Control

by John Macken

  TWO

  1

  Daniel Riefield was slow to react. Sitting on a grubby brown sofa, staring into the TV, pulling hard on a cigarette, a can of beer held static, turning round to face the noise. A delayed response to sudden sound and movement.

  Reuben smashed through the door at the second attempt, its lock buckling with the force. He regained his balance and covered the five strides to Riefield in one fluid movement. Riefield lunged upwards, an improvised rugby tackle, his arms spread out, coming for Reuben. Reuben transferred his weight and slipped free. Riefield brought his right arm round, a fist shaving Reuben’s face. Reuben pulled the jack round and swung it at him. The heavy implement caught Riefield a glancing blow off his skull. There was a blunted sound, a hollow clunk above the sound of the TV, a contact between metal and bone. Riefield went down, his lunge suddenly aimless, and crashed on to the floor. Reuben aimed a kick for his torso, but stopped himself. There were more pressing issues.

  He backed into a room which fed the main living area. The flat was filthy. It was damp and cold, small cracks in the walls, patches of mould. Cigarette butts were ground into the carpet. The screech of the TV echoed off bare surfaces. A music channel blaring out a screaming guitar, a pounding bass, frantic drums.

  ‘Joshua?’ he called above the noise. ‘Joshua? It’s Daddy!’

  Reuben flicked on the light in a bedroom, tore open the wardrobe, checked under the bed. He heard Riefield moving around so he paced back to him, the jack gripped firmly in his hand. ‘Sit down on the floor,’ he said. ‘You move an inch, and I’ll knock you out cold.’

  Riefield stared up at him. Reuben could see he was dangerous. An intensity in his eyes, a feral wildness in his face.

  He strode into another room. A small space crammed with junk. Old newspapers, print-outs, discarded beer cans, a broken stereo. He called his son’s name again. There was no reply.

  He checked the bathroom. Cracked lino, broken tiles, black mould burrowing into gaps. Nothing. Only one more door.

  Reuben took a good look at Riefield. He was shaking his head, colour starting to return to his cheeks. Reuben glanced at the TV. A pale skinny woman, a row of tattooed guitarists, a long-haired drummer giving it his all. He snatched the remote and pressed the mute button. The musicians continued regardless, their anger now looking faked, their efforts overwrought.

  He walked over to the door, gripped the handle and pulled it hard. Utter darkness inside. He groped for a light switch and found one. An energy-saving fluorescent flickered on, gloomy at first, gradually getting brighter.

  ‘Don’t!’ Riefield said.

  Reuben spun round. Riefield was on his feet and coming forward.

  ‘Sit the fuck down!’ Reuben said.

  ‘Don’t go in there!’ Riefield repeated.

  Reuben raised the jack. ‘One more step and I’ll put you down.’

  Riefield stopped. Reuben could tell he was weighing him up. Asking himself, can I take this stranger in front of me? Weapon or no weapon, can I get to him before he gets to me? Reuben gauged his size. Six one, give or take. Similar height but slightly leaner. A wasted, gaunt look to him, like he had previously been heavier. Reuben thought of Carl Everitt and Ian Gillick. Riefield had overpowered each of them. Reuben had caught him unawares, sitting on his sofa. Toe to toe could be a different matter. He was obviously strong. The jack, now that he looked at it, was an inadequate weapon. Something longer would have been better. A baseball bat, an iron bar. Riefield stared back at him, deadpan, silent. A trickle of blood escaped his hair, running down the side of his face, just in front of his ear. He didn’t wipe it away.

  ‘Where the fuck is my son?’ Reuben asked. ‘Joshua Maitland. What have you done with him?’

  Riefield stared at him. A thin smile flicked across his features, the hint of a smirk. ‘Your son? Your fucking son? Is that what this is about?’

  ‘Where is he?’

  Riefield took a small step forward, adjusting his weight, legs slightly splayed, ready. ‘Maitland,’ he spat. ‘Reuben Maitland. Fucking Forensics.’

  Reuben knew for certain that he had the killer in front of him. He had often looked into their eyes, wondered if he could spot what made them different. Usually he was behind a desk, the murderer restrained, CID either side. That was a very different proposition. Nothing between him and the killer now but a metre of air, the length of an arm, a void of stillness that could erupt at any second.

