A Tapping at My Door: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller (The DS Nathan Cody Series) (35 page)

He hoped to find them here, by confronting Dobson directly. But the house seems empty. Not a light on anywhere, and nobody answering the doorbell.

Cody steps back on the street and looks up at the house. Its dark windows stare back at him, defying him to discern their secrets.

I can wait, thinks Cody. For once, my inability to sleep comes in useful. You’ll be back home soon, and then the shoe will be on the other foot. You’ll be the one having to answer the questions.

And then we’ll know.

46

‘Fickle lot, readers,’ says Dobson. He knows he’s slurring his words, but he doesn’t care. He’s lost track of the number of pints he’s supped, but he doesn’t care about that either. It’s his birthday, for Christ’s sake. It should be celebrated, and what better way than with a load of mates at a pub?

Well, one mate. Okay, a colleague.

Opposite him, Chris is probably bored stiff. He probably wants to get off home. Take some selfies, or whatever photographers do in their spare time.

Fuck him, thinks Dobson. My birthday, my rules. We’ll do whatever he wants when it’s his birthday. I’m not sitting here on my own. I’d look like a right saddo then, wouldn’t I?

Just like all the other times.

Bastards. They’re all bastards.

What was I saying? Oh, yeah . . .

‘Really fickle. Slag us off constantly for the stuff we put in the papers. Say we’re trading in misery, or that we glamorise violence, or that we have no empathy for the people we write about. Well, you know what? Fuck ’em. Who buys the sodding papers anyway? They do. In their millions. They lap it up. They love it. Bit of titillation – wonderful stuff. Bit of gossip – can’t get enough of it.
You
know what I’m talking about, don’t you? A celeb jumps out of a car with no knickers on and you snap a picture – shocking! How dare you! Sells copy, though, doesn’t it? They all want to see that, the dirty pervs, and yet you’re the one who’s being intrusive! It’s not as if you go around shoving your telephoto up women’s skirts now, is it? Well, at least I hope you don’t. Although put me down for some snatch shots of that one from the last Bond film if you manage to get hold of any. And that’s another thing – what are they doing going commando at a media event anyway, especially if they’re going to get out of a car like they were doing the can-can? What the bloody hell do they expect to happen?’

He realises he’s doing nearly all the talking tonight. But he’s got a lot on his mind. He’s feeling the stress. So much going on right now. He needs the release. Get a few things off his chest, even if it all seems complete garbage to his drinking buddy. Okay, not a buddy. Companion, then.

He has no buddies. Nobody he can really call a friend. He blames it on the work. He’s dedicated to his job. Married to it. No time for friendships, let alone more serious relationships. In his darker moments, he toys with the idea that his commitment to the job might not be the real reason for his loneliness. But he always sees sense in the end. Sometimes one has to make sacrifices, painful though they might be.

‘Still no word from Cody,’ he says. Then he wonders why his mind suddenly leapt to that topic. He had been thinking about friends, so where did that come from? Cody’s certainly not a friend. He’s interesting, though. Fascinating. Damaged goods like him always make a compelling story. Dobson wishes he could tell it, and maybe one day he will. A part of him knows it’s the real reason he’s pestering Cody for his insider knowledge on the serial killings going on right now. He could have approached other coppers, but Cody is like a magnet. A man of inner turmoil and drama. His view on life is unique. Annoying, then, that he refuses to respond to Dobson’s overtures.

‘I reckon he’s not interested,’ says Chris.

‘Then he’s an idiot. He should be interested. I told him what I can do for him. He needs me more than I need him.’

‘Why? Why does he need you?’

For a fleeting moment Dobson is tempted to pitch his beer into Chris’s face. The question seems loaded with the suggestion that nobody could possibly need such a loser. But then he narrows his alcohol-troubled eyes at Chris and realises that the man is making no such insinuation. He’s just filling a gap with another mindless sequence of words. Good job he can take photos, because he’d make the world’s worst reporter.

‘Because I can find stuff out. I have contacts. I know people. People in high places. People with knowledge and power. I said all this to Cody, and he still isn’t taking the hint. He still insists on doing things his own way, which is why he’ll never solve these bloody murders.’

