Only the Dead Know

by C. J. Dunford

  “Nice knowing you,” says his nemesis, half turning to gloat. He takes a step back as he does so and stumbles over the forgotten body on the floor. He twists and throws himself forward. As he does so the lighter’s flame touches the side of Davie’s piled treasures. The old papers, doused in petrol, combust immediately. Bright orange flames burst into existence.

  The light is so intense Truce’s vision is compromised. Simmons screams. Truce puts up a hand to shield his face. Whatever Davie collected, some of it is already pumping out choking smoke. Truce registers Simmons ahead of him. The man staggers to the side of the front door. The opaque glass panel next to the door gives Truce a momentary glimpse of him outlined in bright light. Simmons is on fire.

  Truce pushes his way through the piles of debris. Not all of it has caught yet. He reaches the body. Coughing now with sweat breaking out on his forehead, he reaches down and feels the man’s shoulders. Shit, why couldn’t Davie have been feet first? He crouches down. Already he is beginning to lose his bearings. He reaches under the conscious man’s shoulders and pulls.

  Blood runs down his arm as his wound tears open. “C’mon mate,” he says to the deadweight. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Staying as low as he dares, to avoid toppling over with the body, and stay out of the smoke as much as possible., Truce drags Davie back towards the kitchen. Davie’s treasures collapse around him, but the brunt of the fire is still at the front end of the house. The fire is now eating into Simmons’ flesh. Smelling like sweet bacon. Truce does his best to block out the smell and the image. Flames are licking towards him. He has to get them out before it reaches the kitchen.

  With a final effort, he wrenches Davie through the debris. Immediately he’s slipping and sliding on the old lino floor. With the ungainliness of a drunken bear on ice, he steers them towards the back door. He falls down, but clings to the body, kicking out at the end of the kitchen table. Blood, grease, dirt and whatever else is on his side, propel Truce and his burden out into the open air. He imagines Leighton laughing at how he and the body emerge in a tangled, ashy heap, like two lovers locked in a death embrace.

  “Move, you fucking idiot!” It’s Leighton’s voice, warning him. Again.

  His training kicks in. He stands, picking up the body in a fireman’s lift and legs it for front of the house. The garden gate is in his way. It splinters as he slams through it. Someone is standing outside the house. Wendy. He registers the alarm on her face. A white oval in the midst of his misting vision. “Get back,” he yells. “Away from the house.”

  Behind him he hears a huge roar, feels the heat on his back, an all-too familiar feeling. Then giant hands flip him and Davie high into the air. He manages to let go of the body. Unconscious, he knows the man will make a better landing without being entangled with him. He curls his damaged arm, tucks in his head, hoping to roll, but he loses consciousness before he hits the ground.

  ***

  When Truce comes to, he is lying on the pavement. He has a pillow under his head and blanket over him. His sleeve is missing, blown or cut away, and his wound is neatly dressed. He puts up a hand to his head and feels another bandage. He half sits.

  All around him are emergency services. A fire engine is pumping water into the house. An ambulance stands nearby with the ragged man on a stretcher, unconscious or dead now. He can’t tell. Across the street, he sees two paramedics working desperately on a charred form. Simmons. He supposes it is a kind of justice.

  His head hurts and there is a buzzing in his ears, but overall he thinks he has come off lightly. The daylight is bright enough to make him blink. He traces a finger along his eyelids. No eyelashes. He decides not to test for eyebrows. There is some kind of gel on his face and it’s better if he leaves it alone.

  Wendy comes out of the house next door. She is carrying a tray of mugs and is followed closely by the rose pruner, Mr Delong.

  “Wife won’t believe what she’s missed,” he hears the old man say. “She’s never around when anything interesting happens. Should I hand out the teas or set the table here?” He is lugging a small picnic table.

  “If you put it at the end of the lawn,” Wendy says, “people will see it and grab the food when they can. I don’t think we should disturb anyone.”

