Reg grunted as the doors began to open, and for a second I thought he was going to collapse. Grant stood back to assess his handiwork.
“Grant,” I said, “What the fuck...”
Grant turned to look at me just as Reg swung a mighty blow that connected well this time. And although my world had been frenzied over the last minute or so, all the rush fell away quite suddenly. I saw a tooth sail passed me so slowly I could have caught it, I saw a thin shower of blood speckle the air in front of my eyes before it patterned the lift wall, and I saw Grant’s face become a rumpled and creased façade of agony before relaxing as his entire upper body sailed through the open door. His head hit the concrete and sounded like a well struck cricket ball heading for a six.
And then it was all quiet.
Reg doubled up and the packet of cigarettes fell out of his shirt pocket. There was redness in that shirt, lots of it, turning it shiny. His face twisted in pain, his reddened knuckles propping him against the floor. His breathing was fierce, ragged, and he looked at me, almost pleading. And I stood there like a numb fool.
I always said I was no hero, just an average arsehole, no pretender, what you see, blah blah.
I left the lift and stood over Grant. That’s when I saw his eyes cloud over like they’d filled with milk from the inside. I even heard his final exhale. There were speckles of blood on his cheek, but that was about all. Any blood from the missing tooth was inside his closed mouth. But beneath his head more soaked into his hair. A one-punch kill.
Reg shuffled through the doorway and joined me, holding a hand over his belly, blood seeping out between his fingers and dripping onto the floor. He was gasping for breath, hyperventilating, and that’s when I saw the look in his eyes, the steely resolution, the admission of being a killer, the pride he felt at killing a scrote, remorseless. “Self-defence.” He staggered away towards 68.
“Reg. Get back here, I’m calling an ambulance.”
He stopped. Eventually, he turned and staggered back to me. I could see the knife in his hand and I could see the look on his face. At first I didn’t recognise it; I thought it was the pain that crumpled his face like that. I suppose it was, but it was the eyes – they’d changed, they’d become a killer’s eyes. And now they were looking at me. And behind them was a killer’s brain, and it was thinking like a killer; it was thinking things I shuddered to imagine. If I thought this horror movie had died when Grant did, I was wrong. And I almost couldn’t believe it.
“Stay put, Reg, till I’ve got the cavalry here. And an ambulance too. Okay?”
He shook his head. “No cavalry, Eddie. No ambulance.”
“You taking the piss?”
“Deadly serious, mate,” he said. “I’m walking away now. And you’re going to say nothing. Right? That’s how we work; you and me, it’s how it’s always been. Am I right?”
“Let me see. You’re guilty of false imprisonment – you admitted dragging the kid here, remember. You’re guilty of assault. And, this is the real doozy, you just killed the fucker! And you want me to what? Say he tripped? Or say I just found him like this?”
“You got it. That’s exactly how you’ll tell it.” The knife in his hand jerked. “Isn’t it?”
“Maybe if it was 1979, but things have moved on. I don’t give a shit if you were once a copper, I don’t give a shit if you were head of Scotland fucking Yard, you ain’t moving till CID gets here.”
“They’ll lock me up, and I can’t let that happen.”
“They don’t beat the shit out of people these days. You’ve got nothing to worry about. Self-defence, remember?”
This didn’t really impress Reg too much. The knife, rather than being a something timid and shy, twitching down the side of his leg, almost benign, suddenly became the centre of attention, shouting at me, getting in my face, threatening me.
Threatening me.
There’s one thing a potential enemy should always know about me: never threaten me. Ever. “Reg—”
The knife lunged and if I’d been a bit slower, if I’d not had that last coffee before I left home, the blade would have been somewhere inside my right eye by now. He was injured and he was a pensioner, but Reg moved like a greased whippet and what little bravado I’d displayed for his benefit pissed its pants and ran away. “Whoa, Reg, you drop that sodding knife now before—”
This time it slashed, its tip missed my throat by about the same distance as my supervisor’s stapler had missed my head this morning. Now I was panicking. I had nowhere to go, except back inside the lift, and that would have been the end of me.
We were facing each other, padding our feet like a couple of slim sumo wrestlers, and I had the feeling that Reg was enjoying this. I also had another, more sombre feeling. This was Reg’s swan song – the old saying ‘You’ll never take me alive, copper’ bounced around my head and so did an image of Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid rushing into a hail of Mexican gunfire. It would have been funny if I’d had a sense of humour.
I did what I had to do. I slid the eighteen inch Maglite from its loop on my belt. Reg nodded solemnly and came at me hard. He swung the blade, missed by a yard, and I swung the Mag upwards right into his chin. His head flipped backwards, he grunted and then hit the deck next to Grant’s body, the knife by his side.
It was only then I remembered to press the panic button on my radio. It breaks through all transmissions, sends a bleeping out to all radios and opens the mic so you can shout your address and status. All I wanted to shout was, ‘Bring coffee. And Whisky!’
