A Tapping at My Door: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller (The DS Nathan Cody Series) (30 page)

He lets out a deep sigh. Hopes his anger will float away on his breath. Then he goes to the fridge and takes out one of the few things left on the shelves.

‘Here,’ he says. ‘Have a chocolate roll.’

‘Wow, you really know how to spoil a girl.’

But she opens it anyway and takes a bite. A fragment of chocolate clings to her lip, and she stretches out her tongue to collect it. Cody has to tell himself not to get distracted by manoeuvres such as this.

He’s not sure what to say to her next, but she has no trouble filling the gap.

‘Look, I really didn’t come here to wind you up. If you want me to go, I’ll go. I just thought you might want somebody to talk to. It must get pretty lonely up here.’

He shrugs. ‘I’m used to it. I’ve learnt to like my own company.’

She shakes her head. ‘I couldn’t do it. It’d drive me bonkers. How do you let off steam?’

‘I’ve converted one of the front bedrooms into a gym. A good workout does wonders.’

‘Yeah, but . . . everyone needs to talk sometimes, don’t they? We all need to have a good moan now and again.’

‘Not me.’

She nods, but he can tell she doesn’t believe him.

‘Cody,’ she says, ‘can I give you some advice?’

‘What kind of advice?’

‘Helpful advice.’

‘Narrows it down. Go on.’

‘Promise you won’t get mad?’

‘I won’t get mad.’

‘I don’t want you to think I’m interfering or anything.’

‘I won’t think you’re interfering.’

‘Just tell me if you think it’s none of my business.’

‘Megan, stop pissing about and just tell me.’

He sees her take a deep breath, getting herself ready. This is going to be a biggie.

‘All right . . . well . . . I just think . . . I think you need to see a doctor’

‘A doctor.’

‘Yes, a doctor . . . of some kind.’

Meaning not your everyday GP. A head doctor, is what she’s saying. A shrink.

And now, yes, he’s starting to feel annoyed. A tad irritated. No, more than a tad. A whole barrelful of irritated. A roomful of the stuff. He’s had this so-called advice from Devon, lots of times. But she was engaged to him. She had a right to offer such opinions. Webley hasn’t been on the scene for years. She doesn’t know him anymore. She needs to keep out of his personal life.

He wants to let rip. Wants to roar at Webley to get the hell out of his flat. He glares at her, feeling the heat rising in his cheeks and burning in his eyes. As if from a dragon, his words will be fired at her like a stream of flame, incinerating her on the spot.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says.

It takes him by surprise, confuses him enough to stifle his wrath temporarily.

She continues: ‘I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s none of my business anymore. I just wanted to . . .’ She pushes her half-full coffee mug back at him. ‘Me and my big mouth. I’d better go now.’

She slides off the barstool. Cody can see how filled with remorse she is. His expression told her in painful clarity how affronted he was by her suggestion, and now she is suffering its sting.

‘Megan,’ he says.

She turns her eyes on him. They scan his face for meaning.

He says, ‘It’s okay. What you just said . . . It’s probably good advice. I’ve got a lot of shit in my life at the moment, and I’m not handling it very well. I probably should go and see someone about it.’

‘But you won’t.’

He smiles. ‘’Course not. I’m a bloke. Blokes don’t talk things over.’

She finds a smile of her own, and it swamps his with its beauty.

‘Then we’ll have to settle for the next best form of therapy.’

‘Which is?’

‘A drink. Alcohol. Come on – my treat.’

He looks down at himself. ‘I’m not exactly dressed for it.’

‘Then hurry up and get your glad rags on. I’m gasping here.’

39

He’s in a pub. Again. With Webley. Again.

The Cracke is a tiny little place on a dark and narrow back street. It’s famous as being one of the places where John Lennon used to drink. At that time, the Liverpool Institute High School for Boys stood on the next block. Both Paul McCartney and George Harrison attended the grammar school, and McCartney later helped to convert the building into the Liverpool Institute for Performing Arts.

Seated at a quiet table in the rear of the pub, Cody thinks about why he’s here. Especially given that he doesn’t drink. Well, not normally.

Tonight is not normal. Tonight Cody has decided that the apparent speed-up in the disintegration of his life is not going to be held in check by the simple expedient of avoiding alcohol. Tonight he is thinking, Fuck it; it can’t get any worse. Let’s live a little before we die a lot.
Carpe diem
, and all that.

