The Third Rule (Eddie Collins Book 1)

by Andrew Barrett

  “Enough!” Ros said.

  Mr Happy saw something in Eddie that made him flinch and take a couple of steps back. “Is that it?” He saw the evidence bag in Eddie’s hand. “Is that all you got?”

  “I’ll wait outside for you, Ros.” Eddie picked up his kit.

  “Don’t walk away from me while I’m talking to you!” Happy reached out and took hold of Eddie by the shoulder.

  Eddie turned and rammed a well-aimed elbow in his stomach. Happy coughed and folded up, holding himself off the floor with the fingertips of his right hand, while his left rubbed his gut. He shrieked in pain, but cursed Eddie, promising to have his fucking job, and every penny he had.

  Well you won’t get much, Eddie thought and walked away.

  He slammed the van door, pulled out a cigarette and broke the law by lighting it up in a public place. He did not care a flying fuck. He wound down the window and blew smoke out into the air. Come on, then. Just one person, come along and tell me I’m breaking the law, and I swear I’ll break your fucking nose!

  — Five —

  Mick was a cocky bastard who would normally bound into the old man’s lounge without too much attention paid to courtesy, leave him a note, and then go find the nearest pub. But there was something slightly peculiar about today. Maybe it was the smell of rotting flesh.

  He had walked in; the smile he’d prepared in advance wasn’t needed after all. Without realising it, his feet were already inside the room, and though he wanted them to stop and turn, they walked on a few extra steps and came to a lazy halt by the table, literally a couple of yards away from the maggots crawling inside Lincoln Farrier’s nostrils.

  He watched in silence, with a repugnant fascination at the maggots, a tiny writhing mass, wriggling in the hole, and it seemed strange that all that movement was going on, and yet no one reached out a finger to scratch at the annoying tickle they caused; how could you put up with it!

  The top of Lincoln’s head had left home. Parts of it were buried in the wall along with a spray of redness that had dripped and run towards the bureau, the bureau that had collected most of the old man’s brains and the red fleshy bits that used to surround it. Bits of bones, merely splinters, were everywhere.

  The front of the old man’s shirt was awash with a large blackened stain, as though he wore a warlock’s bib, and his hands, strangely similar to a dead chicken’s claw, how all the fingers seemed drawn together, were pale save for the liver spots, and were draped as though he were asleep, one in his lap, the other over the side of the chair, hanging in mid-air.

  At his feet was a gun.

  And on the table was a note. Mick tried to sidestep the emotions he knew were coming his way, and he tried to read the note, but it may as well have been written in fucking Arabic for all he could see or absorb. He could see the single droplet of blood though, high up in the right corner of the note, just one droplet of redness. Blood. It was abhorrent as though that was the icon of the scene as a whole, that was the exclamation mark at the end of Mr Lincoln Farrier’s life.

  And as he looked back at the old man, whose eyes were sunken white things in sockets that were six sizes too large for them, he felt something move in his stomach; something unpleasant with a smell not too dissimilar to that now enjoyed by his nostrils.

  His eyes let go of the old man’s, his feet turned rather raggedly and tried to make their way to the exit. He stepped along toward the daylight, ignoring the flies and the smell, and out into the back garden of a dead old man who would never again tend his roses. He rested his back against the cold brick of Lincoln’s house, breathing deep, cleansing breaths.

  Then Mick doubled up and threw up onto the path, spraying his shining shoes with puke.

  The next thing he knew, he was gulping down mouthfuls of foul-tasting brandy and marvelling at the lumps of vomit clinging to his new tie.

  Monday 22nd June

  Chapter Twenty

  — One —

  He looked across the empty office to Eddie’s desk.

  He had finished his morning’s work with the ease of a pro; had accumulated fingerprint and footwear evidence in his usual diligent way. Stuart was perfection personified when it came to his work, his craft. He was the one with all the knowledge, the man who rarely referred to a sat nav to find his way around the city centre, and the man who never made mistakes in his clerical duties. He was punctual, and smart to the point of being annoying. His black trousers had a crease so sharp up the centre of each leg they could have been cast from iron; his shoes were so shiny that you could see a reflection of the ceiling, and his hair was slicked back covering a slight bald patch on the crown of his head – his only imperfection – with such precision that it could have been drawn with a black marker pen.

