Cody shakes his head immediately. Webley takes a little longer, but gets there.
Blunt looks directly at Webley. ‘Tell me about her. About Latham.’
Webley clears her throat. ‘We worked together for a while. Over in Birkenhead. This was about three years ago. We only overlapped there for six months or so, but I got to know her quite well. We went out together a few times. Had some laughs.’
‘Have you seen her since?’
‘Once or twice, but nothing recent. I didn’t even know she’d moved here. She was living with a boyfriend in Wallasey when I knew her.’
Blunt goes silent. Cody knows there are other questions that ought to be on her lips. Obvious questions. But something is clearly bothering her.
‘Latham,’ she says. ‘PC Terri Latham. Why do I know that name?’
Now it’s Webley’s turn to go strangely quiet. She seems unable to hold her superior’s gaze.
‘Spit it out!’
‘The Vernon incident. She was Paul Garnett’s partner.’
Cody watches as this sinks into Blunt’s mind. He can tell that all the ramifications of this new knowledge are being churned up in her head.
‘Oh, God,’ she says. ‘That’s all we need.’
Cody remembers the case well. Most coppers do. Kevin Vernon was arrested when police were breaking up a brawl outside a pub in Birkenhead. As it later turned out, Vernon wasn’t one of the troublemakers. He was just passing by. This was confirmed later both by witnesses and CCTV footage. What they could not attest to, of course, was what was going through the minds of the attending officers at the time.
It’s what happened shortly after the police arrived that is the subject of contention. Vernon moved away from the centre of the fracas, out of shot of the security camera. Two police officers – one male and one female – went after him. That’s when the timeline split, leading to two accounts that were not merely at variance but in direct opposition. Both plausible, but only one of them could be true.
The first account – the account given by the officers concerned, and the story to which they stuck throughout the whole of the ensuing investigation – is one in which two dedicated coppers were risking their necks as they so often do. In the face of extreme adversity they were striving to restore order and prevent bloodshed. And when someone – they can’t remember who, exactly, given that they were in the midst of a pitched battle – told them that Kevin Vernon was one of the ringleaders, they had to take that information seriously. Of course they did. And when that same person – whoever it was, because you have to understand that it was pretty chaotic out there – told them to ‘Watch yourselves with him’, they had to take that seriously too. Of course they did.
And even though they were armed with all this information, but armed with little else except a baton each, they remained paragons of restraint. They challenged the man, and he ignored them. They issued commands to the man, and he ignored them. And when they became more vociferous, he became more aggressive and threatening. And so they tried to arrest him. Minimum force was what they hoped to apply. But he was strong, this man. And he was large. And then he began swearing at them. Saying things that suggested he was not going quietly. And all around them was violence and hatred and abuse, and people were being hurt, police officers were being hurt, and what were they supposed to do? How could they just stand there having a discussion with this man who might be about to attack them, while some of their colleagues were in such danger? How could they not react to the immediate threat to their well-being? And, in any case, all they did was bring him to the ground. Yes, he hit it a little heavily. Things don’t always go to plan. Real life isn’t like the textbooks. He banged his head, and unfortunately it turned out to be fatal. But they had to get him under control. Had to bring him down quickly. Anyone else would have done the same. Well, wouldn’t they?
That’s one version of events.
The other version is one in which the two police officers decided to vent their anger and frustration on a random member of the public. An innocent citizen, just going about his business. They accosted him, they assaulted him, they brought him to the floor. Heavily. So heavily he suffered a head injury that resulted in bleeding into the brain.
And then he died. As a consequence of the unprovoked, brutal attack by two people who are charged with keeping us safe on the streets, this man died.
To be more accurate, it was the male officer who did most of the physical work. He was the one who leapt at Vernon, grabbed hold of his arm and pulled him head first into the unyielding pavement. He was the one who then sat astride Vernon, twisting the man’s arm behind his back as he leant on his head and swore angrily into his ear. Doesn’t excuse the female officer, though. It was clear whose team she was on. She’s as guilty as he is.
That’s exactly how it happened. Swear to God and hope to die.
There are other complications. It was later revealed that Vernon had severe learning difficulties. Those who knew him claimed that he was never violent, never aggressive, and that he would not have even understood the situation he was in or what was being asked of him. The two officers begged to differ. They knew nothing of his learning problems. To them, he was an immediate risk. He was where he shouldn’t be, acting unpredictably, saying things that were largely incomprehensible but certainly containing some threatening language. He posed a danger that needed to be nullified. In the most controlled way possible, of course.
So there you have it. Two stories stacked against each other. One from witnesses at the scene, who were for the most part profoundly anti-police. And one from upholders of the law with a previously unblemished record. Who are you going to believe?
Those carrying out the investigation knew whom to believe. To be sure, there were a few rumours that proved problematic. Suggestions that Paul Garnett could be a little heavy-handed at times. But these were easily discounted. Especially once the shiny-bright Terri Latham gave her side of things. Her record was spotless. In the interview room she exuded veracity. You couldn’t doubt the word of someone as dedicated and trustworthy as PC Latham.
