‘That’s what I always used to say about my maths homework. Didn’t do me any good, though.’
‘There isn’t a formula for Megan. I can’t plug this into a spreadsheet. It needs the human touch. A bit of diplomacy.’
‘Well, that’s you stuffed then, isn’t it? Do you want to talk about it? Over a pint, maybe?’
For a second, Cody is tempted. It’s been a long time since he’s been for a drink with any of the lads.
‘Nah. It’ll blow over. I’ll clear the air with her when we go to the post-mortem later.’
‘Is that wise? I mean, with all those sharp implements around?’
The door opens, and Babs walks back in with a tray supporting a steaming mug of tea and a heaped plate of biscuits. Ferguson raises his eyebrows at Cody as if to say, See, I told you this is the biscuit centre of the universe.
As Babs sets the tray down, the door opens again. Another carer comes in, closely followed by a white-haired, slightly stooped lady who looks as though she’s expecting someone to jump out at her.
‘These are the gentlemen I was telling you about,’ says the carer. ‘You don’t mind having a bit of a chat with them, do you, Phyllis? I’m sure they’re very nice.’
Phyllis gives her a glare. ‘Shows what you know about men. They’ll have the clothes off you soon as look at you.’
Cody wonders whether to state categorically that he has no interest in whatever lurks beneath the elderly woman’s baggy cardigan, but decides it might be best not to get embroiled.
The carer laughs in a way that suggests she wouldn’t if nobody else was here, then leads Phyllis over and seats her at the coffee table. Phyllis fixes Cody with a disconcerting eye as the two members of staff withdraw to busy themselves with jobs elsewhere in the building.
‘Hello, Phyllis,’ says Cody. ‘I’m not sure how much you’ve been told, but we’re police officers.’
‘Yes,’ says Phyllis. ‘He said you’d be coming.’
‘I’m sorry, but who said that?’
‘Him! The other fella. That other policeman.’
Cody looks to Ferguson for assistance, but gets only a shrug.
‘Which other policeman?’
‘That detective fella. You know. The inspector.’
Cody smiles encouragingly, then tries another tack. ‘Oh, you must mean Inspector . . .’
He waits for Phyllis to fill the gap, but she doesn’t accept the invitation, and Cody gives a sidelong glance to see a growing smile on Ferguson’s face.
‘So what did he say, exactly?’
‘He asked some questions, and then he said that his sergeant would be along later to take down some details. You’re the sergeant, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ says Cody, feeling a little flustered now. ‘Yes, but how did you—’
‘Morse! That’s his name. The inspector bloke.’
‘Inspector Morse? I see. And you think I’m . . .’ He looks again at Ferguson, who now seems to have found a spot on the wall of immense interest.
‘No, Phyllis. I am a sergeant, but my name isn’t Lewis. My name’s Cody, and this here is Detective Constable Ferguson.’
Ferguson tears his eyes from the wall and sends Phyllis a curt nod of greeting. In return, Phyllis studies him intently, then lowers her voice as she says to Cody, ‘Is he all there?’
Now it’s Cody’s turn to smile. ‘Sometimes I wonder about that myself.’ He leans forward in his chair. ‘Phyllis, there’s something I need to tell you.’
Seemingly oblivious to the gravity in his voice, Phyllis shifts her focus back to Ferguson, who is sipping from his mug of tea.
‘Are you drinking that?’ she asks him.
Ferguson looks mystified. ‘Yeah. Shouldn’t I?’
‘They wee in it, you know.’
‘What?’
‘Them. The staff. They wee in the water when they make hot drinks. They think I don’t know, but I do.’
Ferguson’s face is a picture of disbelief, but Cody notices that he slowly replaces his mug on the table nonetheless.
‘Phyllis,’ says Cody to regain her attention. ‘This is important. It’s about your daughter. About Mary.’
Phyllis looks back into his eyes for a long time. And then she says, ‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’
Cody holds her gaze. Tries to hold back his surprise too.
