A Tapping at My Door: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller (The DS Nathan Cody Series) (13 page)

‘So rumour has it.’

‘Well, don’t look at me to confirm it. Who else is there?’

‘Oxo’s a good lad. A bit weird, but sharp as a razor. Has a knack of asking the questions nobody else has thought of.’

‘Oxo, eh? Let me guess – he likes gravy.’

Cody pulls a face at her. ‘Nooo. His surname’s Oxburgh. Good job nobody put you in charge of the naming system.’

She laughs. ‘What about Blunt?’

‘No, that really is her name. It’s not rhyming slang or anything.’

‘I mean what’s she like? She a good boss?’

‘The best. I mean that. Get on the wrong side of her, and you’ll know about it. But do your job as well as you can, and she’ll look after you.’

Webley hesitates before posing the next question. ‘Does she look after you?’

Cody knows what she’s asking. This is about the way he’s been acting. This is Webley trying to find out if Blunt knows something she doesn’t.

‘Yes,’ he answers. ‘But no more than anyone else.’

Which is his way of telling her that he doesn’t need to be treated as a special case.

Because everything is just fine and dandy.

16

He’s lost count of how many news reports he has listened to. As soon as he got home he put on the television and the radio. Kept his attention on both. Flicked from channel to channel in search of something different. A new development. A new take on one of the day’s biggest stories.

Because that’s what it is. This is big, he thinks. BIG. These headlines are about
you
. You did this. You are famous, even though nobody knows who you are. This is amazing. Incredible.

And you can’t tell anyone.

Nobody can know. Everybody is talking about you and what you did, and you have to keep mum.

The reports contain little detail. Nothing about the bird, but then he knew they would hold that information back. Not a lot about the victim either. An ‘off-duty police officer’ is what they call her. They say there is nothing at present to indicate that her murder is connected with her work in the police force, although this is an ‘active line of investigation’.

Active line of investigation.
Ha! They haven’t got a clue. They don’t know where to look, who to talk to, what to do next.

He’s happy with that. He could have spelled it out for them. Made it a lot clearer so that their tiny unimaginative brains could cope with it.

All in good time, he thinks. Eventually it will become as plain as the noses on their stupid ugly faces, and they will have to see it for what it is. For now, though, best to keep them confused. Gives me more time. More freedom.

He clicks the remote control again. Cycles through the channels. Nothing at the moment, but there will be soon. The longest he will have to wait until is the start of the next hour. They will talk about him again then. Nothing new, probably, but still . . . He will be the one on everyone’s mind for that brief period of time. Sitting in their cosy little houses enjoying their cosy little lives, they will watch the news and they will wonder. About him. About who he is and why he did this. They must all have heard the story by now. He must be on everybody’s lips.

He paces the room. Up and down, up and down. He allows himself to enjoy the thrill of knowing what waves he is creating in the world. Such power!

On the television, the news moves on. Sport now. Injuries have ruled out two of Liverpool’s key players for Saturday’s game.

Weightier matters invade his mind. The excitement fades away. He reminds himself why he is doing this, what it’s all for. It’s important to remain focused on that, and not to get carried away by emotion.

He presses the red button on the remote, and the television turns black and silent. His thoughts turn fully from the outside world to this one – to what he needs to do next.

He goes out into the hall. Slowly ascends the staircase. Makes his way into the front bedroom. He moves into the centre of the room, the shit-soaked carpet slippery beneath his feet.

The birds seem wary at first. Uncertain. Most remain at a distance, just sitting and staring at him. He closes his eyes. Lifts his arms from his sides until they are straight, turning him into a human cross.

He waits. Still and straight and silent.

And then they come.

One or two at first. Then more. He hears the flapping wings and the chirrups. Feels the currents of air wafting over his face as his companions soar past.

The noise builds until it is a cacophony. The gentle puffs of air become a wind. He senses the excitement of the birds growing to a frenzy. They know. They understand. His eyes fill with tears at the wonderment of their shared knowledge. He takes a deep, shuddering breath. The air is stale and unwholesome, yet it reinvigorates him. Fills his being with purpose and resolve. He knows what he has to do.

