The 50/50 Killer Page 28

And again.

  Until now, finally, it was broken.

  Eileen walked over to the computer and looked at the wall behind it. At the display John had made.

  He’d tacked up fifty, maybe sixty, sheets of paper to form a collage of different colours, shapes and sizes. There were printouts from old files, invariably the ones containing the single detail that had finally unlocked the investigation for him. Press clippings and articles. His framed certificates. Pictures of the team.

  All of it together formed a snapshot of his state of mind. John used it to focus his ideas and draw inspiration from, but to Eileen, if she blurred her eyes, it gave her an insight into his state of mind. These were the things that occupied him and filled his thoughts.

  And where was she in all this? Where did his wife fit in?

  The answer was that she didn’t, not on the wall. John had kept the two sides of his life separate, and so instead of Eileen becoming lost among his work there were two pictures on the desk by the computer. The first was a reprint of the photograph downstairs, the one from their wedding day. The second picture, beside it, was simply of her and had been taken more recently. I loved you then, he seemed to be saying; time has passed, and I still love you now.

  She blinked away tears - No, don’t - and looked back at the wall.

  The newest sheets had been added to the right-hand side of the display. Here she found a small photograph of Andrew Dyson, the man her husband had lost and whose murder had been the tipping point for him. Beside it, John had put up the eulogy he’d been preparing to read at Andrew’s funeral, at the moment when everything finally tumbled down.

  I fall asleep in the full and certain hope

  That my slumber shall not be broken;

  And that though I be all-forgetting,

  Yet shall I not be all-forgotten,

  But continue that life in the thoughts and deeds

  Of those I loved.

  EPITAPH OF SAMUEL BUTLER

  Eileen read it again, concentrating on the last three lines.

  I won’t be forgotten. I will continue my life in the thoughts and deeds of those I loved.

  They were words that John had taken to heart. She had seen the sorrow he still carried with him over what had happened. And his work was so important to him; the tension and frustration his incapacity had caused him over the last two years had been obvious. She’d seen it there while he was recovering, in the listless way he’d moved about the house. Even at the beginning, when she could pretend to herself that he’d never return to work in any capacity, she’d known he was already sensing the bars that had appeared. The barrier between John’s nature and his broken ability. And this terrible man beyond them, who had done that to Andrew, and to him.

  For the last two years, those bars had cast a shadow of sadness on him, and after a time it was only Eileen’s fear that had kept them in place. Because she loved him, she had relented, lifting them and allowing him beyond, on the promise that he didn’t wander far. And now, that man in sight once again, he had. Had she been so blind as to not realise that it was inevitable? He was her husband; she knew what he did. Long ago she’d loved him for his dedication, his hard work, his commitment to helping people. To saving them.

  Now, after his breakdown, those same characteristics filled her with dread. What if it happened again?

  Eileen sat down and closed her eyes.

  She should have known it would come down to this. In asking what she had of John, she’d been attempting to stop him being the man she had loved for all those years. He’d tried to be that new person for her, but it was impossible for him, and it was that difference - the discrepancy between what they each needed from him now - that was tearing them apart. At that moment, it seemed impassable. She couldn’t bear it.

  So Eileen sat for a time in his chair, eyes closed, fingers rubbing slowly back and forth along her lower lip, not knowing what to do. It felt like he was a speck on a dark horizon. She was too frightened to keep watching, but what choice had he left her? He had taken her life along with him, without her consent.

  All right, John, she thought. If this is what you need ...

  She sat there for a while longer, thinking. And then she got up, walked slowly across to the phone, and began to put the pieces back together.

  4 DECEMBER

  1 HOUR, 30 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  5.50 A.M.

  Mark

  Thirty minutes after my interview with Scott, I was back in the locker room, listening to the clank of water in the pipes and looking at a piece of Scott’s artwork. Greg had been working at the flat and the evidence he’d gathered there had been added to the file - silently, I noted. He hadn’t made any effort to contact us here. By now, he would have known the repercussions of his actions, and he would also have seen what was happening at the woods. I wondered what he was thinking.

  The middle laptop showed the onscreen map. Most of the circles were clustered together at the comms van, but a small group of four was on the move, a quarter of the way up the screen.

  The updates were painful. For seconds on end the display was static and they went nowhere. Then a flicker, and a slight adjustment to their position. Progress was excruciatingly slow, but at least they were moving in the right direction.

  In the meantime I looked at the artwork. It showed a face, painted in shades of green and yellow, reduced down to blocks of colour. If you blurred your eyes, it made sense, but if you looked here and there, the overall image vanished. It was beautifully done, but the context made it ominous. The face appeared to be screaming as it fell apart, dissolving into a kind of soup.

  ‘I’ve got the week off,’ I remembered Scott saying. ‘I was doing some things on the computer. Photo-art stuff.’

  ‘You’re an artist?’

  ‘No.’>

  But the picture was good, I thought. I didn’t understand why he was so reticent about acknowledging an obvious talent. The more I looked, however, the more prominent the pain within it seemed. Most of it was my imagination, but still, it was like a howl of anguish. Help me!

