by Chris Parker
Associated and guilty as charged.
43.
The killer leaked the news of Simon Westbury’s death to the national press within an hour of leaving the apartment. He simply phoned the switchboard of a prominent tabloid and said that he had an exclusive story regarding the Nottingham murders. He was given the mobile number of Dave Johnson, the reporter covering the killings, and he called him from a public phone box in a street that did not have CCTV cameras.
The reporter was at once curious and cautious. ‘How do you know that someone else has been killed?’ He asked. ‘Convince me.’
‘I know because I killed him. And I don’t need to convince you. The very fact that we are having this conversation means that you will have to investigate what I tell you. Your Editor would go mad if you missed the opportunity of an exclusive just because you couldn’t be bothered to leave the pub and go take a look.’
‘How do you know I’m in the pub?’
‘Background sounds.’
Johnson glanced around the empty snug he had been drinking in for the last couple of hours. He couldn’t hear any pub sounds and he was sat there.
‘What can you hear?’ He asked, even though he knew that it bore no relevance to the main topic of conversation.
‘Everything.’ The killer smirked. ‘Almost as loud as the sound of your cynicism. Now ask me something of more significance. You have one chance after which I will hang up and call one of your competitors.’
Johnson drained the final third of his pint of Guinness in one urgent gulp. ‘How did you do it?’ He asked. ‘How did you kill him?’
‘What makes you think it was a male?’
‘Well, I, er, I just presumed that it was.’
‘Presumption can get a person killed. You know that, don’t you? It’s a very sloppy way of thinking. It’s a denial of our senses.’
‘Are you telling me it was a woman? A child?’
‘It disgusts me that you find those two options increasingly more appealing. It makes me want to punish you.’ The killer sighed. ‘But if I punished you because you are as dull as the basest metal, then I would have to punish so many others. It would be never-ending. And that isn’t the plan. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’ Johnson had absolutely no idea what the other man was talking about. In many ways the caller was offering the sort of nonsense every sad little fuck did who tried to claim responsibility for a high-profile crime. And in Johnson’s experience, the world was absolutely littered with sad little fucks. Only he sensed something different about this guy. No matter how hard they tried, the SLF’s always sounded needy. This guy didn’t seem at all needy. In fact quite the opposite. He seemed composed. In control. As if he knew he held the winning hand.
‘I do believe that you are the person responsible for the deaths,’ Johnson said. ‘I believe that if you chose to you could find and punish me and I really don’t want you to do that. So please tell me whatever you want to about how you killed your latest victim. Do remember, though, that it will help me to tell your story – to promote you – if you give me some information, some details, that are not currently in the public domain.’
‘I’m not seeking promotion,’ the killer said. ‘However, I will give you what you need. Are you ready?’
‘Yes!’ Johnson glanced at his empty glass and licked his lips. He was suddenly parched.
The killer heard the movement of Johnson’s tongue and smiled to himself. The reporter was going to serve his purpose perfectly. ‘Then listen,’ the killer said.
For the next ten minutes he explained in absolute detail what he had done to Simon Westbury.
Johnson said nothing. He just listened and wrote. His mood shifted from one of self-congratulation – for this was most definitely the genuine killer – to a mixture of curious horror. There was nothing quite like being on the end of the phone talking with a murderer who was the focus of a police manhunt. It was at once exhilarating and terrifying, being so close to the bringer of death, knowing more than anyone else about what was happening, hearing the words, the breath, of a real killer.
Johnson’s desire for another beer disappeared as the killer’s words painted images in his mind, forcing him to see what had happened as clearly as if he was looking at photos of the scene. The images were utterly repulsive and yet he felt compelled to study them, powerless to prevent their creation. As he watched, the images came alive with movement and the killer’s voice faded behind them. Now Johnson felt he was witnessing the killing through his own eyes, that he was in the room with them. The killer was unidentifiable however. Whenever the reporter tried to look at him directly it seemed as if a heat haze began shimmering around him, blurring his features. Johnson could see and hear what was happening to the poor victim, though, and it made his blood run cold.
He didn’t notice when the killer stopped talking and hung up. The scene in his mind kept playing, repeating itself, repeating itself, repeating itself. Only when it finally dissolved did Johnson realise the call had ended.
He sat without moving, staring at his notes. He had stopped writing as soon as the images had appeared. He forced himself into action, picking up his pen, describing everything that he had heard, that he had seen. His hand was shaking. He struggled to control it. Despite that he wrote with an unusual urgency. He felt he was doing more than simply recording details. He felt he was writing to get something out of his system.
When he finished he drank two beers in quick succession and then began doing what he had to do.
44.
His call was put through to Detective Superintendent Mike Briggs as quickly as he knew it would be. His news was met with precisely the response that he expected.
‘That’s interesting. Any chance you can come in to talk about it?’
Johnson’s reply was the next deliberate and measured part of what they both knew was a negotiation. ‘Happy to.’
‘Excellent. What phone did the informant call you on?
