The 50/50 Killer Page 11

  There was more to the file after that but, like the CCTV footage, it carried on for a few faltering moments that were ultimately unnecessary. Greg had completed a full dissection of the Frank Walker identity, exploring all the possible leads before coming to a halt at each dead end. Walker’s house was stripped down practically to its foundations, but proved as clean of forensic evidence as any of the killer’s primary crime scenes. His neighbours were all interviewed. None of them had ever seen him.

  Nothing came of any of it.

  As I finished, though, I found I was more concerned by what wasn’t in the file. The team had maintained authority for the investigation after Dyson’s death, but John Mercer’s name was almost immediately conspicuous by its absence. The case had been placed back under the overall control of Detective Sergeant Geoff Hunter.

  I broke off from the file and looked over at Mercer.

  He was still in that familiar pose: elbows on the desk, fingers now splayed over his downturned face, lifting his hair up at the front. Still deeply involved in the papers and reports he was wrestling with.

  I watched him as subtly as I could, thinking about the book he’d written - the one I’d reread when I’d got the news of my appointment.

  In the early sections, he discussed several of the team’s high-profile cases in detail, including two that remained unsolved, but the 50/50 Killer wasn’t one of them. In the chapters at the end, where he detailed his breakdown, he’d written about being overloaded with work and about the pressures that came from sharing your headspace with one killer after another. The implication was that it had been the general stress of the job that had sent him over the edge for a time. There was no mention of Dyson’s murder. Looking at it now, though, the chronology fitted; it couldn’t be a coincidence. He had pushed his team hard, one of them had died, and shortly afterwards he had ended up in hospital. And not just any investigation, but this one -

  Mercer was looking at me.

  I turned back to the screen.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing, sir.’

  But he was still looking at me and I felt my skin growing hot. I glanced back. His expression was blank, but I imagined he was reading my thoughts and knew full well that I was intruding in an area of his life that was none of my business. A look of realisation appeared on his face.

  ‘It’s nearly seven o’clock, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Yes. But that’s okay.’

  He leaned back. ‘No. It’s been a long day. I’m sorry, it’s just one of those things. We’re going to be here a lot longer. Is that a problem?’

  ‘It goes with the territory,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, but you’ve not eaten.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Take half an hour.’

  I was about to protest, but then I realised I was starving. And exhausted. More than anything, I wanted to get out of this office and away from things for a while.

  ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘I’ll hold the fort here.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Besides, I have to ring my wife. There’s a canteen down the hall. You can get something there.’

  I made my way to the door, pausing when I realised what he’d told me about the canteen. I glanced at his desk. The cup of coffee I’d brought him was sitting on the corner, empty. It seemed to have escaped his mind that I’d been to the canteen a few times already.

  ‘Can I get you a coffee?’ I said.

  ‘No, thanks.’ He had already returned his concentration to the files on the desk in front of him, making notes and swapping his attention back and forth between them.

  He said, ‘Not this time.’

  3 DECEMBER

  12 HOURS, 20 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  7.00 P.M.

  Eileen

  Three little words that sent her heart fluttering: ‘I’m working late.’

  In the study, on the phone, Eileen was playing with the cable. She was looping it round her finger, releasing it, beginning again. She forced herself to stop.

  ‘You will take care of yourself, won’t you?’

  On the other end of the line, John said nothing. Over the years she’d become used to deciphering these silences, and she had no trouble picturing him. He would be sitting at that desk, staring at something in front of him. Concentrating. Not wanting rid of her exactly, but unable to focus completely on the conversation. It always took a moment for the question to jostle its way through everything else in his head. In the background, she could hear him typing.

  ‘Of course I will.’

  As though it was obvious.

  When John had first told her he was thinking of returning to work, Eileen had experienced a number of different emotions, the first of which had been sheer disbelief. He’d been in his dressing-gown at the time, half collapsed on the settee in the front room. Even walking from room to room seemed hard for him; he moved slowly, like an invalid. And so she hadn’t taken him seriously.

  When it became clear that on some level he meant it, the disbelief had shifted swiftly into an almost righteous anger. She’d shouted at him: what in hell did he think he was doing? Not just to himself, if he wasn’t bothered enough about that, but to her? She’d reminded him of the care he’d needed, and which she’d patiently given, and of the sacrifices she’d had to make. She’d spelled out the worry that had felt like it might destroy her, too.

  When her husband had broken, Eileen felt her entire life hold its breath while she picked up his pieces and pressed them together, holding them in place and praying they would stick. He had no right to risk putting her through that again. He owed her better, she told him. They were supposed to be a partnership.

  Stung by this, he’d taken her words on board. And yet, over time, Eileen had found herself relenting. She looked at him, day after day, and knew that mentally and emotionally he was withering in front of her. There was a helplessness about both of them during this period. John was dead-eyed, drained of energy: hollowed out more with every passing day. He wasn’t growing healthier, or even staying the same, but visibly sinking. And she didn’t know how to help him.

