce to check if he’s getting it right.

  “Happy?” says Truce when he has finally finished the story.

  “Phone Juicy,” says Leighton.

  Truce looks at him blankly.

  “Juicy McLaren, you remember him? He almost got done for assault and battery on that big-mouthed sergeant.”

  “When we were in Bahrain?” says Truce.

  “That’s the man. He’s back over here, and his wife’s still got the business.” Truce shakes his head, so Leighton continues. “Did you never know about that? Not even suspect? Juicy’s missus got up a business as a cleaner, speciality clearing up after some of the men had a fight, and they didn’t want the MPs, us, to know. I doubt there’s anyone on God’s green earth who knows more about getting blood out than Juicy’s missus. He’s away somewhere or other, but she’s here on the base in Fife. Give ‘em a ring.”

  “Why should she help me?”

  “Well, you know how Juicy didn’t get kicked out thanks to lost paperwork and inadmissible evidence?”

  “You?”

  “Just say who you are, and she’ll give you mates rates. It’ll be a darn sight cheaper than a new carpet.”

  Truce manages to get through the switchboard to Mrs McLaren, or Miss Juicy as the base phone operator calls her, and sets a time for her to go round this evening and work her magic. He’s surprised when she refuses a fee. “Fae yer gurl, nae charge,” she says in a thick Fife accent. “Good to see you’re getting your life back together, Uneasy.”

  Truce decides not to look a gift horse in the mouth and thanks her politely. As he puts the phone down, Leighton passes him an envelope. “By the way, this was shoved under the door this morning.”

  Truce opens it. Inside is the missing report that contains the statement from Senga McKay confirming June was not drunk. Truce punches the air and immediately regrets it with a groan.

  He shows it to Leighton.

  “So?” says his friend.

  “It’s proof.”

  “Proof someone lost an old woman’s statement. An old woman, who was a long-time friend of the deceased and who, by her own admission here, was a little tipsy herself. Can’t you hear how this would be ripped apart? Either it would be claimed she was too pissed to know what was going on, or she wanted to save the family the shame. It’s nothing. You’ve got no body, no toxicology — no anything.”

  “But it proves something is going on.”

  “Not unless there’s suddenly been a new definition of the word ‘proof’ that I’m not aware of,” says Leighton.

  “Shit,” says Truce. “Shit. Shit. Fucking shit. What do I do now? All the leads are cold.”

  “I don’t know what’s happening in that battered brain of yours, man, but you’re losing focus. Your bird’s right, you’re all over the shop.”

  “Maybe I am,” says Truce. He sits down and lowers his head into his hands. “All of this. It’s my PTSD, isn’t it? None of it is real.”

  “Not what I meant,” says Leighton, standing up and towering over him. “You’re losing focus, mate,” he says, giving Truce a sharp tap on the head. “This isn’t about the RTA. Retrace your steps. What started all this anyways? What about the man June kept reporting as dead? If there’s anything dodgy going on here, that’s where you’re going to find it. Not poking around a body-less mortuary.”

  Truce looks up at his friend. Leighton’s hair is more ginger than blond today. Light from the window gives him a fiery halo. Truce grins. He can’t think of anyone less likely to be cast as an angel, but right now he’s pretty sure that Leighton has saved his sanity.

  “I’ll go in and talk it over with Wendy. She’s heading back in after lunch with her niece. It’ll be flagged if I log on, but no-one’s checking up on her. Besides, I need to warn her about Juicy’s missus coming in.”

  “Yeah,” says Leighton, dead serious, “no one wants to run into Mrs Juicy without warning. She makes Juicy look like a sweet little pet lamb.”

  “Right, I’ll take some painkillers and drive in. I don’t trust the phone.”

  “Are you okay to drive?” says Leighton. “I could—”

  “No,” says Truce. “I still have nightmares about you and those S-bends when we were on leave in Spain.”

  “I was trying to impress the ladies,” protests Leighton.

  “One of whom threw up, and the other nearly pissed herself.”

  “No immoral fibre, young women of today. No balls,” says Leighton, shaking his head in mock sadness. “Not that I’d actually want them with balls.”

  Truce thinks of how Wendy coped with his bloody body appearing on her doorstep. “Some of them do,” he says.

  ***

  At the Barn, he can’t think of calling it anything else now, he persuades the Bob not to log him in. “Just passing through,” he says. “Won’t be a mo. It’ll make more paperwork if you log me in, trust me.” He leans on the desk and lowers his voice. “Between you and me, I discharged myself early from hospital.” He’s about to show his bandaged arm, but apparently the bruise on his face is convincing enough. Truce hasn’t looked at it since last night. It must be big, despite the ice.

