The Third Rule (Eddie Collins Book 1) Page 44

  “Is he dead?” Mick asked without daring to look.

  “Are you dead, Henry?”

  “Not the time for funnies.”

  “You deal with it your own way; this works fine for me. Death makes me laugh. Well, his does.” But it didn’t. It was just the humour trigger going onto automatic every time he stood before a human body. None of it was funny. But he couldn’t help it, wouldn’t help it; it kept the mind-monster away. Start taking shit like this seriously and they’d refer you to a shrink within a month. He’d seen it happen.

  For now, he had a body. A fresh body. Henry Deacon’s body. “Autoeroticism.”

  “In English.”

  Eddie moved around the body, avoiding the porn magazines that were spread out on the floor between and around Deacon’s open legs. His lower clothing was scattered across the bedroom floor, and his hands were shiny, his legs, groin, and shrivelled penis too. A bottle of baby oil just by his right buttock, slowly dripped into the carpet. “They get horny,” he said quietly, “and they strangle themselves—”

  “What?”

  “They asphyxiate themselves. It happens all the time.”

  “Well, I’ve never heard of it.”

  “So?”

  “Go on.”

  “It’s reckoned that the ultimate orgasm occurs just as you’re blacking out. But sometimes they black out too quick, and by then it’s too late. They strangle themselves.”

  “Shame. In his case, I mean.”

  “Shame we didn’t get to kill him, you mean.”

  “How long, do you think?”

  “How long’s he been dead?” Eddie shrugged, looked at the face. “In all the hangings I’ve ever been to, the mucus and blood leaking out of the nose usually takes an hour or so to begin.” He reached out, touched Deacon on the chest, near his armpit. “Still fairly warm, too.” And then he pinched Henry’s sleeve and lifted his arm. “No rigor yet.” He looked up at Mick, “This happened recently,” he shrugged, “between an hour and two hours ago. Approximately.”

  Mick shrank back. “You’re disgusting. I don’t know how—”

  Eddie smiled, “Did you shake his hand when you saw him earlier?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Would it have bothered you?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “So what’s changed?”

  “What’s changed? He’s fucking dead!”

  “So he’s even less likely to hurt you, don’t you think.”

  “Bugs. He’s riddled with death, bacteria…”

  “You only need to worry about shit like that when a body’s infested or putrid. He ain’t going to hurt you now.”

  Mick ventured around the wardrobe, arms folded tightly into his chest. “I need a drink.”

  “Not here mate. They’ll—”

  “I know, I know! I was only saying, that’s all.” He stepped closer, top lip curling up. “Why on earth would you want to…”

  Eddie put his hands in his jeans pockets and stared almost with sadness, at Deacon’s corpse. What puzzled him was this: “If he was under the amount of pressure you said he was, why—”

  “Why would he be thinking about sex?”

  “Precisely. You’d be thinking about running, you might even be thinking about turning yourself in, maybe going to church if you were that way inclined—”

  “Or killing yourself.”

  Eddie looked at Mick. “But how could you get horny enough to do it this way with everything going on around you? You’d drink yourself under and load your system with sleeping pills. I can’t imagine that anyone with so few happy choices would be able to think erotically at all.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Well, yeah it does, actually. I wanted to do it.”

  “I know.” And then Mick came nearer, was brave enough to bend at the waist and look at Deacon a little more closely. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “He was murdered.”

  “I ask again; does it matter?”

  “Depends,” Eddie swallowed, “whether you care about the manmade justice system or whether you simply care about natural justice.”

  “Yeah, he got what was coming to him.”

  Eddie didn’t look up for a response. “And what about the murderer? He’s now out there ordering himself a latte and a digestive at one of these trendy late night coffee houses. Is that right?”

  “Two faced git. If we’d been here two hours ago, you would now be the man ordering a latte.”

  “No I would not!”

  “Why?”

  “I prefer espresso.”

  Mick shook his head.

  “You’re right. I’m two-faced. But only because I wanted to do it. I’ve been cheated. My kid has been cheated out of his justice.”

