Dirty Little Lies

by John Macken

  ‘I-A-M-C-M-I-N-G-F-R-G-C’.

  ‘What the hell is that?’ Phil Kemp demanded.

  Mina Ali gave a small squeal. Bernie Harrison bit into the fleshy part of his index finger. CID shuffled uncomfortably. DCI Sarah Hirst focused through the letters, almost seeing the message, her brain desperately filling in gaps and rearranging consonants.

  ‘The genetic code is riddled with redundancy,’ Simon muttered. ‘There are twenty-six letters of the alphabet, but only twenty amino acids. So it’s not possible to spell everything in DNA.’

  ‘Which ones are missing?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘J, U, X, Y, Z and’ – Simon rubbed his face – ‘more importantly, O.’

  Sarah’s expression changed. ‘Fuck,’ she whispered.

  Simon inserted a couple of squeaky letters, and CID tried it on for size, their mouths opening and closing, wrapping around the vowels and spitting out the consonants.

  ‘What’s GC?’ one of them asked.

  ‘GeneCrime.’

  DCI Kemp clenched his fists and hit the table harder. ‘I am coming for GeneCrime.’ His words stuck in the thin air-conditioned atmosphere and were fanned around the room. ‘I am coming for GeneCrime,’ he repeated incredulously. ‘No way, sunshine. We are coming for you.’

  Sarah closed her laptop. Phil’s outburst had lacked conviction. Sarah knew it; Phil knew it; everyone who had heard knew it. He had been unable to keep the uncertainty from his voice. Forensics sat and squirmed. CID wrote down the words. Jez re-entered the room. Phil eased himself tentatively into his chair. And the letters on the whiteboard shone out in bold red scratches of premonition.

  2

  In the bedroom of a fourth-storey flat in King’s Cross, multiple camera flashes strobed the movements of six police personnel. On the bed, a dark cherry outline revealed the site of torture of Run Zhang. The impression was that someone had dabbed a paintbrush around his torso, leaving a white profile on the sheet framed in red.

  The room betrayed the fact that its occupant was a long way from home. Its furniture was cheap and insubstantial, designed to suit a short-term purpose. The actual bed was little more than a mattress on the floor. A frail table with unsteady legs swayed under the window, which was partially obscured by a blue bedsheet. In the corner sat a mini-disc player with tiny portable speakers. The wardrobe held only a suitcase-worth of clothes, all neatly pressed and hung. No books lined the bookcase, but two thick volumes entitled Everyday English and Cantonese to English and Back Again sat heavily on the floor. However, the room did not feel empty. An intense collage of pictures decorated the walls. Photos of Run, of his family, of babies, aunties, grandmothers, uncles, cousins, sisters and brothers; of pets, classmates, tourist locations, residences and buildings; of wide-open spaces and lush countryside; of bikes and cars; of outings and events and ceremonies. Truly, Run’s whole life in another country lit up the walls like miniature windows.

  A member of CID was sniffing the contents of an opened can of Coke. Three of the Forensics Section examined the bed in minute detail, occasionally talking in hushed tones, snatches of their conversation darting through the room. The CID officer passed several sample bags to Phil Kemp, who had just entered.

  Simon Jankowski left the photos that he had been staring at and approached his boss. ‘Phil, I’m just wondering,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘If we might know the killer already.’

  Phil turned to look at him. ‘I don’t think we can make the link yet.’

  ‘Do the stats.’

  ‘This isn’t statistics – this is real life. If the killer was really after GeneCrime members, why target Sandra, who had left to pursue a family life? It can’t be that straightforward.’

  ‘Either way, what are you going to do about us?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Protection.’

  ‘We’re sorting it. But bear in mind, looking after a group of thirty forensics, CID and support staff twenty-four hours a day simply isn’t that easy.’ Phil smiled reassuringly. ‘Now, let’s wrap up here for the time being. Sarah’s just arrived from base. Been sifting through some files. Come through when you’ve finished what you’re doing.’

  One by one, the scientists followed Phil Kemp down a short yellowing corridor, which opened into the main living room. Their white contamination suits scraped along the walls, blue shoe covers rustling with each pace. Each of them was perspiring heavily inside their outfits, which held the sweat in and away from the crime scene. Rivulets of water ran down their foreheads and soaked into the cotton masks obscuring their mouths. In the living room, they noted the overflowing ashtray on the floor, the two half-drunk cups of tea sitting on the coffee table, and the empty takeaway cartons lying on the sofa.

