Read Online A Tapping at My Door: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller (The DS Nathan Cody Series) by David Jackson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Jackson
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have. But this was different. I couldn’t detach myself. I couldn’t put myself on the outside looking in. Do you know what I mean?’
Cody nods. He knows precisely what she means, but for all the wrong reasons. At least Webley’s reaction can be rationalised. His own feelings have become virtually an independent force – a disobedient child doing what it wants and when it wants.
‘Blunt’s right,’ says Webley. ‘It’ll be all over the news. Police officer murdered. But they won’t understand.’
‘Understand what?’
‘That she was also a person. A human being. People see the uniform. They don’t see what’s underneath. They think of us as the ones in control, the ones who have power, the ones who can deal with any life-threatening situation. Because that’s what we’re trained to do. That’s our job. What we’re paid for. What they won’t even realise when they read their tabloid newspapers about Police Constable Latham is that she was also a young woman, living alone. Alone and sometimes really scared . . . And when I think about that, I wish . . . I just wish . . .’
She stops there. Stops because her eyes are glistening and tears are escaping down her cheeks and her lower lip is quivering with the enormity of it all.
The show of emotion hits Cody hard, and he wishes it wouldn’t. It grabs at the inside of his chest and refuses to let go. Knocks on a door at the centre of his being. He feels a wave of anxiety building within him, threatening to engulf him. Too much raw feeling in this cramped, claustrophobic space. Hard to breathe.
He pulls the car over. It’s as much for his own benefit as for hers, but he tries to act as he thinks he should. He tries to appear concerned and yet in control, when in reality he feels on the knife-edge of panic.
‘You okay?’ he asks. There is a shakiness in his words that he hopes she fails to notice.
She sniffs. ‘If I say yes, you’ll make a liar out of me again.’
‘Here.’ He reaches into his pocket and finds a crumpled pack of tissues. Hands it across.
‘Thanks.’ She takes a tissue from the pack and dabs at her cheeks, then blows her nose.
Cody watches her and thinks about how ineffectual he is being. He wants to console her, but at the same time he doesn’t want to overstep any boundaries.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘Don’t know what came over me. It’s just that . . . I remember her, you know? I remember her laughing and smiling and joking. And now she looks like . . . well, like that. It’s freaked me out.’
He nods in sympathy again. He knows about being freaked out. Oh, yes, he knows all about that.
‘You wouldn’t be human if it didn’t,’ he says.
He wonders how he would react if it were someone he knew lying there on the ground, their throat gaping open and their eye sockets empty. He has a suspicion he would not deal with it as well as Webley is. Has an inkling that he would instantly lose what’s left of the thinning cement that is barely holding him together right now.
It’s a thought that scares him more than anything the killer has done.
Or might do next.
9
‘So,’ says Blunt. ‘Theories. What’s the murderer trying to tell us?’
They’re back at Stanley Road. A Major Incident Room has been set up. From now on this will be the hub of all activity related to the investigation of Terri Latham’s death. All data relating to the case will be gathered and pulled into this room. It will be sifted, it will be analysed. Actions will be triggered. More data will be gathered. It will build. Connections will be found. Hypotheses will be formed and tested. More data, more connections. Gradually, it will all come together. Like a work of art it will take shape. Detail upon detail, layer upon layer, the components will begin to merge into a whole. Until somebody in this room – Blunt, Cody, the tea lady – adds a brushstroke that makes it what it was always meant to be.
Until that time,
Cody nods. He knows precisely what she means, but for all the wrong reasons. At least Webley’s reaction can be rationalised. His own feelings have become virtually an independent force – a disobedient child doing what it wants and when it wants.
‘Blunt’s right,’ says Webley. ‘It’ll be all over the news. Police officer murdered. But they won’t understand.’
‘Understand what?’
‘That she was also a person. A human being. People see the uniform. They don’t see what’s underneath. They think of us as the ones in control, the ones who have power, the ones who can deal with any life-threatening situation. Because that’s what we’re trained to do. That’s our job. What we’re paid for. What they won’t even realise when they read their tabloid newspapers about Police Constable Latham is that she was also a young woman, living alone. Alone and sometimes really scared . . . And when I think about that, I wish . . . I just wish . . .’
She stops there. Stops because her eyes are glistening and tears are escaping down her cheeks and her lower lip is quivering with the enormity of it all.
The show of emotion hits Cody hard, and he wishes it wouldn’t. It grabs at the inside of his chest and refuses to let go. Knocks on a door at the centre of his being. He feels a wave of anxiety building within him, threatening to engulf him. Too much raw feeling in this cramped, claustrophobic space. Hard to breathe.
He pulls the car over. It’s as much for his own benefit as for hers, but he tries to act as he thinks he should. He tries to appear concerned and yet in control, when in reality he feels on the knife-edge of panic.
‘You okay?’ he asks. There is a shakiness in his words that he hopes she fails to notice.
She sniffs. ‘If I say yes, you’ll make a liar out of me again.’
‘Here.’ He reaches into his pocket and finds a crumpled pack of tissues. Hands it across.
‘Thanks.’ She takes a tissue from the pack and dabs at her cheeks, then blows her nose.
Cody watches her and thinks about how ineffectual he is being. He wants to console her, but at the same time he doesn’t want to overstep any boundaries.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘Don’t know what came over me. It’s just that . . . I remember her, you know? I remember her laughing and smiling and joking. And now she looks like . . . well, like that. It’s freaked me out.’
He nods in sympathy again. He knows about being freaked out. Oh, yes, he knows all about that.
‘You wouldn’t be human if it didn’t,’ he says.
He wonders how he would react if it were someone he knew lying there on the ground, their throat gaping open and their eye sockets empty. He has a suspicion he would not deal with it as well as Webley is. Has an inkling that he would instantly lose what’s left of the thinning cement that is barely holding him together right now.
It’s a thought that scares him more than anything the killer has done.
Or might do next.
9
‘So,’ says Blunt. ‘Theories. What’s the murderer trying to tell us?’
They’re back at Stanley Road. A Major Incident Room has been set up. From now on this will be the hub of all activity related to the investigation of Terri Latham’s death. All data relating to the case will be gathered and pulled into this room. It will be sifted, it will be analysed. Actions will be triggered. More data will be gathered. It will build. Connections will be found. Hypotheses will be formed and tested. More data, more connections. Gradually, it will all come together. Like a work of art it will take shape. Detail upon detail, layer upon layer, the components will begin to merge into a whole. Until somebody in this room – Blunt, Cody, the tea lady – adds a brushstroke that makes it what it was always meant to be.
Until that time,
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