Dirty Little Lies

by John Macken

  ‘Are you? You think someone’s going to make the link? What, in twenty-four hours? A couple of days? Fine. But in the meantime, you have a psycho on the loose. Your funeral.’ Megson chuckled, a dry laugh aimed to irritate as well as insinuate. ‘Could be, anyway.’

  DCI Kemp’s voice tore through the reporter’s cackle. ‘You don’t start talking to me now, and I mean fucking NOW, I’m going to send a couple of officers over . . .’

  ‘Which will all take time. Now, a few details. You show me yours—’

  ‘For fuck’s sake!’ Phil slammed his hand on his desk. ‘I’m running a fucking murder investigation here, and I could do it a hell of a lot better without pricks like you.’ He paused, letting his anger stabilize, picturing Colin Megson doodling on a piece of paper, waiting, knowing he had him by the balls. ‘Look,’ he began, softening, ‘one titbit, and then you tell me, and no fucking about. Right?’

  ‘I’m all ears.’

  Phil sighed. ‘He’s leaving us clues, like he wants to be tracked down.’

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘Genetic clues – not in the normal sense – but code, which when translated spells out words.’

  ‘Like it. The Boffin Butcher.’

  ‘I’m not sure—’

  ‘And what words might they be?’

  ‘Taunts, threats. I’m coming to get you, sort of thing.’

  ‘“You” being?’

  ‘You, impersonal. Now, show me yours.’

  ‘And where are these clues? On the bodies? At the scene?’

  ‘Megson. Don’t fuck me about. Tell me what you know.’

  Colin Megson muttered something inaudible. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘But I think you’re holding out on me. Right. I got called to nose around. You know, the usual. Random murder – state of modern Britain – that sort of thing. Quarter-page editorial. Anyway, I asked one of the pigs – sorry, Inspector –filth at the scene, and they were clueless. Middle-aged man, middle class, attacked in his own middle terrace. They didn’t have an occupation for him, so I dig around, and guess what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Forensic scientist. Lloyd Granger.’

  ‘Granger? Doesn’t ring any. Where did he work?’

  ‘Small unit in South London. Recently privatized, specializing in, I think, something unpleasant which goes by the name of buccal swabs.’

  Phil Kemp wrote the details hurriedly, a blue Biro pushing deep into his notepad. ‘Go on.’

  ‘There is more,’ Megson exuded, ‘if you’re willing to play a bit more ball. Just give me a couple extra niceties to flesh the story out.’

  ‘Colin?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘How offended would you be if I just put the phone down?’ Phil replaced the receiver. ‘I guess I’ll never know,’ he said quietly to himself. Picking up the phone again, he began to track the details of Lloyd Granger’s recent demise, all the time thinking, wondering, puzzling, trying to decide what the death of another forensic scientist could mean, knowing that Granger wasn’t one of his staff, hoping and praying that the killer had finally turned his attention away from GeneCrime.

  The Metropolitan switchboards treated him to a variety of crackly silences and electronic approximations of classical works. As he moved closer and closer to the information he needed, the time spent on hold increased. Phil tapped the desk with his thumb. He had spoken to the duty sergeant at the South London station, the constable who had attended the scene of Lloyd Granger’s death, the assistant to the pathologist who was due to examine the body later, a member of the SOCO team, a DCI overseeing serious crime in the area, as well as a number of middle-ranking officers who were putting a murder team together. Currently, he was waiting for an operator to connect him with a unit commander, to request special GeneCrime access. He hummed along to a keyboard mutilation of Handel’s Water Music. The door opened, and he craned his neck, the lead wrapping around his forearm. It was Sarah Hirst.

  ‘Holding,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘Sit down.’

  Sarah lifted a pile of papers off the room’s only spare chair. She was carrying a slim brown folder, which she placed carefully on her lap. ‘We’ve got some progress.’

  ‘Yeah? Me too. We’ve been able to rule out one of the suspects.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Jattinder Kumar.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Turns out that he died in an RTA a few months ago.’

  ‘And you’re sure?’

  ‘As we can be.’

  ‘And what about the rest? Your other three suspects?’

