by John Macken
‘What’s your point?’
‘It’s the only thing that links DCI Kemp to Lars. Phil was on the case and when Besser laid eyes on him today, he said he was going to shoot him next. I’m going to find out why. Judith Meadows is on her way over to assist. For reasons I’d rather not explain at the moment, I’ve got archived samples from that investigation.’
Reuben walked over to a vertical freezer and opened it. Inside were four shelves, each stacked with around ten rectangular plastic boxes that looked like ice-cream tubs. He pulled individual containers out, examined their labels, and piled them on the floor. After a couple of minutes, he found one marked ‘Lamb and Flag 1995’. He passed it to Sarah, replacing the other boxes in the freezer. Sarah removed the lid and stared for several seconds at the contents. Inside were thirty white tubes, bullet-shaped and numbered consecutively. In one small plastic bag were six or seven smaller tubes, red in colour. In another, several slips of paper, and five more Eppendorfs. ‘I won’t ask why you have GeneCrime specimens in your freezers,’ she said, examining a damp Contamination Notice. ‘But what good is this going to do you?’
‘I’m going to run the original samples through Predictive Phenotyping, so we can meet everyone who was in the pub that day.’
‘Really?’ Sarah asked coolly. ‘You haven’t got long before the cavalry arrives.’ She glanced at Phil. ‘And he’s going to be one angry wasp released from its jar.’
‘I take the hint.’ Reuben ate quickly, flicked a chip-reader on, picked up a rack of tips and began to work as swiftly as he had ever worked. He wrestled with the issue of why Phil had wanted Lars and himself dead. What was he so scared of? Phil had to be shielding someone, and it had to be a person Reuben knew. Otherwise why go to such lengths? Phil had arrived at the pub after Gabriel Trask died, so his role could only have been in diverting the investigation away from someone who was eager to avoid detection. He pictured the people he had come across recently. The fair-haired Kieran Hobbs, with his gated eyelashes; the cosmetically enhanced gangster Maclyn Margulis; the nightclub entrepreneur Xavier Trister. He saw Phil’s henchmen at Gene-Crime, Metropolitan officers who would lay their lives down for their boss. He considered the man sent to kill him behind Shaun Graves’s house. He once again put himself in the Lamb and Flag ten years previously, recalling the junior Phil Kemp whispering with senior CID, the pathologist, other officers, the stale smoky air, the closed circle. Four or five policemen, two of whom had risen high through the ranks since then. He ran through the dirty-science cases he had processed in the last few months: the industrial espionage; the victim identities; the infidelity cases. He searched for links between events he had previously considered to be separate. This was, he belatedly appreciated, the secret of science: forging connections between discrete strands of evidence.
While he thought, he flicked open tubes with his left hand, dispensed liquids, pulsed samples in a micro-fuge, bit into an apple, which clashed with the apple juice, washed filters, amplified signals, hybridized probes, programmed machines, and opened up his laptop, which still held the frozen face of Lars Besser, undamaged and immaculate. Judith Meadows finally entered the lab, cautious and suspicious. He watched her take in the disarray, her face changing as she saw Phil Kemp, Sarah Hirst, the dead man on the floor, Moray Carnock aiming the gun. There was a slight hesitation and awkwardness. Judith propped herself against a freezer, toying with the two rings on her third finger. Reuben walked over and hugged her. It was a brief embrace, stiff and mechanical, before Judith broke free, asked what Reuben was doing and what stage he was at, and opened a box of gloves. Silently, she began to involve herself in the procedures.
‘Clock’s ticking, Reuben,’ Sarah said, glancing at her watch and disrupting the hum of activity.
‘I’m taking all the short cuts I can,’ he replied. ‘I’ll use the Predictive Phenotyping on low resolution, which should be accurate enough. Also, we won’t run the usual controls or calibration steps. And, as a final strategy, I’m going to give precedence to samples that we overlooked before. Should be an order of magnitude quicker than normal.’
Sarah’s mobile rang, a polyphonic imitation of a classical song. She ignored it. The phone rang again, and she examined the display with irritation. The third time it sounded, she looked pleadingly at Moray, and then at Reuben. He nodded. ‘Moray, listen in. And, Sarah, don’t say anything that would jeopardize your life, or that of DCI Kemp.’
