by John Macken
Judith looked at Reuben, who was pushing his arms into a lab coat. He was putting on a little weight, she noted, and she saw this as a good sign. Maybe he was taking things easier, lightening up. But even as she thought the words, she dismissed them. Reuben was always one step ahead, caught up in the next case, the next problem to be solved, just as he always had been when he ran the forensics section of GeneCrime.
‘So, remind me again,’ she said, to no one in particular.
‘This is Mr Anthony McDower,’ Moray replied without looking up.
‘And his crime?’
‘Possibly having an affair with the wife of a Mr Jeremy Accoutey.’
On the far side of the room, Reuben extracted a slide from an elongated cardboard box. He walked over and picked up Judith’s tube, peering deep into it. As he did so, Reuben pictured the sinister beauty of the microscopic world of forensics. He saw the human skin cells rushing out of the probe and dispersing, bursting open like grenades, spraying their contents like organic shrapnel, double helices of DNA dancing in the solution, thrashing around one another like aquatic snakes, slowly and inexorably falling to the bottom of the tube.
‘As in Jeremy Accoutey the Arsenal defender?’ Judith asked.
‘None other.’
‘Jeremy Accoutey the ex-jailbird?’
Reuben slotted the warm tube into a small blue centrifuge on the lab bench. ‘Reformed character, apparently,’ he said.
‘I don’t know,’ Judith smiled. ‘If you’d seen the game the other night . . .’
Moray treated himself to an extravagant yawn. When he had finished, he said, ‘Yeah. The ref blew so much he looked like Louis fucking Armstrong.’
‘Well, saint or sinner on the pitch, it’s his wife’s behaviour that concerns us now.’
‘Aye, true enough,’ Moray muttered, rummaging in the folds of his substantial coat. ‘Here,’ he said, passing Reuben a muddy brown envelope, ‘this came for you.’
Reuben guided his gloved thumb under the flap and opened the envelope. Inside was a note, thin white paper, Times New Roman font. He read it silently and passed it to Judith.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘Read it.’
‘“Michael Jeremy Brawn, Prisoner #362847, Pentonville; False genetic identity; More deaths will follow; Find the truth.”’ Judith raised her full dark eyebrows. ‘What’s all that about?’
‘Beats me. Moray?’
Moray sat partially up on the sofa, battling the considerable gravity of his abdomen. ‘Just came via the PO box. Your guess is as good as mine.’
Reuben retrieved the note from Judith and pocketed it. ‘Name rings one. Judith?’
Judith shrugged, adjusting the hot-block temperature. ‘Maybe.’ She took the tube from the centrifuge and placed it into the small metal heater. ‘Maybe not. You got the suspension buffer sorted?’
‘Must be out of practice. Give me a minute.’
Reuben weighed out a gram of white powder with a spatula. The electronic scales took a moment to settle, digital numbers flickering as the balance fought for calm. Reuben stared down at the powder and licked his dry lips. He then glanced up at the shelf in front of him. On it, among bottles and beakers and jars, was a small white vial marked ‘Oblivion’. Reuben dragged his eyes away, forcing them instead to scan the labels of the cold, colourless solutions there, which read NaOH, EtOH, HCl, Tris, NaAcetate, EDTA and TBE. On the shelf above, a large dewar flask bore a peeling sticker which announced ‘Liquid Nitrogen’. Reuben ground his teeth as his eyes once again hunted down the vial called Oblivion.
‘That’s the minute,’ Judith said, bringing him round.
Reuben half smiled, tapping the fine white powder into a tube of water, and shaking it vigorously. He appealed for inner calm.
‘Well, for now,’ he muttered almost to himself, ‘let’s find out what stories Mr Anthony McDower’s DNA can tell us.’
6
The streets close to GeneCrime were a tangle of human movement, people walking, riding, running, driving and fighting their way to their next destination. Roads battled to funnel the movement into ordered directions, white lines keeping the masses apart, yellow lines preventing them stopping, hatched boxes barring their entry. Overall, Sarah Hirst thought with a shrug as she left the war zone of the pavement and entered a glass-fronted café, this was life. Most people on the straight and narrow, some crossing the line, a minority doing just what the hell they wanted.
