He felt sorry for her, the artist who died on some cold stone steps in a derelict house. “Who killed you?” Eddie put his gloved hands on hips and into his mind came the word: boyfriend. “Ah, right. The boyfriend did it, in the cellar with a letter opener. It’s all clear to me now.” But it wasn’t clear – and despite his attempts at throwing humour at the problem, it came back as two-dimensional, like a slap in the face. “Sorry,” he whispered.
To his right was a small open wooden door with a web blocking the entrance and a spider the size of a child’s fist hanging there, almost daring him to enter. Well, Eddie dared. Grit crunched underfoot, and his scene suit crackled like a packet of crisps as he approached what used to be a coal chute. Now, it was some kind of store and as the spider disappeared into the upper reaches of its world, Eddie ducked beneath its web and entered its lair.
It wasn’t long before he found something.
Black bin bags covered two rows of… of what? If you removed all the cupboard doors from a kitchen, and put each one into a black dustbin liner, and stacked them edge on it would look just like this. He pulled aside a torn corner from one of them and his gloved fingertips touched something with a texture. Eddie held the torch up, peered inside the tear and saw it was an oil painting.
“Hats off to you, my dear.” He pulled the plastic away from several others and they too were paintings. Rather lavish paintings. And then he saw a scrawl, a name signed in black paint. He closed in, opened the plastic a little wider and read the name: “Ledger.” And on the next, “C. Ledger.” Same on the next three, and then, “Christian.” Christian? It was a man’s name, an old man’s name too, not much heard of these days.
Eddie poured himself into the snippets of the paintings; wondered about the artist, what he was doing now, if he was alive, and then it hit him: if these were painted by a male, who the hell was she? “I take it all back,” he said, “Hats on to you.” He was busy constructing the dead girl and the artist when he heard the grate of a metal clad door above him, heard Ros call out.
“You finished down there?” Ros asked.
“You want me to come up?”
“Yes, please.”
That wasn’t Ros. That was Benson. What the hell did he want? Eddie peeled himself away from the paintings and headed for the stairs.
Refusing to give the body a second glance this time, Eddie stepped over it and emerged into the kitchen. “What’s up?” he looked at Ros. “Is the food here? I’m starving.” And if you could manage without me for half an hour I could sure as hell use a little rum or vodka.
“No food.” This from DCI Benson.
“It’s gone lunch time. We’re hungry, could do with a break.”
Benson shrugged. “So sue me.”
Eddie’s mood darkened, and off came the gloves. Literally.
“What’re you doing?”
“I’m going to get some bloody food.”
“You can’t leave a scene!”
Eddie peeled off his suit and stepped outside onto the path. “So sue me.”
Ros followed, watching Benson’s cheeks flush as though he’d just been airbrushed a fetching shade of crimson, and hid her smile at Eddie’s bluntness.
Benson stepped next to Eddie. He was a bulldog; short and stocky, flat nose, face like someone played cricket with it. Eyes an untrustworthy translucent green. Eddie didn’t find his face or his manner at all appealing. “You get your fucking arse back to work.” Benson smiled. “Or I will personally throw you down those stairs myself. And then I’ll submit a report to your Department Head. I’m sure you’d appreciate that, Eddie, wouldn’t you?”
Eddie tried to step away from Benson, but he had a nauseating magnetism that kept him on the spot. And he couldn’t look away either.
“Am I okay to go for sandwiches?” Ros asked.
“I’m warning you, Eddie. I need a quick result from this job. We’re aiming for the first Rule Three direct from a scene.”
“Forgive me for sounding like a dick, but what are you talking about?”
“We know who she is.”
“Yeah?” Eddie found a hint of bravery, closed the gap down.
“Hey come on, you two–”
“And we know who her boyfriend is, too.”
“Ten quid if you can tell me what they called their doll.”
