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

by David Jackson

  He clicks the answer button. Brings the handset to his ear.

  Silence. Blessed silence. A thousand words, a thousand songs in that majestic cacophony of nothingness.

  It’s him, thinks Cody. He’s back.

  When the call ends and Cody replaces the phone, he whispers a thank you into the darkness, and a single tear slides down his cheek.

  And then he sleeps.

  5

  Sunday morning and the bells are ringing.

  Or so it seems. It’s like party time in here. Everyone hugging and kissing and smiling and laughing. There should be music and party poppers and champagne.

  She looks good, Megan. Full of life. Hard to believe that said life was almost extinguished.

  Cody watches the festivities from his desk, then feels guilty for keeping such a distance. He gets out of his chair. Heads over to stand quietly at the fringes of the small crowd. Waits for her eyes to alight on him.

  When she sees him, he notices how her smile wilts a little. Notices how emotional pain darkens her eyes.

  She could turn away then, and he wouldn’t be surprised. But she doesn’t. She’s bigger than that. Instead, she forces her mouth back into its smile and moves towards him.

  ‘Welcome back,’ he says.

  He throws his arms wide, inviting an embrace, possibly a chaste peck on the cheek.

  She puts her hand in his. Shakes it firmly. ‘Thanks, Sarge. Good to be here again.’

  Sarge. Not even ‘Cody’.

  And then she’s gone again. Back into the throng. Back to the genuine celebrations.

  Cody sees Ferguson looking across the room at him with a concerned expression. He throws his friend a fleeting smile: It’s all good.

  But it’s not good. He feels like a spare part – a spring or a washer from a reassembled appliance that seems to be working perfectly well without it.

  He’s glad when Blunt shows up and restores some order and formality.

  ‘All right,’ she barks. ‘Save the backslapping for when you’ve solved this case. There’s work to be done. Welcome back, by the way, Megan.’

  Webley smiles and nods, accepting that it’s the best she’s going to get from her boss.

  ‘You’ve come at the right time,’ Blunt tells her. ‘A nice, juicy murder. Talk to Cody later. He’ll bring you up to speed.’

  Cody looks round to see that this time Webley’s nod is not accompanied by a smile. In fact her lips couldn’t be clamped together any tighter. He also catches Ferguson raising his eyebrows at him as if to say, Uh-oh, what have you done?

  ‘Tell you what,’ Blunt continues, ‘you can do your catch-up when you both attend the post-mortem later.’

  Great, thinks Cody. The morning has just gone from bad to worse. The last time he was at a PM with Webley was an unmitigated disaster.

  ‘So,’ says Blunt. ‘Progress. Plans. Where are we up to? Cody, what do we know about Mary Cowper?’

  Cody gives her a rundown of the previous night’s investigation. Ends up by saying, ‘So, looks like she was as pure as the driven snow.’

  Blunt pulls a face. ‘If that’s the best pun you can come up with, you need a humour transplant. And besides, it’s bollocks. Nobody is that godly – not even the Pope. Mary Cowper may not have been a porn star, but she had some dirty secrets. Just like the rest of us, eh, Cody?’

  He’s not sure how to respond to that. Not sure if she’s innocently cracking a little joke of her own, or if she’s having a subtle go at him.

  Blunt has her suspicions about him – he knows this. She has read the accounts of what happened to him and his partner. What she doesn’t know – because he has always refused to tell her – is exactly how the events have affected his mental health. But she suspects, and she will never turn down an opportunity to remind him of that.

  ‘Do some more digging,’ she tells him. ‘Under that driven snow you’re bound to find some shit.’

  Apparently pleased with her riposte, she addresses the squad as a whole: ‘Right, what else?’

  Ferguson pipes up next. ‘We’ve been talking to people who visited the cathedral yesterday. We’ve started interviewing neighbours, owners of local restaurants, shopkeepers, and so on. We’ve also started rounding up and putting pressure on druggies and prostitutes from the area, just in case they know something. Forensics haven’t found anything obvious yet, but we’ll keep pushing them along. Oh, and we’ve tracked down Mary Cowper’s mother. She’s in a care home in Huyton. Cody and I are heading over there later to talk to her.’