  A police technician was hastily connecting a video projector to a laptop, focusing images on a wall which held mounted photographs of Run and various family members. In one corner of the room, DCI Sarah Hirst exchanged tense and hushed words with Phil Kemp. Despite the importance of the crime scene, neither officer wore protective clothes, a visual reminder that they rose above forensic contamination. As the room filled, they turned to face the white mass of CID and scientists. Sarah nodded at Phil, and he began to speak.

  ‘OK. What do we think so far? The way I see it, the same person, probably a man, has carried out both murders. He has a grudge against GeneCrime. Ergo, this is either someone we have arrested previously or someone we are trying to arrest now. I know Sarah has had some thoughts.’

  ‘There are of course two other possibilities,’ Sarah said, addressing the room, and monitoring Phil from the corner of her eye. ‘First, it is someone we have never encountered. A punter with a grudge against forensics in general, who knows GeneCrime is pioneering new advancements, who has a moral or ethical vendetta.’

  Phil appeared unimpressed. ‘And second?’

  Sarah paused, taking in the discomfort of the assembled staff. She motioned for the mouth masks to be dropped. Faces came to life as their covers were pulled away. ‘That it is someone inside GeneCrime. Maybe someone in this room.’

  Phil, who had been slouching, straightened. ‘Hang on a second …’

  ‘Look, the murderer knew where Run and Sandra lived. There was no sign of forced entry. Therefore they knew their attacker. And what is the only thing that links Run and Sandra? GeneCrime.’

  Scientists and CID glanced around at each other. After a sticky pause, Phil Kemp said, ‘OK, this is solvable. Everybody write down on a piece of paper where you were at the time of both deaths. Give the phone number of someone who can corroborate. Pass them round to Sarah or myself. While you’re doing that, Sarah will fill you in on what CID have come up with.’

  ‘Right, let’s look at the first and most probable scenario, that the attacker is someone we have dealt with in the past. While Forensics have been busy in the lab and at Run’s house, CID have rifled through past cases, and have come up with a shortlist.’ Sarah turned to her laptop which was perching on top of the TV. ‘OK, on the screen’ – she swivelled round to see if the image was projecting – ‘is suspect one. Jattinder Kumar, thirty-two, whereabouts unknown, escaped from prison nine months ago.’ Jattinder Kumar’s grainy face appeared, vastly magnified, skin pores like black holes. Intruding into the projection, on the stubbled chin, were two framed photos of Run with his arms around a smiling, older oriental woman. ‘Kumar was jailed for murdering a police officer, made a real fuss during his trial that the DNA evidence had been tampered with.’ Sarah pressed the PgDn button on her laptop. ‘Suspect two, Stephen Jacobs, ex-biology teacher, raped a pupil of his, recently released, attempted – as some of you may remember – to circumvent the genetic evidence by inserting salmon sperm DNA into his victim. Nice man.’ She flicked on to the next image. ‘Three, Lars Besser, recently released as well, jailed for murder and two serious assaults, prosecuted on genetic evidence alone. Always protested his innocence, but don’t they all?’ Sarah scanned the r
oom, seeing CID nodding in agreement. ‘Suspect four, Mark Gelson, never successfully charged or DNA tested, currently and previously under investigation by GeneCrime. Whereabouts unknown, probable murderer of two police informants, one of the Met’s current highest priorities.’

  ‘Why Gelson?’ Birgit Kasper asked.

  ‘We’ve had anonymous death-threats. One of the calls was made from the flat of the man nailed to the wall. Anyone remember that one?’

  ‘Can’t forget it.’

  ‘Exactly. But Gelson was, we believe, at the scene, and the call time matches CCTV footage we have of him in the area. And, more importantly, there was evidence of mutilation and torture. The victim had been sliced and diced, especially across his torso. Pathology noted internal bruising. So not a run-of-the-mill murderer.’

  ‘Don’t we have a profile for him at all?’

  ‘He’s been lucky so far. Even when we combed his house, we didn’t get anything unambiguous, probably due to the large number of visitors we believe he had. And as for the crime scene, it was basically a crack house which had tens of people staggering through its doors every day.’

