Well, if that’s what it takes to get his attention . . .
‘I might have to try another copper,’ he says. ‘Maybe that Webley woman. You know, the bit of stuff who’s hanging round with Cody now.’
When Chris’s head snaps back into line, it comes as no surprise to Dobson. Predictable, see. Everyone’s so bloody predictable.
‘Yeah?’ says Chris. He tries to keep the salacious curiosity out of his voice, but it’s there all right. Pathetic.
‘Yeah. What do you think? Worth a try?’
Chris takes a swig of his drink, which is only a half-pint of lager because he’s a complete lightweight.
‘Sure. Not certain Cody would stand for it, though.’
Dobson offers him a smug smile. ‘Well, maybe Cody wouldn’t have to know. I told you, I can find things out. Maybe I know how to get to Webley when Cody’s not even around.’
There is a definite light of interest in Chris’s eyes now, but Dobson decides he’s already said too much. He’s satisfied that he’s managed to impress Chris. That’ll do. No need to give away everything. Better to keep your cards close to your chest.
He can tell there are questions on Chris’s lips. Well, tough shit, he thinks. I’m leaving you on a cliffhanger, mate. Maybe you’ll be a bit more attentive from now on. It’s my frigging birthday, for Christ’s sake.
‘Get the beers in,’ he orders, even though Chris bought the last round. ‘I’m dying for a slash.’
And then he’s up and away from the table. Not even looking back, but knowing that he’s left Chris desperately wanting to know more.
At the urinals, he starts to feel more regretful. He shouldn’t have said anything about Webley, or about what he has the power to do. Nobody’s business but his own. It was the beer talking, which is always a dangerous state to get into. If there’s anything he has learnt in his line of work, it’s not to reveal your plans. Some bastard will always steal them and claim them as their own.
He returns to the table without washing his hands. He’s decided he is going to change the subject, although finding something else that this dickhead of a photographer might be willing to discuss could be something of a challenge.
Idly, he picks up his mobile phone, which he’d left on the table. Worth a quick check. Maybe he’s received some birthday greetings from an old friend. Or maybe from that girl in accounts – the one with the enormous . . .
He sees that a text came in while he was taking a pee.
Not a welcome one, though.
It’s from his boss. Edward Kingsley.
It’s short, but definitely not sweet. It starts with, ‘Cody came to see me. Very interested in you. Had to tell him about . . .’
And then there’s one more word.
Dobson stares in disbelief at it. That single word that represents so much to so many people. Why the fuck did Kingsley have to say anything about that? And to Cody, of all people?
Shit!
A thought crosses his mind: that Chris might have seen the text on his phone when its arrival was announced. But when he looks across the table he sees that Chris once again has his mind on the girls across the room. He seems oblivious to anything going on elsewhere in the pub, including at his own table.
But that’s of small comfort.
Cody is asking questions about me, thinks Dobson. Why? What led him to do that?
And now Cody knows. He knows!
This changes everything.
47
Cody turns the car radio off. He’s getting bored. He has flicked through a dozen radio stations, and none of them are playing anything worth listening to. The news breaks provide no relief, because all they do is drone on about the lack of progress on the murders.
He glances at the dashboard clock. Almost eleven, and still no sign of Dobson. He doesn’t seem to Cody like somebody who would hit the nightclubs, so surely he will be home soon. But then it strikes Cody that he knows nothing about Dobson’s private life. The man might be anywhere from a strip joint to his darling mother’s house. Who knows?
Give it another hour, he thinks. If Dobson comes home pissed I won’t get much sense out of him anyway. Another hour. If he’s not here by then, I’ll leave it until morning.
It’s not like I can pin anything criminal on him. Not yet, anyway.
He turns his thoughts to other things. To Webley in particular.
He’s starting to think that maybe he handled it all wrong. No big surprise, because when it comes to matters of the heart, he feels he normally gets it wrong.
It was a knee-jerk reaction, blowing up like that. He has always been so terrified of others finding out how he ticks. Or fails to tick, because he’s not exactly running like clockwork right now. And that’s the point, isn’t it? He’s falling apart anyway. How can he last much longer in this job? What difference is it going to make that one random guy knows his secret? Who’s he going to tell?
So, yes, screaming in Webley’s face was probably not the wisest thing he’s ever done. Especially after what she had done for him. And especially the way she was feeling at that moment.
All of which makes him think it’s probably time to man up and apologise. Webley deserves so much better.
He takes out his mobile phone. Clicks into the contacts. Scrolls down to Webley’s number. Hovers his finger over the call button.
But it’s getting late, he thinks. After eleven now. She’ll be asleep. Or crying her eyes out. Or trying to patch things up with Parker. Whatever, not the best time to call.
In the morning. Yes, that would be better.
He’ll call her in the morning.
Definitely.
*
She should get into bed. Lord knows, she’s tired enough. Drained. Not that it’s been a hard day physically. But emotionally – well, that’s another story.
Last night was bad enough. She went through enough turmoil then to last her a lifetime. How dare Parker accuse her of cheating on him? How dare he suggest that the only reason she moved to MIT was to be near to Cody?
