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

by David Jackson

  ‘I . . . I’m sorry, I thought you meant—’

  ‘So did you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You didn’t socialise at all?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Never went for a drink after work, or call at her flat?’

  ‘Never, no. I don’t think I even know where she lived.’

  Cody nods. Puts another couple of squiggles in his notebook. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Puckleton poke a finger into his collar, as if to allow a build-up of steam to escape.

  Cody scratches his chin. Tries to emulate the ragged detective Columbo when he is about to catch a suspect in a lie.

  ‘See, Andy, there’s something I don’t quite get here.’

  Puckleton purses his lips. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Well, one of the other members of staff told us that you and Mary were quite close, and that you knew her better than anyone else.’

  ‘No. That’s not right. I have a girlfriend.’

  ‘Yes, so you said. But, with all due respect, you’ve misinterpreted my words again. It’s perfectly possible to have a friend who is female and is not your girlfriend.’

  Just look at me and Webley, he thinks.

  ‘I see what you mean,’ says Puckleton. ‘Well, I suppose it’s true that I chatted with her more than most.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘All kinds of things. We had similar interests. History, religion . . .’

  ‘Are you religious, Andy?’

  ‘Yes. Is that such a bad thing?’

  ‘Not at all. But these discussions were all in the grounds of the school, is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Never in Mary’s flat?’

  ‘No. I’ve already said—’

  Cody decides it’s time to take off the gloves. ‘All right, Andy. Just to keep you in the picture, what we’ll do at some point is to take fingerprints and DNA samples from you. Then—’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘To rule you out. There’s a lot of forensic evidence in Mary’s flat. We need to confirm that none of it belongs to you. We’ll probably also take some recordings of your voice. One of Mary’s neighbours heard someone talking to her, so again we need to make sure it couldn’t possibly have been you.’

  Puckleton’s eyes are darting now, as though he’s looking for a way out of this room that he seems to find so stifling.

  Says Cody, ‘That’s all right, isn’t it, Andy?’

  ‘Look,’ says Puckleton finally. ‘Supposing I did go to Mary’s flat?’

  That’s better, thinks Cody. ‘Are you saying you did?’

  ‘I . . . yes. Occasionally.’

  ‘How occasionally?’

  ‘Not very often at first. Lately it’s been once, maybe twice a week.’

  ‘Twice a week? That’s quite a lot.’

  ‘Do you think?’

  ‘Don’t you? Twice a week. I’d say that was quite a lot. How long did you stay each time?’

  ‘About an hour. No more than that.’

  ‘I see. And what did you do in that hour?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing? You visited Mary Cowper in her flat, twice a week for an hour, and you did nothing?’

  ‘I mean, nothing . . . sordid. I have a girlfriend.’

  Change the record, thinks Cody. ‘So what was it you did?’

  ‘We talked.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘All kinds of things. Like I said, we had a lot in common.’

  ‘I see. And what did your girlfriend think about your visits to Mary’s flat?’

  Puckleton’s gaze drops to the floor. ‘She . . . she had no opinion on the matter.’

  ‘You didn’t tell her, did you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not? Why didn’t you tell your girlfriend?’

  ‘I, er, I didn’t think it was important.’

  ‘Not because you thought she would misunderstand?’

  ‘Well, maybe. Perhaps she would have got the wrong end of the stick.’

  ‘Andy?’

  Puckleton raises his head again. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m going to be straight with you here. I don’t think you’re being entirely truthful with me.’

  ‘Why? What makes you say—?’

  ‘You visit an older woman, alone in her flat. You spend over an hour with her, twice a week, and you don’t tell your girlfriend about it. And all you’re doing with this woman is having a cup of tea and a casual chat about nothing of any importance. Is that really what you’re asking me to believe?’

  ‘When you put it like that . . .’

  ‘There’s no other way to put it, Andy.’

  ‘No. I suppose not. All right.’

  ‘All right what?’

  ‘I’ll tell you the truth.’

  ‘I think that would be best,’ says Cody. He keeps his voice level, but inside he’s hoping for all kinds of juicy revelations. He’s thinking, Okay, Andy, here’s where you tell me about your secret love affair and how Mary threatened to expose you or blackmail you, so you bashed her head in. Go ahead, Andy. Let it all out.

  ‘She was helping me,’ says Puckleton.

  Right, thinks Cody. Not exactly my definition of ‘juicy’.

  ‘Helping you how?’

  ‘She . . . she listened to me. She understood what I was going through.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘I was having . . . doubts.’

  ‘Doubts? About being a teacher?’

  ‘No. I love teaching. I’m talking about my . . . my faith.’

  ‘You mean your religion? Your belief in God?’

  ‘Yes. I mean, I want to believe, but . . . well, I’m just not sure I can any more.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Nothing particular. A whole load of reasons. The state of the world. The cruel things that happen in it. Lately I’ve just been finding it really difficult to reconcile that with the existence of a God who loves us and cares about us.’

  ‘And you discussed this with Mary?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But not your girlfriend?’

