Breaking Point (21 page)

Nick peered along his body towards his legs. The flick knife he had pulled out of his pocket was damaged, its plastic casing cracked open, its thick internal spring visible. He picked it up carefully and inspected it, deciding that he would have to get hold of another one. ‘The fuckers,’ he grunted under his breath. They were going to pay for this. Next time the knife would be in his hand. He would be ready for whatever they had to throw at him.

18

SARAH WAS WEARING
a long dark-brown coat, blue jeans and brown leather boots. Standard autumn casual wear, a normal member of the population looking smart enough to get by and warm enough to stave off a biting northerly. Her blonde hair was messier than usual, free from its usual constraint. Reuben preferred it that way.

‘So, this Ewan Beacher, what did he say exactly?’ she asked quietly.

Reuben recalled the conversation on his way to see Lucy. ‘Not a fat lot. Just that he needed to see me.’

‘Why?’

‘He wouldn’t say. But by the sound of it he’s maybe starting to come round a bit, actually believing what Moray and I told him.’

‘Only we had a report this morning of a fire at his garage. Sounds like the place was gutted. Three fire crews, investigators still picking through the wreckage.’

‘Another turn of the screw.’

‘Could be. But garages do have stores of oil, petrol and other flammables.’

‘Bit of a coincidence. He gets his fingers broken a few days ago, and now his business goes up in smoke.’

‘Well, let’s see what he has to say for himself.’

Reuben bit into a fingernail. ‘Good of you to come along.’

‘It’s not entirely altruistic.’

‘You don’t say.’

Sarah tilted her head to one side. ‘I wanted to come down here, on to the Tube, have a look for myself. And I wanted to see how you were digesting my offer. Plus, Mr Beacher, as an alleged future psychopath, would be an interesting man to meet. This seemed to kill a lot of birds with one small stone.’

Reuben continued to grip the metal rail hard as the train rumbled through the tunnel. He saw the reflection in the window of himself and DCI Hirst standing close. A height difference of half a head, a normal couple enduring a trip on
London
transport, huddled together and talking quietly.

‘He’s a bit unfriendly,’ Reuben said. ‘Not what you’d call a charmer.’

‘Dare say I’ve met worse.’

Sarah glanced around as the train came to a stop. One person stepped on, and one walked off.

‘But the more important question is who in GeneCrime identified and labelled Mr Beacher, Dr Crannell, Maclyn Margulis and the others. I mean, you and Mina have done some digging. Who do you figure?’

‘It’s a big division. What’s the total staff these days?’

‘Sixty-seven, including technicians, IT support, CID, Pathology and Forensics.’

‘It’s grown since I was there.’

‘Say the word and it could soon be sixty-eight.’

Reuben avoided Sarah’s eye. There were more pressing issues than Reuben’s career prospects. ‘Let’s stick to the point,’ he whispered.

‘OK, if we must. But I warn you, I won’t be fobbed off for long.’ Sarah puffed her cheeks out, something Reuben had frequently noticed her do when she was thinking hard. ‘One thing I don’t understand is why they aren’t going through
the
usual channels. I mean, if it’s just a case of running DNA profiles through Psychopath Selection …’

‘It’s not just a case of that. This has to happen at the DNA level, not the profile level. Someone would have to have the scientific skills. It pains me to say it, but this has to be a member of Forensics. Support staff, CID, Pathology and the like wouldn’t have the skill sets to process the DNA samples.’

‘So, who have we got? Mina, acting head. Bernie, senior bio-stats. Paul Mackay, relative newcomer. Simon Jankowski, junior but starting to make his way through the ranks. Rowan Lyster, never says a word in meetings. Birgit Kasper, quiet, efficient and dull. And the new guy, Alex Brunton.’

‘Judith, of course.’

‘Yep, and Judith. And a couple of other technicians who don’t have full authorized access to all databases and samples.’

‘OK,’ Reuben muttered into Sarah’s ear. ‘A maximum of eight forensic scientists with the clearance and capability to independently process samples through Psychopath Selection and interpret the results.’

‘Give or take. But I still don’t get why.’

‘I’ve got a couple of ideas but they’re not worth talking about until we have something more concrete. And that can only come from you.’

