A Tapping at My Door: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller (The DS Nathan Cody Series) (17 page)

It’s understandable, Cody thinks. Whether the barman has anything against the police or not, he can’t risk appearing to be too friendly with the bizzies. Not in front of his customers. Not if he wants to keep running this pub for much longer. Not if he wants the pub to be standing here in the morning.

Cody knocks on the counter. Still the man doesn’t turn around. Just keeps polishing his beer glass.

Says Cody, ‘You’re going to wear through that glass, the way you’re going.’

The man turns. Not in any hurry. No welcoming smile. Nothing to indicate he’s overly keen to talk.

Cody flashes his warrant card. ‘I’m DS Cody. This is DC Webley. We’re from Stanley Road police station.’

The bartender glances at the gang of scallies before replying. ‘Stanley Road? Did you get lost, then? I’ve got a map back here somewhere.’

Sniggers from the lads. They start to move closer to the bar. Cody notices that two of them are still holding pool sticks. Another casually flips a cue ball from one hand to the other.

‘No, we’re not lost. This is exactly where we’re meant to be.’

‘Oh, yeah? Why’s that, then?’

‘We’re investigating the murders of two police officers. Our inquiries brought us here.’

Cody sees a tinge of worry flash across the bartender’s features. Rubbing out two coppers is serious shit, and he knows it.

It’s not the barman who speaks next, but one of the pool players. ‘What makes you think you’ll find anything here?’

Cody turns. It’s the man tossing the cue ball who spoke. He’s in his early twenties. Dressed in a T-shirt and low-slung jeans, with an Everton scarf knotted loosely around his neck. Hair shaved so close it shows a number of scars and notches in his scalp. He’s clearly the ringleader. His mates slowly spread out, surrounding the detectives. Cody sees the unease in Webley. He’s starting to feel a little anxious himself, but he keeps calm. The one thing you need to do in a situation like this is maintain the air of authority. Give that up and you’re dead meat.

‘You look like a bunch of intelligent lads,’ says Cody. ‘I’m sure you could come up with lots of answers if you tried hard enough.’

Cue-Ball stares at Cody, obviously checking for sarcasm. Cody keeps his face straight.

‘That’s true. I was on
Mastermind
once. Me mates here were on
University Challenge
. Why? You looking to put a pub quiz team together?’

More sniggers. Sneers filled with contempt for Cody and lust for Webley.

Cody knows there is no reasoning with these men. They see themselves as above the law, and carry no respect for those enforcing it. No fear either. They see being arrested as a mere inconvenience. They know they will be free within a matter of hours. Nobody in this pub will speak against them. They could rip Cody and Webley apart, and everybody here would say the two detectives started the fight.

Webley says, ‘Know anyone who’d be good answering questions on murder, do you?’

Cody hears the defensiveness in her tone. He’s certain the others notice it too.

Cue-Ball’s eyes widen as they turn on her. ‘Funny enough, that’s my specialist subject. What’s yours, darling? I bet there’s something you’re really good at.’

He grins at her, showing a chipped tooth.

‘What’s your name, sunshine?’ she demands.

Cue-Ball turns to his pals. ‘D’ya hear that, lads? She wants to know my name. I think she fancies me.’

Laughter. Another wolf-whistle. Cody is starting to feel the situation slip away from him. He’s not comfortable with that.

Slowly, deliberately, he turns his back on Cue-Ball. Faces the barman again. He signals Webley to do the same. Hesitantly, she follows suit.

‘As I was saying, we’re investigating the homicides of two police officers. I’m sure you’ve heard about them on the news.’

The barman looks over Cody’s shoulder at the young man before he replies. ‘Can’t say I have.’

Cody smiles. ‘Really? Are you certain about that? It’s the top headline. You can’t turn on a telly or a radio without hearing about it. Ringing any bells yet?’

The barman shifts his gaze again.

‘Don’t look at him,’ says Cody. ‘I’m the one asking the questions. Now, would you like to reconsider your answer?’

The bartender keeps his eyes fixed on Cody now. ‘I . . . I might have heard about it. Yeah, come to think about it.’

‘Good. Now we’re getting somewhere. So here’s my next question—’

‘Hey!’ This from Cue-Ball. ‘Didn’t your ma tell you it’s not polite to turn your back on people? Or didn’t you have parents?’

