A Tapping at My Door: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller (The DS Nathan Cody Series) (12 page)

And then . . .

Yes.

Oh, Christ.

See what he’s doing?

Jesus, he thinks. I see it.

He hears the screams, too. He tells himself they’re not there, but he hears them anyway. Why won’t they stop? Why won’t anybody else in this room do something about it?

But then he looks around and realises the answer. They are not here to help him. They want him to suffer. These sick maniacs with their eternally evil grins are here to do him untold harm. They are coming closer, closer . . .

Cody flees.

He gets out of there as fast as he can. He doesn’t even know where he’s going. He just has to run, to escape. He knows people are staring at him as he rockets past, but he doesn’t care. Getting out of this building is his overriding thought.

He breaks out into the grey light of day. Sucks hungrily on the city air that’s probably full of all kinds of crap, but which is at least free of the cloying chemical smells indoors.

And then he throws up. Splashes the contents of his stomach onto the hard cold concrete.

He stands there for a while, bent over, hands on his knees. Wondering if he’s got anything left inside. Not just in his stomach, either. Inside, where it matters. This is the second loss of control in a short time period. Things are getting worse. Have I got what it takes, he thinks, or am I just kidding myself? Should I be doing this job? Wouldn’t it be better if I just packed it in while I’ve still got enough of a mind to think straight?

Those are the thoughts that are really eating him up. They keep coming back, time after time, and they never seem any less strong. That’s what’s so frustrating. That’s what—

‘Cody?’

Webley has found him. She puts a hand on his shoulder. ‘Are you okay?’

He nods. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Webley finds a tissue and hands it to him.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ she says. ‘I think we could both do with a drink.’

He allows her to escort him to the car. She’s leading him along like he’s an elderly patient, telling him he’ll be okay. The constable comforting the sergeant.

When did the world get turned upside down?

15

‘Are you sure that’s all you want?’

Cody nods. The glass of Coke is fine. He doesn’t drink anymore. Used to, though. Used to go on many a bender with the lads. He would come home rotten, make some supper he never remembered eating afterwards. He would get up the next morning and there would be soup stains all down the wall and all around his mouth, but for the life of him he wouldn’t remember the stuff passing his lips.

But that was then. Before the curtain came down and everything went dark.

He tried drinking afterwards. Hoped it would make things better, if only for a short while. A dram or two of whiskey, just to help him go off. When that didn’t work, he tried getting blind drunk, hoping to collapse into unconsciousness and leave the pain behind for a few blessed hours. That didn’t work either. He would still wake up in the middle of the night, and the demons would be worse. They would be more fierce, as if fuming at his attempts to suppress them. He decided then that not only was alcohol not the solution, it was an aggravator. It was simplest to shun it totally. And in many ways he is grateful for that outcome. His father has found some solace in drink, and is paying a high price for it.

Says Webley, ‘How are you feeling now?’

‘Okay, I think. Must be something I ate.’

She nods towards Cody’s glass. ‘Have a drink. If you’re not going to get pissed, at least take the taste away. And your breath. Sitting here with you is like sniffing sweaty socks.’

Cody takes a long draught of the Coke.

‘Better?’ she asks.

‘Better.’

‘Want to talk about it?’

‘Talk about what?’

‘Cody, that was no food allergy. I’ve seen you knock back several pints and a dodgy kebab, and still wake up fine the next day. Something about that PM got to you. And something about that photographer pushed your buttons, too. You can’t keep wigging out like that and tell me everything’s hunky-dory.’

Cody shakes his head. ‘The two things aren’t related. I told you, the photographer just pissed me off.’

‘Then be pissed off. Doesn’t mean you have to tear the man’s head off. That’s not like you, Cody.’

‘How do you know? People change. How do you know what I’m like now?’

He regrets the way he says those words. Makes him sound bitter.

‘You’re right,’ she says. ‘Maybe you’re not the man I used to know.’

And love, he thinks. Know and love.

A silence drops in. Webley uses it to sip her wine and soda. Cody uses it to glance around the pub. They are in the Philharmonic, which occupies a corner diagonally opposite the concert hall of the same name. Two of the wood-panelled rooms within the grand old watering hole have signs over the door labelling them ‘Brahms’ and ‘Liszt’. They are sitting at a small table in Brahms.