  So after a time she’d suggested - tentatively - he might return to work. But not like before; that was the deal. He must never do that to her, she’d insisted, and he’d agreed that he wouldn’t. There would be no more living inside case files at the expense of his life with her; no more working through the night. His job had to remain a job, locked up and left behind at the end of each working day. He would ring her at intervals. That was the promise he had to make.

  As far as she could tell, he’d stuck to it, and over the past couple of months he’d seemed better. It was only in the last week or so that she’d started to become concerned again. The worry had returned.

  Now, those three little words. ‘I’m working late.’

  ‘Isn’t there anyone else who can take over?’ she repeated. ‘You sound tired.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  She was looping the cable again.

  ‘Right, well, I’ll go, then, shall I?’

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s not that.’ His voice sounded far away. She imagined him squinting at the screen while he talked to her. ‘I’m just ... This is busy here, that’s all.’

  She wanted to scream, ‘Come home!’

  Instead, she took a deep breath and made sure he heard it.

  ‘Okay, John. I’ll let you go. I love you.’

  ‘I love you, too.’

  But there was no sign in his voice that he was even thinking about the words, never mind feeling them. They were only what was required at the end of their conversations, the way a sentence always needed a full-stop.

  Not fair to think like that. He does love you. He’s just distracted.

  In the old days, that would have been fine. But no, it was still okay. This was an over-reaction - she just hadn’t been prepared for the slice of panic that had gone through her. Eileen put the phone down and stood there, breathing deeply, bringing it all back under control.

/>   After all, she had company.

  Geoff Hunter was still in the front room where she had left him, but in her absence he’d stood up and helped himself to a look around. He was a tall, slouching man, given to standing with his hands deep in his pockets, chin tucked in, looking down at people as though they were small, badly-behaved children. The posture made the ends of his trousers lift up slightly, revealing an inch of black sock above his polished shoes. As Eileen walked back in, she despised him afresh.

  ‘It’s good of you,’ she lied, ‘coming down here yourself.’

  Hunter didn’t respond. He was preoccupied with a photograph on the mantelpiece. It was her and John on their wedding day. The photographer had been crammed into the front passenger side, taking the picture backwards, between the seats. They were in the centre of the frame, leaning towards each other, smiling and happy.

  Hunter could easily have sent a junior officer to interview her, and if he had this might all have been finished by now, but she thought he wouldn’t have missed this opportunity for the world. For him, entering this room full of John’s private, personal items was like gaining access to a rival’s diary. He was standing there quite brazenly leafing through the entries, searching for signs of weakness.

  ‘Professional courtesy,’ he told her absently.

  ‘Well, you must be very busy.’

  ‘We always look after our own.’

  Eileen suppressed the enormous swell of anger she felt at that, at the implicit reduction of her to John’s property. She wanted to tell him that her husband didn’t belong to them at all. His life was here with her, not padding around with some kind of gang.

  She said, ‘I know you do.’

  He finally stopped inspecting the photograph and turned to face her.

  ‘Was that John?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you tell him I was here?’

  ‘No. It’s nothing to do with him, is it?’

  Hunter inclined his head, not so sure, but let the matter drop.

  ‘How is he? John, I mean. We work together, but I haven’t seen all that much of him since he came back.’

  Eileen felt herself tensing. ‘He’s fine.’

  Hunter checked his watch. ‘I didn’t think he usually stayed this late any more?’

  ‘He does sometimes.’

  That was several lies in under a minute.

  Hunter was about the same age as her husband, and she knew there was some one-way resentment between them. Hunter might be posing as a friend, but in reality he was more like a jackal, sniffing casually for blood. It was astonishing how quickly John’s colleagues could get her hackles rising, even the ones who supposedly cared about him. Since his breakdown, she was always on the offensive, and it had got to the point now where she avoided seeing any of them unless she had to. They were all the same deep down. Either they took a perverse delight in his weakness, or else they tried to reassure her, which was even worse. They were talking about a man she’d known and loved for longer than some of them had been alive.

  ‘Shall we talk about James Reardon now? You said you were busy.’

  ‘Yes, we should.’

  Hunter walked over to the settee and sat down on the middle seat. Eileen remained standing, watching him. He produced a tape-recorder from his coat pocket and placed it beside him, then rested his elbows on his knees, cupping his hands in front of him. His trousers, she noted, were now riding two inches high.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Geoff Hunter,’ he told the tape-recorder, ‘interviewing Eileen Mercer in relation to the assault on Colin Barnes and the abduction of Karli Reardon. For information, Eileen is the wife of Detective Sergeant John Mercer. Eileen, can you indicate your consent to be interviewed at this time?’

  Irritated by his manner, she simply nodded.

  ‘Out loud, please.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘For the record, Eileen has reported that the suspect, James Reardon, came to her house this morning in a state of some agitation. Eileen, what time would this have been?’

  ‘About ten.’

  ‘And you’re his ... counsellor? Is that right?’

  Hunter injected the word with a drop of venom. It was interesting, she thought, how quickly his true colours emerged. Perhaps it was because this tape would go on file, and so he was playing to a crowd.

