‘We had a good one in here the other day,’ says Stroud, fragments of crisp dropping from his sandwich as he waves it at them. ‘Fellow cleaning the roof of Lime Street station. You know how it’s made from all those glass panels? Well, there’s one missing. Only our chap didn’t realise this. Went to clean the panel, fell straight through. The weirdest thing was the expression of utter surprise that was still on his face when they found him. Priceless.’
Stroud laughs uproariously at this, while Cody finds it a battle to dredge up a smile. He has always thought that coppers have a black enough sense of humour, but it’s often beaten into the shade by some of the comments that are traded in this place. Cody still remembers listening to one of the pathologists imitating the sound of a trotting horse by banging the tops of two skulls on a table.
Stroud puts the remains of his snack down and brushes the crumbs from his hands.
‘Right,’ he says. ‘Nutrients restored. I’ll just get cleaned up, and then we’ll take a look at the body, shall we?’
He goes in search of a sink. Cody looks at Webley, hoping she hasn’t yet become aware of his discomfort. It surprises him that she looks even more nervous, biting her lip and not knowing what to do with her hands.
‘Are you okay?’
A nod, but not an emphatic one. ‘Like I said, this is different. I knew her.’
‘Would you prefer to stay out here?’
She thinks for a few seconds. ‘No. It’s okay. I’ll be all right.’
Cody isn’t sure he can say the same. He wishes it were the other way round – her asking him if he’d care to skip this one.
Crap, he thinks. We’re as bad as each other.
‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Don’t look if you don’t want to.’
They enter the autopsy room. A long row of steel tables stretches ahead of them. On one of the tables, a naked female figure, white and still. Even from here, the detectives can see that death is on that table. No actor could carry lifelessness off this well.
‘Gather round,’ says Stroud. ‘She won’t bite, and neither will I.’
Cody wonders whether Stroud has remembered that Webley was the one who reacted so badly at the crime scene this morning. For a moment he debates telling him, but then decides that Webley probably wouldn’t thank him for seeking special dispensation.
Reluctantly, the detectives move closer. From a distance they could kid themselves that Terri Latham was intact – perfect even in death. But as they approach they become aware of her unseeing stare through red, raw holes. And below, the third point of the macabre triangle is the wound in her throat, gaping open as if crying for help. Cody feels his senses being bombarded. The shiny steel and the intense white lights and the man wielding the scalpel and the chemical smells and the cold air and the unmistakable presence of death – all of these things alerting his brain to the fact that this body is about to be torn open to the world in the most gruesome manner imaginable.
And so it begins.
Stroud launches the operation with words he has intoned countless times before: ‘The body is that of a well-nourished female . . .’
For Cody, the words quickly fade into a meaningless drone. He can’t concentrate on what is being said, because he is trying too hard not to be here. In his mind he is on a beach, then swimming in the sea, then driving along a country lane. Anywhere but here.
The sweating starts up again. He knows it is cool in this room, but he feels like a boil-in-the-bag meal. His blood will soon begin to bubble and his skin will inflate with the steam, and it will balloon out and he will be on the edge of exploding, spreading his insides all over the—
No, he tells himself. Stop that. Don’t get all disgusting on me. Think nice things. Think of girls, and of having a pint in the pub with your mates, and going to the match on a Saturday. All the things you used to do before normality was cruelly interrupted.
But he can’t help it. Can’t help watching Stroud, and the way he’s cutting. That big fucking Y-shape of an incision they always make. Right down the body. Look at that. All the way down. Parting. Opening. Opening that fucking body right up. Jesus Christ. Look at that shit. All that stuff inside her. Ribs being parted. Organs being scooped out like the fleshy seedy pulp of a melon. All taken out as if this isn’t a human being in front of them. As if this is just some kind of inanimate object to be freely poked and prodded and sliced and damaged.
And if only that were all. The emptying of the cavity. That should be it. That should be enough devastation, enough carnage.