  The Bob opens the doors for him, and he goes through. Feeling like a cat burglar, instead of heading to the open plan office, Truce heads for the coffee room he knows Wendy favours. Under Rose’s rule, they aren’t allowed coffee at their desk. Too high a risk to important equipment.

  He doesn’t have to wait long. Wendy is having a bad afternoon. She lets out a little shriek when she sees him. Truce puts his fingers to his lips, and beckons to a table out of sight of the door. “I needed to see you,” he says.

  Wendy’s face flickers through several emotions for once too
fast for Truce to gauge. But she collects her coffee and one for him before joining him at the table.

  “Are you here officially?” she asks.

  Truce shakes his head. “I tried to clean your carpet,” he says.

  “Oh god,” Wendy groans.

  “But it’s okay. I remembered an old army mate, who owes me a favour. His wife runs a business that specialises in clearing up blood. Don’t ask. Anyway, she’s coming to your flat tonight at eight thirty. It’ll be spotless by tomorrow.”

  “Did you not think as a police woman I might have cleaning contacts?” says Wendy. “Especially considering what this division is?”

  “I didn’t think,” says Truce. “But it’s on me.”

  “Yeah, okay. Thanks,” says Wendy.

  “What’s up?”

  “Rough morning. I’d rather take down three drunken hooligans than try and entertain a fourteen-year-old girl for a morning. And I’m tired.”

  Truce grins.

  Wendy tries to keep a straight face, but ends up smiling back. She thumps him on the arm. Truce yelps in protest. “Is this always how you treat your men?”

  “Sorry, was that your bad arm?” says Wendy. Then she pauses. Her blink rate rises rapidly and her throat flushes pink. In anyone other than a redhead, it would never show. “My men? Do I have a man?”

  Her eyes have dilated again, and she’s looking at him with a relaxed face. God, her head is even tilted on one side, showing an intimacy and vulnerability, which Truce finds equally endearing and terrifying. What is she asking? Is she flirting? What did last night mean to her? He doesn’t even know what it meant to him, other than he enjoyed it. He likes Wendy. He doesn’t want to upset her.

  “Look,” he says, pulling the envelope out of his back pocket. “I got a copy of that report. It does exist.”

  Wendy straightens her neck. Her eyes narrow. She takes out the report and glances over it.

  “I know it doesn’t prove anything in itself,” says Truce. “Senga McKay could be mistaken or trying to spare the family. But the interesting bit is the fact it went missing in the first place. This report wasn’t meant to exist.”

  “Where did you get it?” Wendy’s voice is a lot colder.

  “A friend. A favour.” He’s assuming it’s from Coop. Even if it did arrive bloody quick.

  “And he got it where?”

  “Well, you can see it’s a photocopy, which makes all those random lines creases — so I reckon he got it out of recycling. Kind of lucky it hadn’t gone. Never thought I’d owe a lazy contractor.”

  “You don’t know where it came from?”

  Truce tries tilting his head. “No, but that’s not important. All it means is there’s something off here.” He touches her arm. “But I’ve realised I’ve been chasing dead ends. You’re right. I felt so guilty about June, I’ve completely lost focus.”

  “Okay,” says Wendy. “It’s good that you see that. What now?”

  “I was thinking that I need to go back to where all this started. Go back and look at the man June thought was murdered. Everything starts there. His name was Davie Whiles.”

  “I remember,” says Wendy.

  “Good,” says Truce, delighted it’s all going so well. “Then could you look up his background on the system? I’m not even meant to be in, so it’s sure to flag it up to Rose that I’ve been on. That’s if she doesn’t automatically flag everything I do.” He gives a short laugh to show he’s joking and not paranoid.

  “You want me to look up Davie Whiles on the system?”

  Truce nods.

  “You know you already promised me you’d leave this case alone.”

  “I have. I’ve come to you. If you tell me to stop …”

  “You’ll stop?” says Wendy.

  A silence falls heavily between them. Eventually Wendy sighs. “If I do this for you, I need you to promise me two things.”

  “Why is it always two? Two things people want promised?”

  Wendy ignores this. “First, you don’t go anywhere near Mr Whiles. In fact, you don’t do anything until I get back to you tonight with what I’ve found. And …”

  “That’s already two,” protests Truce.

  “And,” says Wendy forcefully, “if we look at the report and find nothing out of the ordinary, you will finally let this go.”

  “Okay,” says Truce.

  “Now get out of here before Rose catches you.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Truce pulls out of the Barn’s car park knowing he has no intention of sitting back and doing nothing. Wendy will understand when she sees he is right.