  She nodded.

  ‘Out loud, please,’ he repeated.

  ‘I have been involved in counselling sessions with him, yes.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘Just over a year.’

  ‘That’s a long time. So ... what sort of things have you discussed?’

  ‘That would be confidential,’ she said. ‘And irrelevant.’

  ‘Did you talk about his terrible upbringing?’

  Eileen folded her arms.

  ‘Or perhaps,’ Hunter continued, ‘he complained about how hard his life has been?’

  ‘Are you enjoying this for some strange reason, Detective?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I guess I’m just struggling with the whole notion.’ He leaned back and then sounded more serious. ‘How did James Reardon seem? What was his manner?’

  ‘He was agitated. Apologetic.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For letting me down. He wouldn’t say why.’

  ‘But now you know.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Now I know.’

  Reardon had left Eileen with a feeling of disquiet that she was unsure how to act upon. His words and behaviour were troubling, and she knew what he was capable of. She’d considered calling the police, but finally discounted the idea, albeit with a few reservations.

  Reardon had not told her he’d committed a crime - or even that he intended to - and as a client he was entitled to speak to her in confidence, a principle she’d decided held true even though he’d turned up unannounced. There would be consequences to violating that. Given his record, and her connection with John, the police would likely have come down hard on him, and any trust they’d established would immediately have been destroyed. Perhaps for no reason. So: no police. Instead, throughout the day she’d tried without success to contact Reardon himself.

  It wasn’t her habit to watch television during the day, so she didn’t catch the news until the six o’clock report. It was only a small item - part of the local news at the end of the broadcast - but she heard Reardon’s name and listened carefully, her heart slowly collapsing. Oh, James. At that point she’d had no choice. No reservations, either.

  Hunter said, ‘And now you’re aware that, just before James Reardon visited you, he stalked and assaulted the man currently dating his ex-wife? ’

  ‘I’m aware of that.’

  ‘The man in question, Colin Barnes, has identified Reardon as his assailant. Barnes had Reardon’s youngest daughter in a pushchair at the time. That child is now missing.’

  Karli Reardon, yes. All this had been on the news.

  If Hunter was right about the timing - and she was sure he was - James Reardon had already abducted his daughter when he came and spoke to her. Eileen had been his last port of call before going on the run.

  Whatever you hear about me, I’m doing it for her.

  Hunter reached into his pocket again, this time producing a photograph, which he held out to her. She resisted for a moment, knowing the crass point he was attempting to score, but then took it anyway.

  ‘This is Amanda Reardon,’ he said. ‘The picture was probably taken around the same time her ex-husband approached you to talk about all those problems he has.’

  Eileen studied the woman’s face, taking in the swellings and the single cut, the look of abject defeat and humiliation. Hunter must have known about the counselling she did with offenders. If he expected the face of a victim to shock or shame her, he should have known better. Impassive and unaffected, she handed the picture back to him.

  ‘Did he talk to you about how he felt when he did that?’

  Yes, he had.

 
‘I’m afraid I don’t see the relevance to your investigation.’

  ‘Personally, I’m surprised he came to a female counsellor. Aren’t you? I mean, he obviously has, shall we say, strong feelings towards women.’

  They had talked about that, too. People like Hunter, Eileen thought, always saw things in black and white. What James Reardon had done to his ex-wife was hideous and inexcusable, but Eileen also knew that he was no blanket misogynist. Hunter simply wanted a Bad Man to blame; he wanted his villains in black hats, his heroes in white, whereas in real life people were too complicated to fall into their roles so easily and comfortably.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ she repeated, ‘I don’t see the relevance to your investigation. ’

  ‘You don’t?’ Hunter leaned forwards, bored of taunting her. ‘Well, let’s finish up. Why didn’t you call the police this morning? You could have saved a lot of people a lot of trouble.’

  ‘I didn’t know he was going to commit a crime.’

  ‘He already had.’

  ‘So how could I have saved anyone anything?’

  There was a beat of silence, and Eileen felt a small, petty thrill. But this entire conversation was absurd. She unfolded her arms.

  ‘Let me make myself clear, Detective Sergeant Hunter. No matter what you think, I am not on James Reardon’s side in this. I am not protecting him; I do not condone his actions. But it’s not my job to judge him. It’s my job simply to listen, and hopefully to help him understand why he’s done these things.’

  ‘Understand.’ Hunter nodded. ‘I like that.’

  ‘That’s right. You probably find it uncomfortable to think of things in these terms, Detective, but despite what James Reardon’s done, he’s still a person.’

  Hunter glanced at the tape-recorder.

  ‘For the record,’ he said, ‘the witness seems slightly hostile.’

  Annoyed with herself, she turned away and walked across to the mantelpiece. Behind her, Hunter stood up, preparing to leave.

  ‘Well, that’s where we differ, Eileen. To me, he’s just a target. My job - if you’re interested - is to find his daughter and arrest him before he hurts her or anyone else.’