[Eddie Collins 01.0] The Third Rule

by Andrew Barrett

  “Now it’s making sense. She sells his art to a dealer. The dealer brings her home, takes more art and leaves a token payment. And when she gets greedy, he kills her and just takes what he can carry.”

  “Then we show up–”

  “And he waits; gets his opportunity to clear the place out when you’re on your own.”

  She thought about it. “It’s a good theory. It covers her leaving the house to buy the lottery ticket, it covers the money, the unidentified prints, the unidentified footwear marks in her blood in the kitchen, and I suppose it accounts for the golden threads.”

  “What golden threads?”

  “We found golden threads under Alice’s nails, and on her clothes at the puncture site.”

  “From the snooker player’s waistcoat?”

  “That’s what I think, yes.”

  “And Benson ignored all this?”

  She only looked at him.

  “That man’s incredible.”

  “We had them looked at, these golden threads, and it’s called Kreinik, or Japan thread. It’s not metal based so it doesn’t tarnish during use, but it’s very delicate, can’t wash it regularly. It’s less than half a millimetre thick.”

  “You know,” Chris said, deep in thought, “I have to wonder where the Christian chap is during all this.”

  “Oh, don’t you start!”

  “I’m not taking Benson’s side, I’m just wondering, that’s all.”

  Ros dropped her pen on the desk and rubbed her tired eyes. “I have no idea. There was a hammer in the lounge with his blood all over it. Draw your own conclusions.”

  Chris scratched his chin. Then he got up, took the Yellow Pages from a shelf. “Let’s find out where the greatest concentration of art dealers is.”

  “Got to be Leeds city centre.”

  – Three –

  Sirius had parked near Ros Banford’s home in Normanton for half an hour. Nothing. No movement at all.

  And now he was parked in the town centre, his thoughts shattered by a vidiscreen.

  It flashed the faces of wanted people, their names and numbers and the Crimestoppers number, all in a deep red. These were regularly interspersed with news of those the police had captured; same photo, blue name and number beneath them, blue Crimestoppers number too – no doubt something psychological about it.

  Sirius stared at the screen, waiting it for it to cycle through the mug-shots. He’d seen it once, just a glimpse before it moved along to the next criminal. Seven minutes went by before his face came up on screen again, blue writing below proclaimed, ‘In Custody: Christian Ledger’.

  He stared at the face; a face he knew very well. But the last time he saw that face, it was a red mess and it was disappearing over the edge of an opencast mine. Sirius went cold.

  – Four –

  By the time they had sorted out the helicopter, Christian was exhausted again. For some reason, they’d landed at some South Yorkshire Police building, and he was driven to West Yorkshire by a pair of traffic cars. The further north he travelled, the worse the weather became; gusting winds and strong rain.

  According to the clock on the wall behind the desk sergeant, it was three-fifty. Had his plan worked successfully, Christian would have been eating along the seafront in Penzance, a pint of lager by his side and a view to die for. He looked around the Bridewell, and to his surprise, he found that he still had a view to die for… in a much more literal sense.

  Two armed officers stood within four feet of him, his wrists were cuffed. As well as the sergeant’s bored face, Christian stared into the black hole of a Shelby Industries video camera, his own personal documenter of his demise. Unlike Holbeck, this wasn’t so much a conveyor line of miscreants; Christian was treated as a little more special this time, his own piece of desk and only one sergeant to stare at, no noise from other offenders.

  “Name?”

  Christian looked from the camera back to the sergeant. The sergeant waited a few seconds, then looked up from his keyboard and sighed.

  “Name?” he asked again.

  And there was the choice. Answer and get it over with, or keep quiet and let them struggle.

  “Longer this takes, worse it looks for you. Longer it takes, more annoyed people are with you, less likely to get cream in your coffee, more likely to get powdered milk. Making sense?”

  “Christian Ledger.”

  The sergeant didn’t even bother to smile at the victory. This was routine to him, a hundred times a day, not even worthy of a mealtime bragging session with the wife anymore.

  “Date of birth?”

  The booking-in procedure swallowed another twenty-two minutes of Christian’s life, and then a medical examination another thirty-seven. The file that followed Christian around from room to room grew thicker by the minute. And then, at last, two detention officers and two armed police officers marched him into a carpeted corridor. Rows of wooden doors on the right, and above each door, a green and a red lamp. Some lamps were green, most were red.

  The small entourage stopped outside a door with a green lamp above it. The label on the door read D43.4. The lead DO opened the door, and nodded at Christian, “Okay.” He moved aside, allowing Christian and an armed officer access.

  Around the periphery of the room was an inch-thick black alarm tape with a red LED strip running through its centre. Sound-deadening tiles covered the walls and ceiling, just a couple of tiles missing to accommodate a pair of video cameras; one pointing at the interviewers and one at the interviewee.

  “Sit down, Christian,” one of the two suits sitting at the other side of the desk said, shuffling papers into a new order, barely looking up.

  Christian sat and rested his cuffed hands on the desk. The armed officer took up position on a bench to his right. On the wall above the desk, was some kind of comms panel, with “D43.4” scribbled on it in black marker. And above that, a digital clock threw minutes away at an alarming rate.

