‘Megan.’
She whirls on him. ‘Don’t,’ she warns. ‘Don’t even try to fix this. It cannot be fixed, Cody. I’m not a car or a computer. You can’t connect a loose wire or reboot me. Humans don’t work like that. I sometimes wonder if you’ll ever learn that lesson. Somehow I doubt it. But you know what? I’ve given up trying. Get back in there and work on your precious case, while I just stand here and freeze to death.’
‘I can’t help it, Megan. I’m a sergeant. I’m supposed to—’
‘No. Don’t even go there. Your stripes don’t make you indispensable, Cody, much as you’d like to think you are. We’re all in this together. We’re all working our arses off. So don’t start saying you’re more important. That’s just an excuse, and a shit one at that. And even if you were so vital to the case, you could have tried to meet me halfway. You could have suggested coming over just for an hour or so, and then going back to work. You could have made an attempt, Cody. But you didn’t, and that’s what’s got me so bloody worked up.’
‘Look, I’m sorry, all right? I don’t know what else I can say.’
‘You don’t? You don’t know what to say to the person who saved your life, and nearly got killed in the process? You don’t know what to say to the person who listened to you and comforted you and didn’t report you when you were practically having a breakdown on duty? You don’t know what to say to the only person who knows you’re in trouble and is doing everything she can to help? All that, and you don’t even know how to respond to an invitation to a roast meal and a few fucking trimmings. Well, in that case, I’m sorry for you, Sergeant Cody, because I can’t be there for you any more. You’re on your own now. Have a nice life.’
And then she goes. Straight past Cody and back into the building. And as she goes, he sees the tears on her face, like melting ice, and something melts inside him too.
35
He’s running.
He does it for the exercise, but also because it’s often the only way he can relieve the tension. When he gets back to the flat he might do some weight training, too. With any luck he’ll be so exhausted he’ll get some sleep.
He pounds his way along Rodney Street in the dark. Most of the time he runs on the road, avoiding the slush on the pavement that is beginning to freeze into a perilous ice rink.
His eyes are drawn to the lights of Christmas trees on either side. He wonders how he’ll be spending his Christmas. Not with Webley and her partner, that’s for sure. Probably won’t even merit a Christmas card from them.
He wonders if they’ve got a Christmas tree up. Almost certainly. Webley always loved a Christmas tree. They’ve probably already got presents under it.
He thinks he should probably buy Webley a gift. To make up for things. Something small but beautiful. He could leave it on her desk at work. He might even do so anonymously. Yes, that would be a good idea. She’d suspect, certainly, but she wouldn’t know for sure. That way, he might avoid getting it thrown back in his face.
Not that it would really atone for what I did, he thinks. She had every right to be pissed off with me. I mean, Christ, it was only a dinner. I could have turned up, couldn’t I? I could have tucked into the roast potatoes swimming in gravy, and hang the consequences. When was the last time I had a proper Sunday roast? For me tonight it was sausages and beans, whoop-de-whoop.
Not that easy, though. In the scheme of things, it’s better this way. He can’t tell her the truth, can’t say what he really wants to say. It wouldn’t be fair on her.
He runs. Heading up past the Anglican cathedral now. Mary Cowper walked this way many times. Will walk it no longer. Seems strange, that. Seems odd that a middle-aged woman who brought her little dog along this route thousands of times is suddenly no longer on this earth.
He looks through the railings as he jogs up the hill, his gaze not so much on the cathedral itself as the parkland beneath it, shrouded in darkness and mystery. What went on in there? Not physically – not in the act of violence itself – but mentally. What was going through the heads of those two as they acted out their parts in the drama? Did Mary have any inkling that her life might be in danger because of something she once said or did? Was she really as innocent as everyone seemed to think she was, or was her mother the only one who could see the truth? And what about the killer? Why was his head so filled with thoughts of violence and hate? What atrocity could Mary possibly have perpetrated that would make him want to grind her skull into the ground?
At the corner he takes a right turn, intending to circle the cathedral before heading back home. He notices the street sign fixed to the railings.
Hope Street.
What were Mary’s hopes? And what was the killer hoping to achieve?
More puzzlingly, why did he move away from Hope Street after the first two deaths?
Why abandon Hope?
*
Waldo visits him that night.
He hasn’t been for a while, but tonight he is here with a vengeance.
In his dream – his nightmare – Cody is locked in a room. There are no windows, no lights. He cannot see a thing. He can hear, though. Rustling sounds. Scraping sounds. Footsteps.
Cody wants to get out of this room. He wants that more than he has ever wanted anything in his life. But he can’t find the door. He slides his hands along the smooth, cold walls, but he cannot find an exit. Cannot find any features at all on the hard surfaces.
Suddenly the texture beneath his hands changes. It becomes soft, yielding. Material of some kind.
He feathers his fingers upwards, trying to work out what this might be. Soft becomes hard again, but different from the wall. Much smoother. Plastic, perhaps, and thin, with a hollowness behind.
And then there is light.
Not for the whole room. That would be too much to ask. This is a narrow beam, a spotlight playing upon Cody’s discovery.
And what Cody has found causes him to scream.
