The Third Rule (Eddie Collins Book 1)

by Andrew Barrett

  Ros leaned through the broken window. “Eddie?” He walked on, never even broke stride or glanced over his shoulder. “Where the hell are you going?” Eddie reached the waiting car. Ros tore a hole in her scene suit, searched inside for her trouser pocket for her mobile phone. And then she couldn’t see Eddie any longer.

  Ros flipped open the front cover and dialled. He answered after three rings. “Eddie,” she said, “where the hell are you?”

  “Ros, I’ll be back soon. Hold the fort for me, would ya?” And then he rang off.

  — Three —

  Mick had refused to talk about it until they were safely ensconced back in Eddie’s flat. By which time Eddie was ready to throttle him. “I’ve walked out on a fucking murder scene for this, I’ve left Ros on her own, I could get into…”

  Mick smiled across the roof. “…a shit load of trouble?”

  “Yeah,” Eddie sounded deflated again.

  Mick slammed the flat door behind him and Eddie wasted no time getting acquainted with the rum he bought yesterday, swigging straight from the bottle. “You gonna tell me what’s so urgent?”

  “First, I’m going to get us a couple of glasses; we may be alcoholics, but we are not without decorum!”

  Each sat in his customary seat, cigarette in one hand, glass of dark rum in the other. “This had better be good; I abandoned a major scene for this, and I abandoned Ros.”

  Mick solemnly nodded. “It goes all the way to the top.”

  “Will you stop talking in riddles and get on with it? I’m losing patience.”

  “I know who was driving Deacon’s Jag when it killed Sam.”

  They stared at each other. The rum tasted like nothing to Eddie. He gulped the liquor on autopilot; he could have been drinking water for the effect it had on him, or petrol for all he cared. “You went to see him? And?” Eddie held the glass and held his breath.

  “It was him,” was all Mick said.

  Eddie inhaled on his cigarette so violently that the filter collapsed and burned his lips. “Fuck!” He crushed the cigarette into his fist, and let it fall to the floor where he dragged a foot across the smouldering embers. “I think I’ve dropped the biggest bollock in my life.”

  “Who have you hit this time?”

  “I blabbed it round the office. I found all this evidence in the car and I blabbed ‘cause I knew that no one other than the regular driver had driven it. I just knew it. And I was giddy.”

  “Don’t worry who you blabbed to, it won’t make the slightest difference after what I found out.”

  Eddie eyed Mick, not sure if he wanted to know. “Go on.”

  “When I saw Henry Deacon today, I played the old two Dictaphone trick on him. He told me everything.”

  “Christ’s sake, Mick. What did he tell you?”

  “Listen to this.” Mick drained his glass, laid the Dictaphone on the table, and pressed play.

  Eddie heard Mick’s voice, muffled as the machine had moved around inside his jacket pocket.

  The machine played, and Mick’s voice said, ‘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!’

  “Hold on, let me wind it forward a bit.” Mick’s voice came through the tiny speaker, ‘Even your dad might not be able to lend you a hand. See what I mean?’

  There was a considerable pause before, ‘Let’s assume you’re not bluffing, Mr Lyndon, how do I know you won’t carry out your threat anyway?’

  At those words, Eddie looked across at Mick, raised his eyebrows. “This is Henry Deacon?”

  Mick nodded.

  ‘Henry, 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.’

  Eddie looked up; Mick waved a hand. “Just words, that’s all. Now listen.”

  ‘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?’

  ‘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.’

  ‘Do we have a bargain?’

  ‘Yes. I understand, Henry. You can trust me.’

  There was an even longer pause before the revelation. Henry Deacon’s voice fluttered slightly as he said, ‘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?’

  ‘Because he’s the one my father sent to help me sort out the Jaguar and then burn the Crime building.’

  Mick pressed stop.

  For a long time, Eddie said nothing. He relaxed back into his chair as though recently satisfied by a large Sunday lunch, reached for his cigarettes, and cried.

  — Four —

  “He said it all with no feeling. Like he ran over a dog or a fucking hedgehog or something. Has he no feelings?”

  “He has feelings alright, but only for himself.”

  “Bastard!”

  “Though, I have to say, for a man under pressure, he was remarkably subdued, no real evidence of nerves.”

  “You a doctor now?”

  “Eddie, don’t get shitty with me. There’s more to come yet, and it’ll explain what I mean about the pressure he’s under.”

  “What did you mean about your car and some camera?”

  “It was a cheap bluff and he bought it like his dad buys policemen. He burned your office, him and that Sirius bloke. Easy as tickling a carp.”