The first of them took about three minutes to arrive.
CID showed up while I was half way through my second cigarette. When they asked what had happened, I handed them my mobile phone. “I recorded it all.” And then I looked at Reg, “Old coppers never die, they just get twisted.”
Author’s Note
I write crime thrillers, and have done since 1996, the same time I became a CSI here in Yorkshire. All of my books are set in or around our biggest city of Leeds. I don’t write formulaic crime fiction; each one is hand-crafted to give you a flavour of what CSIs encounter in real life. Every book is rich with forensic insight to enhance your enjoyment.
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Get in touch.
For more information, or to sign up for my Reader’s Club, visit AndrewBarrett.co.uk. I’d be delighted to hear your comments on Facebook (and so would Eddie Collins) and Twitter.
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A Long Time Dead, the first in the Roger Conniston trilogy.
The Third Rule, the first book in the Eddie Collins series – a 600-page best-seller.
The Lift – a first person short story. Climb inside Eddie’s head and see life as he does.
Books by Andrew Barrett
A Long Time Dead – SOCO Roger Conniston Book One
How much trust can you put in forensic evidence?
They discovered her naked body with a puncture wound to her neck and blood everywhere. And brutal though her death was, this was the second such case West Yorkshire Police had running. Both unsolved. Until they found that one elusive piece of evidence.
Get A Long Time Dead here.
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Stealing Elgar – SOCO Roger Conniston Book Two
“Examining crime scenes was never suppose
d to get personal.”
Roger Conniston has a lot to prove and a lot to protect. He’s up against an ex-bare-knuckle fighter called Hades who is planning the most audacious robbery in England’s history.
Get Stealing Elgar here.
No More Tears – SOCO Roger Conniston Book Three
“It’ll screw you up into a ball of hatred and then spit you out into a cell.”
SOCO Roger Conniston, always believed in the law. Not now though. Now he believes only in himself. He has business with people who have no right being alive, and if success costs him everything they left him with, he’ll happily pay.
Get No More Tears here.
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The Third Rule – CSI Eddie Collins – Book One
When they accuse you of murder, you’d better hide, run, or fight.
The Third Rule is England’s new infallible capital punishment where absolute proof of guilt is not required. There’s always a queue at the Slaughter House doors.
CSI Eddie Collins hasn’t killed anyone, but he knows who has. That’s why he’s on the Slaughter House list, and when a government hunter tracks him down, Eddie has to fight or die.
“If you want to kill serious crime, you have to kill serious criminals.”
Get The Third Rule here
Black by Rose – CSI Eddie Collins Book Two
Would you help a woman hunted by Slade and his gang?
CSI Eddie Collins might be useless at life, but he can’t ignore a cry for help. Imagine his guilt when he finds her dead in his home. Anger takes over and Eddie finds himself at Slade’s mercy. With a gun at his head.
There’s only one way to get Slade in cuffs, and it begins with Black by Rose.
Get Black by Rose here.
Sword of Damocles – CSI Eddie Collins Book Three
Some secrets never die.
When the remains of a woman are found in a burnt-out car, CSI Eddie Collins teams up with his enemy, DI Benson, to untangle the knot of lies behind this apparent suicide.
As a CSI in the Major Crime Unit, Eddie is forced to lead a disintegrating team that he can’t control or tolerate, as they go up against a killer who will do anything to protect his past, and profit from it.
Get Sword of Damocles here.
Ledston Luck – CSI Eddie Collins Book Four
They say you can always trust a copper. They’re lying.
They lied thirty years ago and they’re still lying today.
A booby-trapped body in a long-abandoned chapel. A scene examination that goes horribly wrong. CSI Eddie Collins and DI Benson are injured and one of the team killed.
Eddie is heartbroken and guilt-ridden.
And angry.
Get Ledston Luck here.
The Lift – A CSI Eddie Collins Short Story
CSI Eddie Collins embarks on another ordinary day. But the people he meets in a lift prove that you should never make assumptions, never let preconceptions sway your judgement.
And never let down your guard.
Get The Lift here.
The Note – A CSI Eddie Collins Short Story
I’m Eddie Collins, a CSI.
Ever had that feeling of being watched but when you turn around no one’s there?
I have.
It was raining, and I was working a murder scene around midnight when that prickle ran up my spine. If I’d listened to that feeling, if I’d thought back to my past, maybe I could have prevented the terror that was to come.
Back at the office, I found a death threat on my desk.
I had no idea who sent it or why they wanted to kill me.
But I was about to find out.
Get The Note here.
Thanks...
Many thanks to my superb editors Kath Middleton and Alison Birch, without whom this book would not have turned out so well.
This book is dedicated to...
My lady, Sarah.
© Copyright 2015
The rights of Andrew Barrett to be identified as the author of this work have been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the copyright holder.
Published in the United Kingdom by The Ink Foundry.
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All characters and events in this publication are fictitious, and any resemblance is purely coincidental.
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