The Third Rule (Eddie Collins Book 1)

by Andrew Barrett

  “Christian Ledger.”

  The sergeant didn’t even bother to smile at the victory. This was routine to him, a hundred times a day, not even worthy of a mealtime bragging session with the wife anymore.

  “Date of Birth?”

  The booking in procedure swallowed another twenty-two minutes of Christian’s life, and then a medical examination by a burly male nurse who hummed along to a Rachmaninoff CD killed another thirty-seven. The file that followed Christian around from room to room grew thicker by the minute. And then, at last, two detention officers and two armed police officers marched him into a carpeted corridor. Rows of wooden doors on the right, and above each door, a green and a red lamp. Some lamps were green, most were red.

  The small entourage stopped outside a door with a green lamp above it. The label on the door read D43.4.

  The lead detention officer knocked, heard a summons that no one else detected, and then entered the room, taking Christian’s file with him. He closed the door behind him. Christian heard the shuffles and sighs of the armed officers, and looked at the legs of the remaining detention officer. His trousers were too short for his long, skinny legs. Above his polished shoes was the stripe of a sock. And woven into the sock was the unmistakable shape of Homer Simpson’s mouth, part of a speech bubble rose above him, disappearing under the hem of the too-short trousers.

  The door to room D43.4 opened again. The lead DO’s head poked around it, and he nodded at Christian, “Okay.” He moved aside, allowing Christian room to walk in.

  The DO left the room, but an armed officer entered and closed the door gently behind him.

  Christian looked around at the green sound-deadening tiles across the walls and the white tiles on the ceiling. The only part of the room that didn’t have sound deadening was the door. Bolted to the ceiling were a pair of video cameras; one pointing at the interviewers and one at the interviewee. Around the periphery of the room was an inch-thick black alarm tape with a red LED strip running through its centre. And on the floor was a heavily stained grey carpet, severely worn around the door area and almost black under the table at the front of the fixed chair.

  Two men in suits sat at the other side of the table, masses of paperwork in front of them. They didn’t even look up and Christian began to fidget. “Sit down, Christian,” one of the suits said, shuffling some of the papers into a new order.

  Christian sat and rested his cuffed hands on the desk. The armed officer took up position on a bench to his right. Against the wall, above the desk, was some kind of a control panel with several black buttons, each with a small white legend beneath it. In the panel’s top right corner was ‘D43.4’.

  Eventually, after at least four further minutes of silent intimidation, one of the suits looked up, cleared his throat. “Everything we all say and do is being automatically video recorded. There is no ‘stop’ or ‘start’ button, it’s on all the time. Okay?”

  Christian nodded.

  “Would you like a drink, Christian?”

  “Yes please.”

  “What would you like?”

  “White coffee, no sugar, please.”

  The suit nearest the wall pressed a button on the control panel and said, “Refreshments, please.”

  The speaker in the panel hissed. There was a pause before an electronic voice responded, “Go ahead.”

  “Two white coffees without sugar, one black coffee without sugar.” He paused, leaned forward so he could look past his colleague towards the armed officer, who evidently shook his head. “That’s all, thank you.”

  “Okay.” The hiss from the panel ended and the suit returned his attention to Christian.

  “I am Detective Constable Ian Webster, this is Detective Chief Inspector Benson, and over there is an authorised firearms officer, collar number 7322. Is that clear?”

  Christian nodded.

  “Please speak your answers.”

  “Clear.”

  “Good. I shall quickly run through the preliminaries with you, by which time our drinks and your solicitor should have arrived.” He paused, and looked at Christian. “Okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “You need to stop me if any of the details are incorrect; that is very important, okay?”

  “Yes.”

  DC Webster read from several sheets on the desk before him. His voice was monotone, as familiar to this business as was the sergeant at the front desk. “Your name is Christian Ledger, you are a white male aged twenty-eight, date of birth 24th May 1987, and whose primary residence is England, United Kingdom, and whose primary language is English. You have no dependants and no known next of kin. You have been examined by a medical examiner,” he quickly referred to the file brought in by the detention officer, “and have been certified as physically and mentally capable of being interviewed as stipulated under the Administration of Justice Act 2012.

  “Your personal items and effects have been seized under the Police and Criminal Evidence act 1984 and are securely lodged here at West Yorkshire Police Leeds Bridewell in locker C176. Cash money to the value of 487 pounds was among your belongings, and under the Administration of Justice Act 2012, an amount not greater than fifty percent, that being 243 pounds and fifty pence have been confiscated as part payment of compulsory legal advice and representation. The balance is repayable by yourself or your estate as detailed in the above Act should you be subsequently found guilty of the charges against you; a leaflet explaining this payment is offered to you now.”

  He slid the leaflet across the desk until it touched the cuffs. Its title was: Helping to Pay Your Debt to Society. Christian stared at it and then across to Webster again who carried on reading, rarely looking up. Webster’s eyes followed row upon row of text on countless sheets of paper. Benson was emotionless. Cold eyes stared right at him, making him look away instantly. When Christian dared to sneak another glance, he was still staring.

  Webster continued to read.

