“You’re quite the silver surfer,” says Truce, trying to hide his disappointment. “I’ll get you back inside.”
“Fair enough,” says Larry. “Best not to mention the shandy.”
On the walk back, Larry sinks into silence. He hunches down in his chair, his expression stoic, like a prisoner returning to the cell to await execution. Not so far from the truth, thinks Truce. He doesn’t ask Larry any more questions. He turns over in his mind what he has learned. He’s not convinced there is anything there to help him, but in all investigations as complicated as this he knows sometimes you only realise what is important later on — later on when the whole thing unravels like threads being cut from a loom.
They are almost back at the home when Larry says loudly, “Stop.”
“You okay?” Truce obeys, leaning over the back of the wheelchair to assess Larry’s condition.
“Ah, I wanted to savour the last bit. At my age, you never know if you’ll get out again. If you’ll even wake up tomorrow.” He laughs cheerfully. “Good thing really.” He twists his neck to look at Truce and winks. “I saved the best bit for last,” he says. “Whiles used to say that when he died, that’s when the shit would hit the fan. ‘I’ll be dead and gone,’ he’d say, ‘and all my secrets will be free.’”
“Do you know what he meant?” says Truce.
“If you asked him for details, he’d hint at something big, but he’d never give it up. Could have been lying through his teeth, but I’ll tell you one thing — a lot of those guys who came to see him, I got the impression none of them wanted to be there. I don’t think they even liked him, but they came nonetheless. Sometimes they’d talk in low voices. Whiles was always quite jovial when they left, but I saw one of them once right after one of Jonny Whiles’ little chats, pale as a ghost, his face all shiny with sweat. So yeah, I reckon Whiles knew stuff and used it to his advantage. I doubt any of it matters now. In the fullness of time, all actions sink to nothing — old Greek motto. I’d have told you in the original language, but you’d have probably thought I was rambling. You don’t look like the classically educated kind. No offence. You don’t even look like a copper. You look more army. I was army.”
Truce conceals his surprise. He wheels Larry into the living room and parks him near the telly.
“Good,” says Larry. “I like what’s on next. Bye son.” He gives a dismissive wave of his hand and focusses his attention on the telly. Or at least he pretends to.
Within seconds Truce hears him snoring.
He thinks about approaching some of the other residents, but if even half of what Larry said was true, then he’s not likely to get much information. He spies Bess, still with her trolley, ladling out medicines. He goes over and waits until she has finished with an old lady sitting in a chair, who doesn’t want to put her romance novel down to take her medicine.
“How’s he doing? My uncle?” he asks.
“Oh, not too bad,” says Bess. “Still got his mental faculties. Crafty old weasel. Up to all the tricks.” She smiles. “What’s he been telling you? How terrible the food is?”
“No, mostly he was talking about a man who died recently, Jonny Whiles?”
“I’m not one to speak ill of the dead,” says Bess, pursing her lips, “but he was a nasty piece of work. Not in his right mind when he went. Dementia. Never saw the two of them as friends.”
“I think he thought he was telling me a good story — something about Whiles and his big secrets?”
“Well, by the end, the stories Mr Whiles told often resembled what he’d last seen on TV. Thought he was a gardener once when the Chelsea Flower Show was on. Started telling me to dig up the lawn, drawing his designs all over the daily crossword in the newspapers. Caused a lot of trouble. Crosswords are serious currency in a place like this.” She straightens and gives Truce another smile, this time more professional than friendly.
“Of course, you have things to do,” Truce said.
“Always.”
“Thank you for your help.” Truce turns to leave.
“There is one thing,” Bess calls after him. “I don’t suppose your uncle did work for MI5 like he claims?”
Truce shrugs. “Honestly, I have no idea.”
CHAPTER 17
Truce settles down in front of his TV. He’s swapped his suit for a pair of sweats and a jumper, feeling somewhat overfull from the pub burger. He’s used to only having a sandwich at his desk.
Leighton, recently up and wet from his shower, is glued to a documentary on African frogs. Truce sips his freshly made cup of tea. Then he picks up the remote and snaps off the TV.
“Hey,” says Leighton. “I was enjoying that.”
“I can neither confirm nor deny that I may or may not have taken an ex-member of M15 for lunch.”
Leighton sits up in alarm. “What the hell have you been up to?”
Truce tells him. In great detail. For once Leighton doesn’t interrupt and make sarcastic comments. Truce finds himself stumbling in his tale; he isn’t used to having the floor with his friend around. But Leighton is sitting forward, his elbows resting on his knees and his head supported by his hands. His face gives little away during Truce’s story. Truce is rather surprised by that. Leighton was never one to keep his emotions under strict control. Truce finally stumbles into silence. Still Leighton doesn’t say anything — even react.
“Well, that’s all folks,” says Truce, clapping his hands together, trying to lighten the mood.
Leighton sits back. He places his arms behind his head, in what Truce knows as a “hooding gesture”. It’s done unconsciously by executives at board meetings to show who’s the biggest boss in the room. It’s not a gesture he remembers Leighton ever using. He’s always been the easy-going, non-confrontational type, usually ignoring the principles of hierarchy until the very last moment before it would land him on a charge.
