The Third Rule (Eddie Collins Book 1)

by Andrew Barrett

  * * *

  She stopped the giggle and the screwed up face and she stared right back, wondering what he was looking at. He had never looked at her before – oh sure, he’d looked at her, but he’d never looked at her, not in that way. She blinked, and they both cleared their throats and tried to speak in unison.

  “Should we—” they laughed again.

  * * *

  They ignored Stuart when he greeted them with, “Aw, it’s the two love birds. How nice to see you both.”

  Eddie ruffled Stuart’s hair and groaned as his hand came away sticky with gel.

  “Oi! Pack it in, Collins.”

  “Ooh, touchy,” Eddie grinned.

  “Not as touchy as you’ll be in half an hour.”

  “Why?”

  “Better fix yourself a drink,” Stuart rearranged his hair, scowling at Eddie, “Jeffery wants to see you both. He’ll be back in a minute.”

  Just the smug look on Stuart’s face, the way his perfect mouth hinted at the trouble that was to come, made Eddie’s stomach turn. “What’s happened?”

  “Dunno,” he said. “But make sure when you do fix yourself a drink, it’s just coffee. With no additives.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” asked Ros.

  “Your boyfriend not told you?”

  “He’s not my boyfriend—”

  “Don’t rise to him Ros; he’s a tosser.”

  “I went in your drawer yesterday for some DNA forms…”

  Eddie’s eyes widened.

  “…and I came across—”

  “You snivelling little bastard. You’re a worm, do you know that?”

  “What, what did he come across, Eddie?”

  “He came across a bottle of brandy.” They all turned, and Jeffery stood in the foyer, finger beckoning Eddie towards him. He glared at the three of them, and then disappeared into his office. “Now, please, Eddie.”

  “I ought to—”

  “Careful, Eddie,” Stuart said. “I think you’re in enough trouble already.”

  “I find it strange,” Eddie whispered, “that you can find a bottle in someone’s private drawer—”

  “It’s police property!”

  “I have a key to it.”

  “Then you should have used it.”

  “I shouldn’t need to. Strange how you can find a bottle, but you can’t examine scenes properly.” Stuart’s face changed like the enthusiasm bubble had burst and left incomprehension dispersing in the air. “You’re crap at your fucking job, and the only way you can make yourself look good—”

  “Is by comparing myself to you.”

  “The CRFP don’t give a shit about your silly comparisons. All they care about is whether you can perform as a forensic practitioner.” He began walking up the office, “And I’d say you can’t.”

  * * *

  “Explain this.” Jeffery pointed to the bottle on his desk.

  “It’s unopened. I have never attended work while under the influence.”

  “You can take that high and mighty stance with him out there, but don’t try it in my office, or you’ll be out of here before you can even call your Union Rep. Clear?”

  Eddie nodded, and his eyes sank to the floor.

  “I’m aware it’s unopened, but I’m also aware that alcohol in any form is banned on police premises. You’re aware too, I shouldn’t wonder. Which brings me to ask, even though it’s unopened at the moment, when you were planning to open it?”

  Eddie thought for a moment and all he could think of was beating the shit out of Stuart. He had no excuse and no reason to offer Jeffery. “I don’t know.”

  “You’ll face disciplinary for this. I can’t allow it to happen, and since it was discovered by a certain member of staff, I have to act on it, I can’t just ignore it.”

  Eddie shook his head. “I understand. Do what you have to do.”

  “Oh thank you. How gracious you are.” Fists on hips, Jeffery leaned forward. “This office has an excellent reputation, and you’ve single-handedly bollocksed it up!”

  “I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.”

  “Damned right it won’t.”

  “No, really. It won’t.”

  “Good. But that’s only half of the bad news coming your way this morning.”

  “Now what have I done? Been caught smoking in public? Flicked a bogey at an old woman? Farted in the cake shop?”

