by Chris Parker
‘I am going to take that photo, the self-portrait,’ Anne-Marie said. ‘I’ve decided. My mind is made up. Whether or not I call it Dying or Processing or something else altogether we’ll wait and see. I’m sure the title is inside me somewhere, so it’s bound to come out. The best way to reveal it is to commit myself to the process, to look closely through the lens and let my professionalism, or my instinct – or you! – show me what it is I’m really looking at, what the story is really all about. I need to be sure that you are with me, though. I know it’s selfish of me, but I want us to share everything that lies ahead together. Can we do that?’
The vision offered a hand and Anne-Marie reached out instinctively to take it. It felt as if her movement shattered a wall of glass. She flinched, squeezing her eyes shut and raising her shoulders protectively. She realised within a split-second that her mind was playing tricks. When she opened her eyes, the vision had disappeared.
Anne-Marie smiled.
29
Peter Jones curled his lips in what DS Kevin McNeill took to be a silent and somewhat threatening invitation. Then he nodded abruptly, listened to some more and nodded again. A few seconds later he nodded a third time. Standing only one metre away, Kevin could sense the intense focus with which his boss was receiving the news. He waited for the phone conversation to end. It did so with a terse ‘Good job’ and the slightest quizzical frown. Kevin knew better than to speak first.
‘We’ve got our first possible break,’ Peter said. ‘Detective Constable Benson met half an hour ago with an informant who says Ethan Hall is staying with him. The story is Hall made a beeline for the informant as soon as he broke out of hospital. If the story is to be believed they were good mates years ago, before Hall came to our attention.’
‘You don’t sound too confident, boss.’
‘Just gut instinct,’ Peter shrugged, ‘something tugging at my innards. Having said that, it’s still definitely worth prioritising and acting on with our usual mix of extreme urgency and extreme care. After all, it’s a quick result and if it turns out to be a proper result, well, we’d all welcome that.’ He forced a smile. ‘Look, maybe it’s great Intel and I’m doubting it because I’m not feeling lucky today. Maybe it’s as simple as that.’
‘Your gut instinct hasn’t let us down yet.’
‘Has it not?’
Kevin shifted his weight from foot to foot, just as he’d seen people do under interrogation in the witness box. He knew better than to avoid, deny or adapt the truth with this man. Everyone knows you’re a lucky copper. For some reason you always get the break just when you need it.
Before he could decide what to say, Peter continued, ‘Don’t confuse gut instinct with good luck. As I’ve said to you before, if you’ve done enough high level training and you keep testing that training under real-life pressure, you’re gut instinct – your intuition, call it what you will, – will develop naturally. The trick lies in being able to recognise it, interpret it accurately and then use it to guide your decision-making. Right?’
‘Yes, boss.’ Kevin straightened. Sometimes his DCI had a look in his eyes that made you think he knew precisely what you were thinking. That look was there now. Kevin resisted the temptation to check the knot in his tie. Instead he tried to force all thoughts of lucky copper out of his mind. It wasn’t easy, especially under such scrutiny.
Jones maintained the silence for a few seconds before the merest grin played on his face and then he said, ‘If, as detectives, we combine our gut instinct with a tried and tested process and a willingness to think and act outside the box whenever the situation demands it, we become more and more likely to make our own luck.’
His mobile rang again. Kevin watched him take it out of his inside pocket, glance at the screen and reject the call without hesitation. ‘Sometimes,’ he said, a sudden far-away look in his eyes, ‘the better we get as coppers the worse we might become in other ways.’
Now it seemed to Kevin that their roles had reversed abruptly. Peter’s shoulders sagged briefly. His face lined with an obvious and quickly disguised weary acceptance of pain.
He’s trying to hide from me!
The realisation made Kevin feel surprisingly awkward. As Peter replaced the phone he shook his head and exhaled forcefully. The weariness disappeared. Almost.
