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

by David Jackson

  It’s at this point that Cody’s attention starts to drift. He has a different voice in his head. The voice from last night.

  Nearly time to play.

  What the hell does that even mean?

  Play what?

  And what was meant by ‘nearly’?

  There was no way Cody was going to be able to sleep after that. ‘Nearly’ could have meant in the next few minutes, or even seconds. How could anyone relax knowing that some momentous event, foretold by a faceless and ominous caller, was imminent?

  He tried telling himself that ‘nearly’ could also be measured in hours, days or even weeks. It’s all relative. Didn’t help him sleep, though.

  The announcement wasn’t setting up a fixture for a game of chess or football or tiddlywinks. It was something far more sinister – of that Cody is certain. And that’s making him edgy. All morning he has felt as though he needs to be constantly checking over his shoulder. He has looked at everyone he has spoken to today in a different light, wondering if they might have something to do with this game into which he has been dragged.

  Mrs Laplace sits down. Blunt gets up. She introduces herself and Cody to the pupils. Tells them in plain and measured terms what she and her team of detectives are doing here today. Assures the girls that there is no need to be afraid. Invites them to come forward if they feel they know anything – anything at all – that might be relevant.

  Cody hears only a fraction of her actual words. Important though this case is, he wants to be elsewhere. He wants to be at home, waiting by his phone. Waiting for it to ring. Waiting for the information he craves.

  He knows this was the same caller as before. The one who sent him each and every eerie silence. And the one who broke that silence with the sound of Cody’s own blood-curdling screams.

  It has to be the same person. And he will call again, with more pieces of the puzzle, more rules of the game.

  Cody knows he cannot refuse to play.

  More worrying is the realisation that he cannot afford to lose.

  14

  Webley resents everything this morning. Resents the fact that she had to get into work so early. Resents the fact that she did so after getting so little sleep. Resents the fact that Cody is occupying so much of her mind at the moment. And, to top it all, resents the fact that she seems to be getting the shitty end of the stick when it comes to the interviewing allocation.

  She wasn’t fair to Parker last night. It wasn’t right to keep going on about Cody like that. But, at the same time, she needed to get it off her chest. Parker does the same when something has bothered him at work. We all do it.

  He seemed okay with it, bless him. Didn’t lose his temper. Didn’t yell at her to stop going on about her bloody ex-boyfriend. He could easily have twisted things that way. Made it into something it wasn’t.

  And it certainly wasn’t. About Cody being an ex-boyfriend. It was about Cody being an arsehole of a police sergeant, and that’s different. That’s just a moan about a work colleague. We all do that.

  Cody looks different this morning.

  She’s finding it hard to be so angry with him, and she wonders why that is. It’s almost as though there is something worrying Cody. Something of immense importance to him.

  But why should I care? she thinks. I’ve tried caring about him before, and look where it got me. If something is bothering him, he can sort it out himself. He’s a grown man, for God’s sake. And if it’s about his mental problems, he can seek professional help. I don’t want to hear his confessions. I don’t want to jeopardise what I have with Parker, thank you very much.

  And anyway, why does he get the cushy number this morning? Why does he get to sit in a warm, comfy office with a teacher, while I’m stuck in a poky little workshop with the lowest of the low?

  She looks at the caretaker’s assistant seated across the table from her. Jamie Morgan seems barely old enough to have left school himself. His navy-blue overalls look several sizes too big for him. Two pencils protrude from the breast pocket, and Webley thinks she can also see the outline of a cigarette packet there.

  She glances at the electric heater which seems to kick out more light than heat, then she sighs and begins her questioning.

  ‘You work here as a caretaker’s assistant, is that right, Jamie?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He smiles, as though pleased to get off the starting blocks without stumbling.

  ‘Who do you assist?’ As she asks this, she wonders if it should be ‘whom’, but reckons that Jamie is unlikely to pick up on it. Cody would know, of course, smartarse that he is.

