‘You won’t be saying that when he’s in a cell.’
‘I will be saying that if he’s in a cell and you’re in a coffin. Call it off, Cody.’
‘I can’t. The operation has already been approved.’
‘Then get it unapproved. You don’t know what you’re doing.’
‘Megan, I know exactly what I’m doing. Trust me.’
She lowers her voice. She didn’t want to do this, but . . .
‘Did you know what you were doing in the Armitage? What about at the post-mortem? And how about the photographer? How do I know this isn’t just another of your moments?’
‘They were different. They were knee-jerk reactions. I’ve thought this one through for a long time.’
‘Really? Suppose I tell Blunt how you’ve been freaking out? Do you think she will still regard this as a carefully considered course of action?’
He looks at her sharply. ‘You promised you wouldn’t say anything. You said—’
‘That was before you decided to go one-on-one with a vicious killer. Cody, this is your life we’re talking about. I want you to stay alive.’
Cody reaches out and touches her arm. ‘You almost sound like you care.’
She looks him in the eye, in a way she thought she’d never do again.
‘I always cared, Cody. But you never listened. It never bothered you that I cared. So you know what? I’m not caring anymore. If you want to throw your life away, go ahead. I’m done with allowing you to keep hurting me.’
She turns then. Turns and storms away before she gets really angry with him.
And before he sees how hurt she really is.
32
It’s killing him.
The waiting. He has waited four whole nights, and it’s torture. He hasn’t called them, he hasn’t watched them. Above all, he hasn’t killed.
The birds are getting desperate. He can tell just by looking at them. They seem more agitated than before. They are squabbling and pecking at each other. More than usual have died, for no apparent reason. They need him to do something. Now.
‘ALL RIGHT!’ he yells at the birds. ‘I’m doing my best, aren’t I? What good will getting caught do? These things need careful planning.’
He paces the room. Squelches through the bird shit.
Planning, yes. That’s what’s needed. And a little lateral thinking. Something different. Something they won’t be expecting.
A thought occurs to him. He goes out onto the landing. Looks up at the hatch set into the ceiling. Thinks about what he’s got stored up there in the loft. Smiles.
That’ll do it.
*
Cody is starting to think this is one of the dumbest ideas he’s ever had.
For one thing, he’s had to change his work patterns. The killer does his thing at night. That means Cody has to be here at night, ready to go. Not that he’s missing out on his sleep – he never gets much of that anyway. But it does mean he can’t be here in the day, too – Blunt wasn’t prepared to let him live in the station around the clock – which in turn means he’s missing out on all the investigatory work.
The only consolation is that he doesn’t appear to be missing out on much. The investigation has hit a dead end. No eagle-eyed witnesses; no telltale forensics; no Gazzas just dying to sign a confession.
In his more confident moments, Cody tells himself the case has stalled because the other detectives are missing his insight and perception and downright determination. Most of the time, though, he doesn’t believe that. Most of the time he is worried that they are never going to catch this guy, with or without Cody’s involvement. And it’s when he starts thinking that way that he wonders if his scheme to trap the killer is as hare-brained as Blunt said it was.
Blunt herself is tucked up in bed. Probably. Cody knows nothing about her nocturnal activities. Doesn’t really want such thoughts entering his head. Blunt is needed here during the day. She’s not as dispensable as he is.
He accepts it’s his own fault. Sitting here at – what time is it now? – two in the morning is what he asked for. He wonders how many more lonely nights he’s going to spend in this room before he abandons this ridiculous undertaking.
He thinks the killer might have smelled a rat. He doesn’t appear to have called the switchboard once in the past four nights. He could have ended his killing spree. He could have left the country. He could be at home, fast asleep like the sensible majority of the population.
Cody wishes he could go to sleep himself right now, here in this deserted incident room. He wishes he could close his eyes and drift off, to be awakened only when the call comes in. But it’s hard enough sleeping in his own house, his own bed. Here it’s impossible. It’s not the noise: this part of the building is deathly quiet right now. It’s the anticipation that’s the problem. Cody finds himself running ceaselessly through scenarios in his mind. What if the killer does such-and-such? What if this happens, or that goes wrong?
