He storms out of the room then. Takes his anger and his tears and his frustration away with him, leaving only the lasting echo of his outburst.
Cody and Webley stand up. Perhaps Vernon’s wife . . .
She turns wet eyes on them. ‘Why do you always have to bring it back to us?’
Then again, perhaps not.
Webley tries this time. Woman to woman. Maybe that’s best.
‘Mrs Vernon. A young woman was killed last night. Yes, she sometimes wears a police uniform. But last night she was at home. She was wearing a dressing gown, just like you and I might wear. She was watching television and drinking wine, just like anyone else might do. She was being a normal human being. And then somebody came along and took her life. It was brutal. It was violent. I saw her lying there this morning in a pool of her own blood. Her dressing gown was soaked in the stuff. She looked small and weak and vulnerable, just like any other victim.’
Webley has to take a deep breath before she can continue.
‘There was a lot of hatred directed at PC Latham when your Kevin died, and it came from many different directions. We’re not suggesting for a minute that you would have wished her to come to harm like this, but perhaps you or your husband heard something. A rumour, maybe. A casual remark. Somebody saying they’d sort her out for you. Somebody saying she would get what’s coming to her. That kind of thing. You probably wouldn’t have taken it seriously at the time, but maybe now, when you think about it, maybe it was meant seriously. Is that possible, Mrs Vernon? Could anyone have said something like that to you?’
Bravo, thinks Cody. She should be in the diplomatic corps. Message delivered with minimal force. No collateral damage to report.
Although Mrs Vernon’s expression suggests she is not thinking along similar lines.
‘I thought you two might be different,’ she says. ‘You’re both young.’ She jerks a thumb towards Cody, but keeps her eyes on Webley. ‘Him, he looks like he’s still at school. I haven’t seen either of you before, and because of that I thought you might not have been poisoned by some of the other coppers we’ve dealt with. I thought you might have come here with open minds. I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. When you bent down and stroked Rascal in the hall, I thought, At last, a normal bobby. Someone I can connect with, have a proper conversation with. I should have known better really, shouldn’t I?’
‘Mrs Vernon—’
She halts Webley with a stern index finger. ‘No. Let me finish. Frank’s not a well man. He hasn’t been well since he lost his son. He’s a big fella, but inside he’s falling apart. When he said try putting yourselves in our shoes, he meant it. Whatever you believe happened on the night Kevin died, think about how we see it. Put to one side whether we’re right or wrong for a minute, and just see it through our eyes. And then see yourselves barging into our house, demanding that we tell you what we know about the death of this policewoman.’
‘We didn’t exactly—’
‘Did you bother to ask us how we are? How we’re dealing with things? Did you offer us any sympathy? No, because you’re too bloody selfish for that. Come in, get your information, leave. That was your plan, wasn’t it? Our feelings don’t matter. And then to suggest that we might know who did this murder. Just what kind of people do you think we mix with? I realise this isn’t the poshest bit of Liverpool, but we’re not all murdering scumbags here you know. And do you know what? Do you know what?’
She is girding herself up for something. The tears are welling in her eyes and her voice is faltering and her lip is trembling and she is about to let fly. Cody readies himself.
‘If I did know who killed that bitch, I wouldn’t tell you. God help me for saying this, but I’m glad she’s dead. There. You want someone who’d be willing to say she got what was coming to her, then here I am. That woman cheated us out of the justice we deserve. She protected a killer. And now she’s got the justice she deserved.’
She flies out of the room. Robert – or is it Kevin’s ghost? – finally steps out from behind the chair.
‘I’ll show you out,’ he says.
‘That’s not how we meant this to go,’ says Cody. ‘If you could talk to your parents—’
Robert puts a finger to his lips. ‘Shush now. Don’t make it worse. Don’t start thinking I’m on your side. Let’s just go, shall we?’
He ushers them into the hallway. Herds them to the front door. Standing on the front step, Cody turns one last time.
‘We didn’t come here to upset anyone. I think you know that. We’re just trying to find a murderer.’
Robert nods, but it’s a nod that says, Yeah, right.
‘I tell you what,’ he says. ‘Arrest and prosecute the man who murdered my brother, then maybe I’ll start to believe you.’
He closes the door. Cody and Webley head back to the car.
‘That went well,’ says Cody. ‘I love it when we manage to connect with members of the public.’
Webley frowns. ‘We made a right pig’s breakfast of that one, didn’t we?’
‘Dog’s breakfast. Or pig’s ear.’
‘Same difference. Either way, we cocked it up.’
‘Yup. So it looks like I get to keep my twenty quid.’
‘What twenty quid?’
‘You said they’d be serving you tea and cake after five minutes.’
‘Shut up and get in the car,’ she says. Then adds: ‘Sarge.’
13
They’re striding out of the police station again. Webley and Cody. Normally, this is what Cody likes. Keeping busy. Lots of legwork. Much better than pecking away at a keyboard and staring at a screen. Only this trip is to the mortuary. Not so much fun.
It didn’t use to bother him. Like most murder detectives, he became inured to the sight of death, mutilation, dismemberment. Different now, though. Inside, the butterflies are already starting to beat their wings.
