“Well?”
“Sir George, they’ve parked up, gone into a pub—”
“When?”
“I’m just on my way in—”
“When!”
Sirius closed his eyes. “About ten minutes ago.”
There was a long pause before Deacon finally spoke; anger seeped through the cracks in his calm voice, “Follow them. When you—”
“I was just about—”
“Get me a conclusion to this!”
— Seven —
Thursday evening in Wakefield was always busy. It was the local party night; where all the clubs and pubs were full, where the restaurants and street cafés did good business, where the roads throbbed with revellers dressed for a night out, most already drunk and the rest getting there.
Northgate was slow, heaving with taxis, with buses, with police vehicles stationary at intersections just watching the crowds, or rushing by to some incident somewhere. It was loud, the squeal of brakes, the sounds of horns, sirens, of music beating the bodywork of the local boy racers’ cars, of thudding bass breaking free of the bulging nightclubs, the shouting, singing and the laughter of youth.
Brook Street was just as busy as Northgate had been; traffic was manic and its noise was an uncomfortable cacophony for Eddie; his head boomed as he climbed into the taxi’s back seat. Mick shouted Eddie’s address at the driver and then sank into his seat with a sigh. Eddie peered out of his window, watching Wakefield become blurred, watching for a Vauxhall Capella and seeing nothing but Henry Deacon’s lolling head.
— Eight —
It was a little after eleven thirty when the phone interrupted Benson. He was gazing at the ceiling of his car, enraptured, eyes flickering, head spilling from side to side, groans dripping from his lips as she worked on him, a dark scruffy shape moving rhythmically in the soft glow of the dash lights.
He was almost there when the phone ruined it all. The woman lifted her head, the beginnings of a smirk on her dampened lips. He slapped her.
“The fuck wa’ that for?”
“Get out.”
“Money first.”
The phone continued to upset Benson as he reached into a dashboard storage unit and brought out a twenty. “Be back tomorrow night, same time.”
She snatched the money, opened the door and was absorbed by the darkness as Benson pressed the button beneath ‘Accept?’
“This had better be good.”
“It’s me, Sirius. I need an address asap.”
“Another one? What the fuck do you think I am?”
“You were right about Collins going to Henry Deacon’s house.”
“And?”
“I need his address.”
— Nine —
It was late evening when Christian cruised down the road leading to the old terraced house. It was quiet, dark. There was no one around acting suspiciously, no police. He drove in ever decreasing circles, plucking up courage, wondering if he could park outside and get into the cellar and out with his paintings – provided they were still there. He thought he could. The Nissan had a full tank of petrol, enough to get him four hundred miles away; enough time to plan some kind of intermediate future.
What about Sirius, and that fat guy, Henry?
Christian parked outside his old home. Call it instinct, call it cowardice, but he sat there with the heater on and pretended the pain in his shoulder was all in his mind. He looked towards the part open door clad by a rusting corrugated sheet. It would take five minutes to nip in and—
Movement dragged his eyes up to the rear view mirror. A man walking a young dog, one of those things that constantly jumped at its master. He engaged gear and let the car roll forward, missing his paintings already, but knowing he would never see them again.
Friday 26th June
Chapter Forty Three
— One —
The concrete stairs had never seemed so hard to climb before. Mick panted alongside him, head down, rasp in his throat, legs more a hindrance than a help. With the door locked behind them, Eddie pulled the Yorkshire Echo from his letterbox. He looked at Mick, looked down at the envelope in his hand and regretted being here. “If that arsehole was following us—”
“Fix a drink, no one followed us.”
“The Vauxhall—”
“I’ll fix it myself if you’re gonna whine.” Mick threw the envelope on his chair, then slunk into the kitchen. There was the sound of glasses chinking and Eddie strode to the window, swallowing apprehension. “Check out the front page,” Mick called from in the kitchen.
He peered out through the dirt-smeared net curtains at the grimy street below where groups of drunken youths and tipsy partygoers headed down town towards the nightclubs. Not one of them could walk in a straight line, not one of them could stagger in silence either. “Piss heads,” he watched them weave between buses and taxis, laughing and shouting at nothing, as inebriated people did. He watched normal people eating in a civilised way in the Chinese restaurant over the road, and felt envious of them. Mick set the glasses on the table.
“Not sure I like this,” Eddie slipped out of his jacket, downed the gin and poured another. He read the newspaper headline: One Rule for Them and The Third Rule For Us.
“Catchy line, eh?”
“Sum it up for me; my life may be shorter than I think.”
“I told the world of the SOCO building fire, and how it conveniently went up in flames the same day evidence of Henry Deacon’s murderous activities were locked up inside.”
“Let me guess, you continued by saying that certain high-ranking members of the government have seen to it their wayward offspring are protected against the Slaughter House?”
“My editor practically had my cock out when he read it.”
“Who’s following us?”
Mick lit a cigarette, shrugged almost absently and sank into his chair, fingers tearing at the envelope’s seal.
“The guy who killed Henry Deacon?”
