CHAPTER 18
The next morning, after a restless night devoid of dreams, Truce decides he has to face the music. There is no point putting it off. While it’s often best to let the enemy come to your turf, Truce doesn’t fancy his nice shiny door being driven in by a police battering ram or watching muddy-booted lads in uniform invade his flat. It might give his neighbours a thrill to see him carted off — in cuffs or a straightjacket — he’s determined to deny them that. Besides, he can’t trust Leighton not to get involved. Truce knows he could punch out a few of the breaching squad before they arrested him. Maybe, between them, they could take out the entire squad. They used to train hard. But that wouldn’t be fair. It’s hardly uniform's fault he’s got himself into this shit.
No. Either he digs himself out today or he sinks into the mire. He has his fingers crossed Wendy might come up with something to help, but somehow he’s going to need to persuade Rose to stand down and give him some time. Maybe only twenty-four hours. Perhaps he can promise her a case that will make her career. His instincts are screaming at him that June Mills — her death and what she claimed to see — means something. He just doesn’t know what. He’s going to have to bluff.
He drives to the Barn. It is a glorious morning, and traffic is unusually light. The little towns of North and South Queensferry glisten from the overnight rain. Their white pebble-dashed buildings sparkle, and even the dour old grey Victorian houses have a brighter aspect. The sky is a cloudless azure, more suited to a Greek island travel brochure than a road leading into the Highlands. Across the Bridge, even the green of the fields seems sharper and the sheep, fluffy white dots, contentedly munching the wet grass, emanate country idyll. The hills roll across the landscape in an undulating vista of pasture, golden crops, and purple heather. In the far distance, the peaks remain snow-capped. Truce is acutely aware of the landscape’s beauty, as his stomach churns with the premonition: this may well be my last drive into work.
He pulls up into the Barn’s car park, relieved to see his reserved space is still there. As he enters the building, the Bob says hello and wishes him a good day. Says it’s nice to see him back, even though he’s only been gone for a couple of days. Truce does his best to smile a reply. It’s as if the whole world is conspiring to make him realise what he is about to lay on the line. He never wanted this job, but now that he is in danger of losing it, he finds that he desperately wants to keep it. The thought of going back into civvie street is unbearable. Solving this case has taken up most of his waking moments. It has stopped him thinking about what happened to him — how he left the army. It’s not been easy, but he is carving a place out here. And then there’s Wendy. Only the job and her have kept him going. Without them, he’d be left alone with a guilt he knows would destroy him.
Brilliant time for an epiphany, he thinks. Well done, me. But he can no more turn his back on this case than he can stop breathing.
He doesn’t go to his desk, but walks straight up to Rose’s door, which is, for once, shut. He feels eyes following him, as if he's got a target painted on his back. Like walking through enemy territory, unable to see the snipers but knowing they are there. They're always there. Knowing that a badly worded treaty — written by people who have never been on the ground — stands between you and sudden death. Trusting the others to keep their cool. Trusting your own people not to panic. Not to cause an incident. Not to cross that line, where suddenly all players have to make it clear whose team they are on. Not to do exactly what he has done with the June Mills case. Total FUBAR. Bluff, man, bluff, he tells himself. You can do this.
It is an effort for him to keep his shoulders level, to stop his back from tensing, and to prevent himself from searching out Wendy’s comforting face — the one person on his side. But already Leighton’s barbed suspicion is affecting him. He can trust her, can’t he?
“Come.” Rose’s sharp response to his knock. At least he hasn’t disturbed her in the middle of anything.
His commander is seated behind her desk. Dressed neat as a pin, her eyebrows don’t raise when she sees him. Her expression doesn’t flicker. She looks up and puts her hand over a report she is reading. Truce knows immediately it is about him.
“Come to fall on your sword, have you?” she says in a crisp, professional voice that’s almost, but not entirely, free of bitterness. “Close the door and sit down.”