  “I suppose I’m lucky my house didn’t go up too,” he says, standing with the folded table dangling from his hands. “Are you sure I can’t pop over and give the boys a tea?” He nods towards the firemen battling hoses while coming and going from the burning house. They are all wearing breathing masks, something that seems to be lost on the old man.

  “You could see if Davie Whiles has woken up,” says Wendy. “He’s in the ambulance. Cuts and bruises, but they’ll be taking him away for observation.”

  The old man plonks down the table, expertly flicking out its legs and whips a mug from the tray. He walks off towards the ambulance.

  “Ah, Sleeping Beauty awakes,” says Wendy sitting down on the curb next to Truce. “How are you finding the accommodations?”

  “I’d rather be in the car,” says Truce. “I feel strangely exposed.”

  “It’s okay, they didn’t cut your trousers off. Here, drink this tea, Mrs Delong’s finest, so I’m told. Then we’ll move you over to my car. I’ve orders to take you to A&E to get checked out. Davie Whiles and your assailant have first dibs on the ambulances.”

  “Vernon Simmons,” says Truce. “He looked a bit different to your picture in The Gazette, but it’s him.” He takes the cup of tea and discovers his lips sting. They are burned. With his tongue he feels little pieces of skin flaking off at the edges of his mouth. However, the sweet, hot liquid tastes like nectar, so he persists.

  “It was quite impressive the way you came charging out.” says Wendy. “Straight through the gate, rather than opening it, with Davie over your shoulder. Sort of like a thick-headed, unsubtle hero.”

  Truce attempts to raise an eyebrow, but it hurts. “Do I look as bad as I think I do?”

  Wendy pulls a face. “Don’t ask. All superficial, though, I’m told. What exactly happened in there?”

  “First thing I saw was Davie Whiles lying on the floor …”

  “No, you didn’t.” Mr Delong is back, mug still in hand. “The man in the ambulance is still out, but asleep or awake that isn’t Davie Whiles.”

  Truce’s head drops to the pillow. His tea sloshes everywhere, but he is laughing too much to care. “Leighton was right all along,” he says. “It was a doppelganger.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Truce’s Special Crime unit take on the crime, and things start to happen quickly. The mystery man is identified as one Martin Harold, an out-of-work actor, who had been recently picked up on a shoplifting charge, which had never been followed through on.

  Vernon Simmons’ wife is unable to identify his body as it is too badly burned, but a DNA swab confirms the identification.

  An All-Points Bulletin — APB — is put out for Davie Whiles, but it is Rose who finds him. Apparently, a member of the same golf club as Simmons — although she never actually plays — she orders a recently constructed new bunker to be dug up, and way, way down they find what remains of Davie Whiles, the man June Mills saw murdered so long ago.

  All this time, Truce is lying in hospital. Whenever he thinks they are about to release him, another doctor finds something he isn’t happy about and calls for another round of bloods or more intimate tests. In all, they keep him in for nine days and Wendy doesn’t appear. Apparently, Truce has been living with a number of minor infections and vitamin deficiencies. A dietician, who looks not long out of school, is sent to talk to him about eating properly.

  All Truce’s news comes from Coop, who is acting as Rose’s right-hand man on this investigation. He is enjoying himself enormously as the case allows him to interview some very senior people. Coop creates a huge web of connections and implications, using data from old cases. He manages to solve a couple of cold cases, or at least provide enough circu
mstantial evidence so that they can be considered closed. Unfortunately, for Coop, all those he interviews are squeaky clean. Other than Simmons, all those Coop places in his web have either retired into obscurity or shuffled off this mortal coil.

  “Are they not going to go after the ones who are still alive?” says Truce. Coop is eating the bananas the guys from IT sent.

  “Between you and me,” says Coop, “there’s not much will to do so. I’ve uncovered circumstantial stuff, things that fill in explanations on other cases, even explain why certain people might have done what they did. But any trials would be press headlines.”

  “Washing dirty laundry in public,” says Truce.

  Coop bites off a huge bit of banana, chews open-mouthed and then swallows. “Pretty much. Besides, they’re old. Blind, deaf, or with their marbles audibly rattling. I’m betting they wouldn’t even know if you put them in prison.”

