Influence

by Chris Parker

  He stepped out into the darkness and felt his right hand close the front door behind him. He heard the latch snick into place. It was a distant sound. He crossed the path and walked across the garden. His arms hung lifeless. His eyes were fixed on the willow tree. He was lost in a way he never had been before.

  As he closed on the willow tree, Marcus Kline realised dimly that everything that had happened in the last few days, everything that was going to happen in the future, came down to an interaction right here and now between two people.

  And he felt that he didn’t know either of them.

  50.

  That feeling changed the instant the killer said his name.

  ‘Marcus.’

  Sometimes when alone in the dark the unexpected sound of a familiar voice brings with it a sense of safety and reassurance. Sometimes, the worst of times, it creates a very different response. As Marcus Kline heard and recognised the voice a mixture of outrage, confusion and despair swept through him. He stood still with his back to the killer, emotions swirling inside him, battling for supremacy.

  They were equally matched.

  He thought of the last time he had seen and talked to the person who had already killed three people. He thought of all the other times they had communicated. Why hadn’t he seen something, heard something, that had offered some insight, revealed at least a glimpse into the true nature of the man? How had he, of all people, missed this?

  ‘I know how to keep my colours hidden,’ the killer said as if reading his thoughts. ‘I have learnt how to make myself invisible.’

  The words pulled at Marcus. He felt an almost irresistible urge to turn and confront his opponent. He fought it, doing everything in his power to keep any feelings of tension out of his back. He didn’t want to show this man anything. He knew instinctively that he had to resist his influence. That he had to, quite literally, keep him out of his mind.

  ‘It’s only a matter of time,’ the killer said.

  Marcus laughed out loud. It was an unexpected reaction. He heard his laughter as if it was coming from someone else. He found it strangely reassuring. He felt it take his outrage, his anger, and move it out of him, travelling on his breath, revealed in the air as a fine, grey mist. He looked at it, watched it dissolve around him. It felt as if he now had an ally. He felt the anger give him strength.

  ‘I see it more clearly than you,’ the killer said. ‘That is the difference between us. Even between you, the great Marcus Kline, and me. By my standards you live in a world that is only grey. I see your anger for what it really is. I see it vividly. Even in the dark. If I choose to, I can breathe into your anger and change it completely.’

  There was something in the killer’s voice, something more than his words, that changed Marcus’s state. The anger and the associated feeling of strength disappeared. It was replaced by emptiness, a void that seemed endless and eternal, that offered nothing and made him feel insignificant and weak. As weak as a child unable to control the events he was involved in.

  A memory played like a film in front of him. It was from his childhood. He was with his parents in the city. They were shopping in a crowded, bustling department store. He had become separated from them and in his panic had found his way out onto the street. Marcus, the young boy, had been swept away by the constant stream of people walking as only adults did with determination and significance and a focus that was fixed solely on their destination. No-one took any notice of the child being forced to walk at the pace fixed by the crowd, too fast for him, wanting to turn around, wanting to shout out for help, unable to do either, crying with increasing desperation as he became more and more lost.

  Just as Marcus had felt the strength in his legs desert him, just as he was sure that he was about to fall and be trampled by the crowd, two strong hands reached down and scooped him up. He recognised his father’s smell and touch instantly. He felt an incredible sense of freedom as he was lifted into the air, his father standing strong and secure with his back to the crowd, forcing it to separate and move around them. His father said nothing, using his thumb to gently wipe the boy’s tears away. Marcus waited until he had finished, then buried his face against his father’s shoulder and screamed his fear out.

  The few, brief moments – for that’s all it was – that Marcus spent being carried ever further away from his family stayed with him for the rest of his life. As the boy grew into a man he became increasingly committed to a simple philosophy. Never again was he going to be controlled by the crowd. He was going to control it. And he was also going to learn how to be comfortable being alone. He was going to be independent and strong, moving to his own rhythm, setting the pace, the flow, and the direction for others.

  The recollection disappeared into the void and was replaced by a single question,

  Whose rhythm are you moving to now?

  Marcus knew the answer. The killer had been setting the pace from the very beginning. He hadn’t realised that at the start because the killer hadn’t wanted him to. The killer had been confident enough to simply direct the beat without anyone knowing he was doing so. This was a man so supremely self-assured that he was content to conduct the orchestra from the shadows. It was only as he had increased the tempo that he had been obliged to show his hand. And even then he had made sure that only Marcus recognised it.

  So what else did Marcus know about the man standing behind him? Aside from his name and the nature of their relationship. The answer was, very little. The difficulty, even for Marcus, in hearing and uncovering anything more from the man’s tone and pace of voice, from his language patterns, was that his conscious mind was getting in the way. It was still scrambling, trying to recover from the fact that he had known this man for years and had not recognised his true nature. He was truly shocked by his failure and, for the second time that night, he found himself wondering about his own capabilities and his relationships with the people around him. He wondered too about the skill of a man who could successfully remain in disguise around him for years. How was that possible? Before tonight Marcus would have said that it was not. That was another significant error on his part.

