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

by David Jackson

  He misses her terribly.

  What makes it worse is that Christmas is drawing near. He would like to buy her a present. He would like to take her to see a Christmas movie. He would like to go shopping with her. He would like to decorate a tree with her while they eat mince pies and listen to carols. That’s what they do together at this time of year. Removing all that just isn’t right.

  It’s not as if he has a half-decent alternative. Enjoying the festivities with his family is out of the question. He’d be lucky to get through the front door, let alone get a sniff of the turkey. His dad somehow forgets the true meaning of Christmas when it comes to Cody. Cody’s brother, meanwhile – the one who makes his money from activities the legality of which Cody can only guess at – will enjoy pride of place at the table. Funny how that works.

  So it’s starting to look like Christmas on his own, then. That’ll be fun. At least he’ll be sure of getting the gift when he pulls a cracker with himself. Yup, there’s always a silver lining.

  He doesn’t want to spend Christmas by himself. Doesn’t want to exploit the charitable nature of others, either. Footlong, for example, would be more than happy to invite him over for Christmas dinner. But Cody isn’t going to tell him about his predicament.

  He continues staring at the name on his phone. Wonders what he could say to her. He’s not planning to suggest they spend a lot of time together. Doesn’t even have to be on Christmas Day, although that would be nice. He would just like to see her for a few precious hours. Exchange gifts, have a glass of wine or a cup of tea. Something, damn it, to take away this dread of being alone and miserable. Something to convince him that Christmas really does bring ‘Joy to the World’.

  But she’s not going to agree to that. She has made it plain that she doesn’t want to spend time with him unless he does something about getting his head back into shape.

  And yet that is happening, isn’t it? Not through his own doings, admittedly, but still . . .

  He contemplates telling her about the phone calls. Telling her about his inkling that this is the start of something big. Of something that could be the solution to all his problems.

  But she won’t fall for that, either. Why should she? It sounds bloody stupid. He can’t even rationalise it to himself. All he knows is how much more in touch with the world these phone calls have made him feel, but he can’t explain why.

  Besides, he’s not convinced he wants to let anybody else know about the calls. Unscientific it may be, but he has the uneasy feeling that talking about them will jinx them. They’ll just stop, permanently, and when his mind accepts the truth of that, it will step back off the minimal safety ledge holding it above the quagmire of insanity.

  And then Cody decides he’s thinking about this too much. Analysing it too deeply.

  Go ahead. Call her. You were engaged to the girl. She knows you better than anyone else in the world. She’ll understand how to talk to you, even though you don’t know what to say. Above all, you still love her. Isn’t that reason enough to just press the frigging call button?

  He presses the call button.

  He hears the ringtone. Feels his pulse racing. Don’t fuck this up, he thinks.

  The ringtone goes on for ever.

  And then he hears a click, and he is almost on the verge of babbling like a teenager on his first date, and he hears a voice saying hello.

  But it is not Devon’s voice.

  It is the pre-recorded message of the answering service.

  He loses his nerve then. Ends the call without uttering a word. He doesn’t want to deliver a monologue to empty space. He needs to know she’s there while he talks. Needs to know how his message is being received and interpreted as he delivers it, so he can mould it if necessary, tailor it to her mood.

  Crap. He really doesn’t want to go through this angst again, just to make a stupid phone call that will probably do nothing but depress him. Where is she at this time of night anyway? Not that it’s any of his business what she does with her time. Maybe she took one look at the caller ID and decided she didn’t want the hassle of dealing with him. Not the most welcome of thoughts, but better than thinking she’s out on the town with another guy.

  Sod this, he thinks. I should go to bed. Another busy day tomorrow. Another day of dealing with the other woman complicating my life.