  ‘This might sound like an obvious question,’ a female CID officer began, wiping some perspiration away from her top lip, ‘but what about the other suspects? Do we have DNA, and if we do, does it match samples from Sandra and Run?’

  ‘Therein lies the beautiful irony. Mina – care to enlighten us?’

  Mina Ali glanced from Bernie, who was technically more senior than her, to Phil Kemp, who was managing Reuben’s old section. ‘Sandra’s DNA was being overseen by Run,’ she explained. ‘We’re working back through his notes, but it’s taking time. And we’ve only just begun to process Run himself. So the wheels are spinning but we’re not going anywhere.’

  Bernie, who looked aggrieved that he hadn’t been consulted, felt the need to add, ‘So a cutting-edge forensics unit suddenly finds itself relying on old-fashioned police work.’

  Sarah pressed a final button, which projected all four images on to the wall. ‘I guess those are our best estimates for the time being, but others might arise. Phil?’

  ‘Any questions? Right. We need to move fast. We can get outside support – Area Commander Abner has offered us a staff of twenty – but the quickest thing is to divide and conquer. Now, I’m acutely aware that GeneCrime hasn’t always been a picnic in the park, and there have been, well, divisions. What we’re going to do now is something different. We’re going to split into two new groups. Each group will be half CID, half Forensics. This way we can react to every eventuality. Under my auspices, Team A will be in charge of hunting down these four suspects. Our remit will be that we already know our man.’

  ‘And Team B, headed by myself,’ Sarah added, ‘will work on the opposite theory – that we don’t know the killer. We will sift through the forensics and crime details, as they emerge, and try to build a profile of our man.’ Sarah rubbed her face, and felt a wet apprehension exuding from her skin. ‘So masks back on. Let’s nail this bastard.’ She closed the lid of her laptop, and the picture on the wall died, leaving just the photographs of Run, smiling and content, arms wrapped around his mother.

  3

  Mark Gelson nursed a stolen Ford Focus slowly and gently through the slack mid-morning traffic. When you are hunting – he smiled to himself in the rear-view mirror – it is best to proceed quietly.

  Every job had its conventions and regulations. For Mark Gelson, rule number one was never draw attention to yourself. Because of this, he drove a series of unremarkable cars, wore unbranded clothes and restricted his jewellery to a wedding ring. He wasn’t married, and had no desire to be, but the gold band lent him a further veneer of respectability. Appearance was important, and the less conspicuous he was the more easily he could slip through the closing net of his personal and professional lives.

  Although the tentacles of Mark Gelson’s empire spread across half the city, he wasn’t used to being this far south-east. Sometimes out here in Blackheath it hardly felt like London at all. Public transport would certainly have been quicker, but stations were bristling with CCTV. Mark Gelson’s movements could have been tracked all the way from Charing Cross, a seamless montage of grey pictures, a face amongst continuously changing crowds. Cars, particularly small stolen ones, were much harder to pinpoint.

  Mark pulled on to a long straight road facing a park and slotted the car into a space. From the boot he retrieved a sports bag. He cut down a side street, along a high-fenced alley and entered the loading bay for a row of shops. A grey door marked ‘11B’ was jammed between the steel shutters of adjacent stores. Why, he wondered silently, did they all live above fucking shops? Mark rapped on the door and shouted in a disguised voice, ‘Delivery. Can you sign for it?’ There was a rumble on the stairs. He removed a small object from the bag and held it in his hand. Number 11B opened a fraction and a man peered through the narrowed aperture. ‘Hello, Carlton,’ Mark said, wedging himself in the doorway so that it couldn’t close again. He pointed a gun through the gap. Carlton’s body tensed within his tracksuit. He turned and walked stiffly back the way he had come.

  Upstairs, under Mark Gelson’s unbroken stare, Carlton sat and fidgeted. His disquiet sclerosed into fear, and he began to quiver with apprehension. Sweat seeped out of his dark skin and into his clothes, leaking through the material, making him feel sticky. Mark Gelson kept the gaping hole of the gun trained on him like a third unblinking eye.

  ‘So, Carlton. Carlton, Carlton, Carlton.’

  ‘Look, whatever you want—’

  ‘Carlton. Did you really think you could?’

