50/50 Killer (16 page)

Pressed too hard,
I told myself.

Then Pete sighed.

'It hit us all hard,' he said. 'Some of us more than others, obviously. It's a difficult thing, losing a colleague. And Andy was much more than that.'

I nodded, catching the subtle reference to Mercer. 'Obviously', Pete had just said, and 'some of us more than others'. It was tacit confirmation, beyond the timings in the file, that this case had contributed to Mercer's breakdown, if not caused it outright.

'Of course,' I said.

Greg and Simon were silent, deferring to Pete. I could guess what this was about: whether I was going to be included in whatever was on their minds. Pete was still looking away, tapping his finger on the table. After a moment, he came to a decision and turned back to me, and I knew that I was.

'What do you make of him so far?' he said.

'Mercer?'

'Yeah. What's your opinion of him?'

I paused. The question was so loaded that I let it hang for a moment, considering what to say. A divide of some kind clearly existed between Mercer and his team, but it was also obvious that they'd worked with him long enough to have developed a complicated dynamic. There were things he'd said and done today that had pissed me off, probably them, too, but over time you can develop a weird kind of affection for those sorts of eccentricities. It would be a mistake to say anything negative about him. And perhaps strangely, I found I didn't want to, anyway.

'He's not what I expected,' I said. 'I mean, his reputation precedes him a bit. And so I guess he's a lot more ... human than I was expecting.'

Pete nodded, but it wasn't quite what he'd been after.

'Does he seem fragile? It's okay. Be honest.'

I frowned. 'Be honest,' Pete had said. Did Mercer seem fragile? My impressions of him today were of a man surrounded by paper files, taking the full heft of the investigation on his shoulders, thinking it all through at once. Intense and full of concentration - and, being honest, not much different from many other team leaders I'd met.

But then I remembered my first encounter with him at Simpson's house - when I'd noticed how old he seemed. And yes, he was far from the superman his reputation implied. He had the look of a man who'd lost weight and could be pushed over more easily than he used to. There was certainly an air of vulnerability about him.

'A little, maybe,' I said.

'Do you remember how he was at the interview?'

'He was a bit distracted.'

That was a charitable understatement, and we all knew it. Mercer had barely spoken to me, except when we'd briefly discussed my encounter with Jacob Barrett. The rest of the time he'd been content to sit back and let the others ask whatever questions they wanted. As though he was just waiting for it to be over.

'Distracted,' Pete agreed. 'He's been that way for a while. Since he's come back to work, he's basically been pottering around. Nine to five, not taking on anything too heavy. Not engaging.'

It was a sensitive issue, but we were having the conversation so I decided to bring it out into the open.

'Since the breakdown?'

'Yes.' Pete looked down, nodded once. 'Since the breakdown. He's been taking things easier. Doing the bare minimum.'

'Treading water,' Greg said.

'Exactly. But today he's been totally different. More like how he was in the old days. Committed. Absorbed.'

He glanced at his watch.

'I mean, it's half past seven. He's not been in the office this late for two years.'

'So you're worried?'

'Not just about that,' Greg said. 'It's this case. He shouldn't be on it.'

'We talked about that,' Pete snapped. His voice was too loud, too harsh. He toned it down, turning back to me. 'We talked about that - before John came back to work. If the case went live again, we knew he'd want to be involved, and we decided if that happened we'd play it by ear. Problem is, I guess, we're listening to different music.'

I looked at Greg, who shrugged, making no attempt at an apology.

'My objections are pretty clear. It was always going to be Pete's call.'

'It's a shit day for you to have started,' Pete said. 'I'm sorry about that. I don't know where we're going with this at the moment.'

'How do you think he's coping so far?' I said.

'I don't know. When he first came back, there's no way I'd have let him take this on again. But ... he seems okay to me. Part of me is pleased to see him so engaged. Back to his normal self, I guess. The other part of me is just worried.'

