The Third Rule (Eddie Collins Book 1)

by Andrew Barrett

  It was Monday morning, the 22nd of June, and it was another scorcher. The traffic through the city was abysmal, but it had given him time to rationalise his stance on The Rules and what they stood for.

  Mick had written thousands of words, hundreds of column inches on the subject, taking the stance that The Rules was a just way forward; and he saw the meeting with Mr Farrier as just another point of view along the same theme, nothing to really stretch him too far.

  He pulled up on the main road in Methley and killed the engine.

  — Two —

  An hour after giving his speech, Eddie had deleted almost three hundred worthless emails and familiarised himself with yet more new procedures concerning DNA recovery techniques; had charged up the MLPD canister, installed new batteries in the mini-sequencing machine and checked out his personal-issue laptop, ready for a day of fighting crime. He slurped the coffee and then sneaked off to sip the brandy in the toilet, feeling the familiar old buzz as it hit his brain and took the edge off what should have been a steady reintroduction to crime scene examination. “What have we got then, Ros?”

  The sheet came out of the old laser printer and she logged off IBIS and sighed. “I’ve tried to keep it low key,” she said, “but I think I’ve hit boring by mistake.”

  “Today I like boring,” he snatched the list of jobs and stared at it.

  Ros stood next to him, reading the list over his shoulder. “Have you,” she whispered, pulling at his arm, gaining his attention, “have you had a swig of the hard stuff?”

  Eddie looked at her, and then over towards Jeffery’s office. “Don’t know what you mean, Ros.”

  “Don’t give me that, Eddie.” She didn’t whisper this time. “It’s okay if you can’t quit in order to get back with Jilly, but don’t you touch that stuff while we’re on duty!”

  He held out his hands. “Okay, I get the message.”

  “Well make sure you do.” Ros grabbed her coat. “Now, come on.”

  — Three —

  He rehearsed the questions he had in mind for Mr Farrier. Nothing too taxing; after all, what he couldn’t get out of the old guy, he’d ‘embellish’ – his job was on the line, remember. He’d stick with what the Parole Board said, how Farrier’s son – he rustled quickly through the typed version of Mr Farrier’s letter, just to refresh his fogged memory - Stephen, yes that’s it, Stephen. Anyway, he’d stick with how the Parole Board thought this fifty-year-old man called Stephen Farrier still posed a threat to burglars. Still posed a threat to burglars? That’s like saying a rapist could sue his victim if he caught syphilis from her!

  The ratings would go through the roof. And of course, his name would be at the bottom of the article. No bad thing when looking for future employment. But he wanted to feed Farrier The Rules too, and see what stance he had. He expected that an old guy like him, obviously a man of good character, would see them as a breath of fresh air, something hard to hit back at the thief and the burglar with, something to kill the murderer with too.

  Mick slipped his digital recorder into his jacket pocket, climbed from the car, and peered around. Nice, he thought. One day I’m gonna retire somewhere just like this, where the high point of your day is finding out just how many pints of beer you can sup before barfing into the weeds. It brought a smile to his face, and it brought a thirst to his lips; Mick reached into the glove box for the bottle.

  He wondered how Eddie was getting along on his first day back in uniform, slinging powder and chemicals around victims’ houses. “Not for me, that job. Couldn’t stand the sight of bodies for one thing; couldn’t handle the post mortems.” He felt the sun on his back, head down watching his shadow ripple over Lincoln’s undulating path towards his back door.

  Mick approached the door and stopped. It was slightly open, but so was the small window just further along the building. Trusting, he thought, or stupid.

  He knocked on the shiny door.

  Absently, Mick brushed dirt off his jacket, waiting for a reply, and then straightened the tie he’d bought on the way here, the tie he promised to offer Williams. He knocked again, louder. “Turn your fucking hearing aid on, old man.” He peeked through the letterbox and quickly pulled away again, shuddering. His throat closed up and he turned away, feeling the tightness in his chest. Old folk, he told himself, they piss everywhere, don’t they? But look around, Mick, look at the guy’s garden, look at his door – it shines like a mirror! The old man’s not a doddering fool, Mick; the old man’s simply a man who is old.

