The 50/50 Killer Page 25

  When I disconnected, the locker room was very quiet. The soft hum of the computer equipment gave the silence an ominous feel: the atmosphere was charged, as though the air couldn’t stand it any more and the next time there was a noise it would start screaming.

  I looked at Mercer.

  In the last few hours, I’d become used to him sitting a certain way: elbows on his knees or on the desk, his head in his hands, looking as though he was either concentrating very hard on something or allowing himself to drift and rest. Now that it was over, he was simply leaning back in the chair, hands resting casually on his thighs. The acceptance in his face revealed a number of emotions. Anger, certainly. But also, I thought, a sense of relief.

  He reminded me of my father. When I was a child and his business had failed, he’d sat me down to explain about it. I’d felt awkward, because I was young and it was the first time I’d seen my father look vulnerable. He’d always been a rock, and it was terrible to see him stained by failure, and the worst thing was him knowing I was seeing it. Mercer had that same combination of age, fragility and sadness.

  In my father’s case, it had been reined in by a lifetime’s understanding that whatever life dealt you, however hard it might be, you took it and kept going. Mercer just looked beaten, and that was immeasurably worse.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I said. ‘I wanted you to see it through.’

  He stared at me for a moment, as though weighing me up. Considering me. Seeing through me, almost. Then, he leaned forwards, and seemed about to speak.

  Before he could, a sharp noise broke the silence, jarring us both. Mercer patted at himself. His mobile was ringing.

  ‘Shit.’

  He took it out of his pocket, looked at the display, and then paused, debating the call. I waited, but he just let it ring. The caller wasn’t giving up. Thirty seconds later, Mercer used his fingernail to turn the phone off at the top, cutting the call dead, and then put it down on the desk by all his papers.

  ‘My wife.’ He closed his eyes.

  ‘You don’t want to talk to her?’ I said.

  ‘Not right now, no. I’ll be home soon.’

  I looked at my watch. ‘It’s late for her still to be up. Or else it’s early.’

  ‘She worries about me. But everyone worries about me, don’t they?’

  I thought about that. It reminded me, along with the impression I’d just had, that I hadn’t replied to my parents after that text earlier on. They were worried about me, too, even though they didn’t need to be. I knew how annoying it could be.

  ‘People—’

  It felt stupid, because he wasn’t going to see it this way, not at the moment.

  ‘People care,’ I said.

  ‘No, people worry. And you know what? I worry about myself sometimes. I’m the one who has to deal with it. People seem to forget that. But it’s been two years, and I have to do something. I can’t just sit at home for ever. Nobody seems to remember that, either. Well’ - he glanced up at the screen - ‘almost nobody.’

  I started to reply, but then stopped. ‘Almost nobody’, he’d said. The words struck me as odd, and a second later something occurred to me: He’s been planning this for two years, Mercer had said.

  It was two years since we’d heard from the 50/50 Killer, and it was also two years since Mercer’s breakdown. And he thought there was a connection. Staring over at him, I realised that had been at least part of the basis for his approach to the case. He thought that the two-year break had less to do with planning, more to do with the killer’s desire to let the policeman in charge of the investigation recover and return to the fray.

  Could he possibly be right? Unlikely as it might have seemed earlier on, now that it was just the two of us here the idea had a curious power.

  ‘I know what everybody’s been saying,’ Mercer said. ‘It’s been obvious all day. Tiptoeing around me. They think it’s all about Andrew. That I can’t cope with the pressure. That I’m too close to it. That I’m just going to ... I don’t know, fall over or something.’

  He opened his eyes and looked straight at me.

  ‘Do you know what I need, Mark?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Not even what I need, but what I want? What I want - more than anything - is not to feel like a fucking invalid.’

  I stared at him.

  ‘And faith,’ he said. ‘That’s what I’ve wanted. A bit of faith. Two years ago, everyone might have disagreed or might not have understood, but they wouldn’t have doubted me. But all day it’s like I’ve been on probation and nobody trusts me any more. Do they honestly think I’d still be here now if I didn’t think I had to be?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  ‘Just a bit of faith.’ He shook his head. ‘My team to back me up like they used to. Instead, I’ve been on my own with this all day, while everyone worries. And now ... Well, we’re done, aren’t we?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Yes. We’re done.’

  He put his elbows on the desk, rested his head in his hands. ‘And I’m glad.’

  We sat in silence. He didn’t move, didn’t do anything. I couldn’t even see him breathing he was so still. I wanted to excuse myself quietly and walk out of the room. Instead:

  ‘Sir?’

  There was no reply.

  ‘Are you okay, sir?’

  Nothing.

  The computer in front of me beeped once, the screen coming to life, and I turned my attention to that instead. The search team at the woods, requesting a connection. I clicked them through, assuming it would be Pete again, or maybe Hunter.

  Rather than either of them, however, I found myself faced by an officer I’d never seen. He looked nervous and kept glancing off camera, unsure whether the connection was working.

  ‘Detective Nelson,’ I prompted.

  He stared out of the screen, and I saw in his eyes that it was more than nerves. Something was wrong.

