by John Macken
The prisoner shrugged. While he feigned comfortable indifference, his mind darted and raced, concocted stories and alibis, grasped for ways out. He needed to know exactly what evidence they had.
‘Look, Aaron – if you are Aaron – why play along till now?’
‘I didn’t exactly get the chance for discussion.’ As he answered, he considered the implications, shivered at what they might find out. ‘They jump me in a tube station, bundle me straight here and then start the questions. Thought I ought to see what my brother was accused of first.’
‘You mean you didn’t know?’
‘No.’
‘And you never saw any of this on the news?’
‘I live in a squat.’ He clenched his fists under the table, picturing them in cuffs, seeing them sawing into the surface, adding to the multitude of ruts. ‘We’re not big on TV.’
‘But you must have spoken with GeneCrime?’
Aaron Mitland blew cool air out of the side of his mouth. ‘You’ll have to work harder than that if you want to catch me out.’
‘Hang on,’ Sarah said, holding up her hand with traffic-cop abruptness. ‘How was the arrest made?’
WPC Marsh, who had been watching proceedings slouched against a far wall, stood upright. ‘Called in via CCTV. We got word of some sort of pattern-recognition ID . . .’
Phil Kemp and Sarah Hirst exchanged glances. Aaron Mitland watched their faces intently. The WPC rested her hands on her hips, unsure whether to relax again. Detective Gommershall brooded in his seat, refusing to make eye contact with anyone. Aaron waited for the attention to return to him. He pictured his brother, excelling, obsessing, a string pulled slightly too tight. Watching the reactions of people who clearly knew Reuben and who had worked beside him, for an instant he longed to swap places with them, to experience Reuben not as a brother, but as a neutral, as a normal person with no baggage, no shared history of conflict and strife, and no guilt. But then he pulled back. He retreated within the four magnolia walls, the thin blue carpet, the bare, strip-lit ceiling. Familiar ground. Another cell; another bunch of coppers.
‘Let’s say you’re not Reuben,’ Phil began, ‘where is your squat? Could you give us an address?’
Fuck no. The worst thing. ‘I want my brief. Now.’
‘And what do you do for a living?’
‘This and that.’ Aaron cast his eyes around the cell. ‘Mainly this.’ He tried to untangle the growing knot in his stomach, acutely aware of how much danger he was in. It was only a matter of time before they obtained his arrest record, started picking through the details, ran his name and appearance through their Unsolved databases, started to generate a few hits, got more interested in him, began to piece his activities together. He had to get out, away, disappear for a while. And that meant convincing them that he wasn’t his brother. But this was a fine line to tread. There was a big snag looming. He anticipated the next discussion, which duly permeated the cell with grim inevitability.
‘Think about it, Sarah,’ Phil whispered, loudly enough that Aaron could hear it, ‘we’ve become obsessed with Reuben. But if this is his monozygous brother, he has identical DNA to him.’
‘And hence identical DNA to the murderer.’
‘Don’t forget the Pheno-Fit. And the pattern recognition. Maybe we already have our man.’
DCIs Kemp and Hirst turned as one to face him, almost as though they’d choreographed the movement. Its effect was unnerving, like meeting two lanes of the truth head on, hurtling round a blind bend. Aaron saw in an instant that these were not people to fuck with. They were different. Something set them apart from the run-of-the-mill coppers who asked direct questions to solve direct crimes.
‘Where were you on the following dates?’ Phil Kemp asked, scribbling some numbers down on a notepad.
‘Or maybe you can prove to me you’re NOT Reuben,’ Sarah said.
‘Call Fingerprints,’ Phil instructed WPC Marsh.
‘I’ll instruct a team to swab his squat,’ Sarah added.
‘Come on, Reuben, the game’s up.’
‘I’m not—’
‘We know who you are.’
‘Reuben. Aaron. What’s the difference?’
‘It’s your DNA on the victims.’
‘Where is your brother?’
‘When was the last time you saw him?’
‘Did you help him?’
‘You were doing this together.’
‘Covering for each other.’
‘Classic alibi strategy.’
