A Tapping at My Door: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller (The DS Nathan Cody Series) (37 page)

She oscillates between making a move and resigning herself to whatever fate awaits. Each impulse to be courageous is speedily quashed when she looks at that steel-tipped crossbow bolt and imagines the pain as it tears through her soft tissues – through her heart, maybe. She sees herself falling to the floor before she has even fully left her seat, and then lying there in her own blood and agony and despair. And as those pictures enter her brain she is already chiding herself – telling herself that it’s too late now, that she has talked herself out of it and missed her chance.

But now another wave of optimism strikes. I can do this, she thinks. I can cover that space in one dive. He won’t be expecting it. Even if he gets off a shot, he won’t be able to aim properly. He will be firing wildly. And if he gets lucky, the likelihood is that I will be only injured. And he will be unarmed then. I will have him, and I will be like a tigress, and I will tear the shit out of him.

All right, she thinks. I’m going. This is it.

She experiences a surge of adrenalin that gives her a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach and a compulsion to crap herself. She tenses. She plants her feet squarely on the floor, her hands on the edge of the cushion.

She thinks, Go now! Do it!

And then the phone on the sideboard bursts into life, and a page in everybody’s mind is turned.

‘Who’s that?’ says Chris. He shuffles to the edge of his seat, his eyes moving feverishly between the phone and Webley. His voice becomes more demanding: ‘Who’s that?’

‘I . . . I don’t know,’ says Webley. ‘My boyfriend, maybe. Or it could be work. Or a wrong number. I don’t know.’

‘Don’t answer it,’ he orders. Which seems redundant, because she was hardly about to get up and saunter over to the phone without seeking permission.

‘Fine,’ she says.

But still her mind works furiously on the possibilities. For the first time tonight she doesn’t want this to be Parker. Apologies are no good to her now. She wants this to be somebody from work. A cop. Someone who might be able to save her life, if only he or she can be made aware of her plight. A single word is all it would take. A single plea for help.

But she cannot even do that. She cannot move out of her seat. She has to let the phone ring until her caller gives up, and her hopes wither with that surrender.

This caller is persistent, however. When the ringing stops and Webley’s own curiously business-like voice cuts in with its invitation to leave a message, there are more words to follow.

In a male voice.

Cody’s voice.

Despite the depth of anger that Cody has managed to foster in her today, the sound of his voice is, at this moment in time, the sweetest thing she has ever heard. Yes, he is infuriating, and yes, he has no end of problems that desperately need fixing, but there is one thing she knows about him: when it comes to policing, he is more dedicated and courageous and stubborn than anyone else on the force. And that’s what she needs right now.

But he hasn’t rung to tell her that he is saddling up his white steed and donning his armour. He has rung to do what he is so, so good at. To wit: breaking her heart.

He says, ‘Hi, Megan. Sorry for ringing you up at stupid o’clock. I don’t blame you for not answering, especially if you saw it was me calling. I just wanted to say . . . to tell you how sorry I am for the way I acted today. I was a total dick. I overreacted, and I completely understand why that pissed you off. Anyway, I just want you to know that I still think you’re wonderful, and that I enjoy working with you, and to say thank you for listening to me, and to ask if you’ll forgive me, and – what was the other thing? – oh, yeah, to say that I hope you and Parker sort things out, because he’s a lucky man to have a girl like you, even if he does have a stupid name. And . . . wait . . . Just in case he’s there with you now, listening to this – Parker, I take back what I just said about your name. It’s different. And what Megs – I mean Megan – said to you last night is the truth. There’s nothing between us now. What we had was a long time ago. I got engaged myself since then. Megan and I just talked last night – nothing more. Anyway . . . so, that’s it. Megan, I hope I see you tomorrow at work. Okay, well, goodnight.’

The message ends then. Tears are running down Webley’s cheeks, and she tries to work out why she is so sad. It would be understandable if the message had been from Parker. They would probably have been his final words to her. He would have been trying to rebuild a future that is already doomed, and that would have been heartbreaking. But Cody? He’s only a colleague now – a man she barely understands anymore – saying he’s sorry about a pathetic little argument. How can that carry such weight?