She remembers it now as a maelstrom of tears, fury and words that should have been left unspoken. She can’t see how the relationship can ever be repaired.
He could try, though, couldn’t he? Parker could at least try.
She must have checked her phone a thousand times today. She needed to see a missed call, or a text. She’s not sure how she would have responded, but at least there would have been something to set things in motion again. As it is, it seems he doesn’t care.
Of course, he could be thinking along exactly the same lines – wondering why she doesn’t call him. But why should she? She’s done nothing wrong. She’s the one who is the victim of unfounded allegations.
And then, just to put the top hat on things, there’s Cody.
What kind of reaction was that? Where was his compassion, his sympathy? All he could think about was himself, and he’s the one who caused all this in the first place.
Well, perhaps that’s not strictly accurate. Cody didn’t ask her to worry about him. He didn’t invite her to bang on every door in Rodney Street in an effort to find him.
So, she thinks, why did I do that? Why didn’t I keep my distance and let him sort out his own problems?
She understands now why the force has regulations about getting involved with colleagues. Not that she is involved with Cody. That’s well and truly over. But it doesn’t stop her caring about him, worrying about him. That can’t be wrong, surely?
It can get in the way, though. Of work, of objectivity. And, patently, of relationships with partners who should know better. It’s for all those reasons that she thinks she’ll have to talk to Blunt tomorrow. See if she can do something about getting her reassigned. It might not look good on her record, but what choice does she have? Cody is never going to be merely her sergeant. They know too much about each other, and that will always lead to friction.
Ding-dong.
The doorbell startles her. She
glances at the clock on the wall. Close to eleven thirty. There’s only one person who would come to her door this late at night.
Parker.
He’s come to apologise. He realises how idiotic he’s been, and now he’s come to make it up to her.
She jumps to her feet, re-energised by the prospect of sorting out this whole stupid mess. In the hallway she checks herself in the mirror. She’s looked better, but maybe it’s a good thing that he sees what effect his hurtful remarks have had on her. He needs to be made to feel at least a little guilty.
She heads towards the front door.
Halts when she gets to the porch.
Stupid.
I should know better, she thinks. I’ve been working on the damn cases, for God’s sake. There’s a lunatic on the loose, knocking off coppers. What if that’s him now?
She is suddenly less sure that she wants to answer the door. She is instead responding to the adrenalin surging through her blood, causing her to wonder if she ought to be making an emergency phone call.
Ding-dong.
No, she thinks. Can’t be him. Our killer doesn’t just turn up at the door and ring the bell. That’s not his approach. He wouldn’t expose himself like that. Wouldn’t take such a risk.
But better safe than sorry.
So she puts the chain on the front door before opening it. Flicks the switch that puts on the porch light too. Only then does she open the door as far as the chain allows.
The man appears much less self-assured than usual. Worry lines further distort his already unattractive features.
‘Dobson. What the hell are you doing here? How did you even find—’
‘It’s complicated. I was given your address. By Cody. He said if I wanted info on the murders you’re investigating, I should talk to you.’
New-found rage bubbles up inside her. ‘He said what? The cheeky bastard!’
‘You make it sound like he’s not in your good books at the moment.’
‘He’s not. And you turning up at my door this close to midnight doesn’t help either. I’m sorry, Dobson, but Cody’s sent you on a wild goose chase. I’ve got nothing to tell you.’
She makes a move to close the door, but Dobson puts a hand out.
‘Wait. Please. There’s more. I . . . I think I’ve found something.’
She notices a change of tone in his voice. A hint of unease.
‘What kind of something?’
Dobson looks behind him, as if checking for eavesdroppers. ‘A link. Between the four officers that were killed.’
‘Are you serious? What link?’
Dobson moves in closer. He looks almost afraid as he speaks in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘The problem is . . . I think it involves Cody. I think that’s why he tried to divert me on to you, to get me off his back. But I didn’t come here because he suggested it. I came because I need to talk to someone about this, and I can’t do it in front of Cody.’
Webley goes quiet. She still can’t believe the gall of Cody. Sending Dobson to talk to her, just to get the reporter out of his hair? Cheeky sod. But this other thing, about the murders – that could be some really serious shit. It can’t wait till morning. Plus, she wants to hear this before anyone else. This could be big. This could be a career maker.
‘Hold on,’ she says. She pushes the door closed. Slides off the chain. Pulls the door open again.
‘Come in,’ she says.
Dobson takes a step forward. His head is bowed, so that she can’t see his face. His slumped posture puzzles her. When he slowly raises his head again, she can see that there are tears in his eyes.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m really, really sorry.’
She doesn’t get it. What does he mean? What’s he sorry about?
And then the shadows move. From behind Dobson, another figure slides into view. The porch light hits his features, and she recognises him. She knows the face and she knows the power of the weapon that he rests gently on Dobson’s shoulder and points between her eyes.
And then she understands.
48
When it gets to 1.30 in the morning, Cody decides to call it a day. He’s not going to sit here all night. He doesn’t really know for sure that Dobson is up to anything bad. Yes, he’s a pain in the arse, and yes, he’s got some questions to answer, but that doesn’t make him a killer.
