A Tapping at My Door: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller (The DS Nathan Cody Series) (27 page)

He wonders if his nerves will be able to hold out for that length of time.

But no point worrying about it. It has to be done.

So here goes.

*

The patience of a saint. A curious phrase. Why are saints so renowned for their patience?

Whatever. He’s got that amount of patience. He will wait here for as long as it takes.

And it will be different this time. He has a secret weapon. Something they won’t be expecting.

It was a tough decision. A difficult thing to give up. The thrill of getting up close was so exhilarating. To feel the crushing impact on a human skull, to experience it travelling through his hand and up his arm. And then the work with the knife. Oh, yes! The cries and the pleas and the whimpers and the gurgles.

Hard to abandon all that.

But, like everything in life – and death – sometimes you have to compromise. The end result will be the same: another police scumbag wiped from the face of the earth. It is only the execution that is different. Ha – execution! A most appropriate word in the circumstances.

But if the mission is to continue, then it has to be like this. He has to protect himself. He has to be able to do the job and then walk away, free to move on to the next victim.

So now it’s distance work. No more close and personal. Shame, really, but there it is.

Come and get it, sucker.

He smiles. This is still pretty damn cool. It will be fun.

Sitting there quietly in the dark, he brings the stock of his weapon to his shoulder, peers along the sights, and rests his finger lightly on the trigger.

And then he waits.

With the patience of a saint.

34

By the time Cody gets to the top floor he is exhausted. Not physically, but mentally.

It’s the strain of remaining alert, of forcing himself to expect the unexpected. After checking room after desolate room, it starts to become tempting to think that the next one will be just as devoid of threat as all the others. It’s a dangerous urge – one upon which the killer might be relying. Knowing that fatigue and inattentiveness will set in, he may well have chosen one of the final rooms in the search in which to secrete himself.

So Cody needs to keep vigilant. Needs to tap into a new reservoir of adrenalin for each of the last few rooms. He’s nearly at the end. Mustn’t become careless now.

When he gets there, he finds that the layout of the top floor is different from the others. The fire door at the head of the stairs opens into a huge area, with just a couple of doors leading from it into what must be tiny offices. Cody wonders whether this floor was used mainly for storage. Or perhaps there were workbenches here at one time, staffed by people putting together items for shipping.

Not much furniture here now, which makes it easier to search. Two rows of pillars stretching from floor to ceiling. Several piles of old packing crates. Some large pieces of board resting against one of the pillars. Other than that, not too many places to hide.

It smells damp up here. Cody shines his torch up at the ceiling and finds a couple of large holes where the rain has come in. The holes are easily big enough for a man to climb through into the roof space above.

There’s nobody up there, he thinks. There’s nobody in this entire building. I should just finish the recce and get out of here. It’s looking like our man has brought us out on another wild goose chase, so I should just confirm that and go.

Cody advances into the room. It reminds him of something. A place he’s been before.

No, he tells himself. No, it doesn’t. Erase that thought. It’s nothing like it.

More creaking floorboards. And they feel slightly spongy underfoot. The rain has rotted them, probably. He wonders if he’s about to go plummeting like a stone through the whole building.

He takes a few more steps. Just those two doors at the far end to investigate. Check those out and he’s done.

Another step and . . .

Something moves. To Cody’s left. He’s sure of it. Okay, maybe not sure. There was no sound. But something seemed to flicker in his peripheral vision.

He turns his torch in that direction. Sees nothing, of course, because there’s nothing here. Not another soul.

‘If you’re in here, lads,’ he says, ‘then come out now. We need to get you out of here.’

Nothing at first, but then a noise. To his right this time. He whirls round. Stands stock-still while he wills his beam of light to seek and discover. He can almost feel his ears twitch with the effort of trying to capture more sounds.

What was that noise? A laugh? It sounded like a laugh. A low, muted snigger.

But if that were true, there would be somebody standing there right now. And there isn’t. Look. Nobody there.

His ears pick up the thudding of his own heart. It feels like it’s bouncing around his ribcage like a rubber ball.

