[Eddie Collins 01.0] The Third Rule

by Andrew Barrett

“Oh go on, what’s he done now?” Mick tutted.

  “Is your job threat serious?”

  Damn! Deacon wasn’t a soft touch, and Mick must have been stupid if he’d thought he would spill his innermost secret after only a couple of glasses. He breathed hard, itching for a smoke. “I’m doing stories on crime and justice.” He opened his hands, stared at the room. “That’s why I’m here. But, and this is how shitty my luck is, I went to interview this old bloke whose son was locked up for knifing a burglar, and when I got there,” he giggled, “the bastard had killed himself!”

  “Nothing to do with your scintillating company?”

  “Yeah, thanks for that, cheers.”

  Deacon laughed.

  “Landed me in a heap of shit with my editor and the police. They accused me of destroying their scene! I found the bastard!”

  Deacon roared with laughter.

  Mick shook his head, feigning disconsolation. “It was only a bleeding suicide, anyway. Would’ve made a great story.”

  “I read it; it did make a great story.”

  “Thanks.” Mick swallowed. “Turns out he was murdered.”

  Deacon’s own smile froze. “Really?”

  “No doubt about it.”

  “But he left a suicide note. He did leave a suicide note, didn’t he? I mean, they always do, don’t they?”

  Inside Mick’s numb brain, his hands were raised and he was dancing a hooly-hoo. But he left a suicide note. That, Sir George, was a statement. It was not, repeat not, a question. And look at his eyes, see how shifty they suddenly are? “Oh yeah,” Mick said absently, “he left a note…” And then he paused, wondering whether to give the game away just for a reaction.

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “You said he left a note.”

  Mick shrugged, “Yeah?”

  “Well, it sounded as though there was a revelation to follow.”

  “Tragic. An old man dying like that.” He sipped. “You knew him, Sir George, didn’t you?” He asked the question in the same manner he’d used to ask how Henry was, nonchalant, unchallenging, not caring.

  “No, don’t think so.”

  “Oh yes, he came to see you that morning, the day he died. Came to see you in your surgery.”

  “Really?”

  “Lincoln Farrier? Old fella, seemed nice though. All there.” He prodded his head.

  Hesitation. “Ah, was that him? I remember now, delightful old chap. Dismayed about the dishevelment of today’s society, if I recall correctly.” Deacon glanced at the dictaphone. “What makes you think he was murdered?”

  “Whoever wrote his suicide note…”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t think I should say. The police told me to keep schtum.”

  Deacon’s smile twitched. “You can tell me.”

  “If I do I’ll lose my job. How do you go about being a private security guard, you know, like Sirius, I mean?”

  “Do the police know he was murdered?”

  “They know.”

  Deacon tapped the desk. “Good! I can’t abide gun crime.”

  Mick’s fingers tingled. He looked at Sir George with renewed interest. That was it; that was the proof! And now he’d had the suspicion confirmed, he had to get away and think things through. But first he had to hide his surprise.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I think I pissed myself.”

  “Oh not on the leather!”

  “No, no, I think it was just a dribble.” He smiled, shame evident on his face. “I’m sorry, it’s a condition I’ve–”

  “What about the note?”

  “Oh yes, the note. Whoever wrote it spelled his son’s name wrong.”

  Deacon slowly looked away, pale faced.

  37

  Tuesday 23rd June

  “Over here.”

  Christian looked up. The copper was pointing at him.

  “Yes, you. Come on, I haven’t got all day.”

  Christian sloped across the custody area and stood in front of the high desk where the edges were surrounded with foam rubber, and where the monitors were shielded from violent “customers” by thick plastic. The sound of metal doors slamming filled the air, of keys on chains and of echoing voices; subdued, monotonous, and others shouting obscenities. Christian’s dejection plunged into hopelessness.

  “Do you understand English?”

  “What? I was born–”

  “Any printed material handed to you will be in the English language. Is that okay?”

  “Yes, but–”

  “It can be supplied in any other language.”

  “No, English is–”

  “Name?” The sergeant positioned his hands over the keypad and waited.

  “Christian Ledger.” He looked around; there were three other sergeants performing the same duty, and there was a queue of miscreants that wound around the custody area like customers in a bank. He expected to see till numbers in flashing LEDs above each counter, and waited to hear “sergeant number three now serving”. It never came; only the gruff voices of people working too hard and too quickly, of bored faces peering along the lines of the never-ending queue and wishing their shift was over. Around the periphery of the room were half a dozen armed police officers and detention officers who gossiped among themselves, enshrouded by a ring of bars. In total, Christian counted fifteen CCTV cameras.

  Each time the custody area door opened to admit another offender, he could hear the West Yorkshire Police flag slapping against its pole outside. It flew at half-mast: another officer had been shot yesterday.

  Christian felt dejected like never before. And all for a couple of tubes of paint. His dejection was only partly caused by being caught; the greater part of it was that he wouldn’t get to finish his masterpiece. Life could be so cruel.

