A Tapping at My Door: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller (The DS Nathan Cody Series) (31 page)

When it dies down, when the torrent becomes a trickle and the room is almost silent again, she strokes his hair and asks him the question.

And he answers it.

40

Where are the sirens? There ought to be sirens.

A bit like the beginning of a song, but the song is about clowns and he’s got enough of those right now, thank you very much. One clown is a clown too many, and he’s got four of the supremely unfunny bastards.

What he wants is sirens. This is when they are supposed to sound. It happens in all the movies, all the television dramas. Just when our hero is about to meet his demise, the sirens announce the arrival of the cavalry. In the nick of time they rescue him and round up the bad guys. That’s the way it’s supposed to go. There’s a law about it somewhere.

They’re not coming.

He tells himself to accept that, in the hope that somehow it will give him an extra burst of initiative to extricate himself from this mess.

The clowns seem to have other ideas. They are not real clowns – as if it even makes sense to talk about reality and clowns in the same sentence – but men wearing clown masks. There will be no slapstick here. He suspects that these men are planning something infinitely more sinister. Perhaps even involving unbearable levels of pain.

That thought causes him to realise how scared he is. No, not just scared. Indescribably terrified would be closer to the mark. His legs are shaking. He wants to appear calm and in control, but he knows he’s not succeeding. He is giving off all the signals he has seen in those he has confronted in police interview rooms.

He has no idea who these men are. They are not the men he has been trying to entrap for the past three months. He and his partner Jeff Vance arrived at the docks fully expecting just another meeting with the members of the gang with whom they had been doing business. And at first that’s what they got. It all seemed to be going to plan. No reason to suspect they’d been rumbled.

But then the clowns walked in. Four burly figures in overalls and masks – one of them carrying a sawn-off shotgun. It was clear that the gang members were expecting them, but even they seemed wary of the newcomers. And when they abandoned Cody and Vance to their fates, they appeared almost relieved to get out of there.

So now here they are. Cody and Vance seated on hard chairs, their arms bound tightly behind them, their legs tied to those of the chairs, being circled by clowns who refuse to talk.

Cody wonders about the reason for the silence, and his answer sounds a note of optimism. Since the men are keeping on their masks and not allowing their voices to be heard, that is presumably because they are afraid of being identified, either now or later. Which in turn suggests that it’s their intention to let at least one of their captives walk out of here alive.

Or perhaps it’s just to be more scary.

Because if there is anything more menacing than clowns, it is clowns who walk around and around you in deathly silence. Their muteness suggests they have no interest in engaging in conversation, and therefore no willingness to listen to reasoned arguments. They have already made up their minds as to how this scenario will play out, and there is no stopping them.

Yes, that’s an alternative explanation, thinks Cody. I’m so glad I thought of that one.

‘What’s this about?’ he asks, his voice echoing around the cavernous warehouse.

The clowns look at each other, as if enquiring the meaning of words spoken in a language foreign to them. But none of them makes a response. They simply continue to circle, at an almost slow-motion pace.

‘Who are you?’ Cody asks. ‘What’s going on?’

Still no reply, no change in their actions.

‘Look,’ says Cody. ‘I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but this is obviously some kind of mistake. We’re here on business. Get Barry back in here. Let us talk to him.’

Barry Duffy. A vicious bastard. The main man in the gang, and the one they hoped could lead them to even bigger fish. But apparently even he is unwilling to soil his hands with whatever is about to happen here.

Cody looks to his left at Vance. His face is white, nearly as white as those of the clowns. His eyes are darting almost at random, as though he can’t permit them to settle on anything for fear of missing something crucial, such as a way out of this. He’s a big man, overweight, and quite a bit older than Cody. He doesn’t look well, doesn’t look as though he will be able to cope with this stress for much longer.

The clowns stop walking. If there was a signal to halt, Cody missed it, but everyone seemed to know exactly when to stop. The tallest one, straight ahead, steps closer to the two undercover officers. He stoops slightly to examine Vance first, then Cody, as though he is trying to choose between them. Then he straightens up, still gazing down at Cody.

