by John Macken
Reuben was silent. He had been to a number of police wakes over the years, and they still unsettled him. The idea was simple. Get steaming drunk and remember all the good things about a colleague consigned to the ground. Not an occasion for grief or unhappiness – that was reserved for the funeral – but the celebration of a life. However, it wasn’t always that easy. The news of Sandra’s death was still raw to him, and he struggled for something worthwhile.
‘I remember when she first started . . .’ Reuben began.
‘Yeah.’ Mina took the ball and ran with it. ‘She was so fucking twitchy I asked her if she was sitting on something. Girl couldn’t stay still for a second. I thought, This one’s on drugs. Wired into the mains . . .’
Reuben turned. Phil was wrapping a short, avuncular arm around his shoulder. ‘So,’ he said quietly, ‘you bearing up?’
It was funny seeing Phil in a suit, a proper, smart black suit. It lent him a severity which was lacking in his battered and bruised work clothes. ‘Not too bad.’
‘I’m sorry about the tribunal. I was only following orders.’
‘That’s OK. It worked for the Nazi Party.’
‘Talking of which, you know Sarah’s running CID now?’
‘I heard.’
‘And that I’m overseeing your old section?’
‘Yeah. They decided which one of you to appoint yet?’
‘Nah. But it’s close. Word is, we’re going to get the nod pretty soon.’
‘How are you finding Forensics?’
‘Fine. Made a breakthrough with that disembowelling case at last. Matched a profile to a Korean gangster, who may or may not still be in the country. But Mark Gelson’s still at large, and eerily silent.’ Phil tilted his head back. ‘Answer me this, though, Reuben. What is it with scientists?’
‘What?’
‘I mean, no offence, but where are all the normal ones?’
Reuben laughed. ‘I could say the same about coppers.’
‘Hey! You don’t have to be crazy to work here . . .’
‘But it could get you promoted.’
Phil took a slug of the thick black liquid, which Reuben imagined running down the inside of his thick black suit. ‘Is that what got you to the top?’
‘That and sleeping with my superiors.’
‘Right . . .’ Phil and Reuben both took the opportunity of a surreptitious glance in Sarah Hirst’s direction, and allowed themselves a private grin. Phil stood up, unsteady on his short legs.
‘Sorry, old chap, gotta shake the snake.’
Reuben watched Phil swaying towards the Gents, and then turned his attentions to his old forensics team. Visibly, little had changed over the previous four months. Simon was sporting one of his collection of loud shirts. Mina was wearing a black head-scarf and Judith was as demure as ever. Run had squeezed himself into a suit which had seen thinner times. Bernie had grown a thicker beard, and Birgit appeared, if anything, even plainer. But this was still the slightly awkward group of high-achievers it had always been, their social inarticulacy emphasized by appearance as well as actions. He sensed the alcohol beginning to join the dots, blurring their separateness, bringing them together. Sarah Hirst leant minutely forwards into his line of view.
‘So what are you up to these days?’
Reuben examined her features for warmth, but saw only a cold curiosity staring back. ‘This and that.’
‘This and that and Predictive Phenotyping?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘We could have used your system.’
‘You know why I took it with me.’
‘Remind me.’
‘Bad things were happening at GeneCrime when I left.’
Sarah’s eyes rolled in the gloom. ‘So you said at your exit interview.’
‘People were hunting through our freezers at night. Samples were going missing. Convictions being secured on the back of questionable evidence.’
‘Interesting.’ Sarah smiled and Reuben anticipated trouble. ‘Coming from a man who misused forensics and had someone illegally arrested.’
Reuben sighed audibly. ‘OK. And here I am, paying the price. But you know what I mean. Too many ulterior motives in one building. Too many competing egos.’
‘When I’m in charge, I aim to bridge the divisions and heal the rifts.’
‘Sounds like you’ve been practising your speech.’
‘Preparation, Dr Maitland, is everything.’
‘But it goes deeper than that. What was going on in GeneCrime shows the fundamental flaw of science.’
‘Which is?’
‘Forensics is only as infallible as the people who perform it. And people are nothing if not fallible.’