  He was the one who organised the Christmas parties and forced everyone to attend; he was the one who administered the tea fund with such efficiency that he could easily have been the Chancellor of the Exchequer. He was the unofficial judge of those around him, checking their work and their paperwork as though the supervisor had died and he’d put him in charge. And he was the one who brought their discrepancies to the supervisor’s attention, and always with great pride. Stuart was downright irritating, and left behind him a trail of slime and a stench of self-importance.

  He munched his square-cut sandwiches, and watched the BBC TV news showing the demonstrations surrounding Margy Bolton’s death on Sunday, the first to die by a bullet.

  Stuart’s eyes strolled around the office and fell on Collins’s desk again, the most untidy desk here; and he shook his head at the accumulated papers scattered across it, at the bulging in-tray, at the unfulfilled statement requests and other assorted detritus lurking there. He was a disgrace to the Service, was Collins. Why they hadn’t turfed him out was a mystery.

  The man was a lower class caricature, an ensemble of tramp-like qualities: scruffy, hair a mess, face a parody of eagerness, clothes un-ironed usually, and with a slack attitude and abysmal way of speaking to customers that was appalling. Stuart detested Eddie Collins and all he embodied. Sure, the man brought in results, when he was here, but you could train a monkey to do that. He had no finesse and held the mystique of the job in scant regard, and Stuart found his unprofessionalism intolerable.

  And now he was an alcoholic. Oh, it wasn’t widely known, but Stuart knew; could see how pallid his face was, could read that absent look in his eyes, and this morning’s little speech cut no ice with him; all that teary nonsense about his kid being run over and his wife kicking him out – hmph, a separation, he’d called it. She kicked him out because he was a drunk – and West Yorkshire Police should follow her example. And the kid, sure, that was tragic, but come on, life goes on, the job goes on and it seemed Eddie couldn’t grasp that, and turning to the booze just displayed his inherent weakness and unsuitability for this work.

  It had all stemmed from last January, when he tried to be a super hero and save some woman’s handbag. Stuart couldn’t understand why he had bothered; after all, the robber was wearing gloves so there was no chance of a fingerprint ident, and Low Copy DNA was out too because the weather and type of contact between assailant and victim rendered it unsuitable. So why risk life and limb for no forensic yield, no statistical benefit?

  Stuart made sure the office was empty, and then he couldn’t resist the urge any longer to have a peek in Eddie’s desk drawer. The temptation of finding something juicy in there was just too strong. He sandwich and slid his chair across the shiny carpet to the untidy part of the office, the Eddie Collins part of the office.

  The top drawer was full of pens and batteries and paperclips – none of them compartmentalised – and the bottom drawer, the one large enough to accommodate files, was full of minute sheets, and changes to working practices, statements and ident sheets, and all crammed in any old how. Stuart’s nostrils flared at the inefficiency.

  He was about to slam the drawer shut when he saw something shiny underneath the rack of s
uspended files. He glanced around again and then delved deeper. It was an unopened bottle of brandy, ready for the time when the stress got just too much for Eddie to let it pass without topping up the alcohol level. Stuart shook his head and thought about how he could get this information back to supervision without declaring his method.

  The phone rang and Stuart jumped, slamming the drawer shut and scooting away back to his own desk as though his chair was turbocharged. He turned the TV off and grabbed the receiver, heart hammering. “Stuart Tunstall, Scenes of Crime.” It was Control, and he slowly regained his composure, reaching for a pen as the controller talked about a scene that had just been shouted in. The scene they wanted examining was on the far boundary of their division, and it was a suicide, nothing special, nothing to get the circus out for, just requiring a few of photos probably. Stuart scribbled down the details, “I’ll get Collins to examine it this afternoon. Yes of course he’ll be okay with it,” he smiled, “it’s only a suicide.” And if anyone’s used to death in this office, it’s Eddie.

