Free The Handshaker by David Robinson Page A

hypnotised him so many times he’s mine in a matter of seconds.” Croft smiled thinly. “A classic example of post-hypnotic suggestion. I’ve programmed him to go into hypnosis on certain prompts.”
    The lift arrived with a chime, and the doors sighed open. Croft stepped in followed by Millie. To her surprise Croft did not press the down button but, unable to move his arms because of his baggage, stretched up on the balls of his feet and jabbed the button for the second floor.
    “You looked straight at me when you shook his hand to put him under,” she observed.
    “A little theatrical, Millie,” he confessed, “and yes, it was strictly for your benefit. Under normal circumstances, I don’t use a handshake induction, but I thought I’d show you that it could be done. You’re looking for a man who calls himself The Handshaker.” He grinned. “I’m sure he thought of it, not you. I assume the note I received was from him, and my demonstration was intended to show you how quick such an induction can be.”
    The lift stopped, the doors opened and they stepped out onto a replica of the first floor; bland walls and composition floor tiles. A few yards from the lift, the corridor turned left onto a long landing scattered with doors on either side. Two doors down on the left, his hands full, Croft pressed his briefcase against the wall with his chest, and fumbled into his jacket pocket for his keys. Retrieving them, he manipulated a double deadlock key between thumb and forefinger, slotted it into the lock, turned and pushed, inviting Millie to go in ahead of him.
    Croft kicked the door shut behind him and dropped his equipment into a nearby armchair.
    Most people were surprised, even alarmed by the room, and many of his visitors hated it, but Croft was at his calmest here.
    Everything said ‘old’. A mahogany desk stood by the windows, its stout supports and dull top chipped and flaked, revealing that it was wood and not laminated MDF. The three armchairs were part of an aged, brown leather suite, the kind that was popular in the 60s. The walls were lined with bookshelves, containing many old cloth and leather-bound volumes, there was a shabby, two bar electric fire to one side of the desk, an occasional table between the armchairs, its top beaten and stained. In the far corner was a sink and drainer and next to it, standing on top of an old fashioned refrigerator, another throwback to an earlier era, was a stainless steel Russell Hobbs kettle and a range of mugs, one of them a souvenir of the 1969 investiture of Prince Charles as the Prince of Wales. On the desk was a stack of students’ work awaiting assessment, and the only modern incongruities amongst the room’s accoutrements were Croft’s laptop computer and a plasma screen PC, the property of the university.
    Switching on the kettle, Croft noticed her studying the surroundings with surprised eyes, and he grinned. “I said this morning, I’m a sixties freak. Would you prefer tea or coffee?”
    “Tea please. Milk and one sugar.”
    While waiting for the kettle to boil, Croft looked through the window and felt at peace.
    Situated in 400 acres of parkland to the northeast of Manchester and west of Scarbeck, the University of North West England was an oasis of academic calm in an area of commercial and industrial bustle, and the view from the second floor was disposed to the academic. There was no trace of civilisation, just acres of green, interspersed with clutches of oak and elm, and the groundskeeper’s hut standing amongst the trees a hundred yards away. Even the continuous rain, which formed rivulets down the windows on this leeward side of the building, had a calming effect upon him.
    The UNWE was one of the newest universities in the country, established only 10 years previously to meet industry’s rising demand for better-educated employees. To Croft, whose own memories of university were comparatively fresh in his mind, it was a waste of