The Third Rule (Eddie Collins Book 1) Page 53

  Suzanne calmed slightly, and even bowed her head in deference.

  “I don’t want to kill your enthusiasm,” he went on, “just be careful. This isn’t reporting on the new footpath on Main Street, it’s delving into people’s lives and that’s when they get defensive—”

  “If they have something to hide.”

  Rochester considered this. “Yes, if they have something to hide, that’s true. But suppose they don’t? Suppose you’re well off the mark, and they find out you’ve been delving into their bank accounts or you’re following the spouse to try and get a lead? That kind of stuff would aggravate even a saint.”

  She nodded.

  “Okay,” he said, “I’m moving you up a level; you’re officially Mick Lyndon’s second now.”

  Suzanne gulped a large breath and no matter how hard she struggled, could not help smiling. “Just need to know where he is,” she said.

  Rochester was about to comment on that, when the office door opened. He looked across at a bearded man, “Craig?”

  “Two men in reception for you. On Government business, they say.”

  “Who are they?”

  “A Benjamin Teal, and the other fellow seems to be a deaf mute. You want me to get a meeting room ready?”

  “Show them up.”

  Craig nodded, closed the door.

  Suzanne said, “I better give you some privacy.”

  “Pull up a chair. You are my witness.”

  “Why do you need a witness?”

  “I need lots of witnesses. Whatever they want, it’s bad news for us.”

  Five minutes later, Craig admitted two strangers into Rochester’s office, then left them to it. Rochester stood and extended a hand. The lead man shook, a warm and firm shake, the other guy, the deaf mute, stood by the door, hands folded before him as though he were chanting a silent prayer.

  “Mr…?” Rochester asked the Asian man.

  “Benjamin Teal, pleased to meet you, Mr Rochester.” He looked at Suzanne, “Ah, Miss Child, good to see you here.”

  Suzanne flushed at her notoriety, and merely nodded.

  “And who’s your companion?”

  Teal glanced over his shoulder. “I have a terrible sense of direction; he’s here to make sure I don’t get lost.” There was no humour in his eyes.

  Rochester gestured to a seat. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  “I’m a lawyer for the Justice Ministry. And I’m here to help you.”

  “An inside story perhaps?”

  “Not that kind of help.” Teal reached inside his suit pocket and brought out an envelope, which he handed directly to Rochester. “It’s a request from the Ministry,” he said. “We’re rather hoping you’ll defer any future comment on the Ministry or the recently introduced Act—”

  “No.” He placed the envelope, unopened, onto his desk, and leaned forward, staring at Teal. “This is a prelude to a gagging order, isn’t it?”

  “Well—”

  “Get the gagging order, and then we’ll talk. I’ll have my lawyer come along too, so you two can get embroiled in all that legal jargon.”

  “Ah. I was hoping it wouldn’t come to that; you see, the Ministry thought it had a rather special relationship with the Echo, thought you may like to cooperate without the use of coercion.”

  “We went all out to help you introduce The Rules, Mr Teal, and you bent over backwards to accommodate us then, as I recall. Now that we’re seeing one or two things happen that shouldn’t, and we want to provide the public with an unbiased opinion, which is what we did for The Rules, you’re putting a block on us?”

  “Well, we were hoping that you’d hold off with any news concerning the late Henry Deacon. Obviously this is a hard time for Sir George, so we’d appreciate his name being kept out of the press for a short time too, to help him come to terms with his loss, to help him regain his… his composure, as it were.

  “And concerning the new Act, there are always situations and scenarios that the draughtsmen cannot foresee; and so…” he faded into a ‘you know what I mean’ smile.

  “Teething problems shouldn’t be a worry to the Ministry; no one is perfect, but surely you want the press there to assure the public that even though there are problems, you’re working your way through them for the future of the country and for the future of justice? You want the learning process to be transparent?”

  “Our discussion is at an end, Mr Rochester. I urge you to read that document. It clarifies for you the order with which we are serving you, it helps you understand the differences between the old appeal process and the new one now afforded you.”

  “Which is?”

  “There isn’t one.” Teal stood, made no effort to shake hands this time, merely turned and headed for the deaf-mute. “It also outlines some of the consequences should you choose not to cooperate. I bid you good day.” He opened the door and exited with the deaf-mute, without looking back and without attempting to close the door behind him.

  “They can’t do that,” Suzanne said.

  “One minute,” Rochester reached under his chair and flicked a discreet switch.

  “You were taping them?” she asked.

  “Videoing them,” he said, “I never take chances with officials anymore. And there is another lesson for you, Suzanne. Each one is subservient to their master’s whim. Even if that whim is illegal.”

  “They can’t take away a right of appeal; that’s why it’s called a ‘right’.”

  “Never mind that now,” Rochester said. “Find out for me all you can about those two clowns. And then find out where Mick Lyndon is.”

