Dirty Little Lies

by John Macken

  ‘Do you remember the judge who killed his cleaner last year? The Jeffrey Beecher case? What you won’t have heard is that when everyone else had given up, gone home, forgotten all about it, Reuben stayed at the scene. Worked through the night, just by himself. Even remained there till teatime the following day, refusing to quit. Phil Kemp and Sarah Hirst asked him to return to the lab, but he said no. We had nothing, no samples, no body, no nothing. The investigation was falling apart. And then, just as we were all going home on the second day, we got the call. Specks of blood in the hinge of a door, which must have been slightly open at the time of the attack. A fine mist of blood that had been missed by Judge Beecher when he scrubbed his apartment with the cleaner’s own detergents. When we arrived there, Reuben had actually taken the front door off with a screwdriver. We got enough sample to tie Beecher to the murder. And despite no body ever being recovered, he was prosecuted and, as you may know, later confessed. All because Reuben wouldn’t quit when everyone else had.’

  ‘So you’re saying he’s thorough.’

  ‘It’s more than that,’ Judith answers as Reuben re-enters the lab. ‘He’s damn well possessed.’

  Reuben places a small collection of plastics into his case and closes it. ‘My ears are on fire,’ he says, but is interrupted by another insistent beep from his phone. He walks away, watching pictures of a murder victim taken from different angles on the screen. His mood darkens instantly, a cold grey depression leaking into his brain.

  The dead man is in one of the most unusual positions Reuben has ever viewed a naked corpse. His legs are perfectly spread, at right-angles to his torso, like a gymnast doing the splits. Pelvic dislocation, Reuben mutters to himself, femurs ripped from their sockets, ligaments snapped, muscles torn. Reuben heads out of the lab and past a row of offices, viewing the video file as he walks. The victim’s arms, in parallel to his legs, are crucifixion-straight, and his head is barely visible in most shots, hanging over the side of a bed. Reuben squints. The man looks like a giant letter H. But what really disturbs Reuben is what lies beneath. Spilling out, coiled and meandering, almost seeming to pulsate as if still digesting his lunch, are the man’s small and large intestines. He has been pulled inside out, disembowelled, colon first. A large metal hook, slaughterhouse in origin, lies in front of the bed, dried blood on the carpet. From the colour of the intestines, the man has been dead for days.

  As he crashes through a set of double doors, a close-up of the victim’s face stares out of the screen. Reuben guesses Korean or Japanese. He looks away, momentarily troubled by what he sees in the expression. It is there in the flared nostrils, the open-locked jaw, the fixed pupils, features which smelt, tasted and focused upon an unimaginable evil. The address where the deceased drew his final breath flashes up on the display. Reuben plays the footage a second time, mental images of what caused the carnage lighting up his consciousness like slides in a lecture.

  Reuben takes the lift to the ground floor, and enters the unisex toilets which squat near the security desk, locking the door behind him. Inside, he looks into the mirror. His eyes are bloodshot, red capillaries searching through the whites, coiled like lightbulb filaments. He sees the paleness of his face contrasted against the dingy walls of the toilet, and sighs that an élite unit should have such rudimentary standards of hygiene.

  Reuben takes his watch off and lays it beside his mobile phone on the stained sink. He spends a few seconds removing its metal back. Sometimes, he tells himself, DNA is a real fucker. We are organic, driven by our selfish genes, sticks of rock with our letters running through, our characteristics and traits pushed to the surface for all to see. But those four little letters can cause more harm than an alphabet of treachery. He pulls a hidden plastic vial out of his watch, the size of its battery. Frozen on the screen of his phone, even through the grainy pixels, the horror in the victim’s eyes is clearly visible. Reuben needs to be isolated and unshockable. He uncaps the tube and pours its contents into his palm, wetting his finger and dabbing the drug into his gums. By the time he reaches the scene, he will have stopped debating the broader issues. Reuben will be a forensics officer in the purest sense: attentive, alert and unthinking. But until then, the distresses of his existence are free to gnaw at him. He tidies up, flushes the toilet and leaves. As he walks past Security and out towards his car, he feels the Pheno-Fit in his shirt pocket rubbing against the left side of his chest. Beneath, his heart pounds out a frantic beat of uncertainty and premonition.

