Breaking Point (26 page)

The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that one of the team was doing something very illegal. This was not about CID. One of the forensics team, maybe one of the scientists he had recruited and trained, had set a series of critical events into motion. Events that were already taking their toll. Reuben thought suddenly of Danny Pavey, and wondered where the hell he fitted into everything. Still on the run, a man who had killed once and might just have got a taste for it.

He pulled out his phone again and checked it. He needed to call Moray and arrange to meet up back at the lab. There was no signal, the bars on the screen flashing blankly, reminding him that he was out of contact with the world.
Supposedly
, there would soon be mobile coverage on the Underground. Trapped hundreds of feet down with bankers and accountants shouting into receivers, ruining the English language with their tired jargon and clunky buzz words. Reuben shuddered. Silence and detachment were about the only things going for the Tube. Take that away, and maybe even Reuben would feel like killing. He frowned to himself, resolving to enjoy the relative quietness, to revel in the short lull in communication.

The Tube surfaced, travelling above ground for a change. Reuben was beginning to dry out in the warm, pumped-in air. He watched dancing railway lines join and separate again. He scanned the backs of three- and four-storey houses, slender gardens reaching towards him. He saw two large trees in the middle of a park standing close together. He imagined their roots below the surface tangled and intertwined, secret lovers holding hands. He thought briefly of Lucy. Her offer of another try, man and wife, full-time father to Joshua, a unit, a family. And then the train dived down again, into rock, burrowing its way underground.

Reuben scratched the stubble of a nascent beard. Things were starting to take shape. Slowly,
pieces
of information were appearing. He was excited. He had a good idea that things were going to get nasty. The detective urge, the thrill of the hunt, the expectation of danger, all of these things surged inside him. He realized that leaving CID had deprived him of moments like this, of the sheer gathering momentum of cases coming to a head. Now that Detective Grainger was known to be involved, a whole world of possibilities had opened up. This was big. The country’s elite forensic division giving men like Grainger the information to threaten and attack law-abiding civilians. Reuben gripped the hand rail hard. All he had to do now was find out why.

The train pulled into a station. He walked towards the doors, sensing that the real fight was just about to begin.

7

DESPITE HER INITIAL
indifference, Sarah had beaten him to it. She was holding her mobile vertically, tapping it into the metal table, chewing her bottom lip, her brow furrowed. There was, Reuben appreciated, something beguiling about DCI Hirst. Capable of playing tough yet looking vulnerable, verging on the hard-hearted but allowing rare glimpses of compassion and concern. When she saw him, she put down her phone and crossed her arms. Reuben read the message: you’re late, and I’m busy.

‘Sorry,’ Reuben said with a shrug. ‘Tried to get a cab from the nearest Tube but there’s no point any more. The traffic has finally congealed.’

Sarah raised her eyebrows. ‘Whatever. I haven’t got a lot of time for this.’

Reuben slid out a chair. ‘Enough of the pleasantries. Let’s cut to the chase.’

‘Go on then.’

Reuben began to tell her what he knew, but Sarah quickly cut him off.

‘Save your breath,’ she said. ‘We’ve got Crannell at GeneCrime. I saw him being brought in as I left. Mina called me and we handled it in house.’

‘You girls and boys don’t hang around.’

‘Tell the truth, CID are desperate for some action. We’ve been cooped up watching CCTV footage, interviewing London Transport personnel, trying to match images, getting nowhere with the forensics, becoming bloody experts in arsenic derivatives. The chance to pick up a potential cop killer was too good to miss. And besides, if you and Mina are right and this has something to do with my division, I want it happening on home turf.’

‘What are you going to do with Dr Crannell?’

‘I’m going to be interviewing him myself.’

‘Go easy on him.’

‘Attempted murder of a police officer isn’t something you go easy on.’

‘There was provocation. The victim, for instance.’ Reuben drummed his fingers on the
cold
metal surface of the table. ‘How is Detective Grainger?’

‘He’s been taken to hospital. We’ll talk to him later.’

‘Will he be OK?’

‘Probably. Though a few seconds more would have been enough for us to be talking murder.’

