by John Macken
John Ruddock stared. The smoky silence seemed to deepen. All attention had now switched from the screen, prisoners mesmerized by the two inmates. Brawn was taller than Ruddock, but less bulky. His was a lean frame, all bone and sinew. In contrast, Ruddock was thick-set, a weights-room physique, someone who had turned civilian flesh into prison muscle.
From the TV, a loud whistle cut into the room. An ironic cheer went up. Michael Brawn returned his gaze to the game and the commentator continued his interrupted football commentary: ‘And it will be interesting to see how Jeremy Accoutey’s unfortunate death last week affects Arsenal’s performance tonight. Certainly Manchester United will be looking at that area of central defence and wondering—’
The TV voice was drowned out by a shout from Ruddock. ‘Come on Arsenal!’ Several other prisoners repeated the refrain. It was clear to Reuben that Pentonville was a prison which would favour anybody over Manchester United. And in North London, Arsenal was virtually the home team.
Reuben rolled up his right sleeve, slowly and deliberately. He took a packet of cigarettes that he had traded with Narc from his front pocket. With an almost practised casualness, he passed a cigarette forward to Damian. Damian glanced at Reuben’s tattoo and shook his head. And then Michael Brawn noticed it, out of the corner of his eye. He turned and looked slowly up at Reuben. The look was cold and appraising, an expressionless reading of Reuben’s face. Reuben was suddenly on edge. This was the man he had come for, the prisoner whose DNA evidence had been falsified, the inmate someone wanted investigated, the criminal who might hold the key to Reuben’s sacking and GeneCrime impropriety. Brawn’s wide-spaced eyes revelled for a second in Reuben’s discomfort, and then returned to the game.
* * *
Reuben squinted at the digital counter in the corner of the elevated screen. The game was fast approaching half-time. All around him, prisoners continued to be nervy and excited. He guessed they didn’t see many live games, especially not clashes between footballing enemies, the big grudge matches of the season. He continued to focus most of his attention on Michael Brawn. A short-haired prisoner was leaning over and speaking to Brawn, who was taking very little notice, absorbed in the game. Occasionally he blinked, but other than that, he was inanimate. On the screen, a Manchester United player surged into Arsenal’s eighteen-yard box, and a mishit shot deflected into the net. Suddenly, Brawn was on his feet, arms in the air, shouting.
‘Fucking get in there!’
No one else moved. Brawn turned around, arms still aloft, teeth clenched, eyes ablaze. Mostly, prisoners avoided his gaze. Reuben stared at him, taking everything in. For the first time, he appreciated that there was something unhinged about Brawn, something outside the normal rules, something that was best left alone. Reuben also sensed that the other inmates knew this already. While he tried to sum up what exactly it was that was different about the man, Brawn shifted his head slightly to look hard at him, and Reuben found himself caught in the headlights of his eyes.
In the background, the commentator was beside himself with excitement. Reuben grinned slowly at Brawn, an expression designed to say, our team has scored. Brawn stared back, waxen and cold. Reuben scratched his tattoo, almost involuntarily. The other prisoners fidgeted quietly in their seats. Then Brawn left Reuben’s face and ran his eyes around the room. The commentator was saying, ‘And the unfortunate lad at the back, Jeremy Accoutey’s replacement, seems to have deflected that past his keeper and into his own net.’
The peep of the referee’s whistle sounded. Michael Brawn swivelled round and sat down again. Reuben waited a couple of moments before leaving, shouts once again erupting in the room, inmates screaming at the TV; twenty-two players running to the baying of the crowd, one of their number lying dead inside a morgue, gunshot wounds to his head, samples of his wife’s DNA sitting in Reuben’s freezer, a large sum of his money in the glove box of Moray Carnock’s car.
6
Judith Meadows rotated the slim platinum band of her wedding ring with her thumb and index finger. It was a nervous habit, something she often caught herself doing when her mind was busy, or she was unsure, or she was impatient between long stages of laboratory protocols. She pictured her husband for a second, sitting at work, chair tightly pushed under his desk, maybe twirling his own wedding ring absently, wondering whether it was really working out or not. A fresh start, they had both agreed. A time to reappraise their relationship. What Judith needed, he had suggested, was a baby. And whereas Judith would have happily slapped him for such a brazen lack of insight into her desires and needs, the words had instead hit her a smarting blow, which still stung three months later. The insensitive bastard was right.
