Breaking Point (4 page)

He stared at his students. Seventy-four of them had signed up to his module and most of them appeared to be here. He continued to wonder why. They should be outside, or in pubs, or making love, or doing whatever it was that young people did that made them feel young. Christ knows it didn’t last.

James scanned the text of the summary slide, knowing that after this he was free. It was the final session of a long day, and escape from his problems was beckoning. ‘So the point is, can you prevent it?’ he asked, his deep Sheffield tones bouncing around the light wooden panelling. ‘Can
you
cure it? Should the aim just be to increase life expectancy? After all, only ten per cent of patients actually die directly from their prostate cancer; the rest, as we’ve seen, succumb to old age and other more potent killers.’ Dr Crannell looked hopefully out at his students, who were folding pieces of paper, replacing their headphones or attacking their phones with pairs of bended thumbs. Just one intelligent comment would do. ‘Or should you just cut the thing out, despite the physiological and psychological repercussions? What do we think?’

‘Fuck all,’ he whispered to himself. And this was a good university, one of the best in the country. Competition for places. Internationally respected research. Dr Crannell pictured the sanctity of his own lab and sighed again. Not exactly world class any more. In fact, it was increasingly coming to resemble his lecturing. Getting by, doing what had to be done.

The students began to file out. A couple said thank you as they passed. Dr Crannell took that as a result. He pulled his memory stick out of the audio-visual computer and headed for the door. Past gaggles of students gathering in corridors, and those walking the slow, languorous walk of the young and unburdened. Down a flight of
stairs
, along a glass walkway, through two sets of double doors and past a security desk. And out into the fresh air.

It was nearly six. With a bit of luck he could be home by half past. Soon it would be dark. James shuddered at the thought of impending autumn, which would quickly slide into winter.

He headed across the concrete and tarmac of what was optimistically referred to as the campus. He thought again about the email, wondered whether he would get any more letters, considered whether the threats were specific enough to go to the police with. He pulled out his keys as he reached the staff car park and pointed them at an ageing VW Golf, which flashed its indicators at him. He threw his case in the passenger door and climbed in the driver’s side. A cold breeze entered with him. He shivered. Then something made him stop, made him look up.

And then he saw them. Two well-built men. He recognized them from the lecture theatre. Sitting at the back. Looking older than the others, but just as disinterested. The thought had struck him but hadn’t quite crystallized in his brain at the time:
These aren’t students
.

They were just ten metres away, staring at him. Cold and scary. He locked the doors from the
inside
. Another thought tracked him down: they had followed him from the lecture theatre. Down the stairs, along the corridors, past security, across the concrete, all the way. And now here they were. Just watching him. He glanced around. There was no one else about. It could only be him they were interested in.

James fumbled with his keys and forced them into the ignition. Started the engine, crunched it into gear. They remained glued to the spot, unmoving, boring into him with their eyes. He pulled away fast, his tyres complaining. He screeched by, metres from the men, almost expecting them to pull guns or stop him. But they didn’t. They continued to glare, eyes burning into him. He reached the barrier and told himself to be calm. This was nothing to panic over. He was in his car, his doors were locked, he’d be OK. He wound down his window and swiped his card. The barrier went up. He wound the window rapidly up again, scanning the rear-view mirror. He had lost sight of them.

The car park was complicated. He had to do almost an entire lap before he could get out, and when he reached the road the traffic was heavy. He was beginning to sweat. His hands were shaking on the steering wheel. He forced his way
in
. There was still nothing in the rear-view. The men weren’t following. He took a series of deep breaths and fought for calm.

He worked through reasons and explanations, but came up with nothing. Two men had entered his lecture theatre, waited until the end, and followed him to his car. And then they had simply walked away. It didn’t make sense. Car-jackers or thieves wouldn’t have made it so obvious. James frowned his academic frown, a tightness forming in his temples, an ache at the front of his skull. Again, the series of emails and letters came to him. Were they the senders? And if so, what the hell did they want?