  Eddie sank further into a depression that seemed deeper than anything he’d experienced before. His eyes were drawn to the corner of the room where the seldom used vacuum cleaner lurked. It laughed at him. “I can’t understand why he fired the SOCO building. I mean, I know it was to try and destroy evidence, but if he’s wise enough to find out which SOCO from which office examined the Jaguar, you’d think he’d be wise enough to know we upload our DNA and fingerprints over to the relevant…”

  “What’s wrong?” Mick sat forward.

  “What time did he set the fire?”

  “Not sure, why?”

  “Everything is uploaded at one o’clock.”

  “What about all your physical evidence, like the shirt sleeve?”

  Eddie shrugged. “Won’t know until Jeffery’s checked the store room.”

  “You shouldn’t worry; it’ll still come bouncing back on him.”

  “Do you really think he’ll face Rule Three? I don’t. The scene I went to today, the one you dragged me away from, already has a provisional Rule Three suspect.”

  “So?”

  “They advertised a man’s identity before we even found anything, All they had was a name, just a man who could have done it. Deacon has gone well over the top; he’s forcing coppers into a competition; now no one cares if the guilty are caught and punished, they only care that someone’s caught and punished. It keeps the number-crunchers happy.”

  “No, you’re wrong, Eddie. If the system fails, the public will revolt against The Rules—”

  “Bollocks! Who’s to know if the system fails? Do you think they’ll publish their mi
stakes in your paper? I don’t. This guy they’re broadcasting now, this Christian Ledger, he might have been out of the house while someone killed the girl, and he’ll go down for it. Who’s going to stand up for him?” Eddie fell silent, the exertion of the argument caused his chest to heave and he eagerly reached for another cigarette, flexing his right hand after the burn from the previous one. “Get me a top up, will ya.”

  Mick refilled their glasses, sat back down.

  “And what did he mean by his threat to have you killed? You mix with the most unsavoury characters.”

  “And you don’t?”

  Eddie thought of Benson, nodded his agreement.

  “He means that if I go to press with this he’s going to see I end my days propping up the M1 extension.”

  “He won’t do that.”

  “How do you know?”

  “They’re not building an M1 extension.”

  Mick squinted at Eddie.

  “What’re you going to do?”

  “I’ve already done it.”

  “Done what, Mick?”

  Mick tilted his head to one side; gave a half smile.

  “What? Are you mad?”

  “I suppose I am.” He laughed out smoke puffs that added to the layers of smoke hanging around the room. “I gave him my word that I wouldn’t tell the police, didn’t mention that I’d print the story though. But it’s going out over a few days, not all at once.” He laughed, and then it fell quiet. “I think he was serious though, so if I go missing one day, I’d appreciate it if you could have a quick scout around for me.”

  “Why did you write the story now? It could have waited till this had calmed down a bit, surely?”

  “This is England; things don’t calm down anymore, they merely return to simmer from boil. And anyway, the longer I waited the less chance I had of it remaining an exclusive.”

  “You’ve opened up a right one there, you have. I don’t know the man, but he sounded pretty firm when he threatened you.”

  “I’ve no doubt that he’ll consider coming after me.”

  “There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?”

  “Sir George Deacon is about to add his son’s name to Sirius’s to-do list.”

  “You are shitting me.”

  “And, strange at it sounds, I think Henry sort of trusts me, I think he knows he’s about to die and he’s holding back a present for me. It’s one of the reasons I went ahead with the story now, I think Henry Deacon needs this little old journo.” Mick leaned forward, pressed play again. “Listen to this.”

  Mick’s voice again. ‘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…’

  ‘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 suppose I can look forward to a swift departure, but if I gave out my secret before I died, I suspect my departure may be elongated somewhat.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘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?’

  Mick turned the machine off, stared at Eddie.

  “I can’t believe it,” Eddie’s face was in shock. “His own father is going to have him killed?”

  “He values his career, does our Sir George.”

  “So do you.”

  “Keeps me in this,” Mick tipped the glass at Eddie.

  “And you thought he was an angel.”

  “I always knew he was a slimy bastard, I said The Rules were an excellent idea. I still do, in principle. That’s why I always supported them, and that’s why I knew Sir George would see me. And that’s why I’m going to be the one to bring the fucker to his knees.”

  “So what do you think his little secret is?”

  Mick shrugged. “I have no idea. But I can’t wait till he’s dead; I’ll do some real digging then.”

  “If you’ve published your story already, you might not have long to wait.”

  Mick smiled, tipped his glass to Eddie and whispered in a mischievous voice, “That’s what I’m hoping for.”

  — Five —

  The surveyor had tutted and sighed and shaken his head like a plumber giving a quote. Jeffery was very short tempered with him; he wanted answers to the questions that bubbled inside his head like water on the boil. It took almost an hour before he finished and presented Jeffery with a ‘Proceed with caution’.

