[Eddie Collins 01.0] The Third Rule

by Andrew Barrett

  The cuffs rattled against the steering wheel, and he breathed a sigh as the road opened out. He headed towards Leeds, wondering if Alice’s body had been discovered yet.

  52

  Wednesday 24th June

  Eddie said goodbye to Ros outside the station. It was rush-hour, car horns and loud music spoilt the mood; okay, they spoilt his mood. Ros’s mood was nothing worth cherishing. Her eyes were downcast and she hadn’t smiled all afternoon. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine. Gotta go.”

  He watched her pull out into the traffic, feeling bad but not knowing why. Eddie waited for her car to disappear and then set off home.

  Forty minutes later, he parked his car and walked across the road, heading for Booze King, hand already reaching for his wallet, mouth already watering.

  It had been a strange day, but not, he would later reflect, as strange as tomorrow would be, and not half as life threatening either.

  Back at the office, he and Ros had completed the DNA mini-sequencing from the old blood on the passenger seat and from the cigarette lighter. They’d plugged in the laptops and at one o’clock, auto-upload would send all the information and all the electronic evidence across to Wakefield HQ and onto the DNA database. They’d emailed the images to studio. And the fingerprints and the palm prints were in the store, ready for transport tomorrow morning to the bureau at Bishopgarth. Even Jeffery had taken an interest, peering over Eddie’s shoulder as he did the mundane computer work, listening intently as he told of the fingermarks and DNA and whom he suspected of depositing them.

  Stuart stared from across the office. Eddie ignored him.

  Eddie had the power, at least for now, to let issues like Stuart and McHue slide right off his back as though he were shit-proof. He had the power because he had the knowledge, this knowledge. The sun was shining on Eddie Collins, and he inflated his chest because he not only knew who owned the car, but he thought he knew who was driving it when… anyway, he thought he knew. Unfortunately for Eddie, he wasn’t shy of sharing that information.

  The only thing worrying him now, as he carried the bottle to the wired booth to pay, staring at the fuzz-eyed kid behind the counter who told him to look into the camera, was that he might be suspended or even out of the job before the fingerprint and DNA results were back and his suspicions confirmed.

  But what would he do if he got that information first?

  He paid for the booze and the automatic door allowed him to exit into the smog that glowed in Wakefield city centre’s bright sunlight. He dodged between buses and taxis and made it across the street, picturing the moment when he would blow the bastard’s brains out, scalp him, and take his remains to Jilly for verification of a mission well done. But it wouldn’t bring Sam back. It wouldn’t even stop her going to see Freaks Inc.

  “It’s not going to work out, Eddie,” he said as he let himself into the dirty foyer. And that’s when he realised why Ros had been so downbeat. Talking about moving back in with Jilly like that. “Idiot.”

  But back to the conundrum in hand: job versus no job. As he mounted the steps, his mind worked at the problem with the efficiency of a brick telescope. And then he stopped. There was a noise like a man cutting wood with a blunt saw echoing around the stairwell. Quietly, he climbed the steps and peered towards the figure slumped against the wall outside his door. Mick.

  Eddie placed the bottle on the steps and silently opened the door to his flat, lifting it so the hinges wouldn’t squeak. He was back moments later, and dribbled warm water from a cup into Mick’s lap, biting his lip as Mick groaned.

  Having replaced the cup and locked the door, he crept down the first flight of steps, picked up the bottle and collapsed on the stairs, fist in his mouth, eyes screwed up, laughing silently. Eventually, Eddie composed himself, looked straight ahead and started up the stairs again. “Hiya, Mick,” he called. “Mick!”

  Mick’s eyes opened, and eventually focused on Eddie as he scrambled to his feet, brushing dust from his trousers.

  “Looked like you were fast asleep there, mate.”

  “What? No, I was…” Mick looked through Eddie and became quite still.

  “You okay?”

