Only the Dead Know

by C. J. Dunford

  Wendy and Truce fetch a chair each. Truce is feeling lost, as if he has fallen down a rabbit hole into Wonderland. His eyes scan the room, and he sees books spilling from the shelves and onto the floor. In piles here and there, as if the room is bursting with more knowledge than it can hold.

  Hoyer follows his gaze. “Bit of a mess, I suppose,” he says, “but I can’t stand people tidying things and getting them out of order. Besides, a little chaos is good for the soul. It reminds us that nothing is ever straightforward, that this is not a world of black and whites, don’t you think, Mr Truce?”

  “I suppose not,” says Truce.

  “Must be a difficult experience for you leaving the army with all its rules and regulations and turning civilian.” Wendy starts to say something, but Hoyer holds up his hand. “I know, Wendy, modern policing is full of regulations too.” He smiles at Truce. “It’s just that civilians are far less likely to pay attention to the rules, don’t you think?”

  “Certainly, where I was based,” says Truce, “not playing by the rules could get you killed.”

  The old man nods. His expression becomes serious. “I hope you don’t mind, but Wendy has told me a little about you and the case you’ve been working on.”

  “She’s told me nothing about you — sir.” He adds the honorific, not only because the man is old, but because, despite the twinkling eyes, he has a presence. His gaze is clear and unwavering. His arms rest on the arms of his chair. For a man who has so much security, and who has never met him before, the man in the wheelchair is remarkably relaxed. When he smiles at Wendy his eyes light up, and the edges of them crinkle into crow’s feet. He is genuinely pleased to see her. His breathing is calm and steady, and his colour is even.

  “Good heavens, you must be wondering if I’m a retired gangster or a politician, if you’ve spotted some of my security arrangements,” says Hoyer. “Which I’m sure you have.”

  “Is there much difference?” says Truce.

  The twinkle comes back into the old man’s eyes. “With the best of each I believe there is,” he says cryptically. He reaches out and pats Wendy’s hand. “Wendy is my god-daughter, but we only got beyond the yearly tenner at Christmas when she went to university to study psychology.” He gives a modest smile. “I was one of the first police profilers in the country. Wendy came to my guest lectures. One of the best students I ever taught. Wendy is the only natural profiler I’ve ever come across. She ‘gets’ people on an instinctive level. Which of course is a hindrance when you’re in the business of profiling for other people. The number of arguments we had over what should be put in reports because Wendy always sees things as obvious that take others months to work out.”

  Truce looks over at Wendy, startled. “I’ve not worked with your god-daughter yet,” he says.

  “Oh, she’s very, very good. They’re lucky to have her. But the most interesting thing for me about you, Mr Truce, is that Wendy likes you. She says your people-skills are atrocious, but you’re excellent at reading mannerisms and that, when necessary, you control your body language to a startling degree — even your blink rate. I suspect you missed out on the normal socialisation process, am I right?”

  “A number of failed foster homes until I ended up at a children’s home,” says Truce. To his annoyance, the heat of a blush creeps up his neck.

  “The army would, I imagine, have been attractive because it gave you a place. Not, I hasten to add, that I think you’re lacking in identity, but rather it gave you a place to be, to belong. Rules to define your life after the chaos of your childhood. A fine choice. And by choosing the military police you were — albeit unconsciously — asserting that, while you were keen to have a place, you were not a blind follower. You wanted to be someone who helped shaped the world you had adopted.”

  Truce shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Is this my medical assessment?” he says.

  “Oh dear me, no,” chuckles Hoyer. “I’m afraid I don’t get many visitors anymore, so any new person in my little world is an instant source of fascination to me. No, Wendy brought you along because she said you wanted to know more about Jonny Whiles. And, in particular, any old secrets that might be surfacing now he has finally gone down to meet his maker.”

  “Down?” says Truce.

  “Oh, if you believe in such things,” says Hoyer, “he’s definitely roasting his nuts off in hell. Nothing good about Jonny Whiles. Bent as a nine-bob note.