‘Always in two places at once.’
‘Let’s get the CCTV from this morning, find out exactly where you’re staying.’
‘We’ll work back from your arrest, hunt down your residence.’
‘See what people know.’
Aaron Mitland glanced up at them. They could smell blood. They thought they were on to something. If they could trace his movements back to the squat, he was fucked. His brother was fucked anyway. They were both in trouble. The questions kept coming. He tried to focus through them. He had to think, and think fast.
3
Maclyn Margulis stretched his legs in the front seat of his BMW X5, running his fingers lightly around the leather steering wheel. Today, he had insisted on driving. There was a time to be guided, and a time to guide. He glanced at his associate in the rear-view mirror, using the excuse to examine his own profile, his jet-black hair, his chiselled jaw.
‘Mart,’ he said, ‘you’re sure about the address?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How sure?’
‘Pretty sure.’
‘As a percentage?’
‘What do you mean?’
Maclyn Margulis swivelled slightly in his upholstered luxury, raising his eyebrows at the other man, who was hunched in the passenger seat beside him. ‘Out of a hundred.’
‘Ninety. Give or take.’
‘And who exactly did the info come from?’
‘Bluey Jones. He followed the target’s associate, some fat Scotsman, who had a meeting with Kieran Hobbs.’
‘Is Bluey still working for Hobbs?’
‘Seems that way.’
‘Can you trust him?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘As a percentage?’
‘Same again.’
‘I just don’t get what Hobbs has to gain from this,’ Maclyn Margulis said, partially to himself. ‘Why’s he putting this our way?’
‘Maybe the geezer’s outlived his usefulness.’
‘Maybe. Or perhaps Reuben Maitland knows something that he shouldn’t.’ Maclyn turned to the other man, who was broad and mustachioed, a bony hardness in his face, a muscular readiness about his torso. His scalp was so clean shaven that it almost shone. ‘Anyway, that sound OK for you?’
‘What’s the background?’ the man asked, emotionless.
‘Look, we need a hit. That’s it. The details aren’t important.’
‘The details are all that’s important. The last man you sent, there was a rumour . . .’
‘One of my own. A good boy, bit on the sadistic side, but a good boy. Marcus Archer.’
‘I heard he got whacked.’
Maclyn Margulis sighed. ‘Not whacked in the way you’re thinking. Whacked over the head. In an alleyway, by the cunt he was sent to sort out. Turns out he must have had prior knowledge, or protection or something. Probably knocked some sense into him.’
‘So as I say, the details.’
Maclyn Margulis hesitated. Focusing past the bulky passenger, he took in the sheer exoticism of London’s newest skyscraper behind. It had already been christened the Gherkin. To Maclyn it was a huge bullet, thrusting its slug into the gunsmoke clouds. It was not his policy to share information with anybody. But this had to be sorted. ‘Right,’ he relented. ‘Reuben Maitland is ex-police, a forensics officer. Here’s his force picture.’
‘So what’s your interest?’
Maclyn Margulis breathed deep. This kind of curiosity was
usually fatal. ‘You know Kieran Hobbs’s gang over in West London?’
‘Bits and pieces.’