He remembers the first time he came here with Webley. They were part of a large gang of coppers. Drunk and rowdy. Somebody asked Webley if she had seen the gents’ toilets for which the Phil is famous. She made the mistake of saying she hadn’t. Seconds later, Cody was one of those carrying her in to get a close-up view of the pink marble urinals, much to the surprise of the customers engaged in taking aim at them.

It was among the best of times. The worst of times was still unimaginable back then.

‘So what’s changed you?’ she asks.

Not letting it go, thinks Cody. She, for one, is the same as ever.

‘Dunno. The job, I suppose. Took it out of me. Made me cynical.’

‘Is that why you dropped the undercover work?’

‘Yeah. I needed a fresh start. Pretending to be other people for so long was doing my head in.’

She mulls this over while she runs her finger up and down the stem of her glass.

‘That reporter. Dobby. What was he going on about?’

‘When?’

‘The stuff about your background, and how fascinating it is.’

Cody waves it away. ‘Oh, that. He found out that I’d gone undercover on some major investigations. He’s always pestering me about it. I think he wants to write up my life story.’

He laughs, but he’s not sure he gets away with it. Webley appears unconvinced.

Still, she leaves it for now.

‘And the post-mortem?’

Christ, he thinks. Not out of the woods yet.

‘What about it?’

‘You still haven’t explained what happened. God knows, I was upset enough. It wasn’t easy seeing an old friend on the slab like that. But you took it to another level.’

‘I don’t know, okay? Maybe I’ve just become more sensitive in my old age.’

‘Old age? Cody, you still look like you’re about nine.’

‘Well, I’m not. I’m not that far away from thirty, but even that doesn’t seem enough. I feel like I’m at least fifty. I’m . . .’

He stops. He’s about to tell her that he’s seen too much, felt too much for the time he’s spent on this earth. He doesn’t want to go there.

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Look, can we change the subject, please? I feel like I’m on a psychiatrist’s couch here.’

She nods. ‘Okay.’ But he can tell she is still concerned. He has no doubt that this conversation is to be continued at a future point. That’s how well he knows her.

‘So . . .’ she says. ‘What’s with the Coke? Gone teetotal, or is that just for tonight?’

‘Why would it just be for tonight?’

‘I have no idea.’

But she does. He can tell that about her, too. She is thinking that he is avoiding booze tonight purely to stay in control. In case he comes out with something stupid. Something that would complicate matters. But she doesn’t want to say so because of the conceit it carries. It would convey her suspicion that he still has feelings for her.

‘Well, it isn’t. I just don’t drink now. I’m trying to look after myself.’

‘Good,’ she says. ‘Good.’

He feels the conversation is becoming ever more awkward. He wants to go home now, where he can be miserable in private. But there’s something he needs to clear up first.

He says, ‘Can I ask you a favour?’

‘Sure.’

‘I’d be grateful if you didn’t say anything. To Blunt, I mean. Or anyone else, for that matter. About the way I’ve been acting today. They might get the wrong idea.’

Or the right idea. Which is probably worse.

She rolls her eyes at him. ‘Cody, what do you think I am? Of course I’m not going to say anything. Even if I do think you’re a complete basket case.’

He smiles. ‘Thanks.’

She sips her drink. Says, ‘Now can I ask you a favour?’

‘It’s only fair. Name it.’

‘As we’re on the subject of keeping stuff under wraps, I’d like you to do the same. About us, I mean. About how we used to be . . . an item. The others don’t need to know. Blunt, especially. It could really mess things up.’

‘It’s a deal.’ He holds his glass in the air. She brings hers up too, and they clink a contract.

And that’s when he sees it. On her other hand, now resting on the table.

The engagement ring.

He stares, and she catches him staring. She slides her hand away, as if about to hide it, but then changes her mind and leaves it in full view. And why shouldn’t she?

He says, ‘You’re . . .’

‘Engaged, yes.’

‘To?’

‘A man.’

‘Okay. I think I might have worked that one out.’

‘Took you long enough to spot the ring. Call yourself a bloody detective?’

‘Is he a copper?’

‘No. Guess again.’

‘A soldier?’

‘No. And he’s not a traffic warden either. Why do you think it has to be somebody in uniform?’

‘I don’t know. A . . . a window cleaner.’

