50/50 Killer (28 page)

The next day, Charlie woke up full of purpose. He went back to the woods and walked around in the same area. He broke sticks deliberately under his boots. He coughed loudly and muttered to himself. Eventually, he cupped his hands around his mouth and called to the devil: 'Please come out. I want to talk to you about everything.'

Eventually, the devil had shown itself.

It stepped out of the undergrowth beside the track and stood in front of Charlie, plain as the cold sunlight streaming down between the trees. Its body was black and baggy, its face hideous. The skin was rubbery and pink, as if the top layer had been scorched away in a fire. Small horns protruded from its head at the top, almost lost in the shaggy mop of lank black hair.

I've been looking for you
, the man in his head told Charlie.
Tell it.

As he deliberated, unable to find the words, the devil just stood there, plain as day. The birds still singing. The trees still rustling. Charlie felt a thrill rising within him: a sense of joy. It built up and up, starting in his stomach and billowing up into his chest and then his throat.

Tell it!
the man ordered again. And this time he did.

But the devil turned and walked away. Later, it told him that it had been weighing him up from the beginning, deciding whether he was worthy. He'd had to come back a couple more times before it decided that he was.

Voices.

Not close, he thought, but not too far away, either.

It was difficult to judge distances tonight. Sound, like the flames in the fire, seemed chaotic - fractured and thrown about. In Charlie's mind there were noises everywhere. The devil had told him what would happen, and what would be happening all around the world. Places were burning. Cities were erupting into violence; buildings being reduced to rubble. Smoke was filling the sky. People were screaming and shouting, gunshots cracking the icy air. The war had begun in every single household, town and country, and the woods were only one small part of that big international process. With one key difference. The devil was here, deep in the woods, and his enemies were coming for him. Even as the planet was engulfed by the flames of battle, the war might be won or lost right here.

You're a soldier now
, the man reminded him, and so he was.

The angels had flown overhead and seen the fire he had made. Soon they would send men in to investigate - to check if the heat was from flames or from the hellfire of the devil's army - and because the burning circle was so large, the devil had explained, Charlie would be hidden from them at first. The shelter in the undergrowth would keep him secret until it was time to engage the enemy.

It wouldn't be long now.

He swapped the knife between hands, wiping his palm again.

The nerves were still there, of course, but the man kept telling him it was a good thing. They were engaged in important business, after all, and nerves would help keep them both alert and ready.

And you have the knife.

That was true. Like any good soldier, he had received his weapons and his supplies. First, the devil had raised up firewood to fuel the decoy. Then it had revealed the shelter it had constructed for him, among the trees. Finally, it had given him this knife.

Charlie looked at it, careful not to allow the metal to glint in the firelight. The blade was long and thin: a centimetre across at its widest point, where it met the handle, and then tapering to a cruel point a hand's length away. The edge was very sharp, and somehow, despite being so slim, the knife felt solid. There was no give in it.

'A good knife,' the devil had said when it handed it to him. 'It will serve you well.'

Charlie nodded. He knew it was a good weapon. The devil had told him it was one it had carried itself. It had killed one of the devil's enemies and still bore the rust of that man's blood. Because of this, it had magical properties.

The voices were getting closer.

Charlie took a better grip on the knife. And - a secret hidden among the trees - he kept very still, waiting.

4 DECEMBER

3 HOURS, 50 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

3.30 A.M.

Mark

Back in our makeshift office downstairs, it was obvious that something had gone wrong. There had been escalating tension between Greg and Mercer all day, and the atmosphere told me that things either had come to a head in my absence or would do shortly. The team was fraying.

Lost in their respective thoughts, neither paid me much attention as I summarised the second interview with Scott. Greg concentrated on uploading the data files. Mercer sat to one side, staring into space, occasionally nodding to indicate I should continue. I told him about the stone walls and the fire, the brief affair between Jodie and Kevin Simpson.

