by John Macken
Kieran Hobbs rubbed his face rapidly and irritably. Reuben knew the sum of money wasn’t an extortionate one by his standards. He wondered whether the man just didn’t want to do business with ex-police. Kieran stood up. ‘Wait here,’ he said. He walked on to the street, to a large car with three men inside. Reuben had failed to notice that the meeting was under an altogether different sort of surveillance. Kieran returned with a rolled-up newspaper, which he slid across the table. ‘It’s in there,’ he said. His face was flushed with the exertion, and Reuben could see through the blondness of his hair that even his scalp was pink. ‘How long?’
‘Seven days.’ Reuben took out a small notebook. ‘Now, which hospital was it?’ he asked. ‘And what day was he admitted? Does he have a middle name? What colour are his eyes and hair?’ He scribbled the details down. ‘Right. Moray will be in touch with you.’ Reuben shook hands with Kieran, a wet handshake that felt repellent. As he watched the gangster go, he loitered a while, drumming his fingers on the hot aluminium table. ‘The ends,’ he whispered to himself, ‘and the means.’ Rarely, he thought, had they ever seemed so contradictory. Helping villains in order to catch villains. But that was the trouble with searching for the truth. More often than not, you had to immerse yourself in dishonesty.
8
Reuben left the café and walked languidly around the corner, carrying Kieran Hobbs’s newspaper under his arm. He could feel the tight bundle of notes through the paper and against his ribcage as he entered a hotel. At Reception, he removed a small red box from his briefcase, and placed it carefully on the desk.
‘Like usual?’ the woman asked, a warm French accent singing through her words.
‘Please.’
She turned and took the box to the safe. ‘Room two hundred and seventeen,’ the receptionist said as she came back. Reuben heard the numbers as notes in a scale, with the two and seven around middle C, and the one a jaunty G sharp. ‘And this came for you.’ She handed him a thick brown envelope with his name on it. In his small modern room, he began the ritual which always accompanied his checking in. He paced about, examining the bathroom, the chest of drawers, the bed, the wardrobe. He didn’t know what he was looking for exactly, but one day Reuben hoped to find something different.
Sitting down on the bed, he took the envelope and opened it. Reuben had been putting this moment off, but could delay no longer. Inside was a wad of photographs. He flicked through them, his fingers trembling. They were images of his son in a park. Joshua appeared to be walking for the first time. Reuben inhaled a broken breath. He was growing up. He scanned the pictures intently, curiously, smiling, frowning, with pride, guilt, anger and distress. Lucy was lurking in several shots, grinning, all teeth and eyes, an occasionally fretful look on her face. And he was there as well. Reuben suddenly felt the need to pick up the phone. ‘Hello, Reception? Room two hundred and seventeen. Just wanted to make sure . . .’
A French voice cut him off. ‘It’s in the safe, Dr Maitland. You watched me put it there, no? And yes, before you are asking, I have double-checked.’
Reuben closed his eyes. The only thing he held precious was in the safe of a soulless London hotel. He removed his finger from the phone’s receiver and punched in a rapid sequence of digits. When it was answered, he said simply, ‘Two one seven.’ While he waited, he began ringing the series of numbers which would slowly unite an underworld boss with a contract killer.
An hour later, there was a quiet knock at the door. Through the fish-eye aperture, Moray Carnock appeared to have gained a couple of stone and lost some height. Like the rest of the capital, he was sweating, although Moray was better at it than most. He sat heavily on the bed.
‘I’ve only got ten minutes,’ he said, pulling a wilting collar away from his clammy neck. ‘Then it’s Heathrow. Kieran Hobbs buying in?’
‘Wants the full service.’
‘We can’t fuck about with big-timers like Hobbs. Are you sure you can help him?’
‘’Fraid so. I’ve found the hospital. The morgue’s run by a Derek O’Shea. Here’s the number. He knows me and is willing to give access to the body for two hundred. When can we go?’
‘I’m in Frankfurt till tomorrow evening.’
‘What’s in Frankfurt?’
‘Partner in an electronics firm suspected of trading in-house secrets. Might be something in it for you – they want forensics on papers and components which I’m going to intercept.’
‘Store them in plastic, as cold as you can. Thanks for the photos, by the way.’
