[Eddie Collins 01.0] The Third Rule

by Andrew Barrett

  “Fix a drink, no one followed us.”

  “The Vauxhall–”

  “I’ll fix it myself if you’re gonna whine.” Mick threw the envelope on his chair, then slunk into the kitchen. There was the sound of glasses chinking and Eddie strode to the window, swallowing apprehension. “Check out the front page,” Mick called from in the kitchen.

  He peered out through the dirt-smeared net curtains at the grimy street below where groups of drunken youths headed downtown towards the nightclubs. Not one of them could walk in a straight line, not one of them could stagger in silence either. “Pissheads.” He watched them weave between buses and taxis, laughing and shouting at nothing, as inebriated people did. He watched normal people eating in a civilised way in the Chinese restaurant over the road, and felt envious of them. Mick set the glasses on the table.

  “Not sure I like this.” Eddie slipped out of his jacket, downed the gin and poured another. He read the newspaper headline: One rule for them and The Third Rule for us.

  “Catchy line, eh?”

  “Sum it up for me; my life may be shorter than I think.”

  “I told the world of the CSI building fire, and how it conveniently went up in flames the same day evidence of Henry Deacon’s murderous activities was locked up inside.”

  “Let me guess, you continued by saying that certain high-ranking members of the government have seen to it their wayward offspring are protected against the Slaughter House?”

  “My editor practically had my cock out when he read it.”

  “Who’s following us?”

  Mick lit a cigarette, shrugged almost absently and sank into his chair, fingers tearing at the envelope’s seal.

  “Who killed Henry Deacon?”

  “Sirius.” Mick flicked ash, strained for his glass and emptied it.

  “We’ve just turned ourselves into bait, haven’t we?” Eddie looked out the window again, then turned back and faced Mick. “Sirius?”

  “George Deacon’s muscle,” Mick said.

  Eddie searched Mick’s face for a clue to what was on that paper. “Come on, we gotta go.”

  “One minute.” Mick studied the sheet, and then looked up, forehead furrowed. “A crossword puzzle.”

  Eddie nodded thoughtfully. “Oh, that helps.”

  Mick passed it over while he read aloud the accompanying sheet. “It’s from Henry Deacon, ‘You’re lucky I met you when I did, Mr Lyndon; I was going to forward this to Akhbar Shunian at The Times. But now… well, maybe you’re unlucky. Watch your back.’ Shit, do I feel lucky.”

  “Yeah, you should do the lottery this week.”

  Eddie whispered, “Ever had that feeling that something infinite – isn’t?”

  “Life, you mean?”

  “This is getting seriously heavy. And I’m seriously shitting myself.”

  “I have to check my emails.” Mick pulled out his mobile phone.

  “Good idea. You check your email while I write the obituary.”

  “Bingo!”

  “Life’s one big game today, isn’t it?”

  “It’s a time-delay email.” Mick looked at Eddie, who stared back, face blank. “It’s sent automatically to its destination unless the sender enters a password every hour, day, week, whatever you want, to prevent it going.”

  “He knew he was toast, didn’t he?”

  “Quick, grab a pen.”

  “A pen? You’re the fucking journalist.”

  “Please.”

  “You’re not taking this seriously.”

  – Two –

  Sirius parked in a side street near Eddie Collins’s address. Benson had come through for him again.

  He walked briskly to the end of the road and turned a corner, only fifty yards from the address, and tried to maintain a discreet but healthy pace along the main road, busy with drunk and loud people.

  – Three –

  Eddie and Mick made it down to the darkness of the foyer below the flat, and stopped at the glazed front door. “When’s all this going to end? We can’t run forever.”

  Mick shrugged. “Once we find out what’s going on and who’s to blame for it all–”

  “Deacon’s to blame.”

  “I know! But we need proof.”

  “That’s cheered me up no end. I hope you’re good at puzzles.”