‘Well, well,’ says Chris. ‘You and Cody, huh? I had no idea. But that makes things so much better. He attacked me – I thought he was going to kill me. And now I’m going to take revenge on him by killing his ex-girlfriend. That’s pretty cool. I like that.’

He glances at the clock. ‘Just a few more hours, and then Cody will get his comeuppance, and the world will hear the birds. Nice how things work out, sometimes.’

50

He sleeps a little after leaving a message for Webley. No clowns, no faceless people, no screaming. A short but blissful period of unbroken sleep.

He awakes refreshed and looking forward to work. Looking forward to seeing Webley again. She must have listened to the message by now, and she’s not heartless. She will give him a chance to redeem himself.

Yes, today is going to be a good day.

*

‘It’s time,’ says Chris.

Webley’s stomach lurches. The announcement can mean only one thing: it’s the appointed hour of her execution. And yet she wonders why he has waited this long. What difference can it possibly make?

So this is her last chance to do something about it. Her last opportunity to save the lives of herself and Dobson. Knowing this, she is suddenly alert again, despite not having had an ounce of sleep. She fixes Chris in her sights, eager for any sign of a lapse in his concentration. She will seize upon such a slip. She will take that fucking crossbow and fire it up his rectum, the insane twat.

‘Time for what, Chris?’ she asks innocently. ‘What exactly do you have in mind?’

‘We’re going for a little drive.’

This comes as a huge surprise. But, on reflection, it makes sense. If Chris wants to put on a show, he can hardly do it here. He waited until morning because it needs to be visible to an audience. And perhaps also because the location he has in mind is available only during the day.

‘What? A drive? Where are we going?’

‘You’ll find out. Everyone will find out. You’re gonna be a star.’

Chris reaches into his pocket, pulls out a key and tosses it across to Webley.

*

Cody catches the car key that has just been thrown to him by Blunt.

It’s déjà vu. This whole thing started with the MIT gang marching towards him from the station and with Blunt ordering him to drive, and now it’s happening all over again.

He falls into step alongside his boss, but she speaks before he can put his own questions.

‘Where’ve you been?’

‘Following a lead.’

Which is shorthand for saying that he’s been to Dobson’s house again, hammering on his door to no avail. Where the hell is that ugly little squirt?

‘And did it lead anywhere?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Well, don’t get your hopes up too much, Cody. Our man’s decided not to hang about waiting for you to find him.’

Cody feels a tightening in his abdomen. Not another murder? And with Dobby out of his house all night, isn’t that too much of a coincidence? Could I have prevented it?

‘Ma’am?’

‘He’s taken matters into his own hands. We’ve got a situation.’

‘Another victim? One of ours again?’

‘Not yet. The perp’s decided to call his own little press conference. We’re specially invited guests, along with most of the country’s media. But that’s not the worst of it.’

‘No?’

‘No. He’s got hostages.’

They are at the car, but Blunt pauses to stare meaningfully at Cody. A sudden sense of dread strokes his spine.

‘Who?’

‘DC Megan Webley for one.’

For a moment he cannot speak. Webley? In the clutches of a serial killer? That cannot be true. Cannot be real.

‘Ma’am . . . If I can ask . . . Is she with Dobson?’

Blunt narrows her eyes at him. ‘How did you know that?’

His breath catches. He was too late. If he had managed to track down Dobson earlier, he could have averted this. He could have kept Webley safe.

‘Long story,’ he says, knowing that Blunt doesn’t have time for it now. It doesn’t seem the best moment to reveal that he went to the Vernon house without permission.

‘Well, we need to get going if we’re to keep either of them alive. Get in.’

She opens her door and stoops to climb in, but Cody stops her. ‘What do you mean, keep Dobson alive?’

She straightens again, irritation on her face now. ‘What do you think I mean? I know you two aren’t exactly bosom buddies, but the last time I checked it was still police policy to get hostages out alive if possible. Now get in the bloody car and drive!’

