[Eddie Collins 01.0] The Third Rule

by Andrew Barrett

  “No. I wouldn’t.”

  “Exactamundo. Exacta-fucking-mundo.” He downed the brandy and refilled the glass, and then he looked at Eddie, saw that his rubberised face had slipped back into uninterested. “How did you find out it wasn’t suicide?”

  “I can’t–”

  “Off the record, Eddie.”

  Eddie stared at him.

  “No, I mean it, off the record. I won’t quote you, or use anything–”

  “For a second there, Mick, I almost believed you.”

  “Eddie, an old man was shot through the head in his own home, and someone tried to pass it off as suicide. I’m going to the police with everything I have tomorrow–”

  “After you’ve run the fucking story, no doubt.”

  “Hey, I’m hanging on to my job by its foreskin, I kid you not, and I have to make this work. But it doesn’t mean I can’t take a personal interest too. And I do, I have.”

  Eddie relented. He told him about the photographs and about the spelling error in Lincoln Farrier’s alleged suicide note. And he finished his brief résumé by adding, “If any of this, any of this gets into print, I will dutifully collect my P45 and then come straight round to your house and pull your legs off. Do I make myself ultra-clear, Micky-boy? I really do mean it; I have a job to keep too, remember.”

  Mick held up his hands, “Absolutely, no problemo, I promise.”

  “Good, now pass the bottle, you pisshead.”

  “I knew about the spelling error anyway.”

  “How?”

  “I saw the note, remember?”

  “You were chucking your load, Mick; how come you took notice of the note?”

  Mick was silent for a moment. “I’ve never seen anything like it. It was abhorrent but… mesmerising.”

  Eddie stared a little longer, then nodded his understanding.

  “So tell me what happened after I left.”

  “We called the circus out, that’s what happened. CID eventually showed up, Jeffery came along too.”

  “Did they call a biologist?”

  Eddie nodded.

  “And a ballistics expert?”

  “You know more about this job than I do. Yes, we did all that, and we called in the forensic pathologist and then we had tea and biscuits in Lincoln’s lounge while the horseracing was on. Went through a full tin of fly spray but I won twenty quid.”

  Mick wobbled his head side to side. “Oh, ha fucking ha.”

  “Well, what do you want me to say, Mick? We went through the whole shit-n-shaboodle, start to finish; that’s how come I’ve just managed to plonk my arse in my own chair after a sixteen-hour shift. And even then I end up talking about the pissing job. And I need a shower; I’ve got so much ali powder on me that I feel like the tin man.”

  “You smell of death.”

  “You smell of body odour.”

  Mick nodded. “I wanted to know what evidence you found.”

  “I’m not telling you that, you plank. Not only would I lose my job, I’d end up in jail for perverting the course of justice.”

  Mick put his hand on his chest, the smoke streaming around his chin. “This is me you’re insulting.”

  “I couldn’t care less.”

  “I’ve already promised–”

  He groaned. “You’re worse than a kid, you know that?”

  Mick smiled.

  “We took the gun, we’ll get low copy DNA from the butt and we’ll try for fingerprints off the barrel. The bullet can’t be examined cos it’s too badly damaged, and the shell will go for fingerprinting along with the note too. We fingerprinted the house, including the doors and the windows and found forty-seven marks – probably all his, and maybe Mrs Walker’s too if they were having it off. That’s it. Tomorrow,” he looked at the clock, “later today rather, the chemical boys will go in there and spray ninhydrin all over the walls and maybe, in a couple of days, they’ll find another dozen marks or so. Okay?”

  “Thanks. No need to be so gracious.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “I know.” He poured himself another drink. “What about the PM?”

  “I wasn’t there, Mick. I don’t know.”

  He paused. “I can’t understand it; who would want an old boy like Lincoln dead?” He stood. “Want some fresh toast?”

  Eddie shook his head. “You go on.”

  “Ta. I’m going to run the story as a tragic suicide, how an old man couldn’t bear to live without his wrongfully imprisoned son. And then, the next day, I’m running it as fucking murder.”

  “Run it as what you want, Mick. Just don’t mention me or anything I’ve told you. Got it?”

  “I won’t, I promise, I’ll mention what Mrs Walker told me, that’s all. That way, it’ll keep the murderer wondering if the police know something or not, or if it’s just speculation in print.”

  “I’m trusting you here, Mick.”

  “And you’re trusting me, my forensic friend, because I’ve never spilled your beans in print before. Have I?” Then Mick blushed, “Apart from that once and that wasn’t anything to do with a job.” He reinforced the point by waving a finger.

  “And–”

  “Okay, twice. But that wasn’t anything to do with a job either.”

  “And don’t mention Stephen’s name; if the murderer sees it in print, he may panic if he cottons on he’s spelled it wrong.”

  “Gotcha, big boy.”

  Mick left the room, and Eddie heard the bathroom light click on. He sighed, rubbed the stubble around his chin and downed the last of the brandy, coughing in that wheezing way as it stung his throat. Five glasses in twenty minutes and he still felt sober. “It’s becoming more and more expensive to get pissed these days.” And that simple sentence was the catalyst he needed to drop from a superficial – artificial – level of feeling okay with things, to falling three floors down the lift shaft and into a decrepit feeling of despair.

