The 50/50 Killer Page 32

  When the guard was dead, Barnes had climbed out of the window. Now he was gone. I’d lost him.

  I wanted to scream.

  The chair I’d sat on was knocked over on the far side of the room, but I was standing where it had been before. The place where I’d spent the night talking to this man, listening as he manipulated me.

  Behind me, the blinds rattled against the window.

  I wanted to collapse on the floor. I’d spent so long in here talking to Scott. I’d told him about Lise. And yet all the time it was really him.

  He would have wanted to be somewhere he could watch what was happening and keep track of how we were doing.

  There were stone walls.

  Somewhere he could direct us to see what he wanted, to make us go where he wanted.

  We crossed a river, crossed a path.

  The whole time there’d been enough there for us to catch him if we put it together right. All day his picture had been there in the file. While he was up here, hiding behind fake trauma, parcelling out enough information for us to find Jodie by dawn if we didn’t make the right connections in time to discover the truth.

  Why?

  The question re-occurred to me now. He’d asked me it himself earlier on - curious, I guessed, as to whether we understood him. But why had he done this? He’d used Reardon as a distraction, but there was nothing there to satisfy his pathology. He’d taken Kevin Simpson, but he wouldn’t be there at dawn to collect anything from Jodie. It didn’t make sense. He’d risked being caught, and he’d helped us to find her in time, all apparently for nothing. Why was he challenging us at all?

  And where was the real Scott Banks?

  Move.

  I stepped out into the corridor.

  ‘I’m calling for assistance. Until they arrive, nobody goes in that room. Understand?’

  The nurse nodded again. I set off.

  The fourth spider web couldn’t represent me: Colin Barnes wasn’t psychic. A fourth spider web, left at the scene in the woods, meant a fourth ruined relationship, and this was the main prize for him. It would be one he’d had time to study, one he could cut and destroy. Someone had to know they had been betrayed, so they could be killed and that poisoned love taken from them. A choice had to have—

  He was never challenging us.

  ‘Oh fuck.’

  I felt a buzzing in my pocket - Mercer’s phone ringing. The display showed the patch-through number from the search team in the woods.

  He was only ever challenging Mercer.

  Even as I answered it, I was already running.

  4 DECEMBER

  10 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  7.10 A.M.

  The 50/50 Killer

  Preparation.

  The devil knew the address and the route off by heart. Two days earlier, it had driven these streets repeatedly to commit them to memory and get used to the timings. When the journey was ingrained, it had taken the vehicle back to the hospital, and parked in the long-stay car-park at the rear of the building. The car was an old, unlicensed hatchback, bought with cash and stored off-road. After locking it and making sure nobody was watching, the devil had left the clothes and items it would require inside, and taped the keys to the underside of the chassis, ready for when it needed them.

  The first stop was only three minutes away.

  It was one of several rented properties the devil kept: a small, cheap, sub-ground-floor studio flat in the bad area close to the hospital. It had proved ideal for this task, and not only because of its location. Most of the other flats in the block were unoccupied; the ones that weren’t, there were babies crying there all the time anyway.

  The devil parked the car and went down the front path and outside steps that led to the front door. It was very quiet. Had the baby died? It hoped not. The devil had buried the keys in the flowerpot by the steps, and it exhumed them now. The front door shuddered in its frame and the early morning light fell into the room.

  The baby was in the pen bought for it, lying on its back. Sleeping.

  The devil picked it up; the child stirred, made a noise.

  ‘Shhh. It’s okay. Don’t cry.’

  Karli Reardon grizzled a little more as she was carried across the room, but didn’t start crying properly until they were out in the cold, where she started fighting with surprising strength. The devil supposed this must count as a rude awakening, although to it the temperature had always been irrelevant. Because of what it was, hot and cold didn’t affect it the way they did normal human beings.

  ‘Shhh. You’ll be fine.’

  It jigged the baby in its arms and reproduced the soothing noises it had heard other people make.

  Still she wouldn’t stop crying.

  It strapped her into the baby-chair fitted in the car, then climbed into the driver’s seat and smiled across at her. The devil was good at smiling. When that didn’t work, it pulled a funny face, but Karli Reardon didn’t look like she found the face very funny. The devil quickly became bored, started the engine and set off.

  Halfway there, it reached across and opened the glove-compartment, retrieving the mask.

  The final destination was less than five minutes away.

  It had started at a funeral: the one they held for the murdered detective.

  Out of curiosity, and with a dark thrill, the devil had made itself present, surreptitiously, at the back of the chapel. Even before it arrived, there had been a sense within it that something important was about to happen. It hadn’t known what, not even whether it would be good or bad, but when John Mercer stood up to deliver the eulogy, the devil realised immediately that the moment had arrived.

  It had watched, first spellbound and then frightened, as Mercer unravelled. The other people might have witnessed a breakdown, but the devil recognised it for what it was; it only had to listen to Mercer’s words and see the way his eyes were picking out monsters from the audience to know that here was an opposite number. An adversary. The man could sense evil. Any second, their eyes would meet and John Mercer would simply know.