  “So old age is their punishment?”

  “At least we know we’re clean now,” says Coop.

  Truce doesn’t answer.

  “That actor fellow was very helpful. Got a lot of stuff written up about Simmons and his tendency to recruit help from the jail cells.”

  “So, who helped him kill Davie? June saw him with two men. And what happened to her?”

  Coop shakes his head. “Two-bit thugs,” he says. “We’ve cut off the head of the snake. That’s a win in my book.” He reaches into a pocket. “Almost forgot. This is for you.”

  Truce gingerly takes the envelope. “What is it?”

  “I believe it’s a letter from Rose praising your work and apologising for not investigating your suspicions.”

  “No,” says Truce.

  “Apology might be too strong a word,” says Coop.

  “She’s going to loathe me now,” says Truce.

  “Sleep with one eye open, mate.” Then he grins. “Talking of sleeping, that little routine you taught me worked a treat. We had our fifth date last night. Took her to the new Thai in Shandwick Place and then back to mine. Excellent night. You should take Wendy there. Hot towels, flowers for the ladies, the works. Very impressive.”

  “I haven’t seen Wendy since I was admitted.”

  “Oh well, Rose has kept her busy with profiling. I heard she was coming in today.”

  Truce takes the letter and puts it under his pillow. He needs to find the right moment to read it. Preferably somewhere more private than an open ward.

  His phone buzzes. It’s a text from Wendy asking when he will get out. Truce tells her tomorrow and asks if she’s free for dinner. If she says yes, he’s going to damn well discharge himself no matter what anyone says.

  She replies “yes” immediately. Caught off guard, he suggests the place Coop mentioned. Truce phones the restaurant and books a table. He sits back against his pillows, his heart beating fast. There’s a lot he wants to talk to her about.

  The next evening, Truce, freshly shaved and looking almost human now, meets Wendy on the steps of the restaurant. She is wearing a long green coat, belted tight at her waist, and brown boots. Her hair is loose and curled. Truce goes to kiss her on the cheek, but she embraces him.

  “It’s so good to see you,” she says. “Thank goodness it’s all over. I’m sorry I didn’t come and see you in hospital. I tried to give us both time to think. I hope you don’t mind. Plus, work was mental.”

  Truce offers her his arm and escorts her down into the subterranean eatery. He’s already having qualms about following a suggestion of Coop’s. But for once Coop seems to have accidentally stumbled on a place in good taste.

  Sweet, spicy smells greet them as they enter. The venue is candlelit with large silk lanterns hanging around the room, purely for effect. The tables are separated by carved wooden screens. The food, when it comes, is generous and tasty. Not a fine dining experience, but one that has them both eating dumplings with their fingers and licking them afterwards, rather than using the supplied finger bowls.

  “This is nice,” says Wendy as she pauses between the seemingly endless courses.

  “I’ve been thinking,” says Truce. “For all the work Coop has done, he’s missed the two most important murders.”

  Wendy cocks her head on one side. “June and Davie?”

  “He thinks it was a thug who helped Simmons with Davie. It makes a kind of sense. I don’t think Simmons ever meant to kill Davie. At least not then. I think he wanted him to hand over his father’s papers. What he would have done then is anyone’s guess. I’m guessing his little helper went over the top.”

  “And June?”

  “You’re not going to convince me that there wasn’t poison in that perfume, but I’m never going to be able to prove it. If there was, it would have come from Simmons, and at least he’s got his just reward. But they weren’t who I meant.”

  “Are you thinking about what was between Simmons and Whiles?”

  Truce nods.

  “You know the date Whiles lodged the papers with his lawyer?” says Wendy. “That was also the month the two of them stopped working together. Simmons requested a transfer.”

  The waiter, a young, beautiful girl, arrives to clear their plates and offer dessert menus. Wendy sees that Truce barely glances at her — although he does order a strawberry split.

  “That is the least authentic dish on the menu,” says Wendy.