‘So. Let’s focus on what needs to be done. I want you to liaise with Benson. The informant lives in the Meadows. His name’s Darren Smith. Deals drugs and does whatever else he can to eke out a living and a low-level reputation. Let’s get everyone in place as we usually would. Make sure everyone understands the need for us to be super-cautious. We have to work on the premise that Ethan will spot things anyone else would miss.’
‘What if he leaves the place whilst they’re watching?’
‘I don’t think he will. If he’s there – or wherever he is – I’m sure he’s going to stay holed up.’
‘You don’t think he’s got plans?’
‘I’m sure he’s got plans. I just can’t see how he can execute them. He doesn’t have the contacts or the experience. Being hunted now that everyone knows his name and what he looks like is a whole new world to him. He can’t go from A to B and hypnotise everyone who sees him into forgetting his face.’
‘Are you sure, boss?’
‘We’re well and truly fucked if he can.’ Peter remembered Patrick’s memory loss. ‘No, however unusual Ethan is – however dangerous – he’s going to have his limits just like the rest of us. If we do our job right, we get him. That’s the bottom line.’
‘Amen to that.’
‘I don’t want us relying on prayers! Focus on procedures and professionalism. Just make sure everyone’s on the top of their game. The bad guys always come to us sooner or later. You know that as well as I do. And it’s as true for Ethan Hall as it is for the rest of them. Let’s just make it sooner rather than later.’
‘I’ll contact DC Benson straight away, pass on your warnings.’
‘Good.’
‘Can I just ask you…’
‘What?’
‘Why you’re not going over there and getting hands on?’
‘Don’t you think Benson can do it?
‘Yes, but we all know you like to be where the action is. And it’s even easier to imagine that would be the case where Ethan Hall is concerned.’
‘Maybe the lesson is you should never presume.’
‘Understood, boss. Right, I’ll get to it.’
Peter raised his hand, temporarily halting Kevin’s departure. ‘Find out everything you can about this Smith character. I really don’t get the connection between him and Ethan. And if they are so tight, I don’t understand why Smith is so keen to turn him in.’
‘Will do. Although…’
‘What?’
‘You said the guy will do whatever he can to make a living. Maybe he’s desperate for the cash or needs to get in Benson’s good books, or both?’
‘Yeah. Maybe. I can’t help but think, though, that if you really knew Ethan Hall, if you were really aware of what he’s capable of, you’d need to have a bloody good reason to betray him.’
‘Greed is as good a motive as any, boss. Maybe Smith is seeing it as easy money? Besides, from our point of view if everything works out, it’s just one action and we’ve got him. We hit the house swift and hard and Hall’s back in custody.’
‘Let’s hope so. OK. Get on with it. This needs to be seamless and silent. Keep me updated.’
‘All the way.’
Peter waited until the DS had gone before taking out his phone. One new voice message. Just as expected. It was easy to guess the content and the tone. It would be a call for a meeting, an essential possibly relationship-saving meeting, delivered in a voice that combined anger and threat with undisguised fear, a voice verging on hysteria. Nic’s voice.
Peter looked at the phone. The same old thought played through his mind.
Sometimes you just don’t have a choice.
<
br /> Only people who worked in the emergency services understood that. It was the secret knowledge shared by those who were paid to keep everyone else safe and well. Once you had chosen a career that required you to prioritise the greater good, sooner or later you were faced with what outsiders would regard as the most difficult choice. And they was most 50% right and 50% wrong in their assessment. Yes, it would be difficult. But, no, it wasn’t a choice. Sometimes you had to do the job you were paid to do no matter what the personal cost or risk. Sometimes choice didn’t enter into it.
This was one of those times. It was not the first. And, Peter considered ruefully, it would not be the last. It was the price he paid for putting the words Detective Chief Inspector in front of his name.
He raised the phone to his ear and listened to the message. Just in case his instinct was wrong. Just in case it was some other news and life at home was going on as it once had.
