The 50/50 Killer Page 9

  Dyson: ‘That’s fine. Can you remember what happened next?’

  Roseneil: ‘He had handcuffs. He made me tie Julie up, her hands and her feet. Then he tied me up as well.’

  Dyson: ‘Then what did he do?’

  No response.

  Dyson changed tack: ‘What did he look like?’

  Roseneil: ‘He was the Devil.’

  A pause.

  Dyson: ‘The Devil?’

  It turned out that the intruder had been wearing a pink rubber demon mask, secured with elastic round his head.

  Throughout the ordeal, the man had been calm and controlled. Daniel had kept looking for a moment when he could do something to stop what was happening, but the opportunity never came. From the moment Daniel awoke, he was going to end up either cuffed to the bedposts or with his throat cut. The intruder didn’t slip up once.

  Roseneil: ‘A game. He said we were going to play a game.’

  Dyson: ‘What kind of game? It’s okay, Daniel. Take your time.’

  Roseneil: ‘A game about ... love. He was going to hurt one of us. He said ... he said I had to choose who it was.’

  Dyson: ‘It’s okay.’

  Roseneil: ‘One of us was going to die and I had to choose. He said I could change my mind, all the way until dawn.’

  Dyson: ‘Can you remember what happened after that?’

  Roseneil (determined): ‘I chose me.’

  From that point on, his recollections of what had happened became disjointed.

  It was understandable. There were flashes and impressions, but the actual memories of being burned or cut were buried too deep. He simply couldn’t remember, and any attempt to probe in that direction resulted in a partial shutdown. He didn’t recall Julie being tortured, either, or acknowledge the fact that, at some point, he had probably changed his decision, the pain finally becoming too much. When her name was mentioned, he turned further away from the camera, as though even attempting to retrieve that memory was a step too far.

  Dyson backed off, and I approved.

  They turned the clock back a little. The killer had talked to him a lot. The exact words were lost, but he knew the man had been calm, almost friendly, acting as if he’d known the couple for years. Daniel recalled thinking How did he know that? But not what had been said to prompt it.

  All this had gone into the notes to follow up - ‘Possible acquaintance?’ - but although the subsequent investigation was exhaustive, nobody with any connection to the Roseneils seemed good for it. The team worked that angle hard and got nowhere. For his part, Daniel was convinced he’d never met the man before.

  I minimised the interview window and clicked through the file. Simon and Greg had worked up a possible solution to how the killer knew so much about the Roseneils. Just as with the Litherlands, the killer had left the scene as clean as possible, but there was certain activity that he couldn’t hide. From dust residues, it looked as though the plug sockets and light fittings had been interfered with and, once again, there was no sign of forced entry. There was also evidence that the killer had spent a certain amount of time in the attic. Initially confusing, those discoveries began to make sense in the light of what Daniel half remembered.

  I read through the IT report.

  Greg had listed examples of the type of surveillance devices he suspected were being used: microphones and cameras that could be hidden in sockets or left secreted around the house; devices that could intercept emails and passwords; moulds and kits that could be used to model locks and keys. It was frightening how easy it was to acquire them.

  The theory was that the killer had gained access to the house long before the murder, and had been watching and studying his victims for some time. Recording their conversations. Spending nights above them in the attic. Living with them, to an extent - perhaps even for many months. He learned their secrets and their lies, and he used his knowledge to hurt them emotionally in addition to inflicting physical pain.

  All of it was part of his ‘game’. He tortured people to make them abandon the person they loved.

  I closed my eyes. Horrific as the murders were, I found I was thinking at least as much about the survivors. About the choice they’d had to make.

  I’d die for you, I couldn’t live without you - people say those things all the time, but they almost never have to deliver on them. The victims the 50/50 Killer left behind had to face the reality of failing to live up to their words. Despite what they’d told their partners, they hadn’t loved them enough, and so now that person was dead. They had chosen themselves.

  I opened the photograph of Daniel and Julie Roseneil again, the one from their wedding day. They looked so happy and unaware, the picture full of possibility and promise. It was a reminder that you never know what lies ahead. Most days everything is fine and normal, and then one day it isn’t. By its very nature, you don’t see it coming. The terrible things that happen in life hit you like a truck out of a side road.

  And then back to Daniel Roseneil in the interview footage, with his ruined face and his ruined life. Out of nowhere, his wife was dead and he was alone, and in some ways he was responsible for that. Unhelpful as it was for the investigation, I didn’t blame him at all for not remembering what had happened that night. I didn’t blame any of them.

  There had been two further attacks, both taking place during the following year. The third victims were Dean Carter and Jenny Tomlinson, a couple in their late twenties, and at this scene the killer had reversed his scenario, allowing Jenny to choose who would be tortured and killed. She was badly hurt but survived the night; her boyfriend died in her place. Seven months after that, the 50/50 Killer targeted his fourth victims. Nigel Clark was given the choice. He was hurt so badly that he would never walk again, while Sheila, his wife of over twenty years, was killed.

  In each case, the killer’s technique was impeccable. There was no sign of forced entry. No useful forensic evidence was ever left behind.

