It would help if he had some idea as to where to focus his attention, but he doesn’t. He just knows that he has missed something. There is a set of neurons in his brain desperate to make a connection with another set, and yet he just cannot seem to stimulate the necessary spark of energy.
It’s Thursday now. The middle of December. Almost two weeks after the murder of Mary Cowper, and seemingly still no closer to catching the killer. The police computers are bulging with masses of information, but none of it seems to be telling them anything of worth.
He passes an eye over a few more documents. Hesitates when he gets to the transcript of the interview with Daley. He keeps coming back to this, and he’s not sure why. There’s a magnetic pull there that should be telling him something, but he has scrutinised every word of it several times and still not discovered any hidden depths.
It doesn’t help that his mind insists on wandering. Transporting him back to the phantom caller at his flat.
It makes him uneasy that he keeps being taken by surprise. The screaming over the phone was a surprise. The ‘time to play’ announcement was a surprise. And then the call at his door – Jesus Christ, that was a shocker!
So what will the next surprise be? He has no way of knowing, and therefore no way of preparing. And Cody doesn’t like the sensation of being unprepared.
He also wonders whether he’s handling this properly. He’s a copper, and he suspects that the people responsible for these pranks are the same people who were responsible for torturing him and killing his partner. So why isn’t he turning this over to the force? Why isn’t he asking them to investigate – to put all the vast resources at their disposal to good use in catching these scum? Why not ask them to trace the calls coming in? Wouldn’t that take the pressure off?
He knows the answers. Or at least he thinks he does.
This has become personal, on both sides. A private battle. His enemy wants to tease, to scare, to provoke, to entice. Any sign of a larger police involvement will cause the aggressors to lose interest and walk away. And Cody’s chances of confronting them will vanish.
At the same time, Cody isn’t convinced he wants to be shackled by the law and the conventions of police procedure. He needs the freedom to work in whatever way the situation requires. And that may mean doing things he would once never have dreamt of.
He has wrestled with this question a lot lately. What would he do if he came face to face with his enemy? What is he capable of?
What would he have done if he had managed to catch his mysterious caller the other night? Question him, certainly. But more than that? Beat him? Torture him? Kill him?
He doesn’t know the answers. But neither does he want to go into this with one hand tied behind his back. His opponents will not be under any compunction to adopt Queensbury Rules, so why should he? When in Rome . . .
A thought flits through his brain, but evades capture.
What? What was it?
He focuses on the computer screen again. Daley’s interview?
No, not that. And yet . . .
The other chat with Daley! In his house, his living room.
When in Rome . . .
That’s it! That’s the missing link!
Cody jumps out of his chair. Grabs his coat. Raps on Webley’s desk again on his way past.
‘Come ’ead,’ he says. ‘Places to be, people to see.’
‘Where are we going?’ she asks.
‘Rome.’
‘I’d prefer Venice.’
*
There’s nothing Italianate about Mrs Laplace’s office in Oakdale School. Webley keeps throwing Cody questioning looks, but he doesn’t want to explain himself just yet. Not until he’s verified his suspicions.
Mrs Laplace leaves them to it. Reluctantly, it has to be said. She abandons her spacious office with a distinct inquisitorial gleam in her eye. Again, Cody refuses to explain himself.
Left with only the detectives for company, Andy Puckleton looks as though he’s about to sit an exam himself. Cody thinks he’s worse than he was last time. Not only does he keep adjusting his clothing, but there’s a sheen on his brow and a redness in his cheeks that somehow doesn’t seem healthy.
‘I know we’ve dragged you away from a maths lesson,’ says Cody, ‘but this shouldn’t take long. Is that all right with you, Andy?’
Cody prefers to use first names in situations like this, and especially now. Puckleton will spend most of his working days being called ‘sir’ or ‘Mr Puckleton’. He will find Cody’s familiarity in the workplace disconcerting.
Puckleton pinches the knot in his tie. ‘I’ve left the girls some work to do. I’m sure we’ll cope.’
