The Rule

by David Jackson

  Hannah marched as quickly as she could back to the lane where the car was parked. She needed the words to fade into the distance. She wanted to scream to drown them out. She needed to get in the car and drive away and never come back again, not to this house or the police station or anywhere people knew her.

  She reached the car and grabbed the door handle. Found it wouldn’t open.

  ‘Boss—’ Marcel said.

  ‘Unlock it.’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Unlock the fucking door, will you?’

  He blipped his key fob and she yanked the door open and jumped in and ordered him to get her the hell out of there.

  15

  Alone in her office, the ability to focus on work gambolled beyond her grasp. Her door was partially open, and from the CID room across the corridor came the ringing of phones and the slamming of file cabinet drawers, which were fine, but also the buzz of conversation punctuated by laughter, which was not. Were they talking about her? She kept telling herself that Marcel wouldn’t have said anything about her behaviour at the farmhouse, and yet she could just imagine them making jokes at her expense.

  First day on the case, she thought, and already I’m a laughing stock. They think I’m useless. And maybe I am. Why did I let Myra Cobb get to me like that?

  She thought about Devereux, and the brass above Devereux. About how big their smiles would be if they knew about this.

  First day in, and already it’s going to shit.

  A knock on her door, and Marcel poked his head round. She told him to come in and close the door. She started speaking before giving him a chance.

  ‘About what happened earlier—’ she began.

  ‘Boss, there’s no need. Honestly.’

  He was trying to help her, but it irritated the hell out of her. She needed to get this off her chest.

  ‘Let me speak, Marcel. I want to apologise.’

  Marcel squirmed in his seat. He had a heart of gold and unbounded loyalty, but touchy-feely stuff always made him uncomfortable.

  ‘I allowed the Cobbs to get under my skin,’ Hannah continued. ‘I shouldn’t have. And then I got snappy with you, and I shouldn’t have done that either. So I’m sorry.’

  Marcel shrugged. ‘No worries, boss. I get a lot worse from the wife.’

  Hannah smiled. ‘If I do it again, you have my permission to give me a bollocking.’

  Marcel shook his head. ‘Definitely not like the wife.’

  Hannah felt suddenly brighter. I can do this, she thought. I need to start trusting my team.

  ‘How’s it going?’ she asked.

  Marcel seemed to realise why he’d come in. ‘Oh yeah. I think we’ve hit on something. Got a minute?’

  Hannah followed him into the CID room. Marcel guided her over to one of the desks, where DC Trisha Lacey was tapping away at her computer.

  ‘What’ve we got?’ Hannah asked.

  Trisha opened up a map on her screen. It was overlaid with a number of circles. ‘This is tracking information given to us by Cobb’s mobile phone provider.’ She pointed at one of the circles. ‘From Saturday evening right through to Sunday morning he was somewhere here. Then the signal moves south to here. Later on Sunday it moves again, ending up at the landfill site.’

  Hannah studied the pattern. ‘Each of those circles has a pretty big radius. Any chance we can narrow it down?’

  ‘Not from this data. But look . . .’ Trisha zoomed in on the map until one of the circles filled her screen. ‘Notice anything?’

  Hannah stared for a few seconds, and then her eye caught it.

  ‘Communion Road. The tip!’

  ‘Yup. Body had to have been dumped there, along with the phone.’

  ‘Can we be sure?’

  ‘Couldn’t have been anywhere else, not in this area. Yesterday was a Sunday, remember. No bin collections. The tip was open, though.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘We contacted the company that runs the landfill site. Their logs confirm that deliveries were made from that tip yesterday.’

  ‘Excellent. Good work.’

  ‘That’s not all,’ Marcel said, a gleam in his eye.

  Trisha Lacey opened another window on her monitor. ‘This is a list of calls made to and from Cobb’s burner phone. A lot of the more recent ones are from his mum, but this other number crops up a lot.’

  ‘Do we know who it belongs to?’

  ‘It’s another unregistered number, but what we do know is that its usual location is also in the area that Cobb stayed in on Saturday night. Then there’s this . . .’

  Another window, another list.