  He gets up from the sofa. Wanders over to one of the huge windows. Much of the snow outside has gone, but it’s still piled up on his windowsill and on roofs across the street and on the edges of the pavements below. It has turned to that hard, icy snow, rather than the soft, fluffy stuff. Makes him shiver just to look at it. And these original, single-glazed sash windows don’t help matters. He can hear the frames rattling slightly, the wind whistling through them. He can feel the faint draught on his cheek. Yes, definitely time for snuggling up under a thick duvet.

  The phone rings.

  Devon, he thinks. She has checked her phone. Seen that she has a missed call. She wants to talk.

  He bounds across the room. Finds the phone where he left it on the sofa. He grabs it and answers the call before she changes her mind.

  ‘Devon?’

  Silence.

  And then he realises. It’s his mysterious caller again.

  What does he get out of this? What is he hoping to achieve?

  ‘Talk to me,’ says Cody.

  He expects nothing. He has tried initiating conversation on numerous occasions, but it never works.

  ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Talk to me. Tell me what’s on your mind. Tell me about . . . tell me about the clowns.’

  He has never asked this before. Never been so specific about the events of the worst day of his life. He’s not even sure why he’s bringing it up now. But somehow it seems appropriate. The time seems right.

  And then he hears it.

  The music.

  It’s tinny. Mechanical. As though from an old-fashioned musical box or a wind-up toy.

  Half a pound of tuppenny rice, Half a pound of treacle . . .

  Cody hears the words in his head as the tune continues.

  That’s the way the money goes, Pop! goes the weasel.

  And then it starts from the beginning again. Slightly faster now.

  Half a pound of tuppenny rice . . .

  Cody hears it through to the end. Listens to it play again, and again. Each time faster than the last, until it sounds as though the toy could break or burst into flames with the abuse.

  The halt is abrupt, the ensuing silence more pronounced after that cacophony.

  But the caller hasn’t quite finished yet.

  A voice. For the first time in these calls, a voice that is not Cody’s own. He doesn’t know whether it is talking in real time, or if it’s recorded, or if it has been generated by a computer, or disguised by some electronic device, or even if it belongs to the caller. But at least it’s a voice.

  It has a sing-song quality to it, but disturbing rather than cheerful. The voice of Jack Nicholson saying ‘Here’s Johnny’ in The Shining. Or the voice of the Child Catcher in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. A voice to bring the frost into the very heart of this old room and chill Cody’s bones.

  He will hear this voice in his head for a long time. More than that, he will hear the words. He will study them, turn them upside down and back to front for their meaning. Wonder what terrors they promise for him, but also what understanding they might presage.

  Four simple words that act as a door into a whole new world of the unknown:

  ‘Nearly time to play.’

  13

  The name of the headmistress is Corinne Laplace, which to Cody sounds as though it should belong to a movie star. He wonders if her husband is French. Wonders, too, how many times people read her name and pronounce it like the two English words ‘lap lace’.

  She is tall and slim and refined. Cody imagines that she puts her little finger out when she drinks tea. He thinks she is probably one of those people wh
o is older than she looks. He guesses at fifty, but she could pass for forty. Her accent is neutral, her vocabulary extensive.

  Next to her sits the deputy head. Tony Beamish. Mid-thirties. Smart suit and neatly cropped beard. Traces of a Scouse accent that he tries to suppress. Acts as though he thinks he’s on the same level as Mrs Laplace, but doesn’t quite have the savoir faire to pull it off.

  They are in the head’s office. It’s early in the morning – before the bell for school assembly. Makes no difference to Cody: he wasn’t getting any sleep anyway. He’s not sure whether he’ll ever manage to sleep again after that phone call.

  ‘This is awful,’ says Mrs Laplace.

  ‘Terrible,’ says Beamish. ‘Dreadful.’

  ‘Mary was so kind. So gentle.’

  ‘A wonderful woman.’

  ‘Why would anyone want to hurt her?’

  ‘Doesn’t make sense.’

  Cody believes that Mrs Laplace is genuinely upset. His opinion of Beamish, on the other hand, is that he is going through the motions, more concerned with pleasing his boss than expressing his own thoughts.

