Dirty Little Lies

by John Macken

Kieran Hobbs opened his gated eyelashes and stood up, smiling in return. ‘David.’ He grinned. ‘Long time.’

  ‘This is Annalie,’ Reuben gestured, pulling Judith forwards.

  ‘Kieran,’ she effused, wrapping her arms around him and kissing him on both cheeks, ‘David is telling me a lot about you.’

  ‘So what are you up to these days?’ Reuben asked.

  ‘You know, a bit of this . . .’ Kieran swivelled round, an awkward introduction looming. ‘Sorry, this is Maclyn, a business associate of mine.’

  Reuben stuck out his hand, and Maclyn Margulis reluctantly did the same. He was tanned and good-looking, with a square jaw and Roman nose. His hair was crow-black, his eyes swimming-pool blue. Over Maclyn’s shoulder, Reuben noticed the presence of three well-built men, loitering at the back of the restaurant and paying close attention to proceedings. One of them stood up and began to approach. He was leaning forwards, walking slowly, threading through diners. Reuben edged nearer to Judith. Maclyn Margulis moved his head slightly and raised his hand. The minder stopped dead, turned reluctantly and made his way back to his associates. Reuben smiled obliviously at Maclyn Margulis. Broad daylight, in an upmarket restaurant, surrounded by his bouncers. This was one careful motherfucker. ‘Hello, David,’ Maclyn said in a tone which suggested goodbye. ‘And Annalie.’

  Judith bent down and kissed him stiffly on both cheeks, placing her hands on his shoulders.

  ‘How’s your mum these days, David?’ Kieran asked Reuben.

  ‘Oh, you know, soldiering on,’ he answered.

  Maclyn Margulis fidgeted in his chair. His men stared with a threatening mixture of contempt and hostility. On the other side of the restaurant Reuben noticed for the first time a couple of Kieran’s gang. And, somewhere unseen, he wondered whether Metropolitan CID would also be paying close attention.

  ‘Listen.’ Kieran smiled. ‘Let’s catch up soon. I’m kind of in the middle of a business meeting here.’

  Reuben tried to look disappointed. ‘Oh right. I suppose we ought to leave these gentlemen.’ He wrapped his arm around Judith and gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘Come on, honey, let’s get something to eat.’

  ‘You know, I’ve changed my mind. Shall we drink instead?’

  He shrugged apologetically at Maclyn and Kieran. In his peripheral vision, both sets of minders continued to watch. ‘Sure. I know a good pub. I’ll give you a bell sometime, Kier.’ They picked their way out of the restaurant and walked back towards the taxi, which was waiting around the corner. Thirty metres before it, Reuben caught a reflection in a shop window, his arm around Judith’s waist. He let go of her, almost guiltily. And then he said, ‘Walk past the cab.’

  ‘Why?’ Judith asked.

  ‘We need a corner pub, and fast.’

  Behind, one of Maclyn Margulis’s minders was tracking their progress. Reuben checked again.

  ‘Over there,’ Judith nodded.

  A Covent Garden pub decorated with flowers and drunks occupied the junction between two roads. Reuben and Judith entered, squinting in the dark. As he guided Judith through the lounge, he listened for the door opening again after them. Hearing nothing, he led Judith out of the rear door, which opened on to the adjacent street. Reuben waved briskly at a black cab, which squealed to a halt. They pulled away and he risked a glance back.

  ‘Reuben, what the hell’s going on?’

  ‘Trouble,’ he answered. Through the rear window, the minder had reappeared. He was writing down the registration number of the taxi.

  ‘Shit,’ Judith said, taking a small pair of tweezers out of her pocket and examining her right hand. Small dabs of double-sided tape were stuck to the ends of each finger. On them were a number of thick black hairs. Reuben passed her the cigarette packet, and she levered the hairs into the tubes inside. They were silent as the cab headed away, swallowed by the frantic gallop of traffic through the city. After a few minutes, Reuben told the driver to pull over. They climbed out and stopped a fresh taxi. Later, he asked, ‘Do you think he twigged?’

  ‘No. My fingers only brushed his collar for an instant.’ Judith glanced at her boss’s face, wondering what he had felt the previous day, and whether he had been happy to call it a mistake.

