Should he touch her hand? Smile more? Or most horrific of all, make small talk? He swirls the black swill in the cardboard cup and watches it stain the sides. He has no idea how to do the latter, but he isn’t comfortable discussing the case where they might be overheard — even if he knows this is verging on paranoia. However, Wendy appears to feel the same. Aside from asking what coffee he wanted and letting him know when they need to head back, she has said nothing. Instead, her deep-blue eyes direct her gaze out the window onto the street, but they are unfocused. Her arms and legs are crossed, as if she’s shutting out the rest of the world, lost in her own internal world. He sits back in his chair and tries to drink his coffee. It’s vile.
***
It feels as if they’ve been waiting for hours. But when he checks his watch at thirty minutes to the second, Wendy pushes her empty cup away and stands. Truce manages to place his own far enough away that she can’t see it is almost full.
“Let’s go,” she says. This time she doesn’t link her arm through his and he wonders, obsessively, every step to the Register House, how and if he has offended her.
At Register House, Wendy takes the lead again, leaving Truce back by the door. She speaks to a woman with a thin, angular face and greying hair. Then she turns and beckons to Truce.
In silence the woman leads them through a locked door and down into the basement. It’s a maze of dimly lit, slightly damp grey stone, like some medieval prison. After a couple of twists and turns, which Truce automatically memorises, she unlocks a wooden door and holds it open for them.
“You may not remove the item, scan it, copy it or photograph it,” she says. “If you wish to process the document in any of these ways, you must apply to the sheriff court for permission.” She sniffs disapprovingly. It seems Wendy has got them to bend the rules, and now everyone disapproves. Wendy thanks her in a quiet voice and goes inside. Truce follows.
The will is a single sheet of A4 paper. It is disappointingly brief. All Jonny Whiles’ property, including the house, house contents, and contents of his bank account are left to his only son, Davie. His lawyer is also to deliver a packet of papers to Davie that Jonny Whiles lodged with him on 10 June, 1989, as soon as he is notified of his client’s death.
“Didn’t his wife die in eighty-nine?” says Truce.
Wendy nods. “August.”
“So, he lodged these papers shortly before her death,” says Truce, noting that the two appear to be on talking terms again. Even if it is just about the case.
“Why would that matter?” says Wendy.
“I don’t know,” says Truce. “But I think it does. I wish I could see how it’s all connected. I can’t shake a feeling that something bad is going to happen. But to who and why?”
“Facts, Truce,” says Wendy. “Let’s stick with the facts. I vote we try Davie Whiles again. Maybe he can tell us more about the papers from the lawyer.”
“I thought you liked your job,” says Truce.
“Remember, no tracker? I stuck mine on Coop’s. He has no idea. I only hope he’s not doing something awful.”
“But two trackers on the same car?”
“I stuck Coop’s on the back of a garbage truck,” says Wendy and grins. “I can always tell him it was for a bet. He’ll understand.”
“But you shouldn’t have done that,” begins Truce and then he sees the look on her face. “I mean I am grateful — I can’t tell you how grateful I am you’re with me today, but what if someone kidnaps Coop?”
“For an unpaid bar bill?” laughs Wendy. She shrugs. Truce is torn between being appalled and proud of her. She lays a hand on his arm. “Daniel, if you’re right about this, then we’re not going to solve this crime by going through normal channels. We don’t even know exactly what crime we're looking for. Whiles’ wife’s murder? June’s murder? The murder of an unnamed prostitute? Davie’s murder? Jonny Whiles’ murder? Or some other unknown crime in the past?”
“But you think there’s something here?” says Truce.
“Every instinct I have tells me you have deep psychological issues,” says Wendy, “but the coincidences, the accidents, the lost statements … I believe someone is trying to cover up something. That’s why I’m trying to go with the hard evidence. Look at the tangible.”
“Can we stop by my house?” says Truce. “I’m not saying I’ll use them, but I do have a set of lock picks. I want to see Davie with my own eyes.”
“Why, Mr Truce!” says Wendy, laughing.