‘Hobbs’s second-in-command, Joey Salvason, got mixed up in something we were doing. Nasty piece of work, overstepped the bounds. Wouldn’t back down so I had to sort him out. Gave him a severe beating, which turned out to be a little bit too severe, if you catch my drift.’ He smiled at the man, but elicited no reaction. ‘So we lie low for a bit. We’re a big operation, but we don’t want to take Kieran Hobbs on. No point. Then I hear some fucking forensic scientist is sniffing around Joey Salvason’s body, on a mission for Hobbs. This is going to stir things up big time. So I send Marcus Archer to track him down and silence him. Only Marcus, as we’ve mentioned, goes and gets himself knocked unconscious. Next thing I know, Kieran Hobbs has arranged a meeting, out in the open so no one’s going to get hurt, lunchtime restaurant, Covent Garden, that sort of thing. Tells me he now knows for certain that I killed Joey Salvason.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. So, during the meal, this ponce comes over with a flowery bit, long-lost friend of Kieran’s. Afterwards, I send a minder after them to check them out, but they jump in a cab. I think no more about it. I deny hurting his boy, we leave the meal, then nothing. Not till yesterday’ – Maclyn Margulis closed his eyes for a moment – ‘when Hobbs comes round to my place, mob-handed. He’s got a picture in his hand. It looks like me, except ginger-haired, buck-toothed, big chin, you know, a right lemon.’ Maclyn ran a hand through his shiny black hair. He took a quick glance in the rear-view mirror at his employee in the back seat. ‘Cut a long story short, he accuses me of being the killer. Tells me he’s now got cast-iron forensic evidence. Says DNA taken from Joey Salvason proves it. Reckons the tests were done by the ponce in the restaurant, who, it just turns out, is not his long-lost friend, but – you guessed it – the ex-copper Reuben Maitland. Of course I deny it. They’re standing there, shooters out, we’re fucking helpless. And then Hobbs walks forwards, pushes his pistol into the chest of Tony, my right-hand man, and pops him. In front of me and everything. Says an eye for one, and now we’re square, turns round and leaves. And there’s Tony, squirming on the ground, fucking bleeding to death.’ Maclyn Margulis stared bitterly into the man with his incongruously blue eyes. ‘You think you can finish the job?’
The man didn’t bother to look at him. ‘So why has Hobbs now given you Reuben Maitland’s whereabouts?’
‘Why do I give a fuck? The only issue I’m interested in is whether you can you do the job.’
‘Never failed yet,’ the man replied, running a hand over his shaven scalp, and then through his moustache, as if savouring the contrast.
‘Well, you do come highly recommended. And, if I might say so, highly expensive.’
‘You get what you pay for. You want ex-special forces, you pay the going rate.’
‘Now when’re you going to do it?’
‘Soon.’
‘Make sure it is. Don’t leave this long. I want it taken care of by the end of the week.’
The man tucked the envelope into his jacket. He opened the door and climbed out, walking away without looking back. Maclyn Margulis monitored his progress. ‘Job done,’ he said to Martin, craning his head round. He watched the man heading towards the Gherkin, being swallowed up by suited City workers. ‘Actually, Martin,’ he frowned, ‘why don’t you drive?’
The heavy black X5 pulled away, trailing a dual stream of exhaust gases, which dissolved in the warm air. A few seconds later, an unmarked Ford Mondeo parked a hundred metres behind indicated and followed, maintaining a discreet distance, its CID officers monitoring the BMW’s progress intently.
4
Judith Meadows jerked a bedroom drawer open and quickly counted five pairs of knickers. She pulled out a lower drawer and extracted five pairs of socks. Then she stuffed everything into a black leather bag. On top of this, she planted two pairs of jeans and a couple of light jumpers. She moved rapidly over to the wardrobe and flicked through coat hangers like vinyl albums. There was no time to choose outfits. It was simply a case of selecting a range of garments which would roughly match. As she rummaged, Judith glanced nervously out of the window. She was pale and unsteady, and her eyes were ringed with the evidence of missed sleep. Judith pressed a button on her mobile, and gripped it in the tense crook of her neck.
‘Hi,’ she said when it was answered. ‘It’s me.’
On the other end, Reuben began to say, ‘You sound—’
‘I’m fine,’ Judith declared. ‘Just fine.’ She pulled a blouse off a hanger and it rocked emptily back and forth. ‘Look, Reuben, I’ll cut straight to the point. I’ve been thinking about the situation I’m in, and I’ve made a decision.’
‘Sounds like the end of a relationship.’
‘In a way it is.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. I want out of this.’ Judith nudged the curtain back slightly and peered out into the street. ‘Despite what I said the other day, it’s not that I don’t trust you . . . it’s just that everything’s terrible, horrible . . .’
‘What’s happened?’