'Your door-to-door team reported in before you got back,' he said. 'Simpson's neighbour has identified Jodie McNeice from the photograph. It was definitely her at his house.'

My heart sank a little, even though I'd known it already. The affair had continued, then. I remembered the killer talking to Simpson on the recording.
How do you think she's feeling now? Is she pleased she's home? Or does she wish she was still here with you?

'She set up CCL with Simpson,' I said. 'As far as Scott knows, their relationship was one night, two years ago. She left and she hasn't seen Simpson since.'

You think you love her. Don't you.

'So he doesn't know about the current affair?' Mercer asked.

'I think on some level he probably does know. It seems like the kind of thing the killer would have used against him. But if so, he doesn't remember.'

Mercer looked up at me. His eyes were bloodshot from tiredness and there was something about him that seemed to be slowing down.

'He does remember a baby, though,' I said.

Mercer blinked. 'A baby?'

'Yeah.' I explained what Scott had told me. 'But I don't know whether we should take that literally or not.'

He stared at me for a moment. There was emptiness in his expression. Whereas earlier on, he'd looked as if he was taking every fact as it came - slotting each one neatly into place - now it was more as though they were piling up on him. He looked in danger of collapse.

Greg was in the mood to be confrontational. 'Why would he have a baby with him?'

'Forget about that for now.' Mercer looked down at the floor, speaking slowly. 'I need to think about it. Get the information to Pete.'

'Yes, sir.'

Feeling uncomfortable, I sat down and began forming the data into an alert message to send to the comms van at the woods. While I waited for receipt, I scanned through the report from my door-to-door team. It was brief but comprehensive. They'd talked to SafeSide Insurance. Apparently, Jodie had disappeared in her lunch-hour - gone off and not come back. Her boss said she'd also been absent from work the day before, reportedly with a migraine. But obviously that had been a lie. She'd taken the day off to spend it with Kevin Simpson.

Greg nudged me, catching my attention. When I looked up at him, he nodded almost imperceptibly towards Mercer. I glanced across.

My gaze rested on him, held fast.

He'd barely moved since last speaking to me. He was sitting there, eyes closed, slowly rubbing the bridge of his nose. Gently, back and forth. If not for that, he might have been asleep. Even as it was, he looked like he was in a trance.

'Are you okay, sir?'

He raised his eyebrows, but kept rubbing his nose. 'Could you get me some coffee, Mark?'

Greg nudged me again as I stood up, and I almost shook his arm away.

'Of course,' I said.

The nearest drinks machine turned out to be the one in reception. It served black coffee at boiling point in thin, plastic cups. Carrying three back together proved traumatic. I spilled hot liquid over myself before I'd even left the foyer, shocking my hands, and then twice more along the corridor. It began to feel like everything was against me. I swore, resisting the urge to throw the cups against the wall.

Back in the locker room, I put them down and rubbed my mildly burned hands on my trousers. Things seemed to have improved a little. Mercer was active and awake, if bleary-eyed, and he and Greg were sitting at the left-hand computer. Onscreen, Simon had joined us from his van at Scott and Jodie's flat.

'The whole woods in this weather?' he said, his eyebrow arched. He looked and sounded as fresh as he had when he'd greeted me at Kevin Simpson's house that morning. 'My word.'

Mercer was in no mood for dissent, however subtle: 'What have you got for us there?'

'We're well under way. I'll talk you through the shots we've taken. Have you got the file open, Greg?'

'Will have in a moment.'

Simon had already filed an initial report on what his SOCOs had found at Scott's flat so far. Greg clicked through to find the photographs and video footage for us to refer to as we went.

The first picture he pulled up showed the exterior of the building. It looked like a capital H that had been pushed onto its back in the snow.

'Six flats,' Simon said, 'two on each floor. Banks and his girlfriend live in the one on the bottom left. Access is via the door in the middle, and then to each flat by central corridors and stairwell.'

'So no lofts or attics for him to hide in?' Mercer said.