  ‘Where is my boy?’ he asked again.

  The flat, in his peripheral vision, told him Joshua was obviously being kept somewhere else. The walls were too thin, too many people around, too many variables. But where? That was all that mattered. Surviving, and finding his son.

  And then there was a movement. The scuttling of something in the direction of the sofa. Behind Riefield, over his left shoulder. The scamper of sharp claws. Reuben couldn’t see it, but knew instantly what it was. A rat.

  Without waiting, he swung his right arm. Leaning forward, his arm travelling up, the metal jack heading for Riefield’s face. A millisecond of instinct. Self-defence in the form of an arcing uppercut, fuelled by the knowledge that if he didn’t attack, he would be attacked himself. And that if Riefield overpowered him, he would never see his son again.

  Riefield didn’t react in time. The jack caught him under his jaw. His head tipped back, eyes lolling. He staggered a couple of paces and collapsed on to the stained carpet. Reuben stood over him, making sure. He was breathing, but other than that there was no movement.

  He took out his mobile and dialled. As it rang, he cast his eyes over the bare walls, the opened doors, the man on the floor. The man whose DNA was at the scene of a murder. The man whose DNA was at the scene of Joshua’s abduction.

  ‘Detective Paul Veno,’ a voice said after five rings.

  ‘This is Reuben. I’ve got some information.’

  Venos sounded unimpressed. ‘Really?’

  ‘I have the kidnapper here.’ Reuben gave him the address and flat number. ‘He’s quiet at the moment, but won’t be for long.’

  ‘And Joshua?’

  ‘Somewhere else.’ Reuben stared down at Riefield. A deep cut on his lower jaw was leaking red into the thin carpet. ‘But this is the man who abducted him.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘It’s better if I don’t answer that.’

  Reuben took in the full length of Daniel Riefield, sprawled out beneath him. Damaged trainers, scruffy black jeans, a hooded top poking through a denim jacket. And then he noticed it. His hands. Blunted and stark. Thick stubby fingers that ended suddenly. Reuben bent down and inspected them more closely.

  No fingertips.

  ‘So what do you want me to do?’ Veno asked.

  ‘Get some people round here,’ Reuben answered as he squinted at Riefield’s hands in turn. The nails were gone, the digits squared off, pink scar tissue at their ends. ‘Look into other addresses or aliases for one Daniel Riefield, and find my son.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Veno said. ‘This is all going to have to come out, sooner or later. The truth, Reuben. That’s what I need.’

  ‘Just get some people round here. I’m going to take Riefield in for questioning.’

  ‘And you’re certain this is the man?’

  Reuben inspected the fingers again. Tips removed, just like the men he had attacked. The inkling of a motive. ‘Utterly. But now I guess the real search starts. We have the man but not the boy.’

  Veno didn’t bother to disguise a sigh. ‘I’ll get on to media liaison. Tell them we’ve got someone in custody, see if we can extract some info on your Daniel Riefield from the public consciousness.’

  Reuben left Riefield and walked over to the room Riefield hadn’t wanted him to go into. The bare neon energy saver struggled to illuminate the corners. ‘Whatever you have to do, detective.’ He stared at the walls. Newspaper cuttings, sellotaped haphazardly everywhere. Front pages, inside features, the type of exploded diagrams that journalists
use to reveal the hidden world of science. Even the windows were plastered with translucent newsprint. Immediately, Reuben tried to make the connection.

  ‘Reuben?’ Veno asked. ‘You still there?’

  Reuben ran his eyes around the room, almost dizzy at the sheer volume of words staring back. ‘I’m still here,’ he said. ‘But I’ve got to go.’

  He ended the call, thought for a second, then dialled Sarah Hirst’s number. While it rang, he approached the horizontal figure on the floor and said, ‘Daniel Riefield, I’m arresting you on suspicion of child abduction and murder.’

  2

  Sarah had beaten him to it. She was sitting in her office, surrounded by slowly dying plants, staring at the door, waiting. Reuben could tell as he entered that she had been listening for his footsteps, irritation in her eyes, consternation ruffling her brow. It was late, she didn’t want to be there, and Reuben was causing her problems.

  ‘What exactly is going on?’ she asked, before Reuben had fully entered the room.

