And beyond him was Mick’s computer. It too was silent now, not even a cooling fan running, no bright lights blinking. Eddie wondered if Mick had sent the email yet, or whether he was still too busy composing his story. He could see the USB ports from here, and in the uppermost one was a stub of the memory stick they had rescued from Henry Deacon’s watchtower. The smashed remains of it lay smeared across the floor at the computer’s base.
81
Friday 26th June
“Kill the sirens,” Benson said. “Should be up here on the left somewhere.”
Two hundred yards later, it was; one left kink in the road and the sign for the farm appeared. The traffic officer braked hard and then steered onto the track. Benson reached over and cut the blue lights, and the driver shut off the car lights too.
“What’s the plan?” he asked.
“I haven’t got a plan,” Benson said. Sirius had offered Eddie to Benson, which meant he wanted Mick; and if he wanted Mick, it meant he wanted whatever Mick had against him or his boss – whoever that may be. And if Eddie was there, what would Sirius do to him? Benson wanted Eddie badly. “Making it up as I go along.”
There was a silver car parked on a narrow lane to their right, between the trunks of two trees, and what Benson assumed to be Sirius’s car parked just ahead, its interior light glowing, no one inside it. The officer brought his car to a halt a few yards behind it.
“Want me to come in with you or what?”
“Fucking right I do.”
“Well then, you tell me what’s going on.”
Benson looked across, and saw the officer’s no-compromise look. “There’s a bad guy, probably armed, who works for the government. I want him; he’s up for murder, government man or not. Inside are two other men, one a journalist who hasn’t done anything wrong, and the other is a renegade CSI who is on a Rule Three for murder. He’s armed too.”
“Fuck me.”
Benson climbed out of the car and into the rain, and so did the traffic officer, checking his weapon, water running from the black peak of his cap.
“So, what do you want me–”
“I don’t fucking know!” It was a shout, but muffled between clenched teeth, and further drowned out by the rain. “Catch the bad guys, I guess.”
“I feel uncomfortable about this.”
“So stay here and polish your car, you fucking wimp.” Benson ran through the rain and the dancing puddles towards the cottage.
82
Friday 26th June
– One –
Eddie’s eyes floated to the floor by Sirius. There was a thick red smear between Sirius’s part of the floor and his own part. And there was pain too, in his right side just below his ribs. Eddie wiped his fingers across the carpet until they were almost clean of Sirius’s blood, then found the source of pain under his shirt. Fresh warm blood coated his fingers.
“Fucking great,” he whispered.
The pain came on in slow rhythmical throbs that steadily increased in intensity. He wondered how much damage there was; he’d seen enough gunshot wounds to know that most of them, if not treated quickly, could prove fatal, and those that weren’t fatal incapacitated the victim extensively. But here, in the middle of nowhere, only an air ambulance could get to him quickly enough. And the odds of anything flying in this weather were zero.
He’d been shot in the leg last year and the bullet had nicked his femoral artery. He would have bled to death if the police officer hadn’t parted Eddie’s legs and stood on his inner thigh just below his balls. It had stopped him bleeding out.
And then guilt turned his watering eyes back to Mick, staring at his motionless back, at the lack of breathing, the lack of fidgeting. Mick was like a piece of furniture now. And he felt a great wash of sadness. All Mick had wanted to do was get the story into print, all he ever wanted to be was the best he could be, and now he was a piece of fucking furniture.
Poor Mick.
Had the story made it through to the newspaper?
Eddie held his breath and tried to stand. The pain in his right side was excruciating, but he didn’t scream this time, made himself stay silent except for a hiss through clenched teeth, and slowly he staggered to Mick’s desk looking for his mobile phone. He could feel the blood oozing down his leg, soaking into his jeans and gradually cooling.
Mick had told him to keep the phones switched off so the police couldn’t triangulate their signal and pin a location on them; but they were well past that now. He found Mick’s phone under a jotter, switched it on and waited for it to find a signal and scroll through its starting-up procedure. Seeing all the blood across Sirius’s neck and face, as though a wild animal had ripped his throat out, made him retch. But the phone drew his attention: two messages.
One was from someone called Rochester asking if he was okay, sent three hours ago. Eddie was puzzled at the name then remembered Rochester was Mick’s boss, the editor. The second message was from a Suzanne Child, sent an hour ago, and asking if he would mind her accessing his database.
Mick selected Rochester and pressed call. It rang five or six times before it was answered, “Mick?”
“No.”
“Who is this? Where’s Mick?”
“Mick’s dead.”
There was a pause. “Who is this?”
“My name’s Eddie Collins, I’m a friend of his.”
– Two –
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Ros, heart hammering in her chest, eyed the man. He was very short, maybe five-seven, but heavy, somewhere around sixteen stone. He was bald except for a narrow band of blonde hair than ran around the back of his head from ear to ear like a letter C that had fallen over. He wore crescent-shaped glasses perched on the end of his large nose. He was smiling at her. “It is,” she said, “very.”
