The Third Rule (Eddie Collins Book 1)

by Andrew Barrett

  As the door closed behind him, Ros pulled out the hairs with sterile tweezers and dropped them into a small plastic pot. She packaged and labelled it, and the sliver of scalp, before quickly inspecting the front bumper, the grille and mascot badge, the windscreen washer jets and wipers and then the screen-to-roof joint for further hair, for fibres from the kid’s – from Sam’s – clothing. Nothing though. No blood, nothing.

  “Here you go.”

  Ros jumped. “Jesus! Cough or whistle next time, will you?”

  “Would a fart do?” Eddie set down his coffee and lit a cigarette.

  She tried not to smile but found it impossible. It was good to see him trying. “What next?”

  “The wadding in the fuel filler pipe. Someone tried to fire it.”

  “Maybe they lost the filler cap and were using the cloth as a bung,” she peered at the material.

  “It’s been burnt around the edges. Look. Soot.”

  “That’s a cuff,” Ros said. “Yeah, it’s a shirt sleeve. You can see the button.”

  Eddie flicked on the Maglite and looked closer. “It says Oxford & Hunt.” For the first time, professionalism was beginning to take over as master; maybe this was teetering towards becoming a job. And that was a good thing.

  “That’s expensive designer gear. Don’t find many scrotes wearing Oxford & Hunt.”

  “Let’s get a macro shot of the button and then we’ll open out the sleeve to show the scorching, and bag it. If we can match someone’s shirt to that—”

  “Fat chance.”

  “We have to try, Ros. Might even be able to get wearer DNA from it.”

  “I didn’t mean… never mind.”

  Eddie stood up, turned the torch off and stepped closer to her. “Don’t beat yourself up every time something downright tactless falls out of your slack gob.”

  Ros’s mouth fell open.

  Eddie smiled. “Now, lighten up.”

  “Okay,” she said, “sorry.”

  “And stop being sorry.”

  “Sorry.”

  Ros pulled on a fresh pair of gloves and eased the sleeve from the filler pipe, laid it out onto a clean exhibit sack. “They look like cigarette lighter marks. You can see the tiny circles of burnt cloth.”

  “Okay, I’ll take a shot with a scale.”

  Two hours, four coffees, and for Eddie, countless cigarettes, later, they had fingerprinted the dusty exterior of the car using MLPD spray because using a brush and powder would have destroyed any marks beneath the dust. They had taped all four of the leather seats for fibres, swabbed the driver’s seat because of a curious odour coming from it, had swept the footwells, fingerprinted and recovered the damaged mobile phone and had begun photographing and swabbing the fine droplets of a dark brown liquid that had sprayed across the passenger seat and partly onto the fawn leather dashboard. “Blood?” They KM tested a site and the filter paper turned pink. “Certainly is.”

  “Okay,” Ros said, “What’s left?”

  “Interior fingerprinting, and photo and swab the cig lighter.” He eased out of the car, stood and stretched.

  “Need a drink?”

  “I could slaughter one, Ros, but I ain’t touching a drop while I’m near this thing.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  The cigarette lighter was dimensionally the same as the marks in the shirtsleeve, though Ros supposed it proved nothing. It would be the DNA that would put a name to the would-be torcher.

  “Aren’t these things fitted with a tracking device?” asked Ros.

  Eddie shrugged. “No idea. Something like this is approximately a house and a swimming pool out of my price range.”

  * * *

  Eddie reclined in the reception area, bags of evidence surrounding his chair. “Thank God that’s over.” His eyes were dark, he looked as though he hadn’t slept in a year, and still he had that slight tremor in his hands. “I think we have a pretty good chance of nailing the bastard with what’s in here,” he patted the bags.

  “You want me to come to the meeting with you?”

  “What meeting?”

  “And I thought it was worrying you.”

  “The Head’s meeting?” He took a deep breath. “All I’ll say is that when I go down, the they’ll want my supporters to go down too.”

  “Then it looks like I’m going down.”

