by John Macken
‘Same old same old. People get murdered, samples come in, tubes get filled, people get arrested.’
‘You having a bad day?’
‘I’m just saying. And someone’s still messing around with our stuff.’
Reuben scratched his knuckles against the stubble of his chin. He frowned and closed his eyes. When he opened them again he surveyed the eight faces in front of him intently. ‘Who else has noticed anything odd?’ Mostly, they met his gaze. Bernie stared resolutely into his A4 lab book, scouring a blue line into its faintly ruled pages. Mina, Simon and Run indicated that they were suspicious. ‘So, Simon, tell me what you’ve observed.’
‘It’s nothing obvious. I don’t know about the others’ – Simon Jankowski glanced apprehensively around the group – ‘but I might be imagining it. Twice in the morning I’ve come in and found equipment and reagents in slightly different positions than where I left them. That’s all.’
‘Mina?’
‘Same.’
‘Run.’
‘I’m septical.’
‘Nice one.’
‘You know, I’m not sure,’ Bernie said finally. ‘Maybe we’re just being paranoid. I mean, why would anybody want to play with our reagents?’
‘I guess that’s the point.’ Reuben ran his eyes around his team, absorbing their frowns and their shrugs, their scratching and their fidgeting. ‘So what do we feel about this?’
There was an uncomfortable silence. Birgit Kasper was the first to speak. As Reuben listened, he took in her plain features and logo-less clothes. Even scientists from Scandinavia dressed unlike any other section of society. ‘I’m unnerved,’ she said finally. ‘This is freaking me out. There are issues here.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like irreplaceable evidence going missing, or being compromised. We handle the biggest cases here. I mean the implications, if someone is breaching lab security, are horrifying.’
‘Everyone else?’ There was a broad nod of agreement. Reuben flicked his lower incisors with the nail of his index finger while he thought. ‘So how about this?’ he suggested. ‘We set a trap.’
‘What sort of trap?’
‘That’s up to you,’ Reuben replied. There was an expectant silence amongst the group. ‘Come on, people, use your imaginations. It’s what we pay you for. You’re the whiz-kids with the fancy degrees, hotshots of the élite GeneCrime Unit. Some ideas?’
‘Let’s tag our stuff with isotope,’ Mina proposed.
‘And then what? Geiger the whole building?’
‘There’s something else we could try,’ Simon interjected.
‘Such as?’
‘Wipe everything down tonight with ethanol. Then, tomorrow, let’s take swabs.’
‘So now we’ve got to DNA test GeneCrime?’
‘Uh-ah,’ Mina declared, shaking her head. ‘Simon’s got something. Internal Samples. Where DNA specimens are held for everyone in the building.’
‘Hang on,’ Jez said, ‘I’m being slow here. We take swabs and compare them with the profiles all of us have on record for evidence exclusion. How the hell are we going to get access to that? You want someone just to walk in and ask for the whole lot?’
‘Sounds like we’ve got a volunteer. I’ll write you an authorization pass. So everyone swab the whole lot tonight before you leave. And keep this quiet. Accepting that it’s not one of you, I don’t want the culprit getting wind.’ Reuben raised his eyebrows. ‘Forensic officers chasing forensic officers. I like it. Right, people, are we all done?’
‘My neck still . . .’
Reuben smiled at Run, ending his protests before they could even begin. ‘OK. Same time next week. Let’s get all those samples logged and mapped. Bernie? Let’s catch up before lunch. And, Judith, can I see you for a second now?’
When the seven other scientists had traipsed out of the office, chattering excitedly about the trap, Reuben sat back in his chair. ‘You know the question you asked the other day?’
‘About the Pheno-Fit you showed me . . .’
Reuben pressed his forefinger to his lips and shhed her. ‘Keep your head down. Big things are about to happen.’
3
Sinking into the soft, cushioned embrace of the sofa, Reuben let his eyes wander around the tatty lounge. He tried to see the room as a Scenes-of-Crime Officer would, walking in and searching for clues. There was a handful of cards on the mantel-piece, a couple of vases of flowers on the sideboard and an unopened box of Quality Street on the coffee table. The wallpaper, as he examined it, was at least twenty years old, and the heavy brown curtains of similar antiquity. The carpet was fussy and the furniture ornate. The overall impression was of time hanging in the still air, a room slowly and defiantly ageing, of a contented lack of progress.
