His smile broadens, defying her wrath, because he knows that he alone in the squad can get away with it. ‘Got to check something. Hold that bollocking. If I’m wrong, you can give it to me later.’
And then he’s heading out of the office and closing the door behind him, but not before he hears Blunt telling him that a bollocking is coming his way in any event.
39
He knows what it is now. Or at least he thinks he does.
He consults his computer again, but this time he doesn’t scroll aimlessly through the files. He goes precisely to the pages he needs.
And this time he finds what he’s looking for.
He scans the room, searching for someone to help him out. He catches the eye of a young and ambitious red-headed detective called Jason Oxburgh, or ‘Oxo’ as he’s known to the rest of the squad.
Cody leaves his desk. Marches straight over to Oxo. ‘Got a job for you,’ he says.
‘Sarge?’
Oxo always calls him Sarge. Everyone else usually calls him Cody, but Oxo has somehow never managed to move past the formality.
‘I need you to round up the possessions of the three victims. Bring them back here.’
‘Sarge?’ says Oxo again.
‘Not the clothes. I’m not interested in those. Just the stuff they were carrying on their person.’
It’s obvious that Oxo is still mystified. ‘Okay.’
‘Right,’ says Cody. ‘Off you go.’
‘What, now?’
‘Now. Immediately. Without delay. Chop-chop.’
Oxo stands up. Grabs his coat and heads out of the incident room. Cody watches him leave. Then, as he turns, he sees several puzzled expressions among his colleagues. One of them belongs to Webley, who quickly looks away and pretends not to be intrigued.
Well, he thinks, let’s see if she changes her tune when I hit everyone with the punchline.
*
His concentration doesn’t improve while Oxo is on his mission, but at least now it’s for more positive reasons. This is a significant development in the case. Has to be.
Gonna look an idiot if I’m wrong, though, he thinks.
If all I can do is say thanks to Oxo, then pack the stuff up and tell him to take it away again, I’ll feel a right prune. The others will realise it, too. Webley will wet herself laughing at me.
But I’m not wrong. It would be too much of a coincidence.
He decides to step outside. Take a breath of fresh air.
When he gets to the car park, he nods to a constable on his way back in after a crafty smoke. Then he paces up and down a little, his hands in his trouser pockets to keep them warm. He hears the crunch of the rock salt beneath his shoes.
Should have put a coat on, he thinks.
He reaches into his jacket pocket. Takes out his mobile phone. Stares at it for a while.
What the hell. Can’t make it any worse.
He finds the number. Presses the green dial button. The call is answered after three rings.
‘Cody,’ says the voice. ‘What’s up?’ There’s a note of alarm there, which isn’t the best start to the conversation.
‘Hi, Devon,’ he says. ‘Nothing’s up. Just thought I should give you a call. It’s been a while.’
‘Such a long time that you’ve forgotten I’m at work during the day?’
‘No. Sorry. If this is a bad time . . .’
He hears a small sigh. ‘No. It’s fine. I could do with a break. What is it, Cody?’
‘Well . . . it’s Christmas in a few days.’
‘Right.’
‘And so I was wondering what . . . well, what we’re doing about it. If anything.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean . . . presents. Are we getting each other presents? I don’t know what the protocol is here.’
He hears a few seconds of silence. Then: ‘Protocol? Cody, life isn’t defined by one of your police manuals. There’s no protocol. You give at Christmas if it feels right, not because you’re supposed to.’
‘No. I know. But . . . I want to get you something, but I don’t want you to feel awkward about it. I don’t want you reading things into it that aren’t there, do you know what I mean? And I don’t want you feeling you have to get me something just because I get you something. That’s why it’s complicated.’
‘You’re overthinking it, Cody. As usual. Tell you what, let’s just keep it simple, shall we?’
‘Simple. Right. So . . .’
‘So we don’t buy each other anything. How does that sound?’
