The Third Rule (Eddie Collins Book 1)

by Andrew Barrett

  “I’m so sorry, Ros.”

  “They all left me; the uniforms, CID… all of them. You’d abandoned me.”

  “Oh Ros, no.”

  “I’m okay now. I was knocked out—”

  “What!”

  “There were paintings there. I had them in the kitchen ready to leave.” She turned so Eddie could see the dried blood in her hair. “When I came round, they’d gone. And a group of junkies showed up.”

  “Oh Jesus, Ros.” He instinctively reached out, but she pulled away from him. “I’m so sorry, babe; I wish—”

  “I’m okay, no thanks to you. But it could have turned out very different, Eddie. And that’s what hurts me the most. I run around after you, I treat you very well, and you… you treat me badly, you don’t give me a second thought, because you’re too busy with him…” she trailed off, and for a moment, was silent. “Deacon is dead?”

  Eddie nodded.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I went to kill him. And someone beat me to it.”

  Ros was quiet for a long time, immobile too, just staring first at Eddie, and then straight ahead through the windscreen. “Is that why you left the scene?”

  “I’ll understand if you never want to see me again.”

  “Jeffery rang after you abandoned me.”

  “Mick has proof that—”

  “Stuart is dead.”

  “What?” It was his turn to be silent for a while. “Our Stuart?”

  She nodded. “They found his body in the burnt-out SOCO building.”

  “Jesus, this is a night of surprises.” Eddie studied the dashboard for some time, trying to let it all sink in. Then he gasped and punched the dashboard, “You think I killed him, don’t you?”

  “Why would—”

  “I mentioned Henry Deacon was dead and that I was going to kill him, and you put two and two together.”

  “Would you have killed him? If he’d been still alive I mean.”

  Eddie’s fingers fidgeted. “Part of me says yes, and the other part… I didn’t kill Stuart, Ros. I hated him, but I couldn’t have killed him.”

  “You have proof that Henry killed Sam? The office is gutted, remember, not much direct evidence left I suppose.”

  “A recorded full and frank confession.”

  “And that’s why he’s dead?”

  “We think he was being silenced, yeah.”

  “So what’s all this about?” She shrugged, palms outwards. “Why am I your personal taxi?”

  “We were followed. My flat door has been kicked in—”

  “Ah, I get it.” She nodded in Mick’s direction, “It’s because of his headline, isn’t it?”

  “It probably didn’t help.”

  Ros wound down the passenger window. “Get in, Mick,” she said. Then, to Eddie, “Where’re we going?”

  — Four —

  As requested, Ros drove along the road where they’d dumped Mick’s car. Eddie had been correct, there was a car parked on the edge of the garage forecourt, a lone male in the driver’s seat, elbow resting on the windowsill. A hundred yards further along, Eddie and Mick sat up in their seats. “There’s someone watching it, alright,” Ros said. “I’ll drive by your flat.”

  “This is bigger than I thought,” Mick said. “I wonder how many people Deacon has on this case now?”

  Ros drove up Northgate, and the two men sank down in their seats again, Mick just peeking his head above the windowsill.

  “One plain car, and one police car there,” he said. “Copper standing in the foyer too.”

  “Jesus,” Eddie whispered.

  As she passed by, Ros looked up into Eddie’s window, “There’s someone in your flat Eddie, probably searching it.”

  “I hope they find the remote control.”

  “So the Rule Three that Sirius mentioned in the back yard, is you.”

  “Great, I got the police and Deacon’s mob after me.”

  “Who’s Sirius? And what was he saying?”

  Eddie was about to answer when his mobile phone rang. “Now what?” he pulled it from his jacket pocket. “It’s Jeffery,” he said, shocked.

  “Don’t answer it. He wants to know where you are.”

  Eddie stared at the screen, heart pummelling. He wondered just how much more bad news he was expected to take. The car passed The Booze King shop, and he looked at it longingly as the phone rang off.

