[Eddie Collins 01.0] The Third Rule

by Andrew Barrett

  “Keep him out of my scene!”

  Jeffery looked at the CSIs. “Get suited up.” Then he stood tapping his lip for a while as he thought more about Eddie Collins.

  – Two –

  Back in the darkness of the foyer, Mick continued to peer through the weathered glass and out into the street. Eddie came down the steps and stood beside him. “He kicked the door in. Caused at least sixty pence worth of damage. Bastard.”

  “We need transport.” Mick waved the envelope at Eddie. “I have to get back home and decode this thing.”

  Eddie nodded to the window. “It clear out there?”

  “Who knows?”

  Eddie opened the door. “Let’s go get your car.” They stepped out and crossed the road, watching all the time, expecting Sirius to leap out at them, expecting to see him following. But, aside from the revellers, there was nothing, no one.

  “I think we should walk. I want to be stone cold sober.”

  Eddie laughed. “Jesus, I never heard you say that before.”

  “I never felt so scared before.”

  Eddie’s smile soon faded; though he’d felt the gravity of the situation back in his foyer, it kept escaping him so that he was once more just a pissed-up Eddie Collins with a shitty life to worry about. But now he had the government following him, and the government wanted him dead.

  Had someone offered him death only a few days ago when the vacuum cleaner was climbing the other side of his door, he would have bought the would-be killer a drink and even passed up the chance of a last request. But now they’d denied him that choice. They were going to kill him whether he liked it or not, and that made him determined to live.

  In silence, they walked out of town and into the relative seclusion of the back roads leading towards the Charlotte’s Lodge pub. They were never confronted by gunmen, they were never challenged, they never heard any footsteps behind them, but all that didn’t stop Eddie shaking; in fact, the very absence of any threat made him more cautious. And it was this heightened sense of caution that caused him to stop dead in his tracks less than 200 yards from Mick’s old Ford Focus.

  “Hey,” he whispered, as Mick continued along the footpath.

  Mick looked around and walked back. “What’s up?”

  “I got a bad feeling about this.”

  Mick snorted, put a hand over his mouth.

  “What? What’s so funny?”

  “Let’s see,” he laughed, “we bust in on a dead guy, almost get shot by pursuing police officers, get followed by a fucking hitman, almost get caught by him, and you have a bad feeling about a peaceful walk to my car?” He dipped into his pocket and brought out a packet of cigarettes. “You are priceless, Eddie.”

  Eddie took a cigarette, lit it and said, “It’s been too easy. That Sirius fella wants us and he tried very hard to get us; he’s not going to leave us alone, mate.” He dragged on the cigarette. “He’s going to hope we step right back in that car of yours where he can nail both of us at the same time.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “I’ll bet you a tenner there’s some geezer with a bent nose and a Glock sitting in a car on the petrol station forecourt watching your car. And his job is to–”

  “To stop us driving…”

  Eddie was shaking his head. “His job is to let us drive away, to follow us. See where we go. He’s going to want that envelope first, and then who knows what he’ll do to us, but he won’t set us free.”

  Mick slouched against the wall. “Now what? What about your car?”

  “Same deal. Too risky.”

  “Taxi?”

  “Thursday night in Wakefield?”

  “Okay, so now what? Steal one?”

  – Three –

  “You know how you said you were bad news and that I should stay away from you?”

  Eddie looked awkward. “I did say that, didn’t I.”

  Ros turned in her seat. “I should’ve listened to that advice.”

  “But you didn’t,” he said, “you came–”

  “Like whistling a dog, eh?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant you came and I’m so damn grateful.”

  “You treat me like shit, Eddie. In fact, on a good day you treat me like your cleaning lady, or your assistant, or your fucking sister!”

  Eddie looked at her, shocked.

  “It’s well after midnight, I feel like shit, and I want to be in bed asleep, not ferrying two drunks around. We have work in the morning.”

