by John Macken
‘Yes?’
‘With you.’
‘You’re fucked.’ Moray stopped and muttered, ‘Shady slobs like myself aren’t good alibi material. And, for reasons of professional survival, I would be extremely disinclined to help you out.’
‘Thanks.’
‘So, with strong motive, clear forensic evidence and no alibi . . .’
‘What?’
‘I’d stay the hell underground for now.’ Moray drummed his fingers on the back of a lab stool. His greasy face scrutinized Reuben for a reaction. Reuben looked away. With trembling fingers he opened the sequencer and removed its heavy glass plates. As he prised the plates apart and scraped an almost invisible layer of acrylamide off their surface, Moray slid an envelope across the bench and left the lab. Reuben folded his stiff arms around himself. He squeezed tight, as if he could crush the fear which was beginning to cling to his insides. Someone was coming for him. Someone who had killed time and time again. Someone who wanted him torn apart.
7
The varied streets which encircled GeneCrime were just as he pictured them almost every day. Gene-Crime’s environs were alternately grubby, exclusive, commercial, residential, tired and new. When he left it had been May, and the first awakenings of summer. Now it was just September, and the sun was pounding down with fierce defiance. Reuben chose the exposed side of the road, sucking in the heat and light like an emerging butterfly. As he walked, he felt his shoulders push back, his arms stretch, his lips curl upwards, his body come to life. He had nearly forgotten how good summer could feel.
Reuben pulled a baseball cap from his rear pocket and slid a pair of sunglasses up the slippery bridge of his nose. GeneCrime was only a street away. He crossed the road and headed up an alleyway which housed a small restaurant. Inside, covered tables were each flanked by a pair of wooden chairs. On one of the chairs, at one of the tables, was sitting DCI Sarah Hirst. But he had to be careful. He scanned the alleyway, looking for plainclothes, searching for watchful workmen, sensing a trap. Twenty metres from the door, Reuben spied a member of Gene-Crime and stopped. He glanced quickly behind him, checking for an escape route, but didn’t find one. The man headed directly towards him. Reuben hoped against hope that this was coincidence. The man appeared to notice him, and then not to. Reuben guessed that he hadn’t been recognized behind his cap and glasses. Running his eyes up and down the road he made a judgement call. ‘Jez,’ he hissed.
The man turned his head and kept walking.
‘Jez!’ Reuben cried, a little louder, removing his sunglasses. ‘It’s me.’
Jez Hethrington-Andrews glanced nervously around, looked again, and came to a reluctant halt. ‘Reuben,’ he said quietly. ‘Didn’t see you.’
‘Must have been the disguise.’
‘Call that a disguise?’ he mocked as Reuben pulled his cap a little lower.
‘What were you expecting? Chin putty?’
‘At the very least.’ Jez stared past Reuben and scrutinized passers-by. ‘Look . . . I don’t know. I shouldn’t be here. What are you doing so close to . . .’
‘Meeting someone.’
‘Right. Right.’
Reuben saw that Jez was uncomfortable. His usual playful state had been gnawed away. Reuben imagined that events at GeneCrime were picking apart even the more relaxed scientists. He seemed desperate to be somewhere else, and Reuben suddenly understood his conflict. ‘Are you lot coming for me?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Jez replied without emotion.
‘When?’
‘Soon.’
‘Jez, whom can I trust?’
‘No one.’
‘Sarah?’
‘No.’
‘Phil?’
‘No. No one.’
‘No one at all?’
‘Especially not Sarah or Phil. There’s a lot of stuff going on which . . . I don’t know, things have got fucked up. I can’t talk to you about it. I wish I could. But I can’t. I’m sorry. Very sorry. Look, it’s best you aren’t seen with me. I mean it. I have to go. Got to go somewhere.’
‘But, Jez . . .’
‘Reuben, let me just say this.’ Jez was impassioned, his eyes wide, as if they had glimpsed a horror he could only half describe. ‘Go and hide. Hide well. Stay there and don’t come out. It’s all you can do. You don’t realize . . . You have no idea how much danger you’re in. No idea at all.’ Jez began walking. ‘Go,’ he implored. ‘Hide. There are things . . .’ He turned his head and carried on.