  ‘Well, everyone, I suppose. The whole school.’

  ‘No, I mean who’s your boss?’

  ‘Oh. You mean Colin. Colin Daley.’

  ‘Yes. Mr Daley. He’s the one who tells you what to do?’

  ‘Er, yeah.’

  ‘And what sort of things would they be?’

  ‘Er, well . . .’

  It seems to Webley that she is demanding too much of Jamie’s mental faculties, so she decides to make it simpler for him.

  ‘Take today, for example. Has Mr Daley already given you a list of things to do?

  ‘No. No, he hasn’t.’

  ‘But I assume he will do at some point later in the day?’

  ‘Er, I’m not sure . . . exactly.’

  It suddenly hits Webley that Jamie might not be as stupid as he makes out, and that there is another possible reason for his difficulty in being forthcoming.

  ‘Jamie, do you mind if we just get one thing straight from the start? I’m not trying to trip you up or anything. You’re not in any trouble. I just want honest answers to perfectly reasonable questions. Okay?’

  He seems to relax a little. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Right. So at the moment you’re not sure what jobs you’ll be doing today, and the reason for that is . . .’

  ‘He’s away. Col, I mean. He’s off sick today.’

  ‘I see. How do you know that?’

  ‘What?’

  On the other hand, thinks Webley, maybe he really is thick.

  She says, ‘That he’s off ill. Did Mrs Laplace tell you?’

  ‘No. Col called me direct.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘First thing this morning. He said he felt awful, and that he wouldn’t make it in today.’

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘He didn’t say. Just that he felt bad.’

  ‘Does he often call in sick at the last minute like that?’

  ‘No. Not often.’

  ‘Okay. So today you’re running the show by yourself, is that right?’

  ‘Yeah. But . . .’

  Webley gives him a second or two, but Jamie seems to have run out of steam.

  ‘Go on.’

  Jamie flinches, as though he has just been poked with a sharp stick. ‘Well, Col doesn’t like me doing anything without him being there to supervise.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Health and safety, mostly. Gotta know what you’re doing. Even in a school it’s surprising how easy it is to end up dead if you’re not careful.’

  Webley can’t stop her eyebrows jumping up in surprise. She studies Jamie’s face carefully for signs of irony, but it seems as though he really isn’t aware of what he’s just said.

  ‘What’s it like working here, Jamie? Do you like it?’

  He shrugs. ‘S’okay.’

  ‘Is it a bit weird being in an all-girls school? All those female hormones floating around?’

  ‘That’s true enough. I can’t get my head around it sometimes.’

  ‘Get your head around what?’

  ‘Just the way they are with each other. They can be right bitches sometimes.’

  ‘Really? In what way?’

  ‘Like, if a couple of lads fall out with each other, they have a punch-up and then they’re the best of mates again. Doesn’t happen like that with girls. It can drag on for ever. They start spreading nasty rumo
urs. They post things on the Internet. They try to turn friends against each other. It’s psychological warfare here sometimes.’

  ‘They talk to you, then? The girls, I mean. They talk to you about their problems?’

  ‘Well . . . not really. Some of them do. But I’ve got eyes and ears, haven’t I? I can see what’s going on. Because I’m not a teacher, they don’t care what they say when I’m around. They don’t need to cover it up.’

  ‘So you hear things they wouldn’t say to a teacher?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Do they ever say anything about the teachers?’

  ‘Too right they do. Some of them use language I’ve never even heard before.’

  He laughs at that, although Webley suspects that Jamie is not so easily shocked.

  ‘Like what? What kind of things do they say?’

  ‘Just . . . swear words. You know. Insults.’

  ‘About who? The head?’ Again, Webley questions whether it should be ‘whom’ here. And again, it irritates her that know-it-all Cody springs to mind.

  ‘Any of them. Especially the strict ones. The ones who give detention or shout in class.’

  It has been a bit of a meander, but Webley gets to her point. ‘What about Mary Cowper? Ever hear any of the girls say anything about her?’