Sarah pressed a button. Moray cocked an ear in her direction, listening intently. Phil transferred his weight from foot to foot, hopefully watching his opposite number. Sarah said a lot of yeses, nos and maybes. Nothing incriminating. When she ended the call, she announced, ‘They’ve picked up Jez’s body from his flat. People are asking questions. Mina has opened her big mouth. And,’ she added, keeping the best for last, ‘they’re on their way over.’
2
The words entered Reuben’s embattled consciousness. GeneCrime personnel were on their way to the laboratory, doubtless aided by any number of Metropolitan officers, bloodhounds in the chase, sniffing the capture of the Forensics Killer. He saw the room as they would see it. A corpse, a senior officer held at gunpoint, a shady security consultant, and the chief suspect of the case in situ. There were many ways to interpret such a scene, few of which gave him hope. He quickened his efforts.
‘How long have we got?’
‘As long as it takes them to find us.’
Phil raised his chin. There was victory in his eyes.
‘The first image will be through in minutes.’
‘Reuben, why not just surrender now? We can sort everything out after.’
Reuben stared hard at Sarah. She had adopted her negotiator voice, soft tones designed to bend his will. ‘Because we’re going to sit here and I’m going to show you what really happened. Before everything gets swarmed over and poked at. Before police procedures complicate matters. Before you try and take me into custody.’
While Judith pipetted a long row of small nylon filters like a static conveyor belt, Reuben opened his program and entered a quick list of commands. ‘Right,’ he muttered at the screen, ‘let’s start with a couple of the punters who were in the bar at the time of the death. See if anyone recognizes them.’
Over the next few seconds, two crudely digitized faces appeared. They improved and sharpened, but remained grainy cousins of finished Pheno-Fits. Reuben swivelled the laptop round so that it could be viewed by everyone in the room. Most importantly, he wanted Phil to see the images. Reuben scrutinized his reaction, which was impassive. ‘Anyone come across either of this motley pair before? Maybe in another investigation? Hanging around with Phil at social events?’
No one said anything, and so Reuben began on the next two pictures. In the background, the processor of his laptop ground through the data which Judith was sending it via the imager. As soon as he had closed one image he was able to open another up. ‘How about these?’ he asked. Again, there was no response. ‘Or this chap? His girlfriend?’
‘How many do we have to go through?’ Sarah enquired, tapping her mobile impatiently against her chin.
‘A few more, and then we’ll start on the Exclusions and Victim Samples.’
Reuben exhibited three further pairs of mug shots to Sarah, Moray, Phil and Judith. One was recognizable as Lars Besser, the rest were anonymous. Phil didn’t blink. He was watching the screen, emotionless, a weary indifference haunting his features. But when Reuben stared hard into Phil’s face, he saw that, amongst the unconcern, his pupils were like saucers. They were sucking in all the details. Something was spooking him.
‘Anything on your mind, Phil?’
‘The only words I’m saying to you are “You’re fucking nicked, Maitland.” Just as soon as my CID boys and girls get here.’
Reuben ignored the taunt, losing himself in the images. ‘I still don’t understand … who the hell were you protecting?’
Phil stared back, expressionless. On the colla
r of his blue shirt, Reuben could just make out an advancing front of sweat, soaking into the material from his neck.
‘Who attended the incident? Who ran the investigation, Phil? It’s time for a trip down memory lane. My first crime scene as Lead Forensics Officer,’ Reuben said. ‘Let’s take a look at the Exclusions, the officers initially present. You call them out.’ He brought up a succession of picture files.
The first two officers were identified by Sarah, who had become increasingly interested in the pictures. ‘That’s Nick Temple on the left, and Bob Smetter on the right.’
Reuben opened another duo of grey JPEGs, and waited impatiently as they came to life, pixel by pixel.
‘Helen Parker, I think, on the right. But I don’t recognize the other. Anyone?’
No one could put a name to the WPC on the left.
‘Last two,’ Reuben said.
‘James Truman,’ Sarah said. ‘Now a commander. Real big boy in the Essex force. And the other one’s Cumali Kyriacou.’
‘Hmm,’ Reuben shrugged. ‘So what have we got? Couple of big people going big places. Lots of influence to a young officer. A copper could go far with that sort of clout behind him. Don’t you think?’
