The Third Rule (Eddie Collins Book 1) Read online

  He grasped the thing by its neck, and circled around her. “You’re fucking crazy!”

  Her mad eyes followed him, then focused on the doll. They appeared to be pleading to it, almost pained as though it was screaming at her. She held her hand out, fingers trembling, “…and promise to look after you, and daddy won’t hurt you.”

  A shiver ran up Christian’s back. Just how mad was she? He raised the doll with its nappy hanging in tatters from its plastic hips. He saw its blue eyes swing open and then swing shut. He squeezed.

  “You’re frightening him!”

  “I’m frightening him? You mad bitch!” Christian threw the doll to her right.

  She dropped the hammer and made a grab for it. Her fingers brushed its dirty plastic feet and it landed on the floor between them. Christian twisted and smacked her hard in the face with the back of his hand. Her hair whipped around. She staggered back a few paces and then stood still, panting. Blood dripped from her nose.

  Despite his left arm hanging limply by his side, and a deafening buzzing in his ear, Christian was happy he’d made her stop the craziness. He picked up the doll with his right hand, passed it to the tingling fingers of his left.

  Alice snarled.

  He reached for the hammer.

  “No, Christian,” she screamed. “He’s only a baby… He’s your son!”

  He let the doll fall to the floorboards and brought the hammer down.

  * * *

  She watched as he smashed the hammer into Spencer’s skull, and screamed as a spray of blood splashed across her face.

  Her face was a tortured mess, eyes a blur of tears, and she put her hands to her head and she pulled her hair and tried to block it all out.

  * * *

  Christian dropped the hammer, stood straight and punched her in the face. Alice hit the floor in a crumpled mess.

  He stood there panting, engulfed by a physical pain and a mental torment. He looked at the cash, at the lottery ticket and the cigarettes.

  And then he left the house.

  * * *

  Max slammed the tailgate shut and rested against it, gasping, looking around to make sure he was safe. This was the worst neighbourhood he had ever dared venture into.

  He felt well out of his depth, and his busy eyes saw everyone and everything as a potential threat. He had been brave coming here at all, especially dressed in his working garb: gold waistcoat, smart trousers and neat cravat. They created the image, and helped to promote his wealth of knowledge. But here, he stood out like a dot-to-dot at a Rembrandt auction.

  He tapped the wheel, thinking about the dryad nymph. And how to get it.

  His eyes were drawn across to the terrace of old houses again. The corrugated door opened and a bedraggled creature stumbled out into the yard. Was that him? Was that Christian? He walked in a crooked line up the cobbled street, heading straight for him. Max held his breath and, with pummelling heart, slowly sank into his seat.

  He’s coming for me; he knows I have his paintings, he’s going to demand them back, he’s going to fight me for them, and he’s going to hurt me.

  Max leaned across the car and delved into the glove box, readying himself for an assault. Only a minute passed before Christian walked within twenty yards of him. There was blood down the left side of his head, it tangled in his long wavy hair, and his right hand was never away from his forehead, where it massaged a headache, maybe. His left hand hung limply by his side. Max watched him stagger away up the street, sighed, and slid the knife inside his waistcoat.

  Alice was alone, she was vulnerable again.

  He approached the open corrugated door and listened carefully before entering. Creeping forward, he peered into the gloom of the lounge, and saw her lying prone on the filthy floorboards. She was completely still. Next to her lay the crushed remains of what looked like a plastic doll, batteries by its side, head caved in. He wondered if she was dead. Should he go and… no, no; get the nymph and get out. He might come back.

  * * *

  Though he could see almost nothing, Max could feel its beauty. He could almost feel his wallet bulge in anticipation. He licked his lips and then slid the homemade tethers away. He took its weight and felt the tension in his stomach, felt the sweat tickle the crack of his backside, felt more running down the sides of his face and arms. He turned and then he froze.

  From above he heard a noise.

  Afraid, he peered through the darkness and up the stairs towards a nuance of daylight.

  “What now?” he whispered.

  He had no choice, he had to climb the stairs, he had to get away and if that meant facing Christian, then face Christian he would. He had to have this art, and if it meant paying the lad off and promising to keep quiet about Alice’s death, then he’d do that too. Anything to get the nymph into his shop.

  With sweat dripping from his face, he reached the summit and peered out into the kitchen. No one was there, and whatever the noise had been, it didn’t bother him now. He stepped out of the shade and into the brightness of the kitchen and stifled a scream.

  Alice grinned at him.

  At her side a hammer tapped against her leg. The hammer had blood and hair on it. Max stared at it, then at the blood oozing from her nose and at the tears making her cheeks glisten. “Alice, my dear.” His voice was shaky, and he knew she detected the fear in it. “I was going to wake you,” he forced a smile. “But I thought I’d just leave the cash for you to find; didn’t want to disturb you.”

  “Fuck off, Max.”

  “Alice, please… Are you okay? You look terrible, my dear.”

  She sobbed, but stared coldly at him. Tap.

  “Did he hurt you, my dear?”

  “Put that back!”

  “I have a thousand pounds here. You could have a nice flat; I could arrange that for you. You could be out of here within the hour, my dear. We could get you some fresh clothes, help you start over—”

  “My baby,” she whispered. “He killed my baby.” Tap.

