Leighton pushed his chair back and his plate towards Truce. He ticked the points off on his fingers. “First, with a normal RTA would they even bother with a PM? They’d certainly test the driver, but if there’s no criminal intent, why would they spend any more on the case? Second, even if they did a test, and you go take a look, Capt Rose will have your balls in a sling. Third, it was only a nightmare. Fourth, it was only a nightmare. Fifth, it was only a nightmare and you’re not a fucking prophet!”
“Your plate smells vile,” says Truce, shoving it back in Leighton’s direction. “Why don’t you put the scraps out for the Boots? It’ll love it.”
“You and that bleedin’ cat,” says Leighton.
“His name is Boots,” says Truce.
“Whatever,” says Leighton. “You feed it if you like it so much.”
Truce picks up his own plate. “I won’t allow sensory overload to distract me. I need to check this—if only for my own peace of mind. I can handle Rose.”
“You can handle her only so many times,” says Leighton, “before she takes it upstairs and we see how much clout the Major has. He won’t thank you for making a mockery of his recommendation.”
“You’re right. I don’t want any of this to come back on him. But I have to know.”
Truce goes through to the kitchen and scrapes off the flakes of flesh into a bowl he now thinks of as Boots’ bowl and puts the food outside the back door. There is no sign of the cat.
He returns to find Leighton slumped in his seat.
“Okay,” Leighton says. “I give in. Why not go to the funeral and ask June’s bingo chums if she was drinking?”
“How the hell do I find out where it is, let alone when?”
“You’re not thinking straight, mate. You know everything’s on the internet,” says Leighton. “These civilians put everything out there. Every. Little. Thing.”
Leighton stands over Truce while he fires up his ageing computer. Three google searches later, and he's pinpointed the time and location of June’s funeral. “Well, I’ll be damned,” mutters Truce.
“Probably,” says Leighton.
A weight lifts off Truce's shoulders. Now he is going to be able to check out the details of her death from witnesses, he feels foolish for allowing a nightmare to dictate his behaviour. After all, bad dreams are his constant nightly companion.
“Think I might fit in a short run before work,” says Truce. “I’ll even pick up some food on the way back. Something other than kippers.”
“Says Salmon-man,” gibes Leighton. “You’re out of almost everything else.”
It all seems like a fine idea. He hasn’t kept up with his physio exercises, but a gentle run will be perfect, thinks Truce, for losing the whisky weight he’s put on in the past few weeks.
He puts on his jogging gear, steps outside and takes a deep breath. Simply being in running clothes makes him feel fitter and more accomplished already. He’ll circle round the park twice and then head to the local shop.
A single loop around the park later, he heads to the shop. There he finds himself holding open the freezer doors a moment too long, so he can stick his head in the cold draft. His face is burning. His hair is slick with sweat and his legs feel wobbly, like those of a pop-up toy on a button he had as a child.
It’s only when he is lingering over some frozen burgers that he notices the face of the man behind him, reflected in the glass of the door. He’s not being menacing in any way. Just staring. Watching. But Truce recalls seeing him more than once on his route round the park. The man’s eyes meet his, and the stranger turns quickly away. He’s wearing a green hoodie and blue, faded jeans. White trainers on his feet, and he looks slim and fit. Truce manages to see he is clean-shaven and probably twenty to forty, but he doesn’t get a good-enough look to notice anything else. But there’s no doubt in Truce’s mind that, in the park, he could have overtaken Truce if he wanted to. Which begged the question: why was he hanging back? Truce glances at the man’s shopping basket. It’s empty. The guy suddenly starts piling stuff into it — sprouts, frozen rice, and a pizza. Not a combination Truce thinks most shoppers would buy.
Truce takes his basket up to the counter and joins the queue. Like other shoppers, he puts his basket at his feet and shuffles it along. He waits until the man isn’t watching and slips out the door, leaving his food behind. Then he finds a gap between two houses and waits.
