Control

by John Macken

  ‘But if you come clean, won’t that help us find our son?’

  ‘CID will be able to link the murders and the kidnap, which is what I’m currently doing. They won’t know any more than I do. The gamble is whether they can work quicker than me.’

  ‘And can they?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  Lucy sighed. ‘We’ve got ourselves into one hell of a mess. How would all this affect Veno, say if you told Sarah what you’ve been doing?’

  ‘If Sarah knows, Veno gets to find out. He’d have to be briefed. Then the man heading the official hunt for our son finds out we’ve been lying to him.’

  ‘He’d enjoy that. He’s already gunning for you.’

  ‘I’ll soak up any amount of shit if it will help get Josh back safe.’ Reuben tried another sip of the indeterminate drink. It was bitter and seemed to strip his mouth of moisture. ‘It’s just a question of whether undermining Veno is a bad thing for the manhunt.’

  Lucy checked the corridor, a quick glance from behind the machines. ‘So essentially you’ve wedged yourself in and don’t know whether it will do more harm than good to pull yourself out again?’

  ‘Something like that. But if I lose contact with the fingertip investigation, I lose contact with the man who has our son. And if I lose contact with him . . .’ Joshua’s screams tracked him down once more, the sound of slapping, the hysterical fear of a two-year-old boy being hit by a psychopath. ‘I lose contact with everything.’

  Lucy placed a hand on Reuben’s shoulder, and looked into his eyes. ‘We stick to the plan,’ she said. ‘We have to. It’s not the moment for honesty with Sarah. That would do more damage than good right now. Time is what matters. Recriminations are messy and protracted. We have to dig in, hold our nerve. Meanwhile, you get the job done, and get it done fast. I don’t see any other option, Reuben.’

  Reuben bit into his lower lip. He blinked away the pain of Joshua’s voice. Veno would be looking for them. Lucy was right. Dig in. Get the job done fast. Lie to people around them. Anything to get Joshua back home.

  6

  Reuben drove to the Philip Gower crime scene disorientated, numbed, still arguing it through, still hearing the killer’s voice. He came close to running into a taxi, and a motorcycle had to swerve to avoid him as he changed lane suddenly. What he needed, he realized, was to compartmentalize. He had to call on his ability to store emotions, to section off the horror, to put unpleasant images in small boxes that could be opened or disposed of later. It was a skill he had learned as his job had become successively more horrific and demanding. Most of CID and Forensics had it in spades, developed over years in the force. And if they ever lost it, they would cease to be useful, unable to move from one atrocity to the next. Joshua’s screams had to be internalized, closed off, buried out of reach. He had to focus on what mattered: finding the man who had called him half an hour earlier.

  But as he approached the address that Sarah had woken him with that morning, he was struggling. Joshua’s shrieks, the sounds of a grown man hitting him, an adult hand smacking soft infant skin – these events continued to gnaw at him every waking second. He pulled over and glanced up at a three-storey row of red-brick terraces. The scene inside Gower’s house would be much easier to deal with.

  Reuben drove further down the road, looking for parking. It was busy, lots of people around, a crush of traffic. A hundred metres past, he reversed into a tight space and killed the engine. He climbed out of the car and walked back, passing a couple of CID vehicles, a Ford Focus and a BMW 3 series, unmarked and trying to blend in. Blue lights discreetly in the grille, an extra aerial in the roof, dual rear-view mirrors. Reuben checked out the rest of the street. Civilians going about their business. Pushing prams and buggies, heading for the shops, leaving work early for lunch, seeing the sights of Hammersmith. Among them, he felt an affinity for the pool cars. Unmarked, anonymous, drifting through life hoping not to draw too much attention. And now, he knew he had to turn it on again, become the one they looked to, the one who shouldered the responsibility, the one who made the breakthroughs that caught serial murderers. Visible again, the bright light at the centre of the investigation.

  Reuben checked the house number and pressed its buzzer. Almost instantly, the door was pulled open.

  ‘There’s no entry at the moment,’ a young uniformed constable informed him.

  Reuben pulled out his GeneCrime ID. ‘Forensics,’ he said.

