The Third Rule (Eddie Collins Book 1)

by Andrew Barrett

  “Christian,” Webster said.

  “The rest,” Benson continued, “is not admissible in your own defence, which is what we’re here for.”

  “Wait, wait, I punched him in the stomach?”

  Benson nodded.

  “No other contact?”

  “He didn’t mention any.”

  “He didn’t cuff me, I suppose.”

  “Nope.”

  “Okay, okay. Will you allow me to show you something?”

  “What?”

  “I have to stand up and reach down. Is that okay?”

  The AFO sat up straight, and Benson nodded again.

  Christian stood slowly. He raised his right foot and placed it on the chair he’d been sitting on. Then he rolled up the leg of his police-issue jogging bottoms. Then he rolled down the sock on his right foot, slipped it off. He reached inside the sock and pulled out a shard of plastic. “This is a part of the interior lamp from the Escort.” He placed it on the table. “This Sirius guy punched me as I was trying to get the Escort started. He tried to punch me again, and I held this right where his fist was heading. It stabbed him in the back of his right hand. You can still see his blood on it.”

  “You kept that this whole time?” Webster was astonished.

  Christian nodded. “I figured I might need it for protection. Turns out I was right, wasn’t I?”

  “How did you get it past all the searches?”

  “Luck.”

  Benson stared with incredulity at the lad. And with a little admiration too.

  “That proves there was contact between us. And that proves my story is true. And if I’m telling you the truth about this, then I’m telling you the truth about the other stuff, too.”

  Cruickshank’s eyes closed momentarily, and then he spoke to his client. “Christian,” he said, “That’s all well and good, but it’s a totally separate issue, it has no bearing on your own case whatsoever.”

  “What?”

  “It’s inadmissible.”

  Benson stood and left the room.

  “Wait!”

  He closed the door and walked fast along the corridor. He could still hear the kid screaming when he passed through the double doors at the end.

  Friday 26th June

  Chapter Fifty Three

  — One —

  The last shop on the list was a fifteen-minute walk away. Leeds was growing hotter, the crowds heavier, the shoppers more eager, and the chanting from the Town Hall even more fervent. Ros could see why everything appeared more turbulent than before. Approaching from the railway station was a line of police officers, leading a noisy march towards the law courts, a mere two blocks away from the Town Hall. “Come on,” she said, “I don’t want to be around when the protestors clash.”

  They hurried on down The Headrow for another hundred yards, being harried by rushing people, when Chris nudged Ros. They had found it. The last shop on the list. “Doesn’t look much like an art shop,” Ros said.

  “It’s full of junk, sells everything in here by the looks.”

  A small bell tinkled when they opened the door of Dunfield Arts. A large fat man wearing a cravat stepped into view from behind a counter where a kettle was boiling. “Yes?”

  Ros ducked out of the way to a side wall where she pretended to be interested in an antique globe held in position by a cast iron pivot.

  Chris ambled towards the man, engaged him in a muffled conversation.

  She saw a small sticker on the iron pivot that proclaimed ‘Made in China’. And then there were the cult classics of skulls and medieval swords and shields, followed by a glass cabinet in which were dragons of all types, made from coloured glass and pottery and cast iron. No paintings, she noted. Plenty of prints, but not one original painting.

  Ros turned and saw Chris heading up the centre of the shop towards her, a disgruntled look on his face, “Come on,” he said. “Waste of time.”

  They stood outside Dunfield Arts.

  “Now what?”

  — Two —

  Sirius pushed the car as hard as he dared on the slick road. His face was cast into a solid, determined block, betraying no emotion, rarely blinking, just concentrating on the road, and imagining how all this would end. He didn’t know what big secret Mick Lyndon had; he only knew that he and his piss-head buddy Eddie Collins had left Henry’s house with an A4 envelope, and wished he’d taken it from them. Sirius had searched Henry’s house as best he could in the short time he had available and had come up blank. But they had found it inside fifteen minutes. They had been to the old opencast mine at Great Preston too; why? What was there for them?

