Dirty Little Lies

by John Macken

  ‘But there’s an exclusion order.’

  ‘I don’t see you calling the police.’

  ‘Shaun might not be so generous.’

  ‘I guess not.’

  ‘And God, Reuben, you look terrible. What’s happened to you?’

  Reuben watched an expression of instant regret pass across Lucy’s face. ‘Do you need me to answer that?’

  ‘I just meant’ – Lucy’s voice softened – ‘what are you up to at the moment?’

  ‘It’s complicated. Very complicated.’ Reuben scuffed his shoe along the ground.

  ‘How?’

  ‘When I was sacked, it was in a lot of people’s interests. I know I fucked up, but it was almost like they wanted me gone.’ Reuben appreciated that talking to Lucy came easily, a habit which he had been forced to do without. ‘You remember – they even tried to promote me out of harm’s way at one point.’

  ‘So you’re after your old job? Get a few people fired while you’re at it?’

  ‘I just want to know what the hell’s been going on.’

  ‘Very noble. As ever.’ Lucy glanced behind her. ‘Look, I think you should go.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And next time I will call them.’ Lucy turned around and walked back into the garden, and then into the house.

  Reuben was trembling. Not just from being discovered, but from seeing Lucy for the first time in months, and conversing with her like a normal human being. He realized that it had only taken two minutes with her to open up a multitude of suppressed feelings. He paced slowly down the narrow alleyway, cursing himself for the emotions that were erupting inside him, just through talking to Lucy and looking into her eyes.

  The sharp trill of his phone cut deep into his turmoil. The call ended as soon as he said, ‘Hello, Reuben Maitland.’ He replaced the mobile and turned a corner. A man was standing in his way. He was tall and hooded, gripping a phone in one hand and a gun in the other.

  ‘So, Reuben Maitland,’ the man hissed, slotting his mobile away.

  Reuben remained motionless, staring hard, trans-fixed by the face of the stranger, all thoughts of Lucy dismissed instantly.

  ‘You have fucked with the wrong people.’ The man grinned, two gold teeth winking in the gloom.

  Reuben’s adrenalin kicked in, hitting him like a sledgehammer. Fragments of thoughts, snatches of panic. The gun. A stranger. Cut off. Squeezed between walls. Being followed. The wrong people.

  ‘Who?’

  The smile. Pink, white, gold. Flashes of the next few minutes. Dark descending. Lying in the alleyway. Blood flowing and sticking. Forensics poking and prodding. Being processed. Lucy locking the back door. Joshua playing inside. Layers of brick away.

  ‘Just people.’

  Let the last thought be Joshua. The smell of his hair. The scent of his skin. The softness.

  ‘Say goodbye to the planet.’

  The aim changing. The trigger squeezing. The gunman sighting down the barrel. Reuben closed his eyes and a loud crack ricocheted through the alleyway.

  6

  There was a slow lingering movement. The gunman pitched towards Reuben and hit the ground. A hollow sound of skull against concrete echoed in the passage. Reuben’s senses scrabbled for grip. Implications suddenly began to stick. Standing behind the fallen gunman was Shaun Graves, a baseball bat held erect in his two hands.

  Reuben stared at Shaun Graves and Shaun Graves stared back.

  ‘Fuck,’ Reuben said.

  Shaun was silent. He fingered the baseball bat, examining its surface as if only aware for the first time of the damage it could inflict.

  Reuben dragged out the only word which felt right. ‘Thanks.’

  Shaun shook himself, catching up with what he had just done. ‘The best way you can thank me is by leaving Lucy the fuck alone.’

  ‘It’s not that easy.’

  ‘I think it is,’ Shaun answered, peering down at the unconscious man on the ground. ‘Now get the hell out of here, before this piece of shit comes to his senses, and I come to mine.’

  Reuben took a last look at Shaun Graves, the man who was fucking his wife and fathering his child. The man who had just saved his life. He scraped past in the confined shade. And then he started to run. Reuben left the alleyway at full tilt and headed for his borrowed car. A large part of him wanted to turn round and return. But he swallowed his burning curiosity. He took his jacket off, appreciating that he was sweating. The consequences of the last few seconds were catching him up and overtaking him. He wiped some wetness away from the back of his neck.

