The Rule
THE RULE
Contents
Cover
The Rule
Dedication
Prologue
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Acknowledgements
Guide
Cover
Start of Content
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‘The master of razor-sharp one liners, David Jackson’s The Rule is an absolute belter’
MANDASUE HELLER
‘Brilliant. Spiralling tension, wit and heart, this is British crime writing at its best’
MARK EDWARDS
‘I really enjoyed [it]. Jackson doesn’t do cosy thrillers. There is dark, ultra dark, and then there is The Rule. You’ve been warned’
PAUL FINCH
‘An intense and compelling read that will evoke complicated emotions in every reader. Highly recommended’
LISA HALL
‘Excellent as always. Grimy and heartbreaking in equal measure, peppered with Jackson’s trademark wit and humour. May be his best yet’
WILL CARVER
‘Jackson is one of the finest British thriller writers. A thrilling, propulsive and ultimately heartbreaking tale of the lengths a father will go to in order to protect his family’
MARTYN WAITES
‘A pacy, smart and darkly funny heartbreaker of a crime novel’
SUSI HOLLIDAY
‘David Jackson has done it again. The Rule is incredible. Creepy, emotive, dark, tense and disturbing’
NOELLE HOLTEN
‘A stupendous piece of literary engineering. When high-rise tenants meet the local vicious lowlife, who knows what the outcome will be’
JENNY O’BRIEN
‘A stomach-lurching descent into parental desperation, full of surprises from start to finish. A gasp-out-loud read after which I dare you to break The Rule’
JANICE HALLETT
‘A dark, poignant and perfectly observed page-turner that asks: How far would you go to protect the people you love? A triumph’
VICTORIA SELMAN
‘Another fantastic book by David Jackson. A real balls-to-the-wall thriller, with a surprisingly emotional end. Should be a big hit’
DAN MALAKIN
‘Cleverly crafted and darkly disturbing, with some deftly written emotional moments that show just how far some will go to protect those they love’
ROBERT SCRAGG
‘A real rollercoaster. It’s a brilliantly worked series of moral dilemmas that sucks in the protagonists, with twists and turns that will keep you reading till late at night. I loved it’
GUY MORPUSS
First published in Great Britain in 2021 by
VIPER, part of Serpent’s Tail,
an imprint of Profile Books Ltd
29 Cloth Fair
London
EC1A 7JQ
www.serpentstail.com
Copyright © David Jackson, 2021
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781788164375
Export ISBN 9781788164399
eISBN 9781782836520
Also by David Jackson and available from Viper
The Resident
THE RULE
DAVID JACKSON
For Irene
PROLOGUE
‘Bloody hell. Not you lot again.’
The furious manner in which Suzy Carling was drying her hands on a faded tea towel threatened to peel off her skin. She turned away from her front door and marched back into the gloomy interior of her terraced house.
Detective Inspector Hannah Washington looked at her colleague standing next to her.
‘I think that’s her way of inviting us in.’
Detective Constable Marcel Lang nodded. ‘She’s obviously in a rush to get the kettle on. I do like a friendly welcome.’
They entered the hallway. Marcel closed the front door and said, ‘I hope she’s got some Hobnobs in. Or KitKats. I’m not fussy.’
‘Didn’t I just see you wolfing down a pasty and chips in the canteen?’
Marcel rubbed his belly, which belied what he shovelled into it on a regular basis. He was one of those people who was always charged to capacity with nervous energy. He could cram in a four-course meal, then burn it off within the hour. He was neither tall nor stocky, but in a fight he was tenacious and ferocious. A darting, snapping terrier rather than a lumbering Rottweiler.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I’m sure Vera was a bit stingy with the chips today.’
The hall was papered in busy patterns that made Hannah’s eyes wobble. It was like one of those optical illusions where you had to look at it a certain way to make it pop out in 3D. She was glad to get past it and into the living room, where Suzy had plonked herself down on an armchair and was lighting up a cigarette. The room already reeked of stale smoke.
‘Mind if we sit?’ Hannah asked.
‘I don’t care if you do handstands if it helps get this over with. Ask your questions and get out.’
Hannah lowered herself onto the sofa. It was upholstered in a floral fabric that didn’t match the chairs. A stack of interior design magazines was balanced on one of its arms, although it was clear that the advice within their pages had not been taken on board. To Hannah’s right, a gas fire was fixed to the wall on an obvious slant, as though it might fall off at any second. Behind Suzy, a large window with failed double-glazed units offered a fogged view of a garden crowded with weeds and junk.
Marcel didn’t sit down. He hardly ever relaxed in other people’s houses. Hannah didn’t mind on this occasion. His steady pacing, coupled with the occasional surprise launch of a question, would unsettle Suzy.
