The Third Rule (Eddie Collins Book 1) Page 36

  Henry took a step outside to make sure everything was quiet, and then he gave Sirius a nod.

  “Give it five minutes to settle.”

  “What?” Henry said. “Why wait, I thought we were in a hurry.”

  “If you strike a match in there now while that stuff is floating around, it’ll blow you out of your designer shoes. We wait. Then, you can have the honour of striking the match.”

  “Oh, no, I’m not doing that.”

  “You killed some poor bastard tonight; you can go some way to putting it to rest. Do not argue. I warn you.”

  Henry’s lip curled again and his eyes fell in resignation.

  Sirius whispered, “keep the door open or the windows will blow out. We’re after a fire, not an explosion.” Then he disappeared back inside the building.

  “Where are you going now?”

  Within a minute he was back, a rolled up piece of printer paper and cigarette lighter in hand. “I’ve wedged one of those cans against the desk. It’s spraying the last of its stuff right now. Light the paper, walk in and throw it towards the aerosol. Don’t wait to see if it catches, because it won’t warn you, it’ll just burn your eyeballs out of your dumb head, just throw it towards the spray and run like hell. Right?”

  “Couldn’t you—”

  Sirius slapped him. “I told you, no arguing. Here,” he handed him the paper. “When you come out of here, you’ll be frantic, so there,” he pointed to the far fence, the gate closed but unlocked, “is where you’re running to.”

  “Where’re you going to be?”

  “Right beside you. I’ll hold the gate open, you just run. Now go.”

  With evident nerves, Henry took the wad of paper, and it lit at the first attempt. He shuffled into the foyer. Sirius could hear the can hiss and then saw Henry disappear around the corner. He felt like closing and locking the door, trapping the fool inside where he’d witness his own cremation, but decided to stick to the plan; there was no point leaving the arsehole at the scene of his own crime. He had only a moment to contemplate Sir George’s final words of their conversation before there was a loud whoosh, followed by a wave of heat, before Henry bounded around the corner, eyes wide, arms pumping furiously.

  The office turned orange instantly, and as they ran, a kind of exhilaration filled Sirius, and when some of the windows finally blew out because of the extreme pressure, he howled with laughter.

  Thursday 25th June

  Chapter Thirty Six

  — One —

  Mick pressed end, stunned by Eddie’s words. It stank of arson; no way was it an accident. He hoped, for Eddie’s sake, that it put all this McHue shit into perspective from his bosses’ point of view, and that they left him alone to get on with the job, and concentrate on sorting his life out instead of being stressed out by it.

  He slid the phone away and stared through the windscreen, wondering who would want to set fire to—. Mick smiled. He knew the answer already, and it all added weight to his method of questioning.

  How would he compare to Old Man Deacon?

  Wigton Lane was wide, even the grass verges were palatial, like having a second lawn, and the cars scattered at the perfectly square pavement’s edge, where not a mote of detritus dare come to rest in the frequently scrubbed gutters, were all prestige models.

  This was Alwoodley; a grand neighbourhood reserved for those with equally grand salaries, or for those of a more creative self-employed nature, some of whom probably operated perfectly legally. Solicitors lived around here, accountants, architects, and the doctors, and even the odd politician’s son.

  But right now, parked outside a swish detached bungalow, Mick’s old Ford Diamond stood out among the Porsches and the Rollers and Jags as distastefully as a fresh turd on a banqueting table. Mick smiled, relishing the thought. He locked the car door – couldn’t be too careful – and peered through the black wrought iron gates outside Deacon’s bungalow. He marvelled at the gardens, the mature trees enveloping a stubby driveway, and gawped at the size of the wood-framed conservatory sticking out of the side like a leftover from Crystal Palace. It was big enough to have its own eco-system.

  There was a new Audi on the drive, V8 badge across the back. The sticker in the back window let it down however. Longborough Leasing, it said.