‘I came to my senses, realized I can’t go on living this way. Whatever may have happened at Gene-Crime in the past is irrelevant now. People are dying.’ She threw the blouse on to the bed and ran her fingers over the densely packed array of dresses and tops hanging in her wardrobe. ‘And someone is coming for me. They’re going to torture me and kill me. I need protection, and yet I’m protecting the main suspect. It has to stop. I have to take sides. Surely you understand? I could lose my job, everything . . .’
Reuben was quiet for a second. ‘I understand,’ he said.
‘Look, I know you didn’t do those things, but that’s not the point. You always taught me about loyalty.’ She tugged a pale-blue polo-neck from its skeletal coat hanger and pushed it roughly into her bag. ‘Now my loyalty has to be with the team. We have to stay alive and we have to stick together. I can’t undermine the people who are trying to catch the murderer.’
‘Like I say, Jude, I understand.’
‘And there’s something else you should know.’
‘What?’
‘I guess you won’t have heard yet, but they’ve . . . we’ve. . . arrested your brother.’
‘Aaron? Christ. When was this?’
‘Early today. Apparently a case of mistaken identity.’ Judith paced into the bathroom and began to throw a range of products into a toiletries bag. ‘They thought it was you, Picasso.’
Despite himself, Reuben snorted. ‘I bet he loved that.’
‘It was weird seeing him. He was like an edgy version of yourself. I kept having to remind myself that it wasn’t you.’
‘So . . . Shit! I bet they’re going to try and pin it on him.’
‘Oh yes. After all, we’ve got DNA, samples . . .’
‘Where’s he being held?’
‘Why? You can’t exactly go and visit him.’
‘I’d just like to know.’
‘He’s down at Ludgate Road. And between you and me, I get the distinct impression they’re going to use him to get to you.’
‘How?’
‘I’m not sure. But think about it. They’re holding your brother while really all they want is you.’
Judith pushed her palm down flat on a can of deodorant and a hairbrush, willing them into the narrow confines of her toiletries bag. The brush left a small battalion of dents in her hand. She forced the zip bluntly around the bag’s periphery, poking stray items out of the way of the zip’s progress. Carrying it with her, she returned to the main bedroom and dropped it heavily into the case.
‘What are you doing?’ Reuben asked her after a couple of seconds’ pause.
‘Packing,’ she replied.
‘To go where?’
‘I have to get away. I’m not safe. CID are meant to be looking after us, but they’re by no means infallible.’ Judith’s face struggled to regain its usual serenity, and sh
e exhaled heavily. ‘And things aren’t working out with Charlie. I’m drowning in guilt, and I’m worried he’s starting to suspect something.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Are you?’
‘Of course.’
‘I mean sorry that it happened, or . . .’
‘Or what?’
‘Sorry for what has subsequently happened?’ Judith stopped, her soft breathing filling the silence.
‘I don’t understand what you’re asking.’
‘Yes you do, Reuben.’
‘Look, Jude . . .’ Reuben saw it for the first time. In this moment, on a phone, in desperate times, he realized that, close as they had come, they were not destined to be together. He pictured Judith’s long years of loyalty. The willingness to help him, to take risks for him. It had always been there, simmering. He knew, because he had felt it too. But still, Reuben realized that this was not to be. It was the wrong time, the wrong place, the wrong set of circumstances. ‘I’m just not ready.’
‘It’s OK,’ she whispered. ‘It’s nothing. Things are a little crazy, that’s all. I’m trying not to come apart at the seams.’
‘Jude, I don’t regret what went on between us at all. I wish . . .’
‘Ignore me. I’m really all over the place.’
‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘So say nothing.’
Reuben listened to the falling waves of her breathing, closing his eyes, understanding how fucked up things had become. With him, with Judith, with everything. ‘Where are you going to stay?’
‘Friends. People who don’t know anything about this. People who will look after me.’ Her voice had gained a cold briskness, as if she merely wanted to fast-forward through the discomfiture.
On the other end of the line, Reuben hung his head and stared at his feet. ‘But don’t you think you should stay—’
‘And be the next on the list? No chance. Look, I shouldn’t tell you this, and this is the last piece of insider information that I’m going to give you, but Jez is missing. Hasn’t been seen for a couple of days, and isn’t answering at home.’