by John Macken
Reuben glanced up from the keyboard he was hammering. ‘Enlighten us.’
Phil’s face whitened even further, colour retreating into pores, hiding behind the black stubble which permanently threatened to break through his skin. ‘The student. Things happened. It got messy,’ he mumbled.
‘So you got caught up in it?’ Reuben said.
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You fought, you punched him, he hit his head . . .’
‘Ma’am, they want the door open. They say they’re coming in regardless.’
‘Stall them. Another two minutes.’
The door started to give. Phil stopped talking. Three pounding blows echoed in quick succession. Orange brick dust clouded out around its hinges. The CID officer closest to it took a sharp step backwards. Phil Kemp eyed the entrance uneasily. The laboratory door smashed open. A blur of black uniforms swarmed into the room, with shouts and commands echoing into the high, arched ceiling. Out of the corner of his eye Reuben detected the presence of Area Commander Robert Abner. Sarah was talking to him. In the background, he noticed that the remaining members of his old team had entered, dressed in white, loitering around, waiting to begin. Bernie Harrison looked over and half smiled. Mina Ali gave a brief thumbs-up and turned away. Paul Mackay avoided his eye. Birgit Kasper raised her eyebrows. Simon Jankowski flushed, and attempted to busy himself. Reuben realized that this was as close as the reunion was going to get. He longed to walk over and hug all five of them, but knew that the lines had been drawn. Out of habit, his eyes scanned for Run Zhang and Jez Hethrington-Andrews, but saw only scientists he didn’t recognize, staff drafted in to replace the dead. Commander Abner and DCI Sarah Hirst approached.
‘Dr Maitland.’ The Commander frowned. ‘I think we need to have some words.’ He placed a massive hand on Reuben’s shoulder. ‘Back at GeneCrime.’
4
It was like looking into an unreliable mirror, or examining an old photograph of yourself. The appearance was almost what you expected. Almost. And yet there were differences, subtle changes that the years had wrought, faint alterations which caught you slightly by surprise, even now.
‘How are things?’ he asked.
‘Great,’ his brother answered.
‘Three years.’
‘Three years.’
Reuben stared into Aaron’s pale-green eyes. It didn’t matter how identical you were, discrepancies still shone through. Aaron’s eyes were as impenetrable as ever. The one person Reuben had always struggled to read shared his DNA. They had nature and nurture and still Aaron was an enigma. Of course, there was communication, but only on the mundane things. They understood music together, and art, and politics. But on the wider issues, on feelings, they were as far apart as any other brothers.
‘They released you?’ Reuben said.
‘For now. And you? They told me you had backed yourself into a serious dilemma.’
‘Something like that.’
‘Which is why they arrested me in the first place.’ Aaron shrugged, impatience twitching his shoulders. ‘Who’d have thought? You getting me into trouble.’
‘You still owe me big time.’
‘Look, bro’, that thing with the coke in my car . . . I never meant for you to be the one . . .’
Reuben knew that Aaron was unable to apologize. He’d had over fifteen years and still hadn’t managed it. Reuben had taken his brother’s punishment. At the time, part of him had wanted to know his brother’s life, to live his darkness, to understand him. But Reuben appreciated he would never understand Aaron. ‘That’s one thing I will never forgive you for,’ he sighed.
Aaron shuffled his feet, eager to move the conversation on. He thumbed in the direction of an interview room. ‘Did they take you to pieces?’
‘Interrogations are easy when you tell the truth. You should try it some day.’
‘Best not. I remember Dad only ever giving me one piece of advice in his life. “If the cops tell you they know the whole story, they’re lying. The police never know the whole story.”’
‘Great advice. And Mum gave me a piece recently. “Keep in touch with your brother.”’
‘Yeah. Me too.’
‘So what now?’
‘I go back to mine, you go back to yours.’
‘But what is yours?’
Aaron Mitland glanced apprehensively up and down the corridor. ‘Lying low for a while. Disappearing from these insidious motherfuckers.’
‘You in trouble?’
‘No more than usual.’