  So what’s with the smell, huh?

  Maybe he fell asleep and, well, you know, had an accident. But it didn’t smell like piss. Mick pictured dead goldfish floating on a crusty skin of rancid water. This smell was like that.

  “Explain those then,” he whispered as two bluebottles buzzed out through the open window. “Like flies around…” He knocked again, louder this time, hard enough to hurt his knuckles, desperate for a response. He rested his fingertips against the door and gently pushed. “Hello?” The door swung open.

  His eyes were drawn inside Lincoln Farrier’s old home, into the hallway with flowery 1960s wallpaper, with ornate cast iron coat hooks on the wall, with a deep green carpet running up the stairs in front of him, and held in place by brass locks. The centre of the carpet had worn thin. But his eyes couldn’t stay there for long, admiring Lincoln’s choice of carpet; they were pulled to the lounge door, the lounge door that stood open.

  All was quiet. Except the flies.

  He stepped into the hall. “Hello,” he called again. Nothing. Only the smell and the flies.

  He shouldn’t be in here. Especially uninvited. Technically, this is burglary, he told himself. You should go back to the car and you should sit there, taking little sips from the god-help-me bottle, and you should wait until a frail old fella walks up the path. Then you could ask him if his name was Lincoln, and when he says, ‘Yes, it’s Lincoln, who are you?’ you could breathe that sigh of relief you’ve been promising yourself, and you could pat him on the fucking shoulder, and you could laugh at him, at him, and you could say, hey Lincoln, think it’s about time you changed your fucking fish water – it smells like someone died in there!

  He touched the lounge door handle. His heart thumped irregularly. “Fuck—” Mick’s head hit the doorframe and he screamed like a girl having a nightmare.

  It was the phone, one of those shrill things that sounds like a kid with a metal tube running along steel railings. In his haste to get away, he tripped and nutted the wood, arms flailing like a Morris-dancer on speed, knees buckling, heart racing. A phone. That’s all, a fucking phone!

  And before he could even look around to see if he had any composure left, it rang off and left him watching the bluebottle and its cousin fly around the hall. “Come on! Mick, get a fucking grip on yourself.”

  The lounge door was fully open.

  “Get a move on, Micky,” he said. “It’ll be fucking dark soon!” And that helped, that little chip of humour sent the ghosties and ghoulies flying off with the bluebottles and got him smiling at this nonsense he’d created.

  He’d simply step into the lounge, leave the old guy a friendly ‘while you were out…’ note and then go.

  Mick stepped into the lounge and froze.

  — Four —

  Eddie whispered, “Twenty minutes.”

  Ros shook her head, “Fifteen, no forced entry.”

  “Okay, fifteen, cash, no electrical goods.”

  The man looked tired. He answered the door and his eyes were tiny, shiny things hidden somewhere in great folds of dark skin that were sunken beneath outcrops of hairy brow. His moustache flicked up and down, “Yes?”

  “Hello,” Eddie said, “police fingerprints.”

  The man ran fingers through his thinning hair, “Are you SOCO?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Eddie and Ros said in unison.

  “Well why the bloody hell didn’t you say so?” The outcrops grew heavier.

&nbs
p; Eddie and Ros looked at each other. “We’re sorry we couldn’t get here yesterday,” Ros said, “only we—”

  “Don’t give me your excuses, I’m not interested in excuses. Just come inside.” He stood aside, let them in and slammed the door. “Through here,” he snapped.

  “Where did they get in?” Eddie asked, realising the same old questions, asked in the same old concerned voice, were already tripping back out of his mouth as though he’d never been away, as natural as exhaled air.

  “Kitchen,” he walked away from them. “Through here.”

  “Kitchen,” Eddie whispered, miming behind his back, waddling behind him. Behind him, Ros sniggered and she poked him in the ribs. “Did you leave the window open?”

  “Is it a crime?”

  “No, just wondered, that’s all.”

  “It was open.”

