A Tapping at My Door: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller (The DS Nathan Cody Series) (22 page)

‘That’s not true. The only thing we did was to make inquiries.’

‘Inquiries, my arse.’ He jabs a finger. ‘You thought we had something to do with it. You turned up on my doorstep because you thought we’d killed that policewoman. And when that second copper was killed you were sure of it. You dragged us in here like common criminals.’

His voice is getting louder and shriller by the second. Cody raises his arms to placate him.

‘Mr Vernon—’

‘We’re victims. When will you start to understand that? I lost a son. You’ve no idea what that feels like. None of you. So now I want an apology. No, I
demand
an apology. Now that you know it’s nothing to do with us, you can leave us alone. But not before you’ve said you’re sorry.’

He stands enveloped in his fury, quivering with the force of his emotion. When Cody doesn’t provide the words he wants, he concocts his own reason for it.

‘I don’t believe this,’ he says. ‘You’re not finished with us, are you? You still think we’re involved. There’s a lunatic out there bumping off your mates, and you’re still hanging on to the idea it might be us. Jesus, it’s no wonder so many crimes never get solved. You’re blinkered. You can’t see past your fat lazy arses. How many is it going to take, eh? How many more dead coppers? Five? Ten? Fifty?’

Vernon takes a few steps closer, and Cody braces himself.

‘All right,’ says Vernon. ‘You keep coming after me, if that’s the only thing you know how to do. Keep on harassing the innocent ones, the victims. Keep on wasting your precious police time while your buddies lie dying on the streets. Let me know when you’re sick of going to funerals. Let me know, so that I can look you in the eye and say that I told you so. Maybe then you’ll finally believe me.’

Words fight to escape Cody’s mouth. He wants to ask Vernon if he believes there will be more deaths, and if so, then why. But he knows that such questions would be loaded with accusation, and now does not seem the moment to be launching any such missiles at this man.

He decides it’s wiser simply to nod. Which takes a lot of effort given that he has developed a tendency of late to speak or act before thinking. In fact, he’s proud of himself for exhibiting such restraint.

The compulsion to say something becomes almost unbearable as he watches Frank Vernon leave the building. The man walks out as if his shoulders are draped in a flag of victory, and Cody wants to let him know this isn’t over. He wants to tell him that he will do everything he can to stop this killer, and if that means interrogating every member of the Vernon family from now until Christmas, then that’s what he’ll do.

But he allows caution to hold his tongue in check, because he knows it’s the right thing to do.

Doesn’t feel as satisfying, though.

28

The traditional frontage of the Beehive somehow looks uncomfortable amidst the big shiny glass and concrete buildings on Paradise Street. It is as though it is refusing to bow to the pressure from the surrounding younger upstarts to accept the inevitable march of progress and to yield the prime position to which it has clung for so long.

Inside, the rows of dusty books lining its walls lend further emphasis to its links with the past – to a time when people actually bothered to read rather than watch television or surf the Web. Cody likes the atmosphere of the place. It’s simple and it’s unpretentious.

He pushes past a knot of men at the bar. Smiles when he hears one of them say to his mates that Liverpool’s latest signing isn’t worth twenty pence, let alone twenty million quid.

Seated alone at a small table, Dobson looks up from his paper and returns Cody’s smile.

‘Good timing. I’m stuck on this last clue. Four down: “One takes flight in a vehicle”.’

Cody thinks for a second. ‘Avian. But something tells me you knew that already.’

Dobson writes it in, but admits nothing. ‘Fancy a pint?’

Cody pulls out a chair and plonks himself down. ‘No, thanks. I’m on duty.’

‘Sure, sure. But then you wouldn’t have one anyway, would you? I’ve heard you don’t drink anymore.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘A little bird.’

Cody frowns. ‘How many more of those are you going to work into the conversation? Next you’ll be saying that you were spitting feathers before that pint, and then you’ll ask me why the police are in a bit of a flap. Or that maybe we’re running around like headless chickens.’

Dobson laughs, but it’s a slimy laugh that threatens to curdle the froth on his beer. ‘Very good, Cody. You’re better at the puns than I am. You’d make a great headline writer for one of the tabloids.’

‘If you’re going to insult me . . .’