  ‘I’ve got the killer,’ Reuben answered, rubbing his face. He had waited at Riefield’s flat for twenty minutes for Detectives Leigh Harding and Helen Alders to arrive and help transport Riefield to GeneCrime.

  ‘And he’s here?’

  ‘Downstairs. Nursing a badly bruised jaw.’

  ‘Does he need medical help?’

  ‘He’s refused to say anything whatsoever, so it’s hard to tell.’

  Reuben noticed the empty chairs in Sarah’s office. He hadn’t been offered a seat.

  ‘Reuben, is there something I should know?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, you have single-handedly caught the man that this entire unit is hunting. How?’

  Reuben shifted his weight from foot to foot. He was impatient, knowing that Sarah needed to be brought up to speed, but wanting to get into Riefield. A small interview office, the tape not running, dragging the truth out of the bastard while his son cried, frightened and desperate, in an empty room somewhere. ‘It’s complicated,’ he said. ‘I kind of put two and two together.’

  ‘Which two? I just don’t understand the leap you’ve made.’

  ‘Look, Sarah, you have to trust me. We have the fingertip killer downstairs. For the moment that’s more important than anything else. Can I just get on with interviewing him?’

  Sarah stood up. ‘Fine. But I’m sitting in with you.’

  She walked out through the open door, her heels clicking against the laminate flooring, Reuben struggling to keep up. The pace of her progress told Reuben she was either angry or excited. As she thumped through a set of double doors, he guessed a bit of both.

  They made their way to the row of cells and interview rooms in the basement. Leigh Harding was leaning against the metal door of a room marked with the number 3. He straightened as he saw Sarah approaching.

  ‘Can you bring the suspect into Interview Room One?’ Sarah asked him.

  ‘Ma’am,’ Harding replied.

  She kept walking. The doors changed from metallic blue to light brown wood-effect. Sarah turned into Interview Room 1 without breaking stride. She pulled out a plastic chair and sat down. Reuben took the chair next to her.

  ‘So . . .’ he said.

  Sarah remained quiet, sitting bolt upright, her nostrils flaring slightly from the exertion. Reuben started to frame questions in his mind, ones whose answers wouldn’t compromise his position. The murders were incidental; he needed to know where Riefield was holding Joshua.

  There was a scratch at the door and it swung open. Leigh Harding was gripping Riefield by his upper arm, walking him forward. Riefield’s jaw was red, a cut swelling at the centre. His eyes were still wild, scanning the room and its occupants. His hands were cuffed in front of him, fingers splayed, tips missing. Out of the corner of his eye, Reuben watched Sarah absorb this information.

  Detective Harding eased Riefield into a seat. ‘You need me to sit in?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re fine,’ Sarah said absently, her focus still on Riefield’s hands. ‘Dr Maitland, would you care to kick off?’

  Reuben stared at Riefield. A large part of him wanted to rush the table, grab him by the throat and make him talk. But he knew he had to be patient. He had to edge Riefield round, mine him for information, snatch whatever facts he could.

  ‘OK, Daniel. You’re not being charged at this time, although you are technically under arrest. We just want to clear some facts up. If we do charge you then you have the right to representation. All right?’

  Riefield stared back. His dark eyes seemed to focus through Reuben, unblinking and unmoving.

  Reuben unfolded a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket. ‘So, I want to ask you where you were on certain days this month. If you have a good idea of your whereabouts, just say yes.’ He scanned his rough notes. ‘The fifth?’

  Riefield’s expression didn’t change.

  ‘Mr Riefield, I’m asking you where you were on the fifth of this month. I’d like you to answer.’

  ‘No . . . comment,’ he said.

  ‘OK, how about the twelfth?’

  ‘No . . . comment.’

  The pause between the two words was three or four seconds, long enough for Reuben to wonder each time whether he was going to finish his statement.

  ‘Yesterday, Mr Riefield. Where were you yesterday?’

  ‘No . . . comment.’

  Reuben glanced at Sarah. ‘You have no idea what you were doing or where you were yesterday?’

  ‘No . . . comment.’

  Sarah touched Reuben lightly on the shoulder. ‘Let me just explain, Daniel. We want to ask you about two murders that have occurred in the last couple of weeks. If you can provide us with a general alibi, or other details we can check, that could help your case. By simply refusing to comment, you will only increase our suspicion of you. Do you understand that?’