  ‘What about love interests? Any sign of those in Mary’s life?’

  Ferguson shakes his head. ‘Nothing as of yet. No old Valentine’s cards or keepsakes in her flat. Everyone we’ve spoken to so far has only seen her alone.’

  Blunt snorts. ‘What, not a single romantic fling in her whole life? Forty-two, wasn’t she? There must have been someone – if not now, then at some point. And I don’t just mean Jesus. This male visitor the Russian neighbour told you about – do you know who he is?’

  Ferguson shakes his head. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Well, find out. He could be important.’ She pauses. ‘What about motive? Any thoughts?’

  Cody says, ‘Nothing gone from her flat, by the look of things. A purse was found in her pocket, so it doesn’t look like robbery, although there was no bag found at the scene, so maybe her attacker ran off with that.’

  Cody hears a discreet cough from somewhere behind him, but he presses on. ‘I’m starting to wonder if she was really just in the wrong place at the wrong time. She takes her dog down to the gardens, just like she always does, only this time she crosses the path of some scumbag high on crack cocaine or whatever, and he stoves her head in. Probably doesn’t even remember doing it now.’

  Another cough, louder this time.

  Heads turn. Cody looks round to see a hand raised timidly at the back of the room. The hand belongs to a bespectacled young woman with lank brown hair.

  ‘Yes?’ Blunt invites. ‘It’s Julie, isn’t it?’

  ‘Grace.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Blunt. ‘Grace. What is it, Grace?’

  Grace Meade is the newest member of the team. Arrived just a few weeks ago, and has stayed pretty much unnoticed since then. She’s an Intelligence Analyst – a civilian role. She came here with a top-class degree in computer science. Obviously a very bright girl, but somewhat lacking in social skills. Cody doesn’t know much about her. He has said hello to her on occasion, but never had an in-depth conversation. He gets the impression that Grace doesn’t do in-depth unless it’s about computers, which is probably why she is already a bit of an outsider.

  Grace’s voice is barely audible: ‘I, er, I don’t think it was a spur-of-the-moment crime. Or robbery, for that matter.’

  Blunt seems taken aback. ‘You don’t? And why is that, Grace?’

  ‘I’ve, er . . . While you’ve been speaking, I’ve been going through the recordings.’

  ‘The recordings?’

  ‘The CCTV footage. From the cathedral. I think I’ve found the killer.’

  6

  There is a profound silence. Everyone glancing at each other, trying to confirm that they have just heard the same thing.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ says Blunt. ‘You’ve got the killer? On video?’

  ‘Yes. I think so. Would you like to see?’

  ‘Too bloody right I would.’

  Blunt starts moving towards the back of the room. Everyone else rises from their seats.

  ‘I, er, I can put it on the large TV screen,’ says Grace, pointing to the front of the room. ‘If you prefer.’

  Blunt looks at the TV, then back at Grace.

  ‘You can do that?’

  ‘Yes, it was just a configuration setting. One of the first things I did when I got here.’

  Blunt continues to stare in surprise. In all the time this squad has existed, nobody has considered that it was even possible to route individual computer displays to
the large monitor at the front. Until now, the detectives have all gathered around a single desk to view material. The television has been reserved for watching news bulletins, and occasionally a football match when Blunt isn’t in the vicinity.

  ‘Right then,’ says Blunt. ‘Off you go.’

  Grace rises from her desk. Starts to move towards the front of the incident room. Every pair of eyes is on her, some as if for the very first time. Cody detects a shakiness in her walk, notices the way she licks her lips as though she has just lost all the moisture in her mouth.

  Grace stands next to the large screen and presses a button on the remote in her hand. The set flares into life. Cody thinks there’s a problem with the display at first, then realises he’s looking through the lens of a camera in a snowstorm.

  Grace says, ‘I’ve created a brief compilation of the most interesting bits I’ve found so far. Obviously I’ll check the rest of the material too.’ She gestures towards the screen. ‘As you can see, the images aren’t great. It was dark and it was snowing heavily. A few seconds later, though, we get this . . .’

