“But—”
“You want me to write it down for you, love?”
Ros was about to launch into him when he beat her to it again. “Fuck off, girl, before I snap your boyfriend’s wrist. Okay?” He tightened his thumb into the flesh. Eddie yelped this time.
Ros backed away. “I’ll be back soon, Eddie,” she said.
“Ros,” Eddie called, a prickle in his voice.
“What?”
“No mustard on mine.”
Ros laughed and even Eddie giggled a bit before Benson stopped him.
“Alright, alright! Pack it in,” Eddie tried to pull free but Benson was keeping hold of Eddie’s attention. “Get the fuck off me before I punch you in the knackers.”
“Look good on the report.”
“Not as good as you’ll look on the floor holding one of your nuts in your hand and watching the other roll away down the path.” Eddie nodded sincerely. “You know about my situation. So let go before I put you in hospital and turn you into a non-man.”
Benson seemed to consider this, relaxed his grip and then let go.
Eddie stood back from Benson and massaged his wrist as pins and needles leaked in with the returning blood supply. “You are a spiny bastard, aren’t you?”
“I like to get results.”
“Yeah, the prehistoric way.”
“If it worked for my forebears…”
“You didn’t have forebears; you were hatched.”
Benson made to step forward.
Eddie smiled, “Tell me about this Rule Three guy.”
— Two —
Christian left Leeds, and headed out towards Bradford, taking the back roads where he knew the likelihood of ANPR cameras was less. The Wellborne district was a scrapman’s version of heaven. If you were not rich, and if your car was on its last legs, here was a place where automotive miracles happened. Toleman Road ran parallel with the main A650 and the closer it got into Bradford town centre, the richer it appeared; independent dealers began a mile away from the town centre, then franchised dealers and finally, for the remaining half mile or so, the main dealers.
The closer into Bradford he drove, the more frequent were the Vidiscreens. He nearly swallowed his heart when he caught sight of his own face with his name below it. How did they get my name, he wondered. “I’m not known to the police at that address, how did they link me—” the words dried up as he suddenly realised how they connected him with Alice: through his paintings, he always signed his paintings. And that meant, “They’ve taken them. Bastards!”
Christian was at the beginning of Toleman Road, the down at heel end where the common guy went for repairs, for part-worn tyres, and for dodgy MoT certificates to keep the old banger on the road for another year.
He pulled off the road, took a gravel track and followed it to a large wide open pair of faded blue wooden doors. Inside, dull fluorescent tubes illuminated people who worked on cars well outside this neighbourhood’s price range. Showers of sparks from grinders, the rattle of air tools and the constant groan of an air compressor.
His heart raced as he wondered how you broker a deal with…
From the workshop, a man wearing red oil-smeared overalls walked towards him, cigarette dangling from his lower lip, smoke floating over his shoulder.
Christian wound down the window, and tucked his right arm out of sight down by the side of his seat.
“Help you?” the man’s eyes hovered on Christian’s bloody, matted hair, the dirt in his skin, the dried blood soaked into his t-shirt.
“It’s done just over six thousand,” Christian patted the steering wheel. “Not a mark on it.”
The man stood back, he looked from the front of the car to the rear, and then took a slow walk around it. All the time, Christian sat there praying to get out of here alive. A couple of workers stood in the doorway, watching the BMW and the scruffy geezer sitting behind the wheel.
“I’ll give you a thousand for it.”
“It’s worth over forty.”
The man laughed at him, “Not round here, mate.”
“Thousand and a legal car,” Christian said.
“Five hundred and a legal car.”
“Seven-fifty and a legal car.”
The man eventually nodded and began to turn away again.
“And I need your help too.” Christian brought his right arm into view, the cuff rattled.
* * *
The floor was plain dirt, in one corner was a four-poster car ramp with a red Toyota pickup in the air. Toolboxes and benches with racks of tyres next to them made up the far wall, and above them, a mezzanine floor bulged with body panels and exhaust systems. In the background, a tiny office with Goodyear posters under a cracked window, spilled music into the dusty air through an open doorway.
