The Third Rule (Eddie Collins Book 1)

by Andrew Barrett

  Mick did, “Ah, now I see. He wasn’t drunk, had no other drugs in his body other than non-steroidal drugs for rheumatism. Had very early signs of heart disease – but he was seventy-eight, to be expected.” Mick looked up again, “All other organs were normal; he was a fit old bird really.”

  “Until his brain fell out.”

  “There was light ante-mortem bruising to his shoulders and upper back, also some to his lower arms.”

  “Could have been a struggle in the chair he was sitting in,” Eddie shrugged, “Not too sure though, could be a thousand other things.”

  “It’s the sample list I’m interested in.”

  “I can guess which bit.”

  “Nail scrapings.”

  “They’re not in yet.” Eddie said. “Definitely some foreign tissue under his nails, but we’ve no idea who it came from. They’re being rushed through the processing right now.”

  Wednesday 24th June

  Chapter Thirty Three

  — One —

  Eddie turned off the engine, let the wipers skitter to a stop on the sodden windscreen and sat there watching the car park of Morley police station dissolve into a blur of nothingness. He reached for the glove compartment, stalling before he even opened the catch. “No,” he said, “leave it.”

  There was a strong cup of coffee steaming on his desk as he threw his coat over his chair. “Thanks,” he said to whoever had made it. He expected Ros to peek around the storeroom door and say, ‘It’s okay. Morning’.

  “My pleasure.” Stuart walked tall out of Jeffery’s office, teeth glowing as though he’d gargled with Dulux gloss white only moments before. His tongue was still brown though, noted Eddie.

  Eddie moved the drink aside and sat down.

  “It’s not poisoned,” Stuart said.

  “Probably not; but I shudder to think what you stirred it with.”

  “I’m just trying to be friendly, that’s all.”

  “Why, what’s in it for you?”

  From his office, Jeffery snapped, “Eddie!”

  “Only joking; I’m sure it’s wonderful coffee.”

  “Only the best for my good friend.”

  Eddie whispered, “Piss off, Stuart. I preferred you when you openly despised me. At least I knew where I was then.”

  Stuart smiled his widest smile and between his row of perfect teeth, seethed, “Fuck you, Collins. You’re still a drunken wanker who doesn’t realise how close he is to being an unemployed drunken wanker.”

  And that brought it all back. Last night’s visit to Brandypuke Farm had erased it all from Eddie’s mind, until Stuck-up Stuart gave him a reminder. And things went downhill from there. Though nowhere near stratospheric, his mood hadn’t been in its customary place in the gutter, and he’d even imagined getting through the day without inventing new ways of suicide. Now the kettle flex at home looked ever more inviting, especially with the McHue business and the HoD interview to look forward to.

  Eddie thanked Stuart for the coffee and gulped it down.

  He spat it out all over his desk and up the wall, and dropped the cup on the floor. He coughed until his face was red and the veins stood out on his forehead. Stuart flashed his glossy teeth and stood at Eddie’s side, slapping him on the back, and Eddie struggled to vocalise the profanities queuing up on his tongue. Jeffery came out of his office, and Ros appeared at his side, coat still on, bag slung over her shoulder.

  “What’s happened?” she flicked rainwater from her hair.

  “What’s—” Eddie coughed and then gagged again, holding his fist over his mouth as Stuart pounded. “He put fucking salt in it.”

  “No, I never…” Stuart looked shocked. “I must have picked up the wrong—”

  “You twat!” Eddie turned, and knocked Stuart with his shoulder. Stuart doubled up and fell to the floor coughing, holding his stomach.

  “Eddie!” Jeffery shouted and ran across the office. “Why did you do that? It was an accident. Anyone could mistake—”

  Ros shouted, “They’re in different jars, how could he mistake—”

  “That’s no excuse for elbowing him in the guts.” Jeffery helped Stuart stand, guided him to his seat and then turned on Eddie. “Clean this mess up and then appear in my office in ten. Got it?”