  “You were cautioned by officers in Bristol—”

  “I wasn’t,” Christian said.

  “I have a record from Avon and Somerset here that says you were.”

  “Oh sorry, I musta been unconscious at the time.”

  “You want me to get verification?”

  Christian shook his head, “No, forget it.”

  Just then, Benson’s mobile phone rang, and Christian looked up to note it was the only time he appeared human, as the buzz and the tone brought him quickly out of glaring mode. “Excuse me,” Benson stood, said, “Caution him again,” and left the room.

  “DCI Benson exits the room,” Webster said, not breaking stride from his monotone voice.

  * * *

  Benson stepped out into the corridor, answered his phone, “Sirius,” he said, pulling the door closed. “I’m busy—”

  “I know you are. Christian Ledger, right?”

  He stared at the pipe work disappearing into the ceiling, as though studying the paint flaking from the surface. “How do you know that?”

  “Is this a secure line?”

  “What is this about?”

  “I want you to let him go.”

  “What the fuck are you—”

  “He was the kid me and Henry Deacon captured, tried to get him inside Henry’s Jaguar.”

  “What!” And quieter, through clenched teeth, “Well, you should have finished him off.”

  There was a brief pause. “Thought we had; little bastard is indestructible.”

  “No he isn’t, there’s a single bullet waiting for him—”

  “Set him free, I need to deal with him.”

  “He’s here, he’s mine, and I’m gonna see him dead.”

  “If he talks, Benson, I’m screwed.”

  A DO with a tray of drinks walked along the corridor, the leather of his soft shoes squeaking with each stride. He smiled at Benson, and Benson ignored him, waited until he had disappeared inside the interview room.

  “Tough. I did shitloads of work for you, r
isked my neck getting you info, without so much as a thanks. You had your chance and you fucked it up. So far as I can tell, this whole thing is unravelling fast for you and for whoever you work for. Time for me to take a large step back out of your limelight.”

  * * *

  “Okay, stop there,” Christian said. The interview room door was still open, Benson half way through closing it, the handle was down already, but Christian heard it plain as day. Before the door had closed fully, he heard Benson speaking into his phone, and the one word he heard sent a shiver riding down the deep scratches on Christian’s spine like a scalpel.

  It was three forty-two.

  Webster looked up from his notes with the disappointment of a man stopped in full flow. “What’s up?”

  He glanced at Webster, a dazed look in his eyes. “What?” he said.

  “You asked me to stop.”

  “Yeah,” he said, distracted, “Yeah, I am innocent.”

  “We’ll get to that soon when solicitor arrives. For now, we need to get through this.”

  “It’s all bollocks. The charge of murder, this Rule Three stuff; you lot are just chasing some reward or some kinda prize for nailing me for something I didn’t do. I was assaulted in Bristol! Suppose you’ll conveniently forget about all that, eh?”

  “There’s no prize. And we’ll cover your concerns soon enough. For now though, I must caution you.”

  Christian stared at the cuffs and felt the throb in his shoulder.

  “Under the Offences against the Person Act 1984, you have been arrested for the murder of Alice Sedgewick on Tuesday 23rd June of this year. You do not have to say anything. However, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Your attitude and demeanour, any intimation you offer, and anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

  There was a knock at the door. It squeaked open and the DO poked his head round. Webster nodded and he entered with a plastic tray of Styrofoam cups. “Detention Officer 546 enters the room with refreshments.”

  DO 546 set the tray down, and removed all three cups.

  “Can you take his cuffs off now?”

  The DO nodded, slid a bunch of keys from a pouch and leaned over Christian. There was a strong smell of sweat as he extended his arms and fiddled with the cuffs.

  Friday 26th June

  Chapter Fifty Two

  — One —

  There were twenty-four art shops listed within the nine square miles of Leeds City Centre. Of them, thirteen could be discounted as art and craft materials shops, and four others had closed down since the directory had been issued.

  Ros and Chris parked the van in Millgarth Police Station, close to the central bus station, since they figured the central bus station was where Alice would have begun her great adventure. Together, they scanned the map for the closest shop on the list, and began walking, ignoring those who stared at them in their uniform.

  Away in the distance, it was possible to hear the demos in full swing up by the Town Hall; the loud hailers thundering in shoppers’ ears all day were beginning to be a regular thing, even in the rain.

  Ros had wanted to split up and cover the ground more quickly; after all, she argued, they had radios, so could easily keep in touch. But Chris argued even harder that potentially one of these shops harboured a murderer, and since Ros had already been assaulted…

  “Okay, okay,” she had said. “I give in.”

  They arrived at the first shop less than ten minutes later. They peered in through the window. There were prints on hole-board display walls, birthday and Christmas cards, balloons and even some fancy dress clothes on two central rails. At the far end was a pair of middle-aged women engrossed in chatting, pointing to the magazine on the counter before them.

  It didn’t feel right.

  They walked on, and Chris looked again at the map he’d printed off. “She won’t have gone too far, not with an arm full of paintings, surely?” The next shop was completely different. They again looked in through the window at shelves of fine art. There were no price tags visible.