Mostyn’s voice bursts in again: ‘Okay, Cody. This is starting to look fruitless. Finish up, but keep your wits about you.’

Cody moves on again. Mostyn is right. It was another prank call. The killer didn’t fall for Cody’s plan.

Another noise. Like the shuffling of a wooden chair on the hard floor. Cody spins again.

There
is
a chair there. Right in front of one of the pillars. Was that there before? He doesn’t remember it. But what he does remember is . . .

No. Stop it.

But it’s exactly like it. A little darker in here, but this could almost have been the place. The pillars, the musty dampness. The old chair. Only difference now is that he’s not sitting in it. He’s not tied to it like he was that other time. And of course there are no—

A cry! From somewhere behind Cody. He definitely heard that. A whimper of pain.

He advances quickly, baton in strike position again. Past a stack of crates. Around a pillar.

Nothing. There’s nothing there. Stop this!

From Mostyn: ‘Cody? Are you okay?’

Cody puts a thumb up in front of his chest camera. But he doesn’t feel okay at all.

‘All right,’ says Mostyn. ‘Then clear those last two rooms and come back in.’

Two rooms, thinks Cody. That’s all. We’re almost there. Concentrate. See those doors at the far end? And the tiny window between them? The window with the face grinning out at you?

What?

The pale face. See it? Staring. Laughing. Waiting.

‘NO!’ he yells.

Mostyn responds: ‘Cody?’

He ignores Mostyn. Concentrates all his attention on that window. It’s gone. Whatever was there has gone now.

Or perhaps has just dropped down from the window.

Perhaps he’s still in there, just waiting for you to enter.

No, he thinks. I’m being ridiculous. I didn’t see anything.

‘Cody!’ says Mostyn. ‘What are you doing? Clear the rooms.’

He wants to follow orders. Wants to complete his task. But it’s dark in here. The bloody torch is useless. He can see only a small part of the room at any one time. Things could be moving around, shifting from shadow to shadow, and he wouldn’t even know it. And it feels hot in here, too. Middle of October, no heating on, and yet it’s bloody boiling.

‘Cody.’

His name being uttered again. But not by Mostyn this time. This is lower in tone. Gruffer.

And it didn’t come over the earpiece.

Cody spins on his heels. Does the same again and again, each time urging the yellow light to tell him he’s not going mad.

Another menacing laugh.

‘Please.’

A single word in a voice he recognises. A single word encapsulating all the begging for mercy that could possibly be imagined.

This cannot be happening. It’s not real. Not real.

‘Cody, what the hell’s going on?’

This from Mostyn. At least he thinks it is. He’s not sure anymore. Too many voices, too many things going on.

A scream, suddenly cut off. Cody himself yells in fear.

‘Cody? Do you need backup? Repeat, do you need backup?’

‘Negative.’

He starts back towards the stairs. There are noises behind him. They are building to form a more complete picture. A scene in which human beings are perpetrating the most horrific acts he has ever witnessed.

‘Cody, where are you going? You haven’t finished clearing the building.’

‘It’s clear.’

He doesn’t know why he’s lying. The officers back at base are fully aware that he didn’t check those last two rooms. All he knows is that he has to get out of here. He thought he could cope, and he can’t. Can’t even manage a simple job like this. He needs to get out. Needs to run for his life.

And he does run. Even though the only light he’s got is from his torch, and even though a single wrong step could send him hurtling to his death, he runs. He needs to be as far away from this place as possible.

He hears the babble of voices in his ear, Blunt’s among them, all clamouring to be heard. But he’s not paying them any attention. He is on the edge of blind panic, and he just needs to flee.

He races down the staircase. He hears it creak and groan and occasionally snap in complaint, but he flies down it nonetheless. The threat of death on these steps is immeasurably preferable to the fate awaiting him back there on the top floor.

And even as he thinks this, he is telling himself there is nothing on that top floor. This is his sick mind playing its sick games, causing him to run away from his own shadow.