  The map flickered again, the circles moving painfully slowly.

  We were doing our best in that regard.

  After running back to our makeshift office, I’d reopened the window to the comms team at the woods and sent through an urgent request for attention. I was worried I was going to get Hunter. I didn’t know what the fuck I was going to say if I did. But it was Mercer who answered.

  He still looked exhausted, but a combination of adrenalin and the bite of the early-morning air had brought some life to him.

  ‘Just arrived.’ He glanced off camera, frustrated. ‘Hunter’s not here yet, but everyone’s back at the van. He really has put the search on hold. Everyone knows he’s in charge, too, but nobody’s called me on it yet.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Pete’s okay, though,’ he said. ‘That’s something.’

  ‘I heard. We’ve been searching in the wrong area, sir.’

  That caught his attention. He stared into the camera. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I just talked to Scott again. On his way out of the woods, he remembers crossing a river, not far from where he was held.’

  As soon as I started speaking, Mercer’s attention drifted off-screen again. I guessed he was looking at the map. I did the same, and we saw it at the same time.

  ‘There.’

  A small area north of the river. It was hard to tell from the minimal details on display, but it looked like it was meant to represent a clearing in the trees with a handful of small buildings. I double-clicked on it to access more information. There wasn’t much, but the report suggested that it might have once been part of a small farm, the buildings used to house animals.

  When I read that, I knew we’d found Jodie.

  ‘How is he?’ Mercer said.

  ‘He’s okay, I think. Or he will be if we can reach Jodie in time.’

  ‘We will,’ Mercer said. ‘Get the information into the
system. I need to move on this before Hunter gets here.’

  ‘Will anyone there go in with you?’

  ‘Someone will.’

  He looked at me for a moment. For the first time that day, I was receiving his complete and undivided attention.

  ‘Thank you, Mark.’

  ‘No problem,’ I said. ‘Take care.’

  But already he was gone.

  I minimised the window and set about uploading my last interview with Scott - the last one tonight, anyway. There would have to be more over the next few days, but hopefully in those I’d have the chance to treat him a little more kindly. And by then we’d have found Jodie.

  It’s out of your hands, I’d thought.

  And it really was - but I knew the relief I felt wasn’t entirely down to that. Talking to Scott had been like confession, the unburdening of a lie that had stained my soul for too long now, and in the aftermath I felt free of it. A part of me was still aching inside, but at least now I’d removed the weight that had been there: pressing down; adding to the pain. At least now that injury could get some air.

  I tried to picture Lise, and I still couldn’t, not properly; her expression remained in shadow. But finally I could dare to hope about what might be there. I could imagine she might be smiling.

  Every few seconds there was a flicker on the screen, and the circles moved a fraction of a centimetre.

  Not even halfway there yet.

  I needed a distraction, so I turned to the email exchange that Greg had found on Scott and Jodie’s computer.

  Because of the connection I felt to Scott, there was something sad and even embarrassing about these private details becoming so public. Intimate thoughts and messages were all just evidence now. They were important. The emails provided a link between Jodie and Kevin Simpson, and also gave an insight into the relationship between Scott and Jodie. Their personal problems were integral to the case.

  The relationship was the victim.

  I clicked through the emails, scanning the contents one at a time.

  The first was from Kevin. It was tentative, friendly:

  Was just wondering how you’d been. Feels weird that you vanished out of my life so totally. I understand, but it still feels weird. It’s okay if you don’t want to reply or if you can’t.

  Perhaps stupidly, I was pleased by the contents. The message had been sent a little over a month ago, and it had the feel of someone re-establishing contact after a long absence. Of course, it didn’t matter whether the affair had been long or short - but even so, I felt better for Scott that it hadn’t been continuing for the last two years.

  Looking at the dates, there had been a break of over a week before Jodie replied. I imagined her weighing it up in that time: considering whether to email back or to let things remain lying where they’d fallen.

  I’m okay [she wrote eventually]. Getting along alright. The usual sort of stuff really, nothing exciting. Hate work though. How’s ‘our’ business doing by the way? Ho ho.

  CCL: the business they’d started together, which Jodie had abandoned in order to salvage her relationship with Scott. The next few emails were mainly about that, and playing catch-up on the things they’d both missed. The business was doing well, Simpson told her:

  I have sixteen employees now. Can you believe that? I’m a manager! I’m sure you remember I can’t even manage myself.

  To her credit, Jodie managed to be as gracious as possible in her replies, even though I was sure it must have stung to hear he was making a success of the company without her. Perhaps she was simply trying to reassure herself.

  I’m proud that you’ve made such a good go of it [she wrote]. Although obviously with me there you’d have done even better ...

  I never wanted you to go [he replied]. I asked you not to, remember? Actually, I think the word is ‘begged’, but let’s brush over that.

