The Third Rule (Eddie Collins Book 1)

by Andrew Barrett

  “You were there when she died.”

  Christian shook his head. “I wasn’t.”

  Benson looked at Cruickshank. “You have the pre-interview disclosure document. You know we have scientific evidence that puts Mr Ledger there at the time of her death.”

  “What evidence?” Christian asked.

  “Your footwear mark in Miss Sedgewick’s blood,” Webster said.

  “Explain to me how it got there.”

  Christian stared from Webster to Benson, and then across to Cruickshank. “I don’t know.”

  Benson leaned forward, placed his hands on the wide desk and smiled at Christian. “Shall I tell you how it all happened?”

  “I didn’t kill her,” there was a tinge of desperation in Christian’s eyes now.

  “You kept Alice as a… partner, let’s say. You supplied her with enough drugs to keep her compliant, to enact your every wish—”

  “No, I—”

  “But one day, Saturday last, she had run out of the drugs you had made her reliant upon. She was angry with you, maybe even a little crazy, judging by the doll you gave her as a, I don’t know, as a comforter. She was mad at you, you had a row, a heated row where you punched her in the face; she picked up the hammer and tried to hit you with it—”

  “She did—”

  “And maybe she was aiming at your head, but you were a little too fast for her, and you ducked away just in time. But you weren’t quite fast enough and the hammer tore open your ear, and fractured your collar bone. Your blood was all over the hammer head.”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “Now it was your turn to be angry, even angrier than you already were. Now you went to the kitchen, took out a knife—”

  “No!”

  “And she followed you. And there, at the top of the cellar steps, you stabbed her once to the upper abdomen. One stab, in here,” Benson swept aside his tie and pointed with a stubby index finger right into his sternum. “She died fairly quickly, the pathologist said. And this part I’m not sure of, so maybe you can guide me. I don’t know if she just fell to the floor and you shoved her down the steps, or maybe she didn’t even make it to the floor. You stabbed her, held her close maybe, and then as you looked into her dying eyes, you simply… pushed.”

  “That’s not what happened.”

  “Which bit?”

  “All of it.”

  “All of it?” Benson glared.

  “The hammer bit is true. I mean, she went for me.”

  “You kept her as a private sex slave, high on drugs.”

  “No. She was a user when I met her; I was trying to wean her off—”

  “You bought drugs to keep her docile.”

  “She hit me with a hammer. I left. When I came back, she was dead.”

  “Wow.” Benson said. “How long were you gone?”

  “I don’t know; twenty minutes maybe.”

  “That’s incredible. You have a bust up with a drugged-up girl, and leave after she smashed a hammer into you. And then came back, not full of thoughts of retribution, but ready to make it all better I suppose, ready to say you’d forgiven her and maybe you could patch things up.”

  “No, that’s—”

  “And miraculously, someone had been into the squat in the space of twenty minutes and finished the job for you.”

  “I said it didn’t—”

  “Mr Ledger,” Benson said.

  “DCI Benson,” Cruickshank said. “Take some of the pressure off my client, please. Your pontificating is giving him no opportunity to reply.”

  Benson stared at Cruickshank. Cruickshank continued to look at Benson. “Carry on, Mr Ledger, my apologies for interrupting you.”

  “I was very protective of her, didn’t like her leaving the house because it was unsafe outside.”

  Benson smiled.

  “And I found out that she had been leaving the house, and not only that, she had been selling my paintings, and she’d been… she’d shown some of the local youths her breasts for money to buy drugs with.”

  “Ah, so we have an explanation as to where the missing paintings are. Do you know who she sold them to?”

  Christian shook his head. “No. So yes, I was mad as hell with her. We argued, she hit me with the hammer and I slapped her face, in that order.” He waited for a challenge, but none came. “I left the house, meaning to leave altogether. Instead, I went to a pharmacy, got something for my ear and came back. I was going to tell her we were finished, that I was leaving…”

  “But?”