  “Henry Deacon is dead.”

  “But I wouldn’t go in if I were you. If I were you, I’d catch a train to a very remote place and lay low for a few years.”

  “Why?” He looked at her as though she knew something of his adventures of today.

  “You are a first-class bastard, Eddie. And you know what; I only came out here tonight to tell you that to your lousy face.”

  He sat there, mouth open. “I thought you were my friend.”

  “Really? After you ran off and left me in that house by myself?”

  “I tried to call–”

  “Fuck you, and fuck your piss-arsed friend there too.”

  He stared at her.

  “Now get out.”

  “What?”

  “Get out!”

  Eddie reached for the door handle, opened the door. “You serious?”

  “Out.”

  Eddie stepped out of the car and didn’t even get a chance to close the door before she set off, wheels spinning, engine screaming, and the passenger door slammed closed all by itself. Mick flicked away his cigarette and walked to Eddie. Together they watched her tail-lights grow dimmer.

  “She’s not keen on the idea, is she?”

  “I think we’re gonna have to get a taxi after all.”

  The brake lights came on. Then the reversing lights. Eddie and Mick looked at each other as she drew the car alongside. The window wound down.

  “Get in, Eddie.” The window wound back up again.

  Eddie climbed back in, and Mick took out another cigarette. “I’ll er, I’ll just wait here, shall I?”

  Eddie closed the car door and looked across at Ros. She had been crying; she was obviously close to tears now, blocked nose, red eyes. He could see a hanky sticking out of her sleeve.

  “I’m so sorry, Ros.”

  “They all left me; the uniforms, CID… all of them. You’d abandoned me.”

  “Oh, Ros, no.”

  “I’m okay now. I was knocked out–”

  “What!”

  “There were paintings there. I had them in the kitchen ready to leave.” She turned so Eddie could see the dried blood in her hair. “When I came round, they’d gone. And a group of junkies showed up.”

  “Oh Jesus, Ros.” He instinctively reached out, but she pulled away from him. “I’m so sorry; I wish–”

  “I’m okay, no thanks to you. But it could have turned out very different. And that’s what hurts me the most. I run around after you, I treat you very well, and you… you treat me badly, you don’t give me a second thought, because you’re too busy with him…” She trailed off, and for a moment, was silent. “Deacon is dead?”

  Eddie nodded.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I went to kill him. And someone beat me to it.”

  Ros was quiet for a long time, immobile too, just staring first at Eddie, and then straight ahead through the windscreen. “Is that why you left the scene?”

  “I’ll understand if you never want to see me again.”

  “Jeffery rang after you abandoned me.”

  “Mick has proof that–”

  “Stuart is dead.”

  “What?” It was his turn to be silent for a while. “Our Stuart?”

  She nodded. “They found his body in the burnt-out CSI building.”

  “Jesus, this is a night of surprises.” Eddie studied the dashboard for some time, trying to let it all sink in. Then he gasped and punched the dashboard. �
��You think I killed him, don’t you?”

  “Why would–”

  “I mentioned Henry Deacon was dead and that I was going to kill him, and you put two and two together.”

  “Would you have killed him? If he’d been still alive I mean.”

  Eddie’s fingers fidgeted. “Part of me says yes, and the other part… I didn’t kill Stuart, Ros. I hated him, but I couldn’t have killed him.”

  “You have proof that Henry killed Sam? The office is gutted, remember, not much direct evidence left I suppose.”

  “A recorded full and frank confession.”

  “And that’s why he’s dead?”

  “We think he was being silenced, yeah.”

  “So what’s all this about?” She shrugged, palms outwards. “Why am I your taxi?”

  “We were followed. My flat door has been kicked in–”

  “Ah, I get it.” She nodded in Mick’s direction, “It’s because of his headline, isn’t it?”

  “It probably didn’t help.”

  Ros wound down the window. “Get in, Mick.” Then, to Eddie, “Where’re we going?”