‘No problem, big man. I’ve got some video as well. Here, have a quick scan before I go.’
Moray passed Reuben his camcorder and pressed Play. Reuben watched Joshua, Lucy and Shaun Graves playing at families. He glanced from Joshua to Shaun again and again, desperate to know. Joshua was ten months old. His features were forming with more clarity and permanence. His eye colour was changing, his hair darkening. He thought of the red box in the hotel safe. There was a simple way to find out, but he could not bring himself to do it. Yet.
‘And what about Mr Loaded?’ Moray asked. ‘The one we did in the alley?’
Reuben remained glued to the screen. ‘The woman’s DNA sample was inconclusive, so we had to go back to her. But I’ve no idea how she’s going to react to the result.’
‘No?’
‘The fall-out could be massive.’
‘Jesus.’ Moray used a sleeve of his grubby suit to interrupt the perspiration massing on his forehead. ‘DNA’s worse than drugs. A tiny bit can get you into a fuck lot of trouble.’
Reuben took his watch off and examined the back. ‘Tell me about it,’ he said softly. He walked over to the wardrobe and returned with a wad of notes. ‘Here,’ he offered, ‘your cut. I’ll give Judith hers later.’
Moray licked his lips, running the tip of his tongue over the sharp stubble of an embryonic moustache. ‘Right. What are you up to?’
‘Going to head to the lab in the early hours, get on with a few things.’
‘Don’t you ever sleep?’
‘I used to sleep, Moray. In a comfortable bed with my wife, and my son next door. And then, as you know, I found out that someone else had been sleeping there as well . . .’ Reuben stopped himself. Moray was not the sort of person you opened up to; he was more used to eavesdropping than dealing face to face. Already he was standing up, looking awkward.
‘Anyway, time to get a taxi,’ he said, retrieving his camcorder and making for the door.
‘Day after tomorrow, then.’
‘I don’t think so.’ He pocketed the money and shook his head. ‘Monday’s a bank holiday. Last one of the summer. And I’ve got something important to take care of.’ Moray winked in conspiracy, pulled the door handle and left the room.
Reuben fingered the back of his watch through habit. Instead, he opened two Vodka miniatures and a can of Coke and poured them into a plastic beaker. He indulged in a final tortured examination of the photographs. Then he opened his briefcase and withdrew a thick file which Judith had smuggled out of work earlier in the day. It was marked ‘GeneCrime, Euston: Evidence and Sample Inventory: Hitch-Hiker Killer; May 2002–’. He perused the case notes, which concerned the murder of three hitch-hikers, one male and two female, in Gloucestershire in the late eighties. Their bodies had been abandoned by the same roadside on three different days, brutalized, torn apart, their necks opened. With no witnesses and no suspect, and given the rural location, a decision had been made to test the entire male population of two neighbouring villages.
Reuben was intimately familiar with the Hitch-Hiker investigation. The case had employed an early forerunner of DNA fingerprinting which was being tweaked as it went along. The Forensic Science Service had sent several of its personnel to gain hands-on experience, and as a forensics CID officer, Reuben had been seconded. Over four thousand men were bled and tested, but no matches were uncovered. The technique had failed, and enthusiasm for it faltered. Reuben returned to Lon
don after three months of fruitless investigation. However, the experience had a paradoxical effect on him. Instead of becoming dispirited, his eyes opened to the possibilities. He resumed his university education, completing a PhD in molecular biology, and re-entered the forensic service eager to pioneer advanced genetic methodologies in the search for the truth. The Hitch-Hiker case had shown him that the failings of forensic detection were the same as in any detection process. What were needed were methods which overcame the obvious limitations of retrospective analysis.
And then, eleven years after the case had slipped from public consciousness, the murderer was caught. A random comparison against the original database implicated a detainee arrested for an unconnected offence. The suspect was questioned, charged and convicted. Reuben had been working on another assignment at the time of the breakthrough. He took a drink and scratched his scalp, remembering how he had never been convinced. No one performed random comparisons. Forensics simply didn’t have the time.
