A Tapping at My Door: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller (The DS Nathan Cody Series) (5 page)

She says, ‘What made you take on that job this morning? The flasher.’

Cody shrugs. ‘I was asked. The guy has been appearing every Tuesday, working his way down Bold Street. Seemed almost a cert he’d be there this morning, and he was.’

‘Not exactly what I’d call a major incident, though.’

‘True. But serial offenders like him often go on to commit worse sexual crimes if they’re not stopped.’

Blunt glares at him. ‘I do know that, Cody. What I’m saying is that it’s not the kind of case we usually handle at MIT. So why did you agree? You haven’t got anything else on your plate right now?’

‘Like I said, the detectives on the case approached me. They wanted a body who doesn’t look like a typical copper, preferably someone with experience of undercover work.’

‘And you were happy with that? Doing that type of thing again – it didn’t bother you?’

He knows what she’s getting at. Knows where she’s trying to steer this.

Cody was selected and trained for undercover work right at the start of his police career. The scouts who go looking for candidates are after three things: someone who doesn’t stand out from the crowd as an obvious bobby; someone who hasn’t picked up all the habits that officers adopt over time; and someone who isn’t known to the local criminals. As a fresh-faced young man just coming into the job, Cody satisfied all three conditions. Even more importantly, it was something in which he was eager to get involved. Ever since he was a kid he had wanted to be a police officer. This was even better. This was specialist police work. This was exciting, pulse-racing police work.

He loved it, too. Enjoyed the adrenalin rush, the need to constantly be thinking on one’s feet. At school he had always been good at drama, and this was ultimate acting. This was taking the pretence of being somebody else to its limit.

But it can also be dangerous work. As an undercover cop you can be mixing with the most vicious criminals at fairly intimate levels. And such people are naturally suspicious of strangers. It takes a lot of nerve to stick to the script when your audience is testing you with the most searching questions and accusations. When you always need an answer on your lips.

Sometimes even that isn’t enough. And that’s what Blunt is alluding to. She knows exactly what happened a year ago.

‘No,’ he answers. ‘Doesn’t bother me at all.’

She looks at him again, and even without meeting her gaze he knows her eyes are burning with scepticism.

‘You’re looking tired, Nathan. Sleeping okay?’

She does that sometimes. Calls him by his first name. He finds it slightly disarming. He’d rather the formality was a two-way street. He’d hate to call her Stella. Hate it even more if she quite liked it.

‘Sleeping like a baby, ma’am,’ he says. Extra emphasis on the
ma’am
, just to hammer home his preference. ‘Got a full eight hours last night.’

A blatant lie. He’s never sure precisely how many hours of sleep he gets per night, but all told it’s probably not more than two or three. He drifts in and out of unconsciousness, and any sleep he does manage never seems to bring him any benefit.

‘Good,’ she says. ‘Glad to hear it.’ She goes mercifully silent for a few seconds, and then: ‘How are you getting on with that girlfriend of yours? What’s her name – Dorset, isn’t it?’

Cody feels something tighten in his gut. He wants to snap at her, to tell her to mind her own damn business. He has to clench his jaw to stop the anger spitting forth.

‘Devon, ma’am. We’re good, thanks.’

‘Any chance I’ll be needing to buy a new hat soon?’

‘Eh?’

‘You know. For a wedding?’

‘Oh! Er, no. Not just yet. Wouldn’t want to rush into things.’

No danger of that. No risk of doing anything at speed as far as Devon is concerned. Even a brief conversation with her is something he’d have to book well in advance.

But Blunt doesn’t need to know all that. Let her have her rose-tinted view of things. Let her hear what she wants to hear.

Sometimes a layer of lies acts as the oil that keeps a relationship running smoothly.

5

Cody gets out of the car. Sniffs the air as if sampling it for the aroma of blood, the scent of a murderer. The narrow street is crammed with police cars, marked and unmarked. Blue flashes of light bounce off the windows of the houses. Hung in one of those windows is a Liverpool FC poster, while the next-door neighbour displays one of Everton. Some interesting conversations there on derby day, thinks Cody.

