‘Hi, Devon. I thought I should just give you a quick call. Make sure you’re all right. You know – because of the murder last night.’
He gets a few seconds of silence, and can picture her trying to decide if there might be more to the call than this. His cynicism is a measure of how badly things have deteriorated between them.
‘Well, thanks,’ she says. ‘It’s good of you. To tell the truth, it did shake me up a bit. I mean, this is Hoylake, for God’s sake. Things like that don’t happen here. It’s awful.’
She sounds sincere. Chatty, even. He feels less edgy now.
‘I know. It’s bad enough anywhere . . .’
‘Of course.’
‘. . . but Hoylake police station is so quiet.’
‘Not anymore. There are police everywhere now. Reporters, too. The place hasn’t had so much television coverage since the Open. The poor man. He was local, you know.’
‘I know.’
‘Yes. I was forgetting. You must know a lot more than I do. Was he . . . Is it . . . ?’
‘What?’
‘They’re saying . . . that it’s connected to the other killings, the ones in Liverpool. Is that true? I mean, I suppose it must be. Four police officers in such a short time – that can’t be coincidence, right?’
He pauses. He can’t confirm her suspicions directly, but at the same time he doesn’t want to irritate her by being obviously evasive.
‘What else are they saying?’
‘Who?’
‘People. In the area.’
‘Loads of stuff. To be honest, I think much of it is just rumour. You know how these things get all blown out of proportion. Not that it isn’t a big enough story already, mind. There is one thing that keeps coming up . . .’
‘What’s that?’
‘They say he was killed with a crossbow. Even on the news they’re saying that. Is it true?’
Cody thinks about this one. It’s a simple enough question. Yes or no is all it needs. If he was there, sitting next to her on the sofa, he would answer it. He knows he would, even in the absence of official confirmation. But right now he feels he has to hold back, and it shocks him to realise that such a substantial piece of his trust in Devon has been eroded.
‘To be honest, I haven’t been very involved with this latest killing. I have no idea. It would be an unusual way to kill someone, though.’
He waits out the silence from the other end, knowing that she is fully aware of his evasion. He’s a Liverpool copper, she’ll be thinking. Working with the murder team. Of course he knows what’s going on. He just doesn’t trust me enough to say. That’s how much of a gap there is between us now.
‘Yes,’ she says, but it’s just to fill the space. ‘So, anyway—’
He cuts off what is obviously meant to lead to a termination of the conversation: ‘Yeah, so, what I was trying to ask you was if you’re okay. I mean, with this murder being so close to home for you.’
‘Well . . . You kind of already asked me that when I answered the phone.’
‘Did I? Yeah, okay. So you’re fine, then.’
‘That’s not exactly what I said. I said I was shaken. This was practically on my doorstep, Cody. And it wasn’t just anyone. It was a policeman. One of the people who are supposed to protect us.’
Cody wonders whether that’s a small dig at him, then decides he’s being too defensive. She’s upset and she’s scared. Why would she be scratching at old wounds at a time like this?
‘Oh. Sorry. That’s what I thought – that it might have got to you. So I just wanted to say . . . if there’s anything I can do . . .’
‘I don’t know. Like what?’
‘Well, I’m not sure. Like, do you want me to come round? Or do you want to come over here? I could even come and get you if you—’
‘I . . . Cody . . .’
He can hear her struggling for the best way to reject his offer, and it was only what he expected, so he lets her down gently.
‘Just a suggestion, that’s all. Didn’t want you to think I didn’t care or anything. Didn’t want to think of you sitting there scared of every noise outside and wishing someone would do something to help you.’
‘Is that how you see me? As a frightened little mouse?’
‘Well, not exactly. I just—’
‘I can look after myself, Cody. I’m a big girl. Like I said, I’m just a bit shaken. Besides, I’ve got someone coming round to keep me company.’
So. There it is. The thing he always dreaded hearing. But wait. It might mean nothing. Could be a female friend. More than probably is. He can’t ask, though. Can’t come right out with it and demand to know if it’s a bloke.