Now, Truce knows he isn’t in for the usual bollocking; that was something he could have — might have — handled. A commander might ask you to close a door before they yell at you — if they're showing you respect and don’t want to embarrass you in front of your team mates. Rose, Truce knows, would have no such qualms. If she wants the door closed, then this is going to be bad, very bad — so bad she doesn’t want anyone else to hear. Which means whatever he says in his defence is off the record. Shit.
He closes the door and approaches the front of her desk, unwilling to give up the one advantage he has over her: height.
“Sit,” says Rose.
“I’d rather stand, ma’am,” he says and clasps his hands behind his back, determined not to give anything away.
“This isn’t the sodding army, Truce. Sit.”
Reluctantly, he lowers himself onto the chair in front of her. He keeps his mouth shut. He’s not prepared to offer explanations until he finds out how much she knows.
“Do you see what I have here?” she asks, indicating the file under her hand.
Fuck, thinks Truce, my car logs. But all he says is “No, ma’am.” He keeps his gaze level, but deliberately sets a steady, regular blink rate, much as he might do when face-to-face with an angry dog. It’s not confrontation, but neither is it a backing-down signal. There’s always the hope that his blink rate might affect her breathing and slow it down. He consciously regulates his own breathing, willing her to follow and to become calmer. However, the chances of them falling into rapport are slim. Not only does she already dislike him, but he can see the thready pulse in the hollow of her throat that tells him she is on the verge of fury. Not good. The veins at her temple, exposed by her severe hairline, are bulging. Her blood pressure is too high. What the hell has happened? He assesses all this in seconds.
“You may not have read the fine print on your job description.” She takes a deep breath and smiles. The smile doesn’t reach her eyes. Truce realises she has rehearsed the reprimanding in her head. He’s going to have to derail her scenario. “In fact, I would go as far as to say I’m certain you haven’t. You see, we track the cars of our officers — when they’re on duty at least. All recorded.” She pats the file in front of her. “For your protection. In case you become a kidnap risk.”
“I know, ma’am,” says Truce. He keeps his voice level. He attempts to signal that he believes he has done nothing wrong.
Her blink rate increases at this. He’s caught her off guard, and the pulse at the hollow of her throat quickens. Her skin has a slight pink flush, but it’s not a blush. It’s the sign of imminent eruption. He knows his persistence on the case has been driving her to the edge. But why?
With an effort of will, he stays sitting in the centre of the seat and doesn’t lean back. He keeps her gaze. Hers flickers to the file. That’s even worse. Whatever is going on, she’s not confident about it. She’s angry, but even more angry that she — what? Doesn’t have the whole picture? That he’s got too close to something shady that she’s in on? Or simply that he’s put her in this position? It never looks good on anyone’s record when they have to discipline a senior officer. It looks like they lack leadership skills. Is that all this is?
“So, you know that I know you have persistently disobeyed direct orders?”
“Ma’am?” asks Truce. He’s not going to give her any help.
“You were told to close down the June Mills case.”
“Yes, ma’am, but then she was in a fatal RTA.”
“Uniform dealt with that.”
“Yes ma’am.” Now. Now it’s time to h
it her with the facts. Facts he hopes will startle her out of her prepared speech. “Perhaps you can tell me why her PM doc believes there was a suicide note on her file that no one else has seen?” Truce takes a gamble and says, “That line on the form about her body being sent for early cremation at her family’s request, that’s nonsense, isn’t it? None of them know a thing about it, do they?”
“Excuse me?” says Rose. Her face is now an unflattering red.
Truce bites back a sarcastic reply. It’s such a pathetic response. The words might be asking for forgiveness, but her tone says undeniably that she is angry he is questioning her. There is not the slightest hint she wants to know more. She isn’t hearing what he is saying. She is only hearing what she wants to hear — insubordination.
“Excuse me?” The words are more drawn out this time and Rose’s voice has risen away from its usual — and Truce now realises practised — alto. “Are you suggesting the PM doctor didn’t do a proper job? That he put lies on Mills’ file?”?”