  “Under the Theft Act 1968, superseded by The Police and Criminal Evidence Act 2010, you are charged with theft from an establishment by the name of Art for Art’s Sake, Park Row, Centre, Leeds, on the morning of Tuesday 23rd June.” The sergeant didn’t look up, simply continued to recite, “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. You will be appointed a solicitor if you do not have the funds to appoint your own; the costs will be deducted in instalments from any state payments made to you in future and may accrue interest at the current rate.” He slid a leaflet entitled Paying for Your Legal Costs across the counter. “Do you need to see a police surgeon for any reason?”

  “What?”

  “Do you need to see a doctor?”

  “Why should–”

  “Do you have any physical debility that we should be aware of?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have any mental debility that we should be aware of?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever been in a mental institution, been declared sub-educational, suffer from any disease, communicable or otherwise?”

  “No.”

  “Are you on any medication?”

  “No.”

  “Do you partake in street drugs?”

  “No,” he sighed. His mind ebbed away from here, receding into a shadowy place made redundant by painting. This was as far away from his idea of utopia as it was possible to get.

  Beneath the counter, a printer spat a form out. “Sign here and here.” The sergeant pointed to two red crosses on the paperwork.

  Christian did, the pen retracting on a chain back to the sergeant’s side of the desk as soon as he placed it on the counter.

  “You gonna make any trouble for us, Mr Ledger?”

  Christian slowly shook his head. “No, sir.”

  The sergeant looked across the room. He whistled, “Tom, over here.” To Christian he said, “Go with him; interview room four. You are being monitored. Need I tell you more?”


  “No.”

  “Your name?”

  “Christian Ledger.”

  “Address?”

  “17 Shaftsbury Court, Holbeck.”

  Tom had a logo in red across the right breast pocket of his shirt: Seven Security Services, it said, and on his black epaulettes, silver stitching proclaimed DO901. A Velcro badge on his chest proclaimed Tom Vincent Detention Officer. “That’s a residential home, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  Next to Tom, a man in a suit with a briefcase by his side made notes on a laptop computer. Around his neck was a lanyard with Pennant Solicitors in script across it. His name was scrawled beneath it, but was illegible.

  “You will be charged £48 an hour, plus VAT at 25 per cent,” he told Christian, “so it’ll be in your own interests to keep it short, create no trouble.”

  “I won’t give you any hassle.”

  “Okay, Mr Ledger, I need to read this to you, so pay attention.”

  Christian nodded.

  “Under the Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984, you have been searched and your personal effects seized under the Administration of Justice Act 2012, and are securely lodged here at Millgarth Police Station, Leeds, in locker A87. Cash money to the value of £326 was among your belongings, an amount not greater than fifty per cent, that being £163 has been confiscated as full or part payment of compulsory legal advice and representation. Any balance is payable by yourself or your estate as detailed in the above act should you be subsequently found guilty of, or plead guilty to, the charges made against you. Any balance in your favour will be paid upon completion of this process. A leaflet explaining this payment is offered to you now.”

  From a drawer, Tom took a leaflet and passed it across to Christian. Its title was: Helping to Pay Your Debt to Society.

  Tom stood, stretched nitrile gloves over his petite hands and donned a face mask. “I’m taking your DNA now. It won’t hurt, just a case of rubbing a couple of swabs inside your cheeks, okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “Have you been in trouble with the police before?”

  Christian waited until the swabs came out, and replied, “No, I haven’t.”

  Tom sheathed the swabs and sealed them in a plastic bag with FSS stamped across it. “Glad to hear it. I’ll take your fingerprints next and you’ll be pleased to hear I’ve already taken your photo.” He pointed over his head to a remote video camera on the wall. Beneath it, a warning to those who worked here: “Everything you say or do is being recorded”.

  “What happens then?”

  “Once all this is out of the way,” Tom said, “you go home and we’ll file the paperwork with a magistrate.”

  “I don’t have to go to prison?”

  Tom laughed. “You really haven’t done this before, have you?”

  “No, why?”

  “You’ll get a fine, and have to do fifty hours community service. In the meantime you go home with a Rule One violation against your name provided you’re pleading guilty to the charge of shoplifting?”

  Christian nodded.

  Tom peered through the laminated glass in the interview room door, “Very busy these days, Mr Ledger,” he grinned, “no time to send folk to jail over a misdemeanour anymore. It’s like a conveyor belt out there; you do the naughty, we ship you in and process you.”

  There was a glimmer of light after all. Christian’s heart dared to lift.

  “Okay, place both hands in the gridded squares on the glass platen.” Tom indicated to a machine the size of a photocopier that protruded from the magnolia wall below the video camera. “We’ll take your prints in a jiffy. Don’t move your hands though, or we’ll have to start over, and that’ll cost you more.”

  £48 an hour, plus VAT.

  There was a flash of red light, like the kind you see on supermarket checkouts, as a scanner criss-crossed his hands.

  “What’s your ID number, Mr Ledger?”

  “I…” He looked between Tom and the solicitor, who suddenly stopped typing and looked up at Christian. “I don’t have an ID card.”

  Tom stopped operating the machine. “How can you not have an ID card?”

