The Rule

by David Jackson

  ‘Does it matter? I just need it. Can you help me or not?’

  They stared into each other’s eyes. Scott felt as though it was some kind of test of his sincerity, and that to break eye contact would be a mistake.

  Say yes, he willed. Don’t make me beg.

  ‘Let me make some calls,’ Biggo said. He moved away, headed out of the building.

  Through the glass doors, Scott saw Biggo pull a mobile phone from his hoodie. He turned to find the other youths looking at him in silence, their eyes glinting. Temporarily leaderless, they seemed to Scott like an anarchic pack of wolves that had scented blood and were tempted to rip him apart.

  He checked his watch again. Prayed that Gemma didn’t wander down into the foyer. Outside, Biggo had lit up a cigarette and was smiling as he talked into his phone. It all seemed far too casual for what was, to Scott, such a momentous negotiation.

  He breathed again when Biggo re-entered the building.

  ‘Okay,’ Biggo said.

  ‘Okay what?’

  ‘It’s on. The deal you asked for.’

  Scott was suddenly at a loss for words. Unbelievably, a mountain had been turned into a hillock. It all seemed too effortless.

  ‘It’s on?’

  ‘Yup. Figure I gave them was two grand. You’re still going with that, right? I don’t want to have to call them again.’

  ‘No. I mean yes. Two grand. But . . .’

  ‘But what? Don’t be wasting my time here.’

  The question had been burning in Scott’s mind for the past few minutes. He knew it was disrespectful, but he had to get it out in the open.

  ‘I just want to know . . . what do you get out of this?’

  He expected a storm. What he got was a smile.

  ‘You’re starting to think like a businessman. I get a percentage.’

  ‘Does it come out of my profits?’

  ‘You should still double, even after I take my cut.’

  Which made Scott wonder exactly how much money was being made in total, and whether he should have pushed for more. It would have been so much sweeter to hit that ten grand.

  But that bridge had been crossed. He’d learnt a lesson that he hoped would never come in useful again.

  ‘And we can do it this evening? I need the money by nine o’clock at the latest.’

  He had pushed for a ten o’clock meeting with Ronan, and needed to build in travel time plus the possibility of delays.

  ‘You’ll have it by nine.’

  Scott wanted to say thank you. It was the way he’d been brought up. But he got the feeling that it would be a sign of weakness.

  ‘I’ll get the two grand,’ he said, and started to move away.

  ‘Whoa! Hold on there, cowboy.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘First of all, you don’t just hand over your money like that. You don’t know me from Adam. What are you planning to do – ask for a receipt?’

  ‘I don’t know. I thought—’

  ‘Secondly, this isn’t my deal. It’s your deal. I just set it up. I ain’t gonna get caught by the cops making a deal this big.’

  ‘I don’t understand. How do I—?’

  ‘I’ve arranged a meet, okay? Eight o’clock on Shardlake Street, not far from the big B&Q. You know it?’

  ‘I’ll find it.’

  ‘There are some flats opposite the playground. He’ll be in number 46 on the fourth floor. Be there with the money. You’ll buy a package. Don’t worry – the guy handing it over is sound. Bring it straight back here to me, and I’ll buy it off you with the four grand.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t have that kind of money.’

  ‘I don’t. It won’t be my money. That’s my side of the deal, and you don’t have to worry about it. Now, you still want to do this?’

  Scott thought for a few seconds. It was as he’d decided earlier: in for a penny, in for a pound.

  ‘Yes. I want to do it.’

  ‘Sweet. Welcome to the club.’

  38

  He wasn’t the most accomplished of actors, and Gemma had known him long enough to see through it, but he went through with the charade anyway.

  ‘Okay if I go out for a couple of hours later on?’ he asked.

  She turned from her position at the stove, where she was boiling potatoes. He saw the flash of suspicion in her eyes.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘I asked Gavin about doing some extra hours. You know, so I can build up our savings again. He said we should talk about it over a drink. I couldn’t really refuse.’

