[Eddie Collins 01.0] The Third Rule

by Andrew Barrett

  Eddie laughed, walked back into the lounge and poured a generous measure.

  “If you feel okay without, it begs the question of your alcoholism in the first place.”

  Eddie stood before Mick with a generous tumbler of neat whisky and, sniffing it briefly, he smiled at him. “I’m good, thanks.” Then he walked back into the kitchen, rolling his boxers down as he went, and laughing as he imagined the grimace on Mick’s face.

  “Please don’t turn around…”

  Eddie laughed again; the mood was lightening.

  “…but seriously, I’m amazed that a week ago you had signs of alcoholic poisoning, and here you are now without so much as a single withdrawal symptom.”

  He slammed the washing machine door, turned the dial and listened to the machine filling with water. He turned–

  “Hey.” Mick looked away quickly.

  “Sorry,” Eddie said and walked behind the door. “I have a headache, but that’s all,” he shrugged. “I can’t explain it; I’m just not bothered about booze. For the first time in months.”

  “Amazing.” Mick walked up the stone stairs, treading lightly on the carpet, almost silently.

  – Three –

  Ros sipped tea. She turned on the television just as the background picture of George and Henry Deacon blinked off the screen behind the shoulder of a happy smiley broadcaster with too much make-up on and whose breasts seemed determined to break free of the blouse that struggled to hold them. There was a banner scrolling across the bottom of the screen, just below the errant breasts, but all she could see before it changed to an advert for Robinson’s Barley Water, was the single word: Deacon. This was part of Channel 5’s breakfast news show dedicated to Rule Three “stars”. It was a gimmick, when it should have been about a successful new justice system rooting out the worst people in society and elimin–

  The plain red wall over the broadcaster’s shoulder changed into the evil-looking face of a dangerous criminal. Christian Ledger stared right back at her.

  “…and last for today is 1313, Christian Ledger, a twenty-eight-year-old male from West Yorkshire. Mr Ledger is a convicted burglar with a history of violence towards his victims. Yesterday he became wanted for the murder of his twenty-four-year-old girlfriend Alice Sedgewick who was found stabbed to death in their squat in Leeds. Ledger’s notoriety was further increased as he became the first person in the UK to gain provisional Rule Three status from his own crime scene, such was the confidence of West Yorkshire homicide detectives in his guilt; and, said a West Yorkshire Police spokesperson, it’s demonstrative of the level of commitment the police have in making The Rules work, and work quickly, which all helps to allay the fears of the general public…”

  Ros blinked, and then shook her head. “Bullshit,” she whispered. Really, what was the point of scene examination at all? They may as well pick a name out of a hat. “Incompetent!”

  She turned off the television and stared at the blank screen, feeling angry, grinding her teeth. She delved inside her handbag, took out her phone, and flicked through the contacts. She pressed CALL.

  “Holbeck CID, DC Cooper.”

  “Coop, it’s Ros from CSI.” She could hear laughter and banter in the background.

  “Hey, Ros, how’s–”

  “Is DI Taylor there?”

  “A minute.”

  She heard Coop’s hand cover the phone, and in a muffled voice heard him call out, ‘Boss!’ Coop took his hand away and said, “He’s here, Ros.”

  “Thanks.”

  “DI Taylor.”

  “Sir, it’s Ros from CSI.”

  “Hello, Ros.”

  “I just saw Christian Ledger advertised as a Rule Three.”

  “Number 1313, I think–”

  She could hear the humour in his voice, “He’s innocent! He shouldn’t be on a Rule Three at all.”

  “Ledger is one of Tom Benson’s jobs; you’ll have to take it up with him.”

  “He won’t listen; he said he wanted Ledger before I’d even finished the scene.”

  “I’m sure once he has all the evidence–”

  “He’ll go right ahead and ignore it. He wants the glory of–”

  “Ros, you’ll have to speak to him about it–”

  “He won’t listen.” Even Ros detected the desperate tone in her voice, trying to convince someone of something they have absolutely no inclination to hear.