But rationality has surrendered. It speaks to him without conviction, knowing it has lost. His primitive instincts have taken over. It is fight or flight, and he has chosen to save his hide to live another pitiful day. It sickens him, and he knows he will regret this, and he is crying with the mental anguish of it even before he gets to the ground floor and goes full tilt towards that door back on to the street, back into the glorious fresh city air. Back to safety.

*

This is safer.

Wait for the police to come to you. No sneaking up on them. No trying to catch them by surprise. Just sit and wait.

Here, in your car. Out on the street.

If it all goes wrong, you can start up the engine and drive away. Just sit and wait. Window slightly open. Enough to get a shot out.

And he’s a good shot, too. A little bit rusty, perhaps, but he got some practice in earlier. He won’t miss.

He’s had to be patient, though. Those saints – well, he bets they were never this patient. His arse has gone numb and his joints have stiffened up with all this hanging around in a car. Had to pee into an empty plastic milk carton earlier. The indignity of it. The things he has to go through just to kill a few coppers.

Still, it’ll be worth—

But wait. Here he comes. An honest-to-goodness policeman. In a bit of a hurry, by the looks of things. That’ll make the shot more difficult, but he appreciates a challenge.

So here goes . . .

He shoulders the stock again. Grips the weapon firmly. Takes aim. Blinks to clear his eyes. Wait for it. Wait for it. Hold your breath. Caress the trigger. And . . .

Fire!

Bingo. A bullseye. Right smack in the forehead. Probably dead before he hits the ground. Nice.

He starts up the engine. Edges the car past the still twitching body. Tosses out the usual parting gift before he steps on the gas.

He takes a deep lungful of air as he drives. It smells sweet. It smells of success.

*

In the ops room pandemonium breaks out. Their recent view on the monitors has been a dizzying whirl of flashing light as Cody sped them down through the building. Their rapid-fire questions were ignored, their instructions disobeyed. Cody’s only responses came in the form of panting and grunting – nothing intelligible. They heard the pounding of his feet as he ran towards the door, then an almost panic-stricken fumbling and banging as Cody worked seemingly in desperation to fight his way through it. And then, once he finally managed his exit, their glimpse of the street was short-lived before the sudden guttural cry from Cody accompanied the crazy tilt and pan of the camera. They watched the world spin, and then the hard pavement rush up to meet them, and they all flinched as the lens smacked into its unyielding surface. And then . . .

Stillness.

Mostyn calls out to Cody. Blunt does the same, but with more of an emotional edge to her voice. And when they get no response, Mostyn is barking orders to others, urging them to get in there without delay, and amongst the words he utters are the words that no police officer, least of all DCI Blunt, wants to hear.

Because what he is saying is that there is a possible man down.

35

DCI Blunt remains frozen, staring at a screen that shows her only blackness, listening for sounds that do not come.

And when sounds do finally reach her, they do not harbour the voice of Cody, strain as she might to hear it. They are the squeals of tyres, the thuds of car doors, the pounding of boots, the barking of orders – all carried over Cody’s microphone, but apparently not heard by him directly.

Because he does not move, he does not speak, he does not respond.

She believes he is dead. She does not know how or why, but something awful has happened tonight. Something she dreaded from the very inception of this damned stupid operation.

‘Sergeant Cody! Sergeant Cody, are you all right?’

This from one of the armed officers on the ground. But Blunt knows in her heart it will not be answered, because Cody is far from all right. Cody is—

‘Unnh.’

Her heart leaps, because it sounds like . . . But no. It must be the other guy, perhaps straining to lift Cody and get him away from the danger.

‘Unnh, yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.’

And that is Cody. That is most certainly Cody. And now she is filling up, and she can’t help it, and she doesn’t care who knows it.

‘Cody!’ she yells. ‘Talk to me. Tell me you’re okay.’

‘I’m okay. I . . . I fell. I was coming out of the building and I fell. I think I banged my head.’

Blunt looks at Mostyn. ‘Get him out of there.’

She sees Mostyn’s expression of puzzlement and dissatisfaction with all that he has just witnessed, and she answers it with, ‘We can dissect this later. Please, can we just get him back where he belongs?’