  Eddie stood there with spittle hanging off his chin, eyes flitting between Stuart, Jeffery, and Ros, unable to believe what just happened. “What’s wrong with your eyes?” he said. “You saw—”

  “Ten minutes.” Jeffery turned to Stuart, “You alright?”

  “Feels like my ribs are bruised. But I’m sure he didn’t mean it.”

  Jeffery gritted his teeth and slammed his office door.

  Eddie stared at the coffee on his desk, at the coffee running down the walls over his photos of Sam and his CRFP certificate, and at the puddle forming on the floor. The cup was smashed.

  Stuart winced, clutching his stomach, and two things grew in Eddie like fungus on dead wood: anger at Stuart, and the need for a drink.

  “You want me to come in there with you?” Ros asked.

  He thought about it; thought about what he’d said to her yesterday about staying away from him because he was a trouble magnet just now. But she would keep his tongue civil and maybe prevent him being summarily dismissed.

  “I don’t mind,” she said. “It would get me away from the smell for a while.” She looked at Stuart.

  — Two —

  Eddie closed the door and Jeffery indicated that Ros sit. “I hope you don’t mind me bringing Ros in?”

  “You’re entitled.”

  “Is this a disciplinary hearing?” Ros asked.

  “No, it’s not.” Jeffery folded his arms.

  “But, I—”

  “You seem determined to sink further into the quicksand,. I’m not gonna be able to pull out, you know. And now,” he nodded to the office door, “there’ll be even more trouble to answer for. You can’t go around physically abusing your colleagues.”

  “He did it on purpose!”

  “Even if he did—”

  “You can’t mistake the sugar and salt containers, Jeffery—”

  “Ros; you’re here to make sure he gets fair treatment, that’s all.”

  “But I’m not getting fair treatment.”

  “You smacked him in the stomach. What do you want me to do, give you a medal?”

  “You should make him apologise,” Ros said.

  “You elbowed him in the stomach. It’ll go on your file. And the Head of Department will study that file—”

  “You know you’re handing me a disciplinary notice, don’t you?”

  Jeffery leaned forward. “Let’s get this one hundred percent crystal, shall we? If you are sacked or you go onto a Rule One, or you find yourself on a Stage 2 disciplinary, it has nothing to do with me. Your name will be at the top of the form, not mine. Clear?”

  “No. Not fucking clear. He provoked me, he taunted me and he took a dive like a professional footballer. You saw it. You chose to ignore it.”

  “Enough.”

  Eddie closed his eyes. As Ros was about to speak, he said, “Forget it. He’s not listening, Ros. Keep out of it before you end up alongside me.” He turned to her. “But thanks,” he said. Then to Jeffery, “When’s the meeting?”

  “Yet to be decided. Soon, though.”

  “Yippee.”

  “I want you two to stay together; you’ll have less chance of getting out of control if you have Ros watching over you. Okay?”

  Eddie looked back at Ros again, shrugged an apology.

  “Here’s your work for today. And it will take you all day,” Jeffery held a computer printout.

  “A car?”

  “Yes.”

  “That won’t take all day, not with two of us.”

  “I said that it will take you all day. Clear?”

  Eddie snatched the paperwork.

  “CID wants a full job doing. Thoroughly.”

  “Naturally.�
�

  — Three —

  They walked together up to the window marked ‘Security’. The officer sat behind a clear Perspex window, cigarette in mouth, peered at their ID cards swinging on lanyards around their necks, and waved them through. “I think I’ll be with West Yorkshire Police for another three weeks if I’m lucky.”

  Ros stopped. “You going to resign?”

  “Resign? No, they’re going to have to sack me. And the sooner the better.”

  “You don’t mean that?”

  Eddie held the garage door open. “Stuart gave him that sheet. He manipulated Jeffery into giving us that damned car. He’s why I want out.”

  Ros put down her kit box on a small, stain-covered desk in the corner of the garage. “Let’s crack this thing off, eh? You can take me to lunch later.”

  “Yeah,” Eddie said, “I’d like to do that.”

