A Tapping at My Door: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller (The DS Nathan Cody Series) (36 page)

She is suddenly less sure that she wants to answer the door. She is instead responding to the adrenalin surging through her blood, causing her to wonder if she ought to be making an emergency phone call.

Ding-dong.

No, she thinks. Can’t be him. Our killer doesn’t just turn up at the door and ring the bell. That’s not his approach. He wouldn’t expose himself like that. Wouldn’t take such a risk.

But better safe than sorry.

So she puts the chain on the front door before opening it. Flicks the switch that puts on the porch light too. Only then does she open the door as far as the chain allows.

The man appears much less self-assured than usual. Worry lines further distort his already unattractive features.

‘Dobson. What the hell are you doing here? How did you even find—’

‘It’s complicated. I was given your address. By Cody. He said if I wanted info on the murders you’re investigating, I should talk to you.’

New-found rage bubbles up inside her. ‘He said what? The cheeky bastard!’

‘You make it sound like he’s not in your good books at the moment.’

‘He’s not. And you turning up at my door this close to midnight doesn’t help either. I’m sorry, Dobson, but Cody’s sent you on a wild goose chase. I’ve got nothing to tell you.’

She makes a move to close the door, but Dobson puts a hand out.

‘Wait. Please. There’s more. I . . . I think I’ve found something.’

She notices a change of tone in his voice. A hint of unease.

‘What kind of something?’

Dobson looks behind him, as if checking for eavesdroppers. ‘A link. Between the four officers that were killed.’

‘Are you serious? What link?’

Dobson moves in closer. He looks almost afraid as he speaks in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘The problem is . . . I think it involves Cody. I think that’s why he tried to divert me on to you, to get me off his back. But I didn’t come here because he suggested it. I came because I need to talk to someone about this, and I can’t do it in front of Cody.’

Webley goes quiet. She still can’t believe the gall of Cody. Sending Dobson to talk to her, just to get the reporter out of his hair? Cheeky sod. But this other thing, about the murders – that could be some really serious shit. It can’t wait till morning. Plus, she wants to hear this before anyone else. This could be big. This could be a career maker.

‘Hold on,’ she says. She pushes the door closed. Slides off the chain. Pulls the door open again.

‘Come in,’ she says.

Dobson takes a step forward. His head is bowed, so that she can’t see his face. His slumped posture puzzles her. When he slowly raises his head again, she can see that there are tears in his eyes.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m really, really sorry.’

She doesn’t get it. What does he mean? What’s he sorry about?

And then the shadows move. From behind Dobson, another figure slides into view. The porch light hits his features, and she recognises him. She knows the face and she knows the power of the weapon that he rests gently on Dobson’s shoulder and points between her eyes.

And then she understands.

48

When it gets to 1.30 in the morning, Cody decides to call it a day. He’s not going to sit here all night. He doesn’t really know for sure that Dobson is up to anything bad. Yes, he’s a pain in the arse, and yes, he’s got some questions to answer, but that doesn’t make him a killer.

I should go home, he thinks. Try to get some sleep. Talk to Dobson in the morning.

Oh yeah, and keep my promise to sort things out with Webley.

*

There is madness in those eyes. Desperation. Webley judges that it would take only the slightest provocation to convince him to tighten his finger on the crossbow trigger and send that lethal missile spearing into her body.

They are seated in her living room. She is next to Dobson on the sofa. He is blubbering softly. The man who has the blood of four police officers on his hands sits in an armchair directly opposite.

‘Why, Chris?’ she asks.

She had completely forgotten his name, but now it springs back to her almost violently. She had consigned him to the set of nonentities who had entered her life fleetingly and departed it without distinction, but he has suddenly become the prime focus of all her conscious thought. All of her faculties are concentrated on the man in front of her, the deeds he has perpetrated, the atrocities he might still commit.

And yet, behind the weapon, the man looks so innocent, so normal. But that’s always the way. She knows this. Knows that the most dangerous criminals are the ones who are able to keep their evil hidden from view until they choose to unleash it. She shouldn’t feel such surprise.

