Influence

by Chris Parker

  However, Peter Jones the man had not been called to this street. The person who now walked out of the house towards his car, grim-faced and purposeful, was Detective Chief Inspector Peter Jones. He had no emotional energy to spare on the victim’s family or friends. He looked through eyes that searched only for clues. He saw only pieces in a jigsaw. He felt nothing.

  That, Peter reminded himself, was what it meant to be a professional, to be driven by purpose and results, to be detached from the human situation. This is how he was able to make the connections that led him to his quarry, whether it began with six degrees of separation or not. And he had seen something of enormous significance in the victim’s study. Pages of handwritten notes, with clear sub-headings and arrows connecting one sentence or passage to another as the writer made their own internal connections, as they sought to create clarity from their thoughts. The pages were as obvious to Peter as a signpost.

  Which is why he knew precisely where to go when he left the street. It was also the reason why Detective Chief Inspector Peter Jones was fighting an unexpected internal conflict with Peter Jones the man.

  As he drove away from the street, despite his emotionless face, the detective’s heart was hammering inside his chest.

  30.

  Simon Westbury was making no attempt to hide the way he was feeling. He knew that Emma would instantly see the delight and triumph etched across his face. And, for once, he was very happy for her to know just what was going on inside his head.

  ‘Morning!’ Simon greeted. ‘How are you today?’

  Emma looked up from her computer and glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘You are even later than normal.’

  ‘I always make up for it at the end of the day, and I’m never late if I have a morning meeting. And you’re not my boss, so it’s none of your business.’

  ‘That’s true. I guess that also means that the reason why you’re late is none of my business either.’ Emma looked back at her computer screen.

  ‘No! That’s more personal than it is professional, so you can ask me about that.’

  ‘What if I don’t want to?’

  ‘If I were you, I’d want to.’

  ‘Not necessarily. If you were me you’d only want to do what I would want to do.’

  ‘You know what I meant!’

  ‘I know that you are looking extremely pleased with yourself and, at this time of day, that can only mean one thing: Cassandra has finally asked you out.’

  ‘I asked her out!’

  ‘You might have plucked up the courage to say the actual words but, trust me, she is the one who first decided that today was going to be the day. That’s the way we women work. We make the decisions and then let you guys think that you are in control.’ Emma winked. ‘She will even have decided where the first date is going to be, and she will have known for sure that you would give her the choice.’

  ‘Actually, she said didn’t mind where we go.’

  ‘And then?’

  Simon shrugged. ‘She suggested we meet for a drink in The Orange Tree and then take it from there.’

  ‘In woman-speak that translates as “then she will take you wherever she plans to go”. Still, I’m pleased for you, now you’ve got a great boss while you’re at work and, by the sound of things, an even better one when you’re not.’

  ‘I don’t need to be bossed around all the time! I’m an independent spirit – and remember, one day I’m going to be the boss round here! Besides, Cass isn’t like that. She – ’

  Simon was cut short by the unexpected arrival of Peter Jones.

  ‘Inspector.’ Emma stood up instinctively as she spoke. She had met the policeman twice before. Once in a nearby bar at an early evening drinks celebration for Marcus’s most recent birthday and then again, a few weeks later, when she had almost literally bumped into him in one of the city’s larger department stores. She had been surprised – and impressed – on this second occasion, not only by the fact that he had remembered her name but even more so by the many details about her that he clearly recalled. When she had commented on it he had chuckled and replied dryly, ‘A forgetful policeman is really not going to be very good at their job, now are they?’

  Today, though, there was no sign of humour in his countenance.

  ‘Inspector,’ Emma said again, glancing at her diary for the day. ‘Is, er, Marcus expecting you?’

  ‘No. But I need to speak with him.’

  Simon couldn’t help but notice that the detective’s tone was firm, his inflection lowering at the end of the sentence denoting a command rather than a request.

  ‘He’s in his office, ‘Emma said. ‘Should I let him know that you’re here?’

  ‘It’s OK. I’ll see myself in.’

  Peter crossed the reception area without waiting for a reply. A curt knock on Marcus’s office door and he stepped inside.

  The consultant was sitting with his feet crossed at the ankles on top of his large, walnut desk. He was leaning back in the brown leather chair, squeezing a tennis ball in his right hand, looking up at the ceiling as if lost in thought. Only his eyes moved as Peter stepped into the office.

  ‘It’s that bad, is it?’ Marcus let only the briefest frown cross his face.

  ‘You could say that.’ Peter crossed the room in three strides.

  Marcus dropped the ball. He swung his feet to the floor and leaned forwards, both of his forearms resting on the desk. He entwined his hands. ‘Has he killed again, already?

  Peter nodded and sat on the other side of the desk. ‘We’ve still got to go through all the usual stuff, but there can be no doubt. The M.O. is exactly the same. Taped in a chair, scalped, top of the head removed.’

  ‘Two in less than a week,’ Marcus pursed his lips. ‘He is urgent. The question is, why is he?’