Inside, Reuben was sitting at a table so square it almost looked sharpened. He was reading a newspaper, its upside-down headline LEADING CID OFFICER RAPED AND MURDERED. Silently, she took in his fair hair, his green eyes, his lean frame with its wide shoulders, the cleft of his chin, the almost perpetual frown of concentration. A sharp mind, a genuine radical, an obsessive visionary with police hang-ups. Be careful, she told herself.
Sarah stepped forward and drummed her chewed fingertips on the cold surface of the table.
‘Dr Maitland.’
Reuben took a second to look up, deep absorption clawing at him. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Hirst,’ he said, shaking himself round.
‘May I?’
‘What?’
Sarah nodded at a chair.
‘You’re late.’
‘Things are crazy at GeneCrime.’
‘More crazy than normal?’
Sarah sat down heavily. ‘Multiple crime scenes, huge sets of forensic samples, the usual backlog grinding through the system.’
‘Hell, it’s a big unit, I’m sure you’ll cope.’
Sarah reached forward and grabbed a couple of chips from Reuben’s bowl. ‘You mind? I’m starving.’
‘Go ahead. Enjoy yourself.’
‘Barely enough time to eat at the moment.’ Sarah swallowed the deliciously greasy fries. ‘So, what did the big man want?’
‘Commander Abner? Something and nothing.’
‘What was the something?’
‘Said he might need my services one day.’
‘And the nothing?’
‘The usual. How he wished I hadn’t taken matters into my own hands and got myself sacked.’
‘Any idea what he might need you for?’
‘Who knows.’
‘But something unauthorized?’
‘Guess so. Can’t imagine it appearing on any official audits anywhere.’ Reuben slid the remnants of his lunch towards Sarah. ‘Especially since I’m persona non grata with all of GeneCrime’s senior staff.’
Sarah plucked another chip from the bowl. ‘Not all of them,’ she said.
Reuben folded his newspaper and leaned forward. ‘Listen, Sarah, what do you know about someone called Michael Jeremy Brawn? Currently serving time in Pentonville.’
‘Dunno. The name sounds familiar. You got any more info?’
Reuben hesitated a second. Then he pulled a piece of paper out of his jeans pocket and passed it across to her. ‘This came through the post.’
Sarah scanned its contents. ‘“Find the truth.”’ She broke into a smile which made her eyes glisten.
‘What?’
‘Someone knows how to press your buttons.’
‘So?’
‘So ignore it. It’s a note. Plain and simple.’
‘But don’t you think—’
‘Look, Reuben, not everything has to be some sort of conspiracy. Chill out for once.’
Reuben slid his bowl back and out of Sarah’s reach. ‘If you’re going to be like that.’
‘So I’m working on a no-win-no-chip basis now?’
‘You scratch my back . . .’
‘I’m a trained firearms officer, Dr Maitland. It might pay you to be nice to me.’
‘That’s more like it. The old Sarah Hirst. Cold, calculating and heartless.’
There was a snap to Reuben’s words, making them sound as if they’d been spat directly from his thoughts. He was regretting the outburst almost before it reached Sarah’s ears. She stopped, the playfulness dis
appearing from her face.
‘Bit low.’
‘I just meant . . .’
‘Things change, move on.’
She fell silent. One of her earrings caught the light, winking in the sun, flashing as she moved her head. Reuben marvelled at the vivid reds and deep blues hidden in the pale rays of spring, split and refracted, rescued by the diamond. It was an expensive item, the sort of thing someone else buys you. He wondered for a second who had given the earrings to Sarah, and when.
‘Sorry. Crossed that line again,’ he said with a sigh.
‘I hope I don’t need to spell it out.’
‘I know. What happened before—’
‘I take a calculated risk with you, Reuben, every time I see you. As you say, persona non grata. Disgraced police civilian whose activities I shouldn’t turn a blind eye to.’
‘Oh come on, Sarah. You get as good as you give.’
‘How so?’
‘The advice, the technical input. How many times have I helped you?’
‘And how many times have I ignored the fact that you have GeneCrime samples in your freezers, a member of GeneCrime doing your dirty work; that you’re associating with gangsters like Kieran Hobbs . . .’ Sarah made a show of checking her watch. ‘Look, I’m late. I’d better run.’