  Jamie hesitates. ‘Miss Cowper? No. Can’t say I have.’

  ‘Are you certain about that? I’ve heard she could be quite strict.’

  ‘I don’t think it was the same. From what I heard, the girls had more respect for her. I don’t think any of them would have wanted anything bad to happen to her.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘What did you think about Mary?’

  ‘She was all right.’

  ‘All right in what way? Did you like her?’

  ‘I could take her or leave her.’

  ‘She wasn’t a friend, then?’

  ‘I wouldn’t call her that.’

  ‘Ever ask her out?’

  Webley isn’t sure what caused that question to jump from her lips, but she’s pleased with it. Sometimes it’s useful to deliver a curve ball, simply to assess reactions.

  Jamie blinks, laughs. ‘Are you serious?’

  Webley keeps her own face impassive. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

  Jamie straightens up in indignation. ‘Why the hell would I be getting together with Mary Cowper? She was old enough to be my mother.’

  ‘It’s not so ridiculous. She was a good-looking woman. Ever see The Graduate?’

  ‘No. What’s that?’

  Webley sighs inwardly. ‘Never mind. So you never met Mary Cowper after school?’

  ‘No. Absolutely not. She’s not – wasn’t – my type.’

  ‘Never went to her flat?’

  Jamie’s voice steps up an octave. ‘I don’t even know where she lived. I had zero interest in the woman. I hardly talked to her in school, never mind outside it.’

  And then Webley decides it’s time for another tricky throw of the ball. She hasn’t forgotten the difficulties Jamie seemed to experience in the early part of the interview; now, while Jamie is becoming increasingly agitated, seems a good time to capitalise on that.

  ‘What about Colin?’

  The sudden shift has the desired effect on Jamie, who appears slightly stunned. ‘What?’

  ‘Colin Daley. Your boss. How did he get on with Mary?’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, did he like her? Hate her? Did he complain about her?’

  ‘He never spoke about her.’

  ‘What, in all the time you’ve worked here, Mr Daley has never once mentioned Mary Cowper?

  ‘No,’ says Jamie. But then he seems to realise how absurd an answer it is. ‘Well, yeah, of course he mentioned her. But only when it was about doing jobs for her.’

  ‘Jobs?’

  Jamie waves a hand to indicate the workshop. ‘Work. The stuff we’re paid to do.’

  ‘Can you be more precise?’

  ‘I dunno. The usual. Move furniture. Change lightbulbs. Fix the heating. That kind of thing.’

  ‘Nothing out of the ordinary?’

  ‘Like what?

  ‘Get her car started?’

  ‘She didn’t drive.’

  ‘Go round to her flat and change a lock or fit a door?

  ‘Not as far as I know. Anyway, why are you asking me so many questions about Col?’

  Because you’re hiding something, thinks Webley. And you’re not clever enough to keep it hidden.

  ‘You’d rather I didn’t?’ she asks.

  ‘I’d prefer it if you asked him yourself.’

  ‘He’ll tell me the same, though, won’t he?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What you just said about him having no interest in Mary Cowper. He’ll confirm that, won’t he?’

  ‘I didn’t say . . . Look, I was just giving my opinion, okay? I don’t know enough about him or Mary to say anything for definite.’

  No, thinks Webley. But you know something, don’t you, matey?

  You know something.

  15

  Cody is glad they have been split up. Much though he likes Webley, he can do without her quizzical looks and burning glares at the moment. The others have picked up on the tension between them – he’s sure of it. Perhaps not Blunt, though. If she had, she would probably have paired them together on this interview just for the perverse satisfaction it would give her. She has a habit of throwing little tests of emotional stability his way whenever she has the opportunity.

  He is seated in a tiny office used to advise pupils when they need to discuss things in private. Opposite him, Andy Puckleton looks to be only in his early twenties. He is thin, with pronounced cheekbones and dark curly hair.

