The 50/50 Killer Page 24

  When he was gone, Mercer returned to his familiar pose: eyes closed, fingers massaging his forehead. It was as though this action was his way of recharging himself. Or maybe absolving himself from thought for a time.

  ‘Coffee, sir?’

  He didn’t say anything, but raised his eyebrows. I figured that was as close to a yes as I was going to get.

  Five minutes later, I was back with two coffees, and Mercer was back from the dead: elbows on the desk, hands clasped in front of him, staring intently at the screen.

  ‘Thanks.’

  He took the coffee and gestured absently to the monitor in the middle.

  ‘Sit down. I’ve printed you a copy.’

  I picked up the sheets of paper. It was the summary of Hunter’s investigation, headed with the name James Reardon and the familiar picture of the man we knew as Carl Farmer.

  I sipped my coffee and started to read through the details.

  The first thing that struck me was the sheer amount of information about Reardon. Birthdate, family history, employment record. This was almost certainly not a fake identity. Here, finally, was the man behind the nests.

  Reardon was thirty-one years old, and in his brief time on the planet he’d notched up a number of offences and upset a lot of people. A very bright child, he’d become increasingly distracted and disruptive as he grew older. As an adult, he had two charges against him for affray, three for drunk and disorderly, one for assault, several minor drug issues. And so on. The impression the report gave was of a big guy who turned into a nasty drunk - who lost control when he lost control - although the past few years had seen his offences become concentrated in a different area.

  Amanda Reardon, his estranged wife, now went by her original surname of Taylor. There was a photograph of her in the file: thin blonde hair, pale skin. She was younger than Reardon but looked older, and most of that was in her eyes: she seemed tired all the way down to her soul. Like she was constantly on guard and unable to sleep much.

  Their relationship had been on and off for several years. It was a dull and dispiriting tale of break-ups and reconciliations, punctuated by accusations of James Reardon being dangerous, volatile, unreliable - all retracted when the couple got back together again. A familiar story. I thought it was sad the way that certain people stuck with partners who were so clearly wrong for them, as though they believed they’d never find anything better. You invest and you cling.

  Their second daughter, Karli, had been born just over a year and a half ago, and she seemed to be the turning point.

  The document contained a brief summary of the initial custody battle that followed their separation. Amanda Taylor was awarded residence, but Reardon challenged it for both children, claiming that she was an unfit mother. He wasn’t his own best advocate. On one occasion he was alleged to have attacked the car she was in, shattering the windscreen with a hammer, and then assaulting her by the roadside. A restraining order had been hard fought and repeatedly broken. There was more besides, but the end result was that James Reardon had recently been refused all access to his children in the short term. Amanda Taylor had patiently played the game, and she had won.

  Hunter’s current investigation related to James Reardon’s abduction of his daughter Karli yesterday morning. The summary gave the details. Amanda Taylor’s boyfriend, Colin Barnes, had taken Karli to the park in her pushchair around nine, and a man followed and then assaulted him. Barnes had identified Reardon as his attacker. Reardon had run off, taking his little girl with him, and subsequently vanished. Appeals for him to come forward had been met with silence.

  I looked at the photograph, and was struck once again by how hard he looked: how blank. It was easy to imagine those eyes staring out of the holes in a mask, illuminated by a flicker of fire. Easy to believe this was the man who had tortured Scott and who would, if she was still alive, be torturing Jodie right now.

  Easy - but could we be sure?

  The first thing I realised was that the timings fitted, and that Reardon’s connection to the case was independently corroborated. The killer had left Kevin Simpson’s house after eight o’clock. The baby had been abducted around nine by James Reardon. Megan Cook had seen Reardon entering the Carl Farmer address at eleven. That was two independent witnesses, but we also had a third. Scott had identified Reardon as the man who came round to read their meter.

  There was a triangulation of guilt there. Individually, there might be other explanations for the witness testimony, but together they seemed unshakeable.

  I glanced up at Mercer, who was lost in the document. Despite everything, I realised he had been right so far. We had the killer’s face; we had the killer’s real name and identity. Maybe there still wasn’t enough to justify the theory this was a direct challenge to us, but then, I didn’t have another theory to offer in its place. What was Reardon doing? What had he been planning and what was he now carrying out?

  I turned back to the summary.

  Reardon’s age and temperament fitted the profile: intelligent but antisocial; volatile in his youth, more controlled and calculating as the years had gone by. My gut feeling was that we’d also find a certain symmetry between the ups and downs of his relationship with his wife and the 50/50 crimes. But that was—

  ‘Have you read about his parents?’ Mercer said.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘They died in a car crash six years ago. They left Reardon their house and a reasonably large sum of money. He sold the house; used the cash to rent a place. Since then, he’s only worked sporadically, here and there.’

  I nodded. Another box; another tick.

  My excitement was growing. The more I read, the more clicked into place.