‘Maybe things are better these days.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean now that our extremely fallible Senior Forensics Officer has left.’
Reuben smiled. Sarah was digging, provoking and teasing, as she always did. For a second, he realized he missed sparring with DCI Hirst.
‘You know what I like about you?’ he said.
‘No.’
Phil Kemp returned from the toilets and squeezed himself between Reuben and Sarah. ‘What did I miss?’ he asked.
‘Reuben was just about to say something,’ Sarah answered. She angled herself slightly forwards so that she could see him.
Reuben grinned at Sarah. ‘I wasn’t going to say anything at all.’ Despite herself, Sarah almost smiled back. ‘Right, I’ll get them in.’ He stood up and walked to the bar. Childish and pathetic, he told himself. But, for a brief moment, it felt good.
While the drinks were poured, Reuben looked back at Sarah and Phil, scanning them quickly, the two Detective Chief Inspectors, ambitious and ill-matched, turning automatically away from each other, withdrawing and marking out their territories. One he trusted and one he didn’t. One old-fashioned, the other bending new methods to meet her aims. But both of them insatiably hungry for power and influence, and on the verge of the biggest fight of their lives.
6
Reuben blinked slowly, long lazy sweeps of his eyelids, his head nodding forwards, the alcohol pulling him down, grinding him to a halt. Everyone had left, except Run, who was lying horizontal on a wooden bench. Reuben finished his drink and stood up, his bladder full, his legs unpredictable. He stabbed at Run with the point of his shoe. Run muttered under his breath in Cantonese.
‘Come on. They’re closing.’
Run muttered louder, his rotund form shifting on the bench, searching for comfort.
‘We’ve got to leave.’
‘I’m asleep.’
‘We need to eat.’
Dr Zhang slowly sat up, rubbing his neck. ‘Eat, you say?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Now you talking my language.’
‘Run, no one talks your language.’ Reuben helped his friend up by the arm. ‘You know anywhere round here?’
‘Not just anywhere. Best place in London.’
‘That’s a hell of a statement.’
‘One hell of a restaurant.’
Reuben and Run left the bar and hailed a taxi. Soon they were ensconced in the dimly lit Rainbow Restaurant, with its cloudy tropical fish and laminated menus. Reuben’s bloodshot eyes had barely been forced to adjust from the pub to the dark street to the interior of the Rainbow. Run caught the attention of a waiter and commenced a terse series of Cantonese exchanges.
‘What was that?’ Reuben asked when the waiter had left.
‘I’ve ordered for you.’
‘Should I be scared?’
‘Be afraid, Dr Maitland, very afraid.’
‘So, tell me, Run.’ Reuben brushed away a fine tablecloth dusting of previous prawn crackers. ‘Who are you lot after at the moment, besides Sandra’s killer?’
‘We doing, ah, some gangland stuff.’
‘Anyone in particular?’
‘Drug boss Mark Gelson, couple unsolved murder, Kieran Hobbs . . .’
‘Kieran Hobbs?’
‘We think we tie him to, ah, series attacks. But our evidence not razor-tight yet.’
‘Watertight.’
‘You know him?’
‘Of him.’ Reuben allowed himself a quick frown at the name. ‘Anyway . . . tell me what’s going on in GeneCrime?’
‘Usual. Phil and Sarah battling for supremacy. Phil running Forensics Section like angry wasp, Sarah running CID Section with steel rod . . .’
‘Iron rod . . .’
‘You know how it goes. And what about you?’
‘Tough.’ Reuben toyed with his chopsticks. ‘But getting better.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I don’t know, everything fell apart for a bit. I lost Joshua and Lucy – my family . . .’
‘There no one else?’
‘Not aside from my mother. My dad died when I was nineteen, and my brother effectively disappeared from my life a few years ago.’ He straightened as a waiter began to assemble an ambitious quantity of dishes between them. ‘But you adapt, you survive, you piece yourself back together . . .’
‘I know. When I leave my family in China . . . you feel you, ah, lose everything. Even though they all still alive, writing to me, calling me. I think is knowing you could be with them, but at same time knowing you can’t.’