The message carried on for longer than was needed. As he had guessed it would. The mix of emotions and the hope of a sudden response stretched the narrative until eventually the words dried up. They were followed by an unnecessarily long silence before the phone went dead.
Peter texted his reply.
Can’t talk now. Sorry. I will be able to talk tonight. I will be home as early as possible. Promise.
He sent the message, returned the phone to his pocket and forced himself to think about Ethan Hall. About what needed to be done if he and his team were going to keep people safe, if they were going to get a quick result. He thought about procedures and professionalism. About creativity and luck. He drilled the thoughts through his head. Repeatedly. Until his focus had returned and nothing else mattered. He looked to his right, imagining that Kevin was still there. ‘It’s a mantra for the work-obsessed,’ he explained. ‘It’s the alternative for those who can’t pray.’
30
Diane Clusker had told him it was a miracle. She said that was the only word that could describe her experience. It was a miracle and he was a miracle worker. She was sure of it. How else, she asked as she left his office, could you possibly explain the transformation that had taken place? After all, she had arrived feeling suicidal and was leaving brimming with hope. If that wasn’t a miracle, what was?
Marcus Kline chose not to answer. Rather than explain to her about the power of words and touch, of how tone of voice, timing and sequencing could be used to exercise the subconscious and influence the brain, he simply thanked her for giving him the chance to help and reinforced the message that he was always available should she ever need to see him again.
Diane had squeezed his right hand and promised she would pray for him. ‘Every night, starting tonight, until that evil, evil man is captured,’ she said. ‘It’s the least I can do.’
‘Thank you,’ he had said. And he had meant it. He really was grateful. Not for the prayers, of course, but for the sincerity and willingness to help. Not too long ago he would have considered it to be proof only of the power of reciprocity. He would have dismissed it as an inevitable response to the fact that she was clearly in his debt, her attitude a consequence of his skill rather than an indication of her caring nature.
Now, though, Marcus felt genuinely moved. More than that he felt guilty that his motivation for helping Diane had been selfish rather than altruistic. She had provided an unexpected, and much needed, opportunity to make himself feel useful again. Their time together had proven to be of at least as much value to him as it had to her. And, for the first time in his life, a part of him wished he believed in miracles.
He shrugged the thought away. If anything was a clear indication that he was psychologically and emotionally weak right now, that was it. Rather than hand over responsibility he needed to create some miracles of his own, the sort that could only be accomplished by human talent and skill not by prayer and the abdication of effort.
That, he realised, was what his subconscious had been telling him when it had urged him to take the fight to Ethan Hall, when it had spurred him to share his story with the reporter Dave Johnson. For the first time in his adult life, he could now do something useful – in fact, the most useful thing he could ever do – on behalf of everyone else and not just himself. If he was going to win he could do it only by forgetting Marcus Kline and the associated brand image. This time his focus, determination and strength would come from thinking solely of others. For the first time in a long time, Marcus felt a genuine fizz of excitement and energy shoot through his system.
As he watched Diane Clusker walking away from his office, passing the Galleries of Justice on her way back towards the bus station, he felt like shouting after her, ‘Thank you for reminding me! Until today I’d forgotten about the others!’
Only before he could say anything an instantly recognisable voice in his head asked, ‘Even me?’ And the energy collapsed back into his gut like a heavy weight.
‘No Simon, I never forgot you.’ He said the words out loud, turning back into the office, letting the door close behind him. ‘How could you ever think that?’
The silence dared him to answer his own question. It was all too easy. This time his words were an apology.
‘OK. I never forgot you, it’s just that sometimes – too many times – I thought about me first. I somehow managed to entangle doing good work for others with making sure it was always rewarding for the Marcus Kline brand. I’ve always cared about others. It’s just that whatever I did, my ego was always front and centre. I thought I was the best, you see? I needed to believe that. Now I know I’m not. And I know it should never have mattered. Anne-Marie always said, if you’re good enough to help someone then you’re good enough and that’s all you have to be. Only I didn’t pay her any attention. I had to be acknowledged as the world’s number one. I always thought it was the most important achievement. Now it feels like it was just a safety net. One that Ethan Hall’s ripped away.’