‘My mobile.’
‘And that is the number you are calling on now?’
‘Yes.’
How long ago did he ring you?’
‘Within the last thirty minutes.’
‘Excellent. How soon can you be here.’
‘Twenty minutes. I’m already on my way.’
‘Excellent.’ Briggs hung up. By the time Johnson arrived he had organised a trace of all the calls that had been made to the reporter’s phone in the last two hours. He had also called Peter Jones in for the meeting.
The two detectives were not remotely surprised by Johnson’s look and demeanour. He was a career journalist of the old school who had spent far too much of both his social and working life in the pub. It was clearly not his first time in a meeting of this nature. Unfortunately for him, it wasn’t their first time either.
Briggs welcomed the reporter into his office, introduced Peter, and then got straight down to business.
‘Mr Johnson, thank you for contacting us. I’m sure you appreciate the seriousness of the current situation and we certainly appreciate you coming here so promptly.’
‘I’m always keen to help.’
‘That’s good to know,’ Briggs replied with a straight face. ‘Let’s begin with the phone call. Tell us in as much detail as you can what the caller said to you.’
Johnson took out his notebook. He didn’t need to, the images were still burning in his brain, but he knew that the detectives would expect him to refer to it. More importantly, for his own peace of mind he needed something to hold onto right now. If it couldn’t be a pint glass, the notebook would have to do. If only the images could be contained and controlled within it. If only they disappeared whenever he closed the cover.
Johnson spoke for the next three minutes. His language was intense, emotive and rich in detail. It quickly became clear to the detectives that
he was talking as if he had actually been present at the scene, rather than simply recalling the killer’s words. They exchanged glances. They had not been expecting something that was more an eye witness account than a reporter’s professionally taken notes. They sat back and observed in silence as Johnson progressed his story. By the time he had finished, his hands were shaking and there was a nervous, drained expression on his face.
Peter waited for Briggs to comment first. The DS made a point of simply looking at the reporter for what was intended to seem like a like long period of time before saying, ‘You seem very personally involved in that account, Mr Johnson.’
‘I, er, I feel that I am.’
‘Oh? How so?’
Johnson realised the predicament he was creating for himself. It was easy to guess what these two detectives, desperate for any lead they could get, were thinking right now. Yet if he tried to tell them the truth – or, at least, as much of the experience as he was able to put into words – what the hell would they think then? Whatever they thought, it was better than thinking he was an accomplice to murder.
Johnson licked his lips, glanced from Briggs to Peter and back again, and said, ‘This is going to sound really weird, but I swear to you it’s what happened. When he talked it was as if he somehow transported me to the scene. In my head it felt like I was there. Not after the killing, you understand, but during it. That’s why it seems so…so inside me. Like it’s all trapped in here.’ Johnson’s right hand gestured briefly towards his head. He paused, hoping for a glimmer of understanding. The detectives offered nothing. ‘I’ve never been hypnotised,’ Johnson continued quickly. ‘In fact before today I would have told you it was all a load of bollocks, but when he’d finished talking it felt like I was coming out of a trance. It was horrible. It was like he’d deliberately made me experience how he took control of his victim.’ The reporter fell silent. He realised as he waited that he was chewing the inside of his cheek.
Peter studied the man opposite him. He didn’t think for a minute that he was looking at either the killer or an accomplice. There was nothing about Johnson to suggest that he had either the subtlety or the skill to play this sort of game. Yet the information he had just shared matched so accurately the modus operandi of the other deaths that there could be no doubt it was genuine. The conclusion was straightforward and significant: the killer had contacted him.
Peter remembered his recent conversation with Marcus about hypnosis. The consultant had been adamant that a person couldn’t be hypnotised into doing something they didn’t want to. Whilst the reporter didn’t believe in the power of hypnosis, he would have clearly wanted an exclusive. Perhaps that alone was enough to make him susceptible to a powerfully delivered suggestion? Perhaps – and this was the most unwelcome thought – Marcus was wrong and a truly great hypnotist could take control of another person’s mind and behaviour no matter what?
‘So what you are saying is the killer just talked to the victim and that alone was enough to keep the victim in place and prevent a struggle?’ Peter pushed the point.
‘Yes. It wasn’t just that. It also seemed to stop the guy feeling any pain.’ Johnson responded quickly, relieved that at least one of the detectives seemed to believe him.
‘And despite the clarity of these images you couldn’t see the killer’s face?’
‘No.’
‘And you didn’t recognise the victim?
‘No. As I said to you he was just a young adult male. To be honest I tried not to look at him too closely once, you know, once it started.’
‘Did you see or hear anything distinctive?’
‘The room was clear even though the curtains had been drawn, but it was just a normal apartment. Nothing stood out.’
‘Describe the curtains.’
‘Dark green. Floor to ceiling. Maybe two metres across.’
Peter’s heartbeat quickened instinctively. ‘What else? Be specific! What else did you see in the room?’