”No, ma’am, I’m suggesting more than that. I’m suggesting there’s been a group conspiracy to ensure that the files Jonny Whiles kept on police activity during his career never see the light of day. A conspiracy that’s gone wrong and that June Mills is one of its casualties.” Truce waits. He’s said it all now. This is the point where if she has any credibility as a police officer, any ethics as a human being, she should ask him to explain. But it doesn’t feel as if it is going that way.
Rose rises from her seat. As if, thinks Truce, she can no longer meet my gaze. Shit. She doesn’t want to know. She is deliberately closing her eyes and ears.
“I know you suffered from post traumatic stress syndrome,” she says, “but your report never suggested that you could reach this level of paranoia. In fact,” she walks past the edge of her desk and slaps her hand down on it hard, “it says you were cured.”
Truce feels the shock of the sudden noise in his chest, but he does his best to freeze and not react. It’s a coward’s tactic to try to make him act foolishly.
“Are you telling me that my department, a local police station, a local mortuary, a local funeral director,” by this point her voice is practically a screech. “All of them conspired to what? Hustle Mrs Mills off the scene so her report could be lost?” She sits on the front of her desk and looks down at him. “Would you go so far as to say Police Scotland arranged for the murder of Mrs Mills, by a foreign national taxi driver?”
“Of course not, ma’am,” says Truce. “That would be ridiculous.”
“So, what exactly are you suggesting?” says Rose, crossing her arms over her chest.
This is the moment Truce needs to present his evidence that someone behind the scenes is pulling the strings. Even as he listens to Rose’s accusations, he knows the conspiracy is small. It’s an old legacy from the past. And somehow Jonny Whiles is involved. Things that were meant to be forgotten lingered on in an old diseased mind. What could those secrets be? And how was June involved? He has no physical evidence. Only his and Leighton’s hunches. Nothing Rose, in this mood, would — or even could — accept.
“I was tying up loose ends, ma’am,” he says, ad-libbing. “Nothing more. They taught us to be thorough in the Military Police. It doesn’t all add up.” The moment the words are out of his mouth, he knows he has made a mistake. He has suggested that the civilian police are less thorough — and by implication so is Rose.
Rose stands and walks back behind her desk. “I’m placing you on indefinite medical leave,” she says. Her voice is calmer now, and he recognises she is returning to the script she has rehearsed. It didn’t matter what he said. She was always going here. “Your blatant disregard for my command and violation of direct orders. Your burgeoning paranoia and your inability to offer even a decent explanation, or indeed show any remorse whatsoever, leads me to the conclusion that as a public servant, you are a liability to others and potentially yourself.”
Truce flinches. She is a hair’s-breath away from having him sectioned to an asylum.
“You will hand in your warrant card. You will remove nothing from your desk, nor will you sign in to your computer. All records shall be preserved for the following investigation. You will not return to this building, but you will not quit your place of residence. You are hereby put on notice that you may not act in any official capacity until you have been declared fit by a police psychiatrist, and you have been found not to have been in violation of your duty.”
“As if that’s going to happen,” mutters Truce under his breath.
“Do you have anything to say?”
Truce stands and approaches the desk. He is much taller than she is, and as she sits, he towers above her. He feels a guilty pleasure when he sees fear flicker in her eyes. He wants her to know that if he really were insane, she would be in mortal danger at this moment. Without a word, he puts his warrant card on the desk. Then he turns to leave.
“Even if you get medical retirement,” says Rose, “you won’t get a pension. You’ve not been here long enough.”
Truce doesn’t even pause on his walk to the door. He hears what she says and registers it as the weak cry of a bully. His opinion of her drops even further.
Coop claps him on the back as he storms out. Wendy brushes a cool hand along his arm. He ignores them both. He doesn’t trust himself to speak. Truce is shaking from head to foot. He is barely physically capable of containing his rage.