He ducks under the crime scene tape strung between the lamp posts, but while Blunt wastes no time in marching off to engage in battle, he pauses for a minute to study those he has left on the other side of the dividing line. He sees a tattooed man with an ugly muscle-bound dog that looks as though it should also have tattoos. Sees a shaven-headed kid who should be at school. Sees an old lady who seems to have neglected to put her teeth in. The onlookers crane and peer and point and speculate. Cody looks for anyone acting just that little bit differently, that little bit more suspiciously, but sees nothing. These are regular punters, here for the show. He could make a fortune selling hot dogs and popcorn here.

‘All right, mate. Which bit of “Do not cross” don’t you understand?’

The voice comes from behind him. Female, but not Blunt. He realises her mistake even before he turns around. He’s still in his scruffy busker’s clothing, and she thinks he’s just some idiot who has decided to ignore the instruction written on the police cordon tape. He smiles, thinking he could have a bit of fun here.

He turns, a joke on his lips.

But then he sees her, and the intended mischief dissolves.

The young woman bearing down on him has platinum-blonde hair, tied in a neat ponytail. Dimples in her cheeks. A new suit that sweeps in at the waist. Male heads, and one or two female ones, swivel as she passes by.

All these years, and she hasn’t changed a bit.

‘Megan?’

Megan Webley halts. Blinks at him. The smile of recognition takes its time arriving.

‘Cody?’ she says with uncertainty. ‘
Cody?
’

He shrugs. ‘It’s me,’ he says awkwardly.

‘Oh my God. Oh my . . . I-I’m gobsmacked.’ She takes a couple of steps towards him. He’s not sure whether to throw his arms wide for a hug, or to play it safe and offer a handshake. In the event, he does neither.

She says, ‘What the hell are you doing here? Please tell me you’re undercover, and that you’re not about to ask me if I can spare some change.’

He laughs. ‘Are you trying to tell me something about my dress sense? You look fantastic, by the way.’

‘Thank you. And you look like . . . shit. What’s going on?’

‘Nothing. I just came off a job. Now I’m on this one.’

She narrows her eyes at him. In puzzlement, perhaps, but Cody can’t help thinking she’s bracing herself for unwelcome news.

‘You’re on this case? How come?’

‘It’s what I do now. I’m with MIT. The undercover gig today was a one-off.’

‘You’re with . . . Seriously?’

‘Yeah. Why not? I might not be Sherlock Holmes, but I can do homicides. What about you? Weren’t you working in Warrington?’

‘For a couple of years. Then I was on the Wirral. And now this. Meet the newest member of your team. I started this morning.’

‘Really? Wow, that’s . . . that’s fantastic. Welcome aboard.’

‘Yeah. It’s, er . . . yeah.’ She looks at her feet for a moment, as if desperately trying to find her next line on a script she hasn’t rehearsed.

‘So,’ she says, switching her smile back on, ‘what’s it like, then – working with this bunch?’

Before Cody can answer, another voice cuts in.

‘He couldn’t be happier,’ says DC Neil Ferguson. ‘We do all the work, and he takes all the glory. Isn’t that right, Sarge?’

Ferguson is a lamp post of a man. Several inches over the six feet mark, and with a body on which a starving dog wouldn’t waste its time. Never able to shrink into the background, he compensates by being the classroom joker.

Webley looks into Cody’s eyes. ‘Sergeant, eh? Going up in the world.’

Cody isn’t quite certain whether she’s pleased for him or not. He is saved from deciding how to respond when Ferguson butts in again.

‘Sorry, but do you two know each other?’

‘We were in training together,’ says Cody. He sees Webley watching him closely, as if waiting to interject if he strays into territory she wants to keep private. ‘We haven’t seen each other for ages.’

Webley appears satisfied with that. ‘We must catch up some time,’ she says. ‘Talk about the good old days.’

He wonders if she means that, or if she’s saying it merely for Ferguson’s benefit.

‘Any time,’ he says.

‘Right,’ she says. ‘Okay, well, I’d best get suited up. Don’t want to make a bad impression on my first day.’

She walks away. Cody and Ferguson watch her go.

Says Ferguson, ‘Small world. You and Wibbly, I mean.’

‘It’s Webley.’

‘Still, bit weird bumping into her after all this time. And you remembering her so well, considering she was just another copper in training.’

Cody sees the wry smile on Ferguson’s face. He says, ‘Don’t even go there, okay? We were just good mates. We had a laugh together.’

‘Right,’ says Ferguson. ‘Right.’ And he walks off, still smirking.

