“You’ve heard of the Teflon man.”
“Turn him over and he’s just an ordinary frying pan underneath. I have bits of info on him, and when I get it all, he’d better watch out because I’ll blow him out of the water.”
“You feel really strongly about this, don’t you?”
“What gave it away?” Mick gulped, “The Rules are good – if everyone abides by them. No exceptions, not even by their creator. Because there can be no flaws in them; once a flaw is discovered, all faith in them is lost and every time someone is executed, there will be an outcry. The decision, and so the punishment, is unsafe.”
“So, how are you going to prove this revelation?”
“Any ideas?”
“Nope.”
“Me neither. But when I eventually do nail him, he’ll be the one looking down the barrel of a gun.”
“If you’re allowed to run with it.”
“It’s the ultimate exclusive. It’ll be The Yorkshire Echo’s biggest story this century. It’ll propel our name worldwide. It’ll end up with the government on trial for corruption. It may well see the introduction of a new PM, or at least of a tightening of legislation. And, my forensic friend, it will secure my job, if I should choose to remain there, until I’m so old that I piss myself every day!”
“My news is equally astounding, my journalistic jerk.”
“Didn’t know you had any news.”
“You wouldn’t, would you, since you’re a selfish bastard and I couldn’t get a word in edgeways.”
“Go on then, hot shot.”
“I examined a car today.” He sat back and smiled.
“That was five words, and they were all equally boring.”
“The car that killed my Sammy.”
Smoke drifted up Mick’s yellow fingers. “You want to begin that again, now that I’m listening?”
“I examined a green Jaguar. They recovered it from Great Preston yesterday. Been there a while, judging by all the dust.”
“That’s good news.” Mick’s tone was respectful. “I hope you get the bastard.” He emptied the glass, was about to swallow it and get a refill.
“It belongs to Henry Deacon.”
Mick spat rum across the room, gagged and coughed until his voice was as thin as a balloon ready to pop.
“It PNCs back to him, though he claimed it was stolen from him back in May. No sign of anyone else having driven it, certainly no sign of more than one person ever getting into the thing. No fibres on any seat other than the driver’s seat.”
“What else?”
“Curiously, there was a singed shirt sleeve poking out the fuel filler pipe.”
“He tried to burn it?”
Eddie nodded, lit his own cigarette. “He used the cigar lighter to try and get the sleeve started but it didn’t work.” He looked out the corner of his eye, and said, “It was an Oxford & Hunt shirt.”
“They’re about eighty quid a pop.”
“Precisely, my dear Watson.”
“Who knows about it?”
“The office. Plus I put my report on the computer; sent my photos over to Studio and my DNA to the bureau. Why?”
“Let me explain: Little Deacon is son of Big Deacon. If Big Deacon gets upset, people usually die. Small point, but it’s worth bearing in mind.”
“I work for the police, not a bunch of criminal informants.”
Mick looked askance. “Let me see, ‘police’ and ‘criminal informants’… No, I’m struggling to find a difference there.”
“What I want to know from you is what are you going to do about Henry Deacon?”
“Me?”
Eddie nodded.
“Why me?”
“Because he’s the son of a corrupt politician, and so might be able to help with your enquiries. And I want to see if he’ll admit to killing my boy.”
“Why—” Mick stopped himself.
“Because if I go near him, I will kill him. Twice. And I think that might be illegal.”
“Leave it with me. I’ll get you some answers.”
Thursday 25th June
Chapter Thirty Five
— One —
He closed the car door softly, patted the bulges in his pockets and set off walking for the office, keeping an eye out but trying to look natural. It was one-thirty, the air was clear, the darkness abrupt, almost captivating. But Stuart paid it no attention. Stuart had other things on his mind. He had parked his car a hundred yards away from the office, careful not to be seen.
His mind imagined the look on Eddie’s face when he found his presents – or rather when Jeffery found the presents. It would finish Eddie; no more snide comments, no more rivalry, no more jibes about failing the CRFP. Stuart’s smile withered. No more remarks about his hair or his appearance. The smile died, a grimace lived in its grave.
And there it was, the SOCO office, at the far end of the yard. Stuart quickened his pace, checking, making sure he was alone.
— Two —
“This is going to take hours.”
“Henry, shut up. We’ve only been here ten minutes and already you’re pissing me off. Do you think I want to be here?”
Henry sighed.
“If it wasn’t for your dad, I wouldn’t be. ‘Do the job right’, he said, ‘See it through to the end’, he said. Well, here I am, seeing it through to the fucking end; so cut your whining and keep searching.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Shut up. Last time I tell you.”
Henry was still shaking. He searched through the green books, CID6, they said on the front. These were the SOCOs’ report books. All he had to do was find the one relating to the Jag, and they could take things from there. But he was shaking because he was inside a police building, illegally, and despite his father’s insistence that he attend it could land him in even more trouble. Tampering with evidence, he believed, was considered fairly serious. “What are we going to do about the computer records?”
“The what?” Sirius straightened.
“These books contain nothing more than basic notes of jobs they’ve done: details of a burglary, several reference numbers, boxes for stats. That’s it. There’s no mention of the exam they carried out; surely there should be.”