Judith followed one step behind Moray Carnock as they exited the lift and made their way down the long, plush corridor of the hotel. She let go of her wedding ring and continued to think. It was as if her finger had finally slipped off the mute button of her alarm clock. The suppressed buzzer had begun to sound and there was little she could do to stop it again. She was in her mid-thirties, soon it would be too late. And now, slightly nauseous and feeling tired, Judith realized that things might be about to change. The sick feeling in her stomach was compounded by guilt, and by the knowledge that her work would inevitably suffer. Days spent pulling double shifts in the hunt for a serial murderer would be numbered. And there would be other issues.
She knew she would give her heart and soul to Reuben’s cause as long as she could. She believed in her former boss and what he did, knew that it excited her and kept her alive, understood that scientific impropriety within GeneCrime could blow holes in UK forensics which might never be repaired. Judith just hoped that if her tiredness and queasiness were anything more than fatigue and a rushed lunch, she still had enough time to make a difference.
Moray stopped outside a blank door and inserted a card in its slot. They pushed through and into the room, which housed several heavy pieces of gym equipment. A floor-to-ceiling window revealed a couple of miles of London rooftop. The carpet was thin and hard-working, and contrasted with the rest of the hotel’s deep luxury. Judith reached for her wedding ring, and cursed, stopping herself just in time. Moray walked forward and extended his hand in Kieran Hobbs’ direction.
‘Mr Hobbs,’ he said.
Kieran took his hand and shook it. Judith deliberately held her arms by her sides. It was not good practice for forensic technicians to shake hands with known criminals.
‘Hey, Judith,’ Kieran said with a wink. ‘How’re you doing?’
Judith smiled back, a cement mixer of emotions churning her stomach. Her husband wanting a baby, fighting to disagree and not really winning, beginning to feel strange, long shifts hunting killers spacing her out, meeting real-life gangsters in the flesh, her former boss undercover and in prison. None of it sat right when she put it all together, but individually, things seemed to make sense.
‘Fine,’ she said.
Kieran extended his pink fleshy hand, a twinkle of gold catching the light. Judith shook her head, quickly and demurely, her hair amplifying the refusal.
‘From such a beautiful woman, that hurts,’ Kieran grinned. ‘But fair play. Still, you can’t be telling me CID are interested in semi-legitimate businessmen like me.’
‘Semi? That’s pushing it,’ Judith answered. ‘But no, not so much. Bigger fish at the moment, I’m afraid.’
She turned her attention to Nathan and Valdek, who were pushing free-weights. Nathan was lying down on a bench, forcing a monumentally stacked bar upwards, with Valdek standing at the side, his arms hovering close, ready to help if necessary. All that muscle, Judith thought, and so few neurons. For a second, she allowed her eyes to enjoy the spectacle. The rippling, engorging flesh, sinews straining, veins enlarging, teeth clenching, eyes bulging . . . she took in Nathan’s face, his locked jaw, his grimacing smile, his creased forehead. Nathan caught her eye momentarily, and seemed to flinch, almost embarrassed by his exertions. Judith glanced quickly at Valdek.
He winked at her and flicked his tongue around his lips. Judith returned her attention to Kieran, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. He was taking a tightly wrapped bundle of notes out of an inside pocket and handing it to Moray.
‘That’s what I owe Reuben up to date.’
As Moray struggled with the cellophane binding, intent on counting the money, he asked, ‘You found out who sent the Dutch guy to kill you?’
‘Working on it.’
‘And?’
‘Slowly slowly catchy monkey. But I’ve got something here that might just help.’
Kieran pulled a small plastic bag out of his inside pocket and passed it to Moray, who examined it briefly and gave it to Judith.
‘What is this?’ she asked.
‘A mugshot of yours truly. God knows where it came from. But we found it in the lining of the Dutchman’s jacket just before we burned his clothes the other day.’
