The Third Rule (Eddie Collins Book 1) Read online

  “What if he offered you immunity for all the info you have?”

  Mick shook his head. “I’ve been doing this shit for twenty-odd years. Some of my work has been quite good; some of it earned me awards. And sometimes I’ve come across a story that makes the hairs on my neck stand up; I’ve finished my copy and sent it to the editor and thought ‘this is it, this is the one’. But it never really has been; oh, there have been ground-breaking stories, hard-hitting stories about criminals in eastern Europe or paedophile rings in Scotland… whatever. But none of them has had the potential that this has. And trust me mate, these stories land in a journo’s lap once in his entire life if he’s extremely lucky.

  “I’d never agree to any terms or immunity he’d offer. Never.”

  “Even if agreeing could save your life?”

  “And what a life to save, eh?” He looked across at Eddie; the fact that he could now actually see him quite clearly passed him by, “The story is everything and everything is the story.”

  “Come on,” Eddie said, “let’s get you your story.”

  Eddie retrieved the smashed window frame, positioned the seized hinge upright and carried it to the junction box. It wavered several times, but at last Eddie managed to engage the edge of the hinge in the screw’s slot and began turning around. Only half a turn later the screw leaned sideways and fell out. Then the disc swung aside and something slid to its edge, teetered, and then fell on to the wet concrete floor.

  Mick retrieved it quickly enough, and stood with the object of their quest wrapped in a self-seal plastic bag. Both stared at it in awe as though discovering some priceless relic.

  * * *

  At almost five in the morning Mick placed the memory stick reverentially as deep as it would go into the inside pocket of his saturated summer jacket and closed the zip, patted the bulge and headed for the door.

  Once out in the yard among the hulks of dead machines, Eddie shielded his face against the rain and trudged through the grey mud towards the black gates he could see in the distance, maybe quarter of a mile away. The light of the new day was thin and the world was a mass of varying degrees of greyness lacking definition and solidity, a lot like his life, he thought. “How sure are you they can’t find your cottage?”

  From behind, Mick shivered, pulled up his collar and entered the same field of mud they’d exited three and a half hours earlier. “I’m not sure of anything. Like I said, only the farmer knows I live there, and he doesn’t know who I am anyhow; he doesn’t know I’ve got the Government’s future in my pocket.”

  “And ours.”

  Mick laughed, but it sounded like the groan of a horror-movie door.

  “Okay, just thinking things through; how secure is your email?”

  “We use re-routers to try and lose capturing devices. Until now it wasn’t the Government we were avoiding; it was other newspapers and television broadcasters. They often claim a story is their own exclusive when really they stole it from the ether. So all our emails are encrypted anyhow. Take them months to crack it.”

  “I mean, would it be wiser to go straight to your office?”

  Now Mick did laugh, “Oh no, no, no. I wouldn’t make it through the front door before I was bundled into some car and taken away and shot and left in a ditch.”

  “Nice thought.”

  “I’m taking as few chances as I can.”

  “Sounds like you’ve had experience of this shit before.”

  “Unless you’re reporting on the local school’s gala it pays to take precautions.”

  “Granted,” Eddie said as he approached the chain link fence. “But you mean to tell me that all you correspondents live in isolated cottages—”

  “Listen, I work in crime, so I probe into—”

  “I get that, but even so, it’s extreme. You use a different mailing address…”

  Mick stepped through the hole in the fence followed by Eddie, and they trudged through a list of discomforts towards a distant summit that still hid in the shadows. “I worked in other countries earlier in my career,” he began, “eastern European ones. I was a special correspondent. I had a flair back in those days for searching out news that no one was aware of… not unlike this kind of shit, I suppose.

  “They put you out there for several reasons: maybe you’re good with foreigners, can be empathetic towards them, can build up contacts with the local police; you’ve got a keen interest in that country or a specialism within it; or they want you out of the way. I don’t know,” he shrugged, “maybe there’s someone with better connections who wants your current job in this country, whatever. Anyhow, I was over there whether I liked it or not. And I was over there ad infinitum too.”