  Eventually, one of the suits looked up, cleared his throat. “Everything we say and do is being video recorded. There is no stop or start button, it’s on all the time. Okay?”

  Christian nodded.

  “Would you like a drink, Christian?”

  “Yes please.”

  “What would you like?”

  “White coffee, no sugar, please.”

  The suit nearest the wall pressed a button on the panel and said, “Refreshments, please.”

  The speaker in the panel hissed, “Go ahead.”

  “Two white coffees without sugar, one black coffee without sugar.” He paused, looked past his colleague towards the armed officer, who evidently shook his head. “That’s all, thank you.”

  “Okay.” The hiss from the panel ended and the suit returned his attention to Christian.

  “I am Detective Constable Ian Webster, this is Detective Chief Inspector Benson, and over there is an authorised firearms officer, collar number 7322. Is that clear?”

  Christian nodded.

  “Please speak your answers.”

  “Clear.”

  “Good. I shall run through the preliminaries, by which time our drinks and your solicitor should have arrived. You need to stop me if any of the details are incorrect; that is very important, okay?”

  “Yes.”

  DC Webster read from several sheets on the desk before him. His voice was monotone, as familiar to this business as had been the desk sergeant. “Your name is Christian Ledger, you are a white male aged twenty-eight, date of birth 24th May 1987, and whose primary residence is England, United Kingdom, and whose primary language is English. You have no dependants and no known next of kin. You have been certified as physically and mentally capable of being interviewed as stipulated under the Administration of Justice Act 2012.

  “Your personal items and effects have been seized under the Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984 and are securely lodged here at West Yorkshire Police Leeds Bridewell in locker C176. Cash money to the value of 487 pound
s was among your belongings, and under the Administration of Justice Act 2012, an amount not greater than fifty per cent, that being 243 pounds and fifty pence, has been confiscated as part payment of compulsory legal advice and representation. The balance is repayable by yourself or your estate as detailed in the above act should you be subsequently found guilty of the charges against you; a leaflet explaining this payment is offered to you now.”

  He slid the leaflet across the desk until it touched the cuffs. Its title was: Helping to Pay Your Debt to Society. Christian stared as Webster read without looking up. Webster’s eyes followed row upon row of text on countless sheets of paper. Benson was emotionless. Cold eyes stared right at him, making him look away instantly. When Christian dared to sneak another glance, he was still staring.

  Webster continued to read.

  “You were cautioned by officers in Bristol–”

  Just then, Benson’s mobile phone rang. “Excuse me.” Benson stood and left the room.

  “DCI Benson exits the room,” Webster said, not breaking stride from his monotone voice.

  Benson stepped into the corridor and answered his phone. “Sirius,” he said, pulling the door closed. “I’m busy–”

  “I know you are. Christian Ledger, right?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Is this a secure line?”

  “What is this about?”

  “I want you to let him go.”

  “What the fuck are you–”

  “I have business with him.”

  “He’s here, he’s mine, and I’m gonna see him dead.”

  “As I said, I have business with him.” There was a pause as Sirius licked his dry lips. He whispered, “Set him free, I need to deal with him.”

  A DO with a tray of drinks walked along the corridor, his leather shoes squeaking. He smiled at Benson, and Benson ignored him, waited until he’d disappeared into the interview room.

  “Tough. I did shitloads of work for you, risked my neck getting you info, without so much as a thanks. You had your chance and you fucked it up, this whole thing is unravelling for you and whoever you work for. Time for me to take a large step back out of your limelight.”

  “Okay, stop there,” Christian said as Benson was half way through closing the interview room door. The name he heard sent a shiver riding down the deep scratches on Christian’s spine.

  The wall clock said it was 3.42.

  Webster looked up from his notes with the disappointment of a man stopped in full flow. “What’s up?”

  “Never mind.” Christian stared at the cuffs and felt the throb in his shoulder.

  “Under the Offences against the Person Act 1984, you have been arrested for the murder of Alice Sedgewick on Tuesday 23rd June of this year. You do not have to say anything. However–”

  There was a knock at the door. It squeaked open and the DO entered with a tray of Styrofoam cups. “Detention Officer 546 enters the room with refreshments.”

  DO 546 set the tray down.

  “Can you take his cuffs off now?”

  The DO nodded, slid a bunch of keys from a pouch and leaned over Christian. There was a strong smell of sweat as he extended his arms and fiddled with the cuffs.

  75

  Friday 26th June

  – One –

  There were twenty-four art shops listed within the nine square miles of Leeds city centre. Of them, thirteen could be discounted as art and craft materials shops, and four others had closed down since the directory had been issued.

  Ros and Chris parked the van in Millgarth Police Station, close to the central bus station, since they figured that’s where Alice would have begun her great adventure. They scanned the map for the closest shop on the list, and began walking, ignoring those who stared at them in their uniform.

  Away in the distance, they could hear the demos in full swing up by the Town Hall; the loudhailers thundering all day were a regular thing, even in the rain.