She bursts out laughing. ‘Christ, you’re shit at this game. If you must know, he’s a hotel manager.’

‘Which hotel?’

‘The Lansing.’

‘Nice. I was in there a few weeks ago. A suspect had stayed in one of the rooms. I talked to quite a few of the staff. What’s your bloke’s name?’

She hesitates, and he wonders why.

‘Parker.’

‘What’s his first name?’

A longer pause now. ‘Parker.’

And now it’s Cody’s turn to laugh. ‘Oh my God. His name’s Parker? No, I definitely didn’t speak to him. I’d have remembered someone called Parker. Surely he’s not from Liverpool?’

‘Surrey, actually.’

She says this with a certain frostiness, but Cody presses on. ‘Please tell me his surname’s Carr. Parker Carr would be a great name for a traffic warden.’

Despite her apparent anger, Webley can’t stop a smile breaking out on her lips.

‘Stop it. I’ve already told you he’s not a traffic warden. And anyway, enough of my love life. What about yours? Which unsuspecting girl have you got tied up in your basement right now?’

‘Nobody. I’m young, free and single at the minute.’

‘But there have been others, right? Since we split up.’

‘One or two.’

‘One or two thousand, you mean. Anyone serious?’

‘Maybe.’

‘This is like pulling teeth. Spit it out, Cody. Give me a clue.’

‘All right. Devon.’

‘The whole county, or one specific town? Which bit of Devon?’

‘All of her.’

Webley’s jaw drops. ‘And you have the audacity to make fun of my fella! What kind of name is Devon?’

‘I think it’s a nice name.’

‘It’s ridiculous. The next time somebody tells me they spent the weekend in Devon, I’ll be crying with laughter.’

‘Well, it’s not as bad as Parker.’

‘Matter of opinion. So, go on then. Spill the beans. How serious was it?’

‘Engaged serious.’

She blinks. ‘No. Really? What happened? I mean, I’m assuming it’s all past history now.’

He’s never sure how to answer this. He likes to cling to a hope that perhaps it’s not all over with Devon, but the sensible part of him tends to overrule.

‘It just . . . fizzled out.’

A lie, of course. It wasn’t so much a fizzle as an explosion. But Webley doesn’t need to know this.

‘Nobody else involved?’

‘No, nothing like that. I suppose we just weren’t as compatible as we thought we were.’

‘When did you break up?’

‘Getting on for three months ago.’

‘Oh no! That recent? Poor you.’

Webley reaches a hand out and touches Cody on the arm. Then she seems to realise what she’s done, and withdraws it again.

‘It’s fine,’ he says. ‘Plenty more fish in the Mersey.’

‘Don’t go looking for them in there, mate. A fish won’t be the only thing you’ll catch.’ She pauses, but seems thoughtful. Then she says, ‘Were you living together?’

‘Yeah. She’s got a house in Hoylake.’

‘Nice. So where are you now? Not living with your folks, I suppose?’

He raises his eyebrows at her, reminding her how implausible her suggestion is.

‘You’re joking, aren’t you? I’ll have to drop in there this week, though. My mum’s birthday’s coming up.’

‘That’ll be fun,’ says Webley. ‘Let me know when it is, and I’ll put Armed Response on standby.’

He gives her a look that tells her he’s not amused. ‘To answer your question, I’ve got a place on Rodney Street now.’

‘What,
this
Rodney Street?’ She points in the vague direction of the well-known city centre street. ‘I thought that was all doctors and dentists and stuff.’

‘Funnily enough, I do live above a dental practice. I’ve got a top-floor flat. The dentist is an old friend of mine. He gave me a good deal on rent. Not sure how long he’ll let me stay there, though.’

‘Those flats must be huge. Lovely, I bet. You’ll have to show me around some time.’

He guesses she doesn’t really mean this. It’s one of those things you say just to be polite.

‘Any time.’

But he doesn’t mean this either.

‘So,’ she says. ‘Tell me more about the squad. What are they like to work with?’

‘They’re a great bunch. Footlong’s a good laugh.’

‘Footlong?’

‘Neil Ferguson.’

‘Oh, him. The super-tall one. I can see why you call him Footlong.’

‘Er, no. I don’t think you do. It’s nothing to do with his height.’

‘What do you mean? Why else would—’ Her eyes widened in sudden understanding. ‘Oh! Really?’