Reuben took the chance to examine Sarah as she glanced around the café. Still looking tired, her light hair escaping its pony tail in places, a hint of blusher powdering her cheeks. Other than that, pale and slightly haunted, like she could do with a good meal inside her, and a decent night’s sleep.

‘Look, scientists are behind all this. Genotyping, hunting, attacking. This is serious, Sarah. I need you to sanction more help.’

Sarah turned back to face him. ‘And I need something from you.’

‘What?’ Reuben asked.

‘I need you to take your old job back and get the division sorted again. But I don’t see you rushing to help me.’

‘I said I needed time.’

‘And you’ve had time. Meanwhile, five people have been killed on the Underground. Countless other cases are mounting up.’ Sarah reached
forward
and placed a hand on his, her features softening. ‘We need you back, Reuben.’

Reuben glanced down at his hand, unsure what to do. Sarah’s fingers felt warm and welcoming. A small thrill passed through him which he tried to ignore. He lingered a second, then pulled his arm back and out of reach. He needed to think clearly.

‘Even if I was interested, the Met aren’t going to sanction someone with my track record taking over GeneCrime forensics again.’

‘I’ve been talking to some of the big boys. Bending their ears, clearing a path. Have a look through the window, Reuben. What do you see?’

Reuben swivelled round. People passing, coats done up tight. Slow-moving cars. Bicycles cutting in and out. The pavement deep in pedestrians. A bus standing static, its passengers focusing resolutely ahead. A stationary police car, its blue lights flashing uselessly. He listened. He could almost hear it. The sound of frustration, of rising pressure, of slow, grating tension. A million teeth being ground together, a million fingernails being chewed, a million fists clenching and unclenching.

‘Well?’ Sarah asked.

‘Paralysis,’ Reuben answered.

‘This isn’t paralysis, this is bloody meltdown. Without the Underground, London can’t cope. It’s been built into the traffic architecture for a hundred years. I’ve talked to planners and consultants until I know everything there is to know. Movement above ground depends on the hundred and fifty thousand people who enter the Tube every hour, the one billion passenger journeys every year. Without them, we breach some kind of threshold of fluidity. There was a mini-riot yesterday at a junction in Marble Arch. Someone jumped a red and got stranded in the middle of an intersection, blocking it in all directions. Two cars set on fire, three people taken to hospital. Road rage is exploding all over the place.’

‘And if I came back to GeneCrime all this would stop?’

‘What I’m saying is that when there’s a crisis like this, area commanders like your old mate William Thorner will agree to almost anything. Even re-employing a has-been like you.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I’m serious. The door is open, Reuben, and it’s being held open by some very substantial uniform. The quicker you come back, the quicker we can catch the psycho who is causing all this mess.’

Sarah glanced at her watch. Then she took a deep breath and held it there. She met his eye briefly, then glanced away. Reuben had an awkward moment of premonition.

‘I’m only going to say this to you once. I won’t repeat it or acknowledge that I ever said it.’

‘Go on.’

‘No one can catch criminals like you, Reuben. You are unique, a one-off. A pain in the arse, granted. And a nightmare to try and manage. But the stuff you’ve pulled in your time … If anyone can track this killer, it’s you.’ Sarah looked past him, over his shoulder, refusing to make eye contact again. ‘And that’s all I have to say. Take it or leave it.’

Sarah grabbed her phone and stood up. She took a couple of paces, then stopped and turned.

‘The door won’t stay open long, Reuben. A couple of days, that’s all the time you’ve got. I’ll expect an answer by then. If not, this opportunity will never come again.’

DCI Sarah Hirst spun on her heel and strode out. Reuben watched her go, feeling the way he had half an hour earlier – the pull of a big investigation, the thrill of the rare moments of breakthrough, the symphony of scientists, technicians and CID all combining to nail
a
rapist or a killer or a child molester. And for a few brief moments he allowed himself to forget all the reasons why going back to GeneCrime would be a personal and professional disaster.

8

‘I DON’T KNOW
. I just lost it. An instant rush of anger. The desire to hurt someone. A pure flash of violence.’ Dr James Crannell raised his head from its bowed position and gazed straight at the man interviewing him. He was hirsute and intense, staring remorselessly back. Torches for eyes, machine gun for a mouth. ‘So, no, in answer to your question, DI Baker, there was nothing premeditated. And attempted murder has to be premeditated, right? Or is that some wild inaccuracy I’ve picked up from books and films?’