Reuben sensed his discomfort. Aaron was agitated, desperate to be somewhere else. ‘Look, Aaron, I want you to take this.’ He pulled out a scrap of paper and scribbled a number on it. ‘My mobile. You don’t have to call me. That’s fine. But take the number.’
Aaron screwed his eyes up and kept his hands where they were, firmly planted in his pockets. ‘No, ta,’ he answered.
‘We live in the same city, for Christ’s sake,’ Reuben implored. ‘You might need me one day.’
‘I said, No, ta.’
Reuben balled the piece of paper and clenched his fingers tight around it. He had learnt enough about his brother to know that he would do only what he wanted to do, and nothing else. As Reuben stared into the face opposite, he felt the closing of a door, the end of part of him, the loss of a limb. Aaron was already turning, walking away, sauntering out of his life. Reuben’s other half, practically identical, and yet poles apart in every way that actually mattered, was leaving his life for ever. He felt abandoned, let down in the most acutely painful way. He watched him go, transfixed. This was the central theme of Reuben’s life, he thought. He lost everyone he held precious. Lucy, Joshua, Run, Jez, his father, and now Aaron. For a second, Reuben saw himself more isolated than ever before, with a vacuum surrounding him that failed to support substantial relationships or meaningful interactions. His brother reached an oversized pair of swing doors and turned.
‘Hey, Rubinio,’ he shouted.
‘What?’ Reuben asked flatly.
Aaron tapped the side of his head with his index finger and winked. ‘O seven seven six five six one nine one three two. Right?’
Reuben tried to hold back a smile, but failed.
‘OK if I reverse the charges?’
Reuben grinned again, and then Aaron was gone, swallowed by the doors, which squealed open and shut a few times, laughing like hyenas. Reuben felt himself straighten. He sucked in a couple of deep breaths, which seemed to inflate him. He had been at GeneCrime for a day and a half. The creeping paranoia of the building which had infused him again was now evaporating into the dry air. He knew he was free to leave, but he was reluctant to go. This would be his last time, and to step outside into the sunshine would be to close the heavy security door on a large proportion of his life. Then Sarah Hirst strode through the entrance, almost swinging the doors off their hinges.
‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s walk and talk. We’ll head out through the car park.’ Reuben turned and matched her pace, which slowed as they progressed along the whitened corridors and past the offices and laboratories that Reuben had once occupied, the toilets where Reuben had consumed the drug which had kept him sane at work and paranoid at home, and, finally, near the cells in which he had been held and questioned.
Sarah explained what she knew. How they had found an early version of Predictive Phenotyping on Phil Kemp’s computer, one which pre-dated Reuben’s dismissal from GeneCrime. How, although they were still picking through its files, they realized that he had been trying to use it to put away villains the software identified as potential dangers to society. How the four-strong team from the Met had dug and dug into Phil until they began to unearth a rich seam of inconsistencies and contradictions. How Phil had argued and struggled, kicked and screamed, denied and accused. How he had been played tapes of his conversations with Gary Megson of the Sun, leaking stories to the press. How he had been shown key forensics files, with evidence of manipula
tion. How two of his CID team, threatened with dishonourable dismissal, had begun to implicate their boss in a series of unorthodox practices. How documents and witness statements and computer files and emails and directives and testimonies had quickly begun to stitch themselves into a smothering blanket of truth. How Phil had suddenly stopped talking. How he had stared into the distance. How the flushed innocence had leaked away, replaced by a leaden guilt. How he had started to tremble. And how, after thirty-six hours of questioning, thirty-six hours of being subjected to the same interrogations he had inflicted upon others, he had begun quietly and tearfully to capitulate. How he had finally admitted to the Lamb and Flag murder. How, with a second forensic sweep looming, he had panicked, and made sure that Lars Besser’s DNA was discovered on the body. How he had contaminated the scene with his own DNA to ensure his subsequent elimination from forensic analyses. How he had then begun to manipulate convictions to further his career. How he had done all in his power to try and assume overall command of GeneCrime.
Sarah and Reuben turned the final corner. There, waiting by the exit, was Area Commander Robert Abner. Reuben glanced at Sarah, who glanced back. Robert Abner was a tall, looming presence. Despite his age, which Reuben estimated to be early fifties, the Commander was as physically daunting as he had ever been.