He’s practically drooling at the sight of the pint glass carried over by Webley. Its contents look rich and foamy and delicious. Truly an object of desire right now.

‘Flippin’ heck,’ says Webley. ‘Your eyes are on stalks. I could have carried this over naked, and you’d still have been more interested in your pint.’

‘I’ve gone without for a long time.’

‘I hope you mean drink. Go on, then. Get it down your neck.’

Cody lifts the glass. Dips his face into the foam. Allows the fluid beneath to slip down his gullet. It goes down easily, too easily, and he doesn’t stop until the glass is half empty. Or half full, depending on your outlook.

‘Steady on,’ says Webley. ‘I’m not carrying you home, you know.’

‘I was ready for that.’

‘So I can see. Makes me wonder why you gave it up in the first place. Do you turn into a werewolf or a Chelsea fan or something?’

‘Nah. I just decided it wasn’t doing anything for me. Made me moody.’

She laughs. ‘Right. Because until now you’ve shown no mood swings whatsoever.’

He doesn’t rise to that one, but finds it difficult to end the ensuing silence.

‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I didn’t bring you out so I could piss you off again. I just thought you could probably do with some company.’

‘What about Parker? Won’t he be feeling lonely?’

‘He’s working late at the hotel. Says he’ll be too knackered to do anything tonight. You’ll have to meet him some time. You’ll like him.’

Cody’s not so sure. He already has an irrational distrust of the man.

‘Is he posh?’

‘He sounds posh. I feel like I’m in
Educating Rita
sometimes. But he’s just a normal bloke, really.’

‘Got a date set yet? For the wedding.’

‘Not yet. He doesn’t like to rush into things.’

‘Am I invited?’

‘Sure, if you want to come.’

He smiles. He doesn’t really want to go to the wedding, and he’s certain he won’t be invited anyway.

‘So,’ he says. ‘This is weird. Out drinking with you again.’

‘It is. Nice weird, though. I mean, there’s no reason why we should fall out, is there?’

‘Definitely not. Just do whatever your sergeant tells you to do, and we’ll get along fine.’

She shows him her dimples. ‘Yes, Sarge. Whatever you say, Sarge. How many gobfuls of phlegm do you want in your tea, Sarge?’

‘Charming. But you’re okay about working with me, right?’

‘Of course. If you are.’

It strikes Cody that each of them seems to be constantly checking that the other is happy with the working arrangements. But what the hell? The way things are heading, he’s not likely to be at MIT for much longer.

He nods to reassure her. Sups his pint. She sucks amber liquid through a straw. Cody’s not sure what’s in it, but he suspects that alcohol is a major ingredient.

Says Webley, ‘I really want to make a go of this, you know.’

‘You said. I won’t muck things up for you, I promise. Look, you’re engaged, I’m getting over an engagement, and we’re older and more mature than we were back then. We’ll keep it purely professional. No fraternising after work. No going to pubs together. No running up and down Rodney Street, ringing every bell in a desperate attempt to find your lost prince.’

She stares at him, eyes twinkling.

‘Oh, piss off, Cody,’ she says. ‘And get the drinks in, you miserable skinflint.’

*

So this is unexpected.

He’s back home. Had a couple of drinks – well, three pints to be exact – and some great conversation, mostly about old times, and now he’s back in his flat.

And he’s not alone.

Webley is here with him. She of the platinum hair and the dimples and the infectious laugh and the ability to transport him back to days of happiness has accompanied him to his abode.

He’s not even sure how it happened. It was certainly never on his mind to invite her back here, but here she is nevertheless, criticising his choice of supermarket coffee granules as she cradles a mug of the stuff.

He gives her a proper tour of the flat. Shows her the makeshift gym and the bedroom and the bathroom, all the while wondering what’s going through her head, what signs she might be looking for.

In the living room, she scans the wall-to-wall bookshelves.

‘Still a big reader, then? And I bet you’ve read every page of every book.’

He nods. Books have always been his friends.

She spies his guitar in the corner of the huge room.

‘I remember that old thing. Where’s your other one? The good one?’

‘It got mangled in the automatic doors at Clayton Square when I was running after a naked man. Don’t ask.’

