by John Macken
He rubbed his eyes and moved on, taking a piece of paper from his pocket. For a few seconds he held his head to the side, weighing up the options. Almost reluctantly, he entered a number from the paper into his mobile. When it was answered, he stood up erect.
‘Hello. I’m trying to track down someone by the name of Aaron . . . Yes . . . Did he? How long ago? Did he leave a forwarding address? A telephone number? Anything? . . . Well, has he been back to collect his post? . . . Oh, right.’ He was quiet for a few seconds. ‘Yes, that sounds like him. Fair enough.’
Reuben walked over to the canvas he had been working on and ran his eyes across its surface. So far there were two irises, the faint impression of an Asian nose, and a slightly down-turned mouth. A solitary strand of black hair jutted straight upwards. Run Zhang was proving difficult. He chewed his lip and dialled another number from the piece of paper. ‘Oh, hi. I’m trying to trace Aaron. This is one of the numbers given to me by . . . No, I’m his brother . . . And when was that? Look, I’m only his brother . . . Are you there? The reception is terrible . . . Hello? . . . Sorry, I didn’t think you could hear me. But do you know where he is now? . . . Hello? Hello?’ Reuben pulled the phone away from his ear and examined the screen. The words ‘Connection Lost’ were imprinted blackly on its surface. ‘You can say that again,’ he whispered. He stabbed his blunt pencil deep into the canvas, forcing it between the roughly woven fibres, piercing it, opening a hole where a dark iris had sat.
A reflective couple of moments later, Reuben grabbed his coat and keys with sudden urgency and headed out of the lab, through the industrial estate, along the long soulless road which served it, and towards relative civilization. He walked quickly, with grim resolution, a baseball cap pulled down tight over his face. Twenty minutes later, he entered a tube station, which deposited him, through its subterranean magic, in another area of the city. Reuben burst through the entrance of a glass-fronted building, ignored the receptionist and ran up the stairs to the third floor. He paced down a long corridor of closed offices, before settling on one and swinging open the door.
‘Don’t call Security,’ he said, stepping in.
Lucy Maitland looked up from her desk. ‘Reuben! Why the hell are you—’
‘I want some answers.’
‘I thought I made it clear the other day that if I complained you’d be in serious breach.’
‘What more damage could they do to me? I don’t have a lot left to lose.’
‘They’d lock you up. And from what I’ve read in the newspaper . . .’
‘So why didn’t you?’
Lucy was quiet for a few seconds. Reuben noticed that her hair was different, as rigid and shiny as polished wood.
‘Look, something’s been bothering me, going round and round in my head. I had to see you. Away from him.’ Reuben sat down on a chair facing his wife, breathing hard. ‘I don’t understand why Shaun saved my life.’
‘He didn’t mean to.’
‘No?’
‘No.’
‘Well, what then?’
‘He was coming to attack you.’
‘Attack me?’
‘He was cutting round the front to make sure he got you. Since you assaulted him, he’s been taking self-defence classes. Fanatically. In fact, I think he’s getting a bit carried away.’
‘But what happened to the man?’
‘At a guess, he woke up with a massive headache, none the wiser, and sloped off home.’
For the first time, Reuben noticed a secretary in an adjoining annexe. She peered over her glasses at him, holding his stare. ‘He was really coming to get me?’
‘You have him arrested and beaten, then you punch him yourself, and finally you start spying on us. What else is he going to do?’
‘So why . . .’
‘Much as he doesn’t exactly appreciate your actions, he didn’t want to see you killed. Maybe he realized it would upset me too much. Maybe he’s just a better person than you—’
‘It would have upset you?’
‘Not the way you think.’
‘I miss us,’ he muttered, almost to himself, his impetus subsiding. He knew he shouldn’t have said it. ‘I mean, I miss us as a family. You, me and Josh.’
Lucy sighed and interlocked her fingers beneath her chin. She stared into Reuben’s face for a long second. After a pause, she glanced away and said, ‘Things are different now.’
‘Look, three people I know . . . I miss being with someone.’
‘Anyone?’
‘You know what I’m saying.’ Lucy peered past him and out into the corridor. ‘This isn’t helpful.’
