“You sure you’re okay?”
“Fine.”
They quartered the room, took pictures of the front door, inside and out, to prove there was no lock damage, and then they closed up on the body itself, taking images from all around, showing the position of the gun, proved safe after a quick visit from an authorised firearms officer who couldn’t cope with the smell. And they took another four more of the head and its debris on the wall behind.
“Okay,” Ros said, “we’ll finish off with a quick one of the note, and then we can get back for a coffee. What d’ya say?”
“Sounds good to me.” Eddie checked his watch. “Told you forty minutes.”
“Hmm, do you think we ought to retrieve the bullet?”
Eddie looked at the wall, dripping with black flaky old blood. “What’s the point?”
Ros shrugged. “It proves the weapon on the floor killed him.”
“Yeah, okay. We need to take the gun too, prove he was the one holding it.”
“Low Copy?”
“From the grip. We’ll have the barrel superglued; might get some marks and an easy ident,” he smiled at her.
“Christ, you sounded like Stuart then, keen as mustard to get an ident.”
Eddie looked back at the old man, puzzled by the circumstances of this whole scene.
“Can’t understand why he killed himself. It’s not as though he would never see his son again, was it?”
Eddie looked at her.
“Oh shit, Eddie, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay. Don’t walk on eggshells around me, Ros.”
“Sorry.”
“And stop being sorry, woman. If you want to make yourself useful, start getting the bullet out the wall, eh? I’ll photo the note.”
He brought the camera up to his eye and peered at the last scribbling of an old guy with a broken heart. He squared the note up in the viewfinder, tried to capture the old fountain pen too, just in the right side of the frame. Then he let the autofocus bring the letters sharp, and then he stopped. Dead. He blinked, took the camera away and stood there motionless for a moment, thinking. He read the letter.
To those who find me, I am sorry to cause you so much grief. I’m sick of my Steven being locked up for no good reason, and I can’t take it no more. Steven, I love you.
Lincoln Farrier.
Then he walked to the wall, the one with the photos on it, and specifically to the one where his boy was getting his degree. “Steven,” he whispered. He read the words below the picture of the young man wearing a black gown and mortarboard. “Stephen. Stephen? You’d think a father could spell his own son’s name right, wouldn’t you?” he whispered. And then he looked again at the other picture, the one where a younger Lincoln Farrier was beating the shit out of a glowing piece of metal using a hammer. A hammer, noted Eddie, that he held in his left hand. He turned and saw that the pen lay on the note’s right side as though the author had finished writing and automatically put down the pen to read his own work. And he looked at the gun, and saw where it had landed. By Lincoln’s right side. “Erm, Ros?”
“What?”
“Leave the bullet, dear.”
“Why, what’s up?”
“I don’t think this is a fifty minute suicide. I think we have ourselves a little murder.”
— Four —
It was nearly midnight when Eddie closed the door to his flat and switched on the light. He wasn’t expected in at work tomorrow until ten o’clock under the late-off late-on rule. The first thing he did was chuck four slices of bread in the toaster and down a glass of brandy, and never had it tasted so good, and never – well, almost never – had it been so well deserved. He was exhausted, and it was the third glass that finally managed to take the edge off the day. After the fourth glass, his toast popped but by then he didn’t feel hungry anymore. Eddie saved his legs and sat down with the bottle, and only minutes passed before some inconsiderate bastard knocked on his door and disturbed his self-pity. “Go. Away.”
“Eddie, it’s me, Mick.”
“Go. Away. Mick.”
“I have to talk to you.”
Sighing, Eddie let him in, and returned to his chair and lit a cigarette. “Go on, I’m all ears.”
Mick sniffed the air. “You had toast?”
“Didn’t get the chance,” he smiled, tipped the bottle at him, “got my priorities in order, sir.”
“Good man. Mind if I have it?”
“Fill yer boots.”
“Ta.” He headed for the kitchen. “It was interesting, wouldn’t you say, that suicide today?” he shouted.