  Jeffery’s eyes darkened. “You’re on a warning.” He paused for moment and then almost whispered, “I know about the shit you’ve had lately, and I’m prepared to bend a little because of it. But you’d better fix this problem,” he nodded at the bottle. “And you’d better consider getting on Stuart’s good side because, like it or not, he can make life tough for you. This animosity ends today; I will not have my section pulverised by petty battles. Is that clear?”

  “I hope you’re going to tell him that too.”

  “Already done.”

  “You failed. He’s still an obnoxious prick.”

  “Speaking of obnoxious, I had a call from the Head; we’ve have a complaint about you.”

  “About me?”

  “Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

  Eddie sighed.

  “Remember McHue? He’s the man you had by the throat yesterday.”

  “Ah. I can explain—”

  “Save it. You’ll have your chance soon enough. Is it true?”

  “He was a bad-tempered bastard who said—”

  “I do not care. While ever you wear that uniform, you represent West Yorkshire Police, and West Yorkshire Police do not beat up victims of crime!”

  No matter which way you sliced it, when you put it like that, he had a damned good point.

  “God, it’s good to be back.”

  Jeffery stared.

  “So what’s next, then?”

  “Next is a meeting with the Head, probably the opportunity to make a formal statement and then, if McHue wants your arse, it’s further disciplinary action which could result in suspension.”

  “Great.”

  “And if he wants it, he can have your bollocks for a Section 47 assault. And I’ll let you guess what that means.”

  “It means a Rule One, doesn’t it?”

  “Correct. And it could mean your job, Eddie.”

  Tuesday 23rd June

  Chapter Twenty Four

  — One —

  Eddie crouched, his back against the cold brick of the office. The cigarette in his hand did nothing to alleviate the stress.

  Things had begun to slot back into that well-worn pigeonhole inside his head marked NORMAL. But now NORMAL was growing moss while the one next to it, DESOLATION, shone with the regularity of letters and minutes that flowed in and out. It seemed that the better your life was, the harder the blow when it all went wrong.

  He flicked the cigarette away and tucked his head into the crook of his crossed arms.

  “You’re a sorry little wanker, Collins, do you know that?” Stuart stood above him, arms folded.

  Eddie didn’t satisfy him with a reply.

  “I don’t know why they keep you on. There are plenty of better people out there who’d die for the chance of doing your job.”

  “Unfortunately, you’re not one of them.”

  Stuart flinched.

  “Please, just go away.” Eddie took out another cigarette.

  “And miss the chance of seeing you fall from your superior perch?”

  Eddie dragged on the cigarette and smiled. “I get it. You’re jealous of me. That’s why you’re so desperate to see me gone, isn’t it? You can’t stand the competition. And since the CRFP highlighted how bad at your job—”

  “Why would I be jealous of a chain-smoking alcoholic,” Eddie’s smile left on the wind, “who loses—”

  “Be careful how you tread. I’m not in the mood for—”

  “The truth? You’re a loser. That’s why your missus threw you out.”

  Eddie stood,
flicked the cigarette away.

  Stuart pulled back a step. “They had you down as a hero after what you did in January. But it didn’t last long, did it? Then the true you came tumbling out, the piss-head, the louse.” He took a few more paces backward.

  Eddie walked forward, eyes dark, fists curled tight at his sides.

  “I bet she threw you out because the booze made you impotent.”

  Eddie growled, advanced.

  Stuart retreated, mouth pulling Eddie’s strings like a skilled orator wooing his audience. “And then, when your sprog died—”

  Eddie leapt towards Stuart.

  “Stop!”

  Both men looked around.

  Ros stood watching them. “Can’t you see what he’s doing, Eddie? Are you so dumb?” He stared at her, eyes just slits, nostrils flared, and fists ready for action. “You’re right in front of Jeffery’s window.”

  Jeffery was standing behind the reflection on the glass, hands resting on the sill, looking out into the back yard. There was disappointment in his eyes before the clouds floated by and blocked out the view. Eddie felt ashamed.