  Reuben watched the digital meter tick in twenty-pence increments as they slid back and forth along the vinyl seats, the driver short-cutting through tangled streets no wider than alleyways. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘should I drop you at work? Or thereabouts?’

  Judith turned from the window and checked her watch. She had been lost in her own journey. ‘I guess so,’ she replied. ‘Won’t hurt to be a bit early, catch up with the state of play. Whatever that is. You never know, there might even have been a breakthrough.’

  ‘Anything’s possible.’

  Reuben redirected the driver, who cursed under his breath before pulling a U-turn. They spent the rest of the journey in silence. As she left the taxi, a couple of streets away from GeneCrime, Judith handed the cigarette box over to Reuben, saying, ‘That’s enough excitement for one day.’

  Reuben grimaced. ‘Goodbye,’ he muttered as the driver pulled away, with the distinct feeling that the excitement was only just beginning.

  5

  DCI Phil Kemp stood close behind Jez Hethrington-Andrews, who was scrolling through a long list of computer records. Despite the efficiency of the air-conditioning, Jez still sensed a dank wetness emanating from his boss. His proximity was uncomfortable, breaching the safe gap that Jez liked to put between himself and other workers. Names and details flashed on the screen, and Jez opened folders and perused their contents. An awkward silence hung in the recirculated air, disturbed only by Phil’s breathing and the double-clicking of Jez’s mouse.

  ‘So,’ Phil said, waiting impatiently for the information he had requested, ‘when’s your brother out?’

  ‘Not for another year,’ Jez replied, staring deep into the screen and rubbing his dry eyes. The skin beneath was red and inflamed, deep bags which had been scratched almost raw over the last few harrowing days.

  DCI Kemp cleared his throat. ‘You do realize that could present us with a problem. Interpreting the rules strictly.’

  ‘How, sir?’

  ‘Immediate family with ongoing criminal activity. There are guidelines about that sort of thing. I know Dr Maitland took you on, fully aware of your brother’s record, but, technically, he shouldn’t have done. And while your brother’s incarcerated, the situation has been, let’s say, stable. But when he’s back on the street there could be a conflict of interest, wouldn’t you say?’

  Jez partially turned in his seat, trying to read his boss’s expression. ‘I’m not sure . . .’

  ‘Come on. A forensics information officer. A repeat offender. Suppose he does something more serious than B and E this time. At the very least your position of responsibility could compromise an investigation.’

  ‘A bit unlikely, if you don’t mind me saying, sir.’ Jez dug a finger deep into the bag under one of his eyes, pushing it upwards until it seemed to press on to his eyeball. For a second, he lost himself in the dull ache of discomfort. ‘I mean, I’m nowhere near the front line. And the chances of Davie committing a murder or rape or . . .’

  Phil shrugged. ‘Happens.’

  ‘Look, he’s not daft. He just got caught up in drugs. Davie is not exactly a career criminal.’ Jez finally found the folder he had been seeking and pointed to it. ‘That the one?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Besides, the last time I visited him he looked a lot better.’ Jez shivered with the memory of the place, a cold recollection gripping his stomach. ‘He says Belmarsh has sorted him out, made him determined never to go back.’

  Phil snorted. ‘That’s what they all say. The universal junkie mantra. I’ll never go back. I’m not who I used to be.’ He leant over Jez’s shoulder, his baggy white shirt brushing against the top of Jez’s head. ‘Can you bring all the picture files up at once?’

  ‘If I display
them as thumbnails.’

  ‘But you and I both know the statistics on re-offending, and on returning to a former drug habit. Put the two together and it’s dynamite. Tell me I’m being unfair?’

  Jez ground his teeth hard and remained silent.

  ‘There, that’s the one,’ Phil indicated, pointing at a small image. ‘Just lighten it a fraction. And show me full screen.’

  ‘OK?’

  ‘Perfect.’ Phil squinted for a moment to make sure. ‘Yep, that’s the one. No, I’m afraid we’ll have to review your employment when your brother is released. Not my rules, I’m sure you understand. And for what it’s worth, I feel bad about it. But there was a recent directive about this, and as part of my duty I have to take it seriously. Right. Let’s have a colour print of that.’