Reuben watched his mother as she poured two cups of tea. For a woman on her sixty-fifth birthday, she was undeniably sprightly, almost at odds with the room and its air of unhurried decay. He wondered momentarily whether he would age as well as her, and concluded that at the rate he was going, he probably wouldn’t.
‘So how’s work?’ she asked, handing him a dainty cup and saucer.
‘It’s . . .’ Reuben struggled to sum it all up. The heinous crimes; the stench of inhumanity. The enormous potential of technology; the even larger pitfalls. ‘We’re on the verge of something big. A breakthrough in the techniques we use. Something that could really make a difference.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘It should be. I should be jumping up and down with joy, feeling proud of myself, dancing you around the room.’
‘But?’
‘But nothing’s ever simple. You come to see that you solve one series of problems only to open another lot up. I don’t know, Mum . . .’
‘What?’
‘It’s complicated,’ Reuben muttered. ‘They even offered to promote me.’
‘You turned it down?’
‘Simple choice between more paperwork or less paperwork.’
‘You do right. Stick to what interests you. You tell ’em this is the world-famous Reuben Maitland, and you won’t shuffle papers for anyone.’ She passed him a chocolate digestive and ruffled his hair. Reuben made a play of fending her off, like he was a boy again, and they both laughed. ‘But you know,’ Ina Maitland said, ‘your dad would have been proud of you.’
‘If he could have focused on me.’
‘Oh, Reuben.’
Reuben bit into the biscuit. ‘Come on. He was a drunk. He could barely see straight enough to recognize me.’
‘Well, he did try. He really battled it. But it just had too strong a grip on him, that’s what he used to say.’ Ina Maitland glanced up at a photograph on the mantelpiece of a man in his fifties, slightly gaunt, smiling out at her. ‘He could have been something, your dad. Something good. Instead of, you know . . .’
‘Yeah, well.’
‘Have you been up there recently?’
‘Few days ago.’
Ina Maitland turned to her son and ran her blue eyes over him with a mother’s acuity. ‘You seem a little on edge, son. Not your usual self.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘I’ve noticed it the last couple of times you’ve been. You almost seem haunted by something.’
‘Is that a question?’
‘Just a mother’s observation.’ Ina Maitland took a slow thoughtful drink of her tea. ‘Is everything OK at home? How’re Lucy and Joshua?’
‘They’re fine,’ Reuben answered, suddenly wanting to be honest with her, to blurt everything out, but unable to say the words. His own mother, who had always loved him, no matter what. But to say the words would be to accept that they were true. He was, he conceded, firmly in the grasp of last–chance denial.
‘I thought you might have brought the little one . . .’
‘I’ve just nipped out of work for an hour. Josh is at nursery, and Lucy’s got a big case on the boil. You know how it is. But we’ll drop by soon. Next week, maybe?�
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‘I’ll look forward to it.’
Reuben stood up, making a show of inspecting his watch. ‘I’m sorry, Mum, I’m going to have to dash. Lunch is over and I’ve got a busy afternoon. Just wanted to wish you happy birthday. When we come round, we’ll take you out, have a proper birthday bash.’ He grinned. ‘Now that you’re a proper pensioner.’
Ina smiled back. ‘Always so busy,’ she said, partly to herself.
Reuben had a last look around the living room. He kissed his mother on the cheek. A large part of him wanted to stay in the soft, enveloping atmosphere of comfort and stillness. But it was time to enter far harsher environments, places where time never stood still.
4
A fleshy guard drinks tea from a badly stained mug. His identity badge reads Tony Doherty, Assistant Security Officer. The handle of the cup is broken and the liquid is hot, so he is holding it delicately, alternating chubby fingers, blowing across it and taking small sips. Surrounding him like a huge psychedelic bay window is an expanse of CCTV monitors. People walk across one screen, jump on to another, blend on to a different VDU, only to reappear again in a new place, viewed from a different angle. Tony Doherty follows the multi-faceted progress of a thousand people, scanning and zooming, his avian eyes almost unblinking in their concentration.