  “Haven’t had an offer like that—”

  “Eddie Collins!”

  “Sorry,” he laughed. “I would like you there, Ros.”

  Absently, she asked, “You making any progress with Jilly?”

  “If you can call it progress.”

  “Well?”

  He spoke with a sigh, “She’s invited me back home.”

  Ros nodded, looked away, “That’s great. I’m so pleased for you.”

  “I’m not sure it is.”

  She looked back. “Why?”

  “She’s deranged, that’s why. She’s got it into her head that me, her and Sammy can be a wholesome family again.” Eddie tutted.

  “She’s trying to cling to him. You can’t blame her for that.”

  “I’m clinging to him too,” he thought of the NY hat on the mantelpiece. “But I won’t delude myself. Sam’s never coming home again. She thinks he will.”

  “You should give it a try. It’s what you’ve been praying for, you’d be silly to pass the chance up.”

  “Think so?”

  “I do.”

  “So do I.”

  Ros sighed.

  “But it won’t last. We’re different people who’ll never go back to being themselves.”

  “You should still try.” Ros blew air through her nose. “If you don’t, you’ll forever wonder how it would have been. And if you do, you may like it, you might both get along great. And that’s good. Then again, you might hate each other, and that’s good too because at least you’ll both know you have nothing in common and you can get on with the rest of your lives.” Her eyes glistened.

  The Yorkshire Echo. 23rd June

  Lincoln Farrier Death is Suspicious

  This reporter travelled into the countryside on Monday to interview a seventy-eight year-old man called Lincoln Farrier.

  He wrote to The Yorkshire Echo asking for our support in helping to get his son released from prison after he stabbed a burglar.

  Of course, we wanted to help, but I wanted to learn how he saw the country as a whole today, and what he felt about the introduction of The Rules.

  I was never able to find that out because Mr Farrier was dead when I got there. Initially I thought he had committed suicide because he was distraught at being separated from his son for so long and with no chance of being together again for some time.

  I was wrong. Lincoln Farrier did not commit suicide.

  The police have confirmed that they have launched a murder enquiry. Readers will be pleased to note that I have furnished the police with all my findings concerning Mr Farrier and would be honoured to help in any way I could.

  I will of course report to The Yorkshire Echo as soon as I know more. We can only pray that those responsible for his death are brought to justice soon, and our thoughts are with his son and his grandchildren.

  That he was concerned enough to write to us after the miscarriage of justice surrounding his son’s imprisonment, shows that the Justice Ministry still has work to do in distinguishing what is right from what is wrong.

  We hope they get there soon.

  By Michael Lyndon

  Wednesday 24th June

  Chapter Thirty Four

  — One —

  Christian froze. It growled from behind him, and a shiver flowed through him like an electric shock. His hands were inches from the keys. He weighed up the odds of a quick escape and discounted them immediately. Without turning around, without daring to breathe, he opened the fridge door and peered inside.

  The dog growled again, and Christian reached in for the bacon. He allowed himself to exhale as it hit the f
loor. The dog’s claws scrabbled quickly and there followed the sounds of a hungry pooch lapping up the offering. Still without turning, he grabbed a block of cheese from the fridge, unhooked the keys and edged over to the window.

  He was halfway out when the lapping stopped and the growling started again. Christian made it to the BMW, threw himself inside, and slammed the door as an Alsatian leapt at the window, slavering down the glass as it barked. The keys wouldn’t go in the ignition, and just when he thought the dog was going to break the window, the key hit home and the engine screamed. So much for a silent exit. He turned left and booted the throttle.

  The cuffs rattled against the steering wheel, and he breathed a sigh as the road opened out. He headed towards Leeds, wondering if Alice’s body had been discovered yet.

  — Two —

  Eddie said goodbye to Ros outside the station. It was rush hour, car horns and loud music spoilt the mood; okay, they spoilt his mood. Ros’s mood was nothing worth cherishing. Her eyes were downcast and she hadn’t smiled all afternoon. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine. Gotta go.”