  Friday 26th June

  Chapter Fifty One

  — One —

  Benson read the notes. He was busy editing the disclosure file for Christian Ledger’s lawyer. There were certain things in it that might be better left out; for instance the unidentified fingerprints on the roll of cash. They could belong to anyone, they were probably there innocently as the result of a business transaction, or maybe the cash was Ledger’s last stock of booty from some poor burglary victim. No doubt the prints belonged to some honest secretary or hard-working mechanic; either way they weren’t on file, so whomever the cash belonged to was not a criminal. To include the prints would serve only to add a layer of uncertainty to a sound prosecution case.

  Benson’s mobile phone rang. He looked at it for several seconds, saw the familiar number and knew it was Sirius wanting yet another favour. Reluctantly, he answered, “What’s up, Sirius?”

  “Do you know if Eddie Collins has any close friends at work?”

  “Yeah, I’m his fucking Arrange-a-Date advisor.”

  “Come on, Benson. I need this—”

  “Really? I got you his number, I found out his—”

  “And I’m grateful, but this could prove very beneficial to us, to you, in fact.”

  “How’s that then?”

  “I don’t need him; I need his friend, Mick Lyndon. And if I can get to him, it’ll protect the Government… and the Government can be really generous.”

  “You seen my fucking salary?”

  “Please, Benson.”

  Benson paused a moment, “It so happens that there is someone, a woman called Ros Banford. That’s all I know about her, I’m not finding out where she lives for you, and I’m not getting her phone—”

  “Thanks, Benson. I’ll be in touch.” The phone went dead.

  “I’m sure you will. Twat.”

  — Two —

  “What are you doing, Ros?”

  She looked up from the paperwork. There was a questioning look on Chris’s face.

  “I’m busy.”

  “We’re all busy.” He looked around at the others in the office. They didn’t seem particularly happy right now. “There are major scenes running left, right and centre, and we need all hands on deck just to keep up with the volume crime jobs.”

  “I realise that,” she said, “but I’m still busy.”

>   “What you working on?” Chris was a SOCO with whom she had never really worked before; he was standing in while Jeffery caught up with some sleep, he was the guy who acted up when a Senior SOCO was on leave or was absent through illness, like a supply teacher in a school. “Maybe I can get you some time later, or even get you some help?”

  Ros tried counting to ten but only made it to five.

  “Ros?”

  “I don’t need time later, thanks. I need time right now, and I need to be left alone to get on with it.” She stared at him. He meandered back to his desk, and then she noticed the rest of the team in the makeshift office looking across at her.

  “Okay,” he said. “But I have to let Jeffery know when he gets back.”

  “Fine,” Ros went back to the post mortem report of Alice Sedgewick, and heard the others tutting, banging their equipment around, and then she heard them leaving, one by one, and eventually, she was able to concentrate.

  The report was nothing out of the ordinary for someone who lived on drugs. The toxicology section was spiked with chemical names that said she was a long-term addict; she was malnourished, and suffered from the early signs of heart disease. She died as a direct result of a single stab wound to the upper right ventricle, and died quickly, judging by the small amount of blood pumped into her chest cavity.

  And of course, there was the question of the golden coloured fibres in the clothing around the wound and under her fingernails.

  Chris stood against the wall, arms folded, staring at her.

  She sighed and put the paper down. “You want to help?”

  He sat opposite her. “What you working on?”

  “Trying to stop a young lad from being sentenced to death for something he didn’t do.”

  Chris shrugged, “Isn’t that what IRP and CPS are for?”

  “And it’s what the Senior Investigating Officer is for too, but we’re talking about Benson here, and all he wants is a line through this thing, and another tally on his wall.”

  “But if there’s evidence—”

  “There is! But he won’t disclose it because it keeps the prosecution case straightforward and gives the defence nowhere to go. And at eight-hundred quid an hour, the IRP don’t want barristers running around for longer than it takes to hold a two day trial.”

  Chris took a deep breath, “World’s gone to shit.”

  “Glad you said that, I thought I was going insane.”

  “Run it by me.”

  “Christian Ledger, artist, very good artist by the way, and a burglar. He’s a recluse. Steals to fund his painting, steals to fund his girlfriend’s drug habit. She too is a recluse – or was a recluse. Anyway, we think she left the house at some point because there was a lottery ticket with her prints on it. She’s found half way down the cellar steps, dead from a single stab wound to the chest.”

  “Right.”

  “Me and Eddie examined her scene, but Eddie had to leave half way through, and Benson pulled the scene guard off before I’d finished.”

  “He did what?”

  She waved aside his concerns. “Never mind. We found unidentified prints on an easel in the cellar, and more on a fresh bundle of cash tucked away in the cellar door frame. Also, there were about twenty paintings in a little alcove in the cellar. When we first got there, six were missing, judging by the marks they left in the dust.”

  “Christian could have been selling them.”

  She shook her head. “Why burgle if your paintings sell?”

  “Can’t be overheads, living in a squat.”

  “No overheads anyhow; he might buy canvas, but he steals the paint. And don’t forget, his prints weren’t on the cash anyway.”

  “She was selling the art then, hiding the cash in the cellar.”

  Ros shook her head, “No, her prints weren’t on the cash either.”

  “So that suggests someone came into the cellar and took them. Which means the thief paid her for the art.” And then he thought about it, “Which sort of makes him not a thief, doesn’t it?”