His eyes flick open at exactly the moment he snaps his hand to a point directly in front of his face.

He smiles beatifically. The bird in his hand cocks its head at him. He feels its warmth, its pulsating heart. All the other birds beat a hasty retreat to the far corners and shadowy recesses of the room. A reverential hush descends.

‘Thank you,’ he says to the bird, as it blurs through his tears. ‘Thank you.’

Then, slowly, he clenches his fist. Tightens his grasp until he hears the faint popping sound as the bird implodes beneath his fingers.

17

It is said that there are more Georgian properties in Liverpool than in any other city outside London. Cody doesn’t know how true that is, but there is certainly a high concentration in the area in which he lives.

Rodney Street is sometimes referred to as the Harley Street of the North. It’s crammed with clinics, medical specialists and orthodontists. It even has a hypnotherapist or two. Plaques outside two of the buildings attest to the fact that William Ewart Gladstone was born here and Lytton Strachey lived here. At number fifty-nine, the National Trust has stepped in to preserve the home of the famous portrait photographer Edward Chambré Hardman. Yes, this street is full of history, steeped in character. Plus, it’s on the edge of the city centre – an easy drive to work for Cody. He should love it here.

But he doesn’t. At least, not as much as he thought he would.

He looks up at his building now. Three storeys above street level, plus a basement below. The facade is grand, elegant. Tall sash windows and shiny black ironwork. It conjures up images of men in tailcoats, women in large dresses, a horse and carriage waiting at the kerb.

But that was a time long ago. All that is left now are their ghosts.

Cody trudges up the stone steps. Unlocks the wide front door and swings it open. Allows the house to swallow him up.

It is dark and gravely quiet in here. During the day there is the constant whirring of drills and electric brushes, the mangled words of patients with mouths stuffed and stretched to their limits, the chatter and laughter of nurses and patients, the occasional cries of pain.

At night all that is gone. The smells remain, of course. The chemical odours of sterility. Sometimes they manage to snake all the way up to his top-floor flat.

But there is no noise. Not right now, at any rate. This is an old building, and often it will creak and it will groan and it will generally complain about its advancing years.

But sometimes there are other sounds too. A banging or a scratching or a rattling. Sounds for which Cody has not managed to find explanations. Sounds that could drive the susceptible mind to imagine all kinds of phantasms and other horrors.

Cody puts on a light. Doors to either side of the huge hallway lead to the reception room and the dental surgeries. They are closed and locked. Behind them lie the reclining chairs and the intense spotlights and the implements for digging and gouging and cutting and scraping. The stuff of nightmares, if Cody’s brain didn’t already have enough to work with.

And, to make matters worse, there is the brown door.

A featureless slab, it sits towards the back of the house, behind the staircase. It guards the entrance to the cellar, and is always locked. Cody has made the mistake of wandering through this building at night, and the even bigger mistake of putting his ear to that door. There are noises down there – he is sure of it – and he hesitates to guess what might cause them. He tells himself it’s just the boiler, the ancient pipework. Possibly mice. He’s never entirely convinced by his own assurances.

He ascends the wide staircase, imagining wealthy lords and ladies doing the same long ago. Perhaps their children slid down this polished wooden banister when out of sight of their parents. Perhaps, in the dead of night, they still do.

He reaches the large window at the top of the first run of steps. It looks out on to a long walled yard, now enrobed in blackness. Someone could be out there, looking back at him, and he wouldn’t even know it.

He continues on to the first floor. More locked-up surgeries here, plus a small kitchen and toilets. To the left, along the corridor, the door leading to Cody’s flat. He finds his key, unlocks the door. When he pulls it open, its squeal is like the final drawn-out moan of a dying old man.

He enters and locks the door behind him, shutting himself off from the rest of the building. Let the ghosts out there cavort and consort and conspire. In here he is alone with his own misery, his own distress. His personal demons are challenge enough without adding to their company.

