The Third Rule (Eddie Collins Book 1)

by Andrew Barrett

  “What do you want to know?”

  Mick retrieved the lighter. There was nothing of note beneath the wardrobe that he could see from this angle. “What you tell me is confidential. I don’t want you in trouble. Seriously, I don’t. Please, though, just be straight with me and then I’ll be out of your hair and you can get on with whatever it was you were doing.”

  “Is it about my father? Because if it is—”

  “Do you know the name Lincoln Farrier?”

  Henry shook his head.

  “Thought not. Lovely bloke, he was, seventy-eight years old. He died a week ago today. Someone shot him with his own World War Two antique. Can you imagine that? How awful.”

  “Yes?”

  “He’d visited your father on the day he was shot.”

  “I’m still listening.”

  “Your father killed him.”

  “Wouldn’t have thought so. My father’s fingers are always spotless.”

  Mick struggled to conceal his surprise at Henry’s blasé attitude. If someone accused his father of murder, Mick would have hit them, after picking his chin up off the floor. Not Henry. Henry sat there checking over his nails. “Then who dirties their fingers on his behalf?”

  Henry shrugged.

  “One last time before I have to begin threatening you again. And I do hate threats, they’re so ungentlemanly, don’t you think?”

  “Listen, I think we’ve exhausted our charitable conversation”

  “I think not. Did you know that part of Morley police station burned down in the early hours of today?” Mick watched.

  Henry looked away. “No.”

  “The part that caught fire was the Scenes of Crime Office. That’s the place where all these forensic-types work from. You know the ones, they go to murder scenes and burglaries and the like, and they find evidence. Clues. Can you imagine it! The place that houses evidence is burned down? How absurd, you’d think they would have a shit-hot kind of fire prevention system in place to protect all that sensitive evidence, wouldn’t you?”

  “Is this leading somewhere?”

  Mick sipped his drink, flicked ash through the French window and said, “It does have a shit-hot fire prevention system. The foam sprinklers came on almost immediately and put the thing out,” he waved an arm, “squat. Just like that.”

  Henry sat up.

  Mick could see his cheeks throbbing as he ground his teeth. “Good, eh? So all that lovely evidence will still be intact.”

  “So how does this relate to me?”

  “Well, now it gets interesting. When you came home last night, sorry, this morning, did you notice a blue Ford Diamond parked at the end of your street?”

  “No.” Henry shuffled on the bed, “I didn’t come back here at any time this morning. I was in my bed from around midnight.”

  “Strange. That blue Ford Diamond belongs to me. I was sitting in it. I had my camera with me. It’s a beauty, one of those long range digital things that takes wonderful—”

  “Okay, okay, get to the point!”

  “The point is, the police will pop round and ask you some routine questions, since that building houses some evidence against you. But without hard evidence of your involvement with the arson, they’ll soon be on their way again. After all, they can’t force you to give your fingerprints to compare with those they will find at the scene. And since Sir George has protected you from ever having a police record, the fingerprints from the scene will mean nothing because you’re not on file. But if I were to… help them, perhaps giving them the information I have, they might try a little harder. I’m not sure, but I think if they have a named suspect for a job they can insist you give fingerprints and DNA. Even your dad might not be able to lend you a hand. See what I mean?”

  Henry stood up, straightened his trousers and fixed himself a drink. And while he did, Mick had that warm feeling inside that comes only from being able to tell lies based upon a hunch so slender that it was transparent. And subsequently being proved correct.

  “Let’s assume you’re right, Mr Lyndon, how do I know you won’t carry out your threat anyway?”

  “Henry,” Mick’s eyes looked earnest, “I am interested only in Lincoln Farrier’s murder. I assure you. I’m not interested in the bloody SOCO office, and I certainly don’t give a flying shit about Mr Archer on Leeds Road.”

  “Then why say you have friends on the forensics team?”

