The Third Rule (Eddie Collins Book 1)

by Andrew Barrett

  His head and shoulders and one hand, the hand that Jeffery had seen poking up through the debris, had clearly been exposed to the most of the radiated heat, and had blistered, while his torso, the other arm and his legs had been protected by the valiant desk, and seemed relatively unmarked, if covered in a layer of ash and soot.

  Jeffery knelt at Stuart’s side brushing away the soot, and that was about the time that Stuart gave up his best exhibit yet for them all to marvel at.

  “Jesus,” Jeffery sank back to the floor. Aadi and Anne crept closer, bringing with them one standard lamp each to illuminate further the gruesome mess that was once Stuart.

  Most of the skin on Stuart’s face had peeled away and the rest had blistered or flaked off in sheets to reveal a light grey skull with cracks across its surface. And the fat from his neck had run in tiny rivulets down to soak the sweater and drip into the ashes on the floor.

  In the centre of his chest, charred and flaking, was a pool of black blood. With gloved hands, Jeffery slid Stuart’s sweater up revealing his abdomen and chest. “He’s been shot.” His voice was little more than a whisper and Jeffery felt strangely emotional right now. Jobs where one excavates a body from a fatal fire scene were wholly unpleasant. But he’d never excavated a friend from a fatal fire scene. Until now. This job transcended distinct lines that had always remained so far apart.

  Jeffery considered two things. Firstly, he wondered if he should vomit about now. It seemed fitting, considering the circumstances; and secondly, he wondered if he should step aside and let someone more detached take over the scene.

  “He’s taken one through the head as well, Jeffery,” Aadi pointed.

  Between the eyes and about an inch upward was a small hole with radiating cracks. He pulled the sweater back down, and then gently swung the body – swung Stuart – to the side to discover that the back of his head was lying in the ashes some distance away. Some of the brain clung to the base of Stuart’s skull with an eagerness matched by the plastic chairs wishing to hold onto the desk.

  “We need those bullets,” Anne said. “Let’s get him out of here, and then we can search properly.”

  As he laid Stuart back down again, and pulled off yet another pair of dripping wet gloves, Jeffery noticed the bulge in Stuart’s jacket pocket.

  “Take a break, Jeffery,” Anne said, “we can bag his head and hands.”

  “A minute.” Wearing a fresh pair of gloves, Jeffery pulled out a half bottle of brandy from Stuart’s pocket. And another from the other pocket. He stared at them for a full minute, wondering what they were doing in Stuart’s pocket here in the SOCO office. And no matter how hard he tried, he could not get away from the possibility that Eddie planted them there.

  Jeffery put the bottles down on a table that he had brought in, on which rested his notepad, and empty cups. “Photos please, Aadi. And see if there are any shop labels on them, price tags or what have you.”

  “Will do.”

  “And then fingerprint them.”

  “Okay.”

  “And then unscrew the caps and swab the rims. Please.”

  Aadi nodded and got to work.

  Anne looked at Jeffery. “We should get the body out—”

  “Stuart; his name’s Stuart.”

  Anne nodded in deference, though there was a little worry in her eyes too because it was always a body, it was never ‘Stuart’. “We need to begin looking for shell cases.”

  Jeffery nodded, “I’ll get the undertakers here.” He left the building and made the arrangements. And then he made a call to Ros. Part of him wanted to warn her in case she came back here and saw Stuart; he didn’t want her shocked as he had been, but part of him wanted to hear her reaction, to listen for glee in her voice. She and Eddie were close, and if Eddie had mentioned anything to her about retribution, he had a good chance of hearing it in Ros’s voice.

  — Six —

  It was all-consuming. This pain was fresh, sharp, and it drew blood like a brand new blade; yet it drew more besides, it pulled at his motivation until the tank was empty and with it went the desire to see another day. Over in the corner, the vacuum cleaner cord beckoned.

