by John Macken
Amanda peered blindly across the room at her fiancé. She screamed his name and then her eyes closed, and she rushed headlong into a dark plunging unconsciousness.
11
‘You recognize me, Martin, don’t you?’
Martin Faulkner did. But he couldn’t place the man standing on his front doorstep. Maybe he had met him at one of the clubs close to Soho, or maybe at a party. Either way, he was fairly good-looking. What would have been called a strapping lad a few years ago. Ten or fifteen years younger than him, but tall and wide. He didn’t necessarily look part of the scene, but increasingly a lot didn’t these days. Martin had read it time after time in the personals. Straight-acting guy, non-scene, seeks similar . . .
‘I do recognize you,’ Martin answered slowly. ‘But I’ve just got off a long flight and I’m not sure where I remember you from.’
‘Really?’ the man asked.
There was a pause during which Martin expected the man to fill in the gaps. Instead, he appeared to be looking slightly past him and into the house. Martin wondered whether to invite him in, but quickly decided against it. Ten and a half hours from San Diego, an hour from Heathrow. He still hadn’t begun to unpack after the week-long conference, and the jetlag was beginning to claw at him, making him feel tired and heavy, time alternately speeding and slowing. It was seven o’clock. Open his suitcase, throw his clothes in the washer, make some food and then, finally, get some sleep. That was his plan.
‘Look,’ Martin said, ‘is there anything I can do to help you?’
The man stared at him. The look was empty, vacant, absent even. Martin transferred his weight from one foot to the other, then decided enough was enough.
‘I’m sorry. I’m tired, and if you can’t tell me—’
And then Martin felt himself reeling backwards, stumbling over, hitting the floor. The door was wide open, the man standing in it. He had something in his hand, a box of some sort. Martin shook himself round. It took a couple of seconds to appreciate that the man had shoved him abruptly in the chest, catching him off balance, leaving him sprawled on the hallway floor. He fought to get up, adrenalin kicking in. The man stepped forward and closed the front door behind him. Martin got to his feet. He experienced a sudden sense of vulnerability. The man occupied most of the narrow hallway.
‘What the hell do you want?’ Martin shouted, unable to stop his voice from trembling.
‘You definitely don’t recognize me,’ the man answered, calmly putting the box down. ‘Otherwise you would know already.’
Martin edged back. He flicked quickly through his options. In front of him, a man who had just pushed him to the floor without provocation. Behind him, a kitchen containing an array of extremely sharp knives. Martin peered into the eyes of the man pacing unhurriedly towards him. The vacant look had become focused and intense.
He turned and ran, sprinting past the living-room door and into the brightly lit kitchen. The knives were on the far side, around the central work-surface that was marooned in the middle like an island. He glanced at his phone, which was lying on its back on the island, grabbing it as he lunged towards the knives. Something primeval in Martin had told him that this man would not be reasoned with. A couple of images flashed through his racing brain, situations where their paths might have crossed before. Neither did anything to calm his rising panic.
He heard the slap of the man’s shoes on the tiled floor and reached for the largest knife, sliding its cold aluminium handle out of a wooden block that held a row of progressively smaller ones. He started to spin round, the knife pulling clear, clenched out in front of him.
Instantly, he realized that something wasn’t right. His movement was awkward and off balance. He was being pitched forward into the kitchen counter. The man had an arm around his shoulders, his full weight bearing down on him. Martin’s movement stopped as quickly as it had begun. A hand slammed into the small of his back, making him cry out. An overwhelming force was pressing him against the counter, the knife held uselessly, aiming into the tiled surface of the wall. Martin tried to thrash in the opposite direction, but knew straight away that it was futile.
‘What the fuck do you want?’ he grunted.
‘You,’ the man answered calmly.
There was a second of stillness, Martin’s unexercised muscles already beginning to weaken. His arms trembled, his legs suddenly frail. He was out of shape, out of time zone, out of the condition needed to fight. As a thirty-year-old man, he might have stood a chance. Now, though, forty-seven and living off a diet of caffeine and sluggish food, the vitality was draining out of him. But while his body faltered, Martin’s mind remained focused and clear. He peered down at the phone. If he dropped the knife he might be able to dial three rapid nines.
And then he sensed a sharp nip in the top of each shoulder. He knew immediately that he had been injected with something. The needle jabs quickly gave way to a cold stinging sensation. A few seconds later and the man’s grip loosened a little. Martin’s first impulse was to raise the knife again and spin round with it. He stared down at the blade. Nine or ten inches long, extremely sharp on its lower surface, a tapered carving knife that made light work of joints of beef and ribs of lamb.
The man had taken a pace back. Out of the corner of his eye, Martin saw that he was positioning the box he had brought on the adjacent counter. Martin felt an unexpected wave of strength and energy. He could do this. Threaten the intruder, call the police, hold him at bay. If it came down to it, maybe he could use the knife as well.
