A murmur spread quickly around the room, and Deacon watched it pass from person to person before quashing it with a polite cough. “Like any other citizen of the United Kingdom, Henry would have faced swift justice under the new Criminal Justice Act and it is likely he would have been the subject of a Rule Three directive. I don’t want to prejudice the police investigation, but this seems the most likely of outcomes to me.”
Suzanne Child, audio recorder thrust towards the lectern, stood up. Eyes swivelled towards her, cameras moved on their mounts, Deacon stared down at her, and Justine Patterson looked from the doorway of G23 with concern on her face.
“Sir George, Suzanne Child, The Yorkshire Echo–”
“No questions today,” Justine said from the doorway.
But Suzanne chose to ignore her. “On behalf of all my colleagues here, may I thank you for having the strength to speak with us this morning.” She remained standing.
Deacon eyed her with suspicion, and then mellowed slightly, taking the gesture at face value. “I believe there would be much speculation circulating very quickly had I not, Miss Child. And I also wanted it known, difficult for me though it is, that Henry would have been granted no special treatment because of my position.” He focused on Suzanne. “It is very important that the, ah, execution of this legislation is seen to be impartial.”
“Thank you, sir. A building housing the forensic evidence from your son’s car was set on fire in the small hours of yesterday morning…” Rumbling and gasps came from her colleagues, one man even reached up and gently grasped her elbow, but Suzanne pulled it free, kept her eye on Deacon. Justine Patterson walked briskly into the room.
“Do you know if Henry had anything to do with the fire? Instead of feeling guilty, he actually tried to evade justice.” Suzanne watched Deacon.
Justine said, “That will be all for today, ladies and–”
“Perhaps you’re aware that the body of a police employee was found in the same building?”
The mumbling in the crowd ceased immediately; cameras flitted between her and Deacon, watching his face turn from the ashen grey of a grieving father to the scalding red fury of an accused man, of a man whose family name had just been thoroughly trashed.
Justine took Deacon by the arm, surprised him, and brought him back to where he should be inside his mind, like an actor picking up the cue and finally going with it. He brought his handkerchief to his eyes and sobbed, allowed himself to be ushered from the room, hunched over like a wounded man.
The door to G23 closed loudly, and the room burst into explosions of activity, of people clambering for the exit, of others gripping mobile phones to their ears, replaying his words on recorders. Throughout it all, Suzanne Child stood quite motionless, and smiled to herself.
Justine slammed the door with the heel of her shoe and Deacon shook himself free and threw the handkerchief angrily at the wall. “Get me something to get this bastard pepper out of my eyes. Now!”
– Three –
Sirius wasn’t allowed to feel tired. He did, of course, but he refused to let it affect him; he subconsciously promised his body all the sleep it could handle when this shit was over. For the time being though, he had to remain alert. Not only because he feared Deacon’s wrath; but because he wanted the job to end well to protect his professional pride – despite the error with the old man’s suicide note. And once the job had ended, Sirius vowed to look for a new, more stable employer.
He’d been greedy; the need for wrapping this up quickly had clouded his judgement. It turned out that he couldn’t do it all alone, and had wasted over five hours before he’d brought in a small team to help.
On the passenger seat, the radio beeped once, and a green LED blinked. “Six,” a voice said.
Sirius reached over and picked it up. “Go ahead.”
“Triangulation results from Collins’s phone came through.”
“Coordinates?”
“496 743 to 532 789.”
Sirius unfolded the map, scanned it for the coordinates and looked confused.
Those coordinates showed an area approximately 400 square miles, mostly uninhabited, three small villages at the outer ends of the coordinates: Allerton Bywater, Kippax, and Garforth. But in the centre was nothing. And then he saw it: in the middle of all the villages was Great Preston, the place he’d visited with Henry Deacon. The Ordnance Survey map showed a large crater in the earth, something like an, “Opencast mine. What the fuck was he doing there?” He clicked the button. “Six?”
“Go ahead.”
“Try for air support.”
“Already did, they say the weather is outside safety parameters.”
“What about the number he sent the message to? Who owns it?”
“It’s a pay-as-you-go number, unregistered.”
“Out,” Sirius said. Now he was getting nervous. Mick Lyndon and Eddie Collins had been to Henry Deacon’s house last night, had walked neatly into the trap and were running from the police. But they’d left Henry’s house with something, an A4 envelope. And now they had been to the place where Henry had abandoned the Jaguar. Sirius failed to make a connection between the two events.
What was it Henry had said about the opencast? He’d played there as a kid, had his first shag there… so what? Sirius punched the steering wheel, and then grimaced at the pain in his hand from the stab wound.
It was obvious that Henry had seen the opencast as an adventure playground, probably knew it quite well, felt happy there, trusted it. It would make an ideal place to hide something valuable. But what? What would you hide in an old opencast mine that you wouldn’t hide in your home, or in your bank?
And how were they getting around?
Sirius picked up the radio again, clicked the button. “Five?”
“Five, go ahead.”
“Update.”
“No change. Collins’s car still here, Lyndon’s car still outside the pub, and no one’s been near the flat.”