  The officer stepped aside. ‘Straight up the stairs, second floor. Bit of a mess up there by all accounts.’

  The words trailed after Reuben as he took the stairs quickly, two at a time. This was what he needed, he told himself. Action. The theatre of the crime scene, the crucible of the investigation.

  From the landing of the second floor, Reuben could see several of his colleagues. They were in white overalls and blue shoe covers, their faces hidden by paper masks. He strode along the carpet towards them. As he did so he tried again to shut Joshua away, to force his brain to focus on the contents of the room ahead of him, a room the killer had been in just fifteen or so hours earlier. The man who had presumably murdered, then returned to Joshua, bloody and satiated.

  Reuben spotted Mina and made his way over. Her diminutive figure was swollen by a shapeless contamination suit.

  ‘How are we getting on?’ he asked when he reached her.

  Mina’s dark brown eyes stared out of the whiteness of the hooded suit and mask. ‘Fine,’ she answered.

  ‘You been here long?’

  Mina glanced automatically at her wrist, which didn’t yield any information. ‘Ninety minutes or so, at a guess.’

  ‘And what’s the story?’

  ‘See for yourself.’

  Mina pointed with her eyes, and Reuben examined the rest of the room. Forensic technicians were combing the light green carpet with adhesive spatulas, swabbing the door frame with white powder, dabbing at surfaces with cottonwool buds, running portable UV lamps along walls, pipetting minute volumes of fluids into Eppendorf tubes. Among them he noted the camouflaged presence of Bernie Harrison, Paul Mackay, Birgit Kasper and Simon Jankowski. To the far right of the large flat, a pair of trainers protruded from the adjoining bathroom, heels down, toes pointing in the air. The deceased was lying on his back, most of him in the bathroom.

  ‘Here we go again.’

  ‘I heard we had someone, Reuben. One of the CID bunch said they picked a man up last night.’

  ‘Daniel Riefield.’ Reuben grimaced. ‘Looks like it was a wrong call.’

  Mina glanced up at him. ‘How do you mean, wrong?’

  ‘He was in custody when this happened. But that’s all I should say.’

  Reuben left Mina and headed over. He wondered whether she had been a bit short with him, or whether he had imagined it. Reuben pictured the two boxes of DNA still in his freezer at home and realized he needed to insert them back into the GeneCrime freezer before they were missed.

  The bathroom was rental-smart. Tiled surfaces, fashionable fixtures, anonymous colours. It reminded Reuben of the many hotel rooms he had stayed in. Lying on his back, surrounded by evidence bags and sample racks, Philip Gower appeared gaunt and pale. His lips had a dry purple hue to them, his blue eyes still open. Fine sprays of red criss-crossed his grey sweatshirt. Reuben surmised that at least one of his hands must have been free after its fingertips were removed. As with the other two bodies he had examined in the GeneCrime morgue, all the tips were missing, the final phalanges sawn off. Thick, congealed blood oozed out of them. He thought again about Joshua, about the fact that the man who had just done this was now with his son, about the fact that Reuben’s only bargaining tool was now gone. The killer’s words, from now on there are no rules, crashed through his skull.

  Staring bleakly down at the body, Reuben could see that his team had been thorough. He could just make out where they had swabbed and where they had taken samples for further analysis. He peered back into the living room. The inves
tigation had obviously now shifted to the rest of the flat. A lifeless body could only tell you so much.

  He watched as Sarah Hirst detached herself from the slow-moving scientists and strode rapidly over to him. Despite everything else going on in his head, he found her as undeniably striking as ever. She also looked purposeful and focused, and Reuben knew he had to be on his guard.

  ‘Decided to join us, Dr Maitland?’ she said.

  ‘Veno needed to brief us on progress.’

  ‘And what is the progress?’ Sarah gave the impression of softening a degree or two. ‘I heard they have a suspect. Any positive news?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘And who is he?’