  Eddie swallowed another mouthful of dull fire, and the words floating like vowels on a non-syllabic stream passed him by until all he could hear was his breathing. Eddie’s eyes began to close. And where before, he passively looked at death as a release from many things, he now actively sought it, craved it. Prayed for it.

  The tears dripped from his chin.

  It always happened like this. He saw the blood before he felt the pain. It ran in a steady rivulet down the outside of his trousers. He could see steam, and then the snow on which he stood turned scarlet. Quickly. In silence, Eddie looked across to the man. Then the pain bit. Eddie screwed his eyes up, gritted his teeth, and screamed.

  Eddie went down.

  He felt only the fierce pain in his inner thigh; his cold hand heated by the flow of his own blood, and there was a pressure, or was it a vacuum, in his chest. He was light-headed; heard the slow boom of his heart, the shallow scraping of lungs that couldn’t keep up, and when he opened his eyes, the man stood there. Smiling.

  It was cold. There was a noise like rain, and it echoed around his head. Freezing. The pain came back, sharp, gouging. There were voices. No, only one, there was only one voice. And a light. The echoes and the rain had a distinct pull on him like they were magnetic and he was made of iron. Eddie resisted, but in the end, he had no choice.

  Eyes flickered. Bright light, bulbous face and harsh voice.

  He closed his eyes again, began to sink back into the dark, but the voice shouted.

  “You dirty bastard, Eddie!”

  Eddie’s eyes opened and then he threw up in his lap. The cold shower water carried most of the yellow liquid away, but the stench was strong. His head lolled from side to side and the voice came again. It was Mick. “I haven’t got any clean clothes.”

  — Seven —

  Jeffery fidgeted with a fresh pair of nitrile gloves. “No matter how hard I try, I can’t get away from the possibility that Eddie planted them there.”

  “Eddie?” asked Taylor.

  “Collins.”

  Taylor peered into the SOCO office foyer and then turned to make sure the PCSO wasn’t earwigging. “Why the hell would he do that?”

  Jeffery paused, unsure of whether to continue with his theory; because that’s all it was, just a theory. “Eddie has a drinking problem. Everyone knows about it. He and Stuart were enemies—“

  “Why?”

  “Only yesterday Stuart found a bottle of brandy in Eddie’s drawer and brought it to my attention. I reprimanded Eddie.”

  “You’re saying Eddie shot him, and then planted the bottles on him?”

  Jeffery threw his arms out to his sides, “It’s a message for me; Eddie’s saying the first bottle was a plant, and here Stuart is trying to do the same again.”

  “But—”

  “They hated each other. If I’m being perfectly honest.”

  “Any fingerprints on the bottles?”

  Jeffery sighed. “Clean.”

  Taylor shook his head, “I can’t take it all in, Jeff. Three things have happened, and none of them add up to the actions of a rational man. Stuart being shot, booze ‘planted’ in his pockets and then—”

  “Setting the building alight. I know. I could understand it if it happened in that sequence: Eddie shoots Stuart, plants the bottles, and then fires the building to cover his tracks. I still fail to understand two things: where would Eddie get a gun from, and what were they both doing here at that hour of the night?”

  Taylor turned to walk away. “I need his address.”

  “There’s one more thing.”

  Without turning, Taylor said, “There can’t possibly be any more.”

  “I heard him say he was going to kill Stuart.”

  “Jeffery,” Anne called from the main office. The rustling of her scene suit preceded
her entrance into the foyer. She was carrying something small held aloft on the end of a cotton swab.

  Taylor and Jeffery huddled close and peered at the brass shell casing.

  “9mm,” she said. “Federal.”

  Thursday 25th June

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  — One —

  The lounge was totally bare; the smashed doll was in an evidence bag waiting for the exhibits officer to collect it along with the blood-stained hammer, the cigarettes, the lottery card.

  The body was at the mortuary.

  She entered the kitchen, torch picking out details in the hidden shadows, details she’d seen a hundred times already: the green copper pipes, the grey electrical cables nibbled at by rodents.