  Cody sends Puckleton a welcoming smile. The man looks as though he needs it. He keeps fidgeting nervously. He adjusts his tie, his cuffs, his watch strap. He smooths his hair, tugs on his earlobe, rubs his tongue over his teeth.

  Cody wonders if he is always as anxious as this, or if there is something in particular that’s bothering him.

  So he begins his questioning.

  ‘Mr Puckleton, isn’t it? Mind if I call you Andy?’

  ‘Yes. I mean no. I don’t mind. Andy’s fine.’

  ‘Okay, Andy. So you’re a maths teacher?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I was never much good at maths. English was my forte, if it’s okay to mix my languages like that.’

  ‘Mix your . . . Oh. Yes. I see what you mean.’

  This is going to be hard work, thinks Cody.

  ‘Have you been at the school long, Andy?’

  ‘No. Just over two years.’

  ‘And this is your first real teaching job?’

  ‘Yes. In at the deep end.’

  Puckleton offers a smile, but now Cody is less inclined to keep things light.

  ‘The deep end? Is it that bad here?’

  Puckleton recoils at the serious way in which his interrogator has responded. ‘No. I didn’t mean . . . It’s just a figure of speech. Some schools are much worse than this.’

  And now Cody returns a smile. A bat-and-ball approach. Keep the interviewee confused about your real thoughts and intentions.

  He says, ‘I know. You couldn’t get through a day at my school without someone breaking someone else’s arm, or mugging them for their lunch money – and that was just the teachers! I suppose it helps being an all-girls’ school. Or does that make it more difficult?’

  ‘Difficult? In what way?’ Puckleton seems genuinely mystified.

  ‘You tell me. I’ve never worked in a girls’ school. I imagine it brings its own challenges, no?’

  Puckleton thinks about it. ‘Well, yes, I guess so. Emotions can run high sometimes.’

  ‘Among the staff, too?’

  Puckleton’s mouth opens and closes a couple of times. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not sure what—’<
br />
  ‘I’m simply asking if things ever get emotional among the staff here. Arguments, perhaps? Affairs?’

  ‘I . . . I wouldn’t know about that.’

  ‘Hmm,’ says Cody. He writes in his notebook. A meaningless squiggle, but Puckleton won’t know that. ‘Tell me about Mary.’

  ‘What would you like to know?’

  ‘Was she a nice person?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I’d say so.’

  ‘Maybe more than that? A lovely person?’

  ‘I . . . She was a good person. I think that’s the best way to describe her.’

  ‘Good?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But not lovely?’

  Puckleton pulls at one of his sideburns. ‘Look, I’m not sure what you’re getting at.’

  ‘Did you know her well?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘You wouldn’t call her a friend, then?’

  ‘She was a . . . a colleague.’

  Cody sends Puckleton a discomfiting stare. It is starting to irk him that everyone in this bloody place seems to want to distance themselves from Mary. Great teacher? Absolutely. Highly moral? Of course. Close friend? On your bike.

  It also irks him that nobody appears willing to break ranks regarding how nice Mary was. Nobody, that is, except her own mother. Could that be just because the old woman is undoubtedly doolally? Or is she really the only person aware of just how dark Mary’s heart was?

  But then again, why is it that nobody else seems to have become aware of Mary’s sinister side in the seventeen years since her mother spotted it?

  He says, ‘So, then, you never spent any time with Mary outside of school?’

  Puckleton looks appalled by the suggestion. ‘No. Never. We didn’t have that kind of a . . . I have a girlfriend.’

  To Cody, the reaction seems defensive and exaggerated. Why not simply reply with a calm ‘no’?

  ‘A girlfriend?’

  ‘Yes. Laura. She’s a secretary.’

  ‘Here? In this school?’

  ‘Yes. We’ve been going out for almost a year.’

  ‘I see. But that wasn’t my question, Andy. I asked if you ever spent any time with Mary outside of school.’