Hope to Die: A gripping new serial killer thriller (The DS Nathan Cody series)

by David Jackson

  ‘Anyone in particular, though? Someone who might be connected with the homicide here tonight?’

  ‘Well . . . In particular? Well, nobody in particular. But we get ’em here, all right. All sorts.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ says Cody. ‘Why don’t you make a list for us? Local smackheads, regular nuisances – that kind of thing. Could be that one of them was here tonight.’

  ‘Naturally,’ says Glover. ‘I was already thinking along those lines. I’ll get right on it.’

  He digs into his pocket and pulls out a packet of cigarettes.

  ‘Either of you . . . ?’

  Ferguson shakes his head. Cody says, ‘No, thanks.’ He watches while Glover brings the cigarette to his mouth with trembling fingers and lights it.

  Says Cody, ‘Tell me what happened here tonight.’

  ‘Yeah. Okay. Well, the first thing I knew about it was when a bloke knocked on the door of the lodge.’ He points to his left at a small building used to house the cathedral constabulary. ‘He said a woman had been found on the path down there. Said she was badly hurt. Maybe even dead.’

  ‘Do you know who this man was?’

  ‘No, but he’s been talking to one of your guys. He didn’t strike me as the suspicious sort. You kind of get a nose for it after a while, don’t you?’

  ‘Was he the one who found the body?’

  ‘No. That was a much older bloke. He’s being interviewed too. I made sure he hung around. Common sense, really. Some of the younger lads, they wouldn’t—’

  ‘Okay, so you get told a woman’s been hurt. What do you do next?’

  ‘Well, I go over there, don’t I? I grab my torch and I go and have a look. We’re trained to deal with every kind of situation. This might be a place of worship, but you’d be surprised at what goes on here sometimes.’

  ‘I can believe it. So you go to the woman, and . . .’

  ‘And she’s there, all right. Blood everywhere. Her head . . . Well, have you seen it? She’s a mess. Dead, obviously.’

  ‘Obviously?’

  ‘Yeah. I mean, I checked for vitals. Of course I did. That’s textbook, innit? But she was gone all right. You could tell that just by looking at her. Nobody could survive that.’

  ‘Did you recognise her?’

  ‘Not at first. Not sure her own mother would recognise her the way she is now. But I had my wits about me, and I realised who it was.’

  ‘What made you realise?’

  Glover gestures towards the dog. ‘Her. She was just sitting there, only a couple of feet away. She was cold, shivering.’

  ‘You’d seen this woman walking that dog before?’

  ‘Every morning and evening, regular as clockwork. Sun, rain or snow. I keep an eye out, see. Pays to be vigilant in our game, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Ever speak to her?’

  ‘A few times. Only to say hello, nice day, that kind of thing. I didn’t know her name.’

  ‘What about where she lived?’

  ‘Not sure. I’ve seen her coming up Duke Street, but that’s it.’

  ‘Ever see her talking to anyone else?’

  ‘Not that I recall. I got the impression she was a bit of a loner. Even went to the services by herself.’

  ‘The services? In the cathedral?’

  ‘Yeah. I think she was often in there. I mean, I didn’t go looking for her or anything, but I often saw her going in or out.’

  Cody looks at Ferguson, then back to Glover. ‘Thank you, Mr Glover. If you could put that list together for me? And one other thing – you’ve got CCTV here, right?’

  Glover nods. ‘Inside and out.’

  ‘Good. Dig out whatever recordings you’ve got, would you? I’ll send someone over to collect them.’

  ‘Ahead of you there. Already on my to-do list. Not surprising, really, I suppose. Given how similar our jobs are, I mean.’

  ‘Exactly what I was thinking, Mr Glover. Good work.’

  Glover smiles and nods. Heads unsteadily down the steps and back to his lodge.

  ‘Enjoying the view, you two?’

  The voice booms from behind the detectives, causing both of them to jump. They turn to see the large and imposing figure of Detective Chief Inspector Blunt. Cody guesses she has just come through one of the cathedral doors rather than materialising out of thin air, but he’s putting nothing past her.

  ‘We’ve literally just finished interviewing one of the cathedral constables, ma’am,’ he says.

  ‘I see. And did he tell you anything useful?’

