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

by David Jackson

  She whispers, ‘Could I have a word, please?’ then scans the room to make sure nobody is watching.

  Cody clicks his retractable pen and puts it down. ‘Sure. What’s up?’

  ‘In private,’ she says.

  Cody studies her face for a few seconds, as if inviting her to offer some clues, but she remains impassive.

  ‘All right,’ says Cody, standing up. ‘Let’s get a room.’

  He smiles. She doesn’t, because she’s unsure as to whether he’s messing about. Get a room. Something often said to people getting a bit flirty with each other.

  But the room to which Cody escorts her is nothing like a luxury five-star hotel room. Nothing like a bottom-of-the-range motel room either, for that matter. Grace has poked her head into an interview room before, but never actually spent time in one. She finds it cold and bleak. There are no comfy armchairs here, no pictures on the walls. There are not even any windows: fluorescent strip lighting bathes everything in a harsh yellow glow. A single metal-framed table is surrounded by hard plastic chairs. On the table is a black recording device for taped interviews.

  Cody beckons her into a chair. Takes one himself.

  ‘Okay, Grace, what’s with all the cloak and dagger?’

  Oh, God, she thinks. Do I really want to go through with this?

  ‘What you were saying out there, about Colin Daley. I think you’re right about him.’

  Cody nods. ‘It’s nice to know I have your support. Is that all you wanted to tell me?’

  ‘No. Not quite. I’ve done something.’

  ‘All right. What kind of something?’

  ‘Well, you remember that online newspaper article about Cassie Harris?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you remember that blog post by Sue Halligan?’

  ‘Of course. Where is this going, Grace?’

  Okay, she thinks. Here goes.

  ‘Well, I took a dump of all the recent Internet accesses to those two websites, and I did a cross-comparison of the IP addresses, followed by a reverse trace of the matching addresses—’

  Cody shows her his palms. ‘Whoa, Grace. I’m just a simple copper. Could you bring it down a level? What, exactly, have you found out?’

  ‘That Colin Daley’s computer account was used to access the web pages of both Cassie Harris and Sue Halligan.’

  Cody’s mouth drops open. It’s a while before he can gain control of it to emit a simple ‘What?’

  Grace senses it’s a rhetorical question, and doesn’t repeat herself.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ says Cody. ‘Lots of people will have accessed those pages, especially those intimately involved in the case. The names of the victims are all over the papers. All that’s required is the ability to use Google.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I should have made myself clear. The accesses from Daley’s account were made prior to the murders.’

  Cody’s jaw turns to lead again. Grace finds herself wondering what’s going through his head.

  She gets her answer when he leaps from his chair, punches the air and shouts, ‘Yesss!’

  When he has finished dancing around the room, he says, ‘Are you certain about this?’

  ‘One hundred per cent.’

  ‘Yesss! Grace, I could kiss you.’

  The words shock her. She knows he is only joking, but even so . . .

  ‘Come on,’ says Cody. ‘You need to repeat this in front of DCI Blunt.’

  He heads for the door, but Grace stays put.

  ‘Grace. Are you coming?’

  ‘I, er, I can’t. I can’t tell DCI Blunt.’

  Cody moves slowly back to her. ‘Why? What’s the problem?’

  ‘She won’t want to hear it.’

  ‘Of course she will. You deserve a medal for this one.’

  ‘I don’t think DCI Blunt will see it that way. In fact, I think she might have me arrested.’

  She sees how Cody’s shoulders slump. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘I . . . I might have gained access to some computers that I shouldn’t have.’

  ‘Daley’s computer?’

  ‘No. The web hosting sites, so that I could get the IP addresses of the computers fetching the data. Then the Internet service providers, to reverse-map the addresses back to—’

  ‘You were hacking.’

  She looks into his eyes, hoping to find some forgiveness there. ‘Yes.’

  Cody turns away from her. When he turns back he has put on a mask of disappointment. ‘Shit, Grace. You can’t just go around doing stuff like that.’

