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

by David Jackson

  And so here she is now. At the home of the Major Incident Team. Wearing her ‘white hat’ with pride, and about to take the next step in proving to her colleagues precisely what that signifies.

  She studies the police officers with detached scientific interest from the back of the room. She is fascinated by the interplay, the dynamics, the body language.

  She thinks that DCI Blunt has superb leadership qualities. Her word is absolute. Nobody dares defy her. Save perhaps for Sergeant Cody, but then there’s an oddness to that relationship that Grace hasn’t yet figured out. Blunt grants him a leeway that isn’t afforded the others, and Grace is sure it isn’t just because of his rank.

  There’s a peculiarity in Cody’s relationship with DC Webley, too, Grace has noticed. A history that goes beyond being mere teammates.

  Yes, he’s an interesting one, is Cody. Grace noticed how much attention he was paying her when she was putting on her little show this morning. She doesn’t for one moment think it’s anything remotely connected to her appearance – that would be ridiculous – but could he have been just a little bit in admiration of her intelligence? He’s certainly more erudite than most police officers she has encountered. She has even seen him reading classic novels on his lunch break. Whatever next?

  Well, okay, DS Cody. Let’s see how you react this time . . .

  She listens to Blunt describing the outcome of the Superintendent’s televised appeal for witnesses. Waits for her to make a final request for updates from her own small audience. And then Grace raises her hand. Adds a cough for good measure.

  She notes with satisfaction the look of surprise on Blunt’s face.

  ‘Grace? You’ve got something to add?’

  Grace lowers her hand as she rises from her seat, unaware that the synchronised actions make it appear as though she is lifting herself in the air with an invisible pulley.

  ‘Yes.’ She points to the front of the room. ‘May I?’

  A suggestion of a smile from Blunt. ‘Be my guest.’

  Grace grabs her remote control and threads her way between the desks. She feels the eyes on her again. Thinks it’s the closest she’ll ever get to being on a catwalk.

  She halts alongside the flat-screen TV. Thumbs a button on the remote. The first video frame of the killer walking up towards the cathedral appears.

  ‘In its raw form, this video doesn’t tell us a lot about the killer. The camera never zoomed in on the target, and most of the video is distorted by snow on the camera and in the air.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Blunt, ‘but I’m sure you haven’t taken the witness box just to point out how little we know about the murderer.’

  ‘No,’ says Grace. Here goes, she thinks. Time to blind them with science.

  Another button press. The video begins rolling. A few seconds later, the form of the killer is overlaid with a set of rectangles, turning him into a crude cartoon version, while dotted lines shoot out from the figure and highlight nearby geographical features as he moves. Down the right-hand side of the display, a panel containing an array of numbers is updating constantly.

  ‘What the hell is that?’ says Blunt.

  ‘The rectangles on the killer’s body are there to help the computer analyse his gait.’

  ‘His what?’ says one of the detectives.

  ‘His gait. His way of walking. The numbers on the right here can tell us whether he has a limp or other unusual characteristic in the way he moves around.’

  ‘And does he?’ Blunt asks.

  ‘No. Nothing significant. It does tell us he’s almost certainly male, though. The probability score is nearly ninety-eight per cent on that. Even a woman trying to walk like a man to throw us off the scent would find it difficult to get near that score, especially when faced with unsteady terrain such as thick snow on the ground.’

  Unable to resist the opportunity, Ferguson says, ‘Can I get a copy of that software? I’ve had a few near misses in nightclubs recently.’

  He gets a laugh from most, a look of contempt from Blunt.

  ‘What are all those dotted lines?’

  ‘I was coming to that. The computer is comparing heights with surrounding objects. Which isn’t as straightforward as you might think. It has to allow for the foreshortening caused by the downward angle of the camera, and also the perspective created by things being in different planes.’

  ‘How do you know the heights of the other objects?’

  Grace smiles. ‘I went out and measured them in my lunch break.’

  Raised eyebrows again from Blunt. ‘So what does all this tell us?’