  The garage was an echo chamber. Its high breezeblock walls were whitewashed yet grimy with years of exhaust fumes and fingerprint powders. The concrete floor spat dust each time a foot went near it and it stank of damp in here, even in June. Traffic roared past on the busy main road outside, and behind them, high speed trains made talking impossible every ten minutes.

  Banks of fluorescent tubes dangled from the ceiling and more were screwed to the walls casting a cold light over the Jaguar’s scratched, dusty paintwork. It stood alone in the SOCO bay of the designated police examination garage, one of many garages in Leeds and Wakefield that relied solely upon police jobs like this one to stay alive. There was lots of work for them.

  “What’s the story behind this, then?”

  Ros looked at the printout. Scanned its pages and shrugged. “Not sure, really. It’s been recovered from Great Preston. Stolen-recovered.” She read on, “Wait a minute. It was stolen nearly a month ago!”

  “Then why do CID want a full mashings job on it? Doesn’t make sense.”

  “I’ll give them a call.” Ros perched on a plastic chair next to the desk and held the phone to her ear, talking quietly, eyes roaming as she was passed from detective to detective.

  Eddie lit a cigarette and strolled up to the Jaguar. He followed its curvaceous styling from the bullet-shaped bonnet across the rounded wedge of its doors through to the muscular flank of the rear wheel arch. He stepped back; his reflection blurred and then scooted away. He looked at the car, at its darkened windows and scratched paintwork.

  It was green. It was a dark green Jaguar.

  Eddie held his breath. Smoke crawled up his face as a shiver ran down his back. The cigarette fell out of his mouth, and he stood on unsteady legs, not daring to move in case he simply fell over. His hands began to shake as he turned to Ros, but he saw nothing but shimmering strips of white light.

  She was there just as the first tear fell. “I’m sorry, Eddie,” she said.

  “Is it… is it the one. The one?”

  “So they think, yeah.” She led him away, making him turn away from it. “Come on, let’s have a coffee.”

  The admin office next door was empty and quiet, soundproofed from the road and the trains. It had its own kettle and comfy chairs.

  “Why does he get such a kick out of it? How would he like it?”

  “He’d love it, Eddie. He’d be thinking of the overtime he could screw out of it.”

  Eddie screwed his hands into fists, “I’ve never wanted to kill someone before.”

  “Enough,” she warned. “Even garage walls have ears.”

  “Can you blame me?”

  “I can’t blame you at all. He’s malicious. He’s done it to provoke a reaction—”

  “And I’ll see to it he’ll get one.”

  She patted his hands, “Think how disappointed he’d be if you came back to the office smiling about it; think of his face—”

  “Oh I do. With a fucking bullet hole in it.”

  “—when you don’t rise to it. He’ll be furious.”

  “And then what will he do next?”

  Ros sipped her coffee and Eddie shrugged his hands free and lit another cigarette.

  “When it boils down to it, if that’s the car that killed him, it’s a big part of him, wouldn’t you say? Jilly and me brought Sammy into the world. That thing took him out of it again. That is big.” He was cringing as he spoke, because he didn’t know if it made any sense or if it made him sound like an idiot. “Sorry. I’m talking bollocks.”

  “Come on,” Ros said, “we’ll go back to the office. I’m not having this. Jeffery’s gonna hear about—”

  “I’ll do it, Ros. Maybe Stuart’s done me a favour.” A smile came to Eddie. “Maybe he’s done me a really big favour. I can find out who killed Sammy.”

  Ros looked worried. “Why would you want to know that?”

  Eddie paused for a moment, looked away as he said, “So the police can lock him up. Obviously.”

  — Four —

  Using the last of the daylight, Christian had walked through a thin rain around the haul road that wound its way up to the surface like a corkscrew. His left leg ached where the golfer had swung the club at him, his head was a pit of percussion instruments, and his lips and eyes were still swollen. The walk out of the old open-cast had taken hours, by which time Sirius and Henry had vanished.

  He made it back to the derelict hut.