  I didn’t need to see the photographs of these last murders. Instead, with time pressing, I returned to the main menu and opened two overall summaries. The first dealt with witness impressions; the second was a psychological profile.

  In the first, the 50/50 Killer had been reduced to a list of basic attributes. He was white, slightly taller than average, slim but athletic, calm and polite, articulate. He had dark-brown hair. While carrying out the attacks, he didn’t seem to enjoy what he was doing - but nor did he find it difficult. The torture was mechanical, done without emotion or pleasure.

  It wasn’t what we’d expect from this type of killer. In cases like this, the victim is generally an object to fulfil a fantasy or a need. But although sexual assault was involved in the 50/50 Killer’s crimes, it seemed to be more part of the tools he worked with - a way to terrorise and hurt - than an end in itself. He appeared calm and dispassionate, mutilating people before killing them and then leaving them alone when they were dead: when the game was over. Any enjoyment he gained from the process was kept well below the surface.

  And yet, remembering that terrible hissing sound he’d made, it was clear he was getting something from it.

  I turned to the psychological profile, ready to approach any concrete claims with hefty scepticism. But I was surprised. There were more question-marks here - more readily acknowledged guesswork - than anything else. Specifically, there was a reluctance to address the exact nature of the killer’s pathology. Why did he do this to people? He used torture and pain to manipulate them, forcing them to betray their partners. What was he getting out of it? Each speculation met a contradiction. The report confined itself largely to more general assumptions, instead, and I settled into the familiarity of these.

  He was likely to be over twenty-five years old, because the sophistication of the crimes suggested an older, more experienced offender. He would certainly be of above-average intelligence, but would lack anything that a normal person would think of as an emotional life. Given the cost of the surveillan
ce equipment, he probably had money, and he was mobile but not transient. A white van, never identified, had been seen in the vicinity of two of the scenes, and the equipment he used would certainly be easier to transport and monitor from a van. Plus, a tradesman parked up was less likely to arouse suspicion.

  Both his financial stability and his age made it likely he functioned adequately in society - that like Jacob Barrett he was successful at masking his true nature. But any relationships he held down would be a front. His real life happened in other people’s homes at night, and the pursuit of that would be constantly occupying him behind the façade. Friends and acquaintances would be casual at best, and were likely to have worries or concerns about him. It was suggested that he might be fascinated by weapons, and might own or have read books on torture, police techniques and the military.

  And so on.

  I couldn’t find anything I disagreed with, but none of it was written with anything like the usual confidence. There was something about this man and his crimes that precluded definite statements. Nothing could be taken for granted, and perhaps at the heart of it lay the devil mask he wore. Nobody would say it, but the ease with which he operated, the methods he used, the carnage and ruin he left behind ... Well, it was stupid, but you couldn’t help but think.

  ‘He was the Devil,’ Daniel Roseneil had said.

  And of course he wasn’t. There was no such thing. But nevertheless everything in the profile read as guesswork. Tentative ideas that circled a black hole, afraid to touch.

  3 DECEMBER

  14 HOURS, 50 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

  4.30 P.M.

  Jodie

  The path through the woods was scattered with the remnants of autumn: a mush of dirty red leaves with dark-brown mud pushing up in between. Her shoes sank into it, making her balance uneven. The ground either sucked at her or else slid beneath her feet, but she moved as quickly as possible, keeping just behind Scott, her hands out to catch him in case he should slip.

  Jodie had never thought of herself as practical or sensible, and she was surprised by how calm she felt. Despite the man with the knife, and despite the fact that her hands were cuffed in front of her.

  A voice in her head kept telling her what to do, and at the moment it was instructing her to concentrate on her footing, to remember every detail she possibly could and, most of all, to look after Scott. His hands were cuffed as well, but the man had also put a black bag over his head, so he couldn’t see the slippery ground they were walking on. The bag seemed to have taken away his resolve and strength. He was subdued: a man stumbling to his own execution.

  He needs you, the voice kept saying. Look after him. One thing at a time.

  The voice was reassuring and sensible, and so she encouraged it and clung to the advice it offered. If it went silent there would be space for panic to rise in its place; if it kept talking, she wouldn’t have to think about what was happening to them, she could reduce it to instants and obstacles, and occupy herself with taking care of one problem after another.

  One thing at a time.

  Observe. Remember the route. Look after Scott.

  She glanced to her right and saw a thick black tree trunk sprouting out of a ridge of earth. The ground was sodden, like potters’ clay. Elephantine roots spread down to the path, while thin branches hung down from above like old hair. She would remember that tree. Newer leaves on the ground seemed to point to it. Bright red darts.

  If necessary, the voice cautioned, you should pretend you remember nothing.

  This practical, reasonable voice hadn’t been there to begin with. At first, there had been only fear and panic. After the attack on the waste ground, she’d come properly awake lying on hard, ridged metal, breathing in the pungent stink of diesel. Her body was cramped, twisted; her wrists and shoulder hurt; the side of her head felt like it was expanding and contracting.

  She had opened her eyes to see rust and rope, and it all juddered as the road passing beneath them jolted the van’s suspension.

  This isn’t an ambulance.