  Only the actions of the detective’s wife and colleagues had saved it from being caught that day. It was frightening. The path had always been clear and straightforward up to that point: there had never been any suspicion there might be someone put on this earth to stand in its way. And now here he was: an adversary. An opposite number.

  The way forward had finally been revealed following a day of intense meditation, from which the devil emerged with fresh purpose. The first thing to do was to find out as much as possible about this enemy.

  In the initial stages of his recovery, Eileen Mercer spent a lot of time by her husband’s bedside in the hospital, and their house stood empty. When they both returned home, she nursed him. The detective spent his days swaddled in a dressing-gown, reading, watching television, apparently lacking the energy even to walk between rooms.

  Neither of them had any inclination to go up into the attic; people rarely do. But if they had, they would have found the devil there, bathed in pale blue light. It saw and heard everything.

  Fate had clearly brought John Mercer into its trajectory to be faced and dealt with, but it was initially unsure what the next step on that path should be. It was only when Mercer returned to work against his wife’s wishes, leaving his empty promises behind him, that the form the game would take became apparent. It always did. It was a found object, like a fossil, and all the devil’s studies ever did was blow the sand away to reveal the structure. To honour his promise, would John Mercer be prepared to deny his purpose in the world? If he did, the devil would have removed an opponent. If he chose his job over his professions of love, the harvest would be rich.

  The game was to be a genuine confrontation between the two: a test. But there was comfort to be had in that. At different stages in our life’s work, the devil knew, we encounter guardians who must be overcome, and this clearly was one of those moments. To counter fear, it prayed to its father daily, and allowed t
he game to take shape.

  During its studies, other targets came to its attention, and it formed new identities, becoming different people in pursuit of them. As it learned of James Reardon, the devil became Carl Farmer, then Colin Barnes, who initiated a relationship with the mother of Reardon’s child. Scott Banks and Jodie McNeice, in contrast, had been one of its couples for nearly three years. But when Kevin Simpson re-established contact with Jodie, the devil had known it was a sign. All the pieces slowly fell into place and, as they did, the fear became a distant memory. It was engaged in truly majestic work.

  But in the end, both of those games were only appetisers: components in a larger whole. The real game was always against John Mercer. Either this nemesis would abandon the fight, or else his wife’s love would be ripped apart and taken down as penance. Either way, the test would have been passed. Perhaps then, finally, the devil would be allowed to go home.

  Whatever happened to the mortal body, what the devil had achieved here would be beautiful. It would leave behind itself a cathedral of death. A chapel cast in flesh and blood, into which the true father could raise itself up, and caper and dance.

  There were lights on throughout the house when it arrived, and for a moment it wondered if it had miscalculated: the timing had always been tight. But something told it there was another explanation. If Eileen Mercer was still up, perhaps waiting for her husband, it would need to take care, but nothing was really changed.

  The devil parked the car and took the baby out, hoisting her into its arms. She was still crying, so it whispered more platitudes, gently shaking the keys to the house.

  It walked up the drive to the front door, and was inside within five seconds. The downstairs hallway was dark, but the doors off it were open, the rooms beyond brightly lit.

  It stood still, listening. The house was silent, apart from the baby crying, pushing herself tightly against its chest. Beneath that, it could feel its own heartbeat, slow and regular.

  ‘Shhh.’

  Upstairs, a phone began to ring. That would be the police.

  The devil headed to the stairs and ascended.

  4 DECEMBER

  DAWN

  7.20 A.M.

  Mark

  The sky was dark blue overhead, lightening as it stretched down, hazy and yellow to the east. A few stars were still visible, forming fractured constellations. In front of me as I drove, there was a huge shred of cloud. Illuminated by the slowly rising sun, it formed a purple thumbprint pressed into the heavens.

  Twenty past seven.

  Get out of the way.

  I knew vaguely where I was going, but mostly I was trusting the van’s GPS. It couldn’t quite keep up with me. Lights pulsing, siren blaring, I was driving as fast as the roads would allow. Cars up ahead leaned in to the pavements to let me past, but even this early the traffic was heavy and I kept having to veer to the other side of the road: work my way dangerously between lanes, half blinded by oncoming headlights.

  Come on, come on.

  The streets had been cleared of snow, but were frozen and scattered with grit. Bursts of crackled dialogue came through the police radio; sometimes I pressed the mic and responded while keeping an eye on the road. The reports told me that officers had arrived at the hospital and the scene was under control. Nobody was answering the phone at Mercer’s house. Armed officers were en route, but—

  ‘I’m nearly there,’ I said.

  The call at the hospital had been from Mercer, running through the woods. He gave frantic, garbled instructions to call people, get them moving. I’d worked most of it out by then, but he told me about the letter they’d found in the storeroom Scott had been kept in. The one addressed to him.

  The larger game that had been played here.

  Dear Detective Sergeant Mercer.

  In my head, I could still hear the crunch of undergrowth as he ran, his breath catching. I could feel his panic.

  If you’ve found this note you’ve made your choice.

  Now I was on my way to his house, driving like the devil, chasing the devil. Mercer would be out of the woods soon and on his way, but however quickly he got there, and whatever the dispatcher told me, I knew I was going to be first on the scene.