He passed a Tube station, and then he saw them again. One of them was talking into a mobile phone. They hadn’t seen him. The man on the phone glanced around as he ended his call. Then they entered the Underground together.

7

THE BOOKCASE, THE
CD collection and the DVD library did nothing to lift Reuben’s spirits. It was official. The man who had stolen his wife and child, whom Lucy had taken solace in while the job at GeneCrime had chewed him up, had good taste. Of course Reuben was well aware that good taste was an arbitrary concept, that one man’s Phil Collins was another man’s Radiohead, but there were certain incontrovertible facts.
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
was a good film.
The Corrections
was a good book. New Order were a good band. And Lucy Maitland was a good-looking woman. Draw a Venn diagram of the people who liked these things, and Shaun Graves would be standing dead centre, smiling slyly with that cool, detached I’m-fucking-your-ex-wife look of his.

Lucy padded down the stairs, stopped off somewhere for a second, then came in holding two glasses of red. ‘He’s fast asleep,’ she said, handing over one of the glasses. ‘Shiraz. Hope that’s OK?’

Reuben stared into his drink. It was dark and impenetrable, more black than red. Generally, he preferred his alcohol clear and pure. ‘It’ll do,’ he answered.

He ran his eyes along the elongated racking system that displayed Shaun’s good taste for the whole length of one wall. This is what I lack, Reuben thought to himself. A home, a place to exhibit all the things that make me who I am, rooms that tell the story of my life.

He picked up a framed photo and waved it towards Lucy. ‘When was this taken?’

‘Only a couple of days ago. I’ve just had it framed.’

‘He’s starting to look better. More like a proper boy than a hospital patient.’

‘And he’s getting stronger. God, he’s got some energy at times.’

Reuben replaced the photograph of his son and turned to his ex-wife. It had been nearly two weeks since he last saw Joshua. As usual, Reuben hadn’t been invited in. He had been allowed
a
couple of hours in the park in the rain with him. And already Joshua was changing: some of his hair was growing back, maybe some weight returning to his features. He wasn’t out of trouble yet, but he was heading in the right direction.
Remission
was the word the consultants had used. It seemed such a gentle word after the pain and misery acute lymphocytic leukaemia had put his son through, sapping his energy, stripping away his immune system, attacking him from the inside. But ‘remission’ was now Reuben’s favourite word, infinitely better than any of the others that sprang to mind, unthinkable outcomes that had all too nearly come to pass.

‘So, what did you want to talk about?’

Lucy sat down on one of the two leather sofas and crossed her legs. Reuben watched her take a measured sip of her wine, savouring the moment, the reward for getting her child into bed and finally to sleep.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said.

‘Why don’t I like the sound of this?’

‘No, it’s nothing bad. It’s just I think Joshua needs to see more of his dad.’

‘Since Shaun went away? And, let me guess, he isn’t coming back any time soon?’

‘What makes you say that?’

Reuben ran a finger over a nearby section of the racking system and inspected it closely. ‘Either he never listens to music, watches films or reads books, or he isn’t here to do those things at the moment.’

Lucy followed the direction of his scrutiny. ‘Maybe I just don’t dust very often.’

‘So how come your section of CDs, the ones that used to sit in our living room, in our CD rack, is nowhere near as dusty.’

Lucy flushed despite herself. ‘God, do you ever lose that detective zeal? It can get very annoying, just like the bad old days.’

‘I never thought they were that bad.’

‘Always on my bloody guard, knowing you’d be analysing everything I said, watching everything I did. The forensic scientist who couldn’t turn it off and was always looking for clues. Even in his own bloody home.’

‘Some would say with good reason.’

‘Well that was then and this is now. All I’m saying is you should switch it off from time to time.’

Reuben tried some of his drink. It wasn’t as bad as he had imagined. A bit too fruity, but otherwise drinkable. He glanced at Lucy. Her cheeks were rouged, her eyes wide, her mouth held in a pout. It was terrific seeing her angry.

After a few moments he said, ‘Sorry. Bad habit.’

Lucy blew some air out of the corner of her mouth and muttered, ‘It’s OK.’

‘So where is Shaun?’