“Oh yes, interesting is what it was alright.”
Mick came back in munching hard toast. “It wasn’t a suicide, was it?”
Eddie raised his eyebrows, drank brandy.
“I did a little research while I was in the village. And though it pained me I talked to people in the pub,” he laughed, spitting crumbs across the settee. “And then I spoke to an old girl in Allied Postal.”
“I’m enthralled.”
“She was devastated when I told her the news. Had to shut up shop.”
“Still enthralled.”
“Listen!” Mick sat down, put the plate of toast on the carpet, grabbed a glass, and lit a cigarette. “Lincoln Farrier was murdered. I know it.”
“Bully for you, we’ll make you into a PI in no time. What should we call you? Mick the Dick? How’s that sound?”
“The old lady, Mrs Walker, says he called in on his way home, and left her cloud nine because of the letter she gave him.”
Eddie’s face crumpled, “I’m tired, mate, and I don’t really want to listen to a pile of bollocks about some old couple having it away in the back of Allied Postal.”
“Will you shut the fuck up and listen!” He glared at Eddie, and when Eddie waved an apology, he snatched the bottle off the table and helped himself. “Thank you. Now,” he continued, “Mrs Walker handed him a letter from his son; a letter that said the parole board had finally granted him release, and he was due out of prison in a couple of weeks.” He watched Eddie’s face, noted how it suddenly appeared slightly interested after all. “You tell me, my forensic friend, if you were so sad about your boy being kept under lock and key by an unfair system, and then, listen to that,” he pointed a finger, “and then you found out he was coming home, would you go and suck on a gun? Would you?”
“No. I wouldn’t.”
“Exactamundo. Exacta-fucking-mundo.” He downed the brandy and refilled the glass, and then he looked at Eddie, saw that his rubberised face had slipped back into uninterested. “How did you find out it wasn’t suicide?”
“I can’t—”
“Off the record, Eddie.”
Eddie stared at him.
“No, I mean it, off the record. I won’t quote you, or use anything—”
“For a second there, Mick, I almost believed you.”
“Eddie, an old man was shot through the head in his own home, and trying to pass it off as suicide. I’m going to the police with everything I have tomorrow—”
“After you’ve run the fucking story, no doubt.”
“Hey, I’m hanging onto my job by its foreskin, I kid you not, and I have to make this work. But it doesn’t mean I can’t take a personal interest too. And I do, I have.”
Eddie relented. He told him about the photographs and about the spelling error in Lincoln Farrier’s alleged suicide note. And he finished his brief resume by adding, “If any of this, any of this gets into print, I will dutifully collect my P45 and then come straight round to your house and pull your legs off. Do I make myself ultra-clear, Micky-boy? I really do mean it; I have a job to keep too, remember.”
Mick held up his hands, “Absolutely, no problemo, I promise.”
“Good, now pass the bottle, you piss head.”
“I knew about the spelling error anyway.”
“How?”
“I saw the note, remember?”
“You were chucking your load, Mick; how come you took notice of the note?”
Mick was silent for a moment. “I’ve never seen anything like it. It was abhorrent but… mesmerising.”
Eddie stared a little longer, then nodded his understanding.
“So tell me what happened after I left.”
“We called the circus out, that’s what happened. CID eventually showed up, Jeffery came along too.”
“Did they call a biologist?”
Eddie nodded.
“And a ballistics expert?”
“You know more about this job than I do. Yes, we did all that, and we called in the forensic pathologist and then we had tea and biscuits in Lincoln’s lounge while the horseracing was on. Went through a full tin of fly spray but I won twenty quid.”
Mick wobbled his head side to side. “Oh, ha fucking ha.”
“Well, what do you want me to say, Mick? We went through the whole shit-n-shaboodle, start to finish; that’s how come I’ve just managed to plonk my arse in my own chair after a sixteen hour shift. And even then I end up talking about the pissing job. And I need a shower; I’ve got so much ali powder on me that I feel like the tin man.”
“You smell of death.”
“You smell of body odour.”