  ‘No. Actually, that’s not true. I tried, but I don’t think Laura really appreciated what I was going through. Religion isn’t her thing.’

  ‘So you approached Mary instead?’

  ‘Yes. Mary is – was – very open about her Christianity, and very certain in her faith. I needed to understand where that certainty came from.’

  ‘So all of these meetings at her flat – they were about religion? Why didn’t you just tell me that up front? Why make me drag it out of you?’

  Puckleton’s lower lip trembles, as though he is ready to burst into tears. ‘Because you wouldn’t have understood. Nobody understands. You would have thought it was a ridiculous story, and that I must have had something to do with Mary’s murder. And then it would have got back to Laura, and she would have thought I was doing something sordid. Nobody would be prepared to accept that this has been an extremely trying time for me. I needed to talk it over, and Mary was the only one willing to listen and give her views without being judgemental. In a way, she has been my therapist. And so I . . .’

  He halts, and now there is a definite glint of wetness in his eyes.

  ‘What?’ says Cody.

  ‘I’ll really miss her.’

  Cody nods slowly. He looks at the wreck of a man in front of him, devastated by grief at the death of his only confidante.

  And he wonders how much of it is an act.

  16

  It couldn’t last for ever.

  Webley is surprised it lasted this long. It’s Thursday now. The murder seems an age ago. For most of the week she has managed to avoid having to spend time alone with Cody. When she had to communicate with him there were always others in the vicinity. Made life much simpler. She could keep things formal. She could avoid having to concern herself with his screwed-up attitud
es and bizarre behaviour.

  But it’s more difficult to do that right now, when it’s just her and Cody, cooped up together in a tiny unmarked hatchback.

  She didn’t have much choice in the matter. It was an order from Blunt. ‘You two,’ said the DCI. ‘You’re making fuck-all progress here, so make yourselves useful by talking to that missing caretaker bloke. If we’re going to come up empty-handed, we might as well be complete about it.’

  So that’s what they’re doing. Ticking another box. Fulfilling another action. Proving to future scrutinisers how thorough they were in failing to find a murderer.

  She is physically unable to accompany someone in complete silence, even when she is fuming. Her nature won’t allow it. So she tries filling the yawning void with perfunctory conversation. Tries asking Cody if he watched Coronation Street last night. Tries asking him when he last had a night out. Tries telling him about the Christmas decorations in Liverpool ONE this year.

  Oh, fuck it, she thinks.

  ‘This is bloody ridiculous,’ she says.

  Cody, who is driving, takes his eyes from the road for a second. ‘What is?’

  Webley flaps her hand in the space between them. ‘This! This whole situation. You and me.’

  There is a long silence while she watches Cody trying and seemingly failing to grasp her meaning. Typical bloke.

  He says, ‘I’m not sure what—’

  ‘We’re not being ourselves, Cody. We’re not being normal people. Correction – I’m not being normal, and you’re not being whatever you usually are. Which, by any definition of the term, can never pass for normal.’

  ‘I thought we were doing okay.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  He shoots her another glance. ‘I think we’ve been working quite well together the past few days. There haven’t been any arguments, any tantrums, any—’

  She stops him with a raised palm. ‘Before we enter the minefield of which of us has been resorting to childish behaviour, the point is . . . Well, the point is that you’re missing the point.’

  ‘I’m glad you’ve made that clear.’

  She takes a few seconds to gather her thoughts. To put them in some kind of rational order so that she has some chance of getting them through the thick skull of the idiot sitting next to her.

  ‘When I started working for MIT,’ she says, ‘it came as a massive shock to find you were working for them too. To be honest, I thought it would all go tits up. But it didn’t. We got on okay. And when you needed someone to talk to, I was kind of . . . honoured that you chose me. It was nice to know that we could still relate to each other on a personal level.’

  She watches him for a reaction. Gets nothing more than steady nodding.

  ‘But now it’s different,’ she continues. ‘You’re different.’

  ‘In what way?’ he asks.

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it. Did you go near any giant alien seed pods while I was in hospital?’

  ‘Not that I recall. Are you sure it’s not you who’s different? Maybe all those drugs the doctors gave you scrambled your brain.’

  She ignores him. ‘When’s the last time you wigged out? I mean properly, like you did when we worked on that last case together.’

  He mulls it over. ‘I haven’t. I’ve had a couple of wobbles, but that’s been it. I haven’t beaten anyone up, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Okay, good. And what about the nightmares? Still having them?’

  ‘Yes, Dr Freud. Afraid so.’

  ‘As often as before?’

  ‘No. Not as often. Not as intense either.’

  She slaps him on the bicep. ‘So you have changed! Jesus, this is like getting blood out of a stone. Now, next question. Think about this carefully. Why have you changed?’

  He opens his mouth, and she raises her palm again. ‘I said think about it carefully. Don’t just blurt out the first thing that jumps into your head. You know that never ends well with you.’

  Cody stares ahead for a while. Checks his mirrors. Drums his fingers on the steering wheel.

  ‘Well,’ he says. ‘Maybe it’s because . . .’

