So what’s with the smell, huh?
Maybe he fell asleep and, well, you know, had an accident. But it didn’t smell like piss. Mick pictured dead goldfish floating on a crusty skin of rancid water. This smell was like that.
“Explain those then,” he whispered as two bluebottles buzzed out through the open window. “Like flies around…” He knocked louder, desperate for a response. The door swung open. “Hello?”
His eyes were drawn inside Lincoln Farrier’s home, into the hallway with flowery 1960s wallpaper, with a deep green carpet running up the stairs in front of him. The centre of the carpet had worn thin. But his eyes couldn’t stay there for long, they were pulled to the lounge door.
All was quiet. Except the flies.
He stepped into the hall. “Hello,” he called again. Nothing. Only the smell and the flies.
He shouldn’t be in there.
You should go back to the car and you should sit there, taking little sips from the God-help-me bottle, and you should wait until a frail old fella walks up the path. Then you could ask him if his name was Lincoln, and when he says, “Yes, it’s Lincoln, who are you?” you could breathe that sigh of relief you’ve been promising yourself, and you could pat him on the shoulder, and you could laugh at him and say, “Hey Lincoln, think it’s about time you changed your fucking fish water – it smells like someone died in there!”
He touched the lounge door handle. His heart thumped irregularly.
“Get a move on, Micky,” he said. “It’ll be fucking dark soon!” And that helped, that little chip of humour sent the ghosties and ghoulies flying off with the bluebottles and got him smiling at this nonsense he’d created.
He’d simply step into the lounge, leave the old guy a friendly ‘while you were out…’ note and then go.
Mick stepped into the lounge and froze.
Mick had walked in; the smile he’d prepared in advance wasn’t needed after all. Without realising it, his feet were already inside the room, and though he wanted them to stop and turn, they walked on a few extra steps and came to a lazy halt by the table, literally a couple of yards away from the maggots crawling inside Lincoln Farrier’s nostrils.
He watched in silence, with a repugnant fascination at the maggots, a tiny writhing mass, wriggling in the hole, and it seemed strange that all that movement was going on, and yet no one reached out a finger to scratch at the annoying tickle they caused; how could you put up with it!
The top of Lincoln’s head had left home. Parts of it were buried in the wall along with a spray of dark red blood that had dripped and run towards the bureau, the bureau that had collected most of the old man’s brains and the blackening fleshy bits that used to surround it. Splinters of bone were everywhere.
The front of the old man’s shirt was awash with a large blackened stain, as though he wore a warlock’s bib, and his hands, strangely similar to a dead chicken’s claw, how all the fingers seemed drawn together, were pale save for the liver spots, and were draped as though he were asleep, one in his lap, the other over the side of the chair, hanging in mid-air.
At his feet was a gun.
And on the table was a note. Mick tried to sidestep the emotions he knew were coming his way, and he tried to read the note, but it may as well have been written in Arabic for all he could see or absorb. He could see the single droplet of blood though, high up in the right corner of the note, just one droplet of blacky redness. It was abhorrent as though that was the icon of the scene as a whole, the exclamation mark at the end of Mr Lincoln Farrier’s life.
As he looked back at the old man, whose eyes were sunken white things in sockets that were six sizes too large for them, he felt something move in his stomach; something unpleasant with a smell not too dissimilar to that now enjoyed by his nostrils.
His eyes let go of the old man’s, his feet turned rather raggedly and tried to make their way to the exit. He stepped along toward the daylight, ignoring the flies and the smell, and out into the back garden of a dead old man who would never again tend his roses. He rested his back against the cold brick of Lincoln’s house, breathing deep, cleansing breaths.
Then Mick doubled up and threw up onto the path, spraying his grubby shoes with puke.
The next thing he knew, he was gulping down mouthfuls of foul-tasting brandy and marvelling at the lumps of vomit clinging to his new tie.