Robert Abner scratched the cropped hair at the base of his neck, letting them approach. ‘One more thing, Dr Maitland, before you leave this building for good.’
‘Sir?’
‘Above your lab, on the industrial estate, there was a bald-headed man with a moustache, and an ex-service revolver. Found himself on the wrong end of an Armed Response Unit. We’ve been monitoring him for a while. We think a gangster called Maclyn Margulis hired him to kill you. Any ideas why that might be?’
‘None,’ Reuben lied.
‘We’ve an inkling that Kieran Hobbs was involved as well. May have helped the hitman get close to you. Now why would he do that?’
Reuben checked himself. The final piece. Kieran Hobbs had double-crossed him. He screwed up his eyes. Just as he was planning to provide CID with enough genetic evidence finally to put Kieran away. ‘As I told you before . . .’
Commander Abner frowned, displacing a lifetime of wrinkles. ‘Dr Maitland, you might think we owe you an apology.’ Reuben noticed that his cheeks were contrastingly smooth; shiny skin stretched taut across protruding bones. ‘But you’d be wrong. I see what’s been happening here, and I see some culpability, and a lot of rule-bending.’ He pulled the sleeves of his jacket straight. ‘What I will do for you, however, is what Sarah suggested to me. I won’t ask why you have police files, police samples and police manpower doing your work for you. But that’s all. And I want your lab closed down. Do you understand me?’
Reuben nodded silently.
‘Right, Sarah,’ Robert Abner continued. ‘From this moment on, I’m relieving you of your input into this investigation.’
‘Sir?’ Sarah asked, her brow creasing.
‘You’re too involved. We need impartiality. All the subsequent forensics will be handled by the Service, and not by GeneCrime. But show them the computer files, explain where the samples have come from, bring them up to speed, find out how far back we need to look. We need to wrap this up as soon as we can.’
‘OK,’ Sarah replied sullenly, her influence dripping away.
‘Besides, there are other cases.’ A twinkle of promise appeared in the Commander’s eyes. ‘Mark Gelson is still out there, and we think he’s killed again – another CID officer, found this morning. And a wealthy London club owner has gone missing, his daughter murdered.’
‘That wouldn’t be Xavier Trister, would it?’ Reuben interrupted.
‘Do you know him?’
Reuben recalled firing the SkinPunch weapon at him in the alleyway. He caught the eye of the Commander, and wished he hadn’t. ‘Just heard the name, that’s all.’
Commander Robert Abner hesitated, rotating his head again to scowl full-on at Reuben. ‘I’ll be visiting your lab, Dr Maitland. And if I see that you’re still fucking about with forensics, I will have you prosecuted. Am I clear?’
Reuben nodded slowly. ‘Christmas,’ he answered.
The Commander raised his eyebrows. ‘I hope you’re not being flippant.’
‘It’s just what someone here used to say.’
‘Watch your step, Dr Maitland. And watch it well.’
Robert Abner strode angrily past them and around the corner, his shoes slapping the floor tiles. Reuben found himself standing directly in front of Sarah. He was uncomfortable, unsure of himself, silently running his eyes back and forth between her face and her feet, assessing her strengths and weaknesses, her perfections and flaws. Sarah was beaming, and he felt the warmth. He guessed that if you managed to break through the exterior, you really broke through in style. He basked in her sudden attention a while, savouring it, weighing it up, deciding how genuine it was. Seeing the case from her perspective, Reuben acknowledged that she had had more than ample grounds for suspicion.
Sarah smiled and said, ‘Sorry.’
‘For what?’
‘For not believing in you.’
‘And now?’
‘As we interrogated you and Phil it quickly became apparent who was playing straight. There was nothing to do but take sides.’
‘So you’re on my side?’
‘Don’t push it, Dr Maitland.’ The tone was chill, but there was playfulness in her eyes. And possibilities. Reuben cast his mind back to the party they had both attended, before Reuben was married, when Sarah had said something which had played on his mind for years.
‘Do you remember that party?’
‘I never remember parties.’