All to no avail, of course. He has no idea what the killer has planned. He doesn’t know if he will strike tonight, tomorrow night, or never again. This could be a complete waste of time.
The phone on his desk rings.
It’s nothing, he tells himself. Don’t get excited. Somebody is checking up on you, or a call has been put through to the wrong extension. Save the adrenalin for another time.
‘Detective Cody?’ says a male voice.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Inspector Mostyn in the control room. I think we’re on.’
‘I’ll be right over, sir,’ Cody answers.
He puts the phone down, his expression grave in the knowledge he’s about to go fishing for a cop killer.
*
Cody makes his way to an annexe connected to the main control room. This separate area is used for communications during special operations, and right now is bustling with officers handling calls, issuing orders and making plans.
He is led over to a table covered in maps, while a member of tech services fastens miniature cameras to him, then checks their operation on a portable monitor. Cody feels weighed down by the uniform, the stab-proofs and all the equipment. He’s not used to wearing anything more substantial than a suit and tie. With the paraphernalia hanging off him now he feels like an overdecorated Christmas tree.
A door swings violently open, and Blunt comes bustling in. She is red in the face, and panting. Cody imagines it’s the swiftest she’s ever jumped out of bed and high-tailed it into work.
‘Is this it?’ she asks of nobody in particular. ‘Is it him?’
From where he has been directing conversations with his men at one of the consoles, a uniformed officer breaks off and comes over to Blunt. Inspector Mostyn offers his hand, and she takes it.
‘Stella,’ he says.
‘Nick,’ she replies. ‘Is this it?’
‘Looks like.’
‘I want to hear the call,’ she says.
Cody glances at her. Normally unflappable, she now looks anxious.
Mostyn turns to the comms officer. ‘Can we replay it over the speakers?’
The officer nods, flicks a couple of switches. The wall speakers burst into life.
‘Police, can I help you?’
‘I want to report some trespassers.’
Cody watches as Blunt listens intently to the voice. It’s a harsh whisper again, just like the other calls. This time, however, the accent is Irish.
‘Certainly, sir. Can I have your name and phone number, please?’
‘No names. There’s an old empty office building on Porter Street, close to Waterloo Street at the docks. The sign outside says “Emerson Printing Supplies”. A couple of young kids keep going in there. I think they’re planning to set fire to the place.’
The line goes dead then.
‘That’s it?’ Blunt asks.
Mostyn nods. ‘He didn’t hang about. Obviously he’s become a lot more cautious about his calls being traced.’
&nb
sp; ‘And was it? Traced, I mean?’
‘No. There wasn’t time.’
Blunt turns to Cody. ‘What do you think? Same guy?’
Cody shrugs. ‘Could be. Seemed to me like he was trying too hard to sound Irish.’
Blunt looks uncertain about the whole thing. Like she needs someone in the room to provide her with some reassurance. She turns to Mostyn.
‘This could be anything,’ she says. ‘It could be an ex-IRA member with a thing about Brits, for all we know. There could be a bomb in that building.’
Mostyn nods. ‘I didn’t authorise this op. I was just asked to coordinate it. If somebody tells me to pull it, I’ll pull it. Do you want to make some calls?’
Cody can tell she is tempted, and feels the need to head her off at the pass. ‘Ma’am, it’s fine. We can’t miss this opportunity, and we’re running out of time.’
She opens her mouth to say something, but Mostyn beats her to it.
‘There are other options.’
Blunt’s eyes are greedy for the alternatives. ‘What options?’
‘Well, for one thing, we don’t have to send anyone in alone. We could just surround and storm the place.’
Blunt’s gaze flicks back to Cody, as if to ask if that will satisfy him.