Benson grabbed Eddie’s wrist. His eyes narrowed and he squeezed, digging his thumb into the carpal tunnel. Eddie breathed in, held it and tried to retreat. He couldn’t.
“DCI Benson–”
“Shut it, woman!”
Ros did.
“Don’t fuck around with me. We have a hunch that Christian Ledger is her killer. She is Alice Sedgewick, a misper from four years ago. A girl with mental health problems. An absconder from Juniper Hill.”
Eddie raised an eyebrow, not in admiration of the information, but making a subconscious connection between her mental health problems and Benson himself – a sleight of hand insult that Benson wasn’t slow on noticing. He squeezed hard enough to draw a whimper from Eddie, and more concern from Ros. She came closer, rested her hand on Benson’s. She was about to speak when he abruptly turned to her. “Go get sandwiches. He doesn’t mind which type.”
“But–”
“You want me to write it down for you, love?”
Ros was about to launch into him when he beat her to it again. “Fuck off, girl, before I snap your boyfriend’s wrist. Okay?” He tightened his thumb into the flesh. Eddie yelped this time.
Ros backed away. “I’ll be back soon, Eddie,” she said.
“Ros,” Eddie called, a prickle in his voice.
“What?”
“No mustard on mine.”
Ros laughed and even Eddie giggled a bit before Benson stopped him.
“Alright, alright! Pack it in.” Eddie tried to pull free but Benson was keeping hold of Eddie’s attention. “Get the fuck off me before I punch you in the knackers.”
“That’d look good on the report.”
“Not as good as you’ll look holding one of your nuts in your hand and watching the other roll away down the path.” Eddie nodded sincerely. “You know about my situation. So let go before I put you in hospital and turn you into a non-man.”
Benson seemed to consider this, relaxed his grip and then let go.
Eddie stood back from Benson and massaged his wrist as pins and needles leaked in with the returning blood supply. “You are a spiny bastard, aren’t you?”
“I like to get results.”
“Yeah, the prehistoric way.”
“If it worked for my forebears…”
“You didn’t have forebears; you were grown in a beaker.”
Benson made to step forward.
Eddie smiled. “Tell me about this Rule Three guy.”
57
Thursday 25th June
Christian left Leeds, and headed out towards Bradford, taking the back roads where he knew the likelihood of ANPR cameras was less. The Wellborne district was a scrap-man’s version of heaven. If you were not rich, and if your car was on its last legs, here was a place where automotive miracles happened. Toleman Road ran parallel with the main A650 and the closer it got into Bradford town centre, the richer it appeared; independent dealers began a mile away from the town centre, then franchised dealers and finally, for the remaining half mile or so, the main dealers.
The closer into Bradford he drove, the more frequent were the vidiscreens. He nearly swallowed his heart when he caught sight of his own face with his name below it. How did they get my name? he wondered. “I’m not known to the police at that address, how did they link me–” The words dried up as he suddenly realised how they connected him with Alice: through his paintings, he always signed his paintings. And that meant… “They’ve taken them. Bastards!”
Christian was at the beginning of Toleman Road, the down-at-heel end where the common guy went for repairs, for part-worn tyres, and for dodgy MoT certificates to keep the old banger
on the road for another year.
He pulled off the road, took a gravel track and followed it to a large wide-open pair of faded blue wooden doors. Inside, dull fluorescent tubes illuminated people who worked on cars well outside this neighbourhood’s price range. Showers of sparks from grinders, the rattle of air tools and the constant groan of an air compressor.
His heart raced as he wondered how you brokered a deal with…
From the workshop, a man wearing red oil-smeared overalls walked towards him, cigarette dangling from his lower lip, smoke floating over his shoulder.
Christian wound down the window, and tucked his right arm out of sight down by the side of his seat.
“Help you?” The man’s eyes hovered on Christian’s bloody, matted hair, the dirt in his skin, the dried blood soaked into his T-shirt.
“It’s done just over 6,000.” Christian patted the steering wheel. “Not a mark on it.”