  Cody gives her a summary, and watches the effect on Blunt as she digests the information. He likes his boss, despite her fearsome aspect. And he knows that she likes him too. Not in any kind of weird sexual way – her attitude is more of a mother hen as far as Cody as concerned, although he has no idea what he has done to deserve the singular attention.

  ‘Interesting,’ says Blunt. ‘It could be that our victim chanced upon something she wasn’t supposed to see. A drug deal, for example. On the other hand, if she took the same route every evening at exactly the same time, then anyone who knew her could have just waited for her to turn up.’

  ‘Meaning it was planned,’ says Cody.

  ‘Could be. If it was, somebody must have really hated her. You saw the body. There was a lot of pent-up aggression in that attack. Knowing more about what this woman was like might give us some clues as to who could hold such a grudge. And don’t be fooled by the fact that she was a regular church-goer. Sometimes they’re the worst.’

  Blunt seems to notice the terrier for the first time. She bends at the waist and stares at it. The dog tilts its head as it looks back at her in confusion. Ferguson glances at Cody, who shrugs.

  ‘Hmm,’ says Blunt, and straightens up again. To her detectives she says, ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Find out the victim’s name and address, then get over to her place and find out what made her tick.’

  Says Ferguson, ‘Er, I’m not sure how we can do that at the moment, ma’am. The CSIs couldn’t find anything on the body that could be used to identify her.’

  ‘All right, then, ask her dog.’

  Ferguson glances at Cody again before replying. ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘The dog, Neil. It’s a prime witness. It saw everything that happened tonight, to its living owner, for God’s sake. Don’t you think it wants to help us find whoever did this terrible thing?’

  Ferguson opens his mouth, but no words find their way out. Even Cody thinks the cold must have got to her brain cells.

  ‘Bloody hell, Neil,’ she continues. ‘Call yourself a detective? Every time I’ve seen you tonight you’ve had that animal in tow. Take another look at it. Properly, this time. You’ll see that it’s wearing a collar, and on that collar is a tag, and on that tag is the name “Trudy” and a telephone number, presumably of its owner. Are you with me now?’

  ‘Ah,’ says Ferguson as it all clicks into place. ‘Right. Give me a minute.’

  Sheepishly, he retreats into the shadows, where he digs out his radio and a notebook and pen. Cody watches him go, thinking about his plans for taking the piss later on.

  ‘What are you smirking at?’ says Blunt.

  Cody affixes a suitably solemn expression. ‘Nothing, ma’am.’

  ‘Hmm. You’ve heard the news, I suppose?’

  ‘News?’

  ‘DC Webley is rejoining us tomorrow. Clean bill of health and raring to go.’

  Cody wishes everyone would stop feeling the compulsion to impart this piece of information to him. It’s as though they’re testing him. Sticking a pin in him to see how he reacts.

  ‘Great,’ he says. ‘It’ll be nice to have her back on the team.’

  ‘Don’t cock it up, Cody.’

  The advice takes him by surprise.

  ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘She’s a promising young detective, with a heart of gold. She just wants to get on with the job. You, on the other hand, have a tendency to mak
e everything more complicated than it needs to be.’

  ‘I have no idea what—’

  ‘Good. Keep it that way.’

  Cody isn’t sure what more he can add to this conversation, and is glad when Ferguson returns, triumphantly waving a bit of paper as though he’s Neville Chamberlain.

  ‘Got it,’ says Ferguson. ‘The number is registered to a Mary Cowper. She’s got a flat on Duke Street.’

  ‘Amazing what we can learn from more primitive creatures,’ says Blunt, in such a way that Cody isn’t quite sure she’s referring to the dog. ‘Don’t let me keep you.’

  Cody and Ferguson head down the steps, back into the snow. Cody feels the flakes on the back of his neck, and pulls his collar up again. As they approach the gates he turns to Ferguson.

  ‘Er, we’re not a K9 unit, you know. You need to get shut of that thing.’

  Ferguson shoots him a horrified look. ‘She’s not a thing. She’s Trudy. And she just gave us our first lead.’

  ‘Yeah, well, hers is one lead you need to let go of. I’m not going down Duke Street with that mutt. We’ll look a right pair.’

  Ferguson frowns, sighs. But he walks over to a uniformed officer and puts the dog lead in the bemused man’s hand.