Reuben stood blinking in the sunlight. On one side was the restaurant where he was due to meet Sarah; on the other, Jez Hethrington-Andrews, scurrying away with something in his face that spoke bluntly to Reuben’s adrenal glands. Jez’s words echoed in the street. Trust no one. Especially not Sarah or Phil. He pictured Sarah handing his Pheno-Fit over to Phil Kemp, smiling, the fine lines of her eyes fanning out in satisfaction. Reuben stood still. He could see the restaurant door. At the end of the street it would only take a couple of minutes to hail a cab. The sunny side or the shady side. Stick or twist. Play it safe or gamble. Fuck it, he whispered under his breath. Reuben made a decision. He turned and walked.
8
Sarah was seated at a table in the basement of the restaurant. Reuben picked his way slowly and cautiously towards her, weighing up the other diners. He appreciated that his actions verged on the reckless, and acknowledged that his curiosity was a perpetual danger to him. For a second, he pictured Moray lecturing him between mouthfuls of food.
Sarah was unexpectedly pale, and he sensed that she was spending too much time inside, planted in front of her computer, facts and figures radiating from her monitor and bleaching her skin. Her sky-blue blouse was rolled up at the sleeves to reveal slender, hairless wrists. Reuben pulled out the chair opposite and sat down. Before he had time to speak, a waiter shuffled over and lit the candle which lay between them. Reuben glanced around the dingy subterranean room. Couples nuzzled together at small tables, leaning forwards, holding hands, wisps of candle smoke dancing in their words.
‘Nice restaurant,’ he said.
‘Intimate,’ Sarah replied.
Reuben ordered a drink, and muttered, ‘I very nearly didn’t come in.’
‘So why did you?’
‘I wanted to talk to you, face to face.’
‘Well, here we are. Face to face.’
Reuben looked across at Sarah, who smiled back at him. It was a smile of utter control, and Reuben sensed that this was not going to be straight-forward.
‘Maybe you shouldn’t have come,’ she said.
‘No?’
‘No.’ Sarah took a long, slow sip of her red wine. ‘After all, you do know we’re hunting you down?’
‘So I hear.’
‘See, the way I figure it, you’re either very brave or very foolish.’
‘Maybe I’m just a sucker for a free meal.’
‘And Phil’s finally starting to believe it is actually you.’
‘Is he?’
‘I’m working on him.’
‘And what do you think?’ Reuben asked, holding her gaze.
‘That you’re the killer.’
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘This and that. Come on, Reuben, you can tell me the truth. Unburden yourself.’ Sarah’s eyes sparkled with mischief. ‘Get it out in the open.’
‘If you’re so certain, why not just arrest me?’
‘What’s to say I won’t?’
‘Because a deal’s a deal. I agreed to help you, and you promised a favour in return. And now it’s time to keep your word.’
‘But you don’t trust me, Reuben, do you? Never have.’
Reuben remained quiet, letting the silence answer for him.
‘So what’s the favour?’
‘I’ll come to that. But first I need to know what you know.’
‘Confidential. Surely you understand that.’
‘Otherwise I can’t be any help.’
‘Your b
est help would lie in not murdering anyone else.’
‘Sometimes I get the impression you’re just playing with me.’
‘What makes you think I’m not?’
Reuben shook his head, holding it like he was being attacked. Talking to Sarah was always a head-fuck. She could get inside without even trying. But, just as in the pub, there was also something else in her eyes. Suppressed, disguised, but still leaking through. Reuben decided to play Sarah at her own game.
‘I wonder what a police psychologist would make of you choosing to meet me in a romantic restaurant?’
‘That I had a warped sense of humour.’
‘Or else . . .’
‘What?’
‘You know what I’m saying.’
Reuben stared hard into her face. It was there. The faintest hint of a blush struggling through. With a summer tan, he wouldn’t have spotted it. But Sarah was pale, and Reuben had keen eyes.
‘I don’t think I do.’
Reuben chewed an ice cube. He had just learnt something valuable. ‘Two can play at this.’
‘At what?’
‘Hot and cold. Push and prod. Nice and nasty. Call it what you will.’