‘So what is helpful? Betraying me?’
‘Reuben . . .’
‘I need to know.’ Something in Reuben’s composure snapped, his hurt breaking through and tumbling out. He leant forwards in his seat. Having sex with Judith had brought the issue of fidelity sharply back into focus. ‘Why did you betray me?’ he demanded. ‘Why? Why couldn’t you have just loved me? Why couldn’t you have been happy with me? Why couldn’t you have meant it when you said you loved me?’
‘Reuben . . . you were never there. You were always wrapped up in crime scenes, or doing interviews . . .’
‘But why did you have to fuck someone else?’ Reuben stood up. ‘In our fucking bed?’ He took a pace towards her. ‘Why did you feel you had to do that? Why couldn’t you have talked to me?’
‘I tried . . .’
‘And what about Joshua?’ Reuben banged the glass desk with his fist. ‘Why the hell did you risk the happiness of our child?’ He was shouting. ‘If he is my fucking child.’ He sensed another presence. A pin-stripe in the doorway.
‘You OK, Lucy?’
Lucy glanced away from Reuben and shook her head.
‘Lucy, I need to know. I’m asking you. Please. Is he mine?’ The secretary was craning her neck to see. The pin-stripe inched forwards into the room. ‘Lucy? You want me to call Security?’ he asked.
‘I’m her fucking husband,’ Reuben spat.
‘And I’m her boss.’
‘Is he mine, Lucy?’
‘I’m surprised you haven’t done some sort of bloody test.’
‘I can’t bring myself to do it. Not until you’ve said the words. I need to hear it from your mouth first. Please, tell me the truth.’
Lucy stared icily into the middle distance, assiduously averting her gaze. The secretary picked up her phone and dialled a quick number. The pin-stripe walked over and stood behind Lucy.
‘I’m asking you a question.’
Still she refused to speak.
‘I think you’d better leave.’
Reuben suddenly felt exposed, his feelings sprayed out as clumsy words that assailed the ears of strangers. He realized Security were charging up the stairs to meet him. Reuben turned and walked out. He took the stairs up to the fourth floor, and then descended in the lift. Reuben strode out of Lucy’s building, not looking back, cursing himself for letting all the pressure erupt, and longing for the sanctuary of his laboratory.
2
Back in the lab, Reuben turned despondently to his computer and brought up the original Pheno-Fit. Then he pulled Judith’s small make-up mirror out of one of the drawers. His throat was tight and his heartbeat rapid and empty. He wanted to sprint headlong into the lab wall. Instead, he stood in front of the screen and held the mirror at face height in his right hand. He ran his frowning eyes from the reflected image to the projected image and back again. He made himself collect and compare, focus and blur, retain and ignore. He remembered being called Aaron, his brother Reuben. He saw photographs of the twins, arms stiffly around shoulders, each recoiling from the intimacy. He pictured them both in matching school uniforms, football shirts, funeral suits. He recalled the initial confusion on people’s brows, hesitating, avoiding names where possible. He saw the later years: different haircuts, different clothes, no longer being mistaken. He darted his eyes back and forth, returning to the pr
esent. He hadn’t seen his brother for three years, but knew his face would have changed just as his own had. He scrutinized the mouth, lips, ears and eyes. As he considered what to do next, the door opened, and Moray Carnock’s considerable bulk entered the room. Reuben put the mirror back in the drawer, and slid it shut.
‘How’s that new mascara working out, big man?’ Moray asked.
Reuben raised his eyebrows and attempted to lift his mood. ‘Didn’t realize you cared.’
‘Ach. The long hours, the close contact, the intimate phone calls. How could I not?’ Moray wedged half his backside on a stool. ‘Besides, I go for the dangerous outlaw type.’
‘Great. I like them plump and butch.’
‘That’s big-boned. And anyway, it’s my metabolism.’ Moray patted his belly with satisfaction. ‘Which tells me, incidentally, to eat a colossal amount of pies.’ Moray loosened his tie, which was already on the verge of slipping through its knot. ‘So enough of this pillow talk. What’s the news?’
‘You’ll enjoy this one,’ Reuben began.
‘First time for everything.’
