And then he thought about it. No, she hasn’t, those meetings are in the evening. And Eddie, the curtains are still shut.
Eddie began to get worried. He trotted back around the front of the house, cringing at the pain in his back, and feeling small tingling sensations developing in the pit of his stomach. He banged on the door, peered in through the letterbox. “Oh come on, fucks sake!”
The door had been bolted top and bottom, and of course the mortise lock was on too; Jilly was always very security conscious. It took him thirteen kicks exactly to break through it. The door slammed into the wall and bounced back, wobbling violently as it did so. Eddie stepped into his hallway, glanced up the stairs and called, “Hello!” No reply.
He found her in bed.
There was a small trail of reddish mucus leaking from her nose. She was very pale and her lips were tinged an awful blue colour. The tablet bottles were arranged neatly on the bedside table; the note and the pen she’d used to write it with were alongside.
The note was written in a steady hand. There was no sign of any theatrics, no mental issues as such, she hadn’t gone around cutting up the furniture beforehand, or pretending to slash her wrists with a kitchen knife first. It seemed as though she had taken a bath, blow-dried her hair, even put on a little makeup, then sat down to write the note in a cool and calm way, taken the tablets and climbed into bed, pulling the quilt up around her shoulders just like she always used to.
The note said, ‘Eddie, I still love you very much, and I always have. Forgive me please, but I just can’t live without my Sam. Jilly x x x’
The Yorkshire Echo. 29th June
Our Saviour is a Murderer
SIR GEORGE DEACON was the stoutest proponent for turning Britain into a nation of law-abiding and decent citizens who respected each other’s privacy, property and lives; a nation that believed in fairness and equality.
This reporter met with Henry Deacon shortly before he was murdered at his home in Wakefield. And what Henry Deacon passed on to me no doubt caused his death.
Henry Deacon told me that he expected his father, Sir George Deacon, would soon have him killed for being an embarrassment to him. In a shocking hour-long interview, Henry Deacon revealed exactly how callous his father was, and what he would be prepared to do to gain power as one of Great Britain’s top Government officials, in charge, ironically of the Justice Ministry. Once he had that power, Sir George Deacon intended to keep it – at any cost.
I have a transcript of a secretly recorded conversation made by Henry, between Sir George Deacon and his bodyguard who goes by the name Sirius, [but whose real name was Brian Thornton – Ed]. The plan was hatched even before the GBIP came to power, indeed it was a plan that was supposed to help them to power, and instigate the implementation of the new Criminal Justice Reform Act – known commonly as The Rules.
The plan was simple: murder the then Shadow Minister of Justice, Roger King outside his home in Kensington. Sirius was instructed to use a handgun and at point-blank range, as close to his front door as possible, ‘to gain maximum effect and cause maximum outrage’.
The next year, GBIP swept to victory riding on a swell of public fervour and enthusiasm for The Rules, which became law not long afterwards.
King was seen as the weak link in the proposed Justice system overhaul, and killing two birds with one stone, by making his death abhorrent to the public who already despised gun crime, ensured Deacon’s promotion to Minister of Justice.
But Sir George Deacon’s criminal activity did not end there; indeed, it was just the beginning.
Part of Henry Deacon’s package of information directly links Deacon Snr and Sirius to the senseless murder of Lincoln Farrier. This has subsequently been confirmed by forensic analysis of a police-only fingerprint and DNA database.
Sirius teamed up with Henry under instruction from Sir George to destroy the Jaguar motor car that was responsible for killing two people in Wakefield on the same day, an act that had the potential to cause embarrassment to Sir George.
Abducting a youth to cover Henry’s car in his own trace evidence failed, so too did their efforts to then kill the youth.
The Jaguar was then recovered by West Yorkshire Police and forensically examined, leading Sirius and Henry to burn down the police building that stored that evidence.
Fortunately that effort also failed, but during the attempt, a member of West Yorkshire Police forensic staff was shot dead.
All information provided to me has been passed to the police to aid their investigations, but I am able to confirm that several other cases of murder and attempted murder by Deacon and his subordinates are also being investigated.
The Ministry was also criticised by many as putting pressure on law enforcement agencies to bring swift justice to alleged miscreants at the expense of the truth.
This man created a monster when he devised The Rules, and indeed he has put the public faith in them in utmost jeopardy; Howard League for Penal Reform is but one organisation crying out for their removal or at least for further safeguards building in.
We hope that Deacon Snr is served with a fate befitting his new title: murderer.
After all, if you want to kill serious crime, you have to kill serious criminals.
By Michael Lyndon
Epilogue
He was convinced the people around him were talking to him, something in the air, maybe tiny almost imperceptible pressure waves. It didn’t matter now anyway. And for a moment or two he saw their lips moving and their eyes peering at him, but that didn’t matter now either, and it was simply too much of a struggle to attune his concentration. That had abandoned him, and had curled up and died somewhere inside a mind that no longer looked outward, but was content to seek solace within.
The fight had been valiant, had been like watching a modern day enactment of David and Goliath, he supposed. But they were all against him, even Sterling Young snubbed him, had distanced himself wonderfully. And Deacon supposed he couldn’t blame the man. But the speed of his ostracism had still been something of a shock.
When in power he had been a supreme commander, had brought in laws that would see the scourge of Great Britain scared at least, and killed at best.
And now they all thought he was guilty of murder and other heinous crimes. On the face of it he was, and deny it though he might, there had been sufficient evidence for his legal team to go the same way as his concentration – they had abandoned hope, and concentrated instead upon collecting a decent fee and much sought-after publicity for the law firm.
