Reg grunted as the doors began to open, and for a second I thought he was going to collapse. Grant stood back to assess his handiwork.
“Grant,” I said. “What the fuck…”
Grant turned to look at me just as Reg swung a mighty blow that connected well this time. And although my world had been frenzied over the last minute or so, all the rush fell away quite suddenly. I saw a tooth sail past me so slowly I could have caught it, I saw a thin shower of blood speckle the air in front of my eyes before it patterned the lift wall, and I saw Grant’s face become a rumpled and creased façade of agony before relaxing as his entire upper body sailed through the open door. His head hit the concrete and sounded like a well struck cricket ball heading for a six.
And then it was all quiet.
Reg doubled up and the packet of cigarettes fell out of his shirt pocket. There was redness in that shirt, lots of it, turning it shiny. His face twisted in pain, his reddened knuckles propping him against the floor. His breathing was fierce, ragged, and he looked at me, almost pleading. And I stood there like a numb fool.
I always said I was no hero, just an average arsehole, no pretender, what you see, blah blah.
I left the lift and stood over Grant. That’s when I saw his eyes cloud over like they’d filled with milk from the inside. I even heard his final exhale. There were speckles of blood on his cheek, but that was about all. Any blood from the missing tooth was inside his closed mouth. But beneath his head more soaked into his hair. A one-punch kill.
Reg shuffled through the doorway and joined me, holding a hand over his belly, blood seeping out between his fingers and dripping onto the floor. He was gasping for breath, hyperventilating, and that’s when I saw the look in his eyes, the steely resolution, the admission of being a killer, the pride he felt at killing a scrote, remorseless. “Self-defence.” He staggered away towards 68.
“Reg. Get back here, I’m calling an ambulance.”
He stopped. Eventually, he turned and staggered back to me. I could see the knife in his hand and I could see the look on his face. At first I didn’t recognise it; I thought it was the pain that crumpled his face like that. I suppose it was, but it was the eyes – they’d changed, they’d become a killer’s eyes. And now they were looking at me. And behind them was a killer’s brain, and it was thinking like a killer; it was thinking things I shuddered to imagine. If I thought this horror movie had died when Grant did, I was wrong. And I almost couldn’t believe it.
“Stay put, Reg, till I’ve got the cavalry here. And an ambulance too. Okay?”
He shook his head. “No cavalry, Eddie. No ambulance.”
“You taking the piss?”
“Deadly serious, mate,” he said. “I’m walking away now. And you’re going to say nothing. Right? That’s how we work; you and me, it’s how it’s always been. Am I right?”
“Let me see. You’re guilty of false imprisonment – you admitted dragging the kid here, remember. You’re guilty of assault. And, this is the real doozy, you just killed the fucker! And you want me to what? Say he tripped? Or say I just found him like this?”
“You got it. That’s exactly how you’ll tell it.” The knife in his hand jerked. “Isn’t it?”
“Maybe if it was 1979, but things have moved on. I don’t give a shit if you were once a copper, I don’t give a shit if you were head of Scotland fucking Yard, you ain’t moving till CID gets here.”
“They’ll lock me up, and I can’t let that happen.”
“They don’t beat the shit out of people these days. You’ve got nothing to worry about. Self-defence, remember?”
This didn’t really impress Reg too much. The knife, rather than being a something timid and shy, twitching down the side of his leg, almost benign, suddenly became the centre of attention, shouting at me, getting in my face, threatening me.
Threatening me.
There’s one thing a potential enemy should always know about me: never threaten me. Ever. “Reg–”
The knife lunged and if I’d been a bit slower, if I’d not had that last coffee before I left home, the blade would have been somewhere inside my right eye by now. He was injured and he was a pensioner, but Reg moved like a greased whippet and what little bravado I’d displayed for his benefit pissed its pants and ran away. “Whoa, Reg, you drop that sodding knife now before–”
This time it slashed, its tip missed my throat by about the same distance as my supervisor’s stapler had missed my head this morning. Now I was panicking. I had nowhere to go, except back inside the lift, and that would have been the end of me.
We were facing each other, padding our feet like a couple of slim sumo wrestlers, and I had the feeling that Reg was enjoying this. I also had another, more sombre feeling. This was Reg’s swan song – the old saying “You’ll never take me alive, copper” bounced around my head and so did an image of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid rushing into a hail of Bolivian gunfire. It would have been funny if I’d had a sense of humour.
I did what I had to do. I slid the eighteen-inch Maglite from its loop on my belt. Reg nodded solemnly and came at me hard. He swung the blade, missed by a yard, and I swung the Mag upwards right into his chin. His head flipped backwards, he grunted and then hit the deck next to Grant’s body, the knife by his side.
I looked down at my radio and saw the pretty green LED flashing at me. It was only then I remembered to press the panic button on my radio. It breaks through all transmissions, sends a bleeping out to all radios and opens the mic so you can shout your address and status. All I wanted to shout was, ‘Bring coffee. And whisky!’
The first of them took about three minutes to arrive.
CID showed up while I was half way through my second cigarette. When they asked what had happened, I handed them my mobile phone. “I recorded it all.” And then I looked at Reg. “Old coppers never die, they just get twisted.”
Acknowledgments
Thanks...
There’s a long list of people to thank for helping to pull this, and all of my work, into something that reads like it was written by someone who knew what they were doing. Among them are my amazing family who go the extra mile to make sure I get the time to do this in the first place. There can’t be too many people who accept “I want to think of things” as a valid excuse to avoid life for a while – but it seems to work!
To Kath Middleton, Alison Birch, and Graeme Bottomley, a huge thank you for making sure the first draft wasn’t the final draft – you will always be the first people to read my books, and consequently always the first to point and laugh at my errors. It’s because of you that this has turned out so well, and it’s because of me that you had so much work to do to get it there.
I can’t begin to express my appreciation to Betsy Reavley Freeman and Fred Freeman of Bloodhound Books for their continued support and friendship, and for their enthusiasm for my books – you’ve no idea how grateful I am. Also from Bloodhound, and deserving of much more gratitude than I can display here, is Sumaira Wilson, Alexina Golding, Sarah Hardy, and my editor Clare Law, for the hard work and dedication they have shown in making these books the very best they could be, and then setting them free with a bang. Your enthusiasm is boundless.
Thanks also to my Facebook friends in the UK Crime Book Club, my Andrew Barrett page, and my Advance Readers page for their constant encouragement – who knew readers could be so assertive, demanding... and kind.

I would also to like to give a special mention to all of the wonderful bloggers who help authors and readers by sharing their views of our books.
And to some of the best groups on Facebook: The UK Crime Book Club run by David Gilchrist and Caroline Maston; the Eddie Collins Group, brimming with enthusiasm and support.
It would be remiss of me not to mention and bow my head to the magnificent people in the Advance Readers Team whose encouragement and help have no bounds – I’m truly grateful.
My warmest thanks to you for downlo
ading this e-book, or for purchasing the paperback. Without your support none of this would be worth doing.
I reserve the biggest thanks of all for my lady, Sarah, without whom the sun would never rise.
[Eddie Collins 01.0] The Third Rule Page 56