  ‘This relates to calls on Cobb’s other phone – the number his mum gave you.’ She touched the screen with her biro. ‘This one is a call to a local taxi firm. Cobb was banned from driving, so he’s been getting around by cab. We contacted the firm and asked about the call. They told us exactly where they took him on Saturday.’

  ‘Where?’

  Trisha shifted her pen back to the map. ‘Here. A block of flats called Erskine Court.’

  ‘Did they take him home again?’

  ‘That’s the funny thing. Cobb had arranged for the firm to pick him up again at six, but there was no sign of him outside the flats when the taxi pulled up. The driver says he gave Cobb a ring, and Cobb told him he was getting a lift and didn’t need the taxi anymore.’

  ‘Do we know it was Cobb who did the talking? Maybe he was already dead.’

  Trisha shrugged. ‘We know it was a male, but the driver didn’t record the call, so we’ve nothing to go on. That said . . .’ She double-clicked to open another file. ‘This is a list of known associates of Joseph Cobb. It’s a work in progress, but it’s already quite the rogues’ gallery. At the top of the list is a very familiar name.’

  Hannah craned forward to read the tiny text. She had recently started to think she might need glasses.

  ‘Ah, yes. Barrington “Drugs R Us” Daley. Why am I not surprised he rears his ugly head in this?’

  ‘Right,’ Trisha said. ‘But have you seen his address?’

  Hannah squinted again, and it was as if the characters jumped out at her. ‘801 Erskine Court! Well, fuck me sideways!’

  ‘Is that an order, ma’am?’ Trisha asked, grinning.

  Hannah laughed. Straightened up. ‘Right. Get down to that tip. Talk to the staff, pull in any CCTV footage you can get hold of. Marcel, get your make-up on. We need to go and talk to our friend Barrington.’

  ‘Yes, boss. Stilettos or flats?’

  Hannah turned and headed back to her office, a big daft smile on her face. She wanted to jump and click her heels in the air.

  Things had suddenly picked up.

  Out in the corridor, she flipped a finger towards Devereux’s office.

  16

  A gang of youths was milling about in the foyer of Erskine Court. Some were smoking, some supping from cans. As Hannah and Marcel headed for the lift, they heard calls of ‘Nee-naw, nee-naw’ and ‘Five-O!’ and ‘All right, darlin’?’

  Hannah smiled at them and said, ‘Calm down, lads. You’ve got too much Red Bull in those lager cans. One day you might be ready for a proper drink.’

  The youths threw ribald comments back at her, but she laughed them off and stepped into the lift.

  ‘You think they’re worth questioning?’ Marcel asked.

  ‘You think they’d tell us anything worthwhile?’ she replied.

  The lift took an age to reach the eighth floor. When it did, 801 was directly in front of them. Marcel rapped on the door. It was answered immediately, as if the occupant had been standing on the other side in anticipation.

  Hannah wasn’t sure what she was seeing at first. The door chain was on, and through the gap she could make out what seemed to be a yeti with sunken eyes. She held up her ID.

  ‘Open up, Barrington. We’ve got questions.’

  Some hesitation, and then, ‘Shiiit.’

  The chain was
taken off and the door pulled wide. Hannah now realised that Barrington was wearing a fur-lined parka that was several sizes too big, as if his mother had given it to him along with the promise that he would grow into it. He had the hood up, the whites of his eyes shining out from its depths, like an animal in its burrow.

  ‘On your way out, Barrington?’ Marcel asked as he and Hannah stepped into the flat.

  ‘Nah, man. Why’d you ask?’

  Marcel simply waved his hand up and down, indicating the coat.

  ‘Oh, this! Nah, man. Place gets cold, you know? This is just me keeping toasty. Saves on the heating bills, you get me? Some people, they like dressing gowns and shit. Me, this is how I do it.’

  ‘It’s only October. What do you do when the ice and snow get here?’

  The glow within the hood brightened as Barrington grinned. ‘See, that’s when I find me a nice woman to keep me warm at night.’

  ‘So you didn’t just get a phone call from downstairs telling you that the police were on the way up, and you thought it might be a good time to go for a walk?’

  There was a rustle from within the hood, suggesting that Barrington was shaking his head.