  The most telling detail in the summary was in connection with Reardon’s custody battle. I felt my breath catching as I saw it. Towards the end of the legal battle, after his last access visit, their daughter had been returned to Amanda Taylor with a new teddy bear as a present. Suspicious, Taylor had opened the toy up and discovered a listening device secreted within the foam.

  Reardon denied planting it, but admitted that he was desperate - concerned about the company his ex-girlfriend was keeping and the effect it might have on their children. The case had made the news: only a small item, but the clipping had been scanned and included in the file. Reardon had declined to give a full interview, but had spoken briefly to the reporter.

  ‘Nobody understands how much a father loves his child,’ he said. ‘That woman doesn’t know what love is.’

  I looked across at Mercer and he was almost glowing. I caught sight of how I imagined the old John Mercer: the man who’d solved all of those high-profile cases, who could look through the files and single out the key details that would break them.

  At that moment, all the weariness of the day’s work and conflicts appeared to have lifted from him. He was fresh again. For the first time that day, I thought he seemed capable of seeing all this through. And I got the impression that, maybe for the first time, he felt it, too. There was a visible energy about him. It gave me a small thrill to see it.

  All day long, I realised, I’d been fighting against a feeling of disappointment. Rightly or wrongly, this wasn’t only about a good job for me; it was more than that. I was here at least partly because I wanted to do something as a validation of Lise’s belief in me: something that would have made her proud. And yet it had felt as though I’d achieved no more in that regard than if I’d got a job filing paper in an office. But right there, right then, I was finally seeing the man I’d come here to work for.

  ‘We’re going to get him,’ he told me.

  I nodded; I believed him.

  And I suppose it was inevitable that, right then, with a single beep from the computer in front of us, it all began to fall apart.

  4 DECEMBER

  2 HOURS, 50 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  4.30 A.M.

  Eileen

  Eileen was having the dream again: the one she’d had th
e Friday before and then spoken to John about over breakfast. The one in which he left her.

  I hope you’re not planning to run away.

  In real life he’d told her he was too tired to run, but in the dream he’d clearly found the energy from somewhere. Clothes were missing from the wardrobes, books from the shelves, paintings from the walls. She drifted from room to room and saw her possessions sagging into the spaces he’d left. A home which had been comfortably full of two people’s possessions was reduced to a house half emptied, and the items still here looked awkward and out of place as a result. When two people’s lives came together and grew, you couldn’t simply rip one away and expect the remainder to stand unsupported, as it had before. It didn’t work that way. Things had been carefully balanced, which meant they would fall.

  At first, the noise brought her out of the dream slowly. While the events in her head were still vivid and real, she became aware of the bed at her back and the covers over her body.

  The alarm was going off.

  That didn’t seem right. She lifted her head off the pillow, peering around the bedroom with bleary eyes.

  The curtains were black, the dressing table clouded in shadow. She checked the display. Only half past four, and the numbers weren’t flashing.

  The phone in the study.

  It all came back to her then - John working late; the fear and the anger; the promise she’d extracted from him to phone her every two hours. What had happened? It had been her intention to stay awake to see if he called, but she remembered lying down on the bed, resting, and that had obviously been that. Idiot, she thought.

  At least he’s phoned.

  She swung her legs over the side of the bed and got rather unsteadily to her feet. The wine was swirling the remains of the dream around in her head, and tilting the world. It was hard to negotiate the hallway in the darkness, with everything turning slowly, and on the way she banged into the wall and, from there, the banister, and then missed the door to the study, flat-palming the cold wall just past it. Three or four desperate seconds to find the light switch. The same again while she winced and rubbed her eyes against the harsh pain of the light.

  The whole time, the phone kept ringing.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Eileen?’

  A man’s voice, but not John’s.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘It’s Geoff Hunter,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry for calling you so late. I wouldn’t normally disturb you.’

  Hunter. An image of John’s noxious colleague rose in her head, and she frowned. Of course he wouldn’t normally disturb her, so what the hell did he want now? And why wasn’t this John?

  She froze. Something had happened to him.

  Panic rose inside her, concern and love for her husband immediately replacing the anger she’d felt at his neglect of her, the risk he was taking at their expense. If he was hurt, if anything had happened ... But if something had, it wouldn’t be Hunter phoning her. One of his team would do that. And so it must be about—

  ‘James Reardon,’ she remembered. ‘You’ve found him?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Then what do you want?’

  ‘It’s your husband.’

  There was an unpleasant note of triumph in his voice. Eileen closed her eyes and felt herself falling away. She didn’t know exactly what was coming next, but she had an idea.

  Hunter said, ‘There’s something I think you deserve to know.’

  4 DECEMBER

  2 HOURS, 40 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  4.40 A.M.

  Mark

  Detective Inspector Alan White was Mercer’s direct superior, but was slightly younger than him. It happens that way sometimes. In any organisation, there comes a point when you stop rising automatically up the ranks and have to push to move ahead. Mercer could have done that, I was sure, but he was happy enough to stay where he was, whereas White had involved himself more in politics and pulled himself higher up the ladder. From brief mentions in Mercer’s book, there seemed to be good history and mutual respect between them, but right now that history was doing little to stop White looking incredibly pissed off. Perhaps it tempered the anger with a hint of sadness and regret, but that certainly wasn’t going to prevent him doing his job.