He continued to sip and to read, absorbing the details more deeply, fascinated, his concentration snowballing over the minutes and hours, his eyes opening, his pen scribbling frantically, his brain racing through the facts, impulses rushing along networks, leaping synapses, striking up new connections, doing the wall of death around the inside of his skull, forever keeping his wife and son where they couldn’t pull him apart, and desperately trying to forget that, exactly five years ago, on the last bank holiday of the summer, on a Somerset hill, he had asked Lucy to marry him.
9
Sarah Hirst faces her computer, reviewing screens of data and images. She is distracted, her concentration wavering. Light streams in through the window of her study, bouncing off the screen, causing her to squint at its contents. She can hear the traffic of escape outside, cars grinding out of the city and towards the coast, a day away from responsibility and commitment. A large part of her longs to be with them, nose to tail, edging ever closer to the restless expanse of water that smells of freedom. Killers don’t take bank holidays, she tells herself. And nor do DCIs. Occasionally, she switches from pictures of Sandra Bantam’s tortured body to another screen, one showing a different sort of photograph. Sarah has her arm around a tall, slender man. They are smiling, dressed casually, in a forest together. DCI Hirst sighs and flicks irritably back to Sandra’s corpse.
*
Phil Kemp is sitting at a table in the back room of a jaded pub. In his hands he holds five playing cards. Six other people are seated around in a circle. The air is claustrophobic with smoke. A weary female in her mid-forties offers round a bottle of whiskey. All the other players except Phil take the opportunity to replenish their glasses. The chatter is rapid and tense. Coins and notes are nudged into the centre as the poker hand builds. Phil hesitates, and then drops two ten-pound notes on to the pile. Next to him, a thin man in a baseball cap lays his cards down in defeat. A tanned woman opposite matches Phil’s bet and raises the stakes. Three more players fall by the wayside. When the attention returns to Phil, he is quick and decisive. Forty pounds into the pot. The woman opposite pauses, taking a nip of her drink. She stares intently at Phil and then back at her own cards. Phil holds her eye, loosening the top two buttons of his checked shirt. Then she lays her cards flat and reaches abruptly for her cigarettes. Gradually and gently, Phil turns his cards up and spreads them out. He has nothing. He reaches forwards and rakes in the pot.
Mina Ali, Simon Jankowski, Paul Mackay and Jez Hethrington-Andrews grip their steering wheels, utterly absorbed, unblinkingly enthralled. Simon is leading, followed by Mina and Jez. They career through a series of tight digital turns, narrowly missing spectators, sliding round finely rendered bends. Mina launches an overtaking move, but spins off, taking Simon with her, just as the time runs out. Jez launches his fist into the air, an unlikely winner. The quartet stand up reluctantly and make their way out of the arcade, blinking in the sunshine at the end of the pier. Despite the bank holiday sun, a determined sea breeze ruffles their hair and flaps their clothes. They lean over the rail and watch the waves below tumble towards the beach. Jez smiles in victory, before noticing an ice-cream booth ahead of them. He points to it, and the four scientists amble over, single file, each searching their pockets for change, lost in their own thoughts, coming alive in the Brighton sun.
Two male CID officers stand in front of a pale-blue door. The taller pushes the bell and clears his throat. His partner sighs and glances at his watch. The late August sun beats down on their black uniforms, warming the material, which they can feel through their white cotton shirts. The door pulls open and they introduce themselves, well-worn identity badges held out for inspection one more time in a long day of inspections. A creased photograph of Sandra Bantam is proffered by the shorter officer. The occupant, a woman in her seventies or eighties, shakes her head and shrugs, looking confused. The taller officer turns and points to a terrace several doors away, and outlines what has happened, asking if the woman has noticed anything untoward. The GeneCrime officers scribble a few notes between them. Behind, another pair of officers enter the thin driveway of a house opposite. The shorter officer thanks the woman, and they walk back to the road, grim with determination and damp with sweat, ready to try the next dwelling in the street.