The tea is cooling, and he begins to take larger and larger swigs, occasionally frowning and jotting notes on to a piece of paper. The street names of several of the roads are visible. They are in the Westminster area of London. A door opens and he drags his eyes away from the screens, reluctantly leaving myriad existences temporarily unobserved.
‘Anything going on out there?’ the man asks.
‘The usual, Michael,’ Tony replies.
‘Nothing serious?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Police have asked us to watch Kimberly Street, especially where it meets Mossfield Road. A gang of lads been causing trouble, hassling people, maybe selling drugs.’
‘What time of day are—’ Tony is interrupted by an insistent buzzing from his console. He looks at monitor 47, which has a small red LED flashing above it. He runs his fingers over the ball control and caresses the joystick. A man walking across the screen jumps to monitor 48, and a buzzer for this screen sounds. He is hurrying, glancing around, and appears slightly agitated.
‘I’ll be fucked.’
‘What?’
‘Pattern-recognition. The thing actually works.’
‘Looks like it.’
‘Right, Tony, I’ll alert the station.’
Michael picks up a phone without dialling, and identifies himself. ‘Supervisor Michael Chambers here at Drury Lane CCTV. We’ve got a target walking south down Newhall Street, just passing the junction with Old Road, left-hand side, heading towards the pedestrian crossing by Boots. Wanted by the Euston branch. Special request.’
‘He’s crossing,’ says Tony.
‘Just crossing over. IC one, medium build, brown hair, carrying a case, dark suit, white or yellow shirt. Now he’s stopping. Looking in a shop. Jeweller’s maybe. Can’t read the name. Checking his watch, glancing up and down the street.’
‘Matissers,’ Tony interjects.
‘The jeweller’s is Matissers. You on the way? Yes, we’ll stay live. I can see the squad car.’ On a monitor to the far left, a police car is beginning to speed across the screen, quickly jumping from VDU to VDU, leaping towards the man waiting outside the shop. ‘He’s moving again. Just a few yards. Stopped by what looks like a restaurant. Actually, I think he’s meeting someone. An IC one female is approaching and waving. Dark hair, slim, trouser suit, also carrying a case.’
The two guards watch intently, leaning towards the vast bank of screens as the police car bounds on to the final VDU like a pouncing cat. The vehicle stops smartly and two officers rush out. One grabs the man; the other distracts the woman. There is the semblance of a struggle, and the woman begins to argue. The guards watch her mouth opening and closing, tension and disbelief carved across her face. The police push the man into the back seat of the car. The woman stands alone amongst several passers-by who have stopped to view the action. She watches the vehicle leave, before taking out her mobile phone and crossing the road. Two streets away, and just picked up by the cameras, Michael and Tony watch as the man is punched in the face in the back seat of the squad car.
‘Gotcha,’ Michael says.
Tony Doherty barely hears. He has returned his stare to the vast panorama in front of him, once again dredging the monitors with utter absorption.
5
Reuben stared silently at Lucy across the kitchen table. She was making a poor job of catching a button mushroom with a pair of disposable chopsticks. Neither had eaten much of their takeaway. For his own part, every time he levered a fresh piece of meat into his mouth, the coarse, dry wood of the chop-sticks made him shiver. The single phrase ‘trouble brewing’ hung in the air, watching, waiting, ready to descend at any moment.
Although he was edgy, suspicious and unsettled, Lucy’s behaviour since she had returned from work was even more erratic. She had made and returned a series of terse phone calls. She looked pale and fragile, and despite applying extra make-up to compensate, her unease still leaked through. Reuben longed to comfort her, to put an arm around her, to tell her things would be OK, as he had done a thousand times before. Instead he remained on his side of the table, chasing vegetables around the plate, his left hand gripping a glass so hard he thought he would break it.
‘Tough day?’ he asked.
