Benson shrugged again. “Too late,” he laughed, “I mean look around, this place is like a butcher’s shop, and you’re the one holding the fucking gun.”
“That’s my point exactly! You don’t look beyond the obvious, you blindly accept whatever is presented to you; you need to see the whole picture, and that is precisely why forensic science is there.”
“Fuck off; I’ve been doing this job for twenty years.”
“Doing it wrong, obviously.”
“Like I said, fuck off.”
“Oh by the way, I forgot to mention: we’re being recorded right now.”
Benson snapped his head up then. “What?”
“I was on the phone to The Yorkshire Echo as you arrived. The line’s still open. Say hello.”
“Lying bastard.”
Eddie laughed, shaking his head. “Really, it’s true.” And then he took a breath, winced at the pain and said, “I have a proposition.”
“I don’t do deals with murderers.”
“Good, so you’ll deal with me. This gun killed Stuart in the CSI office.”
“Yes, your gun.”
“No, Henry Deacon’s gun. He’s already admitted to it–”
“Henry Deacon is dead.”
“I know–”
“And you killed–”
“Will you shut up!” Eddie flinched as the wound opened up. “And before you say anything else that falls into the category of utter bollocks, let me tell you that he,” he nodded at Sirius, “killed Henry Deacon, and that is implied on tape. And I couldn’t have killed Henry Deacon because the bastard was already dead when I found him!”
“Fuck–”
“By about four hours. And you can check that with your man, Taylor. Jeffery did the scene, and he’s no dummy, he’ll have worked it out. And this is Henry Deacon’s gun. I found it at Deacon’s place and I took it–”
“Why?”
Eddie was silent for a minute. “I don’t know why. My hand brushed it as I was feeling under a wardrobe, and I grabbed it, brought it out.”
“So why not leave it behind?”
“Because by then it had my DNA on it.”
“So?” Benson shrugged, “If you’re innocent–”
“Bollocks. No one dare use that old saying anymore.”
“…you have nothing to worry about.”
“Take your cuffs off.”
Benson shut up then. “How can I?”
“I’m not stupid, Benson. Take them off.”
Benson slid one hand out of the metal loop, wriggled the key out of the leather pouch and unclipped the ratchet from the other wrist.
“Here.” Eddie threw Deacon’s gun across the room.
It landed with a thump at Benson’s feet, and Benson just looked at him with narrowed eyes. “Why?”
“The only way to prove my innocence to you is to give you his gun. Have the remaining bullets examined for DNA, and you’ll find out that Henry Deacon loaded it. It was his weapon; I found it at his house after he used it on Stuart.”
“Proves fuck all. It might be his weapon, and he may have loaded it, but you could still have shot Stuart with it.”
“Now you’re bothered about proof! I went to his house on Thursday around midnight, Stuart was killed and the office set alight twenty-four hours before that. Prick.”
Benson stared at Eddie, mind lost in thought.
Eddie pulled the memory stick from his jeans pocket, waved it at Benson. “While you’re thinking about that, you can have a think about what’s on here.”
“Why? What is on there?”
“Confirmation of my innocence, confirmation that Henry Deacon and that bastard over there did everything that you’ve been running around arresting the wrong people for. Wait till it hits the headlines, then we’ll see who has an appointment with a Home Office bullet.”
Benson picked up his coat. Then he walked across the room and took Eddie by the shoulders, spun him round and with his fingertips, pulled up Eddie’s shirt.
Eddie squirmed. “How bad is it?”
“Looks like someone held a circular saw on your back.” Then Benson let the shirt drop and dug a knuckle into the wound. Eddie screamed and Benson moved close to his ear. “Ever point a gun at me again, you’d better not miss.”
– Two –
Chris sat on the shiny wooden floor, staring at the wall full of Christian Ledger’s paintings. He stared at them for some time, but his eyes wouldn’t quite focus on them; he saw straight through them, aware of their existence but unable to comprehend them.
On the floor at his side, the screen of his radio lit up again, and a voice came out of the speaker. He looked down at it. And then he tried to pick it up but couldn’t. The thumb on his right hand was missing. There was a large tear-shaped space where it should have been. The tear shape ran almost the full length of his forearm, and he could see the remains of tendons in there among all the blood, and some white string-like things that he assumed to be nerves.
He had held out his hand in a defensive gesture and the bespectacled man’s knife took it clean off.
In his lap was a puddle of blood.
A flood of piercing blue lights lit up the inside of the shop, glancing from the crystals in the chandeliers to make wonderful patterns on the walls and ceiling. The bell over the door tinkled and suddenly, the shop was full of police.
Chris began to cry. “I killed him,” he sobbed.
DI Taylor knelt by him. “Ros. Where is she? Is she okay?”
“He stabbed her. She’s alive but hurry. In the back room.”
85
Monday 29th June
– One –
Eddie was out of hospital at nine o’clock on Monday morning. The doctor had said the bullet, which had raked out a six-inch long trench of skin and burnt the surrounding tissue, had missed his kidney by a little over three-quarters of an inch. It had suffered some harsh bruising however, and he could expect to pass blood for the next few weeks.