Moray Carnock holds out his index finger, almost accusingly, a stubby digit with a comprehensively chewed nail. He waits patiently, biding his time. Presently, a small, colourful bird hops on to the fleshy perch. Moray bends his head slowly towards it and kisses it briefly. Then he offers it a seed, pinched between the forefinger and thumb of his other hand. The canary pecks at it, grips it in its beak and flies off with the treasure. Moray runs his eyes around the inside of the walk-in cage, and makes a kissing sound through his puckered lips. His finger is soon home to another diminutive bird, this one an iridescent blue-green. Moray tenderly strokes its back while he distracts it with a treat. The canary flaps its wings rapidly, and escapes to enjoy the snack in peace. Moray glances at the cage door, which he has locked from the inside. He pokes out his finger again, and awaits the next visitor.
Judith Meadows is lost in the mechanics of decoration. She dips her brush into a tin of matt emulsion, wipes the excess paint on the rim, and runs the bristles smoothly up and down, blending and merging, a new coat covering the old. Over her shoulder, her husband Charlie is painting the adjacent wall. They work in silence, absorbed, painting towards each other, heading into the corner which separates them. Judith watches the original colour disappear beneath her brush, and for a second feels sad that the vibrant red is disappearing under a neutral off-white, swallowed up, suppressed, pushed to the back. She dips her brush again, nearing the corner. Charlie’s brush works in parallel, their hands inches apart, closing in on each other. And then Charlie stops and takes a pace back. Satisfied, he takes his brush and dips it into a plastic pot of cloudy water. Judith turns away from him, slowly and methodically starting to fill in the gap by herself.
10
DCI Sarah Hirst crossed a three-lane road with early-morning confidence. In an hour this would be a perilous endeavour. Now, however, just before seven, it was still manageable. Already, the sun was beginning to heat the tarmac, an un-British steam rising from the surface. The tube had been mercifully cool, but was gearing itself up for another onslaught. The baked air which blew along its tracks and through its tunnels was unlike any other in the country. Breathing it was the respiratory equivalent of eating candyfloss. It was thin and empty, with no nourishment or value, a hot nothingness pushing you home after the excitement had ebbed.
Sarah attempted to eat and drink as she walked. In one hand, an over-sized cup of coffee, in the other a Danish pastry. She was carrying a slim leather case, which she was forced to raise to her face every time she drank. But she had a busy day, and every second she could save meant an extra evening breath in the cool sanctuary of her flat.
Sarah took a sip of coffee, the case again obscuring her line of sight. For an instant, she pict
ured the different scales of attack which ravaged a dead person. After the penetration of blunt bullets or the stabbing of sharp knives lay the autopsy. Sandra Bantam’s skull would be scythed open with a circular saw, her brain pulled out, her thoracic cavity sliced into with scalpels and saws, her sternum broken, ribs cracked, retractors ripping the flesh . . . truly, murder seemed tame in comparison. In Dr Bantam’s case, however, the attack hadn’t been an instant bullet or a quick blade. Sarah shuddered, despite the rising heat. The autopsy had confirmed that she died slowly and desperately, no single wound enough on its own to end her life.
Ahead, in an alleyway opposite the car-only entrance to GeneCrime, a vagrant lay prone on the tarmac. Sarah bit into her pastry, appreciating that the attack on Sandra was still not over. Small parts of Dr Bantam, who had decided to leave GeneCrime a few months previously, had now returned to her former lab. They sat in cold tubes, in harsh freezers, on the bench where she used to rest her elbows. Her body had been battered and broken by assailant and pathologist alike, and now it was time for forensics to have a go. Skin and hair cells would be drowned in phenolic fluids, crushed in homogenizers, broken with sonicators, gnawed open by enzymes. The very molecules which had kept her alive would be torn out and read with unblinking lasers. On a minute level, Dr Sandra Bantam was being dissected atom by atom.
Today held a series of meetings between Forensics, Pathology and CID. As a former colleague, Sandra’s death would be ruthlessly investigated. The story had made most of the papers, which tended to funnel resources into an investigation, as if the police had become media-funded, every column inch donating an extra man-hour to the inquiry. Sarah Hirst frowned, attempting another decent bite of her Danish. She was only a few metres from the tramp now. She noticed for the first time that something was wrong. The man was lying face down, and there was blood in his jet-black hair. Sarah stopped and glanced around. The street was empty. She panicked for a second. It seemed counter-intuitive to call for assistance without her police radio. Instead, she retrieved her mobile and dialled 999. Even from this distance, she could see that he was dead.