  Peter shook his head. ‘That is a question. It isn’t the most important one.’

  Marcus’s gaze returned to the ceiling. He was silent for several seconds only. ‘Sometimes I hate being right,’ he whispered. Then he looked back at Peter. ‘The most important question is “Who has he killed?” And the answer to that, the answer that makes it even more significant than normal, is that there is some connection between the victim and me. That’s it, isn’t it?

  ‘Looks that way.’ Peter said nothing more. Instead he watched Marcus closely. He saw the slight, uncontrolled intake of breath followed by the swallow as the adrenaline hit. Peter waited, forcing the question.

  ‘So what’s the connection?’

  ‘I’m guessing he is – was – a current client of yours. There were notes in his house that he wrote over the last few days. It’s clear that he was writing them in preparation for his next meeting with you.’

  It took barely a second for Marcus to realise the answer. ‘Paul Clusker?’ Marcus’s eyes widened. ‘Is that who you found?’

  Peter nodded. It seemed to him that Marcus’s face had lost some of its natural colour. Once again he remained silent. This time the pause lasted longer. Peter felt the unspoken competition stretching the silence. He automatically relaxed his shoulders and his hands. He didn’t care if Marcus noticed. Right now it didn’t matter what Marcus saw. This was a competition the detective had played many times before and he had always won. The only difference here was that the person opposite him was acknowledged as a genius at understanding and influencing others and was also his best friend.

  But not when I’m at work, Peter reminded himself. DCI Jones is the best at what he does and he doesn’t have friends. He just has a job to do.

  ‘You’re looking at me as if I’m a suspect,’ Marcus said finally.

  ‘You’re connected. That’s all.’

  ‘At the moment! That’s what you thought and didn’t say. I’m connected at the moment. Meaning that you don’t know where the connection will lead. Meaning that you have an open
mind. Meaning that you have already considered the possibility that I might have killed him. And, by extension, that I also killed Derrick Smith.’

  ‘I didn’t tell you his name. When I showed you the film, you never asked.’

  ‘I didn’t ask because I’d already seen it in the newspapers.’ Marcus’s smile lacked warmth. ‘So this is what you look like when you are in front of a suspect.’

  ‘When I am in front of someone who is connected.’

  ‘I guess you’re not going to ask me to watch the film of this crime scene?’

  ‘I’m going to ask you to tell me everything you know about Paul Clusker.’

  ‘Hmm. It’s normally me who asks the questions. How weird is this?’

  ‘It’s not weird at all. When I’m investigating a murder – in this case a series of murders – it’s always me who asks the questions.’

  ‘Wow! Has Nic ever seen you like this?’

  ‘That’s your first and last personal reference in this conversation. Now, tell me about Clusker.’

  Marcus hesitated. He gathered his thoughts. ‘He was a nice guy. He came to me to help him rejuvenate his business. It’s a small therapy centre, called “Health Matters”. Paul knew that he needed to change so that his business could, only he didn’t know how to go about it. I was teaching him.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘The same day that Derrick Smith was killed.’

  Peter’s phone rang. He took it out of his pocket, checked the caller ID and ignored it. ‘Tell me again how you interpreted the purple branch. What was the take-home message for you?’

  ‘I didn’t have to take it home. It was already at my home.’ Neither man smiled. ‘To me it was as personal and as obvious as a phone call. And even more direct and deliberate, because a caller can claim they’ve dialled the wrong number.. Whoever did that to the willow tree didn’t make a mistake. They were going out of their way to point me out. And they were telling me something about themselves too. They were telling me how smart they are. Or at least how smart they think they are. And they did that because they were laying down a form of challenge. Albeit a silent one.’ Marcus looked briefly into Peter’s eyes and then continued. ‘In one way or another they are trying to take me on. It’s like a communications joust.’

  ‘If the person who did that is actually the killer, it’s far more than a joust.’

  ‘So you are considering that possibility now, are you?’

  ‘I’m considering all possibilities.’

  ‘Then you have to consider that Paul’s connection to me could just be a coincidence.’

  ‘I don’t believe in coincidences in the workplace any more than you do. And where this case is concerned there are very few individuals who have the right, the power, or the experience to tell me what I should or shouldn’t consider.’

  ‘Prickly.’

  ‘Professional.’

  The silence fell and stretched again. The nightmare, the thought of Nic buried alive, tried to force its way unexpectedly back into Peter’s mind. He refused it entry, using the anger he felt for letting the memory resurface as a weapon. The Detective Chief Inspector suddenly heard himself speak.

  ‘Did Clusker say anything to you that indicated he felt he was facing any sort of personal threat? Did he mention any problems he was having with anyone? Did he talk about anything out of the ordinary that he had experienced recently?’

  Marcus shook his head. ‘Nothing like that. The notes I asked him to write were designed to help him reconnect with himself and his business. That was the only topic we discussed. I’ve no doubt that everything else in his life was safe, secure and very much to his liking. This was a man who wanted to revitalise himself through his business before he went off into the sunset with his wife.’