‘Erm, just a coffee table. And, erm…‘ Johnson’s voice trailed off. The detective’s sudden urgency had taken him by surprise. And although he wanted to help, and he really did need an exclusive, he didn’t want to keep revisiting the images in his mind.
‘Come on, man! What was on the table?’
Briggs recognised the change in Peter, too. He was a smart enough boss to know when to keep his mouth shut.
‘Tell me about the table!’ Peter demanded again. ‘What was on it? What did it look like?’
‘It was black metal, with a glass top. It had an empty mug on it and there were books. Several books.’
Another detail fitted into place. Peter knew someone who had green full-length curtains in their apartment and a black, glass-topped coffee table. More than ever before Peter’s mind begged for this just to be a coincidence.
‘The books! Look at them! Visualise them! Tell me what you see!’
‘I’ve told you everything. I don’t want to keep going back. I –‘
‘- Look!’ Peter was out of his chair before he had even realised that he had moved. Briggs straightened, ready to intervene.
The image sprang into Johnson’s vision. ‘There were three, three books. I can see the title of one. It’s called “Communicating for a Change”. It’s got the author’s name on the cover. His name is – ‘
‘ – Marcus Kline.’ Peter was already leaving the office as he spoke. He glanced over his shoulder at Briggs. ‘Think I might have a lead, Sir,’ he said, trying to sound as dispassionate as he could. ‘It’s a long shot, but it’s worth following up on.’
‘On you go, Chief Inspector.’ Briggs waited for the door to close behind Peter and then returned his attention to the reporter. They both knew what had just happened. They both knew that Peter had referred to the lead as a ‘long shot’ purely for Johnson’s benefit. They both knew that it was obviously far, far more than that.
Detective Chief Inspector Jones stormed out of the building, his mind in turmoil. How desperate was he? Praying for a coincidence when no such thing existed. Was that all he had got, a hope and a prayer? Was that the best he could do?
Peter had visited Simon Westbury’s canal side apartment once before. It was possible that the place Johnson had described was not it. It was possible that another young, aspiring executive had a very similar sense of interior design to Simon. It was possible that this same executive was a fan of Marcus Kline. It was all possible.
But only if you believed in coincidence.
Peter Jones’s life was built on uncovering the truth even if sometimes the truth was almost unbearable. Today it felt as if it was scouring his insides. The truth he had already accepted, the truth he knew was going to be reinforced immeasurably in the coming hour, was simple and harsh and relentless: his failure was costing lives. And it was all coming far, far, too close to home.
Simon is dead. And it’s because of me. The responsibility is mine.
Peter felt already as if it was tearing him apart. The most terrifying thing, though – worse even than the likelihood of Simon Westbury’s death – was the fact that the game was far from over. Unless he could stop it there was worse to come. He was sure of it. He vowed silently that he would prevent at least that.
45.
Anne-Marie Wells was on her way home. It was proving to be a long, slow journey. Traffic on the M5 motorway had been horrific. As she queued in yet another traffic jam Anne-Marie felt time pulling at her gut. Why, she wondered, did time always seem to slow down when you didn’t want it to and speed up whenever you were having a great experience that you wanted to last forever?
As she sat in her car, Anne-Marie tried once again to reconnect with the mysterious part of herself she had encountered whilst away. She had tried several times since the experience – the revelation – and all had ended in failure. Although she could remember with absolute clarity how the state f
elt, she had no idea how recreate it. It was like the best of all memories transferred from a living, breathing experience to the confines of the mind.
As a photographer Anne-Marie had often thought about the relationship between a photograph and a memory. Did the mind, she wondered, create and fix boundaries around memories in the way that she did around photos? Did it determine the focus and then influence the interpretation of a memory in the same way that she used lighting and colour and perspective to direct the viewer?
Before the cancer – before she had known about it – her interest had been only an intellectual, professional curiosity. It had been a subject for debate at dinner parties and a source of quiet introspection during shoots. Now it felt like a matter of life and death. Now Anne-Marie knew that how she viewed her past was as important to her survival as how she approached her future. Now she was aware of the most important truth:
How easily we trick ourselves.
Once upon a time Anne-Marie would have argued with conviction that she knew precisely who she was, that she knew precisely what it meant to be a photographer. More than that, she thought she knew what it meant to be a human being.
How misguided was that?
Only now, with death on her shoulder, had she started to wake up, to realise what really mattered.
And she had believed she could take photos that showed the truth!
Now that seemed like unbelievably naïve arrogance.
‘You don’t know anything about anything until you are dealing with your own death,’ she said into the rear view mirror. ‘And it’s always on the move.’
In a matter of hours – she couldn’t be sure how many because of the traffic – Anne-Marie would arrive home. Then she would have to tell Marcus about her cancer, about everything in fact. For a reason she didn’t understand, it was a really frightening prospect. Anne-Marie tried to imagine how she would cope, how the conversation would go when she told him that she was facing death, that she needed him to…