  — Two —

  Ros emptied her arms of equipment and folders of paperwork.

  “Had a good morning?” Stuart asked as Eddie fell into his chair.

  “Put the kettle on, Stuart, and don’t ask stupid questions.”

  “Job too hard for you now?”

  Eddie looked at him. “No,” he said, “but the people are still arseholes. Now don’t forget, I take my coffee white, point 2 millilitres of milk, and 2.4 grams of coffee powder. Can you remember that?”

  “Lost none of your sarcasm, I see.”

  “Where you’re concerned, Stuart, I like to make an effort, and it’s not sarcasm. It’s contempt.”

  “Pack it in, you two. Christ, you’ve only been working half a day and already you’re at each other’s throats.”

  “Nonsense, Ros,” Eddie smiled, “just good old work chums getting reacquainted. Ain’t that right, Stu?”

  “After your lunch,” he looked between Ros and Eddie, “there’s a suicide for you. I thought about you straight away when it came in.”

  “Oh, why’s that?”

  “I thought it’d be a nice easy job to get you back into the swing of things. No stress.”

  “You’re all heart Stu, do you know that?”

  Ros stepped in, “We’ll take it. It’ll keep us out of the way of Joe Public for a while.”

  “Oh?” Stuart grew interested. “Had some bother this morning?”

  Eddie’s face turned dark as images of McHue up against the wall came back into his mind, images of an elbow in the ribs. “Just an irate customer, that’s all.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Have you polished your shoes this morning, Stu?”

  Stuart headed for the kitchen, “Some of us think image is still important.”

  “Damned right. Shine your head too?”

  Although her voice was angry, Ros couldn’t help smiling as Stuart disappeared. “Why do you have to do wind him up, you know what he’s like—”

  “I’m just having a little fun, that’s all.”

  “Well choose someone else to have fun with. He doesn’t have a sense of humour; and he can make life difficult for you right now. So just remember that. Fool.”

  — Three —

  “Ignore the vomit. It’s mine. Not too good with dead things.”

  “How long have you been here, Mick?” Eddie unshouldered the camera bag and folded his arms. “Why have they kept you waiting around?”

  “I don’t know,” he drew on his cigarette. “I found the dead guy and I suppose they’re punishing me for ruining their day. Either that or they think I did it and are going to cuff me after they finish their coffee.” He shuffled on his feet, not looking anywhere specifically, not seeing anything, it seemed. “How the hell do you do this job?” He looked at Eddie, his face screwed into a tangle of bemusement. “How do you play about with dead people?”

  “If you start thinking that it’s an old man who’s lived through the war, and has kids and grandkids, and that he was thinking about preparing chicken for his lunch when the urge to do away with himself took hold, then you’re in trouble. Forget it all, and just do your job.”

  “You’re a freak.”

  “Tell me something new.”

  Ros stopped dead in her tracks, forensic kit in one hand, slip of paper in the other. “What are you doing here?” She stared at Mick, eyes cold.

  He couldn’t even raise a smile. “I had nothing better to do, and I know how much you like my company.”

  “Why do you look so green?” Her eyes narrowed.

  Mick pointed to the vomit.

  “You’ve been in there?”

  “He found the body,” said Eddie. “Now let’s get on with it?”

  “How come you found the body?”

  Mick was about to answer when an officer approached. “I hope you’re not interfering with the scene exam; I know what you journalists are like.” He wasn’t smiling.

  “I’m not inter-bloody-fering, I’m your star witness! I found ‘im,” he nodded towards Mr Farrier’s back door.

  “What makes you think it’s a suicide?” Eddie asked.

  “There’s a suicide note.”

  Ros asked, “What were you doing in there, Mick?”

  “I had a story to cover. He wrote me a letter—”

  “Just cos you found a note, doesn’t make it suicide,” Eddie said.

  “What letter?”