  ‘I know, but . . . we needed answers. You needed answers. Don’t worry. I was careful. I didn’t leave any—’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you covered up your tracks, but that’s not the point. The problem is, we can’t use any of this stuff. Not if it was gained illegally. You do know we have computer techie bods we can go to for this kind of thing? People who use the proper channels?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  Cody stops her again with a raised hand: ‘Hang on. That’s it!’ He finds his smile. ‘That’s what we’ll do, only we’ll do it legally this time. We’ll issue a Section 29 request, and get the same information that way.’

  Grace says nothing. She doesn’t want to be the one to dampen Cody’s excitement. But the negativity on her face is clear to see.

  ‘Grace?’

  She takes a deep breath. ‘Section 29 of the Data Protection Act specifies conditions under which information can be released about individuals without breaching their privacy rights. For example, if we knew that a certain IP address was used in the commission of a crime at a certain time, we could ask the Internet service provider who owns that address to tell us who it was assigned to. That type of very specific request isn’t usually a problem.’

  ‘But . . .’ Cody prompts.

  ‘In this case, we’d have to make a request on the pretence that we don’t already know the outcome. First, we’d have to ask the hosting sites of the newspaper article and the blog to reveal all the IP addresses used to access those pages in a fairly general time frame. Then we’d have to ask each and every one of the ISPs who provide those addresses to give us the names and contact details of the owners of every computer on the list. You see the difference? Section 29 isn’t designed for such fishing expeditions, and any data controller worth their salt won’t furnish information on customers who have no proven connection with a crime.’

  ‘They’d have to if we got a court order.’

  ‘Same problem. I’m no lawyer, but I don’t think any court in the land would issue a court order for such a speculative venture.’

  She watches the information sink painfully into Cody’s brain.

  He says, ‘So basically, what you’re telling me is that we can’t get the same information that you obtained, even via legitimate means?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry. But I thought I had to tell you what I found. Did I do wrong?’

  Cody breaks away from her again. Paces the room while he thinks.

  ‘I can’t let this go, Grace.’

  She blinks. She didn’t expect this. ‘You’re going to report me?’

  He waves away her alarm. ‘No, no. That’s not what I mean. I’m saying I have to act on this. I can’t just pretend I haven’t heard what you told me.’

  ‘I’m sorry. For putting you in this predicament, I mean.’

  He steps up to her. Touches a hand to her forearm. ‘Don’t be. This is the best information we’ve had during the whole case. The circumstances aren’t ideal, but I’ll just have to work around them.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘First of all, I’m going to ask you to forget we ever had this conversation. Are you okay with that?’

  ‘Yes. Absolutely. And then what?’

  ‘I’m going to bring Daley in. I’m going to lean on him. I can’t use what we know about his computer accesses, but I can make him sweat. I can let him know that we’re on to him. A
nd if Daley is strong enough not to break under questioning, I’ll watch him like a hawk until I’ve got enough to arrest him. One way or another, I’ll get him.’

  ‘Can you do all that without evidence? Won’t DCI Blunt have something to say about it?’

  Cody shows her his boyish grin again. ‘Let me worry about the boss. She’ll roar a bit, but she’s just a pussycat really.’

  Grace wants to support Cody. Wants to tell him what a great plan this is.

  But something tells her it won’t be as simple as he makes it out to be.

  42

  As he dashes back to his desk to retrieve his coat, Cody asks Ferguson if he’s up for stretching his legs. Ferguson doesn’t need asking twice, but Cody experiences a pang of guilt when he notices how Webley glances their way.

  ‘Fancy some fresh air?’ he says to her.

  Webley raises her head again. Tries to appear as though she is unaware of the preparations for action.

  ‘If this is a trick to send me out for coffees and sandwiches, the answer’s no.’

  ‘No tricks. And if this pans out, I’ll buy the sarnies.’

  Webley gets up. ‘An invitation to a bacon butty with two blokes. How could I resist?’

  Cody leads the way downstairs. Insists on driving the pool car.

