by John Macken
Moray took out an A–Z, glanced at it, and feigned a look of frustration. Reuben had a final scan up and down. Aside from the police, the bodyguards and the omnipresent CCTV, there would be no witnesses. Twenty metres. Moray stopped the black bodyguard. Stop the target as well, Reuben hissed under his breath. The white guard and the man he was protecting came to a reluctant halt. Reuben strained to hear the conversation. Both men stared intently at Moray’s A–Z. His colleague glanced around the alley, shuffling closer to the target. Reuben was ten metres away, the police approaching from the front. The target and his men looked further down the road, past the coppers, pointing out directions, their backs to Reuben. At the end was an extended silver Mercedes, doubtless waiting for the party. This had been the crux of the plan – knowing that the target would have to walk alone along the pedestrian alley to his transport.
Reuben heard the curt instructions, ‘Straight over, past the lights.’ Five metres away, and giving the target as wide a berth as possible, his jacket scraping the wall, Reuben examined his watch at eye level. As he did so, he aimed and pulled the trigger. The man scratched the back of his head irritably, just above his collar. The PCs stared hard at all of them. They were on patrol, sniffing for trouble, a hunger for action in their eyes. Reuben walked past, thrusting his right hand back in his pocket. For an instant, Reuben, Moray, the target, his bodyguards and the two coppers were all level in the passageway, almost shoulder to shoulder, and Reuben imagined one bullet could have pierced the entire septet. And then the formation changed. The target uttered something indistinct. From experience, Reuben knew the improved SkinPunch didn’t hurt. At worst, it felt like having a hair plucked. The police stopped to talk to one of the guards. Reuben headed on past the Mercedes and to a pre-arranged spot around the corner, the adrenalin still pumping fiercely.
He waited and waited, the rush subsiding, a lightness trickling into his veins, relief washing through his body. He wondered if Moray felt the same. Reuben watched the Mercedes pull away; the police were now out of sight. He bent down and untied one of his shoelaces. When his phone vibrated again, he turned and paced back to the spot. Moray had marked it, dropping a piece of pink chewing gum. Reuben approached and slowed, looking at his shoes. He bent down to tie the lace up, eyes skimming the pavement. The probe was lying next to a spent cigarette butt. It was the size of a match-head, the colour of a Swan Vesta. Reuben pocketed it and straightened, continuing on his way. Back on the main road, he flagged a taxi, and headed away from the scene. The things you could do, he said to himself, staring out of the back window. The taxi passed the two policemen. The things you could do.
3
Still fingering the small round probe, Reuben instructed the taxi driver to stop by the entrance of an unpromising industrial unit. The site, Reuben noticed as he walked through it, had the air of being imminently overwhelmed. The tarmac was being eaten by weeds, the corrugated iron consumed by rust, the concrete colonized by moss. On three sides, looming glass and steel office blocks jostled for space. On the fourth side, a train rattled slowly past on an elevated line, swaying along the uneven tracks. A series of boarded-up arches underpinned the railway. Disused warehouses with systematically broken windows littered the area. Although this small part of the city seemed no longer to be needed, a manufacturing park in an era of service industry, Reuben sensed that its time would come again. London wouldn’t tolerate unused space for too long.
He entered a three-storey building, his feet fracturing small pieces of glass which had survived their initial falls from the panes above. Reuben glanced about before opening a door, which concealed a flight of basement stairs. Descending, he reached a second door, which was unlocked. Passing through, Reuben stepped into a tight, poorly lit corridor, that opened out into a large subterranean cavern. He was directly under the railway line, a dome-roofed space previously used, he guessed, for storage. This was an archway underneath the archways. A shape came out of the shadows.
‘Got it?’ Moray Carnock asked.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Let’s have a look.’
Reuben pulled the small plastic probe out of the money pocket of his jeans and rolled it around his palm.