  He watched her pull out into the traffic, feeling bad but not knowing why. Eddie waited for her car to disappear and then set off home.

  Forty minutes later, he parked his car, walked across the road, heading for Booze King, hand already reaching for his wallet, mouth already watering.

  It had been a strange day, but not, he would later reflect, as strange as tomorrow would be, and not half as life threatening either. He had found his son’s killer – well, he’d found the car, identified it, and now he had a pretty good idea who was driving it when it smashed Sam’s spirit out of his tiny body.

  Back at the office, he and Ros had completed the DNA minisequencing from the old blood on the passenger seat and from the cigarette lighter. They’d plugged in the laptops and at one o’clock, auto-upload would send all the information and all the electronic evidence across to Wakefield HQ and onto the DNA database. They’d e-mailed the images to Studio. And the fingerprints and the palm prints were in the store, ready for transport tomorrow morning to the bureau at Bishopgarth. Even Jeffery had taken an interest, peering over Eddie’s shoulder as he did the mundane computer work, listening intently as he told of the fingermarks and DNA and whom he suspected of depositing them.

  Stuart stared from across the office. Eddie ignored him.

  Eddie had the power, at least for now, to let issues like Stuart and McHue slide right off his back as though he were shit-proof. He had the power because he had the knowledge, this knowledge. The sun was shining on Eddie Collins, and he inflated his chest because he not only knew who owned the car, but he thought he knew who was driving it when… anyway, he thought he knew. Unfortunately for Eddie, he wasn’t shy of sharing that information.

  The only thing worrying him now, as he carried the bottle to the wired booth to pay, staring at the fuzz-eyed kid behind the counter who told him to look into the camera, was that he might be suspended or even out of the job before the fingerprint and DNA results were back and his suspicions confirmed.

  But what would he do if he got that information first?

  He paid for the booze and the automatic door allowed him to exit into the smog that glowed in Wakefield city centre’s bright sunlight. He dodged between buses and taxis and made it across the street, picturing the moment when he would blow the bastard’s brains out, scalp him, and take his remains to Jilly for verification of a mission well done. But it wouldn’t bring Sam back. It wouldn’t even stop her going to see Freaks Inc.

  “It’s not going to work out, Eddie,” he said as he let himself into the dirty foyer. And that’s when he realised why Ros had been so downbeat. Talking about moving back in with Jilly like that, “Idiot.”

  But back to the conundrum in hand: job versus no job. As he mounted the steps, his mind worked at the problem with the efficiency of a brick telescope. And then he stopped. There was a noise like a man cutting wood with a blunt saw echoing around the stairwell. Quietly, he climbed the steps and peered towards the figure slumped outside his door. Mick.

  Eddie placed the bottle on the steps and silently opened the door to his flat, lifting it so the hinges wouldn’t squeak. He was back moments later, and dribbled warm water from a cup into Mick’s lap, biting his lip as Mick groaned.

  Having replaced the cup and locked the door, he crept down the first flight of steps, picked up the bottle and collapsed on the stairs, fist in his mouth, eyes screwed up, laughing silently. Eventually, Eddie composed himself, looked straight ahead and started up the stairs again. “Hiya, Mick,” he called. “Mick!”

  Mick’s eyes opened, and eventually focused on Eddie as he scrambled to his feet, brushing dust from his trousers.

  “Looked like you were fast asleep there, mate.”

  “What? No, I was…” Mick looked through Eddie and became quite still.

  “You okay?”

  “What? Yes, yeah, yeah,” he avoiding Eddie’s eyes, mind elsewhere. “Just resting my eyes.” He almost looked startled.

  Eddie threw the door open. It squeaked, and the two men walked into the smell; one as though his piles were painful today.

  “How’s your day been?” Eddie asked.

  “Wet.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I said what.”

  “I asked how your day was.”

  Mick slipped his coat off, paused and pulled it back on again. He sat by the window but curiously didn’t throw a leg over the arm of the chair today.

  “As good as that, eh?”