  ‘You don’t have to take my word for it …’

  Mark Gelson talked quickly, at times almost without breathing. ‘You really thought you could, didn’t you? Some on the inside, some on the outside.’ There was a violence in his words, his voice clipped and sharp. ‘Inside and outside. Inside and outside.’

  ‘I swear to you, not one word.’

  ‘You see, everyone is leaky, Carlton. No one can keep everything they know inside them for ever. We all have our price.’ Mark Gelson’s brown eyes widened as he surveyed his employee. He ran an eager hand through his short, dense hair, rubbing his fingers together, feeling the sticky amalgamation of human sweat and chemical wax. ‘It just takes a bent copper to name it.’

  ‘Please, not like this. I would never …’

  ‘I can’t help it becoming personal. You’d feel the same, surely?’

  ‘Whoever told you is wrong.’

  ‘But I don’t want you to suffer unnecessarily. Let me tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to cook up a couple of rocks for you, and a couple for me. How does that sound?’

  ‘Please don’t hurt me.’

  ‘Let’s say we get this party started. Do you like parties, Carlton?’

  ‘I’m begging you.’

  ‘Are you turning my product down? I’d suggest you don’t. Besides, how does the saying go? Never trust a skinny chef. Likewise, never trust a dealer who refuses his own drug.’

  ‘What do you want me to do? Tell me and I’ll do it.’

  ‘You see, the thing with the rock, as you well know, is that you don’t just hit the ceiling, you go through it! Tell me I’m wrong.’

  ‘OK. Come on, let me have the pipe.’

  ‘As I’m a polite man, you can go first. But before you do, I’m going to take some precautions. You know what a sudden high could do.’ Mark Gelson took some plastic bag-ties from his pocket. He looped one around Carlton’s left wrist and secured it against the arm of the chair. Then he forced his pistol into Carlton’s groin and said, ‘Kick me and I’ll fuck you where it hurts.’ He used his remaining hand to bind Carlton’s ankles to the chair legs. ‘Right.’ He smirked, taking out a small opaque pipe, a plastic bag and a lighter. ‘I’ll help you hold it.’ Mark tipped two white objects, which looked like injured miniature sugar cubes, into the mouth of the pipe. Under it, he sparked the lighter and kept
it lit. ‘Ready? Breathe.’

  Carlton inhaled in desperation and fear. His eyes bulged as he sucked the smoke in, and he never took his gaze away from Mark Gelson.

  ‘How’s that? Good? Should be. That’s the best product I’ve got. Now, as you’ll notice, I’ve decided not to indulge. The rock may be good on the way up, but it’s a fucker on the way down. So, as you start your descent, I want you to watch what I do, and listen carefully to what I say.’ Mark opened the rucksack he had brought with him and began to extract its contents. There was a disposable scalpel with an orange handle, a six-inch kitchen knife, a small brown plastic bottle, a rubber belt from a car engine and a length of garden hose. ‘You see, cocaine, in whatever form, brings immunity to pain. But it doesn’t last long. When you crash, you hurt. We’ve all been there. Your thresholds drop. You become more sensitive. Your nerves are crying out. Tell me I’m wrong.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake. Let me have one more smoke …’

  ‘That would defeat the object. Surely you see that? Now, I’m not unreasonable. Life is full of choices. You and other members of my staff could have colluded with the police in order to fuck me over, or you could have decided against it. So here are five objects from my house, a house I can never go back to now. I’d like you to choose which one you want.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything. Come on, some more smoke …’

  ‘I mean, as I see it, there are five quick and easy ways to kill someone. Shooting. Drowning. Strangulation. Stabbing. Poisoning. Have I missed any?’

  ‘It was Jonno Machicaran. Jonno’s the cunt the cops got to first.’

  ‘Of course, I’m counting hanging and asphyxiation broadly as strangulation.’ Mark Gelson’s rapid-fire delivery continued to tear through the air. ‘You know, I’m grouping things in categories. Shooting could be with a gun, crossbow, fucking bow and arrow for all I care. I spend a lot of my life thinking about these matters. You have to in my position. Someone comes along who wants to take it all away from you, and you have to decide what to do about it. And you, Carlton, my friend, are a case in point. So what do you think?’