  They arrived at the first shop less than ten minutes later, and peered in through the window. There were prints on hole-board display walls, birthday and Christmas cards, balloons and even fancy-dress clothes on two central rails. At the far end was a pair of middle-aged women engrossed in chatting, pointing to the magazine on the counter before them.

  They walked on, and Chris looked again at the map. The next shop was completely different. They again looked in through the window at shelves of fine art. There were no price tags visible.

  “If you have to ask, you can’t afford it,” Chris said, and opened the door. Classical and contemporary art lined the walls and there were mobile shelf units scattered around the wide-open store with more draped across them, chrome and glass everywhere, parquet floors that gleamed. “May I help you?” An elderly gentleman appeared from behind a counter of sorts, more like an island made of opaque glass with chrome adornments.

  “Do you buy art?” Chris asked.

  “I have to buy art, sir, in order to sell it.”

  “If I walked in with a painting,” Ros said, “would you offer to buy it?”

  “Ah no, not really.” He shuffled closer. “I mean it would have to be an extraordinary piece, and it would have to have a paper trail. I could not commit to buying anything without proof of ownership.”

  “Have you been approached in the last two weeks or so by a young woman trying to sell you some paintings? She might have said that her boyfriend painted them?”

  “What might she look like? I see quite a few young ladies.”

  “Scruffy, five nine, very thin–”

  “Blonde,” he said. “Drug addict too? I told her to leave.”

  “When was this?”

  “Tuesday, as I recall.” His head tilted to one side, “What’s she done?”

  “You’ve been a great help, sir, thank you very much.”

  “Oh please. I’m interested in what she’s done–”

  “She’s dead,” Ros said. “Murdered.”

  The man covered his shocked mouth with a hand. “Oh, my. I’m dreadfully sorry.”

  – Two –

  Benson could hear the desperation growing in Sirius’s voice. And he loved it.

  “How would you like to get your hands on Eddie Collins?”

  Benson blinked. “You know where he is?”

  “Getting there.”

  “Whoopee.”

  “He’ll be in the bag soon, and he’s yours if you set the kid free.”

  Benson’s eyes were unfocused though his mind ran at light speed. It would be a catch worth two Christian Ledgers. Not only the status it would afford him, also the effect it would have on the public’s perception of him and of the force as a whole – not afraid to bring your own to justice, or kill him while trying.

  It was tempting.

  But getting the kid off would be a massive task. He had built the case against Christian inside his head, as he always did, could repudiate any mitigating evidence or circumstance. It had worked on Ros this morning, and it would work for him again. He could undo it all if he had to; he could begin to set Christian Ledger free in an afternoon of form-filling. Easy. All he had to do was call Ros’s evidence, turn it around and make it work in Ledger’s favour. And when he’d done that, CPS would throw the case out, and if by any chance they didn’t, then the Independent Review Panel would for sure.

  How, though, would it make him look if he “lost” the case against Ledger? It would mean Ledger would be back on the street – a known Rule Two burglar – and it also meant there was a genuine murderer out there still to have his collar felt. It was a tough decision.

  “See what I can do,” he said to Sirius. “Call me back in an hour.” Benson checked his watch, it was 3.45. He shut the phone off, slid it into his jacket pocket and walked back over the stains in the carpet and past the flaking pipe work towards D43.4 just as a DO escorting a man in a suit and carrying a briefcase, approached him. The door was ajar and so the DO waved the man inside, turned and walked away agai
n.

  From the corridor outside, Christian could hear voices, shoes patting on the carpet as they approached. Benson and another guy entered the interview room. Webster looked up and nodded at Benson, saying, “DO 546 exits the room, DCI Benson enters the room along with?”

  Benson retook his seat, and resumed his glare at Christian. The new suit placed a briefcase on the floor and sat heavily next to Christian. “My name is Anthony Cruickshank, I am the legal representative of…” He pulled a sheaf of papers from the briefcase, glanced at the cover, and said, “Christian Legger.”

  “Ledger,” Benson corrected. “His name is Christian Ledger.”

  “Oh, beg your pardon.” Cruickshank corrected his notes with a chrome pen, then checked his watch. “Shall we say three-thirty?”

  “No, we’ll say three-fifty, because it is three-fifty.”

  Christian closed his eyes, he was not hopeful.

  “Gentlemen,” Webster said, “we have run through the preliminaries, and a copy of this and any interview tape will be made available to you, Mr Cruickshank. So shall we begin?”

  Cruickshank nodded. Christian’s heart rate bucked and his head sank lower.

  Benson leaned forward. “Tell me why you killed Alice Sedgewick.”

  “I already said I didn’t kill her.”

  “You were there when she died.”

  Christian shook his head. “I wasn’t.”

  Benson looked at Cruickshank. “You have the pre-interview disclosure document. You know we have scientific evidence that puts Mr Ledger there at the time of her death.”

  “What evidence?” Christian asked.

  “Your footwear mark in Miss Sedgewick’s blood,” Webster said.

  “Explain to me how it got there.”

  Christian stared from Webster to Benson, and then across to Cruickshank. “I don’t know.”

  Benson placed his hands on the desk and smiled at Christian. “Shall I tell you how it all happened?”