The man stood back; he looked from the front of the car to the rear, and then took a slow walk around it. All the time, Christian sat there praying to get out of there alive. A couple of workers stood in the doorway, watching the BMW and the scruffy geezer sitting behind the wheel.
“I’ll give you a thousand for it.”
“It’s worth over forty.”
The man laughed at him. “Not round here, mate.”
“Thousand and a legal car,” Christian said.
“Five hundred and a legal car.”
“Seven-fifty and a legal car.”
The man eventually nodded and began to turn away again.
“And I need your help too.” Christian brought his right arm into view, as the cuff rattled.
The floor was plain dirt, in one corner was a four-poster car ramp with a red Toyota pickup in the air. Toolboxes and benches with racks of tyres next to them made up the far wall, and above them, a mezzanine floor bulged with body panels and exhaust systems. In the background, a tiny office with Goodyear posters under a cracked window spilled music into the dusty air through an open doorway.
Christian stood next to a metal workbench, the cuff on his right hand clamped firmly into a vice. A group of mechanics gathered around to watch the fun, laughing, smoking, coffees in hand, while one youth uncoiled a hosepipe from a tyre rim bolted to the wall, and another plugged in an angle grinder complete with a slitting disc.
“What happened to you, man? Look like you just stepped out of a war.”
This got another wave of laughter from the easily amused mechanics. “Druggies beat me,” Christian whispered. Some of them nodded knowingly, others seemed to know he was walking on the wrong side of the law, seemed to understand that fights with dealers were an occupational hazard, but at least he didn’t moan about it, which was in his favour, and they had a little respect in their eyes.
He looked up from his wrist in time to see the BMW disappear up another dirt track behind the garage.
“My name’s Sid. Do you trust me?”
Christian looked back to the man who had struck the deal; he was holding the grinder, oily thumb resting on the button, ready to go. The kid turned on the tap and stood tight up to Christian with the water trained on the handcuff loop, and he added a strip of steel between the cuff and Christian’s wrist to prevent the sparks burning his skin. Christian smiled at Sid. “No, not really.”
Sid laughed and the grinder howled into life.
Christian parked the old Nissan by the kerb and checked the sign outside the shop. Top Cutz. He locked the car, entered the shop and looked around. There were three staff, all huddled around a small television in the corner. On the floor were mounds of cut hair, some swept into a corner, most just left by the three chairs, and in the air a strong odour like thinners. In one of the chairs sat an old lady with strips of silver foil stuck to her head.
One of the women looked over from the TV, and Christian said, “Sid sent me.”
58
Thursday 25th June
“His name’s Christian Ledger. Waster.” Benson stepped back into the shade of the kitchen. Eddie followed. “He’s been shacking up with Alice for about four years. He’s a thief and he’s a burglar. We pulled him only yesterday for shoplifting in some fancy art and crafts shop in town.”
They walked through into the lounge, gazed at the ceiling with no plaster, at the cardboard box with dolls’ clothes in it. Eddie stared at the lottery card. And then he squatted to look at the hammer. There was blood streaked up the head, hair caught in it. “But how do you know he killed her?”
“It’s obvious.”
“Enlighten me.”
“It’s strange that you should be working this scene.”
Eddie stood. “I can’t stand the tension. Do tell.”
“It’s because of you that we know who he is. Evidence you found at a burglary scene matches Ledger. He gave us a phoney address, but when he jumped bail this morning, his picture hit the vidiscreens and… well, there’s nothing like waving a carrot in the public’s face to bring them out of the fucking woodwork. Ten minutes later, we had a call. Then we had this address.”
“Now I feel depressed.”
“Need a snort of the hard stuff?”
Eddie glared at him. “You offering?”
“What have you got so far?”
“Apart from hunger pains and a DCI who won’t piss off and let me work?”
“Come Monday, the only work you’ll be doing is street cleaning.”