Truce shakes his head. “I was issued with them when I was in the army.”
“What?” says Wendy.
“Long story,” says Truce. “I have a bad feeling. I think I’ve been missing the obvious. Davie might be in danger. If his mother was murdered with him in the house, maybe he knows who did it.”
“And never said a word until now?” says Wendy. “Too far-fetched.”
“You said, after his mother’s death, he didn’t speak for two years. What if he was protecting himself? What if he was that smart, even as a kid? Or what if he blocked it all out and–”
“Only when he reads his dad’s notes does he realise who it is? Don’t you think we’re back in the black and white romantic movie?” says Wendy.
“Can it not be Casablanca?” says Truce as he folds the document back into its case.
“Why not?” says Wendy. “It’s a fabulous movie.” She walks over to the door and opens it.
Truce leaves the document on the table. “Yeah,” he says under his breath, “but Rick doesn’t get the girl.”
Back in the car, Wendy taps on Truce’s saved address on the satnav and they set off.
”Only thing is, I’d rather not break in and be wrong and–”
“Have to explain it to Rose?” says Wendy. “But if you use lock picks, no one need ever know we were there. Sneaky. Better stay out of sight as much as you can. Nosy neighbours round here.”
Truce shudders slightly. “I don’t like it. I don’t like breaking rules — ever. But this case has got me so confused, I don’t know up from down any more.”
Wendy glances over at him. “You know I am worried about you, don’t you?”
“Yes,” says Truce. “But do you still have the professional distance to judge me?”
After a lengthy silence Wendy says, “No, I don’t. That’s why I’m here.”
“You mean you’re solving me the same way I’m trying to solve this case?” says Truce.
“Yeah,” says Wendy, “and with about the same degree of success.”
They finish the journey in silence. Truce has no idea what to say or even if he should say anything. He only knows that he likes being with her, and he doesn’t want to do anything to drive her away. Aside from Leighton, he’s never really felt as if he could be himself around anyone else. It's different with Wendy. She’s got under his guard and to his surprise, he’s found he likes that.
When they park outside his flat. Truce opens the door. “I’ll only be a moment.”
“I’ll come in if you don’t mind,” says Wendy as she follows him out of the car. She flushes a faint red. “Shouldn’t have had such a large coffee.”
“Sure,” says Truce, suddenly embarrassed too. He tries to give himself a mental shake. He’s bled all over this woman’s carpet. He’s seen this woman naked. But the thought of intimate actions, like her using his loo, makes him blush. “The place is a bit of a mess,” says Truce.
“I saw your kitchen,” says Wendy.
“Yeah, I keep that pretty clean cos I make food there,” says Truce. “The living room on the other hand is where my roommate hangs out most of the time, and he’s an utter slob.”
“Roommate?” questions Wendy.
“Yeah,” says Truce, absentmindedly rummaging for his keys. Surely, he has mentioned Leighton to her before? He can’t remember. He supposes they haven’t talked that much about themselves.
He unlocks the door. Truce can hear the telly blaring out as usual. He hopes
Wendy is ready to meet Leighton, but she makes a beeline for the bathroom. Truce goes into the living room. No sign of Leighton. Where is he? Truce wonders momentarily, letting out a sigh of relief. Today is proving difficult enough without having to field Leighton’s curiosity about Wendy.
He starts searching through the cupboard in his sideboard. Just as he finds the lock picks, he hears the lounge door open, followed by a harsh intake of breath. He turns to see Wendy standing in the doorway, an expression of horror on her face.
“What’s wrong?” he says.
“This room,” says Wendy. Her voice is quiet, awed even. “What happened? Did someone break in?”
Truce walks over to her, confused. He stands next to her and follows her gaze into the kitchen.
Empty pizza boxes litter the floor. Between them lie fish and chip wrappers with the remains of food wriggling with maggots. Empty whisky bottles are stacked around the sofa. Newspapers and unopened mail spill across the sideboard and onto the floor. The sofa is covered with dirty clothing and used towels.