26
Monday 22nd June
– One –
An hour after giving his speech, Eddie had deleted almost 3,000 worthless emails and familiarised himself with yet more new procedures concerning DNA recovery techniques; had charged up the Multi-Layer Protein Dye latent fingerprint enhancement canister, installed new batteries in the mini-sequencing machine and checked out his personal-issue laptop, ready for a day of fighting crime. He slurped the coffee and then sneaked off to sip the brandy in the toilet, feeling the familiar buzz as it hit his brain and took the edge off what should have been a steady reintroduction to crime scene examination. “What have we got then, Ros?”
The sheet came out of the old laser printer and she logged off IBIS and sighed. “I’ve tried to keep it low-key,” she said as she handed Eddie the list, “but I think I’ve hit boring by mistake.”
“Today I like boring.”
Ros stood next to him, reading the list over his shoulder. “Have you,” she whispered, pulling at his arm, gaining his attention, “have you had a swig of the hard stuff?”
Eddie looked at her, and then over towards Jeffery’s office. “Don’t know what you mean.”
She didn’t whisper this time. “It’s okay if you can’t quit in order to get back with Jilly, but don’t you touch that stuff while we’re on duty!”
He held out his hands. “Okay, I get the message.”
“Well make sure you do.” Ros grabbed her coat. “Now, come on.”
– Two –
Eddie whispered, “Twenty minutes.”
Ros shook her head. “Fifteen, no forced entry.”
“Okay, fifteen, cash, no electrical goods.”
The man looked tired. He answered the door and his eyes were tiny, shiny things hidden somewhere in great folds of dark skin that were sunken beneath outcrops of hairy brow. His moustache flicked up and down. “Yes?”
“Hello,” Eddie said, “police fingerprints.”
The man ran fingers through his thinning hair. “Are you CSI?”
“Yes.”
“Well why the bloody hell didn’t you say so?” The outcrops grew heavier.
Eddie and Ros looked at each other. “We’re sorry we couldn’t get here yesterday,” Ros said, “only we–”
“Don’t give me your excuses, I’m not interested in excuses. Just come in.” He stood aside, let them in and slammed the door. “Through here,” he snapped.
“Where did they get in?” Eddie asked, realising the same old questions, asked in the same old concerned voice, were already tripping back out of his mouth as though he’d never been away, as natural as exhaled air.
“Kitchen.” He walked away from them. “Through here.”
“Kitchen,” Eddie whispered, miming behind his back, waddling behind him. Ros poked him in the ribs. “Did you leave the window open?”
“Is it a crime?”
“No, just wondered, that’s all.”
“It was open.”
“Thanks awfully,” smiled Eddie. I’m the one who needs cheering up, and look what I get lumbered with: Mr Happy! I’m gonna slit my wrists before today is over. Eddie struggled to keep up because his leg ached again, and as they walked through the lounge towards the back of the house, he noticed a dent in the skirting board the size of a fist.
“I was sacked today,” Mr Happy said to no one in particular. “There,” he said, folded his arms, nodded his head, “he came in through there.” He stood back, watching them closely.
“Right,” Ros said, “I’ll start outside. Okay, Eddie?”
“Are you sure?” he pleaded, “
I mean, I don’t mind…”
“I’ll be fine.” She stepped outside.
“Okay,” Eddie smiled sarcastically, showing teeth and all.
“Sacked after fourteen years. It was all his fault too,” the man grinned with irony, like he was a road accident victim picked up by a life-saving helicopter, only to be told there was a bomb on board, “the fudge-nudger.” He looked at Eddie. “He sacked me for straight-talking,” he grunted again, “for not being sympathetic enough, for not bending over and taking it up the shitter. The bastard! And then this happens and I have to take the day off. He says it’s not good enough, that I look like shit! But what’s he expect? I went six rounds with a fucking burglar.” He put his face close to Eddie’s, nodded outside to Ros. “What’s your boss like?”
Eddie opened his kit, didn’t look up. “We get along well most of the time.”