  ‘Stephen Jacobs, ex-biology teacher and serial attacker . . . No. I’ll keep holding, thank you . . . skipped his bail-house in May. Hasn’t been seen since.’

  Sarah fought the impulse to smile. ‘And I understand you managed to lose Lars Besser.’ Every time Phil fucked up, she edged closer to the overall command of GeneCrime.

  Phil’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who told you?’

  ‘It’s common knowledge.’

  ‘Fuckers.’ Phil rubbed the right side of his face.

  ‘Well?’ Sarah asked, no longer holding back a grin. ‘Did you lose him?’

  ‘We wouldn’t have, except a barman decided to make a hero of himself. Ended up with a fashionably pierced tongue.’

  ‘You’re sure it was him?’

  ‘He hasn’t been able to tell us much, as you might imagine. But he seems reasonably certain.’ Phil Kemp shook his head, trying to suppress his anger, seeing the bayonet, feeling the after-presence in the smoky pub, averting his eyes from Sarah’s self-satisfaction. ‘And Mark Gelson’ – he grimaced, changing the subject – ‘some reported sightings. Plus, we think he’s killed again. A former dealer of his – Carlton Morrison – found dead, badly cut up, evidence of torture.’

  ‘Any genetic code?’

  ‘Not that we’ve found yet. But the multiple lacerations apparently bear a lot of resemblance to those found on Run’s torso. We’re doing tests which will confirm either way. So we’re a bit . . . He is definitely on duty today? I need to speak with him ASAP. OK . . . further forward. We can rule one of our four potentials out, two of them appear still active and one is missing in action.’

  ‘But that’s assuming it’s someone we know.’

  ‘Well, yes.’ Phil nodded. ‘And you’re looking after the other explanation. So what have you got?’

  ‘Something that will interest you a lot.’ She began to unzip her slim leather folder. There was a loud knock at the door and two of DCI Kemp’s CID team walked in. Sarah nodded at the officers and continued, ‘I’ve got the results of the—’

  Phil cut her off dead. ‘Sarah, you might as well hear this at the same time. I’ve just learnt some fresh information, boys. A third murder. This time a low-ranking forensics officer called Lloyd Granger from south of the river. We don’t know if it’s connected yet, but I’m making some calls to seal the scene for us.’ He waggled the phone to show he was on the case.

  ‘Any torture, guv?’ one of the stocky officers asked.

  ‘Too early.’

  ‘Anything else that might link it to Sandra or Run?’

  ‘I’m still getting the prelims.’

  ‘What branch of forensics was he?’

  ‘Just routine batch-testing by the sounds.’

  ‘And no affiliation with GeneCrime at all?’

  ‘No. But you should get a team together, be ready to head over there as soon as we’ve got clearance. And ask around. See if anyone has ever heard of a Lloyd Granger. Sorry, Sarah, you were about to say . . .’

  Sarah glared at the CID officers. It continued to rankle with her that she was treated as a lesser being on Phil’s territory, her information of secondary importance, even though this news was the biggest news yet. ‘Look, we either run this thing together or we don’t.’ Her face was flushed with quick-tempered anger. ‘I’m warning you, DCI Kemp, don’t try and make this case your own. And don’t ever make the mistake of treating me as an inferio
r.’

  The CID officers stared pointedly at the floor. Phil took a moment to answer. ‘OK,’ he said quietly. ‘Now, what’s your news?’

  ‘Maybe later.’

  ‘No, come on. I’ve shown you mine. Let’s see yours.’

  The three men stared expectantly at her. Sarah told herself to calm down. Lose your temper and you lose the argument. She held the zip fob between her fingers, unsure. This had to be dealt with carefully. ‘I’ll talk to you later. Privately.’

  Phil Kemp’s pale, jowly face came alive. ‘This is a fucking murder investigation,’ he barked. ‘We don’t have time for delicacies. People are dying. Now, if you’ve got something to say, for Christ’s sake spit it out.’

