He was about to walk over to Eddie’s desk and slip one of the half-empty bottles inside when he heard it. A noise from Jeffery’s office. Stuart’s heart tripped. What was he doing here at this time of night?
He gulped and knocked on Jeffery’s door, no other excuse coming to mind except that he couldn’t sleep and thought he’d catch up on some work.
There was no reply to the knocking, so Stuart pushed the door open. His greasy smile was fully developed as he looked right into the tiny dark hole that was the barrel of a gun.
“Did you ever pick the wrong time to poke your nose in here.”
Henry checked the foyer, made sure there was no one else in tow, then he came into the main office, legs shaking, and stood at Sirius’s side.
Sirius asked, “Who are you?”
The man edged backwards, raising his hands, unable to take his gaze from the gun pointing at his chest. He stuttered, mumbled a name. “Stuart, my name’s Stuart, I’m sorry I disturbed you, I didn’t mean to, I couldn’t sleep, I’ll go, I’ll–”
“Be quiet.” Henry stepped forward, gun also raised, trying to take command of an impossible situation, trying to impress Sirius perhaps.
“Why the hell have you brought that? Put it away,” Sirius’s voice grated.
But Henry was in no mood for being told off. In his mind, all the SAS “training” he practised in his youth flowed through his veins right now, and at last, he came face to face with the enemy, and he had that enemy shaking. It gave him a buzz, but he felt nauseous too. He wasn’t a natural as Sirius was; it was forced, his arm shook, his voice shook. “What are you doing here?”
“I… I couldn’t sleep. I just thought… who are you?”
“Never mind who we are,” Henry shouted.
“I know…” Stuart blinked rapidly, pointed. “You’re Henry Deacon.”
“Fucking great!” Henry waved the gun furiously like a demented spoilt kid who has just been told no.
“Shut up,” Sirius said. “Put that away.”
“But he’s–”
“Shut up!”
Henry still felt sick; all this SAS stuff began to feel like a kid reliving his dreams when he considered the mess he was in. And on top of that, he felt anger at Sirius undermining him in front of this whimpering man. His stomach flipped.
Sirius was calm. “Now, Stuart, what are you doing here?”
“My– I’m…”
“Take it easy, no one’s going to hurt you. Tell me why you are here.”
Stuart backed up more. “I work here, I’m a CSI. What do you want?”
“We ask the fucking questions,” Henry said.
Sirius ground his teeth and said politely, “Please let me handle this.”
“Yeah, but–”
“Last chance. Be quiet.”
“Sirius, you can’t–”
Sirius turned at the waist and slapped him hard across the cheek. Henry’s eyes were slits, his mouth a narrow pink line. He felt like ramming his gun in Sirius’s face and pulling the fucking trigger until nothing came out but a dry click. He was so close. Then he realised something fundamental. He had signed Stuart’s death warrant.
Sirius let the gun slap against his leg. “Come on, Stuart; tell me what you are doing here.”
“Seriously, I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d catch up. Paperwork.” Stuart’s eyes didn’t blink. There was a chatter on his white teeth. “Please,” he looked at Henry, “put your gun down, I’m no threat.”
“Don’t tell me to lower my gun.”
“Please–”
“What happens to the evidence you collect through the course of a day, Stuart?”
“Lower your gun.”
“Answer the damned question!” Henry barked.
“Calm down,” Sirius said.
“Please, put your gun away.”
“Answer him.”
“I’m afraid of–”
“Just tell me what happens, Stuart.”
“I can’t.” Stuart’s hands went to his face as he shrieked, “please put–”
“Put the damned gun down, man,” Sirius said.
“I won’t. He’s the enemy, I can’t–”
“Enemy?”
“I’m not; I won’t hurt, just please, put…”
“Put it down!”
Stuart screamed, walked forward. “I just want–”
“Stay back!” Henry shouted.
“Put it down, man. You, stand still!”
Stuart walked.
“Stand fucking still!”