  It would also be an error he realised to stand here in silence. He needed to engage, to communicate. After all, that was his strength.

  Supposedly.

  No! It was what he did best, better than anyone else on the planet.

  Apart, perhaps, from one other.

  No! Everyone had weaknesses. Even the killer. He just had to uncover and exploit them. This was going to be a battle of words, of insight and influence. How did he describe it when talking to Peter not so very long ago? A communications joust. Although he had deliberately understated it then, Marcus was now forced to accept the reality that the confrontation came with a pressure – potentially paralysing to both his body and his mind – that was far greater than he could have imagined.

  To have any chance of beating this man Marcus needed his senses to be as sharp as they ever had been and his conscious mind to be silent as snowfall. He needed to recognise every detail and determine the most important communication patterns the other used. He needed to apply everything that he knew to his own advantage. He needed to regain control of the rhythm of this encounter. To do that he needed to seize the initiative and begin the next round of conversation.

  Before he did Marcus remembered with a force that rocked him, the most important thing that he knew about the man standing behind him.

  He had killed Simon.

  It was that fact that was going to be the source of his power. It was the reason why he was going to win no matter what it took. Despite his recent doubts and shocking self-revelation, Marcus Kline realised that now, more than at any other time in his life, he needed to be the unbeatable genius. He owed Simon at least that much.

  Perhaps, Marcus thought, as he readied himself for battle, he isn’t the only one I owe.

 
51.

  The press wanted the conference to be scheduled in time for them to get their reports out for the early evening news. Their agenda was not the same as Peter’s. He needed to create damage limitation. He needed the story of Simon Westbury’s death to go out later, when fewer people were bothered about what had happened during the day.

  So he had announced that a press conference would be held at 5.30. Then he had put it back to 6pm and then again to 6.30. Everyone involved knew the game that he was playing. He knew that they did. And he didn’t care. He had far greater responsibilities than satisfying the corporate and egotistical demands of newspaper editors.

  More than that, he had an almost overwhelming concern for Marcus Kline thudding through his mind. It was threatening to extinguish his thinking and his skills.

  Peter was in no doubt that Marcus’s life was at risk. And rather than search for the source of that threat, he now had to waste time sitting in on a press conference that would reveal nothing, gain nothing, and serve no useful purpose in hunting the killer. Such was the job. And he was very good at doing his job. Only not now. Not when it was this personal. Right now he wanted to tell the journalists gathered in front of him to fuck off, and to keep out of his way until he had made Marcus safe.

  Only he wasn’t going to have to say a word, so there was no risk of him saying anything even remotely inappropriate. Actually, the Detective Chief Inspector knew that, ultimately, even if pushed, he wouldn’t say a wrong word. It wasn’t because of Peter’s professional pride. It was because of his sense of identity. Much as he loved Marcus, it was something he daren’t fracture.

  Peter followed Robin Miles, the Assistant Chief Constable and Press Liaison Officer, and Detective Superintendent Mike Briggs into the staff dining area that had been turned into a temporary press conference room. They took their seats, with Miles in the centre. The journalists fell silent. Miles waited for a moment and then stood up. He held a copy of the brief, agreed statement in his left hand. The camera crews from the major TV networks went to work. The others had their pens poised. Not one of them expected a revelation. Their task was to force one. Miles knew that.

  ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Central Police Station,’ Miles began. ‘As I am sure you are all aware this is a very serious matter. Six days ago, the body of Derrick Smith was found in his home in the city. Four days later the body of Paul Clusker was discovered at his home in Wollaton. Today, the body of another adult male has been found. It appears that there are very obvious similarities between this and the previous two deaths. Because of the circumstances of this latest death it is not appropriate for me to take questions at this time.’

  The journalists murmured their displeasure. They had, of course, expected Miles to say this. It was standard procedure in such situations. For their part, they had not the slightest intention of remaining silent.

  ‘I’m sure you can at least tell us just how many officers are involved in the inquiry?’ The question came from one of the older, more experienced journalists sitting on the back row. He knew that to have any chance at all of prying really useful information out of the officers at the table, the first few questions at least had to be non-threatening.

  Miles recognised the ploy. He had to balance keeping the journalists onside without saying anything that could harm the investigation. He paused deliberately and then answered the question. ‘There are over sixty officers working full-time, but because of the seriousness of the case all of the police family – and by that I mean officers, support staff, community support officers and specials – are looking for anything that will lead to the arrest of the offender.’

  ‘And how much is it costing?’ This from a different journalist, another experienced professional, keen to keep the momentum going, smart enough to keep circling the main issues.

  ‘Cost is not an issue.’ Miles said. ‘We will spend whatever it takes.’