‘Why don’t you solve them, then? If you know so much.’

There he goes again, thinks Dobson. Sounds ever so much like an insult to me. But look at his face. Guileless. Lucky for him. If there was so much as a smirk there, I’d soon wipe it off his clock.

‘Not how it works, mate. Not how it works. For me to start getting information like that, I have to pull in some favours. I can’t be wasteful about it. It’s taken me a long time to build up the IOUs I’ve got. I need to be sure I get something in return. Tit for tat. Cody knows this. He just doesn’t want to be in my debt.’

Chris nods, but he seems to have lost interest. Dobby isn’t sure he’s been interested in anything that’s been said all night. He feels an impulse to demand to know if Chris is listening, but what’s the bloody point?

Jesus, he thinks. Happy birthday to me.

He follows Chris’s gaze, which has drifted to the occupants of another table. Two young women, both attractive and bubbly and giggly.

Well, if that’s what it takes to get his attention . . .

‘I might have to try another copper,’ he says. ‘Maybe that Webley woman. You know, the bit of stuff who’s hanging round with Cody now.’

When Chris’s head snaps back into line, it comes as no surprise to Dobson. Predictable, see. Everyone’s so bloody predictable.

‘Yeah?’ says Chris. He tries to keep the salacious curiosity out of his voice, but it’s there all right. Pathetic.

‘Yeah. What do you think? Worth a try?’

Chris takes a swig of his drink, which is only a half-pint of lager because he’s a complete lightweight.

‘Sure. Not certain Cody would stand for it, though.’

Dobson offers him a smug smile. ‘Well, maybe Cody wouldn’t have to know. I told you, I can find things out. Maybe I know how to get to Webley when Cody’s not even around.’

There is a definite light of interest in Chris’s eyes now, but Dobson decides he’s already said too much. He’s satisfied that he’s managed to impress Chris. That’ll do. No need to give away everything. Better to keep your cards close to your chest.

He can tell there are questions on Chris’s lips. Well, tough shit, he thinks. I’m leaving you on a cliffhanger, mate. Maybe you’ll be a bit more attentive from now on. It’s my frigging birthday, for Christ’s sake.

‘Get the beers in,’ he orders, even though Chris bought the last round. ‘I’m dying for a slash.’

And then he’s up and away from the table. Not even looking back, but knowing that he’s left Chris desperately wanting to know more.

At the urinals, he starts to feel more regretful. He shouldn’t have said anything about Webley, or about what he has the power to do. Nobody’s business but his own. It was the beer talking, which is always a dangerous state to get into. If there’s anything he has learnt in his line of work, it’s not to reveal your plans. Some bastard will always steal them and claim them as their own.

He returns to the table without washing his hands. He’s decided he is going to change the subject, although finding something else that this dickhead of a photographer might be willing to discuss could be something of a challenge.

Idly, he picks up his mobile phone, which he’d left on the table. Worth a quick check. Maybe he’s received some birthday greetings from an old friend. Or maybe from that girl in accounts – the one with the enormous . . .

He sees that a text came in while he was taking a pee.

Not a welcome one, though.

It’s from his boss. Edward Kingsley.

It’s short, but definitely not sweet. It starts with, ‘Cody came to see me. Very interested in you. Had to tell him about . . .’

And then there’s one more word.

Dobson stares in disbelief at it. That single word that represents so much to so many people. Why the fuck did Kingsley have to say anything about that? And to Cody, of all people?

Shit!

A thought crosses his mind: that Chris might have seen the text on his phone when its arrival was announced. But when he looks across the table he sees that Chris once again has his mind on the girls across the room. He seems oblivious to anything going on elsewhere in the pub, including at his own table.

But that’s of small comfort.

Cody is asking questions about me, thinks Dobson. Why? What led him to do that?

And now Cody knows. He knows!

This changes everything.

47

Cody turns the car radio off. He’s getting bored. He has flicked through a dozen radio stations, and none of them are playing anything worth listening to. The news breaks provide no relief, because all they do is drone on about the lack of progress on the murders.

