by Chris Parker
And that was bad news.
It supported Marcus’s perception that this was a killer unlike any other, a killer with a very specific agenda. Unique was the very worst description any policeman wanted to hear about a person they were pursuing. Unique meant that there was nothing in the data banks that could help, that motive was going to be very difficult to determine. Worst of all it meant that in all probability more crimes were likely to be committed before an arrest could be made. And when those crimes were murders it meant that he, Peter Jones, would be almost as responsible as the unique killer.
Surely there had to be something? Something he had missed?
The great benefit of asking Marcus Kline to help him was that he had privileged access to one of the world’s greatest minds. The downside was that he had to be able and willing to ignore his friend’s interpretation when the evidence did not support it. His friend was a genius. And Peter was a detective. They both understood and appreciated the power of intuition and insight. Only a detective couldn’t spend public money in pursuit of an instinct when the facts did not support it. And a successful court case was built on enough evidence to create a compelling story. Not even as powerful a communicator as Marcus Kline could persuade a jury to convict unless sufficient facts were available.
The problem for Peter was that he knew just how good his friend was. Marcus was rarely wrong. That meant that when he couldn’t act on Marcus’s advice there was a very real chance that he was going in the wrong direction. Despite that he had no choice. Swings and roundabouts. Ups and downs. What Marcus referred to as ‘trade-offs,’ the balancing acts that real life created.
Unless you were a Detective Chief Inspector in which case the trade-offs were deaths not life.
Peter mentally reviewed everything he had learnt about the life and death of Derrick Smith. The fact that Marcus had sensed there was something hidden just below the surface, that he had actually felt his subconscious attracted by an as yet unidentified stimulus, surely meant that there was something of significance they were all missing? Unless, of course, this was one of those rare times when his friend was wrong. And as Marcus told him frequently, no one can achieve perfection. Although he invariably then went on to stress that he did get as close as anyone ever could.
‘It might surprise you all to know that I am happy to declare myself imperfect,’ the consultant said once to a fascinated group at a New Year’s party, ‘However, you probably won’t be surprised to hear that I much prefer to spell and say the word the way it was clearly intended – for me at least.’
‘And how is that?’ Marcus’s pause had drawn the desired question almost immediately.
‘I’m perfect,’ Marcus said, joining in the laughter as his audience recognised the clever wordplay. ‘Well, that’s what I want my clients to believe and how I train my staff to think of me.’
The memory flittered through Peter’s mind. Sometimes he couldn’t help but wonder just how lonely his friend really was. Despite Marcus’s marriage to Anne-Marie, their almost lifelong friendship, his fame and reputation and his powerful network of contacts, the detective had always felt a sense of isolation surrounding the great communicator. He had even mentioned it once, carelessly, after several glasses of red wine too many. ‘I think if John Donne had ever met you, he might never have written his most famous line.’
‘If I am an island,’ Marcus replied quickly, ’’I do at least have some very significant bridges connecting me to the mainland. Although if you are really asking me about the philosophy of John Donne, I’m more inclined to agree with his notion of shadows than anything else.’
‘Shadows?’
‘Yes. He wrote:
“These three hours that we have spent,
Walking here, two shadows went
Along with us, which we ourselves produced.
But, now the sun is just above our head,
We do those shadows tread,
And to brave clearness all things are reduced.”
As far as I can see, the only thing as certain as the inevitability of associations is the fact that ultimately “to brave clearness all things are reduced.”’
‘Right now I could do with things being reduced rapidly into a clearness that shows me the way forward.’ Peter stopped in his tracks as he realised that he had, for the first time ever during the “walk of thought”, just spoken out loud.
The shock reverberated through him. Peter was the Boss of his team. He set the pace, the tempo, the direction and the attention to detail. He controlled those he led completely and he did it, in part, by demonstrating his own high-level of self-control. Only now his self-control had just slipped. And in his world there was no such thing as a minor slip-up. Even if no-one else was aware of it.
It took Peter several seconds to clear his head. He was helped by the fact that his mobile phone began ringing.
26.
The caller was Marcus Kline. He sounded both nervous and excited.
‘Peter! I’ve got something!’
‘Something from the film?’
‘No! It’s more direct than that – far more personal.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘It will be best if I show you. I need you to come to the house. Now.’
Eight minutes later Peter turned the Audi between the stone pillars that marked the entrance to the drive. Marcus was standing on the front lawn in front of the willow. Both he and it were clearly lit by the lights placed deliberately to highlight the tree. The sight made Peter think of a lonely entertainer waiting in the spotlight for his audience to arrive. He parked by the side of the lawn and strode over, aware of a sense of urgency that he never normally felt when arriving at a scene as Detective Chief Inspector Jones. But, then, he was here as much as a friend as a detective.
‘What is it?’ He asked. ‘What’s happened?’