  Christian’s head was down, and all three observers saw the teardrop hit the table, could make out his wobbling chin. When he looked up more tears crested his lower eyelids and streaked down his cheeks. “She was nowhere to be seen. And then I found her, slumped halfway down the cellar steps. And there was blood in the kitchen.”

  “And then what did you do?” Webster asked.

  “I left. I ran away.”

  Benson suggested, “Not the actions of someone who is innocent, Mr Ledger.”

  “I ran because there was no way the police would have believed me.”

  “You surprise me,” Benson smirked.

  “So you found out that she was prostituting herself. How did that make you feel?”

  “I already said. It made me very angry. Can I have some painkillers please?”

  “And you needed to get away?” Benson asked.

  “Yes.”

  “But how could you? You were flat broke, you have no job, you have no benefits that we can see.”

  “You know how I got my money,” Christian glared at Benson.

  Benson looked across at Cruickshank, his eyebrows raised in a question.

  Cruickshank nodded.

  “You are a convicted burglar and a shoplifter, Mr Ledger.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you had plenty of money. The last burglary that we know of, netted you five hundred pounds. And is the 480-something pounds we found on you the remainder of that five hundred?”

  “No.”

  “No. No way could that last you what, a week, ten days?” Benson leaned forward again, and his voice was little more than a whisper as he said, “The money you have on you now, Mr Ledger, is money from the paintings you yourself sold, isn’t it?”

  Christian looked at him, confused. “No, I have never sold a single painting.”

  Benson leaned back, smiling at Cruickshank and Christian. He had him in an airlock, no chance of getting out. There was no way a jury or even the IRP would let him go. And this was the make or break part for Benson. If he wanted to help Sirius by setting the kid free, this was the point at which he would volunteer Cruickshank further disclosable evidence, those fingerprints on the roll of cash in the cellar, the gold threads and the other bits and pieces that Ros had mentioned this morning. It wasn’t concrete by any means, but it would be enough to cast doubt on the prosecution. And that evidence would rupture Benson’s case.

  The video cameras caught nearly three minutes of inactivity and of absolute silence as Benson mulled the dilemma over. Webster looked across at him. “Boss,” he said.

  The tempting thing was Eddie Collins. And only Eddie Collins. But he reckoned he could nail him soon all by himself anyway. He had a choice right now: provide the evidence that would free this kid and help Sirius, or keep it back and nail the kid, and nail Collins later by himself.

  “Gentlemen,” he said. “Shall we have a break?”

  “I don’t want a break.”

  In all his years of doing this, a prisoner had never told him he didn’t want a break.

  “You say these cameras record continuously?”

  “Yes,” Benson said.

  “With sound?

  “With sound. Why?”

  “Good quality sound is it?”

  “You pissing me about?” Benson stood.

  “I wanna make a deal.” Christian looked Benson in the eye, sharp and crisp, no blinking, no movement.


  “I don’t do deals with murderers.”

  “First, I’m not a murderer. Second, play the tape from three forty-two. Listen very very carefully, and then tell me you don’t want to do a deal.”

  “Get him back to his cell.” Benson headed for the door, Webster pushed the intercom button, and Cruickshank looked plain confused.

  Christian uttered one word as Benson passed by. “Sirius.”

  Benson stopped.

  He swivelled on the balls of his feet, and said to Webster, “Cancel the DO.” Then he sat, took a sheet of plain paper from the file, took his pen from his jacket pocket, and stared across at Christian. “Well?”

  “What is Sirius?” Cruickshank asked.

  Christian said, “Sirius is a who. A very nasty who. A who that knows Mr Benson.” Christian looked directly at Benson.

  “Whoa,” Webster said. “You can’t bring in a third party—”

  “Does he feature in your own case, Christian?”

  Doubt crossed Christian’s eyes; he paused and looked across at Cruickshank.

  “If he has no direct bearing on your own case, however small, it will not be taken into account.”