From here he can also see his computer. Yellow Post-its form a frame around the screen. The writing on them is scrawled and illegible. A sheet of torn paper rests against the keyboard. One word. The handwriting is familiar. It says ATONEMENT.
CHAPTER 22
“I’m so sorry,” Truce says. “I can’t believe he would trash the place like this. He’s been depressed recently. Can’t find a job. But there’s no excuse for this.”
“No,” says Wendy slowly. She’s grown pale.
“Is this goose chase getting to be too much for you?” he asks.
Wendy shakes her head.
“You don’t have to come with me,” he says. “There’s nothing on record about your involvement.”
She takes a short intake of breath and gives a strange twist rather than shrug of her shoulders. He recognises an anchor action. It says that she is committing to a course of action. She is resolute, but not happy.
“We should go talk to Davie,” she says.
“I can handle myself,” he says. “Despite what you saw the other night. I’ve been in worse situations.”
Wendy’s eyes flicker over him until they linger on his injuries.
Truce gives her a faint smile. “Being able to fight is the art of not fighting,” he says. “Usually I can predict danger — certainly the kind of a danger some reclusive hoarder might offer us. This isn’t America. He’s not likely to have a gun.”
“No,” says Wendy. “Maybe an antique crossbow.” She raises an eyebrow. “But I’m sure you’ve caught bolts in your teeth.”
“Oh, often,” says Truce. “Plays havoc with my dental plan. C’mon, let’s get out of this mess. With luck, he’ll clear up before I come home.”
“Yeah,” says Wendy. There’s a tone in her voice he can’t read, and she’s turned away from him. I’m being paranoid, he tells himself.
This time they take Truce’s car. He brings up the satnav route to Davie’s and sets off. Wendy is lost in thought. He sneaks side-long glimpses of her face, but other than confirming how lovely she is, he is unable to read her body language. It’s always like this. Whenever he gets too close to someone, he loses the ability to assess them. It’s what usually ends his relationships. People who thought he understood them become confused by his sudden inability to relate. Only Leighton got this. He was the same. Each the only constant in the other’s life.
When they arrive at the cul-de-sac, it is quiet. The house next to Davie’s has fiercely pruned-back roses, but there is no sign of the old man. There are bins out on the street. The collection is late — or they are out early. Truce scans around hoping that Davie might be out looking for finds, but there is no one around.
He gets out of the car. “This one,” he says and walks up the garden path. Wendy follows slowly. He knows she is observing the house, reading the domestic environment far better than he could. Truce rings the doorbell, and they wait.
Several seconds later, Truce rings again. Still nothing. He turns to Wendy and puts his hands on her shoulders. He guides her into position. “Stay there,” he says, and before she can protest, he has his lock picks out and is fiddling with the door, using her body as a shield from prying eyes. “How long is this going to take?” says Wendy. “Do you really think you can do it?”
“Too many dull nights on the base,” says Truce quietly. “I’d get up a dummy lock and practice. It makes a good puzzle to while away the hours.”
The lock gives in short order. Standing back a little and wishing he had a gun, Truce places his hand on the door and pushes gently. The door swings open without creaking.
The cluttered hallway leads along the front of the house to a staircase, while another arm reaches deep into the house. An acrid stench fills the air. Truce recognises the shape at once. The outline snaps into focus almost at once. Truce remembers all too well seeing bodies lying in the street after the bombing. He braces himself between the entrance and Wendy. The hallway is dark and lined with haphazard stacks of newspapers and boxes. Lying halfway along is a heap of clothes.
Wendy, looking over his shoulder, realises seconds after Truce that it is a body. She starts forward, but he catches her in his arms.
“Go to the car,” he says very quietly. “Call for back-up. And an ambulance.”
Wendy hesitates.
“Please,” says Truce. “I’ll check him.”
Wendy makes her decision and hurries back to the car.
Truce moves into the house. He hugs one side of the piles of stored boxes and paper and registers it is already damp. Petrol. Simmons is reverting to the old days. He’s going to burn the place down.
Truce places his feet, carefully and slowly. He works his way towards the body, alert for any sounds that will indicate he is not alone.