  – Four –

  As requested, Ros drove along the road where they’d dumped Mick’s car. Eddie had been correct, there was a car parked on the edge of the garage forecourt, a lone male in the driver’s seat, elbow resting on the windowsill. A hundred yards further along, Eddie and Mick sat up in their seats. “There’s someone watching it, alright,” Ros said. “I’ll drive by your flat.”

  “This is bigger than I thought,” Mick said. “I wonder how many people Deacon has on this case now?”

  Ros drove up Northgate, and the two men sank down in their seats again, Mick just peeking his head above the windowsill.

  “One plain car, and one police car there,” he said. “Copper standing in the foyer too.”

  “Jesus,” Eddie whispered.

  As she passed by, Ros looked up into Eddie’s window. “There’s someone in your flat, Eddie, probably searching it.”

  “I hope they find the remote control.”

  “So the Rule Three that Sirius mentioned in the back yard, is you.”

  “Great, I got the police and Deacon’s mob after me.”

  “Who’s Sirius? And what was he saying?”

  Eddie was about to answer when his mobile phone rang. “Now what?” He pulled it from his jacket pocket. “It’s Jeffery.”

  “Don’t answer it. He wants to know where you are.”

  Eddie stared at the screen, heart pummelling. He wondered just how much more bad news he was expected to take. The car passed The Booze King, and he looked at it longingly as the phone rang off.

  “How do you manage to get in shit so deep?” Ros asked, and when the phone in her car rang, the speaker made them all jump. “Okay, quiet.” She hit ‘talk’ and said, “Hello.”

  “Hello, Ros,” Jeffery’s voice crackled over the speaker.

  “Jeffery? Is that you?”

  “Yes… Are you in your car?”

  Eddie looked across at her, saw her take a breath, gripping the wheel, psyching herself up.

  “Just on my way back from my sister’s. Why, what’s up?”

  “Have you seen Eddie this evening?”

  “Eddie? No, why? What’s happened? Is he okay?”

  There was silence from the speaker.

  “Jeffery?”

  “If you see him, you need to get in touch with me as a matter of urgency.”

  “Aw no, something happened to Jilly?”

  “He’s on a provisional Rule Three.”

  Eddie closed his eyes.

  “What on earth for?”

  “They think… we think he may have had an involvement with Stuart’s death.”

  Eddie’s eyes sprang wide open, and for a moment, he wanted to scream into the mic that he had no involvement, repeat no involvement with Stuart’s death. But he had a feeling who had.

  Mick’s mouth fell open.

  “You’re kidding, right? Eddie would never–”

  “Ros, please, if you see him, ring me.” Jeffery ended the call and Ros just drove on autopilot. Eddie’s face was utterly devoid of emotion because shock sat there hogging the limelight and refused to move over. Mick, in the back seat, cradled the envelope, hoping it would provide an exit route for all these troubles.

  “Stuart?” Mick asked. “The Stuart?”

  “Why would they think I killed him?”

  “You hated him, remember?”

  “Ros, everyone hated him.”

  “Yeah, but you two had a special relationship.”

  “Did I miss a meeting?” Mick sat forward.

  Eddie turned. “They found his body in the burnt-out CSI building.”

  “No.” Mick slumped back in his seat. “This is getting too much.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I wonder if you can be put on a Rule Three twice?” Mick disappeared into thought, and then suddenly surfaced again. “Someone ought to let Suzanne Child know.”

  Ros flicked a glance at him, “Who’s she?”

  “My apprentice. Good kid. And no doubt Rochester will send her to Deacon’s press conference later this morning.”

  “How do you know he’s having a conference?”

  “He’ll jack up a conference as soon as Henry’s death hits the airwaves; he’ll want to weep a little on camera, say how sorry he is for Henry’s crimes, and how he has suffered as a father. He’ll distance himself from Henry quick as he can.”

  “Fucking politicians,” Eddie said.