Mick nodded. “I wanted to know what evidence you found.”
“I’m not telling you that, you plank. Not only would I lose my job, I’d end up in jail for perverting the course of justice.”
Mick put his hand on his chest, the smoke streaming around his chin. “This is me you’re insulting.”
“I couldn’t care less.”
“I’ve already promised—”
He groaned. “You’re worse than a kid, you know that?”
Mick smiled.
“We took the gun, we’ll get Low Copy DNA from the butt and we’ll try for fingerprints off the barrel. The bullet can’t be examined cos it’s too badly damaged, and the shell will go for fingerprinting along with the note too. We fingerprinted the house, including the doors and the windows and found forty-seven marks – probably all his, and maybe Mrs Walker’s too if they were having it off. That’s it. Tomorrow,” he looked at the clock, “later today rather, the chemical boys will go in there and spray ninhydrin all over the walls and maybe, in a couple of days, they’ll find another dozen marks or so. Okay?”
“Thanks. No need to be so gracious.”
“I wasn’t.”
“I know.” He poured himself another drink. “What about the PM?”
“I wasn’t there, Mick. I don’t know.”
“I can’t understand it; who would want an old boy like Lincoln dead?” He stood. “Want some toast?”
Eddie shook his head. “You go on.”
“Ta. I’m going to run the story as a tragic suicide, how an old man couldn’t bear to live without his wrongfully imprisoned son. And then, the next day, I’m running it as fucking murder.”
“Run it as what you want, Mick. Just don’t mention me or anything I’ve told you. Got it?”
“I won’t, I promise, I’ll mention what Mrs Walker told me, that’s all. That way, it’ll keep the murderer wondering if the police know something or not, or if it’s just speculation in print.”
“I’m trusting you here, Mick.”
“And you’re trusting me, my forensic friend, because I’ve never spilled your beans in print before. Have I?” Then Mick blushed, “Apart from that once and that wasn’t anything to do with a job,” he reinforced the point by waving a finger.
“And—”
“Okay twice. But that wasn’t anything to do with a job either.”
“And don’t mention Stephen’s name; if the murderer sees it in print, he may panic if he cottons on he’s spelled it wrong.”
“Gotcha, big boy.”
Mick left the room, and Eddie heard the bathroom light click on. He sighed, rubbed the stubble around his chin and downed the last of the brandy, coughing in that wheezing way as it stung his throat. Five glasses in twenty minutes and he still felt sober. “It’s becoming more and more expensive to get pissed these days.” And that simple sentence was the catalyst he needed to drop from a superficial – artificial – level of feeling okay with things, to falling three floors down the lift shaft and into a decrepit feeling of despair. Oh, woe is me.
He tried to count his blessings, as his old mum used to say, and he was finding it difficult to come up with any he could actually label as blessings, more ‘not disasters’ was a better way of describing the filthy stinking shitty flat he was forced to call home.
He sniggered, felt light-headed, “At last,” and thought about Jilly. Really that was the only way she would ever have him back in the damned house, wasn’t it? If he brought Sam back with him, and if he could stand up without wobbling all over the place.
Maybe he should attend one of those crank nights at the Crystal Ball Club with her, where some schmuck feeds you a plate of hope, when all you can really taste in your mouth is bullshit. Might work though.
The toaster popped. “You’re out of margarine,” Mick shouted.
“Scrape some grease off the top of the cooker.”
“Barrel of fun, you are.”
“You know where the door is.”
Mick walked back in, spilled brandy down his chin and slammed the glass on the table. “What’s your problem?” He stared at Eddie, dark eyes narrowed, cheeks throbbing. “Why can’t you be civil just for one evening?”
“Because I don’t have to be fucking civil. No one invited you here, you prick! You came here to squeeze me for info about the dead pensioner. Oh, and you came here to eat my fucking toast.” They stared at each other. Eventually Eddie dropped his gaze, watched the pattern in the carpet float this way and that. “I’m sorry.” He looked up again. “I nearly punched a guy who’d been burgled today. He said something that I would normally have brushed aside, but I had the bastard by the throat up against his own kitchen wall.”