‘Internal surveillance?’

‘GeneCrime has become leaky. We know it’s happened before, and that all police units are permeable to some degree. It’s a case of monitoring the flow of information out.’

‘It might already be too late. If punters like Ewan Beacher have already been identified, and their names and addresses sold or traded to persons unknown, there’s not much we can do. I mean, look around you. There are other more pressing problems at the moment.’

Reuben took in the near empty carriage, the wary glances being exchanged by the four or five passengers standing and sitting, the high-visibility jackets of two armed police standing on the platform, the headline on a trampled newspaper: Capital Grinds to a Halt. It was mid afternoon, nowhere near peak volume, but the whole experience felt like a Sunday morning before breakfast time. Small numbers of people, heads down, moving quickly. No buskers, no children, no passengers dawdling at intersections. It was eerie.

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘But when the same elite forensics unit that is helping catch a serial killer is also passing out protected information, you’ve got to be worried.’

Sarah was silent, swaying with the progress of the train as it accelerated again. ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered after a few seconds. ‘This seems like one case we just can’t win. As you’re more than aware, the physical contact between killer and victim is our major window of forensic opportunity. But when that contact is simply a micro-fine needle, we’re in trouble. And we still don’t know the exact chemical. It’s all taking time we don’t have.’

Reuben watched Sarah intently. She was tired. He guessed she was sleeping three or four hours a night at best. He had never seen her give in or accept failure, or even acknowledge the impossibility of an investigation. But she looked to be contemplating it now. Standing in such proximity, their conversation a mix of whispers and quiet murmurs, her breath on his face, the scent of her directly in his nostrils, he saw her suddenly as a civilian, a vulnerable female, a woman who was as soft and alluring as any other, when her defences were down and she let you close.

Sarah straightened and peered around. ‘Our stop,’ she said.

Reuben stepped away from her and followed her off the train.

19

MACLYN MARGULIS STRODE
across the rubble-strewn quadrangle that sat at the heart of a once thriving hotel. All around, windows were shattered and woodwork was rotting. Beneath his feet, an old marble floor had been plundered and destroyed. A cold, penetrating wind swirled around the walls, cooped up and angry, unhappy at being trapped there.

Maclyn stuck his hands into his pockets and strode on. He felt the smooth metal of the gun. It was still warm. His right hand had wrapped around it as he spoke, squeezing a sense of confidence from its unquestioning loyalty. And they had known. He hadn’t mentioned the weapon, or shown it, or even hinted at it. But the fuckers in the small warehouse behind the
abandoned
hotel had paid very clear attention to everything he had said. Of course, he told himself, glancing back over his shoulder, the presence of Valdek Kosonovski tended to sharpen people’s attention, helped make them sit very still and listen. Valdek lumbered after him, a practised two paces behind, his huge dark frame remaining in Maclyn’s peripheral vision like a storm cloud.

Thanks to the things Sol had told him as the fat cigars burned their inevitable way through his sinuses, he had now managed to recover most of the tobacco consignment that had been taken from him. Three or four days’ work and he was almost back where he started. Almost. Maclyn still wasn’t entirely happy. Of course, you dealt with thieves, things occasionally went missing. It was occupational. But that didn’t mean the fuckers had to steal from him.

He turned his head partially as he walked. ‘Get the car,’ he growled.

Valdek marched past him, animated and ready. He carried his bulk well, an athleticism lurking in his frame despite years of heavy weights and thickening steroids.

Maclyn passed through the courtyard area towards a high-walled side entrance. It had been
an
eventful week. A big heroin deal on the verge of going tits up. Reclaiming half a warehouse full of stolen tobacco. Buying a new X5, identical to the last one, after the previous car was virtually destroyed. And then, on top of everything, Reuben Maitland turning up out of the blue, hanging around outside his headquarters with his fat friend, mouthing off like he always did.

Maclyn coughed, then spat a ball of phlegm at the wall as he passed. He turned out on to a quiet side street and scanned up and down, waiting for Valdek.