But perhaps someone did.
Perhaps somebody never believed for a moment what came out of the mouth of this woman who might be willing to send her own mother to hell to save herself.
And perhaps this is that particular little bird coming home to roost, excuse the sick pun.
Cody hopes not. And he is certain that Blunt doesn’t want it either.
Otherwise, life for the MIT members is likely to get very complicated.
7
He wakes to the sound of birds. Their sound is a joyous one. Bursting with freedom and a sense of being a part of nature. Becoming a taker of human life has not deadened his appreciation of such beauty.
But those birds are outside, in his garden. He can hear nothing from the next room, where his own birds are kept. It’s as if they wait mutely in desolate incarceration, like inmates on death row.
But that’s okay. This isn’t about happiness. It’s about the very opposite, in fact. The role of his birds is far more important and profound than they can ever know. Their very existence is highly symbolic. In their own way, they will tell the world what it needs to hear, and it will carry much farther and last much longer than mere birdsong.
He flings off his duvet. Swings his legs out of bed. Smiles.
Last night seems almost unreal now. Like something he might have watched in a film. Did he really do that? Did he really kill that policewoman?
He looks at the clock. A minute to eleven. Late for him, but the sun was already starting to do battle with the clouds before he got to sleep. He was too wired, too full of the night’s events.
He switches the clock radio on and watches the seconds count away. At eleven, the news comes on. He listens intently to the headlines. As each brief announcement ends, his heart revs up for the next. Do they know yet? Does the world know what I have just done?
He gets nothing. But that’s okay
too. The media probably won’t have the story yet. It’s quite possible that nobody has even discovered the body.
They will, though. Somebody will find her and they will know that this is no ordinary killing. No burglary gone wrong. No accidental death. Not even a murder of your common or garden variety. This is special. This means something. People will take notice of this one. They might not understand the reasons for it. Not yet, anyway. But that will be made clear later. No point in making it easy for them. They need to start guessing, to start talking. It needs to become one of the biggest talking points of the century.
He is not doing this for himself, or even for his parents, although they deserve this moment too. There are some families that seem always to have been destined to attain fame or fortune, to be always happy. And there are others for whom misery and misfortune are a given – a patent ingredient of every day, every endeavour. He and his parents were assigned to this latter group. He feels that in his bones, and it surprises him some mornings that he is still alive. He never expected to live beyond his thirtieth birthday. Now he knows he is on borrowed time.
He will make the most of that time.
He stands up. Walks through onto the landing. Carefully he opens the door into the front bedroom – just a few inches – then squeezes himself in and shuts the door behind him.
This is the biggest bedroom in the house. He doesn’t sleep in here, but the furniture is still present, including the double bed. The blinds are drawn – they are always drawn in here. He flicks on a light switch.
There is some chatter. A few chirrups. Nothing like the cacophony in the rear garden. A kiss of air as a starling flutters past his face.
It’s quite a sight. So many birds. Mostly pigeons, sparrows, starlings, blackbirds and magpies. But also robins, doves, tits and finches. A few birds he has paid for, such as the parrots and the budgerigars. The raven he used last night was stolen from a bird sanctuary in North Wales. Some of the birds – the ones most likely to attack the others – he keeps in cages. The rest have the freedom of the bedroom. They use it, too. Some are on the bed. Others are perched on the wardrobe or the dresser or the chairs. One of the pigeons stands in front of the mirror, pecking at its own reflection.
There’s quite a smell in here too. This many birds create a lot of shit. It’s everywhere. It covers the carpet; it covers the bed; it drips down the walls. He used to spend a good portion of each day cleaning it up. Now he doesn’t bother. It’s too much work, and he no longer has the time. At the end of his mission – if he ever reaches the end – he’ll scour the room from floor to ceiling.
To be honest, he doubts that the end will ever be within reach. He’s being very ambitious here – he knows that – but there’s no point in being half-hearted about this project. He needs to go all out for it, even if it’s the last thing he ever does. As it probably will be. The important thing is that he drives his message home. And that will certainly be achieved.
He steps further into the room. He is wearing only the T-shirt and boxers he had on in bed. His bare feet press into slimy wetness as he walks. Birds take flight as he cuts a path through them, their flapping and fluttering startling others into doing likewise, until much of the room is filled with frightened creatures randomly criss-crossing and narrowly avoiding each other.
He scans the area as he goes, checking that all is well. Birds are fragile things. Easily stressed. Occasionally they just keel over and die.
He finds a single dead sparrow. It’s under the bed. As though it needed somewhere dark and secluded to abandon its life. He picks it up. Cradles it in the palm of his hand. It’s almost weightless. Just a ball of feathers hiding a few scrawny bones. He tips his hand from side to side and watches the sparrow’s head loll lifelessly, its feet jutting into the air as if clutching an invisible twig.
It will have to be replaced, of course. The numbers are important – crucial, in fact. He can’t go out and buy one. Not any longer. People buying birds will come under suspicion soon. They will be investigated. Offering the police an obvious lead to him this early in the game would be sheer idiocy.