  “How do you manage to get in shit so deep?” Ros asked, and when the phone in her car rang, the speaker made them all jump. “Okay, quiet.” She hit ‘talk’ and said, “Hello.”

  “Hello, Ros,” Jeffery’s voice crackled over the speaker.

  “Jeffery? Is that you?”

  “Yes… Are you in your car?”

  Eddie looked across at her, saw her take a breath, gripping the wheel, psyching herself up.

  “Just on my way back from my sister’s. Why, what’s up?”

  “Have you seen Eddie this evening?”

  “Eddie? No, why? What’s happened? Is he okay?”

  There was silence from the speaker.

  “Jeffery?”

  “If you see him, you need to get in touch with me as a matter of urgency.”

  “Aw no, something happened to Jilly?”

  “He’s on a provisional Rule Three.”

  Eddie closed his eyes.

  “What on earth for?”

  “They think… we think he may have had an involvement with Stuart’s death.”

  Eddie’s eyes sprang wide open, and he almost swore aloud, and for a moment, he wanted to scream into the mic that he had no involvement, repeat no involvement with Stuart’s death. But he had a feeling who had.

  Mick’s mouth fell open.

  “You’re kidding, right? Eddie would never—”

  “Ros please, if you see him, ring me.” Jeffery ended the call and Ros just drove on autopilot. Eddie’s face was utterly devoid of emotion because shock sat there hogging the limelight and refused to move over. Mick, in the back seat, cradled the envelope, hoping it would provide an exit route for all these troubles.

  “Stuart?” Mick asked. “The Stuart?”

  “Why would they think I killed him?”

  “You hated him, remember?”

  “Ros, everyone hated him.”

  “Yeah, but you two had a special relationship.”

  “Did I miss a meeting?” Mick sat forward.

  Eddie turned, “They found his body in the SOCO building.”

  “No,” Mick slumped back in his seat. “This is getting too much.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I wonder if you can be put on a Rule Three twice?” Mick disappeared into thought, and then suddenly surfaced again. “Someone ought to let Suzanne Child know.”

  Ros flicked a glance at him, “Who’s she?”

  “My apprentice. Good kid. And no doubt Rochester will send her to Deacon’s press conference later this morning.”

  “How do you know he’s having a conference?”

  “He’ll jack up a conference as soon as Henry’s death is made public; he’ll want to weep a little on camera, say how sorry he is for Henry’s crimes, and how he has suffered as a father. He’ll distance himself from Henry quick as he can.”

  “Fucking politicians,” Eddie said.

  “It’s an ideal time to dishonour him and his family name.” Mick stared at Ros, could see her half looking at him as she drove. “Just need someone to ring Suzanne,” he said, “maybe spill the beans anonymously.”

  Friday 26th June

  Chapter Forty Five

  — One —

  “You never told me there was a phase two, Eddie. Did you conveniently forget that part?”

  “I’ll leave you two alone,” Mick climbed from Ros’s car, closed the door and looked for something to lean against as he lit a cigarette.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “This was the first chance I had to tell you.”

  “You’re p
laying with fire, and I just want you to know, no fuck it, I have to let you know that it’s going to end up killing you. And I don’t want that to happen. You’re into this thing very deep and if half of what you said on the way here is true, then you’re not going to be alive much longer.” She squeezed the bridge of her nose, purposefully avoided looking at him. “I don’t want that to happen. I always wanted you to get back with Jilly; I always wanted you two to work it out and to get back to normal again…”

  “Normal? With Jilly?”

  “But I think I’ve grown selfish recently, because I don’t want that anymore. I don’t want you to get back with Jilly, because I know what she’s like now, and she’s not healthy for you.” She stared out of her window.

  Eddie could see her chin trembling. She was hitching breath as though fighting back tears or sobs or both. And even when he was mixed up in murders and all manner of bad things, she was still helping him, she was still lying for him, and he felt like crying too.

