50/50 Killer (36 page)

'Will anyone there go in with you?'

'Someone will.'

He looked at me for a moment. For the first time that day, I was receiving his complete and undivided attention.

'Thank you, Mark.'

'No problem,' I said. 'Take care.'

But already he was gone.

I minimised the window and set about uploading my last interview with Scott - the last one tonight, anyway. There would have to be more over the next few days, but hopefully in those I'd have the chance to treat him a little more kindly. And by then we'd have found Jodie.

It's out of your hands, I'd thought.

And it really was - but I knew the relief I felt wasn't entirely down to that. Talking to Scott had been like confession, the unburdening of a lie that had stained my soul for too long now, and in the aftermath I felt free of it. A part of me was still aching inside, but at least now I'd removed the weight that had been there: pressing down; adding to the pain. At least now that injury could get some air.

I tried to picture Lise, and I still couldn't, not properly; her expression remained in shadow. But finally I could dare to hope about what might be there. I could imagine she might be smiling.

Every few seconds there was a flicker on the screen, and the circles moved a fraction of a centimetre.

Not even halfway there yet.

I needed a distraction, so I turned to the email exchange that Greg had found on Scott and Jodie's computer.

Because of the connection I felt to Scott, there was something sad and even embarrassing about these private details becoming so public. Intimate thoughts and messages were all just evidence now. They were important. The emails provided a link between Jodie and Kevin Simpson, and also gave an insight into the relationship between Scott and Jodie. Their personal problems were integral to the case.

The relationship was the victim.

I clicked through the emails, scanning the contents one at a time.

The first was from Kevin. It was tentative, friendly:

Was just wondering how you'd been. Feels weird that you vanished out of my life so totally. I understand, but it still feels weird. It's okay if you don't want to reply or if you can't.

Perhaps stupidly, I was pleased by the contents. The message had been sent a little over a month ago, and it had the feel of someone re-establishing contact after a long absence. Of course, it didn't matter whether the affair had been long or short - but even so, I felt better for Scott that it hadn't been continuing for the last two years.

Looking at the dates, there had been a break of over a week before Jodie replied. I imagined her weighing it up in that time: considering whether to email back or to let things remain lying where they'd fallen.

I'm okay [she wrote eventually]. Getting along alright. The usual sort of stuff really, nothing exciting. Hate work though. How's 'our' business doing by the way? Ho ho.

CCL: the business they'd started together, which Jodie had abandoned in order to salvage her relationship with Scott. The next few emails were mainly about that, and playing catch-up on the things they'd both missed. The business was doing well, Simpson told her:

I have sixteen employees now. Can you believe that? I'm a manager! I'm sure you remember I can't even manage myself.

To her credit, Jodie managed to be as gracious as possible in her replies, even though I was sure it must have stung to hear he was making a success of the company without her. Perhaps she was simply trying to reassure herself.

I'm proud that you've made such a good go of it [she wrote]. Although obviously with me there you'd have done even better ...

I never wanted you to go [he replied]. I asked you not to, remember? Actually, I think the word is 'begged', but let's brush over that.

As the emails went on, Jodie's initial caution seemed to ease, and after a bit of skirting around history they both relaxed. Jodie appeared relieved to be able to talk, and the messages became longer and more frequent. The regret she felt about leaving CCL was implicit at first, surfacing gradually as she began talking more about her own life.
Getting along alright
, she'd said at first, but in her later messages she took that lie apart.

I hate my job. All I do is punch figures in all day and get paid a tiny amount for the privilege. But there's nothing I want to do, anyway. Everything feels grey and useless. I'll be thirty before long and I've got nothing.

That comment - 'I've got nothing' - stood out, summing up the tone of the later messages. Jodie talked as though she'd given up most of the things in life that were important to her, and now wasn't sure it had been worth it for the few that were left.

I winced for Scott as I read it. Inevitably, over the course of the night, I'd ended up feeling close to him. I had to force myself to remain impartial. I wanted to understand and empathise with Jodie's feelings.

I could imagine how it must have felt for her. The one-night stand with Simpson had been a terrible mistake: one which at the time she would probably have done anything to overcome. Giving up the company must have seemed a small sacrifice to make. But then, time passed. And now, although her mistake was in the past, forgotten and forgiven, she was still paying compensation for it. When you give up something important, every day of your life you don't have it any more. Dissatisfied with her job, her life, I imagined Jodie felt she was being punished, over and over again, for a crime that was gone.

He wrote that as a throwaway at the end of an email: one simple question among all the others. But Jodie zeroed straight in on it, as though the other things he'd written were static, used to scramble the real topic of conversation. Maybe that was simply hindsight on my part. When you look back, knowing how things will end, it all begins to look like fate.

He's fine [she said]. He just carries on as normal all the time. He doesn't really notice. But I can't talk to him about it and I don't know what I'd say even if I could. I don't know what's wrong. I'm just being silly but I don't feel like I'm anything any more.

You shouldn't say that. Do you love him?

There was a break in the messages then. The frequency had increased to about one a day, but it was nearly a week before Jodie eventually replied:

I think I do still love him. It's just that I don't love anything else. I'm so bored with it all. There's nothing in my life. Unless something changes this is how it's going to be for ever, and when I think about that I have to go to bed or something. I can't face the world. But when I get up again it's still there.

That message had been sent less than a week ago. Simpson's reply had come the same day:

You sound so unhappy, Jodie, and I'm really sorry. Do you want to meet up some time? Only as friends, I promise - I'm over all that now. You could come round and I'll stick a pot of coffee on and we can talk about stuff. Sometimes it helps to have a fresh pair of sympathetic ears to moan at, and I'll honestly try to give you the best advice I can. I have no agenda.