Lucy stabbed a small cube of reddened pork and chewed it off her chopstick. ‘Aha.’
Reuben was curious. Something was happening. ‘So what’s up?’
‘Nothing.’
‘There must be . . .’
‘Nothing,’ she repeated.
Reuben focused on his food. He had eaten all the good stuff. All that remained was rice, peas and water chestnuts. He stood up and slid the remnants into the bin, before slotting the plate in the dishwasher. ‘I’m just saying you seem on edge. Is anything wrong?’
‘There isn’t anything to talk about. Now please drop it.’
Reuben walked away. The kitchen ceiling was low and felt as if it was pushing down on his head. Sitting alone on one of the two perpendicular living-room sofas, Reuben stared into the newspaper he had brought home from GeneCrime. Reuben rarely read newspapers. If he needed grisly details of serial inhumanity he could just peruse his work files. This copy of The Times, however, had been left in his pigeonhole, folded inside a large brown envelope, marked simply ‘p 8’. From the kitchen, he could just make out the sound of Lucy crying. Reuben turned to page eight with feelings of misgiving. A quarter-page article in the bottom left had been highlighted with a blue pen. The heading was ‘Crime Continues to Escape Police’. Reuben skimmed the text. Amongst the facts and phrases which entered his depressed consciousness were ‘inner city serious crime is up 8% since last year’ . . . ‘drug-related murders, violent attacks, rapes’ . . . ‘police spokesperson Sarah Hirst’ . . . ‘frank and controversial admission’ . . . ‘a new approach needed’ . . . ‘cited the examples of two recent and brutal killings’ . . . ‘time for crime to feel the long arm of science . . .’ Lucy walked in and sat down heavily on the adjacent leather sofa, dabbing her eyes. The article was bite-sized, designed to be consumed like chow mein, chunks of meat hidden amongst the noodles. Reuben examined the envelope, idly wondering whether to send the flap to be DNA tested, or if a cartography expert could make a positive ID from the two-character inscription. Not that there was any need. It was clearly Sarah’s doing. Reuben’s mobile rang and he put the paper down. ‘Hello,’ he said.
‘Dr Maitland?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is Barton Street Police Station, Westminster. I’m sorry to call you after hours, but we’ve picked up a suspect, flagged by Euston, and we can’t find his charge details. We were wondering if you could sort this one out.’
‘I think you need to contact Euston direct.’
‘We did, but they were none the wiser. Your name was attached to the arrest order.’
Lucy’s mobile rang and she began to talk at the same time as Reuben. Their individual conversations remained confined to separate sofas.
‘Hello? Lucy Maitland.’
‘That’s right,’ Reuben said. ‘I placed his details on the database.’
‘But what’s he been detained for?’
‘The surveillance sweep was cleared by DCI Sarah Hirst. Or you might want to talk to DCI Phil Kemp.’
‘Sex crimes? What the hell does that actually mean?’
‘They’re both gone? OK. What did you say his name was? And his occupation?’
‘I see. But what evidence do they have?’
Reuben took a pen out of his pocket and scribbled ‘Shaun Graves. Corporate lawyer’ on the thin white margin of his newspaper. ‘Right. And, just so I’m sure on this, tell me exactly what he looks like. No, I know that. Please, humour me.’
‘I still can’t believe Shaun would ever do anything like that.’
‘OK. Got it. Medium height, slim build, IC one.’
Lucy turned slightly towards her husband. ‘But it all seems so preposterous. I mean who the hell do they think they are, arresting him in front of me, in broad daylight, with no evidence?’
‘And, just for my records, what colour are his eyes?’
‘He’s being moved?’ . . . ‘What, now?’ . . . ‘But where are they taking him?’
‘Right. I’m on my way. Let me just check.’ Reuben held his phone away and interrupted Lucy. ‘Sorry. Work. Gotta go. You be all right?’
Lucy ended her call quietly. ‘You can’t get out of it?’
‘I’m sorry. I have to go and see someone urgently. Everything OK with you?’
‘Just one of my clients. Been arrested.’
Reuben stood up and reached for his coat. ‘But you’re not a criminal lawyer.’