He turned slowly around. And then he peered at his hands. Martin’s first sensation was confusion. While the rest of his body had discovered some strength from somewhere, his fingers were weakening. It was like they belonged to someone else. The harder he clenched the knife, the weaker the grip became. He stared at his hands in disbelief. The knife tilted slowly down. He was unable to hold it up. It weighed maybe two hundred grams but it was slipping through his fingers. Martin continued to gaze at his hand in incredulity as the knife slinked out of its grip and fell to the floor, bouncing off the tiles, a sharp metal echo clattering around the surfaces. The man just watched him. Then Martin felt his arms go heavy, and fall to his side. With a rising panic he realized he couldn’t lift them. It seemed to be washing through his body, a fatigue, a lack of coordination, a defeating loss of energy.
He glanced over at the box, getting his first clear look at it. It was plastic and blue, with a symmetrical series of slits. He smelt a sour damp odour. And then he sensed movement. A couple of dark forms within it, moving restlessly. The man swivelled it round. It had a caged front. Martin focused into it. Rats. Two black rats climbing over each other to look at him. Teeth gnawing at the bars, pink feet scrabbling at the plastic. At that moment, he understood.
A surge of adrenalin tried to kick him into action. But Martin felt his legs weaken and he slumped against the counter. Whatever he had been injected with was sapping him, draining him away. The man pulled a metal implement out of his coat pocket. A short hacksaw. Martin slid uselessly to the floor, more alive and frightened than he had ever been, his body refusing to cooperate, refusing to let him escape. The man smiled down at him, and Martin started to scream.
12
Reuben took the call languishing in Lucy’s bath. The meeting at GeneCrime had finally ended and Detective Veno had asked him to return to the address that used to be his home. Veno was still tearing the place apart. Reuben suspected he wanted to show him the power he had over his existence. Apart from the garage, and one other item, Reuben knew he was safe. He had returned the DNA samples earlier, and no one could prove the lab equipment had been used in any ongoing case.
The mobile almost vibrated into the water with him. He caught it, noting the time on its display. It was a quarter to nine. He must have slept. The water was no longer warm, and he shivered as he found the answer button.
‘Yes?’ he said.
‘It’s Sarah.’
‘Hi.’ Reub
en stood up, water cascading off him, and stepped out. ‘Everything OK?’
‘No. Not at all.’
‘What is it?’
‘Another one.’
Reuben stood naked, dripping water on to the floor, cold and uneasy. ‘When?’ he asked.
‘It’s just come in. Fairly fresh, so it could be any time within the last hour or two.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Do you have anything more constructive to offer, Dr Maitland?’
‘Double fuck.’
He paced over to the radiator and grabbed a towel, catching a hazy reflection of himself in a steamed-up mirror. A few pounds of fat and maybe he would be better insulated.
‘What do we know?’ he asked, pulling the towel around himself.
‘A neighbour heard shouting and called the police. Same outcome. Rats and fingertips. The killer got away.’
‘And the deceased?’
‘A man called Martin Faulkner.’
‘Let me guess,’ Reuben said. ‘He worked in a hospital.’
‘Hospital administrator. How did you know?’
‘A couple of hours ago we had a breakthrough.’
‘And why don’t I know about this?’
‘You weren’t around. Veno summonsed me back to Lucy’s house and I thought I’d better try and be nice. I must have fallen asleep for an hour. I was about to speak to you.’
‘Well, you’re speaking to me now.’ Sarah sounded characteristically impatient. ‘Let’s have it.’
Reuben searched the bathroom for his clothes, but couldn’t see them. He was freezing and needed to warm up. Lucy must have removed them while he dozed in the bath. His ex-wife seeing him naked. That was a thought that disturbed him more than it should have done. ‘We’re still checking it out to make sure we’re right. But the first three victims all had an association with a drug trial which went seriously wrong four years ago.’
‘At a hospital?’
‘In a clinical research facility at the Royal Free. And I’ll bet this hospital administrator was part of the trial in some way.’
‘Fuck,’ Sarah answered.
‘Now you’re at it.’
‘Who else was on the trial? If you guys are right we’re going to have to set up protection.’
‘Simon and Bernie are hunting down a list of names and addresses. As soon as they have it they’re on strict orders to pass it straight over to CID.’
‘Good.’
From the crackle on the line Reuben surmised Sarah was on her mobile. It sounded as if she was moving, maybe in a car.
‘Where are you?’
‘Driving to the scene.’
‘You want me there?’
‘I don’t think there’s a lot of point. By the sound of it the scene looks pretty much like all the others. I guess you’re better off coordinating, staying in touch, doing what you can for your son. Any news, by the way?’
‘None,’ Reuben said slowly, an interlinking thought striking him. All bets are off. That was what the killer had said as Reuben stood in front of Detective Veno at the Paddington station, after Reuben had arrested Daniel Riefield. Fuck. He banged the knuckles of his free hand into his forehead. This changed things. The three men the killer had wanted had been dispatched, and now he had killed an extra one. This was serious. He was on a rampage, and Reuben had nudged him towards it.
‘Reuben,’ Sarah said. ‘You still there?’
Reuben voiced a quiet yes.
‘You’ve thought about what I said earlier at your home? About everything being straight and above board from now on?’
Reuben grunted.
‘Right. Well, let’s work together to get this psycho before anyone else dies. I mean it, Reuben. I don’t want a single other death on my hands. Otherwise this is going to go even more ballistic than it already is.’