Hannah studied the woman for a few seconds. She was thirty-nine. Coffee-coloured hair that she’d endeavoured to make more interesting with some blonde streaks. Trim figure and a push-up bra straining against a vest top. Cartoonish doodles of eyebrows. Inflated lips that made it look as though she’d stick fast if she walked into a plate-glass window.
‘This doesn’t have to be difficult,’ Hannah said.
Suzy snorted out two streams of smoke, like an angry bull.
‘Try saying that when a gang of hairy-arsed coppers breaks down your front door at four o’clock in the morning and then rips your house apart.’
Hannah sighed. She could do without the attitude. It was wearying, draining. She didn’t have the patience for this shit anymore.
‘We didn’t rip it apart. We searched it. And we were acting on information received that Tommy was here.’
‘Well, he wasn’t, was he? Which just goes to show how crap your information is. He wasn’t here then and he isn’t here now, so why don’t you just sling your hook?’
‘Have you seen him recently?’ Marcel asked.
‘Not since the last time you asked me, no.’
‘Has he phoned you?’
‘Nope.’
‘What, not a single call? I thought you two were inseparable. Suzy and Tommy sitting in a tree.’
She showed him her middle finger. ‘Don’t take the piss, all right? You’re the ones who are keeping him away. Don’t know if I’ll ever see him again now.’
Hannah shook her head. ‘My heart bleeds for you. Not as much as his fiancée’s, mind.’
Suzy stabbed her cigarette into the overflowing ashtray on the table next to her and jumped to her feet.
‘That’s it!’ she yelled. ‘Get out of my house.’
Hannah stayed put. ‘You need to talk to us, Suzy. You’re not helping him or yourself.’
‘I said get out!’
The command was followed by a thunder of footsteps rolli
ng down the staircase. Hannah saw Marcel’s eyes widen. He dived for the doorway to intercept whatever was heading their way. Hannah had faith in him. He would handle it. And if he didn’t . . .
Well, did it matter? Did anything really matter? Sometimes she thought someone beating the crap out of her might do her some good.
She remained on the sofa, staring philosophically at Suzy, wondering if she had a similar attitude to life. Despite the heavy foundation, the bruise on her cheek still shone through. Why would she put herself through that? Why would any sane woman stay loyal to a violent nutcase like Tommy Glover?
‘What are you doing to my mother?’
Shane Carling. Eighteen years old and straining to fill the shoes of the man of the house. Still baby-faced but attempting to counter the apparent innocence with a scalp of stubble and a tattoo of three swords on his neck. Now getting gobby like he always did. He stood in the doorway, jabbing his finger at the detectives while the unintimidated Marcel blocked his path and itched for an excuse to get him in an armlock and call for a van.
‘We’re having a quiet chat,’ Hannah told him. ‘Nothing to get your knickers in a twist about.’
‘Quiet chat, my arse,’ Suzy said. ‘They’re accusing me again. I want them out!’
‘You heard her,’ Shane said. He tried to take a step forward, but Marcel didn’t budge. Shane’s glower became increasingly aggressive, but it was no match for Marcel’s unwavering stare.
Hannah kept her voice flat, calm. ‘We’re not accusing you of anything. Can we have a proper adult conversation now, please?’
Suzy mulled it over. Gradually, the tension drained from her and she lowered herself onto her chair. Shane and Marcel continued their staring match, like championship boxers at a weigh-in.
Realising she had just stubbed out her cigarette, Suzy picked up a carton from the table, but discovered it was empty.
‘For fuck’s sake.’ She looked across at her son. ‘Fetch me some cigarettes, lad.’
Shane seemed relieved at the excuse to break eye contact. ‘Ma . . .’
She waved him away. ‘It’s all right. Let them say their piece and go. I’ve got nothing to hide.’
‘Where are your cigs?’
She snapped again. ‘I don’t bloody know. Try my bedroom. One of my bags. Use your head.’
Shane took one last glance at Marcel before disappearing upstairs. Hannah gained the impression he was more scared of his own mother than he was of the police officer.
She turned back to Suzy. ‘We’re not trying to make life difficult for you, but you don’t seem to appreciate how dangerous Tommy is.’
‘He’s not dangerous. Not to me. He loves me.’
Ah, Hannah thought. So there it is. Love. Everything can look brighter through the prism of love.
‘You’ve heard what he did to Marie, haven’t you? That was his fiancée. The woman he once loved. We don’t know if she’s ever going to come out of hospital. And even if she does, she’ll never be the same.’
Suzy turned away as if she didn’t want to hear any more, but Hannah pressed on.
‘Did you know he insisted on getting the engagement ring back? And when she refused, he attacked her. And when she still refused, he cut off her finger to get it. That’s the kind of man your Tommy is. That’s what he does to the women he claims to love.’