  Taylor’s voice sank to a whisper. “If any evidence comes to light that shows Ledger as innocent, DCI Benson will listen, because once the Review Panel sees it, Ledger will be released and Benson will be in serious trouble. And he’s wise enough to know that, Ros.”

  “And what if that evidence is never recorded? What happens if the Review Panel don’t get to know about–”

  “Ros.”

  “They’ll kill an innocent man, and keep a murderer on the streets. It’s not all about stats, Alan. At some point we’re going to have to bring justice into the equation.” Her heart pummelled, she gripped the phone tightly enough to hurt her hand, and in a trembling voice was begging for the freedom of a man she had never even met… and losing.

  “Ros,” Taylor said gently, “I appreciate your concerns, but I’m not the one you should be bringing them to. I think DCI Benson knows how the law works and you have nothing to be concerned about.”

  “But–”

  “Have you seen Eddie today?”

  Ros stopped, dumbfounded. How could someone of Taylor’s stature ignore her; he’d always sought her opinion at scenes, had always sought her expertise when something special came up. Now he was blanking her as though she was interfering with something that wasn’t her business. And worse than cutting her off, was the abrupt change of subject.

  “Ros?”

  Ros pressed END and threw the phone. It hit the chair and bounced onto the floor.

  Composure was hard to come by when the world was falling into chaos all around her. Ros felt as though she were swimming against an inevitable tide that was strong enough to convince her for a moment that she had got things all wrong.

  There was no way she could sleep at night knowing government-sponsored bullets were killing the wrong people for the sake of conveyor belt justice.

  She snatched the phone off the carpet just as the damn thing rang. She shrieked and almost dropped it again. The number on the display was “unknown”. She breathed deeply, and pressed okay. “Hello,” she said.

  “Ros, it’s Alan Taylor again.”

  “Hello.” There was no noise in the background this time, so she guessed he’d returned to his office to make this call.

  “We seem to have been cut off.” He waited for her response, but Ros said nothing. “I have to ask again if you’ve heard from Eddie recently.”

  “No,” she said, almost confidently, “I haven’t heard from him.”

  “Let me just remind you that if you do hear from him, you must get in touch with us.”

  Us? Us? Why us? Did Taylor view her current situation differently from her previous situation? Was she one of them now, one of those outsiders, maybe even one of those dangerous people who consort with criminals! “I will,” she said quietly.

  “Okay, that’s good,” he said. “You spoken to Jeffery?”

  “Jeffery? No, why, should I have?”

  “You know he’s been working Henry Deacon’s scene all night?”

  She thought he was going to ask her to stand in and finish off the scene because Jeffery was exhausted, or perhaps there was a secondary scene needed looking at or–

  “We think Eddie had something to do with his death.”

  “With Henry Deacon’s death?”

  “It’s just a possibility. But he was definitely there, Ros.”

  “Eddie was there? How do you know that?”

  “We found his fingerprints. Climbing-in marks in a hall window frame.”

  Ros closed her eyes, couldn’t think of anything to say that would help Eddie. So she kept qui
et.

  “And there’s more, Ros.”

  “What more?”

  “He’s chosen to arm himself.”

  “Haha, Eddie? You know how much he hates guns.”

  “He fired the weapon when two officers gave chase.”

  Her eyes were wide now. Why didn’t Eddie mention this?

  “He fired it into the earth, maybe a warning shot, maybe a misfire, who knows.”

  “Oh my God. I don’t believe it.”

  “Believe it, Ros. And there’s one more thing you should know before you consider not letting me know if he contacts you.”

  “I already said I would.”

  “I know what you said, Ros. But let me leave you with this.”

  “With what?”

  “We found the bullet and the shell casing. Five o’clock this morning, a bleary-eyed scientist at ballistics checked them out. Both are a perfect match for those we found at your office, at Stuart’s scene.”

