“Right?”
“There’s a motive there.”
“There’s also a field full of junkies about fifty yards from that squat. They’ll have the paintings.”
Ros shook her head, “No, they helped me to my van with the rest of the paintings and my kit. They were okay.”
“Let me get this straight: you’re sticking up for the drug-dealers who knocked you unconscious and stole most of the paintings, and you’re sticking up for the guy who murdered his girlfriend and threw her down a flight of stone steps?” He stared at her. “I have to ask, are you in the right job?”
“Damned right I am. I look at evidence, I evaluate its meaning and I draw conclusions from it. Whereas you look at circumstance and randomly point a gun at the first person who walks into the room.”
Benson laughed, “Okay, Ros, touché.” And then his face became the same menacing block of granite she had seen at the door only minutes ago. “Get this into your horse-shit mind. I am here to lock up the bad guys, and trust me, I will lock them up. I couldn’t care less what the government does with them after that, but The Rules are an excellent piece of legislation, which makes a fucking change.
“They give me the ability to really clean the crap off our streets for ever, instead of giving them a five-star cell for a few weeks and then turning them loose with a fresh set of burgling skills and new contacts to offload stolen goods onto.
“I don’t give a shit if Christian Ledger killed her or not if I’m honest, because he’s good for it, he’s scum, and he doesn’t deserve to breathe English air… he’s a criminal; and in a week’s time he’ll be a dead criminal, and he will never again break into someone’s house, blind them with a flashgun and steal from them.
“And he will never even get the opportunity to kill anyone. The only thing out of all this that I feel sorrow about is that I’m not supposed to thank him for killing a whacked-out junkie whore. I must remember to do that, by the way.”
Ros shook her head. “I can’t believe what you just said–”
“Enjoy replaying it inside your head, because I’m not going to repeat it.”
“You’re so far up your own arse that you think it’s fine to play judge, jury and executioner.”
Benson shrugged, then nodded. “I don’t have a problem with that. I do what people like you could never do: I catch bad people. I’m not interested if they have a good streak or not, I couldn’t give a shit if they once helped granny across the road, or they bandaged a Labrador’s bleeding paw; if they commit a crime, I’m taking them away from people who’ve had to deal with them year in year out for generations.
“People like you have governed what happens to people like him since the beginning of the last century, and look at what a shit state you’ve left England in, look at how grannies and kiddies daren’t go out after dark, look at how the drugs culture has bred armed gangs and killed thousands of bright youths every year by fucking up their minds or making them shoot each other. Your lot have bollocksed it up for years. Now move over, it’s my turn to put things right.”
Ros sat there, stunned. Her eyes had widened throughout his speech, and her jaw, instead of grinding away, had slackened and her mouth had fallen open slightly. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. It was as she had suspected back at Alice’s scene, but to have it confirmed in such graphic detail… she shook her head, still absorbing the lunacy of it all, and from a man who commanded enormous power. She was genuinely now more afraid than when she’d set out for work this morning.
This morning she had pondered the future of England under such ill-executed laws, and fear was the resultant emotion that seeped out. But now the seepage was more of a gush.
“Shocked?” Benson arched his fingers, smiled at her.
Ros blinked out of her shallow trance and looked around the room, feeling trapped.
“And guess what?” He stood and leaned forward towards her. “I’m going after your boyfriend next.”
– Three –
“I think it went beautifully.” Rochester stared at her and he could see she was beaming inside, just like the others before her had. A tinge of nostalgia made him smile; he’d been just like her when he started out twenty-five years ago, bristling with enthusiasm, unstoppable, belligerent even. And it’s the way Mick Lyndon had started out here too, and if he’d managed to stay dry, he could be on top of the world right now, instead of climbing his way back up from base camp.
“Did you see the look on his face?” She was almost dancing around his office.
She was an infectious breath of fresh air, and he loved it. “I replayed it more than once,” he said. “And I know how keen you are, Suzanne, but learn the ropes first; this job is like potholing without a light, and even worse, potholing without a sense of touch. You need to develop an instinct, an acute awareness of a story and of the dangers it can present.”
Suzanne calmed slightly, and even bowed her head in deference.
“I don’t want to kill your enthusiasm,” he went on, “just be careful. This isn’t reporting on the new footpath on Main Street, it’s delving into people’s lives and that’s when they get defensive–”
“If they have something to hide.”
Rochester considered this. “Yes, if they have something to hide, that’s true. But suppose they don’t? Suppose you’re well off the mark, and they find out you’ve been delving into their bank accounts or you’re following the spouse to try and get a lead? That kind of stuff would aggravate even a saint.”
She nodded.
“Okay,” he said, “I’m moving you up a level; you’re officially Mick Lyndon’s second now.”
Suzanne gulped a large breath and no matter how hard she struggled, could not help smiling. “Just need to know where he is,” she said.
Rochester was about to comment on that, when the office door opened. He looked across at a bearded man. “Craig?”
“Two men in reception for you. On government business, they say.”