  ‘Here. And remember, she’s not just for Christmas.’

  3

  It takes them less than five minutes to walk to Mary Cowper’s flat. On the way, they cut across the end of Rodney Street, where Cody’s own apartment is. It strikes him that he may well have passed Mary on his travels without even knowing it. He often goes jogging in this area, sometimes even in St James’ Park. He may even have said ‘hello’ or ‘good morning’ to her, with not a thought that she might end up in a victim case file on his desk.

  It’s still snowing heavily. The huge ceremonial arch at the entrance to the oldest Chinatown in Europe is just a dark, unremarkable shape through the shifting white veil. Cody is glad to get to the converted Georgian building where the woman lived until a few hours ago. He rings the bell for Flat 1. Gets no response. Presses the button again.

  ‘Try another one,’ Ferguson suggests.

  Cody looks at him. ‘Never would have thought of that. I was just going to walk away.’

  He leans on the bell-push for Flat 2. Thinks, I need to get inside. Anywhere that’s warm and dry.

  The answer over the intercom is almost immediate: ‘Hello?’

  ‘We’re police officers. Do you mind if we come in, please?’

  ‘Police? Why police?’

  It is clear to Cody now that the voice belongs to a foreigner. Eastern European or something.

  ‘Nothing to worry about, sir. We’d like to talk to you about one of your neighbours. Flat 1? Mary Cowper?’

  ‘Mary? Okay. Come, please.’

  There’s a buzz and a loud click as the door unlocks. Cody pushes his way inside. Feels relieved to be out of the wind and snow. He flaps his jacket to shake off the flakes. Wipes his feet on the welcome mat.

  Ahead of them is the stairway, and to the right of that a wooden door with a shiny ‘1’ screwed to it.

  ‘Worth a try,’ says Cody. ‘Maybe the doorbell’s not working.’

  Ferguson steps up to the door and raps loudly on it. There is no answer, and no noise from inside.

  ‘She is not there?’

  The voice comes from the top of the first flight of stairs. A man is looking down at them.

  ‘No,’ says Cody. ‘She isn’t. Does she live alone?’ He sticks to the present tense for now. No need to alarm the man just yet.

  ‘Yes, alone. Yes. You say you are police?’

  Cody approaches the stairs, pulling out his warrant card as he goes. He holds it in the air, even though he knows the man won’t see it properly from there.

  ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Cody. This is Detective Constable Ferguson. Do you mind if we come up and speak to you?’

  The man beckons to them. ‘Yes, please. Come. We can speak in my apartment.’

  The detectives trudge up the stairs, then follow the man who beckons them into his abode.

  ‘Please,’ says the man. ‘Take off coats. Have seat.’

  Cody smiles and nods. ‘Thank you, Mr . . . ?’

  ‘Demidov. Yuri Demidov. Like spaceman.’

  ‘Spaceman?’

  ‘Yuri. Yuri Gagarin. You know him?’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ says Cody. Here, in the warm light of the living room, he gets a better look at their host. He is a thin man with a fat head. Or, rather, his head is widened by an explosion of dark curls that lends him the overall shape of a microphone. He looks to be in his mid-forties. He grins almost incessantly, his cheeks bulging and red as if from the constant facial exercise.

  The flat is a mess. Not dirty, but untidy. Papers, books and folders dropped almost at random, it seems, across the room. Texts on complex mathematical topics cover the coffee table. Propped up on the mantelpiece are a couple of cheaply produced certificates for ‘Best Paper Award’.

  ‘Would you like some tea?’ says Demidov. ‘I have real Russian samovar. You know this, samovar?’

  Cody sees the puzzled look on Ferguson’s face, but decides not to get into explanations now.

  ‘No tea, thank you. We’d like to talk to you about—’

  ‘And cake. I have special cake from the Asda. You know this place, the Asda?’

  Cody can’t help smiling at Demidov’s adoption of the Scouse manner of putting the definite article in front of the supermarket’s name.

  ‘Mr Demidov. Do you mind if we talk about Mary Cowper now?’

  ‘Mary. Yes. Please. She is wonderful lady.’

  ‘You know her well?’

