by John Macken
‘And I suppose it was you who called in the Dunkirk?’ he says, wrapping an arm around her.
‘There was a man . . . he was . . .’
‘It’s OK, my daughter,’ he soothes, squeezing her gently.
Mina stares out into the darkness, vainly searching for traces of him. Breathing through the night air come the sound of approaching sirens. ‘Thanks, Dad. I’m all right, honestly.’
Asad Ali signals to the huddle of drivers who have leapt out of their cabs expecting to find one of their own number in trouble. They climb back in, and begin a noisy retreat from the dead end. Drivers and passengers stare at her as they leave.
‘Right,’ Mina’s father begins, ‘I’m taking you home.’
Mina shakes her head. ‘No. I can’t. I have to stay. They’ll need to know where to look for the man who chased me. They’ll take care of me.’ She stays in her father’s embrace, shivering, willing the police to arrive. By the sound of the sirens, they are still tangled up in the side streets, looking for the dead-end road.
‘I’m sure they’ll catch him,’ Mina’s father says.
‘No. He’ll be long gone,’ she answers. Mina has an almost overwhelming desire to cry, but fights it. She hasn’t cried in front of her father for a number of years, and wishes to keep it that way. A few minutes later, the first squad car finally pulls into Tiverton Avenue.
10
Phil Kemp held up a newspaper and displayed it in an arc of 180 degrees around the room. It was a quality daily, and had been folded to show a page-five story which filled half the sheet. The headline announced, ‘Scientist Linked to Forensics Murders’. Phil wrestled it closed and picked up a tabloid edition. He was silent, his rage evident in the stiffness of his movements. He similarly displayed the paper. The front page screamed, ‘Boffin Killer On The Loose’. Phil allowed the room to sense his anger. It was a technique learnt from years of interrogation. The implied threat, the simmering violence. He spoke quietly, and every word was listened to intently. ‘I want to know who has been dealing with the press.’ He glared at the room’s occupants, who largely avoided eye contact. ‘When I get back to my office I will turn my computer on. If I don’t get an email today from the guilty FUCK who has leaked the details I will tear this division apart until I do.’ He allowed his voice to raise a notch, key words spat out, echoing around the room. ‘Do I make myself clear?’ There was a silent affirmation. ‘I will NOT tolerate this sort of activity. Journalists are SCUM. Once they start to twist the story they FUCK an investigation over. We’re OUT in the open, now. In the public FUCKING domain.’ He glowered in the same slow arc he had shown the papers around. One or two people cleared their throats. The air-conditioning eased off. Phil looked down at the back of his hands. Veins knotted their surface like tree roots. His knuckles, as he clenched his fingers, were angry and white. ‘Right,’ he grunted, ‘we have other business. You’ll notice Mina isn’t here. For those of you who haven’t heard, Mina almost became victim number four last night.’ DCI Kemp raised his head towards a young CID officer. ‘Keith?’
‘That’s correct,’ Keith said, standing up self-consciously. ‘Dr Ali was followed home in the early hours of this morning, after working late. She had apparently refused CID assistance point-blank, for reasons we don’t quite understand yet. If it hadn’t been for some quick thinking, well, it’s more than likely that . . .’ Phil Kemp motioned to hurry him along. The officer turned to a piece of paper he had been holding. ‘Well, we now have a description of our man.’ He paused, his fingers shaking slightly, aware of the utter concentration focused upon him. ‘He was above average height, well built and athletic. Dressed in dark clothing.’
There was another pause, longer this time.
‘And?’ Helen Alders, the blonde, snub-nosed detective, asked.
‘That’s it.’
‘That’s the best she could do? I mean she’s a senior forensic officer for Christ’s sake. Blunkett’s fucking dog could have come up with more detail.’
‘In her defence, it was dark, she was about to be hacked to pieces, and she’s more used to dealing with people who have entirely lost the ability to chase her through the streets.’ Phil raised his eyebrows briskly in the direction of the detective. ‘Tell them the other bit, Keith.’
‘Here’s the thing. The description is limited because the man was wearing an anti-contamination face mask. According to Mina, he was also wearing SOCO gear beneath his overcoat, and nylon gloves. He even had shoe covers.’
