by John Macken
‘Anyone in?’ he called.
Almost immediately, two people shuffled out of the back room.
‘You’re late,’ Judith Meadows announced. She was petite and dark, and, for Reuben’s money, enigmatic sometimes to the point of frustration.
Reuben blinked in the brightness for a second, lights glaring off the antiseptic surfaces, the pulped man in the warehouse refusing to leave him.
‘Blame the Reaper,’ he said. ‘He’s not always as punctual as you might imagine.’
‘So, what have we got?’ she asked, squeezing herself into a stiff lab coat. Through the shapeless layer of protective clothing Reuben sensed she was putting on a little weight, her small frame not quite so lost in the garment.
‘Eyeballs. Earbuds. Don’t ask.’
‘Nice. So then we’ll find out who the hell he was?’
Reuben handed his leather case to Judith. ‘That’s the general idea.’
‘What do you want doing with the samples exactly?’ Judith smiled briefly, a light going on and off in her face. ‘I’m late for work.’
‘I’ll cut you a deal. If you get them dissolving, I’ll finish up.’
‘Done.’
Judith extracted the earbud from its bag, snipped it in two and manoeuvred each half into a separate tube. She pipetted some clear fluid and pulsed the tube in a small noisy centrifuge.
Over the metallic whine, Moray Carnock cleared his throat. ‘What is it they say about the ends and the means?’
Reuben took in the compressed, shabby look of his business partner, glaringly out of place in the ordered laboratory. Even now, after everything, his sheer untidiness still made him smile.
‘The less the better.’
‘Look, I’ve got some more work for you.’ Moray raised his Aberdonian burr a notch to be heard. ‘A little bit borderline, if you catch my drift. But the money’s good.’
The centrifuge slowed like a jet engine being turned off after landing. Glassware on a shelf vibrated, dull clinks as closely packed bottles rattled against one another. Judith extracted several more tubes from Reuben’s case and slotted them into a hot-block.
Reuben drummed his fingers on a lab bench. ‘Good enough for a new centrifuge?’
‘Just about. And it’s all fully legal and above board.’
‘And morally?’
Moray licked his lips. ‘Up to the usual high standards.’
Reuben hesitated for a second. ‘If we don’t do the bad things . . .’
‘We can’t do the good things.’
Reuben frowned at Moray. Judith raised her dark eyebrows in conspiracy. Regardless of what had happened before, this was Reuben’s team, the two people he trusted more than any other. Rights and wrongs were complex beasts. To hunt the truth often meant engaging in deception. But with Judith and Moray, there was an almost osmotic sense of what was just and what was not.
Reuben’s thoughts were interrupted by a noise at the door.
‘Either of you expecting visitors?’ he asked.
Moray and Judith shook their heads, almost in time with each other.
He glanced round as the door swung wide open. In the doorway stood a uniformed police officer. She was late thirties and strikingly beautiful, pale blue eyes offsetting her blonde hair, which was pinned so tight it looked painful.
‘So . . .’ she said, stepping inside.
‘So indeed,’ Reuben answered.
‘The infamous Dr Reuben Maitland.’
‘It’s been a while.’
‘I’ve been busy.’
‘To what do we owe the pleasure, DCI Hirst?’
‘Just being friendly.’ Sarah Hirst flashed an icy smile around the flat. She flicked her eyes at the tubes Judith was holding. ‘And this might be?’
‘Probably not the sort of thing a detective chief inspector wants to know too much about.’
‘Which goes for a lot of your activities, Dr Maitland.’
‘Really though. What do you want?’
Sarah Hirst chewed her lower lip. ‘Robert Abner requires a word with you.’
‘Requires?’
‘Big-boy Abner?’ Moray asked. ‘Is Dr Maitland in trouble?’
Sarah turned to face him. ‘Ah, Moray Carnock. Long time no see. They say you should judge a man by the company he keeps.’ Still staring at Moray, she said, ‘Well, Dr Maitland, I’d say you were having problems.’
‘Good one,’ Moray answered dourly.