  Jez pressed the print icon, the movement of his mouse swift and irate. He stared into the screen, chewing his molars, pursing his lips, his heart beating faster than normal. Phil snatched the printed image from the printer and ran his eyes over it. ‘So, my old friend Reuben’ – he frowned – ‘what the hell has happened to you?’

  6

  ‘Lloyd Granger,’ Reuben whispered quietly to himself. ‘What have I done?’ The call came from Judith, who had gradually been brought up to speed with developments at the start of her shift. Reuben buried his face beneath his hands. He let out a long melancholic moan, which ground through the empty lab. ‘You poor bastard.’ Reuben inhaled deeply and blew the hot moist breath through his fingers. He moaned again, reclining from sitting on the bench to stretching out on it. Against his side he felt the warmth of a slab-like ABI 377 sequencer. On its screen, which nuzzled into his jeans, the DNA of Maclyn Margulis was being assembled base by base into technicolour barcodes, which unlicensed software would later decipher.

  Since the restaurant, Reuben had spent three hours processing Maclyn Margulis. The menace of the bodyguard had lived with him as he DNA-extracted four black hairs and performed parallel sequencing reactions. While the machine carried blindly on, however, Judith’s two pieces of news had stopped him dead. She had simply said, ‘I’ve got some bad news and some badder news.’

  ‘Give me the bad news,’ he had answered.

  ‘Another death. Have you ever heard of a Lloyd Granger?’

  Reuben had tried to sound non-committal. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Low-level forensics at a privatized screening lab somewhere in SE6. Possible evidence of torture.’ Judith’s voice was weary with shock. It said, Another one of us is dead and the trauma is too much to take in right now. ‘Phil and Sarah aren’t sure what to make of it. We’re heading out there in the next few minutes.’

  ‘Are you ringing from work?’ Reuben had asked quietly.

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘Keep the conversation short. And next time use your mobile.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Long story. Anyway, let me have a guess at the badder news.’

  ‘Go on. But you’re not going to—’

  ‘A new suspect?’

  Judith exhaled a long, depressed breath. ‘Yes.’

  ‘My good self?’

  ‘Did someone warn you?’

  ‘No need,’ Reuben sighed. ‘It doesn’t take rocket science to know we’re not dealing with rocket scientists.’

  ‘But you know what this means?’

  ‘I’ve got a few ideas.’

  ‘You’re going to have to be careful.’

  ‘And so are you. Don’t take this the wrong way, Jude, but don’t say any more. Ring me on your mobile when you know what’s going on. But for now, periscope down.’

  Reuben had flipped his phone shut. Second by second he had reached the point where lying down on his lab bench seemed the only sensible course of action. And now a neon fatigue was burning into his closed eyelids. The hum of mechanized action was buzzing in his ears. A sickening certainty was beginning to ball itself tight in his stomach. The death of Lloyd Granger changed everything. Reuben realized with lethargic sorrow that he was the only person in the world who knew this. GeneCrime and CID had missed the whole point.

  Reuben exhaled his creeping grief and yawned. Another torture. Long hours of helpless pain, of slipping in and out of consciousness, of watching your skin tear open, of seeing the knife enter slowly and deliberately, of feeling the cold metal burn through your flesh, of utter vulnerability, of wanting only to die. Reuben slept fitfully for a couple of hours, a depressed semi-consciousness haunted by pain and suffering. When he awoke, the face of Moray Carnock was peering down at him. Moray was munching a sandwich and swigging from a can of Pepsi. Up close, small dark hairs sprouted from the pores of his nose.

  ‘Comfy?’ he asked in his thick Aberdonian drawl.

  Reuben propped himself up on his elbows. ‘Like a bed of nails,’ he said.

  ‘You see, that’s what happens with all this scientific mumbo-jumbo.’ He took a colossal bite of his late lunch. ‘Your perceptions get buggered about.’

  ‘It’s been a life-long problem.’

  ‘So I take it you nailed Maclyn Margulis,’ Moray guessed, sweeping his can of pop in the direction of the sequencer.

