A Tapping at My Door: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller (The DS Nathan Cody Series) (18 page)

‘Catch,’ says Cody.

He tosses the ball to the youth, who fumbles it and drops both ball and stick to the floor with a clatter that embarrasses him into inaction.

Webley continues to escort him outside. Once there, she urges him to hurry up.

‘Come on, Cody. We need to go. One phone call, that’s all it takes. One phone call and we’ll have a riot on our hands.’

She pushes him down the street. Gets the car open and crams him inside. Then she jumps behind the wheel and rockets them away from there.

‘What the hell, Cody?’ she yells. ‘What was that?’

‘He deserved it. He was wearing an Everton scarf.’

‘Not funny, Cody. Not funny at all. I don’t know what’s going on with you. You could have walked away. You didn’t have to stand there, taking what he was dishing out. And you certainly didn’t need to start a bloody fight. Jesus! There were four of them. Four! They could have broken every bone in your body. Mine too, for that matter. Not to mention losing our jobs if somebody reports this.’

‘Nobody will report it. Those morons aren’t going to own up to being made to piss their pants by one guy. And everyone else in that pub is either too scared or too anti-police to open their mouths.’

‘And all this went through your head, did it? While that arsehole was having a go at you, you thought all this through, I suppose? Or would it be more accurate to say that you weren’t thinking straight at all? You know what, Cody? What you did makes you no better than them. You were a hooligan in there. A Neanderthal. You should know better.’ And then she adds, ‘Sergeant.’

He wants to smile. Her little nod towards his rank is a cute touch in someone who just tore a strip off him.

But the smile doesn’t find its way through his misery. He knows what he did in there was wrong. It went against everything he stands for, everything he has been trained to do. Webley is right: he sank to their level. He lowered himself to become one of the baying, bloodthirsty vermin who live and die by violence, intimidation and anti-social behaviour. He wasn’t a policeman in there. He was just another scally.

He realises that Webley has pulled the vehicle into a supermarket car park. She puts on the handbrake and turns in her seat to face him. Her expression and her voice both soften.

‘What is it, Cody? What’s bothering you? I can help, you know. We might not be together anymore, but that doesn’t mean I don’t give a toss about you. I’m not that heartless. You need to talk – if not to me, then someone. It’s not good for you to keep it all bottled up.’

‘You think that was bottling it up?’ he asks.

‘Well, no. Not exactly. But my worry is there’s still more in there, just waiting to be let out.’

‘I’m okay.’

‘No. No, you’re not okay. What you did in that pub wasn’t okay. What you did to that idiot photographer wasn’t okay. The way you reacted to that post-mortem wasn’t okay. You’re not okay, Cody. You need help.’

You need help
. He wonders how many times has that been said to him. It’ll be exactly the same number of times he’s ignored it.

‘I don’t need help. I’ve just got some . . . some shit going on in my life.’

‘Haven’t we all? And maybe your pile of shit is bigger than most. But do you really think going around terrorising people is going to reduce the size of it?’

‘People need to stop getting in my face.’

He knows it’s a piss-poor statement as soon as he utters it. A Neanderthal statement, to use Webley’s expression. He braces himself for the response.

‘No. That’s the job, Cody. You don’t need me to tell you that. Our job involves people getting in our faces a million times a day. If you can’t handle that, then you should be asking yourself if it’s time for a career change.’

The wave of anger hits him before he has a chance to get out of its way. ‘All right, Megan, pack it in! I don’t need advice from you or anyone else about quitting the job. Do you understand that?’

There is too much force in his words. Webley recoils. Her face reddens.

‘I-I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I was just . . . I was just trying . . .’

He sighs heavily. ‘No, no. It’s me. I should be the one saying sorry. I get defensive when people try to tell me I shouldn’t be a copper.’

‘Why? Why has that started bothering you?’

He shrugs. ‘It’s all I’ve got left.’