Judith peered through the plastic. A thin red residue coated its inner surface, the black and white image of Kieran’s face tinted pink by the blood.
‘So?’ she asked.
‘Someone must have given it him, right? And that someone might be who wants me gone.’
‘Who’s touched it?’
‘Just me,’ Kieran answered. ‘And those two.’ He nodded in the direction of his minders.
Judith frowned, thinking, wondering what Reuben would do. ‘I might have to get DNA swabs from all of you for elimination,’ she said. ‘Then we’ll test it, see if there’s anything worth looking at. Might need a few days though.’
‘Fine, darling,’ Kieran answered. ‘You’re the boss. Whatever it takes to wrap this thing up.’
Moray peered uneasily in the direction of Valdek. Reuben had almost been shocked by what was left of Ethan de Groot.
‘Nasty business,’ he said.
‘Yeah, well,’ Kieran responded. ‘The man tried to kill me. Purely self-defence. You think your lot would take a harsh view of someone defending themselves from a hitman?’ he asked, turning to Judith.
‘You leave me out of this,’ Judith replied quietly. ‘I’m hardly a spokesman for the police.’
Kieran scrutinized Judith for a second, running his pale blue eyes over her. ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘No problem at all.’
In the lift back down to the lobby, Moray said, ‘That’s Hobbs’ private gym. Not that he uses it too much himself, by the looks. Just a perk for his boys.’
‘Why in the hotel though?’ Judith asked.
‘He’s got financial stakes in a lot of property round here. The ultimate aim of the money launderer – to convert it into bricks and mortar, in legitimate businesses.’
‘I don’t like working for him.’
‘You don’t say. But it’s fine for me and Reuben. Hobbs is one of a dying breed, an old-school gangster. You know where you are with him. He’s big enough not to have to go looking for it, if you know what I mean. Stable and sorted, with no axe to grind.’
‘Until someone comes along who wants to kill him.’
‘Which is where we come in. And without his money, we wouldn’t be able to do the important things.’
Judith was silent. She knew the arguments, had heard them over and over, and appreciated their stark truths. But they never reassured her. If she was photographed shaking hands with a man like Kieran Hobbs, or even within his vicinity, her career would be over. Covert surveillance was a matter of fact. It happened, on both sides of the law. Just like the picture of Kieran she had in her pocket.
‘I know,’ she muttered. ‘We’ve just got to be careful not to get mixed up in the things he’s mixed up in.’
‘That,’ Moray shrugged, ‘is the tight-rope we walk.’
The lift pinged, its door slid open, and Moray and Judith walked out through the lobby, surrounded by tourists, staff and businessmen, multiple worlds converging in the bright foyer of a London hotel.
7
As he walked, a fine mist permeated the air and slickened Reuben’s face. It was the kind of borderline rain which closes in, turning everything grey, making you squint. He wiped his eyes, still staring down at his trainers. The tarmac, usually lifeless, was glistening. Cormack O’Connor, pacing shoulder to shoulder with him, his head similarly bowed, continued where he left off.
‘Officially, money laundering. Five years. But let’s say there might have been a bit more to it.’
‘How do you mean?’
Cormack smiled at his feet. ‘You’ll learn not to ask those sorts of questions.’
‘So, what about you?’ Reuben said, turning to his left.
Damian Nightley cleared his throat, a low rumble through his voice box. ‘Gun smuggling, you know, firearms offences. We had half of London sewn up. You name it, we could get hold of it.’
There was nothing boastful in Damian’s tone of voice, just a matter-of-fact statement of the truth. And Reuben knew it was the truth. He already understood exactly what Damian and Cormack were in for, and what they had done in the past. Sarah had recited their litany of criminal activity down the phone to him, and it had taken several minutes.
‘Pretty straightforward,’ she had said. ‘Nothing unsolved or untoward. Just bad boys who got caught out and are doing their time, until they’re released back into society and we lock them up again.’
‘What makes you sure they’ll re-offend?’ Reuben had asked.
‘Call it a DCI’s intuition. Career criminals from Kieran Hobbs’ organization. Take away the criminal part and they’ve got no careers.’