  And when Jeffery disappeared from the window, Stuart stepped forward and slapped Eddie’s face. “That’s for the CRFP jibes.”

  Eddie stood there, too stunned to move as Stuart walked. “Did you see that?”

  “I saw it.” Ros came closer and turned to watch with Eddie as Stuart rounded the corner, flicking the bird as he did so. “He’ll try anything to get you out.”

  “I hadn’t noticed. He slapped me. The bastard actually slapped me.”

  “He was the kid at school who started all the fights and then ran to teacher with a bloody lip and got you detention.”

  Eddie’s cheek throbbed.

  “I bet he’s been like that since he was born.”

  “He wasn’t born. He was hatched.”

  Ros chuckled.

  “He’s going to a lot of trouble for nothing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Remember McHue, the fellow I had by the throat? He’s complained, seems he wasn’t too happy with me yesterday.”

  “You’re joking?”

  Eddie looked at her blankly.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll vouch for you, it was a clear case of provocation, and I don’t mind standing up in front of whoever and telling them that.”

  “If I were you, Ros, I’d distance myself from Eddie Collins as much as I could. There’s no point ruining your career for the likes of me.”

  “You’ll have me crying in a minute.”

  He looked across at her. “I’m serious. What’s the point in us both going down?”

  “The point is that it’s wrong. And I’ll tell you something else, Eddie Collins; being the Olympic champion at feeling sorry for yourself won’t get you through.”

  “Gee, thanks for that.”

  “Well, come on, Eddie; it’s true. Start to straighten up a bit—”

  “And how the fuck would you feel if people kept kicking your legs out from under you each time you started to straighten up? Every time I give it a shot I get slapped by arseholes like Stuart, or I get verbally abused by the McHues in this world, or I get Jilly—”

  “So show ‘em! Show them you won’t let them walk all over you!”

  Eddie sighed. His frustration dribbled away and he turned his back on her. “Just… Ros, I don’t mean this how it’ll sound. But you’d be better off leaving me alone.”

  She was silent for a long time. The first tentative raindrops fell between them and then the skies darkened further. Still she said nothing; both stood around the side of the SOCO building getting slowly wetter. “Eddie,” she finally whispered, “you’re a good bloke and I hate to see you like this. Is there nothing I can say—”

  “No, thank you.”

  “You know I’ll help if I can.”

  “Thanks. I just want my life back.” His voice trembled slightly. “And the more I try, the further into the shit I sink.” His head bowed and behind him, Ros sighed. “Everything I touch turns bad, Ros. So do me a favour; stay away from me?”

  Ros walked past him.

  Eddie sighed inwardly. He turned but Ros had already disappeared.

  He sighed again, aloud this time. Eddie Collins felt the tears sting his eyes.

  He whispered, “I’m gonna kill you, Stuart.”

  Eddie went inside, grabbed his jacket and shouted to Jeffery, “I’m taking the afternoon off. That okay with you?” He didn’t wait for an answer, just slammed the door behind him. He headed for the bus stop.

  * * *

  Ros came back into the main office as Jeffery poked his head out of his doorway. What was happening out there? First the hotheads nearly bust each other’s face, and then Ros comes back in holding back the tears. “God, why couldn’t I have had an easier section, why here? What did I ever do to offend You, eh?”

  He crept outside, dismayed to see it had begun raining, and peered around the corner. Eddie Collins was still out there, back to him, standing in the rain. He was about to say something, maybe offer some kind of consolation when he heard Eddie mutter words that sent a shiver down Jeffery’s back. “I’m gonna kill you, Stuart.”

  — Two —

  “Art for Art’s Sake.” What a wonderful name for a shop.

  It was ten o’clock and the day was a warm and hazy envelope of luxury that held you safe from all the nasty things in life. Christian shielded his eyes from the sun and noticed the grey cloud off to the west making its way over here into the city. It looked threatening, but for now, everything was as it should be. Calm.