  He reached over to her and pulled her across to him, and that’s when she could hold the tears no longer.

  — Two —

  “Prime Minister?”

  “Come in, sit down, George.” Sterling Young took off his glasses, threw them across the papers he was busy with. Then he stared at Deacon. “My father was a sheep farmer. Did I ever tell you that?”

  “I think it’s common knowledge.”

  “At its height, we had over three thousand head of sheep on two farms. We had a couple of managers, eight shepherds and around fourteen sheep dogs.” He paused as if recollecting old memories. “It was a lot to handle. Everything had to run like clockwork; everyone had to get along, and everything had to work.”

  Deacon sat still, watching the old man. He knew precisely what this was; Sterling Young never called to see someone at this hour without an agenda, without facts and figures, without cause to be there. This was a lecture and Deacon clasped his trembling hands tightly in his lap and let it run its course.

  “We had three bitches. We kept them to produce our dogs, and if we were lucky we turned a profit on them. Always plenty of call for a good collie.” Sterling smiled at Deacon but there was no friendship in his eyes. “Father was good with animals, loved them; very fond of dogs. But like everything else, they had to work; they had to pay their way.

  “When I was very young, I don’t know, five or six maybe, one of the bitches dropped a litter, and among that litter one dog stood out, and that damned thing was a beautiful dog; very placid. I took an unusual liking to it, decided to keep it for my own. You’d think with a thousand acres of land, there would be sufficient room for one pet.”

  Deacon smiled.

  “As it grew, we discovered it was blind. It was broken, George, it was no good for its intended purpose. When I asked my father if I could keep him as a pet, he refused, saying no one gets a free ride; if it doesn’t work, it isn’t worth keeping. Father shot him.

  “And though I never really forgave him, I understood his rationale. No point having everyone pick up his slack.” Sterling turned directly to Deacon. “I believe you have similar issues to deal with, George. I urge a swift resolution.”

  * * *

  Deacon dragged a hand down the white whiskers on his troubled face. This was all going horribly wrong. It should have been so easy: declare Collins as a Rule Three miscreant, wanted for the murder of a colleague and for arson, and kill him before he could be arrested. Keep his dirty little secrets a secret, shut him up for good, but someone had messed up, and that someone was Sirius – again. A man who couldn’t work out how to spell Stephen!

  “Justine!” he called again, louder this time.

  The door opened, and Justine entered his office looking slightly bedraggled, hair awry, eyes not quite as pin sharp as they used to be, brushing crumbs from the side of her mouth. “Sir?”

  “How’s the speech coming along?”

  “Almost done.”

  Deacon nodded. And Collins was only 25% of his problem at what, nearly one in the morning. Another quarter of his problem was a drunken reporter called Mick Lyndon and his turncoat rag The Yorkshire Echo. “Get Thomas Gordon out of his pit and down here pronto.” Justine nodded. “And then I want Sirius. I don’t care what he’s doing, get him to call me.”

  “Sir.” Justine was almost back outside Deacon’s office.

  “And Justine?”

  “Sir?” she said without turning.

  “Would you bring me a cup of tea, and something to eat?”

  “Sir.”

  — Three —

  Mick dragged on the cigarette. He leaned against a wall in Ros’s home town of Normanton and watched the village closing its eyes for the night. The last of the lights on this quiet road went out and the only movement came from the clouds moving in from the West. The wind had begun without him even noticing and still they sat there in the car, only now, so far as he could see, they weren’t sitting quite as far apart as before.

  Either way, Mick thought as he peered at his watch, at nearly one in the morning, he wished they’d hurry the fuck up because he had lots to do and a deadline to meet. Mick tapped his foot.

  * * *

  “They’ll kill you when they find you, Eddie.”

  Eddie breathed the scent of her hair as she rested her chin on his chest. He held her as best he could; clumsily, but with affection. “I know,” was all he could think of saying.

  “I blame him.”

  “Mick?”

  She nodded.