  ‘No . . . comment.’

  ‘You do realize that you are not under charge at this moment, and that we are not officially recording your answers?’

  ‘No . . . comment.’

  Reuben watched Riefield. There was something disturbed about him, something outside the normal rules of human engagement. It wasn’t just his refusal to answer any of the questions, but the lack of interaction, of connection. He wasn’t really in the room. Reuben wondered where he was, whether he was thinking about Joshua, picturing him locked up somewhere, thriving on the fact he was scared and helpless. A hot anger flashed through him, which he battled to contain.

  Sarah tried again. ‘Dr Maitland and I merely want to ask you—’

  ‘No . . . comment.’

  ‘But it’s in your interest—’

  ‘No . . . comment.’

  Reuben watched Sarah flush. She wasn’t used to being cut off and interrupted. Normal detainees took a good look at her, sensed the body language of those around her, and decided it wasn’t worth the trouble. Not Riefield.

  Reuben leaned close to DCI Hirst, and caught a faint sweetness which he guessed was her antiperspirant fighting to keep her fresh after a long day. ‘I’ve got an idea,’ he whispered. ‘Let me talk to him alone.’

  Sarah turned to him, moved even closer. Amid the perfume he now detected the sour odour of recent frustration. Riefield was getting to her. ‘You’ve been away too long, Reuben. This isn’t how we do things.’

  ‘Just give me ten minutes alone with him.’

  ‘Where have I heard that kind of line before?’

  ‘I don’t mean it like that. There’s just some sensitive details I need to ascertain, alone and unobserved. One on one maybe I can get past his barrier.’

  ‘You’re pushing it, Reuben.’ Sarah glanced at her watch. ‘You’ve got the time it takes me to drink a coffee. A small one.’

  Sarah stood up and walked to the door. She used her swipe card to open it and left. When it had closed again, Reuben sat and waited. The coffee machine was at the far end of the corridor, through a set of doors and rou
nd a corner. He began to count a slow sixty under his breath, matching Sarah’s paces away from him. He locked his eyes on Riefield’s, and tried to imagine Joshua shivering and dirty, unwashed and unfed, cowering in the corner of a squalid room. He dug his fingernails into his palms, feeling the burn and sting as they burrowed deep into the soft skin. All the time, he held Riefield’s feral stare. And then the minute was up.

  ‘Where’s my son?’ he said calmly.

  Riefield smiled at him, baring his teeth. ‘No . . . comment.’

  ‘Where’s my fucking son?’ Reuben asked, his voice rising.

  ‘No . . . fucking . . . comment.’

  Reuben let it envelop him. The fury, the pent-up rage, the visceral need for conflict that the last two days had brought. ‘I’ll ask you again,’ he said, starting to shout. ‘Where the fuck have you got my boy?’

  Riefield bore straight into him, his mouth snarling. ‘No . . . fucking . . . comment.’

  There was a pause. Reuben closed his eyes, took a deep breath and held it there. Then he launched himself across the table. He grabbed Riefield by the scruff and slammed his face down into the table. Before he could react, he spun round and stood behind him. Riefield straightened, and Reuben grabbed his handcuffed hands, yanking them back over his head. He rammed his knee into Riefield’s back and wrenched downwards, Riefield’s arms rotating in their shoulder joints, making him cry out.

  ‘You say “no comment” one more fucking time and I’ll pop your arms clean out of your shoulder joints. Right, you bastard, where is my son?’

  Riefield strained against him, grunting in pain, but refusing to surrender. ‘Fuck you,’ he spat. ‘Fuck you.’

  Reuben pulled harder. Riefield was bucking against him. Reuben sensed his strength. This was a man he wouldn’t want to meet on a rugby field. He knew that the pressure he was applying was enough to rip ligaments and tear rotator cuffs. But Riefield’s joints held firm. He yanked harder, lost in the moment, the need for information, desperate for his only child. Riefield grunted, breathing heavily, his jaw clamped tight.

  ‘Last chance, you piece of shit,’ Reuben whispered, his mouth close to Riefield’s ear. ‘When I’ve dislocated your arms then I really will get stuck into you.’