  “Because I do, sort of. I used to go out with a girl from the labs in Wetherby. Shame though, she was married—”

  “Let me make myself clear. I’ll offer you the information you need, Mr Lyndon, but if anything ‘leaks’ out, I will have you killed.”

  “But—”

  “I’ve listened to your threats. Now have you listened to mine? Do you understand?”

  “Why not have me killed anyway?” It was a thought that speared Mick’s mind as soon as the words ‘I’ll have you killed’ leaked out of Henry’s bloodless lips.

  “I have my reasons, Mick Lyndon of The Yorkshire Echo. You’ll be of use to me.”

  “I will?”

  “You think you’re the only one to benefit from this little meeting?”

  “I have to admit it, I thought I was.” Mick was on the defensive now; he prayed he wasn’t in over his head. He was a hero, it was true. But only inside his own mind.

  “Do we have a bargain?”

  Mick nodded. “Yes. I understand, Henry. You can trust me.”

  Henry gulped the liquor, refilled and paced the bedroom. “His name is Sirius; that’s all I know; don’t know if it’s his first name or his last name, whatever. He’s the one who carries out my father’s dictates. And if what you’re saying is correct, about this old chap visiting my father on the day he died, then that’s where I would be looking.”

  “How do you know this Sirius man?”

  Henry stopped pacing, “Because he’s the one my father sent to help me sort out the Jaguar and then burn the Crime building.”

  Mick showed huge restraint; he almost fell off the sofa. Instead, he drained his glass, looked indifferent. He pictured the front page, the meetings with Rochester. He coughed, lit another cigarette and then asked, “I’m curious to know how he’s going to get you out of this mess if it does escalate. I mean, I have solemnly promised not to tell the police about your involvement, and I will stick by my word, Henry; but if they do find out through the course of their own investigations, what will he do to help you then?”

  The question brought a smile to Henry Deacon’s pale face. He sat back on the bed, sipped his drink. “There will be no more help.”

  “Surely, he can’t let you…”

  “Die? As you said, they’d take great pleasure in executing me; a Home Office bullet can cost more than one life, Mr Lyndon. It would never get that far.”

  “You saying your old man would fly you out?”

  “In a manner of speaking. But he won’t wait until the full story comes out. And he won’t use any airline that you’ve ever heard of to do the flying.”

  Mick puffed furiously on the cigarette until its heat burned his lips. “You’re telling me he’s going to have you killed.”

  “I expect so. He once threatened me that if I caused him any more annoyance or embarrassment… let’s just say they wouldn’t need to waste a bullet on me.”

  “Forgive my asking this, but if he’s so determined to keep you out of the press and out of the slaughterhouse, because he’s worried about his career, then…” Mick stopped. Even though Henry Deacon was a walking turd, he found his tact had abandoned him.

  “Why didn’t he kill me earlier?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “That’s a secret I will take with me.”

  “Family stuff?”

  “No, no. It’s just that right now, I can look forward to a swift departure, but if I gave out my secret before I died, and especially to a member of the press, my departure may be elongated somewhat.”

  “Shit,
” Mick slurred the word, aghast that a father could treat his own blood like that.

  “Precisely.”

  “You say, ‘before you died’? What do you mean by that?”

  “I have things to say, but I daren’t say them while I’m alive.”

  “Then, how will—”

  “Search for them. I’m sure if anyone can find my secret, Mr Lyndon, it will be you.”

  “Is this the ‘use’ you have for me?”

  — Two —

  Eddie pressed end, put the phone away. He knew from their conversation last night that Mick would be paying Deacon Junior a visit this morning, and had wondered if news of the arson might interest him.

  He stood at Ros’s side looking at the state of their building. The side windows had blown out where the small storeroom and exhibits lockers were. The rest of the building appeared not too badly damaged; warped gutters, charring to the entrance door, melted UPVC window frames, smoke staining above them, cracked glass in some of the others, and even the drinks dispenser in the foyer had melted, looked like an inflatable that had sprung a leak.

  Steam, or maybe the last tendrils of smoke, curled out of the windows and was dragged away by the breeze.