I should go home, he thinks. Try to get some sleep. Talk to Dobson in the morning.
Oh yeah, and keep my promise to sort things out with Webley.
*
There is madness in those eyes. Desperation. Webley judges that it would take only the slightest provocation to convince him to tighten his finger on the crossbow trigger and send that lethal missile spearing into her body.
They are seated in her living room. She is next to Dobson on the sofa. He is blubbering softly. The man who has the blood of four police officers on his hands sits in an armchair directly opposite.
‘Why, Chris?’ she asks.
She had completely forgotten his name, but now it springs back to her almost violently. She had consigned him to the set of nonentities who had entered her life fleetingly and departed it without distinction, but he has suddenly become the prime focus of all her conscious thought. All of her faculties are concentrated on the man in front of her, the deeds he has perpetrated, the atrocities he might still commit.
And yet, behind the weapon, the man looks so innocent, so normal. But that’s always the way. She knows this. Knows that the most dangerous criminals are the ones who are able to keep their evil hidden from view until they choose to unleash it. She shouldn’t feel such surprise.
Chris tilts his head as he regards her, as if finding her speech difficult to understand. She can tell from this that he views her as less than human.
‘Why what?’ he asks in return.
‘What do you think?’ she says, a little too loudly. ‘Four people dead. You killed four human beings.’
He shakes his head. ‘Wrong. I killed four scumbag coppers. Not human beings at all.’
There is no wry smile on his face as he says this. He is not trying to provoke a reaction with trivial insults. That is what he believes. That is how he sees police officers – as a separate and insignificant species, undeserving of any right to life. And Webley is a member of that species.
‘So what happened?’ she asks. ‘Get arrested once? Put in a cell for a night? Get a parking ticket? What momentous event in your life convinced you that all members of the police force need to be exterminated like vermin?’
He shakes his head in pity. ‘You really don’t know, do you? You’re one of them, and you don’t even know what you did. How sad is that? Don’t you see how pathetic you are?’
‘No, I don’t, Chris. Tell me.’
‘Why don’t we just see if you can figure it out for yourself, eh? We’ve got all night for you to think about it.’
She wonders what he means by that. All night? Why? If he has come here to kill her, why wait? In a way she is grateful for the stay of execution, but at the same time she dreads to think what else he might have in store for her over the next few hours.
She decides to try a different tack. ‘How did you find me?’
Chris nods towards Dobson. ‘I didn’t. That piece of shit did all the work. He wasn’t joking when he said he could find things out. He’s got good contacts. Knows some very shady people. Getting your address was just as easy as getting the addresses for Latham and Garnett. His problem is that he can’t keep things to himself. He likes to talk, especially after a pint or two. Can’t shut him up when he gets going. Boring bastard most of the time, but occasionally he says something useful. Isn’t that right, Dobby? Hey, Dobby, I’m talking to you.’ He puts the emphasis on the nickname, knowing how hurtful it is to the reporter.
Dobson looks directly at his tormentor. He sniffs wetly, then turns flickering eyes on Webley. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says to her again. ‘I really am.’
Webley ig
nores the apology. There are still too many holes in this story.
‘Okay, so he told you how to find me. But why bring him here? Why not come on your own?’
‘Because he’s just as bad as you. He played his part, just like you did.’
‘What are you talking about? What part?’
‘Ask him. Ask him what he is. I saw it, on his phone. Cody knows too. Cody’s on to him. He thought he was safe, but he isn’t. Cody found out, and now I know, and now it’s almost time. I knew I couldn’t do this much longer, but I didn’t know when it would end. But now I’ve had the sign. It’s all fallen into place. I have him, and I have you, and it’s almost time to tell everyone.’
He’s rambling. Making no sense at all. What sign? Time to tell everyone what? And what does Cody know about Dobson?
‘Cody? What’s he got to do with this?’
‘Everything. Ironic, really. He provided the sign. Told me what Dobby is. Don’t you see? It’s all come together tonight. Without Cody, this probably wouldn’t be happening. I would have waited, maybe for too long. But we need a climax, a big finale. The message needs to go out. The birds demand it.’
‘The birds? What about the birds, Chris? Tell me about them.’
Chris’s eyes roll in his head, and for a second Webley thinks he’s about to lapse into some kind of trance state. She braces herself to make a move, but suddenly he snaps back into the here and now.
‘The birds are everything. They have been calling to you, to all of us, and we’ve been ignoring them. They want the world to know what happened to them. They want us to hear about their pain. The pain that people like you caused.’
He thrusts the crossbow forward as he says this. Webley winces, fearful that it might go off accidentally.
‘I don’t know what you mean, Chris. How are they in pain?’
He barks a laugh that carries no humour. ‘You know. And if you don’t, you should be ashamed of yourself. You brought the birds down. You brought them crashing to the ground and you left them there to die.’
She doesn’t know how to continue the conversation. It makes absolutely no sense to her. It’s as though they are walking along two parallel bridges, and she just can’t make the leap across to his. But whatever he’s fixated upon, it means everything to him.
A Tapping at My Door: A gripping crime thriller (The DS Nathan Cody series) Page 28