There was a restless silence. Scientists, CID and support staff allowed their thoughts to meander. Each one of them saw their own set of images, drew their own set of conclusions. Phil inhaled a long breath as a prelude to speaking. ‘I’m afraid we have to confront something uncomfortable here. Now I know how uneasy we all felt after we examined the Pheno-Fit of Reuben Maitland a couple of days ago. And I understand that. In fact, I’ve probably had more doubts than anyone. But, gathering everything together, and being entirely objective . . . I mean, the sad fact is, we cannot ignore what is in front of our eyes. Motive. Evidence. Description. This kills me, but we have to be transparent and honest. If this was someone else, someone whom none of us knew, would we be so reticent?’
Bernie Harrison rose slowly to his feet. He knew Forensics were with him, and took confidence from the quiet which greeted Phil Kemp’s words. ‘Intuition,’ he stated firmly. ‘What we need here is intuition.’
‘Meaning?’
‘In science, logic can only take you so far.’ He wiped his forehead with the back of a hand. ‘Perspiration is fine, but without inspiration, you will never make any real breakthroughs.’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ muttered a burly CID officer facing Bernie.
Phil Kemp scowled at him. ‘Bernie, what are you trying to say?’
‘The point is this. My intuition tells me that Reuben is not killing people. For a start, we have no independent forensics. Now, Dr Maitland may have his own reasons for sending us a Pheno-Fit of himself, he might be playing mind games, throwing us off the scent of something, but he certainly isn’t butchering us. We need our own data.’
‘Wherein lies the problem. If the very scientists processing the killer’s samples are being murdered, the supply chain is going to be impaired. Besides, I don’t see your point. We already have forensics from Run and Sandra which Reuben processed—’
‘Implicating himself. But as I say, you are then relying on the evidence of a sacked member of staff, evidence which, logically, points away from him being the culprit. And what about Lloyd Granger? He had no connection with GeneCrime. How do you explain Reuben’s involvement in that one?’
Phil Kemp sighed out loud. ‘Because we have news on Lloyd. We think we’ve made a breakthrough.’ Phil fiddled with a document projector for a couple of seconds, switching it on and attempting to focus it on the whiteboard. ‘Although we don’t have in-house forensics yet, clearly, those should start filtering through in the next twenty-four hours or so, when Mina comes back to work. But what we did find – Helen Alders, well done – was a name and address in the deceased’s address book.’ Phil squinted at the screen, and then back at his audience, lingering a few seconds on Bernie. ‘Ergo, we have made a link. Up until this point, Lloyd Granger’s death might have signalled a change in direction. But, Bernie, you will notice that although Lloyd’s murder was not connected directly with GeneCrime, it was connected with one of its former staff. As you can see, Reuben’s name, along with his wife and son’s, their previous address and their telephone number all appear prominently under “R”. Not under “M” for Maitland. Lloyd and Reuben knew each other well. It is time, I’m afraid, for us all to face the unpleasant probability that Reuben Maitland is involved in the killings.’
Bernie sat down. He examined his colleagues’ faces for support but found little. CID, as he looked at them, were leaning forwards in their chairs, murmuring, comparing notes. He envied their togetherness. By contrast, the intelligentsia of Foren
sics were sullen, isolated from other staff as much as they were from each other. Phil Kemp, whose job was Head of Forensics, seemed to be slowly reverting to form, old-school detective sniffing a trail, hungry in the chase. The support staff of programmers, statisticians and database-miners remained neutral, almost uninterested. There was, he acknowledged sadly, a shortage of coherency. And the murder of forensics officers, rather than uniting its personnel, was pulling them apart, rubbing disparate careers up against each other, opening old wounds.
‘Judith,’ Phil said, ‘I believe you’ve talked most recently to Path.’
Bernie ran his eyes over to Judith, who appeared somehow both composed and worried. ‘Pathology says that Mr Granger’s injuries are entirely in keeping with those found on Run and Sandra. A small, sharp blade; multiple lacerations. Maximum pain while keeping the victim alive.’
‘Anything else? Do we have a message?’
‘We’ve just got the translation. But we don’t know what to make of it.’
‘And what is it?’