When he reaches the man on the ground, he checks his neck for a pulse and finds it. Slow, but steady. Truce suspects he has been knocked out and doesn’t want to move him as he can’t see what his injuries might be. However, he does notice that, while the man’s clothes are ragged and dirty, the neck he exposes is clean. He leans over and sniffs. There is a faint scent of soap. He’s thinking twice about turning the man over, when he hears the faint sound of liquid sloshing. Truce almost bangs his head against the wall, he’s so annoyed at his own stupidity. Of course, Simmons is still here. He’s not finished yet.
Truce rises carefully and steps over the body. The stairs are back behind him, as are the front rooms and there are three doors down along this part corridor. One is near the front door. Loo, he thinks. Another is halfway down and is likely the dining room. The door at the end is probably the kitchen. That’s where I’d do it, thinks Truce. As he gets closer the sound becomes louder.
Truce checks behind him. There is no sign of Wendy. Good, she did go back to the car. He doubts there is time to waste. If there wasn’t an unconscious man in the hallway he could do this differently. But he can’t risk another life.
He opens the kitchen door. There in the middle of the kitchen stands a man in dark clothing with a handkerchief tied over his face. He is slim, but fit, about six foot, with greying hair cut into a sleek style. Truce closes the door behind him.
The man’s stance is wide. He’s frozen at the sight of Truce, but he doesn’t look tensed for action. If anything, Truce’s arrival seems to please him. His shoulders release and he places the petrol can on the floor. Behind him, Truce sees at least one more. Simmons has been thorough. Probably been all over the house.
“Forensics will be able to tell it was petrol,” Truce says.
“Ah, the persistent detective. Such a pity my boys didn’t manage to do a better job. A flesh wound with a knife. Ha! In my days that was more of a friendly greeting than a warning.”
“Hired thugs today not what they used to be?” says Truce
Simmons shrugs. “Your timely arrival solves all my problems.”
“Yes, I imagine that’s what you must be thinking, Mr Simmons.
It is Vernon Simmons, isn’t it?”
Simmons executes a shallow bow. His eyes don’t leave Truce’s. “You got someone to blab then?”
“I put the pieces together,” says Truce. “I knew it had to be someone with influence to cover their tracks so well. Someone inside the force.”
“Lovely though it would be to have a nice chat,” says Simmons. “I need to get on with my schedule. I’m playing golf at the club in half an hour, and I’m going to need a shower.” As he finishes the sentence, his eyes flicker left. Back door, thinks Truce. Simmons’ hand goes toward his pocket. Truce knows he has no time.
He rushes Simmons, but Simmons anticipates his move and side-steps him with surprising agility. Truce barrels clumsily into the kitchen counter. His injured arm smarts, and he feels the skin move as Wendy’s butterfly stitches give. He’s half bent over the counter. He sees the cooker to the side and without hesitation picks up a heavy frying pan and turns, swinging it at Simmons.
The pan doesn’t connect, but by swinging it at head height, Truce drives Simmons back towards the kitchen door. He lofts it once more and, oh-praise-be-to-the-seventies designer, the door opens backwards. It works both ways.
Both men are startled. Simmons, as the door gives unexpectedly behind him, and Truce as he watches Simmons disappear and the door swing shut behind him. He vaguely registers the waft of open air from the door beside him before he bolts after Simmons, choosing to ignore the open back door.
He emerges into the hallway to find Simmons still stumbling backwards, trying to regain his footing. Truce swings the pan again. Simmons, fighting for balance, grabs a chunk of paper from the debris-lined walls and hurls it at him.
Truce dodges easily, but the wall gives. A landslide of papers, boxes and old tin cans wash down and around his feet, rising up his shins almost to his knees. Even in the gloom he sees the flash of Simmons’ teeth as he registers his triumph.
He pulls something from his trouser pocket. He turns and heads towards the front door. He ignites the lighter in his hand.
Truce doesn’t think: he hurls the pan at Simmons. But he’s using his bad arm and it clatters to one side.
Only the Dead Know Page 19