Behind them, Judith held a couple of tubes up in the air, pointed at them and said, ‘Dissolving.’ She wriggled out of her lab coat, picked up a pale blue motorcycle helmet, shouted goodbye, and left the flat in a rush.
‘Seriously,’ Reuben asked, ‘what does he want?’
‘No idea. Don’t have anything to do with him these days. He just came into my office and asked how he could contact you.’
‘Something going down at GeneCrime?’
‘Just the usual. The odd murder. Maybe a serial rapist . . .’
‘And?’
‘And that’s all I know.’
‘If I say no?’
‘I’ll bring him round here.’
Reuben glanced at Moray, who grimaced a silent ‘ouch’.
‘What the hell,’ Reuben said. ‘Let’s have a look at the mess you’ve made of my old department.’
Sarah Hirst’s unmarked police Mondeo stuttered through the crowded streets and alleys of East London, heading towards Euston. A bitter easterly wind was getting up. It flapped at the coats and jackets of the people they passed, who walked quickly, their movements staccato and jerky, as if their whole bodies were shivering. At a set of traffic lights, and surrounded by waves of freezing shoppers, Sarah turned to face Reuben, both hands firmly on the wheel.
‘So, how’ve you been keeping?’ she asked, her voice softening.
‘Fine.’
‘Really?’ Sarah glanced from the lights to Reuben and back again. ‘You look like shit.’
Reuben smiled. ‘It’s all the fresh air and exercise. What have you been up to for the last few months?’
‘This and that.’
‘Anything I need to know about?’
‘Certainly not.’ Sarah risked another glance away from the lights. ‘What’s eating you up? You seem a little . . .’
‘What?’
‘Rough around the edges.’
‘Thanks again.’ Reuben rubbed his face. He was reluctant to talk. DCI Sarah Hirst wasn’t the sort of person you opened yourself up to. But things were getting on top of him, and as long as he stuck to generalities, he couldn’t see much harm in spilling his guts. ‘Oh, I don’t know, Sarah. Things are tough. I can’t get access to my son, who always seems to be ill anyway. Lucy is using all her legal skills to keep me away. I spend my days in unsavoury company – no offence – and my evenings, well . . .’
The lights turned green, and Sarah pulled off briskly, tyres squealing in complaint.
‘Where, exactly?’
‘Sorry, Sarah, you know the rules.’
‘Oh come on. Just because you scare the pants off half the Met doesn’t mean you have to hide all your life.’
‘It’s not just the police. I mean, you appreciate that an ex-copper digging into the affairs of an occasionally corrupt police force won’t necessarily be welcomed with open arms. But there are others out there. The private investigations—’
‘Which I should have you arrested for.’
‘Involve some nasty punters.’ Reuben reached over and flicked the heating up a notch, already regretting opening his mouth. ‘Identifying killers can be taken personally.’
‘You play with fire.’
‘You’re going to get burned by Abner.’
Sarah indicated and pulled over in one seamless movement, braking hard. Reuben pitched forwards, his seatbelt biting.
‘I’ll drop you here.’
‘Do you have to drive so much—’
‘What?’
‘Like a copper?’
Sarah turned to face him. Reuben noted the concern in her face, a slightly pinched brow, her mouth tight. But Sarah had made a career out of hiding her motives deep below the surface of her expressions.
‘Reuben?’
‘Yes?’
‘A piece of advice. Be nice to him. He’s got a lot on his plate.’
Reuben winked at DCI Hirst and left the car. He crossed the road and walked towards a blank and unmarked building. Around the corner, and hidden from direct view from the street, was a security checkpoint manned by an officious-looking guard. As Reuben approached, the guard straightened and took a step forwards.
‘Well, well. The long-departed Dr Maitland.’
‘Hello, Amit,’ Reuben answered, holding his hand out.
Amit gripped it and shook it vigorously. ‘Good to see you,’ he said, ‘after what happened.’
‘Likewise, my friend. How’s things?’
‘Quiet since you left.’ Amit picked up a security clearance badge, and waved it under a scanner. ‘So, what brings you back to GeneCrime, doc?’
Reuben shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
Amit passed the security badge through his window. ‘Who are you meeting?’
‘Commander Abner.’