  Eileen ...

  I turned into the street, slowing down, driving carefully. The house was marked on the GPS screen with a red circle, three down. A large, detached property. Square windows, all of them lit up bright yellow. A big garden sloped upwards in tiers to the front, a path up the middle to the front door. Driveway down the side. All of it thick with snow, slightly pink in the early-morning light. An old car was parked outside. I pulled up, blocking it in.

  ‘Detective Nelson,’ I told the dispatcher. ‘I’m on scene. I’m going in.’

  The cold hit me hard as I got out, but I was shivering anyway: fear and adrenalin. I calmed myself as I’d been taught: breathing slowly through my nose; rolling the saliva around in my mouth. There were armed officers on their way, but in the meantime I had to make do with the standard kit stored in the van. I gathered it up. Pepper spray in my right hand, side-handled baton in my left. It seemed ludicrously insufficient.

  Sirens in the distance. Still some way off.

  The car parked in front of me ticked in the freezing air. I touched the bonnet. Warm. He was here.

  Despite my urge to get inside, Andrew Dyson was on my mind, and I forced myself to look at the house and take in the scene before I did anything. Down the driveway, the snow was undisturbed. The path through the garden wasn’t: a trail of blurred footsteps led to the front door, which was slightly ajar, the only spot of darkness.

  Then I saw it. I froze. One of the upstairs windows was cracked; there was a smear of blood on the glass. The sight spurred me on before I could even process it.

  Move.

  I went up through the garden quickly, checking the angles. There were no footprints in the snow around the path, lots of space between me and the hedges. I kept my eye on the driveway to the right in case he came out the side.

  Halfway up the path, I heard it: a baby crying.

  The hairs on my neck stood up, and I stopped in my tracks, about ten metres away from the house.

  Karli Reardon.

  I gripped the handle of the baton so that the main length of it extended down my left forearm, and positioned it slightly in front of me, curling my arm protectively. Rested my right wrist over my left, keeping the pepper spray near to me. Deep breaths.

  The baby sounded close, just inside, in fact. The crying came from slightly beyond the front door, from an area of shadow I couldn’t see into.

  ‘Come out!’

  The darkness shifted slightly and he stepped out where I could see him.

  Barnes. He was holding Karli Reardon tightly against him. In the other hand, he had a knife.

  My heart felt like it was punching me in the throat.

  ‘Police!’ I shouted. ‘Stay where you are.’

  Instead, he stepped out of the porch and onto the path where I could see him. He was wearing jeans and the devil mask, nothing else. All the bandages had been ripped off, and I could now see the full extent of his madness: the terrible injuries he’d inflicted on himself in order to fool us. Cuts and burns all over his torso; mottled purple bruises; the broken fingers of the hand curled under the baby. Li had said the soles of his feet had been burned, too, but he walked as though he felt no pain at all.

  In the pale dawn light, he looked like a corpse, animated in spite of itself. He was stained all over with blood. His knife hand was covered. I wanted to look up at the window again, a terrible despair threatening to overwhelm me. Stay focused.

  He took another step towards me.

  I stood my ground. ‘Put her down, Barnes.’

  The mask was a repulsive thing - red skin and matted black hair - but I reminded myself that it was only a mask. This was a man. He might be capable of controlling the pain he must be suffering, but the pepper spray would bring him down. It wo
uld close his lungs to the bare minimum for survival; shut his eyes. He’d be on the floor where I wanted him. Christ, I wanted to. But he knew there was no way I could use it while he was holding the baby.

  ‘Put her down and stay where you are.’

  He reached up with his knife-hand and pulled the mask over his head, discarding it. Staring at the ruins underneath, I didn’t even see it land in the snow behind him. His real face was a hundred times worse. The left-hand side looked torn apart, the stitches embedded in tight, swollen skin. His eye was missing: just a mass of sore tissue, with more stitches poking out like thick, bristly hairs. He had disfigured himself beyond comprehension. The man I’d interviewed in the hospital, all his wounds now revealed and out in the open.

  Beneath the injuries, his expression was full of barely controlled rage. Hate. I struggled to return it as he snarled at me.

  ‘Throw your weapons down and get out of my way.’

  The sirens were much closer.

  I shook my head. ‘That’s not going to happen, Colin, and you know it.’

  ‘That’s not my name.’

  The baby was fighting against him, pushing back with her small hands. He held the knife to her face. Panic cut through my anger.

  ‘Don’t—’

  ‘Get out of my way then.’

  I hesitated. It was an impossible situation. There was no way I could let him walk away from this, none at all, but I couldn’t tackle him, either. And judging by his expression he was quite prepared to carry out his threat. He could hear the sirens, too, and he had no intention of being here when they arrived. If I was determined to stop him, he had nothing to lose. One more death meant little.

  Come on. Think! This is what you do.

  ‘Reardon did what you wanted,’ I said. ‘You can’t hurt his daughter now. It would be breaking the rules.’

  ‘We’re past dawn. All the games are over. You have three seconds.’