Cody continues to ignore him. ‘You might have heard that allegations were made some time ago against the two murdered officers. The suggestion was that they were responsible for the death of a man called Kevin Vernon. You’ve heard this, right? I’m not telling you anything new here?’

Shakily, the barman nods. ‘I’ve heard it.’

‘’Course he’s heard it,’ says Cue-Ball from behind Cody. ‘Everyone’s heard it. Everyone knows exactly what those two twats did to that guy. The poor bastard didn’t even have all his marbles. Didn’t stop you lot from beating the shit out of him, though, did it?’

Webley says, ‘The brother of Kevin Vernon is called Robert. Ever come across him?’

The barman pulls a face and shakes his head.

Webley puts a photograph on the bar. ‘This is Robert Vernon. Recognise him?’

Another shake of the head.

‘Look again,’ says Webley.

Cue-Ball says, ‘Give us a flash, darling.’

Webley twists. Holds up the photograph. ‘Do you know him?’

‘Oh, him. Yeah.’

‘Where from? In this pub?’

‘Does he say he was in this pub? If he says he was, then yeah, he was in here. But if he says he was somewhere else, then he was there.’

Webley turns back to the bar. Shows a worried face to Cody.

We should cut our losses, thinks Cody. Get out of here before all hell breaks loose.

But not yet.

‘Oh, come on, girl,’ says Cue-Ball. ‘Not you too. Him I can understand, but not you. I thought you liked me.’

Cody opens his mouth for another question, but is cut off by a shriek from Webley. He looks to see her pulling down her skirt. From the way the guy behind her is holding his pool stick, it’s clear that he’s just slid the tip of it up her leg. He is backing away, laughing. Saying, ‘Sorry, love. It was an accident. It slipped.’

Cody sees the fury and the embarrassment on Webley’s face. Hears her threaten to arrest the man who has just assaulted her.

But it only just filters through to him.

Things have gone strangely fuzzy. A part of his mind is moving away, stepping outside all this. He struggles to make sense of what is being said or done. He goes to another time, another place. A dark, dark past. The voices change. Images flash of other men surrounding him. Not these wankers, but real hard men. Cody’s pulse steps up as he starts to remember the pain. The physical and mental pain.

No, he thinks. Not now. Not here. Get out. Get out of my head.

He returns. Somehow manages to claw his way back into this shithole of a pub. Somehow manages to become conscious again of these four no-marks attempting to justify their pathetic existence, if only to themselves. They are screaming with laughter. The one who assaulted Webley is holding the pool cue at his groin and saying, ‘I can’t help it. It just pops up when it feels like it.’

Cody knows he should get out of here. He can come back with an army if he needs to. Right now he should just get out.

But still he fixes his attention on the barman. Still he puts his questions. He knows it’s a mistake and yet he cannot help himself. Something inside, something stubborn and obsessive within is driving him down this mine-strewn path, and he can’t stop it.

‘Robert Vernon says he met someone in here. A man called Gazza. Do you know who that might be?’

The barman shakes his head. He no longer wants to speak. He doesn’t want to play any part in what must surely come next. His eyes tell Cody to leave him be, to allow him to get on with his simple job of serving beer. He wants no trouble here.

‘It’s a common enough name,’ says Cody. ‘Loads of people are called Gazza. Are you seriously telling me you’ve never served anyone called Gazza in this pub?’

‘Look, I don’t ask for names, okay? They ask for a drink, I serve it, they pay. That’s it. I don’t ask who they are, and I don’t ask if they’ve killed any coppers lately. All right?’

‘Who said anything about him being the one who killed the officers?’

The barman stares long and hard at Cody. ‘Get out of my pub. You’re not welcome here.’

And that should be it. Except that Cue-Ball says, ‘You’re asking the wrong bloke. You wanna know about Gazza, you should be asking me.’

Cody turns. ‘You know this Gazza, do you?’

‘Yeah. I know him.’

‘Regular customer?’

‘Oh, yeah.’

‘What’s he look like?’

‘Tall. Good looking.’

Which doesn’t chime with Robert Vernon’s description. Cody starts to think this is a wind-up.

‘Where can I find him?’

‘He’s right in front of you. I’m Gazza.’

For some reason, the man finds this hilarious. He slaps the white cue ball in the palm of his hand and descends into hysterics.

‘My name’s Gazza too,’ says another of the scallies.