‘When you said that—’
Sarah put her finger to her lips to shush him.
‘I’ve always wondered about those words.’
‘Then you won’t mind wondering a bit longer.’
Reuben ran his fingers through his fair hair. The ice was melting. Fish were swimming. Nature was coming to the boil.
‘Well, you’re still in one piece, but the lab’s got to go. You going to get a proper job?’ she asked, changing the subject.
‘What? Become legit again?’ Reuben made a mental decision to ask Sarah out for a date. He would take his time, but he would do it. He felt some strength returning, adrenalin pumping through his heart. ‘Besides’ – he smiled – ‘I’m having too much fun. I’ll be in touch.’ And with the sweet regret that walking away from beauty inspires, Reuben strode out of GeneCrime, through the car park, into the sunshine, swallowing lungfuls of warm, balmy air, coming alive, the tiredness ebbing, the humid fatigue burning off in the heat.
Waiting for him, shuffling fitfully in the sun, focusing through cameras and scribbling in notebooks, were half a dozen restless journalists. They came alive as Reuben approached, shouting questions, trying to slow him, shoving microphones in his face, strobing his face with flashes.
‘Any comment, Dr Maitland?’
‘How do you feel at being exonerated?’
‘A message for the families of the dead?’
‘Is it true that you will be pressing charges of your own?’
Reuben pushed through. Behind the reporters, slouched against a wall, was Moray Carnock. Moray started to walk around the corner. By the time Reuben caught up with him, he almost felt like a normal human being, and barely like a scientist at all. He wrapped an arm around his corpulent partner. ‘Thanks for everything,’ he said.
‘No, thank you,’ Moray answered.
‘So which one do you fancy?’
‘Which what?’
‘Which baddie. Xavier Trister or Mark Gelson?’
‘Haven’t you had enough of this?’
‘I’m just getting started. Besides, they’re struggling. But they can’t reach the places we can.’
‘Keep paying me, I’ll see what I can do.’
‘We’ll have to build a new lab.
’
‘No, you’ll have to build a new lab.’
‘Whatever.’
Reuben let go of Moray and closed his eyes. He shut out the image of Phil Kemp, his betrayal of everything and everyone he had ever held dear, his life in ruins, his career over; and of Lars Besser, distorted and destroyed; and the dead forensic scientists lying flat on metal trays; and Aaron released back into his underground world; and Judith Meadows with her loveless marriage and quiet dignity; and Sarah Hirst with her thawing exterior; and Kieran Hobbs and Maclyn Margulis and their hidden agendas; and Joshua Maitland growing and developing and learning to call a new man Daddy; and the DNA of his son which he kept in a hotel safe, too shit-scared to perform genotyping on, petrified that the single, last thing he cared about in the whole world might not be his anyway, that the one person he had ever truly loved could be made up of the genes of someone else.
‘Fuck it,’ he said, opening his lids and scanning for a taxi, ‘let’s get them both.’
Reuben’s mind made a sudden leap as he walked on. He took out his phone and dialled a number. ‘Lucy,’ he said, ‘I want you to do me a small favour. Clear it with Shaun if you must. I won’t ask again, and, yes, you have to do this. You have no other option.’
5
The taxi dropped Moray in the middle of a crowded street, and he shuffled out towards an underground entrance. As he looked back, he waved, clenching his fist, as if in victory. Reuben instructed the driver and they moved away. There was no victory for Reuben. At least not yet.
Twenty nervous minutes later, Reuben entered a brightly coloured building and was immediately challenged by a matronly woman with greying hair tied ferociously above her scalp.
‘Can I help you?’ she demanded briskly.
‘I’m Reuben Maitland,’ Reuben replied.
‘Ah, yes. Just wait here a minute.’
Reuben looked around for a chair but couldn’t see one. The odours seeped into him, sneaking in images and memories along for the ride. He had been here many times, but never had the smells been so intense. In fact, they almost overpowered him as he leant against a lurid yellow wall, waiting, wondering and worrying. In front of him was a row of coat-hooks at waist height, with bags and coats hanging down. He scanned the names, but didn’t see the one he was looking for. And then he guessed that he had been moved into a different room.
