The 50/50 Killer Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  PART ONE

  2 DECEMBER - 14 HOURS UNTIL DAWN

  3 DECEMBER - EIGHT MINUTES AFTER DAWN

  3 DECEMBER - 22 HOURS, 40 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  3 DECEMBER - 21 HOURS, 10 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  3 DECEMBER - 21 HOURS UNTIL DAWN

  3 DECEMBER - 19 HOURS, 25 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  3 DECEMBER - 17 HOURS, 25 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  3 DECEMBER - 16 HOURS, 50 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  PART TWO

  3 DECEMBER - 15 HOURS, 50 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  3 DECEMBER - 14 HOURS, 50 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  3 DECEMBER - 13 HOURS, 50 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  3 DECEMBER - 12 HOURS, 20 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  3 DECEMBER - 12 HOURS, 5 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  3 DECEMBER - 10 HOURS, 50 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  3 DECEMBER - 9 HOURS, 50 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  3 DECEMBER - 8 HOURS, 40 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  PART THREE

  4 DECEMBER - 6 HOURS, 35 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  4 DECEMBER - 5 HOURS, 35 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  4 DECEMBER - 5 HOURS, 20 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  4 DECEMBER - 5 HOURS, 5 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  4 DECEMBER - 4 HOURS, 50 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  4 DECEMBER - 4 HOURS, 30 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  4 DECEMBER - 4 HOURS, 20 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  4 DECEMBER - 4 HOURS UNTIL DAWN

  4 DECEMBER - 3 HOURS, 50 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  4 DECEMBER - 3 HOURS, 20 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  4 DECEMBER - 3 HOURS, 10 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  4 DECEMBER - 2 HOURS, 50 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  4 DECEMBER - 2 HOURS, 40 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  PART FOUR

  4 DECEMBER - 2 HOURS, 25 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  4 DECEMBER - 2 HOURS, 20 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  4 DECEMBER - 2 HOURS, 15 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  4 DECEMBER - 2 HOURS, 10 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  4 DECEMBER - 1 HOUR, 50 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  4 DECEMBER - 1 HOUR, 30 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  4 DECEMBER - 1 HOUR UNTIL DAWN

  4 DECEMBER - 50 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  4 DECEMBER - 45 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  4 DECEMBER - 32 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  4 DECEMBER - 30 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  4 DECEMBER - 29 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  4 DECEMBER - 28 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  4 DECEMBER - 22 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  4 DECEMBER - 10 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  4 DECEMBER - DAWN

  4 DECEMBER - TEN MINUTES PAST DAWN

  EPILOGUE

  Praise for Steve Mosby

  ‘A highly original take on the serial killer genre, adrenalin charged and with a terrible twist at the end’ Irish Independent

  ‘Mosby . . . writes with confidence and originality and displays an impressive feel for horror’ The Times

  ‘An excellent writer who steers well clear of the genre formulae and manages some really deft characterisation . . . And there’s a switchback twist at the climax that is brilliantly conceived and consumately executed. Pretty much fiawless’ London Lite

  ‘[An] electrifyingly scary thriller’ Daily Mail

  ‘Thriller new boy Mosby is shaping up to be a king of the craft’

  Daily Sport

  ‘Steve Mosby has invented a suitably dark and uneasy world for his excellent noir thriller . . . Mosby has a pleasingly consistent style that manages to encompass intense emotion, intellectual musings and vicious violence. Not an easy task’ Guardian

  ‘Mosby has packed a complex, sometimes bewildering plot with brilliant ideas. His book is fiercely original, truly intriguing. This is speculative fiction at its reckless best’ Literary Review

  ‘The most extraordinary first novel I’ve read for a while . . . I won’t waste time trying to give you an outline of this indescribable near future satire, detective story and psychological horror. I’ll just say that writing of this quality and originality doesn’t come along very often’ Morning Star

  ‘A thrilling good read. Adult in tone and content, it deals with lost love, the darker corners of the unmonitored web, the journey into despair of a man seeking answers and the latent power of the written word . . . a unique psychological read’

  Impact magazine

  ‘A cracking futuristic thriller’ Irish Examiner

  Steve lives in Leeds. He is the author of two previous novels, The Third Person and The Cutting Crew, which are also available in Orion paperback. Visit his website at www.theleftroom.co.uk.

  By Steve Mosby

  The Third Person

  The Cutting Crew

  The 50/50 Killer

  The 50/50 Killer

  STEVE MOSBY

  Orion

  www.orionbooks.co.uk

  An Orion paperack

  First published in Great Britain in 2007

  by Orion

  This paperback edition published in 2007

  by Orion Books Ltd,

  Orion House, 5 Upper Saint Martin’s Lane,

  London WC2H 9EA

  An Hachette Livre UK company

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Copyright © Steve Mosby 2007

  The right of Steve Mosby to be identified as the author

  of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with

  the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

  reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted,

  in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,

  photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior

  permission of the copyright owner.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and

  any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  is purely coincidental.

  the space between the day © John James Kennedy 1997

  A CIP catalogue record for this book

  is available from the British Library.

  eISBN : 978 1 4091 0610 4

  Typeset by Deltatype Ltd, Birkenhead, Merseyside

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by

  Mackays of Chatham plc, Chatham, Kent

  The Orion Publishing Group’s policy is to use papers that

  are natural, renewable and recyclable products and

  made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The logging

  and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to

  the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

  www.orionbooks.co.uk

  PROLOGUE

  ‘We don’t have to go,’ she said. ‘Not if you don’t want to.’