  ‘Have we got enough money left for you to go out drinking?’

  It was a loaded question. Combative because of their financial situation, the emphasis on it being their money. In better times she would have thought nothing of his request. But he knew also that she was refusing to challenge him explicitly. She was allowing him the opportunity to tell the truth, while letting him know that it was a limited-time offer.

  ‘I won’t be long,’ he said, his voice weak. ‘I’ll just have a couple.’

  ‘Fine,’ she said, and buried her face in a cloud of steam, cutting him off until he decided to become her husband once more.

  He pulled the car up in front of the railings alongside the playground, and cut the engine. It was five minutes to eight, but at this time of year it was already dark. Dense clouds had rolled in across the moon, and most of the streetlights here were broken. This was a rough area; he wouldn’t have felt safe even in full daylight.

  He looked across the street at the characterless slab of flats. Four storeys high. Balconies running the length of each floor. A few windows lit up, but most tightly curtained against passers-by. One man silhouetted in front of his open door, smoking a cigarette.

  Scott waited for the man to disappear into his flat before leaving his car. He locked up, then dipped his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket. Two grand. The other thousand was now in his glove compartment.

  Let’s do this.

  He took a deep breath and crossed the street. To the left of the building, a narrow concrete staircase led up to the first floor. He started to ascend, the rusting metal bannister cold and rough against his palm. Sounds of domestic life leaked from windows above: rock music, a child’s cry, a drumkit.

  A figure stepped out in front of him at the top of the stairs. Scott’s first thought was to move to one side to allow him past, but the figure stayed put.

  Scott looked more closely. Saw it was a man in a hoodie. Saw the plastic pig mask over his face. Saw the huge knife glinting in his hand.

  Scott turned to go back down. Another hooded male stepped into view at the bottom of the steps. A cow mask this time, but also armed with a knife.

  Scott did the only thing he could to get out of there, which was to side-vault over the bannister. He hit the concrete floor hard, and felt something go in his ankle. He wanted to head back to his car, but cow-man had already cut him off. His only escape route was in the opposite direction, along a narrow channel between the building and a brick wall. He ran, spears of pain shooting up his leg, the pounding of footsteps getting ever closer behind him.

  And then the way ahead was suddenly blocked. A sheep and an unusually tall goat. They just stood there in his way. Behind, the first two did the same.

  And then all the farmyard animals began slowly closing in. They had no need to hurry now.

  ‘Help!’ Scott shouted. ‘Help me!’

  The only answer he got was the distant barking of a dog.

  He ran at the brick wall. Jumped. His fingers just managed to find the top edge. He clung on, his feet scrabbling for purchase.

  But then they were on him, clutching at him, dragging him back down. He swung wildly with his fists and managed to connect, resulting in a satisfying crumple of plastic. His reward was to be tossed heavily onto the unforgiving floor, and then all he could do was pull himself into as tight a ball as possible, his arms cocooning his head as the men punched and kicked
and stamped, launching blow after blow into his ribs, his back, his legs, until he felt his body had been turned to mush and he was just one big bag of pain.

  He was barely aware of what came next – of the hands on him, probing and searching, and then the dwindling echoes of leisurely paced footsteps – but when he finally unfurled he knew what had happened. He didn’t need to check his pocket to know that his money had been taken. This was no random mugging.

  He’d been set up.

  Four assailants, one much taller than the others. Undoubtedly Biggo’s compatriots. Biggo would be waiting back at Erskine Court. Preparing his speech about how he’d pulled a lot of strings to broker this deal and how it was such a massive disappointment that Scott had fucked it all up by losing the money.

  And what made it all so unutterably worse for Scott was that it was entirely his own fault. He had approached them. They had acted according to their nature, and he had encouraged it.

  God, how easily he had swallowed the lies, the hyperbole. Double my money? Thank you very much, I’ll take that. All done and dusted in a couple of hours? Fantastic, where do I sign?