His mind is swirling with questions, but he decides it’s prudent to do as he’s been told. He gets in, starts up the engine, gets on the road before daring to unleash the foremost of the queries on his list.

‘Ma’am, you said that Dobson is a
hostage
?’

‘That’s the intel I was given.’

‘So . . . so do we have an ID on whoever’s taken the hostages? Do we know who our killer is?’

‘We do. Dobson’s mate, apparently. Chris Davies. The photographer bloke.’

Cody glances at her. Chris? It’s not what he expected to be told. But then he didn’t expect to hear that Dobson had been taken hostage. If he’d had to place bets, he’d have put Dobson on the other side of the line between victims and criminals. It doesn’t make sense.

But then he thinks about it some more. And as he does so he realises that, actually, it makes perfect sense. The connection between Dobson and the police officers who were killed is just—

‘Cody!’

He is suddenly aware of his surroundings again.

‘Ma’am?’

‘Two questions. One: are you even looking at the road ahead? And two: are you at some point going to ask where we’re going?’

‘Sorry, ma’am. Lost in thought. Where are we going?’

Blunt eyes him with suspicion. ‘The Pier Head. I’m sure we’ll see the media circus from a mile off.’

He nods, then moves the car into the correct lane. He tries to stay focused, but his mind soon switches into a more contemplative mode.

Why the Pier Head, of all places? What kind of stunt could the killer possibly be planning to pull at a location like that?

But then he gets there. Blunt was right about the media hubbub, although the word she used was ‘circus’, and he doesn’t like the use of anything that has such a strong association with clowns. A uniformed officer directs them to a parking spot at the centre of the melee. They climb out of the car. Cody follows the gaze of everybody else, which is very much pointed in an upwards direction.

And then he understands.

It’s the missing link. The connective tissue between the three individuals now alone on the top of this most iconic and distinctive of buildings on Liverpool’s waterfront.

They are staring up at the Royal Liver Building. Perched atop each of its two clock towers is a verdigris-coated copper sculpture.

Each sculpture is of a Liver Bird – a creature resembling a cormorant, and carrying a sprig of seaweed in its beak. It is hugely symbolic to the city and the people of Liverpool.

Birds and symbols. That’s what all this has been about.

The whole tragic story could have ended nowhere else but here.

51

It’s cold up here. Webley is dressed as she was in the house. Jog pants and a thin sweater. Chris didn’t allow her to pick up a coat, and now she’s shivering in the brisk wind, her skin pimpling. Although that might have more to do with fear. She’s certainly afraid. Up here, looking out across the Mersey and to Perch Rock on the northern tip of the Wirral, she feels so removed from everyone. So alone.

She is on a paved walkway running along the north-facing side of the building. At each end of the walkway stand cupolas that can be used as small meeting rooms. Next to them, at the east and west ends of the building, are the clock towers supporting the imposing Liver Birds. A similar walkway runs down the south side, but Webley couldn’t get to it even if she wanted to. She is separated from it by long banks of air-conditioning units, and beyond them, in the centre of the building, two huge atria leading down to glass-roofed reception areas below. Along the other edge of the walkway is a low ledge topped by a simple black rail – the only thing hindering a person from stepping into oblivion.

She still doesn’t know exactly what Chris has in mind. But she guesses it won’t be pleasant. You don’t force someone up onto a roof at the point of an arrow just to show them the view. And just to complicate the puzzle, he’s brought a length of rope with him too. She doesn’t want to think about what plans he might have for making use of that rope.

It was surprisingly easy to get them up here. Straight into the building just after the doors were opened and the security guards were occupied. Then, as soon as people became aware that here was a deranged man wielding a weapon of death, they kept their distance. Even the security personnel weren’t about to risk losing their lives for the sake of preventing the intruders getting to the top of the building. Hell, let them get up there and then call the cops. Isn’t that
their
job?

Well, yes, it
is
the job of the police to deal with situations like this. Except that Chris isn’t about to make it easy for them to do that job. On his mobile phone he has already told the negotiators that any sign of a cop trying to get onto the roof, or of a helicopter approaching, will result in instant summary execution of a hostage.