Five minutes later, Cody is in his white Tyvek coveralls, experiencing a mixture of emotions. He’s feeling the buzz, all right. Always does when he’s about to dive into a new case. For MIT to be called in, it has to be something special, something unusual. Otherwise, it would be handled by the local BCU, or Basic Command Unit. At the same time, he’s also a little apprehensive. A murder scene necessitates a dead body. A life has been curtailed. A future, with all its promise, all its potential, has been eradicated. Sometimes the acceptance of that fact hits Cody hard, and all the grief and sorrow that is to follow from those who loved the deceased can hit him harder.

But this time there’s an added complication. Megan Webley. He’s not yet sure how he feels about that. Maybe it’s not a complication at all. Maybe he’s making too much of it.

‘Cody.’

And here she is again. Looking lost and small inside the baggy shapelessness of her protective suit. Her face more serious.

She says, ‘I didn’t know. In case you’re wondering. I had no idea you’d moved. It didn’t even occur to me you might . . . You were always so passionate about undercover work.’

He doesn’t try to explain. Maybe another time.

‘Not a problem. Honestly. I’m fine with it. If you are.’

‘Me? Yeah, sure. It was a long time ago.’

‘It was. A long time.’

But he remembers it like it was yesterday. Megan Webley – his first true love. Well, his second if you count police work. And that was the problem. She was relegated to second place, and she was proud enough and strong enough not to stand for it. Good for her.

Cody wasn’t lying when he told Ferguson that they had met during training. But it didn’t end there. They became a tight couple. Managed to stay that way for eighteen months. But the nature of Cody’s work took its toll. For the safety of the officer involved, most undercover jobs are carried out at a distance from the home patch. Cody would be out of his girlfriend’s life for days, sometimes weeks, at a time. And it was dangerous. Webley wanted him to alter his role in the force. Cody refused. The relationship was doomed.

And now she’s back. On his team. They’re going to have to work together, in close proximity.

But she’s right. It was a long time ago. They’ve both moved on. They are different people now. It really won’t be an issue.

‘So,’ she says, ‘we can keep this on a professional basis, yeah? We work the cases together, and that’s it.’

‘Of course.’

‘Because I really want this job, Cody. I really want to show what I can do at MIT. I don’t want . . .
stuff
to get in the way.’

‘Absolutely. It’s all good. Honestly.’

Her dimples put in another appearance. ‘Great. Let’s go then.’

She strides off, seemingly recharged by Cody’s words. He follows her onto the driveway, where Blunt is waiting. The DCI leads them down the tunnel between this house and the next. Cody finds himself having to duck to avoid hitting his head, since he’s having to walk on stepping plates that have been put down to help preserve the scene. God knows how Ferguson managed.

They go through a wooden back door in the fence, and onto a patio that’s flagged in alternating pink and beige stones, like a huge piece of Battenberg cake. The rear door to the house is wide open. Beyond the patio is a decent-sized garden. The lawn is in dire need of mowing, and is peppered with weeds. An empty border leads to a stand of bushy shrubs at the far end. Cody notes that somebody could easily hide themselves behind those plants. He knows there is a small park and playground on the other side of the rear fence. From here he can see the top of a small hill. A couple of teenagers are standing there, watching. One of them has a can in his hand. Cody bets himself it’s not lemonade.

There are a lot of people here, all jostling for space while trying to avoid contaminating the scene. Some of them are police. Some are CSIs. They used to be called SOCOs – Scene of Crime Officers – but then the television programme arrived and it became more glamorous to be known as CSIs, even though what they do is nothing like that portrayed on the small screen. Systematically and painstakingly they hunt for clues. They sift through the long grass; they photograph; they video; they sketch; they brush; they bag. Busy, busy, busy.

Looming over the body is the pathologist, his presence here another sign of the importance of this case. Pathologists don’t attend all murder scenes – often a police surgeon is deemed sufficient, and then primarily to certify death – but they come out when the case looks like it could be a tricky one.

And this one certainly has all the hallmarks of a crime to exercise minds.

The victim is female. Early thirties, probably. She wears only a dressing gown, belted at the waist. There is a lot of blood here. It has soaked into her gown and formed sticky pools on the flagstones around her. There is a smell of urine and excrement, voided from the body at the point of death. Behind the mumblings of the pathologist comes the constant drone of excited flies, drawn hypnotically to the scene by the unmistakable chemical signals of death and decay.