  ‘That he was certainly no shorter than five-eight and no taller than six foot. And that’s being conservative. A good bet would be that he’s between five-nine and five-eleven.’

  ‘Rules me out, then,’ says Ferguson.

  ‘Yes,’ says Grace. ‘To be honest, I was hoping it would rule out a lot more. If we knew our killer was less than five feet tall, for example . . .’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Ferguson. ‘Those killer dwarfs are a menace.’

  ‘All right,’ says Blunt. ‘This is excellent work, Grace. We know a lot more than we did before, so thank you for that.’ She turns to the squad. ‘Now, if there are any other—’

  ‘There’s more,’ says Grace.

  ‘More?’ says Blunt, as though she’s the beadle being asked by Oliver Twist for some extra gruel.

  Grace clicks again, back to the magnified view of the killer. It’s just a dark blurry mess, recognisable as a person but nothing beyond that.

  ‘As you can see, there’s no discernible detail here, and the more we zoom in, the more pixilated it will become. Other still images in the video share the same problem. There’s nothing to enhance in an image because the detail simply isn’t present.’

  ‘So if it’s not there . . .’ Blunt says.

  ‘Well, it’s not there in a single image. But this is a video, remember. There are lots of images of this guy, all with slightly varying pieces of information about him. What I’ve done is to bring all those different pieces of data together to form one composite image that is better quality than any of the individual frames. This is what you get . . .’

  Another click, another view. She notices Sergeant Cody leaning forward at his desk, squinting to see the differences.

  ‘I know,’ she says to him. ‘It’s hardly earth-shattering. But take a look here . . .’

  She points to a six-inch diagonal grey line high on the sleeve, then another where the killer’s hand is thrust into his pocket.

  ‘I think those are zips,’ says Grace. ‘A lighter coloured material has been used for contrast where the zips are present. And if you look here too . . .’ She traces her finger along the figure’s neck, where the hood joins the body of the coat. ‘More contrast stitching.’

  Cody continues the line of thinking: ‘So if we find a suspect who has a coat exactly like that . . .’

  ‘I might be able to help you there,’ says Grace.

  She thumbs the remote again. The dark fuzziness is instantly replaced by the gaudy brightness and colour of a website. And in the middle of the web page is an image of a coat exactly like the one the killer was wearing – contrast stitching and all.

  ‘I tracked it down. It’s made by a company called FirmWear, and there are only half a dozen outlets for their clothes on Merseyside.’

  Blunt becomes suddenly animated. She points at one of her detectives. ‘Get on it. Contact the shops. Get hold of any information you can about sales of this coat.’ She turns back to Grace. ‘This could be really valuable information. Thank you again for—’ Her expression suddenly changes. ‘You’re still not done, are you?’

  ‘Not quite,’ says Grace. ‘If that’s okay.’

  She hears the muted sniggers from the audience. But she knows they’re not mocking her. They are lapping this up. They are actually rooting for her.

  ‘The mic’s all yours,’ says Blunt. ‘Sing away.�
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  ‘Well, this is more of an announcement of work in progress, really. I’ve been going through some of the CCTV footage from around the cathedral. I don’t think we’ll get anything useful from the recordings of last night, because the conditions were too awful, but on other days the cameras have picked up some really clear pictures. Anyway, there’s a heck of a lot of video, so to speed things up I’ve automated the search using facial-recognition techniques.’

  She sees the blank look from Blunt. ‘I’m not sure I . . .’

  ‘Basically, I feed in a digital image of a face, and the software searches for it in the video files.’

  ‘I don’t see how that helps. We don’t know what the killer—’

  ‘No, but we can look for anyone who we think might be connected with this case. For example, I gave it the photo of Mary that was found in her flat.’

  She turns her attention to the TV screen again. All eyes follow her lead.

  The view this time is of the cathedral’s main doors. It’s daylight, and people are filtering out of the exit.

  ‘There,’ says Grace. The video pauses, then zooms in on the figures. A red ring appears around one of them.