Leighton still hasn’t said a word. Truce finds himself adopting a conciliatory pose. How can he make Leighton understand that all of this might tie up together without sounding like a nutty conspiracy theorist? If he says he thinks the body might be the father, not the son, Leighton will probably think he is clutching at straws. If Jonny had the big secrets he claimed, anyone could have been involved — and certainly people who had the right contacts to make a persistent old lady vanish. Especially one who presented a danger of getting her witness testimony investigated again. Truce smothers a sigh. If he tells his old friend all this, even Leighton will think he has lost it. It’s all so incredible — even down to the runner in the park chasing him, but yet, Truce’s gut tells him he is on to something real. Maybe if he presents it to Leighton as him working out his own doubts? As part of his own version of self-therapy?
“You need to understand, Leighton, I can’t go on not knowing what’s real and what isn’t. Is anyone following me? Is there a conspiracy going on? Or is this just paranoia, my PDST, providing me with illusions to chase? I feel responsible for June’s death, but I know — regardless if there’s a bigger mystery — that it wasn’t my fault.” He pauses. Leighton is still sitting there, arms behind his head. Now his eyes are half shut, a mannerism that suggests he doesn’t like what he is hearing.
“If nothing else, this thing is so bloody tangled there’s no way I could have caught who’s behind it all and stopped them poisoning June. If that’s even what they did.”
Leighton says nothing.
“God, Leighton. You’re the only person I can trust, and you never leave the bloody flat. You’re not even a policeman anymore.”
By now Truce finds Leighton’s silence awkward and overbearing — like a great white light, blinding Truce to some obvious truth.
“You said yourself, I had to ‘shake the tree’ and see what happened.”
With no warning Leighton leaps to his feet. He stands over Truce, his arms raised high. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” he yells at the top of his voice. “They’re going to crucify you for this!”
Truce pushes back his chair and stands to face him. He knocks the table as he stands. The tea goes flying, arcing brown liquid across the air. The cup shatters on the floor. Both men ignore it, their faces inches apart. Truce keeps his arms by his side, sweat beading on his forehead. He can smell the kippers on Leighton's breath from breakfast.
“I don’t fucking care,” Truce shouts in reply. “I can’t live like this. I should never have taken this job. It’s too soon.”
Then, as if it never happened, Leighton folds up and sits once more on the sofa. He’s stretched along the length, as if he has never moved. Truce blinks. Rubs his eyes and sits down.
“You’re struggling, aren’t you?” says Leighton calmly, acknowledging Truce’s pain.
Tears prick at the back of Truce’s eyes. He blinks them away. He hasn’t cried in front of Leighton — in front of anyone — since they were boys.
“See, the thing is,” continues Leighton as if he'd never raised his voice, “this guy sounds a bit like a textbook hoarder — boxes, bags, and piles of junk everywhere. So if this guy is a hoarder, and your police inspector had some kind of information — say lodged with a lawyer or in his will …”
“And it was released on his death,” mumbles Truce.
Leighton nods. “If Jonny sent it to his son, I bet he’s as likely to put it in a pile somewhere and forget about it, as he is to open it.” Leighton scratches at his scraggly red beard. “I saw a really good programme about them last week. Proper hoarders won’t throw anything away. It’s like they cocoon themselves from the world with stuff. Stacking it on top of everything, up the walls, until they’ve barely got crawl spaces to move around.”
“The hall behind him did look dark and shadowy,” Truce thinks out loud. “He keeps the curtains closed.”
“Most holders suffer a degree of shame. They don’t want anyone to know what their world’s like. But it’s also that they don’t want anyone calling environmental health on them. If it’s bad enough, someone will force them to empty the house. That’s their ultimate fear.”
“Did it say why people become hoarders?”
“Lots of reasons.” Leighton waves his hand dismissively. “The programme was more pop psychology than medical review. But I’m guessing trauma, loss, fear, or good old-fashioned raving lunacy.”
“Apparently the son lost his mother when he was young. And what I heard about Jonny Whiles doesn’t make me think he’d be the doting type of father.”
“From what you said, it sounds as if he was obsessed with his job. A kid would be an inconvenience. Probably brought up by his grandmother.”
“Or no one,” says Truce. He gets up and goes through to the kitchen. He comes back with a cloth and an old newspaper. He mops at the floor ineffectually and then folds the broken pieces of the cup into the paper before returning to the kitchen and putting both in the bin.
Leighton watches from his post on the couch in silence.
“What I don’t get is why Jonny would release his big secrets on his death.”
“Do you think that’s what he wanted?” says Leighton. “A sort of post-mortem confession?”
Truce stands hesitant in the middle of the room. “I’ve got conflicting pictures of the guy. Neighbour reckons he was a local saint. Larry, the old guy at the home, reckons he was as rotten as they come.”
“I’d believe Larry,” says Leighton. “It’s like women. Until you live with them, they seem perfect, but then you get to know their nasty little habits. Like leaving their dirty knickers on the bedroom floor for days.”
Truce chuckles. “Sure you’re not talking about yourself?”
Leighton pulls an offended face. “Seriously, Bro. How many of your neighbours know you?”
