A Tapping at My Door: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller (The DS Nathan Cody Series)
Read A Tapping at My Door: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller (The DS Nathan Cody Series) Online
Authors: David Jackson
A Tapping at My Door: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller (The DS Nathan Cody Series)
David Jackson
Zaffre Publishing (2016)
Rating: ★★★★☆
From the bestselling author of Cry Baby, the beginning of a brilliant and gripping police procedural series set in Liverpool, perfect for fans of Peter James and Mark Billingham "Recalls Harlan Coben - though for my money Jackson is the better writer." Guardian A woman at home in Liverpool is disturbed by a persistent tapping at her back door. She's disturbed to discover the culprit is a raven, and tries to shoo it away. Which is when the killer strikes. DS Nathan Cody, still bearing the scars of an undercover mission that went horrifyingly wrong, is put on the case. But the police have no leads, except the body of the bird - and the victim's missing eyes. As flashbacks from his past begin to intrude, Cody realises he is battling not just a murderer, but his own inner demons too. And then the killer strikes again, and Cody realises the threat isn't to the people of Liverpool after all - it's to the police. Following the success and acclaim of the Callum Doyle novels, A Tapping at My Door is the first instalment of David Jackson's new Nathan Cody series.
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Review
A Tapping At My Door is a spellbinding and spine chilling read that had me literally on the edge of my seat...It had me well and truly gripped from beginning to end. Bytheletterbookreviews.com As flawed heroes go, Cody is up there with the best in every sense and you'll find yourself worrying about him as much as the bloody terror he's facing. A thrilling series opener. -- Jon Wise Weekend Sport I was sucked in and had tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat. At other points, I just couldn't turn the pages fast enough. Jackson's writing is flawless. Clear and concise. To the point and cuts you when you're not looking. Utterly utterly fabulous. What a way to start a series! Highly recommended. -- Rebecca Bradley Murder Down to A Tea Blog His writing style is brilliant and a joy to read...Jackson has created wonderful new characters with DS Cody and DC Webley. The plot of A Tapping At My Door opens in best Hitchcock tradition and moves along smoothly with enough suspense to keep the reader enthralled right until the unexpected ending Devoted to Thrills Blog The opening chapter of Jackson's new novel features a spine tingling level of fear that mounts at a cracking pace... Jackson's strength lies in being able to execute a challenging plot device with sensitivity, empathy and care. He's all about delivering emotional depth while entertaining his readers. Pam Reader Blog It takes quite a lot to render me speechless but this book did just that. There was a moment near the end that I switched off to everything around me as I wanted to give everything I had as a reader to the final few pages of the book that is definitely going to be in my Top 10 of 2016...perfection' My Chestnut Reading Tree Blog A deliciously dark and compelling investigation... a well-executed thriller, with plenty of scope and a firm foundation for a projected series. Raven Crime Reads Blog It's one of the few novels that I have read where I felt some empathy towards the killer and revulsion towards a victim. It's a fantastic novel, the first in a new series that has huge potential. Steph's Book Blog 'A Tapping at my Door is a superbly written crime thriller. It is full of action, with some brilliantly drawn characters thrown into the mix. I cannot recommend it highly enough and I gave it 5 stars on Goodreads. It kept me reading late into the night. bibliophilebookclub.com It's a fast paced crime thriller featuring the hunt for a vengeful serial killer. Absolutely everything I love in a book! Damp Pebbles Blog A Tapping at My Door is the best crime fiction novel I've read. It's an outstanding book, and it's one that I am going to be recommending to everybody. Book Addict Shaun Blog I can't recommend this book enough, it is definitely going to be in my top ten reads of 2016, there isn't one bit that could have been better! Cleopatra Loves Books Blog A very decent police thriller...well written and quite gripping Sid's Book Blog It grabs you right from the start and doesn't let go...An outstanding read. A first rate gem of read. Oh god I need to get more books by this author! I Love Reading Blog By far the best book I have read this year...this book picks you up from page one and doesn't put you down till the last page. It is a rollercoaster of plot, intrigue, false turnings and twists. breakawayreviews.co.uk The Liverpool setting makes for an interesting change, the characters are well drawn and the plot builds to a taut and tense conclusion. In all, a worthy addition to the annals of British detective fiction The Sydney Morning Gerald A pacy, suspenseful story with a dramatic finale and with some teasing loose ends that will no doubt be followed up (I hope!) - this is a series that I will happily follow and I look forward to meeting Nathan Cody again My Reading Corner Book Blog
About the Author
David Jackson is the author of a series of crime thrillers featuring New York Detective Callum Doyle. His debut novel, Pariah, was Highly Commended in the Crime Writers' Association Debut Dagger Awards. When not writing fiction, David spends his time as a lecturer in a university science department. He also gives occasional workshops on creative writing. He lives on the Wirral peninsula with his wife and two daughters. David can be followed on Twitter, where he goes under the name @Author_Dave.