‘Yeah? Anyone I know?’
Say it’s Aileen, he thinks. Or that one with the annoying laugh – what’s her name? – Philippa, that’s it.
‘No. Just a friend.’
He hears this, and despite its neutrality believes immediately that it’s a man.
‘Right. So . . . you and your friend . . . you’ll both be okay?’
‘We’ll be fine. I’ve got a nice bottle of wine in the fridge. Soon take the edge off.’
He wonders what else will come off. When they’re both pissed and in need of each other’s company and . . .
No, he thinks. I’m being stupid. It’s none of my business.
‘Great,’ he says, but it comes out practically dripping with sarcasm. He tries to brighten up. ‘Then I’ll leave you to it.’
‘Thanks, Cody. It was good of you to check on me. Really, it was thoughtful.’
Thoughtful is my middle name, he thinks. I can put a lot of thought into things. I just can’t convert them into any actions worth a damn.
‘No problem. Hope you didn’t mind me calling.’
‘No, but as you can tell, I’m really okay.’
Yes, he thinks. So it would seem. You’re right as rain. You and your anonymous friend there, sitting in my spot on the sofa, knocking back the rosé. Lovely.
‘Good. Well . . . goodbye then.’
‘Goodbye, Cody.’
‘Devon—’
But she’s gone. Couldn’t get off the phone quickly enough.
He lies back on the bed. His sweat-soaked neck feels clammy against the cold cotton pillowcase.
He tells himself it doesn’t matter. He was right to make the call, to show he hasn’t stopped caring about her. And Devon is under no obligation to tell him what’s going on in her life. They have separated. She has a right to privacy.
But still he snatches up the phone when it rings, in the hope that she regrets her previous coldness and is calling him back.
‘Devon?’
But of course it isn’t. And now he feels idiotic and needy and angry.
He says, ‘I don’t know who you are, but I will find out. And when I do, I will rip your fucking eyes out of your skull. That’s a promise.’
And then he hangs up.
38
When the intercom buzzes, he looks up from his book and checks the clock on the wall. It’s just after eight o’clock. He’s not expecting anyone, so he returns his attention to his book. He has showered and put on a fluffy bathrobe and has finally managed to lose himself in the pages of Thomas Hardy, so no thank you, he does not want to talk to anyone who just might pull him back into the snapping jaws of the real world.
Another buzz. The electronically generated noise is so at odds with the world of Jude the Obscure. The magic has been broken.
He sighs. Slams the book shut. Pads across the carpet to answer the call.
‘Who is it?’
‘Cody? Is that you? You might have put your frigging name on the doorbell. I’ve rung at every flat above every dentist on Rodney Street. I don’t even like dentists.’
‘Megan, what do you want?’
‘To persuade you to change your electricity provider. What do you think I want? I want to talk to you.’
> ‘What about?’
‘Liverpool’s chances against Southampton next Saturday. Stop fannying about and open the frigging door, will you?’
Cody sighs again. Presses the button to release the door lock.
He knows that as soon as she pushes open the front door she will be faced by a wall of eerie blackness on the ground floor lobby. Even if she can find a light switch, she won’t know where to go, and will be stymied by the locked door leading up to his flat. So he slides his feet into a pair of slippers and heads downstairs, flicking lights on as he goes.
When he gets to the top of the final flight of steps, he finds Webley staring up at him and grinning.
‘What’s so funny?’ he asks.
‘Slippers,’ she says. ‘I can’t believe you’re wearing slippers. And a dressing gown. Have you taken up smoking a pipe, too?’
‘If you’ve come here just to have a laugh at me, you can leave now.’
She shakes her head. ‘I haven’t. Honest.’ But she’s still grinning.
He beckons her with a flick of his head. ‘Come on up.’
She starts up the wide staircase, her fingers sliding admiringly along the polished wood of the banister.
‘Nice place you’ve got here. Like being in a stately home. You should have stags’ heads on the walls. Or maybe paintings of your ancestors, all looking like you but dressed in silly clothes.’