‘Look, what is it you want to know?’ she asked impatiently.
‘Tell me what you’ve got,’ he said.
‘Just some murders. Forensics team tortured one by one. A scientist with a grudge against his former colleagues. And guess what? All the DNA evidence points to him being the killer.’
Reuben reached across and clenched Sarah’s hand. ‘I mean it. Stop fucking me about. Be straight for once.’ A pair of couples glanced surreptitiously over. For an instant, Reuben saw what they saw. Two lovers arguing in a restaurant, trying to salvage their relationship. He let go of Sarah and took a cool slug of his vodka.
Sarah stroked her long fingers reflectively. Her brow furrowed and her smile disappeared. A genuine look of empathy settled into her features, as if aware that she’d pushed Reuben too far. ‘What I’m going to say is entirely confidential and must never resurface. OK?’ Reuben nodded. ‘Right,’ she sighed, ‘you’re the top priority on our list, but there are others. Three others. All have relevant form, of one sort or another.’
‘Who?’
‘No names. We’ve just tied one to twenty-four-hour surveillance. The other two are on the loose, but we’ve got CCTV putting them in the city on or about the days of the murders. We don’t have DNA from one, but we do from the other. The switch to Lloyd Granger threw us for a bit, but we think we’ve made a breakthrough.’
‘How?’
‘Can’t say – it’s too preliminary. But I think you know already.’ Sarah swirled the wine in her glass and took a sip. ‘So we’ve divided into two teams, trawling through past convictions, CCTV footage, multiple profiles. Forensics pulling double shifts, trying to keep up. CID knocking on doors, checking last-known locations, sifting for witnesses. Myself and Phil cross-checking the data, coming up with ideas, planning tactics. We’ve got the whole of GeneCrime sweating their arses off, trying to do the one thing we’ve never done before.’
‘Which is?’
‘Solve a case in real time. Catch a murderer as he murders.’ Sarah stood up. ‘Give me a second,’ she said.
Reuben watched her stride towards the toilets. Sarah Hirst was not invulnerable. He ordered a second vodka and savoured its cold nothingness. ‘Look,’ he uttered as she sat down again, ‘I want you to do something for me.’
‘Don’t push it,’ Sarah answered. ‘You’re not exactly in a strong bargaining position.’ It was clear that she had used her time in the Ladies to stitch her composure back together. Her foundation was suddenly thicker, her cheeks rouged. She had slammed the door, afraid how much of her was leaking out. ‘Number-one suspects rarely get to dictate the course of an investigation.’
‘I might be able to help.’
‘You already have. You identified yourself as the killer.’
‘I mean, really help.’
‘How?’
‘I want to get involved in the investigation. Let me examine the bodies.’
‘You’re joking, right?’
‘This is the favour I want. Come on, Sarah. You don’t trust me any more than I trust you. But these murders are stacking up. The pressure’s on. Senior brass must be jumping all over you. And at least you’ll know where the main suspect is for a few hours.’
Sarah stared coolly into Reuben’s face, calculating. He watched her eyes narrow as she considered the options. A thin smile worried her freshly painted lips. Her eyes widened again, pupils opening up like flowers. ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I think that might work.’ Her smile thickened. ‘For both of us.’
9
Mina Ali shivers slightly as she leaves the GeneCrime car park. It is cold in the building, regardless of the outside temperature, and cold in the subterranean car park, now the sun has set. As she makes her way to the bus stop, she pictures her ageing Polo sulking alone in a garage somewhere, having been assaulted all day by a succession of indifferent mechanics. She shakes her head, hoping it will be fixed in time for her morning shift.
Her feet ache from a day spent standing at the bench, and the walk at the other end is easily half a mile. She checks her watch and swears. It is almost 1 a.m. Mina waits hopefully at the stop. As she rifles her purse for spare change she realizes that her fingers and wrist ache nearly as badly as her feet. It has been a long double shift, pipetting huge numbers of samples from Sandra and Run’s crime scenes. Worse, the first batch of specimens from Lloyd Granger has meant that all forensic officers are working flat out.