‘Wouldn’t want to do that again in a hurry,’ Moray groused in his lapsed Aberdonian drawl. Reuben examined him; he had a compressed, untidy look, like a sandwich with its fillings spilling out. Through his contacts in the worlds of finance, business and detection, Moray had spent the past two months putting the word out about Reuben’s services. Without him, Reuben appreciated, glancing past Moray at the surrounding equipment, there would be no laboratory. And without the laboratory, he conceded, there could be no search for the larger truths that still haunted his dreams in the early hours.
A second figure appeared from an opening on the left of the chamber. It was Judith Meadows. He detected weariness, unhappiness and distress in her face. He guessed she hadn’t slept well the previous night.
‘Judith,’ Reuben asked, ‘you OK?’
She declined to answer.
‘How was work?’
Judith shuffled forwards, pulling a stray strand of hair away from her swollen eyes. ‘I guess there’s no way to say this other than coming straight out with it.’
‘What?’
‘Sandra Bantam.’
‘Sandra?’
‘She’s dead.’
Reuben’s pupils widened instantaneously in the gloom. ‘You’re joking.’ Judith shook her head rapidly, almost violently. ‘Accident?’
‘Quite the opposite.’
‘Fuck.’ Reuben slumped. ‘Fuck. When did this happen?’
‘Yesterday. Half of GeneCrime spent the day going over her house.’
‘She was murdered at home?’
‘Worse. Her death wasn’t quick.’
‘Meaning?’
‘She was tortured.’
‘But she left to have a baby,’ Reuben said, remembering, his mind drifting to the last time he had seen her. ‘What about the child?’
‘Found next to her. Healthy and well.’
‘She was tortured?’ Moray asked.
‘Tied up. Beaten and assaulted. Kept alive. Mutilated . . .’ Judith’s eyes watered. ‘And seeing her ruined body yesterday . . .’ Judith began to sob. Reuben and Moray glanced quickly at each other, as if deciding who would comfort her. After a second’s hesitation, Reuben wrapped an arm around Judith. He felt the taught boniness of her frame through her T-shirt, the hidden strength of her slender arms as she hugged him back. Her scent was a mix of bottled perfume and washing-machine freshness. His mind started to wander towards Sandra Bantam. He recalled her posing for a portrait, talking almost incessantly, barely keeping still, borderline hyperactive, as she always was. Until she viewed the finished painting. He retrieved the exact expression of disappointment in her face, and remembered cursing himself for his accuracy and lack of tact. Reuben tried to picture Sandra lying perfectly motionless, her exuberance drained away, her life ended in sickening pain. He steadied himself, feeling a dense and inky depression leaking into his frontal lobes.
Judith cleared her throat. She had stopped crying. Reuben looked up from the floor and let go of her, cold, numb, trying to get back to the now. Judith’s arms clung a second longer, then finally let go as well. Reuben sensed a reluctance in Judith’s release.
Moray broke the silence. ‘Guess I’d better be off.’
‘I’ll ring.’
‘I told the client we’d have the answer by the end of the week.’
‘Maybe.’ Reuben massaged his aching forehead as the shock deepened.
Moray left, locking the corridor door behind him. The silence prompted Reuben and Judith to busy themselves, needing well-rehearsed actions to paper over their respective thoughts. Reuben shook his head. When a past acquaintance dies, you suddenly have the desire to be with them, even though you drifted apart when they were alive. He walked over to a long off-white bench, salvaged from a closing hospital laboratory.
The equipment which squatted on the floor and on other work surfaces, bought, leased or borrowed, were visually unimpressive machines with off-putting names – an ABI 7500 here, a PE 377 there, a Centaur 2010 in the corner. Reuben and Judith worked in silence, occasionally opening sample doors, washing plastic membranes, staring into ninety-six well plates, pipetting clear fluids. While they paused, waiting for a small micro-fuge to stop spinning, Judith remembered something. From her work bag she passed Reuben a copy of the Daily Mail. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘Sandra made page four.’
Reuben flicked to the grim headline and scanned the accompanying text. ‘What leads of enquiry have they got, exactly?’ he asked.
‘A few.’ Judith opened the centrifuge lid and retrieved two glass slides. ‘Run’s pretty sure he’s got good DNA. And there was—’
‘Talking of which, did you manage to get those samples?’