Reuben unfolded his newspaper. ‘Sure.’
‘OK, take care of yourself, Reuben, because you’re in a very precarious position.’ Sarah stood up to leave. ‘Seems to me that if you work for gangsters and investigate the police, you’ve got things all wrong.’
As she strode out, Reuben muttered to himself. Sarah Hirst, as hot and cold as ever, a fragile relationship built on mistrust. Each needing the other, each uneasy with their role. But Reuben was smart enough to know why he unnerved coppers, and what he had that they needed so much.
7
Reuben loitered on the doorstep of a smart suburban semi, dodging a freezing spring shower. He examined his watch, and ran a hand through his damp hair. He glanced around at the tended garden, the immaculate German car, the recently swept pathway. It irked him momentarily that his wife had swapped her quest for domestic perfection so easily from his house to someone else’s. Orderliness almost seemed to emanate from her, symmetrizing everything in its wake. He took another deep breath, scanned his watch again, noticed that the hands had barely moved, and finally pushed the doorbell. There was a pause, then the sound of movement, the rumble of carpeted stairs taken in stockinged feet. Reuben stepped back a pace. Keys rattled, the lock fumbled, and then the door was pulled open by a smart-looking woman with a dark bob and piercing green eyes.
‘You’re early,’ she said.
‘Good to see you too.’
‘Look, there’s a problem.’
‘What?’
‘Josh isn’t well.’
‘Again?’
Lucy Maitland sighed, sweeping at her disciplined fringe. ‘It’s nursery. Breeding ground for germs. Anyway, I’m not sure I want him going out, especially in this weather.’
‘But we agreed.’
‘Before there were germs.’
Behind Lucy, Reuben noticed for the first time the shape of a man lurking deep in the hallway. He approached, the light gradually revealing his brown hair and tanned skin. Reuben raised his eyebrows briefly at him. ‘Hello, Shaun,’ he said flatly.
‘Reuben,’ Shaun replied.
‘Look, Reuben, I’m sorry your journey has been wasted,’ Lucy continued, ‘but that’s the way it is. Surely you don’t want him getting worse?’
‘Can’t I even see him?’
Shaun paced forward so that he was standing shoulder to shoulder with Lucy. Together, they filled the doorway, a human barrier.
‘You know, legally,’ Lucy answered, ‘you shouldn’t even be within four hundred metres of him.’
‘But I thought we’d agreed—’
‘Or this house.’
‘You said you would be flexible.’
Shaun took a step towards Reuben. ‘The answer is no. Not when he’s sick.’
Reuben held the stare, his eyes wide, his muscles tight, his jaw clamped. Large, fat drops of rain soaked the denim of his jacket. Then Shaun stepped back and slammed the door.
Reuben stood still for a few seconds, facing the door. In its shiny black paint he saw his helplessness staring back, distorted and rejected. Then he turned to walk down the drive and towards the street. But as he passed the front of the house, he glimpsed his eighteen-month-old son through the streaming bay window. Reuben stopped. He tapped his fingernails against the thick double-glazed glass. Joshua looked up from the plastic car he was crashing into the skirting board, and started to totter rapidly and eagerly towards him. ‘That’s my boy,’ Reuben whispered to himself, his breath on the window. ‘You still recognize your old dad.’
Then Joshua came to an unsteady halt, caught up in a coughing fit. Reuben watched as his son screwed up his eyes, his mouth wide, his chest silently spasming. He fought the impulse to kick open the front door and hold him. Instead, Lucy entered the room and picked Joshua up, turning him away from Reuben, shielding him with her arm, kissing the back of his neck. She stared coldly at Reuben. He touched the glass with his fingers. Between the double-glazed panes was a fine film of moisture. He saw layers of glass and air, distorting his vision, deadening noises, separating the warm from the cold.
Reuben turned and paced disconsolately back down the short spotless drive, through the lacquered gate and on to the smart South Kensington street that Lucy now called home. He swore under his breath, moist air defeated by the rain. She had only moved a mile and a half since they had separated, but this part of the city was as alien to him as Novosibirsk.