  Mick went to adjust his tie, then remembered he wasn’t wearing one; it was in a bin somewhere back at the office. He pressed a chrome-shrouded buzzer set into one of the stone pillars at the side of the driveway, and gazed into the mini-camera at its side.

  “Hello?”

  “Oh good morning, Mr Deacon. My name’s—”

  “Thanks but I don’t buy at the door.”

  “I have some news.” Mick waited, clicking his fingers.

  “Go on.”

  “Not out here, Mr Deacon. You never know who’s listening.”

  There was a pause where Mick had enough time to wonder if he’d blown it with the promise of exciting news, and then the gates began a slow trundle back on hidden tracks behind the stone wall. He tipped a wink to the camera, and began walking. Every reporter dreams of a scoop. Mick had the spoon in his hand.

  The solid wood front door opened before he was even at the step. A face that belonged on the other side of death peered out at him. Mick froze. He was famed for disliking dead bodies, and one just answered the fucking door. “You’re not the butler, are you?”

  “What do you want? I’m very busy.”

  It was Deacon. It’s just… Mick didn’t recognise him. His eyes were dead; they had no sparkle in them despite the morning’s brightness. The skin surrounding them was dark, loose, the teeth yellow. Hair a mess. “Can I come in?”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  Mick struggled with his jacket, hands patting pockets, searching for some business cards. “My name’s Mick Lyndon. I work for The Yorkshire Echo, and I wondered…”

  “No comment to whatever it is you’re about to ask.” The door began to close.

  “They found your Jag.”

  The door paused. Mick’s heart pummelled.

  “Go on,” Deacon’s head reappeared.

  “Not out here.” Risky, he thought, but it was worth a shot. Mick noted how the man expressed no surprise at the news at all.

  * * *

  If he’d spoken to Old Man Deacon like that, he could have expected a busted lip. And that told Mick something about this kid. He was weak. Might have his own business, but according to the old man, it was on its way to the liquidators at an astonishing speed. Henry Deacon was still a little boy.

  He sat in a leather seat in a lounge so opulent it was rude. The blue velvet curtains were pulled against the sunlight, and there were three, no, four standard lamps burning around the room. Some kind of weird LED chandelier suspended from the ceiling complemented the modern ensemble. Rich, deep rugs were scattered around the oak floor. There was a large TV on the wall, big enough to make a cinema happy, and a small but expensive stereo on a crystal-topped table.

  “You stink of alcohol.” Henry passed him a cup of very dark coffee.

  “Thanks. For the drink, I mean,” Mick said. “And I’m allowed to stink of booze if I want. But I appreciate the warning.”

  “That wasn’t the warning. This is.” Henry took a seat directly facing him, hands together, eyes prominent, glaring at him. “If you’ve come here to threaten or to blackmail…”

  Mick sipped his coffee.

  “Well,” he wagged a finger, “just be warned.”

  “Oh, I am, I am. And no, I haven’t come for any of those things, but like I say, thanks for the warning.”

  “Then, Mr Lynton, why have you come here?”

  “I told you, they found your Jaguar.”

  “That’s what they’re paid to do, isn’t it? And why you? Are they sending reporters out now instead of uniformed officers? I bet they could make quite a saving.”

  “Not on my salary.” Mick’s face glowed with humour – this was his kind of se
tting. “That’s quite a burn you have there.”

  Henry tried to pull his shirt sleeve over it. “I really am very busy.”

  “Doing what? You look as though you’ve just got up.”

  “None of your business.”

  “Mind my asking how you came by it? The burn?”

  “It’s not a burn, and yes, I do mind you asking how I came by it!”

  “Mr Deacon, I assure you I meant no offence.” He looked at the burn again. “It is a burn though, isn’t it?”

  “It’s an injury I sustained while trying to keep possession of my Jaguar.”

  “Bet you’re pleased to have it back?”

  “It belongs to the insurance company now.”

  Mick nodded.

  “Okay that’s it; I have work to do and since the point to you being here is not apparent to me, I must ask you to leave.”