Being in one of the better interview rooms in Holbeck Police Station was the first confirmation Eddie had that everything was going to be alright. The second confirmation was the coffee in a proper mug.
The third confirmation was when Benson knocked and walked in with Taylor; maybe he had tagged along as some kind of moral support. Maybe he was there to remove any smugness or gloating from one Eddie Collins. He need not have worried on that score, there was no smug and no gloat to be seen anywhere.
“Eddie.” Taylor held out his hand and Eddie reached up, winced, and shook.
“Eddie.” Benson did likewise, though it must have been difficult for him; the last remaining confirmation that all was well and good. Eddie shook, and the two officers sat down opposite him.
“We sent Henry’s gun off to the lab for overnight analysis,” Taylor said.
“And?”
Benson cleared his throat. “As you said, the remaining bullets had Henry Deacon’s DNA on them.”
“Am I now off the Rule Three for killing Stuart?”
“All charges against you have been removed. And I owe you an apology.”
Eddie could see those words coming out of Benson’s mouth with bits of flesh and blood sticking to them as though they had barbs on them. It must have been painful. But still he wouldn’t gloat because that would not be the right thing to do, ever. “Thank you.”
“And you were right about Christian Ledger.”
“About him not killing Alice?” And not once did Eddie even think of saying “I told you so”.
Benson nodded. “We found who the prints at her scene belonged to.” He then surprised Eddie by standing up and heading for the door. He turned. “I am genuinely sorry,” he said. Then he opened the door and left.
When the door closed, Eddie looked at Taylor, confused. “I never expected that from him.”
“When he said that ‘we’ found out whose prints were on the cash and easel, what he should have said was that Ros found them.”
– Two –
Eddie spent the rest of the morning in the station. He was knotted up with news of Ros. And then he’d spent until well after lunch in the posh interview room with Taylor, and then with Jeffery, but all the time he spent in there, his eyes were wet. He went through a box of tissues, and two whole boxes of regret and a crate of self-pity.
Jeffery wouldn’t let him go and see her. “She’s in a bad way,” he said. “Maybe visit her tomorrow, eh.”
He didn’t mean to be rude, but he just got up and let himself out, Jeffery looking on, wondering what he’d done to offend him.
– Three –
Just as Eddie was knocking on his own door, Christian Ledger was leaving Yorkshire altogether. He had hired a van, and had very carefully strapped all his recovered paintings into the cargo area. In boxes tethered to the sides were his old easel, some boxes with tubes of paint inside, his brushes and palette knives and his palette too. He was heading south, towards Devon, and a rather splendid studio house on the coast.
In his pocket was a cheque that would see him alright for years to come, and in a carrier bag in a box in the back, was more cash than he had ever seen before, a generous interim payment from Her Majesty’s Government.
In another four hours he would approach Sedgemoor services and this time, he would drive right on by without so much as a second glance.
– Four –
Eddie’s smile drifted away.
She was taking a shower, that’s all, or she was, you know, otherwise indisposed. He cleared his throat, rehearsed the lines over in his mind again. Hey, listen, I brought you some flowers, Jilly. They’re just a little token to say I know I’ve been a prick these last few months, but I’m good again now, and if ever you need me…
“Where the fuck is she?” he whispered.
He knocked again, louder, listened at the door.
Eddie walked around the back of the house, and like the front, the curtains were still closed and everything was locked up tight as a drum.
He began to get worried. He trotted back around the front of the house, cringing at the pain in his back, and feeling small tingling sensations developing in the pit of his stomach. He banged on the door, peered in through the letterbox. “Oh come on, fuck’s sake!”
It took him thirteen kicks to break through it. He found her in bed.
There was a small trail of reddish mucus leaking from her nose. She was very pale and her lips were tinged an awful blue colour. The tablet bottles were arranged neatly on the bedside table; the note and the pen she’d used to write it with were alongside.
It seemed as though she had taken a bath, blow-dried her hair, even put on a little make-up, then sat down to write the note in a cool and calm way, taken the tablets and climbed into bed, pulling the quilt up around her shoulders just like she always used to.
The note said, ‘Eddie, I still love you very much, and I always have. Forgive me please, but I just can’t live without my Sam. Jilly x x x’
The Yorkshire Echo. 29th June
By Michael Lyndon
Our saviour is a murderer
SIR GEORGE DEACON was the stoutest proponent for turning Britain into a nation of law-abiding and decent citizens who respected each other’s privacy, property and lives; a nation that believed in fairness and equality.
This reporter met with Henry Deacon shortly before he was murdered at his home in Leeds. And what Henry Deacon passed on to me caused his death.
He told me that his father, Sir George Deacon, would soon have him killed for being an embarrassment to him. In a shocking hour-long interview, Henry Deacon revealed exactly how callous his father was, and what he was prepared to do to gain power as one of Great Britain’s top government officials, in charge, ironically of the Justice Ministry. Once he had that power, Sir George Deacon intended to keep it – at any cost.