‘Maclyn Margulis. He’s either enviably clever or just breathtakingly vain. You recall Kieran Hobbs was less than impressed that our Pheno-Fit failed to identify the killer of his right-hand man, Joey Salvason. And that he then suggested we test Maclyn Margulis, his best guess at the culprit?’
Moray pulled a sausage roll out of his pocket and tenderly unwrapped it. Reuben had observed him extract a wide variety of foodstuffs from his jacket over the months. It was a portable pantry of convenience. ‘I remember you moaning about it, yes.’
‘Well, I guess Kieran has taught me a valuable lesson. Sometimes technology over-complicates things. Sometimes the message is simple, easy and obvious.’
‘How so?’
‘When I examined Maclyn Margulis’s hair follicles, their sequence matched the DNA samples we took from Joey Salvason. You’ve seen Maclyn Margulis, from a distance?’
‘Wouldn’t like to get too close. But, yes.’
‘Here, look at the Pheno-Fit.’ Reuben closed his own image and opened another up. ‘What do you see?’
‘A fairly unpleasant ginger-haired man with a big nose and buck teeth.’
‘So what do you conclude, Holmes?’
‘Your Pheno-Fit isn’t worth shit.’
‘Or, the jet-black, tanned, straight-nosed, perfectly dentured Maclyn Margulis owes less to his genes than to his hairdresser, plastic surgeon and dentist. Have another look.’ Reuben typed a few commands into the computer, and the hair darkened, the eyebrows blackened, the skin lost its pallor, the nose shrank, the teeth levelled. ‘Nurture outwitting nature.’
‘And you think this is deliberate?’
‘I guess he’s just a rich gangster who took the decision at some point in his past to drastically improve his looks.’ Reuben stretched again. ‘It was a moment of revelation – the hairs Judith took were black, but their DNA said red.’
‘And I guess you want me to explain all this to Kieran Hobbs?’
‘Aha. But be careful. The more I think about it the less I like coming between men like Kieran and Maclyn.’
Moray tapped his nose with the sausage roll. ‘Careful is what I do best.’
Reuben examined the minute crumbs which had been transferred to Moray’s skin. Behind him, the handle turned, and the door eased open. Judith entered, carrying a briefcase. She approached the two men warily. Her clothes and face were tired and drawn. One word struck Reuben as he looked at her. Simmering. She nodded quickly at Moray, before turning to her former boss, who anticipated bad news. ‘What?’ he asked.
‘It’s finally happened. You’re out there, Reuben. On the streets. In the papers. On the news. In people’s conversations.’ She fiddled with the handle of her briefcase. ‘You’re going through the city like a retrovirus.’
‘How, exactly?’
‘You’ve become a headline.’
‘Which is?’
‘Forensic scientist killing forensic scientists.’
‘Fuck. So who leaked the details?’
‘No idea. Phil Kemp was livid. Look, Reuben, we knew from the start that I would be taking risks, and that was my decision. It seemed to be worth it. But now the risk has gone through the roof.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m hanging around with the number-one suspect in a serial-murder case, while spending the rest of the time trying to track him down. Talk about fucked up.’
‘But if you abandon me now—’ Reuben stopped himself just short. ‘I’m sorry. You’re in an impossible situation. I’m being selfish.’ He raised his eyebrows, his eyes widening. ‘See it from my side, though. I’m being pushed into a corner by someone. My only hope is to find out who. Without you on the inside of GeneCrime, I don’t stand a chance.’ He pointed at Judith. ‘You are my forensics team.’ And then at Moray. ‘You are my police force. And you think you’re scared.’ Reuben ferreted for support, but there was something in Judith’s face – doubt, maybe – that he had not witnessed before. ‘They will hunt me down. They’re coming for me. The evidence is strong enough.’ He glanced around the confines of the laboratory. ‘I’m going to be locked away for ever. If you trust me one hundred per cent, then please, please, help me.’
‘One hundred is a large number.’
‘Et tu, Judith?’
Judith merely shrugged.
‘So you’ll help me?’
She stared deep into her former boss’s eyes. Reuben held the stare for a few seconds. It was a disturbingly different look than the one of desire and need which had passed between them only two days ago.
He turned to Moray. ‘And you?’