  He turns on his radio. To his surprise it’s tuned to Classic Am and La Boheme. Mimi’s death aria wails out of the speakers. He winds down his window halfway, and breathes in the fresh air. The clean smell of a new day, wet grass drying from the night before, and the sight of the Bridge, its girders like the spun white web of some alien spider, with the bright blue of the Forth reflecting off it, lift his mood. Small boats glide across the water, easing their way between larger ships. The line of cars waiting to cross threads out like a multi-coloured snake.

  At this rate it’ll take at least half an hour to get across. Truce decides this is a sign — even though he doesn’t generally believe in them. Instead of heading home, he pulls into a lay-by and taps in the address of the man June thought she saw murdered, Davie Whiles.

  He thinks about calling Leighton and telling him where he is going. Just in case. He didn’t report his attack, and he’s knows that it wasn’t simply thugs looking for cash. But does he buy into there being a big conspiracy? Or is this a resurgence of PTSD? Is he in actual danger? Wendy didn’t want him to do anything, he thinks, because she fears he is going off the rails. She’s afraid that he’ll trash his career or at least give Rose the rope to hang him with. But for Truce the only way to stay sane is to find out the truth.

  The address is some ten miles from where June saw the incident. A reasonable distance for a man to drive to a golf club. The satnav leads him into a wide cul-de-sac, surrounded by detached houses and mature gardens. The buildings have that seventies look: large, angular, pebble-dashed walls, rectangular windows, and the doomed hope they were visions of the future.

  He looks for number twenty-seven. It’s the one house with fake stone-cladding stuck to the lower half of the building. The curtains are closed. One gutter has loosened away from the eaves, and from this angle Truce can see it is bristling with leaves. The front door is wooden with a glass diamond pane in the upper half. There’s a panel on each side of the door. Both are thick, ridged and impossible to see from his driver’s window.

  Truce parks a couple of houses down and gets out of the car. He takes in the neighbours' houses. Freshly painted. Manicured lawns. Front doors ranging from a deep blue to a claret red. Windows shine, and plush curtains are tied back with tassels cords. Two houses have netting up at the window, but most of them are wide open to view. Except for number twenty-seven. Those curtains were closed, as if to quarantine the house from sunshine.

  Walking along the front path, Truce spies weeds sprouting up between the paving slabs. They are large and have pushed so hard that one of the stones is cracked. Mother Nature reclaiming what is hers. In front of the door is a washed-out bristle mat with the faded words, “Welcome”. It wasn’t designed to be left out in the rain, and yet it obviously has been.

  No one lives here, Truce thinks. He rings the doorbell anyway. Only after the second attempt, does a melancholy ding-dong ring out. He doesn’t expect anyone to answer and is turning to go when he hears a sudden thud. What is that? His heart quickens. Dead men don’t answer doors. June was wrong. There’s no point continuing with this.

  He’s about to head back down the overgrown path when, in good old-fashioned horror style, he hears the sound of a chain being scraped along its track. The door opens a few centimetres. The dark shadow of a face presses up against the gap. An eye and chin. There’s no light on inside the house
. The eye is about level with his, and the chin is rough with stubble.

  “Yes?” says a rasping whisper.

  Truce flashes his warrant card. Long enough to show the badge, but quick enough the guy might not get his name. It’s a long shot, but maybe Rose need never know. “I’d like to speak to Davie Whiles.”

  “Why?” The figure shifts slightly and Truce glimpses the edge of a leg in dirty jeans. Beyond that he can see a tower of box-like shapes, but the view of the hall through the tiny slit is either filled with this man’s body or dark shadows behind him.

  “Why?” repeats the figure.

  “It’s a police matter,” says Truce. He angles round trying to get a better view of the face, but as he does, the figure withdraws into the gloom.

  “I’ve not done nothing wrong,” he says.

  “And you are?” says Truce, trying for a brisk commanding efficiency.

  “Davie Whiles. No one else lives here.”

  “If I could have a word with you, Mr Whiles. It’s about …” The door snaps shut. Truce waits, thinking the man is going to unchain it, but nothing happens. He kneels down to call through the letter box, but the rusted flap won’t open. Nevertheless, he calls through the closed box, “Mr Whiles, I only need a few minutes of your time. Your help would be much appreciated.” He waits, straining his ears for a response, but all he hears is the echo of footsteps scuffing away from the door.

  “You’re not getting much luck with him, sonny.”

  Truce straightens to see an elderly man, so thin his clothes almost seem empty, standing on the path next door. He’s wearing bright red trousers, a cream shirt, and gardening gloves. A frayed, white Panama hat, almost as old as its owner, is perched on his head. In his right hand, he is clutching garden shears.

  “Selling windows, is it? I don’t want any, but if you fancy a cuppa, I wouldn’t mind a wee chat. Missus is out at the shops. Taken the car, god love her. Never know if I’ll see her again. She’s blind as a bat.”