He doesn’t have to wait long. Within minutes the man in the green hoodie appears. He’s carrying his shopping in an eco-friendly paper bag, cradling it like you might a baby. As he comes out the shop, he looks up and down the street. Truce pulls back.
Of course, it could all be innocent. It could be Truce’s imagination working overtime again. But the hairs on the back of his neck are bristling, and he feels uneasy.
CHAPTER 8
“Yeah, really sore,” says Truce, his mouth stuffed full of tissues. “Dentist thinks I’m going to need a root canal. Legacy of army dentists,” he added, fully aware that this is unfair.
“Just my luck to have picked up the phone,” says Wendy. “Rose believes in working through the pain. And she always shoots the messenger.”
“You should have let the Bob get it,” says Truce.
“The Bob?”
“Guy on the desk.”
“He’s busy putting up alert signs. We’ve gone to black again.”
“I’ll be in as soon as I can,” says Truce.
“Look as if you’re in great pain when you do,” says Wendy and rings off.
“Should I punch you in the jaw?” says Leighton. “I mean to make it look realistic? I wouldn’t mind.”
“I’m good,” says Truce, pulling the tissue out. Bits of the paper stick to his tongue, making him gag. He picks them off with his nails.
Leighton moves closer. “Honestly, it would be no trouble.”
“You miss the job more than me.”
Leighton shrugs. “Whereas there’s you out courting danger. Risking your life at a granny’s funeral.”
Truce pulls a face.
Leighton shakes his head. “You don’t know Scottish grannies.”
***
Truce stands at the back of the small church. It is full to bursting. Lilies flood the chapel from every crevice. In baskets. In vases. In bound bouquets. Truce assumes they were June’s favourite flower. No one has cut out the pollen stems and yellow powder spills everywhere. The scent hangs in the stuffy air like a fragrant curtain. More like a green house than a place of worship, Truce can’t help but think.
The priest stammers slightly. A few younger people occupy the front pews. June’s grown-up children, Truce guesses. But other than that, the place is packed with grannies, dressed to the nines, their rose-scented face powder mingling with the scent of lilies. They are all fierce in their grief, and the few men of pensioner age have a hunted look, as if they expect the grim reaper himself to be hiding behind a pillar. All June’s friends glare at the priest as if daring him to sum up June’s life in a way that will even approach adequate.
“Let us sing June’s favourite hymn,” says the priest. “‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’.”
An elderly woman, almost as round as she is tall, staggers over to the organ, and after a few hoots, as the instrument blows out dust from long disuse, she begins to play — and play beautifully.
To Truce’s surprise, and judging by the priest’s face, to his, as well, the mourners lift their voice in proper song. They belt out the lyrics with sincerity — not the normal half-muted, embarrassed efforts typical of most funerals.
Emboldened by his unusually enthusiastic congregation, the priest delivers an excellent eulogy, and barely refers to his notes. Friends of June’s stand up and speak movingly but briefly of June and a couple read poems. A leather-skirt-clad granny recites one of Truce’s favourites — Yeats, “The Second Coming” — breaking down towards the end. Truce marks her as the one to talk to afterwards. She shares not only June’s lo
ve of leather but also leopard print, judging by her leggings. Her hair is dyed an unrealistic gold and curled extravagantly. She has discreet pearl earrings and several strands of jet beads hang round her neck, as well as black silk gloves reaching up to her elbows. It’s as if an ageing street walker has run through a goth store, grabbing items at random. Truce suspects she will prove as extraordinary as June, but vows to keep out of arms’ length once she has consumed the obligatory wake sherries.
At the end of the service, the poem reader stands up again and invites everyone, on June’s behalf, to The Kilted Goose for a wee drink to celebrate June’s life. “She’d want us to be happy,” she adds tearfully.