  ‘That’s exactly what we need to find out,’ says Blunt. ‘And since the school was obviously a key part of her life, I’m sure you can understand why we need to talk to everyone here.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ says Mrs Laplace.

  ‘Naturally,’ says Beamish.

  ‘But I would hope,’ says Mrs Laplace, ‘that we can conduct this in a way that isn’t going to traumatise any of the girls in the school. Some of them are already quite upset by the news of Mary’s death.’

  ‘We have to put the welfare of the students first,’ says Beamish.

  ‘Absolutely,’ says Blunt. ‘Our aim is not to shock anyone. I don’t intend to go into detail about the murder, and I’m certainly not going to describe the crime scene. You have my word on that.’

  Mrs Laplace nods, apparently satisfied. Catching sight of her gesture of approval, Beamish nods too.

  ‘Tell me about Mary,’ says Blunt. ‘Was she a good teacher?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Mrs Laplace. ‘Very good. She came to us from Abbotsleigh Primary, with outstanding letters of recommendation. She could be quite strict with the girls, but I think they respected her for that.’

  ‘How strict? Strict enough to make someone hate her?’

  Mrs Laplace blinks in surprise. ‘Surely you are not suggesting—?’

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything at the moment. These are questions I have to ask. If a pupil bore a grudge, perhaps, or a girl’s parents . . .’

  ‘No, I don’t think there was anything like that. I never received a single formal complaint against Mary. She was firm but fair. Everyone, the students included, knew that and accepted it.’

  ‘All right. No formal complaints. But what about informally? Any rumours that someone might have threatened Mary, or wanted to hurt her?’

  Cody can see that Mrs Laplace is starting to become irritated by this line of questioning.

  She says, ‘I don’t know what kind of school you think we run here. This isn’t St Trinian’s. Our girls don’t walk around with flick knives and betting slips.’

  ‘They’re good students,’ says Beamish. ‘Like any school, Oakdale has its difficult cases, but I think we’d know if we had any murderers in our classrooms.’

  Which is just the problem, thinks Cody. People have this idea that murderers are easy to spot in a crowd, when often it’s the least likely ones who go on to kill.

  ‘So, as far as you know,’ says Blunt, ‘Mary had no enemies. She never fell out with anyone? Never had any arguments with another member of staff?’

  ‘Hard though it might be to believe,’ says Mrs Laplace, ‘I can honestly say that the answer is no. Mary did not get into fights of any kind. And again, I hope you’re not thinking that one of our staff may have had anything to do with this.’

  Cody knows that his boss is thinking along precisely those lines. At least, she is not ruling out the possibility. There is a fundamental ABC of police detective work: Assume nothing, Believe nobody, Challenge everything. Until such time as every staff member in this school can be ruled out, they are all potential suspects.

  Says Blunt, ‘I’m just trying to build a picture of Mary and the life she led. What nearly everyone seems to be telling us is that she was in line for a sainthood. And yet somebody hated her with a passion. I promised I wouldn’t go into detail, but believe me, what was done to her could not have been more vicious. Now why would that be? How do those things fit together? If we are to have any hope of catching her killer, we need to answer those questions.’

  Cody sees the discomfort in the headmistress. She shifts uneasily in her seat. Her hand toys with her necklace. Cody guesses her mind is conjuring up images of a beaten and battered Mary, and trying to come to terms with that.

  ‘I-I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I hadn’t realised it was as . . . as violent as that. I thought . . . Well, I don’t know what I thought. But this . . . It makes it worse somehow.’

  ‘Murder is never easy to deal with,’ says Blunt. ‘It’s the ultimate act of aggression. That’s why we take it so seriously.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I can see that. Please, ask us whatever you need to.’

  ‘Anything at all,’ says Beamish, causing Cody to think about throwing a cloth over this parrot of a man.

  ‘All right,’ says Blunt. ‘Then tell us about Mary’s personal life. What did she get up to in her spare time? Did she have any friends?’