It sounds awful, he thinks. It sounds like another nail in the coffin of their relationship – a relationship he still has hopes of resurrecting.
‘I suppose that would be simplest. Although—’
‘That’s settled, then. Feel better now that’s sorted out?’
He doesn’t feel better. He feels ten times worse.
‘Have you . . . have you got any plans for Christmas?’
‘Yeah. Off to stay with my folks for a few days, then skiing for a week. What about you?’
He had hoped her diary would be emptier than that. He doesn’t want her to be sad, but he did hope for a void he might help to fill. The problem with Devon is that she refuses to sit in isolation and mope, like normal people. Her nature abhors a vacuum.
‘Work, mostly,’ he answers with fake jocularity. ‘You know me.’
‘Only too well.’
He waits for a follow-up tinkle of laughter from her, too, but fails to get one. Before the slight can penetrate too deeply, he makes his next move.
‘But I can always find time to meet up. If you want to, that is. Lunch, maybe. Or a quick drink?’
Silence again. Which doesn’t bode well. If she were keen, or even mildly interested in the possibility, the appropriate words would jump to her lips. What she’s looking for now is a way out.
‘I would,’ she says finally, ‘but I’m up to my eyes right now.’
Sure, he thinks. Except for Simon Teller. You can find time for a get-together with him.
She says, ‘I have to clear my desk before Christmas. Before I disappear. You know how it is.’
He doesn’t know how it is. His job isn’t like that. His desk is never clear, because there are always major crimes being committed. Unfortunately, the killings and the woundings and the rapes and the abductions don’t stop in the name of baby Jesus. Sometimes, such as right now, they worsen for that very reason.
‘No problem,’ he says. ‘Just thought I’d put it out there. In case . . . well . . .’
‘Yes. Thanks for asking, though.’
He allows her time to throw him a rope. Something along the lines of, ‘What about the New Year? How are you fixed then?’ But it doesn’t appear. She’s prepared to let him fall.
He thinks about asking her if it would be okay to phone her on Christmas Day, just to wish her a Happy Christmas. But he doesn’t want to appear needy. Doesn’t want to risk the pain and the humiliation of further rejection.
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Well, I should let you get back to work.’
‘Yes. No rest for the wicked.’
‘I’ll send you a Christmas card. Something with robins on.’
‘You remembered. Yes, please do.’
She doesn’t say whether she will send him one.
‘Great. Well, have a brilliant Christmas, won’t you? Enjoy your skiing trip.’
‘I will. You too. A good Christmas, I mean.’
He wants to remind her of previous Christmases. Wants to get her laughing about that time he mistakenly ordered a tree that was too big to get through the front door. Or when he left some posh chocolates next to a radiator, and watched her open the box to find a congealed brown mass at the bottom.
But he says none of those things. He leaves the past where it lies.
He says goodbye and hangs up. Stares at his phone again. He pictures Devon doing the same, but he hopes there is a
t least a tear in her eye. He hopes that how she just acted was tough for her, that putting herself across as cold and unfeeling was done with the best of intentions, since to lead him on would be cruel.
That’s what he hopes. Because the alternative is that she really is over him – she really does have no feelings remaining for him. That would leave them without a future together.
He’s not ready to accept that. Not yet.
*
He’s starting to think that Oxo must have been involved in a traffic accident, it’s been that long. But then the young detective enters the room, three cardboard boxes in his possession.
‘Where’ve you been?’ Cody asks him. ‘I was about to send out a search party.’
Oxo tilts his head to see past the boxes stacked up in his arms. ‘Sorry, Sarge. I went as quick as I could.’
Cody ushers him over to an empty table in the corner of the room, but makes no attempt to lighten the man’s load.
‘Put them on there. That’s it.’
Cody studies the boxes. Sees that each is labelled with the name of a victim of the so-called Bible Basher. He takes a deep breath. Opens the first box.