‘I took aliquots from all the suspects in the Hitch-Hiker investigation, and I borrowed DNA from the Edelstein rape, the Lamb and Flag murder, as well as the McNamara murder. They’re in the freezer.’
‘And the recent cases?’
‘I’m working on it. But look, Reuben, we can’t rush this.’
‘I guess not.’
‘People will become suspicious. I’m going to get fired at this rate.’
‘So I’ll employ you full time, instead of just evenings.’
‘And you’ll lose your woman on the inside of GeneCrime.’ Judith attempted a grin, but her eyes remained distant. Reuben was reflective for a few moments, chewing his lower lip. He pipetted several drops of xylene on to Judith’s slides, and a stream of thoughts intermingled with the fumes. The murder of Sandra Bantam. How death changes the survivors. The horror of torture. The sickness of pain. A fuzzy headache began to drift through his brain.
‘What other leads have they got?’ he asked.
‘For Sandra? Nothing, aside from blood and saliva.’
‘No motive, no suspects?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Huh.’ Reuben nudged the slides along the bench to Judith, who slotted them on to the metallic stage of a microscope. ‘I mean, what the hell could they have been after?’
Judith remained quiet, lost in memories. Reuben pipetted a small amount of toxic fluid into the Skin-Punch probe, flicking through his recollections. Sandra Bantam almost seemed to enter the room and stand beside them. Together, all three silently began to process the man from the alleyway.
4
In a leafy urban park, a baby takes its first tottering steps. This follows several weeks of preparatory actions. The young infant has been crawling for three months and, more recently, has been pulling himself up against sofas and chairs wherever possible, coasting along their circumference, always maintaining contact with something solid. This is the only time the infant has actually put one foot in front of the other with no physical support. Unknown to him, the efforts of the boy mark his transition from baby to toddler.
The toddler is between a man and a woman, both of whom are crouching down, stretching their arms out, giving him a from and a to. He stumbles and falls into the arms of the woman, who laughs with joy to see her son walk. The man joins them, wrapping himself around the duo. They split up again, quickly encouraging the boy to repeat his trick, as if frightened he will forget what to do. The man points him in the direction of the woman and, with a little encouragement, he lurches forwards, taking one, two, three, four paces. The adults smile at each other over his head. In their eyes is unabashed pride.
Behind all three of them, a fleshy man watches and waits. He is hidden from their view, and has not been noticed. He ducks down in a flowerbed, concealed by two corpulent rhododendrons. He runs his thick fingers over the waxy leaves of one of the bushes, savouring its lithe flexibility.
The woman whispers to the man, who picks up the child and swings him around by the arms. The infant screams with delight. Next, he holds him by one arm and one leg, and repeats the process. The woman watches intently, disapprovingly, obviously expecting the baby to be injured in the process. After a couple of minutes, both lose interest in the game, the man becoming dizzy, the toddler ceasing his squeals. They sit down on a bench and eat sandwiches. From the way the man is dressed, it looks like he has been at work during the morning. He picks some crumbs out of the folds of his suit trousers. The baby, sitting on his mother’s knee, receives the first of a series of overladen spoonfuls of blended food from a jar. A limited amount remains in his mouth, while the rest oozes out and drops on to his bib.
The man in the bushes feels a desire to get closer. He retreats from his position and skirts around a hedge until he is barely five metres away. He can almost hear their conversation from here. But that is not what he is after. Using the foliage as cover, he brings a small camera up to eye level and takes a couple of shots. His interest is in the child. He focuses in on its chubby body, its innocent face, its purity of expression. He has taken many such covert photos before. After reviewing the images on the camera screen, he smiles to himself, pleased with what he has captured. Then he takes out a compact digital camcorder and shoots some footage. He concentrates on the child’s eating, the spoon being forced in and out of his mouth, and then pans around to take in the general scene. His mobile plays a tune, and he reaches for it, still filming. The couple look round, half sure they have heard something. But he is well concealed and they don’t see him. They shrug and return to their lunches. The man examines the display of his phone, frowns and presses a button.