  Ros’s mouth fell open, and nothing other than a squeak came out. Eventually her mouth closed, and her eyes blinked as ridiculous tears fell onto the arm of her work sweater. “Stuart was shot?”

  “It’s true, Ros. And despite your lack of confidence in Tom Benson, you know how thorough I am about evidence.”

  Ros hung up and she stared at the phone. Then her eyes fell on yesterday’s copy of The Yorkshire Echo.

  72

  Friday 26th June

  – One –

  After an hour or so, the heat inside the car had dissipated. And for most of the night, Christian had been cold; not cold enough to awaken fully, but cold enough to keep his sleep shallow and fitful. And only now, as he realised the back of his eyelids were pale orange instead of the black he was used to, did he begin to surface into what he thought would be his first real day of freedom.

  The sun was full up over the horizon, piercing shards of light through the trees and the hedgerow right in through the windscreen. The delicate sound of bells from St George’s church half a mile away in Easton-in-Gordano, was a crisp contrast to the dull rumble of traffic on the M5 a hundred or so yards behind him. But the rumble was growing, and in another hour, it would be a loud enough roar to drown out St George’s voice.

  “He’s mine,” a woman said.

  “I saw him first!”

  “I heard you actually gotta touch ’em afore it counts. Like a game o’ tig.”

  The officer holding the M16 turned and eyed the crowd. “You go anywhere near and I’ll have you locked up.”

  “I’m only telling you what I heard.”

  “And I’m tellin’ you this ain’t a game, and if you go anywhere–”

  “Here,” the woman said, “what they doing?”

  The officer turned away from the small crowd as a colleague crept up to the side of the silver Nissan Micra. His weapon was extended, his steps were slow and deliberate, and his eyes never strayed from the vehicle.

  “What’s he doing?” the woman asked.

  “He’s gonna tig him,” someone replied. The crowd giggled.

  There was a light tap against the window. And he thought he heard someone laughing. Christian opened his eyes and peered upwards, straight into the barrel of a gun. Above it, an Avon and Somerset police officer smiled down at him and Christian’s world of dreams exploded into a universe of cruel nightmares.

  The officer motioned to the door and Christian groaned as the pains in his leg, his shoulder, head, and his bust lip, and his broken nose, attacked him simultaneously. He grabbed at the side of the driver’s seat and pushed it forward. The first tears fell as he reached for the door handle and the cold morning air leaked into the car as freedom leaked away. As he climbed out, he saw they’d parked a large four-by-four police car right up to the rear bumper of the Micra, just in case he had any thoughts about driving out of there. And nearby was a crowd of maybe ten or fifteen people, gawping at his every move.

  Once he was out, the officer spoke to him calmly, asked him to raise his arms, place his hands on the roof of the car and spread his legs. “I can’t,” he said. “I have a broken collar bone.”

  “You taking the piss?”

  “No. Really. I promise I’m not armed and I won’t resist, I just can’t raise my–” And then the officer was patting him down, taking no care of his damaged shoulder or his mashed ear, or the scratches running up his back from the gravel. All he could do was wince. And then they started.

  “He’s mine, you know.”

  “What you on about, I made the call!”

  “Alright, calm down.”

  “What’s happening?” Christian asked the officer who was now going through his jeans pockets.

  “I’m searching you, dummy.”

  “No, I mean–”

  “Oi, back behind the cordon, now!”

  “He’s mine and you gotta touch him–”

  “Get back!”

  “I ain’t lettin’ her–”

  And then they were on him. Christian turned to the officer who had been searching through his pockets, and saw the shock on his face. Half a dozen people in a frenzy, most of them women, knocked him aside and grabbed and yanked Christian’s hair, pulling his clothes. Christian screamed as someone pulled his arm and a bolt of white pain from his shoulder crashed into his brain.