  “I can honestly say I have never stood over a human body and discussed the rights and wrongs of justice before. You are one hell of a conversationalist, Eddie Collins.”

  And then he surprised himself. The body was just that, a body, meat, nothing. But even that rationality didn’t stop him swinging his foot into the dead man’s face with enough force to snap the clothes rail and send it slumping to the floor.

  “Feel better?”

  Eddie turned to face Mick. “Is this the beginning of a lecture?”

  Mick shrugged, “I just don’t see the point.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I just think it was a stupid thing—”

  “I don’t care what you think.”

  “I mean, what good is—”

  Eddie grabbed Mick by the collar of his West Yorkshire Police t-shirt and pushed him backwards into the bedroom wall. Mick looked up at Eddie and Eddie glared down at Mick.

  “I’m sorry,” Mick whispered.

  Eddie relaxed his grip, blinked as though recovering from a bout of amnesia. He let Mick go and walked away. Mick stayed there a moment, glued to the wall, and then he started breathing again, smoothed the t-shirt down and looked around, regaining some of his lost composure.

  “Mick, I’m—”

  “It’s okay.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I said it’s fine,” Mick strode into the centre of the room. “Help me find it.”

  “Find what?”

  “The secret he wanted me to have.”

  “Will it be a box with secret stamped on it?”

  “Yes. And it’ll have flashing lights on it too.”

  “Righto.” Eddie pulled open the bottom drawer next to Henry’s bed, took it right out and peered into the void. Nothing. He replaced the drawer and walked around to the other side of the bed.

  Mick crouched in front of the wardrobe by the French doors, the one he’d tried to see beneath earlier today, the one with a gap beneath it large enough to slide a hand into.

  “Nothing here,” Eddie said. He looked up and saw Mick on his stomach. “Enlighten me.”

  “You got a torch?”

  Eddie patted his trousers, “Funny you should say that…”

  “There’s something under here.”

  Eddie dropped to the floor at the other side of Deacon’s body. “I’m not seeing any flashing lights.”

  Mick swept his arm into the void beneath the wardrobe.

  Eddie followed suit along his part of the wardrobe. His fingers brushed something hard.

  “Aha,” Mick said. “What’s this?”

  Eddie’s fingertips swept again. Whatever it was, was heavy and just outside comfortable grip.

  — Two —

  “I hate these 10-15s.” Wiseman struggled over the gate; one of those fancy electric things with an intercom set into the wall. “You never know what idiot is farting about inside.”

  “Hey, yeah, there’s probably a gang o’ junkies, high as a kite, waitin’ in the lounge or the kitchen, householder dead, throat slit for his cash, and then the look-out spots a couple o’ dumb coppers waltzing up the garden path, nudges his friend—”

  “Aw, stop it, Pricey; I
hate you trying to wind me up.”

  “And they laugh, sharpening their knives, taking bets on who kills ‘em both.”

  Wiseman landed on the drive and punched the air out of his lungs.

  Price seemed to float down, gracefully continuing his stealthy walk as though he’d just stepped off a kerb.

  “Do you think we should get a dog?” Wiseman rubbed the stab-vest that covered his generous gut.

  “I find cats are more independent, but—”

  “Oh cut the shit, just for once, will ya!” Wiseman trotted alongside, and asked Price, “Should we? I’m serious, at least we should wait till the others get here. Come on, Pricey.”

  Price stopped and faced his partner. He held a finger across his lips. “Shush. Please. If there are burglars in there, you’ll scare them away. If there are burglars in there, pull your gun, you’re allowed to, you know that, don’t you? And if by some miracle there are burglars in there, I’ll buy you a fucking pizza—”

  “But—”

  “With any topping you want. Now, piss off down there and check the doors and windows, and I’ll check round the back and meet you by the conservatory. Okay?”

  “But—”

  “With a gaff this size, don’t you think they’ll have a really complicated alarm system?”

  Wiseman nodded.

  “Has it sounded?”

  Wiseman shook his head.