  He tried to count his blessings, as his old mum used to say, and he was finding it difficult to come up with any he could actually label as blessings, more “not disasters”.

  He sniggered, felt light-headed. “At last,” he said, and thought about Jilly. Maybe he should attend one of those crank nights at the Crystal Ball Club with her, where some schmuck feeds you a plate of hope, when all you can really taste in your mouth is bullshit.

  The toaster popped. “You’re out of margarine,” Mick shouted.

  “Scrape some grease off the top of the cooker.”

  “Barrel of fun, you are.”

  “You know where the door is.”

  Mick walked back in, spilled brandy down his chin and slammed the glass on the table. “What’s your problem?” He stared at Eddie, dark eyes narrowed, cheeks throbbing. “Why can’t you be civil just for one evening?”

  “Because I don’t have to be fucking civil. No one invited you here, you prick! You came here to squeeze me for info about the dead pensioner. Oh, and you came here to eat my fucking toast.” They stared at each other. Eventually Eddie dropped his gaze, watched the pattern in the carpet float this way and that. “I’m sorry.” He looked up again. “I nearly punched a guy who’d been burgled today. He said something that I would normally have brushed aside, but I had the bastard by the throat up against his own kitchen wall.”

  “I bet he had margarine.”

  “I feel like punching everyone I meet. Stuck-up Stuart nearly bought a dental appointment twice today. I can’t hack it anymore, Mick.”

  “Hey, come on.”

  “I just want to sit in the corner and drink brandy until I piss brandy, you know what I mean?”

  “Yes,” Mick said earnestly. “I think I do.” He topped up both their glasses and sat opposite Eddie in his accustomed fashion, one leg draped over the arm of the chair. “I admire you. I think you’ve coped well since Sam’s death. And today, wow,” he shook his head, “I don’t know how you go into places like that and fuck about with corpses that carry their own livestock.
”

  “It’s not just the job. I actually hate being alive. If I was a braver man, I would be sitting in this chair looking a lot like Lincoln Farrier right now.” He blinked and a tear fell. “I miss my kid, Mick.”

  “I know you do. You were a good dad, Eddie; anybody can see that.” He lit two cigarettes, threw one at Eddie, and stared at the ceiling. “I never had kids,” he said. “Couldn’t see the attraction.”

  “Couldn’t find anyone dumb enough, you mean.”

  Mick laughed. “No pulling the wool over your eyes is there?” And then his face straightened. “Never had the opportunity, if the truth be known.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  He tipped the glass at Eddie. “Who wants to marry a pisshead?”

  Eddie looked away.

  – Two –

  Jilly sat in the darkness. She could smell him on the teddy. She held that damned thing in her arms so tight that she had pins and needles. It smelled just like him, and it took her mind back to the happy times, the really good times where they shared a wonderful family life. All three of them. She buried her nose in the soft fur and breathed in, and there he was, large as life, good old Sam. He would never admit to any of his friends that he had a teddy – a boy of twelve did not have such things – but he loved it all the same, and his secret was safe with her.

  The Yorkshire Echo. 22nd June

  By Michael Lyndon

  ‘Justice’ to blame for death of a lonely old man

  THIS reporter found the remains of a sad old man who had taken his own life. Lincoln Farrier (78) killed himself after suffering the absence of his son for an intolerable length of time.

  The tragic story began with Lincoln’s son being imprisoned for attacking a burglar. Despite repeated pleas from Lincoln and his son’s family, the parole board insisted he was still “a danger to burglars”.

  I believe everyone has a right to defend their own hard-earned property, and it is unethical for a so-called “justice system” to keep a man locked up for doing just that. Furthermore, doesn’t the parole board consider burglars to be in the wrong place at any time? This phrase of theirs gives burglars the right to a life of crime and gives those defending themselves and their property no rights at all.

  I had intended asking Mr Farrier his views on The Rules. Those now will never be known, but his honest lifestyle and the neat and orderly way in which he kept his life, indicates his wholehearted support for decency, and for The Rules.

  Would it be wrong to assume that if they had existed prior to his son’s house being burgled, the burglar – who has been free for some time (presumably to burgle again) would have been on a Rule One already, and that alone may have deterred him from committing crime again? That in turn would have left this wonderful old man and his son united, and, of course, wouldn’t have seen such a tragic end to a proud man’s life.

  I hope those bureaucrats responsible for this horrendous slant on British justice, rethink their policy on those defending their right to enjoy their own possessions and property, and comes down hard on those who would steal it.

  The Ministry of Justice refused to comment this morning, claiming individual cases are for the relevant authorities to deal with. Surely, that relevant authority is they. Is this another case of the blind leading the blind, or of simply shifting the responsibility? We have The Rules, why don’t we use them?

  30

  Tuesday 23rd June

  A little bell tinkled over the door when she opened it. She stepped in, intimidated, a little afraid of being here, and more than a little afraid of being in the city, especially without Christian by her side. It was something she could never recall doing before. He was protective, always had an arm around her, always on the lookout for trouble and guiding her away from it.