But now this is it. This is the part Cody was really worried about. The bit he dreaded. The bit that is making him hot and nauseated and on the verge of passing out. No, it’s more than that. It’s the bit where he cries. The bit where he screams his lungs out. Where his very soul is ejected from his mouth and his heart wants to explode with the strain it endures. This is it. Oh, God, this is it.
He would like to ask Blunt why she put him here. Wants to know what purpose it serves. Webley, too. They are the two most unsuitable detectives on the team to be at this particular post-mortem. Blunt knows that, and yet she put them here. What kind of sadist is she?
But it’s a test. He knows that. And he’s going to pass it with flying colours. Watch me, he thinks. I can do this. I can get to the other side of this.
So he stays put. Forces himself to stare. The beach and the pub and the girls and his mates are all out of reach now. They can’t help him any longer. Even Webley has gone, dissolved into the background. There is just the body and the man with the scalpel. It’s not even possible to discern the gender of the corpse anymore. This could be a man. Yes, he thinks, that’s it. A man. It was a man last time, too. He was there. He saw it all. Saw what happened, just as it’s happening now. The scalpel being lowered again. Down, down, down. And then the cutting. The cutting.
And then . . .
Yes.
Oh, Christ.
See what he’s doing?
Jesus, he thinks. I see it.
He hears the screams, too. He tells himself they’re not there, but he hears them anyway. Why won’t they stop? Why won’t anybody else in this room do something about it?
But then he looks around and realises the answer. They are not here to help him. They want him to suffer. These sick maniacs with their eternally evil grins are here to do him untold harm. They are coming closer, closer . . .
Cody flees.
He gets out of there as fast as he can. He doesn’t even know where he’s going. He just has to run, to escape. He knows people are staring at him as he rockets past, but he doesn’t care. Getting out of this building is his overriding thought.
He breaks out into the grey light of day. Sucks hungrily on the city air that’s probably full of all kinds of crap, but which is at least free of the cloying chemical smells indoors.
And then he throws up. Splashes the contents of his stomach onto the hard cold concrete.
He stands there for a while, bent over, hands on his knees. Wondering if he’s got anything left inside. Not just in his stomach, either. Inside, where it matters. This is the second loss of control in a short time period. Things are getting worse. Have I got what it takes, he thinks, or am I just kidding myself? Should I be doing this job? Wouldn’t it be better if I just packed it in while I’ve still got enough of a mind to think straight?
Those are the thoughts that are really eating him up. They keep coming back, time after time, and they never seem any less strong. That’s what’s so frustrating. That’s what—
‘Cody?’
Webley has found him. She puts a hand on his shoulder. ‘Are you okay?’
He nods. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Webley finds a tissue and hands it to him.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ she says. ‘I think we could both do with a drink.’
He allows her to escort him to the car. She’s leading him along like he’s an elderly patient, telling him he’ll be okay. The constable co
mforting the sergeant.
When did the world get turned upside down?
15
‘Are you sure that’s all you want?’
Cody nods. The glass of Coke is fine. He doesn’t drink anymore. Used to, though. Used to go on many a bender with the lads. He would come home rotten, make some supper he never remembered eating afterwards. He would get up the next morning and there would be soup stains all down the wall and all around his mouth, but for the life of him he wouldn’t remember the stuff passing his lips.
But that was then. Before the curtain came down and everything went dark.
He tried drinking afterwards. Hoped it would make things better, if only for a short while. A dram or two of whiskey, just to help him go off. When that didn’t work, he tried getting blind drunk, hoping to collapse into unconsciousness and leave the pain behind for a few blessed hours. That didn’t work either. He would still wake up in the middle of the night, and the demons would be worse. They would be more fierce, as if fuming at his attempts to suppress them. He decided then that not only was alcohol not the solution, it was an aggravator. It was simplest to shun it totally. And in many ways he is grateful for that outcome. His father has found some solace in drink, and is paying a high price for it.