I breathed out heavily. Before I could say anything, Greg interrupted.

'For fuck's sake, Pete. He needs to know the rest of it.'

I looked from one to the other.

'Needs to know what?'

'Have you seen that the cases aren't connected?' Greg asked me. 'Officially, I mean. On the computer system.'

I hadn't. 'No. But I did notice he didn't mention it in his reports to DI White.'

Greg nodded. 'Exactly. Deniability.'

'I don't understand.'

Pete leaned forwards, taking over. 'Greg means all that stuff he was arguing with John about earlier. He was doing it to give him at least some level of deniability.'

'No, I was giving
us
deniability.'

'Whatever.'

I shook my head. 'Deniability of what?'

'Deniability of the cases being connected,' Pete said. 'This investigation doesn't belong to John. On paper, it's Geoff Hunter's. And given the history here, there's no way White would allow John anywhere near it if he knew. Not a chance. When he finds out ... Well.'

'Deniability,' Greg repeated.

I sat back in my chair and folded my arms, processing what I'd been told.

From the moment I'd read about Andrew Dyson's death, I supposed I'd been expecting something like this. The first time Mercer had confronted this case, it had ended in the murder of a colleague and his subsequent breakdown. It was only natural that the team were concerned. They had to balance their loyalties and friendship to their boss with their worries about what facing this investigation for a second time might do to his state of mind. It was good they felt able to include me in that. What I hadn't thought about was the professional repercussions of that choice - our responsibility to the department as a whole. Now, I was included in that as well, and I had to consider my position carefully. Deniability was one thing; misconduct was another.

But for now, at least, there was going to be no question where my loyalties would lie.

'Obviously, I'll follow your lead.'

'Okay,' Pete said. 'Basically, our job is the same as it's always been. We're here to support him. One way or another, that's what we're going to do. We're going to hope we can find these two people before dawn.'

'Jodie and Scott,' I said.

'Yes. Because Christ knows what it will do to him if we can't.'

We sat in silence for a moment longer, then Pete pushed his tray back and got to his feet. He looked tired.

'Right,' he said, 'come on. Hard job done. Let's get back to the easy stuff.'

We all stood up, and as we did I heard a beeping. Pete took his pager off his belt, frowned at it for a second.

'One of the vans.' He inclined his head slightly, then glanced at me. 'Your door team's got something. A thousand pounds, wasn't it, Greg? You'll be wanting your chequebook.'

3 DECEMBER

10 HOURS, 50 MINUTES UNTIL DAWN

8.30 P.M.

Scott

It was an old building, and the space he was in was very confined. The walls to either side were made from big stone slabs, laid out in uneven rows, as though whoever had built it had done so with whatever rocks were close to hand. The place must have been abandoned for years, left to generations of spiders and ants. Season after season of dead leaves had blown in and rotted away to dust on the flagstones. The cobwebs on the ceiling were either thin and grey or else hanging down like dirty string.

Scott had no idea what this place had been used for in its lifetime. Perhaps it had been an outhouse or a storeroom. Which would be fitting, as it was now being used to store him.

If he leaned to either side, he could touch the wall with his shoulder, and despite the spiders, which were big and brown and ugly, he kept doing so. That and stretching his head to one side: trying to relieve the tension and cramp building in his neck and the muscles of his back.

He was sitting on something, he couldn't see what. His hands were cuffed, his forearms resting on his thighs. The man in the devil mask had tied rope round all four limbs at once, lashing him into place.

His nose was running; he kept having to sniff. It was partly a result of the cold and partly because he kept crying. He couldn't help it. Before today he'd thought of himself as strong and capable, but now he knew different. He was no hero; not as calm and collected as people seemed to feel in the movies.

This couldn't be happening.

There had been anger to begin with, but not any more. Determined to free himself - to get to her - he had fought against his constraints as hard as he could, gritted his teeth and stretched as much as he could bear, but they were too well placed. The rage and hatred had swiftly given way to frustration.