‘Sillier than a bathrobe and slippers, you mean?’
‘That’s what you could wear in your portrait. I expect to see it next time I’m here. Pipe and all.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
He leads her up to the first floor, then along the corridor to the door leading up to his flat.
‘Blimey,’ she says. ‘This place is huge. Do you have this whole building to yourself?’
‘At night, yes.’
‘Doesn’t it get scary?’
‘Only when the resident ghost comes out, but he never appears until after eight o’clock. What time is it now? Oh, ten past eight.’
She slaps him playfully on the arm. ‘Pack it in. You know I don’t do ghosts and scary stuff.’
He steps aside, allowing her to go up the stairs ahead of him. She is wearing a short quilted jacket and tight jeans, and from here he gets a wonderful view of her rear end. The rear end upon which he once wrote a love message, all those years ago.
She pauses at the top of the stairs, her eyes darting from door to door. ‘I’m spoilt for choice. Where to next?’
‘Do you want a coffee?’
‘I wouldn’t say no.’
‘In here then.’
He opens the first door on the right, and shows her into the kitchen. She takes a quick look around, then jumps onto a stool at the breakfast bar.
‘I’ve only got instant,’ he says. ‘That okay?’
‘Fine. Can’t be any worse than the stuff I’m used to.’
Cody switches the kettle on. ‘So, what brings you here at this time of the day? Not got enough going on in your life?’
‘I was worried.’
‘Really? Then you’ve come to the right place. Dr Cody’s surgery is open for business. What troubles you, young lady?’
‘I’m worried about you, soft lad.’
‘Me? Why?’
‘Because things haven’t exactly been normal with you, have they? Ever since we started working together you’ve been like a puppy on springs. You never seem to relax. And then today you just go walking out of the building, like you’ve had enough of the place.’
Cody fills two mugs, passes one across to Webley.
‘Maybe I have had enough. Don’t get me wrong, MIT is great most of the time, but every job has its rougher side too. Maybe it’s finally got to me.’
She sips her coffee. Doesn’t grimace, so it can’t be too disgusting.
‘What happened last night?’ she asks, out of the blue.
‘Oh, so they’ve been talking, have they? The rumours have started already.’
‘No. No rumours. Just . . . Okay, yes, there are rumours. They’re saying it all went a bit weird last night. That something in that building spooked you. Something nobody else could find.’
‘Uh-huh. Okay, fine. If that’s what you want to believe, then—’
‘No. Cody, no. I don’t believe anything yet. Not until you tell me what I should believe. You were there. Nobody else was. Only you know what really happened in there.’
‘Nothing happened in there, okay? Nothing weird, as you put it. I thought I heard someone, I chased after him, but I was wrong. I was mistaken. End of story.’
He hears the increased volume in his own voice, the touch of bitterness.
She puts her hands up in surrender. ‘Okay. Fine. I didn’t come to interrogate you.’
He lets out a deep sigh. Hopes his anger will float away on his breath. Then he goes to the fridge and takes out one of the few things left on the shelves.
‘Here,’ he says. ‘Have a chocolate roll.’
‘Wow, you really know how to spoil a girl.’
But she opens it anyway and takes a bite. A fragment of chocolate clings to her lip, and she stretches out her tongue to collect it. Cody has to tell himself not to get distracted by manoeuvres such as this.
He’s not sure what to say to her next, but she has no trouble filling the gap.
‘Look, I really didn’t come here to wind you up. If you want me to go, I’ll go. I just thought you might want somebody to talk to. It must get pretty lonely up here.’
He shrugs. ‘I’m used to it. I’ve learnt to like my own company.’
She shakes her head. ‘I couldn’t do it. It’d drive me bonkers. How do you let off steam?’
‘I’ve converted one of the front bedrooms into a gym. A good workout does wonders.’
‘Yeah, but . . . everyone needs to talk sometimes, don’t they? We all need to have a good moan now and again.’