  He’d walked past the shop twice and took a good look inside each time. It was always busy, just how he liked it. Out here on the pavement was even busier. The noise from the demo was deafening. “What do we want!” they cried through bullhorns. “Justice,” came the natural reply. Over and over. Monotony on the breeze.

  They advanced down Briggate like a dark army, like the grey clouds advanced on the city, relentless, eerie. The ground beneath Christian’s feet seemed to quake like the bass you could feel in the nightclubs. They were massive in number, forming one huge barrier, banners flapping overhead in the breeze, individual shouts, and outriders on cycles weaving in and out of the mounted police, catching and holding the attention of the news cameras that panned the scene. It was impressive, or was it depressive.

  Christian peered again into the shop and noticed that the fake CCTV camera in the corner near the drawing pads was still a fake. It was a small white box with a lens stuck on the front with superglue. Below the lens was a red LED that used to flash intermittently. Now it was perpetually dark; the batteries were dead and no one had changed them. The small black wire protruding from the bottom of the white box hung in mid-air as if to confirm that it was simply an empty box. He smiled at the thieves beware – cctv in operation sticker on the glass door. “Yeah, right,” he said, and entered. He didn’t see the other sticker on the other of the two double doors, the one that said, we always prosecute.

  The stickers were new.

  And so was the camera over the till area, and the one over the technical drawing paraphernalia. And these cameras worked. No one had replaced the batteries in the fakes, because they had the real thing now.

  The door swung closed behind him, and the incessant racket of the demonstration was reduced to something easily obliterated by a preoccupied mind. There they were, the oil paints. Christian’s mouth began to water as he ambled up the aisle opposite them. “Red ochre. Burnt umber.” And anything else you can get your hands on in a hurry, he thought.

  He pictured himself in the cellar, small dusty bulb casting its glow over the huge canvas. There it was, almost complete, stretched over a simple wooden frame and draped against a homemade easel. And soon it would be finished. Dejection would settle on his shoulders, and a dark mood would slowly crush him from the inside out. And he’d be back in reality with a junkie woman and her stupid imagination.

  Don
’t think like that, man.

  There they were, each in a rack, like a thousand spices lined up in a kitchen. Christian licked his lips and reached out for the white tubes. Burnt Umber slipped into his jeans pocket. Red ochre next, two tubes, and a tube of white, followed by a sable brush which stuck out from his pocket like a flag, like a tell-tale ‘hey, I’m lifting this, you guys, are you blind?’

  The few people at the till were engrossed in conversation; others in the aisles looked at goods for sale. Christian slipped towards the door, fingering his goatee as he went.

  “Excuse me, sir!”

  He swung the door wide and leapt into a throng of people who cared little for the morals of errant artists and who cared perhaps equally little for the lost profits of an overpriced art shop. He mingled, caught hold of the flow and went with it. The shouts of the shopkeeper were as dead as dust, lost in the noise like a droplet of water in a rainstorm.

  Christian made his way through the crowd, avoiding the thrusting arms and jostling that was part of its momentum, and emerged on The Headrow, straight into the path of an armed officer.

  — Three —

  Behind her, lost to the sounds of agitated shoppers and buses ploughing their slow way up Eastgate, a small bell tinkled. Max locked the door and searched the bustle of people for the druggy-girl in the floaty top and tight faded jeans.

  * * *

  Her pocket bulged with cash like never before. Max had paid her two hundred and fifty for the paintings. And they enraptured him; he was in her palm like the beads of sweat that nestled there now. He was hers, and he couldn’t get enough. She knew he was selling them for a huge profit, probably made a couple of hundred on top of what he paid her, but she could live with that. Everyone was happy, as the saying so stupidly said.

  Everyone was not happy.

  Christian wouldn’t be happy when he found out. Although, if he did find out, he might only be cross for a short time, because she had found that elusive gateway into commercialism, into hygiene, into running water, and into light for all. She was the agent who had at last done what Christian could not. Surely for that alone, he ought to be pleased.