“I bet he had margarine.”
“I feel like punching everyone I meet. Stuck-up Stuart nearly bought a dental appointment twice today. I can’t hack it anymore, Mick.”
“Hey, come on.”
“I just want to sit in the corner and drink brandy until I piss brandy, you know what I mean?”
“Yes,” Mick said earnestly. “I think I do.” He topped up both their glasses and sat opposite Eddie in his accustomed fashion, one leg draped over the arm of the chair. “I admire you. I think you’ve coped well since Sam’s death. And today, wow,” he shook his head, “I don’t know how you go into places like that and fuck about with corpses that carry their own livestock.”
“It’s not just the job. I actually hate being alive. If I was a braver man, I would be sitting in this chair looking a lot like Lincoln Farrier right now.” He blinked and a tear fell. “I miss my kid, Mick.”
“I know you do. You were a good dad, Eddie; anybody can see that.” He lit two cigarettes, threw one at Eddie, and stared at the ceiling. “I never had kids,” he said. “Couldn’t see the attraction.”
“Couldn’t find anyone dumb enough, you mean.”
Mick laughed. “No pulling the wool over your eyes is there?” And then his face straightened. “Never had the opportunity, if the truth be known.”
“Oh? Why?”
He tipped the glass at Eddie. “Who wants to marry a piss-head?”
Eddie looked away.
— Five —
Jilly sat in the darkness. She could smell him on the teddy. She held that damned thing in her arms so tight that she had pins and needles. It smelled just like him, and it took her mind back to the happy times, the really good times where they shared a wonderful family life. All three of them. She buried her nose in the soft fur and breathed in, and there he was, large as life, good old Sam. He would never admit to any of his friends that he had a teddy – a boy of twelve did not have such things – but he loved it all the same, and his secret was saf
e with her.
He turned around as he walked down the drive; he waved, flicked the peak of his NY baseball cap – wonder where that is now? – and then came back to her. Aww. ‘I’ll wait here, Mum’, he said in his childish, high-pitched voice. “My Sammy,” she hugged him. ‘It’s Sam, Mum; how many more times?’ Jilly giggled.
She sat on the edge of the bed in the dark room and giggled.
And then she stopped. She went cold. Sat bolt upright. The teddy fell to the floor. Her wide eyes flicked left and right. Voices. She heard voices from the master bedroom. Fuck, I’m being burgled, she thought. There, again they came, men’s voices. Jilly held her breath. Shit, what do I do? There was no phone in here and—
Laughter. They were laughing. But… she listened harder. It wasn’t malicious. It didn’t sound threatening. Jilly swallowed, pulled her nightgown tight around her waist and walked purposefully from Sam’s room.
She flung open the door and… nothing. Cautiously, Jilly stepped inside, looking around, feeling the atmosphere, listening all the time, cocking her head as whispers floated around the room. “Sam?” She turned on the light and squinted. “Eddie? That you?” But there was no one there. Jilly relaxed, let her shoulders slump, and a giggle, involuntary this time, slipped out.
The Yorkshire Echo. 22nd June
‘Justice’ to blame for Death of a Lonely Old Man
Today, this reporter found the remains of a sad old man who had taken his own life. Lincoln Farrier (78) killed himself after suffering the absence of his son for an intolerable length of time.
The tragic story began with Lincoln’s son being imprisoned for attacking a burglar. Despite repeated pleas from Lincoln and his son’s family, the Parole Board insisted he was still ‘a danger to burglars’.
This newspaper believes everyone has a right to defend their own hard-earned property, and it is unethical for a so-called ‘justice system’ to keep a man locked up for doing just that. Furthermore, doesn’t the Parole Board consider burglars to be in the wrong place at any time? This phrase of theirs gives burglars the right to a life of crime and gives those defending themselves and their property no rights at all.
The Third Rule (Eddie Collins Book 1) Page 20