Truce exits quickly and loiters in the graveyard to see if people are walking or driving to the pub. But as they spill out of the church, the mourners mill around the churchyard. He overhears people talking about “catching up” and “after all these years”. It begins to drizzle and before long umbrellas are popping open, but still the crowd doesn’t move on. At last the priest exits, looking agitated. Truce follows his eyeline and sees the next hearse pulling slowly up towards the church. It makes him think. What has happened to June’s body? He had thought it most likely they would have moved on to a crematorium before for the wake, less likely they would have stood at an old-fashioned graveside. But now it strikes him how blindly stupid he has been. He hasn’t even seen a coffin. He searches his memory and recalls the service had been described as a “memorial” on the internet. He feels vaguely cheated, but follows the mourners as they are ushered along by the priest, who is flapping about in his robes like a sodden raven.
To Truce’s relief, despite the rain, the majority opt to walk. It’s been a long time since he had to discreetly follow a car. The Kilted Goose is exactly the kind of pub Truce can see June liking. It’s one step above your “spit-n-sawdust”. Cheap wooden benches, ageing oak bar, open fires and garish prints that doubtless served as tinsel holders at Christmas. The ceiling has that rippled effect and is stained yellow from the before the smoking ban. But it’s clean and the ageing owner and his wife call everyone “hen” or “love”.
Guests are sympathetically shown through to the back room, a white and fake oak beam affair, with a mild aroma of damp. Trestle tables are loaded with basic ready-sliced bread sandwiches and the kind of cream cake you get from the chain bakeries — all squash and no jam. In the corner, a temporary bar has been set up. Truce can see the edge of a keg and pipe leading to the makeshift pump. Disco lights dot each corner of the ceiling. These are dim, but he can imagine that much later, when the food and drink is gone, some of June’s buddies might not be above a lurch around the dance floor, especially if there are any single males between the ages of eighteen and a hundred within grasping radius. He determines to leave early.
Truce meanders to the table and picks up an egg sandwich, more for something to do than because he is hungry. It is unpleasantly warm between his fingers. The filling is not long made, but already the corners of the bread are curling. He picks out a piece of shell from the edge.
Although he was far from the first to arrive, people keep streaming past him. Most seem more interested in getting to the bar than the food, so he stays where he is, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. He’s been to his fair share of funerals. It was part of the job; an occupational hazard of being in the Services. But this party-like atmosphere, with children of all ages, running free is different. It seems that people might not have taken their kids to the church, but they have brought them here. Either that or the speed of them acts like a blur of persistent of vision, artificially increasing their number. It’s a full-on family affair. The skin by his collar starts to itch. Sweat oozes from his pores.
He stuffs the unwanted sandwich in his mouth and steps away from the table to get some air, not sure if he will return.
But he finds his path blocked by the poem-woman. She is holding a glass of white wine in her hand. It is full and noticeably devoid of violent red lipstick on the rim. “You’re June’s toy-boy, aren’t you?”
Truce chokes in surprise.
The woman pats him on the back. “Only kidding, love. You’re the copper, aren’t you?”
Truce nods, and the cheap bread sticks to the roof of his mouth. His throat is dry, and he swallows with difficulty.
“It was nice of you to come,” she says. “I don’t expect you know how much June appreciated you taking her seriously.”
“Just doing my job,” Truce manages to croak.
“Pity you didn’t get any further,” says the woman, her eyes bright.
“Police work isn’t the same as it is on TV,” says Truce, trying to sound kind and not patronising.
The woman frowns, “Do you mean not as flashy with all those gizmos, or do you mean it’s slower?”
Truce smiles slightly. “I should have known June would have friends as sharp as her,” he says.
The woman holds out her hand. “Senga,” she says.
“Mrs Senga?” Truce asks, lifting his eyebrows.
“After three husbands, I only use my first name,” says Senga, “like Cher.”
Truce lets out a small chuckle.
“There that’s better. You looked as uncomfortable as a nun in a knocking shop.”
Truce grins and inclines his head towards Senga, giving what he hopes is the impression of intimacy and trust. “Ah, well, I was an orphan from very early on. These family affairs aren’t my scene.”