  “Hope you didn’t have anything of a personal nature in there.” Jeffery strode towards them from the main building, clipboard in hand, frustration glowing on his face.

  “What time did it happen?” Eddie asked. “Did the upload happen?”

  “Don’t know, and don’t know.”

  “What about our physical evidence, you checked on it yet?”

  “Don’t want to examine the Jaguar again,” sighed Ros.

  “The shirt sleeve,” Eddie said. “And the DNA, we’ve lost it all.”

  Jeffery’s clipboard flopped against the side of his leg. “Done a full inventory, everything is still there, no damage at all.”

  “Really?”

  “No, not fucking really!”

  “Can we go in?”

  Jeffery looked from Ros to the building, smoke still leaking from the smashed windows. “What do you think? No one’s going in there until a surveyor’s checked it out.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then we get suited up, go and see what caused it. I’ve got a fire investigator on the way. And someone’s coming from the lab too.” He looked directly at Eddie, “Evidence in the store is last on the list.”

  “Who’s doing the work with you?”

  “I called over Aadi from Bradford.”

  “I want to do it,” Eddie said.

  “Forget it, I have—”

  “Look, it’s our stuff in there—”

  “Precisely. I want outsiders to do it, and listen, you,” Jeffery pointed his clipboard at Eddie, squaring up to him, “don’t question me again. I’m short of people, I have jobs coming out of my ears and I don’t have time to fanny about looking after your ego.”

  “I’ll bet you let Stuart in there.”

  Jeffery backed off, “Stuart hasn’t shown up yet.”

  “Christ,” Eddie said, “that’s a first. Has he rung in sick? Maybe he’s dead.”

  “Don’t joke about things like that. Life’s bad enough as it is right now; I’ve three months of stats that are now blackened sheets of paper in there. Took me bloody ages to do.”

  Ros asked, “What do you want us to do?”

  Jeffery pulled a bundle of paper from the clipboard and handed it to Ros. “We had a murder came in early this morning. You’re both on that. You’ll need fresh laptops, so I’ve included requisition slips in there for new ones—”

  “What about configurations?”

  “All taken care of, Eddie. Go draw them from Bishopgarth. Here are your van keys, they’re the spares from the main building.”

  “And our cameras and kit?”

  “You pick up one camera from Studio while you’re getting your laptops and all the kit you need is at Unit 41, put aside, and ready for you to collect.”

  “My,” said Ros, “we are organised.”

  “Get to it.”

  Ros rolled up the paper and began walking to the main building.

  Jeffery took hold of Eddie by the arm, “How are you feeling? You okay with this?”

  “Aw, you do care about my ego.”

  Jeffery just stared.

  “Can’t see a problem,” Eddie shrugged.

  “Good, because your meeting with HoD is due out of the blocks first thing Monday morning.” Jeffery offered a faint smile, turned and left.

  “Great,” Eddie said.

  * * *

  They collected their kit, argued with the storeman at Unit 41 until he allotted them the correct equipment they would need for the murder scene and then travelled through to Wakefield to pick up the laptops and camera.

  Eddie bit his nails as they travelled back from Wakefield into Leeds and towards the scene. He was thinking about what Mick said last night, and how he planned to visit Henry Deacon today, hoping to scrape some information out of him concerning Lincoln Farrier’s death and Sir George’s possible involvement.

  What he hoped for more than anything else, was some information about Henry’s Jaguar. He wanted to see if anything slipped out, or even if the man admitted killing Sam and that guy on Leeds Road.

  And if he did admit it?

  Well, if he admitted it, then Henry Deacon wouldn’t be troubling anyone for too much longer. It was a promise he made to Sam. And to himself.

  And then Jilly rang. He looked from the phone across at Ros, who glanced at him, a questioning look on her face. “Jilly,” he said.

  “Go on and answer it, promise I won’t listen.”

  He selected audio and then ok. Jilly spoke: “You okay to talk, Eddie?”