  “We need somewhere safe…” Mick peered out of the window and into the throng of people outside. “Sirius,” Mick said. “How the hell did he–”

  “Back door!”

  Eddie turned and ran through the foyer past the stairs, seemingly heading straight into blackness. He blundered his way through an invisible fire escape, and a brief wedge of orange light from the back yard leaked in and showed Mick the way. Above the doorframe was a smashed fire exit sign.

  Mick slammed the door closed behind them.

  They were in a small yard, enclosed by a glass-topped brick wall, and a pair of wooden gates that gave out onto a cobbled street behind Eddie’s flat. Beyond the wall, a streetlamp spewed the ghastly orange light they’d seen from the foyer. To their right was the carpet of moss created by Eddie’s broken toilet overflow, and it provided them with a noise like an urban waterfall, a drone to take away the eerie silence.

  Mick was still trying to work out where in the yard of industrial wheelie bins, of rolls and folds of dead carpets and hundreds of their cardboard centre tubes, he should hide. “Here,” whispered Eddie, “over here!”

  “Where, I can’t see a fucking–”

  “Ssssshhh!”

  Sirius silently mounted the top step and peered at the wooden door of flat number 2. He placed an ear against it and listened. Then took out his sidearm.

  “We should go over the gates,” Mick whispered.

  “No chance. Now shush, he could come out any second.”

  With a creak, the fire door opened.

  Eddie held his breath, peered between the wall and the back of an industrial wheelie bin, something the size of a small skip, and could just make out the shape of a man threading his way deeper into the yard.

  Behind them, and constantly splashing them, was the overflow waterfall. Eddie edged around the side of the wheelie bin and crouched as he peered around its front.

  Sirius stopped and turned.

  Eddie’s eyes froze.

  “I can’t see, where is–”

  Eddie nudged Mick in the face with his elbow, then drew the weapon from his inside pocket.

  “What the fuck–”

  Eddie stared a warning at Mick, and then turned back towards Sirius. But Sirius was gone.

  If Eddie could have seen that Sirius was standing at the other of side of the wheelie bin, he would not have chosen that particular second to stand up. Sirius had his weapon drawn and was searching for signs of recent disturbance in a place that was full of recent disturbance.

  Luckily for Eddie, the waterfall cloaked his gasp. And he was further blessed with luck. He peered over the crown of the wheelie bin and stood there with his mouth wide open. If the light had been stronger, it would have been possible to see his heart beating like crazy in the back of his throat. And that’s when he thought Sirius had seen him.

  But he hadn’t; it was the moment that Sirius’s phone began to ring. As he pulled it from his jacket pocket, his face illuminated by the screen, Eddie slowly sank back down, hoping like hell that Mick would keep his mouth quiet.

  “What?” Sirius said.

  Eddie leaned forward, trying to catch the conversation over the waterfall that now worked against him.

  “Who’s on a provisional Rule Three?”

  Eddie listened.

  “For what? You serious?” He laughed for a moment, and then said, “He’s not here. Okay, give me her address. I’m gonna have to bring more men in. Now I gotta find him before your lot do.”

  Sirius replaced the phone and then thudded back to the fire exit, leaving Eddie feeling momentarily relieved, but ultimately afraid.

  – Four �
�

  “How much longer we gonna stay here?”

  Eddie shrugged.

  “There could be rats in here. Diseased rats. We could catch tuberculosis. Or worse.”

  “He was talking about me, wasn’t he?”

  “They carry rabies too.”

  “How can I–”

  “Vermin. Horrible things.”

  “The copper at Henry’s. He must’ve clocked me.”

  “I’m gonna scrub myself with Domestos when I get home.”

  “Do you think he was talking about me?”

  “Well I hope to Christ he wasn’t talking about me!”

  “Some fucking friend you are,” Eddie whispered.

  “On a provisional Rule Three? Nah, don’t think so. You have to kill someone for that. And we haven’t killed–”

  “Henry’s dead, remember.”