Says Webley, ‘How are you feeling now?’
‘Okay, I think. Must be something I ate.’
She nods towards Cody’s glass. ‘Have a drink. If you’re not going to get pissed, at least take the taste away. And your breath. Sitting here with you is like sniffing sweaty socks.’
Cody takes a long draught of the Coke.
‘Better?’ she asks.
‘Better.’
‘Want to talk about it?’
‘Talk about what?’
‘Cody, that was no food allergy. I’ve seen you knock back several pints and a dodgy kebab, and still wake up fine the next day. Something about that PM got to you. And something about that photographer pushed your buttons, too. You can’t keep wigging out like that and tell me everything’s hunky-dory.’
Cody shakes his head. ‘The two things aren’t related. I told you, the photographer just pissed me off.’
‘Then be pissed off. Doesn’t mean you have to tear the man’s head off. That’s not like you, Cody.’
‘How do you know? People change. How do you know what I’m like now?’
He regrets the way he says those words. Makes him sound bitter.
‘You’re right,’ she says. ‘Maybe you’re not the man I used to know.’
And love, he thinks. Know and love.
A silence drops in. Webley uses it to sip her wine and soda. Cody uses it to glance around the pub. They are in the Philharmonic, which occupies a corner diagonally opposite the concert hall of the same name. Two of the wood-panelled rooms within the grand old watering hole have signs over the door labelling them ‘Brahms’ and ‘Liszt’. They are sitting at a small table in Brahms.
He remembers the first time he came here with Webley. They were part of a large gang of coppers. Drunk and rowdy. Somebody asked Webley if she had seen the gents’ toilets for which the Phil is famous. She made the mistake of saying she hadn’t. Seconds later, Cody was one of those carrying her in to get a close-up view of the pink marble urinals, much to the surprise of the customers engaged in taking aim at them.
It was among the best of times. The worst of times was still unimaginable back then.
‘So what’s changed you?’ she asks.
Not letting it go, thinks Cody. She, for one, is the same as ever.
‘Dunno. The job, I suppose. Took it out of me. Made me cynical.’
‘Is that why you dropped the undercover work?’
‘Yeah. I needed a fresh start. Pretending to be other people for so long was doing my head in.’
She mulls this over while she runs her finger up and down the stem of her glass.
‘That reporter. Dobby. What was he going on about?’
‘When?’
‘The stuff about your background, and how fascinating it is.’
Cody waves it away. ‘Oh, that. He found out that I’d gone undercover on some major investigations. He’s always pestering me about it. I think he wants to write up my life story.’
He laughs, but he’s not sure he gets away with it. Webley appears unconvinced.
Still, she leaves it for now.
‘And the post-mortem?’
Christ, he thinks. Not out of the woods yet.
‘What about it?’
‘You still haven’t explained what happened. God knows, I was upset enough. It wasn’t easy seeing an old friend on the slab like that. But you took it to another level.’
‘I don’t know, okay? Maybe I’ve just become more sensitive in my old age.’
‘Old age? Cody, you still look like you’re about nine.’
‘Well, I’m not. I’m not that far away from thirty, but even that doesn’t seem enough. I feel like I’m at least fifty. I’m . . .’
He stops. He’s about to tell her that he’s seen too much, felt too much for the time he’s spent on this earth. He doesn’t want to go there.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Look, can we change the subject, please? I feel like I’m on a psychiatrist’s couch here.’
She nods. ‘Okay.’ But he can tell she is still concerned. He has no doubt that this conversation is to be continued at a future point. That’s how well he knows her.
‘So . . .’ she says. ‘What’s with the Coke? Gone teetotal, or is that just for tonight?’
‘Why would it just be for tonight?’
‘I have no idea.’
But she does. He can tell that about her, too. She is thinking that he is avoiding booze tonight purely to stay in control. In case he comes out with something stupid. Something that would complicate matters. But she doesn’t want to say so because of the conceit it carries. It would convey her suspicion that he still has feelings for her.