  As the surveyor’s vehicle trundled off site, the Fire Investigator’s vehicle trundled on. It was gone within five minutes. Jeffery had not been quite so polite this time, but promised that if he found anything noteworthy, he would call them back.

  His team consisted of three people. Any more than that would be counterproductive, since Morley Scenes of Crime office was tiny at the best of times; but now, with blackened and melted furniture, the twisted carcasses of lockers, and a floor-wide tangle of wires, he deemed it a Health and Safety hazard.

  Before lunch, Jeffery had liaised with a dour young woman called Anne, the scientific input from the Forensic Science Service.

  Work began in earnest after lunch. Dressed in scene suits, steel-reinforced Wellington boots and hard hats, Jeffery, Aadi, and Anne had cleared the main entrance of fallen notice boards, and sifted the charred remains for signs of accelerants. They had pulled out hunks of melted furniture, successfully removed the twisted lockers from just inside the main office, and trimmed back the lengths of wires that hung from the ceiling like massive webs, garrottes ready for the careless.

  Each time they triumphed with a little progress, Aadi photographed it. They meticulously worked through the scene, trowelling aside sodden debris until they cleared a large patch on the office carpet, aiming towards the far side of the office where the chargers, uploading stations and exhibit stores were. The expanse of carpet revealed two things to them. Firstly, a large blackened section neatly outlined against the relatively unburnt surrounding area.

  “This is deliberate,” Jeffery stood with his hands on his hips. “Pool burning. And the rest of the carpet’s surface is singed. Vapour?”

  Anne nodded her agreement, and Aadi approached with camera and nylon bag ready to take the obligatory sample.

  Nearly two hours after this initial find, the carpet revealed its second and rather more significant ‘exhibit’.

  Jeffery was half way through his latest cup of tea, wondering why there were the remains of so many CID6 books everywhere, when he spat out a mouthful and promptly dropped the cup. He scrambled across the damp floor, pointing. “There’s a hand.” Anne and Aadi watched in shock as he reached the desk, dropped to his knees and pulled aside a melted chair to reveal a charred set of fingers, and a thumb that had cracked open at the base. He could see red muscle; and a slice of yellow fat gaped at him.

  Jeffery settled back on his haunches, the colour in his face leaching away. “Stuart,” he whispered. But if Jeffery thought this was a revelation, then Stuart had one last thing for him to marvel at.

  * * *

  “Leave him where he is till I get back.” Clearly upset, Jeffery scurried from the building, and returned ten minutes later with DI Taylor. The light had diminished, and a breeze scooted through the office, lifting black ash. It fluttered around like dead snow, settling everywhere, even on Stuart’s grilled fa
ce like a final irreverent indignation.

  “Sure it’s him?”

  Jeffery nodded. “Ninety-nine percent.”

  Taylor stared mesmerised at the body. “What was he doing here?” he asked no one in particular. “Right, treat it as a suspicious, and get him out soon as you can. I’ll jack up a forensic pm for later tonight, but you keep me posted on your progress, Jeff.”

  Jeffery hated being called Jeff, but it suddenly seemed unimportant after the chill realisation that a colleague was dead. ‘Jeff’ was like ‘sky’ and ‘door knob’: ordinary. “I will,” he said, “we’ll work all night if we have to,” he looked at Aadi and then at Anne, and received no negativity from either.

  Taylor stood alone with his thoughts for just a moment longer before turning for the exit.

  Jeffery asked, “Who’s going to give the death warning?”

  Taylor stopped, head slumped. “Confirm it’s him.” He walked away.

  Jeffery gave the nod and Aadi got to work with the camera. And that was fine because it allowed him time to replay a memory that was only a few days old. It had been sunny, and there were voices, two of them, male voices, angry. And then he saw them: Eddie Collins – the superhero – and him, Stuart, the crusty over-cooked lump of crackling lying in a pool of black water beneath a crushed desk in a fire scene. He saw Stuart walk away, with that smug grin on his face, the one he brought out for deliberate provocation, and he heard Eddie Collins mumble something. And the first time Jeffery heard that mumble, it slid by him as harmlessly as Jeff or sky or doorknob, and then he rewound it and listened again, and some of the threat in the words he spoke made Jeffery take notice, like snapping awake during a bad dream. And now, as the careful excavation around Stuart’s body began, the words he recalled, combined with the tone, made Jeffery shudder.

  I’m gonna kill you.

  An hour later, they had freed the warped desk from two plastic chairs that seemed determined to hold onto their friend as long as possible. The desk was now outside in the twilight, lit by battery-powered lamps borrowed from and under guard by a PCSO. Back in here, Aadi took a series of photographs to show Stuart’s semi-prone position more clearly.