  The crowd was growing, and Christian hit the ground before the police could regain control. Through their shuffling, mad legs, he could see other people running towards them. It didn’t matter to the crowd, who just wanted to lay claim to him, that he was on the floor, screaming in agony; they continued to pull him, smack him on the head, drag him by the clothes, or even kick him. He heard shouts of jubilation erupt from each of them in turn, and then shouts of frustration, then screams of their own, screams of pain as the petty violence began.

  He heard the officer request back-up.

  Christian saw four pairs of black shiny boots, but they were massively outnumbered by the training shoes, the business shoes, the high heels, all jostling, all fighting. It turned chaotic, and then, when someone grabbed his left arm and began to pull him upright, he blacked out.

  – Two –

  Whitehall is a myriad of rooms joined by corridors as complex and intricate as the veins in a human body. Behind the doors of those rooms, secrets as complex and intricate as the lies inside a politician’s head are formulated, rearranged, tidied up ready for presentation. Inside Room G23, Deacon squared things inside his own head, ready for presentation.

  Justine Patterson, Deacon’s aide, nodded at him from across the room. “Ready?” she asked, about to open the door.

  “Where’s the pepper?”

  In the crowded press room adjoining Deacon’s antechamber, television cameras were crammed against the back wall and journalists gently elbowed a little writing space with their neighbours, and photographers flanked the centre spread of chairs. The muted chatter of the gathered journalists – carefully selected by Justine – awaited the greatest show of the week. So far.

  One noticeable absentee from the seated crowd was Mick Lyndon; his absence from such an announcement by the politician central to his own speciality didn’t go unnoticed. Mick’s protégée, Suzanne Child, fielded questions about Mick from journalists with nothing more than a shrug, but as the representative of The Yorkshire Echo, she seemed to find it appropriate to remove her smile of good fortune and replace it with a sombre grimace of concern.

  The low rumble of chatter ceased as the door of Room G23 swung open and Deacon filled the doorframe for a moment. He looked around the room, took a deep breath and then walked to the lectern, head forward, arms swinging like he was some kind of sergeant major, or maybe like the old man who will not crumble in the face of absurdly horrid news. Justine silently pushed the door to and remained inside the room, peering out into the press conference.

  Deacon gripped the lectern, looked up and around the room. Cameras clicked, and he let them take their pictures before clearing his throat. They would be f
ocusing on his red eyes, the ones that had seemingly cried all night, they’d notice the slight greyness of his cheeks; but the resolute manner in which he held himself was still there.

  “My friends,” he began, “I want to thank you all for coming here this morning at such short notice.” Deacon’s voice had a feathery edge, an unsteadiness never heard before; this was a man struggling to keep it together.

  “Last night I was brought news that no father could ever wish to hear. My son, Henry, was found by the police dead at his home in Leeds.” Deacon swallowed hard and appraised the shocked, silent faces of the crowd. He blinked, and a single tear dropped onto the lectern. Cameras flashed, feeding on the moment: something poignant for the front pages perhaps. “You’ll forgive me if I keep this brief; not only am I feeling unwell, but Henry’s death is under police investigation.

  “I am told he was found just before midnight, alone in his house; the circumstances surrounding his passing are not yet known.

  “You will no doubt be aware that Henry chose to live a life not modelled around my own Christian values, and as a consequence, was not,” he paused, “always in the public gaze for the right reasons. In two separate incidents, Henry’s motor car collided with and, I’m desperately sorry to say, fatally wounded a man and a young boy.”

  At this point, Deacon could maintain the eye contact no longer, instead dropping his gaze to the lectern, shoulders hunched, knuckles white as he struggled to maintain a grip. Fifty-seven seconds elapsed before he took a huge breath, looked up, cleared his throat, and resumed. “I feel desperately sorry for the families of those two victims, and I pray for them constantly.

  “Though not yet conclusive, forensic examination of Henry’s car cannot rule him out as being the driver at the time of both tragic collisions. It seems reasonable to me that Henry was overcome by guilt for his recklessness and chose not to let justice take its course.”