Sirius looked deflated. “We’re fucked. Actually, you’re fucked. If any evidence has left this office, electronically or physically, you’ve had it. And if they use computers…”
“What?”
Sirius strode over to the dark far end of the office. He stood before a large bank of green and red LEDs, some flashing, others constant. “Laptops.”
“Shit.”
“Precisely. This is where they keep their detailed notes, and you can bet your arse they upload everything when their shift is over.”
“But they might not. They might save everything until the weekend or… they may only keep examination notes—”
“They’ll have all their DNA software on them. Betcha.”
“But we could still try to locate the physical evidence.”
“How long do you think we’ve got, exactly? It’ll take longer than we have. The only thing we can do is—”
“Shush.” Henry froze, “I think someone’s coming.”
“In here, quick.”
— Three —
Stuart selected the Yale key and turned the lock. He stood in the small foyer, drinks dispenser to his right, Health and Safety notices fluttering on the board directly in front of him, and next to it, another poster, this one prepared by Studio; its title was Your Morley SOCO Staff, and there were unflattering pictures of the whole mob, with Stuart on the top row and beneath him, Eddie Collins. Strange that he should be able to see them at all. “Why are the lights on?”
He pulled his jacket tight around his chest and edged forward, peering around the corner into the main office. “Hello?”
He strode into the office and realised everything was not as it should have been. Scattered around the desks were CID6 b
ooks. Stuart felt vulnerable and even pulling his jacket tight around him didn’t alleviate the feeling. He licked his lips and walked further into the office.
“Fuck, we’ve been burgled.” His first impulse was to run and get a police officer, but he couldn’t. How would he answer their first question: what were you doing here? And this new situation made Stuart’s mission all the more complicated. But if the office has been burgled, he reasoned, they’ll pull up the CCTV that covers this building. It would cover the burglars coming in, for sure, but it would also cover him coming in too!
He was about to walk over to Eddie’s desk and slip one of the half-empty bottles inside when he heard it. A noise from Jeffery’s office. Stuart’s heart tripped. What was he doing here at this time of night?
He gulped and knocked on Jeffery’s door, no other excuse coming to mind except that he couldn’t sleep and thought he’d catch up on some work.
There was no reply to the knocking, so Stuart pushed the door open. His greasy smile was fully developed as he looked right into the tiny dark hole that was the barrel of a gun.
* * *
“Did you ever pick the wrong time to poke your nose in here.”
Henry checked the foyer, made sure there was no one else in tow, then he came into the main office, legs shaking, and stood at Sirius’s side.
Sirius asked, “Who are you?”
The man edged backwards, raising his hands, unableto take his gaze from the gun pointing at his chest. He stuttered, mumbled a name, “Stuart, my name’s Stuart, I’m sorry I disturbed you, I didn’t mean to, I couldn’t sleep, I’ll go, I’ll—”
“Be quiet.” Henry stepped forward, gun also raised, trying to take command of an impossible situation, trying to impress Sirius perhaps.
“Why the hell have you brought that? Put it away.” Sirius’s voice grated.
But Henry was in no mood for being told off. In his mind, all the SAS ‘training’ he practised in his youth flowed through his veins right now, and at last, he came face to face with the enemy, and he had that enemy shaking. It gave him a buzz, but he felt nauseous too. He wasn’t a natural as Sirius was; it was forced, his arm shook, his voice shook. “What are you doing here?”
“I… I couldn’t sleep. I just thought… who are you?”
“Never mind who we are,” Henry shouted.
“I know…” Stuart blinked rapidly, “You’re Henry Deacon.”
“Fucking great!” Henry waved the gun furiously like a demented, spoilt kid who has just been told ‘no’.
“Shut up,” Sirius said. “Put that away.”
“But he’s—”
“Shut up!”
Henry still felt sick; all this SAS stuff began to feel like a kid reliving his dreams when he considered the mess he was in. And on top of that, he felt anger at Sirius undermining him in front of this whimpering man. His stomach flipped.
Sirius was calm. “Now, Stuart, what are you doing here?”
“My, I’m…”
“Take it easy, no one’s going to hurt you. Tell me why you are here.”
Stuart backed up more. “I work here, I’m a SOCO. What do you want?”
“We ask the fucking questions,” Henry said.
Sirius ground his teeth and said politely, “Please let me handle this.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Last chance. Be quiet.”
“Sirius, you can’t—”
Sirius turned at the waist and slapped him hard across the cheek. Henry’s hair swung around and for a second he looked like a model from a shampoo advert.
But when his hair settled, his eyes were slits, his mouth a narrow pink line. He felt like ramming his gun in Sirius’s face and pulling the fucking trigger until nothing came out but a dry click. He was so close. Then he realised something fundamental. He had signed Stuart’s death warrant.
Sirius let the gun slap against his leg. “Come on, Stuart; tell me what you are doing here.”
“Seriously, I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d catch up. Paperwork.” Stuart’s eyes didn’t blink. There was a chatter on his white teeth. “Please,” he looked at Henry, “put your gun down, I’m no threat.” Stuart’s trousers grew wet at the groin and a steady golden trickle pooled by his left foot.