‘This.’ Marcus pointed to the ground. A length of branch had been cut off the tree and was lying, pointing towards the house. It looked as if it had been sprayed with a dark paint. Peter squatted next to it. ‘It looks like it’s…’
‘…Purple.’ Marcus stepped back a pace. ‘Someone has very deliberately removed the branch and painted it purple.’
Peter straightened. ‘I’m not sure why you asked me here. Unless the house has been burgled?’
‘No. This is not about vandalism or burglary.’
‘Then what is it about?’
‘Communication. It’s a message. A message for me from the person you’re hunting.’
‘You think the killer did this?’
‘I’m certain of it.’
Peter found himself shaking his head and glancing into the shadows at the same time. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘I’m a communications specialist.’
‘So?’
‘So if you want to send me a message and eliminate everyone else from the communication you send it in a cryptic form that only someone like me would be able to read. That way you not only get my attention, you speak clearly in a language that most others can’t and, by extension, you test my ability.’
‘And what language is this?’ Peter gestured to the branch.
‘Symbolism. In order to read the message you have to understand something about both the willow tree and the meaning of purple.’
‘And you do?’
‘Of course. The willow tree has been steeped in symbolism and meaning throughout history. It plays its part in Wicca, or witchcraft, but its significance has crossed cultures and centuries. For example, when Orpheus journeyed to the underworld intending to bring back to life his wife, Eurydice, he carried with him willow branches for luck and protection. The Victorians believed that flowers and plants had a language of their own. For them, the weeping willow represented mourning and sadness. In eighteenth and nineteenth century art, the same t
ree symbolised immortality and rebirth. This was most probably because of its ability to grow swiftly even when cut. If the roots of the willow are unharmed a cut tree can re-grow sometimes by as much as a metre or more in a single season. Today the image of a weeping willow standing on a riverbank with its branches reaching down to the water symbolises life, death and rebirth.’
‘What’s the significance of colouring it purple?’
‘Throughout history purple has been associated with nobility and prestige. It symbolises mystery, magic and power. It is the colour of kings, leaders, wizards and magicians.’
Peter stared down at the cut branch as Marcus spoke. The light turned the purple into a dark, muddy hue. ‘So, if I’m understanding you correctly, you’re saying you know it’s the killer who did this because the willow represents death and all associated aspects? And he knows that you will realise this, and is identifying you as some sort of magician by painting the branch purple and pointing it at your front door?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Did you hear how ridiculous that sounded when I said it?’
‘I heard you describe something that is highly unusual, not ridiculous.’
‘It’s beyond ridiculous! You’re not a magician! We are not Victorians or ancient Greeks. There is no underworld. A tree is just a tree – and an act of vandalism is not some incredibly subtle and personalised communication from a killer who cannot know that you are in any way involved in this case!’
‘You only know that hieroglyphics are a language because someone has convinced you of that, not because you can read it.’
‘This…’ Peter gestured angrily towards the branch, ‘…is not a language!’
‘Everything is a form of language in one way or another.’
‘For God’s sake, Marcus, save it for your clients!’
‘You are my client right now.’
‘No! I am a professional detective who is secretly enlisting the help of an expert who also just happens to be his very close friend. And right now the professional detective is telling the expert that he has nothing here that can be acted upon. I cannot commit resources to investigating a…a fairy tale!’
Marcus was silent for a moment, nodding as much it seemed to himself as to Peter. A thin smile crossed his lips. ‘You are right. Of course you can’t. And that is precisely what the killer would expect: I read the message to you, you ignore it because it’s in a language you cannot comprehend, and so it becomes a competition just between him and me. You are obliged to take yourself out of the equation and I am, at that point, immediately isolated and forced to deal with him on my own. I think we have both been played rather beautifully.’
‘That’s bollocks!’ Peter’s words barked out into the cold night air. ‘First of all, you seemed to have missed the point that I’m the detective! It’s my job to deal with this case, not yours. You offer advice and I decide if, how and when I can use it. The odds against this killer actually targeting you for some reason are millions to one – and to date we don’t have a scrap of evidence to suggest that we should revise those odds! And you know…’ Peter pointed at his friend’s chest, ‘…you absolutely know that if I thought for one minute that you were at risk I would do whatever was necessary to keep you safe.’ Peter felt his anger ebb as he stared into the unreadable shadow of Marcus’s eyes. The outburst was over and his voice calmed. ‘This time my friend, you’ve got it wrong. We all do from time to time. Even the very best of us.’ A smile splashed across Peter’s face as he heard the words in his mind a split-second before he said them, ‘You don’t need a detective tonight, Marcus, you need a gardener.’
Marcus returned the smile, but there was hint of resignation in his face as he looked back the willow. ‘No. The tree will take care of itself. It will have already started. It doesn’t need any help at all.’