He doesn’t say this to elicit pity, but he sees from her face that he’s getting it anyway.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Because it’s true. I know it’s a cliché, but I really am married to the job. You know it’s all I ever wanted to do, from when I was just a kid. It’s one of the reasons we split up. But lately it’s got worse. I’ve become obsessive about it. It only takes someone to suggest that it might be taken away from me, and I freak out.’

She smiles. ‘I’m like that about my clothes. You should have heard the fights between me and my sister when we were little.’

He manages to produce a faint smile of his own. ‘I’m really sorry. I mean about the way I’ve been. I put you in danger in that pub. I should never have done that. I wasn’t thinking. That’s part of the problem. Sometimes I act before I think. Look, if you want to, I can team you up with someone else.’

Her eyes widen. ‘Are you joking? And miss all the fun? Besides . . .’

‘What?’

‘I’d only end up worrying about you. Wondering if you were okay.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Of course. Like I said, I’m not heartless.’

He could hug her. He could lean across and hug her tightly for her kindness. But that wouldn’t be right. Not right at all.

He stares through the windscreen as he tries to put his head back together. He sees an old man loading up the boot of his Micra with bags of shopping. Every time the man lifts a bag, he puts a hand to his back in obvious pain. Without hesitation, Cody gets out of the car and crosses the car park to help the man load his shopping.

When he returns, he finds Webley staring at him, her expression a blend of surprise and amusement.

‘What?’ he says.

‘You. I’d forgotten about your little acts of charity. Nice to see some things haven’t changed about you.’

He shrugs. ‘So I’ve still got some redeeming features, then?’

‘I suppose there’s still hope for you. You can still be saved.’

‘Talking about saving me . . . You know that favour I asked you? Do you mind if it grows a bit bigger?’

‘Already sorted. We went to the pub, we asked some questions, we got no answers, and we left. Nothing more to add, is there?’

‘No. Nothing more to add. Thank you.’

But he wonders how many more of his misdemeanours he can ask Webley to contain before she snaps.

23

The sight of the house always brings forth a deluge of memories for Cody.

He’s alone now, sitting in his own car on the quiet street. It has been a tough day in many ways. Two police officers are now dead, and MIT don’t have a whole lot to show for their investigation into such high-profile killings. Cody himself has spent all day chasing down paths that have led him nowhere very useful. He has lost count of the number of people he has spoken to, the number of times he has picked up the phone, the number of reports he has written, read, filed or requested, the number of questions to which he has failed to supply answers.

It would help if they had some forensics to work with. But the killer is proving himself too clever for that. ‘Forensically aware’ is the term the police use. He leaves behind not even a hair. It’s as if he’s a ghost.

It might also help if they could locate this Gazza bloke. But then that requires a degree of tact and professionalism that Cody feels a little short of at the moment.

What an embarrassing mess. No, let’s get indignant here: what a complete and utter fuck-up.

It depresses him. He feels inadequate. A lousy copper. He handled that situation in the pub about as badly as is possible. If those other three dickheads had decided to pile in, instead of hanging about like demented monkeys, then . . . well, it doesn’t bear thinking about. Nobody in their right mind starts a fight against an opposition like that.

So maybe that’s it. He’s not in his right mind. He’s sick and he’s never going to get better and he should get out of this business before he or somebody close to him gets hurt.

Webley, for instance. He would hate to see her come to harm. Would hate it even more if it was through some action of his own. Like going berserk in a pub, for instance.

He hates living like this. Hates having to accept that the past is ruling his present and threatening his future.

This is the past. This house. A small end terrace in Fairfield. As with Stoneycroft, the name of this neighbourhood belies its appearance. There are no fields, and it cannot be regarded as being especially fair, rubbing shoulders as it does with Kensington, home of the Vernons. It has no pretensions.

Neither does this house. It could do with a new front door. It’s still missing a chunk of wood from when Cody’s dad forgot his key and kicked it open. If he’d bothered knocking, he’d have discovered that his wife was inside and could have opened it. But presence of mind tends to evaporate faster than alcohol when the two meet.