  “I know!” Mick paused, then said, “Whatever happened to your faith in forensic science?”

  “People have a habit of reading it wrong.”

  “So that’s where the Review Panel comes in.”

  “Okay, you win. I have no faith in The Rules or how they’re administered. Happy now?”

  “And I thought it would be true justice. But it’s open to the same corruption that’s always been there.”

  “After your headline tonight, he’ll be after both of us, so it doesn’t matter which one of us is on a Rule Three, we’re both dead.”

  “Whose address do you think he just asked for?”

  “Got to be Jilly’s,” Eddie said. “This is my address; Jilly’s was my last address. Makes sense.”

  “You should warn her.”

  Eddie shook his head, “No need. He’ll soon realise I’m not there and leave.”

  “Hope you’re right.”

  “He’s working with the police, though, getting information from them at least.”

  After a moment, Mick groaned. “This is getting too hot for me–”

  “Too hot!”

  “Ssshhhh, Christ’s sake!”

  “It began to get warm the minute we entered Henry Deacon’s house–”

  “Oh no, it was already on a gentle simmer back then; it began to get warm when you found incriminating evidence on Henry’s Jaguar.”

  Eddie flicked the envelope in Mick’s hand. “Well, it’ll reach boiling point if there’s any more revelations in there.”

  “I’m hungry, I’m thirsty and–”

  Eddie stood up and pushed the wheelie bin aside.

  “What are you doing?”

  “We’ve left it long enough. He’s gone now for sure–”

  “And if he hasn’t?” Mick stood, and even over the sound of the waterfall, Eddie could hear his knees clicking in protest.

  “Then we’ll find out which one of us is on a Rule Three.”

  “I get the feeling that Sirius won’t allow a court case, Eddie. Henry Deacon didn’t get one.”

  “How comforting.”

  Mick put a hand on Eddie’s shoulder, gently turned him around to face him. He nodded at the gun still in Eddie’s hand. “What you still doing with that thing?” he whispered.

  Eddie slipped the weapon out of sight, into the inside pocket of his jacket. And now the orange glow of the streetlamp picked out the bulge in his jacket, highlighted it and shouted I gotta gun! “I was going to dump it.”

  “You’re not Bruce Willis, Eddie.”

  “With all this shit happening–”

  “You feel safer, right?”

  “Yes I do. And don’t mock me; so far as I can tell we are outside the law. At least one of us is already on a Rule Three, so by carrying this, we have nothing to lose…”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing.” Mick stepped out into the yard, and cautiously moved closer to the fire exit. “And I hope you know how to use it.”

  67

  Friday 26th June

  – One –

  It was a roadshow outside Henry Deacon’s bungalow, even though it was two o’clock in the morning. There were no sirens, but there was sufficient noise from police radios, from car and van doors slamming, from police dogs barking and even from the force helicopter, to keep bedroom lights on, and curtains twitching, to keep smokers planted on their doorsteps in dressing gowns, watching the circus.

  At each side of the immediate scene, a police van blocked the road, blue lights piercing the night.

  From the helicopter, the perimeter of Henry’s bungalow and the expansive grounds in which it sat must have appeared like an extravagant dot-to-dot, with the reflective uniforms of PCSOs strung together every twenty-five yards, forming a daisy chain in the darkness.

  The darkness was being punched back as large diesel-driven lighting rigs were erected in the grounds of the bungalow itself, but also to the back where the chain link fence was, and even one in the woodland beyond.

  Two distinct factors governed the extent of scene protection around Henry’s house. Firstly, it was a firearms job, something that always provoked an increased level of activity within the police service; one didn’t want to be working a firearms scene only to be confronted with the armed criminal sticking a muzzle in the side of your neck – not good for morale. And gun crime was still deemed serious enough that extra efforts would be made to protect the integrity of any evidence. And secondly, the place in question was the house of a prominent government minister’s son, which brought its own set of protocols.