  “Yeah, go ahead.”

  “About the other day,” she began.“ I said some things that I shouldn’t have said. Look, I want you to move back in. There. I said it. No strings attached.”

  “You’d be happy living with an alky then?”

  A reproachful look from Ros who shook her head.

  “Not really. But I want you back, Eddie.”

  “Right.”

  “Put your phone on video; I like to see what you look like.”

  Eddie closed his eyes. This was getting silly. It wasn’t Jilly speaking; it was a woman whose mind had gone to slush.

  “Eddie?”

  “Okay, okay.” He pressed the button, and she smiled at him.

  “How are you?”

  Everyone is suddenly concerned for me today. And how am I feeling? I’m feeling pissed off, that’s how I’m feeling. I have a vague notion of who killed my boy and I’m going to have to kill him before he can destroy all the evidence I have against him. And my boss is ready to screw my arse up into a knot and lead me down to the nearest Job Centre; I have a work colleague who’s out to wreck anything I may have left once the dust has cleared, and my wife is about as crazy as a spirit chaser can get.

  “I’m fine.” He stared down at the screen. “You?”

  “When are you moving your stuff back in?”

  “Work is taking up a lot of time right now, but I’ll make it as soon as I can.”

  “Okay, that’s great. If you’d like to pop round sometime, I can give you the new keys. That way you can bring your stuff over even if I’m not in.”

  “You’re always in, Jilly.”

  “Not these days. I’m quite often out now.”

  He was about to ask where she went, but Ros was pulling the van up to the scene cordon now and anyway, that kind of stuff could wait until he saw her in person. “Okay, Jilly, gotta go now, I’ve just arrived at a scene.”

  “Oh,” she said, “I thought you were in the van by yourself, pulled up on a hard shoulder or something. Who’s out with you?”

  “It’s Ros, you know Ros.”

  Jilly said nothing for a second or two, then, “Oh, Ros. Yeah. Okay, speak to you soon.” She hung up. Eddie flipped the screen closed.

  “Great. Ca
n’t wait.” And as he looked across at Ros, he thought he saw her smile just the tiniest amount. He smiled too.

  Thursday 25th June

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  — One —

  The cobbled street of Back Eshald Place was busy with police vehicles: several beat cars (one at each end of the flapping cordon tape), a couple of plain CID cars and, up front, a Vauxhall armed response car. A paramedic ambulance, obviously empty, disappeared slowly around the end of the block. It was a bright day, but clouds in the western sky looked bruised and full. Nearby, youths sat on swings in a ruined playground cum alfresco drugs shop; they watched, laughing at the police every now and then.

  Nearer to him were a smaller, quieter group of onlookers, some, noted Eddie, with digital cameras. And at the furthest cordon, television media had gathered, their vans with satellite antennae parked neatly in a row, newscasters and crewmembers frantically rigging up in case they missed something juicy. Not likely, Eddie thought. Running alongside all that in his mind was this: what makes this killing so different? Today there are more killings in Leeds alone than there were in the entire county twenty years ago. They are nothing spectacular anymore, barely news fodder at all.

  Walking towards them was a suited figure who, as he neared, thrust out a hand towards Eddie and said, “Morning, DCI Benson, Holbeck CID.” His eyes never ventured near Ros, who stood with her arms folded.

  “Eddie Collins, SOCO.” Eddie shook hands.

  “Right, Eddie, this is what we’ve got.”

  “This is Ros,” Eddie said, “Ros Banford.”

  “Ros.” Benson nodded, returned his attention to Eddie. “We’ve got a dead girl at the foot of some cellar stairs, looks like she’s lost a lot of blood, can’t say where from just yet.”

  “House been searched?” Ros asked.

  “Yeah, all clear.”

  “Have they searched the cellar?”

  “I told them to keep away from it till you got here. If you want—”

  “No,” Eddie said, “we’ll go in and have a look first. If we find someone, don’t worry, we’ll shout.”

  “Any idea who she is?”