‘It was a compliment. Some of those headlines are bloody hard to come up with, you know. Take these murders, for example.’

Cody feels his defences springing up in readiness. It hadn’t taken Dobson long to get to this.

‘What about them?’

‘Well, I’m struggling to come up with a good way of grabbing attention, for when I write my next piece. Obviously the focus will be on the three poor police officers, but now we’ve got this sinister new twist, haven’t we? I’m thinking of including something along the lines of “Birds of Prey”. What do you think? I think it puts across the idea quite nicely. Or maybe something about an air strike . . . Yeah, that would be good. And of course I need to work in some references to the film.’

‘What film?’

‘The Hitchcock movie.
The Birds
. I mean, this could be something straight out of a film like that, don’t you think? Birds attacking and killing policemen and women. It’s so weird it’s almost unbelievable. But then the best stories always are. My editor’s going to pee his pants when he hears this.’

Cody picks up a beer mat. Taps its edge on the table. ‘What, exactly, are you planning to tell him?’

Dobson raises his eyebrows in feigned surprise. ‘Haven’t you just been listening to me? About the birds found on the faces of the victims.’

‘What birds? What are you talking about?’

Dobson leans back in his chair. Takes a swig of his pint. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘Nice try, Cody. Acting daft like that – nice try. But we both know I’ve got a story here. And I’m going to tell it.’

Cody spins his beer mat onto the table. Folds his arms. ‘All right then. Go ahead. Tell me this so-called story you’re desperate to relate.’

Dobson licks his lips as he considers the challenge. Suddenly he rests his elbows on the table and puts three fingers on display. ‘Three police officers. All dead by the same hand. A possible connection with the death of Kevin Vernon, if the first two victims are anything to go by. So far, that’s what everyone’s got. All of my fellow reporters and journalists, all working with the same material. All speculating, trying to fill in the gaps, but basically all saying the same thing. But I’m a step ahead of them. I know about the calling card.’

‘The calling card being?’

‘A bird. Left on the face of each victim.’

‘What kind of bird?’

Dobson hesitates. Cody can almost hear the cogs whirling in his head.

‘Different in each case. But a black one. Always black.’

Mentally, Cody sighs in relief. He realises now that Dobson is on a fishing expedition. He knows little, but is making extrapolations in the hope that Cody will confirm them for him. He wants indignation from Cody. Perhaps a spluttered demand to be told how he came by such privileged information. It’s the oldest trick in the book, but it’s not working here. Yes, Dobby knows about the birds, but that’s the extent of it. In fact, he knows only about two of the birds. Clearly, he is not aware that the third bird was found next to Andrea Whitland’s body, and not covering her face. Nor is he aware that the latest bird was a goldfinch. It was a reasonable stab in the dark to suppose that if the first two birds were black, then the third would be too. But the gamble hasn’t paid off. Dobson doesn’t know about the messages attached to the birds’ feet, either. If he did, he would mention it. In fact, the reporter doesn’t have very much at all.

What this also tells Cody is that Dobson’s source isn’t on the job. There’s too much detail missing. What’s more likely is that he has been talking to the people who found the bodies – Terri Latham’s elderly neighbour and Garnett’s postman. Probably paid them handsomely not to tell any other reporter too. In the case of Whitland, no civilian was present at the crime scene, and that’s why Dobson’s information in that regard is so scant.

So, Dobby, you’ve lucked out. You’ve gambled on black, and the ball has landed on red. You came to me for confirmation, and you’re walking out of here with nothing.

‘Dobby, where did you hear this crap?’

An attempt at a smile from Dobson, but it’s clear that Cody’s reaction has dented his confidence.

‘My sources are impeccable.’

‘Impeccable. Is that another bird pun?’

‘Ha, very good, Cody. Let’s see if you and your superiors think it’s so funny when this story goes to press.’

It’s Cody’s turn for a smile now. A big confident grin that will squash Dobson’s self-assuredness into the ground.

‘There’s not going to be any story, Dobby.’

‘That’s what
you
think. There’s such a thing as freedom of the press in this country. You can’t stop me printing what I know. In fact, I’d say it was my duty to write it. We have an obligation to our readers.’