  Mrs Laplace looks at Beamish, who shrugs, then back at the detectives.

  ‘To be perfectly honest, I don’t think any of us knew her well enough to comment on that. Mary was dedicated to the school. She was always one of the first in, and usually the last to leave. As the head, I work pretty long hours myself, but Mary could put me to shame.’

  ‘And outside of school?’

  ‘I don’t really know. She was very religious, and I think she devoted a lot of time to that. I understand she did a lot of work for charity, too, especially the RSPCA. She got involved in various fundraising events . . .’

  ‘What about friends?’

  Mrs Laplace thinks about this one, then shakes her head. ‘I can’t say I ever met any. Not that I can remember, anyway.’

  ‘Were you her friend?’

  ‘Me? Well, I . . . I wouldn’t say friend, exactly. A colleague, certainly. And we had many chats together, but I don’t know whether—’

  ‘Ever see her outside school?’

  ‘Well . . . We never met up to socialise or anything, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean. Did you see her outside school or not?’

  ‘No. Yes. I took her home sometimes. She didn’t drive. Relied on public transport. Occasionally, when she worked late and left the building at the same time as me, I would offer her a lift back to her flat.’

  ‘How often was that?’

  ‘Not very. As I say, it was occasional. Is it important?’

  ‘Did you ever go into the flat with her?’

  ‘Yes. Sometimes I’d have a quick cup of tea. I’m sorry, but is this really—?’

  ‘But you wouldn’t class her as a friend?’

  ‘No. We had very little in common. I don’t think we discussed anything other than work.’

  Cody finds it interesting that Mrs Laplace seems extraordinarily keen to distance herself from Mary. He wonders whether Beamish is going to ape her in that regard too.

  He decides to test it out.

  ‘And you, Mr Beamish,’ he says. ‘How would you class your relationship with her?’

  Beamish seems a little thrown by the question. ‘What? How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, did you think of her as a friend?’

  ‘We . . . we were friendly enough to each other on school premises, if that’s what you’re getting at. But nothing beyond that.’

  ‘Ever go into her flat?’

 
; ‘Good God, no.’

  Beamish sees the raised eyebrows before him and adds a hasty follow-up: ‘I mean, we weren’t as close as that. We had totally different interests, different outlooks on life. There was never any reason for our private lives to overlap.’

  ‘What about the other male teachers here?’

  Beamish gives him a mystified look.

  Cody says, ‘One of Mary’s neighbours told us that she occasionally had a male visitor. We were wondering if it might be someone she worked with. Do you know of anyone it might have been?’

  Beamish and Mrs Laplace exchange glances, and it’s not clear to Cody that he’s going to be supplied with an answer.

  But then Beamish says, ‘Possibly Andy. Andy Puckleton. He’s one of our maths teachers. As far as our staff go, I’d say he was the closest to Mary.’

  ‘Close in what way? Romantically?’

  A snort from Beamish. ‘I doubt it. I don’t think either of them could have—’ He stops himself, then, as though realising he was about to make an inappropriate joke. ‘What I mean is, I think their mutual interests went beyond the physical.’ He casts his gaze upwards towards the heavens.

  Cody finds himself looking that way himself. He doesn’t expect to find any answers there.

  *

  No divine revelations are inscribed on the ceiling of the assembly hall either.

  As a pupil, Cody never could concentrate during school assembly, and this one is little different, despite the seriousness of the subject matter being discussed.

  Mrs Laplace controls the proceedings. She stands at the front of the stage, while Cody sits behind her, alongside Blunt. Webley and the other detectives have already begun interviewing members of staff.

  The hall is huge, with additional seating in a gallery at the rear, but even so it has been difficult to cram every pupil into it. They sit listening in rapt attention, some of them already visibly distressed. Mrs Laplace begins by confirming what the girls already know, and doing her best to scotch any rumours based on what they don’t know. She moves on to deliver a short eulogy for Mary Cowper, during which some of the girls become even more upset.