‘Yes. She is. How did . . . how did you know?’
Phyllis keeps her rheumy eyes on him for a while longer, then suddenly lowers them. ‘You can have the biscuits. They’re safe. They don’t do anything with them. Not the tea, though.’
Cody tries again. ‘Your daughter Mary . . . well, she didn’t have an accident or an illness. We believe she was murdered.’
‘Sometimes I wonder about the dinners. I’m never quite sure about them. But you’ve got to eat, haven’t you? You’ve got to survive. You can’t just give up on life.’
‘Phyllis, can we talk about Mary, please? We need your help.’
She narrows her eyes. ‘Help?’
‘Yes. We’d like to know more about Mary. We want to catch whoever did this to her. Will you help us?’
‘Me? How?’
‘Well, to begin with, when was the last time you saw her?’
‘Quarter past eight.’
Cody’s shoulders slump. He turns to Ferguson for help again. No amused shrug this time, but a slight shake of the head to indicate that this is a lost cause.
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible, Phyllis. Mary was killed yesterday at about—’
‘It was quarter past eight! In the evening. Seventeen years and four months ago.’
Cody wonders whether this is another fantasy, but something in the woman’s tone tells him it’s not. She was too quick to answer, her numbers too precise. It also fits with the age of the photograph on Mary’s chest of drawers.
‘Seventeen . . . You haven’t seen her since then? Can you tell us why?’
Phyllis tilts her head back and closes her eyes. Her lower lip quivers. It takes Cody a few seconds to realise she’s praying, and he decides it’s best not to interrupt.
When she’s done she gives the Lord a quick nod. On opening her eyes she seems startled to find she still has company, as though her wish for the detectives to have vanished away has not been granted.
‘I’d like to go back to my room now,’ she says. ‘There’s a cookery programme coming on, and I like to be reminded of what nice food looks like.’
It occurs to Cody to ask whether she has just consulted God for the TV listings, but he thinks better of it.
‘Just a few more minutes, if you don’t mind, Phyllis. We won’t keep you long. Just tell me a little bit more about Mary. Why hasn’t she been to see you?’
‘Nobody comes to see me, and I don’t want them to come.’
‘Not even Mary? Your own daughter?’
‘Especially not her. I told her. I warned her. She wouldn’t listen. That’s why she’s dead.’
‘Warned her about what? Was she in trouble?’
‘Oh, yes. Trouble, all right. I told her. I want to go back to my room now.’
Cody sees her agitation building, but he can’t leave it like this. He needs to know, needs to get at the truth buried deep beneath her confusion.
‘Did somebody want to hurt Mary?’
A laugh of derision. ‘No. Not back then. But it was always going to happen. I’m surprised she lived this long. I want to go now.’
Phyllis stands up, then begins walking unsteadily towards the door. Cody and Ferguson follow her.
‘Please, Phyllis. What did you mean, it was always going to happen? Why did you think she had a short time to live?’
Phyllis gets the door open, then pauses for a second. She turns and looks at Cody, and it seems to him that there is a touch of fear in her eyes.
‘It was her heart.’
‘Her heart? She had a heart problem?’
Phyllis nods. ‘The biggest problem
you can have. The Devil. The Devil had come to live in her heart.’
And then Phyllis departs, tottering down the hallway and leaving two mystified detectives in her wake.
8
Cody has the car heater on full blast, but it still seems frostier in here than it does outside. Although that might have something to do with the ice maiden sitting next to him right now.
‘This is nice,’ he says. ‘Just like old times.’
‘It was only October,’ says Webley. ‘And we worked one case together.’
Cody nods. ‘Yeah, but . . . it was a cracker of a case, though, wasn’t it? One to remember.’
‘Actually, I’m trying to forget about it.’
He glances in her direction. She continues to stare straight ahead.
‘How are you now?’ he asks. ‘Health-wise, I mean.’
‘Are you just making conversation, or are you genuinely interested?’
‘I’m genuinely interested.’