  “We can get you another.” The beginnings of a frown turned her eyes dark, “No, we could,” he refreshed the smiled, “we could make everything better. How would you like that, Alice?”

  A grimace twisted her mouth.

  Max put the nymph down. “I have the money right here,” he said, reaching inside his waistcoat. “And I already left you two hundred down in that spider’s web…”

  Alice lifted the hammer. Max stepped closer and thrust the knife forward, feeling her slight weight collapse against him. The hammer fell to the floor and Max opened his eyes.

  She stared right at him. And then her eyes slid shut.

  Max had a dead body leaning against him. And for a moment, he was horrified. He glanced down at the nymph making sure the falling hammer hadn’t damaged it. It was safe.

  In one slick movement, Max spun on his heels and pushed. Alice tumbled down into the darkness, her head cracking against the cold stone steps, her pale hand disappearing into the shadows as it scraped a swath of blood down the whitewashed walls. The knife was smeared with redness and faint traces of creamy white fat, and he shuddered. His hand had her blood on it too; his waistcoat had smears of redness melded into the fine golden thread. None of it mattered; he had the nymph, and it was even more glorious by the light of day.

  He folded the blade away and dropped it back into his waistcoat pocket. As the sweat cooled on his face, he grabbed the painting and then slid through the open corrugated door.

  — Three —

  Behind the old terrace of Victorian houses was a grassed area that provided the local drug-pushers with somewhere to do their business. Dog-walkers added to the broken bottles and discarded needles and wraps with piles of dog shit and beer cans and fast-food wrappers, a real home from home if you happened to live on a landfill site.

  Louis Cassini walked his pooch, a frisky young Labrador pup called Deefer, and did his best to avoid the needles and the dog shit. He puffed on a cigar and Deefer sniffed at a
pile of crap.

  Maybe sixty yards away was a group of kids smoking joints and fighting. They paid him no attention, and that was just fine by him; he wanted no trouble, thanks all the same. He puffed on the cigar and kept a wary eye on them. And it was while he was keeping a wary eye out that he saw a young man, about six feet tall, with long tangled wavy hair, striding down the cobbled road at the back of the old terraces.

  The lad caught his eye because of what looked like a blood-soaked dressing across his left ear. It was white – and very obviously red – and it stood out against his dark clothing and his brown hair. His left arm looked paralysed; it just hung in the air as he walked, no swing in it at all. It was the kind of sighting you took notice of; it made you look rather than glance.

  Then, he later told the police, his attention had been pulled back to Deefer who had nuzzled a rat from a pile of stinking rubbish by the small hedge that enclosed this wonderful playing area. Deefer yapped at it, his tail wagging as though he’d found a new playmate and he chased it, pawing at it. The rat tried to run but then held its ground and bared its teeth. And that was when Louis Cassini, paid no more attention to the blood-soaked youth, and began shouting at Deefer to back off and leave the thing alone. The last thing he needed right now was a vet’s bill – and the last thing he would do was pay a vet’s bill. If the dog got rabies or some other disease, Deefer would encounter a house brick to the side of the head.

  Deefer chased the damned thing for the best part of a minute – and that was a long time when you were chasing the damned thing as well. Eventually, Louis Cassini told the police, he had managed to kick the dog a ‘good un’ right up the arse’. The dog yelped and the rat scurried away. Event over with, Cassini drew hard on his fine cigar and looked up again to see the six-footer hightailing it back up the cobbled street. His eyes looked reddened and wide. His lips were drawn back in a ferocious snarl and he sobbed, a deep-throated guttural sobbing that sent a shiver down Cassini’s spine.

  And no, he did not go and have a look in the house, “Christ, you never know what you might find in places like that. Could get yourself killed,” he would say, “better leave well alone.”

  Tuesday 23rd June

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  — One —

  With rainwater still dripping from his hair, Eddie rounded the stairwell, looked up towards his door and he wished he hadn’t. “How come every time I come home, you’re here?”

  “Hey,” Mick smiled, “Good to see you too!”

  “You wanna move in?”

  “And live with a slob like you? No thanks.”

  “Look, Mick, I’ve had the day from hell, do you mind if we—”

  “Tell me about it.” They swapped glances. “No, I mean it; tell me about it. I’ll try and help if I can.”

  Eddie groped in his pocket for the keys and swung the door open. “You never come round to help. You come round to get me drunk and elicit information.”

  Mick nodded. “Yep, you’re right. But I can still listen to you whine a bit first if you’d like.”

  * * *

  “I’d have hit the bastard.” Mick slurped coffee, flicked ash towards an ashtray and missed by three feet.

  “Hey, at least make the effort.”

  “Sorry.” He rubbed it into the carpet. “I don’t know how you showed such restraint, I really don’t.”

  “Because my boss was peering through his window at the time, and I’m in enough shit without digging myself in further.”

  “You allowed him to walk away after saying those things? He needs dealing with, and permanently.”

  Eddie shrugged. “I gotta accept there are some arseholes in the world; it’s just unfortunate that I encounter them all in the space of a week.”