He glances at the dashboard clock. Almost eleven, and still no sign of Dobson. He doesn’t seem to Cody like somebody who would hit the nightclubs, so surely he will be home soon. But then it strikes Cody that he knows nothing about Dobson’s private life. The man might be anywhere from a strip joint to his darling mother’s house. Who knows?

Give it another hour, he thinks. If Dobson comes home pissed I won’t get much sense out of him anyway. Another hour. If he’s not here by then, I’ll leave it until morning.

It’s not like I can pin anything criminal on him. Not yet, anyway.

He turns his thoughts to other things. To Webley in particular.

He’s starting to think that maybe he handled it all wrong. No big surprise, because when it comes to matters of the heart, he feels he normally gets it wrong.

It was a knee-jerk reaction, blowing up like that. He has always been so terrified of others finding out how he ticks. Or fails to tick, because he’s not exactly running like clockwork right now. And that’s the point, isn’t it? He’s falling apart anyway. How can he last much longer in this job? What difference is it going to make that one random guy knows his secret? Who’s he going to tell?

So, yes, screaming in Webley’s face was probably not the wisest thing he’s ever done. Especially after what she had done for him. And especially the way she was feeling at that moment.

All of which makes him think it’s probably time to man up and apologise. Webley deserves so much better.

He takes out his mobile phone. Clicks into the contacts. Scrolls down to Webley’s number. Hovers his finger over the call button.

But it’s getting late, he thinks. After eleven now. She’ll be asleep. Or crying her eyes out. Or trying to patch things up with Parker. Whatever, not the best time to call.

In the morning. Yes, that would be better.

He’ll call her in the morning.

Definitely.

*

She should get into bed. Lord knows, she’s tired enough. Drained. Not that it’s been a hard day physically. But emotionally – well, that’s another story.

Last night was bad enough. She went through enough turmoil then to last her a lifetime. How dare Parker accuse her of cheating on him? How dare he suggest that the only reason she moved to MIT was to be near to Cody?

She remembers it now as a maelstrom of tears, fury and words that should have been left unspoken. She can’t see how the relationship can ever be repaired.

He could try, though, couldn’t he? Parker could at least try.

She must have checked her phone a thousand times today. She needed to see a missed call, or a text. She’s not sure how she would have responded, but at least there would have been something to set things in motion again. As it is, it seems he doesn’t care.

Of course, he could be thinking along exactly the same lines – wondering why she doesn’t call him. But why should she? She’s done nothing wrong. She’s the one who is the victim of unfounded allegations.

And then, just to put the top hat on things, there’s Cody.

What kind of reaction was that? Where was his compassion, his sympathy? All he could think about was himself, and he’s the one who caused all this in the first place.

Well, perhaps that’s not strictly accurate. Cody didn’t ask her to worry about him. He didn’t invite her to bang on every door in Rodney Street in an effort to find him.

So, she thinks, why did I do that? Why didn’t I keep my distance and let him sort out his own problems?

She understands now why the force has regulations about getting involved with colleagues. Not that she is involved with Cody. That’s well and truly over. But it doesn’t stop her caring about him, worrying about him. That can’t be wrong, surely?

It can get in the way, though. Of work, of objectivity. And, patently, of relationships with partners who should know better. It’s for all those reasons that she thinks she’ll have to talk to Blunt tomorrow. See if she can do something about getting her reassigned. It might not look good on her record, but what choice does she have? Cody is never going to be merely her sergeant. They know too much about each other, and that will always lead to friction.

Ding-dong.

The doorbell startles her. She glances at the clock on the wall. Close to eleven thirty. There’s only one person who would come to her door this late at night.

Parker.

He’s come to apologise. He realises how idiotic he’s been, and now he’s come to make it up to her.

She jumps to her feet, re-energised by the prospect of sorting out this whole stupid mess. In the hallway she checks herself in the mirror. She’s looked better, but maybe it’s a good thing that he sees what effect his hurtful remarks have had on her. He needs to be made to feel at least a little guilty.

She heads towards the front door.

Halts when she gets to the porch.

Stupid.

I should know better, she thinks. I’ve been working on the damn cases, for God’s sake. There’s a lunatic on the loose, knocking off coppers. What if that’s him now?