Cody gives this one a name. Undoubtedly the principal joker in this circus of the macabre, this clown has a face that is even more nightmarish than the others. Its smile is that of a man who has had fish hooks inserted into his cheeks and then the lips pulled away from his teeth, which are mottled in yellow and brown. He is not suited to a light-hearted name such as Bobo or Coco or Charlie.

Cody names him Waldo. Waldo isn’t a funny name. Waldo is the name of someone who hides in the dark recesses of your bedroom, waiting to steal your breath.

‘What? What do you want?’

His eyes fixed on Cody, Waldo points to the colleague on his right, then curls his finger to beckon him over. When his assistant arrives, Waldo points down at Cody’s bound feet.

Cody narrows his eyes. Wonders what he’s trying to intimate.

The assistant does not seem clear about that either. He continues to look up at his boss, seemingly mystified.

To help the message sink in, Waldo smacks his subordinate on the side of his head, then jabs a finger once more towards Cody’s feet. The second clown seems to catch on. He gets down on one knee, starts untying the laces of Cody’s left shoe.

The shoe comes off, then the sock. Then the same for the right foot. Cody finds himself wishing his legs weren’t tied to the chair. He would love to lash out right now, to punch the ball of his foot into that mask, crumpling it into the face beyond. It would be so satisfying. But also, he acknowledges, so stupid. What would it accomplish? It’s hardly likely that the retaliation would be proportionate.

So he does nothing except live through his mounting fear, knowing there is worse to come.

Waldo doesn’t disappoint. He clicks his fingers, and another minion brings something across to him. As soon as Cody sees the object, he feels his heart begin to race, his breathing becoming a pant. He hears a murmur of anguish from Vance.

What Waldo is holding is a pair of garden loppers. Unlike simple shears, these cutters can chop through narrow branches with ease.

Toes shouldn’t be a problem.

Because that’s what’s about to happen here, Cody thinks. I’m about to have my toes cut off. It’s as plain and simple and terrifying as that. And still there are no sirens. Nobody is coming. Nobody can stop this. Unless . . .

Unless this is merely a ruse. A threat. Waldo wants information or something. This is his bargaining tool. He’s about to make an offer in return for not carrying out this mutilation. That must be it, thinks Cody. He’s at least going to give me a chance.

But when Waldo approaches, still without uttering a word, let alone any merciful trade-off, Cody begins to suspect he may be wrong. And when Waldo tries to position the blades of the lopper around the smallest toe on Cody’s left foot, Cody accepts his error of judgement fully and unequivocally. This is actually happening, he thinks, and then the panic takes over and he starts moving his foot, as much as he can, dodging it one way and then the other, making the target as unsteady as possible, until Waldo loses patience and demands tacitly that his assistant makes himself useful by holding Cody’s foot rock-steady, which he does, and now Cody’s foot can no longer shift, can no longer escape, and Cody cannot look as the cutters slip around his toe, but he can feel it, he can detect the coldness of the sharp steel of those new, well-oiled loppers, and he knows that he is mere seconds away from actually losing a part of his body, a part that is irreplaceable, that will not grow back . . .

‘No! Stop it! What the fucking hell is this about?’

The outburst is from Vance. Cody snaps his gaze towards him, warning him not to say too much. If they offer up everything now, then they will lose everything. They will lose more than a toe.

Because that’s all it is, Cody tells himself. A toe. Your smallest one, too. It has no practical use. What do you ever do with it? It’s tiny, and it’s not particularly attractive, and you can easily manage without—

Snip!

He changes his mind when he hears that noise and feels the excruciating pain that shoots up through his leg, and finds himself enveloped by the echoes of his own screams bouncing around the massive chamber.

He’s done it. My God, the lunatic has actually gone ahead and done it! He has taken away a part of my body, and there is no reversing that fact, there is no way we can just step back in time and undo that deed.

‘Jesus Christ!’

This from Vance again. He is on the edge of desperation. Cody is the one feeling the pain, he is the one being chopped to bits, and yet it is Vance who is about to lose all control.