  ‘Sir, we’ve got a situation here.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I don’t know. We’ve only got radio contact with the officers in the woods. I was just told to get through to you. There’s been some kind of incident.’

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mercer slowly look up at his screen.

  ‘Officer,’ I said, ‘please calm down. Tell us what you know.’

  ‘It’s Detective Dwyer, sir. He’s been attacked.’

  Oh, shit. ‘Please clarify that.’

  Mercer stood up too quickly, like a drunk who’d been asleep at a bar. His chair clattered on the floor behind him, and he began struggling to get his arms into his coat. His face was grim and determined.

  I turned back to the screen: ‘Clarify, officer.’

  ‘Stabbed, sir. In the woods.’

  ‘Get me a car,’ Mercer told me.

  ‘What’s his situation?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ the officer said. ‘I’ve just had radio through from Detective Dwyer’s group. They’ve had to bring the helicopter for him.’

  I felt a swirl of air as Mercer moved past.

  ‘Get me a fucking car,’ he said.

  Then he was out of the door, calling back to me from the corridor. ‘Have it meet me out front.’

  PART FOUR

  I would like to thank all my colleagues at the department for their help and support throughout the time I have worked there, and also in my absence. In particular, I extend my thanks to the various members of my team who have, over the years, taught me everything I know about humility, humanity and care in this difficult job: everything we have achieved is always due in part, and mostly entirely, to your professionalism and expertise. It would have been impossible to write this book without you.

  One person more than any other has supported me, trusted me and stuck by me - in spite of endless provocation - over the years. You forgive me, you understand my faults, and you teach me everything I need to know about the qualities mentioned above in terms of my real
life.

  Most importantly, you allow me to forget who I am at work and to be the human being underneath. And so this book is dedicated to you, Eileen, with affection and love.

  From Damage Done, by John Mercer

  4 DECEMBER

  2 HOURS, 25 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  4.55 A.M.

  Jodie

  An average song, Jodie thought, lasts about four minutes.

  She had longer ones saved on her player, and a few that were shorter, but four minutes probably wasn’t a bad average to work with. In theory, then, it should be possible for her to count the songs she listened to and keep track of how much time had passed. Fifteen songs would equal one hour.

  Of course, she didn’t know what time it had been when she’d first put the headphones on. That was a problem. Regardless, it was something she could do to keep herself occupied. She kept count as she went along.

  It was at seventy-four when the iRiver beeped once to warn her that the battery was low. Panic had rippled through her: it was bad enough being handcuffed alone in the dark, in the freezing cold, without having to deal with the quiet as well.

  The machine finally gave up the ghost in the middle of song number ninety-two. It beeped one last time, and then went quiet.

  Her ears were ringing a little. Every time she breathed in, the mucus in her nose rolled and clicked; the pool of it in the back of her throat was making her queasy, and her nostrils were sore and numb.

  Do the maths.

  Probably about six hours since the man had opened the door - from when she’d known he was looking at her, talking to her, and it had taken all her effort not to open her eyes, or scream, or do something. But she refused to acknowledge him; wouldn’t even listen. After the door had shut, she’d kept her eyes closed. A small part of her mind had been telling her he was in there with her, squatting down right in front, close enough to touch. Just waiting.

  A few minutes later, the longest few minutes her pulse had ever known, she’d dared to open one of her eyes, just a slit, and of course she was alone.

  Six hours since that. She didn’t know whether it seemed longer or shorter. It had been more like time out: a period when she’d stepped away from her life so that she didn’t have to deal with what was happening. A period of safety.

  It was stupid, but as time had passed and the man hadn’t returned, Jodie had come to think of the music as a talisman: it had put a shield up round her, like a spell.

  Borrowed time.

  Now the player had died, she was no longer safe.

  Jodie shuffled against the rock.

  Six hours. Was it nearly morning, then? It seemed a little lighter outside, but perhaps it was her imagination. Or the fire. She could see the light from it in the outline of the door, and in the splayed, wavering fingers reaching into the storeroom along the stone walls.

  Her back hurt a great deal at the top, on either side of her spine, as if someone had been pressing their thumbs in hard near her shoulder-blades. She stretched out her legs. The right threatened to cramp as she moved, and she had to work it carefully: coaxing it first back under her, and then slowly out again, back and forth, until she could straighten it properly without pain.

  She rubbed her thighs but could only feel dull pressure; they seemed as cold and dead as meat in a freezer. The backs of her hands, too, right between the finger and thumb. As best she could, she rubbed each hand in turn with the palm of the other. It burned.

  It was very quiet outside.

  Jodie stood up as much as she could. The world tipped slightly. Her vision starred over; her shoulder hit the wall.

  Steady, said the voice in her head.

  She forced herself to breathe slowly, and started to move forwards again: a few shuffling steps to reach the door. Small hope that the man in the devil mask had unbolted it and left, but it was always possible. Maybe she would open the door and there’d be a film crew. Her friends and family applauding.

  A gentle push on the door; it didn’t move. The small hope collapsed instantly. It had been larger than she’d allowed herself to think. But she was still locked inside.

  Keep thinking.