Maitland. Ex-copper, ex-forensic scientist. Scum of the earth. He had spurted a load of nonsense about intimidation and genes and behaviour. How fucking little he knew. Intimidation was Maclyn’s life. Whether you were dishing it out or having someone try to take what was yours. It was the currency of the underworld. You spent it when you needed to, you soaked it up when there was no other option. Let someone come and intimidate me, he said to himself, and see what Valdek Kosonovski does to their face. Barely a week went by without some London outfit or another clashing, firing warning shots, throwing punches, beating, torturing or making threats. A big city with big stakes. Intimidation at
every
level and in every moment. That was life. Maitland knew fuck all.

The black X5 appeared slowly around the corner. And then it struck Maclyn. Reuben Maitland was not an idiot. He was smart, one step ahead, a clever motherfucker. If Maclyn had learned one thing from his encounters it was never to take Maitland at face value. There was something else going on. Maitland had an agenda. Why else would he confront him, giving vague advice about his general welfare? It didn’t make sense. He wouldn’t have anything to gain. Maclyn watched his car crawl along the street towards him. Maitland was snaring him or setting him up for something. He had never got close to putting him away when he was in the force. But now, kicked out and disgraced, here he was sniffing around, and Maclyn had been slow to spot it and react to it. He cursed. The clever bastard was up to something.

And then something else struck him. Valdek was driving incredibly slowly, almost as if not wanting to reach him. Maclyn waved his hand impatiently to speed him up, but Valdek continued to edge slowly forward. Something was wrong. He strode along the pavement. Valdek eventually pulled up, and Maclyn yanked the door open.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he said.

Valdek continued to gaze straight through the windscreen, not meeting his eye. In profile, his lank hair hung down over his ears, and his cheeks were mottled with a patchy redness. A pointed Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

‘What is it?’ Maclyn asked.

Valdek turned slowly to look at him. ‘Boss, I think you’d better have a look at the back.’

Maclyn strode round. If some fucker had damaged his new car there was going to be a shitload of serious trouble. He stopped. The rear tailgate had been smashed, cubes of glass lying dead on the bumper. The paintwork was scratched as well. A brand new forty-five grand car already damaged and tarnished, feeling sullied and used, needing to be replaced. He had walked into the dealership and paid cash. This attack wasn’t anywhere near as bad, but he still felt an instant rush of anger that he battled to control.

‘Fuckers!’ he shouted out loud.

He had an urge to pull out his gun and just shoot anyone in the vicinity. Someone was going to pay for this. He wondered suddenly whether one of the people in the warehouse had run out the back way and fucked his car while he threatened the rest of them. And whether Valdek’s
reticence
was because he was ashamed he hadn’t done his job properly.

He examined the rear of the vehicle more closely. He peered over the metal tailgate and into the boot. And what he saw stopped him cold. He let out an abrupt and anguished cry. His knees weakened, and he gripped the side of the car for support. His eyes watered, and something tightened in his chest. His breathing was strangled, like the air had got stuck in his chest. He punched the car hard, leaving a fist-sized dent.

This was it. He punched the bodywork again. This was war.

20

‘LOOK, I’M SORRY
about earlier.’

‘That’s all right,’ Lucy answered, her tone cold, her face neutral, the door only half open.

‘I mean, things just catch up with me sometimes …’ Reuben struggled for the most basic of words to describe the most simple of feelings. Betrayal. Anger. Hurt. He had written newspaper articles, scientific papers, crime reports, even a Ph.D. thesis. Yet his inability to explain what still ate away at him to the one person who understood all the reasons was perplexing. Surely, he cursed, it shouldn’t be this difficult for one human being to communicate with another. ‘I know it’s been a while since we separated, but what happened, it all …’ Reuben offered the bottle of red he was holding. ‘Fuck it, Lucy. Can I come in?’

Lucy gave a half smile. ‘Go on,’ she answered. ‘And only because I’m out of booze.’

Reuben followed her into the kitchen. It appeared to have been copied from the style section of a magazine; there was a tidiness to it that almost pleaded to be inspected and photographed. Again, Reuben found himself cursing Shaun Graves under his breath – an event that still seemed to happen around twenty times every day.

‘You hungry?’ Lucy asked.

‘Perpetually,’ Reuben answered. ‘My default setting.’