The 50/50 Killer Read online

  The rain picked up a little and the baby began screaming. It was like an alarm going off, and it set light to some instinct deep inside her. She found herself pulled a step closer to the bushes.

  ‘Hello?’

  Nobody replied.

  Jodie blinked rain out of her eyes and took another step. She wanted to investigate but something held her back. What if she made her way through and found the baby with its mother? People didn’t appreciate you nosing like that: it implied they were bad parents. So she hesitated for a second, but then the screaming became more high-pitched, like a car engine changing up a gear, and she thought, Fuck you if you’re there, you are a bad parent, and she began to push her way between the bushes.

  ‘Hello?’ she called again. ‘Ouch. Hello?’

  Still no answer.

  It was muddy here, and the sharp branches poked at her, catching on the cable of her headphones. But it took only a couple of seconds to break through. There was a gap between the bushes and it was there, resting in the mud like an abandoned picnic basket, that she found the source of the cries. The baby was bundled up in a pink blanket, lying on its back and screaming in anguish. Its face looked like a small, red rose.

  ‘Oh, God,’ Jodie said. ‘You poor thing.’

  Quickly, she detached her iRiver and stuffed it into her coat pocket. The situation was unreal: she wanted to pinch herself. This was something that happened in movies or newspapers, and yet here it was, happening to her. Some awful person had abandoned this child out in the cold and the rain. Jodie had never thought of herself as the maternal type - never got on with the babies she’d met - but now, without hesitation, she stooped to pick it up.

  As she did, she felt a vibration against her hip. The phone in her handbag. Another text.

  Not now, Scott, she thought, glancing down at her side.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man in the bushes to the right. He’d been standing completely still, but now he was moving towards her. Jodie’s first thought was Oh, it’s the father, but then she caught sight of his face and the mental signals changed, confused. He was wearing a pink devil mask: big eyes, strands of lank black hair. It shocked her into a single moment of stillness, and that was all it took.

  The man was holding a bottle of gardening spray. It sloshed as he raised his hand, then hissed as the mist clouded into her face. Her nose and mouth wrenched themselves closed; her eyes shut tight. Ammonia. Everything was burning. She was on her knees, coughing, her hands fluttering against the mud. And then he kicked her in the head and she was on her side, stunned by the ferocity of it. She managed to open her eyes - and then suddenly she was looking at the sky. Watching the rain materialise above her, without any real comprehension, as the grey sky sparkled and went white.

  3 DECEMBER

  17 HOURS, 25 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  1.55 P.M.

  Mark

  It felt strange to take full charge of my own team, no matter how small. The main reason was that I was painfully aware the grapevine would have been in full swing, and that the three officers appointed to me would know this was my first assignment. The reality of that hit me as I approached the van where they were waiting, and I encountered a bundle of nerves like a tripwire across the path. I took a deep breath and stepped over it. All I had to do was be myself and play it by ear. Myself ought to be good enough, after all.

  Fortunately, the three officers - Davy, Ross and Bellerby - seemed determined to behave well. They listened attentively as I outlined the case and indicated the areas we needed to concentrate on, and then split the four of us into two pairs to tackle opposite sides of the street. I also told them that any suggestions they had would be welcome, a comment I’d appreciated hearing in the past. I figured it would sugar the pill before I finished up by repeating Mercer’s instructions.

  ‘Make sure your cameras are on at all times.’

  They looked at me like I was stupid.

  ‘I know it’s obvious,’ I said, ‘and I know it’s standard. But it’s also Mercer’s specific orders.’

  They glanced at each other, but did their best to hide it. Once again, I realised there was a lot going on here that I was too new to be included in. This time, I didn’t mind. Whatever the reason, at least they understood it wasn’t me who was being a dick.

  ‘Let’s get on with it.’