Inside the box are a number of plastic evidence bags. Cody begins to search through them. These are the items that belonged to Mary Cowper. Cody recognises them from his attendance at the post-mortem. He knows exactly what he’s looking for.
He finds it.
He lifts out the bag. Places it carefully on the table. Moves on to the next box, containing the possessions of Cassie Harris.
Unknown territory now. The doubts are returning. He continues to lift bag after bag from the box. Drops each one back in with a steadily sinking heart. It’s not here, he thinks. I’ve made a mistake. This is where everyone realises what a tit I’ve just made of myself.
And then he finds it. The last bag in the box.
‘Yesss,’ he says.
Box three. Sue Halligan. Lipstick. Phone. Coins. Receipts . . .
And there it is.
Cody can hold back the grin no longer. It practically shines across the incident room, drawing the attention of everyone as he lines up the three evidence bags in front of him. Detectives begin to leave their seats to learn what profound discovery has just been made.
‘What are they?’ says Oxo, staring down at the table.
Cody claps him on the shoulder. ‘These, my friend, are clues. We missed it, but our killer has been sending us messages since day one.’
40
Says Oxo, ‘I still don’t know what they are.’
Cody picks up one of the bags and holds it aloft so that the gathering detectives can see.
‘It’s a pendant of some kind. From a necklace, I suppose. I saw it when I was at Mary Cowper’s PM, but thought nothing of it. Just looked like a broken bit of jewellery she’d stuffed into her pocket. Even when I started looking through the possessions logs of the other victims it didn’t jump out at me. In Sue Halligan’s case, for example, it’s just described as a “small ornamental stone”. Took me a while to realise that all three were carrying similar items on them.’
‘Let’s have a gander,’ says one of the detectives, reaching out a hand.
Cody passes the bags around. Watches his colleagues as they peer at them intently. Each of the polished, speckled-brown objects is small and pear-shaped, and has a metal attachment loop at the thin end. Cody notices that Webley in particular finds them of immense interest.
‘I don’t get it,’ says Oxo. ‘What kind of message is this? What’s it telling us?’
‘That’s the million-dollar question,’ says Cody. ‘These were placed in the victims’ pockets, so they must mean something.’
Webley finds her voice: ‘Before or after death?’
‘What?’
‘Well, did the killer put them there after killing the women, or were they already carrying them around with them?’
‘Good point,’ says Cody. Because it is, undeniably. And something he hasn’t considered. ‘We should talk to Stroud and the forensics guys. See if they can answer that. We should also ask people who knew the victims whether they have ever seen these pendants before.’
Webley holds her bag up to the light. ‘Funny-looking things. I mean, they’re not the most beautiful, are they? I wouldn’t wear one around my neck.’
Cody isn’t sure whether this is an attempt to shoot holes in his prodigious detective work.
‘Yes, but you’re not a serial killer trying to contact us.’
‘If he’s trying to communicate,’ says Oxo, ‘it’s a bit subtle, isn’t it? We nearly missed it completely.’
Cody throws him the glare that he wanted to send to Webley. ‘Well, now we’ve found it, haven’t we?’ He turns to the rest of his audience. ‘Can we all get a little bit more positive here, please? This could be crucial evidence. Anyone got any ideas about what it might mean?’
Blank faces turn to other blank faces. Some search for answers in the carpet.
‘Something about worth?’ Oxo ventures.
‘Go on.’
‘Well . . . something that’s pretty, but is broken, and so not worth very much. Maybe that’s how the killer sees the women too.’
Cody points a finger at him. ‘Good. What else?’
He surveys the gathering again. Notes that there is patent scepticism on Webley’s face. He wonders if being contrary is about to become her watchword.
Another figure arrives at the fringes of the throng. Taller than the rest by a head, he would have had difficulty joining them unnoticed.
‘We having a seance?’ Ferguson asks. ‘Are things that desperate we need to talk directly to the dead?’
‘They’re already talking to us, mate,’ says Cody. ‘Take a look.’