  “What? Yes, yeah, yeah.” He avoiding Eddie’s eyes, mind elsewhere. “Just resting my eyes.” He almost looked startled.

  Eddie threw the door open. It squeaked, and the two men walked into the smell; one as though his piles were painful today.

  “How’s your day been?” Eddie asked.

  “Wet.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I said what.”

  “I asked how your day was.”

  Mick slipped his coat off, paused and pulled it back on again. He sat by the window but curiously didn’t throw a leg over the arm of the chair today.

  “As good as that, eh?”

  “Listen, you pour the drinks,” he handed over a bottle of Caribbean Rum, “and I’ll be back in a second.”

  “You sure you’re okay? You look like you’ve shit yourself. Or pissed yourself even.”

  On his way out of the room, Mick stopped dead. He turned to face Eddie. Eddie could take no more, and he broke down laughing until his lungs hurt and his cheeks ached.

  “Very funny. Oh yes, very funny.” Mick put his hands on his hips, nodded. “Yeah, go on, laugh at a man with a weak bladder, why don’t you.”

  Eddie paused, looked up.

  “You’ll see; it’ll happen to you one day.”

  Eddie fell over, holding his stomach.

  “Sure you don’t want to borrow some of my boxers?”

  “Believe me, I would rather shove wasps up my arse. But I appreciate the offer.”

  “Where have you left your old pair?”

  “Huh?”

  “Your grots, where are they? In your coat pocket?”

  Mick shook his head.

  Eddie squinted. “You’ve left them on my bathroom floor–”

  “Well, where else could–”

  “That is disgusting. I don’t want your skiddies in my bathroom! I’ll get a bag and you can go and get them. And don’t tell me which part of the floor they were on; I don’t want to know. Okay?”

  “Any news from Farrier’s nail scrapings?”

  “Got a file DNA profile.”

  “Really?”

  Eddie nodded, “But he’s not on file, sorry.”

  “Bugger.”

  “He will be, eventually.”

  “I interviewed Sir George Deacon yesterday.”

  “Bet that was a thrill.”

  “It was.”

  “For him, I meant.” Eddie leaned forward, grabbed the rum and refilled his glass, smoke curling up his face, stinging his eyes. “Is this what you wanted to tell me yesterday?”

  “What?”

  “You were going to tell me something, and then you changed your mind.”

  “We were discussing Jilly. But Deacon,” he winked, “I fooled him. I’ve got even more against him. Now I know he had something to do with Lincoln Farrier’s death.”

  “This should be interesting.”

  “I told him that the old guy was murdered, murdered, mind.”

  “You said in your article he was killed, so what’s the revelation?”

  “He said he hated gun crime.”

  Eddie stopped mid-sip, eyebrows raised, and looked across the smoky room at the dishevelled creature lounging in the chair, shirt hanging out, whiskers getting longer by the minute. “He said that?”

  Mick nodded solemnly.

  “Ah, but he’s the Justice Secretary. All kinds of info will get back to him.”

  “Why anything about an old geezer he claimed initially not to know?”

  The thought took a while to sink into Eddie’s mind, but when it did, he realised just what a revelation this was. “This could sink him. You know that, don’t you?”

  “It’s no good in isolation, though. I need much more than that.”

  “To do what? Bring him down?” />
  “Yes.”

  “But why?”

  “I don’t like him anymore.”

  “Why not let the police handle it?”

  Mick looked shocked at Eddie. “I’m an investigative journalist, you prick. We do our own investigating, that’s why they call us–”

  “If Deacon’s behind it, they’ll–”

  “You’re about to insult my intelligence again, aren’t you? I can tell, you know. Forensic evidence is wonderful stuff, I grant you; but it can be manipulated, and if you think for one minute any of it would implicate Deacon, then you’re one naïve little puppy.