  7

  Davie was dimly aware of another presence. Bigger, wider and heavier. Walking shoulder to shoulder, pace for pace. Looking straight ahead. Davie tried to vary his tempo. As he slowed, the man slowed. As he speeded up then so did the man. He cleared his throat. Glanced at his watch. Another thirty-five minutes to go.

  He had learnt a multitude of lessons in the last nine months. Never talk unless spoken to first. Never say anything that can be construed as direct or aggressive. Never catch someone’s eye for more than half a second. Never ask questions. Never trust anyone who offers you something for free. In short, retreat into your shell, head just about poking out, staring up at the sky, willing time to pass.

  The man brushed shoulders with Davie. Davie mumbled an apology. Now he was freaked out. It had been a deliberate contact. He walked on, hands in his pockets, hunched over, his jaw clenched.

  ‘Tell me what’re you in for,’ the man muttered. The voice was gruff and educated, foreign consonants wrapped around English vowels.

  Davie didn’t look at him. ‘B and E,’ he said.

  ‘Crack or smack?’

  ‘Crack.’

  ‘How long you got left?’

  ‘Thirteen months.’

  Again, the man brushed shoulders, harder this time. Davie edged away, but couldn’t move far without leaving the treadmill of the path. ‘I’ll come and see you later. Block C, yes?’

  Davie nodded silently.

  ‘Floor B? Cell two hundred and twenty-eight?’

  Again Davie nodded, scared now. The man knew his cell. This was it. The thing he had feared more than almost anything was about to happen. The man slowed his pace and dropped back. For the next half-hour, Davie was afraid to turn around. He had the unsettling feeling that the man was one step behind, watching, sizing him up.

  After the exercise hour, Davie didn’t break his stride. He just continued walking, heading through the quad gate and into the cool corridors of Block C, up the cracked concrete stairs, along the outside edge of Floor B and into Cell 228, and paced forwards and backwards, from wall to wall, from window to door, worrying the thin carpet of the floor. Fuck fuck fuck, he told himself. Occasionally he twitched slightly, maybe from long-term withdrawal, maybe from neurons which were drowning in cold adrenalin. One more lesson he had learnt in the nine months of his incarceration was that no matter who you knew, you were very much on your own. A figure appeared in the doorway, thickset, looming and intense. Davie stopped walking. ‘Knock knock,’ the man said. Davie kept quiet, trying to sum him up without staring. He was dark, and there was a brutality in the blackness of his eyes and the thickness of his eyebrows. His lips were full, his teeth, as he grinned, stained and worn. He took several paces into Davie’s room and sat down on the bed. Davie’s cellmate Griff sauntered in, took one look at the guest and left quickly, closing the door. From what passed between the two of them, Davie surmised that this had been pre-arranged.

  ‘So,’ the prisoner began, ‘so, so, so. Davie Hethrington-Andrews. That’s correct, isn’t it?’

  Davie nodded.

  ‘Funny name, don’t you think?’

  Davie shrugged, as nervous as he had ever been in his life.

  ‘Not many of you, are there? Hethrington-Andrewses, that is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How many in London, do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Two. And guess what? They’re both related to you.’

  Davie’s eyes widened. This was
about his family. ‘There’s no money . . .’

  ‘Quiet,’ the man instructed. ‘I’m not interested in money. I’m interested in your well- being.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Let me just say that I have power over your future.’ The man glowered up at him. ‘Don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes.’ Although he didn’t know the man’s name, Davie certainly knew his face. Everyone did. The man was unreadable, unpredictable and utterly sadistic. The prisoner all other prisoners feared. His anxiety jumped up a notch.

  ‘And would you say that I’m a man who could influence your well-being?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now, don’t worry. There’s only one thing I want from you, and it won’t hurt.’ The man stood up to face Davie, and cut into him with his eyes. ‘Unless of course you can’t help me. In which case it will hurt so much that you will want to die.’

  Davie didn’t want to ask, but the question was left hanging, waiting to be plucked. ‘What do you want?’ Davie enquired quietly.