  His phone rang again. He examined the display, which said ‘ID withheld’. Panting hard, Reuben reached Judith’s car and jumped in. He drove off at speed, adrenals leaking fight, fright, flight into his blood. He watched the rear-view mirror. In the gloom he saw nothing more than the flashing of lights. Lives stopping, going and changing direction. Scenarios continued to intermingle in the headlights. His phone rang once again. He snapped it open and listened.

  ‘Dr Maitland?’

  Reuben knew the voice, but like the memory of a smell, it took a second to track down. ‘Who is this?’ he asked.

  There was a pause. On-coming cars made him squint. He gripped the steering wheel hard, driving fast. ‘It’s Sarah Hirst.’

  Reuben swerved into a bus stop, the engine running, the climate control freezing his perspiration, his heart thumping, his head full of too much information, his whole system about to crash. ‘How did you get this number?’

  ‘Called in a few favours. Took a lot of tracing.’

  ‘What do you want?’ he muttered.

  ‘Just to see how you are bearing up.’

  Letting go of the wheel, Reuben saw that his hands were shaking. They were oscillating like his life was oscillating: loving and hating Lucy; his existence threatened and saved in the same instant; walking in and out of trouble obliviously. ‘Cut the crap.’

  Sarah let out a long cold sigh. ‘I’ve had an idea.’

  ‘Why don’t I like the sound of this?’

  ‘Look, could we meet up?’

  Reuben monitored himself in the mirror. He was pale. Shaun Graves saving him. Warning him off, but saving him anyway. ‘Why?’

  ‘Maybe I could come to wherever it is you’re working?’

  ‘That wouldn’t be possible.’

  ‘OK, you name somewhere.’

  ‘Look, Sarah. I’m not sure what you want from me. This isn’t a good time.’ The gun and the baseball bat. A stranger’s blood leaking into the alleyway. ‘Something weird has just—’

  ‘You have to trust me.’

  ‘Give me one reason why I should,’ Reuben said, fighting to stay calm, unanswerable questions cramming into his head.

  ‘OK, let me put it this way.’ Sarah’s magnified respiration ebbed and flowed through the speaker. ‘This is important. Meet up with me, the old place on Basford Street. I have some information I need to give you.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Something vital you need to know.’

  ‘Come on, tell me.’

  Sarah Hirst hung up, and Reuben slammed the steering wheel with the palm of his hand.

  7

  An hour later, and sure that he wasn’t being followed, Reuben pulled up outside a dying pub. Inside, drinkers seemed to be mourning its ill health, slumped in their seats, smoking themselves breathless through deep rasping drags. He was cautious, aware that he was taking a risk being out in the open, but too wired to know what else to do.

  DCI Sarah Hirst was sitting upright at a small table, holding a Coke in her long slender fingers, attracting undisguised admiration from the derelict clientele. She was wearing a dark trouser suit, and Reuben surmised that she had come straight from work. He headed for the bar and ordered a double vodka and ice. He was strung out and on edge, the need for an anaesthetic acute. As he sat down opposite Sarah, Reuben swirled his glass, watching the ice cubes climbing over each other, almost fighting to be free
from the systemic poison.

  Sarah stared long and hard into his eyes. The vodka warmth in his stomach mingled with a cold shot of nerves. She was too ambitious and too ruthless, he told himself, taking another sip. But there had once been a night, a night he often thought about, at a party, before he was married, when they were both drunk, when something had been said, something left hanging, something never repeated, something Reuben often wondered he might have imagined … Sarah’s eyes bored into him, unsettling the ethanol haze. He scratched his face irritably. Today was happening too quickly, events slamming into each other and leaving him little time to think straight. ‘So, come on, tell me …’

  ‘There’s been another murder.’

  Reuben leant forwards in his seat. ‘Who?’