  “It’s an ideal time to dishonour him and his family name.” Mick stared at Ros, could see her half looking at him as she drove. “Just need someone to ring Suzanne,” he said, “maybe spill the beans anonymously.”

  68

  Friday 26th June

  – One –

  “You never told me there was a phase two, Eddie. Did you conveniently forget that part?”

  “I’ll leave you two alone.” Mick climbed from Ros’s car, closed the door and looked for something to lean against as he lit a cigarette.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “This was the first chance I had to tell you.”

  “You’re playing with fire, and I just want you to know, no fuck it, I have to let you know that it’s going to end up killing you. And I don’t want that to happen. You’re into this thing too deep and if what you said is true, then you’re not going to be alive much longer.” She squeezed the bridge of her nose, purposefully avoided looking at him. “I don’t want that to happen. I always wanted you to get back with Jilly; I always wanted you two to work it out and to get back to normal again…”

  “Normal? With Jilly?”

  “But I think I’ve grown selfish recently, because I don’t want that anymore. I don’t want you to get back with Jilly, because I know what she’s like now, and she’s not healthy for you.” She stared out of her window.

  Eddie could see her chin trembling. She was hitching breath as though fighting back tears or sobs or both. And even when he was mixed up in murders and all manner of bad things, she was still helping him, she was still lying for him, and he felt like crying too.

  He reached over to her and pulled her across to him, and that’s when she could hold the tears no longer.

  – Two –

  “Prime Minister?”

  “Come in, sit down, George.” Sterling Young took off his glasses, threw them across the papers he was busy with. Then he stared at Deacon. “My father was a sheep farmer. Did I ever tell you that?”

  “I think it’s common knowledge.”

  “At its height, we had over 3,000 head of sheep on two farms. We had a couple of managers, eight shepherds and around fourteen sheepdogs.” He paused as if recollecting old memories. “It was a lot to handle. Everything had to run like clockwork; everyone had to get along, and everything had to work.”

  Deacon sat still, watching the old man. He knew precisely what this was; Sterling Young never called to s
ee someone at this hour without an agenda, without facts and figures, without cause. This was a lecture and Deacon clasped his trembling hands tightly in his lap and let it run its course.

  “We had three bitches. We kept them to produce our dogs, and if we were lucky we turned a profit on them. Always plenty of call for a good collie.” Sterling smiled at Deacon but there was no friendship in his eyes. “Father was good with animals, loved them; very fond of dogs. But like everything else, they had to work; they had to pay their way.

  “When I was young, I don’t know, five or six maybe, one of the bitches dropped a litter, and among that litter one dog stood out, and that damned thing was a beautiful dog; very placid. I took an unusual liking to it, decided to keep it for my own. You’d think with a thousand acres of land, there would be sufficient room for one pet.”

  Deacon smiled.

  “As it grew, we discovered it was blind. It was broken, George, it was no good for its intended purpose. When I asked my father if I could keep him as a pet, he refused, saying no one gets a free ride; if it doesn’t work, it isn’t worth keeping. Father shot him.

  “And though I never really forgave him, I understood his rationale. No point having everyone pick up his slack.” Sterling turned directly to Deacon. “I believe you have similar issues to deal with, George. I urge a swift resolution.”

  Deacon dragged a hand down the white whiskers on his troubled face. This was all going horribly wrong. It should have been so easy: declare Collins as a Rule Three miscreant, wanted for the murder of a colleague and for arson, and kill him before he could be arrested. Keep his dirty little secrets a secret, shut him up for good, but someone had messed up, and that someone was Sirius – again. A man who couldn’t work out how to spell Stephen!

  “Justine!” he called again, louder this time.

  The door opened, and Justine entered his office looking slightly bedraggled, hair awry, eyes not quite as pin-sharp as they usually were, brushing crumbs from the side of her mouth. “Sir?”

  “How’s the speech coming along?”

  “Almost done.”