  ‘Is this the third victim of the so-called Boiled Egg Killer?’ The questioner was a young man sitting on the front row. He leaned forwards as he spoke. Behind him some of the less experienced journalists chuckled at the use of the title. Their more experienced colleagues frowned and shook their heads in anger. The question was too much, too soon, and they knew what Miles would do with it. One journalist, Dave Johnson, did neither. He simply closed his notebook and pressed down on it hard with the palm of his left hand, as if trying to keep something contained inside.

  The Assistant Chief Constable listened to the question and hid his pleasure at being given a way out so easily. ‘Nothing has been confirmed at this current time. We are asking everyone to remain vigilant until the perpetrator has been caught, although there is no reason to suspect that the general public are at risk.’

  The young journalist seized on Mile’s comment. ‘Do you believe, then, that the killer is targeting specific people?’

  ‘I don’t believe anything. I wait until the evidence tells me what has happened and then I share that with you good people as and when it is appropriate to do so.’ Miles raised an open palm, ending the interaction. He looked around the room. They all knew it was over. At least for today. ‘I have nothing more to say at this time. If any of your viewers or readers have any information that they think might be relevant, I would ask that they contact us by calling Crimestoppers on 0800 555111 or by calling our switchboard directly using one of the following options.’ None of the journalists wrote the numbers down. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t talking to them. He was talking to the millions of people who would watch this on their TV or hear it on their radio. When he had finished he offered the journalists in front of him a grim smile. ‘Thank you all very much for your time. Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.’

  Miles led Peter and Briggs out of the room. The conference had been as brief as possible. Peter nodded his thanks. ‘Good job,’ he murmured. Miles shook their hands and left the two detectives alone.

  Briggs’s face was hard. ‘We need to start making headway on this really fast,’ he said. ‘Let’s hope that our man contacts Johnson again, that we get the break we need through him.’

  ‘Yes guv.’ Even though it was easier, and quicker, to agree with his boss, Peter didn’t really think that the reporter’s involvement was going to make any difference to the eventual outcome. Things were moving too fast. Besides, his instinct was telling him that the killer was not genuinely compelled to share his story with the press. Instead, Peter felt that the killer had a very different reason for contacting Johnson. Maybe he does just want to create a distraction, Peter thought, to start a forest fire as Marcus called it, to make sure that I waste some of my time managing that.

  If that had been his intention, the killer had certainly been successful. If there was one resource that Peter didn’t have enough of right now, it was time. He quickened his pace as he left the building. He couldn’t help but feel that despite all his best efforts he was, like everyone else, moving to the killer’s beat.

  52.

  ‘We can’t stand here all night,’ Marcus Kline said to the man who had killed three people in less than a week.

  ‘Yes we can. We could just stand here, learning true patience, waiting for the display when dawn breaks and night hands over to day. That’s something I’ve done many times.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Right here, right where we are standing now.’ The killer sighed. ‘You didn’t know that of course because your senses are not as bright as you think they are. You’ve missed more than you could ever possibly realise. All your life you have made the mistake of comparing yourself to the herd instead of seeking out those rare individuals who have truly learnt how to be different. You thought that by learning how to influence the herd you had somehow escaped from it. You thought that you were better than it. That is so stupid – I find it really annoying actually, for a man who is supposed to be so insightful. Dear God! You didn’t even see me. And I have been so c
lose to you for so many years.’

  ‘You believe in God, do you?’

  ‘Ha! All you need to know – no, all I am prepared to share with you – is that I can see a world you cannot. A world that most people cannot see. And it is our world. Just experienced more acutely. Anyway, enough of that, we will continue the lesson later. The truth is that I’m not planning for us to stay out here tonight.’

  ‘And everything is happening according to plan, is it?’

  ‘It is so far.’

  ‘And what is the plan for the rest of tonight?’

  ‘Can’t you guess?’

  Yes. All too easily, thought Marcus.

  Marcus changed the subject again. ‘For someone who sees everything so clearly, so much more clearly than I do at least, you have made one very basic mistake.’

  ‘Oh? What would that be?’

  ‘There is no such thing as the human herd. That’s very lazy thinking for a man with your capabilities. When I stand alone in the city and watch people passing by I see individuals, not a collective. Whilst they might have some things in common, they are all different, too. If that wasn’t the case, I wouldn’t be able to do what I do.’

  ‘Which is to be in control of them. To influence them. You do love that power, don’t you?’

  Marcus shrugged. ‘I think I might have been seduced by it.’

  ‘I find it amazing, the insights people achieve when they know they are close to death.’ The killer’s voice trailed off. Marcus sensed that he had become caught up in an unexpected memory. For his part, Marcus couldn’t help but think again of Simon. He forced himself to ask another question.

  ‘What insights do you gain when you are so close to the deaths you cause?’

  ‘So many things,’ the killer replied, his voice sounding as if he was waking from a deep sleep. ‘People reveal themselves most – nature reveals itself most – during times of transition. The more significant the transition, the greater the revelation. You must have seen that for yourself, surely?’