Stuart stood still. His hands were at his contorted face, eyes pleading, sobs pulling at his shoulders. And then his hands flew from his face, and he made a grab for Henry’s gun.
“No!” Sirius shouted.
After the bang, Stuart’s tearful face whipped backwards, taking his entire body off its feet. His body hit the floor with a thud, and after the echo fled, there was silence. And then Henry discharged a second round into Stuart’s chest.
Henry breathed out and stood quite still, shaking arm outstretched, a faint wisp of grey smoke twisted into the air. Is that how it feels? was Henry’s first thought. His second thought was how to keep the vomit off his clothes. He crouched, hand still curled around the weapon and he threw up right there on the floor.
For the moment, Sirius was silent.
Though control was soon back at the helm, fury took charge and Sirius pointed the pistol at Henry’s rocking head, ready to have done with the whole business. Instead, he holstered his weapon and took a handful of Henry’s hair. “What the fuck did you do that for?”
Henry wrestled with more vomit in his throat. “He was going to run.”
“No, he wasn’t, he was going to try and make you put the fucking gun down, which is what you should have done!”
“He knew my name. He knew your name.”
“Thanks to you, you fucking moron.” Sirius thrust Henry’s face forward, overcame the feeble resistance and kept pushing until it met vomit.
Henry resisted and then surrendered. Sirius only let go when Henry began crying. Vomit dripped from his chin as he stood up, leaning heavily against a desk. His quivering lip made Sirius want to punch him. “What kind of man are you? Man enough to kill someone but you can’t handle the feeling that comes later?” Sirius stepped up a little closer. “Go and get cleaned up, you arsehole.”
Henry hurried into the foyer but before he turned the corner, heading for the washroom, he stopped. “You’re not going to tell my father, are you?”
“Clean up. We’ll talk later.”
The moment Sirius heard running water; he dialled Sir George’s private line.
One sentence from Sir George’s angry conversation sat on top of Sirius’s pile of thoughts. Over and again, it repeated itself: “What’s to stop them re-examining the Jaguar?”
So all this was for nothing. Destroy the physical evidence, and the CSIs would go back to the Jaguar and try again. They might not get everything they got at the first attempt, but it would still be enough to put a name to the driver. There was enough to hang him. Or shoot him, as was today’s preference. The mobile phone, for one thing. They could reassemble it, using spare parts to get the information from it. No problem.
It was clear that Sirius and Sir George had reached that crucial stage in helping Henry stay out of the courts: the end.
Henry walked back in like a kicked dog. His head was down and he’d brought a handful of paper towels that he constantly rubbed his face with. He was a wreck. Sirius shook his head, looked back at the faceless body. “We have to leave before someone else comes along.”
Henry binned the paper towel and started for the door.
“Wait.” He watched the bin lid flip back and forth. “We can’t just walk away. They’ll go over this place in fine detail and they’ll eventually discover who was here, and they might even lock you up before the week is out. We have to cover our tracks.”
“Right,” was all he said. Then, �
�What do you want me to do?”
“Look around for something flammable. But not diesel, okay?”
For ten minutes they searched and found nothing except a crate of de-icer for the CSI van windows.
“You’re going to have to find a garage and buy a can of fuel.”
Henry looked upset again. “Why me?”
“Okay, I’ll go. You stay here and guard the body.”
“No, no,” pleaded Henry. “Okay, I’ll go, I’ll go.”
Henry had reached the foyer door when Sirius called him back. “No need for the petrol, look here.”
By the side of the computers, in a red painted metal box, were nylon aerosol cans full of something called MLPD spray. Neither of them had any idea what it was, but there were warning triangles stuck all over them, and a bank of foam fire extinguishers on wall hooks next to it.