  “So you could end up on a disciplinary and a Rule One?”

  “Could lose my job.”

  “But you know that damned job inside out—”

  “I’m thinking of seeing Jilly this afternoon, it’s why I came home early.”

  Mick raised his eyebrows. “After your last meeting?”

  “We have something in common. I can’t just—”

  “Go bollocks.” He sat up straight, pointed a finger. “Sod what you have in common! You two know each other inside out, as much as you know your job inside out, and it would be just as criminal for you to let your marriage go as it would be for them to sack you. You go to her with some honesty in your heart for a change and you might stand a chance. You don’t fool me, Eddie Collins, so how the hell are you gonna fool your wife?”

  Eddie looked away, fingers tugging at a frayed seam. “I think I should make the effort and go to one of her crazy clubs.” He looked for a reaction, and was angered by the head shaking. “What now?”

  “What now? Okay, I grant you that it’s probably a load of bollocks, this psychic stuff; but come on, cut her a little slack, she lost her son and she wants to keep hold of his memory. Is that such a bad thing?”

  “You’ve changed your tune; said it was—”

  “I know what I said. And I was wrong. If she needs a little support, then give it to her; see things from her point of view. Help the lady along until she’s ready to stand on her own two feet.”

  “Should I go and see her, or should I just meet her there? There’s a meeting this afternoon.”

  “Meeting her there shows a little more spontaneity, you know, it shows you’re trying to get involved without spouting your good intentions first. Show her you care, don’t just tell her.”

  Eddie sat forward, clasped his hands together. “I will.” He looked up, “More coffee?”

  “Thought you’d never ask; we agony aunts get thirsty quickly.”

  “Anyway, what have you come around for?”

  “Thought you’d never ask that as well.” He followed Eddie into the kitchen. “Hey, you’ve tidied up a bit.” He laughed, “Is that a cooker over there?”

  “Almost funny, Mick; don’t give up the day job.”

  “I don’t intend to. I’m onto something larger than life, my cockeyed friend. You remember Lincoln Farrier?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “I found out all the places he went to on the day he died.” He counted on his fingers. “He went to the local grocery store for some milk. He went to Allied Postal where he posted the letter to me and where he collected the letter from his son.”

  “Keep this up, and you might need to use your other hand.”

  “Then I found out he went to a third place.”

  “The local brothel?”

  “As good as. He went into town to see Mr George Deacon.”

  Eddie bit into the back of hand and screeched. “Oh no; you don’t think Deacon killed him, do you?” He laughed and poured the water.

  Mick was silent, arms folded.

  “Aw, come on. You don’t really think that do you?”

  “I happen to believe that Lincoln didn’t piss anyone off at the grocery store and he didn’t piss anyone off at Allied Postal.”

  “He might have pissed someone off a week ago, or a month ago. Doesn’t have to be someone he pissed off on that day, Christ.” He handed Mick his coffee. “What about the burglar his son stabbed?”

  “Far too elaborate a killing for a burglar,” he said. “Anyway, Deacon can be a nasty piece of work when he wants to be.”

  “I’m surprised one head is enough for all the fucking faces you have. Last week he was a wonderful guy, and he deserved a medal for The Rules.”

  “Different things entirely. The Rules are a stunning piece of legislation, but the man himself stinks.”

  “Really?”

  “I saw an interview from a few years back when he was accosted by some television colleagues of mine. They asked him some pretty awkward questions when he thought they had stopped filming. He said ‘you wait till I take office, and I’ll show you real power!’”

  “I repeat: really?”

  “He’s evil. I think he’s behind Lincoln’s death
.”

  “Why would Deacon want to kill an old guy?”

  “Haven’t worked that bit out yet.”

  “You surprise me.”

  “But he did it, definitely.”

  “And how you going to prove it?” Eddie walked back to the lounge.

  Mick followed. “I need the results from Lincoln’s PM.”

  “At last. That’s why you’re here.”

  “Come on, I did my best agony aunt for you, the least you could do—”

  “And how do you expect me to get PM results?”

  “Maybe not the results themselves, just what the findings were.”

  “Okay, pop round tomorrow about noon.”

  “Really?”

  “No. Dickhead.”

  “This old man was shot with his own antique; it’s murder!”

  “I know! CID knows that too. But if we have no evidence, then it goes in the unsolved file.”

  “Big, is it,” Mick sat down again, “this file?”

  “Murders happen all the damned time, even premeditated murders. Not all of them are solvable; some crimes are perfect. And even if the crimes aren’t perfect, then the means to find the criminal are still imperfect. Sorry to shatter your illusions.” Eddie sipped his coffee and lit a cigarette. “And sulking with me won’t help, either.”

  Mick sulked anyway.

  “Okay, I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great! That’s all I want.”

  “No promises, though.”

  “Absolutely, mate.”

  “Why do you want this so badly? You never cared so much about a murder before.”

  “I found him, remember.” He paused. “And he seemed like a nice old fellow; reminded me of my dad.”

  “You’re so full of shit.”

  Mick looked up quickly. “It’s true! And anyway, he wrote to me, asked me to help him with something I feel strongly about: British injustice.”