  The door-to-doors went as well as could be expected. Everyone was shaken by what had happened, and they were all keen to help in any way they could. Murder isn’t common, after all: most people’s experience of it is confined to films or reports on the news, not having it occur next door. Simpson’s death had given his neighbours a stark and shocking reminder that it happened in the real world, too, and consequently of their own vulnerability. Identifying a reason why he had been singled out would help to dislocate them from the horror, and yet none of them had a single suggestion why someone might do this to him. For all they knew, his death could easily have been theirs instead. It was a frightening idea to deal with, and I wished I could have reassured them for certain that it wasn’t true.

  We canvassed the entire street, missing two houses where nobody was home, and in those cases we left messages and flagged them for follow-up. But nobody could recall any altercations: no fights or confrontations, no public bust-ups. Simpson had seemed a nice enough guy, they said. None of them knew if he was seeing anyone. They noticed different girls occasionally, but not recently. The whole time, they looked desperate to find something else to say, and I did my best not to look desperate to hear it.

  It wasn’t all bad news. We ended up with two separate witnesses recalling a white van in the street the day before. The first sighting was just after midday, at which point it had been parked further down the road; the second was around eight o’clock in the evening, when it had been outside Simpson’s house. Neither witness saw the occupant arrive or drive away, and we had no number plate or make to go on, nor any specific markings. But it was something.

  At number fifteen, the house opposite Kevin Simpson’s, we got more. The occupant, Yvonne Gregory, was brief but specific. Yvonne was retired and had been at home yesterday afternoon, watching television. During an ad break, around quarter to five, she had gone through to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. From there, she had a clear view of Simpson’s house through the window. I knew this because I went in to check, leaning on either side of the sink as she told me about the girl.

  ‘She was leaving his house.’ Yvonne gestured across the road. ‘I remember that she turned back and waved to him from the end of the path.’

  ‘What did she look like?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, she had brown hair, to here.’ Yvonne chopped her hand at about shoulder length. ‘She had a raincoat on, and a handbag, I think. And headphones, too.’

  ‘How old was she?’

  ‘She was quite young. Perhaps your age, Detective.’

  I saw that she was joking with me. I smiled.

  ‘Have you ever seen her before?’

  ‘No, no.’

  ‘Is there anything else you can remember?’

  Yvonne thought about it for a moment.

  ‘She looked a little upset, I thought. Well, not upset, exactly. More as though there was something bothering her, if you see what I mean. She looked troubled.’

  Doesn’t everyone? I thought.

  So we came away with a basic description of a vehicle, and also of a girl who’d been at Kevin Simpson’s house, probably shortly before he was attacked. None of it would stop the case in its tracks, but nevertheless I was pleased, and as I made my way back to the department to file the reports and attend the briefing, I felt a lot more positive. Even the irritation from Mercer’s over-specific instructions had faded. Obviously, I wasn’t just going to slot into the team right away: I needed to prove myself first, and the morning’s interviews were a first step in the right direction.

  But it turned out that my report would have to wait for a while. When I arrived at the offi
ce, the rest of the team were already focused on something. A digital recording was being played and something close to Hell was unfolding in the air.

  ‘Are you listening to me? We’re going to play a game about love.’

  The voice on the recording sounded strange. It was mostly dead and flat, but there were also curious lifts in it, as though the man was talking to himself rather than his victim, occasionally asking himself rhetorical questions.

  ‘It’s about you and Jodie and Scott,’ the man said.

  Mercer clicked his fingers: remember those names. Then he returned to the position I’d walked in on: elbows on the desk, fingers steepled, staring intently into space, index fingers tapping his lips. He seemed calm, but there was an edge to the rest of us. Simon was very still; Greg had his head on one side, listening professionally to the recording; Pete had his eyes closed. For me, each sentence felt like a jab in the chest.

  ‘I watched you today,’ the man said. ‘With her. And I’ve read all your emails. I know what was happening here. And we both know where she is now, don’t we? Back home with her boyfriend.’

  Jodie, I thought. Shoulder-length brown hair. About my age.