“How much is it?” Chris asked.
“Ah,” the man pointed a finger at the ceiling, “that all depends.”
He wore smart shoes. And a gold-coloured waistcoat.
“On what?”
“You’ve admired the other paintings by the same artist, and you’ve seen the price of them. Now,” he whispered, “how much are you in love with The Nymph?”
“Beg your pardon?” Ros asked.
“The Nymph; how much do you love that painting?”
“You want us to make you an offer?”
“I do, yes.”
“It’s not even finished.”
“Never will be. The artist is dead, unfortunately. But I like to think that detail adds a little something to the picture; it adds, as if one were needed, a talking point. But crucially, it adds an air of mystery too. You will spend hours, as have I, wondering how he would have finished it.”
He shuffled back to where the smaller paintings were, to where light was better. “Look at it from here,” he said. “This is the spot from which I admire it the most.”
For the first time, Ros was able to take note of his snooker player’s waistcoat. And she could see the shimmering golden threads.
“Come, come,” he said, “stand and fall in love.” The little man turned Chris abruptly, but with Ros he took a little more care and turned her slowly, almost as though he were smelling her perfume, as though he were scrutinising her.
She turned, but before she had her back to him, she noticed in the golden threads up at the very top of the waistcoat, a smear. Chocolate or even gravy hastily wiped away, but its remnants remained visible only to an eye that searched for it.
“How much do you love it?”
“I couldn’t afford to love it as much as I’d like,” Chris said.
The little man laughed. “I understand perfectly.” Behind their back, he stopped smiling. “I have one more thing to show you. Follow me.”
– Three –
“I need to get access to his informants.”
Rochester sat behind his desk, contemplation on his face. He stared up at Suzanne, then nodded. “Okay, get into his database,” she had
already turned away, “and check his emails while you’re there.” She nodded and closed the door, and Rochester resumed his earlier musing, thinking not only of Mick’s whereabouts and his safety – he hadn’t heard from him since Thursday morning – but also of the story he was working on, the one he promised was an exclusive, the one that went right to the top of government. Of course he still had plenty of material to use, Mick had seen to it that Henry’s taped “confessions” were available to him, but there was more; he had insinuated there was much more, and Rochester knew Mick wasn’t lying this time. He had a certain enthusiasm in his voice he hadn’t heard in years.
And then Rochester’s mobile phone rang. It startled him out of his daydream, and read the screen: Mick Lyndon. “Mick?”
“No.”
“Who is this?” he asked. “Where’s Mick?” Rochester stood; ready to march out into the office to be at Mick’s station.
“Mick’s dead.”
Rochester’s fingertips touched his desk. “Who is this?”
“My name’s Eddie Collins, I’m a friend of his.”
Rochester tried to recall the name, but he was coming up blank.
“Are you at his desk?”
“What, no I’m… How did he die, what happened to him?”
“He was shot. Ever heard the name Sirius?”
Rochester eyes widened; oh yes, he’d heard that name before. “Sirius shot him? Are you serious? Why, what happened?”
“Have a look at Mick’s emails, see if anything reached you.”
Rochester somehow made it out into the office; the noise of people talking and of photocopiers and printers whirring didn’t exist; all he heard was this man called Eddie Collins breathing fast, as though he was under some kind of duress, “On my way,” he said. “Are you okay, Mr Collins?”
“I’ve been shot too, don’t know how bad it is.”
“Well–”
“Hurry up, Rochester.”
“Yes, yes.” He approached Mick’s desk where Suzanne looked up at him, saw the shock in her eyes, and wondered if he looked that bad. But Suzanne wasn’t shocked at the look in Rochester’s eyes, she was beckoning him over quickly. Rochester stared at the screen. “Oh my God,” he whispered.
“What’s there?”
“Erm, it’s linked to an audio file. It’s a transcript of an audio file.” He scrolled down the screen. “Mick’s put a story together around it.”
“Is that everything?”
“I’m not sure, hold on.”
“Hurry, Rochester.”
“There’s a crossword puzzle.” He looked up at Suzanne. “I don’t know what to make of it–”
“Decipher it and print it. Print it all.”
“I can’t just–”
“You have to! There’s fucking people dying out here. Fucking idiots–”
Rochester was about to reply, when he heard a sharp crack over the phone and a cluster of noises as though the phone had been dropped.
83
Friday 26th June
Eddie dropped the phone on the desk, and looked around, searching for his gun. The front doorknob banged against the hallway wall. He heard the rain beating on the footpath outside the front door. He saw the gun over in the corner. Footsteps on the stairs. He walked towards the gun, cringing at the pain. He could hear the rain louder, could even hear it dripping from the clothes of whoever was walking up the stairs.
He reached the gun. He bent, clenching down on a scream, and grabbed it.