  She had been dimly aware there had been an accident, so it would make sense for her to be in an ambulance. Her memory returned slowly, drawing increasingly black lines beneath the underlying impression that something was terribly, terribly wrong. The baby. The man in the devil mask.

  Then she had seen the drawing on the side of the van, painted on the white metal inside, and she had started to panic. Rape, she thought. Torture. And worse. Her mind ran a sieve into the depths of her imagination and dredged up horrors she was shocked she could even think of.

  There was a gag tied round her head, so she couldn’t call out, but she leaned back a little and could see the roof of the van, and then the top of the seats at the front. She made out the back of the driver’s head, and a topsy-turvy city-scape of sky through the windscreen, which bounced around as they drove. She could still hear the baby crying, too. The upside-down man turned his head, reached out to the passenger seat and told the child something soothing.

  At that moment, the panic had threatened to overwhelm her. It felt like she might have gone mad for a few minutes.

  But that section of time wasn’t important any more, and as the voice instructed she put it out of her mind. What mattered was negotiating the landscape: the precarious ground, the soft mud and leaves that slipped under her feet. Trees thrust out on either side like black antlers, jutting against each other, one ridge of wet earth fighting another for supremacy.

  The land went up steeply, then went down. For long stretches, it was practically a mudslide. In the gaps between the trees, there was more mud, and more trees, further away. Above it all, the mountains in the distance.

  It was freezing - so, so cold. She could hardly feel her face any more. In an attempt to generate some heat, she tensed and untensed her muscles. It must be worse for Scott. He was an odd sight, dressed in tracksuit bottoms, white T-shirt and his bulky coat, staggering along in front. She reached out and touched his shoulder, hoping he understood: I love you. But the coat was smooth and cold. He probably couldn’t even feel her.

  Jodie took her bunched hands away, but left them close.

  She thought back, remembering the van stopping, and how she had been sure it meant something awful was about to happen. Instead, she was left on her own for a time. The next thing she’d known, the double doors at her feet opened and early evening light streamed into the van.

  ‘Get inside.’ The man’s voice was quiet and reasonable, almost mannered. ‘Lie down. If you run or fight, I’ll drive away and hurt her.’

  Jodie looked up carefully and saw Scott clambering into the van, his hands cuffed in front of him like hers, a grim expression on his face. She was surprised and confused. The van tilted and rocked as he moved, lying down awkwardly beside her. The man outside was a brief silhouette against the sky, then he slammed the doors shut.

  ‘It’ll be okay,’ Scott whispered. His voice was so serious that she knew he was terrified. ‘I’ll get us out of this.’

  After a few moments, the engine rumbled into life, and they were on the move again. Jodie glanced up at the driver’s head, and then at Scott. Unable to reply because of the gag, she rolled over - one and a half turns - bringing her back against his front in the way they slept sometimes. She felt the bundle of his tied hands pressing into her but nevertheless was comforted by his warmth. He kissed her head through her hair, tensed himself against her. They were in it together, and they would get out of it together.

  That was when the voice had first appeared. She remembered being quite calm. Now that Scott was here, it felt as though she understood her predicament better, and that allowed her to relax into it, accept its parameters. Fighting wasn’t an option, and escape was unlikely. Observation, then, was key. Her thoughts had moved on to what it might mean that she and Scott were in this together. Most importantly, it implied that what was happening wasn’t random; the man in the devil mask had a plan and he was following it. Successfully, too.
She didn’t know what his intentions were, but it was obvious he knew exactly what he was doing.

  No plan is perfect, the voice had told her. No plan is continuous.

  There would be links between the stages - spaces and gaps where he relied on luck more than at other times. If they were clever, and if the luck went their way instead, they might be able to exploit that. Their lives might be saved or lost in the possibilities offered by a small number of intervals.

  It had summoned up reserves of anger and determination inside her.

  You will get out of this alive.

  Yet so far there had been nothing. His plan had ticked successfully along from one point to the next. There had been one more stop, when the man took the baby out of the van. After another short journey, he’d parked. When he opened the van doors they had found themselves on a road by the edge of the woods.

  ‘If you run,’ he said, ‘I’ll kill the one who runs slowest.’

  It had been almost surreal. He was standing there in the early-evening light on what was normally a busy road, wearing a devil mask and holding a knife with a long, cruelly thin blade. Their hands were bound in front of them. The scene was unequivocal. And yet no cars had passed them the whole time.

  ‘We’re going in there.’ He’d gestured at the path into the woods, and she had thought: Possibilities. He couldn’t control them both for ever. There would be some kind of chance; there had to be. But then he had put the bag over Scott’s head and made him go first, walking a little behind the pair of them. There had been no opportunities at all. There had been nothing.

  In front of her, Scott stumbled, tripped. She had enough time to see it happening, but not to stop it: as she reached out - ‘Careful!’ - his feet went from under him and he fell hard. Mud and leaves scattered out in front.

  ‘Shit.’

  A rock went off to the right, clattering down the slope. It rolled quickly, hit a tree with a sound like a gunshot, and then came to rest further down against a row of old stones. There were a lot of those in the woods, jutting out of the ground like giant half-buried jawbones. Old structures, mostly demolished.