‘Yes?’ he asks hoarsely. ‘I’m just . . . in the middle of something. You might call it an interest of mine.’ He switches the camcorder off. ‘Germany? Yeah, I reckon I can sort that . . . Frankfurt . . . What’s his name? And where do I meet him? . . . OK . . . OK . . . Send me the details.’ He ends the call and examines the camcorder. On its screen, he replays the recording he has just taken. A little bit blurred and rather too much of the adults, but it is good enough. He pulls slowly out of his hiding place, branches and twigs clawing at him to stay. He glances around, making sure no one has observed his activity, slots the camcorder into his pocket and walks away.
5
Reuben entered the pub with a burrowing unease. It was poorly lit and empty, except for one table at the back, which was crammed with a tight-knit group of drinkers. Reuben approached them, his leather shoes slapping on the wooden floor, sending a small echo ahead of him, announcing his arrival. He stopped a metre in front of the table, and took in the semi-circle of faces craning up at him.
‘So,’ he said, ‘who wants a drink?’
There was a moment of silence, and Reuben was aware that he was being scrutinized simultaneously from multiple viewpoints. Then Sarah Hirst shook her head quickly. Run Zhang frowned at his full glass. Jez Hethrington-Andrews shrugged. Mina Ali continued to suck on her straw. Bernie Harrison stroked his beard. Judith refused to look directly at him. Reuben felt inside his pocket for some coins and gripped them hard. He hadn’t expected this to be easy. He tried again.
‘No one?’
In the extended silence, Reuben appreciated that four months was a long time, but not long enough for raw wounds to heal without trace. He saw that amongst the antipathy and indifference, rigid protocols were being followed. Junior members of the forensics team were gauging their reactions from the behaviour of their superiors. Reuben thought quickly about walking out, leaving them, retreating. But a memory of Sandra Bantam stopped him. They were here to remember her, a police wake in a police pub. He was going to tough it out whatever. Reuben turned and paced slowly towards the bar.
‘I’ll have one with you.’
Reuben stopped. He swivelled back. Phil Kemp was holding up a half-empty pint glass.
‘Guinness.’
Phil half smiled, and Reuben thanked him with his eyes. He cleared his throat. ‘Anyone else?’
‘Small white,’ Mina Ali muttered.
‘Run?’
‘Rum. Neat.’
&nbs
p; Reuben stared at Sarah. ‘DCI Hirst?’
Sarah stared back. ‘Nothing.’
Reuben decided to quit while he was ahead. He strode over to the bar and ordered the drinks. While Phil Kemp’s Guinness settled thickly and inexorably, Jez Hethrington-Andrews joined him, leaning heavily against the counter.
‘Sorry about what happened,’ he muttered.
‘Sorry for putting you through it as well.’
‘Don’t worry. I had some fun with it. It’s good to see you, Reuben.’
‘Likewise, Jez. Likewise.’
Jez rummaged through the pockets of his dark, sculptured suit for a cigarette. ‘So where’ve you been living?’
‘Here and there.’
Judith Meadows cleared her throat behind them. ‘Large white, when you’re ready,’ she instructed the barman. Jez and Reuben swivelled round to see her.
‘Judith,’ Reuben said, flashing his teeth, ‘long time no see.’
‘You know how things are.’ Judith simulated a polite awkwardness through a quick scratch of her face and a flick of her hair. ‘What are you doing these days?’
‘Not a lot.’
Judith took her glass and sucked in its sweet fumes. ‘Well, take care of yourself.’
Reuben passed the barman a note. ‘Can’t win them all, Jez,’ he shrugged. ‘Here, cop hold of these.’
Jez helped Reuben carry the drinks back. Phil Kemp shuffled his stool to one side, allowing Reuben room to slot himself at the table. Mina was wrapping up an anecdote about Sandra. He glanced about. Opposite him, Sarah Hirst ran her fingers through her hair. She caught his eye momentarily and looked away. Run smiled at him, a twitching raise of the eyebrows disturbing his deadpan face for a second. Mina said, ‘What’s your favourite Sandra story, Dr Maitland?’
