lot of attention. Whoever shot the couple had made them shut their front door behind them. Killed on their own front step. A messy execution in a well-tended village with close-cropped thatches and neatly trimmed borders. Reuben had led the investigation. Ballistics had concluded a twelve-bore at point blank. The wife first, then the husband. A barrel each. Faces blown away, virtually decapitated by the force of the blast. And although the scene was awash with the cells, hairs and fluids of the deceased, no forensic samples were ever retrieved from the assassin. But Reuben knew who had pulled the trigger. Everyone did. The gangster whose operation had lost three men in a dispute with Joe Keansey’s outfit in South London. The gangster who had managed to track Joe Keansey’s parents down to a neat village in Surrey . The gangster who had patiently waited for Keansey to be put away for fifteen years. The gangster who had then executed Keansey’s parents in broad daylight.
Maclyn Margulis.
Reuben shook himself round. Joshua sounded unhappy. He had been pushing hard, the swing slightly too high for comfort. Reuben eased back. ‘Sorry, little fella,’ he said. This is what it used to be like, he reminded himself. Wrapped up in work cases when he was at home, GeneCrime gnawing into his family life. But now things were different. He unbuckled Joshua and pulled him out of the swing. Not better, just different.
He slid the wet sleeve of his jacket up and looked at his watch. Nearly quarter to six.
‘We’d better think about getting you home to Mummy,’ he said. ‘She’ll be getting back from work and wondering where you are.’
Reuben led his son out of the play area and towards the main road. The rain had eased back a little, now more like a film of moisture in the air. Through the mist he spotted the golden arches of a fast food restaurant. The phrase ‘McDonald’s Dad’ flashed up in his brain. Being a part-time father was bad enough, but spending it surrounded by plastic tables and chairs and disposable cutlery … Reuben pressed on. Lucy’s house wasn’t far.
Joshua began to dawdle again, so Reuben bent down and picked him up. He kissed him on his cold wet cheek. Then he strode on, past the promise of Happy Meals, and on towards Lucy’s house, the thought of Maclyn Margulis and his previous atrocities never quite leaving him.
15
DOTON OKE FOLLOWED the dark-haired female down the concrete steps of Ealing Broadway Tube station, a full stop on the Central Line. Doton looked again, noting that she was undeniably attractive. Probably Italian, though she could be Spanish at a push, or even Portuguese. Soon, the exotic females that brightened subterranean London would begin to decline in number, winter killing them off or dressing them up in disappointingly thick jumpers and long coats. He walked a pace behind, swimming against the tide of commuters heading up into the damp evening air, happy simply to be in the presence of beauty.
The woman half turned to check he was following and Doton smiled in acknowledgement. The ticket barriers were understaffed today. Queues would be forming, frazzled passengers complaining that their tickets weren’t working or had been lost or stolen, or whatever other excuse came to hand. Fuck ’em, he thought. They would have to manage without him.
So far, Doton had little idea about the nature of the Italian/Spanish/Portuguese woman’s complaint. It was probably some sort of foreign confusion, but he was content to stretch his legs for a couple of minutes, making the passengers upstairs sweat for a bit. At first, at the barrier, it had resembled a typical London exchange. Pointing and gesticulating, foreign words thick and fast, almost under the breath, exact meanings lost in translation. After a couple of minutes, Doton had held up his hands and said, ‘Show me.’
The woman checked he was behind again, and then entered a train that was standing motionless at Platform 3 with
Maclyn Margulis.
Reuben shook himself round. Joshua sounded unhappy. He had been pushing hard, the swing slightly too high for comfort. Reuben eased back. ‘Sorry, little fella,’ he said. This is what it used to be like, he reminded himself. Wrapped up in work cases when he was at home, GeneCrime gnawing into his family life. But now things were different. He unbuckled Joshua and pulled him out of the swing. Not better, just different.
He slid the wet sleeve of his jacket up and looked at his watch. Nearly quarter to six.
‘We’d better think about getting you home to Mummy,’ he said. ‘She’ll be getting back from work and wondering where you are.’
Reuben led his son out of the play area and towards the main road. The rain had eased back a little, now more like a film of moisture in the air. Through the mist he spotted the golden arches of a fast food restaurant. The phrase ‘McDonald’s Dad’ flashed up in his brain. Being a part-time father was bad enough, but spending it surrounded by plastic tables and chairs and disposable cutlery … Reuben pressed on. Lucy’s house wasn’t far.
Joshua began to dawdle again, so Reuben bent down and picked him up. He kissed him on his cold wet cheek. Then he strode on, past the promise of Happy Meals, and on towards Lucy’s house, the thought of Maclyn Margulis and his previous atrocities never quite leaving him.
15
DOTON OKE FOLLOWED the dark-haired female down the concrete steps of Ealing Broadway Tube station, a full stop on the Central Line. Doton looked again, noting that she was undeniably attractive. Probably Italian, though she could be Spanish at a push, or even Portuguese. Soon, the exotic females that brightened subterranean London would begin to decline in number, winter killing them off or dressing them up in disappointingly thick jumpers and long coats. He walked a pace behind, swimming against the tide of commuters heading up into the damp evening air, happy simply to be in the presence of beauty.
The woman half turned to check he was following and Doton smiled in acknowledgement. The ticket barriers were understaffed today. Queues would be forming, frazzled passengers complaining that their tickets weren’t working or had been lost or stolen, or whatever other excuse came to hand. Fuck ’em, he thought. They would have to manage without him.
So far, Doton had little idea about the nature of the Italian/Spanish/Portuguese woman’s complaint. It was probably some sort of foreign confusion, but he was content to stretch his legs for a couple of minutes, making the passengers upstairs sweat for a bit. At first, at the barrier, it had resembled a typical London exchange. Pointing and gesticulating, foreign words thick and fast, almost under the breath, exact meanings lost in translation. After a couple of minutes, Doton had held up his hands and said, ‘Show me.’
The woman checked he was behind again, and then entered a train that was standing motionless at Platform 3 with
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