“Poor love,” says Senga. “We’re all friends here.” She gestures around, spilling some of her wine onto the red paisley carpet. “June told everyone how good you were to her. She was going to bake you one of her chocolate cakes.”
Truce purses his lips together and nods as if he understands what an honour that was.
Senga gives him a little nudge. “June always could pull the handsome ones.”
Truce has to forcibly relax his shoulders, which are desperate to shoot up around his ears. “She was quite a lady,” he says.
“Not sure about lady,” says Senga.
“And to go just after she’d had such fabulous luck,” adds Truce quickly.
Senga’s face darkens. “Do you know those bastards at the Bingo wouldn’t release the money for the wake or even to her family?” Truce looks confused, so she explains. “If you win big, they give you a bottle to celebrate, but you have to go in and collect your winnings the next day. That way they stop rough types hanging round at night waiting to mug little old ladies.”
“That’s a good idea,” says Truce.
“You couldn’t have a word with them, could you? If they won’t let her friends have the money, they could give it to her daughter. She’s got a couple of wee ones, and they eat money like nobody's business.”
“I can look into it,” says Truce. “Doesn’t seem right they should profit from June’s misfortune.”
“Good lad,” says Senga, clapping Truce on the arm. This time he can’t help jumping. “Relax, son,” says Senga.
“Had June been drinking?” says Truce.
“No,” says Senga, taken aback. “We drank for her. She’s been dry for years.”
“So she used to be a …”
“An alcoholic,” Senga says, “but she cleaned her act up and never looked back.” She gives him a searching look. “Are those bastards saying she was drunk? That’s why she toppled into the road?”
Truce isn’t sure who “those bastards” are, but he says, “It’s been suggested.”
“Pigs,” snorts Senga. “Not you, love, but honestly. Sober as the day she was born, was June. I was with her right up until she left. If I hadn’t caught sight of Davie Martin on his own in the lobby, I’d have gone with her … Must have been her heart.”
“She had a bad heart?” says Truce, repressing the urge to find out who Davie Martin is.
“At our age, who hasn’t?” says Senga. “Come on, lad. I’ll introduce you to her friends.”
It is over an hour before Truce manages t
o escape. By this time, he has learnt that everyone he spoke to at the wake believes there is no way June would have been drinking. “Absolutely not,” her daughter had said. She is a younger version of June, but sleekly groomed and well-dressed. “She swore on Dad’s life she’d never drink again. She wouldn’t break that vow.”
Truce remembers that she is a medic of some kind, and so is her husband, a mop-headed man with a gaunt and lined face. Truce tries to probe them about health details, but it seems June was always determined not to worry her children. She never shared any medical issues with them.
“I blame myself,” her oldest daughter says. “If I had come home more often, I might have noticed what was up. We spoke on the telephone every Monday and Thursday, but it’s not the same, is it?”
Truce makes some kind of muttering noise. Her husband saves him an actual answer, waving his hand in the air. “Look at all these people. She had a good life, darling. She wouldn’t have thanked you for interfering — or,” he adds with sudden intensity, “taking her away from her home.” Truce senses an old argument about whether or not to take in an ageing parent.
“It’s true,” Truce says, attempting to forestall an argument, at least until he can get away. “I only knew her for a short time, but she told me she had a full and active life. Some very good friends,” he finishes, sparing June’s daughter from any comment about her active love life.
“She knew our schedule at the hospital was very busy. What with that and the kids being typical teens,” the husband continues.
Truce sees the tell-tale flush at the daughter’s throat and knows her husband should have stopped while he was ahead. Now, fuelled by a few drinks, grief, and guilt, June’s daughter launches a scathing verbal attack on her husband. This is the point at which Truce slips away.
He wanders back across the town square and through the graveyard to where he left his car. He’s still kicking himself for not noticing the absence of a coffin earlier, but from the back of the church he couldn’t see properly — and once at the wake, the situation developed too quickly for him to find the right time or the suitable person to ask without seeming hugely insensitive.
Only the Dead Know Page 7