  “Exactly. It’s a false call, good intent.”

  Reluctantly, Wiseman walked away fidgeting with his holster.

  — Three —

  Eddie’s fingertips brushed it again.

  “Hey, look at this,” he pulled an A4 envelope out into the room.

  Eddie pulled his hand out from beneath the wardrobe, massaging his shoulder before the cramp came on properly. “What you got?”

  Mick’s face drained of colour. “Now I really do need a drink.” He held the envelope out, turned it to face Eddie.

  Eddie’s eyes widened. “That it?”

  “We have to get out of here,” Mick climbed to his feet and even from seven or eight feet away, Eddie could see him shaking.

  “Just a minute,” With renewed effort, Eddie plunged his hand back into the darkness beneath the wardrobe. His fingertips caught it, grabbed it and dragged it forward. And when he curled his fingers around it, he knew he should have stayed home soaking in a bath of cold water with vomit floating on its surface. “Christ.”

  “A gun!” Mick backed up to the velvet curtains by the chaise longue. “Put it back, Eddie, quick.”

  “What? Piss off,” he said, “it’s got my DNA all over it.”

  “You can’t take—” Mick backed into the chaise, and sat down with a jarring thud. He felt a draught against his cheek, nudged the curtain aside and saw that the French doors were ajar. “Quick,” he said, “out this way.”

  “Wish we’d come in that way—”

  “Run, Eddie.”

  Eddie took a last look at the man who killed his boy and made for the door. Mick already had the curtain open and the door wide. They stepped back into the open air, drizzle cooling their faces … and a police officer stood less than twenty yards away. “Run,” shouted Mick.

  “Oi,” shouted the officer. “Stop there or else I’ll fire!”

  Eddie glanced back to see the officer groping for his gun.

  The officer saw Eddie’s gun and dropped his own.

  “Pricey!” The officer picked up his gun and jogged after the two intruders. “Pricey,” he yelled again. A security light came on and blinded him just as he fired. Two panes of glass, one at each side of the conservatory, exploded.

  Eddie and Mick swore simultaneously, ducking their heads as the shot rang out. Eddie felt fragments of glass fall into his hair as he rounded the far side, heading for the fence with the car mats draped over the top.

  Eddie panicked; his sprint slowed to a hobble as he searched the weapon for the safety catch. He heard and felt one small lever unlock and totally forgot about the really important lever beneath his right index finger. The rear of the conservatory lit up in an orange brilliance that only registered as a gunshot when the explosion accompanying it filled his ears, and only registered as a gunshot from his own gun when the recoil nearly broke his thumb. “Bollocks!”

  Behind them, as they scrabbled over the fence, two voices shouted. In the far distance, sirens grew nearer very quickly. Eddie and Mick did their best impersonation of a sprint up the slick embankment and ran, Eddie with pains in his chest and Mick with pains in his legs, across a wooded crown and towards the road.

  “When we reach the road, walk casually as if nothing’s happened.”

  Eddie thought about that for a moment and then burst out laughing.

  — Four —

  Sirius watched Eddie Collins walking with his usual slight limp across to the Ford Diamond. Courtesy of DCI Benson, it had taken merely twenty minutes to find out who the car belonged to: Michael Lyndon, the journalist who was very pro-Rules and very pro-Deacon. Sirius had a feeling loyalties were changing in Lyndon’s mind.

  Preceding Collins by a pace or two was a man Sirius had seen before, the man who owned the Ford, and the man who had partaken in Sir George’s whisky before now. Sirius squinted, trying to see what Mick Lyndon had left Henry’s house with. Looked like an envelope, A4 size. The phone on the dashboard blinked and vibrated. Sirius answered.

  “Well?”

  “As planned, Sir George. He was with a friend though.”

  “Who?”

  “Michael Lyndon. They got away from the house but I’m sure they were clearly seen.” He closed his eyes, waited for the response. And when it finally came, it was measured, calm.