“Mine was a wanker! A poof! Ha. At least he was; I don’t work there anymore, I don’t fucking work anywhere anymore.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr McHue.” Eddie took out the MLPD spray and squirted it on the glass. Then he bent and took out his squirrel brush and jar of aluminium powder.
“Yeah, I bet. You do this day in and day out, and I bet you hear this kind of shit all day long. Why would you care, you’ll go home at the end of every day to your swanky little house where wifey has tea ready for you–”
Eddie stiffened.
“Hey, that’s enough.” Ros stood in the doorway, watching.
“I can see it in your eyes; you don’t give a flying fuck that I got beaten up. You couldn’t care less that some bastard came into my house and beat the crap out of me!”
Bet it took ages, Eddie thought. He noticed Ros watching, thinking the same thought, and he half winked at her, just to let her know he was in control of the situation, and yeah he was fine, and no, he wouldn’t let this guy wind him up. Eddie stood again, folded his arms and watched McHue blame the world for his troubles.
“And do you know what, he took it, he took my fucking savings. I mean, I have some put in the bank, but that was special, see I knew he was going to do it, I knew he was going to fucking sack me, that bum-bandit–”
“Please,” Eddie said, “cool the language down a bit.”
“And I knew… what? What did you say to me! This is my fucking house! I was attacked and robbed in my own fucking house, and then it takes two days for fucking forensics to finally get their arse in gear and come out to make a mess in my house, to tell me there’s nothing–”
“Calm down, sir.” Eddie put the jar of powder down.
“Don’t you tell me to fucking calm down.”
“Hey! Hey!” Ros stepped into the kitchen. McHue looked at her and slammed the door on her foot. Eddie dropped the brush. He grabbed the man by the scruff of the neck and pinned him against the wall.
“Eddie!” Ros screamed.
“I’ll ram this torch down your bastard throat, you little wanker, if you don’t keep a lid–”
“Eddie!” Now Ros screamed at Eddie, not at McHue, not at the pain in her foot, but directly at Eddie. “Let him go.”
Eddie stared into his face, stared deep into his tired eyes, and he actually felt sympathy for him, but then McHue spoiled it all.
“Go on,” he croaked, “do it to me. See what happens. I don’t care what you do next, big boy; I’ll have the last laugh.” And then a chuckle fell out into the air between them. “Go on,” he said, “get out of my house, you piece of shit, and take your chemicals and your fucking girlfriend with you. Go on, back to your wife and your little bastard kids…” He spat the words into Eddie’s face.
Eddie went cold.
Mr McHue’s words faded. The coldness spread out quickly from his head, through his shoulders and into his arms. And he thought about how he would go home to his little wifey and watch his little bastard, Sammy, as they played on the carpet waiting for tea to cook. Eddie’s eyes grew wide and his grip tightened on Mr Happy’s reddening throat, until Mr Happy’s eyes changed from irony to fear. They flicked between Eddie and Ros, a kind of pleading in them now. “Get him off me! He’s fucking crazy, get him off me now!”
“Eddie,” Ros whispered his name. “He’s not worth it, Eddie.”
Eddie relaxed the grip. He blinked and then the ferocity left his face.
The man breathed again, rubbing his throat as Eddie stepped back. “What’s your name?” He looked at Ros.
“Why do you–”
“You’re his boss, aren’t you? I want your name.”
“Hey come on, sir. I think we should all just calm down. We’re here to–”
“What is your name?”
“Do you want us to carry on with the examination?”
“Is that a threat, young lady? I ask for your name, and you imply you will cease to carry out an examination if I carry out my right to complain about being held by the throat,” he looked at Eddie, “by one of your gorillas?”
“No, I only–”
Eddie moved forward and Ros held him back. “Well if he’s gonna sue, I may as well get my fucking money’s worth.”
“No! Eddie, please, it’s not worth it; leave him alone and lift the marks you found. Ignore him, do your job.”
“That’s right, Eddie. Do your job.” McHue turned to Ros. “Write your details down for me now. I won’t ask again. And write his down, too.”