‘Well, it isn’t. I just don’t drink now. I’m trying to look after myself.’
‘Good,’ she says. ‘Good.’
He feels the conversation is becoming ever more awkward. He wants to go home now, where he can be miserable in private. But there’s something he needs to clear up first.
He says, ‘Can I ask you a favour?’
‘Sure.’
‘I’d be grateful if you didn’t say anything. To Blunt, I mean. Or anyone else, for that matter. About the way I’ve been acting today. They might get the wrong idea.’
Or the right idea. Which is probably worse.
She rolls her eyes at him. ‘Cody, what do you think I am? Of course I’m not going to say anything. Even if I do think you’re a complete basket case.’
He smiles. ‘Thanks.’
She sips her drink. Says, ‘Now can I ask you a favour?’
‘It’s only fair. Name it.’
‘As we’re on the subject of keeping stuff under wraps, I’d like you to do the same. About us, I mean. About how we used to be . . . an item. The others don’t need to know. Blunt, especially. It could really mess things up.’
‘It’s a deal.’ He holds his glass in the air. She brings hers up too, and they clink a contract.
And that’s when he sees it. On her other hand, now resting on the table.
The engagement ring.
He stares, and she catches him staring. She slides her hand away, as if about to hide it, but then changes her mind and leaves it in full view. And why shouldn’t she?
He says, ‘You’re . . .’
‘Engaged, yes.’
‘To?’
‘A man.’
‘Okay. I think I might have worked that one out.’
‘Took you long enough to spot the ring. Call yourself a bloody detective?’
‘Is he a copper?’
‘No. Guess again.’
‘A soldier?’
‘No. And he’s not a traffic warden either. Why do you think it has to be somebo
dy in uniform?’
‘I don’t know. A . . . a window cleaner.’
She bursts out laughing. ‘Christ, you’re shit at this game. If you must know, he’s a hotel manager.’
‘Which hotel?’
‘The Lansing.’
‘Nice. I was in there a few weeks ago. A suspect had stayed in one of the rooms. I talked to quite a few of the staff. What’s your bloke’s name?’
She hesitates, and he wonders why.
‘Parker.’
‘What’s his first name?’
A longer pause now. ‘Parker.’
And now it’s Cody’s turn to laugh. ‘Oh my God. His name’s Parker? No, I definitely didn’t speak to him. I’d have remembered someone called Parker. Surely he’s not from Liverpool?’
‘Surrey, actually.’
She says this with a certain frostiness, but Cody presses on. ‘Please tell me his surname’s Carr. Parker Carr would be a great name for a traffic warden.’
Despite her apparent anger, Webley can’t stop a smile breaking out on her lips.
‘Stop it. I’ve already told you he’s not a traffic warden. And anyway, enough of my love life. What about yours? Which unsuspecting girl have you got tied up in your basement right now?’
‘Nobody. I’m young, free and single at the minute.’
‘But there have been others, right? Since we split up.’
‘One or two.’
‘One or two thousand, you mean. Anyone serious?’
‘Maybe.’
‘This is like pulling teeth. Spit it out, Cody. Give me a clue.’
‘All right. Devon.’
‘The whole county, or one specific town? Which bit of Devon?’
‘All of her.’
Webley’s jaw drops. ‘And you have the audacity to make fun of my fella! What kind of name is Devon?’
‘I think it’s a nice name.’
‘It’s ridiculous. The next time somebody tells me they spent the weekend in Devon, I’ll be crying with laughter.’
‘Well, it’s not as bad as Parker.’
‘Matter of opinion. So, go on then. Spill the beans. How serious was it?’
‘Engaged serious.’
She blinks. ‘No. Really? What happened? I mean, I’m assuming it’s all past history now.’
A Tapping at My Door: A gripping crime thriller (The DS Nathan Cody series) Page 9