‘Fuck off,’ Phil answered.
‘Reuben, you’re running out of minutes.’
‘I’m thinking. I’m thinking.’ Reuben glanced down at the final few samples, taken from Gabriel Trask, the dead student. Judith was frantically typing them. This was quick and approximate science, but the only sort they had time for.
‘Give it up, Reuben,’ Phil said. ‘Look, Sarah, this man’s a murderer, for Christ’s sake. Even if you don’t believe he killed Run and Sandra and everyone, look what he’s done to Lars Besser.’
Again, Moray encouraged his silence. ‘Shut the fuck up,’ he growled.
‘The clock is ticking, Dr Maitland. In a very short time, CID will be here. And you’ve yet to convince anyone …’ Sarah’s mobile came to life and she answered it with short, clipped words. ‘They’re just reaching the industrial estate,’ she said to Reuben.
‘Fuck,’ Reuben answered. He screwed up his eyes. This was his only chance. After this, Phil would seize control of the situation. No one was going to accept Reuben’s explanation for the events. Maybe they would believe that Lars had killed Jez, Sandra and Run, maybe the forensics could prove it, but it still left Reuben in a lot of trouble. He had helped to murder Lars, was holding two officers at gunpoint, had misled the police. And now he was struggling. The last few days were taking their toll. His breathing was fast and shallow. There was no other option than to thrash his way to the end. ‘Judith,’ he gasped, ‘let’s have a look at the Victim Samples. Are they done?’
‘More or less. But they’re going to be a bit rough around the edges.’
Reuben entered a few lightning commands into the laptop. Seconds later, a specimen labelled ‘Coat’ was processed. The depiction of a man lit up the screen. It was a low-resolution version of Lars Besser. ‘Next,’ Reuben commanded. The sample came from a tube marked ‘Buccal’. The image was of a young man, slightly gaunt, with dark hair. ‘Gabriel Trask, I think.’
From above came the rumble of a train, quickly followed by a concatenation of loud footsteps. There was also a sustained burst of gunfire. Reuben and Moray exchanged glances.
‘They’re shooting,’ Moray exclaimed. ‘Fuck.’
‘Who at?’
‘No idea. But they’re shooting at someone. And whoever it is, they’re in the building.’
‘Come on,’ Phil whispered.
‘OK, Dr Maitland, you’re going to have to let DCI Kemp go. Otherwise they’re going to take you down. They won’t stop and ask politely. Tell us what you know before the whole scene gets swallowed up.’
‘I’m not sure.’ He rocked back and forth, eyes closed. Who the fuck was Phil protecting? The next image began to appear, from a specimen called ‘Facial’. Moray, Sarah, Judith and Reuben all stared intently at the laptop. The face appeared, coming alive, bit by bit.
‘Lars fucking Besser again,’ Moray grumbled.
Reuben took in the disappointment all around him. He appreciated that they wanted to believe his hunch, hoped that there was an explanation for all the deaths, a meaning to the terrible last two weeks of their lives. The police were shouting. He heard a dog bark. They would find the door, the stairs and then the corridor. Reuben opened up the final file, named ‘Fingernails’, distracted from the screen by the sound of fresh gunshots above them. He was watching the expressions of the others, delaying the moment he’d have to confirm that it was all over. He watched Moray’s pudgy chin drop slightly, Sarah’s magnificent eyes open, Judith’s brow crease, Phil’s cheeks redden. ‘What?’ he asked. The door was kicked open. Three uniformed GeneCrime CID burst in. Moray dropped his pistol. They were followed quickly by a dog-handler with an angry German Shepherd. ‘Stand still,’ one of them ordered. Another approached the body lying on the floor. ‘Do we need medics?’ he asked.
‘Too late,’ Sarah replied.
‘And is DCI Kemp OK?’
‘I’m fine,’ Phil answered, relief washing through him. ‘Now arrest Dr Maitland and this fat fucking Jock.’
The broadest of the officers stepped forwards, extracting his handcuffs.
3
DCI Sarah Hirst was the first to move. She grabbed for Phil Kemp’s pistol and trained it on the head of the CID officer approaching Reuben Maitland.
‘Stop,’ she shouted.