He doesn’t see the men coming. They seem to swoop down from the sky. Like they have just abseiled into his path.
‘Cody!’ one of them says. ‘Good to see you again, my old mate. How’s tricks?’
Cody shakes his head. ‘Not now, Dobby. We’re busy.’
He takes satisfaction in seeing the man recoil slightly at the use of the nickname. It’s a natural enough handle in this city for anyone with the surname Dobson, but Cody is also aware that the man has become very sensitive about it ever since that Harry Potter film came out. The one with Dobby the house elf. Not that he bears any resemblance to the creature. Yes, he has Dumbo-like ears; and yes, his nose projects further from his face than is usual in anyone not named Pinocchio; and yes, his bulging eyes make him appear eternally surprised. But other than that . . .
‘Yeah, I heard you were busy. Very busy, in fact. You’re on the Latham case, aren’t you?’
Behind Dobson, another man pokes a camera lens at them. His hair is blond, but his short beard carries a hint of ginger. He wears a sand-coloured gilet and carries a backpack, and keeps clicking away like he’s on safari.
‘Who’s he?’ asks Cody.
‘This is Chris. He’s one of the best around. He’ll even make you look good, Cody.’
Says Chris, ‘I also do weddings and parties, if you’re interested.’
‘I’m not.’
Dobson turns greedy eyes on Webley. ‘What about you, Miss . . . ?’
‘It’s Detective Constable to you,’ she answers. ‘DC Webley.’
Dobson scribbles it into his notebook with a stump of a pencil. ‘So are you also looking into the death of PC Latham?’
‘No comment,’ she says.
‘Come on,’ says Cody, and they carry on walking. The reporter and the photographer chase after them.
‘Is there any truth in the rumour that Latham’s murder is connected to the death of Kevin Vernon?’
Cody doesn’t slow down. ‘There’s no such rumour, and you know it. You’re just trying to stir things. It’s the only bit of inf
ormation you’ve got on Latham, so you’re putting two and two together and making five. But I’m sure that a newspaper such as yours wouldn’t stoop to printing make-believe just to sell copies.’
‘But it is connected with the fact she was a police officer?’
‘You don’t really expect an answer, do you? Come on, Dobby, you know better than that.’
They keep walking. Dobson keeps firing questions at them. The detectives keep dodging them. And all the while, that bloody cameraman keeps shooting images of them.
Stay calm, thinks Cody. Don’t let him ruffle your feathers, and especially not while that lens is in your face.
‘We hear you’ve spoken to Vernon’s family,’ says Dobson. ‘What sort of reaction did they give you?’
‘A better one than the one I’m about to give you if you don’t get out of my way.’
Cody hopes that does the trick. Hopes that Dobson will accept he’s getting nothing here and that he needs to try his luck elsewhere.
But Dobson can be a tricky bastard. Oh, yes, his sneakiness knows no bounds. His hack instincts have been honed to the point where he knows exactly how to separate out the weakest member of the herd.
‘I don’t think we’ve met before, Miss Webley. Are you new to the team?’
‘I joined this morning,’ she says. Cody would rather she gave them nothing.
‘Oh, really? Then you’ve never worked with DS Cody before?’
‘No. Why do you ask?’
Chris the photographer is right in front of her now, recording every reaction. His camera captures the puzzlement on her face.
‘This way, darling,’ says Chris. ‘That’s it. Nice.’ He clicks away. For some reason, each shot sounds to Cody like a hammer blow to his skull.
Says Dobson, ‘I just wondered what it was like to work alongside someone with his background. Someone who’s been through the things he has.’
Cody says, ‘That’s enough, Dobby.’
Webley tries to mask it, but the confusion is clear on her face. And the camera gets it all. Bang, bang, bang.
Cody squeezes his eyes shut to cut out the noise in his head. When he opens them again it’s evident to him that the bombardment Webley is getting from both men is designed to throw her off her guard.
‘Whatever you’re referring to,’ she says to Dobson, ‘I’m sure it won’t be a problem.’
Dobby glances at Cody, a suggestion of triumph in his smile.
Bang, bang, bang . . .
‘You mean you haven’t heard? He hasn’t told you? You should ask him. It’s quite a story.’
Bang, bang. The noises are getting louder. They are hurting now. I need to stop this, thinks Cody.
‘All right, Dobby,’ he says. ‘That’ll do. Now go off with your cameraman friend and take some photos of yourselves in compromising positions.’
‘A few more,’ says the photographer. ‘Come on, darling. Give us a smile.’
Bang.
Cody feels his skull split open. And then it’s as though he receives an electric shock that galvanises him into actions outside his control. He’s hardly even aware of what he’s doing as he leaps at the photographer, as he snatches the camera from him, as he wraps his free hand around the man’s throat, as he forces him back onto the bonnet of the unmarked police car.
He feels his hand squeezing, squeezing. The man is struggling, going purple in the face, clawing at Cody’s unyielding arm.
There is a roaring sound in Cody’s head. There are words in there, swimming below the surface, but he can’t make them out. He just knows he needs to put an end to things. He needs to squeeze out all the pain. Get rid of it, once and for all. It’s that simple.