Eddie lifted the aluminium powder marks off the inner sill, along with a partial footmark. The MLPD marks on the window were of no value. He had some evidence, but for the life of him couldn’t come up with a reason good enough to help this ignorant bastard more than he already had.
He sealed the lifted marks in an evidence bag and plugged the cap back on the MLPD spray bottle. And then he looked at the man, at his straggly hair, his unkempt features, eyes that needed a year’s worth of sleep just to start looking normal again, and he wondered why he had said those things; Christ, they had never met, why would he want to say those things… he almost felt sorry for him. Was he the cause of his own bad fortune, or the result?
Did I look like that? Do I look like that now?
“Listen,” Eddie said, fighting back the words he dearly wanted to use, “I understand you’ve been through some bad times–”
“Bad times?” McHue smiled for a moment. “Bad times! You don’t know what fucking bad times are, you snivelling piece of shit.” His eyes darkened and his head sank into his shoulders, hands turned into claws. “You collect your nice huge monthly pay, pay that I provide you with, and you couldn’t give a sideways fuck about people like me!” McHue closed the gap down and prodded Eddie in the arm with each syllable of his snarled words. “You’ve no idea what bad times are. You go from one fucking job to the next, like parasites feeding on the misery of others, and you file your fucking paperwork.” He brought his black eyes right up to Eddie’s, and when Ros tried to intervene, he merely turned his eyes to the side and growled at her. He looked back at Eddie. “Come back to the real world, you pumped up piece of shit, and come back to where bad things happen to nice people. You’d fold in seconds if it happened to you!”
Eddie gritted his teeth, felt the heat in his chest intensify, and felt the tears come to the surface. “You want a fucking competition on the Bad Times League?”
“Enough!” Ros said.
McHue saw something in Eddie that made him flinch and take a couple of steps back. “Is that it?” He saw the evidence bag in Eddie’s hand. “Is that all you got?”
“I’ll wait outside for you, Ros.” Eddie picked up his kit.
“Don’t walk away from me while I’m talking to you!” McHue reached out and took hold of Eddie by the shoulder.
Eddie turned and rammed a well-aimed elbow in his stomach. McHue coughed and folded up, holding himself off the floor with the fingertips of his right hand, while his left rubbed his gut. He shrieked in pain, but cursed Eddie, promising to have his fucking job, and every penny he had.
Well you w
on’t get much, Eddie thought and walked away.
27
Monday 22nd June
– One –
Stuart looked across the empty office to Eddie’s desk.
He had finished his morning’s work with the ease of a pro; had accumulated fingerprint and footwear evidence in his usual diligent way. Stuart was perfection personified when it came to his work, his craft. He was the one with all the knowledge, the man who rarely referred to a satnav to find his way around the city centre, and the man who never made mistakes in his clerical duties. He was punctual, and smart to the point of being annoying. His black trousers had a crease so sharp up the centre of each leg they could have been cast from iron; his shoes were so shiny that you could see a reflection of the ceiling, and his hair was slicked back covering a slight bald patch on the crown of his head – his only imperfection – with such precision that it could have been drawn with a black marker pen.
He was the one who organised the Christmas parties and forced everyone to attend; he was the one who administered the tea fund with such efficiency that he could easily have been the Chancellor of the Exchequer. He was the unofficial judge of those around him, checking their paperwork as though the supervisor had died and he’d put him in charge. And he was the one who brought their discrepancies to the supervisor’s attention, and always with great pride.
He munched his square-cut sandwiches, and watched the BBC TV news showing the demonstrations surrounding Margy Bolton’s death on Sunday, the first to die by a bullet.
Stuart’s eyes strolled around the office and fell on Collins’s desk again, the most untidy desk here; and he shook his head at the accumulated papers scattered across it, at the bulging in-tray, at the unfulfilled statement requests and other assorted detritus lurking there. He was a disgrace to the service, was Collins. Why they hadn’t turfed him out was a mystery.
[Eddie Collins 01.0] The Third Rule Page 15