  ‘Uh-uh. I don’t do walks. I don’t hardly go out. I like it here. This is my Batcave, my Fortress of Solitude.’

  Hannah sighed. ‘But instead of a cape or a mask, you have a parka – that right, Barrington? At the risk of revealing your true identity, can you at least lose the hood for a few minutes? I like to see who I’m talking to.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be saying that if this was, like, a Bercow. That shit would be racist, man.’

  ‘The word is burka. Bercow was the Speaker of the House of Commons. And when the parka becomes a recognised item of religious attire, you can take me to court. The hood, Barrington. Now.’

  Barrington pushed back his hood and displayed a piano keyboard grin: white teeth separated by dark gaps that were almost as wide.

  ‘Doesn’t that feel better, being able to breathe again?’ She looked around the living area. Saw untidiness and stains and dust. ‘What’ve you been up to lately?’ she asked.

  Barrington straightened his arm to point to a frozen image on his television. His hand was barely visible beyond the end of his sleeve. ‘Playing on the Xbox, mostly. That zombie fucker is fierce, man. He always smokes me at this point in the game. Always.’

  ‘And this is how you make a living?’

  Barrington laughed and stuffed his forearms into pockets that looked capacious enough to hold a week’s shopping.

  ‘Nah. This is how I chill. How I wind down.’

  ‘Wind down after what? A hard day’s work? What do you actually do?’

  ‘This and that. Wheeling and dealing. You know how it is.’

  ‘Funny you should mention dealing . . .’ Marcel said.

  ‘Uh-uh. That’s just an expression, man. Don’t go putting no extra meaning on it.’

  ‘So you’re not dealing? That’s not how you make your money?’

  Barrington put a hand to his heart. ‘I am a reformed character. I am rehabilitated, you know what I’m saying?’

  ‘So if we bring in dogs to search the place?’

  ‘Be my guest. I am clean. My crib is clean. I am, like, a polygon of virtue.’

  Hannah didn’t bother to correct him this time. She knew they had no grounds to search the apartment, so there was little point in pursuing that line of questioning.

  ‘Seen anyone lately, Barrington?’ she asked.

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘Anyone. Friends, acquaintances. Even a superhero like Parkaman must have friends, right?’

  He shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Specifically, I’m thinking of Joseph Cobb.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Joseph Cobb. And don’t tell me you don’t know him, because your nose will grow so long it’ll be sticking out of your hood.’

  ‘Oh, you mean Joey.’

  ‘Yeah, Joey. Seen him recently?’

  Barrington pursed his lips and searched the ceiling for answers. ‘Nah. Must be, oh, at least several months since we last hooked up.’

  ‘But I guess you must have spoken to him on the phone at least?’

  ‘Hmm, let me think. Nah. Nothing there, man.’

  ‘Really?’

  Another shrug. ‘What you want me to say? It’s been a while. That’s it.’

  ‘Okay.’ She paused, watching him. Waiting for him to say something. Barrington’s eyes darted around the room.

  She said, ‘Don’t you want to know why I’m asking about him?’

  Barrington considered this, then nodded. ‘Sure. He in trouble?’

  Hannah narrowed her eyes. The question seemed genuine enough, but then Barrington was well-versed in lying to the police.

  ‘Let’s just say we’re looking for him.’

  ‘Then you came to the wrong place. Like I told you, I haven’t seen—’

  He was interrupted by a muffled ringtone. Some sexist anti-police rap.

  ‘You want to get that?’

  ‘Nah. It can wait.’

  ‘No, seriously, Barrington. Answer your phone. We’ve got all day.’

  Barrington unzipped a pocket on his coat and reached in. Pulled out a mobile phone. Glanced at the screen before killing the call.

  ‘Who was it?’ Hannah asked.

  ‘Unrecognized number. Probably some bitch in India telling me how I got in an accident that wasn’t my fault, you know what I mean?’

  ‘No, I don’t think it was a sales call.’ She turned towards Marcel. ‘You trying to sell him something?’

  Marcel pulled his own mobile from his pocket. ‘Not me. Just trying to have a friendly chat.’

  Barrington looked confused. ‘What’s going on, man? What the fuck is this?’