  “You really know how to piss people off, don’t you?”

  “Who said I was out there as punishment?”

  “Is that what I was to you, a ‘contact’?”

  “I won’t lie, Eddie, that’s exactly what you were in the early days. I needed a forensic slant on some of the stories I wrote, something different from the usual police angle. But I grew fond of you and it developed into a rather nice friendship I think. Didn’t it?”

  “Go on.”

  “I was there for five years, had become well known and well liked. I was turning in good work, and then I got married to a local girl, so I sort of ‘belonged’; was one of them if you like.”

  “Didn’t know you were married.”

  “Lots you don’t know about me.”

  They crested the summit and less than a minute later, they could see the roof of Ros’s car.

  “So what happened? Why did you come back to the UK alone?”

  “Let’s just say we weren’t together for very long.”

  “That’s women, mate, very fickle.”

  “She was murdered.”

  Eddie stopped, turned in the mud and waited a second for Mick to catch up. “I didn’t know, Mick. I’m sorry.”

  Mick shrugged walked on past Eddie towards the car. “It’s history.”

  Eddie caught up and walked by Mick’s side. Through the rain, he whispered, “Is that why—”

  “Barely had a sober day since.” He looked across to Eddie. “And I don’t want to start now,” he grinned. “When this shit is over, if it doesn’t go well, I want to die pissed out of my tree.”

  “Now I understand…”

  “Most people don’t, Eddie. But I really think you do.”

  “I meant the seclusion and the postal address stuff.”

  “Oh that. I went a little OTT on the security stuff, I didn’t think they would follow me from over there, but I like to sleep soundly.”

  “It’s better than a flat over a fucking carpet shop.”

  “We’ll see.” Mick veered off the track, waved a hand, “I got to pee.”

  Eddie trudged on a few paces and then took out his phone, and pressed the on button. It seemed the decent thing to do, just to send Ros a quick message, one word, that’s all, so she wouldn’t be late for work.

  He looked at the keypad, typed one word and pressed send. When the little envelope on the screen fluttered away into the distance, he pressed off. There, no harm done and everyone’s happy.

  Friday 26th June

  Chapter Forty Eight

  — One —

  The alarm brought Ros back from a sleep so shallow that her eyes were barely closed. She pulled aside the curtains, saw the empty parking slot outside her gate and sighed. Maybe she should wait for him, maybe he would be here any minute. It was six-thirty. He had thirty minutes left.

  She was about to take a breath and become Strong Ros, the one she’d always been when she visited Eddie. It required skill and determination; it required self-belief so that Eddie didn’t see her quaking inside her shoes. She brewed the deep breath ready to inhale, when her mobile phone buzzed and startled her.

  It was him, it was Eddie, a text message. ‘sorry.’

  She dropped the phone and headed straight for the shower. Strong Ro
s was nowhere to be seen; Timid Ros closed the bathroom door. On the one hand, she was relieved he was still okay, and not to mention pleasantly surprised that he had the courtesy to let her know, but on the other hand, she was sad he was still battling with his ordeal. She wondered why he was sorry though: that he still had her car; that he was going to be late? Or was he sorry that he wasn’t going to spend the rest of his life with her after all, because the rest of his life was only about an hour or so long.

  — Two —

  From thirty yards away the scratches along the roof and down the sides of the car stood out proud, there was foliage protruding like a tongue from under the front bumper, more stuck behind the wiper blades and embedded into the joints of the wing mirrors. “She is going to kill me.”

  Exhausted, cold and soaked through, Mick sat in the passenger seat while Eddie scraped away as much mud as possible from his shoes before he collapsed behind the wheel and started the engine. “Get the fucking heater on, quick,” he said, “before my fingers fall off.”

  Eddie engaged first gear and turned the car round, wheel-spinning most of the way, until it successfully pointed downhill.