  She clicks another button. Three figures come into view from bottom left. They are small and indistinct, but it is just possible to follow them as they head up towards the cathedral gates.

  ‘Wait,’ says Blunt. ‘Who are these people?’

  ‘I believe one of them is the killer,’ says Grace. ‘See the one at the rear? How he hangs back slightly from the other two? I think he’s trying to pretend he’s with them.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘My guess? He knows there are cameras on him, and he feels that he’s less likely to attract attention if he’s thought to be part of a group.’

  Blunt nods, her face grave. If Grace’s guess is correct, then it suggests the killer is a clever bastard.

  ‘Now watch,’ says Grace.

  She lets the video run on. The team members watch as the trio approaches the iron gates. At that point, the trailing figure stops, allowing the other two to keep going towards the cathedral entrance. A few seconds later, the lone assailant takes a left turn down the path towards St James’ Gardens and disappears from the camera’s view.

  Grace pauses the recording. ‘I’m still checking the cameras from the gardens. So far, there’s no sign of our guy. Either he stays in the tunnel, or he doesn’t go very far after coming out the other side.’

  ‘What about Mary? Did you find her? I assume she bumped into her killer coming the other way.’

  ‘Er, no. Mary hasn’t arrived yet.’

  Cody notices the surprise on Blunt’s face, and he suppresses a smile. It’s not often that anyone manages to wrong-foot his boss.

  Grace runs the video on. ‘We see Mary coming into view . . . here. As you’ll see, she’s not carrying a bag.’

  Everyone leans forward. Some squint. Cody can just about make out a figure with a dog. It’s a weird feeling knowing that he’s observing the final seconds of someone’s life. He wants to shout at the screen, to say, ‘Turn around, Mary! Don’t go down there!’ But he continues to watch, mesmerised and powerless, as Mary Cowper walks inexorably to her death.

  It occurs to Cody that, if people of stronger faith than his are correct, then there is a power that could have prevented Mary’s death. A cathedral, of all places, is surely a stronghold for its flock. Why was this allowed to happen?

  ‘I’ve skipped the next bit,’ says Grace, ‘but it’s only a couple of minutes. Here’s our killer again . . .’

  The dark, mysterious figure reappears. Heads back out of the cathedral grounds. He doesn’t run – doesn’t even seem in much of a hurry. It’s as though he’s on a gentle stroll, without a care in the world, without any regrets about having just smashed the brains out of an innocent woman.

  Grace says, ‘There’s footage of him going away from town and up into the Georgian Quarter, but we lose him after that. As you saw, Mary wasn’t carrying a bag, so robbery probably wasn’t the motive.’

  Cody senses the wave of relaxation as it moves across the room. As though everyone has been on the edge of their seats watching a really tense scene in a movie. Everyone breathes again.

  ‘Okay,’ says Blunt. ‘So our killer is up to something else in that tunnel. Maybe he’s shooting up. Maybe he’s already high. Whatever. Mary comes along, sees what he’s doing, perhaps there’s an argument—’

  She stops when she sees that Grace has a finger in the air again.

  ‘Grace?’

  ‘Sorry, but I was just wondering . . . I mean, what I’m suggesting . . .’

  ‘Spit it out, Grace.’

  ‘Well, what if the killer was waiting for her? What if he went into that tunnel, knowing that Mary wasn’t far behind?’ She starts pressing buttons on her remote again. ‘There was a bit here . . . I don’t know if anyone else noticed it, but if I zoom in and then slow it right down . . .’

  The heads in the room all crane forwards once more. Cody sees the killer at the gates again – just after he has dropped back from the couple in front. Although much larger now, his image is highly distorted and pixilated. Despite what television would have us believe, the magnified picture is not magically filled in with detail that was never there in the original.

  But still, this is the killer. Hidden underneath that dark padded coat with its capacious hood is the man who is about to steal away the life of Mary Cowper.

  Who are you, you bastard? thinks Cody. Come on, show us your face. Just a glimpse.

