It worked.
Just as Rochester turned to see who dared shout him like that, Mick set off after him. The office buzz stopped as quickly as a bluebottle under a rolled-up newspaper. Everyone stared as Mick chased Rochester down.
“Hope this is good.” Rochester looked not at all amused.
“Bet your arse it is.” Mick offered no subservience, no ‘sir’ this time. This time, Mick was king of the dung heap. “I need to talk to you in private.”
“I told you–”
“You don’t get it, do you? This isn’t me asking about a paisley tie or begging you for a pay rise or pleading for another chance–”
Rochester turned red. “Get on–”
“Remember me telling you how The Rules were…” He looked around. A thousand eyes peered at him. “We need to talk privately; this is bigger than anything this paper has handled before.” There was intrigue in Rochester’s eyes. “This is that world exclusive I promised you.”
“Farrier?”
“Not just him,” he whispered, “it goes into Whitehall. It goes into the Justice Ministry.” Mick paused. “Now do I have your fucking attention?”
Rochester pressed the button on the wire dangling from his ear. “Tony, hold the car would you. I’ll be along shortly.”
Mick made sure the office door was closed as Rochester retook his seat. “You have my attention. Use it wisely.”
He did, for almost half an hour. For the first five minutes, Rochester fidgeted in his chair and stole glances at his watch, but soon became absorbed, and forgot about the time completely. And Mick could tell how seriously Rochester was taking his story because his jaw opened fractionally with each new sentence until it was wide enough to cram the barrel of a WWII handgun neatly inside. Without chipping teeth.
“You used to support The Rules wholeheartedly.”
“I still do, but not while Deacon controls them.”
Rochester scratched his chin, “This changes our stance too. I need to work on what implications that will have for the rest of us.”
For a moment, Mick was dismayed. “Don’t bring this argument down to pounds, shillings and pence.”
“What?”
“It means more… this whole story means more than revenue, and it’s not about being a good bedfellow to the government.”
It took Rochester a moment to grasp Mick’s meaning. “I’m not in this for the money. This is my newspaper, the biggest in the group, and it has never bent over for an easy life. We get news, we print it.”
Rochester was enthralled enough to propose devoting two days’ front headlines to the story, and enlisting the help of The Sunday Echo for the observers’ points of view, and any further information Mick and the researchers could pull from the archives. He listened to Mick’s recorder twice through, made notes and then contacted his secretary to email a part transcript to the sub-editor with details of the proposed coverage and space needed for Mick’s main story.
There were editorials to prepare, straw polls to conduct… Rochester worked himself into a frenzy and Mick thanked God for the courage to bluff Henry Deacon. His mind flitted to the secret Henry mentioned.
“Take Suzanne Child as your number two,” he told Mick. “Treat her well and teach her the ropes.”
Mick blinked as though he were coming round from a bout of unconsciousness. “Okay,” was all he could say.
He left the office an hour and ten minutes after stepping in there, his scuffed shoes licked to a brilliant shine by Rochester’s tongue.
– Two –
The stairs to the first floor ran directly out of the lounge, and they creaked underfoot. Ros peered out of the hole in the rear bedroom window at the vehicles parked on the cobbled street below. Beyond them was a field of sorts where the drug barons hung out on the swings, drinking lager and cider. Ros thought of Eddie and wondered how he was getting on without an alcohol top-up.
“Hold on…” She leaned closer to the broken glass, saw the lone figure walking through her scene and was about to shout when she recognised the slight limp. Eddie? He carried his scene suit in his hand and waved to someone further up the street. Ros craned her neck and just made out the shape of a man standing by a dark blue car, door open. “Mick,” she whispered.
Ros leaned through the broken window. “Eddie?” He walked on, never even broke stride or glanced over his shoulder. “Where the hell are you going?” Eddie reached the waiting car. She tore a hole in her scene suit, searched inside for her trouser pocket for her mobile phone and dialled. He answered after three rings. “Eddie,” she said, “where the hell are you?”
“I’ll be back soon. Hold the fort for me, would ya?” And then he rang off.
– Three –
“I’ve walked out on a murder scene for this, I’ve left Ros on her own, I could get into…”
Mick smiled across the roof. “…a shit-load of trouble?”
“Yeah.” Eddie sounded deflated again.
But Mick had refused to talk about it until they were safely ensconced in Eddie’s flat. By which time Eddie was ready to throttle him.
Mick slammed the flat door behind him and Eddie wasted no time getting acquainted with the rum he’d bought yesterday, swigging straight from the bottle. “You gonna tell me what’s so urgent?”
“First, I’m going to get us a couple of glasses; we may be alcoholics, but we are not without decorum!”
Each sat in his customary seat, cigarette in one hand, glass of dark rum in the other. “This had better be good; I abandoned a major scene for this, and I abandoned Ros.”
Mick solemnly nodded. “It goes all the way to the top.”
“Will you stop talking in riddles and get on with it? I’m losing patience.”
“I know who was driving Deacon’s Jag when it killed Sam.”
They stared at each other. The rum tasted like nothing to Eddie. He gulped the liquor on autopilot; he could have been drinking water for the effect it had on him, or petrol for all he cared. “You went to see him? And?” Eddie held the glass and held his breath.