  Why hadn’t he taken more precautions? Why was he such a fucking idiot?

  Why, why, why?

  An urge to weep overwhelmed him, and he let it come.

  He had a loss of two thousand pounds and a broken body to show for his troubles.

  It was what he deserved.

  39

  The pub wasn’t the most salubrious she’d been in, and some of its clientele looked downright leery, but Marcel Lang had been right about the food. She’d opted for the seafood linguine, while Ben had gone for the steak and ale pie. Both were superb.

  The wine wasn’t bad, either. Hannah had confirmed that several times over.

  ‘So,’ Ben said, ‘you still haven’t told me why we’re out on a Thursday night.’

  ‘Do we need an excuse?’

  ‘I don’t, but you normally do, especially when you’re busy on a big case.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Hannah said, and quaffed some more wine.

  ‘Ah, I get it. The case is the excuse.’

  She sighed heavily. ‘It’s not looking good, Ben. I feel like we’re chasing shadows. The case landed on our laps on Sunday, and we still don’t seem to be any further forward.’

  ‘Any suspects?’

  ‘No. Not really. Everyone we’ve spoken to who might have a possible motive also has an alibi. I think there’s someone we’re missing. The problem is finding them.’

  ‘Well, what if it’s someone who doesn’t have a motive?’

  She stared at him, wondering if it was the wine that stopped her understanding Ben’s contribution.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What is it you detectives always say? Means, motive and opportunity – isn’t that right? Do you always need all three? What if the killer had the means and the opportunity, but not the motive? Why couldn’t it have been just a spur-of-the-moment thing? Or even an accident?’

  ‘An accident? Ben, if I drove home now after all this wine, I might hit someone and kill them. And, if I were not the virtuous, upstanding individual you see before you, I might flee the scene in panic. What I would almost certainly not do is go back and collect the body, with the aim of chopping it up later and dumping it at a rubbish tip.’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘Besides, the indications are that someone grabbed him by the throat and broke his neck. That doesn’t happen accidentally. Cobb lived in a world where violence and death were always around the corner. Someone must have had it in for him.’

  Ben raised his pint glass. ‘If you say so. I bow to your superior knowledge.’

  She clinked glasses, but what he’d said was still on her mind. Dismissive though she’d been, there was something else in his words – something already fading in her alcohol-fogged mind.

  ‘Tell me that again,’ she said.

  Ben frowned. ‘Okay. I bow to your—’

  ‘No, not that. The earlier stuff about means, motive and opportunity.’

  Ben looked to the ceiling as he tried to recall his thoughts. It was clear to Hannah that she wasn’t the only one affected by the drink.

  Ben ruffled up his hair and put on his best Stan Laurel voice. ‘Well, the killer . . . he has an accident and he loses his motivation. And then the other guy has the opportunity to find it again, and . . .’

  Hannah roared with laughter. ‘See, this is the only excuse I need to come out for a meal with my husband. I need to have some fun. Enough about my job. Tell me what you got up to today.’

  So he told her – about the sculpture he had worked on, and the music he had listened to, and the funny story he had heard on the radio, and the woman he had bumped into in Tesco who’d had the biggest nose he’d ever seen – and to most people it would probably be the most mundane stuff ever, but to Hannah it was everything she wanted to hear. It was normality. It was a million miles away from death and misery and the stress of not being able to address the world’s imbalances, and it made things sane again.

  After a dessert and some more wine, and then coffee and some more wine, Ben signalled for the bill. While he tried to pay with a card that seemed reluctant to surrender his money, Hannah taxed her eyeballs with the problem of focusing on her surroundings.

  And then she saw her.

  Tilly.

  Standing in the doorway between the lounge and the bar area.

  She was as blurry as everything else, but it was definitely her. School uniform and shiny shoes and that curl of hair across her forehead.