‘Not me.’
She nods, but he can tell she doesn’t believe him.
‘Cody,’ she says, ‘can I give you some advice?’
‘What kind of advice?’
‘Helpful advice.’
‘Narrows it down. Go on.’
‘Promise you won’t get mad?’
‘I won’t get mad.’
‘I don’t want you to think I’m interfering or anything.’
‘I won’t think you’re interfering.’
‘Just tell me if you think it’s none of my business.’
‘Megan, stop pissing about and just tell me.’
He sees her take a deep breath, getting herself ready. This is going to be a biggie.
‘All right . . . well . . . I just think . . . I think you need to see a doctor’
‘A doctor.’
‘Yes, a doctor . . . of some kind.’
Meaning not your everyday GP. A head doctor, is what she’s saying. A shrink.
And now, yes, he’s starting to feel annoyed. A tad irritated. No, more than a tad. A whole barrelful of irritated. A roomful of the stuff. He’s had this so-called advice from Devon, lots of times. But she was engaged to him. She had a right to offer such opinions. Webley hasn’t been on the scene for years. She doesn’t know him anymore. She needs to keep out of his personal life.
He wants to let rip. Wants to roar at Webley to get the hell out of his flat. He glares at her, feeling the heat rising in his cheeks and burning in his eyes. As if from a dragon, his words will be fired at her like a stream of flame, incinerating her on the spot.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says.
It takes him by surprise, confuses him enough to stifle his wrath temporarily.
She continues: ‘I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s none of my business anymore. I just wanted to . . .’ She pushes her half-full coffee mug back at him. ‘Me and my big mouth. I’d better go now.’
She slides off the barstool. Cody can see how filled with remorse she is. His expression told her in painful
clarity how affronted he was by her suggestion, and now she is suffering its sting.
‘Megan,’ he says.
She turns her eyes on him. They scan his face for meaning.
He says, ‘It’s okay. What you just said . . . It’s probably good advice. I’ve got a lot of shit in my life at the moment, and I’m not handling it very well. I probably should go and see someone about it.’
‘But you won’t.’
He smiles. ‘’Course not. I’m a bloke. Blokes don’t talk things over.’
She finds a smile of her own, and it swamps his with its beauty.
‘Then we’ll have to settle for the next best form of therapy.’
‘Which is?’
‘A drink. Alcohol. Come on – my treat.’
He looks down at himself. ‘I’m not exactly dressed for it.’
‘Then hurry up and get your glad rags on. I’m gasping here.’
39
He’s in a pub. Again. With Webley. Again.
The Cracke is a tiny little place on a dark and narrow back street. It’s famous as being one of the places where John Lennon used to drink. At that time, the Liverpool Institute High School for Boys stood on the next block. Both Paul McCartney and George Harrison attended the grammar school, and McCartney later helped to convert the building into the Liverpool Institute for Performing Arts.
Seated at a quiet table in the rear of the pub, Cody thinks about why he’s here. Especially given that he doesn’t drink. Well, not normally.
Tonight is not normal. Tonight Cody has decided that the apparent speed-up in the disintegration of his life is not going to be held in check by the simple expedient of avoiding alcohol. Tonight he is thinking, Fuck it; it can’t get any worse. Let’s live a little before we die a lot. Carpe diem, and all that.
He’s practically drooling at the sight of the pint glass carried over by Webley. Its contents look rich and foamy and delicious. Truly an object of desire right now.
‘Flippin’ heck,’ says Webley. ‘Your eyes are on stalks. I could have carried this over naked, and you’d still have been more interested in your pint.’
‘I’ve gone without for a long time.’
‘I hope you mean drink. Go on, then. Get it down your neck.’
Cody lifts the glass. Dips his face into the foam. Allows the fluid beneath to slip down his gullet. It goes down easily, too easily, and he doesn’t stop until the glass is half empty. Or half full, depending on your outlook.
A Tapping at My Door: A gripping crime thriller (The DS Nathan Cody series) Page 23