A night-bus approaches, and Mina gratefully climbs aboard. The journey south takes twenty minutes, the traffic thin at this time of day. When she leaves the bus, all she can think about is an extended soak in a hot bath. Mina cuts across the school playing fields which lead towards her flat. It is so dark and she knows the way so well that she barely bothers to open her eyes. She hears the background hum of early-hours London, a light breeze wafting the noise of a car alarm towards her. Above the restlessness of the city, she suddenly realizes that she is not alone. She senses acutely that someone else is in the park with her. Mina strides quickly towards the road, looking around. She is unable to see anyone in the blackness. But she is sure that another person is close. A terrible notion comes to her. She is next. She begins to sprint blindly. The road is fifty metres ahead. In her ears are the sounds of hurried progress, to the left and behind her.
She reaches the street and turns right, away from the direction of the noise, but also away from her flat. She glances back towards the playing fields but cannot see anyone. Mina keeps running, a single thought pushing her forwards. In the gloom she sees images of Sandra, Run and Lloyd. A hundred metres further on, she clearly hears rapid footsteps. She spins around. Fifteen car lengths behind a man is coming towards her. He is at full pelt, leaning forwards, vulpine hunger in his momentum. She runs again, scanning her environs, fighting her panic. She is surrounded by dense rows of terraces, intersecting and cutting each other up. Mina slows, checking the street names. There are three options ahead. Left, right and straight on. Behind, the dark figure is moving swiftly on the other side of the road, forty metres back and gaining. She can hear him panting, almost feel the slap of his shoes against the pavement. She knows the police won’t get here quickly enough. A sudden icy premonition squeezes her lungs. She needs another strategy. Something quicker than the police. She pleads with her brain for help.
Glancing at a sign, she chooses left, and renews her sprint. The street is increasingly derelict. Boarded-up windows become the norm. The road dog-legs to the right. She pulls her phone out as soon as she rounds the bend and can’t be seen. When her call is answered, she simply says, ‘Dunkirk, Tiverton Avenue. Repeat, Dunkirk.’ Mina slides the mobile back in her jacket pocket. Ahead, the houses stop. Thirty metres beyond, the road ends as well. A high brick wall tattooed with fading graffiti. Mina slows. She begins to back a
way, turning to face him. His footsteps echo towards her. His shadow. And finally his form.
He is wary, making sure she is trapped. She cannot see his face. She is panicking. The light is poor. Smashed streetlights, spaced well apart. She retreats as far as she can. She feels the wall behind her. It is sharp and uneven. He seems to gain confidence. His face is obscured by a SOCO mask. She sees that beneath his jacket he is wearing SOCO gear. He walks towards her. She is trapped. He has latex gloves on. She steels herself, fighting the urge to scream. Her eyes are wide, her breathing hard, her chest tight. He is ten paces away. She stares at him, trying to gauge his size, his build, his general appearance. Belatedly she appreciates that the light is too dim, and that he has come prepared for this. His SOCO mask pulls in and out with his breathing. She realizes she has to play for time.
He has a good look around himself, and then steps forwards. He is pulling something out of his bag. Mina sees that it is a white cloth. Even from three metres she recognizes the smell. It is an odour she experiences most days. But now, in the cool air of outside, the sweet waft of chloroform scares her. She sees her fate. She utters the single questioning word, ‘Reuben?’ The man stops, frozen. And then he begins to lunge forwards. Suddenly the narrow street is bathed in light. A rattling cavalry. The clatter of a dozen diesel engines. Black cabs stream towards them. He stares at her. Even through the concealment of his clothing she detects anger and surprise. He turns and runs directly at the taxis. Two of them are forced to swerve. He vaults over a fence, disappearing into the dark. Mina notes that despite his bulk, he is athletic. She takes her phone out and dials the police. While she speaks, all she can think is, I almost had him. I almost trapped him. Drivers emerge from their cabs. Some have weapons. They approach each other, bemused. Mina’s father climbs out of one of the taxis. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he asks gruffly. And then, ‘Are you OK?’ Mina simply nods. The adrenalin is leaving behind a sting in its tail. She is trembling. Through the windows of a couple of cabs she sees passengers, inquisitive faces steaming the glass.