  CHAPTER 20

  Truce wants a whisky. Hair of the dog, as they say. Despite the shower, he realises he probably still smells of old, sour whisky. But he still wants one. Behind the large desk, on a shelf dedicated to decanters, he spies one that looks as if it has exactly what he needs. But how does he ask a man he’s never met before, a man his girlfriend (ex-lover?) clearly admires, for a whisky before eleven o’clock in the morning without looking like a dipsomaniac? He doesn’t. Instead his eyes are drawn back to the decanter like a hungry dog watching a kebab on a spit. Then Truce realises that if his eyes keep roaming that way, the company he’s in is going to notice. Especially when they are both experts in forensic psychology.

  “I don’t think that would be a very good idea,” says Hoyer to Truce.

  “No,” says Truce, shifting backwards in his seat. “Wendy wouldn’t approve. But I’m having a rough time.”

  “If you’re tangled up in Jonny’s old schemes, I’m not surprised. Let me tell you a few stories. I’ll change the names to protect the innocent.” He smiles at Truce. “Fireside tales, if you like. Back in the seventies and eighties there was an influx of immigrants. Now, don’t get me wrong, Scotland has always welcomed immigrants. We have a declining population — typically — and new blood is always welcome. We also, as a nation, tend to be an inclusive lot. It’s almost as if having come through the wars of the clans, we can get on with anyone. Though I suppose in some ways it was a bit of a return to the clan wars. We had the Italian gang, or restaurant owners as they styled themselves. Then there were the guys running the legal and illegal casinos. Drugs wasn’t too big an issue, but there were an awful lot of girls on the street, and none of them were self-employed, if you get my meaning. And, as for the nightclubs, to be honest, I still don’t know the half of what went on in some them. The upper-class ones tied themselves into the big business men of the day, provided drugs, girls, and whatever else was wanted. And believe me, you don’t want to know what else was wanted.”

  Hoyer takes a breath. “Thinking about the good old days makes me want a whisky, too.” He gives Truce a wink.

  “How were you involved?” says Truce.

  “I wasn’t. Not with any of that. The whole idea of profiling was in its infancy — pre-infancy, at that. But somehow, the higher-ups had this idea, if they got a psychologist in to look at what was going on, he might be able to help them get a handle on the situation. They were losing control of Edinburgh. It was way beyond what even Glasgow is now. Turf wars and revenge crimes. City felt more like America. In fact, I think they got some CIA guy in as well, but he laughed in their faces. Said we didn’t know how good we had it! And that’s bearing in mind there were more gun crimes then than now. Arson was the big problem.”

  He glances at Wendy. “Pour us a couple of glasses, lass. This is bringing back some nasty stuff.”

  Wendy pours two whiskies and hands one to Truce and the other to Hoyer.

  “What’s this?” says Hoyer, eyeing the glass. “A half-finger of nothing?”

  “You’re diabetic,” says Wendy.

  Hoyer scowls. Downs it in one and continues.

  Despite his earlier itch for a drink, Truce finds the smell of alcohol is making him feel sick. He sips slowly, barely wetting his lips, so he doesn’t seem ungrateful.

  “Arson,” says Hoyer. “Thing with your criminal types is that there’s a certain level they can operate on where they are pretty much self-regulating. I won’t make any friends by saying this, but if the effect on the civilian population is minimal, i
t can be more productive to leave the criminals to themselves. They provide services on the grey and black economies that you’re never going to get rid of unless you move into some kind of military dictatorship. Services civilians buy.”

  “You mean drugs and sex,” says Truce.

  “And ‘second-hand’ goods,” says Hoyer. “There are always going to be people down the pub wanting to buy stuff on the cheap and not caring when it came from. The idea that you can rid a city of crime altogether is, I argue, unfeasible. People are not naturally law-abiding. Under normal circumstances they will always bend the rules.”

  “I disagree,” says Truce.