  “If you have to ask, you can’t afford it,” Chris said. “Reckon this could be the one?”

  Ros nodded.

  Paintings lined the walls. There were mobile shelf units scattered around the wide-open store with more classical and contemporary art draped across them, chrome and glass everywhere, wooden parquet floors that gleamed. “May I help you?” An elderly gentleman appeared from behind a counter of sorts, more like an island made of opaque glass with chrome adornments, and a secure drawer instead of an unsightly till.

  “Do you buy art?” Chris asked.

  “I have to buy art, sir, in order to sell it.”

  “If I walked in with a painting right now,” Ros said, “would you offer to buy it?”

  “Ah no, not really.” He shuffled closer. “I mean it would have to be an extraordinary piece, and it would have to have a paper trail. I could not commit to buying anything without proof of ownership.”

  “Where do you buy your art from?”

  “ I travel extensively; but I admit a lot of my works come from auctions, or from the artists themselves. I have a list of artists whose work I enjoy and I know they sell quite well. Some young upcoming stars, as I like to call them, give me their work on a commission basis. We all have to eat, after all.”

  “Have you been approached in the last two weeks or so by a young woman trying to sell you some paintings? She might have said that her boyfriend painted them?”

  “What might she look like? I see quite a few young ladies.”

  “Scruffy, five nine, very thin—”

  “Blonde,” he said. “Drug addict too? Yes, I recall her. I told her to leave.”

  “When was this?”

  “Well it was only on Monday or Tuesday. No wait, couldn’t have been Monday, I was in London Monday, must have been Tuesday.” His head tilted to one side, “What’s she done?”

  “You’ve been a great help, sir, thank you very much.”

  “Oh please. I’m interested in what she’s done—”

  “She’s dead,” Ros said. “Murdered.”

  The man covered his shocked mouth with a hand, “Oh, my. I’m dreadfully sorry.”

  — Two —

  Another pause, longer this time, offered Benson the chance to meander along the corridor a little further, exploring now the finer stains of spilt drinks or spilt blood, whatever it was, on the depressing carpet tiles.

  “How would you like to get your hands on Eddie Collins?”

  Benson stopped walking. “You know where he is?”

  “Getting there.”

  “Whoopee.”

  “Listen, he’ll be in the bag soon, and he’s yours if you set the kid free.”

  Benson stared now into absolute nothingness; his eyes were unfocused and the possibilities that Eddie Collins would bring ran through his mind at light speed. It would be a catch worth two Christian Ledgers. Not only the status it would afford him, also the effect it would have on the public’s perception of him and of the Force as a whole – not afraid to bring your own to justice, or kill him while trying.

  It was tempting.

  But getting the kid off would be a massive task. He had built the case against Christian inside his head, as he always did, could repudiate any mitigating evidence or circumstance, it had worked on Ros this morning, and it would work for him again. He could undo it all if he had to; he could begin to set Christian Ledger free in an afternoon of form-filling. Easy. All he had to do was call Ros’s evidence, turn it around and make it work in Ledger’s favour. And when he did that, CPS would throw the case out, and if by any chance they didn’t, then the Independent Review Panel would for sure.

  How, though, would it make him look if he ‘lost’ the case against Ledger? It would mean Ledger would be back on the street – a known Rule Two burglar – and it also meant there was a genuine murderer out there still to have his col
lar felt. It was a tough decision.

  “See what I can do,” he said to Sirius. “Call me back in an hour.” Benson checked his watch, it was three forty-five. He shut the phone off, slid it into his jacket pocket and walked back over the stains in the carpet and past the flaking pipe work towards D43.4 just as a DO escorting a man in a suit and carrying a briefcase, approached him. The door was ajar and so the DO waved the man inside, turned and walked away again.

  * * *

  From the corridor outside, Christian could hear voices, shoes patting on the carpet as they approached. Benson and another guy entered the interview room. Webster looked up and nodded at Benson, said, “Okay thanks,” to the DO, who took his tray and his cuffs, and left the room, asking the new suit if he’d like a coffee.

  “DO 546 exits the room, DCI Benson enters the room along with?”

  Benson retook his seat, and resumed his glare at Christian. The new suit placed a briefcase on the floor and sat heavily next to Christian. “My name is Anthony Cruickshank, I am the legal representative of…” he pulled a sheaf of papers from the briefcase, glanced at the lead sheet and said, “Christian Legger.” He turned his thin head and looked at Christian, a kind of slurred smile on his face. He had weasel eyes.

  “Ledger,” corrected Benson. “His name is Christian Ledger.”

  “Oh, beg your pardon,” Cruickshank corrected his notes with a chrome pen, then checked his watch, “Shall we say three-thirty?”

  “No, we’ll say three-fifty, because it is three-fifty.”

  Christian closed his eyes, he was not hopeful.

  “Gentlemen,” Webster said, “we have run through the preliminaries, and a copy of this and any interview tape will be made available to you, Mr Cruickshank. So shall we begin?”

  Cruickshank nodded. Christian’s heart rate bucked and his head sank lower.

  “Tell me why you killed Alice Sedgewick,” Benson said.

  “I already said I didn’t kill her.”