‘Oh, don’t go pretending you’re on some kind of moral crusade. You want a sensationalist story so that you can sell lots of papers and earn lots of money. You don’t give a shit if your readers are well informed or not, as long as they’re handing over their cash for your joke of a newspaper. And in this instance, they won’t be well informed at all. You know why? Because you’ve got fuck all. That so-called information you were given is bullshit.’

‘Now who’s pretending? My information is legit. Straight from the horse’s mouth.’

Cody shakes his head. ‘I know exactly where that info came from, and one of those people didn’t know what the hell he was looking at when he found Terri Latham’s body. You’ve only got a tiny fraction of the facts, Dobby. Run with that, and your paper will be a laughing stock.’

‘Sometimes a fraction is all we need. Anything that gives us an edge over the competition.’

‘Yeah, I suppose the complete truth has never been a consideration for you before. Why start now? All right then, I’ll give you another reason for not printing this garbage.’

Dobson sups his beer again. ‘Go on.’

‘Can you imagine what a story like that will do to people? A serial killer on our streets, leaving dead birds on his victims? It’ll frighten the life out of them. It’ll cause panic. Worst of all, it will give the killer the exposure he probably wants. It’ll be another reason for him to keep on killing. Is that what you want?’

‘Are you saying it’s true, then? There is a serial killer leaving dead birds?’

‘I’m saying nothing of the kind. I’ve already told you there are huge chunks missing from your intelligence, and I don’t just mean your brain. For Christ’s sake, don’t turn a few scraps into something that will lead to more deaths.’

Dobson thinks some more, staring at Cody as he does so.

‘Okay,’ he says. ‘So where do we go from here?’

‘Don’t know about you,’ Cody answers, ‘but I’m heading back to the station.’

‘Not what I meant. We have an impasse. We need to resolve it.’

‘We have nothing of the sort. And another thing you haven’t got is a story.’

Dobson shrugs. ‘Matter of opinion. I’m a risk taker. I’ve got something here, and you know it. Maybe not all the facts, but enough to suggest that there’s more to this than meets the eye. There’s nothing our readers like more than a bit of intrigue. See, unlike you, I trust the public. I don’t think they’ll panic. If anything, they’ll demand to know the truth. And why shouldn’t they have it? This is a democracy, after all.’

‘And the killer? Do you apply the same logic there, too? He should get what he wants? Is that the kind of risk you really want to take? Come on, Dobson. I know there’s a heart in there somewhere. I know you’ve got feelings. Do you want to be the one responsible for egging this guy on to kill again?’

‘You know, I never thought you’d stoop to emotional blackmail,’ says Dobson. He glances at the spines of the books above his head, then back to Cody. ‘But you’re right about my soft centre. I like happy endings. Why don’t we both make sure there is one?’

So, here it is. What Dobson was after all along.

‘And how do we do that?’

‘Same deal as before. I hold back on revealing what I already know. In return, you give me full disclosure on the investigation.’

He sees Cody’s discomfort, and immediately puts up a hand. ‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘I don’t want it as the case proceeds. I’m talking about afterwards, when there’s an arrest. When you’ve got this guy, I want us to sit down over a beer or a coffee or whatever it is you drink these days, and I want a blow-by-blow account of what happened and how you caught him. If you want to stay anonymous, that’s fine, but I want to write up an account of this case that’s more detailed than anyone else can manage.’

Cody takes a long look around the pub. He sees an old guy without a tooth in his head, flapping his gums at a woman with a blue rinse. He sees two burly lads showing off their tattoos to the girls at the adjacent table. He sees a man and wife steadfastly ignore each other by burying their heads in their newspapers.

‘Why me?’ he asks. ‘Why not contact our press office, like every other reporter? Or go to someone more senior – someone who has an overview of everything going on in this case?’

‘You know the answers to all those questions,’ says Dobson. ‘The reason I’m good at this job is precisely because I don’t do what every other reporter does. I do things my way. And outside of press briefings, the top brass give us nothing. They might as well just hand out prepared leaflets, because they never go off-script. No, I need someone who’s in the thick of it. Someone who is doing the legwork, getting his hands dirty. Someone like you.’

‘And is that all?’ says Cody. But he knows it isn’t.