  As if in response, the figure starts to turn. But not towards the camera. It turns back towards the road. Remains looking that way for just a slowed-down second before straightening up again and moving off down the path.

  ‘I’ve done some rough calculations,’ says Grace.

  Blunt looks as puzzled as Cody feels. ‘Calculations?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve factored in the angle of the killer’s head, the time at which he turned, and the position that Mary Cowper would have been in at that time, based on her walking speed and working back from when she first becomes visible on video, and while we have to bear in mind that—’

  ‘Grace, cut to the chase, please.’

  ‘Well . . . I think he was looking directly at Mary. I think he was checking to see where she was.’

  There is a stunned silence while everyone considers the ramifications of what Grace – who is not even a detective – is telling them.

  ‘You’re sure about that?’ says Blunt.

  ‘Not a hundred per cent, no. There are too many variables. But there’s something else, too.’

  ‘Which is?’

  Grace looks around the room, and seems a little intimidated by all the pairs of eyes burning into her.

  She says, ‘The weapon. Am I right in thinking that Mary was struck with something large and heavy?’

  Blunt looks to Cody for confirmation.

  ‘That’s right,’ he says. ‘We’ll know more after the PM, but the pathologist reckons it was probably some kind of hammer or other blunt instrument.’

  ‘But no such weapon was found at the scene?’

  Cody nods. ‘Also correct.’

  Grace points at the screen again. At the frozen image of the killer, his hands thrust deep into his pockets.

  ‘He’s not carrying a backpack or anything. That suggests he’s got the weapon in his pocket, ready to use, and that he brought it away with him again. If he’s just looking for a quiet place to shoot up, why is he walking about with a massive hammer in his hand?’

  It’s a good point. An excellent point. She might not realise it, but Grace Meade has just impressed the hell out of everyone in this room.

  ‘Thank you, Grace,’ says Blunt. ‘Good work.’

  Coming from Blunt, it’s a massive compliment. Cody watches as Grace Meade walks quietly to her desk at the back of the room, her head bowed. She seems unaware that her insight would put many a seasoned detective to shame, let alone other analysts. And Cody has the sneaking suspicion t
hat this is nowhere near the end of her ability to surprise.

  ‘Right,’ says Blunt. ‘Now we know. This was planned. Malice aforethought. Which means our killer knew Mary Cowper, and knew something about her that got right on his wick. If we’re to find him, we need to know more about Mary, so get out there and find out who the hell she was.’

  7

  They are shown into the small sitting room by a woman called Babs. She looks to Cody like a farmer’s wife: big, beefy arms and a ruddy complexion. Her voice, though, is surprisingly tiny and high-pitched.

  ‘Phyllis is just getting herself ready,’ she tells them. ‘Can I bring you some tea while you’re waiting?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ says Cody, expecting Ferguson to follow suit.

  ‘I’ll have a brew,’ says Ferguson. ‘It’s bloody parky out there. Splash of milk, no sugar, ta. Oh, and if you’ve got any biscuits, I’d be happy to relieve you of them. Especially if they’re chocolate.’

  Babs smiles and walks out of the room. Cody stares as Ferguson lowers himself onto a high-backed chair and adjusts the cushions until they are to his liking.

  ‘What?’ says Ferguson when he realises he’s the focus of attention.

  ‘Biscuits?’

  Ferguson shrugs. ‘It’s an old people’s home. It’ll be crammed full of biscuits. Those and Werther’s toffees.’

  Cody shakes his head, then takes the chair opposite Ferguson. Between them is a small wooden table, atop which is a copy of the Reader’s Digest and a printed A4 list of impending Christmas events, including a ‘Top Prize Festive Bingo Night’. Leaking through the wall is the sound of a television quiz show, the low drone of indiscernible banter occasionally punctuated by a buzzer or a blast of inane laughter.

  ‘So,’ says Ferguson. ‘Nice to have Wibbly back on the job, eh?’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Cody. ‘Couldn’t be more pleased.’

  ‘I could tell. The pair of you were practically skipping around the incident room. For a second there it was looking like you were about to catch her in the air, just like in Dirty Dancing.’

  ‘It’s . . . complicated.’