  “And that’s where I come in handy.” Mick swung his leg off the arm of the chair, lit a cigarette and rested his elbows on his knees as he leaned forward to make his point. “The Rules are a great piece of legislation – look at Margy Bolton; she said she wouldn’t have killed all those poor kids if she knew the death penalty was up an’ running. It’s a great deterrent, and it works. And if it can reduce killings then I’m all for it. You know I am.”

  “I feel a ‘but’ coming on.”

  “But, he stinks. He is scum; I knew it for sure yesterday, though I’ve suspected it for years. He is corrupt, and if he’s corrupt, he’s a hypocrite because he’s broken his own fucking rules and suffered no punishment. He probably should be on a Rule 300 by now!”

  “You’ve heard of the Teflon man.”

  “Turn him over and he’s just an ordinary frying pan underneath. I have bits of info on him, and when I get it all, he’d better watch out because I’ll blow him out of the water.”

  “You feel really strongly about this, don’t you?”

  “What gave it away?” Mick gulped, “The Rules are good – if everyone abides by them. No exceptions, not even by their creator. Because there can be no flaws in them; once a flaw is discovered, all faith in them is lost and every time someone is executed, there will be an outcry. The decision, and so the punishment, is unsafe.”

  “So how are you going to prove this revelation?”

  “Any ideas?”

  “Nope.”

  “Me neither. But when I eventually do nail him, he’ll be the one looking down the barrel of a gun.”

  “If you’re allowed to run with it.”

  “It’s the ultimate exclusive. It’ll be The Yorkshire Echo’s biggest story this century. It’ll propel our name worldwide. It’ll end up with the government on trial for corruption. It may well see the introduction of a new PM, or at least of a tightening of legislation. And, my forensic friend, it will secure my job, if I should choose to remain there, until I’m so old that I piss myself every day!”

  “My news is equally astounding, my journalistic jerk.”

  “Didn’t know you had any news.”

  “You wouldn’t, since you’re a selfish bastard and I couldn’t get a word in edgeways.”

  “Go on then, hotshot.”

  “I examined a car today.” He sat back and smiled.

  “That was five words, and they were all equally boring.”

  “The car that killed my Sammy.”

  Smoke drifted up Mick’s yellow fingers. “You want to begin that again, now that I’m listening?”

  “I examined a green Jaguar. They recovered it from Great Preston yesterday. Been there a while, judging by all the dust.”

  “That’s good news.” Mick’s tone was respectful. “I hope you get the bastard.” He emptied the glass, was about to swallow it and get a refill.

  “It belongs to Henry Deacon.”

  Mick spat rum across the room, gagged and coughed until his voice was as thin as a balloon ready to pop.

  “It PNCs back to him, though he claimed it was stolen from him back in May. No sign of anyone else having driven it, certainly no sign of more than one person ever getting into the thing. No fibres on any seat other than the driver’s.”

  “What else?”

  “Curiously, there was a singed shirt sleeve poking out the fuel filler pipe.”

  “He tried to burn it?”

  Eddie nodded, lit his own cigarette. “He used the cigar lighter to try and get the sleeve started but it didn’t work.” He looked out the corner of his eye, and said, “It was an Oxford & Hunt shirt.”

  “They’re about eighty quid a pop.”

  “Precisely, my dear Watson.”

  “Who knows about it?”

  “The office. Plus I put my report on the computer; sent my photos over to studio and my DNA to the bureau. Why?”

  “Let me explain: Little Deacon is son of Big Deacon. If Big Deacon gets upset, people usually die. Small point, but it’s worth bearing in mind.”

  “I work for the police, not a bunch of criminal informants.”

  Mick looked askance. “Let me see, ‘police’ and ‘criminal informants’… No, I’m struggling to find a difference there.”

  “What I want to know from you is what are you going to do about Henry Deacon?”

  “Me?”

  Eddie nodded.

  “Why me?”

  “Because he’s the son of a corrupt politician, and so might be able to help with your enquiries. And I want to see if he’ll admit to killing my boy.”