  The man took a folded piece of paper from his trouser pocket. He flattened it out with his palm and passed it over. It was the front page of a scientific article. ‘I want to meet your brother,’ he said.

  ‘My brother?’

  ‘This is him, yes?’

  The paper was entitled ‘Towards Genomic Expression: RNA Evidence to Supersede DNA.’ The third name amongst the authors was Jeremy Hethrington-Andrews. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You will ring Jeremy.’

  ‘Jez. He hates being called Jeremy.’

  ‘I want to see him when I leave here. I have a couple of things I need to ask him.’ The psycho took a step forwards. Davie sensed his sheer power radiating forth, shrivelling all in its wake. He seemed to bristle with violence. There was a change in his features and his nostrils flared. ‘Things that could influence your survival in here.’ He struck a sudden blow towards Davie’s face, which stopped millimetres short of breaking his nose open. Davie felt the air move over his opened eyes. The man moved his left arm equally rapidly and Davie flinched. However, the man allowed the punch to change direction, and instead wrapped his powerful arm around Davie’s shoulder. ‘You see’ – he smiled – ‘events could go in either direction. No one in here will touch you while you stay on my good side. Even when I’m released – in a few weeks – my people will look after you. So come on, get the ball rolling, sort things out, and you and I can be friends.’

  The man let go of Davie and left the cell. Davie slumped down on the bed, relief washing through his veins, diluting his fear. As it dissipated, he began to shake, as if his terror had been the only thing holding him together. His cellmate entered and studied Davie’s face.

  ‘What the fuck did he want?’ Griff asked.

  ‘Not a lot.’

  ‘Look, when someone like that comes to see you, it’s never not a lot. Come on, what’s he after?’

  ‘He wants my help with something.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Just a favour.’

  From the moment Davie had been locked up, Griff had intimidated him. They shared a cell, but Griff had made it clear that it was his territory, and that Davie played by his rules. They had had one fight, which Griff had both initiated and won. Davie ran his tongue over his chipped front tooth.

  ‘What favour?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Don’t fuck with me, Davie-Wavie. Come on, let’s have the news.’

  Davie stood up and faced him. For the first time since he had arrived in the prison, he stared Griff straight in the eye, pushing his shoulders back. ‘Don’t ever ask me again,’ he said.

  ‘You what?’ Griff screamed.

  ‘I said, don’t ask me again. And from now on, stay the fuck away from me.’

  Griff’s face hardened. His fists clenched and unclenched. Davie continued to stare at him. Griff reddened, conflict rippling through his muscular body. Davie held his nerve. Somewhere a bell rang. And then Griff turned away and walked back out of the room.

  Davie breathed a long, cool sigh. The balance of power in Cell 228 had suddenly shifted.

  8

  Reuben remained at the crime scene until he was happy that all obvious samples had been collected. Between them, GeneCrime’s SOCO team had fingerprints, hairs, saliva, blood and footprints. Whoever had enjoyed the protracted death and disembowelling of Kim Fu Sun hadn’t been too fussy about leaving their calling card.

  After dropping the various specimens into a lab freezer, he drove to the pub. The hands of the car’s analogue clock hovered around 1 a.m. It was late, but a few of the stragglers would still be there. He knew he should go home, but that was something he couldn’t do just yet.

  Inside, only one person remained. Reuben was disappointed, but also secretly relieved that he wouldn’t be on his own. Phil Kemp gave off the distinct impression of someone who had drunk themselves sober. He was sitting at a table surrounded by the empty drinks of others, bolt upright, staring into the middle distance. Reuben noted his half-empty pint of Guinness and carried another one over to him.

  ‘I guess I’ve missed it all?’ Reuben said.

  Phil came alive instantly. ‘Not so, big fella.’ He grinned. ‘I’m still here.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘And Simon Jankowski’s puking in the toilets.’

  ‘Hell, I’ve been to worse parties.’ Reuben sat down next to Phil and they clinked glasses. ‘What was the turnout like?’

  ‘Full house.’

  ‘It was a long hard case.’