Lucy sighed. ‘New York, one of our partner law firms. They’re working him to death by the sound of it.’

‘How long?’

‘He’s giving it three months.’ She tucked a strand of her dark bob behind her ear and stared into her wine, swirling it thoughtfully. ‘We’ve agreed that Joshua and I will be out by the time he returns.’

Reuben looked over at her intently, monitoring her body language. The man who had taken Lucy from him was now asking her to leave. And Reuben had a good idea why.

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said quietly.

Lucy arched her eyebrows at him.

‘No, really. Things move on. I don’t want to see you unhappy, or my son outside a stable relationship.’

Lucy visibly softened, her features standing down, at ease. ‘That must have taken guts, after all that’s happened.’

Reuben grunted, suppressing the memories, squeezing the anger tight in his belly.

‘I don’t know if I could have been so forgiving if the tables had been turned.’

‘So, where are you going to go?’

‘Home. The old house.’

‘Really?’

‘The tenants are moving out. No point renting somewhere when I can simply move back into our home.’

‘Your home.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Sounds good.’ It was all Reuben could do to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

Lucy was quiet for a few seconds, and Reuben watched her. She was building up to something difficult.

‘Look, the reason I asked you round is that he’s getting older, starting to notice things. He’s nearly two now. A boy needs a father.’

‘It was never my intention that he wouldn’t have one.’ Reuben couldn’t help himself. It had just rushed out. He cursed under his breath. Being magnanimous was OK in short stretches, but was a fucker to keep up.

‘Look, I’m trying to say something good here. Something constructive.’ Her eyes. Her pale blue eyes with the dark edges that sucked you in, even from across the room. Fighting the accusation,
trying
to maintain the peace. ‘I just think that maybe you should spend some more time with him. Take him out a bit more often.’

Reuben tried not to appear too keen. ‘How often?’

‘You know, two or three times a week.’

Reuben took another slug, finishing the wine, swallowing it down, his heart racing. Two or three times a week. He did his best not to let it show.

‘OK,’ he said, ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

8

THE NORTHERN LINE
was heaving. People everywhere, forced into every nook and cranny, desperately trying not to touch one another as the train lurched between stations. The lucky ones were seated; the rest were standing and gripping metal bars warm from the heat of previous hands.

Judith Meadows considered herself fortunate. Only recently had she become pregnant enough to be consistently offered a seat. She had passed the halfway house, that limbo where men glanced uncertainly at her, scared of misdiagnosing a flabby stomach or a bloated belly. But now, the size and shape of her bulge – a small football protruding above her waist – was unmistakable, and Judith rarely went without a seat on the way home from GeneCrime.

The pub had been sour, a miserable experience from start to finish. Especially for a recent teetotal. She let her hands rest on the hard, round ball of her belly. It was a comforting position, like she was holding the whole world in her arms. She hadn’t even had a chance to talk to Reuben, who had been busy with DI Charlie Baker and DCI Sarah Hirst. Hanging out with the big boys and girls. But that was for the best, she appreciated. The fewer people who knew about her work for Reuben the better. Sarah knew, and tolerated it. Charlie probably suspected, but had never said anything. And of course Mina Ali was wise to it. Judith was happy to leave it at that. And if the price was not talking to her former boss in a dingy North London pub at a teatime wake, then so be it.

Judith tried not to look at anyone. She stared into space, counting down the stops to her part of the city. It was south of the river. Not fashionable, just decent housing that public sector employees could afford to call home. The train stopped and pulled off again, more people crowding on. It was after seven, but still the Tube was mopping up a relentless wash of workers and forcing them into its small metal carriages. Tired people making their way home,
their
days effectively over, retreating to their sofas and their remote controls.

The air was thick with stale odours. Judith breathed in tobacco, alcohol, sweat, perfume and gum. She thought about her baby sucking all these particles through its placenta. Airborne molecules from a plethora of sources. She was drained and starting to perspire. A man standing in front, blocking her line of sight, brushed against her. Judith gritted her teeth. Another ten minutes and she would be at the station.