Charlie Baker shifted in his seat. A copper had almost been killed. The last thing he needed was a clever-dick scientist trying to worm his way out of it. He ignored the question.

‘But you’ve assaulted people before, Dr Crannell?’

‘No. Never.’

‘So just out of the blue, in the middle of a typical morning, you suddenly decide you want to choke a stranger to death? A police officer who happened to be at your lecture?’

‘I know how it looks. But that’s the truth.’

‘I want you to dig deep, Dr Crannell. Think back. There have been incidents before, haven’t there?’

James was quiet, pulling at his thinning brown hair, breathing slowly and deeply.

Mina looked at him. She caught his eye and quickly glanced away. Something told her that delayed shock was kicking in, events from earlier catching up with him.

‘Christ, I nearly killed someone today. I very nearly killed someone.’ He scratched his scalp hard, his face screwing up. ‘I can’t believe … the power and the strength I felt. I have no idea where it came from …’ He stopped talking.

Mina sensed a mass of conflicting emotions in him. Regret, fear, unease, even a hint of relief.

‘You said it might always have been there,’ she prompted.

James bit into the side of his cheek. ‘I said
maybe
. I mean, Reuben Maitland got me thinking. He said I have the wrong genotype. We all know that genes are only part of the story. Human behaviour is a complex beast. But then again, I started looking at my life. A cold scientific look from the outside, as if I was a stranger peering in. And what I saw was interesting.’

‘In what way, interesting?’ Charlie asked, his intense eyes scrutinizing every nuance of James’s demeanour.

‘Well, my relationship with Caroline. My failing endeavours in cancer research. My inability to connect or communicate with my students. The distance I’ve always felt from my parents. The eccentricities of my father, the depression and detachment of my mother. My problems coping with stress. The unhappy complexity of my whole existence. How much, I began to wonder, was down to my genotype? Am I simply programmed to find interaction with people difficult? Have I inherited it? Have I always had the capacity within myself to commit extreme acts of violence, like this morning?’

The interview room fell silent. A digital recorder continued to soak up any noises it could find. The air conditioning kicked in, then receded again. There was the swipe of a card at the door.
Charlie
, Mina and James glanced round as a woman entered. Charlie and Mina stood up.

James inspected the newcomer. Smart, relatively petite, an aura of control and purpose about her. Pretty, but not accentuating it. Carrying a brown cardboard folder. The woman took the middle chair and sat down, quickly followed by the other two. She smiled briefly at him, a look of curiosity on her brow. DI Baker whispered something to her for a few long moments. Then she turned back to face him directly.

‘I’m sorry I’m late, Dr Crannell,’ she said. ‘My name is DCI Sarah Hirst. I was just speaking with someone you know. A Dr Reuben Maitland. You do know him?’

James nodded. ‘Look, I need to know if I’m being charged. Shouldn’t I contact my solicitor or something?’

‘You’re not under official arrest, Dr Crannell. Not yet.’

‘So I’m free to leave?’

‘Technically, yes. But if you try we’ll be forced to arrest you.’ Sarah shrugged, raising her eyebrows, conveying the fact that this was a catch-22 without actually saying it. ‘We need to ask you some questions. Not just about what happened
earlier
this morning, but about certain allegations that have come to light.’

James nodded uncertainly.

Sarah opened the brown cardboard file. ‘Now, you were DNA-tested around a year ago after a woman was raped in the apartment block you live in?’

‘Yes.’

‘One hundred and forty-two men profiled, of whom one, Terrence Pang, was eventually convicted.’ Sarah scanned the notes. ‘And which led to his subsequent admission of three similar attacks in his home town of Manchester.’

‘I don’t see—’

Sarah interrupted him. ‘The point I’m making, Dr Crannell, is this. Most of forensics is actually about exclusion. It’s about ruling innocent people out, not guilty people in. You were one of a hundred and forty-one innocent men we needed to exclude from our enquiries before we got to Mr Pang. What we’ve been hearing about in your case, if Mina here is correct’ – Sarah nodded to her left – ‘is the potential misuse of your DNA sample subsequent to that exclusion exercise. And that’s what we need to talk about now.’