Sirius handed Henry four cans and took the remaining four himself. They started from the furthest corner of the office and discharged the yellowish liquid on the carpet and onto desks and onto anything that would burn. The CID6 books, the stack of stationery, the wooden shelves of stats and then into the storeroom. The air grew heavy; a fine mist floated in the air, and when concentrated like this, the smell was overpowering, made their eyes water. But they continued, spraying the body thoroughly, until they reached the foyer.
Henry took a step outside to make sure everything was quiet, and then he gave Sirius a nod.
“Give it five minutes to settle.”
“What?” Henry said. “Why wait, I thought we were in a hurry.”
“If you strike a match in there now while that stuff is floating around, it’ll blow you out of your designer shoes. We wait. Then, you can have the honour of striking the match.”
“Oh, no, I’m not doing that.”
“You killed some poor bastard tonight; you can go some way to putting it to rest. Do not argue. I warn you.”
Henry’s lip curled again and his eyes fell in resignation.
Sirius whispered, “Keep the door open or the windows will blow out. We’re after a fire, not an explosion.” Then he disappeared back inside the building.
“Where are you going now?”
Within a minute he was back, a rolled-up piece of printer paper and cigarette lighter in hand. “I’ve wedged one of those cans against the desk. It’s spraying the last of its stuff right now. Light the paper, walk in and throw it towards the aerosol. Don’t wait to see if it catches, because it won’t warn you, it’ll just burn your eyeballs out of your dumb head, just throw it towards the spray and run like hell. Right?”
“Couldn’t you–”
Sirius slapped him. “I told you, no arguing. Here.” He handed him the paper. “When you come out of here, you’ll be frantic, so there,” he pointed to the far fence, the gate closed but unlocked, “is where you’re running to.”
“Where’re you going to be?”
“Right beside you. I’ll hold the gate open, you just run. Now go.”
With evident nerves, Henry took the wad of paper, and it lit at the first attempt. He shuffled into the foyer. Sirius could hear the can hissing and then saw Henry disappear around the corner. He felt like closing and locking the door, trapping the fool inside where he’d witness his own cremation, but decided to stick to the plan; there was no point leaving the arsehole at the scene of his own crime. He had only a moment to contemplate Sir George’s final words before there was a loud whoosh, followed by a wave of heat, before Henry bounded around the corner, eyes wide, arms pumping furiously.
The office turned orange instantly, and as they ran, a kind of exhilaration filled Sirius, and when some of the windows finally blew out because of the extreme pressure, he howled with laughter.
54
Thursday 25th June
Mick put away his phone, stunned by Eddie’s words. It stank of arson; no way was it an accident. He hoped, for Eddie’s sake, that it put all this McHue shit into perspective from his bosses’ point of view, and that they left him alone to get on with the job.
He slid the phone away and stared through the windscreen, wondering who would want to set fire to – Mick smiled. He knew the answer already, and it all added weight to his method of questioning.
How would he compare to Old Man Deacon?
Wigton Lane was wide. Even the grass verges were palatial, like second lawns. When the driveways were full, the occupants positioned their surplus cars (all prestige models) at the perfectly square pavement’s edge. They were arranged in this manner along the frequently scrubbed gutters as a show of status – a middle-class pissing contest.
This was Alwoodley; a grand neighbourhood reserved for those with equally grand salaries, or for those of a more creative self-employed nature, some of whom probably operated perfectly legally. Solicitors lived around here, accountants, architects, and the doctors, and even the odd politician’s son.
But right now, parked outside a swish detached bungalow, Mick’s old Ford Focus stood out among the Bentleys and the Rollers and Jags like a fresh turd on a banqueting table. Mick smiled, relishing the thought. He locked the car door – couldn’t be too careful – and peered through the black wrought-iron gates outside Deacon’s bungalow. He marvelled at the gardens, the mature trees enveloping a stubby driveway, and gawped at the size of the hardwood conservatory sticking out of the side like a leftover from an Ideal Home exhibition. It was big enough to have its own eco-system.
There was a new Audi on the drive, R8 badge across the back.
