A Tapping at My Door: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller (The DS Nathan Cody Series) (25 page)

He thinks about repeating that it’s a good plan, but decides against it. Life is too precious.

‘I needed a second opinion.’

‘Bullshit. You were being pig-headed. You think you know better than I do. You think you’re right and I’m wrong. I bet if Warner had turned it down you’d have gone to the Chief Super. You were determined to have your way, because you’re so damned sure of yourself.’

‘I . . . I just thought we should give it a try.’

‘Give it a try? You’re not testing out a new recipe, Cody. You’re not taking a different route to the pub. You do realise what you’re letting yourself in for, don’t you?’

He shrugs. ‘I’m okay about it. Honestly. It’s what I do.’

She shakes a finger at him. ‘No. It’s what you did. When you worked undercover. You don’t do stuff like that anymore because of what happened. You work at MIT now. You work for me. And the boys and girls who work for me don’t go running off to the headmaster when they don’t get their own way. What did Warner say, anyway?’

‘He . . . He said he thought it was an excellent idea. He said this is the kind of thing he’s looking for in his officers. Innovation, originality, fortitude—’

Blunt puts a hand to her mouth. ‘Stop, stop, I’m going to be sick. He said that? In a one-on-one chat? Jesus Christ, does he ever stop rehearsing for his next move up the ladder?’

Cody isn’t sure Blunt should be saying these things about her boss in front of him, but right now she seems too upset to care.

She shakes her head in despair. ‘I thought we had a better working relationship than this, Cody. I thought we could trust each other. I know I give you a hard time sometimes, but only when you need a kick in the pants, for your own good. Of all the people in this team I would trust with my life, it’s you. You’re a damn good copper. I know my saying all this is embarrassing you, but you’re going to hear it anyway. I see great things in your future. You went through one of the most traumatic events an officer can possibly experience, but you fought back. You got back in the saddle. That takes guts. And now I’m starting to sound like Warner.’

Cody smiles at her to let her know how much he appreciates what she’s saying to him, even though a part of him is denying most of it. If he’s back in the saddle, then it’s on a stallion that’s galloping away with him.

‘What I’m trying to say,’ continues Blunt, ‘is that you have damaged something today. You could have come and spoken to me again about it. My door is always open, you know that.’

‘Would you have changed your mind?’ he asks.

‘The truth? No. Certainly not. I would have suspended you from duty rather than authorise this reckless action.’

‘And now?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Now that it’s got the green light. Will you run it for me? The operation?’

She stares at him, and for a brief moment he is convinced he sees the glint of wetness in her eye.

‘You want me to oversee the operation, the one in which you could possibly be killed?’

‘Yes. Only I won’t be killed. You won’t allow it.’

She stares some more. Nods. ‘Damn right I won’t allow it. And Warner will have to put me in a strait-jacket to keep me away from this one.’

Cody straightens his back again. Less standing up for himself this time; more a coming to attention. A gesture of respect.

‘Thank you, ma’am.’

A silence ensues. The two look into each other’s eyes. Unspoken messages pass between them. A pact to deny death and to affirm life. Two very different people, with different backgrounds and different experiences, but both acknowledging what they share.

‘Now get out,’ says Blunt. ‘And if you do get killed out there, don’t come running back to me.’

*

When he has left, DCI Stella Blunt lets out a long sigh. She grabs a tissue from the box on her desk. Dabs at the corner of her eye.

Stupid, she thinks. Not Cody. Me. I’m the stupid one for allowing my feelings to get the better of me.

He’s a copper. A brave one at that. One of the bravest I’ve ever known. He’s doing what he believes is right. I respect and admire that.

And I wish he weren’t going on this mission.

God help me, I wish it were somebody else putting their life on the line like this.

That’s wrong. I shouldn’t be showing any favouritism. But I can’t help it. Sometimes I just can’t stop myself.

Cody has noticed. Of course he has. Doesn’t say anything, though. Doesn’t ask for an explanation.

Best if he doesn’t know. Best if he just thinks I’m a menopausal old fool.

Stay safe, Cody.

*

Webley. Marching along the hallway. Thinking, I’m going to nail his balls to the ceiling.