  John Mercer stared at himself in the mirror and didn’t reply. He just watched his wife’s hands reaching round him, pulling his tie together. She was looking after him, as she always did. He lifted his chin a little to help her with the knot. She did it loose to begin with, then tightened it gently.

  ‘People would understand.’

  He wished that was true. On the surface, people might sympathise, but deep down they would recognise it for what it was: a dereliction of duty. He could easily imagine the talk in the canteen. People would remark upon his absence and say that he must be taking it hard, and what they’d really be thinking was that, no matter how he was feeling, he should have turned up for the funeral: bitten down and taken responsibility. It was the least he could do. And they’d be right. It would be unforgivable not to attend. But he had no idea how he was going to cope.

  Eileen tucked the stray end of his tie between the buttons of his shirt. She smoothed it all down.

  ‘We don’t have to go, Joh
n.’

  ‘You don’t understand.’

  The air in the bedroom appeared steely blue in the morning light. In the mirror, his skin was white and slack, his face almost lifeless. His body, well, she still had to stretch a little in order to reach round it, but he didn’t feel as sturdy as he’d been once. Things were heavier to pick up than they should be. He got tired too quickly. Right now, his face was frozen somewhere between sadness and emptiness, his arms hanging there. Somewhere along the line, he’d grown old. It felt like a fairly recent development.

  Eileen said, ‘I do understand that you’re not well.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  But he wasn’t. Whenever he thought about standing there in front of all those people, something began turning inside his heart, winding it up, tighter and tighter. When he thought about it too much, it became hard to breathe.

  Behind him, Eileen sighed. Then she hugged him round the top of his arms, her cheek against his back.

  He felt relief. When she held him it allowed him to be simply this man, here and now, and to forget all the duties and responsibilities, all the things that weighed on him. He reached up slowly and covered one of her hands with his. She had small, warm hands.

  They stood like that for a time, man and wife embracing, and he watched himself in the mirror. Despite the comforting pressure of her, he was still a statue, cast at a moment of blankness. He could see occasional flickers of emotion in his eyes, but it was like being in a plane, catching patches of ground through the cloud. There was nowhere safe for his mind to land. And yet you couldn’t stay in the air for ever.

  He gave Eileen’s hand a final squeeze and then broke the embrace.

  ‘I need to go and practise the tribute.’

  Funerals were sad for a hundred reasons, but what struck him most was the number of people who attended. The dead would surely be surprised by how popular they had been and how many lives they’d touched without realising. Death had a way of summoning those with even a passing acquaintance with the deceased. People always came.

  At police funerals, the effect was increased. Mercer looked around. Most of the department was here, including officers who had never worked with Andrew, probably never even known him. A feeling of responsibility and family had brought them. Each and every one of them had paid their respects to Andrew’s family as they entered, then taken their seats on the right-hand side of the chapel, the side reserved for colleagues. Most were wearing their uniforms.

  Mercer was sitting at the front on that side, the other members of his team beside him. Eileen was seated back on the left, and he kept glancing behind, hoping to catch sight of her. Every time he saw her, his panic eased a little and he settled back in the pew. Increasingly, he was desperate to be with her, but he belonged here, with Pete, Simon and Greg.

  The four of them sat in silence; the coffin at the front of the chapel held the fifth. Mercer stared at it. Surely it was too small to contain the man who had worked for him - with him - for so many years? Death reduced everyone. It was another sadness of funerals. Even a religious ceremony, deep down, felt utterly godless.

  He cocked his head slightly and listened to the hum of subdued conversations, the shuffling of bodies making their way to seats. Every now and then, there was a flurry of deep, echoing coughs, like birds caught in the rafters.

  Eventually, the officiant walked across and stood at the lectern at the front of the chapel. Everyone fell silent. The man spoke through a microphone that amplified his voice, but only slightly.

  ‘We are gathered here today to pay tribute to the life and memory of Andrew Dyson, who died on the fifteenth of December, taken from us in the course of his duty. Andrew did not have a firm religious belief, and so a religious funeral service was not thought to be appropriate. I am an officiant, accredited by the Humanist Association, present today to conduct a non-religious ceremony.’

  He looked up towards the back of the chapel, his face bathed in amber light.

  ‘The world is a community, and Andrew has been part of it with us,’ he said. ‘In everyday life, it is easy to forget. We conduct our own business. But in fact, we are all involved and affected by the life and death of each and every one of us.’

