He had thought of this moment maybe twice an hour every hour of every day of every week since the day life changed. And that was a lot of thoughts. And in most of them, he was killing the driver, be it a street kid with no future or a doctor who worked diligently in an Accident and Emergency unit – he would kill the driver with anything to hand or with anything his imagination told him to bring – from a hairbrush to a vacuum cleaner, from a kitchen knife to a chainsaw.
He’d put doctors and junkies in the driver’s seat, but never a politician’s son. A very important politician’s son too. And he wondered, as his feet slid down the long wet grass if that made any difference anyway.
There was something justifiable in a poetic if not ironic sense, in letting the public have him. They would kill him through the courts. It would be out of his hands—
“Cheeky twat! You brought a bottle and never—”
“Here. I was just about to.”
“Should think so.” Mick snatched the bottle, glared at Eddie and swallowed, and swallowed again.
“Do you think the public would kill him, I mean the courts, if we handed over the evidence?”
“Seems as though you don’t have too much evidence left to hand over since your office burned down.”
“Yeah we do. Anyway, we still have the car; we could always try examining it again if the upload failed.”
“You’re more naïve than I took you for. He is Deacon’s boy; he belongs under Daddy’s wing. And there he shall remain until Sir George decides otherwise.” Mick took another swig, handed the bottle back and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “There is no way Henry will face a Home Office bullet. Sir George would not allow it. Think of the shame.”
“Then let’s not kill him, Mick. Let’s…”
“You want to kidnap him now? What?”
“I just—”
“You can’t do it, can you?” Mick’s voice was a raspy whisper. “Just wait till you get in there, Eddie. Wait till you see the arrogant twat, and then decide whether you can do it or not.”
“I just thought it would do more harm to let justice run its course.”
Mick shrugged. “I say again, there will be no Home Office bullet.”
It was Eddie’s turn to stare. “I thought you had it all rigged up? Henry’s walking the tightrope, and Deacon is below chewing his fingernails down to the elbows.”
“It’s rigged up ready to hit the presses. But once Sir George gets a whiff of the story, he’ll try to suppress it, and then he’ll try to discredit those of us who would broadcast it.”
“And if he can’t—”
“I shudder to think.” Mick lit a cigarette, exhaled so that a cloud of smoke rose from the bank like an amateur smoke signal. “But it’s up to you. Your call.”
Eddie sobered up quickly. He was torn between ripping the bastard limb from limb, because revenge was a wonderful therapy and he could say to the NY cap that he had done what he’d promised to do. But he also wanted Henry to suffer in jail until he died of old age. And whatever consequences that had for George Deacon played no real part just now, but it might make him re-think his whole justice strategy.
He gave Mick the nod. Mick flicked the cigarette up the bank and into the darkness of the low shrubs. “Sure?”
“Let’s go.”
— Two —
There were five of them. They all crammed into the tiny kitchen to see what was so interesting. Ros backed away as far as she could, pulling the camera bag close to her chest, and noted how badly she was shaking. All it needed was for one of them to be especially high, especially bored or especially randy, and just a little brave, and within thirty minutes she’d be a changed woman.
“What do you want?”
The leader stepped forward; his dirty woollen hat displayed the Nike tick. He smelled her perfume and smiled. “Don’t want owt,” he said. “We saw your lot leave, but you was still here. Having plod around is bad for business. Word gets around, see?”
Ros’s head throbbed. Her tongue was a small rectangle of desert sand and her watering eyes stung as though she’d used an onion-based eye bath. She glanced at her phone’s battery; it also showed three missed calls and a voice message.
“You gonna fuck off and let us get on?” Nike-man said. One youth stepped outside, followed by a second who pushed the first down the steps and laughed about it. Another stared at her as he took a cigarette from behind his ear, nipped it between his brown teeth. Then he pulled out a snub-nosed gun that glowed in the dregs of red sunlight slanting in through the open door.
Ros stared back at Nike-man with his gold chain around his neck matching the one around his wrist, with his trendy tracksuit matching his trendy trainers as though he was a remodelled Usain Bolt!
He was low-life, but even lowlifes occasionally made it big. This was his chance. He stepped closer.
“I’m just about done, thanks.” Thanks? “Said I’d be back about now and they’ll be wondering where I am.” Out flew a nervous laugh, the sign of a woman telling a transparent lie. The gunman aimed at her. She held her breath and thought about Eddie and what a bastard he was and how she would never talk to him again and how she would always hate him if she ever got out of this with her life intact and wondered how he could walk away and allow this to happen.
He pulled the trigger. There was a click, and a pathetic flame lit his cigarette. She sighed the breath out.
“Look like shit there, sis. Got blood in yo hair.”
She touched the swelling that was now barely hidden by her hair. “Banged my head, that’s all.” She smiled and in a swift movement, grabbed the remaining evidence bags, looking up all the time, waiting for them to kick out or push her to the floor. “You didn’t see someone else come in here after the police left?”
The Nike-man shook his head, but druggy number two said, “Yeah; small white dude, fat. Snooker player’s waistcoat.”
“Can you remember what he was driving?”