‘It’s two words, simply that.’
‘Which are?’ Phil asked impatiently.
‘Hitch and hiker. Hitch-hiker.’
Phil sat down heavily. Glances were exchanged around the room. A couple of senior CID raised eyebrows at each other.
‘What?’ Dr Paul Mackay asked. ‘What is it?’
Phil Kemp’s phone rang and he left the room. No one said anything.
11
‘Before I kill you I want to make you understand.’
Jimmy Dunst, barman of the Lamb and Flag pub, stared wildly through the gloom. A hand was clamped over his mouth and a loud ripping sound pierced the stillness of the bedroom. Seconds later, the hand withdrew, and a wide section of tape was wound under his head and across his closed lips. The swiftness and strength of the movement brought an instant reminder, cutting through the blurriness of broken sleep. Jimmy Dunst’s tongue started to throb in memory of his last encounter with this man. This was no burglar, here to demand the code for the safe, intent on removing the night’s takings. No, this was far worse.
The small reading light by the bed was switched on, and the barman’s nightmare was confirmed. Leaning over him, the man said, ‘You know what I think?’
Jimmy shook his head, utterly petrified.
‘That the truth is everything. So you should have the truth before you die.’
The barman struggled, grunting and panting. A large hand was pushing down on his chest, pinning him to the mattress.
‘You threatened my life with a bayonet. And you called the police. You recall?’
A rising panic made Jimmy tremble involuntarily.
‘This is the main reason I have come back for you.’ The man sat down heavily on the bed, and eased his grip slightly. ‘You know, my mother was killed by a policeman.’
‘Mmm.’
‘And do you know who that policeman was? No?’
Jimmy shook his head vigorously.
‘He was my father. He was a very brutal man. Sadistic and merciless. Went a long way in the police. But, of course, I never knew he was the killer.’ He talked slowly and softly, almost to himself. ‘He lied to me about my mother’s demise. Right up until the last few seconds before he himself died. He said that she had deserved to go, that she was, how do you say, bipolar, schizophrenic. She was crazy, prone to terrible tantrums and mood swings, where she would provoke my father, mock him, threaten him even. You understand?’
Jimmy tried to plead, but the tape around his mouth and the still-fresh stitches in his tongue reduced his efforts to a grunt.
‘And later I realized I should have known. The times he had beaten me, just for being like my mother – unpredictable, he would say. Erratic. Never knowing what I was thinking. Impossible to read.’ He examined the barman intensely. ‘Do you think I’m difficult to read? No? I hope not. I hope I’m making myself very clear. Good. Now I have to ask you a couple of questions, and I realize I have hampered your efforts to speak. So what I’m going to do, ever so carefully, is slit a hole in your gag with my knife.’
Jimmy’s eyes widened, and he began to fight the crushing pressure on his chest.
‘I’d advise you not to struggle. One slip and the blade will be in your neck. Just like the bayonet you tried to thrust into me a few days ago. So hold very still.’ He positioned a small, sharp knife over the tape and carved a hole in it, carefully and slowly, pushing the blade through and into the barman’s mouth before retracting it. ‘There,’ he said, ‘let me hear you say I’m sorry.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Jimmy said quietly.
‘For threatening you with a knife and then calling the police.’
Jimmy repeated the words as clearly as he could.
‘Good. Now let’s talk about that other event. What would it have been? Nine or ten years ago?’
‘Yes.’
‘And that’s what encouraged you to try and attack me a few days back, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell me what you saw with your own eyes. Not what the police found, or what the trial alleged, but exactly what your recollections are.’
‘It’s a long time ago.’
‘I’m not going anywhere. So, take me through it from the beginning.’
Over the next two hours, Jimmy described what he had seen, and the man dissected his answers, repeatedly pushing him, separating fact from supposition, truth from allegation. Jimmy came to see that he had a chance, if only he could engage him long enough. It was 4.55 a.m. The cleaner arrived at seven, the deliveries shortly after. If no one answered, they would become suspicious. Maybe even suspicious enough to call the police. He gained a degree of confidence. Although the man was difficult to read, Jimmy could see he had become increasingly friendly, warm almost, as the questioning had progressed.
