A Tapping at My Door: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller (The DS Nathan Cody Series) (16 page)

Says Webley, ‘There must be a lot of hate and anger and distrust inside you. The loss of Kevin was a tragedy for your whole family. You needed someone to blame. But whatever mistakes the two officers might have made, they didn’t set out with the intention of killing someone that night. They don’t deserve to have been slaughtered like this. And believe me, what happened to this man and woman went way beyond straightforward murder. What was done to them was horrific, to say the least. There is a lunatic out there, Robert. Maybe you think he’s done you a favour, but that doesn’t make him a good guy. If I could go into detail about what he did, I am sure you would agree he shouldn’t be on the streets. If you want to look at these killings as putting something straight for your family, then go ahead. But don’t leave this killer out there, Robert. If you know anything about him – or even if you have the names of some people we could take a look at – then please help us.’

Cody finds a half-empty pack of tissues in his pocket and hands it across. ‘Anything,’ he says. ‘A threat. A promise to get revenge for your family. Someone who just said weird things about the case.’

Robert pulls out a tissue and wipes his cheeks.

Webley leans closer to him. ‘Robert? Is there something?’

Robert blows his nose. Gives a slight nod. Cody tries to hide his excitement.

‘There was this guy. In a pub. I didn’t know him from Adam, but he came over anyway. I didn’t really want any company, but he insisted on buying me a drink. He knew who I was. He started going on about you lot. The police.’

‘Saying what, exactly?’

‘That you were the scum of the earth. That you were all bent. He said look at all the times the bizzies had shot unarmed suspects, or beaten the crap out of innocent people, and yet you always got away with it. Even when there was an inquiry, you lot always got off scot-free.’

‘What did you say to that?’

‘Not a lot. To be honest, I don’t like talking about it – especially not to strangers. But this guy just kept rabbiting on. Getting on his soapbox. Telling me that something needed to be done about it.’

‘But this was nothing specific, right? I mean, it was about the police force in general?’

‘At first. But after he’d got a couple of more drinks down him, he brought the conversation back to Kevin. Asked me if I wanted to put things right.’

‘Put things right? In what way?’

‘Look, he’d had a few pints. I thought it was just the ale talking. People do that when they’re pissed, don’t they? They try to put the world to rights. Usually, it’s all just—’

‘In what way, Robert? What was he suggesting?’

‘He said . . . He said he knew people. He said he could find things out.’

‘What kind of things?’

‘Like where the coppers lived. The ones who assaulted Kevin. He said he could find out where they lived and he could make sure they never did anything like that again. Ever.’

‘Was he serious? Did you believe he could do those things?’

‘No. Not at the time. Like I said, he was drunk. We all say things we don’t mean when we’re drunk. But now, after what’s happened . . . well, I don’t know. Maybe he meant what he said.’

Says Cody, ‘What did you say to him, when he made this proposition?’

Vernon offers nothing but a stare.

‘Robert? What was your reply?’

‘You won’t understand. You’ll think I’m a terrible person. You don’t know how I felt back then. My mum and dad, they were full of hate for the police. They still are. They told me what I should think, what I should feel. I didn’t really want to hate like that, I swear. But everything they said was against you. Everyone was the same. Aunties, uncles, friends. They all said the same. I always try to see the other person’s point of view, do you know what I mean? Sometimes I started to wonder if it was really all just a horrible mistake. Maybe Kevin really was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe those two coppers didn’t really mean to hurt him. I thought that sometimes. But I could never say it. I wasn’t even allowed to think it. My mum and dad would have hated me for it. I had to see it their way. Theirs was the right way. The only possible explanation of how things were.’

‘Robert, what did you say to the man in the pub?’

‘I told him . . . I told him to go ahead and kill them. And if he could kill any other coppers while he was at it, I’d buy him beers for the rest of his life.’

The silence that follows is weighty. Filled with meaning. Filled with shock and regret and the anticipation of where this information is to lead.

‘What’s his name, Robert?’

21

‘His name is Gazza.’

‘Gazza what?’ says Blunt.

‘He didn’t know,’ says Cody. ‘All he got was Gazza.’

‘Might not be a Gazza What,’ says Ferguson. ‘Might be a What Gazza.’