A slight pause.
Then Marcus continued, ‘I would have done anything in my power to save you. Honestly. No matter what the cost. This isn’t what I ever imagined. It’s just that I have to save Anne-Marie and Peter and maybe even other people I don’t actually know from whatever it is Ethan Hall is planning. I can’t do that if I’m not functioning at my best, if I don’t prioritise my own performance, if I don’t fight. And I’m finding that a struggle. I’m having to focus on me in ways I never have before. So I’m sorry you’ve been out of my thoughts for a while. I hope you understand.’
As his words ended Marcus realised how still his body had become. He looked round the empty reception; imagined Emma smiling and shaking her head. A part of him wished she was still sitting there. A bigger part was delighted she had left when she did. At least now there was one less person to worry about, one less possible disaster to be responsible for.
His eyes watered. The stillness in the room was compelling, cloying. He could feel it seeking to hold him in place. He could feel himself breathing it in.
I need to move!
Marcus forced himself to set the alarm and step outside. He closed the door, feeling its reassuring weight as it swung inwards, letting his hand rest upon it as it sealed the entrance.
The idea came so unexpectedly it made him gasp. He responded to it without hesitation, afraid that thoughts would only get in the way. He began to walk, faster than normal, drawing in the city air with great deliberateness, blinking away the tears.
He reached The Cross Keys within two minutes. He pushed through the door and stepped into the bar. Shades of brown dominated with the wooden floor and wooden tables and the bar itself, curving slightly at one end. The room was empty save for a group of elderly men sat at a table by the far wall and a much younger man leaning against the bar. The group was talking politics. The young man was chatting to one of the barmaids.
Marcus moved to the other end of the bar, to the curve, and removed a five pound note from his wallet. His heart was pounding. The second barmaid was with him in an instant, sm
iling as if he was a regular. Marcus ordered a pint of New Dawn Pale, Simon’s favourite drink. As he waited for the beer to be pulled he couldn’t help but glance at the table where Simon used to sit. He had no intention of sitting there; just being in the place was enough for now. After Simon’s death he had vowed never to come back in. It had been a stupid, petulant response, as if the pub was the only thing that would remind him of his loss and his selfishness. As if the office didn’t. As if a mirror didn’t.
Marcus took his beer, did his best to return the young woman’s ever-present smile, and chose the table furthest away from the other customers. He took a sip of his pale, golden liquid and looked again at Simon’s empty table. The beer was not fully to his taste but that really wasn’t the point. He wasn’t sure yet if this was a good idea or a bad idea, but that really wasn’t the point either. The most important thing was that this was an idea turned into action. And action cured fear.
As Marcus stared at the table he imagined Simon sitting there, early morning, eating breakfast, chatting to Cassandra, the barmaid he had started dating shortly before his death. He remembered how Emma had teased and tormented Simon about his newly found love interest. He remembered how he had stood by silently as the young man tried to deny it.
‘Why can’t you just tell it like it is?’ Emma had asked. ‘Why is it that men struggle to be honest in matters of the heart?’
Simon blushed. ‘Don’t you dare stereotype! Men are as varied in their responses to all aspects of life as you complicated and amazing women!’
‘Stop trying to change the topic by shifting it away from yourself and broadening the context,’ Emma laughed, ‘that’s a typical Marcus ploy and I know it too well to fall for it. So, come on, answer the question.’
‘Ok, then, I will. In matters of the heart, as you so delicately refer to them as, indeed, with all other types of relationships, simple straightforward honesty is rarely if ever the best policy.’
‘What? I cannot believe you’re saying this!’