  ‘Don’t panic, Barrington. It’s not magic. Detective Constable Lang here just rang your phone. Want to know how he got your number?’

  Barrington said nothing. He had enough sense and experience to know when it was time to clam up.

  ‘It was on Joey Cobb’s mobile.’

  ‘Okay. So?’

  ‘So, it wasn’t just in his contacts. He called you. Saturday, in fact. Several times.’

  Barrington’s eyes danced again. ‘Oh! Yeah! Yeah, I forgot. That’s right. We did talk.’

  ‘We know you did. Funny how you forgot, seeing as it was only two days ago.’

  ‘I get a lot of calls. I forget most of them. Life is too short to keep shit in your head for long, you know what I mean?’

  ‘But now that it’s all come flooding back to you, what were these conversations with Joey about?’

  ‘Music.’

  ‘Music?’

  ‘Yeah, man. See, he wants to put a band together, and he was asking if I might be interested.’

  Hannah noted Barrington’s use of the present tense. If he knew about Cobb’s demise, he was doing well at thinking on his feet.

  ‘A band? He was asking about forming a band?’

  ‘Yeah. See, he knows I can rap. Joey, he plays the drums, and he knows a couple of other guys who—’

  ‘Cut the crap, Barrington. What time did he come here?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘After the phone calls, what time did he visit you?’

  ‘Wait, did I say he came here? I do not think I said that.’

  ‘We know he was here, Barrington.’

  She knew nothing of the sort. Joey was definitely in this building, but so far there was nothing to indicate he visited his prospective band member.

  Barrington searched their faces. ‘He tell you that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Joey. He saying he was here Saturday?’

  Hannah flicked her eyes towards Marcel. He arched his eyebrows in return. Barrington’s demeanour was very convincing. He seemed anxious to know if Joey had dropped him in it or was looking for an alibi. Either way, he appeared genuine.

  ‘Just answer the question,’ Marcel said.<
br />
  ‘Yeah. Okay, man, he was here.’

  Hannah was glad to get to the truth, but its face was shown too easily. Barrington could have simply kept on denying it.

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Afternoon. Maybe three, round there.’

  This chimed with what they knew about the taxi drop-off, which was logged in at ten past three.

  ‘What did he come here for?’

  ‘Nothing. We talked, we drank, we smoked, we played on the Xbox. That’s it.’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Just two friends getting together for a catch-up.’

  ‘Yeah. That so hard to believe? Why don’t you ask Joey? He will say exactly the same thing.’

  ‘Then why did you lie to us about seeing him? If this was all so above board, why the secrecy?’

  ‘Because . . . because I know how it is. I know how you work, man. You hear about two people like us meeting up and you turn it into some kind of a conspiracy, like we’re a terrorist cell or something. Like we’re Obama bin Laden. That’s what you do. That’s what you always do.’

  Hannah tried not to smile at the name corruption. She didn’t want to put Marcel off while he was in full flow.

  ‘You’ve got form, Barrington,’ Marcel said. ‘You’ve both got form.’

  ‘Yeah, and you ain’t never gonna let us forget that, right? Well, fuck you too, man.’

  ‘He called you from an unregistered phone. A burner phone. Just like yours. You don’t think we should be suspicious about that?’

  ‘Nah, man, I don’t. We got a right to talk without The Man listening to everything we say, don’t we? Why should you know where we go and what we do every damn minute of every day? Just because we took a few wrong steps in the past, that doesn’t mean we lose all our rights, does it? You know what I’m saying?’

  ‘Tell me more about Saturday. You hung out. What then?’

  ‘Nothing. He left. Simple as.’

  ‘What time did he leave?’

  ‘I don’t know. Five. Six. Something like that.’

  ‘That’s a pretty big timespan. Which was it – five or six?’

  ‘I can’t be more pacific, man. We were drinking and smoking. I lost track of time.’

  The taxi had been booked to collect Cobb at six o’clock. Given Barrington’s hazy recollection, it was possible that Cobb left at just before that time, intending to jump straight into his taxi, but it was equally possible that he departed at closer to five, and perhaps visited someone else in the building or left it entirely. He might have forgotten he’d booked a taxi, or been unable to get back because of what befell him.