  Two minutes into the journey, Webley says from the back seat, ‘Come on, then. Where are we going?’

  ‘Wondered how long it would take you,’ Cody answers. ‘We’re off to pick up Colin Daley.’

  ‘Daley? What, on the strength of the fishing connection?’

  ‘Not just that.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘Can’t say.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s best if you don’t know.’

  Webley is silent for a few seconds. Cody can practically hear the steam coming out of her ears.

  ‘Does he know?’

  Ferguson twists in his seat when he realises the reference is to him. ‘Me? No. Haven’t a clue. I’m just going along for the magical mystery tour.’

  Cody says, ‘I’ve learnt something about Daley that we can’t use against him. That’s why I’m not telling you, because it would just get in the way. Just believe me when I say that it puts Daley at the top of our list. Our brief now is to pick him up, turn the thumbscrews, and see if he squeaks.’

  There’s another awkward silence. Cody is grateful when Ferguson clears his throat to speak.

  ‘So . . . What did everyone do last night?’

  And now Cody isn’t so grateful.

  ‘Well,’ says Webley. ‘I had a wonderful roast dinner. Beef, gravy, and not to forget the trimmings. It was delicious. What about you, Cody?’

  ‘Er, I had sausages and beans.’

  Ferguson looks at him. ‘Pushing the boat out there, aren’t you, mate? What’ll it be on Christmas Day? Turkey Twizzlers?’

  Before Cody can answer, Webley says, ‘He’s a busy man, Neil. Too busy to sit down and eat a proper meal like the rest of us. That’s how come he knows the guilty party is Daley, and we don’t. Slackers like us spend too much time on our tuck.’

  Ferguson opens his mouth to speak. Decides better of it.

  *

  It’s a curious scene. A paradoxical one. Three detectives piling out of their car, business written on their features. Snowflakes swirling and dancing around them as they move with grim determination towards the school. And then the school itself, tall and majestic and evocative of a distant past. It is peaceful now. No shrieking or excited chatter or giggles. In its place, the sweetest sound: the notes of an all-female choir carrying the message of Christmas to the ears of these hardened police officers. Telling them of beauty and light and the promise of eternal happiness. It seems almost inconceivable to them that here, in the middle of this serenity and exquisite beauty, is a man who may have savagely ripped the lives from three women.

  The detectives trudge up the steps of the school. They enter through the main doors. The singing is louder in here. Cody recognises the current song as ‘Carol of the Bells’. It would lift his heart if he would let it. But he needs to remain focused on death, on violence, on righting wrongs.

  Ahead is the reception desk. The deputy headmaster, Tony Beamish, is deep in conversation with the young woman behind the counter. It looks to Cody as though Beamish is flirting, but when Beamish becomes aware of the visitors approaching, he morphs effortlessly back into his professional sleekness.

  ‘Is Mrs Laplace available?’ Cody asks.

  ‘She’s in the main hall,’ Beamish says. ‘A practice for the Christmas carol service. Perhaps I can help?’

  ‘We need to talk to one of your staff members. Colin Daley, your caretaker.’

  Beamish sizes up the detectives in front of him. Senses the seriousness being emanated.

  ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘We need to talk to him,’ Cody repeats. He’s not about to give details to anyone but Daley. He wants to make sure that any message reaching Daley’s ears before the police get to him consists only of the news that he’s a wanted man.

  Realising he has just been slighted, Beamish tightens his lips, turning them thin and white. ‘He’s most probably in the workshop, at the back of the school. Go back out that door, turn left, and follow it around.’

  ‘I know it,’ says Webley. ‘Come on.’

  She leads the way. Back into the cold crisp air. Along the driveway until they hit a car park. They march under a brick archway and head towards a detached flat-roofed building. As they get nearer, a figure appears in the doorway. Cody recognises it as the caretaker’s assistant, Jamie Morgan.

  Morgan observes their approach as he dries his hands on a grubby towel.

  ‘Your gaffer,’ says Webley. ‘Colin Daley. Where is he?’