Chris tilts his head as he regards her, as if finding her speech difficult to understand. She can tell from this that he views her as less than human.

‘Why what?’ he asks in return.

‘What do you think?’ she says, a little too loudly. ‘Four people dead. You killed four human beings.’

He shakes his head. ‘Wrong. I killed four scumbag coppers. Not human beings at all.’

There is no wry smile on his face as he says this. He is not trying to provoke a reaction with trivial insults. That is what he believes. That is how he sees police officers – as a separate and insignificant species, undeserving of any right to life. And Webley is a member of that species.

‘So what happened?’ she asks. ‘Get arrested once? Put in a cell for a night? Get a parking ticket? What momentous event in your life convinced you that all members of the police force need to be exterminated like vermin?’

He shakes his head in pity. ‘You really don’t know, do you? You’re one of them, and you don’t even know what you did. How sad is that? Don’t you see how pathetic you are?’

‘No, I don’t, Chris. Tell me.’

‘Why don’t we just see if you can figure it out for yourself, eh? We’ve got all night for you to think about it.’

She wonders what he means by that. All night? Why? If he has come here to kill her, why wait? In a way she is grateful for the stay of execution, but at the same time she dreads to think what else he might have in store for her over the next few hours.

She decides to try a different tack. ‘How did you find me?’

Chris nods towards Dobson. ‘I didn’t. That piece of shit did all the work. He wasn’t joking when he said he could find things out. He’s got good contacts. Knows some very shady people. Getting your address was just as easy as getting the addresses for Latham and Garnett. His problem is that he can’t keep things to himself. He likes to talk, especially after a pint or two. Can’t shut him up when he gets going. Boring bastard most of the time, but occasionally he says something useful. Isn’t that right, Dobby? Hey, Dobby, I’m talking to you.’ He puts the emphasis on the nickname, knowing how hurtful it is to the reporter.

Dobson looks directly at his tormentor. He sniffs wetly, then turns flickering eyes on Webley. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says to her again. ‘I really am.’

Webley ignores the apology. There are still too many holes in this story.

‘Okay, so he told you how to find me. But why bring him here? Why not come on your own?’

‘Because he’s just as bad as you. He played his part, just like you did.’

‘What are you talking about? What part?’

‘Ask him. Ask him what he is. I saw it, on his phone. Cody knows too. Cody’s on to him. He thought he was safe, but he isn’t. Cody found out, and now I know, and now it’s almost time. I knew I couldn’t do this much longer, but I didn’t know when it would end. But now I’ve had the sign. It’s all fallen into place. I have him, and I have you, and it’s almost time to tell everyone.’

He’s rambling. Making no sense at all. What sign? Time to tell everyone what? And what does Cody know about Dobson?

‘Cody? What’s he got to do with this?’

‘Everything. Ironic, really. He provided the sign. Told me what Dobby is. Don’t you see? It’s all come together tonight. Without Cody, this probably wouldn’t be happening. I would have waited, maybe for too long. But we need a climax, a big finale. The message needs to go out. The birds demand it.’

‘The birds? What about the birds, Chris? Tell me about them.’

Chris’s eyes roll in his head, and for a second Webley thinks he’s about to lapse into some kind of trance state. She braces herself to make a move, but suddenly he snaps back into the here and now.

‘The birds are everything. They have been calling to you, to all of us, and we’ve been ignoring them. They want the world to know what happened to them. They want us to hear about their pain. The pain that people like you caused.’

He thrusts the crossbow forward as he says this. Webley winces, fearful that it might go off accidentally.

‘I don’t know what you mean, Chris. How are they in pain?’

He barks a laugh that carries no humour. ‘You know. And if you don’t, you should be ashamed of yourself. You brought the birds down. You brought them crashing to the ground and you left them there to die.’

She doesn’t know how to continue the conversation. It makes absolutely no sense to her. It’s as though they are walking along two parallel bridges, and she just can’t make the leap across to his. But whatever he’s fixated upon, it means everything to him.