He sighed, clicked the button again. “Two?”
“Go ahead.”
“Update.”
“No change, Jilly Collins hasn’t left the house all night, car still here.”
“Fuck!” Sirius screamed inside the car. “Six?”
“Six.”
“Wakefield taxi companies, see if anyone went to Great Preston overnight.”
“Copy, will take a while.”
“Just do it!” Sirius threw the radio onto the seat and stared straight through the rain-sodden windscreen at the old woman’s house. “Fuck it,” he said and climbed out.
He ran across Coach Road in Kirk Steeple, raindrops bouncing off its grey surface, rivulets coursing along the gutters. He ran up the garden path and knocked on the door. He knocked again before it opened a fraction and stopped on the chain. “Mrs Lyndon?” he asked.
“Yes, dear.”
“Can I come in?” He glanced skyward.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Davies; I work at The Yorkshire Echo.”
The door closed and then the old lady opened it fully, letting Sirius into the house. “Thank you,” he said, water dripping from his face.
“Oh, dear, you’re all wet.”
“Have you seen Mick, Mrs Lyndon?”
“Michael? No, not for a while, dear.”
“He hasn’t been at work, and we’re getting a little worried for him. This is his registered address.”
“Oh yes, he puts this address on all his forms and such,” she said. “But he moved out years ago, set up in a cottage somewhere. He said he likes his privacy, not that he didn’t get privacy here, I mean, he had his own room and I never went in, except for Fridays, because I like to clean through on Fridays–”
“Do you know where his cottage is?”
Mrs Lyndon became quiet, stared down at the “welcome” mat, then slowly up the wall and across to Sirius. She shook her head. “No, dear. I never asked and he never told me.”
“Do you h
ave his number?”
“Is he alright?”
“We’re trying to find out. Do you have his phone number, Mrs Lyndon?”
“Oh yes,” she beamed, “I have his number. Won’t you come through?” She turned her back and led him into the parlour. “Would you like some tea, dear, I have biscuits too,” she said, “but they’re only plain digestives. I used to like the milk ones, but they made–”
“No thanks, just his phone number please.”
She shuffled to the telephone table, a low thing covered with a sheet of red velvet. An old-fashioned beige phone occupied most of the table, but next to it was an indexed folder. “He never answers me, though; he always calls me because I can never get through to him when I try.” She moved the little slider down to the letter M, hit the button and the lid sprang up and revealed only one entry in a sloping hand: Michael.
Sirius peered down at the entry.
“Do you have a piece of paper? I have a pen here, see.”
“No, thank you, Mrs Lyndon, I’ll remember it.”
“If you’re sure,” she said. “I used to have a memory like that, but now I’m afraid…”
Sirius stepped back out into the rain, pulled his collar up and ran back to the car. The number she had for Mick belonged to The Yorkshire Echo switchboard.
73
Friday 26th June
– One –
Christian came to in a white-painted cubicle. At one end was a light blue door, and at the other a light blue curtain. Sitting on a plastic chair, and leaning forward to stare at his mobile phone was a police officer; and next to him was a cart with medical dressings on its three stainless steel shelves.
There was noise outside the curtain, hushed voices, keyboards being given a thorough workout, the sound of trolleys being pushed around.
From here, he could see the officer’s watch, a large face with red digital figures proclaimed it was 9.46. He had been unconscious for two and a half hours.
Christian’s shoulder still throbbed, only now his arm was constricted by a padded sling that crossed behind his neck and forced his shoulders back. His ear too felt different, it felt clean but the hearing was muffled by a gauze. The worst pain was in his nose; couldn’t smell a thing through it, and he was forced to breathe through his mouth. His tongue licked lips that felt foreign to him. And then he realised his top lip had a stitch in it.
Before he could close his eyes again, the officer looked up, saw Christian’s open eyes and smiled. “Looks like my cushy number for today just woke up, eh?”
An hour later, Christian’s surroundings were a whole lot more depressing. The walls were grey brick, the door was grey steel. He lay upon a blue vinyl pad, and his good hand scrunched up a green blanket.
His newly purchased clothes were in a clear bag inside a locker somewhere. For now he wore a dark tracksuit with bright orange lines down the sleeves and down the sides of the legs. A large orange P filled the chest. He wore a pair of bright orange plimsolls.
Christian’s eyes flicked to the door as a steel peephole slid down and an eye filled the small round space. The peephole slammed shut and the levers inside the door clapped loud like a private thunder. The door swung open. Bright light from the corridor made him blink, and then a pair of silhouettes reduced the glare. “Right, boy,” one of the men said, “coffee and a bacon butty. How’s that sound?”
Christian grunted.
“How’s the clavicle?”
“The what?”
“Shoulder. How’s the shoulder?”
“Painful.”
“Get used to it, boy. In three hours, you’ll be back in West Yorkshire. They’re looking forward to your return. I’ll bring that bacon, eh?” He slammed the door, but Christian could hear them talking as they ambled up the echoing corridor.
“How did they catch him?”
“Put it this way, there’s a little old lady in Bradford who’ll never have to raid her pension money to pay for another blue rinse as long as she lives.”