I have a transcript of a secretly recorded conversation made by Henry, between Sir George Deacon and his bodyguard who goes by the name Sirius, [but whose real name was Brian Thornton – Ed]. The plan was hatched even before the GBIP came to power, indeed it was a plan that was supposed to help them get to power, and instigate the implementation of the new Criminal Justice Reform Act – known commonly as The Rules.
The plan was simple: murder the then Shadow Minister of Justice, Roger King, outside his home in Kensington. Sirius was instructed to use a handgun and at point-blank range, as close to his front door as possible, “to gain maximum effect and cause maximum outrage”.
The next year, GBIP swept to victory riding on a swell of public fervour and enthusiasm for The Rules, which became law not long afterwards.
King was seen as the weak link in the proposed justice system overhaul, and killing two birds with one stone, by making his death abhorrent to the public who already despised gun crime, ensured Deacon’s promotion to Minister of Justice.
But Sir George Deacon’s criminal activity did not end there; indeed, it was just the beginning.
Part of Henry Deacon’s package of information directly links Deacon Snr and Sirius to the senseless murder of Lincoln Farrier. This has subsequently been confirmed by forensic analysis of a police-only fingerprint and DNA database.
Sirius teamed up with Henry under instruction from Sir George to destroy the Jaguar motor car that was responsible for killing two people in Wakefield on the same day, an act that had the potential to cause embarrassment to Sir George.
Abducting a youth to cover Henry’s car in his own trace evidence failed, so too did their efforts to kill the youth.
The Jaguar was then recovered by West Yorkshire Police and forensically examined, leading Sirius and Henry to burn down the police building that stored that evidence.
Fortunately that effort also failed, but during the attempt, a member of West Yorkshire Police forensic staff was shot dead.
All information provided to me has been passed to the police to aid their investigations, but I am able to confirm that several other cases of murder and attempted murder by Deacon and his subordinates are also being investigated.
The ministry was also criticised by many as putting pressure on law enforcement agencies to bring swift justice to alleged miscreants at the expense of the truth.
This man created a monster when he devised The Rules, and indeed he has put the public faith in them in utmost jeopardy; Howard League for Penal Reform is but one organisation crying out for their removal.
We hope that Deacon Snr is served with a fate befitting his new title: murderer.
After all, if you want to kill serious crime, you have to kill serious criminals.
The Yorkshire Echo. 29th June
By Suzanne Child
Death of a hero
MICK LYNDON was shot dead in his home in West Yorkshire.
He died while sending this newspaper information given to him by Henry Deacon, and more he had found as a result of coded messages left to him after Henry Deacon passed away. Part of the information Mick was passing along was hidden inside an encoded crossword puzzle by Henry Deacon.
This newspaper deems it correct to pass on to the Great British public just how scared Henry Deacon was of his father, and to illustrate the lengths he went to in order to make sure the story got to the right person – Mick Lyndon, who gave his life for his work.
We will miss you, Mick.
Inside the black boxes were hidden directions given to Mick by Henry Deacon so that he could find the incriminating recording already written about on the headline page. We have kept them blank because that location is now the subject of forensic investigation.
If you look at the white boxes however, reading from right to left, top to bottom, you will see Henry Deacon’s admissions of guilt and acts of which he suspected his father. Here they are, laid out below:
IF YOURE READING THIS MY FATHER HAD ME KILLED
SIRIUS KILLED ******* (Blanked out to protect identity)
I SHOT SOCO AND SET FIRE
STOP MY FATHER THE GREAT PRETENDER
REST IN PEACE FORGIVE ME FOR KILLING LITTLE BOY WAS AN ACCIDENT
Epilogue
The fight had been valiant, had been like watching a modern-day enactment of David and Goliath, he supposed. But they were all against him; even Sterling Young snubbed him, had distanced himself wonderfully. And Deacon supposed he couldn’t blame the man. But the speed of his ostracism had still been something of a shock.
They had stripped him of his title. And that was a sad thing. How he had loved to hear people refer to him as sir.
Deacon looked from one person to the next, and he didn’t recognise any of them. This made him ever more confused and for a moment, he shook his head as though trying to clear away the rubble inside and see the reasons for his actions. But the rubble remained and the once proud and often pompous Mr George Deacon was guided into a wheelchair.
The wheelchair buzzed along the brightly lit concrete corridor. They were somewhere beneath Park Lane between the Bridewell and the courthouse. And next to the courthouse, was the affectionately named slaughterhouse. Deacon could feel the intensity of his heart beat increasing, despite the drugs they had given him to keep him well.
When they had first suggested it to him, he had laughed. “You want to keep me well in order that you may execute me?” he had asked. With straight faces, they had nodded. It was like the Geneva Convention: thou shalt not stab thine enemy with a rusty bayonet, lest he catch blood poisoning.
The little wheelchair buzzed, and the entourage – three in front and three behind – clopped along on the grey-painted concrete floors, but he thought that he could still hear them. The crowd, chanting above him outside the court and slaughterhouse, unaware, perhaps, that he was only a few yards beneath their feet.
[Eddie Collins 01.0] The Third Rule Page 53