  As the emails went on, Jodie’s initial caution seemed to ease, and after a bit of skirting around history they both relaxed. Jodie appeared relieved to be able to talk, and the messages became longer and more frequent. The regret she felt about leaving CCL was implicit at first, surfacing gradually as she began talking more about her own life. Getting along alright, she’d said at first, but in her later messages she took that lie apart.

  I hate my job. All I do is punch figures in all day and get paid a tiny amount for the privilege. But there’s nothing I want to do, anyway. Everything feels grey and useless. I’ll be thirty before long and I’ve got nothing.

  That comment - ‘I’ve got nothing’ - stood out, summing up the tone of the later messages. Jodie talked as though she’d given up most of the things in life that were important to her, and now wasn’t sure it had been worth it for the few that were left.

  I winced for Scott as I read it. Inevitably, over the course of the night, I’d ended up feeling close to him. I had to force myself to remain impartial. I wanted to understand and empathise with Jodie’s feelings.

  I could imagine how it must have felt for her. The one-night stand with Simpson had been a terrible mistake: one which at the time she would probably have done anything to overcome. Giving up the company must have seemed a small sacrifice to make. But then, time passed. And now, although her mistake was in the past, forgotten and forgiven, she was still paying compensation for it. When you give up something important, every day of your life you don’t have it any more. Dissatisfied with her job, her life, I imagined Jodie felt she was being punished, over and over again, for a crime that was gone.

  He wrote that as a throwaway at the end of an email: one simple question among all the others. But Jodie zeroed straight in on it, as though the other things he’d written were static, used to scramble the real topic of conversation. Maybe that was simply hindsight on my part. When you look back, knowing how things will end, it all begins to look like fate.

  He’s fine [she said]. He just carries on as normal all the time. He doesn’t really notice. But I can’t talk to him about it and I don’t know what I’d say even if I could. I don’t know what’s wrong. I’m just being silly but I don’t feel like I’m anything any more.

  You shouldn’t say that. Do you love him?

  There was a break in the messages then. The frequency had increased to about one a day, but it was nearly a week before Jodie eventually replied:

  I think I do still love him. It’s just that I don’t love anything else. I’m so bored with it all. There’s nothing in my life. Unless something changes this is how it’s going to be for ever, and when I think about that I have to go to bed or something. I can’t face the world. But when I get up again it’s still there.

  That message had been sent less than a week ago. Simpson’s reply had come the same day:

  You sound so unhappy, Jodie, and I’m really sorry. Do you want to meet up some time? Only as friends, I promise - I’m over all that now. You could come round and I’ll stick a pot of coffee on and we can talk about stuff. Sometimes it helps to have a fresh pair of sympathetic ears to moan at, and I’ll honestly try to give you the best advice I can. I have no agenda.

  Reading these, I began to feel a bit strange. I was staring at the screen so intensely that the old locker room around me was almost whiting out. I frowned and leaned back. There were only a couple more emails to read, and the first was from Jodie.

  Okay [she wrote]. I think maybe I’d like to see you. I do feel bad about it, because I’ll have to lie to Scott, but I think it might do me good. I don’t know. Can you get the day off tomorrow? Though, having said that, I’m sure one of your sixteen skivvies will hold the fort for you! I could call in sick and come round. Would that be okay?

  And then one final email from Simpson:

  I can do that, sure. I’ll be up and about first thing, so call round any time. If I don’t hear from you I’ll expect you, but don’t worry if you can’t make it. Coffee machine already cleaned out ready! Hope I can help. Take care. Kevin x.

  I checked the case file to see if
any more had arrived, but that was it.

  My frown remained.

  There had been a lot of assumptions made over the course of the investigation, and one of them was that Jodie and Kevin had been having an affair. But actually, we had no proof of that; we’d just inferred it from the killer’s words on the audio recording, and the fact that Jodie had spent the previous day at Simpson’s house.

  These emails didn’t confirm it. The last one Jodie sent would be incriminating out of context, so I imagined it was the one the 50/50 Killer had chosen to show to Scott, but within the body of the entire exchange it was more harmless than it seemed. For all we knew, their encounter could have been as innocent as the emails implied. Perhaps Jodie had gone round to Kevin’s house simply to talk over problems with an old friend who wouldn’t need filling in on the background.

  I felt a burst of nerves in my chest. There was something important here, but I wasn’t sure what. I clicked back through the emails.

  Do you want to meet up some time? Kevin had written. Only as friends, I promise - I’m over all that now.

  And earlier on: I never wanted you to go ... I think the word is ‘begged’ but let’s brush over that.

  No, I thought, let’s not. Why did you beg her not to leave?

  The answer presented itself a second later, through the voice of the killer.

  You think you love her. Don’t you.

  For Jodie, I realised, what had happened two years ago was a stupid, drunken mistake, but for Kevin Simpson it had been more. They’d been friends at university, colleagues afterwards, and it wasn’t enough. What happened had been exactly what he wanted.

  I placed that idea down gently, and with a dark thrill I felt it slotting neatly in. I wasn’t yet sure what picture I was building up, but I sat there quietly, allowing my thoughts to roam.