  ‘Too right. And we nailed that fucker.’ Phil raised his glass. ‘To Philip Antony Godfrey and his three life sentences.’

  Reuben joined the salutation, the ice cubes rattling in his neat vodka. He glanced around the dingy, enveloping interior of the pub. The barman looked eager to close up; only one other punter remained, a fat man hunched uncomfortably on a stool.

  Phil was quiet for a second, lost in his thoughts. Then he asked, ‘How’s Lucy these days?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Copper’s intuition, but you don’t sound so sure.’

  Reuben drank from his glass before answering. ‘It’s just . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No, she’s good.’

  ‘It’s been a long time.’

  ‘I know, Phil. We’ll get you round. Soon.’

  ‘You certain everything’s all right?’

  Reuben closed his eyes and muttered, ‘I love my wife, you know. I love my wife.’

  ‘Maybe you should be telling her that.’

  ‘Yeah. Maybe I should.’

  ‘And the kid?’

  ‘Fantastic.’ Reuben glanced involuntarily at his watch. ‘Though I missed another bedtime tonight.’

  ‘Curse of the job, my friend. Like many things.’

  Reuben felt the familiar burn of the vodka. He was coming down, bit by bit, but the drink would help. He glanced at Phil, who was burying himself deep in his Guinness. Was it all worth it? he asked himself. The personal and the professional ramming into each other, making things tricky, damaging friendships and relationships alike.

  ‘I’d better go and check on Simon,’ Phil said, standing unsteadily. He eased himself out from the table and swayed towards the Gents.

  Reuben continued to ponder, shredding a beer mat, knowing that things were coming to a head. Lucy, Phil, Sarah Hirst and two unusually brutal and sadistic murders in as many days were gnawing at the remnants of the speed. Out of the corner of his eye he sensed a movement, and turned in the direction of the bar. The fat man was approaching his table. He smiled at Reuben and then sat down heavily in Phil’s space.

  ‘You Reuben Maitland?’ the man asked brusquely.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name’s Moray Carnock, Dr Maitland.’

  ‘How do you know who I am?’

  ‘It’s my job.’

  ‘And what might that be?’

  ‘Finding people. Offering services. Protecting things.’ Mor
ay Carnock took a chocolate bar from his coat and offered Reuben a chunk.

  ‘What do you want?’ Reuben asked, shaking his head.

  ‘I’ve got information.’

  ‘So you’re a grass?’

  ‘Oh no, Dr Maitland. I’m no grass.’ The man laughed heartily, and then pushed some chocolate into his open mouth. ‘I’ve been called some things in my time, but grass, hell . . .’

  ‘Well, what then?’

  ‘Look, let me spell it out.’ He glanced around the pub, sure that he couldn’t be overheard. ‘There was a murder.’ His Scots accent rolled through the word, drawing it out. ‘Let’s say your people are investigating it. I have a lot of contacts, both nice and not so nice. I’ve been tracking someone as part of a commercial security suit. In the course of tracking this person, I have discovered something interesting about them that I doubt you boys know.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘So what I’m suggesting is quid pro quo. I scratch your back; you fill my pockets.’

  ‘I don’t work like that.’

  ‘You’re saying no?’

  Reuben flared with anger. ‘I’m saying leave me the hell alone, and don’t approach me again.’

  ‘Your final word?’

  ‘My final word is goodbye,’ Reuben answered curtly.

  ‘OK, my friend,’ Moray Carnock said, standing up. ‘But remember this. Principles are a luxury in a murder investigation.’ He flicked a business card on to the table, then walked back past the bar and out of the door. Before Reuben had time to think, Phil emerged from the toilets with a very pale Simon Jankowski in tow. Reuben stood up and felt for his car keys.

  ‘Looks like we’d better get this boy home,’ he said.

  ‘Come on, DCI Kemp, play your cards right and I’ll drop you back as well.’

  Phil grinned, reached for the last remnants of his drink, and followed Reuben and Simon out of the bar. The grateful barman shouted goodnight and began to turn the lights off one by one. In his car, driving along the empty nocturnal streets of London, Reuben found himself wondering exactly what the Scotsman had been offering to sell.