It’s Waldo. The clown. The man who chopped at Cody’s body and murdered his partner in the most horrifying way imaginable. He is here. His clown mask is what Cody’s fingers have been exploring.
And what a mask it is. Unbelievably terrifying, with its rictus grin and its yellowish-brown serrated teeth and its patches of rotting flesh. And yet it also seems to move, to flex, to wrinkle. To alter expression just like a real face.
Cody screams and leaps back, just as Waldo’s mouth opens and a foot-long forked tongue spits out at him. He back-pedals into the darkness, not thinking about falling or crashing into something. He wants to turn and run, but at the same time he needs to keep his eyes fixed on Waldo, to watch where he goes and what he does.
He hits a wall behind him. To either side is more blackness. The only light in the room is that reflecting off Waldo. The monstrous clown is closing in on him, and there is no escape, nowhere to go. Waldo gets closer, closer . . .
And then he stops, his snake tongue tasting the air for a few seconds.
Cody feels his pulse pounding in his own skull. He opens his mouth to speak, but cannot get any words out.
And then Waldo raises his hand. Brings it into the single beam of light. Shows Cody what it holds.
Advancing once more, Waldo presses the trigger on the power drill and it whirrs into life.
It’s too much for Cody’s brain. It takes him out of there. Snaps him back to his bedroom, where he finds himself sitting upright, panting for breath.
The dream was too lucid, too real. Even now he can easily imagine that Waldo is waiting in the shadows at the foot of the bed. He is standing there, drill in hand, ready to use it. Ready to—
Whirrrr!
And now Cody is crapping himself. Because that was real. That was a real sound.
And it was here, in the building.
36
Cody fumbles for the lamp switch. Turns it on. Nothing in the bedroom, but then he knew that. The sound was further away.
No, he thinks. Can’t be. It’s
just the echoes of the dream. My mind playing tricks.
Whirrrr!
There it is again. Unmistakable now. What the hell?
Cody glances at his bedside clock. It’s ten past three in the morning. There should be nobody else in the building.
He climbs out of bed. Hurriedly throws on some jeans, trainers and a sweatshirt. Picks up his police baton from the chest of drawers.
He goes out into the large hall. It’s cold here. The central heating has been off for hours. He stands in the centre of the space and listens. The building complains to him of its age and its weariness, but nothing he hasn’t heard before. He relaxes. Lets the baton drop to his side.
Whirrrr!
That was louder. Closer. Not up here in the flat, though. Somewhere downstairs.
Cody feels his skin prickling all over his body. His mind is jumping to conclusions. Informing him that the occupants of his nightmare have somehow passed through a portal into his reality. Telling him that Waldo is waiting for him downstairs.
But that’s ridiculous. It’s not possible. There has to be a rational explanation.
So prove it. Go ahead, Cody. If you’re so sure it’s nothing to be worried about, go down there and prove it.
Okay, then. I will.
Although . . .
Perhaps it’s not that absurd. Somebody very real was here the other night. Somebody very real has been phoning me up. Somebody very real played the sounds of my screaming over the intercom.
Why couldn’t they be in the building right now?
Why couldn’t a man in a clown mask be standing on the landing below, armed with a power drill?
That’s feasible, isn’t it?
So what do I do, then? Call for backup? Tell them I think there’s an intruder in the building?
Sure, that’ll work. Nobody will think any less of me when they get here only to find that I was scared of the dark. A story like that won’t spread through the ranks like wildfire.
Because there really is nothing to worry about. And even if there is someone down there, you can handle it. You and your little baton there.
He begins to descend the staircase. The steps creak and crack as he moves. In the darkness they sound like gunshots. If anyone is waiting for him, they’ll know he’s coming.
He gets to the floor below. There’s a heavy fire door here, separating his flat from the rest of the building. He reaches for the lock. Then he pauses.
Here we go . . .
In one swift motion he unlocks the door and pushes it open. He stands in the doorway, the baton on his shoulder, ready to strike. But he’d forgotten how dark it can be on this landing, and he can see little because he didn’t think to bring a torch, and he’s feeling pretty idiotic about it, as well as a little scared.
He squints. Tries to push his gaze into the shadowy pockets ahead. Cautiously he takes the first couple of steps beyond the security of his flat.
He knows that the light switch is in the middle of the wall, between the doors to two of the dental surgeries, but there are a few more feet to cover before he reaches it. Behind him, to the left of the door to his apartment, is the route to a small kitchen and some toilets. He glances that way, but it’s pitch black. Best to get some lights on first.
He edges forward slowly, listening so intently it almost hurts. When he reaches the switch and flicks it on, the relief feels as instantaneous as the light itself.
Breathing easier now, he checks out the kitchen and the toilet stalls. Then he makes his way down to the ground floor, putting more lights on as he goes. There is no sign of anything untoward. The front and back doors are locked. The entrance to the cellar also seems secure. Cody shakes his head. Laughs at how worked up he was getting. He’s still puzzled by the strange noise, though. Something outside, perhaps.
He’s not going to worry about it. With any luck he might get some more kip.
He turns the lights off again. Trudges back upstairs. He gets to the first-floor landing. Lights off here, too.