‘Okay. Well, I’ve got a bloody big scar across my chest, which makes me cry when I look at it every single morning. You know, the scar I got after the doctors sliced me open. The scar I ended up with because, fool that I am, I risked my life to save somebody else’s. That somebody being you, Cody. Other than that, I’m fine, thank you for asking.’
Cody nods again. He doesn’t want to lapse into silence, but he has no idea how to turn this into an amicable conversation. His own fault, of course. He deserves the discomfort.
‘Everyone seems really happy to see you back at work.’
‘Everyone?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Most people are happy about it, yes. But what about you? Are you happy I’m back?’
‘Of course I am. What kind of question is that?’
‘So you’re glad I’m here? Not just on the team, but here, sitting in a car with you, working on a case with you? You’re happy about that?’
‘Yes. Absolutely. Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘Just checking.’
Cody pulls the car up at a red traffic light. He has an inkling that this journey is about to feel much longer than it actually is.
Says Webley, ‘I nearly didn’t come back, you know.’
‘Today, you mean?’
‘No. I mean I almost decided I didn’t want to come back to MIT at all.’
‘Why? Was it that bad?’
‘At first, no. Murder investigation was what I’d wanted to do for a long time.’
‘But then you got hurt.’
She turns to face him, and he can tell that she is searching his face for hidden meaning.
‘In more ways than one,’ she says.
Don’t rise to this, he tells himself. Change the subject. Ask her about her plans for Christmas. Anything but—
‘How do you mean?’
No, you idiot! Now you’ve done it.
He can feel her eyes burning into him. Senses that she’s building herself up for what’s to come. He braces himself.
‘Cody,’ she says. ‘It wasn’t just about getting shot in the chest. That was bad enough. It hurt like hell, and I could have been killed, and it was really scary. But I got over that. I’m tougher than you might think. It hasn’t stopped me wanting to go back out there and catch some really dangerous people. But you know what really did hurt?’
Here it comes.
‘You, Cody. You. It was like you weren’t even aware of what I was going through. Or you knew but didn’t care, which is even worse. Why didn’t you come to see me?’
‘I did. I came to the hospital a few times—’
‘A few times. When?’
‘Well, I was there just after they operated on you, and—’
‘Wait! I don’t remember that.’
‘Well . . . I didn’t actually get to see you then. Your family were there, and your boyfriend. I didn’t want to get in the way.’
‘I see. And the other times?’
‘What?’
‘These few times that you came to the hospital. When were the others?’
‘You don’t remember? There was that time when Footlong knocked that jug of water all over your bed. That was funny.’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I remember. I remember everyone crowding into the ward when there were only supposed to be two visitors per bed. I remember Footlong and Oxo and Blunt and the others, all making jokes to cheer me up. And I remember you, standing at the back like you thought I had Ebola or something. I remember you hardly saying a word. And I remember thinking, I wish all the others would get out of here so that I can have a good heart-to-heart with Cody, because that’s what I really needed then. That’s what would have helped to take away the pain in my chest. Only that didn’t happen, did it? You left with all the others, and it was just like you’d never been there.’
In the silence that follows, he dare not look at her. He knows there will be tears in her eyes, and he knows that the sight of those tears will cause him to crumble into tiny pieces.
‘And that was it, Cody. That’s the only time I saw you at the hospital.’
‘I came to your house as well.’
‘Yes, you came to the house. And when Parker told you I was asleep, you handed your flowers over to him and then left again.’
‘I . . . I didn’t want to disturb you. You were recuperating.’
Her voice becomes suddenly shrill. ‘What did you think was going to happen? Did you think I was going to wake up and go into cardiac arrest at the sight of you? I wanted to see you, Cody. I wanted you there. I needed to talk about what we had just gone through together. Jesus Christ, if anyone should understand the need to talk about the effects of a traumatic event, it’s you.’
She’s right. He knows she’s right. That long evening they spent together is crystal clear in his memory. He poured his heart out to her that night. Told her all about his fears and his pain. She was there for him. In fact, she came looking for him to tease out his unhappiness.