  Sarah hesitated for a second longer. Her opposite number, snapping terrier that he was, was right. She remembered the mantra from her training days. All information is good information. She opened her wallet file and carefully pulled out a piece of photographic paper. ‘The results,’ she said, ‘of Predictive Phenotyping on DNA samples taken from Run and Sandra.’ Phil took the paper from her. On it was a Pheno-Fit. He passed it in silence to the two CID men, one of whom whistled. Phil replaced the receiver of the phone and rocked back in his chair, fingers interlinked beneath his chin. No one said anything. Sarah retrieved the Pheno-Fit and slid it back into her case. She watched a scuffle of emotions enliven Phil’s features. He was seeing the possibilities, fighting his loyalties, suppressing his subjectivity, peering through the myopia of friendship, linking everything together in a painful trudge towards a conclusion.

  ‘I know this is upsetting,’ she said, breaking the silence, ‘but we have to consider him. I don’t know why he would do this, or what his motives are. We can’t ignore it, though. No matter whether you two are old friends or not.’

  ‘Surely the very fact that Reuben sent us this goes a long way to proving his innocence.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Sarah uttered. ‘And yet . . .’

  ‘But why else would he . . .’

  ‘I don’t know. Forget everything else and look at the facts. Let’s be impartial about this. Run and Sandra knew their attacker. No sign of forced entry. The killer uses genetic codes. Reuben is sacked for misusing his powers.’

  ‘Didn’t he also take that phenotypic profiling thing with him?’ one of the CID asked.

  ‘Predictive Phenotyping,’ Sarah corrected.

  ‘Either way, ma’am, it stops us using it against him. You know, to check if he’s the killer.’

  ‘And Surveillance have recently seen him hanging out with the gangster Kieran Hobbs,’ the other CID officer ventured.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘But Lloyd Granger? What’s he got to do with it?’ Phil asked.

  Sarah picked at the skin surrounding a fingernail. ‘I don’t know. It may even be coincidental.’

  ‘Guv, have we got a whereabouts for Dr Maitland?’

  ‘Sarah? You’ve obviously been in touch with him.’

  ‘No idea. Genuinely. Everything has been done through email or phone calls.’

  ‘So he’s in hiding?’

  ‘Yes, but not necessarily because . . .’

  Phil Kemp stood up. He was slightly unsteady. Sarah saw that he was rife with uncertainty. ‘Get everyone together,’ he instructed the CID men. ‘Meeting room in five minutes.’ He tightened his tie and ran a hand through his hair. There was a sadness in his manner which told Sarah that he was considering the unthinkable. ‘I’m afraid it looks like we’ve just got a new suspect,’ he mumbled, heading towards the door.

  4

  As Judith watched Reuben pace the laboratory confines, she saw in him the first eruptions of the obsessive behaviour which had always simmered under the surface of his skin. It had been there in the twenty-four-hour stretches of work, the refusal to eat or sleep until all the evidence was gathered, the drive to quantify, to determine, to conclude, to know the truth. She wondered what he reminded her of. A trapped animal was close, but not right. He was in a restricted area of his own volition, able to escape whenever he wanted. No, she thought, pushing her arms into the familiar stiffness of her lab coat, this was a mental rather than physical restraint. And as with all matters of the brain, the results were etched on his face. He was haggard and unshaven, his eyes bloodshot. Clearly, the results of the Predictive Phenotyping had been festering away, refusing to leave the strip-lit room, ricocheting around the uneven walls, forcing Reuben to confront scenarios which eroded and disturbed.

  Reuben finally noticed her, and stopped momentarily, a pale form against the dark brickwork, almost an inverse silhouette. He half smiled, aware that he had been observed, before rubbing his head self-consciously and walking over to her. ‘So,’ he said, in a manner that suggested he had no idea what to say.

  ‘So, indeed,’ Judith replied. They stood in silence. Despite what had happened in the same room fewer than twenty-four hours previously, Judith sensed a vast gulf between them. ‘I can’t do this,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘I thought you . . .’

  ‘No. Just be silent and listen.’ Judith paused, and Reuben noted the hesitation in her quiet beauty. ‘Charlie and I have been having a few difficulties. Not really getting on. But that doesn’t excuse . . .’ Her eyes were wet, and she was trying not to cry. ‘Look, I’m married, for Christ’s sake. What I did yesterday was wrong. Very wrong. And I don’t feel good about myself today.’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘No, it’s not OK.’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘We carry on. Work colleagues. Business as usual.’ Judith dragged her moist eyes up from the floor. ‘Listen, it’s not about you, Reuben.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘This is about my marriage. Which I still happen to believe in.’