‘The great man himself. You are indeed honoured.’
‘We shall see.’
Reuben raised his eyebrows and opened the door marked ‘Forensic Science Service, GeneCrime Unit’. It had been a long time. The antiseptic hum of its corridors rushed to meet him. He paused, breathing deep, the inhalation sucking in a wave of unpleasant memories. Then he stepped forwards, and was slowly swallowed by the building.
4
Reuben took in the sheen of the furniture and the size of the ornaments. Things had changed. The carpet was thicker, his shoes silent across the floor. On the walls hung a number of wooden plaques embossed with obscure mottoes and interlocked pistols. The glass desk was large and round and seemed designed to concentrate attention on its occupant like a lens.
Commander Robert Abner, thick-set, angular and greying, looked up from his paperwork, brown eyes sparkling as he flashed a smile. He gestured for Reuben to sit down.
‘Miss your old office?’ he asked.
Reuben pushed his pupils around the room. ‘You should see the one I have now.’
‘What’s it been? Nine months?’
‘Ten.’
‘Still angry?’
‘I’ve moved on. But the personal stuff still gets to me.’
‘Nature of the beast. You spend all day hunting the truth at work, there’s a danger it’ll follow you home.’
‘Yeah, well. And now I’m paying for it.’
Reuben looked up from the desk and into Commander Abner’s face. He appeared tired and haunted, and Reuben understood that this was an occupational hazard of running GeneCrime. Similar pressures had driven Reuben deep into amphetamine dependency.
‘But you know what still bothers me, Robert, a year on?’
‘What?’
‘How easily it leaked into the public domain.’
‘Once things were in the papers . . . It’s no consolation, but letting someone as good as you go wasn’t easy.’
‘Because I heard a rumour recently. That someone here had been feeding information to a reporter.’
‘I thought you’d moved on.’ Commander Abner smiled.
‘So did I. But when you suddenly realize that maybe your career didn’t end the way you thought it did . . .’
‘It’s possible, I suppose. Leave it with me, Reuben, I’ll keep my ears open. I owe you that much.’ Commander Abner flicked at some small specks of white on the shoulder of his black uniform. ‘So, what are you up to at the moment?’ he asked.
‘The only things I can do.’
‘Which are?’
Reuben sighed. The questions had barely let up since Sarah had arrived at the lab. They would have made a good double act, if they had got on, and if Sarah had been capable of taking orders from anyone, including her boss. ‘Identity. Paternity. Fidelity. Whatever comes along. Private cases, commercial cases, you name it.’
Commander Abner stood up and walked over to the partially blinded internal window that faced into Reuben’s old laboratory. Through it, scientists were pipetting, chatting, assessing and comparing. He beckoned Reuben to join him. Reuben watched them; some he recognized, some he didn’t. He was suddenly struck by the thought that they looked like lab rats, sniffing their way round as if searching for an exit. Among them Reuben saw Judith, who was flushed after her moped journey, her cheeks reddened by the biting wind.
‘You know, Reuben, before I came over to Forensics, I never realized what a dirty science it was. Grubby, oily, filthy. Blood, semen, saliva . . . vaginal, anal, buccal . . . Mopping up other people’s spills.’ Commander Abner’s tone was gentle and contemplative, an off-the-record frankness to it. ‘And every day as we get smarter, the criminals get more careful. Sure, miscarriages of justice occur. Sometimes we get the wrong man. And as you know, on occasion this hasn’t always been by accident. Which is why I’m here. To sort this mess of a division out. And it’s also why I’ve asked you here.’
‘Sir?’
‘You know I appreciate what you did for us after you left. Helping bring a corrupt officer down . . . Believe me, Reuben, if it was within my power, I’d reinstate you today. But rules, as we’re fond of reminding the public, are rules.’ Commander Abner looked absently through the glass. ‘Still, there are other ways.’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘That sometimes as a police force, we can’t go where we want to go. Sometimes we can’t do what we want to do. We’re the good guys, Reuben. We have strict procedures and protocols to keep us on the straight and narrow. Outside GeneCrime as well as inside it.’
‘So?’