  “Why–” Mick stopped himself.

  “Because if I go near him, I will kill him. Twice. And I think that might be illegal.”

  “Leave it with me. I’ll get you some answers.”

  53

  Thursday 25th June

  – One –

  He closed the car door softly, patted the bulges in his pockets and set off walking for the office, keeping an eye out but trying to look natural. It was one-thirty in the morning, the air was clear, the darkness abrupt, almost captivating. But Stuart paid it no attention. Stuart had other things on his mind. He had parked his car a hundred yards away from the office, careful not to be seen.

  His mind imagined the look on Eddie’s face when he found his presents – or rather when Jeffery found the presents. It would finish Eddie; no more snide comments, no more rivalry, no more jibes about failing the CRFP. Stuart’s smile withered. No more remarks about his hair or his appearance. The smile died; a grimace lived in its grave.

  And there it was, the CSI office, at the far end of the yard. Stuart quickened his pace, checking, making sure he was alone.

  – Two –

  “This is going to take hours.”

  “Henry, shut up. We’ve only been here ten minutes and already you’re pissing me off. Do you think I want to be here?”

  Henry sighed.

  “If it wasn’t for your dad, I wouldn’t be. ‘Do the job right’, he said. ‘See it through to the end’, he said. Well, here I am, seeing it through to the fucking end; so cut your whining and keep searching.”

  “Yeah, but–”

  “Shut up. Last time I tell you.”

  Henry was still shaking. He searched through the green books, CID6, they said on the front. These were the CSIs report books. All he had to do was find the one relating to the Jag, and they could take things from there. But he was shaking because he was inside a police building, illegally, and despite his father’s insistence that he attend, it could land him in even more trouble. Tampering with evidence, he believed, was considered fairly serious. “What are we going to do about the computer records?”

  “The what?” Sirius straightened.

  “These books contain nothing more than basic notes of jobs they’ve done: details of a burglary, several reference numbers, boxes for stats. That’s it. There’s no mention of the exam they carried out; surely there should be.”

  Sirius looked deflated. “We’re fucked. Actually, you’re fucked. If any evidence has left this office, electronically or physically, you’ve had it. And if they use computers…”

  “What?”

  Sirius strode over to the dark far end of the office. He stood before a large bank of green and red LEDs, some flashing, others constant. “Laptops.”

  “Shit.”

  “Pr
ecisely. This is where they keep their detailed notes, and you can bet your arse they upload everything when their shift is over.”

  “But they might not. They might save everything until the weekend or… they may only keep examination notes–”

  “They’ll have all their DNA software on them. Betcha.”

  “But we could still try to locate the physical evidence.”

  “How long do you think we’ve got, exactly? It’ll take longer than we have. The only thing we can do is–”

  “Shush.” Henry froze. “I think someone’s coming.”

  “In here, quick.”

  – Three –

  Stuart selected the Yale key and turned the lock. He stood in the small foyer, drinks dispenser to his right, health and safety notices fluttering on the board directly in front of him, and next to it, another poster, this one prepared by studio; its title was Your Morley CSI Staff, and there were unflattering pictures of the whole mob, with Stuart on the top row and beneath him, Eddie Collins. Strange that he should be able to see them at all. “Why are the lights on?”

  He pulled his jacket tight around his chest and edged forward, peering around the corner into the main office. “Hello?”

  He strode into the office and realised everything was not as it should have been. Scattered around the desks were CID6 books. Stuart felt vulnerable and even pulling his jacket tight around him didn’t alleviate the feeling. He licked his lips and walked further into the office.

  “Fuck, we’ve been burgled.” His first impulse was to run and get a police officer, but he couldn’t. How would he answer their first question: what were you doing here? And this new situation made Stuart’s mission all the more complicated. But if the office has been burgled, he reasoned, they’ll pull up the CCTV that covers this building. It would cover the burglars coming in, for sure, but it would also cover him coming in too!