But Cody has to disappoint her: ‘No. This guy isn’t stupid. He might not even be in there. He might just be observing from a distance, the way we think he probably was the last few times he called. If he sees an army go in, he’ll just disappear, and then he’ll change tactics. If he does that, we might never catch him. And if he is in there, he’s probably got an escape route planned. Through the next building or over the roof or something. No, the whole point of this is to draw him out, and the only way we’ll do that is if he thinks I’m a soft target.’
‘You are a soft target,’ says Blunt. She looks to Mostyn again. ‘You said options, plural. What else?’
‘Doesn’t have to be young Cody here. We could send in an armed officer.’
Cody is already shaking his head. ‘Nope. Any thought that it’s not just a normal beat copper in there, and the guy will run. You can’t send in someone with a Heckler & Koch and expect our killer to hang around.’
Mostyn gives a smile. ‘I was thinking more of a concealed sidearm.’
More head-shaking from Cody. ‘There would still be an element of risk to the officer. Correct me if I’m wrong, but Armed Response probably aren’t used to walking into threat situations without guns at the ready, knowing they have to be prepared to whip out their weapons like it’s High Noon or whatever.’
‘Well, that’s true, but—’
Blunt finishes Mostyn’s sentence: ‘But you’re not accustomed to situations like this either, Cody.’
‘I was an undercover officer for years,’ he says. ‘I’m used to being surrounded by people who would slit my throat without a second thought if they found out what I did for a living.’
‘That was then, Cody. Not now! Now you’re a member of a murder squad. You’re not Batman.’
There’s a desperation in her voice that is becoming more evident. It’s the tone of a worried parent, not of a superior officer. Cody senses that it’s making Mostyn uncomfortable.
‘We need to make a decision,’ Mostyn says. ‘This guy has become used to waiting for us to show up, but he won’t wait forever.’
Cody’s answer is directed at Blunt. ‘I’m fine with it. Let’s go and catch this bastard.’
Blunt says nothing, but Cody sees the challenge in her eyes. She wants him to back out, and he can’t.
‘Okay,’ says Mostyn. He nods to the technician. ‘Explain the set-up.’
‘Pretty straightforward,’ says the tech. ‘Miniature cameras on the shoulders, looking front and rear. We’ll see what you see, Sergeant Cody, plus anything that might come up behind you. We’ve got infrared too, so we can see in the dark, even if you can’t. You’re also fitted with a microphone and earpiece. If the target is in there, you won’t be able to give us a running commentary or he’ll know something’s up, but you can call us in if you need to, and we can warn you if we see anything.’
‘Okay,’ says Cody.
Mostyn directs everyone to look at the maps on the table. ‘Here’s Waterloo Street, and here’s Porter Street. We’ve already stationed armed officers in several unmarked vehicles. They’re here, here and here.’
He gestures towards the other uniformed officer standing by the comms man. ‘Inspector Hewison here will direct the men if we need to send them in. Your job, Cody, is just to be our eyes and ears, okay? No acts of heroism, please. This man carries a knife and he is willing to use it. If you see him, you yell. Don’t be subtle about it. Make it clear to him that you’re calling in backup. That’s it. Leave it to us to come in and take him down. If he’s got any sense he’ll try to run, but if he comes at you, be ready with your baton. Okay, Cody? Have you got all that?’
Cody nods his understanding, but not his assent. He has no intention of shouting for reinforcements unless it becomes absolutely necessary. He wants a piece of this sick maniac for himself. And it’s not about heroism or glory-seeking. It’s about getting some kind of revenge for the deaths of three other police officers. He wants to be the one to slap the cuffs on their murderer. He wants to be the one to issue the caution, and perhaps one or two other messages to this bastard. He wants that sense of closure.
‘Then off you go, Sergeant Cody,’ says Mostyn. ‘And good luck. Just remember we’re right behind you.’
Mostyn moves away, leaving Blunt to have the final word.