“Don’t know. But he was carrying something under his arms, like them there.” With a pair of smoking fingers, he pointed to the paintings on the kitchen floor.
“You want me ta carry them?” Nike-man nodded at the plastic-wrapped paintings.
“Would you mind?”
* * *
When Ros sat in her van with the doors locked and the interior lamp turned out, she cried. She hadn’t even taken off her dirty sweaty scene suit; content to worry about comforts like that when she finally got the bloody hell out of here.
— Three —
Eddie’s bravado shone like the chrome on a Harley D.
They threw the rubber car mats across the top of the fence. When Mick had said, ‘wait until you get in there and see the arrogant bastard’, Eddie became scared.
He could imagine Henry Deacon giving out the big ‘come on’, and he could imagine himself obliging. He could see the anger rising inside him, and he could see himself charging at Deacon and he could see himself becoming a murderer before tonight was out. Once Eddie Collins got angry, there was no stopping him until it ran its course; might as well try slowing down a steam train by thinking about it really hard.
That’s what scared him. If Deacon was placid, displayed sorrow at Sammy’s death, Eddie would simply go home with his tail between his legs and wrap the vacuum cleaner cord tightly around his neck.
Mick leapt the fence first and Eddie swallowed his fear and followed. In silence they sneaked like a couple of burglars around the back of Henry Deacon’s bungalow to the conservatory. “Stay here,” Mick skulked off into the darkness.
That darkness disappeared as Mick triggered a security light at the far side of the conservatory. Eddie heard him curse and then saw him running back. “There’s a window open.”
“Great.”
“Come on, let’s get on with it.”
“Right behind you,” Eddie came out of the darkness and into the light. He could see speckles of illuminated rain landing on Mick’s hurrying shape. And as the
open window came into sight, the security light blinked out and the rain fell invisibly again, Eddie wondered if this was the worst decision he had ever made.
The white plastic window frame was a grubby grey in a darkness that was almost total. Mick looked at Eddie. “What about alarms?”
“Won’t have it set if he’s in, will he?” Eddie said. “And the car mats are still there if the place is zoned, we’ll be long gone before the police arrive.”
“Wish we’d worn gloves.”
“But we didn’t!” It was almost a shout and in the stillness of the night it was very loud. Only the sound of rain falling on shrubbery and onto the conservatory roof came to his ears. “You bailing out on me?” Eddie stared at Mick, working himself up for the confrontation he’d dreamed of. “Come on, I’ll help you through.”
“Okay,” Mick said, not moving from in front of Eddie’s face, “but I expect to see your ugly arse right behind me.”
He nodded, “I’ll be there.” As Mick opened the window further and leaned in, Eddie’s fear of what he might do melted, and suddenly became appealing. Eddie listened for alarms. He knew that Mick wanted Henry Deacon dead just as much as he did. Only for different reasons. But that didn’t matter. They wanted Deacon dead; that mattered. And what Mick knew when tonight became tomorrow, he would take to the grave with him. Eddie peered left and right and then followed Mick through the window.
The house was quiet. He crouched down, and he listened for a whole minute. They were in a carpeted hallway. Dark, except for a bar of light coming from beneath a door at the far end of the corridor some fifteen yards away.
“That’ll be the lounge,” Mick whispered.
Eddie nodded in the darkness.
And then Mick was gone, creeping his way towards the light. Eddie followed; his hand lightly skimming the wall. Mick was a barely perceived shadow and only when Eddie’s outstretched hand touched him, did he stop.
Mick listened at a doorway on his right, “Bedroom,” he whispered. It appeared darker than the others on the hallway because it was open. Wide open. Only darkness in there. After a moment, Mick pulled away and crept towards the lounge. Eddie followed but slower, more cautiously, aware of the chances of another door opening suddenly, aware they might face a battle, aware someone might already know of their presence. Hell, the police could be parked outside already.
Actually, they were still twelve minutes away.
He saw Mick’s head turn sideways as he placed an ear to the lounge door. Eddie crouched. Watched. Mick twisted the doorknob. Inside the lounge, the lamps were on and there was a muted glow from the artificial fire in the artificial hearth. Apart from that, the place looked like it had just been built, furnished, and locked up. Except for a coffee or tea stain on the fawn carpet by the leather chair, nothing was out of place; everything appeared to be in perfect harmony, arranged by a setsquare or by consultation with the planets.
Eddie stood in the expansive lounge with his hands on his hips and did a 360 turn. There were shadows, but they were transparent enough to yield everything. And there was no person here. “Now where?”
Mick’s lips were a tight grey line beneath his nose, eyes squinting in frustration. He shrugged.
Eddie let out a breath, and his shoulders slumped. “I’d psyched myself up,” he whispered. “I was gonna kill—”
“Keep a lid on it. Start looking.”
“Looking? What for?”
“Dunno,” Mick said. “But he has a secret he’s desperate to share with me. And I’d hate to let him down.”
“Hold on, hold on.” Eddie pulled Mick around by the shoulders. “I came here for a specific task. I came here to get even for my kid. I didn’t come here looking for a fucking secret. I didn’t come here to steal.”