  Christian shrugged. “Don’t know. Just never got round–”

  “You know it’s a civil offence not to carry an ID card with you, let alone not have one at all?” the solicitor said.

  “Is it?”

  “Yes.”

  Tom pursed his lips. “That’s another half an hour, Mr Ledger.”

  “You on bonus?” Christian asked him. “You seem keen not to have me in here too long.”

  He laughed. “I’m on performance-related pay. But that’s how we keep the public happy; it keeps costs down, see, keeps you fellows in here for the shortest time, and–”

  “Keeps me free for others who need my services,” smiled the solicitor.

  “Better get the forms out,” Tom said.

  Before he even got the gloves off, the scanning machine buzzed and a red light pulsed on the screen. Tom seemed confused and then went to have a closer look. “So you haven’t been a bad boy, Mr Ledger?”

  “What’s it say?”

  The solicitor looked up hopefully.

  “Burglary is what it says.” He tutted. “Sit down, this’ll take some time. I have to take a statement from you and update the computer systems.”

  “Will I still be going home today?”

  “I expect so, but you’ll be going home with a Provisional Rule Two stapled to your arse, and you’ll be bailed to appear before a magistrate.”

  “Shit!”

  The solicitor typed furiously on his machine.

  “Where were you overnight on the twentieth of this month, Mr Ledger? That’s last Saturday?”

  “I can’t recall.”

  38

  Tuesday 23rd June

  – One –

  Alice scraped the corrugated metal door back into place and watched the kitchen recede into a semi-darkness that put a dampener on her previous buoyant mood. Here she was, back in the fucking slum.

  It was silent.

  “Spencer!” Alice hurried into the lounge and over to the baby’s cot – the wooden crate that Christian called a cot! He had screamed this morning as she headed out the door and she didn’t have the time or the inclination to feed him then. And now she felt guilty, and expected to hear from the nagging voice. Like the house, it remained silent.

  She peered in, pulled aside the grubby blankets and stared at her son. He was sleeping; his chest rose and fell and his little eyes never opened once. “Aw, bless,” she whispered. “I’ll feed you, Spencer,” she smiled, “just as soon as I get some food, eh?”

  Cigarette smoke curled up her face, and she put the packet on the table, on top of the lottery ticket, and then crouched beneath Spencer’s cot. She pulled out her stash and a fresh needle. The drugs flowed and Alice shuddered as normality chased away the torment.

  The corrugated iron door banged. She caught her breath, went cold, and she slid her drugs back beneath the cot. On the windowsill was Christian’s hammer. She took it and held it up ready for action. The door banged again and she wondered if it was the police come to sort out the squatters. Or maybe it was the kids at the end of the block come by for some entertainment or to steal her drugs. Her heart pounded as she made her way to the door.

  The light creeping between the door and the scored kitchen floor was obstructed by the shadows of legs. She raised the hammer and waited. “Alice?” A voice, little more than a whisper, crept around the door.

  Who the hell was that?

  “Alice, it’s me. Max.”

  She exhaled a long breath and let the hammer fall to the floor. “Shit.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “What do you want?” Her voice echoed in there. It made her cringe.

  “Just to talk, that’s all.”

  “We’ll talk next time I come to see you.”

  His voice smiled at her through the door, “I’m here
now; might as well have a chat. We could talk about your boyfriend’s work.”

  She said nothing, only played with her nail-bitten fingers.

  “He’s not in there, is he?”

  If I say he is, then he’ll want to talk to him, and that’s my fucking cover blown. If I say he’s not, then he’ll want to talk to me, and he’ll know I’m vulnerable. What do I do?

  You start prayin, girl. That’s whatcha do. You should have thought about all this nonsense before.

  “I don’t mean you any harm; nothing to be afraid of, my dear.”

  My dear. She made small nervous steps towards the door. “You can’t stay long. He’ll be home soon.”

  “He doesn’t know about our little arrangement?”

  She sighed, “You know he doesn’t.”

  “We’ll keep it our little secret. No one need ever know.”

  When she opened the door, the light burst in and for a moment, she squinted against it.

  “There,” he said, “nothing to be afraid of.”

  She stepped well back as he came in, taking no chances. His eyes adjusted to the gloom and then appraised it the way he’d appraised her when they first met. And the strangest thing was how nervous she felt. “I told you I’d try and come by tomorrow.”

  He stepped in further, peering around corners, peeking into the lounge as though he were a prospective buyer! He turned, hands laced behind his back. “Just popped by, hoping I could accelerate our transaction.”

  “You followed me!”

  “Are they here? The paintings?”

  “I thought you had trouble selling them? Why is it so urgent you get your hands on more?” Alice clutched her arms tightly around her chest; she looked outside, hoping to see someone, anyone, just in case she had to call for help.

  “Why are you looking so scared? I followed you, yes, just so I could buy a few more of them here and now.” He winked at her, “Give you a good price for them.” He came closer. “Got 200 in my pocket right now.”

  Alice thought of the hammer.

  His hand curled around the edge of the door, teasing it closed. “Maybe we could have a quick look at the paintings? I could be gone before he gets back. What do you say?”