  It had been Henry’s playground as a kid, it was where he dumped the Jag, and logically it was where he would hide anything of a sensitive nature. What was it?

  They had evaded him for eighteen hours, plenty of time to familiarise themselves with whatever revelation was in that damned envelope, and make their plans.

  And what of the end game? His end game consisted of locating the cottage and dispatching both men as quickly as possible; saving Collins for Benson was always going to be a non-starter. Then find that envelope and discover their secret. Henry’s secret.

  He told Benson it would take him an hour to get there. That of course, was a lie. It would take him forty minutes. It was vital he got there alone because he felt sure Benson wouldn’t agree with killing Mick Lyndon. So far his only crime was breaking into Henry Deacon’s house.

  On the other hand, killing Eddie Collins would be fine; he was on a Rule Three for murder. The forensic team would eventually work out that Collins and Lyndon couldn’t have killed Henry. For some reason they had arrived late, allowing the body to cool and begin entering the rigor stage. So it was important to silence both of them, not only for Deacon’s sake, but for his own too.

  Benson said it would take him ninety minutes to get there, which was also a lie, he assumed, so he could be there to make sure Sirius didn’t do anything illegal. So he had twenty minutes, maybe thirty. He pushed the car a little harder.

  — Three —

  Eddie made himself a strong black coffee. He took it black because the milk wasn’t exactly fresh any more. He sipped, then stared out of the kitchen window, leaning against the earthenware sink, gazing into the foliage beyond the wavy glass in the rotting sash window frame. Beyond the foliage was a narrow path running between thick trees before disappearing around a curve. He could see nothing left or right other than more trees.

  Today was a day to celebrate: he had successfully removed himself from alcoholism and had absolutely no idea how he had managed it. Certainly, there was no effort on his part. It had just happened, or rather, it had not happened – the craving just never presented itself. And when he’d poured the whisky for Mick, it had neither attracted nor revolted him; he simply wasn’t bothered by it anymore. And as Mick had said, it posed the question whether he’d ever really been hooked in the first place. Well yes, of course he had been. He stashed it everywhere, he spent hundreds on the stuff, he made himself ill with it and still he drank more. So how could he just stop?

  Eddie shrugged as if to answer his own question, but whatever, it was wonderful not being a slave to it any more. And today was a wonderful day for another reason: Mick was going to make sure Eddie Collins kept his life. And for someone who had thought so much about getting rid of his life, it was a blessing that his attempts to get out of existence had failed.

  Of course, the one reason he’d always wanted to kill himself was Sam. That thought made his brow crease as he pondered on it for a while. And then he remembered Jilly’s Freak, the one who told him to stop drinking. No, no, he refused to accept any of that stuff. “It was all bollocks,” and he should stop dwelling on it right now.

  That guilt at having killed Sam was still there, and it was something he would never be able to cure. But he didn’t want to cure it; he wanted it to stab him in these quiet moments. Because Sam couldn’t have any quiet moments with his o
wn thoughts any more.

  “Eddie!”

  Eddie’s eyes widened, and then he was running, the towel he wore flared around his legs like a flag furling, and then he was taking the stairs two at a time. “What?” he yelled as he entered Mick’s study.

  Mick sat in his chair with a mixture of happiness and horror painted across his already reddening face. In his hand he held a glass of whisky. On the floor were his wet clothes, and he wore fresh jeans and a checked shirt that he hadn’t bothered to fasten.

  “What?” Eddie said again, panting.

  “I made you a copy of this.” He threw Eddie a memory stick. “Make sure you look after it.”

  “Why, what’s on it?”

  “It’s an audio file,” he said. “Grab that chair.”

  Eddie kept tight hold of it, meaning to stuff it into his jeans pocket when they had dried. He pulled a foldaway wooden chair from the side of the room, dumping the papers from it onto the floor, and sat next to Mick.