  “Listen, you pour the drinks,” he handed over a bottle of Caribbean Rum, “and I’ll be back in a second.”

  “You sure you’re okay? You look like you’ve shit yourself. Or pissed yourself even.”

  On his way out of the room, Mick stopped dead. He turned to face Eddie. Eddie could take no more, and he broke down laughing until his lungs hurt and his cheeks ached.

  “Very funny. Oh yes, very funny.” Mick put his hands on his hips, nodded. “Yeah, go on, laugh at a man with a weak bladder, why don’t you.”

  Eddie paused, looked up.

  “You’ll see; it’ll happen to you one day.”

  Eddie fell over, holding his stomach.

  * * *

  “Sure you don’t want to borrow some of my boxers?”

  “Believe me, I would sooner sit here bollock naked and dry my nuts by the fire than borrow underwear from you. But, thank you. I appreciate the offer.”

  “Where have you left your old pair?”

  “Huh?”

  “Your grots, where are they? In your coat pocket?”

  Mick shook his head.

  Eddie squinted. “You’ve left them on my bathroom floor—”

  “Well, where else could—”

  “That is disgusting. I don’t want your skiddies in my bathroom! I’ll get a bag and you can go and get them. And don’t tell me which part of the floor they were on; I don’t want to know. Okay?”

  “Suit yourself.”

  * * *

  “Any news from Farrier’s nail scrapings?”

  “Got a file DNA profile.”

  “Really?”

  Eddie nodded, “But he’s not on file, sorry.”

  “Bugger.”

  “He will be, eventually.”

  “I interviewed Sir George Deacon yesterday.”

  “Bet that was a thrill.”

  “It was.”

  “For him, I meant,” Eddie leaned forward, grabbed the rum and refilled his glass, smoke curling up his face, stinging his eyes. “Is this what you wanted to tell me yesterday?”

  “What?”

  “You were going to tell me something, and then you changed your mind.”

  “We were discussing Jilly. But Deacon,” he winked, “I fooled him. I’ve got even more against him. Now I know he had something to do with Lincoln Farrier’s death.”

  “This should be interesting.”

  “I told him that
the old guy was murdered, murdered, mind.”

  “You said in your article he was killed, so what’s the revelation?”

  “He said he hated gun crime.”

  Eddie stopped mid-sip, and looked across the smoky room at the dishevelled creature lounging in the chair, shirt hanging out, whiskers getting longer by the minute. “He said that?”

  Mick nodded solemnly.

  “Ah, but he’s the Justice Minister. All kinds of info will get back to him.”

  “Why anything about an old geezer he claimed initially not to know?”

  The thought took a while to sink into Eddie’s mind, but when it did, he realised just what a revelation this was. “This could sink him. You know that, don’t you?”

  “It’s no good in isolation, though. I need much more than that.”

  “To do what? Bring him down?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why?”

  “I don’t like him anymore.”

  “Why not let the police handle it?”

  Mick looked shocked at Eddie. “I’m an investigative journalist, you prick. We do our own investigating, that’s why they call us—”

  “If Deacon’s behind it, they’ll—”

  “You’re about to insult my intelligence again, aren’t you? I can tell, you know. Forensic evidence is wonderful stuff, I grant you; but it can be manipulated, and if you think for one minute any of it would implicate Deacon, then you’re one naive little puppy.

  “And that’s where I come in handy.” Mick swung his leg off the arm of the chair, lit a cigarette and rested his elbows on his knees as he leaned forward to make his point. “The Rules are a great piece of legislation – look at Margy Bolton; she said she wouldn’t have killed all those poor kids if she knew the death penalty was up an’ running. It’s a great deterrent, and it works. And if it can reduce killings then I’m all for it. You know I am.”

  “I feel a ‘but’ coming on.”

  “But, he stinks. He is scum; I knew it for sure yesterday, though I’ve suspected it for years. He is corrupt, and if he’s corrupt, he’s a hypocrite because he’s broken his own fucking rules and suffered no punishment. He probably should be on a Rule 300 by now!”