  The gap at the edge of the door. Nervously, she crouched down a little further and pressed her eye to the hole. Half expecting a needle to be pushed through from the other side.

  Still night.

  And the man hadn’t left. He was lying beside the fire, about ten metres from the storehouse. The great pile of burning wood had decreased, and most of the ground beneath the metal was covered in black and white ash. It was a landscape of dust and ruin, a small pile of blackening wood at the centre. The man lay on the side nearest her, stretched out on a blanket, his back to her, legs slightly curled.

  Was he sleeping?

  It looked for all the world as if he was.

  She took in every other detail she could. It had stopped snowing now. She could see his footprints patterning the ground. They led off mainly in the direction she’d seen him come from earlier, when he’d returned to the fire to heat the screwdriver. Scott must be over there somewhere.

  His body, anyway.

  Be strong.

  But how could she be? She was locked in here, at the mercy of a psychopath who’d tortured her boyfriend, and now appeared to be sleeping calmly by the campfire. How could he do that? Was he exhausted from what he’d done to Scott? She couldn’t bear it. She backed away from the door and sat down on the pile of rocks that had been her seat through the night.

  Be strong.

  No, she told the voice. All that was over. She couldn’t break the door down. Even if she could, he would wake up, and then he’d heat bits of metal and start on her. And whatever happened, he would wake up eventually.

  Think. You’re not done yet.

  She looked at the door in despair, watching the firelight flickering round the edge. And she thought: how am I not done? What am I supposed to do to stop this from happening?

  For that, the voice had no answer.

  4 DECEMBER

  2 HOURS, 20 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  5.00 A.M.

  Mark

  The officer who’d phoned in from the woods was called Bates. He was very young and he looked tired, half frozen and panicked, so I stayed as patient as I could and tried to reassure him that everything was okay. He needed to find out exactly what had happened and keep me informed, I said. He nodded and then didn’t do anything.

  ‘That means now.’

  He didn’t nod that time, but at least he ran off to see if there was any news.

  I stood up and paced. This had turned into a shit-storm beyond all expectations. Before the report on Pete, Mercer was in trouble but at least he’d been about to head home. Things were out of our hands. Now, I had no doubt, he was heading out to the woods. God only knew what he thought he could achieve. Probably he wasn’t thinking much of anything. Another member of his team had been injured, possibly killed, so it would be fear and guilt driving him on.

  But mainly I was worried about Pete, and I felt isolated and powerless stuck here at the hospital. Then it occurred to me that I was stuck in a hospital, and there was at least something I could do. I ran out of the locker room, down to the main desk, and told them we had an officer injured, possibly seriously, and that he’d be here shortly.

  When I got back to the locker room, Bates was on camera again. ‘They’ve brought him out, sir,’ he told me. ‘He’s in the air - they’re taking him to the hospital now.’

  ‘They’re expecting him. Are we any clearer on what happened? On his injuries?’

  ‘He was stabbed three or four times. In the shoulder and arm.’

  Jesus. ‘They got the guy who did it?’

  ‘Yes, sir. A guy living rough in the woods. Looks like they walked into his camp and he got edgy.’

  ‘Young or old?’

  ‘Old, I reckon.’

  So not Farmer or Reardon, or whatever the fuck he wanted to call himself. At least Pete was out of there and
on his way. Stabbed in the shoulder and arm, though - no wonder Bates looked frightened. Christ. Whatever the pressures we’d been under here, sitting safely in the hospital had made it too easy to forget the dangerous environment the search teams had been working in.

  ‘Have you been in tonight?’ I said. ‘The woods?’

  ‘No, sir. Glad to say, I’m manning the communications here. I wouldn’t go in there for love or money.’

  I was about to tell him that he wouldn’t need to now, not the way the investigation had turned, but then I remembered Mercer.

  ‘Is Hunter there yet?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Hang on.’

  I loaded the map of the woods on another screen. The updates were still working. Yellow circles representing the search teams were bunched in clusters at various points in the woods.

  The screen blinked once, and all of them moved a little closer to the road.

  Earlier on, Pete had been doubtful about the mechanics of the search, and that doubt appeared to have been vindicated. None of the teams had got very far before being recalled. On screen, the true difficulty was less obvious than it must have been when you were out there, faced with the woods and the snow, but it was still clear enough. It had always been an impossible task.

  So you think he’s just there, then? Waiting for us?’

  It had seemed ridiculous when Pete said it. Why would the 50/50 Killer want to be caught? And yet I couldn’t help thinking that he must have known how hard it was going to be, and that if he really was waiting for us there, it wasn’t as foolish as it might have seemed. Wouldn’t he have expected us to be hampered by the terrain? To lose time - even men - in the type of encounter Pete had been involved in?

  I rubbed my face.

  Reardon could have kept Scott and Jodie at their flat. He could have taken them anywhere. Why the woods?

  There had to be a reason for the deviation in his MO. For taking them out into the wilds; for allowing us to discover his real face and, from there, his real name. He had given himself to us and then begun playing out his game in one of the most inaccessible places he could have chosen. From what he’d given us, we would find him eventually. But we wouldn’t find him before dawn.