  “How do you feel about it; the car, I mean, being stolen from you at gunpoint?”

  “It was stolen from me at knifepoint.”

  “But how do you feel about it?”

  “Use your imagination, Mr Lyndal. Now, if you’ll—”

  “That car killed two people the day it was stolen from you.”

  Henry’s pause was longer than one of mere surprise. He was calculating something. “Nonsense.”

  Waste of a pause, Mick thought. “Oh yes it did. I have friends in the right places, you see. Forensic friends.”

  Henry flinched.

  “Have the police visited you yet?”

  “Obviously not, since I didn’t know the car had been recovered.”

  “Well, this’ll be good practice for you. Mind if I smoke?”

  “No, you may not smoke.” Henry stood, hovering over his unwelcome guest as though it might incline him to leave sooner. It didn’t work. “Mr Lyndsay, tell me why you’re here or get out.”

  Mick sipped, sighed at the lack of a cigarette. “You look very nervous to me, Mr Deacon.”

  “I can assure you—”

  “Not that I’m insinuating any connection with the murders.”

  “Murders?”

  “That’s what it is if you run people over and leave them for dead.”

  Henry folded him arms; lips tight.

  “They can put you on a Rule Three for that. They can kill you for it.”

  “As you said Mr Lyndley—”

  “Lyndon. Mr Lyndon. But you can call me Mick.”

  “As you said, I had no connection—”

  “I wouldn’t cast aspersions, Mr Deacon.” Mick paused, “I’ll let the evidence do that.”

  “I want you to leave.”

  “Forgive me; I meant no harm.” Mick looked up, “I spoke with your father on Tuesday,” Henry’s eyes widened slightly, “he mentioned you, your business. Things not going too well, I understand.”

  “Things are just fine, now if you’ll—”

  “Nice shirt you’re wearing.”

  Henry reached out and grabbed Mick by the sleeve. Mick looked at Henry. Henry let go and sighed as though he’d lost the war as well as the battle.

  “Is it an Oxford & Hunt? Always liked those.”

  Henry closed his eyes. “Yes, it’s an Oxford. Now, please leave.”

  “No.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s not my pardon you should be begging. It’ll come out, that you killed the man on Leeds Road, and that little boy on Westbury Avenue. The man was Peter Archer. He was thirty-eight, had two grown up daughters. And the kid was called Sam. Not quite twelve years old.” Mick watched. “It will come out, Henry.”

  “Get out!”

  “You were driving that Jaguar that day, at that time. They recovered your broken mobile phone, the one you smashed. All they have to do is find out when it was last used, who you called at what specific time, and… Bingo!”

  “No! Someone else could have used my phone and then—”

  “But what about the woman?”

  “What woman?”

  “The one on the bus. She saw you throw Mr Archer under it. She recognised you through the side window of your car.”

  “Gotcha, Mr Lynon. The side windows of my car are blacked out, she couldn’t have seen me.”

  “Then it was you?”

  “I never said that. I said…” He paced the floor, his hands began flapping around.

  Mick let him rant. An innocent man really would have thrown him out by now, or threatened to ring the police if they disliked him as much as Henry seemed to dislike him. Henry was… afraid.

  “I said that the windows are blacked out, she couldn’t have seen whoever it was driving my car.”

  “But the police, they’ll have the time from the phone—”

  “Anyone could have—”

  “And then there’s the shirt.”

  “What shirt?”

  Mick stood. Stepped forward. “The piece of burnt shirt hanging out of the filler pipe.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now get out, before I call the police.”

  Mick stood his ground, eye to eye with Henry Deacon. “Call them.”

  “I will, if you don’t get out.”

  “No. Call them, I insist. We can wrap this whole matter up here and now.” Mick smiled. “Make a great story.” He began walking out of the lounge. “Did you get help burning the car or did you do it yourself?”

  “What?” Henry followed. “Where’re you going? You can’t go through there.”

  “Who helped you?”

  “Stop it.”