‘And the dead man, I’m sure you still remember him vividly, was he lying on his back or his side?’
‘His side, I think. Though the doctor could’ve moved him.’
‘Moved him how?’
‘Rolled him over.’
‘You told me there was blood around his head?’
‘Yeah. Like an outline, or a shadow or something, a big round pool...’Jimmy Dunst stopped. Something had changed. The face in front of him was suddenly different. The eyes were fixed, the eyelids retracted, the pupils huge. His cheeks were ruddy, his lips drained of blood. Jimmy stared at him. It was almost as if he had taken a drug. His jaw twitched, muscles spasming in his cheek as he chewed his teeth. Still the eyes were large and distant, seeing something Jimmy couldn’t. He decided to continue his story, eking out the time, hoping that this would bring him round. ‘And it was leaking into the carpet. I remember that because I tried to scrub it out with . . .’ He halted again. The man was staring straight at him, eyes boring into his face. Without warning the knife plunged into Jimmy’s arm, just above the elbow. The barman screamed, blowing air in and out through the hole in his gag, thrashing around in the bed. A second attack, the small knife puncturing his thigh. And then the razor-like blade slid up his leg, slicing through flesh, towards the groin.
‘What is the number of the safe?’ the man demanded, withdrawing the knife.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ Jimmy shrieked.
Pushing him hard into the bed, he slit a shallow gash in Jimmy’s bloated torso, just above the line of his boxer shorts. ‘The fucking number.’
‘Eleven, forty, eleven, sixteen.’
Jimmy Dunst had no time to wonder what had changed. He saw only that the man was on fire, maniacal, intensely and defeatingly strong. There was a power in him that seemed to defy normal human musculature. Another wound opened up and Jimmy screamed. He had the sudden impression that the questioning had merely been filling time until this moment.
‘How many tills fit in the safe?’
Jimmy had already learnt to answer first time. Despite the burning pain of his wounds, he gasped, ‘Three.’
The man stopped for a s
econd, examining his victim as a cat examines a rodent trapped by the tail. Jimmy saw the pleasure, the thrill of the chase, the expectation in his eyes. There was hunger and need, and for the first time, he realized with absolute certainty that he was going to die. With sickening premonition, he saw that he would be forced into the pub safe, whether it required broken bones or not, and that his crumpled body wouldn’t be found for days. As he studied the knife, Jimmy felt a warmness trickling through his legs, which began to sting as it mixed with blood and entered a wound. He wondered at the man’s mental state, imagining quick flashes of what he had been told. The sadistic father, the schizophrenic mother, the murder, the lies. And as the knife was slowly and deliberately lowered towards his nose, Jimmy Dunst suddenly and finally understood the truth of that night ten years previously. And the truth scared him almost as much as the impending torture.
1
Reuben gazed into the monitor. It was a stare of slow, dawning comprehension, of the solving of a puzzle, of seeing the inherent beauty in an enigma. ‘Gotcha,’ he whispered at the multiple peaks of colour on a vastly elongated graph, ‘you sly motherfucker.’ He flicked to a Pheno-Fit and let out a low, satisfied sigh. ‘So nurture wins this one.’ Reuben continued to focus into the screen and pressed a button on his phone.
‘Moray,’ he said, ‘you doing anything you can’t drop? Can you come over? Where are you? See you in a couple of hours.’
With his free right hand, he scrolled through a screen littered with clustered digits, some red and some blue. As he did so, he dialled another number with his left.
‘Kieran. It’s Reuben,’ he began. ‘I think I’ve got some news you might be interested in. Not on the phone. I’m going to send Moray Carnock over to you. Can you give me a location? Right. Three hours. And he’ll need to be paid in full.’ Reuben breathed in and frowned, mustering a quick calculation. ‘All together, six K. Yep. He’ll see you there. Bye.’
He shook his head slowly, and swung his legs off the stool. Stretching, Reuben pulled in a deep breath and held it. ‘Sly, sly, sly,’ he grunted, letting the air out, the long period of dry concentration ebbing away. Working for gangsters like Kieran Hobbs was ugly and demeaning, a parasitic necessity, but occasionally, like today, taught him something he could never have learnt in the police force.