She chuckles. Sips her coffee.

‘Play something for me.’

‘
Misty
?’

She looks at him. Says nothing to that. He knows that she remembers watching
Play Misty for Me
with him on one of their first dates. She will remember what happened when the Roberta Flack song came on in the movie.

He says, ‘I’ve been drinking. My fingers are about as useful as sausages when I’ve been drinking.’

‘Try.’

So he does. Webley sinks onto the sofa, and he sits opposite her.

He plays ‘Blackbird’ by the Beatles.

A beautiful song, but also a sad song. And it’s only when he is several bars in that he realises how reflective it is of recent events.

When the final bars fade into the night, her smile is beaming, but at the same time she seems a little wistful.

‘You can still do it, Cody. You’ve got a great voice.’

He puts the guitar down, leaning it against the side of his armchair.

‘Megan, what’s this about?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘This. Why are you here, in my flat, alone, late at night?’

She blinks, as if caught out. Then she puts her coffee down carefully, the cup not making the slightest noise as it touches the glass surface of the table.

‘You have to ask, Cody? I was in love with you once. I thought that—’

‘Megan.’

‘Don’t worry. I’m not about to jump your bones, Cody, so don’t get any bright ideas. Just let me finish.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘We were good together. Fantastic. And when we split up, I was devastated. Don’t get me wrong – we had to do it. It would have been disastrous to pretend everything was okay when it wasn’t. But you had a . . . a calling. It was like a religion to you. You had to follow your faith. I couldn’t see what you could see. I just wanted you, Cody. Just you.’

‘Megan . . . I . . .’

‘I’m happy now. With Parker. We’ll be getting married soon, and that’s the best thing ever. Since you and I broke up, I’ve always hoped that you found happiness too, in whatever way you choose to define it.

‘When we met again, at Terri Latham’s house, it was a big shock to me. I thought you’d still be off working in other cities. I never dreamt you’d be at MIT. I won’t lie, but part of me hated the prospect of teaming up with you. I just didn’t think it could work. But I’m getting off the point here. The point is, once I saw you again, I wanted to find out how happy you were. Maybe you were loving the job, or maybe you were married. Kids, perhaps.

‘But you’re not happy, are you? Something is deeply wrong with you, Cody, and it’s tearing me up inside to see what it’s doing to you. You’ve changed. Something has changed you. So, to answer your question, the reason I’m here in your flat, just you and me, is because I think you need someone. You need to talk. Because if you don’t do it now, you never will, and I think that will be the end of you.’

He stares at her. She knows me so well, he thinks. She sees through me. Sees what others don’t.

He acknowledges that if he were completely sober, he would turn down her offer of a listening ear. He would perhaps even make a joke of it, as he often does to camouflage the pain beneath. In fact, she probably wouldn’t have got past the front door this time if it hadn’t been for the booze.

But the alcohol has worked its magic. It has loosened his tongue, stirred up his emotions, punctured his inhibitions. And this is Megan Webley, the woman who cried along with him as they made love to the sound of Roberta Flack singing ‘The First Time Ever I Saw Your
Face’. She, too, is under the influence of that damnable potion, and perhaps she wouldn’t be saying all these things if that were not the case. But here she is, watching and waiting and willing him to be honest with her.

He says, ‘You really want to know?’

‘Yes.’

So he opens up.

Not with words, but with actions.

He knows how absurd they must seem to her. He sees the puzzlement on her face as he removes first one shoe, then the other. He sees the twist of her mouth as she tries to decide whether this is something she is supposed to find humorous.

But then he pulls off his left sock. He hears the intake of breath. The short, sharp expression of shock. She raises her eyes to meet his. He stares the truth of it back at her. He thinks she understands, at least to an extent. When he slips off the second sock, he thinks he detects a tiny slump of sorrow in her. Her eyes now are moist as she lifts them again. She puts a hand to her mouth, but a sob explodes through her fingers.

She goes to him.

She crosses the room. Looks again at his feet. At the fiercely pink scar tissue where the two smallest toes on each foot used to be.

‘Oh, Cody,’ she cries. ‘Oh, Cody.’

And then she is on him. Hugging him close. He feels her hot tears on his neck. He cannot stop himself. The emotion bursts out of him. It comes from deep inside, under immense pressure. There is no stopping it now.