She catches up with Cody as he comes out of the men’s toilets. In her fury, she doesn’t even notice that he’s wiping his hands down the sides of his trousers.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ she demands.

He shows her his palms. ‘It’s not what it looks like. They’re washed, honestly. The dryer wasn’t working.’

‘I’m not interested in your urination rituals, Cody. I’m talking about your fucking stupid plan.’

‘Not you, too. You know, I’m beginning to think I should call this Operation Fuckwit.’

‘Actually, I think that would be pretty apt. How the hell did you get a green light to go and throw yourself on a grenade?’

He shrugs. ‘Cutbacks. It’s cheaper than a redundancy package.’

She slaps his arm. ‘Stop being a dick. You need to call it off.’

‘Why?’

‘Why? Because turning yourself into an easy victim is not recommended in the police manuals as a way of catching murderers.’

‘You won’t be saying that when he’s in a cell.’

‘I will be saying that if he’s in a cell and you’re in a coffin. Call it off, Cody.’

‘I can’t. The operation has already been approved.’

‘Then get it unapproved. You don’t know what you’re doing.’

‘Megan, I know exactly what I’m doing. Trust me.’

She lowers her voice. She didn’t want to do this, but . . .

‘Did you know what you were doing in the Armitage? What about at the post-mortem? And how about the photographer? How do I know this isn’t just another of your moments?’

‘They were different. They were knee-jerk reactions. I’ve thought this one through for a long time.’

‘Really? Suppose I tell Blunt how you’ve been freaking out? Do you think she will still regard this as a carefully considered course of action?’

He looks at her sharply. ‘You promised you wouldn’t say anything. You said—’

‘That was before you decided to go one-on-one with a vicious killer. Cody, this is your life we’re talking about. I want you to stay alive.’

Cody reaches out and touches her arm. ‘You almost sound like you care.’

She looks him in the eye, in a way she thought she’d never do again.

‘I always cared, Cody. But you never listened. It never bothered you that I cared. So you know what? I’m not caring anymore. If you want to throw your life away, go ahead. I’m done with allowing you to keep hurting me.’

She turns then. Turns and storms away before she gets really angry with him.

And before he sees how hurt she really is.

32

It’s killing him.

The waiting. He has waited four whole nights, and it’s torture. He hasn’t called them, he hasn’t watched them. Above all, he hasn’t killed.

The birds are getting desperate. He can tell just by looking at them. They seem more agitated than before. They are squabbling and pecking at each other. More than usual have died, for no apparent reason. They need him to do something. Now.

‘ALL RIGHT!’ he yells at the birds. ‘I’m doing my best, aren’t I? What good will getting caught do? These things need careful planning.’

He paces the room. Squelches through the bird shit.

Planning, yes. That’s what’s needed. And a little lateral thinking. Something different. Something they won’t be expecting.

A thought occurs to him. He goes out onto the landing. Looks up at the hatch set into the ceiling. Thinks about what he’s got stored up there in the loft. Smiles.

That’ll do it.

*

Cody is starting to think this is one of the dumbest ideas he’s ever had.

For one thing, he’s had to change his work patterns. The killer does his thing at night. That means Cody has to be here at night, ready to go. Not that he’s missing out on his sleep – he never gets much of that anyway. But it does mean he can’t be here in the day, too – Blunt wasn’t prepared to let him live in the station around the clock – which in turn means he’s missing out on all the investigatory work.

The only consolation is that he doesn’t appear to be missing out on much. The investigation has hit a dead end. No eagle-eyed witnesses; no telltale forensics; no Gazzas just dying to sign a confession.

In his more confident moments, Cody tells himself the case has stalled because the other detectives are missing his insight and perception and downright determination. Most of the time, though, he doesn’t believe that. Most of the time he is worried that they are never going to catch this guy, with or without Cody’s involvement. And it’s when he starts thinking that way that he wonders if his scheme to trap the killer is as hare-brained as Blunt said it was.

Blunt herself is tucked up in bed. Probably. Cody knows nothing about her nocturnal activities. Doesn’t really want such thoughts entering his head. Blunt is needed here during the day. She’s not as dispensable as he is.