“Just make sure you don’t step in front of my cart, Benson.” Eddie headed for the door. Then he stopped, turned. “How do you know about…”
“Your clumsiness? Your drunkenness?” Benson grinned, “I have friends.”
“Now that is a shock.”
“He’s up for a Rule Three, Eddie. Better tell me what you’ve got.”
“Hold on.” Eddie came back to Benson. “You can’t put someone on a Rule Three when you have no evidence. Whatever happened to innocent until–”
“Don’t bore me. These two lived as recluses. She’s dead, right? Who does that leave, Einstein?”
“You still need evidence.”
“That’s what I’m asking for. What have you got?”
“Footwear marks in blood so far.”
“What make?”
“Nike Air, it looks like. And some kind of a shoe.”
“Good, you found Nike Air at the burglary and that’s what we have from the cells.”
“Doesn’t prove he killed her. There were other foot–”
“It proves he was here. That’s enough to haul his arse in and start asking some pretty big questions.”
No argument there from Eddie, but, “How can you advertise him as Rule Three? He might not have killed her.”
“I think he did. Anyway.” Benson turned to leave. “We post him as provisional Rule Three. That way, we don’t get vigilantes knocking him off. When we get him in, he coughs to killing Alice.”
That explained the press – pre-ordered no doubt by Benson himself. “Why don’t you get it; he might not have killed her.”
“He’ll cough. Don’t you worry. Now, find me some more evidence.” Benson stopped by the front door. “And Eddie, don’t take too long with the lunch. Oh, and no booze, okay?”
The words sliced him, just as they were meant to. He was about to go outside, have a cigarette and wait for Ros, when his mobile rang. It was Mick.
59
Thursday 25th June
– One –
Mick buzzed. This was better than alcohol, and several times better than sex; even real sex, with another person. This was what he had waited for and he acknowledged it as the pinnacle of his career to date. He walked approximately six inches above the carpet, and for the first time in a decade, wasn’t thinking too hard about his next drink.
He rode the escalator to the first floor and then slid his card through the reader, allowing his entry into the staff-only sections of The Yorkshire Echo building. It was two o’clock and the office was frantic – a
s usual – with people running around desks, negotiating deals, securing space, others not bothering to run, just shouting to their colleagues. Computers hummed, telephones rang, and the air conditioning droned. He glided right through it, oblivious.
Today, Rochester would offer him a blowjob, performed personally, would buy him a shop-full of ties and give him a raise. He reached the door, took a deep breath and knocked.
Nothing. He knocked again, smile prepared. Nothing.
Mick opened the door and stepped inside. Rochester sat behind his desk, glanced up at Mick and thrust out a hand, holding it there as his eyes flitted around the room, not seeing anything, but he was obviously listening hard. Mick stopped dead, mid-step, mouth half-forming the first important sentence of his years at this newspaper. He could hear a hissing, and then noted Rochester pressing something silver deeper into one ear.
At last, Rochester said goodbye, pressed a button and stood, pulling his jacket from a hook on the wall by his large desk.
“Mr Rochester?”
“Mick, I have to go,” he flicked an arm, looked at his watch, “I’m late already.”
“But, Mr Rochester, this is the story of the century.”
Rochester put his coat on, face expressionless, ignorance apparent.
Mick stared. “Excuse me!”
“It will keep until tomorrow; I have a meeting and then dinner this evening.”
“Please, sir; this won’t take long–”
“Tomorrow, Mick.” Rochester almost ran around the desk, hooked his briefcase and was on top of Mick, almost pushing him out of the door. “Come on, move, man.” He barged Mick out of the way and set off across the main office.
Mick watched him disappearing through advertising, past electronic space, through classifieds… and then decided he was worth a thousand times more than any dinner. He wasn’t just some washed-up old hack; he was a man with talent and he was going to make sure Rochester considered himself lucky to have him on staff. “Rochester. Stop!”
[Eddie Collins 01.0] The Third Rule Page 34