  Somehow, the media had become aware of police activity at Henry’s house, and their satellite outside broadcasting vehicles were already parking up, sure to belch pools of their own light into the scene.

  Jeffery stood by one of the generators with the total manpower of the overnight CSI department for West Yorkshire Police – both of them. The trio were joined by DI Taylor. And with him came the first responding officers.

  Taylor asked Jeffery, “Slept much?”

  “I don’t even know what day it is.”

  Taylor chuckled politely, and nodded to the officers. “Tell him what you told me.”

  “Me and Pricey were sent here after an anonymous call saying this place was being burgled–”

  “And we came in that way–”

  “Hold on,” Jeffery said. “Names please.”

  “Price and Wiseman.”

  “And what time did you get here?”

  Price pulled out his notebook, flicked through pages and said, “23.50.”

  “Right, carry on.”

  “We came in from the roadside,” Wiseman began, “and we split up. Pricey went around the back and I continued coming this way. I got to about there.” He pointed to a spot occupied by another generator that was on the driveway near a white Audi, thirty yards or so before the sliding French doors of Henry’s bedroom. “And I seen these two men come out of the sliding door–”

  “Was it already open?” Taylor asked.

  Wiseman looked from his DI to Jeffery and across to Price as if hoping one of them could help him out a little. No one did.

  “Carry on,” shrugged Jeffery.

  “And so these two men came out, saw me and began running towards the rear of the property. It kind of took me by surprise ’cause to be honest I wasn’t expecting anything other than a false call good intent–”

  “Fast forward a bit,” Taylor said.

  “Oh yeah… well I shouted, and they started running, so I began running too, getting my gun out and shouting a warning.” He looked at Taylor, acutely aware of the policy surrounding un-holstering sidearms. “And I got to the corner there just this side of the conservatory and that’s when the security light came on. Blinded me. I could make out both shapes still running up towards the grass. One of them might even have been at the fence by this time. Anyway–”

  “They shot at him,” Price said.

  “No, no, it wasn’t like that, boss,” Wiseman said in a hurry. “I saw the one nearest to me stop, and he was kind of fidgeting, and that’s when I saw a flash, I don’t think he was
shooting at me, I think it more or less just went off.”

  “He was on the grass?”

  “Yeah… few yards onto it I’d say.”

  Taylor asked, “Did you go inside?”

  Wiseman looked at the ground.

  Price looked away.

  “I needed the bathroom, sir.”

  Price sniggered, and Taylor shook his head at both of them.

  “Did you discharge your weapon?” asked one of the CSIs.

  “What? In the bathroom?”

  Jeffery closed his eyes. “No, prior to you visiting the bathroom; as you were giving chase.”

  “Yes, the broken glass… it’s what I hit. Sorry, sir.”

  Taylor turned to them. “You’ll need to surrender your weapon.”

  “Already done, sir.”

  “Okay, good; go Code Eight, contact your sergeant and write your books up. I’ll want your statements for the IPCC before you go off duty.”

  Price and Wiseman nodded at the inspector then turned and walked away; Pricey elbowed Wiseman in the ribs and laughed at him.

  Taylor whispered, “You know we got a taped confession from him, don’t you?”

  Jeffery looked blank. “Taped confession from whom about what?”

  “Him, Deacon. Confessed to killing Peter Archer and that nipper, Sam Collins.”

  “No,” Jeffery said, thinking about Eddie. “I didn’t know.”

  “Got it via The Yorkshire Echo.” He smiled. “They don’t have laws to abide by.” Then, to Jeffery and the two CSIs, “You got everything you need?”

  “Think so,” Jeffery said, looking skywards. “Wonder if it’s–”

  “Yes, it is going to rain,” Taylor said, walking away. “I got a meeting to get to. Ministerial liaison officer and a man from S019.”

  “S019?”

  Taylor only nodded, turned and carried on walking, waving as he went.