As he crossed the road and headed towards the shelter of an Underground station, Reuben’s mobile rang, disrupting his gloominess.
‘Dr Maitland?’
Reuben paused. ‘Hello, Sarah,’ he said.
‘About that note.’
‘Which note?’
‘The one you showed me earlier.’
Reuben turned down a side street. ‘The one I should ignore on account of being perpetually suspicious?’
‘Right.’
‘Well?’
‘According to Metropolitan records, Michael Jeremy Brawn got four years for sexual misdemeanour. Pleaded guilty to assaulting a woman on a train. Must be ten or eleven months ago.’
‘I’m touched. But why are you ringing me?’
Over the line came the sound of keyboard tapping and coffee being slurped. ‘Perpetual suspicion. What else do you know about Michael Brawn?’
‘Nothing, except his name rings a bell, and the note alleged he has a false genetic identity. Why?’
‘Because he’s an interesting one. I’ve had an ask around. Touched a few nerves, especially with senior uniform.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘Look, about earlier—’
‘Forget it.’
‘I just . . . considering what we’ve been through, sometimes I forget the rules.’
‘Well, there’s a simple way of remembering them. Professional and personal. Two different things.’
‘I know.’
‘I don’t have a lot of time right now, bigger fish to fry. But I’ll try and pull Brawn’s record.’
‘Very good of you.’
‘You’re going to be paying me back for this.’
‘I was worried about that.’
Sarah took another swig of coffee. ‘Be afraid, Dr Maitland,’ she said, ‘be very afraid.’
Reuben closed his phone and frowned. Mostly, he understood people. How they worked, what they wanted, what they needed. But not Sarah. A Ph.D. in biology and years of detective intuition and still Sarah remained a mystery to him. Unreadable, inconsistent, contrary. And very beautiful. Almost gratefully, Reuben allowed Gloucester Road tube station to beckon him into its dry subterranean world and swallow him up.
8
The
Underground lifted Reuben up and nudged him out on to a slowly drying street. Tyres were cutting into the remaining moisture and spraying it into the air. On the pavement, the tread of shoes picked up droplets of water from saturated paving slabs and moved them to new locations. Reuben’s jacket tried to rid itself of its invading wetness, an almost invisible steam coaxed out of it by the emerging sun. He shrugged his shoulders, shifting the clammy denim momentarily away from his skin.
He crossed the road, and tracked left and right through a succession of junctions, echoing through an underpass and emerging on to a wide straight road which contained a row of uninspiring shops. After a furniture store, Reuben paused in front of a tall, fortified metal gate. He heard the buzzing click of acceptance and pushed through. A long narrow alleyway took a kink to the right and ended in front of a steel door. Reuben pressed the buzzer twice, waited a second, and then walked through.
Inside, the factory floor was concrete and empty. Strip lights hung down at regular intervals from the low ceiling. There were no windows. At the far end, a lorry-wide shutter was bolted shut. Several industrial tables occupied one corner. They were stainless steel and countersunk, with gleaming taps at each end. Kieran once told him the area had originally been used for gutting fish, and the rest of the factory for packaging, before the business went bust. Reuben scanned the room for the ruined corpse, beaten and pulped, bleeding into the porous ground, almost expecting it still to be there. He sighed to himself, repeating his mantra under his breath. The ends and the means. The ends and the means.
He spotted Valdek towards the rear of the building, leaning against the same table that had held a bloody iron bar a couple of days earlier. Reuben walked towards a dark green door halfway along the opposite wall. As he did so, Valdek straightened and began lumbering towards him, aiming to cut him off. Reuben slowed his pace, allowing him to catch up. He glanced around. There was no sign of blood on the ground now, the floor scrubbed meticulously clean. An area of darkness was the only sign, still wet where it had been scoured. Reuben wondered whether Valdek had disposed of the dead man himself, dumping him in a river or feeding him to pigs, or some other such underworld treat. What Reuben had found out about the deceased man had lessened his sympathy. Still, nobody deserved to be slowly battered to death in a dingy warehouse by a psycho like Valdek Kosonovski. Reuben tried not to let his disgust show as Valdek reached him.