  “He features very heavily,” Christian nodded. “Now can I please have some fucking painkillers?”

  — Three —

  “Six.”

  “Go ahead,” Sirius said.

  “Ros Banford owns a dark Nissan Cresta.”

  He waited for more, almost began biting his nails. “And?”

  “Not reported as stolen. It has a tracker fitted so I’ve begun the activation process. Should know the results soon.”

  “Keep me posted soon as you know.”

  “Will do. Out.”

  — Four —

  “When I left my house, I walked around a bit, headed over towards Burley, hoping to steal a car.”

  “You’re not helping yourself,” Cruickshank said.

  Christian ignored him. “I managed it, too, on Turner Avenue, an old Escort. I’d just about got it started when I was grabbed from behind and had a pair of cuffs slapped on my wrist.” He held out his right hand so Benson could see the bruising. “I fought him off pretty good and got rolling, just wanting to be out of the city and away from these cops. I thought they were police,” he said, “but I later found out they weren’t.”

  “Go on.”

  “I only made it fifty yards before they rammed me off the road. Then this one, this Sirius—”

  “How did you know his name?” Webster asked.

  “I’ll get to that.” Christian looked back to Benson and continued. “So this Sirius guy opens my door and smashes my face into the steering wheel, really goes OTT, even for a copper. I must’ve lost consciousness because I woke up in the rear footwell of their hire car, which turned out to be a Ford D-Max.”

  “Not hearing anything worthy of a deal yet,” Benson dropped his pen by the paper, folded his arms.

  “The two men up front got talking while we were driving. I got the impression they didn’t like each other. Then it dawned on me who one of them was. His name was Henry Deacon.” Christian watched Benson and Webster, saw their pupils dilate slightly. He nodded to himself, and carried on. “Heard Sirius, that’s what Henry Deacon called him, I heard Sirius taking the mick out of Henry for trying to burn a diesel car, not sure what all the fuss was about, but that’s what he said, and this Henry fellow was trying to defend himself. It turns out that’s what they wanted me for; they were going to sit me in the car, beat me up some more, get me to bleed on the controls and the seat belt, they said, and then take me away and kill me.” Christian paused, and asked, “May I stand?”

  Benson eyed him for a moment, then nodded.

  Christian stood, turned his back on Benson and Webster and lifted his t-shirt all the way up to the shoulders. “The scratches your nurse made notes of, they were caused by Henry and Sirius dragging me out of their rental car and across the gravel to this green Jag.”

  “Okay, we see them. Sit down again.”

  “So far we haven’t heard anything—”

  “You will, please be patient,” Christian looked to Webster. “Sirius said he was employed by Sir George to clean up mess in times of national security, or something like that. That he was tying up a loose end, and then he asked Henry what his secret was.

  “Oh, and then he said if he messed him about again he’d use his own toy gun to turn his head inside out.”

  “How do you know this Sirius, Mr Benson?” Cruickshank asked.

  “Professional acquaintance from another department.”

  “Thank you.”

  Benson picked up his pen. “What else, or is that it?”

  “More to come,” Christian said, “And this is where it gets real juicy.”

  “I’m waiting.”

  “Henry said to Sirius, ‘you did that old fellow, didn’t you? You used his own gun and blew his brains all over his cottage walls’. Then Sirius was really pissed off at Henry, and he says, ‘If you mention a word of it to anyone, I’ll give you the slowest death I can think of.’” He blinked, looked between Webster and Benson.

  “You have any proof of any of this?” Webster asked.

  “Proof? How could I make up something like that? I don’t even know what old fellow they were talking about – that’s your job. But the cars… check with the guy whose car I stole, he saw it all, I remember seeing him in the rear view mirror, running down the street in a string vest with an old coat over the top, shouting and waving his arms. And then there’s the Jag, you lot recovered it just in the nick of time too, another five minutes and I’d have been dead.”

  “So where’s the car now?”

  “What, the Jag?”