Someone was out on the landing, very close. He could hear their laboured breathing, could still hear water from their clothes or their hair dripping onto the carpet. It reminded him of the moss in the back yard of his flat. Eddie squeezed himself up against the wall and brought the gun up to chest height.
The breathing worsened. “Fuck me.” Then Benson strode into the room, handgun down by his side, relaxed as though he thought the house was clear now. He walked over to Sirius, bent and took hold of his right hand. There was a deep injury just above the knuckles, healing, it appeared, but very slowly.
“Wondered when you’d show up,” Eddie said.
Benson stopped dead. He stood up. He didn’t look around, but Eddie saw him tense slightly. “Quite the serial killer now, Eddie.”
“Drop your gun and kick it over here.”
Benson dropped it, back-heeled it in Eddie’s direction. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you sober.”
“There goes another rib.” Eddie nudged the gun across towards the skirting board, well out of the way. “Where’re your friends?”
“On their way.”
“Who did you arrive with?”
Benson said nothing.
“May as well tell me; don’t want any nasty surprises. They make my finger twitch.”
“A traffic officer drove me.”
“He round the back?”
Benson nodded.
“When he comes inside, tell him to go wait in the car, and when the rest get here, tell them the same. Okay?”
“You know what they used to say in the old Westerns? You’ll never make it out of here alive,” Benson laughed and turned. His eyes immediately found the blood smeared against the wall behind Eddie. “Maybe sooner than I originally thought though. Shame, I wanted to kill you myself.”
“Take your coat off.”
“Fuck off.”
“I’m on a Rule Three, Benson. You’re talking to a dead man.”
Benson shrugged out of his jacket and let it fall to the floor. It thudded, the cuffs poking out of the inside pocket. “Now what, you want me to get down to my Y-fronts?”
“Put a pair of handcuffs on. I see you brought plenty.”
Benson ignored the ones in his jacket; instead he removed some from a small leather pouch on his belt, slipped them on his wrists and stared as if waiting for another order.
Eddie stared too, but at the spare cuffs. “You were going to arrest him, weren’t you?” He nodded at Sirius.
“He still alive?”
Eddie shrugged. “Haven’t heard him breathing, but check for a pulse if it’ll make you happy.”
“I’m not fussed. If he’s not dead yet, he soon will be; quite hard to live without a throat I should think.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why aren’t you bothered that he’s dead?”
“None of your fucking business. Now hurry up and die, Collins, so I can get out of here.”
“You got anything against Mick Lyndon?”
“Is that Mick Lyndon?” He nodded towards the man lying half on the desk and half in the chair.
“That is Mick Lyndon. Not guilty of any crimes whatsoever.”
“Then I have nothing against him.”
“That twat shot him dead,” Eddie whispered.
“That twat shot Lincoln Farrier a week ago.”
“Mick found something out about the government, and he’d found out who ordered Lincoln Farrier’s murder.”
“Figures.”
“That it, ‘figures’?”
Benson shrugged.
“You people look everywhere but in the right fucking places. Innocent people die because you fail to do your job properly.”
Benson stared at him. “This the final speech before you expire?”
Eddie brought the gun up. He saw Benson’s smile waver. He pointed the gun at Benson’s head; there were maybe three or four yards between them. He pulled the trigger.
84
Friday 26th June
– One –
Benson jumped, banged his head against the wall. “You dumb fuck!” he screamed. “Why did you do that!”
Eddie stared at him, amazed at how loud that was. The bullet hole was a foot away from Benson’s ear, and a cloud of plaster dust rose into the air as lumps of it hit the carpet.
“Any idea how many bullets this thing holds?” Eddie asked.
“Go fuck yourself!”
The front door banged again
st the wall again, and then a voice shouted up the stairs, “Boss? Boss, you okay?”
Benson closed his eyes, shook his head. Eddie stared at him, gun still pointed at his head. “Fine.” Benson called down the stairs, “Go sit in the car and play with yourself. And when the others get here, tell them to stand by.”
The front door closed, and the rain grew muffled again.
“You put me on a Rule Three for killing Stuart.”
“Taylor put you on a Rule Three, and it was provisional.”
“You can’t do that, don’t you see? It’s like you put that lad Christian Ledger on a Rule Three before we even finished the scene. I am innocent, and that kid is innocent too.”
Benson said nothing.
“Doesn’t that bother you? It might look good for the stats and the little competition you guys have with each other, but it’s wrong. Not only have you accused the wrong men, you’ve left the way clear for two real murderers to go about their business again. And that’s just the two I know of, there’s probably dozens more.”
“You’re guilty. He’s guilty.”
“And you don’t know all the facts.”
“Look, look, Collins. You’re slowly – too slowly – bleeding to death, and all we’re doing is batting shit at each other from across a room with two dead men in it. This is getting us nowhere. I believe you and the lad are guilty, you’re going down, both of you.”
“How about if I could offer you some evidence to prove my innocence?”
[Eddie Collins 01.0] The Third Rule Page 52