  “I can’t—”

  “You can,” Ros said. “Have you got it with you?”

  “No!” Mick took a step back, holding his hands up. “You come near me,” he said, “and I’ll throw up on you, I promise.”

  “Leave him,” Eddie took off his jacket.

  “Said something about his son being in prison, and he was distressed at it all and hoped The Yorkshire Echo would broadcast his story. I was going to get his story and I wanted to know what he thought of The Rules, that’s all. Nothing wrong with that is there?”

  “No, go on. There’s nothing more we need you for, is there, Ros?” Eddie looked at her.

  “Ready to rock?”

  Eddie was smiling at her, but already he was sweating. “Thirty minutes.”

  “Might have a bullet to dig to out, I say fifty minutes.”

  “Pessimist.”

  “Is that the pot calling the kettle grimy arse!”

  * * *

  Using a knuckle, Eddie pushed the lounge door open. He peered around the corner and was hit in the face by a bluebottle. Ros laughed and almost fell over, and even when both saw the old man with half of his head running down the wallpaper, still they giggled. Neither thought it necessary to wear protective clothing, mask, or gloves. It was only a suicide scene after all. The white suits and overshoes, the hoods and two pairs of latex examination gloves were reserved for scenes where contamination would be a worry; the only problem here were the flies.

  “Let’s take a look around,” Ros said.

  “Yeah,” Eddie said absently. Blood. There was so much blood, and even the conversation he’d had on the doorstep with Mick about being detached, seemed ineffective in here. He was worried that the Old Professional had abandoned him, that he was back to being just a rookie, that he would follow Mick’s example and throw his lunch and the swig of brandy he’d had in the toilet earlier, right back up over the old man and his congealing brains. He felt woozy, he suspected, because sitting in that chair with his hands white and stiff in the shape of some bird’s claw, with the top of his head missing and a huge black stain down the front of his checked shirt, was Sam. The old man’s face, alive with black flies and white maggots, his eyes glazed, their lashes stuck together, was the face and the eyes of his dead son. This is how Sam was; this is what he looked like after that car left him in the middle of the road. This was him as they sank him into the ground, and this was him now: lifeless.

  Eddie turned quickly away, taking gulps of stale air. His hands shook and he re
ached out for the table, careful not to move anything.

  “You okay, Eddie?”

  “Fine.”

  “Looks like he took care of himself, doesn’t it? I mean, it’s a lovely clean place he had here.”

  “It’s a fucking treat.” Eddie took the weight on his feet again and made himself stare at the old man, feeling his history, feeling his kids and his grandkids, feeling the war he lived through and the passing of his wife. And suddenly Eddie felt like crying, he felt hurt for the guy that his life should come down to this, to a fifty minute exam before his old blown-away carcass was shipped off to the local morgue for a quick hacking and slashing session; and the only person in the world who probably gave a flying fuck about him, was locked up in jail somewhere and probably didn’t even know his old man was dead.

  It was a shame.

  Eddie blinked but still he stared at the face, made himself do it, made himself care less and less, made the old man’s history dissolve into the smelly, fly-ridden air of the room. He was a corpse, a stiff, a body; something to fill in the day before going home and starting all over again tomorrow. This was his job, and if he wanted to keep it – and that glimmer of hope of keeping Jilly – then he’d better get a grip on himself right now.

  On the walls were pictures of the old days. Here was one with Lincoln in a smithy. Behind him the furnace burned bright, giving off a white glare in the black and white photo, smoke disappearing into the rafters somewhere, and Lincoln posed over an anvil, holding a hammer over a glowing piece of bent metal, sweat on his brow, but with a pleasant smile on his smooth face. Next to that was a colour photograph showing a graduation ceremony with his son collecting a rolled up piece of paper wrapped in a red ribbon, from some be-gowned man on a stage. Below the picture, in neat calligraphic script, Stephen Farrier, BEng Hons, 1985.

  History.

  Eddie turned away from the wall. “I’ll set the camera up. I want to get the hell away from these bloody flies.”