And perhaps he is right, thinks Cody. Perhaps Jeff has a better grasp of the hopelessness of the situation. Because there is only one end in sight. This is torture for torture’s sake. This is being done because these men – or at least the one in charge – enjoy administering pain. Which in turn means that Cody’s persecutor is, by any definition, undeniably unhinged.

This realisation does little to help matters. In agony, Cody is unable to look down. He has no desire to bear witness to the fact that he is now in two parts, no matter how unequal in size. He can do pain. He has suffered it before, and he will no doubt suffer it again. But pain is usually transitory – he knows it will eventually subside. The loss of his toe is somewhat more permanent, and so correspondingly more difficult to accept.

Through the tears clouding his vision, Cody stares his defiance at Waldo. He tries to peer beyond Waldo’s eyes, straining to know the man behind the mask, but those eyes have the coldness and hardness of granite.

‘You’re making a mistake,’ Cody says through his tears, his voice unnaturally high and wavering. ‘A big one. Whoever you think we are, you’re wrong. Before you go any further, you need to know how wrong you are about us.’

But Waldo isn’t interested. The only thing concerning Waldo right now is getting the cutters positioned properly around the next toe on Cody’s foot. There is no stopping him. He has made his mind up. And, yes, here he goes, putting his energy into bringing those two long green handles together to the accompaniment of a lovely snipping, crunching sound and Cody’s long drawn-out wail.

When Cody’s screams subside and he opens his eyes to the sting of the sweat running down his brow, he tries telling himself that this cannot be happening, cannot be true. How can it possibly be the case that he is being torn apart like this? When will enough be enough for this monster?

And he wonders where the sirens are. Where in God’s name is the help he needs?

Not here. No help here. Only pain and destruction. This is a scene from Dante, from Bosch, from Milton. This is a hell.

And so it goes on. As if merely for a touch of variation, Waldo turns his attention to Cody’s other foot.

Snip goes the little toe, scream, scream, scream. Crunch goes the next toe, cry, cry, cry.

And Cody has given up. His mind has resigned itself to the fact that the body it controls is doomed. It has stopped formulating plans for escape, because it acknowledges that escape is impossible. The only light at the end of an increasingly suffocating tunnel is the promise of sweet relief in the form of death. That is where this is leading, and it will be welcome.

The fingers now. Cold hard pincers pressing into the flesh of the little digit on his left hand. Maybe back to the toes later. Who knows? Who cares? Not much point fighting it now. He needs to accept that it’s over. Let it be.

‘Let It Be’. A beautiful Beatles song. Sing it now, he tells himself. In your head, sing it while you journey to your death.

‘Police! We’re police officers!’

He hears the yell, and it should be a wonderful announcement. It should herald the arrival of a dozen or more boys and girls in blue, piling into this den of despair and meting out instant and severe punishment.

But it is not that. He is being teased. This shout is from Jeff Vance, who needs this to end, for Cody and for himself.

It’s not that easy, Jeff, thinks Cody. These men know what we are already. They plan to kill us no matter what we say. But first, they want their fun. They’re clowns, see. Fun is what they’re all about. Laugh with me, Jeff. Enjoy the moment, because it’s the last you’ll have.

But something does change in Waldo. It’s almost as if he is only now aware of the other captive, and his gaze drifts menacingly in Vance’s direction.

‘We’re police,’ Vance continues. ‘Okay? That what you want us to say? There, you have it. We’re working undercover, trying to build evidence against Barry and his gang. Not against you. I don’t even know who you are. This is just about Barry Duffy. You can walk away from this right now.’

Cody hears the desperation in Vance’s voice and thinks, No, stop it. You don’t know what you’re doing. You’re making it worse.

But Vance keeps on jabbering, spilling information about the operation in the hope of getting something in return. And what Cody sees is that every word he utters is another tug on Waldo’s consciousness, dragging Vance further and further into the forefront of this deranged mind.

‘Jeff! Shut up, Jeff!’

But the way that Jeff interprets this is as a warning not to reveal police secrets, rather than as an attempt to save his life.

‘It’s too late, Cody. We need to stop pretending now. Look at you. Look at the state you’re in.’