‘One thing,’ she says quietly. ‘I’m staying here in the ops room. I’ll be watching and I’ll be listening to everything you do. Listen out for my voice, okay? I don’t care what these men here might say to you, if you hear me shout then you do what I say, even if it’s the opposite of what they want. If I tell you to get the hell out of there, then you do it. Do you understand me, Cody?’
He smiles. He feels like a kid being sent into his first day at school. He half expects Blunt to wet a handkerchief with saliva and rub the dirt from his face.
‘Say it!’ she commands.
‘I understand,’ he says. ‘But I’ll be fine. In an hour’s time you’ll be congratulating me for nabbing this guy.’
She nods, but without conviction.
Nothing like a bit of faith to boost your confidence, he thinks.
33
Cody drives slowly and steadily. Nothing to indicate haste. He doesn’t want to arouse the suspicions of the target, who could be watching him right now.
Which is an eerie feeling in itself. The eyes of a killer fixed on you. Studying you. Thinking about the best way to dispatch you, to mutilate you, to use your corpse as the bearer of his next sinister message.
But Cody has already decided it’s not going to come to that. He’s going to put an end to such shenanigans. He’s going to arrest this maniac. And, in the process, he might even administer a couple of whacks with his baton for good measure. Might even turn off his cameras while he rams his boot into the deviant’s groin a few times.
And yet . . .
The feeling is growing. The doubt. Creeping into Cody’s gut. Sitting there with its poison and making him want to retch it up. It always returns at moments like this. The thing is not to let it win.
He finds Porter Street. Parks up at the dockland end. In the port’s prime this area would have been bustling during daylight hours. Now much of it sits forlorn. Crumbling buildings staring longingly at the grey river, as if waiting for the ships to return. At night it’s even worse: it seems haunted by its past, just as Cody himself is.
He notices a blacked-out people carrier parked opposite, and knows instinctively that it’s filled with police officers armed to the teeth. It seems so conspicuous to him, but he tells himself that it’s only because he’s on the job. He hopes that it hasn’t even registered with the killer.
‘On scene,’ he says. ‘Getting out of the
car now. You reading me?’
‘Loud and clear,’ says Mostyn over his earpiece.
Cody gets out. Locks up the car. Starts up the street.
It’s a narrow road. Dark and forbidding. A few cars, parked tightly against the walls to allow traffic to pass.
Cody walks slowly. Tries to look as though he’s on just another routine call-out. A normal, unsuspecting copper checking out a call that he thinks will amount to nothing.
He wonders if he’s being watched right now. If he is, where will the observer be? At one of the mesh-covered windows above? In one of the shadowy doorways, waiting to pounce as he passes?
He lowers his hand to the grip of his baton. Just in case.
His shoes click loudly on the cracked pavement. If the killer is up ahead, he will know exactly where his prey is. He will know exactly when to strike.
Cody’s fingers caress the baton. Just in case.
It gets darker the further he walks. Not much in the way of street lighting up here. He pulls his torch from its holder on his belt. Switches it on and plays it over the buildings. The shadows dance and sway and bend as if coming to life.
Most of the walls are bare, but Cody catches sight of a faded and cracked sign above one of the doorways. He moves closer to it. Raises his torch to get a better look.
Emerson Printing Supplies.
He’s here.
And now that gremlin in his stomach is really starting to make its presence felt. Pinching and twisting Cody’s insides.
Cody lowers the cone of light from his torch. The painted red door below the sign looks secure enough, but Cody is guessing it’s not.
‘I’m going in,’ he says.
‘Be careful, Cody,’ says a voice. Blunt, this time.
Cody smiles. He can imagine Mostyn frowning at her interference. But she won’t care about that. She would make her voice heard even if she didn’t outrank Mostyn.
He steps up to the door. Pushes on it. It doesn’t budge. This puzzles him. Is this the only way in?
He tries again, harder this time. And now the door moves, its bottom edge scraping along the floor. He continues to push, all the while shining his torchlight into the blackness beyond.
A Tapping at My Door: A gripping crime thriller (The DS Nathan Cody series) Page 20