Blunt offers him one of her frostiest looks. ‘What are you talking about, Neil?’

‘He might not be a Gary. It could refer to his last name. Like Paul Gascoigne.’

‘Whatever,’ says Blunt. ‘I want him found. Start in the pub where he came up to Robert Vernon.’ She looks at Cody. ‘Got a description?’

‘Yeah. It’s not brilliant, though. Vernon’s excuse is that he was pretty drunk at the time, and can’t remember the guy very well.’ Cody consults his notes. ‘Age about forty-five. Short dark hair, receding at the temples. A large hooked nose.’

‘That’s it? He has a drink with a man who offers to kill two police officers, and that’s all he can recall?’

Cody shrugs. Blunt sighs.

‘Well, it’s more than we got from the other two,’ she says. ‘Mr and Mrs Vernon seem to see it as their civic duty to be as unhelpful to this investigation as possible. If nothing turns up on this Gazza bloke, we’re going to have to take off the gloves with that family, despite what the Chief Super says.’

‘Something about this doesn’t ring true, though,’ says Cody.

‘In what way?’

‘A guy comes up to you in the pub and offers to kill two coppers for you? Why would he do that? Some dickhead might say it as a sick joke when he was pissed, but to actually carry it out?’

‘We still have to follow it up, Cody.’

‘Of course we do. But even if this Gazza bloke was doing it as a favour to the Vernons, why do it in such a weird way? Why not just kill them quickly and get the hell out of there? What’s with the birds and the messages?’

Blunt nods and looks around the room. ‘Okay, so, theories. What’s this maniac trying to tell us?’

No answers. No pearls of wisdom or leaps of the imagination.

Blunt tries prompting them: ‘Edgar Allan Poe, and now a nursery rhyme. What’s the connection?’

Says Cody, ‘Other than the birds, maybe there isn’t one. What I mean is, maybe the poems are secondary. Maybe the important thing is the birds.’

‘Okay, so what would that mean? A raven, then a blackbird. They’re the same colour. Anything else about them? Any other links?’

Another agonising silence.

‘Christ,’ says Blunt. ‘All right, we go with what we’ve got, which isn’t much. We’ve had no sightings of anyone suspicious at either scene. We’ve got no fingerprints to work with, no footprints, no fibres, nothing. All we’ve got is someone called Gazza. So find him!’

*

‘Stay calm,’ says Webley.

They are coming out of the station. On their way to track down the mysterious hit man who offers his services to strangers in pubs. Cody glances at Webley, puzzled by her warning and the delicate touch of her hand on his elbow.

But then Webley nods ahead of her, and he understands.

Dobson and his photographer accomplice. Waiting at their car. Dobby perched on the bonnet and sucking on a cigarette, a couple of crushed butts at his feet.

When he sees the detectives approaching, Dobson pushes himself up from the car and affixes an ugly smile.

Cody knows he should have expected this. Dobson is a mutt who doesn’t relinquish his bone easily. Especially when he knows he already occupies a higher ground, given what happened yesterday.

‘Say nothing,’ Webley advises. ‘We’ll just get in the car and go.’

Cody has no intention of repeating the previous day’s episode. He won’t react, no matter what Dobson says or does.

But there is something different about the two media men today. They are playing it slow and easy. No snapping of pictures. No rapid-fire questions. They look almost like normal human beings.

Dobson lets his cigarette fall and grinds it into the pavement beneath his scuffed shoe.

‘DS Cody. Nice to see you again. And you too, DC . . .’

‘Webley.’

‘Of course. How could I forget?’

‘We’re not stopping,’ says Cody. ‘Some of us have got work to do. And those cigarette butts count as litter. That’s an offence.’

Dobson holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘You’re right,’ he says. ‘And you were right yesterday too. We were out of order. I apologise. Chris here apologises too, don’t you, Chris?’

The photographer rubs his neck, as if recalling the feel of Cody’s vice-like grip on it and debating whether he can find any forgiveness.

‘Yeah,’ he says, begrudgingly.

Says Cody, ‘What is this, Dobby? It’s not my birthday. Are you trying to earn a Scout badge or something?’

Dobson dredges up another disturbing smile. ‘I’m trying out a new approach. I’m hoping it will prove more fruitful.’