  And then she was gone again. A couple of steps to her left was all it took to open up that wound in Hannah’s heart.

  ‘I just need to pay a visit,’ Hannah said.

  Ben didn’t even glance her way. ‘Yeah, I’ll go myself as soon as this is sorted.’

  She left him and the waiter struggling with the credit-card machine, then walked unsteadily through the doorway. She looked in the direction Tilly had gone, expecting nothing because that’s what Tilly did: she came and she went in a flash, leaving devastation in her wake.

  But Tilly was waiting at the top of the stairs.

  Hannah followed. As she got about halfway up, Tilly turned and walked away again.

  Hannah reached the top. A wood-panelled corridor led to the toilets. Tilly was standing outside the door to the ladies. Hannah stood still, fearful that any further approach might cause Tilly to move away again.

  The door was opened, and the sound of a hand dryer rushed out, closely followed by a woman who was still rubbing her hands together. The woman smiled at Hannah as she passed by. Behind her, the door began to close slowly. Tilly slipped into the bathroom before it shut.

  Hannah ran to the door, shoved it fully open again.

  The room looked empty.

  There were three stalls. Two of the doors were open; the middle one was half-closed.

  ‘Tilly?’ she said. ‘Are you in there?’

  She went to it and opened it wide.

  Nobody.

  She sighed.

  The blow to the back of her neck was merciless. She pitched forward into the cubicle. Unseen hands grabbed her by the hair, landed another couple of punches on the side of her head, and then her face was being forced into the toilet bowl and she could see grey water and foul stains beneath, could feel the fumes forcing their way into her nostrils, and her arms flailed for something, anything, that could help her. She tried to yell for help, but her attacker must have pressed the flush button, and she had to take a deep breath and hold on to it for dear life as the water covered her face, and all sight and sound left her as she focused on staying alive. She put her hands on the sides of the bowl and desperately tried to push herself up, but he was too strong for her, and the water wasn’t retreating and she thought she would die there.

  But then sound returned, air returned, and she breathed again – a huge rasping inhalation as she filled her lungs. She could hear the cistern fil
ling all too rapidly, and she knew he would try again to make her drown, and she really didn’t want to suffer such an ignominious death, or any death for that matter, and she opened her mouth to call out once more, but this time it was choked off by something rough and sharp and bristly, and she realised that he had grabbed the toilet brush, the shit-covered, bleach-soaked toilet brush, and he was forcing it into her mouth, across her teeth, jabbing at her, into her eyes and her ears. She kicked out wildly, hoping to catch him in the groin or the thigh, to inflict enough pain to make him stop, even for a second. But then the water cascaded in again, covering her head, cutting off her senses, and she knew that this was it, this time it was surely the end.

  And then he was gone, the weight of him disappearing as if he had never existed. She pushed herself out of the water and sucked in huge lungfuls of oxygen and tried to squeeze the foul water out of her eyes with her fingers, and she coughed and spluttered and spat as she crawled on her hands and knees out of the cubicle, not caring about the whereabouts of her attacker, but so, so grateful to be alive.

  He was still there.

  He was on his back on the floor. Straddling him was a man who was landing punch after savage punch, extracting blood and teeth and screams of pain as he roared his fury.

  And that man, her saviour, was Ben. Mild-mannered, violence-hating, love-thy-neighbour Ben.

  She had to stop him. Had to place her hands on his wrists and tell him softly that it was enough, it was over.

  It was her first opportunity to get a proper look at the coward who had attacked her from behind not once, but twice.

  And although his features were caked in blood, she recognised him immediately.

  40

  Ronan Cobb stood beneath the oak tree and watched the distant car headlights slow to a crawl and then stop. A minute later he caught glimpses of torchlight as Scott Timpson made his way up the lane towards him.

  He genuinely hoped that Scott had somehow managed to get the money together.

  But he doubted it.

  His expectation was that his mother’s so-called Plan B would have to be put into action, and he really didn’t want that to happen.