“Who are they?”
“A Benjamin Teal, and the other fellow seems to be a deaf mute. You want me to get a meeting room ready?”
“Show them up.”
Craig nodded, closed the door.
Suzanne said, “I better give you some privacy.”
“Pull up a chair. You are my witness.”
“Why do you need a witness?”
“I need lots of witnesses. Whatever they want, it’s bad news for us.”
Five minutes later, Craig admitted two strangers into Rochester’s office, then left them to it. Rochester stood and extended a hand. The lead man shook, a warm and firm shake, and the other guy, the deaf mute, stood by the door, hands folded before him as though he were chanting a silent prayer.
“Mr…?” Rochester asked the Asian man.
“Benjamin Teal, pleased to meet you, Mr Rochester.” He looked at Suzanne. “Ah, Miss Child, good to see you here.”
Suzanne flushed at her notoriety, and merely nodded.
“And who’s your companion?”
Teal glanced over his shoulder. “I have a terrible sense of direction; he’s here to make sure I don’t get lost.” There was no humour in his eyes.
Rochester gestured to a seat. “Now, what can I do for you?”
“I’m a lawyer for the Justice Ministry. And I’m here to help you.”
“An inside story perhaps?”
“Not that kind of help.” Teal reached inside his suit pocket and brought out an envelope, which he handed directly to Rochester. “It’s a request from the ministry,” he said. “We’re rather hoping you’ll defer any future comment on the ministry or the recently introduced act–”
“No.” He placed the envelope, unopened, onto his desk, and leaned forward, staring at Teal. “This is a prelude to a gagging order, isn’t it?”
“Well–”
“Get the gagging order, and then we’ll talk. I’ll have my lawyer come along too, so you two can get embroiled in all that
legal jargon.”
“Ah. I was hoping it wouldn’t come to that; you see, the ministry thought it had a rather special relationship with The Echo, thought you may like to cooperate without the use of coercion.”
“We went all out to help you introduce The Rules, Mr Teal, and you bent over backwards to accommodate us then, as I recall. Now that we’re seeing one or two things happen that shouldn’t, and we want to provide the public with an unbiased opinion, which is what we did for The Rules, you’re putting a block on us?”
“Well, we were hoping that you’d hold off with any news concerning the late Henry Deacon. Obviously this is a hard time for Sir George, so we’d appreciate his name being kept out of the press for a short time too, to help him come to terms with his loss, to help him regain his… his composure, as it were.
“And concerning the new act, there are always situations and scenarios that the draughtsmen cannot foresee; and so…” He faded into a you know what I mean smile.
“Teething problems shouldn’t be a worry to the ministry; no one is perfect, but surely you want the press there to assure the public that even though there are problems, you’re working your way through them for the future of the country and for the future of justice? You want the learning process to be transparent?”
“Our discussion is at an end, Mr Rochester. I urge you to read that document. It clarifies for you the order with which we are serving you, it helps you understand the differences between the old appeal process and the new one now afforded you.”
“Which is?”
“There isn’t one.” Teal stood, made no effort to shake hands this time, merely turned and headed for the deaf mute. “It also outlines some of the consequences should you choose not to cooperate. I bid you good day.” He opened the door and exited with the deaf mute, without looking back and without attempting to close the door behind him.
“They can’t do that,” Suzanne said.
“One minute.” Rochester reached under his chair and flicked a discreet switch.
“You were taping them?” she asked.
“Videoing them,” he said, “I never take chances with officials anymore. And there is another lesson for you, Suzanne. Each one is subservient to their master’s whim. Even if that whim is illegal.”
“They can’t take away a right of appeal; that’s why it’s called a ‘right’.”
“Never mind that now,” Rochester said. “Find out for me all you can about those two clowns. And then find out where Mick Lyndon is.”
74
Friday 26th June
– One –
Benson read the notes. He was busy editing the disclosure file for Christian Ledger’s lawyer. There were certain things in it that might be better left out; for instance the unidentified fingerprints on the roll of cash. They could belong to anyone, they were probably there innocently as the result of a business transaction, or maybe the cash was Ledger’s last stock of booty from some poor burglary victim. No doubt the prints belonged to some honest secretary or hard-working mechanic; either way they weren’t on file, so whomever the cash belonged to was not a criminal. To include the prints would serve only to add a layer of uncertainty to a sound prosecution case.
Benson’s mobile phone rang. He looked at it for several seconds, saw the familiar number and knew it was Sirius wanting yet another favour. Reluctantly, he answered, “What’s up, Sirius?”
“Do you know if Eddie Collins has any close friends at work?”
“Yeah, I’m his fucking Arrange-a-Date advisor.”
“Come on, Benson. I need this–”
“Really? I got you his number, I found out his–”
“And I’m grateful, but this could prove very beneficial to us, to you, in fact.”
“How’s that then?”
“I don’t need him; I need his friend, Mick Lyndon. And if I can get to him, it’ll protect the government… and the government can be really generous.”