And suddenly it’s very black here. Even blacker, it seems, than it was before. Why is that?
The door. The one to his flat. It’s closed. It’s holding back the light in there.
He racks his brain. He thinks, Did I close the door? I don’t remember closing the door.
He puts the landing lights back on. Moves towards his door and pulls on the handle. The door swings open with a high-pitched moan.
He puts his head through the doorway and looks up the staircase.
Shit, he thinks. Now I’m going to have to search my whole flat, otherwise I’ll never get to sleep.
He touches the door gently with one finger. It slowly closes, again with a squeal of rusty hinges.
Okay, he thinks. Doesn’t take much to close it. I might have brushed against it when I was searching. Even a slight draught might have been enough.
I’m still going to check the flat, though.
He goes back to the light switch for the landing. Turns it off again. He’s not really worried now. Just needs that peace of mind that will come with one quick look into each of the rooms upstairs.
The whirring noise sends him flying backwards with shock.
The sound is coming from inside one of the surgeries on this floor. It’s the noise of a dentist’s drill, and it’s not stopping. It goes on and on. Cody can practically feel the pain in his teeth.
There is a frosted-glass panel in the door to the surgery. The lights are off within the room. Cody decides he needs to leave the lights off out here too. Better that than make himself a target in the doorway.
He moves towards the door, baton poised. He has no idea what he’s about to face, but he can’t run and hide. He’s got to confront whoever is in there.
He reaches for the doorknob. The drill continues to scream at him. He turns the handle, pushes hard on the door.
It rattles, but doesn’t open.
The occupant has locked himself in. And now he knows Cody is coming after him.
Cody takes a few steps backwards. Runs at the door. Raises his foot and crashes it into the point just above the handle.
The door flies open, and Cody dashes in. But he’s not familiar with this room, doesn’t think he’s ever been in here before, doesn’t even know where the light switch is. And everything is a chaotic rushing mess as he shouts, ‘Police, don’t move!’ and he fumbles for the light switch with one hand while keeping the baton ready to strike with the other, and he’s trying desperately to hear beyond this godawful racket in case somebody in here is about to swing an axe at him or whatever. And then, mercifully, he finds the switch. Finds it and clicks it on and tries to absorb what he sees and hears.
Which is nothing.
The noise has stopped. There is nobody else in the room.
Cody sees the dentist’s chair. He sees all the shiny white cupboards and steel trays and work surfaces and posters and boxes of equipment. He hears his own heavy panting and the hundred-mile-an-hour pulse in his head. He smells his own fear and the sickly odours of dental materials and antiseptic.
But what he doesn’t see or hear or smell is another person, let alone a clown.
He traverses the room, just to be sure. But nobody is crouching below a table or hiding in a cupboard. The windows are closed and fastened.
He moves back to the dentist’s chair and examines the drill. The power switch is on at the wall, but there’s no sign of life in the implement.
What the hell just happened here?
A noise. A creaking sound. Not in here, but outside the room.
Cody raises his baton again. Starts towards the door. His body is beginning to ache with all the tension.
He steps out onto the landing. Looks left, then right.
And now another noise. Like the gentle click of the front door being closed.
Cody races downstairs again. Opens the front door. Finds only the empty night.
‘Nooo!’ he yells. He bangs his baton against the iron railings o
utside. Releases another roar of frustration.
He backs into the building. Shuts himself in with . . .
What?
What is, or was, in here?
Something that entered the building and passed through a locked surgery door? Something that was capable of operating the drill, and yet could not be seen or touched? Something that drifted undetected past Cody and then went downstairs and out of the front door?
A ghost?
Cody doesn’t believe in ghosts. What he had been starting to believe was that his mind was slowly healing. The hallucinations and the violent outbursts have been much less frequent of late. But this . . .
If this was a figment of his imagination, then it was a doozy. It would suggest that his mind is more broken than he thought. And that’s worrying.
Cody heads back upstairs. On the landing, he pulls the door of the surgery closed. It doesn’t latch, because its lock is now in pieces on the floor. He’s got some explaining to do in the morning.
All he can do for the moment is return to his apartment. There’ll be nobody up there, just as there was nobody down here.
He’s still going to search it, though.
37
The woman who bustles through the front door almost falls back into the street when she encounters the ghostly figure in the lobby.
Cody has been pacing up and down here for the past half-hour. He hasn’t slept since his own encounter with the spirit world, or whatever the hell it was last night. Hasn’t eaten breakfast either.
‘Jesus!’ says the woman. Then, recovering, she says, ‘You bloody idiot, frightening the life out of me like that.’
‘Sorry, Helen,’ says Cody. ‘I thought you might be Simon.’
The dental receptionist eyes him with suspicion as she closes the door and starts to unwind her seemingly endless scarf.
‘What’s up? You got toothache?’
‘What? No. I just need to see him.’
‘I can give you some ibuprofen.’
‘No. Honestly, I’m fine.’
She flicks through the keys in her hand, finds the one she wants and moves towards one of the doors. As she unlocks it, she scans him from head to toe.
Hope to Die: A gripping new serial killer thriller (The DS Nathan Cody series) Page 21