When he is satisfied there are no more corpses, he leaves the room, wiping his bare feet on a dry section of carpet on the way out. Later, he’ll have a shower. Right now he needs to sort this out. He won’t be able to rest properly until he has a full complement again.
Back in his bedroom, he pulls on jogging pants, a sweatshirt and an old pair of Nike trainers, then carries the sparrow with reverence down to the kitchen. He takes one last long look at the bird. Its premature death saddens him. Dying before one’s time always saddens him. Unless it happens to a member of the police force.
He puts the bird into an Asda carrier bag and knots the handles together.
He unlocks the back door, steps into the garden and drops the bag into his wheelie bin. The bag floats to the bottom as though it contains nothing more than air.
He looks around the garden. It is not large, but it is mature and not overlooked. A tall fir tree prevents his neighbours from observing what he does here. Which is a good thing.
In the border beneath the tree sits a cardboard box. Its edges all rest on the soil, which suggests it is occupied.
Was a time he would spend long hours at his kitchen door, gripping a length of string attached to a stick propping up this box. He would wait patiently, staring at the mound of seed and praying for a single bird to allow hunger to overcome its natural caution.
His bird catchers are more sophisticated now. They involve the use of an adapted mousetrap that pulls the box down when it’s tripped. He doesn’t need to sit and watch.
He leans towards the box. Puts his eye to one of the air holes. A pigeon. It often seems to be the greedy, dumb pigeons who fall for this.
He raises one edge of the box slightly. Slides a hand underneath and grabs the bird, then brings it into the open. The pigeon looks mystified, but not frightened. If only it knew.
He takes it with him, back into the house. He can relax now and have a shower and some breakfast. Order has been restored.
The killings can continue.
8
There is a lot to do, and Blunt makes sure it gets done properly. There is a house to search, neighbours to interview, investigators to receive a bollocking when they make the tiniest mistake. Cody admires her for it. Strange as she is, she knows her job. She knows how to investigate a murder, and God help anyone who thinks they know better.
Cody and Webley are assigned the task of talking to the man who found the body. He’s a pensioner. Lives alone next door. Has a glass eye, which Cody finds distracting. Has a hacking cough, too, which Cody also finds distracting, mainly because it sounds like he’s about to expel a lung. The man’s rambling account is that he heard nothing in the night. Sleeps the sleep of the just, you see. Then this morning he went outside to put an empty cereal box into his recycling bin. Shredded Wheat. Low sugar, because of his diabetes, you see. And high fibre, because of his troublesome bowels. He could tell you some hair-raising stories about those bowels of his. Anyway, over the fence he could see that his neighbour’s rear house door was open, but it didn’t seem important at first. People can open their doors when they want – why should that be suspicious? But an hour later he went out again. An empty milk carton after making some tea. More recycling. Good for the environment, though, isn’t it? Anyway, her door was still open. You start to think then, don’t you? A back door open for that long? In October? Bit odd that. So he called out. Just hello – something like that. Not her name, because he couldn’t remember her name. Received no reply. So he went out of his door – the one that leads into the tunnel between the two houses. He knocked on her door. Once, twice, several times. Again nothing. He thought he should give up. Go back into his house. None of his business, really. But still . . . So he tried the latch. Opened the door. And that was it. All that blood. The flies – even in October, the flies. Couldn’t even see her face because of something covering it. A
bag, or a cloth, or . . . something. Well, he knew then, didn’t he? Knew it was really bad. Knew this was something for the police.
They get little else out of him. He didn’t really know Latham. She hadn’t lived here long, and kept herself to herself. Doesn’t know what she did for a living. Visitors? Yes, sometimes. Women, mostly. Anybody suspicious on the streets? Yes, of course – didn’t you bother to look at the people outside when you got here? – but no more than usual.
Following that, Blunt sends them back to the station, while she stays to keep the investigative machinery operating smoothly. Even though he outranks Webley, Cody doesn’t ask her to drive. Driving gives him something on which to concentrate. Stops his mind venturing into areas he’d rather avoid. But he can’t help noticing how quiet she is. How the bubbly nature she exhibited earlier seems to have been popped.
He wonders if, despite all Webley’s fine words, she still has a problem with the discovery that she will have to work with him.
‘You all right?’
‘What? Yeah. I’m okay.’
‘No you’re not.’
‘Sorry?’
‘You’re not okay. Trust me, I can tell.’
‘So why did you ask me? If you can tell?’
‘I wanted to see if you’d tell me the truth.’
‘All right, so I’m a liar. I’m a liar and I’m not okay.’
‘Because of me?’
She looks at him. ‘What?’
‘Is it because I’m here, at MIT?’
‘No, Cody. I thought we’d already cleared the books on that score. I’m talking about Terri. I knew her, and now she’s dead. That’s what I’m talking about.’
And now he feels like a complete egotistical, insensitive fool.
‘Sorry. It must have been tough.’ Too late, Cody, he thinks. Now it just sounds hollow.
A Tapping at My Door: A gripping crime thriller (The DS Nathan Cody series) Page 5