Christian closed his eyes.
– Two –
She couldn’t work it out. She’d been up this corridor a million times, nodded to officers as they passed by, raised her eyebrows in a silent hello to people from CID with whom she had worked on a million cases. But her palms were sweating.
And when she reached his door, Ros found her fingers trembling as she made a fist to knock. She swallowed, drew her no-nonsense stare from somewhere deep, and rapped.
Within a few seconds the door was almost ripped from the frame as Benson opened it. His bulk was intimidating, but her stare remained strong. His glare made her feel uncomfortable, as though she were about to ask for an undeserved wage rise.
“What?”
“Sir, I just wanted a quick word.”
“Busy. Go away.” Benson slammed the door, and Ros blinked a long blink. The no-nonsense stare departed quickly and in its place was a lump of humiliation and defeat about the size of a fist.
Benson slammed his office door and for a moment, he gazed at his reflection in the mirror on the wall. His eyes had darkened, his hair seemed to be receding even further and the hair that was left was greyer and thinner than he remembered. “Happens to us all,” he whispered.
From his desk drawer he took out a shaver and began making himself a little more presentable. Today was going to be a good day, he could tell. The shaver buzzed and his mind hummed with music from the police band as he walked towards the smiling chief constable. He could see the gathering of press jostling for a better position, flashes erupting as the chief shook his hand. Both men turned to the press and gave them a duo of perfect smiles.
Benson bared his teeth into the mirror, noticed their yellowing and the stains on them, the blackness between them down at the gum line. He made a note to get to the dentist soon as he could.
The audience, in the ballroom at HQ, applauded long and hard, and toward the end of that applause, there were whistles and cheers. All at once, Benson felt his cheeks flush. And now the smile wasn’t forced anymore, it was natural and the sparkle was back in his eye, and the chief leaned in and whispered congratulations. “You have rejuvenated West Yorkshire Police,” he said.
And the smile was still there as he studied himself in the mirror. He didn’t want it to fade away, it felt good and it felt refreshing, and for the first time in thirty years of hard slog police work, he felt justified in having a smile at all.
All he needed was for Christian Ledger to take a bullet and everything would be as nature intended, the scales of justice would be a little more in favour of the public, and another piece of shit would be off the streets; West Yorkshire Police would again look good. The whole country would look good!
And she had gone away. Well, twenty yards at most. Inside her head, she cursed herself for being so easily intimidated.
Ros headed right back to Benson’s office, and by the time she got there her chest was heaving with hot breath and below the smooth skin of her cheeks, her teeth ground away menacingly. This time she did not knock, this time she marched straight in and it was she who slammed the door.
Benson was standing before a large mirror, preening himself. He was pulling down the eyelid under his right eye and staring at its redness. He never flinched when Ros burst in. She stared at him angrily. “Don’t ever be so rude to me again.”
Benson blinked a couple of times to reseat the eyelid and then he began laughing at her. He turned and continued laughing.
The fire in Ros’s chest lessened somewhat and her grinding teeth quietened.
“Rude?”
“Yes, rude.”
His laughing eased into a smirk, and he said, “Get the fuck out of my office, girl, before I kick your sorry arse out of here.”
“How dare–”
“Now that was rude.”
“You are a dinosaur.”
“You’re going to have me in tears if you keep calling me names. I have a very delicate side.”
“I
need to talk with you.”
Benson took up his seat and leaned forward, fingers laced on the desk blotter. “Sit down, Rose. You’ve got three minutes.”
“I’ve got as long as it bloody well takes, and you know my name is Ros, so stop it with the cute remarks.”
“You know who you’re talking to?”
“An arsehole.”
Benson’s eyebrows rose at that, and he leaned back, folded his arms.
Ros sat, cleared her throat. “Christian Ledger has been arrested in Bristol.”
“So my sergeant wasn’t lying to me!”
“Will you please be serious?”
“At the risk of being rude to you again, you have done your duty, you have done it well, and I appreciate it. Now piss off and leave the rest of it to me.”
“You’re making a mistake.”
“The man is a criminal, Ros. I am not making a mistake.”
“He’s a burglar, not a murderer.”
“Ergo, he is a criminal.”
Ros stared at him. “You think that’s sufficient? You’re allowed to try a man and then kill him for something he didn’t do?”
“He did do it; I told you that at the scene. And I don’t give a sideways fuck if you have a different opinion–”
“It’s not an opinion, it’s a fact.”
“What have you got? What fact have you got that says to me the man did not kill Alice Sedgewick?”
Ros leaned forward, “I have fingerprints on the easel in the cellar that do not match Christian Ledger, I have fingerprints on a roll of cash from the cellar that do not match Christian Ledger.”
“No! Aw shucks,” Benson said. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Who do they belong to?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Okay, I’m not getting that warm fuzzy feeling yet.”
“We found golden threads on Alice’s body at the stab site.”
Benson shrugged.
“After you abandoned me at the scene, I was assaulted. I was knocked unconscious,” Benson’s eyes narrowed, “and when I woke up, some of the paintings from the cellar had gone.”
[Eddie Collins 01.0] The Third Rule Page 46