  ‘Into the sunset?’

  ‘I suspect that they had plans to retire abroad. Europe definitely. France most likely.’

  ‘Did he tell you that?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘And you have never been to his house or talked to his wife?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then how do you know?

  Marcus spread his hands. ‘It is still me you’re talking to. I did spend some considerable time looking at him very closely. He wasn’t that difficult to work out.’

  Peter nodded, his face emotionless.

  To Marcus the implication was clear. ‘Have I just made myself even more connected?’

  The Detective Chief Inspector ignored the question. Deep inside, Peter Jones wished that he could ignore certain connections just as easily.

  The meeting did not end well.

  31.

  Anne-Marie felt as if she was meeting familiar – in many cases loved – faces and scenes for the very first time. It was, she acknowledged, in one sense true and in one sense not. Like most things. In the very final analysis, life was a matter of perspective. Open to interpretation. Rarely clear-cut.

  Life, she considered, was a word people used to describe a constant, unpredictable state of flux. Life was like the ocean with its hidden currents, its shifting moods, its beauty and threat – interchangeable and, ultimately, uncontrollable.

  Sure, sometimes people played the winds, used the current, steered their intended path. Sometimes, though, the ocean took you as its plaything and, no matter whom you were, it did whatever it chose. In such times it taught you a lesson that was easy to miss when surrounded by the city and supported by your own success. It taught you how small you really were. How weak compared to nature’s whim. It taught you that the ocean could swallow you up – completely and utterly – without even noticing that it had.

  Anne-Marie was looking at the photos she kept on her iPhone. They were not the carefully created, professionally thought-out images that she was famous for. Rather, they were scenes from her life. They were each, in their own time and in their own way, driven by a common need to capture an experience and guarantee, in part at least, the accuracy of the memory.

  Truthfully, though, Anne-Marie had never placed such importance on them before. The long-term need, whilst evident, had been more subconscious than explicit. Indeed, the more she thought about it, the more Anne-Marie was forced to accept the fact that she had taken these photos because everyone else did. It was fashionable to use your phone to record every social encounter. It was a social trend so powerful that it was almost compulsory to do so. And then, of course, the trend was to share them on Facebook with hundreds, possibly even thousands, of people you had never spoken to, let alone met, who were all labelled as ‘friends.’

  Anne-Marie wondered how her many friends, virtual and otherwise, would respond to her planned new Facebook page titled Far from the Shore: The Life and Death of an Ovarian Cancer.

  She would use it, along with her blog and Twitter account, to alert as many women as possible to the danger of feeling immortal, of the need for regular health checks, of just what it was like to find yourself suddenly – terrifyingly! – far, far out of your depth. And, whether the cancer died first or she did, the publicity she attracted would help others and also, of course, help to disseminate her photographic essay. The most significant unknown in that regard was who, precisely, would take the final photo in the series?

  Anne-Marie shivered as she contemplated the answer. The photos on her phone had now assumed a personal significance she could never before have imagined. The pictures she used to flick through occasionally when in a bar waiting for a friend, or when suddenly reminded of a past event, were suddenly vibrant and powerful and rich with emotion.

  Yet distant.

  They seemed so remote. And the danger was that they would become even more so. Much as she felt compelled to return to these pictures, Anne-Marie felt a force, a current, trying to pull her away from the normality she had been used to; away from those taken-for-granted things tha
t were, she realised with a mixture of regret, shame and anger, the reflection of a happy life.

  Anne-Marie looked at each photo, spending many minutes over each one, reminding herself as much as she possibly could about everything that went before and after, recreating the associated emotions as if they were a form of medication more powerful than any consultant’s offering.

  Cancer, she was going to tell the world, threatened to kill more than just a body.

  In fact, the body was the very last thing a cancer killed. Before it managed to do that, cancer tried to destroy your connections with everyone and everything you held dear. Its devilish trick was to make you realise just how selfish and short-sighted you had been, how you had failed to appreciate how lucky you were, how you had failed to recognise the beauty in so many things, For Anne-Marie, a professional photographer who had prided herself on her ability to see, this awareness was at once a condemnation and a revelation. And, along with fighting the cancer, she found herself fighting a sense of self-disgust.

  Why had it taken this to open her eyes?

  It was the sort of question that could only be addressed from an emotional distance and creating any sort of emotional distance from anything was almost impossible for Anne-Marie right now. So, she had realised, it was essential that the emotions she created were as positive as possible. To do anything else would be to fuel the cancer, to give it precisely what it needed to grow.

  That was not an option.

  Anne-Marie was determined to use her learning, her new insights, to make herself stronger. She could – would – survive this. Then the new, improved, Anne-Marie, the one who had lost her fear, left behind her self-disgust, the one who for the first time ever truly understood the nature and importance of gratitude, would take even better photographs. And – far more importantly – see her world very differently and build even better relationships.