Mick went to adjust his tie, then remembered he wasn’t wearing one; it was in a bin somewhere back at the office. He pressed a chrome buzzer set into one of the stone pillars at the side of the driveway, and gazed into the mini-camera at its side.
“Hello?”
“Oh good morning, Mr Deacon. My name’s–”
“Thanks but I don’t buy at the door.”
“I have some news.” Mick waited, clicking his fingers.
“Go on.”
“Not out here, Mr Deacon. You never know who’s listening.”
There was a pause where Mick had enough time to wonder if he’d blown it, and then the gates rolled back on tracks hidden behind the stone wall. He tipped a wink to the camera, and began walking. Every reporter dreams of a scoop. Mick had the spoon in his hand.
The solid wood front door opened before he was even at the step. A face that belonged on the other side of death peered out at him. Mick froze. He was famed for disliking dead bodies, and one just answered the fucking door. “You’re not the butler, are you?”
“What do you want? I’m very busy.” It was Deacon. It was just…
Mick didn’t recognise him. His eyes were dead: they had no sparkle in them despite the morning’s brightness. The skin surrounding them was dark, loose; the teeth yellow; hair a mess. “Can I come in?”
“Who the hell are you?”
Mick struggled with his jacket, hands patting pockets, searching for some business cards. “My name’s Mick Lyndon. I work for The Yorkshire Echo, and I wondered…”
“No comment to whatever it is you’re about to ask.” The door began to close.
“They found your Jag.”
The door paused. Mick’s heart pummelled.
“Go on.” Deacon’s face reappeared but showed no surprise.
“Not out here.” Risky, but worth a shot.
If he’d spoken to Old Man Deacon like that, he could have expected a busted lip. And that told Mick something about this kid. He was weak. Might have his own business, but according to the old man, it was on its way to the liquidators at an astonishing speed. Henry Deacon was still a little boy.
He sat in a leather seat in a lounge so opulent it was rude. The blue velvet curtains were pulled against the sunlight, and there were three, no, four standard lamps burning around the room. Some kind of weird LED chandelier suspended from the ceiling complemented the modern ensemble. Rich, deep rugs were scattered around the oak floor. There was a large TV o
n the wall, big enough to make a cinema happy, and a small but expensive stereo on a crystal-topped table.
“You stink of alcohol.” Henry passed him a cup of very dark coffee.
“Thanks. For the drink, I mean. I’m allowed to stink of booze if I want, but I appreciate the warning.”
“That wasn’t the warning. This is.” Henry took a seat directly facing him, hands together, tired eyes prominent, glaring at him. “If you’ve come here to threaten or to blackmail…”
Mick sipped his coffee.
“Well,” he wagged a finger, “just be warned.”
“Oh, I am, I am. And no, I haven’t come for any of those things, but like I say, thanks for the warning.”
“Then, Mr Lynton, why have you come here?”
“I told you, they found your Jaguar.”
“That’s what they’re paid to do, isn’t it? And why you? Are they sending reporters out now instead of uniformed officers? I bet they could make quite a saving.”
“Not on my salary.” Mick’s face glowed with humour – this was his kind of setting. “That’s quite a burn you have there.”
Henry tried to pull his shirt sleeve over it. “I really am very busy.”
“Doing what? You look as though you’ve just got up.”
“None of your business.”
“Mind my asking how you came by it? The burn?”
“It’s not a burn, and yes, I do mind.”
“I’m sorry, I meant no offence.” He looked at the burn again. “It is a burn though, isn’t it?”
“It’s an injury I sustained while trying to keep possession of my Jaguar.”
“Bet you’re pleased to have it back?”
“It belongs to the insurance company now.”
“How do you feel about it; the car, I mean, being stolen from you at gunpoint?”
“It was stolen from me at knifepoint.”
“But how do you feel about it?”
“Use your imagination, Mr Lyndal. Now, if you’ll–”
“That car killed two people the day it was stolen from you.”
[Eddie Collins 01.0] The Third Rule Page 31