  “We thought all the other stuff we had from Henry was top drawer stuff, didn’t we?”

  Eddie nodded. “So what’s this then?”

  “The other stuff about Sirius killing Lincoln Farrier on the same day he left Deacon’s surgery, the fact that Henry thought his dad was going to kill him, and then, surprise surprise, Henry died—”

  “Yeah, come on then!”

  “That stuff alone would sink Deacon.”

  Eddie stared at Mick.

  He pointed to the audio file on the computer screen, “This stuff will sink The Rules.” Mick swivelled in his chair. “Whatever happens, please make sure you keep a tight hold on that memory stick.” Mick prodded ‘play’ on his keyboard, “Listen to this.”

  — Four —

  Benson had taken his time with the preparations. He had found out that the coordinates he’d conned out of Sirius belonged to a farm way out in the sticks. A quarter of a mile from the farm was a lone cottage and that’s where he thought Mick Lyndon and Eddie Collins would be. Would put money on it, in fact. He checked Google, zoomed in as far as the image would allow. There was a definite path to the front of the building, and so far as he could see, there was no such path to the rear. Simple, one way in and one way out. And there was only one access road, a narrow driveway that split from the farm track which itself had split from a normal rural road only wide enough for one vehicle at a time.

  Before he searched Google, he tasked the Bridewell Inspector with getting him a traffic car; it would provide the fastest means of getting there, and that, coupled with the Google information, with the postcode, would more than make up for the time he had spent researching it.

  Hopefully enough time to get there before Sirius did.

  He’d tried X-99 again in the hope it was permitted to fly, but they’d refused again. The weather front, they had said, showed no signs of weakening, and if anything would intensify over the next hour.

  And then he’d enquired with Division if there was any chance of backup meeting him there, or at least being en route. No, was the answer; too busy with the marches in Leeds town centre for one, and intel had suggested tension was running high. They were predicting nothing short of a riot this evening around the Town Hall and Court buildings. They would send someone if any paired unit came free.

  So, he was largely on his own. He had an armed traffic officer and a fast car, had borrowed two sets of cuffs and a bullet proof vest. When the front counter called to say the car had arrived, Benson ran from the building and slammed the door after him. He told the driver the address, and showed him the printed Google map with the cottage in its centre. Then he punched in the postcode into the sat nav, and pressed go. With blue lights and sirens clearing the way ahead, he hoped to annihilate the sat nav’s estimated arrival time of fifty-seven minutes.

  — Five —

  “I don’t get it,” Eddie said.

  “What’s not to get?”

  “Why don’t you just send what you’ve got? Why do you have to fuck around writing a story first?”

  “It’s my job, you prick.”

  “Hold on, hold on. I know it’s your job, and powdering windows in Middleton is my job, but look! I’m not powdering windows in Middleton, because sending this shit off is far more important right now.”

  Mick shook his head, “So?”

  “Look, get it in the bank first. Send all the stuff raw, naked. Make sure he has it, and then you can fanny about putting fancy words to it.”

  “We’re safe here, Eddie.”

  Eddie sighed. “You really think so?”

  Mick nodded, “Safe as anywhere.”

  “Exactly, so it’s not safe. Nowhere is safe. I don’t get you, I don’t get how we can be on the run all night, not using our own cars for fear of being caught, and now we’ve got the stuff, you’re content to sit here and type pretty words when my guess is they’re still out looking for us!”

  “Look—”

  “What’s got into you?”

  “I’m a reporter—”

  “And tomorrow you’ll be a dead fucking reporter!”

  “Shut the fuck up and listen.” Mick rasped a hand down his tired face. “I already told you, this is what I do, and I already told you that this kind of story might hit an old hack like me once in twenty lifetimes. And yes, I know staying here is a risk, but being anywhere is a risk. At least here, there are only us and farmer Giles who know it. I have my computer—”

  “I know all that. What I don’t understand is why you don’t send…” then Eddie sat back in his chair, clicked his fingers and pointed at Mick. “You don’t want it stolen by a colleague, do you?”