‘Yeah, and me.’

‘We’re the Gazza gang,’ says Cue-Ball through his tears of laughter. ‘Do you wanna join us? Are you a Gazza? What about your girlfriend there? Is she one?’ He calls over to Webley: ‘What about it, love? Wanna join the Gazza gang?’

Cody looks across at Webley. She connects with his gaze, nods for them to leave.

She’s right. It’s time to go. They will get nothing useful here. Not while these four pricks are around to cause interference.

And he thinks he could actually leave now. Despite the mental fog that enveloped him earlier, he thinks he has recovered, and that he has proven a point. He could walk out of here with his head held high.

Except for one thing.

Cue-Ball has other ideas. Cue-Ball has one last set of thoughts to lay out in front of Cody.

The young man stops laughing. He cuts it off suddenly, like nothing humorous was ever there. His mates, too, respond to the new seriousness with deadly silence of their own.

Then he steps forward. Moves right up to Cody. He is tossing the pool ball again. From left hand to right, right hand to left. It’s as though it’s a metronome for his words as he pours them out at Cody.

Left . . .

‘Don’t know if you’ve figured it out in that tiny brain of yours yet . . .’

Right . . .

‘. . . but we don’t like pigs coming in here.’

Left . . .

‘We don’t like the way they stick their ugly little snouts in our business.’

Right . . .

‘And they smell, too.’

Left . . .

‘Well, I suppose if you spend all day digging in shit . . .’

Right . . .

‘. . . you’re bound to have a bit of a stink on you.’

Left . . .

He continues like this, his language becoming more colourful, more aggressive, more threatening. He starts to warn of what could happen if Cody and his ‘piece of skirt’ ever come back again.

He doesn’t know what he’s starting.

He doesn’t seem to understand that bizzies don’t normally behave like this. Most coppers, they would either ignore him or get all heavy with him. Not this copper, though. This copper just keeps staring at him, without saying a word. This copper just stands there and takes it, the thick bastard.

But Cue-Ball really doesn’t know.

He can’t see into Cody’s head. He can’t see the swirling, the unravelling, the craziness. He can’t see the horrors flying and screeching out of their dark corners. He can’t see what his promises of violence, of mutilation, are doing to his target. What drawers they are opening. What switches they are flicking.

Left . . .

Right . . .

And then no left.

There is no left because the ball has been snatched in mid-air by Cody.

There is a moment of sharing. A fraction of a second during which the reckless, foolish young man is permitted to reflect on what he has just done.

But he’s not the most quick-witted of people, this man. Doesn’t have the speediest of reactions, either.

Cody proves that to him when he grabs hold of the man’s Everton scarf and twists it tightly into his throat. He proves it when he drags the man backwards across the room and throws him onto a table. And he proves it when he raises his other hand – the one still holding the pool ball – and brings it crashing down with all his might . . .

. . . into the table.

‘Wanna mess with me, do ya?’ he yells into the scally’s face. ‘Wanna mess with me, you fucking piece of shit?’

And while all this is happening he doesn’t care what anybody else is doing. He’s not even aware that the scumbag’s mates are bouncing up and down and baring their teeth and waving their wooden sticks and shrieking like enraged apes in a zoo. He’s not aware that Webley is having to deal with this all on her own by standing in their way and screaming threats of arrest. All Cody knows is that the man in front of him went a step too far, and now he’s going to pay for it with his face. It’s too late to walk away now. Nothing can stop what is about to happen.

Nothing, that is, except Webley.

Her hand is gentle, warm, as it smothers his fist. There is no tension in her hand, no attempt to match his strength. But somehow the tenderness is a greater force. Somehow it seeps into his arm and robs it of its pent-up energy.

‘Cody,’ she says. ‘That’s enough. He’s not worth it.’

Things swim back into focus. The object of his hatred turns into a terrified youth with wide eyes and a quivering lower lip.

Cody releases his hold on the scarf. Pats it down on the man’s chest as if that trivial gesture might restore order.

He steps away from the youth. Webley stands behind him, her hand on his elbow urging him out of the pub. The bartender and his customers stare at them in silence, their low opinions of the police sucked even further into the mire. One of the pool players is obviously still filled with adrenalin. He rocks on the balls of his feet and clutches his cue in sweaty hands, on the edge of continuing the aggression.