He accepts it’s his own fault. Sitting here at – what time is it now? – two in the morning is what he asked for. He wonders how many more lonely nights he’s going to spend in this room before he abandons this ridiculous undertaking.

He thinks the killer might have smelled a rat. He doesn’t appear to have called the switchboard once in the past four nights. He could have ended his killing spree. He could have left the country. He could be at home, fast asleep like the sensible majority of the population.

Cody wishes he could go to sleep himself right now, here in this deserted incident room. He wishes he could close his eyes and drift off, to be awakened only when the call comes in. But it’s hard enough sleeping in his own house, his own bed. Here it’s impossible. It’s not the noise: this part of the building is deathly quiet right now. It’s the anticipation that’s the problem. Cody finds himself running ceaselessly through scenarios in his mind. What if the killer does such-and-such? What if this happens, or that goes wrong?

All to no avail, of course. He has no idea what the killer has planned. He doesn’t know if he will strike tonight, tomorrow night, or never again. This could be a complete waste of time.

The phone on his desk rings.

It’s nothing, he tells himself. Don’t get excited. Somebody is checking up on you, or a call has been put through to the wrong extension. Save the adrenalin for another time.

‘Detective Cody?’ says a male voice.

‘Yes?’

‘It’s Inspector Mostyn in the control room. I think we’re on.’

‘I’ll be right over, sir,’ Cody answers.

He puts the phone down, his expression grave in the knowledge he’s about to go fishing for a cop killer.

*

Cody makes his way to an annexe connected to the main control room. This separate area is used for communications during special operations, and right now is bustling with officers handling calls, issuing orders and making plans.

He is led over to a table covered in maps, while a member of tech services fastens miniature cameras to him, then checks their operation on a portable monitor. Cody feels weighed down by the uniform, the stab-proofs and all the equipment. He’s not used to wearing anything more substantial than a suit and tie. With the paraphernalia hanging off him now he feels like an overdecorated Christmas tree.

A door swings violently open, and Blunt comes bustling in. She is red in the face, and panting. Cody imagines it’s the swiftest she’s ever jumped out of bed and high-tailed it into work.

‘Is this it?’ she asks of nobody in particular. ‘Is it him?’

From where he has been directing conversations with his men at one of the consoles, a uniformed officer breaks off and comes over to Blunt. Inspector Mostyn offers his hand, and she takes it.

‘Stella,’ he says.

‘Nick,’ she replies. ‘Is this it?’

‘Looks like.’

‘I want to hear the call,’ she says.

Cody glances at her. Normally unflappable, she now looks anxious.

Mostyn turns to the comms officer. ‘Can we replay it over the speakers?’

The officer nods, flicks a couple of switches. The wall speakers burst into life.

‘Police, can I help you?’

‘I want to report some trespassers.’

Cody watches as Blunt listens intently to the voice. It’s a harsh whisper again, just like the other calls. This time, however, the accent is Irish.

‘Certainly, sir. Can I have your name and phone number, please?’

‘No names. There’s an old empty office building on Porter Street, close to Waterloo Street at the docks. The sign outside says “Emerson Printing Supplies”. A couple of young kids keep going in there. I think they’re planning to set fire to the place.’

The line goes dead then.

‘That’s it?’ Blunt asks.

Mostyn nods. ‘He didn’t hang about. Obviously he’s become a lot more cautious about his calls being traced.’

‘And was it? Traced, I mean?’

‘No. There wasn’t time.’

Blunt turns to Cody. ‘What do you think? Same guy?’

Cody shrugs. ‘Could be. Seemed to me like he was trying too hard to sound Irish.’

Blunt looks uncertain about the whole thing. Like she needs someone in the room to provide her with some reassurance. She turns to Mostyn.

‘This could be anything,’ she says. ‘It could be an ex-IRA member with a thing about Brits, for all we know. There could be a bomb in that building.’

Mostyn nods. ‘I didn’t authorise this op. I was just asked to coordinate it. If somebody tells me to pull it, I’ll pull it. Do you want to make some calls?’

Cody can tell she is tempted, and feels the need to head her off at the pass. ‘Ma’am, it’s fine. We can’t miss this opportunity, and we’re running out of time.’