  “Thanks awfully,” smiled Eddie. I’m the one who needs cheering up, he thought, and look what I get lumbered with: Mr Happy! I’m gonna slit my wrists before today is over.

  They followed, Eddie struggling to keep up because his leg ached again, and as they walked through the lounge towards the back of the house, he noticed a dent in the skirting board the size of a fist. “I was sacked today,” Mr Happy said to no one in particular. “There,” he said, folded his arms, nodded his head, “he came in through there.” He stood back, watching them closely.

  “Right,” Ros said, “I’ll start outside. Okay, Eddie?”

  “Are you sure,” he pleaded, “I mean, I don’t mind…”

  “I’ll be fine.” She stepped outside.

  “Okay,” Eddie smiled sarcastically, showing teeth and all.

  “Sacked after fourteen years. It was all his fault too,” the man grinned with irony, like he was a road accident victim picked up by a life-saving helicopter, only to be told there was a bomb on board, “the fudge-nudger.” He looked at Eddie. “He sacked me for straight-talking,” he grunted again, “for not being sympathetic enough, for not bending over and taking it up the shitter. The bastard! And then this happens and I have to take the day off. He says it’s not good enough, that I look like shit! But what’s he expect? I went six rounds with a fucking burglar.” He put his face close to Eddie’s, nodded outside to Ros. “What’s your boss like?”

  Eddie opened his kit, didn’t look up. “We get along well most of the time.”

  “Mine was a wanker! A poof! Ha. At least he was; I don’t work there anymore, I don’t fucking work anywhere anymore.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Eddie took out the MLPD spray and squirted it on the glass. Then he bent and took out his squirrel brush and jar of aluminium powder.

  “Yeah I bet. You do this day in and day out, and I bet you hear this kind of shit all day long. Why would you care, you’ll go home at the end of every day to your swanky little house where wifey has tea ready for you—”

  Eddie stiffened.

  “Hey, that’s enough.” Ros stood in the doorway, watching.

  “I can see it in your eyes; you don’t give a flying fuck that I got beaten up. You couldn’t care less that some bastard came into my house and beat the crap out of me!”

  Bet it took ages, Eddie thought. He noticed Ros watching, thinking the same thought, and he half winked at her, just to let her know he was in control of the situation, and yeah he was fine, and no, he wouldn’t let this guy wind him up. Eddie stood again, folded his arms and watched him, Mr Happy, who blamed the world for his troubles.

  “And do you know what, he took it, he took my fucking savings. I mean, I have some put in the bank, but that was special, see I knew he was going to do it, I knew he was going to fucking sack me, that bum-bandit—”

  “Please,” Eddie said, “cool the language down a bit.”

  “And I knew… what? What did you say to me! This is my fucking house! I was attacked and robbed in my own fucking house, and then it takes two days for fucking forensics to finally get their arse in gear and come out to make a mess in my house, to tell me there’s nothing—”

  “Calm down, sir.” Eddie put the jar of powder down.

  “Don’t you tell me to fucking calm down.”

  “Hey! Hey!” Ros stepped into the kitchen. Mr Happy looked at her and slammed the door on her foot. Eddie dropped the brush. He grabbed the man by the scruff of the neck and pinned him against the wall.

  “Eddie!” Ros screamed.

  “I’ll ram this torch down your bastard throat, you little wanker, if you don’t keep a lid—”

  “Eddie!” Now Ros screamed at Eddie, not at Mr Happy, not at the pain in her foot, but directly at Eddie. “Let him go.”

  Eddie stared into his face, stared deep into his tired eyes, and he actually felt sympathy for him, but then Mr Happy spoiled it all.

  “Go on,” he croaked, “do it to me. See what happens, I don’t care what you do next, big boy; I’ll have the last laugh.” And then a chuckle fell out into the silent air between them. “Go on,” he said, “get out of my house, you piece of shit, and take your chemicals and your fucking girlfriend with you. Go on, back to your wife and your little bastard kids…” He spat the words; spat them into Eddie’s face.