  I’d been aware of Mercer reporting to White that afternoon as I read through the 50/50 file, but this was the first time I’d actually seen him. He had black, receding hair, and a face with a strange sort of muscular pudge to it. His dark brown eyes were intimidating even through a computer screen and over a distance of miles. They could probably have scorched off skin in person.

  ‘John,’ he repeated, ‘I want to know what’s going on. This morning, you picked up a home invasion. All day you’ve been talking to me about a home invasion.’

  ‘That’s the case we’ve been working on, Alan—’

  ‘No, cut the shit, John. I look at the file now, and I see a home invasion with a lot of activity we both know I should have been informed about. And why am I looking at the file? Because I’ve just had Geoff Hunter shouting down the phone at me. So I repeat - again - what the fuck is going on?’

  Mercer stared back at him. For a moment, there was only steel in his face, but then the glimmer of a smile appeared.

  He understood this was it now, the end, and he also knew exactly what had happened. He’d trusted someone, and he’d been betrayed. So Geoff Hunter had been on the phone to White. Earlier on, when Greg had left the locker room, I’d noticed he’d given up too easily, and now we both understood why. Finally losing patience, he’d taken the decision to go over Mercer’s head. In many ways, I found I couldn’t blame him.

  ‘I was about to contact you both,’ Mercer said.

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’ He picked his words slowly and carefully. ‘There was some doubt at the beginning of the case, but now it seems clear. The man we’re looking for is the man responsible for Andrew’s death. Among others.’

  Some doubt at the beginning of the case. There was irony in that, of course, because it was Greg who’d queried the link at first. Mercer was staring down at his keyboard, with the same thin, humourless smile.

  ‘We’ve talked about this, haven’t we, John?’ White said. ‘You know my feelings. It was always going to be Geoff’s case from now on. So that’s bad enough. Compounding matters, I understand you’ve actually uncovered a link with Geoff’s current operation. That’s right?’

  Mercer nodded once. ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Do you have any idea how difficult that makes this?’

  ‘We’ve only just read the file summary now—’

  ‘John—’

  Mercer spread his hands: ‘The connection is a new development.’

  ‘John, please.’ White shook his head and looked away. He looked as if he was rolling something around his mouth and not enjoying the taste all that much.

  Mercer just waited.

  ‘Right,’ White said. ‘Geoff’s on his way to the ring road now, since that’s where most of the men are. He’ll be taking over. Until he’s evaluated the situation, he’s ordered the search teams out of the woods.’

  Mercer looked up, frantic. ‘But Alan—’

  ‘No buts, John. It’s the middle of the fucking night and there’s a blizzard. What were you thinking?’

  ‘Ordered’, I noted. Past tense. White had already made the decision to replace Mercer before he made this call. Mercer sensed it, too. He was beginning to panic.

  ‘We’re at a key point in this, Alan. We’re so, so close. A girl could die if we lose hold of this now.’

  ‘You’re far too close,’ White said, ‘and it’s clouding your judgment. I’ve skimmed the file and what you’re doing is madness. You’re risking more of your men in there - you do realise that?’

  ‘Alan—’

  ‘We both know Geoff is perfectly competent. He will look at this case and he will take it forward in the most appropriate manner.�
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  ‘Damn it, Alan, we have to save her!’

  There was a pause. White just looked at him, his expression wavering between contempt and pity. As with Mercer’s previous outburst, I felt embarrassed on his behalf. Five minutes ago he had been bright and positive. Now he was collapsing, and it was painful to watch. We had all been worried about what the case meant to him, and what failure today might do. I was seeing that happen.

  ‘I wish you could see yourself,’ White said quietly.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that. No, you’re not fine; you’re falling apart. I’m telling you to go home. And out of respect for our history, that’s all I’m telling you right now. But we’ll be talking a lot more about this when you’ve slept.’

  Mercer took a deep breath. Then released it slowly.

  ‘Am I understood?’ White said.

  ‘Yes, Alan.’

  ‘Put your man on.’

  When Mercer didn’t move, I activated the webcam on my own monitor and clicked the onscreen view so that White would receive the feed.

  ‘Detective Nelson,’ I said.

  ‘I assume you heard all that?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I need you to prepare a report for Detective Sergeant Hunter.’

  ‘Okay.’

  He went through it. Hunter wanted a summary of the day’s events: what had happened; what we knew so far; what our current situation was. The facts, White emphasised.

  I listened, nodding in all the right places, and every second it felt like I was betraying Mercer. I wanted to do something - make some rebellious gesture of support - but that wouldn’t accomplish anything. I was paid to do whatever job got handed down to me, and I forced myself to keep that in mind. Even so, below the surface the guilt and frustration were building. All the men, out of the woods.