Yes, on the face of it he was guilty, but no one seemed to appreciate that when one worked in top level government the pressure was immense, the time-scales employed to get things accomplished were inordinately short, and sometimes one had to be resourceful. One simply didn’t have the time to operate at the same slower, less complex pace that the public could. So he’d told them that was where the disparity had arisen. But they had looked shocked at this, and that was when his counsel had put his head in his hands and waved the white flag.
They had stripped him of his title. And that was a sad thing. How he had loved to hear people refer to him as Sir. He decided that was what he would think of later, when it mattered.
Deacon looked from one person to the next, and he didn’t recognise any of them. This made him ever more confused and for a moment, he shook his head as though trying to clear away the rubble inside and see the reasons for his actions. But the rubble remained and the once proud and often pompous Mr George Deacon was guided into a wheelchair.
The wheelchair buzzed along the brightly lit concrete corridor. They were somewhere beneath Park Lane now, he assumed, between the Bridewell, where they kept prisoners, and the Courthouse which had already passed sentence. And next to the Courthouse, was the affectionately named Slaughterhouse. Deacon closed his eyes, and he could feel the intensity of his heart beat increasing, despite the drugs they had given him to keep him well.
When th
ey had first suggested it to him, he had laughed. You want to keep me well in order that you may execute me, he had asked. With straight faces, they had nodded. It was like the Geneva convention: thou shalt not stab thine enemy with a rusty bayonet, lest he catch blood poisoning.
He giggled again to himself. And that in itself was curious; he knew what fate awaited him, yet here he was, laughing. He suspected the drugs weren’t entirely there to keep him from having a heart attack.
The little motors in the hubs of the wheelchair buzzed, and the entourage – three in front and three behind – clopped along on the grey painted concrete floors, but he could still hear them, he thought. The crowd, chanting above him outside the Court and Slaughterhouses, unaware, perhaps, that he was only a few yards beneath their feet.
His surroundings seemed to have changed without his knowledge. He was now in a white room. The walls were white, the ceiling too was white and the shining floor was white. There were no windows, he noticed. How sad, he thought.
Above him and at the front of him were the black emotionless eyes of video cameras. To his right was a Perspex screen let into the wall and beyond it, three tiers of seating, neatly arranged and quite utilitarian. To the back of the seats was a table where coffee and tea and some nibbles were made available to the witnesses. In the seats were a couple of faces he thought he recognised. Was that Steven Chapman, the Bishop of Chichester? And, no surely not, was that Edward Donaldson, one of those interviewed for the Chief Executioner’s role? Possibly. And to their left, a large door marked ‘toilets’. The air in there smelled wonderfully minty, very refreshing.
In Deacon’s room too, the air was minty but with a hint of lavender, very soothing. He felt quite tired now and wondered if Henry would be along soon. It would be good to share a nice cup of tea with him before bedtime. He missed Henry, wherever he had gone, perhaps he was playing up in the old quarry again. Yes, he’d been told enough times not to go there because it was dangerous, but secretly Deacon understood why Henry liked going there – because it was dangerous. Deacon smiled, he loved Henry, he was a splendid boy.
In front of him a red lamp lit up and Deacon instinctively lifted his head a fraction – not more, because it was somehow restricted – and peered at it. Then he heard a whoosh, a sort of burst of air pressure, and then
The Yorkshire Echo. 29th June
Death of a Hero
MICK LYNDON was shot dead in his home in West Yorkshire.
He died while sending this newspaper information given to him by Henry Deacon, and more he had found as a result of coded messages left to him after Henry Deacon passed away. Part of the information Mick was passing along was hidden inside an encoded crossword puzzle by Henry Deacon.
This newspaper deems it correct to pass this on to the Great British public to show how scared he was of his father, and to illustrate the lengths he went to in order to make sure the story got to the right person – Mick Lyndon, who gave his life for his work.
We will miss you, Mick.
Inside the black boxes were hidden directions given to Mick by Henry Deacon so that he could find the incriminating recording already written about on the headline page. We have kept them blank because that location is now the subject of forensic investigation.
If you look at the white boxes however, reading from right to left, top to bottom, you will see Henry Deacon’s admissions of guilt and acts of which he suspected his father. Here they are, laid out below:
IF YOURE READING THIS MY FATHER HAD ME KILLED
SIRIUS KILLED ******* (Blanked out to protect identity)
I SHOT SOCO AND SET FIRE
STOP MY FATHER THE GREAT PRETENDER
FORGIVE ME FOR KILLING LITTLE BOY WAS AN ACCIDENT
By Suzanne Child
Thanks…
Writing this book has taken me hundreds of hours. It’s my passion, and I’d rather do this than just about anything else, so I consider it time well spent. But other people have lives, and despite that fact, have still given their time to make sure this all came out well.
Steve and Alison Birch between them have invested countless hours doing what I could not: Alison for picking out the details, pointing out the errors (there were very many), and improving the book. Steve for designing and maintaining the web site and creating the book covers. They are also great company, and make a wonderful coffee.
They have had more faith in me than anyone else – including me. And that means more than anything else.
And someone else whose faith in me took me by surprise: Kath Middleton read The Dead Trilogy and fortunately loved it. She tirelessly promoted my name and books wherever she could, and shocked me by pointing out something that no author knows without being told: I can write, (despite all the Naughty Bits). Thanks, Kath.
About the author:
Andrew Barrett has been writing best-selling thrillers since the mid 1990s, all set in northern England. He's also written several short stories, and co-written a number of television scripts.
Andrew's novels focus on the world of Crime Scene Investigators (CSIs). He offers a unique insight into this dark landscape, making good use of his twenty years' professional expertise as a Senior CSI to envelop the reader in exciting yet realistic stories.
For further information, please visit Andrew-Barrett.co.uk
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No More Tears Roger Conniston #3
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The Lift – An Eddie Collins Short Story
The Third Rule (Eddie Collins Book 1) Page 60