  “No way.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because how many art thieves just happen to travel past a derelict squat and nip inside hoping an artist lives there?”

  “True,” he mumbled.

  “I’d brought all the paintings up from the cellar ready to leave when someone attacked me and stole them—”

  “Jesus, Ros. Did you report it?”

  “Please can we just get on with this?”

  Chris shook his head, “Christ, I can’t believe you, Ros. How—”

  “Please?”

  He shrugged.

  “And there’s something more. When I came to and found the rest of the paintings missing, there were some local drug dealers in the kitchen—”

  “You fucking what?”

  Ros laughed, “Sorry,” she said. “Your face was a picture.”

  “Did they—”

  “No, no, no, they didn’t harm me and they didn’t steal the paintings. But they said they’d seen a man walking up the lane, carrying bin bags that could have had paintings inside them. No description other than he was wearing a snooker player’s waistcoat.”

  “Now it’s making sense. She sells his art to a dealer. The dealer brings her home, takes more art and leaves a token payment. And when she gets greedy, he kills her and just takes what he can carry.”

  “Then we show up—”

  “And he waits; gets his opportunity to clear the place out when you’re on your own.”

  She thought about it. “It’s a good theory. It covers her leaving the house to buy the lottery ticket, it covers the money, the unidentified prints, the unidentified footwear marks in her blood in the kitchen, and I suppose it accounts for the golden threads.”

  “What golden threads?”

  “We found golden threads under Alice’s nails, and on her clothes at the puncture site.”

  “From the snooker-player’s waistcoat?”

  “That’s what I think, yes.”

  “And Benson ignored all this?”

  She only looked at him.

  “That man’s incredible.”

  “We had them looked at, these golden threads, and it’s called Kreinik, or Japan thread. It’s not metal based so it doesn’t tarnish during use, but it’s very delicate, can’t wash it regularly. It’s less than half a millimetre thick.”

  “You know,” Chris said, deep in thought, “I have to wonder where the Christian chap is during all this.”

  “Oh, don’t you start!”

  “I’m not taking Benson’s side, I’m just wondering, that’s all.”

  Ros dropped her pen on the desk and rubbed her tired eyes. “I have no idea. There was a hammer in the lounge with his blood all over it. Draw your own conclusions.”

  Chris scratched his chin. Then he got up, went across to a steel shelving unit and came back with the Yellow Pages. “Let’s find out where the greatest concentration of art shops is.”

  “Got to be Leeds city centre.”

  “I’d say so.”

  — Three —

  Sirius had parked near Ros Banford’s home in Normanton for half an hour. Nothing. No movement at all.

  And now he was parked in the town centre, his thoughts shattered by a Vidiscreen.

  It flashed the faces of wanted people, their names and numbers and the Crimestoppers number, all in a deep red. These were regularly interspersed by news of those the police had captured; same photo, blue name and number beneath them, blue Crimestoppers number too – no doubt something psychological about it.

  Sirius stared at the screen, waiting it for it to cycle through the mug-shots. He’d seen it once, just a glimpse before it moved along to the next criminal. Seven minutes went by before his face came up on screen, blue writing below proclaimed, ‘In Custody: Christian Ledger’.

  He went cold. He stared at the face; a face he knew very well. But the last time he saw that face, it was a red mess and it was disappe
aring over the edge of an opencast mine.

  — Four —

  By the time they had sorted out the helicopter and the masses of paperwork, Christian was exhausted again. For some reason, the helicopter had landed at some South Yorkshire police building, and he was ferried the rest of the way to West Yorkshire by a pair of fast traffic cars. The further north he travelled, the worse the weather became; gusting winds and strong rain.

  According to the clock on the wall behind the desk sergeant, it was three-fifty. Had his plan worked successfully, Christian would have been eating along the seafront somewhere in Penzance, a cool pint of lager by his side and a view to die for. He looked around the Bridewell, and to his surprise, he found that he still had a view to die for… in a much more literal sense.

  He could remember thinking how low he felt the first time the police arrested him and brought him into the check-in area of Holbeck police station. Well, that had been a mild anxiety attack compared with this. This was the beginning of the end; this was the culmination of twenty-eight years on earth – death by a Home Office bullet. An end to the crap. Good riddance.

  Two armed officers stood within four feet of him, his wrists were cuffed. And as well as the sergeant’s bored face, Christian stared into the black hole of a Shelby Industries video camera, his own personal documenter of his demise. Unlike Holbeck, this wasn’t so much a conveyor line of miscreants; Christian was treated a little more special this time, his own piece of desk and only one sergeant to stare at, no noise from other offenders.

  “Name?”

  Christian looked from the camera back to the sergeant. The sergeant waited a few seconds, then looked up from his keyboard, sighed.

  “Name?” he asked again.

  And there was the choice. Answer and get it over with, or keep quiet and let them struggle.

  “Longer this takes, worse it looks for you. Longer it takes, more annoyed people are with you, less likely to get cream in your coffee, more likely to get powdered milk. Making sense?”