  ‘Go on. And if you say “I’m a Londoner” now, I’ll batter you.’

  ‘Actually, I was about to say that maybe it’s because of you.’

  And now she is suddenly sorry she asked. This isn’t supposed to be about her. She doesn’t want it to be about her.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. It’s like you said. You were there for me. Other than Devon, you were the first person I ever told about the problems I’ve been having. Getting that off my chest was massive for me. I can’t tell you how much it helped.’

  She wants to cry now. This is a bit of the old Cody. The honest, truthful, trustworthy Cody.

  But only a bit.

  ‘Bollocks,’ she says again.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘That’s not it. There’s something else. Something you’re not telling me about.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because of you not coming to see me while I was away. If talking to me is so bloody good for your health, why would you want to stay away like that? It doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘Wait a minute. You’re talking about two different things now. We’ve already discussed my reasons for keeping my distance while you were sick. That has absolutely nothing to do with me having nightmares.’

  Webley feels her irritation building with this man. ‘First of all, you didn’t really explain why you didn’t come to see me. That’s still a mystery to me. And secondly, if you’re saying the two things aren’t connected, then you must have a reason for saying that, which implies you do know why you’ve gone all weird lately.’

  Cody furrows his brow and shakes his head. ‘You’ve lost me now. This is getting far too complicated.’

  ‘Only because you’re being so bloody cryptic about everything.’

  She folds her arms in indignation. Turns her head to look out of the side window, searching for distractions that will enable her to switch channels in her mind.

  But her mind refuses to be drawn away from the compelling drama.

  She turns back to Cody. ‘When we were on top of that building . . .’ she begins, not entirely convinced she wants to continue.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘What was going through your mind? I mean, what was your plan?’

  Cody shrugs. ‘To get everyone out of there, alive and in one piece.’

  ‘No lies this time, Cody. The chances of that happening were minuscule, and you knew it, didn’t you?’

  ‘I . . . Somebody had to do something. Somebody had to get up there and establish a line of communication.’

  ‘Stop talking like a cop, Cody. Speak to me like a human being. You were intending to die up there, weren’t you?’

  ‘Well, “intending” is putting it a bit strongly. I never—’

  ‘All right. Expecting, then. You were expecting to die. You had no clever plan whatsoever. In fact, it was downright primitive. A straight swap. Your life for mine.’

  ‘Megan, I . . .’

  ‘Oh, my God. I’m right, aren’t I?’

  No response from Cody, but his face says it all. She has suspected it for some time, but never had the vanity to accept it as unquestionable truth – to believe that her own life could ever be considered worth more than another.

  ‘Why?’ she asks. ‘Why would you do that?’

  Another shrug. ‘Seemed like a good idea at the time. You said it yourself – my brain doesn’t always work like everyone else’s.’

  ‘And that’s it? That’s what you’re telling me? It was just another malfunction? Just another fuse blowing in that old junction box between your ears?’

  He takes his gaze off the road again. Stares searchingly into her own eyes, as if trying to gauge how much reality she can cope with. As though making up his mind, he faces forward again.

  ‘Don’t try to read to
o much into it, Megan. Don’t try to build it up into something it wasn’t. It was a knee-jerk reaction – trying to make the best of a bad situation. Luck was on our side, but it could easily have gone the other way.’

  The words sting, and she knows they shouldn’t. She had hoped he might say it was something much more meaningful than a ‘knee-jerk reaction’. Something more profound. Something related to the important things in life – the things that matter, the things in which they share an unbreakable belief.

  Perhaps even – dare she think it? – something about love.

  But this is better. This makes it easier for both of them. This shakes no apples from the tree, creates no waves in the pool. Their lives can continue to run on separate rails, with no danger of future collisions.

  ‘Fine,’ she says. ‘I won’t ask again.’

  Good one, Cody, she thinks. You gave the right answer there.

  Even though she doesn’t believe a word of it.

  17

  The house is a modest terraced property close to Wavertree Playground. The playground is actually a small park, bequeathed to Liverpool Corporation at the end of the nineteenth century by a donor whose name was never revealed – hence the park’s nickname of ‘The Mystery’, or often just ‘The Mizzy’.

  Cody thinks he could do without another mystery in his life right now. There are lots of things he could do without right now, not least of which being Webley here with all her intimate questioning.

  Feeling on edge, Cody rings the bell, then immediately raps the doorknocker.

  The door is answered by a boy of about twelve years of age. He is wearing the white shirt and charcoal trousers of his school uniform, and appears to be caught up in the whirlwind of puberty. A thin wisp of hair sits precariously above his top lip, and runs down into a beard of joined-up acne. When he speaks, he does so in a strangulated voice that wavers alarmingly in pitch.

  ‘Whatever you’re selling,’ he says, ‘we’ve already got one. Sometimes more than one.’

  ‘Is your dad in?’ says Cody.

  ‘No,’ says the lad. ‘My dad’s dead.’

  Instantly forgetting his problems with Webley, Cody throws her a questioning glance, then pulls his notebook from his pocket and flips through its pages.

  ‘This is the house of Mr Colin Daley?’