“Don’t tell me to lower my gun.”
“Please—”
“What happens to the evidence you collect through the course of a day, Stuart?”
“Lower your gun.”
“Answer the damned question!” Henry barked.
“Calm down,” Sirius said.
“Please, put your gun away.”
“Answer him.”
“I’m afraid of—”
“Just tell me what happens, Stuart.”
“I can’t,” Stuart’s hands went to his face as he shrieked, “please put—”
“Put the damned gun down, man,” Sirius said.
“I won’t. He’s the enemy, I can’t—”
“Enemy?”
“I’m not; I won’t hurt, just please, put…”
“Put it down!”
Stuart screamed, walked forward. “I just want—”
“Stay back!” Henry shouted.
“Put it down, man. You, stand still!”
Stuart walked.
“Stand fucking still!”
Stuart stood. His foot squelched, his hands were still at his contorted face, eyes pleading, sobs pulling at his shoulders. And then his hands flew from his face, and he made a grab for Henry’s gun.
“No!” Sirius shouted.
After the bang, after Stuart’s tearful face whipped backwards, taking his entire body off its feet. After that body hit the floor with a thud, after the echo fled, there was silence. And then Henry discharged a second round into Stuart’s chest.
Henry breathed out and stood quite still, shaking arm outstretched, a faint wisp of grey smoke twisted into the air. Is that how it feels, was Henry’s first thought. His second thought was how to keep the vomit off his clothes. He crouched, hand still curled around the weapon and he threw up right there on the floor.
For a moment, Sirius was silent.
* * *
Though control was soon back at the helm, fury took charge and Sirius pointed the pistol at Henry’s rocking head, ready to have done with the whole business. Instead, he holstered his weapon and took a handful of Henry’s hair. “What the fuck did you do that for?”
Henry wrestled with more vomit in his throat. “He was going to run.”
“No he wasn’t, he was going to try and make you put the fucking gun down, which is what you should have done!”
“He knew my name. He knew your name.”
“Thanks to you, you fucking moron.” Sirius thrust Henry’s face forward, overcame the feeble resistance and kept pushing until it met vomit.
Henry struggled and then he went limp. Sirius only let go when Henry began crying. Vomit dripped from his chin as he stood up, leaning heavily against a desk. His quivering lip made Sirius want to punch him. “What kind of man are you? Man enough to kill someone but you can’t handle the feeling that comes later?” Sirius stepped up a little closer, “Go and get cleaned up, you arsehole.”
Henry hurried into the foyer but before he turned the corner, heading for the washroom, he stopped. “You’re not going to tell my father, are you?”
“Clean up. We’ll talk later.”
The moment Sirius heard running water; he dialled Sir George’s private line.
* * *
One sentence from Sir George’s angry conversation sat on top of Sirius’s pile of thoughts. Over and again, it repeated itself: “What’s to stop them re-examining the Jaguar?”
So all this was for nothing. Destroy the physical evidence, and the Scenes of Crime Officers would go back to the Jaguar and try again. They may not get everything they got at the first attempt, but it would still be enough to put a name to the driver. There was enough to hang him high. Or shoot him, as was today’s preference
. The mobile phone, for one thing. They could reassemble it, using spare parts to get the information from it. No problem.
It was clear that Sirius and Sir George had reached that crucial stage in helping Henry stay out of the courts: the end.
Henry walked back in like a kicked dog. His head was down and he’d brought a handful of paper towels that he constantly rubbed his face in. He was a wreck. Sirius shook his head, looked back at the faceless body. “We have to leave before someone else comes along.”
Henry binned the paper towel and started for the door.
“Wait.” He watched the bin lid flip back and forth. “We can’t just walk away. They’ll go over this place in fine detail and they’ll eventually discover who was here, and they might even lock you up before the week is out. We have to cover our tracks.”
“Right,” was all he said. Then, “What do you want me to do?”
“Look around for something flammable. But not diesel, okay?”
For ten minutes they searched and found nothing except a crate of de-icer for the SOCO van windows.
“You’re going to have to find a garage and buy a can of fuel.”
Henry looked upset again. “Why me?”
“Okay, I’ll go. You stay here and guard the body.”
“No, no,” pleaded Henry. “Okay, I’ll go, I’ll go.”
“Good boy.”
Henry had reached the foyer again, when Sirius called him back. “No need for the petrol, look here.”
By the side of the computers, in a red painted metal box, were nylon aerosol cans full of something called MLPD spray. Neither of them had any idea what it was, but there were warning triangles stuck all over them, and a bank of foam fire extinguishers on wall hooks next to it.
Sirius handed Henry four cans and took the remaining four himself. They started from the furthest corner of the office and discharged the yellowish liquid on the carpet and onto desks and onto anything that would burn. The CID6 books, the stack of stationery, the wooden shelves of stats and then into the storeroom. The air grew heavy; a fine mist floated in the air, and when concentrated like this, the smell was overpowering, made their eyes water. But they continued, spraying the body thoroughly, until they reached the foyer.
The Third Rule (Eddie Collins Book 1) Page 35