‘So maybe sometimes they’re too strict.’ He sighed, a low moan of career-long frustration. ‘You take the sickos out there raping and murdering seemingly at will. And all the time we’re being held back, slowed down. Forms to fill in, boxes to check, health and safety, ethics committees, civil liberties . . . I’d like to just get out there, do some covert testing, rattle a few cages.’ Robert Abner rubbed his face wearily. ‘Sarah Hirst is smart though. She keeps tabs on you. And not just for your advice. She can see what I can see. That one day we might need you, Reuben. Because you’re the only person in the world with a predictive phenotyping system that actually works.’
‘Which is why I don’t come cheap.’
‘I’m serious. One day, I’m going to come knocking. Everything will be sotto voce, and there will never be any traceable lines of communication. But the way events are unfolding . . . Well. I’m just saying.’ Commander Abner smiled, almost apologetically. ‘You know how things are.’
Reuben nodded. He’d felt exactly the same when he was running the forensics section of GeneCrime.
Lost in overlapping thoughts, they continued to watch the scientists ensconced in their antiseptic cage below. Reuben stared at Judith, who glanced up momentarily. But the window was a two-way mirror, and her eyes failed to track him down.
5
A tracksuited, athletic and well-presented man steps off a quiet tube train many metres beneath the crowded streets of West London. His hair is curly, dark, and shines as if wet. Just behind him, Reuben Maitland and Moray Carnock exit from a different door moments before it closes. The train slides out of the station, a piston within a cylinder, dragging warm, thin air behind it, which ruffles their clothes.
The man turns into a corridor, heading for another platform. The corridor is divided, those coming on the right, those going on the left. Reuben and Moray hug the wall and keep left. The glistening mosaic tiles on the wall catch Reuben’s shirt and Moray’s jacket. The man peers quickly back, as if aware that he is being followed, but the curve of the corridor protects Reuben and Moray from his straight line of vision.
Reuben checks Moray’s face. It is etched with concentration and intent.
The passageway continues to bend and twist deep beneath the city. Moray glances behind, making sure the coast is clear. He nods to his partner. Reuben takes a small gun-like object from his pocket. It is warm in his palm. Still walking, he aims it at the neck of the tracksuited man. Ahead is an opening, the junction of several passageways and escalators. Moray has a final look around. There are no direct witnesses. He taps Reuben on the shoulder. Reuben hesitates a second, sighting down the barrel. There will be one shot, a single opportunity. He knows he must not miss. And if he hits, it has got to be silent and undetectable. Small round CCTV cameras are everywhere, bolted to the walls, taking everything in.
Moray steps in front, shielding Reuben from direct view. Reuben directs the implement over Moray’s shoulder. Then, just as the man begins to exit right, Reuben pulls the trigger. The man turns into the corridor and disappears. Moray stops and bends down, examining the floor carefully, picking up a small plastic object the size and shape of a match head. Reuben keeps walking, tracking the target, making sure.
Around the corner, the tracksuited man steps on to an escalator. As he does so, he scratches his neck irritably, a delayed reaction, as if bitten by a mosquito. Reuben knows it doesn’t hurt. The man looks around, but sees nothing untoward and continues on, Reuben edging along further behind and allowing Moray to gradually catch up.
* * *
Judith Meadows gripped the small plastic probe with a pair of disposable forceps. Her hands, usually steady, trembled slightly, and she struggled to hold the object. She was well aware that working for Reuben was the wrong thing to do. Judith knew she was a trusted and respected technician within GeneCrime, a safe job in a dangerous world, watching murderers and rapists appear as bands on gels and sequences on screens. Remote from the carnage, but watching it all the same. She dropped the probe into a bullet-shaped Eppendorf tube, and bathed it with several drops of a red liquid which smelled vaguely of antiseptic. Judith glanced over at Moray Carnock, who was lounging on a sofa in a grubby overcoat, examining the intricacies of the SkinPunch gun, which was capable of firing a tiny probe and snatching a microscopic sample of skin. But the real action, she thought with a frown as she slotted the tube into a hot-block, lay outside the FSS. It lay in the passions and obsessions of her former boss.