‘Me personally, Chris? Or police officers in general? Because we’re not all the same, you know. Some of us—’

‘Yes! You
are
all the same. You think the same and you act the same and you lie for each other, even when you’ve done really bad things.’ He jabs the crossbow at Dobson now. ‘And he’s no better. I thought he was one of the good guys, I really did. The way he spoke, I believed he was interested in exposing police corruption. I almost trusted him. But he’s a liar, just like you. He wanted the birds to suffer. He enjoyed it.’

The birds again. What’s the significance of the damn birds?

‘And what about the suffering
you
cause the birds, Chris? You killed four of them. Maybe you’ve killed even more?’

Chris isn’t swallowing that one. He shakes his head again. ‘You don’t get it, do you? These are the same birds you hurt. They’re already dead. They’re trying to tell you their story, but you’re too stupid to listen. They are messengers. You just need to open your minds to their message.’

‘Then help me do that. Tell me about their messages. That first one – what was it? – “nevermore”, right? Tell me about that.’

He studies her, as if checking to see that she’s not just stalling for time or trying to distract him. But she genuinely wants to know. If she’s going to die, then she wants to know why. Surely he can see that in her face.

‘Isn’t it obvious? It means “never again”. That’s the most important message. But you can’t even see it, can you? You need to have it spelt out for you.’

‘You’re right, Chris. I’m just a dumb copper. Please explain the—’

‘They’re about loss, about grief, about death. Surely even you could see that? The birds are crying. They need all of you to understand. Don’t you hear them? Nevermore, nevermore, nevermore.’

‘But, Chris, if you kill us we will never understand. Tell us what the birds are saying in simple, plain English. That’s all you have to do.’

His laugh is scornful now. ‘No. I have to make sure. I have to teach you all a lesson, and sometimes lessons have to be painful. Sometimes a child has to be smacked. Sometimes people have to die, so that everybody else understands. I have to make an example of you. Both of you.’

Dobson brings his hand to his face and begins sobbing again.

‘This isn’t going to teach anyone anything,’ says Webley. ‘We’ll just be two more victims of a deranged killer. And when they catch you – because they
will
catch you, Chris – nobody will understand why you did it. They’ll just lock you up and throw away the key, and there will be nobody left to speak for the birds. The message will be lost forever.’

Chris smiles at her. ‘That’s where you’re wrong. Because this is the end. This is the grand finale. And you two will be the stars of the show. You will treat your audience to a spectacle they will never forget. We’re going out with a bang.’

For the first time this evening, Chris’s face is shining with glee.

And suddenly Webley is even more afraid.

49

Three o’clock in the morning, and Cody is wide awake.

Nothing unusual in that, he thinks. But the cause is different this time. The cause is Webley.

He decided earlier that he would call her to apologise, to explain. Then he put it off, telling himself he would ring her in the morning. Only, he knows that was a lie. He had no intention of making that call. Truth be told, it would have got to morning and he would have used delay tactics again. He would have looked at Webley and said to himself something along the lines of,
Hey, she doesn’t seem so upset now. She’s over it. We can move on. Big intense conversation no longer required.

It would have been the coward’s way out. A despicable stomach crawl away from the line of fire. That’s not how he lives his life.

So, he thinks, it’s time to grow a pair. Call her.

But it’s three in the morning.

So what? he thinks. You need to talk to her. If she doesn’t want to hear it, she’ll let you know. But you need to try. If you don’t, you’ll never be able to live with yourself.

So call her.

He reaches for the phone on his bedside table.

*

She doesn’t understand the waiting. She has tried asking him, of course, but he seems to have lost all interest in talking. He just sits there, staring. Sometimes his eyes are on Webley, sometimes on Dobson, but most of the time there is a blankness to them, as though he is seeing nothing except the pictures conjured up by his troubled brain.

She had hoped he would grow careless as the hours drifted by, but everything he does suggests he is still very much at the helm. Earlier, when Dobson insisted he needed to pee, Chris herded them both into the bathroom so he could keep an eye on them. She had to stand there while Dobson relieved himself in a stuttering stream.