  “And you have every right to, but I’m saying that police of that time turned a blind eye to certain activities. They knew who was committing the crimes, but unlike today, where they are eternally frustrated with not getting them locked up for long enough, or even at all, there was a quid pro quo. Officers availing themselves of the services of street girls as kickbacks. Some even took backhanders in drug deals. I’m guessing it still goes on, but it was more prevalent in those times. Then the turf war went too far. One of the gangs firebombed a nightclub — the owner had trodden on too many toes. Tried to cut into someone else’s drugs market. Loads of victims. Kids. On the ritual drinking round of the High Street — fourteen, desperate to get into pubs and clubs, now they were out working their way in the world. This couldn’t be tolerated. Up till then, the city was seen as safe and provincial, for the most part. You only knew about the seedier side if you were involved in it, but now all that was changing. So, in I come to help them sort out the turf issue. And, in doing so, I start uncovering just how many of the police are taking backhanders — and how high up it goes.”

  He holds his glass up to Wendy, who reluctantly dribbles a bit more in. “You’ve seen my security. It’s not there to protect me against rabbits.”

  “So, I’m guessing Jonny Whiles was one of those who wasn’t exactly on the straight and narrow?”

  “Up to his neck in corruption but a sharp man. Once he saw the way the wind was blowing, he knew they couldn’t do a clean sweep, not least because how it would have looked, and he was one of the first to volunteer to get back into line.” Hoyer drains his glass. “His offer was accepted.”

  “Did he turn on the others?”

  Hoyer laughs. “Oh no, if he’d done that, he’d have been dead in a ditch years ago. No, he sided with the establishment and severed his links, and he never said where the bodies were buried. Never turned on anyone, but he knew all their dirty secrets and they knew it too. It was his condition on coming across.”

  “So, it’s not unrealistic to assume he had a load of secrets?”

  “Not at all. I bet that’s what kept him alive to good old age.”

  “I don’t want to seem ungrateful,” says Truce, setting his glass down on a table, “but I’ve heard the gangland stories before.”

  Wendy shoots him a look.

  Hoyer slumps in his chair. “You want a name?”

  “That would be helpful,” says Truce.

  Hoyer turns to Wendy. “Is it necessary to rake up all this old stuff? I don’t want to seem melodramatic, but it could get people killed. People like me.”

  Wendy can’t hold his gaze. She says quietly, “You told me once, George, that there was stuff you’d done back then you weren’t proud of.”

  “This is my redemption?” says Hoyer, raising his eyebrows.

  “It could be,” says Wendy.

  Hoyer frowns. “Be very careful with what I tell you. It could lead to …”

  “Arrests?” says Truce sarcastically.

  “Death,” says Hoyer. “What I can tell you is Jonny Whiles worked with Vernon Simmons during the peak of all the goings-on. Jonny was not a great guy. Handy with his fists, as his wife too often found out. Word around the force was that they were having troubles. Mind you, when she fell down the stairs and broke her neck, Jonny had an unshakable alibi. We all wondered how he’d done it. Most likely the poor cow threw herself downstairs to put herself out of her misery. Jonny and Vernon were cut from the same cloth. Men’s men who liked to show a woman who was boss. There were even rumours of a prostitute who was ready to testify against Vernon, but she disappeared. Everything turned up rosy for those two. What a pair. Always watched each other’s backs.”

  He gives Truce a long look as if he is trying to tell him something, but Truce isn’t getting it. He opens his mouth to speak, but Hoyer wheels his chair back behind his desk. “That’s all I can tell you.”

  Truce stands. He’s been in the army long enough to know when he’s being dismissed.

  “Thanks,” he says. He turns and heads out of the room. He hears the murmur of Wendy’s voice behind him and then her hurrying footsteps.

  She catches up with him when he’s by the car.

  Truce leans against the vehicle and takes deep breaths.

  “Still suffering?” says Wendy.

  Truce shakes his head carefully. “Just glad to get out of that living mortuary. Are all your friends as nice as him?”

  “That’s unfair,” says Wendy. “He helped change the face of the city.”

  “Maybe,” says Truce. “But he says himself he’s less than squeaky clean. You might buy that redemption stuff, but I’m not so sure. Leopards, even old ones, don’t change their spots.”

  Wendy unlocks the car.