‘It won’t,’ says Cody, ‘so don’t waste the effort. I can see how hard it is for you to tap into your humanity. It must be buried pretty deep in there.’

Dobson puts a hand to his heart. ‘Now you’re hurting me, Cody. There’s no need for that. I’m just trying to do my job. Just like you and . . .’

‘Webley.’

‘Webley here. Look, Chris isn’t even taking any shots. We’re being civilised about this.’

‘Civilised,’ says Chris, nodding his head. ‘Even if you did try to choke me to death.’

Dobson shoots him a glare. ‘Shut up, Chris.’ Then back on Cody with the happy face. ‘Believe it or not, we’re on the same side. We can help you. Where would your investigations be without the media?’

This is true. Sometimes the press can be a great help. It just sounds odd coming out of the mouth of this despicable little man.

‘What kind of help are you talking about, Dobby?’

‘Who knows? We’re good at finding things out. It’s what we do. A lot of the time, we do it better than the police. I might be able to put some of that information your way.’

‘Are you talking about something specific, or is this just hot air?’

‘Nothing specific. Not yet, anyway. But think of us as an extra pair of investigators at your service. And don’t deny that you could do with the extra manpower. I know how overstretched the force is. Tell us what you want to know, and we’ll do our best to find the answers for you.’

‘And in return?’

‘Insights into the case. Don’t worry, I’m not looking for anything top secret. I won’t even mention your names. I just want to get a better feel for how your team is responding to these murders.’

Cody turns and looks at Webley. He detects a slight shake of her head, but he’s already made that decision.

‘I’ll bear you in mind,’ he says. ‘But don’t sit waiting by the phone.’

He starts to pull away, but Dobson persists, ‘Don’t underestimate our power, Cody. We’ve got a big circulation. How we report this can make all the difference to what people think about you and how you do things. The Vernons have got a lot of supporters. Most of them really don’t trust the police. We can tip things one way or the other. We can confirm their prejudices or we can do something to put you in a better light. It’s all about tone. We present the facts, sure, but it’s how we wrap them up that really influences the impression they make in the minds of our readers.’

Cody halts. Takes a step towards the journalist.

‘And you were doing so well, too. I should have known better. One thing you should understand about me, Dobby – I don’t respond well to threats. People push, I tend to push back.’

Dobson adopts his surrender pose again, his expression full of feigned innocence. ‘No threats. All I’m doing is offering a trade. Your inside story in return for a bit of promotion in our paper. How is that a threat?’

Cody shakes his head. ‘You don’t need me, Dobby. Do what you always do.’

He walks away now, heading for his unmarked saloon.

Dobson calls after him: ‘Meaning what?’

Cody opens the car door. Pauses for a second.

‘Meaning make it up. Doesn’t matter what I tell you, or what anyone else tells you, you’ll make up your own story. You’ll write whatever you think will sell papers. It’s what you people do. Have a nice day, Dobby.’

And then he gets into the car with Webley and drives away.

22

Cody knows they’ve been sussed as coppers as soon as they walk through the pub door. This isn’t the kind of place that smart, well-groomed people in sharp suits tend to frequent. This is your jogging pants and trainers kind of place. Anything less than the strongest, most impenetrable of Scouse accents is a magnet for trouble in here.

They are in the Armitage. A small, dingy pub in Norris Green. To the uninitiated, Norris Green sounds like a wimpy character in a soap opera. Constantly wears a beige knitted pullover and corduroy trousers. In fact, Norris Green is anything but mild. People have been known to get shot here. If you’re looking for someone who wants to kill coppers, this is as good a place as any to start. But Robert Vernon said he was in here just minding his own business when he was approached. Cody wonders what brought him here in the first place.

This time of day, it’s not crowded. A few old geezers, reading the papers or watching the television on the wall as they down their pints. But there is a knot of four young scallies gathered at the pool table, and they lost interest in their game as soon as the strangers walked in. One of them issues a wolf-whistle. Cody suspects it’s not aimed at him.

The detectives go straight to the bar. The barman – a stocky bloke with rolled-up shirtsleeves showing his Navy tattoos – has his back to them. He dries a beer glass and acts as though he hasn’t noticed them. Cody knows it’s a pretence: he saw the man glance their way when they arrived.