  ‘It’s fine. Honestly.’ Reuben appreciated that the situation was less than ideal. In desperation and under enormous stress, they had crossed a line they shouldn’t have. Even then, it had struck Reuben that he was unable to shut Lucy out of his mind. He was, he could see, still not ready. ‘Sure you can face being in the lab?’

  Judith sighed. ‘It won’t be easy. But yes. We’re grown-ups. We’ll manage.’

  Reuben watched her, noting the cold distance in her voice, wondering how authentic it was. He was aware that he would soon be pushing her friendship and loyalty to its very edges, propelling her in a direction she didn’t want to go. ‘And what about today?’

  ‘Not good,’ she answered sullenly, blowing her nose on a tissue.

  ‘We have to keep the work coming in, Jude. Otherwise all this’ – Reuben swept his hand around the laboratory – ‘has to go back to the shop. The sad reality is that without Kieran Hobbs’s cash, we’ll grind to a halt.’

  ‘But surely there’s a safer way?’

  Reuben pulled his jacket off a chair and hunted around the room for the equipment he would need. ‘If we don’t do the bad things, we can’t do the good things,’ he answered. ‘Now, you’re clear about what we have to do?’

  ‘Clear, yes. Convinced, no.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘It still seems too risky.’

  Reuben shrugged. He was asking a lot, but tried not to let it show. ‘You’ve known that all along, Judith.’

  ‘There’s a difference between knowing and doing. I’m sorry, Reuben, but sometimes this piggy-in-the-middle arrangement scares the hell out of me. Like I’m being torn in two.’

  ‘Nature of the beast, I’m afraid.’

  ‘But it’s OK for you. I, on the other hand, still work for the police. One mistake and I’m out in Loserville. No offence.’ Judith took three yellow tubes from a packet and closed their lids, being careful not to touch the inside of the caps with her gloved fingers. She placed them in a cigarette box, removed her gloves and lab coat, and handed the box to him. Reuben saw in her actions that she had made a decision. He prayed that nothing would go wrong.

  ‘Just promise me we’ll
be sorted by lunch. My shift starts at two.’

  ‘Promise,’ Reuben said, slotting the box into his shirt pocket. ‘And I also guarantee you’ll come to no harm.’

  Judith appeared less than convinced.

  In the taxi, Judith began to rehearse her lines. They talked through the details. Reuben played with a slim roll of double-sided tape, thinking, working out the best way. He told her about the murder of Joey Salvason, the unproven charges against Maclyn Margulis, Kieran Hobbs’s suspicions, the henchmen, the danger, escape plans if it all went wrong. Judith scrutinized Reuben out of the corner of her eye. He was animated and alive. This, she told herself, was what he lived for. She examined her fingers, knowing that in a few short minutes, in an atmosphere of menace, she would be holding hands with Reuben. Images of yesterday hunted her down again. Judith ran her palm over the surface of her jeans, pushing the moisture into the material, her wedding ring dragging along the surface.

  As she monitored the passing streets, Judith wondered what the day would hold when her shift started, and felt the tension building already. She pictured her husband sitting in an office, his hair grey, his clothes grey, his words grey. Judith prayed to God that he never found out about Reuben. Catholic families weren’t big on divorce. Looking up, she saw that they had arrived in Covent Garden. Fieldwork was what Reuben had called this. Judith appreciated that this was a benign term. They left the taxi and walked towards the bar. Reuben reached for her hand, hesitated a second and then squeezed it. She felt a tingle in her stomach, which she fought to suppress. His palm was wet, and this worried her. For an instant, she caught their reflection in a window, lovers walking together through the early lunchtime streets. As they approached the door, he turned to her and said, ‘Let’s do this.’

  Judith swallowed hard. They were making their way to a table, threading through chairs, still tightly joined at the hand. As they had rehearsed, on the verge of sitting down, Reuben exclaimed and waved at two men sitting further back. They headed over, smiling brightly, surprise beaming out of their faces. ‘Kieran, you old dog!’ Reuben said. ‘How the hell are you?’