  She suffered panic attacks wherever there was a crowd, and that, she supposed, was the drugs’ fault. But today, necessity overcame panic and she had trailed bravely through Leeds for two and a half hours by herself, feeling the sweat trickle down her back, watching them, the crowd of people who stared at her like she was some fucking freak in a sideshow, making sure they kept their distance. She should never go out alone, he said. The world is a bad place, he said. And she believed him; why wouldn’t she?

  The door closed and the calming silence welcomed her. The shop was stuffy; it was crowded with objets d’art, or whatever they called this crap. Her eyes floated around and her feet slowly edged their way over the shiny wooden floorboards. There were globes of all descriptions: etched, gold, silver, porcelain, standing on intricately carved legs, some even doubling as drinks cabinets.

  There was a shelf of cameos, another of miniature paintings in tiny gold frames, there were countless clocks – none ticking – stuffed animals, and books everywhere. There was furniture scattered around the place, at one time arranged deliberately, she supposed, but now, shuffled backwards, forwards or just out of the way so the owner could cram more crap onto the overburdened floor. Lights, they were everywhere, dangling from black cast iron hooks in the ceiling.

  But what took her eye more than any of this collection of dust-gatherers, were the pictures. They were everywhere, popping up between each piece, standing on the floor, leaning against the walls and against chairs, against tables trimmed with lace. And across the walls, too; wherever there could have been a spare patch of wall, there was a painting. No prints, just original paintings.

  Alice stepped around a rocking chair, slid sideways towards the near wall and let her eyes roam.

  Oh boy, was she in the wrong shop – again. This was her sixth, and she couldn’t grasp how difficult it was to place modern art – no, not modern art, but recent art, you know, where the artist is still actually alive. So far, most of the shops had suggested car boot sales and hockshops, they didn’t even want to see the sample she had brought. Wrapped in this bin bag was fine art, dammit, “but this is an antique shop”, they all said. Wankers. What did they know?

  “Ahem.”

  Alice gasped. She turned, almost knocking a carriage clock onto the floor, catching it with her spare hand just in time. The little balls smacked noisily against their glass dome. Eyes still closed, she steadied the clock, and then, with an apologetic smile on her face, looked up into the eyes of a weirdo. Across the shop floor, standing beneath an arch she had failed to see before, was a strange little man wearing a bright yellow waistcoat and tiny round spectacles that hung on the end of his nose. He had no neck: his head fitted directly onto his round shoulders. Alice stifled a laugh. “You made me jump.”

  He stared, made her feel uncomfortable; the way he eyed her almost slyly as though weighing her up and categorising her, reading her date stamp and hallmark in the blink of a well-experienced eye.

  “May I help you, madam?” His hands were laced daintily in front of him, and he wore only the merest hint of a welcoming smile.

  “Sorry,” she said, “I er…” She sidled her way back into the main aisle, a section of bare floorboard about eighteen inches wide that had nothing on offer except a scratched shine. “I was wondering how interested you might be in purchasing something.”

  Alice, don’t you do this, girl. Get outta here now. You’ll ruin it all.

  His little eyebrows rose slightly and the portly fellow stepped out from beneath the archway and into the comparative brightness of the main shop. “May I ask what you have there?” He held his chubby hands together tightly, rubbing them.

  “Yes, yes,” she said, “this is what I have for sale.” Alice yanked off the plastic bag. “It’s a–”

  “Ssshh,” he said. “I like to try and guess.”

  Alice wondered whether to tell him he would not guess the piece or the artist unless he had a degree in psychic ability. But she thought that pissing on his bonfire might not be the best way to go.

  The man took the picture, stepped back and held it an angle to catch the light from a chandelier. His face creased, and then he smiled, looked at her and said, “I have to admit,
my dear, I’m not totally familiar with the work,” and then he looked back at the painting, “though it has certain connotations of, er, of,” he clicked his fingers, “Ralph Shephard.”

  “Really?”

  “You don’t agree?”

  She shrugged.

  He looked back at the painting. “Oh yes,” he said, forming a greater interest now, studying it with an ever more inspective eye. “Very similar anyway,” he mused. “Maybe James Preston.”

  “It does?”

  “Fine Realism artists.”

  Realism. That’s what Christian had called them. Beyond Realism.

  Oh yes, he did, girl. And you know, he also said he loved you and he said he cared for you, and what you gonna do for him in return, huh? You gonna stab him right between the shoulder blades.

  I am not!

  How much thought you given to handing the cash over to him? How many times have you told him in your imagination that you found a buyer and by Christmas you’ll be in an apartment where he can paint in comfort? None. You outta your mind, girl. You a traitor.

  “It does indeed.” He looked up, Alice blinked and stepped back. “It has a clever play with light.”

  “You sound very knowledgeable.”

  “What can I say; I like paintings, my dear. But this is no painter I ever saw before.” He looked at her, knowingly yet ignorant, hoping for a clue. “It’s modern, isn’t it?”

  “You could say that.”