  “Why?”

  “He’s been nothing but trouble for you since you hooked up with him.”

  “Maybe. But now he’s the only one who can get me out of trouble. We have to decode whatever’s in that envelope.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I’ll have the car back by seven at the latest. Promise.”

  “Don’t promise. Just try. If not, ring me so I can get a taxi; I can’t be late for work, I have arguments to start.” Ros opened her door and climbed out. She split her house keys off the keyring and tossed the ignition key back to him, “Please be careful.” She walked away without looking back.

  Eddie climbed into the driver’s seat, moved it back on its runners and watched Ros close the front door.

  Mick took his place beside him, “Come on, mate.”

  — Four —

  Ros turned the bedroom light off and walked to the window, peeled back the curtains and watched her car drive away into the darkness.

  There was a kind of permanence to it that petrified her yet comforted her. The feeling said she would see neither her car nor the man driving it again. They had him cornered. They had him on trumped up charges and he was as good as dead. And that was the trouble; if this had happened a year ago, she would call her boss, she would call friends in CID, correct the error, adjust the mistake, and allow Eddie to put across his point of view.

  Now things were very different. This had become a scary world to live in. If they made an error, the chances of them correcting it were minute because it was easier to have a man killed by the Home Office and score a hit with the public than it was to back down and remove his details from the Vidiscreens.

  And the Home Office wouldn’t acknowledge an error anyway. The Rules were king; they were infallible. And if they weren’t, they had to be seen to be infallible. One might think that they would go all out to make sure they were infallible, to guarantee the public’s faith in them.

  Bollocks.

  Any system was only as good as the people running it. And the people running this system were blind and they were greedy.

  Ros lay awake, staring at the ceiling and wondering how they could get away with making such fundamental errors. Well she wouldn’t allow it.

  — Five —

  “Where you taking me?”

  “I like my privacy.”

  “Privacy is good, but this is delving into recluse territory.”

  Mick laughed, and pointed at something in the distance,
half way up a hillside and surrounded by a black smudge of trees. “That’s the farmer who owns my place. He gets a hundred and fifty a week, I get peace and quiet – everyone’s happy.”

  “This isn’t the address on the envelope.”

  “Ah, you spotted that, you sharp-eyed bastard. That’s my mother’s place; I need a mailing address, but not here. Only me, the farmer, and now you know about this place.”

  Ros’s Nissan bounced up the rutted track and Eddie pulled the handbrake on alongside a break in the bushes, killed the engine and listened to the sound of total silence with wonderful clarity. “You’d never know it was here unless you knew it was here,” he laughed.

  “It’s as well hidden as you can get without it being a cave.” Mick ducked beneath overgrown branches and Eddie followed him, but still couldn’t see where they were going, such was the acute darkness and the surreal camouflage enjoyed by this place. Mick had told him it was a two-storey cottage covered entirely by creepers, with a small front and back ‘garden’ entirely overgrown and surrounded by woodland.

  Mick closed the door after them (it was missing a letterbox, Eddie noticed), and then opened another into the lounge. He flicked on a light and Eddie squinted.

  “For such a slob, you got a nice place.” Eddie looked around. The uneven floor was carpeted, and upon it stood a two-seater cloth couch, a small but modern TV on a glass stand, a bureau and some bookshelves; tucked away in a corner was a healthily stocked drinks cabinet. And that was all. “You know what,” Eddie stared at the drinks cabinet and the wonderful array of whiskies and vodkas on offer.

  “What?”

  “For the first time in months—”

  “You don’t want a drink?”

  “How did you guess?”

  “Me neither. I just want to get this sewn up. If I get pissed now, I am going to die, absolutely no doubt about it.”

  “Live first, drink yourself to death later?”

  “In one, mate. Through there is the kitchen: white coffee, no sugar. I’m going to make a start. I’ll be upstairs.” And he turned around and left Eddie to ponder the abrupt welcome to Mick’s humble abode.