  ‘Bad news, I’m afraid. Someone you used to know. Run Zhang.’

  ‘Shit.’ Reuben’s drinking arm stopped short of his lips. ‘Run? You’re joking.’

  ‘I didn’t want to tell you over the phone.’

  ‘Fuck.’ Reuben stared into the dull surface of the table. ‘Fuck.’ He was suddenly dizzy. ‘Please no,’ he muttered, steadying himself. Run Zhang. Fat, lazy and inimitable. Razor-sharp, from his hair to his clothes to his brain. He was a force of insatiable consumption, gorging himself on food and information alike. And now … Reuben started to feel something new, something not present in the shock which had greeted Sandra Bantam’s death. He felt anger. A hardening of muscles, a clenching of sinews. Even his grey matter seemed to be tightening up, ready for violence.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Reuben blinked, breathing hard. ‘Was he … was there evidence of torture?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Sarah repeated, ‘I know you two used to be close.’

  He remained quiet, scowling. He caught the eye of a drinker across the room, who quickly glanced away. Reuben had the urge to walk over and smack him. But he knew that his rage was just a reaction, a falsehood, an alibi to feel something, anything rather than the crushing pain that Run’s death brought with it. He rubbed his eyes and said slowly, ‘You don’t know who the killer is.’

  ‘No.’ Sarah looked pale. For the first time, in the reflected light of a fruit machine, Reuben saw the hidden lines which creased with each frown. They were fine and delicate, easily covered with a layer of foundation, but appeared to have been deepening of late, burrowing their way into her skin.

  ‘So I guess you’ve trawled through past convictions?’

  ‘Phil’s taking that side of the investigation.’

  ‘How’s he handling my old crew?’ Reuben asked, almost absently, vivid and inebriated images from the Rainbow Restaurant swamping his consciousness.

  ‘With all the dexterity of a fingerless man. I know you’re old mates, but I think this case is finally getting to him. And to compensate, he’s running round shouting orders at everyone, desperately trying to hold it all together.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like Phil.’

  ‘I dunno. Recently, he seems to have two settings. Cold or incandescent. Controlled or out of control.’

  ‘I guess the murder of your staff would do that.’

  ‘Yes, well …’ Sarah answered coolly.

  ‘So you’re managing the team who suspect the killer isn’t someone we already know?’

  ‘In one. Yes.’

  ‘And the forensics?’

  ‘That’s why I rang. I want to run something past you. Another alternative. A much more serious one.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I hoped I wouldn’t need to spell it out.’

  ‘Perhaps you should.’

  ‘That the killer may be someone who works at GeneCrime.’ Sarah flicked her lashes at him. ‘Or has worked at GeneCrime in the past.’

  Reuben frowned at the implication. ‘Like me?’

  ‘Like you.’

  He saw that Sarah was monitoring him, testing him, distracting him, but all the time digging. ‘I won’t dignify that. And what else?’

  ‘Of course it could be someone outside Gene-Crime.’

  ‘Someone you’ve put away, who isn’t that happy about it.’

  ‘Or just some random punter with a grudge.’

  Reuben played some more with his drink, watching the ice cubes succumbing to the odourless alcohol, being dragged down, eroding. His temperature was cooling off, and he didn’t like what it left behind. ‘Is that all you have?’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘If you don’t tell me, I can’t help you.’

  ‘OK. Two of your former employees have been torn apart. GeneCrime is under attack. These weren’t coincidental attacks. Someone is actively coming for us. Look, we’ve kept a lot of this out of the press.’ Sarah peered around the pub, and then shook her head quickly, trying to rid herself of the habit. It was difficult not to feel under surveillance even in a dingy pub. ‘He’s been sending us messages. Genetic messages using the triplet code. Three bases per letter.’

  ‘Saying what?’

  ‘Sandra’s said, “Gene Crimes Will Be Repaid”.’

  ‘And Run’s?’ Reuben asked, eager to learn something that he didn’t know already.

  ‘“I am coming for GeneCrime”.’