  “Are you going to tell me as a forensic psychologist that people can fundamentally change their nature?” says Truce.

  Wendy shakes her head and gets into the car.

  Truce follows. Again, they drive in silence. Again, Truce doesn’t know where she is taking him. He tries to think of something to lighten the atmosphere. George Hoyer might be something of a hero to Wendy, and he might have truly ballsed it up with her.

  “He said, what a pair. Always had each other’s backs,” says Truce thoughtfully. “I didn’t get what he was hinting at, but one of my old friends would say we’ve stumbled into a black and white movie.” He is thinking of Leighton.

  “Strangers on a Train,” says Wendy suddenly catching on.

  Truce nods. “He’d say the pair of them swapped murders. You know Jonny did for the hooker and Vernon killed his wife. How crazy is that?”

  “Look in the glove compartment,” says Wendy, “page six.”

  Truce takes out a copy of The Police Gazette. There, on page six, is a story about Vernon Simmons, now a senior officer, receiving an award for outstanding life-long service to the force. The article even coyly hints that a further award ceremony, in London, may be in Simmons’ future before retirement.

  CHAPTER 21

  “Did you know about Vernon?” says Truce, staring at the page.

  “No,” says Wendy. “It’s an unusual name. I was reading The Gazette this morning.”

  “It’s an awfully bad time for a secret of Vernon’s to come out,” says Truce. “What’s he up for? CBE?”

  “No idea,” says Wendy, “but something like that or more. He’s top of the tree now.”

  “He could have been a young sergeant?” suggests Truce.

  He sees Wendy frown as she does the arithmetic. “Yes, it’s possible.”

  “Are you beginning to believe me?” says Truce.

  “I’m struggling,” says Wendy. “How does June’s report of seeing Whiles’ son being murdered — or not murdered, tie in to all this?”

  “There are too many coincidences,” says Truce.

  “That I will agree with,” says Wendy.

  “We need hard facts.” Truce watches her reaction carefully to see if she starts or stiffens at his use of “we”, but she seems intent on the road.

  “I know,” says Wendy. “That’s why I’m taking us to Register House. Now Jonny Whiles is dead, his will is public record. Let’s see what it says.”

  “I never thought of that,” says Truce. “I feel like an idiot. That’s an excellent idea.”

  “I know,” says Wendy obscurel
y.

  Truce decides on the wisdom of silence.

  Register House in Edinburgh is big, old and packed with shelves. As soon as they enter the front door, a hushed silence falls over everything like a blanket.

  “How easy is this going to be?” Truce whispers to Wendy.

  “As long as the estate has been confirmed — that is, everything’s been sorted — then we should be able to access the will. Generally, members of the public have to wait ten years and pay a small sum, but, in the case of an on-going enquiry, we have the right to see it. How difficult this is, whether we have to go through the Sheriff Court, depends on how difficult the administrators want to make it. Officially I didn’t say that, but you get the idea.”

  “So, either we’re sent on a wild goose chase for a bit, or it appears in our laps.”

  “Let me do the talking,” says Wendy.

  Truce is about to protest, but he realises there is no reason to let Wendy in on his people-reading skills. Besides, reading people and persuading people are two different animals, as he has often found to his cost. But what finally persuades him is the stern look on Wendy’s face and the thought of how it will look if they walk up to the main desk bickering.

  “I’ll wait back here,” he says.

  Twenty minutes later, Wendy comes back. She links her arm through his and says, “Let’s go get a coffee.”

  They sit in a coffee shop around the corner: a table for two by a window, Wendy’s choice. She keeps glancing every few minutes at her watch. “We go back in half an hour,” she says. “They’ll either have it for us, or not.”

  She’s barely touched her fancy latte something. Dessert-in-a-cup as far as Truce is concerned. He is sipping an acidic black coffee. It is not designed to be drunk without sugar. Especially on a sour stomach.

  Truce grunts a response. He is a hair’s breadth away from her, but has no idea if he is meant to touch her or not. Technically, he is off duty. It's Saturday — isn't Wendy off duty, too? He hasn’t asked.