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

by David Jackson

  ‘What’s for dessert?’ he asks.

  ‘Is that a yes?’

  He smiles. ‘It better be chocolate fudge cake, now that you owe me.’

  She leaps out of her chair. Throws her arms around her fiancé. Tells him she loves him more than anything in the whole world.

  Now all she has to do is to get Cody to agree.

  23

  The call comes at just after one in the morning.

  Instantly awake, Cody sits bolt upright in bed. He fumbles for the switch of his bedside lamp. Turns it on. Blinks in the brightness as he grabs the phone from its cradle.

  ‘Hello?’

  He doesn’t know what to expect. Not any more. The game has changed so much recently.

  But it seems this is a retrograde step. We’re back to the silent treatment.

  Cody listens intently. Hears only his own pulse in his ears.

  Am I expected to say something? he wonders.

  Nearly time to play.

  But what are the rules? Am I supposed to make the first move? How do I do that?

  ‘What is it you want?’ he asks.

  Silence.

  ‘Maybe if you told me why you keep calling me, we could move this on.’

  Nothing.

  ‘You were there, weren’t you? At the warehouse. Were you one of the clowns?’

  Click. And then a hum of electronic indifference.

  Cody replaces the receiver. He doesn’t know whether he has done the right thing, but the last occasion on which he asked directly about clowns appeared to set things in motion. It seemed only sensible to press harder on that line of questioning.

  Did I push too hard? he wonders. Was that not the right move?

  He considers this for a long time, then turns his lamp off and settles down in the bed. He suspects that sleep will elude him now, but he will make an attempt to hunt it down.

  The next call comes at 3.15. Cody isn’t sure whether he dozed off again or not. He knows only that his head is filled with confused, abstract thoughts, and for a moment he isn’t even certain whether the ringing noise is real or imagined.

  As he comes to his senses, he finds himself angry at this latest intrusion, and is tempted to let the phone go unanswered. How dare they play games with him? How dare they mess with his sleep patterns and his emotions and his life? Well, fuck ’em. They can go to hell.

  But he puts the lamp on and answers the call anyway, as he always knew he would.

  ‘Hello,’ he says. ‘Hello? He—’

  The music cuts him off. The jack-in-the-box again. Pop! Goes the Weasel.

  As before, it plays on repeat, each time faster than the last. It becomes a frenzy of tinny notes. And then . . .

  The eerie, sing-song voice. But now a slightly different message:

  ‘Time to pla-aay.’

  And then the line goes dead again. Cody brings the receiver from his ear. Stares at it as if attempting to divine the meaning of the cryptic message it has delivered to him.

  What the hell?

  The game has started? How? What am I supposed—?

  A loud buzz startles him. The intercom, out in the hall.

  Cody leaps from the bed. Strides out of the room. In the hallway he switches on the light and then goes to the intercom console. He thumbs the talk button.

  ‘Hello? Who is it?’

  The reply is instant. But it’s not intelligible speech. This is far more terrifying.

  The scream reverberates around the hall, chilling Cody’s blood. He recognises this scream. Knows exactly the pleading and crying and more screaming that is to follow.

  This is his voice. This is a recording of him when he was being tortured. When his toes were being snipped from his body. It has been played to him before, over the telephone. But now it’s here.

  At his door.

  The realisation hits Cody with the force of a thousand volts.

  He’s here. My attacker is here!

  Cody is suddenly wracked with indecision. He can’t unlock the door – can’t allow whoever is out there to come in. What if there is more than one of them? What if they are here to torture and maim him again? What if their objective this time is to finish off what they started?

  But, at the same time, he cannot simply do nothing. He needs to know.

  And then he is running. Back into the bedroom first, where he picks up his extensible police baton from the bedside table. And then down the stairs, two at a time – flying down those stairs. His momentum carries him crashing into the door to his flat on the first floor of the building. He fumbles for the key. Unlocks the door. Out into a dark hallway. Find the light! Then down more stairs and more stairs – why do there have to be so many fucking stairs? – and then he is in the lobby, racing for the front door, on the other side of which is . . . what? Who is out there?