Reuben was silent for a few reflective moments, playing with his food, poking at it with ornate chop-sticks. He rewound to sitting in his kitchen a few months before, facing Lucy, the storm gathering, sliding his chow mein into the bin. ‘Still hurts like hell though. Comes and goes, some times better than others.’
Run leant forwards and Reuben noticed that he had abandoned his chopsticks in favour of a fork. ‘You know something?’ Run glanced around himself. ‘I make a breakthrough with Sandra Bantam. No one knows yet.’
‘Yeah? What?’
‘Need to check my facts first.’ Run tapped the side of his nose with the handle of his fork. ‘But I think I’ve already got enough pure sample for matching analysis. Just need to clean it up.’
‘That was quick.’
‘I, ah, develop short cut. Can I call you tomorrow, when we’re not pissed, get your advice?’
‘Sure. Look, Run, it’s great to see you. I know things are complicated, but let’s stay in touch. It would be good to get together now and then, learn the gossip, find out whether Sarah and Phil actually come to blows.’
‘Ri’.’
‘And next time, I’ll choose the restaurant.’
‘You insult Rainbow, you insult me.’
Reuben gave up on his food, too drunk to appreciate it. He watched Run shovel in elaborately stacked forkfuls. He felt the buzz again. A day surrounded by CID and Forensics. The teamwork, the allegiances, the frictions, the politics. Pulling together and pulling apart in the midst of multiple investigations. Knowing that they were targeting Kieran Hobbs. He realized that the last four months had been empty. He missed these people, even the ones he didn’t trust. Sarah Hirst’s eyes burrowed into him. He stood up, shook Run’s hand, and headed back to an anonymous hotel and his fractured life.
7
Reuben rubbed his hungover face. The country was wilting in a late-summer heatwave. Sweat which had gathered on his brow slid down the bridge of his nose and interfered with his vision. There was no air and no release. The summer had started hot as well. May had been a killer. Then, true to form of the last few years, June and July had been a disappointment, with August vainly over-compensating. He took a sip of his beer, which was quickly warming, and the man returned from the toilet. Reuben had found him unexpectedly nervous. The mistrust was natural, but he hadn’t anticipated that a figure such as Kieran Hobbs would be in the least bit uneasy.
Reuben felt a sudden prickle of apprehension. According to Run, Kieran Hobbs was one of Gene-Crime’s current priorities. A senior member of a gang with gambling and money-laundering operations in West London, he had been wanted for over two years in connection with a number of brutal attacks. And yet here he was, sitting next to him in the broad weekend daylight. Reuben scanned the bar, desperately hoping there was no surveillance, no CID camera shutters silently blinking, no grainy CCTV images recording on to tape reels, no microphones grasping their words from the surrounding cacophony.
Reuben was fascinated by Hobbs. Until recently, his contact with criminals had been confined to the microscopic fluids and cells that they left behind at the scenes of their crimes. Seeing a whole felon in the flesh was a lot to take in. There were twitches, blinks, frowns and smiles, just like normal people. Reuben appreciated that the aftermath of a crime spoke only of decisive action and violent intent, with all the indecision, hesitancy and uncertainty lost in the freeze-frame.
Kieran had insisted, before they took a table, that Reuben accompany him to the toilet, where he had performed a search for recording devices and weapons. He talked rapidly, scanning the bar with wild mistrustful eyes. ‘So,’ he said, indicating that he was finally willing to get down to business, ‘what can you do for me?’
‘My partner Moray Carnock should have filled you in a few days ago.’
‘I want to hear it from you.’
‘It all depends on what you need. Moray mentioned an attack?’
‘Joey Salvason. My second-in-command. Beaten to death.’
‘And where is he now?’
‘Hospital morgue, at a guess.’
‘You have no idea who did it?’
‘D’you think I’d be wasting my time talking to you if I knew who to go and fuck over?’