  “Yep,” says Truce, “but it sounds big and after hospital food, I find I have an enormous appetite for the real thing.”

  Wendy laughs and orders coffee. “Not because,” she tells him, “I’m dieting, but because I’m full to bursting. I don’t know if you had anything else planned for this evening, but I think you’re going to have to roll me home.”

  Truce smiles. The server takes their order and leaves.

  “So,” says Wendy, when the girl is out of earshot. “Were we in a black and white movie after all? Did they do each other’s murders? Does this mean Simmons killed Whiles’ wife for him?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why?” says Wendy.

  “Because Whiles killed the prostitute who was going to testify against Simmons.”

  “So, it really was Strangers on a Train?” says Wendy.

  “It probably inspired them,” says Truce. “Fiction can do that.”

  “I better be careful what I watch,” says Wendy. Her coffee appears and she stirs it slowly.

  “Out with it,” says Truce.

  Wendy looks up at him. Her gaze is open and direct. “I was thinking about us,” she says.

  “Is there an us?”

  “There might be — could be. But Daniel, you still have a lot of therapy to go through, and starting a new relationship at the same time isn’t a great idea. It’s not that I mind supporting you. I want to do that as a friend, but …”

  “I know,” says Truce. “PTSD needs my full attention.”

  “I think you’ll only be content when you’re back at work. I think I can help get you signed back on if you’re prepared to keep going to therapy.”

  “Is that what you want?” says Truce.

  “No,” says Wendy. “It isn’t. But it’s what you need.”

  “But we can stay friends?” says Truce. He gives a quick half smile. “I don’t have many left.”

  “Of course,” says Wendy. “Good friends with a possible future.”

  “I think, ma’am, you just coined a new psychological term,” says Truce.

  Wendy laughs. “I should write a paper on it.”

  They finish their meal and Truce offers to walk Wendy home. She shakes her head. “I’m far too stuffed to walk that far. Hail me a cab.”

  Truce escorts her to the taxi rank. It’s empty, and they stand in the cold, waiting for one to show up. Truce takes one of Wendy’s hands and slips it into his coat pocket.

  “Daniel?” She raises an eyebrow.

  “Being friendly. That’s all. I put it in my coat pocket.”

  Wendy laughs. Then she looks into his eyes, and her exp
ression turns serious.

  “Daniel, about Leighton,” she pauses. “It must be hard to accept, but you do know he’s—”

  A taxi squeals to a stop in front of them, and Truce opens the door. Wendy ducks to get in and gives the driver her address. She rolls down the window to finish her sentence. But Truce has turned his back to walk away, and the single word floats up into the night sky.

  “Sorry to hear that, love,” says the taxi driver. “Someone close?”

  “No,” murmurs Wendy. “I never met him.”

  ***

  Back home, Truce gives Leighton all the gory details. For once his friend listens attentively. When Truce is finished, Leighton asks, “Who put pressure on Rose to close June’s case?”

  Truce shrugs.

  “It seems to me your Mr Simmons had friends in high places.”

  “Looks that way,” says Truce.

  Leighton lies back on the sofa, stretching out his long legs. “You’re going to have to watch your back, matey.”

  “I know,” says Truce. “Just as well I have you, pal.”

  A Chat with C.J. Dunford

  From magic tricks to personal experience, author C.J. Dunford opens up to »be« about the inspiration behind the Daniel ‘Uneasy’ Truce mystery series.

  Where did you get the idea for Only the Dead Know?

  I actually dream a lot of my ideas. Leighton arrived before Truce. He popped into my head pretty much fully formed. I knew straightway, despite his protests, he wasn’t a lead character, and I needed to find a good story to put him in. Truce sort of sidled up on me — very much in character.

  As far as the plot goes, I love puzzles, so I wanted to write a mystery that appeared completely insolvable until you knew the answer. I wanted it to be as mysterious as the best stage magician’s trick, which looks incredible, but when you finally know how it’s done the answer is very logical.

  What makes this series different from your past work?