Sarah ended the call. Reuben was glad. He had lost the inclination to speak.
He yanked open the bathroom door. His clothes were neatly folded on the landing. Reuben pulled them on, his body still damp, and took the stairs two at a time. Lucy was in the living room with two of Veno’s team. They were examining a box of documents that Lucy usually kept on top of her bedroom wardrobe. Somewhere inside it, Reuben knew for a fact, lay their marriage certificate.
Reuben ignored the coppers. ‘Luce, can I use your computer?’ Lucy nodded at him.
Reuben walked towards the study at the rear of the house. Inside, he booted up the computer. The rear of it felt warm, the fan working overtime. He was willing to bet Veno’s team had been combing through it all afternoon, checking directories, looking for suspicious image files, picking through it like they had done with the rest of the house’s contents. Then he remembered that he had formatted the hard drive. That would have severely pissed Veno off. He smiled to himself, taking out his mobile and logging on to his work email instead.
He checked his messages, squinting at the tiny screen. Forty-four. He swore again and scrolled through the important ones. Crime-scene images, further evidence of links between the victims and the drug trial, a list of names of people on the trial. While he carefully selected messages, opening and scanning their contents, a decision solidified within him. It seemed to stem from his gut, to leak out from the tense ball of apprehension and guilt lodging there, and to spread through him, tightening his muscles, clenching his sinews.
Reuben felt instinctively that his son’s life was the most precious thing to him, but he also knew there was no way he could risk another innocent person getting killed. He was going to have to go full-blooded to find the killer, no matter what the consequences for Joshua, and no matter what the consequences for GeneCrime. A change of strategy, an adjustment of emphasis, an evolution of tactics. He wasn’t going to rest or sleep until he had hunted the psycho and taken him down. There was no other option, no other moral judgement, no other course of action. It was time to make it very simple. He had tried to balance things, to mislead his colleagues, to do anything he could to keep his son alive. Now he was going to focus solely on the killer, and hope to God that Joshua came through it alive.
Reuben opened the top drawer of the study desk. He felt upwards, on to the solid wood of the desk top. His fingers found something. Several small packets taped to the surface. Still squinting at the evidence pro formas and data sheets of the emails, he detached the packets and stacked them beside his phone. Veno’s team had been thorough, but not thorough enough. The drug would see him through the night, when the rest of the city, its good guys and bad guys, were asleep.
It was no longer time for subtlety. It was time for action.
13
The small dab of amphetamine from the desk drawer convinced his body it didn’t need food. Although Reuben knew the drug could only release energy and not provide it, he felt wide awake, replenished, no longer tired and sluggish. Three awful days and two sleepless nights had been taking their toll, pulling him into a restless sleep in a cooling bath. As he looked across the table at Lucy, he could see exactly what their effect had been. Her eyes were bloodshot, her movements heavy, her posture hunched forward, like she might collapse in on herself at any moment.
Reuben tried to judge how long it had been since either of them had spoken. It was difficult to gauge time when you were speeding, but still there had been what felt like an enormous gulf of silence. He guessed maybe five minutes or so. Normally in a restaurant this would be a catastrophe. A huge void of time filled only by the clatter and conversation of other diners. But there was nothing awkward about the stillness. They knew that if they spoke it would be about their son, and that would upset them both. The information that Veno unofficially considered them as suspects in the disappearance of their own child was intensely painful. Intuitively, Reuben sensed they had both decided to stay clear of the obvious conversational issues.
Lucy cleared her throat. ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ she said, eventually breaking the quiet, ‘but I couldn’t face being at home.’
‘Y
ou don’t need to apologize,’ Reuben answered.
‘Having Veno’s team go through everything. The house doesn’t feel ours any more.’
‘It’s not ours. It’s yours.’
‘You know what I mean.’
Reuben nodded. ‘I know.’
‘I feel like I’m being watched all the time. Like I’m actually guilty of something.’
The blue Audi with the cracked headlight. Reuben wondered again who had been driving it, what they had to gain.
‘Are you ready to order?’ he asked.
‘The thought of food makes me sick. But you’re right. We have to keep our energy levels up,’ Lucy said joylessly. She put her menu down. Reuben suspected she had barely read it. ‘I’ll just have my usual.’
Reuben watched his ex-wife run a hand through her hair, her head tilted slightly to the side. There was something about her vulnerability that Reuben found suddenly fascinating. It was a quality Lucy had never really shown throughout their marriage, but she had been showing it in spades over the last three days. He knew it was an awful and terrible thing that he should be so beguiled by it, given its root cause, but he couldn’t help himself.
‘Will you order for me?’ she asked. ‘I need to pop to the loo.’
‘Of course,’ he said.
They had come here, to their local Chinese restaurant, sporadically during the early phase of their relationship. And then, when Lucy was pregnant with Joshua, they had come two or three times a week. Lucy had suffered cravings for Chinese food, and Reuben had gladly come along when his case-load permitted. Over the course of several months they had worked their way through the entire menu. And the longer the pregnancy had gone on, the more Joshua had pressed on Lucy’s bladder.