Ahead is another staircase, narrower and less impressive than the previous flights. He ascends it to the top floor. This is his flat. His space. It’s a big space, too. Three huge bedrooms. Tons of storage room.

Far too much for one person.

And that’s the biggest problem. That’s what’s missing. That’s what keeps the spirits here.

What this place doesn’t have is Devon.

He’d like to think that her presence would change everything. That she would lighten the shadows, silence the voices, banish the spectres.

He misses her so much. Too much. She has made it clear that they have no future, not with things the way they are. Not without drastic changes. Changes to which Cody can’t commit. Not that she’s being unreasonable or anything. She’s being totally reasonable. This is his fault. He’s a stubborn idiot. He asked for this.

Time will heal, though. It always does. This is a temporary situation. In the scheme of things, just a hiccup. He can put up with this for a short while. There will be an end to it, and it will all come right. He just needs to do his time, and keep his shit together.

He knows that’s easier said than done. When he’s alone and he can’t sleep and he’s seeing things and hearing things and the walls seem to be closing in on him, such words of reassurance aren’t so effective.

He decides he should eat. It’s getting late and he’s hungry. The date with Webley did that.

Although it’s wrong to call it a date, he decides. It was just a couple of drinks with a colleague. That’s all Webley is now: a colleague. She could just as easily have been Blunt. Or a bloke. It meant nothing, and it’ll probably never happen again.

So anyway, back to food.

He goes into the kitchen and opens the freezer. Not the refrigerator, because he hasn’t been shopping recently and he knows how desolate it is in there. In the freezer are ice cubes, a pack of frozen peas, some microwave meals and . . . well, that’s about it. If she were here, Devon would be appalled. She would slap his arm and yell at him and tell him to sort his life out. And he would love her for it.

But if she were here, it would never get this bad. There would always be food in the fridge and fruit in the bowl and fresh flowers on the table. She would make sure of it.

He used to cook a lot. He enjoyed it. He could knock together a mean stir-fry. A perfect fry-up or Sunday roast. His signature dish was a Moroccan tagine, reserved for special occasions.

Now, though, what’s the point? Why go to all that effort when all he’s going to do is sit there eating it alone?

So he generally doesn’t bother. Eating is just something he does to stay alive. He still tries to get enough fruit and veg inside him, but often it comes to this. Another plastic box of plastic food to nuke in the microwave.

He takes out the first thing that comes to hand. A tikka masala. That’ll do.

He heats it up. Empties it out onto a cold plate. Eats it without really thinking about it, without really tasting it.

Afterwards, he washes up. A plate and a spoon don’t take long.

He moves into the living room. There’s a large flatscreen television in the corner, but he doesn’t switch it on. Hardly ever turns it on now. It doesn’t hold his attention like it used to. His mind drifts. It finds other images, other sounds. A lot more disturbing than anything his TV shows him.

One of the few things that work for him is reading. Something to do with the mental concentration it requires. No room left for intruders. So he goes over to the bookcase in the alcove and searches it for something diversionary.

A name leaps out at him. An author’s name. Cody takes the book down and stares at that name on the cover.

Edgar Allan Poe.

He knows he should replace it. What is in here is not bedtime reading, especially in light of the case he is working on now.

And yet he is drawn to it, hypnotised by it.

He opens the cover. Scans the contents. ‘The Raven’ is in here. So too are ‘The Fall of the
House of Usher’, ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue’, ‘The Pit and the Pendulum’, ‘The Masque of the Red Death’.

All good, wholesome stuff.

Put it back, he tells himself. Slide it back into its space and choose something else. There are books up there by P. G. Wodehouse. How about a Bill Bryson? Something light-hearted. Otherwise you’ll regret it. You know you will. The nightmares will come. A curry followed by Poe? What kind of masochist are you? Do you really want to put yourself through that kind of ordeal tonight?

But the killer has referred to Poe. There is method in his madness, and the secret could be here, in this book.