  Henry had screamed to Sirius that the police were coming. Well, they and the dark-coloured car had left too, and he was alone in total silence, just him and the remains of this old hut. It was okay, he said to himself, he was used to living in dereliction, had done most of his adult life.

  He had only been inside it for less than half an hour before the shock bit like a dose of bad street drugs. And that was when the shakes came and he felt icy cold. The cuff on his right wrist rattled. And the more he shook the more pain he experienced in his face and his shoulder especially. He was a patchwork of matted blood and even in the coldness of the old hut, even while suffering the shakes, he sweated like a tenth-round boxer.

  It grew towards twilight and Christian merged with it into a dreamless sleep. The rat woke him the next morning as it scurried across his face and dug its muzzle into his ear. He screamed and jumped. And when he jumped, the pain bit and he screamed again. The rat fled. But so too had the shakes and the sweats and that was a good thing.

  He peered out of the hut, and the sun was creeping like a thief up the horizon. Its brilliant glow caught the far rim of the canyon, gradually working its way down into the bottom to reveal all kinds of demons and wreckage there.

  Christian wiped a hand under his nose. It came away bloody. More bloody wetness down the left side of his neck. Shaking, he stepped outside and checked his surroundings. They were clear. And when he listened, he heard nothing except his grumbling stomach. He ignored it, because today was all about putting distance between himself and his previous life, and surviving.

  How was he going to get away from here without being seen?

  He began walking and the aching in his body gradually subsided. Mud squelched under foot and progress was slow, but the sun warmed his damp body and before long, Christian found himself on the periphery of a village. He saw the church first and then houses, farms, a pub, and a shop that also doubled as a branch of Allied Postal.

  The village was small and private. There were terraces of cottages, old farm-labourers’ cottages, and the odd detached property of a grander nature. As he skirted the village, keeping low behind the bursting hedges of a bridleway, the detached properties grew larger, had more land.

  The bridleway opened out into a field that was bordered on its lower part by a small but dense wooded area. And the woods ate into the grounds of a fake Tudor mansion with a BMW and a Mercedes parked squarely on a black asphalt drive along the side of the house. He peered through the trees. All the windows were open, curtains moving gently in a breeze he could not feel.

  Christian’s feet contacted tarmac and he walked to the side of the house to where the cars were parked. No k
eys in the ignition.

  He moved across to the house, unlatched the open casement window, pulled aside the curtain and peered into the gloom of what seemed to be a dining room. He swung the window wide open, slid a potted plant on the windowsill aside and pulled himself in. There were no visible PIRs, no alarm of any sort so far as he could tell.

  Without a sound, his feet touched the wooden floor, and he began looking for car keys.

  There they were, hanging on one of six small hooks on a plain wooden board screwed to the wall next to the rear door. He made his way over the floor and was about to reach up for the BMW keys when something growled.

  — Five —

  Ros watched Eddie as he struggled into a scene suit. He was shaking. And he avoided looking at her; because his eyes shone with tears. Examining the car that killed his boy wasn’t right, and the very thought of it sent a shiver up her back and stirred the anger inside.

  Dealing with other people’s misery became easier after a while; she simply distanced herself, grew detached and though she still sympathised with the victim – how could she not – it was more than her own sanity could bear to let the sadness of a scene be anything more than work. But that didn’t apply when it was so close to home.

  Eddie set the camera up and Ros began the paperwork. But her eyes strayed to the tufts of hair in the cracked windscreen and she wondered how he would cope with recovering them.

  The flash popped and a green rectangle clung to her vision.

  She watched him. She still wanted him. The pre-January Eddie would be better; the calm one, the one everyone looked up to, but this version would heal eventually, and then—

  “You gonna stand there all day, or you gonna give me a hand?” Eddie smiled, but it was a mask. Plastic.

  Ros blinked, cleared her throat. “Where do you want me to start?”

  He pointed to windscreen. “I’ve photo’d the hair, Ros, but I can’t… would you mind…”

  “Go and fix another coffee, would you?”

  He said nothing, just put down the camera and walked from the garage.