Ferguson threads his way to the front. Stares for a few seconds at the table display. Picks up one of the bags and scrutinises it more closely.
‘Where’d you get these?’
‘They were on the bodies, only nobody noticed. A junk piece of broken jewellery doesn’t exactly cry out for attention.’
Ferguson shakes his head. ‘These aren’t jewellery.’
‘What? What do you mean?’
‘They’re not jewellery. They’re lead fishing weights.’
‘Fishing weights?’
‘Yeah. I did a lot of fishing with my dad when I was younger. These are for carp and suchlike. They anchor the bait closer to the river bed. The speckled colouring is to make them look like stones.’
Cody stares at him open-mouthed. A bit like a carp.
He hears a splutter of laughter. Webley brings a hand to her mouth and attempts to disguise her outburst as a cough.
Says Cody, ‘Why the hell would our killer want to place fishing weights on the bodies?’
Ferguson shrugs, but then Webley says, ‘Maybe it’s because they sleep with the fishes now.’
She gets a few chuckles, and Cody begins to wish he had never started this whole thing.
‘I don’t think this is the work of the Mafia, Megan. Seriously, what possible point can he be making here?’
More silence. When Webley raises a tentative finger, Cody is tempted to ignore it. He thinks he will explode if she makes another sarcastic comment.
His voice is practically a sigh: ‘Megan.’
‘Just an observation,’ she says.
‘All right. Observe away.’
‘Colin Daley, the school caretaker. He’s a fisherman. There’s a photo of him in his living room, holding a bloody big ugly fish.’
The image flashes back into Cody’s mind. He remembers the photo. Can picture it now. Damn it, why didn’t he make that connection?
‘You’re right,’ he says, unable to contain his mounting excitement. ‘Colin Daley. The man who definitely knew Mary Cowper. The man who did a runner when we turned up at the school. The man who got someone to lie for him to cover his tracks. The man who had no real alibis for the times of the killings. And the man who knows more
than most about fishing weights.’
‘Hold on,’ says Ferguson. ‘Why would he draw attention to himself like this? So far he’s done everything he can to stay off our radar.’
‘He probably doesn’t think he is drawing attention. Not in an obvious way. Like I said, we almost didn’t notice the fishing weights at all. And he’s probably so used to that photo being there that he’s not aware we saw it. Far as he’s concerned, we’re none the wiser. I’ll bet he thinks he’s being really clever with his little guessing game.’
‘Possibly,’ says Ferguson.
‘Do I sense some doubt?’
‘Well, it’s just that Daley is hardly the only fisherman in the world, is he? If we’re basing our suspicions on that, you might as well include me, too. It’s not exactly proof. It’s not even enough to arrest him.’
Cody hates to admit it, but he knows Ferguson is right. It’s not proof. Not by a long shot.
They need more.
41
She has watched all this with detached interest.
She didn’t join the gathering at the front. It didn’t feel right. She’s not one of them. She worried that one of the detectives might have challenged her right to be there, and she would have found that really upsetting.
It’s better this way, observing from a distance.
She needed to see it play out, from beginning to end. For a few unbearable minutes it seemed that Cody would beat her to it again, putting all her hard work to waste.
Clever man, is young Cody.
But it came to naught. Supposition at best. They need more. Cody needs more.
And I can give it to him, she thinks.
Grace can feel her heart thumping wildly, like an energetic animal trapped within her ribcage. This won’t be easy, she thinks. I don’t know how they’ll react. Will they be angry or pleased?
But I have to tell them. It’s important. No, it’s everything.
She waits a few moments more while the detectives lose interest in the fishing weights and return to their seats. When all is quiet, she leaves her desk and moves unnoticed through the room.
She stops alongside Cody’s desk. Waits for him to become aware of her presence.
‘Grace,’ he says. He appears a little surprised, a little mystified.
Hope to Die: A gripping new serial killer thriller (The DS Nathan Cody series) Page 23