And since then? Where were you, Cody? Where were you when Megan Webley needed your help?
‘I thought it was for the best,’ he says.
Again he doesn’t glance her way, but her stunned silence feels like a yell.
‘The best,’ she says. ‘I see. Nathan Cody, the man who can’t even deal with his own problems, knows what’s best for me. Wonderful.’
There’s nothing more to be said after that. Cody knows that any further contribution from him is just going to make the situation worse.
He’s glad when they get to the hospital. Relieved to break the spell that binds them and yet separates them in the car.
‘Let’s go and see what Stroud has in store for us, then,’ he says, mainly just to fill the emptiness.
‘Sure you can cope?’ Webley says. ‘As I recall, you were a bit green around the gills last time.’
She’s putting it mildly, and with anyone else he would lose his temper. But, again, he knows she needs to release some of her anger after the way he has behaved.
They say nothing else to each other on the way to the mortuary. Once there, however, the ever-buoyant pathologist immediately gives them cause to reactivate their voice boxes.
‘DS Cody,’ he says. ‘And DC . . .’
‘Webley.’
‘That’s right. DC Webley. How the hell are you both?’
‘Could be worse,’ says Cody.
‘Could be better,’ says Webley.
‘Good, good,’ says Stroud. ‘And how is the lovely Stella? Still as perky as ever?’
‘Perky’ is not a word that Cody would ever use to describe DCI Blunt, and he’s tempted to answer that she has changed little since Stroud last saw her, which happens to have been only the previous evening at the crime scene.
‘She’s radiant,’ he says instead. ‘Asked us to pass on her regards to you.’ Which she didn’t, but Cody knows that Stroud has a thing for her.
‘Splendid, splendid,’ says Stroud. ‘Tell her she should pop over
some time for coffee and cake. Speaking of which, can I get anything for you before we begin? I’ve got some incredible Scotch eggs in my bag.’
Rory Stroud likes his food, and is of a shape that attests to that fact. It comes as a surprise to many to learn that his expansive girth does not appear to be an obstacle to success with women, for whom he also has a hearty appetite.
If there’s one thing that would never cross the mind of Cody when about to witness a post-mortem, it’s a Scotch egg. He doesn’t think he could look at one right now, let alone eat it.
‘We’re fine, thanks,’ he says, then wonders whether he was right to answer for Webley too. In her present state of mind she might cram a whole Scotch egg into her mouth just to spite him.
‘Your loss. Right then, let’s rock and roll.’
Stroud leads the detectives out of the anteroom and into the post-mortem theatre. Cody swallows. He’s nervous about this, because of what happened last time he was accompanied by Webley.
It’ll be all right, he tells himself. You can do this now. You’ve come a long way since then.
He looks down the row of shiny steel tables. The white, naked body of Mary Cowper is laid out on one in the middle of the room. Even from here Cody can tell her head is not a conventional shape. He swallows again.
Webley seems unperturbed. She strides towards the body like the professional she is. Determined not to allow her to show him up, he picks up his own pace. It becomes almost a race to get to the corpse.
‘No need to rush,’ says Stroud. ‘I don’t think she has plans to leave any time soon. She’s not dressed for it.’
When he gets to the table, Cody forces himself to take a proper look. He half expects to break into a cold sweat, or even to start seeing things that are not really there. Moments of even mild stress can be a trigger like that sometimes.
But it doesn’t happen. He surprises himself at how composed he feels. Many would baulk at the sight of Mary Cowper. It was bad enough when her head was flattened against the ground, but now that it has been turned to stare up at the ceiling its grotesque proportions and rearranged features give it a nightmarishly cartoon appearance. It’s like looking at the inspiration for a Picasso portrait.
It’s the phone calls, thinks Cody. That’s why I feel so okay about this. Whoever is making them probably intends to scare me, but they’re having the opposite effect.
Hope to Die: A gripping new serial killer thriller (The DS Nathan Cody series) Page 5