Reuben stole a surreptitious glance at the prisoners on each side of him. Human beings, people who had drifted into illegal actions, men who risked their liberty and lost. Until ten months ago, Reuben’s contact with criminals had mainly involved the microscopic parts of themselves that they left behind at crime scenes. More recently, he had been dealing with them in the flesh, and what had shattered his preconceptions was their ordinariness. Criminals were normal people who had different moral outlooks. Forensics, as well as police detection in general, demonized men like Damian and Cormack. Reuben had often stared at DNA sequences or profiles and seen not the human but the satanic, a molecular reductionism which shrank a criminal down to the one act they had perpetrated, the one evil they had given in to. But Reuben was increasingly coming to see that it wasn’t quite like that. And while he would happily have hunted both men who were protecting him, and would have been eager to avoid their company outside Pentonville’s walls, he couldn’t escape the conclusion that Damian, Cormack and their ilk were not evil so much as misguided and morally askew. Just like his father.
Cormack lifted his damp face towards Reuben, then thumbed in the direction of Damian. ‘Ask him how long he’s got left of his ten-year stretch,’ he said.
Reuben glanced at Damian. ‘How long have—’
‘No fucking remission,’ Damian spat, his tone suddenly harder. ‘I got two months left.’
‘He’s almost a free man. And do you think he’s happy about it?’ Cormack turned his face to Reuben again. ‘Ask him if he’s happy about it.’
Reuben did as he was told, wondering why Cormack felt the need for an interpreter. ‘Are you—’
‘Drop it, the both of yous.’ Damian’s cheeks flushed with anger, his eyes narrowing. An undeniable darkness surfaced on his brow. He bent his head down and kept walking, veering off the exercise path towards a door marked ‘Block B’. Reuben watched him go, puzzled at how quickly he had changed.
‘Miserable sod,’ Cormack muttered. ‘If it was me, I’d be counting the days.’
Seconds later, a whistle was blown somewhere, and the forty minutes of exercise came to a halt. Cormack told Reuben he’d meet him after lunch, once he’d made a couple of calls, and they agreed to track Damian down. Reuben headed straight for the canteen, his stomach rumbling.
Already, after only three days, he felt firmly on the road to being institutionalized, food the trigger that kept him regimented, synchronized and under control. It
was like hospitals, or old people’s homes. Ridiculously early lunches and dinners, which always left you on the verge of hunger, perpetually waiting for the next meal, in line and orderly, obedient and submissive. Reuben shrugged as he walked, an involuntary twitch, feelings rising to the surface. Sometimes, on important cases, he had worked for sixteen hours straight and had barely eaten a morsel. But that was the all-consuming nature of forensic detection – the cooling body, the scattered skin cells, the drying blood. And the amphetamine had helped, from time to time. Now, however, locked up with nowhere to go and little to occupy him, he was ravenous, as if eating were a substitute for living.
Reuben entered the high-ceilinged dining room, with its flaky paint and warming odours. He stood at the back of the queue, waiting his turn to receive several ruined lumps of food on a plastic tray. Someone joined the queue behind him and Reuben turned slightly, monitoring him in his peripheral vision. He was well aware that this was a safer option than staring directly. The grainy, blurred edge of his sight sensed something important. He turned a little more, the man coming increasingly into focus. Reuben’s heart began to pound, his stomach forgetting about lunch. Michael Brawn was standing next to him.
Reuben shuffled forward in silence, closer to the food. He weighed his options. An unambiguous sample of DNA wasn’t something you could easily take at the best of times. And without someone knowing, it was virtually impossible. Michael Brawn was two or three inches taller than Reuben, expressionless, his wide eyes sucking everything in. Reuben’s tattoo – the crest of Manchester United Football Club – was facing him, clearly visible on the forearm sliding an aluminium tray along the steel rails of the serving counter. From Reuben’s angled view, he could see Brawn’s similar but lower-quality depiction on his right arm. He silently thanked Sarah for providing his CID file, which detailed the distinguishing mark.
Reuben knew he had to get close to Brawn, to find out where he went and when, and which of the small cluster of cells was his. Only then could he plan how to snatch a pure sample of him without his knowledge.