  ‘How do you think she’s feeling now?’ the man said. ‘Do you think she feels guilty about lying to Scott and spending the day with you?’

  In reply, there was only the urgent rush of hot water in the house’s pipes, and then a quiet slosh from the bath. Simpson didn’t answer out loud. In my mind’s eye, I saw him there in the bath, a gag wrapped round his pale face.

  ‘Is she pleased she’s home?’ the voice carried on. ‘Or does she wish she was still here with you? Is she even now writing an email to you, the way you were to her?’

  Mercer looked across: ‘Greg?’

  Greg shook his head. ‘No old emails from or to “Jodie”. No “Scott”. Nothing in his Contacts folder, either. The killer must have cleared everything out.’

  Mercer frowned. Beneath the desk, his foot was tapping impatiently.

  The voice said: ‘You think you love her.’

  Nothing.

  ‘Don’t you.’

  Still no reply; not even a slosh of water. When the man spoke next, he sounded disappointed not to have received at least some kind of response.

  ‘Well, we’re going to find out. The rules of the game are very simple, but you won’t have much input. If Jodie emails you before dawn, I’ll stop hurting you and I’ll let you go. But if she doesn’t ...’

  There was a slight pause, followed by a creak. I got the impression the man was turning to pick something up.

  ‘... I’ll pour this down your throat and over your face, and I’ll set fire to you. Nod if you understand.’

  There was another pause.

  ‘I said, “Nod if you understand.”’

  Simpson began thrashing in the bath water, slapping around everywhere. I couldn’t see it, but somehow I knew that the killer had squirted lighter fluid at him, reinforcing the point.

  ‘That’s good.’

  Another creak.

  ‘Try to keep calm. We have so much to talk about.’

  The recording continued for a moment, then cut off.

  Greg turned to me.

  ‘My IT team have been working on Simpson’s computer,’ he explained. ‘They found two new audio files saved on the desktop. That was the first.’

  ‘Play the second,’ Mercer said quietly.

  We all looked at him. His head had slipped down so that his hands obscured his face. His foot had stopped tapping. There was nothing to be impatient about here. He knew what was likely to be on the second file - we all did - but at the same time we needed to be sure. CCL hadn’t recorded the phone call they received this morning, the one filled with terrible screaming, but we were probably about to hear it for ourselves. It wasn’t anything to relish.

  ‘Okay.’

  Greg double-clicked, and it began.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the voice said. ‘I hope you understand now how stupid you were. How little she deserved everything you invested in her.’

  He paused.

  ‘Do you understand?’

  There was frantic noise then: desperate splashing and muffled cries.

  ‘If it’s any consolation, Jodie and Scott are one of my couples. I will be visiting them later, and they’ll have their own game to play. But ours is finished.’

  My heart was beating too quickly for comfort. My hand began rubbing my chin, while all around me the office was receding.

  ‘Picture her in your head now. Imagine her sleeping peacefully in her boyfriend’s arms.’

  More noise from the bath.

  ‘Shhhhh,’ the man whispered.

  He must have taken Simpson’s gag off, because now - finally - we heard his voice. It was shrill and full of panic. He was pleading and begging for his life, but speaking so quickly that it was impossible to make out the words. Almost immediately, they were cut off, replaced by a terrible choking as the liquid was squirted into his face, his mouth. The recording was full of coughing and hacking breath.

  It hurt me in the heart to hear it. Nothing could have prepared me for this; there was almost a spiritual pain to listening. A complicity; a frustration.

  I closed my eyes when I heard the scrape of a lighter.

  Perhaps I expected a whumph of some kind, but there was nothing like that. You could only detect the moment Simpson was set on fire by the way he began screaming - and even then, most of the sound was lost. He was gargling with flame: able to vocalise his panic and shock only with a thin, breathless whine. I imagined his throat contracting. The unbearable burning, crumpling his lungs like tissue paper. It was the most awful thing I’d ever heard.