  Mick shifted in his chair.

  “You’re prepared to risk everything, and I don’t mean your shitty life here, I mean everything we’ve found out. You’re prepared to put all that at risk, leaving me on a Rule Three into the bargain, just so Clark fucking Kent doesn’t get your Fleet Street Prick of the Year award!” Eddie stared at Mick, an uncomfortable throbbing in his head, and when Mick looked out of the window, with rain beating hard on it, he reached over and took a cigarette from Mick’s packet, lit it and breathed deeply. “Why?”

  “Tell you what, I’ll put my story to the audio file, won’t take me long to transcribe it, then mould a story round it, then I’ll send it off, and I’ll send off all the other stuff raw and naked, as you say. Good enough?”

  Eddie puffed angrily. He nodded. “We’re going to have to stay hidden until this shit goes public.”

  “I know. So are you happy to lay low here till it’s over with?”

  Eddie thought about it, and came to the only sensible conclusion he could. “If you snore, I’ll smash your face in.”

  “You could take Ros’s car back.”

  “I don’t really want to leave you alone.” He was serious about it too; Mick would become engrossed in his story and forget to send the rest. More to the point, Mick would become engrossed in his story and forget to send the rest before Sirius found him. That’s as deep as he got, and he chose not to acknowledge that any further depths existed. “Plus, I’m guessing there aren’t too many buses around here, which puts her at risk if she drives me back, or I get a taxi, which will play right into Sirius’s hand.”

  “There is another option.”

  “What?”

  “Take Ros’s car back and stay there. Or go back home, surely they won’t consider looking for you there again? Or go collect your own car and bring it back here.”

  “I think they would. I think they’ll continue to check there, and Jilly’s, and probably Ros’s too. And odds on they’re still watching both our cars.” He stubbed out the cigarette. “So I guess I’ll have to put up with your flatulence a while longer.”

  Mick looked at Eddie with his yellow eyes. “I just thought this might be your last chance to be with your lady.”

  — Six —

  Sirius rounded the corner, wipers on full speed, foot on the brake pedal, and he saw the sign to the farm,
jerked the steering wheel and left the smooth tarmac for the mud and stone track leading up a hill to a farm perched on a summit maybe four hundred yards away.

  He killed the lights and brought the car to a crawl in the dark greyness of a premature twilight. He saw the ruts of a track on the right and the car bounced into them, splashing water into the nettles. Cautiously, he followed the track, and it gradually opened out, the nettles receded and he was in a more substantial lane, creeping forward, wipers still flicking water from the screen.

  Sirius craned forward and saw a dark Nissan Cresta on the stub of a lane to his right, and up ahead spotted one golden-coloured light through the dark foliage of a wall of trees. He brought the car to a stop, switched off the engine and listened to the rain beating on the roof, watched the scene before him disappear into an aquatic avalanche on his screen.

  The interior light shone comparatively brightly as he opened the door. He pushed it closed, and ran through the rain toward the cottage, unheard over the noise of the wind tearing at the trees to his right as he hurried forward.

  * * *

  Mick sat at his desk, a cigarette burning in the ashtray to the left of his keyboard, his head resting intermittently in his hands between long hard stares at the screen and sips of whisky. Rain slammed like a million grains of sand against his windowpane, ran down it in rivulets. He looked at his words, not happy that he’d accurately caught the atmosphere of the words on the tape. He’d done the transcript, which he implanted into the body of text, but it could be better, could be improved upon. Of course, he could say bollocks to it and just hit send, or he could make it perfect just as Rochester had wanted. This after all, could put him undeniably in the crime correspondent’s seat, could even elevate the paper to a new plateau.

  He stubbed out the cigarette, lit another and listened to the trees screaming against the wind.

  * * *