  “No, the hire car.”

  “The place where the Jag was parked was a quarry or something. Sirius left me inside while he went to get Henry. He thought I was still unconscious. I tried to get out but ended up rolling it off the edge and into the quarry. It’ll still be there.”

  Benson sat still for a moment, then looked across to Webster and nodded before standing and leaving the room. Webster pressed the intercom and asked for a DO. Cruickshank collected his papers, stuffed them into his briefcase and stood. He nodded at Christian, said he’d be back shortly and left.

  Christian looked across to Webster. “So was that any help to you?”

  “Don’t know. Mr Benson has gone to try and verify some of your story. But I don’t see how it helps you out with Alice’s murder.”

  * * *

  There was only one thing out of Christian Ledger’s story that really made him sit up and take notice, and that was the story of the old guy. And Benson knew exactly which old guy Christian had been talking about.

  He had been the SIO on that case. And they had always known it was murder, ever since one of the SOCOs pointed out that the alleged suicide note had the word ‘Steven’ spelt incorrectly. This was Lincoln Farrier, and there was no way on God’s green earth he would ever spell his son’s name incorrectly; it had been almost laughable.

  With speed, Benson barged into the Inspector’s office, nodded a brief greeting at the officer behind the desk, and picked up the phone. He dialled and listened. “It’s Benson. You have a task to do, and I need it doing faster than you’ve ever done anything before, even it means you getting your arse into a traffic car and driving up to the labs yourself.”

  * * *

  Benson had only just exited the Inspector’s office and taken a breath when his mobile phone rang. He stared at the number, wondering what to do. Eventually, he accepted the call, “Sirius.”

  “Well?”

  “Where’s Eddie Collins?”

  “Shacked up with his journo pal in a cottage near Aberford.”

  “When are you going for him?”

  “I’ll be there within the hour if I push it. You coming along?”

  “What’s the address?”

  “Marsh Cottage, Greengates Farm, Aberford.”

  �
�I won’t be able to get there for maybe an hour and a half. You going to keep Collins for me?”

  “Yep. You gonna let the kid go?”

  “Can’t.”

  “Why not, why can’t you?”

  Benson held the phone away from his ear. “He’s saying some shit about you and some other guy abducting him.” He tutted, “Now I’ve got to look into that bollocks as well, as if I haven’t got enough to do!”

  “What’s he saying, I can work you round it.”

  Benson smiled, closed his eyes. No denial from Sirius whatsoever.

  * * *

  Benson sat down next to Webster, gave him the nod.

  “Interview re-commenced at sixteen twenty-eight. Present are DCI Benson, Christian Ledger, Christian’s lawyer, Mr Cruickshank, AFO 3722, and myself, DC Webster.”

  “Did you have a chance to verify what I told you?” Christian asked.

  “I have spoken with the man called Sirius, yes.” Benson watched the kid’s eyes, full of hope. He was leaning forward, desperate to hear good news, but Benson was about to kill him stone dead. “It’s all refutable; most of it is hearsay, which your lawyer will tell you, is inadmissible.”

  “That’s bollocks!”

  “He claims to know nothing of any car theft except that of his own. He said he was driving along Turner Avenue slowly because of the heavy rain when someone pulled out from the kerb in an old Escort. He couldn’t avoid hitting the car, he shunted it quite hard he says, and the Escort lost control and it hit a wall at the foot of the street. He then got out of the car to see if the driver was alright. The car thief punched him in the stomach and then stole his car and left him alone in the middle of the street.”

  Christian’s mouth opened, and he stared wide-eyed at the table. “That’s bollocks,” he whispered. Then he looked up, “What about the owner, the string vest guy, he can vouch for me.”

  Benson shook his head, “A police officer is on his way there now to verify the statement he originally gave—”

  “He’s paid him off, hasn’t he? Mr String Vest is gonna have a shiny new car outside his house and ten grand in the bank if he alters that statement. You know it! How can you sit there—”