The two men fell silent for a moment, their breath showing as mist in the cold night air. Then Peter said, ‘Look, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll arrange for a Crime Prevention Officer to come round tomorrow and install a panic button by your bed. If you ever have reason to press it the call will come automatically through to us and officers will be with you within minutes. I’ll create a legitimate story for why it needs to be done. For God’s sake, though, when the guy’s here don’t tell him it’s because someone trimmed your willow during the night.’
They both grinned again. Peter shook Marcus’s hand and turned his back on the light. He glanced at his watch as he walked back to the car. It was 2.25am. He knew that Nic would have woken when he left the house. Although his partner was used to the demands of living with a senior policeman, he never slept well whenever Peter was called out at night. At least if nothing else happened there would be three hours of peace together before the next working day began.
Peter got into the Audi, put it into reverse and began to ease his way out of the drive. To his left Marcus Kline was standing facing the willow as he had been on Peter’s arrival. The tree shivered in the wind. The man was still. The light held them both as if an island in the darkest of seas. Around them the night offered no promise of the morning.
Two hundred and thirty miles away, alone in her cottage, Anne-Marie Wells was taking a photo, a self-portrait, of her tear-lined face.
27.
Nic barely stirred when Peter lay down next to him. The movement of his left hand, reaching out to rest on Peter’s forearm, the only sign that he recognised his presence. Peter relaxed his body, letting the weight of his head sink into the pillow. He thought again about what Marcus had said and his reaction to it.
Decisions, he reminded himself, had to be made based on the information available at the time. Or on instinct of course. The type of instinct he had felt and trusted prior to the killer’s first murder. And tonight, in the garden, looking at the branch, listening to Marcus’s explanation, he had neither seen compelling evidence nor felt an intuitive conviction. The installation of a panic button was above and beyond what he should have done in that situation – what he would have done for anyone else. And if it had been anyone else he wouldn’t be reviewing the situation now. He would have been asleep within seconds of his head touching the pillow. Only it wasn’t someone else. It was his genius friend. And yet despite that, the odds were still millions to one against him being right. They were lottery odds. The sort you could play all your life and never beat.
The sort you only had to beat once to change your life forever.
Peter forced himself not to think about the most recent lottery winner and told himself instead that both his mind and his body needed to rest. It was an easy argument to make. He was asleep within minutes.
The nightmare began gently: a dream barely one step away from reality, as comfortable and easy to enter as a bed already warmed by a sleeping partner. It began in the living room, with Peter, Marcus and Nic sitting, drinking wine, waiting for the DVD that Peter had put into the player to start.
The first scene in the film showed Peter asleep, unmoving, with Nic next to him. ‘I can wake any time, in an instant, when I’m on a case,’ Peter said. ‘Nic doesn’t understand how I can do it, but it’s simply a matter of conditioning. And it’s nothing unusual. Ask any mother. They will tell you. They can be in the deepest sleep and if their baby makes even the slightest noise, they are immediately wide-awake. When it’s a murder case I feel my brain is always processing information. Sometimes I’m aware that I’m dreaming about it. Sometimes my subconscious wakes me up with a new insight or possibility clear in my mind. When that happens I write it down. That’s what the notepad is for. I can’t trust that I will remember it in the morning.’
The sleeping Peter rolled onto his left side. There was a notepad and pen on the bedside table next to him. The dvd – the dream – continued.
‘You almost certainly will remember it,’ Marcus said. ‘You just might not be able to recall it. Some scientists
believe that the human brain actually stores every memory, that it houses a perfect record of everything that we have ever experienced. So we are technically wrong whenever we say that we have a bad memory. Our memory bank is faultless and complete. What is flawed, in most of us, is our ability to recall.’
‘We actually have perfect memories? Wow!’ Nic shook his head in amazement.
‘No.’ A look of impatience crossed Marcus’s face. ‘That’s not what I said! Pay attention! We store memories perfectly, but the memories we actually store are far from perfect. Usually they are distorted and twisted by unhelpful beliefs or fear. Often they are deep and dark and dangerous. Memories can kill us and they can lead us to kill others. You know that Peter, don’t you? You know that the most powerful memories, particularly the dark ones, present a challenge to anyone. Even to a magician like me.’ Marcus laughed suddenly and harshly; his teeth showed jagged and sharp.
Despite himself Peter recoiled from the unexpected aggression and threat. Marcus turned towards him, his head down, his chin low over his throat. He made Peter think of an alpha wolf asserting its authority, a split-second away from launching a devastating attack. He found himself surrendering completely. He sat back in his chair, his hands raised and open, his neck exposed.
‘Those memories, the really bad ones, are the price I pay for doing my job. I keep them secret,’ Peter said. ‘I’ve never even shared them with you.’
‘Of course you have!’ Marcus laughed. The sound was at once cold, harsh and excited. ‘You share everything with me, whether you mean to or not. No one can hide when I look at them! I see more than just your thoughts – I see your darkest memories!’