  ‘That’s Mary, coming out of the cathedral last Sunday morning. She may appear in other footage too – I haven’t got that far yet. The point is, I can get the software to search for anyone. If you’ve got a suspect, I can scan his photo and look for him in these videos. If we can use that to break his alibi, or perhaps to make a connection between him and Mary in some way . . .’

  Grace allows her voice to trail away, leaving the ramifications of her work percolating through the minds of her onlookers.

  It’s good, solid stuff. She knows it is. But do they know it? Or is it all just techie mumbo-jumbo to them? Are they thinking, Yeah, this is all well and good, but it’s not real police work, is it? Has all this effort been a waste?

  But then DS Cody breaks the silence: ‘That’s pretty bloody cool.’ And the nods and murmurs from everyone else in the room tell Grace that she has done it. She has made her presence felt.

  Blunt says to her, ‘And you did all this in one day?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Blunt turns to her squad. ‘This is the kind of progress I like to see. Work with Grace. Go to her with any intel you find. You just never know what she might be able to do with it.’

  End of show. The curtains come down. Grace steps out of the spotlight.

  And it’s as if the blood rush in her ears is a huge and enthusiastic round of applause.

  11

  This is lovely, Megan Webley tells herself.

  Sunday night in a smart Italian restaurant with my fiancé – what could be more perfect than this? Sparkling Prosecco, sparkling conversation, sparkling eyes of the man I love – everything so damn twinkly it’s like being a princess.

  So why does it feel like it has all been smeared with excrement?

  You want to know why? I’ll tell you why. It’s because of an arsehole called Nathan Cody. The man who seems determined to disrupt my life, to the extent that I’d be overjoyed if he disappeared from it for ever.

  ‘More wine?’

  She finds a smile for Parker, because he deserves nothing less. Nods at him to refill her glass. She’s in the mood for getting hammered tonight. Feels like getting pissed and then giving Cody a piece of her mind.

  Except that Cody’s not here. He’s not here physically and he shouldn’t be here in your mind either. Forget about that no-mark. Concentrate on enjoying yourself.

  ‘Busy at the hotel today?’ she asks.

  Parker is a hotel manager. She doesn’t really know what that involves, but she does know it can be stressful at times.

  ‘Not too bad. Had a weird woman in last night, though. She wanted one of the staff to come into her room and read a bedtime story to her.’

  Webley laughs. ‘Is that all she wanted?’

  ‘I don’t know. I got to the end of the first chapter of a Paddington Bear book and then I fell asleep.’

  She laughs again. She likes Parker’s sense of humour. An ability to put a smile on her face comes high on her list of desirable attributes in a man. Cody could do with some lessons in that regard. She doesn’t know what effect he’s hoping to achieve with his bizarre behaviour, but it’s certainly not tickling her funny bone.

  ‘Anyway,’ says Parker, ‘what’s more important is how your day went. First day back, and all.’

  She goes to sip her wine. Decides on a long swig instead.

  ‘Yeah, it was okay,’ she says.

  ‘Just okay? I thought you were really looking forward to it.’

  ‘I was. I just . . . Never mind. I think I expected too much.’

  ‘They didn’t make a fuss of you?’

  ‘It’s not that. I got a great reception. Everyone was really pleased to see me.’

  Everyone except Cody, that is.

  ‘Okay. So . . . What’s the problem?’

  ‘Nothing. It . . . If you must know, it’s Cody.’

  ‘Oh. Him.’

  She expects this from Parker. The two don’t even know each other, but what Parker does know is that Cody used to be her boyfriend. He also knows that she tried to help Cody through his problems, and he made it all too clear at the time that he wasn’t happy about it.

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Him.’

  ‘What’s he doing now? Does he keep asking you to tie his shoelaces for him? Drive him to the zoo?’

  This is the less funny side of Parker. He exhibits a cruel streak sometimes.

  ‘He’s not a bloody inmate. I told you, he’s been suffering from some kind of stress disorder. He went through a lot.’