Christian stood next to a metal workbench, the cuff on his right hand clamped firmly into a vice. A group of mechanics gathered around to watch the fun, laughing, smoking, coffees in hand, while one youth uncoiled a hosepipe from a tyre rim bolted to the wall, and another plugged in an angle grinder complete with a slitting disc.
“What happened to you, man? Look like you just stepped out of a war.”
This got another wave of laughter from the easily amused mechanics. “Druggies beat me,” Christian whispered. Some of them nodded knowingly, others seemed to know he was walking on the wrong side of the law, seemed to understand that fights with dealers were an occupational hazard, but at least he didn’t moan about it, which was in his favour, and they had a little respect in their eyes.
He looked up from his wrist in time to see the BMW disappear up another dirt track behind the garage.
“My name’s Sid. Do you trust me?”
Christian looked back to the man who had struck the deal; he was holding the grinder, oily thumb resting on the button, ready to go. The kid turned on the tap and stood tight up to Christian with the water trained on the handcuff loop, and he added a strip of steel between the ring of the cuff and Christian’s wrist to prevent the sparks burning his skin. Christian smiled at Sid, “No, not really.”
Sid laughed and the grinder howled into life.
* * *
Christian parked the old Nissan by the kerb and checked the sign outside the shop. Top Cutz. He locked the car, entered the shop and looked around. There were three staff, all huddled around a small television in the corner. On the floor were mounds of cut hair, some swept into a corner, most just left by the three chairs, and in the air a strong odour like thinners. In one of the chairs sat an old lady with strips of silver foil stuck to her head.
One of the women looked over from the TV, and he said, “Sid sent me.”
— Three —
“His name’s Christian Ledger. Waster.” Benson stepped back into the shade of the kitchen. Eddie followed. “He’s been shacking up with Alice for four years or thereabouts. He’s a thief and he’s a burglar. We pulled him only yesterday for shoplifting in some fancy art and crafts shop in town.”
They walked through into the lounge, gazed at the ceiling with no plaster, at the cardboard box with dolls’ clothes in it. Eddie stared at the lottery card. And then he squatted to look at the hammer. There was blood streaked up the head, hair caught in it. “But how do you know he killed her?”
“It’s obvious.”
“Enlighten me.”
“It’s strange that you should be working this scene.”
Eddie stood, “I can’t stand the tension. Do tell.”
“It’s because of you that we know who he is. Evidence you found at a burglary scene matches Ledger. He gave us a phoney address, but when he jumped bail this morning, his picture hit the Vidiscreens and… well, there’s nothing like waving a carrot in the public’s face to bring them out of the fucking woodwork. Ten minutes later, we had a call. Then we had this address.”
“Now I feel depressed.”
“Need a snort of the hard stuff?”
Eddie glared at him, “You offering?
”
“What have you got so far?”
“Apart from hunger pains and a DCI who won’t piss off and let me work?”
“Come Monday, the only work you’ll be doing is street cleaning.”
“Just make sure you don’t step in front of my cart, Benson.” Eddie headed for the door. Then he stopped, turned. “How do you know about…”
“Your clumsiness? Your drunkenness?” Benson grinned, “I have friends.”
“Now that is a shock.”
“He’s up for a Rule Three, Eddie. Better tell me what you’ve got.”
“Hold on.” Eddie came back to Benson, “You can’t put someone on a Rule Three when you have no evidence. Whatever happened to innocent until—”
“Don’t bore me. These two lived as recluses. She’s dead, right? Who does that leave, Einstein?”
“You still need evidence.”
“That’s what I’m asking for. What have you got?”
“Footwear marks in blood so far.”
“What make?”
“Nike Air, it looks like. And some kind of a shoe.”