  Ros faced the dark rectangle of the cellar entrance. The smell was strange; like oil, thick, clingy. Curiosity prodded her and she stepped towards it. It was the only room she hadn’t visited yet. May as well have a look.

  As she descended, her stomach fluttered at the thought of Benson coming by to see how they were doing. What if he did; what if Jeffery did? What could she possibly say about Eddie, other than the truth: he left. No, I don’t know where he went. And no, it wouldn’t do him any good when it came up at his meeting with the Head. “Stupid man.”

  Ros noticed a structure in the centre of the room. It was an easel, and the plastic sheet suspended above it had waves of dust in its creases. This dust was right across its surface, except for two places at the right edge and the front, as though someone had recently lifted it to examine whatever was beneath. But there was nothing beneath it; a glance at the sides would tell you that.

  And that in itself was curious. Why lift the sheet if there was nothing to see? It wouldn’t have been Eddie, he would have crouched too – look first, touch only if necessary. Ros inspected the fingermarks and discerned valuable detail in the dust. “Robbery?”

  And then she paid the easel close attention, noted how its feet were not in their original place, how they had left slip marks in the dust on the floor.

  Her torchlight caught the bulb directly over the plastic sheet and she followed its wire up to the ceiling and along, deeper into the cellar, past a part-collapsed chest of drawers containing paints, brushes and spatulas and onto the large battery on the floor in the far corner. Then her attention moved to the rest of the room. The torch pushed aside the shadows and revealed a small doorway.

  She walked to the door, peered inside through the web that dangled there like a sentinel ready to attack those who dared enter. She could see plastic bin bags covering something. These were the paintings that Eddie had seen.

  Crouching, she entered the small room. There were a dozen or more, some with the bags pulled partway back, and it was to these she edged her way, careful not to touch the walls. They were bare brick, and covered with black dusty webs, and for once, Ros dare not look up for fear of what may be dangling over her. She swallowed and bent to the paintings.

  She held her breath, teetering on her tiptoes; she leaned forward and stretched out a gloved hand.

  “Ros.”

  She jumped. Her foot slipped and she fell against the wall. The torch fell and Ros screamed.

  “You okay in there?”

  Someone shone a light as a spider fell onto her face. She screamed again and writhed about on the floor, kicking, frantically slapping herself down, the crackling of her suit flooded her ears. The torchlight grew larger and Benson poked his head through the doorway as Ros calmed and reached for her own torch. “Don’t ever do that again! Imbecile!”

  Benson backed out again. “Wrong time of the month?”

  “I don’t usually swear,” Ros shouted, “but just fuck off!”

  “No need to get tense.”

  Ros growled and continued her search for the damned spider. Her torch traced her scene suit, then the floor and then the walls. She followed the rotten doorframe upwards until…

  “Anyway, you can wrap it up now. We’re out of here.”

  “I— we haven’t finished yet.”

  “Whatever you’ve got will be enough. We think we know who did it—”

  “You can’t close a scene down till we’ve finished, we might lose—”

  “I’m not posting men here all bleeding night just so you two can confirm what we already know. The exhibits officer’s collected all the crap you found already and now it’s time to ship out.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t ‘but’ me lady, I don’t like it. I said move out, so move out. You’ve got half an hour to get your shit together and then we’re gone. If you’re not ready, you’re on your own.”

  “And I’m telling you—”

  “Don’t tell me how to do my fucking job, woman.” he crouched in the doorway. “If you needed more time, then you shouldn’t have spent so long on lunch.” He half smiled. “Where’s your boyfriend? I want to let him know.”

  “Alright, alright. I’ll go tell him.”

  “Sure?”

  Ros glared at him, snatched her hood down.

  “Okay. I’ll leave it with you.” Benson checked his watch. “You’ve got while seven and then—”

  “We’re on our own, I know.” She watched his torch-lit silhouette disappear towards the stairs and then heard the grit beneath his feet as he climbed them. “Bastard.”

  It was smeared against her chest. She shuddered at the sight of long black legs and the squashed grape of its thorax that had spilled a smear of green/yellow liquid two inches long. She closed her eyes and cursed Eddie.