  “Michael Lyndon and Eddie Collins,” there was considerable thought behind Deacon’s distracted voice. “Make the necessary arrangements. For both of them”

  “Sir.” He didn’t tell Deacon of the envelope, there was no need to get him anxious. An anxious Sir George usually spelled trouble for him; and anyway, he’d just been given all the permission he needed to find the envelope and make Deacon aware of how good a man he had in Sirius.

  “Have you seen the newspaper tonight, Sirius?”

  “Negative, sir.”

  “It makes interesting reading. The headline, written by our friend Mr Lyndon, captures the imagination. It seems a local police building burned down last night. It housed lots of forensic evidence.”

  “Destroyed?”

  “Whether it or any evidence was destroyed or not, seems to have been overlooked in the article. Of further interest is this: Henry Deacon’s Jaguar was found and examined yesterday. Is there a link, asks the report. Michael Lyndon is beyond useful now. Is this getting through to you, Sirius? This man is bad news for both of us.”

  “Sir, I think I know what you—”

  “For instance; would you know if that particular building was overlooked by CCTV?”

  Sirius grimaced. He held his breath.

  “It is,” Deacon said. “Very good quality too.”

  Sirius closed his eyes. “Do you know where—”

  “An outside contractor takes care of all West Yorkshire Police estate monitoring. I called in some favours. They were very expensive favours.”

  “Thank—”

  “Don’t let me down.”

  The line went dead.

  — Five —

  Mick drove out of the neighbourhood, and forty minutes later arrived in one of the busiest parts of Wakefield he could find.

  “Where to?”

  “The nearest pub.”

  “I’m not leaving this in the car,” he flicked the envelope, “and I’m not taking it into a pub either. It’d be just my luck to get mugged.”

  “This the big secret you were hoping for?”

  “Why else would it have my name and address on it?” He drew the car to a halt in a petrol station.

  A hire car followed at a discreet distance, its occupant on the phone.

 
“Where’re you going?” Eddie asked.

  “Just look after that,” he pointed to the envelope. “Don’t open it.”

  Eddie thought back to Henry’s bedroom. And the mind-monster seized its opportunity to come and converse. How strange a feeling it was to have the chance of revenge snatched away like that. Empty. Robbed. Relieved?

  But at least this way, no one could accuse him of murder.

  Did that copper recognise you, do you think? At Henry Deacon’s murder scene? Maybe they could accuse you of murder.

  And then he smiled: this is the age of The Rules, he thought, they don’t make mistakes any more.

  He looked at Mick’s envelope. It had his name and address written neatly in black ink. Not Mick, but Michael. How formal. And then his address: 1 The Coach Road, Kirk Steeple, Wakefield. It sounded grand, much too grand for someone like Mick. Bet it’s a shit tip, Eddie thought; that’s why he never invites me over there.

  Mick came back with two packs of cigarettes and a newspaper. He slammed the door and asked, “Know anyone who drives a brand new Vauxhall Capella?”

  Eddie began to turn.

  “Don’t look round!”

  “Why, why?”

  “There’s one parked thirty yards up the road, one man inside, trying not to look as though he was looking at us. I think it’s been following us a while.”

  “Oh bollocks.”

  “That’ll be a ‘no’ then.”

  “Police?”

  Mick shook his head and pulled back out onto the road.

  “So where are we going?”

  “It rules out anywhere I know; can’t drive to yours, can’t drive to mine.”

  “Pull up over there,” Eddie pointed to the pub called Charlotte’s Lodge a hundred yards away on their right. Mick brought the car to a halt. “Okay,” Eddie said, “just get out, take that with you, lock the car and we walk nice and slowly into the pub like we’re off for a pint. Okay?”

  “I want to open it.”

  “Just do it, Mick.”

  “Right. Then what?”

  — Six —

  Sirius grew nervous. He tapped the steering wheel, eyes constantly flicking between the old Ford Diamond parked outside the pub, and the dash-mounted phone. “You ever been had?” he asked himself. He took the keys from the ignition and was about to open the door when the damned phone got to him first. It was Deacon.