“You seen my fucking salary?”
“Please, Benson.”
Benson paused a moment. “It so happens that there is someone, a woman called Ros Banford. That’s all I know about her, I’m not finding out where she lives for you, and I’m not getting her phone–”
“Thanks, Benson. I’ll be in touch.” The phone went dead.
“I’m sure you will. Twat.”
– Two –
“What are you doing, Ros?”
She looked up from the paperwork. There was a questioning look on Chris’s face.
“I’m busy.”
“We’re all busy.” He looked around at the others in the office. They didn’t seem particularly happy right now. “There are major scenes running left, right and centre, and we need all hands on deck just to keep up with the volume of crime jobs.”
“I realise that,” she said, “but I’m still busy.”
“What you working on?” Chris was a CSI with whom she had never really worked before; he was standing in while Jeffery caught up with some sleep, he was the guy who acted up when a senior CSI was on leave or was absent through illness, like a supply teacher in a school. “Maybe I can get you some time later, or even get you some help?”
Ros tried counting to ten but only made it to five.
“Ros?”
“I don’t need time later, thanks. I need time right now, and I need to be left alone to get on with it.” She stared at him. He meandered back to his desk, and then she noticed the rest of the team in the makeshift office looking across at her.
“Okay,” he said. “But I have to let Jeffery know when he gets back.”
“Fine.” Ros went back to the post-mortem report of Alice Sedgewick, and heard the others tutting, banging their equipment around, and then she heard them leaving, one by one, and eventually she was able to concentrate.
The report was nothing out of the ordinary for someone who lived on drugs. The toxicology section was spiked with chemical names that said she was a long-term addict; she was malnourished, and suffered from the early signs of heart disease. She died as a direct result of a single stab wound to the upper right ventricle, and died quickly, judging by the small amount of blood pumped into her chest cavity.
And of course, there was the question of the golden-coloured fibres in the clothing around the wound and under her fingernails.
Chris stood against the wall, arms folded, staring at her.
She sighed and put the paper down. “You want to help?”
He sat opposite her. “What you working on?”
“Trying to stop a young lad from being sentenced to death for something he didn’t do.”
Chris shrugged. “Isn’t that what IRP and CPS are for?”
“And it’s what the senior investigating officer is for too, but we’re talking about Benson here, and all he wants is a line through this thing, and another tally on his wall.”
“But if there’s evidence–”
“There is! But he won’t disclose it because it keeps the prosecution case straightforward and gives the defence nowhere to go. And at 800 quid an hour, the IRP don’t want barristers running around for longer than it takes to hold a two-day trial.”
Chris took a deep breath. “World’s gone to shit.”
“Glad you said that, I thought I was going insane.”
“Run it by me.”
“Christian Ledger, artist, very good artist by the way, and a burglar. He’s a recluse. Steals to fund his painting, steals to fund his girlfriend’s drug habit. She too is a recluse – or was a recluse. Anyway, we think she left the house at some point because there was a ticket with her prints on it. She’s found half way down the cellar steps, dead from a single stab wound to the chest.”
“Right.”
“Me and Eddie examined her scene, but Eddie had to leave half way through, and Benson pulled the scene guard off before I’d finished.”
“He did what?”
She waved aside his concerns. “Never mind. We found unidentified print
s on an easel in the cellar, and more on a fresh bundle of cash tucked away in the cellar door frame. Also, there were about twenty paintings in a little alcove in the cellar. When we first got there, six were missing, judging by the marks they left in the dust.”
“Christian could have been selling them.”
She shook her head. “Why burgle if your paintings sell?”
“Can’t be overheads, living in a squat.”
“No overheads anyhow; he might buy canvas, but he steals the paint. And don’t forget, his prints weren’t on the cash anyway.”
“She was selling the art then, hiding the cash in the cellar.”
Ros shook her head, “No, her prints weren’t on the cash either.”
“So that suggests someone came into the cellar and took them. Which means the thief paid her for the art.” And then he thought about it. “Which sort of makes him not a thief, doesn’t it?”
“No way.”
“Why not?”
“Because how many art thieves just happen to travel past a derelict squat and nip inside hoping an artist lives there?”
“True,” he mumbled.
“I’d brought all the paintings up from the cellar ready to leave when someone attacked me and stole them–”
“Jesus, Ros. Did you report it?”
“Please can we just get on with this?”
Chris shook his head. “Christ, I can’t believe you, Ros. How–”
“Please?”
He shrugged.
“And there’s something more. When I came to and found the rest of the paintings missing, there were some local drug-dealers in the kitchen–”
“You fucking what?”
Ros laughed. “Sorry,” she said. “Your face was a picture.”
“Did they–”
“No, no, no, they didn’t harm me and they didn’t steal the paintings. But they said they’d seen a man walking up the lane, carrying bin bags that could have had paintings inside them. No description other than he was wearing a snooker player’s waistcoat.”
[Eddie Collins 01.0] The Third Rule Page 47