In the car park, he gives his car the once over until he finds the tracker. It’s far less complicated than the ones he had to check for as an MP. He pulls it out and tosses it to the ground. Then he checks again to ensure there isn’t a second. It might be their trackers, but it’s his car. He leaves the tracker carefully balanced on the top of his reserved space placard and drives home.
This time he pays little attention to his surroundings, except to register other cars. He is driving without conscious thought. Over and over in his head he is replaying events. What could he have done differently? Apart from sticking the tracker on someone else’s car, he can’t see another way to move forward. He couldn’t have lived with himself if he’d let things go. He's always had to see things through. It’s been a failing of his — always. It’s cost lives before. If it costs him this career, it’s still cheaper than losing his self-respect, and far less catastrophic than last time.
Suddenly, he remembers something. Rose said a “foreign national taxi driver”. How did she know that taxi driver was foreign? Except he wasn’t foreign. Truce tries to remember — first? Second generation British? She must have seen his name to draw that conclusion.
If she’s seen the name, then she has been reading up on June’s case. Truce hadn’t filed any reports. He hadn’t even made notes on anything but his pocket book. It had been in the local newspaper, but it hadn’t made the dailies or the national news. Rose knew more than she should. How?
It occurs to him then that Rose’s behaviour has an explanation other than anger. She could have been afraid.
***
Leighton gives him a hearty greeting when he comes in. Truce ignores him, picks up the whisky bottle and heads through to his bedroom.
“Will you be wanting a glass with that?” calls Leighton. “I could bring one through for the both of us.” But Truce merely slams the door. Moments later Leighton is scratching at it. “It’s not good for a man to drink alone,” he says. Truce ignores him. “Have a heart,” says Leighton, after a pause. “You’ve got the only whisky bottle in the flat.”
Truce pulls off his tie and throws it on the ground. He discards his expensive suit and for once doesn’t hang it up. He gets a perverse thrill when he accidentally steps on it. He kicks the whole thing, suit, tie, shirt, under the bed. Out of sight. Out of mind. He changes into jeans and T-shirt. He chooses the ridiculous bright yellow hazard one Wendy got him, even though by rights it should be in the wash. For the first time in his well-ordered life, Truce doesn’t put on fresh socks.
“
What if I opened the door a wee bit and held out my glass? You could fill it up for me. Then you wouldn’t be drinking alone — first sign of alcoholism, you always used to say — and I’d have my drink to savour.”
“Put your arm through that door and I’ll break it off,” snaps Truce.
“Och, now, you wouldn’t do that to a mate.”
“Try me,” growls Truce.
“After all we’ve been through, man,” says Leighton. His voice sounds genuinely sad. “I’d follow you to the ends of the earth, you know that. And here’s you refusing me a drop of the amber nectar.”
Truce stands and punches the wall. Shock and pain ripple through him, torn skin on his knuckles begins to turn red. The flat is silent except for the slow hissing whisper of broken plaster falling to the ground. After that he doesn’t hear any more from Leighton.
***
Truce spends the rest of the day going over his notes and lowering the level in the whisky bottle. By the time he falls into bed, his head is filled with unanswerable questions, and he is drunk in a way that is both sleepy and wired.
He’s not surprised that when he falls asleep it begins again.
***
He thinks it’s paint.
Something trickles down his neck. The world is tilted. He’s on his back looking up at the paint raining down on him. A sharp pain pierces his hip, like someone has stuck a dagger through to the bone. His right arm feels as if it is on fire. All he can smell is dust. The paint splatters softly on his face.
Seconds.
Has it only been seconds? Less?
He doesn’t know.
But he smells it now. The singed coppery smell of — it’s not paint. It’s ….
***
Blood. It’s blood. Then the smell of burning flesh — carbon, strong enough to make your stomach lurch. Once smelt never forgotten, almost like bacon. And the stench of all battlefields: shit. Death and dying. The stupid fucker has walked into an ambush.
Only the Dead Know Page 16