Mick looked up. “What makes you say that?”
“Criminals return to their crime scene. He wanted to see—”
“Fuck.” Mick flicked ash, strained for his glass and emptied it.
“We’ve just turned ourselves into bait, haven’t we?” Eddie looked out the window again, more nervous now than before.
— Two —
Benson walked the length of the deserted corridor at Scientific Support in Wakefield, and stopped outside door marked SSU Admin and HR.
A swipe of his card against the reader’s red LED on the wall released the door lock and turned the light green. Benson glanced up and down the corridor, then entered the office. The place was in darkness except for LEDs dotted about on desktop monitors and on telephones showing the date and a synchronised time of 01:24. Close by, a massive photocopier hummed on standby. The rich aroma of lavender filled the room, and Benson breathed it in.
Some elements of the police force were beautifully modern. He knew they spent millions on forensic equipment, 3D modelling computers, camera equipment that was almost military spec; GPS for each radio set would grid officers for protection, and for easy deployment to the next nearest job.
Yet, other elements of the force were a little more neglected, archaic even. Such as personnel files and time cards. Most of the information for civilian employees was still kept in paper files in grey cabinets; their time-off cards, he knew, were still written by hand on A5 pieces of yellow card.
And so too were their contact details.
Benson swooped through the maze of desks, and headed for a bank of filing cabinets along the rear wall. Less than a minute later he had one of those buff files on a desk, finger marking the place where a telephone number and a new address was written; the old one had a note attached, indicating a recent separation. Benson pressed the phone to his ear. “It’s me.”
— Three —
“Fuck,” Mick said.
“Hurry up, read it and let’s get the hell out of here.
”
Mick closed his eyes, “I don’t think—”
“I know you don’t. But I’d like to choose when I die, not have it rammed down my neck.” He turned away from the window.
Mick looked up.
“What?”
“Death. Rammed down your neck. Spells a government killing.”
Eddie took a cigarette from Mick’s packet and lit it. “Making less sense than ever, mate.”
“I told you he’d never see a Home Office bullet. It was a Government killing. Henry Deacon.”
Eddie coughed out smoke out in small clouds. “What?” And then he sank into the stains in the sofa. “The SOCO building going up in flames. Henry’s death. The Vauxhall…”
“Old Man Deacon doesn’t believe in wasting time.” Mick pulled the envelope’s contents out into the room.
Eddie searched Mick’s face for a clue to what was on that paper. “Come on, we gotta go.”
“One minute.” Mick studied the sheet, and then looked up, forehead furrowed. “A crossword puzzle.”
“Oh, that helps.”
Mick passed it over while he read aloud the accompanying sheet. “It’s from Henry Deacon, ‘You’re lucky I met you when I did, Mr Lyndon; I was going to forward this to Akhbar Shunian at The Times. But now… well, maybe you’re unlucky. Watch your back.’ Shit, do I feel lucky.”
“Yeah, you should do the Lottery this week.”
Eddie stared at the puzzle.
Eddie whispered, “Ever had that feeling that something infinite – isn’t?”
“Life, you mean?”
“This is getting seriously heavy. And I’m seriously shitting myself.”
“I have to check my emails.” Mick pulled out his mobile phone.
“Good idea. You check your email while I write the obituary.”
“Bingo!”
“Life’s one big game today, isn’t it?”
“It’s a time delay email.” Mick looked at Eddie, who stared back, face blank. “It’s sent automatically to its destination unless the sender enters a password every hour, day, week, whatever you want, to prevent it going.”
“He knew he was toast, didn’t he?”
“Quick, grab a pen.”
“A pen? You’re the fucking journalist.”
* * *
“If Henry was killed by someone acting on his father’s orders, and if the Vauxhall man is the same fella, we really should piss off.”
Mick thought about this for a moment. “You’re right,” he climbed unsteadily to his feet, dropped the cigarette end in the ashtray and shuffled towards the door.
“Where’re you going?”
“Thought we just agreed to split!”
“You going back to yours?” Eddie lit another cigarette. “You know he’ll come looking for you there—”
“Let’s just recap here, my blurred friend.” Mick slid back into the chair and tried to point a finger at Eddie, missing entirely. “The bad men are coming to get us, yeah? This Sirius bloke, the smoking gun of Deacon’s despicable empire—”
“Stop writing your fucking story and speak properly!”
“Don’t worry about me; I shall go somewhere they’ll never think of looking.”
“Church?”
“The question is, where are you going?”
Eddie sat in silence. It was a straightforward question. Option one: stay here. Option two: go to Jilly’s. Option three: go to Ros’s. Eddie dragged deep on the cigarette. Option one was a no-goer; if the police saw him leave Deacon’s house, they’d have him in cuffs in less than an hour; or if Sirius beat them to it, he would take him to some back alley for a severe workout.
“Well?”
Eddie looked up, “I’m thinking.”
“Options pretty thin, right?”
“I can’t go to Jilly’s—”
“She invited you back home, didn’t she?”