  The name Riefield flashed through Reuben’s speeding brain. ‘Just a nobody. They’re busy taking his flat to pieces. Probably a false lead.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Reuben watched his boss. He knew she was desperate to work the conversation round to the case, but didn’t want to appear unsympathetic. She was programmed to solve crimes. Everything else was an inconvenience. Sometimes he felt that way himself. He decided to help her out. ‘Anyway, this is the clinical trials coordinator,’ he said, pointing with his eyes.

  ‘Yes. Philip Gower.’

  The words ‘clinical trials’ suddenly made a connection in Reuben’s brain that hadn’t been there before. Something in Riefield’s flat.

  ‘Do we have a link between the three victims?’

  ‘As head of the investigation, I should be asking you.’

  ‘I’ve just had an idea.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not yet, not till I go through the notes again. But I think there could be something.’

  Sarah’s eyes narrowed as she regarded him. ‘As soon as you have something, I want to know. We can’t afford any delays at all on this one.’

  ‘I just want to make sure.’

  ‘OK. Now, let me bring you up to speed. Gower was discovered when his new partner, a nurse, returned from her night-shift. Path have had a good look, and Chris reckons from core body temperature that he died some time before eleven p.m. last night. This tallies with a statement we have from a witness on the first floor who says she heard banging and shouting around that time, but just assumed a domestic.’

  ‘Did she see anything? Anyone coming or going?’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘And the rats?’

  ‘A cage on the bathroom floor. The rats were going crazy when we got here. I gave Leigh Harding the unenviable task of taking it back to GeneCrime and retrieving the fingertips without getting bitten himself.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘So, as I said on the phone, same MO, a third death, and this thing is now becoming priority number one for the Met. We’ve got to act quickly, or else GeneCrime will be swamped, other CID officers seconded in, forensics getting thrown out to the wider FSS so we can extend the net.’ Sarah made a point of holding Reuben’s eye, her alluring face cold and still. ‘Basically, Reuben, you’ve either got to stop this man in his tracks, or . . .’

  ‘Or what?

  ‘Move over and let someone else do it.’

  Sarah bored into him a second longer with her pale blue eyes, then walked slowly and purposefully away from him.

  7

  Reuben returned to Lucy’s house. Nothing useful could be achieved by staying at the flat in Hammersmith. He had arrived too late to influence proceedings. His team had known what to do and had quietly got on with it. He had trained them well. When the samples were processed back at GeneCrime later in the afternoon events would hot up. He would be there to coordinate the analyses. In the meantime, Reuben decided to smuggle the DNA samples from his freezer back into GeneCrime, while most of the team were crawling around Philip Gower’s residence, bagging up infinitesimally small fragments of his existence. But Reuben already suspected nothing useful would come from the sweep. So far, the only DNA profile they’d matched to anything had turned out to be Daniel Riefield’s. And that hadn’t exactly helped the case.

  As he pulled up close to Lucy’s house, Reuben checked his rear-view. He had a good scan of the street before getting out. So far he had been followed twice, once in the day, once at night. A dark blue Audi with a broken front light. He couldn’t see the car now but still couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched, toyed with, manipulated somehow. Two phone calls from the killer, and two occasions on which he had been followed.

  He walked over the small patch of grass and opened the front door. Inside, he called Lucy’s name. There was a muffled answer from the upstairs bathroom. Reuben’s phone vibrated and he answered the call. It was Bernie Harrison.

  ‘I just wanted to check in with you, boss. I didn’t manage to catch you at the scene.’

  ‘Sorry, big man. I wasn’t being a lot of use there. I’m heading over to GeneCrime in half an hour or so. When are you back?’

  ‘We’re wrapping up in an hour or so.’

  ‘Great.’ Reuben appreciated this would give him just enough time to replace the samples. ‘I’ll catch you there.’

  ‘Is there anything you need us to do?’

  ‘Yes. Can you call an update meeting for six tonight. We should have some prelims by then. And I want photographs from Daniel Riefield’s flat at the meeting. There may be something in them. IT should be able to help if you get stuck.’

  ‘Sure. Anything else?’

  ‘That’s it for now.’ Reuben struggled out of his jacket, which didn’t want to let go. ‘Bernie, I’m sorry this is patchy at the moment. You know this isn’t exactly how I like to do things.’