‘All I’m saying, Mr Hobbs, is that there are two ways to go. If you suspect a specific person, I can tell you yes or no. If it could be absolutely anyone, I will show you a picture of his face. But that route is going to cost a lot more money.’
Kieran was quiet, sipping his black coffee, almost oblivious to the heat. ‘There’s a gang. Irish lot, led by someone called Maclyn Margulis. Been causing us problems this year. But I don’t want to wade in if it’s not them. They’re a big outfit, and I don’t need this getting out of hand. Joey had a lot of issues. You know, personal stuff. I want to be sure before we go in shooting.’
‘So what you’re saying is any one of a number of people could have killed Joey.’
‘I guess.’
‘I charge eight thousand pounds. Cash. Four now, and four when I show you a picture of the killer. Plus you’ll need to pay my hotel bill while I’m working for you.’
The phrase stuck in Reuben’s throat as he swallowed his warming beer. Working for you. Helping someone he had formerly hunted, someone his previous unit were actively investigating. He took another slug of beer, as if this could wash away the distaste. To aid a criminal was to be a criminal. But he was stuck and he knew it; it was an uneasy dilemma which had sweated out of him as he slept, the late-night Chinese lying heavily on his stomach. To burrow deep into GeneCrime’s illicit activities required money, money that paternity and infidelity cases were only slowly beginning to bring in. Chemicals, equipment and consumables were expensive. Moray had been right from the outset. In order to find the truth, Reuben would occasionally have to cross the line. The decision was stark and inescapable and, despite its obvious logic, still eroded him. And so Reuben had to gulp down the bitter tang of betrayal, had to compare evils and had to decide what was really right and what was really wrong. But still it didn’t taste good.
‘This picture. Moray said it’s like a photo-fit or something?’
‘No. This is like a photograph.’
Reuben again studied the criminal sitting opposite him. At first glance, he was perfectly nondescript. There were no scars, tattoos or broken facial bones slowly healing without medical intervention. He dressed middle-management casual, no jewellery, smart shoes. And yet here was a man who had killed, beaten and extorted as a matter of course. In the flesh, there was something different about him, something Reuben hadn’t picked out from the many surveillance photographs he had seen. It was, Reuben concluded, in hi
s eyes. His blond eyelashes were thick and long, and remained interwoven no matter how open his eyelids. Behind, Kieran’s irises were dull green, so leaden they didn’t radiate any light, even when the sun breeched the gate of lashes. They were like blunt objects, poking and prodding at him, ocular baseball bats, impossible to read and still harder to stare straight into.
‘I’ll give you five grand, total,’ Kieran stated finally. ‘You can have three now—’
The late afternoon sun refused to abate. ‘It’s eight or nothing.’
‘For a fucking photo?’ The eyes slammed into him.
‘For the hundred per cent certainty of your friend’s killer. And for an additional sum, I’ll even get you his name and address. No one in the world can offer you this service.’
‘Typical copper, fucking me over.’
‘Look, I need the money.’
‘Bullshit. You’re jerking me around, Maitland.’
‘I’m serious.’
‘Oh yeah? What do you want it for?’
Something snapped. ‘None of your fucking business, Hobbs.’ It suddenly felt wrong. Dealing with a gangster, a murderer, a monster. Going against everything right. Reuben stood up to walk away, a sickness in the pit of his stomach.
Kieran stood up as well. ‘All right, all right,’ he said, his hands pushed forwards, palms facing the ground. ‘No harm done. Let’s all calm down and start again.’
Reuben remained where he was, caught and conflicted, vainly trying to engage the eyes. He needed this job, had to have the money, had to convince Hobbs that he was no longer on the side of the law, that he was fighting the same enemy. Reuben sat slowly back in his chair, his repugnance ebbing. After a few seconds of silence, he said, ‘I’m following up some cases where I don’t think the force played fair, where the evidence never seemed quite right, where things were starting to get out of hand.’ Reuben drained his beer, which was flat and hot, the sharpness now turned sour. ‘In an ideal world, Mr Hobbs, I wouldn’t be touching your case. But as you and I both know, this isn’t an ideal world. Now, do you wish to buy my services or not?’