  ‘You’ve been through a lot too, and you’re not a basket case. Or are you about to tell me you’ve boiled my pet rabbit?’

  ‘You don’t have a pet rabbit.’

  Parker pretends he’s about to burst into tears. ‘Is this how you break it to me? All these years with little Fluffy, and you—’

  ‘Stop it, you idiot. Anyway, let’s change the subject. I don’t want to talk about work.’

  ‘That’s fine. What would you like for Christmas?’

  This takes her by surprise. Parker seems far too keen to go along with her idea of dropping the subject of Cody.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Christmas. When people give each other presents. What would you like?’

  ‘I . . . I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.’

  ‘Then you’d better get your skates on. I’d like a new watch, if you’re asking.’

  ‘A new watch? Er, right. Okay.’

  She glances at the one he’s wearing. Parker has expensive tastes.

  ‘I’ll put some money towards it,’ he says, as though reading her mind.

  This annoys her, and she knows it shouldn’t. He’s trying to be helpful, practical, and she’s taking it as though it’s an insult.

  I can’t help it if I’m on an average wage, she thinks. And I don’t have rich parents, either. I’m doing the best I can with what I have. And if that’s not—

  No. It’s not about that, is it? You’re still thinking about Cody. That’s what’s got your back up.

  ‘Arsehole,’ she says.

  Parker splutters into his wine glass. ‘What? Charming!’

  ‘Sorry. Not you. Cody. He’s acting like a complete arsehole.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t want to talk about work?’

  ‘This isn’t about work. It’s about a person I work with, which isn’t the same thing.’

  ‘So he’s being an arsehole. Can’t you just stay out of his way?’

  ‘No. No, I can’t. He sits a few feet away from me. We work on the same cases together. We drive around in the same car together. Plus, he’s my sergeant. He can tell me what to do. I can’t just ignore him.’

  Parker leans forward in his chair. Takes her hand in his. ‘What, exactly, is he doing? Is it something you need to report to his su
periors? If he’s doing something which is inappropriate . . .’

  She thinks about this. Yes, what exactly is Cody doing? Is he really being an arsehole, or is he just trying to keep their relationship on an even, professional footing? Why should she expect him to act differently? What more does she want from him?

  More importantly, why hasn’t she told the full truth of it to Parker?

  She remembers the moment vividly. On that cold, grey roof. Cody offering himself as hostage in exchange for her. His life for hers.

  Nobody has ever done that for her before. It’s not Parker’s fault, of course. That would be ridiculous. How many times do you find yourself caught up in a life-threatening situation anyway?

  But it’s not quite what she told Parker. She told him that the exchange was the hostage-taker’s decision – that it was out of Cody’s hands. Seemed preferable, somehow. Safer, for all concerned.

  But it doesn’t seem right that she’s withholding it from him. They are engaged. They are going to be married one day. And already she is deceiving him.

  What does that say about their relationship? What does it say about her?

  ‘It’s nothing inappropriate,’ she says. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’m sure it will all work out.’

  She clutches his hand tightly. Smiles reassuringly.

  ‘Tell me what kind of watch you’d like.’

  12

  Cody spends a long time staring at the phone in his hand. He has the contacts open at ‘Devon’. Which is not Devon the place – he tends not to put entire counties in his phone book – but Devon the person. More specifically, Devon the woman who used to be his fiancée.

  Of course, that was before he tried to kill her.

  Well, he didn’t exactly try to kill her, Your Honour: he wasn’t responsible for his actions at the time. He woke up in the middle of the night and put his hands around her throat. Thought she was a clown, you see. No, he doesn’t make a habit of assassinating such makers of mirth and merriment, but this particular clown . . . well, it’s a long story.

  He doesn’t blame Devon for deciding to call it a day after that episode, which was the culmination of a long period of erratic behaviour on Cody’s part. She wanted him to do something about his illness – the ‘something’ meaning seeking psychiatric help. Knowing that such an act would lead to a change in his police duties – probably flying a desk in a dusty back room somewhere – he rejected her ultimatum. After that their relationship was doomed.