‘Yes. So you’re probably wondering why we’ve come back to talk to you again.’
‘It has crossed my mind. Was it something I said last time?’
‘Kind of. It would probably be more accurate to say it was something you left out.’
‘Left out? I, er, I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘Well, you told us that you paid regular visits to Mary Cowper’s flat.’
Puckleton runs his fingers down the seams of his trousers. ‘Yes, that’s right. I was perfectly honest with you about it.’
‘And you also said that the reason you went there was to discuss problems you were having with your faith.’
Puckleton adjusts his wristwatch now. ‘Yes. Again, it was the truth. Look, I don’t understand . . .’
‘We’re not trying to implicate you in anything here, Andy. We’re not even trying to be judgemental. What you do in your private life is none of our business, provided it doesn’t infringe on anyone else’s rights. It just helps us if we have all the facts. We like to know that people are being truthful, even when it’s a little uncomfortable for them. But when someone deviates from the truth, even over an apparently trivial matter, it plants a seed of doubt in our minds about other things they might say or claim. Do you see what I’m getting at?’
‘I . . . I think so. In a general sense. But I’m not sure how it applies to me.’
Cody makes a deliberate smacking noise when he opens his mouth. Leaves it to Puckleton to decide whether to interpret it as a tut of disapproval.
He looks over at Webley, as if inviting her to continue the questioning. But she looks as mystified as Puckleton. Cody realises he has been cruel in not letting her in on his suspicions. On the other hand, it’s a lot more fun this way.
He turns back to Puckleton. ‘Andy, when we first came to the school, we spoke to your head, Mrs Laplace, and the deputy head, Mr Beamish. When your name was mentioned as someone who was closely linked to Mary, I asked if the connection was a romantic one.’
Puckleton emits a laugh like the tinkle of breaking glass. ‘That’s ridiculous!’
‘Yes. That’s what Mr Beamish said. Actually, I think he was about to make a joke about it, but he stopped himself.’
Puckleton rolls his eyes and shakes his head. ‘That sounds like Tony. He lets his mouth run ahead of him sometimes.’
‘Hmm,’ says Cody, nodding in a thoughtful way that suggests there’s more to come. Then he says, ‘Later on, we spoke to Mr Daley, the school caretaker. Do you know him?’
Puckleton exercises his jaw a little before answering. ‘Yes, of course I know him. But, well . . .’
‘Go on.’
‘To be frank, I don’t like him very much.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘I don’t like his sense of humour. He can be a bit coarse, a bit vulgar. It’s not really appropriate with all these girls around. Anyway, what’s he got to do with this?’
‘I mentioned your girlfriend to him.’
Puckleton looks as though he’s about to levitate from his chair. ‘What? Why? Why on earth would you do that? It’s none of his business.’
‘I was asking him about members of staff who might have been close friends with Mary Cowper. He named you. He also seemed fully aware of the reasons why you were having
your regular sessions with Mary.’
The redness in Puckleton’s cheeks seems suddenly to be sucked back into his body. ‘What do you mean? What did he say?’
‘Just that you were having problems with your beliefs.’
‘My beliefs. Those are the words he used?’
‘Yes,’ says Cody. He turns to Webley. ‘Isn’t that right, DC Webley?’
‘That’s my recollection, Sarge,’ she answers. There’s a tinge of irritation in her voice. Cody tosses a smile at her, knowing that it will do nothing to pacify her.
Puckleton appears a little less agitated now. He’s content with fidgeting again. He flicks something minute from his sleeve, then smooths the material.
‘Still none of his business,’ he grumbles. ‘How did he know that anyway?’
‘That was my thought,’ Cody says. ‘That’s why I mentioned Laura, to see if he heard it from her.’
Puckleton raises his nose in the air, as if to sniff for another opportunity to get annoyed at someone. ‘And did he?’
‘No. You don’t need to worry about that.’
‘Right. Good.’
‘He did seem a bit surprised, though.’
‘Surprised at what?’