  Morgan’s eyes flit over each of the detectives in turn. ‘I-I dunno. He went to check on something a couple of minutes ago. He’s— Wait! Here he is now.’

  Cody, Webley and Ferguson turn in unison. They see Daley coming towards them from a side door to the main school building.

  And then Daley slows his pace. Comes to a full stop. Cody realises that a crucial decision is being made in the man’s head. He tenses.

  And then Daley is running. Everyone is running.

  Daley disappears back into the building. Pulls the door shut behind him. When the detectives get there, they find it locked from the inside.

  ‘Neil, take the back!’ Cody orders.

  Cody and Webley race to the front door. They burst through. Beamish and the secretary have vanished, and there’s no sign of Daley either.

  ‘Shit!’ says Cody.

  He motions Webley to move one way along a corridor, while he heads in the opposite direction. He shoulders his way through a pair of swing doors. Pounds his way past a library and an art room. Slams through another pair of doors.

  Nobody here. Cody starts to think he’s made a mistake coming this way, but then he hears footsteps running towards him from an adjoining corridor.

  He flattens himself against the wall next to the doors. The footsteps grow louder, drowning out Cody’s heavy breathing.

  The doors burst open. Cody leaps. Grabs hold of the man in front of him and starts to wrestle him towards the wall.

  ‘It’s me!’ Ferguson protests. ‘It’s me!’

  ‘Shit!’ says Cody. ‘Where the fuck is he?’

  He realises that Webley is on her own, and starts sprinting back that way, Ferguson close behind.

  When they get back to the end of the corridor, they see Webley appear on the other side of the lobby. She raises empty hands, indicating that she can’t find him either.

  Cody tells Ferguson to try the front of the building, then starts to jog over to Webley.

  ‘Cody!’ she yells, pointing over his shoulder.

  Cody turns. Sees Daley appearing suddenly from a door behind the reception desk.

  Daley makes a beeline for the front entrance. Catching sight of Ferguson on the
other side of the door, he changes his mind and bolts up the staircase to the right.

  ‘Neil!’ Cody calls. ‘Get in here!’

  He takes the steps two at a time. He’s not sure whether Webley is on his heels or not, or if Ferguson has heard his cry. He just knows he needs to stop the man up ahead.

  Daley is fit, though. He gets to the upper landing way ahead of Cody, then does a quick reconnaissance. Making his decision, he runs straight at the double doors in front of him. Cody hears the doors crash open, a few high-pitched yelps, and then the singing falter and come to a juddering halt.

  Cody gets to the top of the stairs. Ahead, voices build to a commotion.

  And then the screaming begins.

  Cody moves through the doors. Realises he’s at the back of the gallery overlooking the main hall. Most of the school is assembled here. They have been listening to beauty, and now they are bathed in fear.

  To either side of Cody, rows of girls yell and scream and clutch each other’s hands as they try to come to terms with what is happening in front of them.

  At the bottom of the aisle steps, Colin Daley has his back to the low rail of the gallery. Behind and below him, anxious faces look up and try to work out what is going on.

  In the arms of Daley is a small, frail-looking girl. Tears are running down her face. She can’t be older than eleven; this is probably her first year at secondary school. It could well be her last.

  Cody sees the desperation in Daley’s eyes. He’s like a cornered animal. If something panics him now, he could act without thinking.

  Cody puts out a hand to calm Daley’s fears. Takes a step down.

  ‘Stay away!’ Daley yells at him, spittle flying from his mouth. ‘Stay away, or it’ll be your fault if she gets hurt.’

  ‘It’s all right, Colin. We just want to talk.’

  Another step down. Daley turns slightly, makes a move as if about to throw the girl from the balcony. A collective scream erupts from the audience.

  ‘Colin! Listen to me. This isn’t helping. You’re making things worse for yourself. Let the girl go.’

  ‘I . . . I can’t.’

  Daley glances over the balcony again, down at all those fearful faces.

  ‘You can, Colin. You know you don’t want to hurt her.’