“It was him,” was all Mick said.
Eddie inhaled on his cigarette so violently that the filter collapsed and burned his lips. “Fuck!” He crushed the cigarette into his fist, and let it fall to the floor where he dragged a foot across the smouldering embers. “I think I’ve dropped the biggest bollock in my life.”
“Who have you hit this time?”
“I blabbed it round the office. I found all this evidence in the car and I blabbed ’cause I knew that no one other than the regular driver had driven it. I just knew it. And I was giddy.”
“Don’t worry who you blabbed to, it won’t make the slightest difference after what I found out.”
Eddie eyed Mick, not sure if he wanted to know.
“When I saw Henry Deacon today, I played the old two dictaphone trick on him. He told me everything.”
“Christ’s sake, Mick. What did he tell you?”
“Listen to this.” Mick drained his glass, laid the dictaphone on the table, and pressed play.
Eddie heard Mick’s voice, muffled as the machine had moved around inside his jacket pocket.
The machine played, and Mick’s voice said, “Strange. That blue Ford Focus belongs to me. I was sitting in it. I had my camera with me. It’s a beauty, one of those long range digital things that take wonderful–”
“Okay, okay, get to the point!”
“Hold on, let me wind it forward a bit.” Mick’s voice came through the tiny speaker, “Even your dad might not be able to lend you a hand. See what I mean?”
There was a considerable pause before, “Let’s assume you’re right, Mr Lyndon, how do I know you won’t carry out your threat anyway?”
At those words, Eddie looked across at Mick, raised his eyebrows. “This is Henry Deacon?”
Mick nodded.
“Henry, I am interested only in Lincoln Farrier’s murder. I assure you. I’m not interested in the bloody CSI
office, and I certainly don’t give a flying shit about Mr Archer on Leeds Road.”
Eddie looked up; Mick waved a hand. “Just words, that’s all. Now listen.”
Eddie did listen. He listened while Mick lied about having a girlfriend on the forensics team. He listened to Henry Deacon threaten Mick, and he listened as Mick asked, “How do you know this Sirius man?”
“Because he’s the one my father sent to help me sort out the Jaguar and then burn the CSI building.”
Mick pressed stop.
For a long time, Eddie said nothing. He relaxed back into his chair as though recently satisfied by a large Sunday lunch, reached for his cigarettes, and cried.
– Four –
“He said it all with no feeling. Like he ran over a fucking hedgehog or something. Has he no feelings?”
“He has feelings alright, but only for himself.”
“Bastard!”
“Though I have to say, for a man under pressure, he was remarkably subdued, no real evidence of nerves.”
“You a doctor now?”
“Eddie, don’t get shitty with me. There’s more to come yet, and it’ll explain what I mean about the pressure he’s under.”
“What did you mean about your car and some camera?”
“It was a cheap bluff and he bought it like his dad buys policemen. He burned your office, him and that Sirius bloke. Easy as tickling a trout.”
Eddie sank further into a depression and his eyes were drawn to the corner of the room where the seldom used vacuum cleaner lurked. It laughed at him. “I can’t understand why he fired the CSI building. I mean, I know it was to try and destroy evidence, but if he’s wise enough to find out which CSI from which office examined the Jaguar, you’d think he’d be wise enough to know we upload our DNA and fingerprints over to the relevant…”
“What’s wrong?” Mick sat forward.
“What time did he set the fire?”
“Not sure, why?”
“Everything is uploaded at one o’clock.”
“What about all your physical evidence, like the shirt sleeve?”
Eddie shrugged. “Won’t know until Jeffery’s checked the store room.”
“You shouldn’t worry; it’ll still come bouncing back on him.”
“Do you really think he’ll face Rule Three? I don’t. The scene I went to today, the one you dragged me away from, already has a provisional Rule Three suspect.”
“So?”
“They advertised a man’s identity before we even found anything, All they had was a name, just a man who could have done it. Deacon has gone well over the top; he’s forcing coppers into a competition; now no one cares if the guilty are caught and punished, they only care that someone’s caught and punished. It keeps the number-crunchers happy.”
“No, you’re wrong, Eddie. If the system fails, the public will revolt against The Rules–”
“Bollocks! Who’s to know if the system fails? Do you think they’ll publish their mistakes in your paper? I don’t. This guy they’re broadcasting now, this Christian Ledger, he might have been out of the house while someone killed the girl, and he’ll go down for it. Who’s going to stand up for him?” Eddie fell silent, the exertion of the argument caused his chest to heave and he eagerly reached for another cigarette, flexing his right hand after the burn from the previous one. “Get me a top-up, will ya.”
Mick refilled their glasses, sat back down.
“And what did he mean by his threat to have you killed? You mix with the most unsavoury characters.”
“And you don’t?”
Eddie thought of Benson, nodded his agreement.
“He means that if I go to press with this he’s going to see I end my days propping up the M1 extension.”
“He won’t do that.”
“How do you know?”
“They’re not building an M1 extension.”
Mick squinted at Eddie.
“What’re you going to do?”
“I’ve already done it.”
“Done what, Mick?”