‘When I referred to Laura as your girlfriend. He acted the way Beamish had done. Started to say something, and then changed his mind.’
Puckleton’s mouth twists into a shape of indifference. ‘Well, I don’t know anything about that.’
‘No. Do you think Laura would?’
Cody observes carefully as he puts this question in the most innocent way he can muster. He notices the rapid flicker of eyelashes, the rolling of Puckleton’s tongue around his cheek.
Puckleton’s voice is also seemingly guileless. ‘Haven’t you already interviewed her?’
‘We have. We talked to her before we interviewed you. Bit weird, really.’
‘Weird? What was weird about it?’
‘She never mentioned you. Not once. Didn’t say she had a partner, or was in any kind of relationship whatsoever.’
‘That’s not surprising.’
‘No?’
‘No. We work together, don’t forget. It’s never a good idea to let your personal life intrude into your work. I’ll bet if you and DC Webley here had a thing going on, you wouldn’t want your colleagues to know.’
This time, Cody steadfastly avoids looking Webley’s way. He doesn’t want to see what kind of expression she’s displaying now.
He says to Puckleton, ‘You, on the other hand, had no such qualms. In fact, you seemed incredibly keen to let us know that Laura was your girlfriend.’
Puckleton’s shrug seems to travel down from his shoulders and through his whole body. ‘I assumed it would stay between us. There didn’t seem any harm in telling you. And, yes, maybe I did say it more than once. So what? I’m proud of the fact. Laura is a wonderful girl.’
‘Yes,’ says Cody. ‘Yes, she is. But is she actually your girlfriend?’
The surprise in the room comes with its own shroud of silence. Puckleton’s incredulity emanates from him in waves.
‘W-What kind of question is that?’
Cody leaves his frontal assault in place while he launches a flank attack. ‘Andy, when you visited Mary in her flat, where did you have your discussions?’
‘In her living room. Why?’
‘You talked about religion and faith, right?’
‘Yes. But what has Laura—?’
‘Did you refer to the Bible directly?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, did you and Mary open the Bible and read through sections in an attempt to help you with your problems?’
‘Well . . . yes. Yes, we did. What’s wrong with that?’
‘Nothing at all. Do you remember which chapters you discussed in particular?’
Puckleton’s hands are clenching along the seams of his neatly pressed trousers, crumpling the material.
‘We hopped about. Mary knew the Bible inside out. She knew exactly which chapters to consult. She was a great help.’
‘I’m sure she was. I’ve been to Mary’s flat, Andy. I saw the Bible in her living room, the one that was used in your chats. There was a bookmark in it, so I opened it at that page. The chapter was Romans 1. Are you familiar with Romans 1, Andy?’
When in Rome . . .
No answer. Puckleton balls more material into his fists, causing his trousers to ride up from his shoes.
Cody says, ‘Do you know what Romans 1 is famous – or should I say infamous – for?’
Still no reply.
‘Andy . . . are you gay?’
Cody hears Webley shuffle in her seat, and then a sputter of forced high-pitched laughter from Puckleton.
‘What? Is this a joke? What the hell gives you that idea?’
‘Then you’re not gay?’
‘No. And why would it matter if I was? Is it a crime now? Because it’s the first I’ve heard of it if it is.’
‘No, it’s not a crime. And, frankly, I don’t give a toss if you’re gay, straight, or you want to marry a chicken. Makes no difference to me.’
‘Then why are you asking?’
‘Because what does matter to me is the truth. If someone lies to me about one thing, then they may have lied to me about other things too. I like to know where I stand with people.’
‘Well, I’ve told you the truth. You can choose to believe it or not. I don’t care what you think, and I don’t care what the others think either.’
‘The others? Do you mean Mr Beamish? He thinks you’re gay, doesn’t he? That’s what he was going to make a joke about before he thought better of it. Or do you mean Mr Daley? He suspects something too, doesn’t he? When he was talking about the problems you were having with your beliefs, he didn’t mean your religion, did he? He was referring to your sexuality.’