“Good, you found Nike Air at the burglary and that’s what we have from the cells.”
“Doesn’t prove he killed her. There were other foot—”
“It proves he was here. That’s enough to haul his arse in and start asking some pretty big questions.”
No argument there from Eddie, but, “How can you advertise him as Rule Three? He might not have killed her.”
“I think he did. Anyway,” Benson turned to leave, “We post him as provisional Rule Three. That way, we don’t get vigilantes knocking him off. When we get him in, he coughs to killing Alice.”
“Why don’t you get it; he might not have killed her.”
“He’ll cough. Don’t you worry. Now, find me some more evidence.” Benson stopped by the front door, “And Eddie, don’t take too long with the lunch. Oh, and no booze, okay?”
The words sliced him, just as they were meant to. He was about to go outside, have a cigarette and wait for Ros, when his mobile rang. It was Mick.
Thursday 25th June
Chapter Thirty Eight
— One —
Mick buzzed. This was better than alcohol, and several times better than sex; even real sex, with another person. This is what he had waited for and he acknowledged it as the pinnacle of his career to date. He walked approximately six inches above the carpet, and for the first time in a decade, wasn’t thinking too hard about his next drink.
He rode the escalator to the first floor and then slid his card through the reader, allowing his entry into the ‘private only’ sections of The Yorkshire Echo building. It was two o’clock and the office was frantic – as usual – with people running around desks, negotiating deals, securing space, others not bothering to run, just shouting to their colleagues. Computers hummed, telephones rang, and the air conditioning droned. He glided right through it, oblivious.
Today, Rochester would offer him a blowjob, performed personally, would buy him a shop-full of ties and give him a raise. He reached the door, took a deep breath and knocked.
Nothing. He knocked again, smile prepared. Nothing.
Mick opened the door and stepped inside. Rochester sat behind his desk, glanced up at Mick and thrust out a hand, holding it there as his eyes flitted around the room, not seeing anything, but he was obviously listening hard. Mick stopped dead, mid-step, mouth half-forming the first important sentence of his years at this newspaper. He could hear a hissing, and then noted Rochester pressing something silver deeper into one ear.
At last, Rochester said goodbye, pressed a button and stood, pulling his jacket from a hook on the wall by his large desk.
“Mr Rochester?”
“Mick, I have to go,” he flicked an arm, looked at his watch, “I’m late already.”
“But Mr Rochester, this is the story of the century.”
Rochester put his coat on, face expressionless, ignorance apparent.
Mick stared. “Excuse me!”
“It will keep until tomorrow; I have a meeting and then dinner this evening.”
“Please, sir; this won’t take long—”
“Tomorrow, Mick.” Rochester almost ran around the desk, hooked his briefcase and was on top of Mick, almost pushing him out of the door. “Come on, move, man.” He barged Mick out of the way and set off across the office.
Mick watched him disappearing through advertising, past electronic space, through classifieds… and then decided he was worth a thousand times more than any dinner. He wasn’t just some washed-up old hack; he was a man with talent and he was going to make sure Rochester considered himself lucky to have him on staff. “Rochester. Stop!”
It worked.
Just as Rochester turned to see who dared shout him like that, Mick set off after him. The office buzz stopped as quickly as a bluebottle under a rolled-up newspaper. Everyone stared as Mick chased Rochester down.
“Hope this is good.” Rochester looked not at all amused.
“Bet your arse it is.” Mick offered no subservience, no ‘sir’ this time. This time, Mick was king of the dung heap. “I need to talk to you in private.”
“I told you—”
“You don’t get it, do you? This isn’t me asking about a paisley tie or begging you for a pay rise or pleading for another chance—”
Rochester turned red. “Get on—”
“Remember me telling you how The Rules were…” he looked around. A thousand eyes peered at him. “We need to talk privately; this is bigger than anything this paper has handled before.” There was intrigue in Rochester’s eyes. “This is that world exclusive I promised you.”