  But he can’t worry about that. Not now. It’s too late to back out. He doesn’t care about his safety any longer. Everything in the past few months has been building towards this moment. He has to face it. Has to find out.

  And then he’s unlocking the huge front door. Flinging it open as he raises his baton, ready to strike at whatever hateful apparition is waiting for him – come on, you fucking clown bastards, come and get it!

  And then he’s staring into space. The cold emptiness of a deserted city street. There is nobody here.

  Panting for breath, Cody steps outside. Looks both ways along Rodney Street. The street lights reveal no figures, no moving cars. Whoever was here has pulled night around himself and disappeared.

  The icy fingers of winter clutch at Cody, providing him with an uncomfortable reminder that he is wearing only shorts and a T-shirt. But still he is reluctant to retreat into the building. The answers are out here, defying him to find them. If he goes inside he will have given up; he will have resigned from a game that has only just begun.

  But when his body begins to shiver, he realises that standing here is fruitless.

  He turns and faces the building. Pictures a figure at the gloss-black door, pressing on the intercom buzzer. But the figure is fuzzy, indistinct. Cody’s brain can superimpose no recognisable features on it.

  Who was here? And why? What is he trying to tell me?

  Cody trudges back into the building. Closes the door after one final peek outside. Making a decision, he slides the chain into position – something he wouldn’t normally do because it stops the dentistry staff from getting in on his days off. The echoes of the rattling chain seem to him not unlike those heard in a prison cell block.

  It makes him wonder which is worse: allowing the sinister forces outside to pay him a visit, or incarcerating himself with only the ghosts of the house and his mind as cellmates.

  24

  To Cody, the day seems weird enough without Webley doing her utmost to make it weirder.

  Every time he raises his head from his computer, she looks across at him and throws him a smile. What is this? Be-nice-to-Cody day?

  He’d go over and ask her, but he has weightier things on his mind. The events of last night, for example.

  Now that was more than weird. That was downright surreal. That was how the Devil himself might play Postman’s Knock.

  Cody has replayed the episode in his brain thousands of times. Wondered on many of those iterations whether it was all the product of an overtired brain.

  Could he have imagined it? Is it possible that the intercom never buzzed in the night? That there was no screaming? That there never was anyone at the door?

  He has to admit it’s possible. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d had such vivid hallucinations.

  But no, he thinks. This was real. I’d stake my life on it. Someone came to my door and called me on the intercom and played my screams to me in the middle of the night.

  I was close. So close to finding out more.

  Maybe if I’d been just that little bit more decisive. If I’d run down those stairs a bit quicker, or raced along the street when I
got outside. Maybe the guy was just crouching behind a car, or hiding around the next corner. I should have gone a bit further, explored a bit more, instead of worrying about how cold it was. I mean, what kind of wimp am I? Why am I such a—?

  Damn.

  There I go again with the self-recrimination. I have to stop that. It is what it is. No point regretting it. Next time I’ll be better prepared.

  If there is a next time.

  What if that was it? What if that was my once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and I blew it?

  No. Can’t be. Whoever called last night was taking a big risk. Why go to all that trouble unless you intend it to be the start of something? There has to be more on the way.

  Which is more chilling than exciting.

  Cody needs there to be more. He needs there to be some kind of forward motion, some hope for closure. At the same time, he knows that what is to come isn’t going to be a barrel of laughs. Less of a funfair, and more of a freak show. There will be probably be clowns involved. Roll up, roll up, and have the shit scared out of you, folks. Our clowns have serrated teeth and bad breath and rotting flesh and a penchant for inflicting pain and death. Start ordering those catalogues for artificial limbs now, folks, because you’re gonna need them. Oh, and don’t expect your sanity to remain intact either. Because it won’t.