  ‘Jesus. I’m beginning to see where I fit into this.’

  ‘Whatever you think—’

  ‘Look, Sarah. Let’s cut to the chase. I see two motives for my summons here. First, you’re wondering if I’m involved, and want to see my reaction. Second, you want to ask me to help, again to test my reaction, but also to see if I can make the difference, and hence further your own career.’

  ‘Why, really, Dr Maitland,’ Sarah said, instantly changing her expression, ‘you do have a devious mind. Could get you into a lot of trouble.’

  Reuben ignored her wide-open eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose, watching the last frozen water liquefy. There was no alternative. Although he tried to suppress it, this was no longer a professional matter. It had just become intensely and painfully personal. ‘It’s OK,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m sold.’ He swallowed the last of the drink, and thought briefly of amphetamine. He stretched the fingers of both hands wide, buried tendons twitching to the surface, hauling up taut ridges of skin, straining to be free. He ran his tongue around his gums, still numb with alcohol. ‘I’ll need the samples – I assume you’ve got unambiguous DNA?’

  ‘From both, yeah. I’ll bring it to you.’

  ‘I’ve got a PO box – courier them there.’ Reuben wrote down the details on a beer mat. ‘Room temp will be fine.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Look, there’s something you could do for me in return. I’m being followed.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Reuben struggled to decide whether to tell Sarah about the man with the gun. He looked into her face, and saw composure in her foundation and concern in her lines. But he had never been sure. His trust in Sarah had been broken long before he left GeneCrime. ‘Forget it,’ he sighed.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Let’s just say you owe me a favour. Deal?’ Reuben held out his hand.

  ‘A favour? Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. But if I’m going to help you I want you to help me.’

  Sarah sighed and shook his hand. ‘Fine,’ she answered quietly.

  Reuben stood up. A few of the dedicated drinkers surveyed him for a couple of seconds, before returning to stare into their pints. ‘And one more thing. I’m agreeing to help you on the basis that you don’t tap my mobile, don’t pass the number to anyone else, don’t try to pinpoint my whereabouts. Our only contact is via the phone, or via my PO box. Any breach of this, and I withdraw my help. Is that clear?’

  Sarah nodded, her blonde hair bouncing in solemn confirmation.

  Reuben turned round and left the pub. He held the image of her as he walked out towards the car. Remote, detached and sly. A career call-girl, ringing you up and offering you what you wanted, in return for her own payback. He had seen it before, Sarah
chewing people up and spitting them out to make a case her own. Smiling before the act, evasive and uninterested after. Reuben shuddered in the heat, appreciating that her duplicity and ruthlessness somehow excited him. He reached the car and opened the door. Kieran Hobbs, the Hitch-Hiker investigation, the Edelstein rape, the McNamara murder . . . every other investigation would have to wait.

  Someone was killing his friends. It was time to find out who.

  8

  Reuben left the image of Sandra Bantam that he had been working on. Her face had been almost entirely restored. There was a faultless serenity in her skin, her mouth had a faint impression of mirth and her eyes were open and content. Old habits died hard, and he still gained some solace from the process. Soon, he would begin work on Run, painting some dignity into his death. For the time being, though, his feelings were too raw.

  Moray Carnock closed the door behind him and skimmed a package across the shiny lab bench like a drink along a bar. It was plain, off-white and padded, addressed simply to Dr Maitland at his post box number. Reuben squeezed it, feeling plastic bubbles yield against the hard objects inside. He stretched a pair of unpowdered nylon gloves over his hands, raising his eyebrows at Moray, who shrugged in return. A train rumbled overhead, vibrating Reuben’s stool for several seconds. He used a disposable scalpel to slit the envelope open, sawing gently into its fish-belly. Two opaque tubes dropped out on to the bench, somersaulting over each other, glad to be free. He slotted them into a green rack. One was marked Run, the other Sandra. He saw that they contained several tiny droplets spread around the inside like condensation. Reuben pulsed them in a microfuge, and the droplets duly collected in the bottom of each Eppendorf. Moray cleared his throat.