“Farrier?”
“Not just him,” he whispered, “it goes into Whitehall. It goes into the Justice Ministry.” Mick paused. “Now do I have your fucking attention?”
Rochester pressed the button on the wire dangling from his ear. “Tony, hold the car would you. I’ll be along shortly.”
* * *
Mick made sure the office door was closed as Rochester retook his seat. “You have my attention. Now use it wisely.”
He did, for almost half an hour. For the first five minutes, Rochester fidgeted in his chair and stole glances at his watch, but soon became absorbed, and forgot about the time completely. And Mick could tell how seriously Rochester was taking his story because his jaw opened fractionally with each new sentence until it was wide enough to cram the barrel of a WW2 handgun neatly inside. Without chipping teeth.
“You used to support The Rules wholeheartedly.”
“I still do, but not while Deacon is at the helm.”
Rochester scratched his chin, “This changes our stance too. I need to work on what implications that will have for the rest of us.”
For a moment, Mick was dismayed, “Don’t bring this argument down to pounds, shillings and pence.”
“What?”
“It means more… this whole story means more than revenue, and it’s not about being a good bedfellow to the government.”
It took Rochester a moment to grasp Mick’s meaning. “I’m not in this for the money. This is my newspaper, the biggest in the group, and it has never bent over for an easy life. We get news, we print it.”
Rochester was enthralled enough to propose devoting two days’ front headlines to the story, and enlisting the help of The Sunday Echo for the observers’ points of view, and any further information Mick and the researchers could pull from the archives. He listened to a copy of the disc in Mick’s recorder twice through, made notes and then contacted his secretary to e-mail a part transcript to the sub-editor with details of the proposed coverage and space needed for Mick’s main story.
There were editorials to prepare, straw polls to conduct… Rochester worked himself into a frenzy and Mick thanked God for the courage to bluff Henry Deacon. His mind flitted to the secret Henry mentioned.
“Take Suzanne Child as your number two,” he t
old Mick. “Treat her well, use her wisely, and teach her the ropes.”
Mick blinked as though he were coming round from a bout of unconsciousness. “Okay,” was all he could say.
He left the office an hour and ten minutes after stepping in there, his scuffed shoes licked to a brilliant shine by Rochester’s tongue.
— Two —
The stairs to the first floor ran directly out of the lounge, and they creaked underfoot. It was like twilight in here and Ros flicked the torch on to help her over the debris. The higher she climbed, the more it smelled of pee. Wallpaper hung in limp sheets and waves of dust gathered in their creases.
The landing was similar to the rest of the house: bare walls or patches of tasteless wallpaper over flaking plaster that had succumbed to damp many years ago. Cobwebs hung dusty right across the ceiling. The smell intensified the nearer to the bathroom she got, and save for a quick, breath-held peek round the door, she avoided any further ‘examination’ in there. Some things she just wasn’t paid enough for.
There were three rooms leading off the wide boarded landing. Ros visited them all but found the same state of decay in each. Mossy, broken glass from each of their windows lay on the bare floor. Rotting floorboards in the front bedroom where the ceiling leaked water, grew mould, and a surprisingly ornate fungus that hung from the wall like a nest of dead white bats. It sent a shudder up Ros’s back and a strong urge to go back downstairs.
She peered out of the hole in the rear bedroom window at the vehicles parked on the cobbled street below. Beyond them was a field of sorts where the drug barons hung out on the swings, drinking lager and cider. Ros thought of Eddie and wondered how he was getting on without an alcohol top-up.
“Hold on…” Ros leaned closer to the broken glass, saw the lone figure walking through her scene and was about to shout when she recognised the slight limp. Eddie? He carried his scene suit in his hand and waved to someone further up the street. Ros craned her neck and just made out the shape of a man standing by a dark blue car, door open. “Mick,” she whispered.
The Third Rule (Eddie Collins Book 1) Page 39