“How long do you think it would take Sirius to work that one out?”
“’Bout five minutes.”
“Yeah, I am pretty thin on—”
“What about your girlfriend?”
“Ros isn’t my girlfriend.”
“If you say so.”
Eddie looked away.
“So what are you going to do?”
“Option four, I think,” Eddie said.
“What’s option four?”
— Four —
Sirius parked in a side street near Eddie Collins’s address. He had received the address from Benson, Deacon’s man on the inside, but he would have to tread carefully with him from now on. His hospitality was almost exhausted.
He walked briskly to the end of the road and turned a corner, only fifty yards from the address, and tried to maintain a discreet but healthy pace along the main road, busy with drunk and loud people.
— Five —
Eddie and Mick made it down to the darkness of the foyer below the flat and stopped at the glazed front door. “How am I going to get into work tomorrow?” Eddie whispered.
“What?” Mick peered out into the street.
“I have work tomorrow.”
Mick was about to shout, but stopped himself, looked Eddie in the eyes, and said, “Sirius doesn’t just work outside office hours, mate. If you go into work tomorrow, you will not make it home again.”
And that’s when the gravity of it all hit home. Yes, they’d been involved with burglary and even attempted murder (attempted, he thought, because the guy was already dead), so his mind should have been used to grave situations by now, but it wasn’t. Tonight had been an adventure where anger and adrenaline had fuelled the actions; now it had become serious in that he wasn’t the instigator anymore, he wasn’t the hunter anymore, he was…“The hunted.”
“Was that the opener to a deep and meaningful? Cos I have to tell you—”
“We’re actually being hunted, Mick.”
“The penny dropped, huh?”
“I’m on the run!”
“We’re on the run.”
“Till when? When’s it all going to—”
Mick shrugged. “Once we find out what’s going on and who’s to blame for it all—”
“Deacon’s to blame.”
“We need proof.” Mick returned his attention to the street. “We need published proof too,” he said absently, attention grabbed by some anomaly outside in the street.
“That’s cheered me up no end.”
“Come here, Eddie.”
Eddie peered through the door, and despite his wavy vision, instantly saw him; a man who looked so alien in the street among all the arseholes and loudmouths that he couldn’t have stood out more if he’d been naked except for a pink bowler hat. He had a direction and he had purpose, and he looked straight at this building, gaze never wavering.
“Sirius,” Mick said. “How the hell did he—”
“Back door!”
Eddie turned and staggered through the foyer past the stairs, seemingly heading straight into blackness. He blundered his way through an invisible fire escape, and a brief wedge of orange light from the back yard leaked in and showed Mick the way. Above the doorframe was a smashed Fire Exit sign.
Mick slammed the door closed behind them.
They were in a small yard, enclosed by a glass-topped brick wall, and a pair of wooden gates that gave out on to a cobbled street behind Eddie’s flat. Beyond the wall, a streetlamp spewed the ghastly orange light they’d seen from the foyer. To their right was the carpet of moss created by Eddie’s broken toilet overflow one floor above, and it provided them with a noise like an urban waterfall, a drone to take away the eerie silence.
Mick was still trying to work out where in the yard of industrial wheelie bins, of rolls and folds of dead carpets and hundreds of their cardboard centre tubes, he should hide. “Here,” whispered Eddie, “over here!”
“Where, I can’t see a fucking—”
“Ssssshhh!”
* * *
Sirius silently mounted
the top step and peered at the wooden door of flat number 2. He placed an ear against it and listened. Then took out his sidearm.
* * *
“We should go over the gates,” Mick whispered.
“No chance. Now shush, he could come out any second.”
With a creak, the fire door opened.
Eddie held his breath, peered between the wall and the back of an industrial wheelie bin, something the size a small skip, and could just make out the shape of a man threading his way deeper into the yard.
Behind them, and constantly splashing them, was the overflow waterfall. Eddie edged around the side of the wheelie bin and crouched slightly as he peered around its front.
Sirius stopped and turned.
Eddie’s eyes froze.
“I can’t see, where is—”
Eddie nudged Mick in the face with his elbow, then drew the weapon from his inside pocket.
“What the fuck—”
Eddie stared a warning at Mick, and then turned back towards Sirius. But Sirius was gone.
If Eddie could have seen that Sirius was standing at the other of side of the wheelie bin, he would not have chosen that particular second to stand up. Sirius had his weapon drawn and was searching for signs of recent disturbance in a place that was full of recent disturbance. And luckily for Eddie, the waterfall cloaked his gasp. And he was further blessed with luck.
He peered over the crown of the wheelie bin and stood there with his mouth wide open. If the light had been stronger, it would have been possible to see his heart beating like crazy in the back of his throat. And that’s when he thought Sirius had seen him.
But he hadn’t; it was the moment that Sirius’s phone began to ring. As he pulled it from his jacket pocket, his face illuminated by the screen, Eddie slowly sank back down, hoping like hell that Mick would keep his mouth quiet.
The Third Rule (Eddie Collins Book 1) Page 45