  Knowing how it would end, I wanted Simpson to die quickly. But he didn’t, because it was out of his control; his body refused to give up, fighting against an oblivion that must surely have been welcome. His murder seemed to go on for ever.

  And all the time there was another, quieter sound in the background. It was an inhuman hissing, and it took me a moment to work out where it was coming from. It was the killer.

  A shiver ran through me.

  While his victim was dying in agony, this man was standing above him, watching it, taping it, his mouth open, teeth slightly apart, sucking in the smoke and smell of it.

  It was as though he was drawing Kevin Simpson’s soul in through his teeth, piece by piece.

  I opened my eyes and looked at the team. We could all hear it, and on every face I saw a reflection of my own feelings: disbelief and horror. Every face except Mercer’s. I couldn’t see his because he was staring at the desk. His hands were clasped in front of him, almost in prayer.

  The noise continued, slowly abating, and then the recording mercifully cut off. When it did, the silence in the office felt tainted. Nobody said anything for a moment; nobody even moved. Then Mercer leaned slowly back and rubbed his face, looking like a man who had just woken up.

  ‘Everybody take five,’ he said.

  I went out front, into the ice of the afternoon air. The temperature was a slap in the face, which I needed. The rain had stopped, but the sky remained thick with dark-grey cloud and the wind, when it came, was freezing. A crisps packet went skittering across the tarmac. The forecast had been snow, and it didn’t feel far off. Even in my coat, I was trembling - but that was also down to the poison of unused adrenalin. I felt like I could run for ever. I wished I could.

  Dying is one of the great taboos. I’d seen my share of bodies before, and those had been horrible enough. But bad as that could be, it was only ever the end result. You felt sadness and grief, of course, but by that point you were looking at something that was already dead, and that’s a world away from being forced to hear or see it happen: to experience the terrible process by which a living human being, no different from yourself, is deadened and ruined, reduced one spark at a time to an empty shell.

  Inevitably, it made me think about Lise. But I didn’t want to do that, an
d I couldn’t afford to, not right now. It was hard enough to deal with the end result - that she was dead and gone - without plunging my imagination into the deeper horrors of what it must have been like for her. What she might have been thinking as her life disappeared.

  I shook my head, turning my thoughts back to Kevin Simpson instead.

  Five minutes?

  I could take five fucking years and that recording would stay with me.

  But five minutes would have to do.

  Back in the office, everyone still looked grim, but also professionally determined. Each of us had put his feelings about the recording away, perhaps to examine later, perhaps to forget for ever. Once again, Mercer seemed detached from it. He was staring into space when I went in, giving the appearance of feeling nothing. No doubt it was down to his experience, and I wondered whether I’d ever be capable of doing that: of abstracting myself from the situation and seeing it solely as a puzzle to be solved. It seemed heartless, but I didn’t doubt that in reality he felt what had happened every bit as keenly as the rest of us. This was simply his way of dealing with it - by concentrating on solving the crime and catching the man responsible.

  Greg started off: ‘Like I said, we’ve got no Jodie, not Scott—’

  ‘But the killer mentioned emails,’ Mercer interrupted, ‘so they must exist.’

  ‘Yes, and if he deleted them it might be possible to recover them. But it depends how thorough he’s been. We’ll try, but we shouldn’t count on finding them through the computer.’

  Mercer frowned. ‘It seems clear from the recording that this Jodie, whoever she may be, was having an affair with Simpson. If we can’t find her and her boyfriend in time, our subject will. That’s if he hasn’t already.’

  ‘We’ve got a description,’ I said.

  He turned round immediately. ‘Tell me.’

  I explained about Yvonne Gregory, relating the details she’d given me of the girl leaving Simpson’s house - Jodie, presumably. Late twenties, brown hair, bag, headphones. Obviously, it wasn’t specific enough to be very useful, and I was aware of that as I spoke. After listening to the recording, I didn’t feel so triumphant any more. I finished up by describing the white van, and at that point Mercer nodded, as though he’d been expecting it. He cut me off before I could finish.