  Not quite the truth, perhaps. The reality is likely to be far, far worse.

  So that’s something to look forward to.

  *

  Webley grabs him as he goes on his lunch break.

  ‘Hi, Cody,’ she says. All bright and breezy.

  Cody eyes her with suspicion.

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Where ya going?’

  ‘It’s lunchtime. I was going to get some lunch.’

  She nods sagely. ‘Ah, lunch. Lunch is good. I think lunch is one of the best meals of the day.’

  Cody keeps walking, with Webley dogging his footsteps.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Of the many and varied meals that I have in a day, lunch is right up there in my top three.’

  ‘Really? What would come first? In a ranked list of those meals, which one would you put at the very top?’

  ‘I’d have to say breakfast.’

  ‘Not dinner?’

  ‘No. Definitely breakfast. It’s quick and it’s simple and there’s no palaver about it.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I think palaver is good. Meals should have a bit of palaver about them. They serve an important social function, don’t you think?’

  Cody halts so abruptly that Webley crashes into him.

  ‘Megan, what is this about?’

  ‘Meals. More specifically, dinner. You’re invited.’

  ‘I’m invited to dinner?’

  ‘Yes. You can RSVP here and now, but it has to be a yes.’

  ‘I need clarification first.’

  She nods. ‘You may ask for clarification.’

  ‘I’m invited to dinner. With you.’

  ‘Yes. Precisely. Now that we’ve cleared that up, if you’d just like to—’

  ‘What about Parker?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Parker. Your fiancé with the funny name. Does he know about this?’

  ‘He does. He has been consulted on every aspect of the planning.’

  ‘And what does he say about it?’

  ‘He is wholly in agreement that it should proceed.’

  ‘He is?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘And where are we having this dinner?’

  ‘My place. You probably don’t remember, but I’m a pretty good cook. I was thinking a roast. You okay for that? Or would you prefer fish? I do a fantastic—’

  ‘Wait. Slow down. We’re racing past the bits that need clarifying.’

  ‘We are? I don’t see how it could be made any—’

  ‘Parker. I want to clarify Parker’s role in this.’

  She glances up at the ceiling. ‘Hmm? What was that?’

  As evasive techniques go, it’s the worst. Things click into place in Cody’s mind.

  ‘This dinner. Who’ll be there?’

  ‘You. And me.’

  ‘And?’

  She stares at him for some time. Then her shoulders slump in resignation.

  ‘Okay, and Parker. But that’s it. Just the three of us.’

  ‘So let me get this straight. You’re inviting me to dinner with you and Parker. You want your ex-boyfriend to come to dinner with your fiancé.’

  ‘You’ve got it. Now about this RSVP . . .’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘God, Cody. Why are you making this so frigging complicated? Parker and I are inviting you to dinner because it’s a nice thing to do. That’s all you need to know.’

  ‘That implies there are other things I don’t need to know.’

  ‘No. That’s not what I meant. You’re reading far too much into this. I’m inviting you to dinner, not testing you to see if you’re suitable to join MI5. What’s the problem?’

  ‘The problem is that this is a sudden change of tune. I haven’t exactly been your flavour of the month.’

  She sighs. ‘No, you haven’t. But that’s because I’ve been selfish.’

  ‘Selfish? In what way?’

  ‘I expected you to act like everyone else. You know, when I was ill, I thought you might show up a few more times. Bring me grapes and shit. And when you didn’t, it really pissed me off. But you’re not like everyone else. You have your own issues going on. I should make allowances.’

  ‘I’m not disabled, Megan.’

  ‘No. I know you’re not. But I do think you need more friends around you. You need to get out more.’

  ‘This dinner – you’re not planning to turn it into some kind of therapy session, are you? I don’t want any touchy-feely nonsense.’