  ‘No problem, boss. We all understand.’

  ‘It’s just . . .’ Reuben swayed on his feet. ‘Let’s get this fucker, Bernie. Let’s get everyone fired up, and let’s get him.’

  Bernie wrapped up the call and Reuben headed into the kitchen. He needed some food, a coffee, if he was honest with himself, something white and powdery. Three nights of fractured sleep and two long headfuck days were catching up with him. He opened a few cupboards, and checked out the fridge. As he closed it, he ran his eyes over the magnetic animals clinging to its surface. Letters spelled out by random creatures, like the ones on Joshua’s door. Reuben picked out an A, a C, a G and a T. The letters of DNA. He thought about the sequencing and profiling, which had led him to the wrong man. As he thought, he ran his fingers over the surface of the fridge. It was either a metallic plastic or a plastic metal, he couldn’t decide. It didn’t quite seem to be either.

  His stomach rumbled, bringing him round. Food. And then the doorbell rang. Swearing under his breath, Reuben headed for the front door. Fragments, half-formed thoughts, fractured patterns of activity. All he wanted was twenty minutes of peace and quiet, a warm meal, a hot drink, a chance to quietly stitch everything together, to smooth all the jagged edges.

  He opened the door wearily. It was Veno, and he had come mob-handed. The three members of his team – one female, two male – and one other visitor. DCI Sarah Hirst. Reuben guessed she’d left the scene just after he had.

  ‘Reuben,’ Detective Veno began, ‘we’d like to come in.’

  A cold nervousness leaked instantly through Reuben’s gut. Something had happened. He glanced at Sarah but she refused to meet his eye.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Can we come in?’

  ‘You don’t normally ask.’

  ‘Well, we are today.’

  ‘Do you have some news for me?’

  Behind Reuben came the creaking of stairs, a pad of footsteps down the hallway. Lucy joined him, standing side on, squeezed in the doorframe. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked.

  Veno shuffled round, feet scraping the grass. ‘Can we come in?’

  ‘Is it Joshua?’ Lucy went pale, her mouth dropping. ‘Tell me it’s not Joshua.’

  Detective Veno glanced at a member of his team, then across at Sarah. ‘We are asking politely because we want you to allow us to search your home.’


  ‘What the hell do you mean?’ Reuben asked.

  Veno cleared his throat. ‘I mean that we want to carry out a detailed search of your residence in connection with your son’s disappearance.’

  ‘Are we suspects now?’ Reuben asked, refusing to budge.

  ‘We’re asking politely,’ Veno said, sidestepping the question. ‘We could go and get a warrant. But of course that won’t look good on you. Parents of missing child refuse to cooperate with the police. Make a nice headline in the papers, that.’

  Reuben checked Sarah’s body language. Veno had obviously requested her presence. After her strident performance at the murder scene in Hammersmith, she looked more guarded. This was Veno’s doing, not hers. If Sarah Hirst wanted a house searched, warrants were issued and doors were kicked down with no polite requests or questions asked.

  ‘Let me ask you again, detective. Are we suspects?’

  Veno frowned. ‘Carry on any longer like this and you’ll be the only suspects.’

  Out of the corner of his eye, Reuben monitored Lucy. This was her house, ultimately her decision. But she was quiet, as she had been for days. Apart from the occasional outburst, his ex-wife seemed to have internalized all the hurt. She wasn’t able, Reuben appreciated, to compartmentalize like he was. There was just a ball of guilt and pain, her only son gone, and it was slowly consuming her from the inside. Reuben suddenly didn’t want Veno’s team picking through her belongings. But there was a more important reason the police couldn’t come in. A much more important reason.

  ‘It’s a risk I’m willing to take,’ Reuben said.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘If you want to execute a search of these premises, I suggest you go and get a warrant. Until then, we’d prefer to be alone.’

  Sarah made her presence felt. She had been standing behind Veno and to the left. Now she took a pace closer. ‘That’s not a smart move, Reuben,’ she said. ‘No matter how you feel about this, it’s not a good thing to do.’

  ‘Until Veno explains why we’re officially under suspicion, no one is coming in.’