Reading these, I began to feel a bit strange. I was staring at the screen so intensely that the old locker room around me was almost whiting out. I frowned and leaned back. There were only a couple more emails to read, and the first was from Jodie.

Okay [she wrote]. I think maybe I'd like to see you. I do feel bad about it, because I'll have to lie to Scott, but I think it might do me good. I don't know. Can you get the day off tomorrow? Though, having said that, I'm sure one of your sixteen skivvies will hold the fort for you! I could call in sick and come round. Would that be okay?

And then one final email from Simpson:

I can do that, sure. I'll be up and about first thing, so call round any time. If I don't hear from you I'll expect you, but don't worry if you can't make it. Coffee machine already cleaned out ready! Hope I can help. Take care. Kevin x.

I checked the case file to see if any more had arrived, but that was it.

My frown remained.

There had been a lot of assumptions made over the course of the investigation, and one of them was that Jodie and Kevin had been having an affair. But actually, we had no proof of that; we'd just inferred it from the killer's words on the audio recording, and the fact that Jodie had spent the previous day at Simpson's house.

These emails didn't confirm it. The last one Jodie sent would be incriminating out of context, so I imagined it was the one the 50/50 Killer had chosen to show to Scott, but within the body of the entire exchange it was more harmless than it seemed. For all we knew, their encounter could have been as innocent as the emails implied. Perhaps Jodie had gone round to Kevin's house simply to talk over problems with an old friend who wouldn't need filling in on the background.

I felt a burst of nerves in my chest. There was something important here, but I wasn't sure what. I clicked back through the emails.

Do you want to meet up some time?
Kevin had written.
Only as friends, I promise - I'm over all that now.

And earlier on:
I never wanted you to go ... I think the word is 'begged' but let's brush over that.

No, I thought, let's not. Why did you beg her not to leave?

The answer presented itself a second later, through the voice of the killer.

You think you love her. Don't you.

For Jodie, I realised, what had happened two years ago was a stupid, drunken mistake, but for Kevin Simpson it had been more. They'd been friends at university, colleagues afterwards, and it wasn't enough. What happened had been exactly what he wanted.

I placed that idea down gently, and with a dark thrill I felt it slotting neatly in. I wasn't yet sure what picture I was building up, but I sat there quietly, allowing my thoughts to roam.

After a moment, I opened up the photograph of the spider web at Simpson's house. If Mercer was right, this was how the killer saw the relationship between Kevin and Jodie; this was his intended 'victim'. But if I was right, there hadn't been a relationship as such, certainly not a mutually accepted one. And that wasn't the only difference from the earlier crimes. There was the nature of the game. Jodie wouldn't have had to suffer to save Kevin Simpson. In fact, she hadn't even known there was a choice to be made.

I'd been assuming the 50/50 Killer used torture to make the person with the choice change their mind: either through the pain of their own suffering or through the guilt and grief from their partner's. But despite the torture here, there had been no back-and-forth; no opportunity for the decision to be changed and the victims to switch. Why? Had the differences in the relationship dictated the differences in the game? I tried to think through the repercussions of that. What was he doing?

In the corner of my eye, I saw the screen flicker: the circles moving, making steady but slow progress. Just over halfway there.

Ignore it.

Impressions and ideas were reeling through my mind. I needed something to settle long enough for me to see it. I stared at the spider web design, rubbing my chin, teetering on the edge of understanding.

4 DECEMBER

1 HOUR UNTIL DAWN

6.20 A.M.

Jodie

Careful.

She turned the headphone round between her fingers. Her dexterity was a bit lacking. There was an intense, numbing coldness in her skin, which would have hampered her even without the handcuffs. But also, in the relative darkness, she could hardly see what she was doing.

At least she knew what she was doing.

Jodie's pulse was fluttering. Timid excitement kept flaring inside her and she had to resist the urge to shout, or even laugh out loud.

Ever since she'd thought of it, she couldn't start quickly enough. The man outside might wake up at any moment. In fact, she wanted to reach back in time and throttle herself - curled up listening to music, all terrified and self-pitying. He could have been asleep for hours. She had wasted so much time feeling guilty and frustrated and terrified. But there was no point in thinking back on it.

The headphone was like a small oval stone. She ran it round between her fingers.

Normally, it would slot into her ear and rest there. The cables formed a Y, one arm slightly shorter than the other. At the base was the plug that went into the iRiver.

She had already detached that, discarding the base unit. Then she had knelt down by the pile of slabs at the back of the storeroom, taking the shorter cable and running it back and forth over the sharpest edge of rock she could find. Cutting the thin plastic and then the wire inside: weakening it until she could snap off the headphone.

Now, crouching by the door, she had about a metre of cable with one solid curl of plastic at the end.

She checked through the gap in the door. The man didn't appear to have moved. He was still lying there, apparently sleeping. Apparently. She couldn't be sure because she couldn't see his face. Perhaps he was entranced by the fire, his thoughts lost in the flames. Or maybe waiting for her to try something like this.

Fuck him, though. One way or the other, she would find out.

Just get on with it
, the voice told her.

It sounded a lot more confident now - but then it had every right to. When she'd collapsed onto the makeshift seat it had kept reassuring her that she wasn't done yet, telling her to go back over what she knew. Even if she'd convinced herself there was nothing, maybe she was wrong. There could be one small detail she'd not considered. A flaw in his plan, an opportunity. Her life would be saved or lost because of it.