To the right of the house is an alleyway, and then a small hill leading up to a weed-infested patch of grass that doesn’t seem to belong to any of the houses on the street. It’s actually more of a slope than a hill, but when Cody was a kid it felt like Mount Everest. He remembers racing his toy cars down it, and flying down it himself in his plastic sledge when it snowed. That was before he discovered the delights of the much bigger hills in Newsham Park, a short walk from here.

Memories.

Really, he could do without this. He almost wishes he hadn’t driven here. It’s been such a shit day, and this isn’t going to make it any less shit.

And then he thinks, So what? Most of my days are shit. Might as well get it over with.

He sighs. Gathers up the flowers and chocolates from the passenger seat. Carnations and Thorntons, because he knows his mother loves both of those. Gets out of the car.

He stands at the front door for a full minute, just staring at the hole left by that missing piece of wood. Thinking. Remembering.

He knocks eventually. Voices inside. The door opens.

It’s Frankie. His sister. Three years younger than him, and as bright and bubbly as ever. She at least is delighted to see him. She pounces on him, crushes him in a hug, asks him how he’s been, pulls him into the house, into his past. Familiar sights, familiar sounds, familiar smells. Like he never left. But he did. He had to. And sometimes he wishes he could come back here properly. Just walk in the door, using a key of his own. Throw his bag on the floor and hang his jacket on the peg and put the kettle on and grab some biscuits from the cupboard and just . . . be at home.

Home. Such a lovely warm word. This
was
his home, once.

Frankie calls her mother into the hallway. Cody waits. Feels the apprehension.

But she’s alone when she appears. Despite this, her face still betrays her inner conflict. Any pleasure to see him is tempered by anxiety, fear. She smiles, but it looks forced, and her eyes dart constantly to the front door, either in expectation of arrival or in a less-than-subtle hint that he should leave. He knows she loves him –
knows
this – but sometimes it can be hard to believe. Sometimes it is too easy to read her discomfort as a desire to be left in peace. And sometimes he thinks he should do just that. Sever the ties once and for all.

But this is family. Arguably not much of one, but the only one he’s got.

He wishes her a happy birthday. Hands over the flowers and chocolates. She smiles, says little. It’s left to Frankie to remark on how beautiful the carnations are, and how much she’s looking forward to scoffing all the pralines. An awkward silence follows, while they stand together in the hallway.

I should go, thinks Cody. This isn’t working. Best if I leave now.

But Frankie is having none of it. She speaks the words her mother should be saying. Asking him to come through and have a quick cuppa.

So he does. Hang the consequences. Why shouldn’t he have a cup of tea in his own mother’s house?

There’s a small wooden dining table in the middle of the kitchen. It always amazes Cody how they and a varied selection of relatives all used to cram around it at Christmas time. Not a concern, though. He pulls out a chair and drops into it while Frankie busies herself with making the tea.

She asks about the job, about the murders. He responds as enthusiastically as he can, but reveals only what is already in the public domain. He asks her about her work, her boyfriend, her hectic social life, the latest gossip. He wishes his mother would chip in more, but she says little. Offers a smile now and again, the odd yes or no or non-committal hum, the occasional jump at the slightest sound from the front of the house.

He asks her then. Puts it to his mother directly. He could avoid the subject altogether. That would make life easy for everyone. But why should he? How much worse can things get?

So he asks her how his dad is.

She whitens, and Frankie goes deathly quiet as she permits her mother to deal with this on her own.

She tells him his father is fine. He has put on more weight. Gone a little more grey.

And the drinking?

Yes, well, he still likes a pint. No change there.

She laughs as she says this, but there is no underlying amusement. Cody wishes sometimes that she would just tell the truth – that she hates the way her husband drinks too much, hates the way he spends all his money on booze and cigarettes, hates the way he seems increasingly unable to find time for his own family, his own wife. He wishes she would scream and rant and let the tears of frustration out.

But she doesn’t do that. She would never do that. She just carries on with the pretence, even though everyone sees through it.

And, he wants to ask, what about me? Does Dad ever mention me?

But what’s the point? He knows the answer already. Why open himself up to yet another stab into his chest?