  When she opened them again, she was staring directly at it. A white bundle up in the corner between the top edge of the doorframe and the crumbling brick above it. It was clean. It was fresh.

  — Two —

  He still didn’t answer. “Damned phones!” She had twenty-six minutes before the police left and the guerrillas came by for playtime. No chance.

  Not even two people could accomplish all she had to do and get packed up in twenty-six minutes. “Might’ve had a chance though,” she whispered. And then her eyes narrowed, “If he’s gone drinking…”

  Ros made her mind up to do it anyway. And she also made her mind up to kick Eddie’s arse until he had to shit out of his mouth for leaving her like this. She crawled from the alcove, dragged the sixteen paintings out and lugged them up the stairs. It took three trips just to get them in the kitchen and by the time she’d carried the camera back downstairs, she had sweat trickling down her back and could see bubbles of it floating around inside her gloves.

  She took location shots of the easel and the plastic sheet, and shot eight exposures of the fingermarks in dust, using oblique lighting to capture the ridge detail. Putting her dreaded hood back up, she crept into the alcove, taking further shots along the way. Once inside, she crouched, spun on her toes and photographed the clean white bundle up there by the corner of the doorframe.

  Two minutes to isolation. She could already hear engines outside. She bit her top lip and moved on, grabbing a clear tamper-proof evidence bag, and rammed the bundle of cash inside. Time was at a premium now.

  Shouts from outside, more engines started, and then a strange kind of silence.

  Ros stuffed the cash into the camera case, grabbed the torch and climbed the stairs again.

  Now came the part she dreaded: walking to the van to get evidence sacks for the tarp and, “Shit,” she cursed again, “what about the easel?” It would keep until tomorrow when she could return with a colleague. A colleague who wouldn’t desert her. Right now, she was jittery and didn’t need to be here. Jeffery would hear about Benson pulling the plug on her, leaving her vulnerable in the Leeds equivalent of Beirut. But as she opened the van doors, it dawned on her: she couldn’t say anything to Jeffery without dropping Eddie in it.

  She yanked her old gloves off, dried her hands and put on a fresh pair, grabbed the evidence sacks and locked the van door. Without making it obvious, she looked around. The youths, boisterous, drunk, high, were stil
l there, and it appeared their number had grown. Her stride quickened and despite the shouts and whistles coming her way, she kept her head forward and matched her stride to the speed of her rushing heart.

  Back in the cellar, the plastic sheet came down easier than she thought it would, and once she’d marked its upper surface with an indelible pen, she packaged it inside an evidence bag. Above her, the kitchen door grated across the floor. She froze, mouth open, eyes wide.

  Was it Eddie, come back to finish up?

  No, it wasn’t Eddie.

  — Three —

  Christian steered the Nissan out of the neighbourhood. He saw police cars heading towards his old house and realised this wasn’t the dream beginning of a new life for him, it was the death of his old one.

  He drove through the outskirts of Leeds and saw the Vidiscreen on a supermarket wall. The face of a Rule Three villain scrolled off the screen, and a new one took its place. His own. Christian Ledger, it said, Rule 2 Infringement. They’d given him a number as well: 1313. Contact Crimestoppers and claim your reward. This space is sponsored by Tesco, Every Little Helps.

  So now he was a wanted felon. And for what? For stealing a tube of burnt umber. And for burglary. His eyes were so drawn to the face, the downcast eyes, the stubble, the word ‘reward’, that he didn’t see the police car in his rear view mirror.

  The blue lights blazed at him.

  Somewhere inside, his heart shrivelled to a walnut and almost stopped beating, not because of the fear of finally being hauled in by the police but because of the sudden attack of regret; he had wasted his talent, his gift. He could have been—

  He looked away as the police car drove right past him, its blue lights slapped the side of his car and bathed his face, and then the siren screamed as the car approached a junction a hundred yards away.

  The walnut kicked once, kicked again, and then resumed a steady rhythm somewhere near his bowel.