‘How would he know? I barely even speak to the man. I told you, he’s a nasty piece of work. He’s a foul-mouthed idiot who likes to spread gossip. You shouldn’t believe a word he says.’
Cody isn’t sure he does believe everything that Daley told him, but he’s not about to reveal that here.
‘All right, Andy. Let’s go back to the Bible. Romans 1. You know the chapter I mean?’
A tilt of the head from Puckleton. ‘I know it.’
‘And you know that many believers regard it as one of the clearest condemnations of homosexuality in the whole Bible?’
‘Yes, I know that. But what I also know is that there are other interpretations of that chapter too.’
‘Is this a conversation you had with Mary?’
‘What? About whether God hates gays? No, Sergeant, I don’t believe we had that discussion.’
‘Did you talk about Romans 1 at all?’
‘Perhaps. Mary would often quote passages from the Bible. She may have taken some of them from Romans 1. That doesn’t make me a raging homosexual.’
‘So then why the difficulties?’
Puckleton releases his grip on his trousers. Uses his hands in a theatrical gesture of disbelief instead.
‘What difficulties? What are you talking about?’
Cody keeps his voice calm, his words measured. ‘The difficulties you told us you were having with your faith. The whole reason for these sessions with Mary.’
Puckleton accepts the riposte of his own words. He lowers his arms, relaxes his posture.
‘It’s none of your business. My faith is a very personal thing. And even if it weren’t, something tells me you wouldn’t offer a particularly sympathetic ear.’
‘Try me.’
‘I’ll pass, thanks. Now, if that’s—’
‘What if I ask Laura?’
The eyes that Puckleton now turns on Cody suddenly seem filled with hurt. Cody feels the stab of guilt.
Puckleton’s voice is quieter now, as if he is acknowledging his defeat. ‘Ask her what? About our sex life? About what we get up to when we’re alone?
About the fantasies I might have shared with her, or my desires? Is that the sort of thing you mean, Sergeant Cody? Is that the kind of question you intend to put to my girlfriend about me? Is that really how you see yourself making best use of your efforts to catch a murderer?’
It’s a sharp reminder of the sometimes sordid side of being a police officer. It’s not something Cody often reflects upon, but Puckleton has been articulate enough to bring it to the forefront of his mind.
When Cody speaks again, it is with what he hopes is a touch more compassion. ‘Sometimes we have to ask questions like this. We don’t do it to amuse ourselves. We don’t get any kind of perverted kick out of it. We do it because we’re trying to get to the truth. That’s what our job is all about. To other people, some of our questions can seem ridiculous or totally unrelated to a case. And, to be honest, sometimes we have no idea where those questions might lead. We just know we have to ask them.’
Puckleton claws at his trousers again. His chest rises and falls as he considers his response. His gaze shifts back and forth between the two detectives.
He says, ‘I’m a simple man, Sergeant Cody. Some people think I’m very old-fashioned. I have ideas and principles that are often very hard to stick to in the modern world. One of those is a belief in the sanctity of marriage, and that sex should be confined to those who are married. Laura, on the other hand, is more of a free spirit. She follows her impulses. She’ll do what feels right to her at the time, whereas I have to turn things over in my mind first. I admire her for that. I wish I could let my hair down the way she does. But I can’t. My beliefs are my beliefs.’
He looks down. Seems to realise he is ruining the appearance of his suit. He brings his hands together and interlaces his fingers – possibly to prevent further sartorial disruption, but perhaps also to help his words reach powers beyond this room.
‘You can talk to Laura. She’ll tell you that I have resisted the physical side of our relationship. But it’s not for the reason you’re suggesting. It’s because I want Laura and me to be fully committed to each other first.’
‘And have you explained all this to Laura?’
‘Of course, but I don’t think she fully appreciates how import-ant my faith is to me. She lives for today and worries about the consequences afterwards, whereas I worry constantly about the effects of my actions.’
Hope to Die: A gripping new serial killer thriller (The DS Nathan Cody series) Page 17