  ‘Not well. I live here only few months. I am visiting professor at university mathematics department. This is my first time in UK. But Mary, she is very kind to me.’

  ‘Kind in what way?’

  ‘She brings me pies.’

  ‘Pies?’

  ‘Yes. Apples pies. She cook them herself. She is very good cook. And she takes parcels for me, when I have deliveries. She is—’

  He stops speaking suddenly, and his grin drops away as if something has just occurred to him.

  He says solemnly, ‘You have bad news, yes? In Russia, policemen at your door is always bad news, but I thought may be different here.’

  Cody doesn’t like to tell him that the police turning up at your door is usually an ominous sign here too.

  ‘We’ve found the body of a dead woman. We believe it may be Mary Cowper.’

  Demidov sits back in his chair and looks up at the ceiling. ‘Oh, my God. Oh, my God. This is terrible. Such a wonderful lady. A good woman.’ He looks at the detectives again. ‘You are sure?’

  ‘We’re fairly certain.’

  ‘Oh, my God. That is so terrible. How did she die?’

  ‘We believe she was murdered. Her body was found in the grounds of the cathedral.’

  ‘Oh, my . . . Who would do such things? She would hurt nobody. Nobody. I do not understand this.’

  ‘We don’t understand it either, so we were hoping you could tell us more about her.’

  ‘All right. Yes. I will try.’

  ‘You said she lived alone. No husband or children?’

  ‘No. Nothing. Wait! She has dog. Trudy. Did you find her?’ His eyes flicker in mild panic between the two detectives.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr Demidov. We found the dog. She’s perfectly safe.’

  Demidov relaxes a little. ‘Mary, she loves animals. She gave money to them.’

  ‘I’m not sure what you . . . She gave them money?’

  ‘Yes. Animals charity, you know? RPCSA, or something like this.’

  ‘I see. But other than the dog, nobody else lives in Flat 1?’

  ‘No. Nobody. She likes to be alone. She loves her dog. That is enough for her. But still she is kind to me.’

  ‘When did you last see her?’

  ‘Today! I see her when I come back from doing shopp
ing. She is going out with Trudy. This is normal for her, you understand? I do not think this is last time I will see her. Oh, my God.’

  ‘Please,’ says Cody. ‘Try to stay calm. Just a few more questions, okay?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. What was Mary wearing when you saw her earlier?’

  Demidov brings his fingers to his temples in concentration. ‘I think maybe long brown coat. And – how you say . . .’ He makes a circular wrapping motion around his neck.

  ‘A scarf?’

  ‘Yes. Scarf. Many colours. That is all I remember.’

  ‘That’s very helpful,’ says Cody. ‘Thank you.’

  The description matches what the victim was wearing. Long brown coat and tartan scarf. Worth checking. Cody would hate to discover later that the corpse is that of a completely different woman, even though the dog was sitting next to it. It’s an unlikely possibility, but he has known of worse blunders in the past.

  He says, ‘Tell me more about Mary. Did she have any close friends? A boyfriend? Any family?’

  Demidov shakes his head. ‘I do not know this. There is a man. Sometimes he comes here. But I do not think he is boyfriend.’

  ‘Do you know who he is?’

  ‘No. I have not seen him. I have only heard man’s voice in her apartment.’

  ‘How often does this man come here?’

  ‘I do not know. Maybe not many times.’

  ‘Okay. What about Mary’s job? Do you know where she worked?’

  ‘Yes. Mary is schoolteacher.’

  ‘Do you know which school?’

  ‘I forget name. It is in Wall-ton, I think. Girls only are allowed.’

  ‘Walton? Oakdale Girls?’

  Demidov stabs the air with his finger. ‘Yes. Oakdale. That is right. She teaches religion. She is very religious woman.’ He frowns before correcting himself: ‘Was. She was religious woman.’

  Ferguson jumps in at this point. With both feet. ‘But nobody’s perfect, right? I mean, she must have had some vices.’

  ‘Vices?’ says Demidov. ‘Explain, please.’

  ‘Well, some people drink too much or take drugs. Some gamble or have wild orgies or—’

  Demidov looks as though he’s about to go into apoplectic shock. He straightens his spine, digs his fingers into the arms of the chair. ‘No! Mary would not do any of those things. She is good woman always. Church woman.’