  Mercer glanced across to the left and saw Andrew’s wife. She was sitting between their two young daughters, holding their hands tightly, being strong for them. When he had gone to her with the news that her husband was dead, she had cried long and hard, but she had also been capable and practical. He sat with her all that evening, and that was when she’d asked him if he would read a tribute to Andrew today. Unable to refuse, he’d felt the panic stirring even then. He was now head of this side of the chapel, just as she was of hers, but he had none of her resolve.

  ‘The comfort of having a friend or a valued colleague may be taken away - but not the comfort of having had one. In important ways we have lost what we had, but we must not only reflect upon losing our friends, but also appreciate the benefit of their having once been ours.’

  The officiant looked down at his notes and then back up.

  ‘The fact of death cannot be cancelled or reversed,’ he said. ‘But it can be transformed by our continuing and enduring love for those who have left us, and for each other.’

  It was at that point that Mercer began to realise that something was wrong. It announced itself as a ringing in his ears, and as he stared at the officiant everything around the man became starry and distant. The hackles on his neck began to rise. His heartbeat was quickening.

  Something was wrong.

  ‘The final parting of death is bound to bring sorrow and shock,’ the man said. ‘Those who feel deeply will necessarily grieve deeply. No religion or thought process ever practised can prevent this natural human reaction.’

  Mercer turned in the pew and scanned the people crowded behind. A sea of bodies and heads. At the back of the chapel, the door was open. Even more people were standing beyond.

  ‘But whatever relationships death breaks in upon, and whatever our personal beliefs, we can at least be certain that those we have lost are now at peace.’

  He tried to pick out faces. Despite the sheer number of people, he couldn’t see anybody he knew. A few of the heads were turning his way, though.

  Eyes began to flick in his direction.

  The officiant had fallen silent. Mercer looked back to see he had moved to one side of the lectern and was now looking down at him expectantly.

  He had missed his cue. A few polite coughs echoed around the chapel as he stood and walked across. The papers he had prepared were already there. He picked them up, his hands trembling, and leaned towards the microphone.

  ‘My name is John Mercer,’ he said. ‘I am saddened, but also honoured, to be speaking here today. Honoured to have known Andrew Dyson, both as a friend and as a colleague.’

  He could hear himself saying the words, but they sounded as if they were coming from someone else. Cold sweat was beading all over him. Suddenly, he felt as thin and weak as an old man. His heartbeat seemed hard enough to break through his chest.

  ‘I worked with - I had the pleasure of working with Andrew for ten years.’

  He swallowed.

  In the pew, the rest of his team were looking at him, concerned. Pete, his second-in-command, was frowning. He unfolded his arms, as though about to get up and come across to him. Mercer shook his head: I’m okay.

  But he wasn’t. It was hot in here and yet he was shivering. His legs—

  ‘Throughout that time ...’

  Eileen. He looked towards the back of the chapel, seeking her out. He knew roughly where she was, but now that he needed her he couldn’t find where she was sitting.

  As he glanced from face to face, the panic rising with each that wasn’t hers, he carried on speaking.

  ‘Throughout that time, he was one of the most professional officers I have ever worked with.’

  Something caught his eye and then was gone. He searched for it.

&nbs
p; ‘I hope it can bring some comfort to—’

  But then he saw it again, and the words disappeared. One face among all the others, watching him inquisitively.

  It was Robert Parker, wasn’t it? Parker, who had murdered five young boys in a city south of here? The last time Mercer had seen him had been in a well-lit room. Parker, dressed in orange, had been lighting a cigarette awkwardly with his cuffed hands. Several months later, he had died at the hands of another inmate.

  ‘Some comfort to Andrew’s wife and children.’

  He faltered.

  It couldn’t be Parker. But then he noticed the man sitting two rows behind him. Slicked-back hair on top of a round, childish face.

  Sam Phillips. Mercer had consulted on that one, and had only ever seen photographs of the man himself. But he’d inspected the rusted-iron equipment Phillips had constructed in the room below his detached house. He couldn’t be here, either. He was in prison, hundreds of miles away.

  Parker and Phillips rose to their feet.

  ‘No,’ Mercer said.

  Quickly, he looked around - here and there - and saw that more men were standing up in the crowd. His gaze moved to each in turn, his breath shortening with every familiar face.

  Charlies Yi, who had broken into the home of three women and left their bodies chained to radiators.

  Jacob Barrett, the quarry murderer.

  ‘No.’

  Craig Harris, who had taken whole families, one at a time.

  And one final figure, standing alone at the back of the chapel. Mercer couldn’t see him properly; he was covered in shadow. But he could tell the man’s head was the wrong shape. There were horns, too ...

  As one, the men began to make their way left and right, squeezing past people’s knees, moving towards the central aisle. Each and every one of them was staring at him.

  His heart dropped away inside. There was no tension any more; there was nothing. He didn’t exist. All there was, all he could feel, was panic.