  The roads heading out of Great Preston were empty. The rain gathered strength, and the wind hurled rain at the car with enough intensity to slow Eddie down. The car veered and rocked but after forty minutes of steady progress, they made it onto the busier main roads heading north towards a discreet village called Aberford. No one spoke throughout the journey, each content to dwell upon his own thoughts.

  Mick was playing his plan through his mind, from walking in through the front door to shaking hands with Rochester in the office in a week or maybe even two, depending upon how the news was received and what the authorities chose to do with it. Sometimes, the wheels moved slowly, but when public concern was a major priority, they were jet propelled.

  There was always the possibility that he would never see Rochester again; a freak accident perhaps, a blatant killing, or an unexplained disappearance were all equally plausible. And if that was the case, he thought, then so be it, so long as my work reaches the public.

  The information Henry Deacon had given him would make Michael Lyndon famous as the one who told the story, entwined with the famous Sir George Deacon like Woodward and Bernstein entwined with Watergate, a kind of notoriety. And he wondered what treasure the little waterproofed parcel in his inside pocket held; must be something big to go to all that trouble hiding it. And there was a tinge of honour creeping into Mick’s mind as he thought of Henry choosing him, Mick Lyndon, to tell that story. Yes, there was pride there.

  Eddie too drew out a plan, though his was considerably shorter. He figured the cottage was as safe a place as any right now. Once the stories were out, his biggest concern would be skipping work and avoiding a Rule Two infringement for assaulting McHue. And then Eddie’s mind seemed to sense impending security, and so removed a layer of alertness, let it relax back to whatever had preoccupied it before this thing got so complicated and so life-threatening.

  And that’s when he smiled at the thought of Sam, his little fellow, his mate, his son. And the smile went away.

  “Park it up there under the trees.” Mick pointed to a rough track to the south of his cottage that went nowhere, simply ended between the trunks of two trees. “If they get lucky with a sweep.”

  “Helicopter won’t be flying in this weather.” But he parked it there anyway, because if Eddie was going to get any luck at all, it would be of the bad variety.

  * * *

  “Won’t be long and you’ll be a free man,” Mick smiled as they walked into the hallway. “Shoes.”

  Eddie slipped his shoes off, “I always was a free man.” Mud plastered the lower part of his jeans and had crusted on the inside right up to the knees, drying out and flaking off in lumps. He pulled off his socks, and marvelled at his pure white wrinkled feet.

  “You know what I mean.”

  Eddie threw his wet jacket on the floor next to a cold radiator and then unbuttoned his jeans and rolled them off his legs. “You got a shower in this dump?”

  “Washing machine and drier in the kitchen, feed the vent pipe out through the window otherwise the place’ll steam up; shower upstairs, towels in the airing cupboard. Fix me a drink first would ya?”

  “Coffee?”

  Mick stopped halfway through yanking his jacket off, raised his eyebrows, and continued when he was sure that Eddie got the message.

  “I’m not having one.”

  “What?”

  “I feel okay without. My y-axis is flat-lined.”

  Mick stared blankly at him.

  Eddie walked through into the kitchen, laughing, leaving wet footprints on the dark quarry tiles, found the washing machine and dumped all his clothes in. He was about to remove his boxers.

  “Whoa, boy. I so do not want my whisky served to me by a naked man, thank you very much.”

  Eddie laughed, walked back into the lounge and poured a generous measure.

  “If you feel okay without, it begs the question of your alcoholism in the first place.”

  Eddie stood before Mick with a generous tumbler of neat whisky and, sniffing it briefly, he smiled at him. “I’m good, thanks.” Then he walked back into the kitchen, rolling his boxers down as he went, and laughing as he imagined the grimace on Mick’s face.

  “Please don’t turn around…”

  Eddie laughed again; the mood was lightening.

  “…but seriously, I’m amazed that eighteen hours ago you had signs of alcoholic poisoning, and here you are now without so much as a single withdrawal symptom.”