  Eddie went cold, and Mr Happy’s words faded as though they weren’t four inches apart; they were four hundred yards apart and moving away from each other. The coldness spread out quickly from his head, through his shoulders and into his arms. And he thought of his little bastard, Sammy; thought about how he would go home to his little wifey and watch his little bastard as they played on the carpet waiting for tea. Eddie’s eyes grew wide and his grip tightened on Mr Happy’s reddening throat, until Mr Happy’s eyes changed from irony into something approaching fear. They flicked between Eddie and Ros, a kind of pleading in them now. “Get him off me! He’s fucking crazy, get him off me now!”

  “Eddie,” Ros whispered his name. “He’s not worth it, Eddie.”

  Eddie relaxed the grip. He blinked and then the ferocity left his face.

  The man breathed again, rubbing his throat as Eddie stepped back. Mr Smug moved in with Mr Happy.

  “Watch your mouth, sir.” Eddie said.

  “What’s your name?” He looked at Ros.

  “Why do you—”

  “You’re his boss, aren’t you? I want your name.”

  “Hey come on, sir. I think we should all just calm down. We’re here to—”

  “What is your name?”

  “Do you want us to carry on with the examination?”

  “Is that a threat, young lady? I ask for your name, and you imply you will cease to carry out an examination if I carry out my right to complain about being held by the throat,” he looked at Eddie, “by one of your gorillas?”

  “No, I only—”

  Eddie moved forward and Ros held him back. “Well if he’s gonna sue, I may as well get my fucking money’s worth.”

  “No! Eddie, please, it’s not worth it; leave him alone and lift the marks you found. Ignore him, do your job.”

  “That’s right, Eddie. Do your job.” Mr Happy turned to Ros, “Write your details down for me now. I won’t ask again. And write his down, too.”

  Eddie lifted the aluminium powder marks off the inner sill, along with a partial footmark. The MLPD marks on the window looked shit, and he was in no mood do anything with them anyhow. He had some evidence, but for the life of him couldn’t come up with a reason good enough to help this ignorant bastard more than he already had.

  He leaned close to the glass and pushed a thumb right through the ridge detail of the marks he should have uploaded to NAFIS. Fuck ‘em; treat me right, he thought, and I’ll help wherever I can, piss on me and you get wet too. He sealed the marks in an evidence bag and plugged the cap back on the MLPD spray bottle. And then he looked at the man, at his straggly hair, his unkempt features, eyes that needed a year’s worth of sleep just to start looking normal again, and he wondered why he had said those things; Christ, they had never met, why would he want to say those thi
ngs… he almost felt sorry for him.

  Did I look like that? Do I look like that now?

  And then he knew why Mr Happy was so anti; because he’s angry, Eddie. Because he thinks the police don’t care, because he thinks you don’t care, because his burglar will get off without ever having his fucking collar felt, because his burglar likely as not caused him to lose his job – look at his black eyes, the nose!

  “Listen,” Eddie said, fighting back the words he dearly wanted to use, “I understand you’ve been through some bad times—”

  “Bad times?” Mr Happy smiled for a moment, as though contemplating a friend’s words before embarking on a good-natured debate. “Bad times! You don’t know what fucking bad times are, you snivelling piece of shit.” His eyes darkened and his head sank into his shoulders, hands turned into claws. “You collect your nice huge monthly pay, pay that I provide you with, and you couldn’t give a sideways fuck about people like me!” Mr Happy closed the gap down and prodded Eddie in the arm with each syllable of his snarled words. “You’ve no idea what bad times are. You go from one fucking job to the next, like parasites feeding on the misery of others, and you file your fucking paperwork.” Mr Happy brought his black eyes right up to Eddie’s, and when Ros tried to intervene, he merely turned his eyes to the side and growled at her. He looked back at Eddie. “Come back to the real world, you pumped up piece of shit, and come back to where bad things happen to nice people. You’d fold in seconds if it happened to you!”

  Eddie gritted his teeth, felt the heat in his chest intensify, and felt the tears come to the surface. “You want a fucking competition on the Bad Times League?”