He was held firmly in place, utterly powerless.

Panic and fear had set in; he had cried. It disgusted him, but he was so scared. He was at the mercy of the man in the devil mask and right now, his heart fluttering so quickly, he wanted to say the right thing, do whatever it took to get himself out of here.

He would do anything.

In front of him, the walls and ceiling continued for about two metres. Then there was an open doorway through which he could see the woods. The building was in a rough clearing.

Out of sight, the man must have built a fire. Orange light flickered and danced on the ground, and he could hear the burning wood crackling and snapping. There was only a little heat from it, but when the wind shifted, smoke drifted across the doorway, full of softly illuminated texture.

It had also started to snow. The light from the flames turned it into yellow blossom. It was already forming a thick carpet.

He shivered, trembled. It was partly the cold and, again, partly not.

Jodie, he thought. He couldn't bear the thought of what might be happening to her.

The man appeared in the doorway.

Scott stopped thinking and tried to shuffle backwards. But there was nowhere to go. The man bent down and moved into the outhouse, kneeling down in front. Practically a silhouette, although the firelight gleamed off the edges of the mask, highlighting its crimson, beetle-like ridges.

The man leaned his elbows on Scott's knees and held two items up between them.

In one hand, he had sheets of paper, stapled together.

In the other, a screwdriver.

'Shhhh,' he said.

Scott realised his breath was so quick that he could hear it coming out of him: bursts of breathlessness. He did his best to calm down and stop. He must do anything this man wanted.

'We're just going to talk a while,' the man said. 'You see what I have here? Before we left your house, do you remember what I did?'

Scott couldn't remember, although he desperately wished that he could.

'No.'

'I was on your computer.' He emphasised the sheets of paper slightly and seemed to be studying them intently. 'I printed these. "Five Hundred Reasons Why I Love You", it says. But there's only two hundred and seventy four here. Why's that?'

The fire popped. Other than that, the world outside the storeroom was silent and still. For some reason, it felt important not to disturb that.

'I've not finished yet,' he whispered.

'It was going to be a Christmas present?'

'Yes.'

'That's funny. A Christmas present for her. This.' The man shook the papers. 'This is a plaster for a gunshot wound. Do you understand?'

'Yes.'

'No, you don't. But you will.'

'Why are you doing this?'

Scott's voice broke slightly, and his vision blurred. Damn it. He didn't want to cry in front of this man. He sniffed hard. The tears came regardless, and through them he saw the man watching him, pitiless, as though he was a specimen under a microscope. When he spoke, it was like the answer should have been obvious.

'Because you have something I want, Scott.'

He knows my name.

The man held the papers out in front of him.

'All this belongs to me now. It's a burden for you, and I'm going to take it away. You should thank me.'

Scott didn't understand. He sniffed again, said nothing.

'I imagine it was all done fairly randomly, but the first reason you've put down is interesting. Can you remember what it is? Think hard, now.'

He remembered. Of course he did.

His voice came out thick: 'Something about how we met.'

'That's right.' The man nodded. '"Number One", it says. "We were so lucky to find each other."'

Scott took deep breaths and made an effort to stop crying.

'What does that mean?' the man said. 'I want you to tell me about it.'

'About how we met?'

'Yes.' He leaned a little closer and the light wormed around the contours of his mask. 'Tell me about how lucky it was.'

The message appeared on the screen without fanfare or warning. If he'd been typing his essay rather than surfing the internet, a pressed key would have instantly dismissed the small window and that would have been that. It would have flashed up, disappeared, and their lives would have been very different.

They'd talked about that and laughed, looking into each other's eyes. 'Can you imagine how terrible it would have been if ... ?' Later, he read somewhere that it was a standard early stage of a relationship, the 'I might have never met you' conversations.

At university, Scott often got network messages from his friends. You could access a list of usernames that showed who was logged on, and then click on someone you knew and send them a message. This time he didn't recognise the sender.