  ‘Yeah. We’ll know in a few hours whether Kieran Hobbs’s hunch is right.’ Reuben shook himself round, shrugging off the horror of Lloyd Granger’s death, knowing that it would come right back and find him soon enough. But for now he wanted to be sharp. He needed to pick Moray’s brain. ‘It’s just a bit weird.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘We did the Predictive Phenotyping on DNA samples taken from Hobbs’s second-in-command Joey Salvason. Only Hobbs didn’t recognize the Pheno-Fit we gave him. But he was still convinced that Maclyn Margulis was behind the killing.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So it doesn’t add up. The Pheno-Fit suggests that Kieran Hobbs is wrong, and that his man was killed by person or persons unknown. Normally I’d recommend we use the suspect’s ID to trawl through DNA and photographic databases, and nail him. But Hobbs wants this confirmatory test doing instead. It seems counter-intuitive. I mean, what do you really know about Kieran Hobbs?’

  Moray drained his drink, his thick throat bobbing as he glugged the final remnants. ‘I only know what you know. Big crime boss, really nasty, a lot of clout in this end of town, loyal to his men. But as for a hidden agenda, who knows? You said that CID were interested.’

  ‘Run told me they were stepping things up. But I guess they’ve got other priorities at the moment.’

  ‘And, of course, there could be major issues between Kieran and Maclyn Margulis.’

  ‘Which is what scares me.’

  ‘That, my friend, is the danger of providing the service you’re providing. Suggesting that someone is a killer can be taken a little personally.’

  ‘I’ve had an idea on that subject.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘About how to settle a few scores. Forensics aren’t ready to nail Kieran Hobbs yet. But I could help.’

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

  ‘Look, I’m in a unique position. CID can’t get close to him, but I can. When Hobbs has paid up, well, let’s just say that all bets are off.’

  Moray looked extremely unimpressed. ‘Don’t do anything daft.’

  ‘I’m doing this for me, Moray. My career has been about catching criminals. That’s who I am, and that’s what I do.’

  ‘These aren’t the sort of people to fuck with. You’re in deep enough as it is.’

  ‘Talking of which.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Have a guess who the new number-one suspect in the murder of forensic scientists is?’

  Moray arched his bushy eyebrows. ‘And how did they make that genius leap?’

  ‘Don’t ask. But there’s something else, something much worse.’

  ‘Go on.’

  Reuben swivelled round and hopped on to the floor. He paced the confines of the lab for a few seconds. Moray watched him intently. Reuben appeared to be psyching himself
up. ‘There’s been a third death. A mediocre private forensics officer called Lloyd Granger.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘I wish I was.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘This changes things. Before, with Run and Sandra, it was GeneCrime.’

  ‘And now?’

  Reuben turned to face Moray, burning into him. ‘Now it’s me.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Lloyd had no connection with GeneCrime. DCIs Kemp and Hirst don’t know this, but Lloyd and I were friends. We met at a conference a few years back. He was . . .’ Reuben’s eyes watered and he turned away from Moray, forcing himself not to break down in front of him, sensing the ache in his mouth which he hadn’t felt for just over four months. He clenched his teeth and drove his fingernails into his palms, realizing too much isolation and too little sleep was fucking with his composure. ‘We had some shared interests. He painted as well.’ Reuben turned back to Moray, his face emotionless. ‘We used to get together occasionally at weekends. Or he’d come round to my place. You know, every few weeks. We’d stay up all night just painting, trying to get the perfect lips, or nose, or whatever . . .’ Despite his best efforts, Reuben’s eyes were filmed with the evidence of sad nostalgia. ‘He only ever met one or two of the GeneCrime crew, and that was through me. So this changes the whole scenario. The killer isn’t after GeneCrime at all.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘He’s after me.’

  Moray was quiet, allowing the words to settle. He appeared unusually serious. Now that Reuben was still, he found he couldn’t help but pace the same confined area, peering down at his shoes, scratching his brow. A piece of his sandwich had lodged between two teeth, and he worked at it with his tongue while he thought. A train juddered by overhead. ‘OK, so you’ve got motive. They have strong forensic evidence against you. That’s good enough for most courts. How about alibis?’

  ‘You’re acting like you think I’m guilty.’

  ‘We have to think like they think. Where were you at the time of death of Sandra, Run and Lloyd?’

  ‘Ah, you’ll like this. Either in here by myself, or else . . .’