  He slammed the washing machine door, turned the dial and listened to the machine filling with water. He turned—

  “Hey,” Mick looked away quickly.

  “Sorry,” Eddie said and walked behind the door. “I have a headache, but that’s all,” he shrugged. “I can’t explain it; I’m just not bothered about booze. For the first time in months.”

  “Amazing,” Mick walked up the stone stairs, treading lightly on the carpet, almost silently. “Amazing,” he said to himself.

  — Three —

  Ros sipped tea. She turned on the television just as the background picture of George and Henry Deacon blinked off the screen behind the shoulder of a happy smiley broadcaster with too much makeup on, and whose breasts seemed determined to break free of the blouse that struggled to hold them. There was a banner scrolling across the bottom of the screen, just below the errant breasts, but all she could see before it changed to an advert for Robinson’s Barley Water, was the single word: Deacon. This was part of Channel 5’s breakfast news show dedicated to Rule Three ‘stars’. It was a gimmick, when it should have been about a successful the new justice system rooting out the worst people in society and elimin…

  The plain red wall over the broadcaster’s shoulder changed into the evil-looking face of a dangerous criminal. Christian Ledger stared right back at her.

  ‘…and last for today is 1313, Christian Ledger, a twenty-eight year old male from West Yorkshire. Mr Ledger is a convicted burglar with a history of violence towards his victims. Yesterday he became wanted for the murder of his twenty-four year old girlfriend, Alice Sedgewick who was found stabbed to death in their squat in Leeds. Ledger’s notoriety was further increased as he became the first person in the UK to gain provisional Rule Three status from his own crime scene, such was the confidence of West Yorkshire homicide detectives in his guilt; and, said a West Yorkshire Police spokesperson, it’s demonstrative of the level of commitment the police have in making The Rules work, and work quickly, which all helps to allay the fears of the general public…’

  Ros blinked, and then she closed her eyes. “Bullshit,” she whispered. Really what was the point of scene examination at all? They may as well pick a name out of a hat. “Incompetent!”

  She turned off the television and stared at the blank screen, feeling angry, grinding her teeth. She delved inside her handbag,
took out her phone, and flicked through the contacts. She pressed CALL.

  “Holbeck CID, DC Cooper.”

  “Coop, it’s Ros from SOCO.” She could hear laughter and office banter in the background.

  “Hey Ros, how’s—”

  “Is DI Taylor there?”

  “A minute.”

  She heard Coop’s hand cover the phone, and in a muffled voice heard him call out, ‘Boss!’

  Coop took his hand away and said, “He’s here, Ros.”

  “Thanks.”

  “DI Taylor.”

  “Sir, it’s Ros from SOCO.”

  “Hello, Ros.”

  “I just saw Christian Ledger advertised as a Rule Three.”

  “Number 1313, I think—”

  She could hear the humour in his voice, “He’s innocent! He shouldn’t be on a Rule Three at all.”

  “Ledger is one of Tom Benson’s jobs; you’ll have to take it up with him.”

  “He won’t listen; he said he wanted Ledger before I’d even finished the scene.”

  “I’m sure once he has all the evidence—”

  “He’ll go right ahead and ignore it. He wants the glory of—”

  “Ros, you’ll have to speak to him about it—”

  “He won’t listen,” even Ros detected the desperate tone in her voice, trying to convince someone of something they have absolutely no inclination to hear.

  Taylor’s voice sank to a whisper, “If any evidence comes to light that shows Ledger as innocent, DCI Benson will listen, because once the Review Panel sees it, Ledger will be released and Benson will be in serious trouble. And he’s wise enough to know that, Ros.”

  “And what if that evidence is never recorded? What happens if the Review Panel don’t get to know about—”

  “Ros.”

  “They’ll kill an innocent man, and keep a murderer on the streets. It’s not all about stats, Alan. At some point we’re going to have bring justice into the equation.” Her heart pummelled, she gripped the phone tightly enough to hurt her hand, and in a trembling voice was begging for the freedom of a man she had never even met… and losing.