A TAPPING AT MY DOOR
David Jackson
CONTENTS
In loving memory of my mother
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
—‘The Raven’, Edgar Allan Poe
1
Listen.
There it is again. The sound. The tapping, scratching, scrabbling noise at the back door.
Terri Latham gives it her attention and then, when the sound stops, chides herself for wasting the brainpower. It’s nothing. Just the plants, probably.
She laughs at that. Laughs at the way it conjures up the image of an eight-foot Venus Flytrap or some such, banging its leafy fist on her door and demanding to be fed. Like that film – what’s it called? –
Little Shop of Horrors
, that’s it. Because it’s funny. Sitting here alone, getting all jittery over nothing but a plant – well, that’s hilarious.
Actually, she has a whole crowd of plants in pots just outside the door, but she’s not thinking of them. Most of them aren’t capable of knocking for attention.
No, what she’s thinking of is the climber that clings to and has seemingly devoured the arched trellis that surrounds her back door. The thing seems to push ahead daily at a rate of knots. She still remembers being reduced to tears of laughter with some girlfriends when they joked that she obviously spends too much time stimulating her clematis.
The problem is, the trellis is old and rotten. Just the other day a section of it collapsed, leaving a mass of tangled fretwork and plant rubbing and knocking against the glass panel of the door. She did her best to tie it back up with string, but wasn’t convinced she did a great job of it. Now she’s sure of it. The thing has fallen apart again.
Well, it can wait, she thinks. It’s late and it’s dark and I’m not standing outside on a chair in the middle of the night just to put a stupid clematis back into position. Besides,
Sleepless in Seattle
is one of my favourite films of all time, and I don’t want to miss any of it.
So she stays put. Settles into her comfy Ikea sofa in front of her Samsung flatscreen and Tom Hanks. Sips the special-offer Chardonnay that she bought from the off-licence on Derby Lane, and tells herself to relax so that she can look forward to the next soppy scene.
Tap . . . Scratch . . . Tap.
Oh, for Christ’s sake, she thinks. She raises her head over the back of her sofa. Beams a thought wave towards the rear of the house that says,
One more creepy noise from you and I’m cutting you off at the root. That’ll be painful. Think about it!
A part of her knows that her anger is forced. It’s a mask, a cover for the unease swiftly gaining traction within her. She also knows that this mask won’t stay in place forever. It will crack and it will crumble and it will fall away, and all that will remain will be the fear. But if that’s not to happen, she needs to make a pre-emptive strike.
‘All right, then!’ she calls out loud, as though yelling at a naughty but persistent puppy. As though giving into its demands under protest, when what she is really surrendering to is her own craven desire for reassurance.
I’ll go into the kitchen, she thinks. I’ll go there and I’ll see exactly what I expect to see, which is a whole load of leafy crap dangling and scraping at my door, and then I can get back to my film and my wine and a good night’s sleep, even though I shouldn’t feel the need to check, because I know exactly what this is and I’m being a complete wuss about it.
She beheads the next thought before it can do any damage. The thought that begins,
But what if it’s not . . . ?
She tops up her courage reservoir with a swift mouthful of wine, then abandons the comforting support of her sofa and heads into the kitchen.
She hates this kitchen. Top of her list when she was looking to buy a house was one with a beautiful bathroom and a stunning kitchen, and she ended up with neither because she couldn’t afford it. This kitchen has a minimal set of units that must have been cheap even when they were installed. Half of them are falling apart. The washer on one of the taps has failed, there are ugly lengths of gas and water pipes showing everywhere, and several of the wall tiles are cracked.
When she enters, she doesn’t put the light on because all it would do is reflect back off the windows and present her with multiple views of the depressing interior. Instead, she forces herself to stand in the gloom and wait with anxiety-tinged impatience for her tired eyes to adjust.
With the gradual emergence of broad angular shapes of furniture comes a slight easing of her tension. She releases a long outbreath and steps further into the room.
Through the grime-caked picture window over the sink she sees a yellowish quarter-moon emerge from behind a solid-looking cloud. As its weak light filters into the room, her eyes seize the opportunity to suck up information.