‘As long as you keep paying me, I don’t care who you kill.’
Judith opened her case slowly and deliberately, pulling out several scraps of newspaper. ‘You might as well see what they’re saying about you.’ Reuben scanned the articles, passing them along the line to Moray as he finished with each one in turn. To see your own name printed for public consumption . . . he suddenly understood how it must feel to have your DNA sequenced and published.
Moray let out a deep rumbling laugh which shook his belly. ‘“Police have issued a DNA policy – Do Not Approach – for boffin-slayer Reuben Maitland . . .” Who writes this crap?’
‘Colin Megson of the Sun was first to break the story,’ Judith answered.
Moray turned to a broadsheet.
‘DCI Sarah Hirst of Euston CID confirmed that her team were eager to speak with Dr Maitland, who was sacked from an élite North London forensics unit in May. The unit, GeneCrime, which is pioneering advances in detection technologies, is barely known about outside the upper echelons of the Metropolitan police force. However, GeneCrime has maintained a policy of publishing its breakthroughs in scientific journals. Dr Maitland, 38, was previously a regular contributor to media analysis of crime, and at the forefront of UK forensics, before his dismissal on grounds of alleged misuse of powers . . .
‘Alleged? Blatant misuse, more like,’ Moray muttered.
Reuben didn’t look up. He was absorbed in an article from the Daily Express. Judith had passed it to him silently, questioningly. It was haunted by the word ‘Exclusive’, white on black, an ominous box hovering over the headline. ‘Fuck,’ Reuben whispered to himself. He searched the item with a desperate hope, but it soon faded. Someone had been digging deep. The facts were virtually all accurate. Police records had been mined, even the arresting officers had been interviewed. Reuben felt an arctic cold in his bones, a metallic clamp squeezing his brain. His own truths had been pursued with the fervour he applied to others. Events that had been absorbed, stored away, glossed over and denied were exposed. Deeds which were known only to one other person. At least until now. He let the paper slip from his fingers, watching it feather downwards, sliding along the floor as it landed, rearing up and finally settling. Reuben held the lab bench with both hands, arms straight, his head bowed. Moray picked
the article up, glanced at Judith and then read it. He whistled.
‘This true?’ he asked.
Out of the corner of his eye, Reuben saw that Judith was watching him intently.
‘Some of it,’ he muttered.
Moray whistled again. ‘“Hunted Scientist Is Convicted Drug Dealer”.’ Anything else we need to know?’
‘It’s more complicated than that.’
‘How?’
Reuben stared into a brown bottle of phenol on the shelf in front of him. ‘I’m not sure I want to talk about it.’
‘And the sentence?’
‘It was only three months, not six as suggested. But other than that, yes. Brixton. One of the country’s finest.’
Judith, who had been quiet, cleared her throat. ‘You know the rules. No previous. If a reporter can find out . . . What’s been going on, Reuben? There’s no way on earth you could have had a police career with a record, not to mention jail time. Surely it isn’t true?’
Reuben turned to look at her. There was a disquieting mix of emotion in her face. Her eyes reflected betrayal, her mouth curiosity, her nose disgust. He wanted to tell her the truth, to be straight with her, anything, as long as she didn’t stare at him that way. He felt compelled to open himself up to her. ‘As the article implies, my actual name is not Maitland. I changed it. Only slightly. Background checks are crude, as you know. My dad succumbed to cirrhosis when I was nineteen, and my mum reverted to her maiden name, mainly to be free from his memory. There wasn’t a lot of contradictory evidence.’
‘But cocaine – what were you doing?’
‘Long story. Wrong place at the wrong time, helping the wrong brother. Look, I don’t see how any of this changes anything . . .’
‘Don’t you?’ Judith was busy closing her case. ‘Don’t you see this has all been about the truth? Always the truth. That’s why your team worshipped you. You were a purist.’ Her eyes were moist; she turned to leave the lab. ‘And yet . . . this goes beyond hypocrisy. This makes me worry about a lot of things. Jesus, when I think about the power, the trust, the loyalty you’ve had. And all along, a liar, an ex-con.’ She pulled the door open. Her face was flushed, her words strained. ‘Who the hell are you, Reuben?’