'None of that, no. But plenty of evidence that he's been up to his other tricks. Bear with me.'

Simon started working on the computer at his end. A second later, a number of the thumbnail picture files on the main screen were highlighted. Greg opened each in turn, laying them out side by side.

Photographs of unscrewed plug sockets, their fronts lying discarded on the carpet. Light fittings ripped from the ceiling. Drawers removed. Boxes toppled.

'He's always tidied up after himself before,' Greg said.

It was the exact opposite of what had been found at previous crime scenes. First, he had allowed us to see his face. And now this.

'He doesn't feel the need to take care any more,' Mercer said. 'He's not bothered about being caught.'

There it was again. Despite his exhaustion, Mercer always seemed to be just a couple of steps too far ahead for us to make sense of his thoughts. Hiding his own identity was no longer important to the killer. And now, apparently, he didn't even care about getting caught.

It was a step beyond what Greg was prepared to accept.

'Well, no, that doesn't follow. He already had the girl in the van by then, so it's more likely he didn't have time. He was probably planning to come back later and finish off then.'

Mercer shook his head, gesturing with one hand. It was all so plain and obvious to him.

'No. Think of the phone call he made to Simpson's employers. The mask he left us at Carl Farmer's house. This is a dialogue we're involved in here--'

'He's changed his MO--'

'Don't interrupt me!'

But Greg was unimpressed and made no attempt to hide it. He closed his eyes and kept talking over his boss.

'--
he's changed his MO
, and the fact is we don't know what he's doing.'

'I know--'

'But I'm sure that "being caught" is
not
part of his fucking plan.'

'I know what he's doing!' Mercer banged his fist down on the desk and then pointed at the onscreen map. 'He's there in the woods waiting for us. This whole thing ... We're involved in his game. Can't you see that? He's giving us until
dawn
to save this girl's life.'

The silence rang in the office. He glared at us, then leaned heavily back in his chair, closing his eyes. He looked like a man under caution who'd been manipulated into blurting out a confession. He shook his head. I could tell he was annoyed with himself for losing his temper.

Greg and I looked at each other. Greg was pale, but his cheeks were mottled with anger of his own. Mercer's outburst had obviously unsettled him.

It had unsettled me, too. The implication appeared to be that the 50/50 Killer had changed his MO for the sole reason of involving us. He wasn't simply taunting us: it was the whole point. In Mercer's head, he had made this all about himself. The 50/50 Killer had caught our attention with Kevin Simpson, and now he was waiting patiently in the woods to see whether the famous Detective Sergeant John Mercer could find him by dawn and save a girl's life. That was why it didn't matter about hiding any more. It was one final game, with Jodie McNeice's life deciding the winner.

And it was bullshit, surely. Looking at him, I felt a mixture of concern and embarrassment. Nothing in his theory contradicted the facts, but there was hardly enough to support it. It was all too easy to remember what Pete had said before he'd left the hospital. The likelihood was that Jodie was dead. It was simply that Mercer needed her to be alive so that he could save her and beat this man.

That desperate need, barely even hidden now, felt like a far better explanation for his theory than that it was true.

He sighed and leaned forwards again. 'It doesn't matter, anyway. What else have we got?'

'Ah.' Simon was as cheerful as ever. 'The delights of the living room.'

It seemed strange to carry on after the outburst, but Greg shook his head and turned back to the laptop. He minimised the photographs of the killer's discarded equipment and opened the next file.

It was a shot taken from the lounge doorway. Nearest the camera, there was a glass dining table with a computer on it, and then, further away, a settee facing a television in the corner by the window. The television was switched on. Halfway along the wall to the right, a door led away into what looked like a kitchen. A solid metal chair lay on its side in the centre of the room, and there was smashed glass on the floor.

'Okay,' Mercer said. 'We've got signs that Banks was attacked in the living room, which fits in with what he remembers so far.'

'Not seen a baby around, have you, Simon?' Greg said sarcastically.