“None. I’ve not been here long.”
“Okay, how many people in the regiment, besides me, really knew you?”
“Okay, point made. So Jonny Whiles is probably a bad sort. Certainly he and his son didn’t get on. Could Jonny be trying to get back at son?”
“You mean his son was a secret serial killer and he’ll only unmask him when he’s dead? Nah, sounds like a bad late-night movie. It’s got to be something else. And for goodness sake sit down. You’re making this place look even more untidy.”
Truce ignores him. “You don’t keep a hold over people if they know it’s all going to come out when you die. You have to let people know that if they let you live out your natural life, the information will disappear.”
Leighton claps his hand against his forehead. “That’s it! Think about it. You said the guy had dementia.”
Truce sits down again with an audible thump. “Oh, good God. Maybe it was some kind of insurance …”
“Probably with his lawyer,” says Leighton. “They always follow the letter of the instruction.”
Truce nods. “It was meant to be a threat. To be released if he was killed. Only he lost his marbles …”
“And never countered that instruction,” finishes Leighton. “Or, of course, he might have enjoyed the thought of the chaos he could cause after his death. He might even have thought it would offer protection for his son. It all depends how far back this goes.”
Truce nods again. “Yeah, are these secrets from last year or decades ago?”
“If — and it’s a huge if — there is anything going on, it makes more sense that these are old secrets. Things people did in their younger days, things they don’t want coming home to roost now they are in positions of power. Could anyone you know be involved? The guys that interviewed you?”
“Never seen them again,” says Truce. “But it could be anyone in the shadows. I don’t know hardly anyone in the force.”
“Wendy?” says Leighton
“No,” says Truce. “That’s ridiculous.”
“That could be why she slept with you,” says Leighton. “A sort of honey trap.”
Truce launches a cushion at him.
“Okay. Okay. Just kidding,” says Leighton throwing up his hands in mock surrender.
“I’m trying to be serious here,” says Truce. “If you’re right that this is something from the past — the long ago past — and I’ve stirred something up, I might have put all kinds of people in danger. Like Wendy. Like June.”
“Don’t go there again,” says Leighton. “Whatever is happening wasn’t started by you. If I’m right and someone is worried about Jonny Whiles having some kind of dirt on bent coppers, then it’s the fault of whoever went bent in the first place.” Leighton grins. “In a perfect world, it would be your nemesis, the prickly Rose. Maybe it isn’t simply your winning personality she hates so much, maybe she has a reason. A desperate secret she doesn’t want you to uncover. And when you finally solve this case in a rush of blinding intelligence, you’ll finally have her off your back.”
“I wish,” says Truce. “No, it would be pretty daft of her to put me on the case then, wouldn’t it?”
“Ah, but she didn’t know how good you really were.”
Truce shakes his head. “I think she’s too young. He pauses. But she’s been very keen to close this case down.”
“Do you think someone might be leaning on her?” Leighton’s voice becomes more serious.
“Possibly. Though it’s hard to imagine Rose being intimidated.”
“Yeah, but she wants a promotion, doesn’t she?” says Leighton. “I’m not suggesting she’s in on a cover-up. But if someone senior told her to direct her resources elsewhere as a matter of priority …”
“She’d jump,” says Truce. “As high as she could.”
“So,” says Leighton, “how you going to explain your discovery to your good lady?”
“Who?” says Truce.
“Wendy, you idiot,” says Leighton. “You’re already punching above your weight there, mate.”
“No need to tell her any of this yet,” says Truce. “I want it to be solid before I bring her in. She thinks I’m losing it as it is.”
Leighton smirks. “As long
as she didn’t stick a tracker on your car. You’re in with specialist investigation officers, after all. Who knows what tricks she has up her sleeves? Maybe you’re looking in the wrong direction. Maybe it’s Wendy’s motives you should be questioning. What exactly would she do for a mentor?”
“Don’t,” says Truce shortly. Then he takes a sudden intake of breath. “I’ve been going about this the wrong way. All the unit officers have trackers on their vehicles. They’re considered a kidnap risk when they are working on some of these cases. I can check and see if anyone was going to see Jonny Whiles at Sacred Pines. The evidence will be there in black and white.”
“Does that mean you have a tracker on your car?” interjects Leighton.
“No,” says Truce. “Rose thinks the case I’m working on is harmless.”
“So they take the trackers on and off the cars? That seems like a lot of work.”
“Of course not,” says Truce. “I mean there hasn’t been a reason to put one on mine yet.”
“And whoever bugs the cars would know that? They’d know what case you were on?”
“No,” says Truce. “That’s classified to the department. It’ll be some low-level tech that sticks it on the car.”
“Complicated spy stuff?” says Leighton. “So it’d be difficult to get details.”
“I shouldn’t think so.” Truce laughs. “We’re not MI5 like Larry.”
“So the reality is that the tracker is probably already on your car. Which means rather than being the answer to your prayers, these trackers have allowed anyone from Wendy to Rose to follow your exploits. You’ve been given just enough rope to hang yourself, mate.”
“Shit,” says Truce. “Fucking shit.”
Only the Dead Know Page 15