‘CODY!’
Not that simple.
It never is, is it? Life doesn’t offer simple solutions. It’s always complicated. Always a mess. He decides it will never get easier. He can tell himself it will, but it won’t. Every time he imagines things have improved, he gets shown the truth. And it’s always a slap in the face. Always another nail in the coffin.
He should have learnt that by now.
He slackens his grip. His eyes see again. See the world as it really is. Reality invades in all its unwelcome colours. The roaring subsides too. He hears Webley shouting at him, the photographer coughing and spluttering.
He blinks. Something weighty in his hand. The camera. Webley tears it away from him and shoves it into the arms of the photographer.
Cody looks over at Dobson. He’s smiling. Immense satisfaction on his face. He sees a story here. Maybe not yet, but one day. He will keep coming back. Keep pushing buttons. Keep smiling until he gets what he wants.
‘Sarge!’ Webley’s urgent voice again. ‘We need to go.’
She manhandles him to the passenger side of the car. She’s not allowing him to drive. Sensible move. He would take them into the nearest lamp post.
She opens the door and feeds him into the vehicle, automatically putting her hand on top of his head, like she would do to a prisoner. Cody sits there, staring straight ahead, feeling numb. He hears her telling Dobson to ‘stay away from him’. Nice of her. Protective, just like Blunt.
The slam of a door. The gunning of an engine. A vague sense of motion.
She drives. She mutters. Swears once or twice. Looks his way several times.
He doesn’t look back at her. To look back would invite questions. She’ll have a million of those.
He thinks it’s a pity he can’t give her the answers.
14
By the time they find a parking space at the Royal Hospital, he’s recovered. Not completely, but enough to present at least a semblance of normality.
Shit!
No, it deserves more than that. At least a dozen ‘fucks’.
He went completely over the edge. No excuses, no attempts to dilute what he did. Unacceptable. And all in front of Webley, too – the person to whom he’s supposed to be setting an example. Christ, what must she be thinking?
Later, he’ll get depressed about this. He knows that. He’ll spend hours wondering whether he should still be in this job at all. He would plummet into the blues now if he didn’t have something even more worrying jostling for position at the forefront of his mind. And if DC Webley wasn’t sitting right next to him.
Okay, now. Deep breath. Act professional. As you were, Sergeant.
‘Are you okay?’ says Webley.
‘Sound as a pound,’ he answers. He realises his voice is unnaturally loud. Overcompensating.
‘So . . . Do you mind if I ask what all that was about?’
What to say? He can’t just dismiss it as nothing of consequence, because, let’s face it, that was a bit of a blow-up. It was a totally disproportionate response. On the other hand, he’s not about to tell her he’s lost his marbles either.
‘They pissed me off. The pair of them. Dobson is always pestering me. Always trying to get a story out of me. Press conferences are never good enough for him. He’s always got to sneak about, turning rocks over in the hope he’ll find something juicy for his scummy rag of a newspaper.’
‘It’s his job. You know that. I’m not defending him, but that’s what they do, isn’t it? I just don’t understand why it got to you so badly.’
‘It just did. They caught me on a bad day.’
She smiles. ‘PMS?’
‘Something like that. And I didn’t like the way that photographer was being with you either.’
Webley flutters a hand in front of her face. ‘Why, Sergeant Cody, I didn’t know you cared.’
Cody shakes his head at her. ‘I don’t. I was just defending one of my men.’
She deflates visibly. ‘Gee, thanks. In case you hadn’t noticed—’
‘I’m using “men” in a gender-neutral sense, obviously.’
‘Obviously.’
Cody reaches for the handle of the door, but Webley’s not done.
‘What was that stuff Dobby was saying about your story? The things
you’ve been through?’
Cody pauses for a moment. But only a moment. ‘We should get inside. We’re already late. The doc’ll be having kittens.’
And with that he’s out of the car and walking to the building. Glad to be in the open again, sucking in that fresh air and then breathing out his tension. But knowing that his day hasn’t finished yet. This day, like most of them, has more up its sleeve.
He leads Webley to the mortuary. They find Stroud in a small anteroom, a sandwich clutched in his sausage-like fingers.
‘You’re late,’ he tells them. ‘By nearly ten minutes. When I’m kept waiting, I get hungry. Luckily, I had the means to knock together some sustenance.’ He passes a hand over his sandwich, as if about to make it disappear. Which, in a sense, he is.
Webley grimaces. ‘What is it?’
‘This, not unlike yourself, young lady, is heaven in portable form. A deliciously thick helping of deep-fried root vegetables lovingly embraced between twin layers of baking perfection.’
‘You mean a crisp butty?’
‘If you wish to be so colloquial about it. May I offer you one?’
‘Er, no thanks.’
Cody stares as Stroud takes a huge bite out of his sandwich. The resounding crunch makes him feel sick. In fact, everything about this place is making him nauseated. He can feel the heat beginning to emanate from his body and envelop him beneath his clothing, the perspiration starting to bead on his forehead.
Stay calm, Cody tells himself. Deep breaths. You can do this.
A Tapping at My Door: A gripping crime thriller (The DS Nathan Cody series) Page 8