The officer spun round, handcuffs gripped between forefinger and thumb. ‘Ma’am?’
‘No one is doing anything until I say. I am taking control of this crime scene. You want to walk over and wedge the door, Constable Parish?’
Constable Parish did as he was told. Sarah waved the gun at the other men.
‘We have a state of affairs here, that I want preserved for the next ten minutes. After that, I will put the weapon down, and we can proceed normally. But during this time, no other officer will enter the room. OK?’
Two of the CID glanced at each other. Having a superior officer wave a gun at them was unfamiliar territory. They nodded slowly, unsurely.
‘You and you’ – she pointed them out with the barrel – ‘will stand by the entrance. You may explain to those trying to get in that DCI Hirst is securing the scene for Forensics, and that nobody, regardless of rank, is to trespass. Clear?’ Sarah checked the pistol’s safety catch. ‘And you are not to converse with DCI Kemp. If he attempts to pull rank on you, please remember that I am the one carrying the firearm.’
Sarah returned her attention to her opposite number, satisfied that CID were playing along. ‘The problem we have now, as I see it, DCI Kemp, is a simple one.’
‘Which is?’
‘Dead men don’t scratch.’
Phil implored the officer closer to him, ‘Geoff, this is a direct order. Get Armed Response in here.’
Geoff looked at both of his superior officers in turn: at Phil’s desperation, and at Sarah’s gun.
‘Come on. Do it, for Christ’s sake.’
He remained still.
‘Phil?’ Sarah repeated. ‘Dead men don’t scratch. Do you disagree?’
Reuben was suddenly alive to the possibilities. Sarah was sharp, and just ahead of him this time. While she raced down the main road, he had been exploring the back streets. How the Lamb and Flag incident was not as it seemed. Why a student had been beaten to death. Who had administered the fatal blows. Why the initial genetic screen had failed. Whose samples had automatically been excluded from the investigation. The identity of the person Phil had been protecting all this time.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Judith murmured, catching up. ‘Perfect.’
‘And then you realize that one of the punters has previous.’
‘And Lars Besser pays the price,’ Sarah added.
‘Geoff, sort it, for fuck’s sake.’
‘I knew he was protecting someone.’ Reuben stared into Phil�
�s face. He was pale, his image on the screen contrastingly ruddy. ‘I just didn’t realize it was himself.’
Moray screwed up a chocolate wrapper and slotted it in his pocket. ‘Is this a private party,’ he grumbled, ‘or can anyone join in?’
‘You see, Moray,’ Reuben said, ‘the reports stated that Phil had arrived just after the death, that he had been witnessed entering the pub. But what happened, Phil? You go out for a pint that evening, get caught up in the fight, let that famous temper of yours go too far, floor this poor lad, see he’s in trouble? You climb over the wall and make sure you are witnessed entering the pub, ostensibly for the first time? So Sarah’s right. Dead men don’t scratch. There can’t be any other reason that your DNA was under his fingernails. Other than there being physical contact between you while he was still alive.’
‘Geoff . . .’
‘And then he makes sure he contaminates the body with his DNA . . .’
‘I remember seeing him,’ Reuben recalled, ‘crouching down with the pathologist, probably there before him . . .’
‘Then Phil has tied all the loose ends. By contaminating the scene he is automatically excluded.’
Phil Kemp lifted his head and examined his surroundings. He took in the laboratory, its walls detention-cell white, harsh and unforgiving. He saw three of GeneCrime’s officers staring back in a way that alarmed him. He noted Sarah Hirst enjoying the feel of his gun, aiming it at him like she wanted to fire, quietly controlling the situation. He heard the commotion outside the room, restless CID wanting to break down the door, senior Metropolitan brass barking orders. He observed his own face on a computer screen, pixelated and impassive, like the newspaper photo of a suspect, and immersed himself in the central question. If I was in charge of this investigation, what would I think when I came through the door? When I took in the scene? Who would I believe? What was the real evidence and what was superfluous? Would I believe Sarah Hirst, Reuben Maitland, Moray Carnock and Judith Meadows, or would I believe me? Would I listen to their story and dismiss it? Would I pick through the forensic evidence and pull it apart? And, finally, would I look into my eyes and ignore what was there? ‘It wasn’t like that,’ he whispered.