“What?” Mick faced Eddie full on. “Murder was fine, but you’re a bit unsure about burglary?”
“That’s about right.”
“And what about me? I came here to give you support, and now you don’t need that support—”
“Then I may as well be of some use?”
Mick stomped out of the lounge, opening doors up and down the hallway, and any caution he once displayed had blown away on the wind.
Eddie folded his arms and stared after Mick’s prancing shadow. “And what happens,” he whispered, “if Henry pops out of the fucking gym or snooker room and catches you floating through his underwear drawer?”
“Then we go back to Plan A.”
Eddie blinked, “Oh yeah.” He walked up the hallway and turned into the darkest room of all, into Henry Deacon’s bedroom.
“Arsehole,” Mick said.
“Arsehole, yourself.” Only a minute ago, Eddie was ready to rip heads off, and it took a while for that fury to dissipate into a cold feeling of anti-climax and a dull throbbing frustration, no doubt shared by Mick. He understood that frustration precisely. It yielded recklessness, a need to attract fate, a need to attract Henry Deacon.
And then he turned the bedroom light on and stood quite still. “Shit,” he whispered.
— Four —
Ros locked the door and yawned until tears were squeezed out between her eyelashes. Three hours she’d been here in the Normanton SOCO office writing up the notes on her new laptop and plugging it into the mainframe ready for the upload at one o’clock. She booked all her exhibits into the store and the freezer, copied the photographs, and began to cry. And then she grew angry for allowing the emotion to show itself. “Damn you, Eddie.”
The place was deserted.
She headed back to Morley where she briefly stared at the twisted wreckage of furniture outside the office door. She signed out, collected her car, and headed home. Her thoughts were not focused on the job as would normally be the case, not even on the injustice of advertising the dead girl’s boyfriend as a provisional Rule Three violator. Her thoughts had latched onto Eddie Collins early in the evening and that’s where they stayed.
A police car sped past her, blue lights flicking, but no sirens. She wondered where it was going at this hour.
Ros closed her house door behind her and shuddered a long hollow sigh into the shadows. She hung her bag on the coat hook and snatched the mail and newspaper from the floor. The mail was junk, it never made it further than the kitchen bin, but the newspaper, the late edition of The Yorkshire Echo, caught her attention. She didn’t breathe for the next two minutes as she read:
The Yorkshire Echo. 25th June
One Rule for Them and the Third Rule for Us
On Friday, the 29th May, the reckless killing of two people in the Wakefield village of Outwood baffled police. One, 38 year-old Peter Archer, a father of three, was thrown under the wheels of a bus on the main Leeds Road.
Passers-by were distraught at the sight. They reported seeing a green Jaguar speeding off from the scene.
The second was a 12-year-old boy. Sam Collins recovered an errant football on Westbury Avenue in the village when he was struck and killed by the same green Jaguar.
The deaths of these two people have shredded the lives of their families, but despite intensive investigations, the police have no one in custody.
The Yorkshire Echo has discovered the driver’s identity. The driver was Henry Deacon, son of our Justice Minister, Sir George Deacon, and we have the proof.
We have to ask that if Henry is proved to be the driver by the current police investigation, will he face the same fate that a normal member of the public would? Would he face a Rule Three execution?
How coincidental then, that around midnight last night, Wednesday 24th June, the Morley police station’s scenes of crime office succumbed to what is believed to be a vicious arson attack that gutted the building. Police are refusing to comment, but a source believes the fire was a deliberate attempt to destroy evidence recovered from the recently found Jaguar
By Michael Lyndon
— Five —
The patrol car hurtled down Wigton Lane. With only a slight squeal of brakes, it
pulled up outside a large bungalow. Both officers alighted and climbed the fence at the front.
A hundred metres further down the street, a man watched from his hire car.
Thursday 25th June
Chapter Forty Two
— One —
“Now what?”
“Come and see this.” Eddie stood in the bedroom, his heart rattling at the bars of his ribcage, trying to break out before the adrenaline blew it up.
Eddie had opened the door, stepped inside and flicked the light on. And that’s when he had stopped, and his jaw fell open.
Mick came up behind him. “Fuuuck.”
“That sums it up.” Eddie crept up to the body, keeping an eye out for signs of a trap and for possible forensic evidence; evidence he didn’t want to destroy or contaminate. No matter how disparate he and ‘work’ were right now, he couldn’t suppress his eye for detail.
“Aw, shit, I hate—”
“Keep a lid on it, Mick; it won’t fucking bite you.”
“I know, but—”
He turned, “And don’t you dare throw up!”
Mick shrank back towards the door.
Henry Deacon looked like a marionette that had been abandoned half way through a show. Around his chubby neck was a black leather belt, and in the same way a tree trunk will eventually grow around a length of barbed wire stapled to it, so the belt similarly disappeared into the loose skin of Henry Deacon’s throat with such pressure as to force his bloated tongue out between his lips. The other end of the belt was tied to the wardrobe’s clothes rail. There were no clothes hanging on it; seemed Henry had more storage space than clothes anyhow.
Deacon’s hands rested submissively on his thighs.
The Third Rule (Eddie Collins Book 1) Page 43