  “Think of me as the one who’s trying to find the truth, Henry; the genuine truth. When the police get a hold of you after I tell them about the female witness, they won’t be so easy on you. They have quotas to fulfil.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Oh they do. It’s true. Maybe you think they’d go easy on you, maybe mislay some evidence, get you off the hook, that kind of thing; you’re the son of our Justice Minister. Wouldn’t look good if you went to the slaughterhouse, would it?”

  “What do you want?”

  Mick froze; just on the threshold from the hallway to what he thought might be Henry’s bedroom. There were no footsteps behind him; he knew Henry stood there like a lame animal waiting to be shot. Mick relished the moment and praised the gods for giving him this job – one step across from being a policeman but without their constraints or protocols.

  He opened the door and discovered the room was a bathroom. Very neat, polished tiles, Jacuzzi bath the size of a small pool, two sinks, bidet, even palms in the corner by the bay window. Looked like it belonged in Florida. Mick closed the door.

  He straightened his face, turned, and looked at Henry’s slumped shoulders. His hands had gone back inside his pockets. A good sign, that. Mick stepped across the hallway, opened another door and sure enough, it was Henry’s bedroom. Big TV hanging on one wall, abstract prints splashed the one opposite, the one where a huge super-king-size bed sprawled. The third wall, opposite a pair of mirrored French doors that presumably gave out onto a private patio, was wardrobe space and there was a door too, probably to the en-suite. “Mind if I sit in here?”

  Henry slovenly tagged along as though all his assertiveness had vanished like smoke up a chimney. He looked tired.

  Mick took his time, standing in the centre of the massive room. Slowly he turned, taking it all in. Next to the French doors was a cream leather sofa and Mick chose to conduct his interview there. “Mind if I help myself to a drink?” He didn’t wait for an answer, just took a crystal tumbler from the mahogany table next to the sofa and poured a generous quantity of what he hoped might be whisky. “Want one?”

  “I repeat, what do you want?”

  “Sit down, Henry. Don’t mind if I call you Henry?” The bed was made. Or it hadn’t been slept in last night. It would explain the tiredness.

  Henry sat on the bed, eyes creeping to the void beneath the wardrobes, the flap still open, exposing the darkness underneath.


  Mick followed his gaze, wondered what was so interesting under there, and wondered why the flap should be open at all. It was wasted space covered by a fixed valance. Usually. Unless you planned to store something a little hot under there. Was it Henry’s drug store?

  He placed the tumbler on the occasional table just inside the French doors, and fumbled inside his jacket pocket.

  There was a click.

  He brought out a Dictaphone.

  “I told you, I’m not giving interviews.”

  “Good. This isn’t an interview. This,” he put the Dictaphone down, “is switched off, Henry. See? The things we’ll be talking about will not be on any record. You may speak freely to me.”

  Henry folded his arms.

  “I have the name and address of that woman, don’t forget. She swears blind she saw you in the car when those awful things happened. She’s a good witness too. Teacher. Not rich enough to run a Jaguar, of course. But she’ll look great on a witness stand.”

  “If that’s the case, why haven’t you passed her details onto the police?” Henry smiled. Smug.

  “Who says I haven’t?”

  “Because you wouldn’t be here now. The police would be.”

  “I haven’t passed her details onto them. Yet. And I suppose you’re wondering why she didn’t go to them in the first place?”

  “Go on.”

  “We pay better.”

  Henry nodded, a smile of understanding passed across his lips. “Go on, Mr Lynford.”

  “Mick, Henry. Please call me Mick.” He sipped the liquor, appeared happy with the aftertaste and proceeded. “You sure I couldn’t smoke?”

  “Christ’s sake.” Henry rolled off the bed and slid the French door open a couple of feet. Light belched into the room.

  “Thanks awfully,” Mick said. “Very kind.” He pulled out his cigarettes then fumbled the lighter and dropped it. “Clumsy me.” He got on his knees and made a slow grab for it, eyes roaming as he did so.