  Webley’s voice goes up a notch in both volume and pitch. ‘Look. How many more times? It’s dinner. Are you coming or not?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Whenever you like. No, on second thoughts, let’s pin you down. Sunday, seven o’clock. The best day for a roast. And don’t say you’ve got something else on, because you haven’t.’

  ‘Why do I feel like I’ve just been insulted? Okay, you’re on.’

  Her eyes widen in astonishment. ‘You’re accepting?’

  ‘Well, now you ask . . .’

  ‘You’re accepting. Great. Bring some wine. If you’re going to be like this on the night, I’ll need at least a gallon of the stuff.’

  She walks away, muttering to herself, ‘Jesus. Why didn’t I just leave an invitation card on his desk?’

  25

  It’s Cody who takes the call. He listens, says ‘uh-huh’ a couple of times, then tells the desk sergeant to send the guy up.

  Cody stands up. Starts crossing the room. On his way past Webley, he raps his knuckles on her desk.

  ‘You might want to be in on this,’ he says.

  Webley shoots him a puzzled look, but gets out of her chair and follows anyway.

  ‘What is it?’ she asks when she catches up with him.

  ‘Young guy you interviewed at the school? Jamie Morgan?’

  ‘The caretaker lad, yeah. What about him?’

  ‘He’s just come in. Wants to talk to us. Says he’s got some important information, apparently.’

  They reach the top of the staircase. Jamie Morgan, still in his work overalls, sees them standing there, and slows his ascent.

  ‘Come on up, Jamie,’ says Cody. ‘We don’t bite.’

  Morgan continues up the stairs. Cody nods at him to follow, then leads him into an interview room. The three of them take seats at the single table in the centre of the room.

  Hoping to ease the young man’s obvious tension, Cody puts on a smile.

  ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Cody,’ he says. ‘I believe you’ve already met DC Webley here.’

  Morgan’s gaze oscillates between the two detectives. ‘Er, yeah. Hi.’

  ‘The offi
cers downstairs have said that you’ve got some information for us.’

  Morgan sits hunched over. He slides his hand along the edge of the table.

  ‘Maybe. I don’t know. It could be nothing. I just thought . . .’

  ‘Thought what, Jamie?’

  Morgan bites his lip. It’s clear he’s struggling with the idea of imparting whatever he knows.

  ‘Look, maybe this is a mistake. It’s probably nothing. I should go home.’

  It’s Webley who speaks next.

  ‘Where’s home, Jamie?’

  Cody notices how Morgan is able to lift his head and look Webley in the eye. She has a way with people, he thinks. She could probably even get this lad to come to dinner with her fiancé.

  ‘West Derby,’ he says. ‘Just off Eaton Road.’

  ‘So this is a bit out of your way, then. Do you drive?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve got a little Fiesta I bought off my dad. It’s a few years old, but it’s in good nick.’

  ‘Did you come here straight from work?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He tugs at his overalls. ‘Still got my gear on.’

  ‘So you must have thought it was pretty urgent, then. Something that couldn’t wait.’

  Morgan studies the table again as he thinks about this. ‘I suppose so. I just don’t want to make a mistake, you know?’

  Webley leans back in her chair. Folds her arms. Smiles. In another setting she could be mistaken for the lad’s big sister, offering her insights into the workings of the female mind.

  ‘Jamie, why don’t you let us worry about that? We’re pretty good at working out what’s important and what isn’t. Sometimes a piece of information that might seem trivial to someone else can be vital to us. It’s much better that you get it off your chest. I take it this is something to do with the two murdered women?’

  Morgan looks at her, then at Cody, then back to Webley.

  ‘That’s the thing,’ he says. ‘With it being two. It was hard enough when it was one. But if this is the same guy . . . And if it happens again . . .’

  Cody wants to leap in at this point. Wants to demand that Morgan spits it out. But he knows it’s best to leave it to Webley.

  ‘What is it, Jamie?’ she asks. ‘What is it you want to tell us?’

  ‘I . . . I don’t want to get him into trouble . . .’