Mick tilted his head to one side; gave a half smile.
“What? Are you mad?”
“I suppose I am.” He laughed out smoke puffs that added to the layers of smoke hanging around the room. “I gave him my word that I wouldn’t tell the police, didn’t mention that I’d print the story though. But it’s going out over a few days, not all at once.” He laughed, and then it fell quiet. “I think he was serious though, so if I go missing one day, I’d appreciate it if you could have a quick scout around for me.”
“Why did you write the story now? It could have waited till this had calmed down a bit, surely?”
“This is England; things don’t calm down anymore, they merely return to simmer. And anyway, the longer I waited the less chance I had of it remaining an exclusive.”
“You’ve opened up a right one there, you have. I don’t know the man, but he sounded pretty firm when he threatened you.”
“I’ve no doubt that he’ll consider coming after me.”
“There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?”
“Sir George Deacon is about to add his son’s name to Sirius’s to-do list.”
“You are shitting me.”
“And, strange at it sounds, I think Henry sort of trusts me. The fool. He knows he’s about to die and he’s holding back a present for me. It’s one of the reasons I went ahead with the story now, I think Henry Deacon needs this little old journo.” Mick leaned forward, pressed play again. “Listen to this.”
Mick’s voice again. “You saying your old man would fly you out?”
“He’ll have me killed. But he won’t wait until the full story comes out.”
“Forgive my asking this, but if he’s so determined to keep you out of the press and out of the slaughterhouse, because he’s worried about his career, then…”
“Why didn’t he kill me earlier?”
“Well, yes.”
“Because I blackmailed him.”
“With what?”
“Right now, I can look forward to a swift departure, but if I gave out my secret before I died, I suspect my departure may be elongated somewhat.”
“Shit. You say, ‘before you died’? What do you mean by that?”
“I have things to say, but I daren’t say them while I’m alive.”
“Then, how will–”
“Search for them. I’m sure if anyone can find my secret, Mr Lyndon, it will be you.”
“Is this the ‘use’ you have for me?”
Mick turned the machine off, stared at Eddie.
“I can’t believe it.” Eddie’s face showed shock. “His own father is going to have him killed?”
“He values his career, does our Sir George.”
“So do you.”
“Keeps me in this.” Mick tipped the glass at Eddie.
“And you thought he was an angel.”
“I always knew he was a slimy bastard, I said The Rules were an excellent idea. I still do think that, in principle. That’s why I always supported them, and that’s why I knew Sir George would see me. And that’s why I’m going to be the one to bring the fucker to his knees.”
“So what do you think his little secret is?”
Mick shrugged. “I have no idea. But I can’t wait till he’s dead; I’ll do some real digging then.”
“If you’ve published your story already, you might not have long to wait.”
Mick smiled, tipped his glass to Eddie and whispered in a mischievous voice, “That’s what I’m hoping for.”
60
Thursday 25th June
The surveyor had tutted like a plumber giving a quote. It took almost an hour before he finished and presented Jeffery with a Proceed with caution.
As the surveyor’s vehicle trundled off site, the fire investigator’s vehicle trundled on. It was gone within five minutes. Jeffery had not been quite so polite this time, but promised that if he found anyth
ing noteworthy, he would call them back.
His team consisted of three people. Any more would be counterproductive, since Morley CSI office was tiny; and now, with blackened and melted furniture, the twisted carcasses of lockers, and a floor-wide tangle of wires, he deemed it a health and safety hazard.
Before lunch, Jeffery had liaised with a dour young woman called Anne, the input from the Forensic Science Service.
Work began in earnest after lunch. Dressed in scene suits, steel-reinforced wellington boots and hard hats, Jeffery, Aadi, and Anne had cleared the main entrance of fallen notice boards, and sifted the charred remains for signs of accelerants. They had pulled out hunks of melted furniture, successfully removed the twisted lockers from just inside the main office, and trimmed back the lengths of wires that hung from the ceiling like garrottes ready for the careless.
Each time they triumphed with a little progress, Aadi photographed it. They meticulously worked through the scene, trowelling aside sodden debris until they cleared a large patch on the office carpet, aiming towards the far side of the office where the chargers, uploading stations and exhibit stores were. The expanse of carpet revealed two things to them. Firstly, a large blackened section neatly outlined against the relatively unburnt surrounding area.
“This is deliberate.” Jeffery stood with his hands on his hips. “Pool burning. And the rest of the carpet’s surface is singed. Vapour?”
Anne nodded her agreement, and Aadi approached with camera and nylon bag ready to take the obligatory sample.
Nearly two hours after this initial find, the carpet revealed its second and rather more significant “exhibit”.
Jeffery was half way through his latest cup of tea, wondering why there were the remains of so many CID6 books everywhere, when he spat out a mouthful and promptly dropped the cup. He scrambled across the damp floor, pointing. “There’s a hand!” Anne and Aadi watched in shock as he reached the desk, dropped to his knees and pulled aside a melted chair to reveal a charred set of fingers, and a thumb that had cracked open at the base. He could see red muscle and a slice of yellow fat gaping at him.
[Eddie Collins 01.0] The Third Rule Page 35
