A Tapping at My Door: A gripping crime thriller (The DS Nathan Cody series) Read online

  A TAPPING AT MY DOOR

  David Jackson

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  In loving memory of my mother

  Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

  Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

  While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

  As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

  —‘The Raven’, Edgar Allan Poe

  1

  Listen.

  There it is again. The sound. The tapping, scratching, scrabbling noise at the back door.

  Terri Latham gives it her attention and then, when the sound stops, chides herself for wasting the brainpower. It’s nothing. Just the plants, probably.

  She laughs at that. Laughs at the way it conjures up the image of an eight-foot Venus Flytrap or some such, banging its leafy fist on her door and demanding to be fed. Like that film – what’s it called? – Little Shop of Horrors, that’s it. Because it’s funny. Sitting here alone, getting all jittery over nothing but a plant – well, that’s hilarious.

  Actually, she has a whole crowd of plants in pots just outside the door, but she’s not thinking of them. Most of them aren’t capable of knocking for attention.

  No, what she’s thinking of is the climber that clings to and has seemingly devoured the arched trellis that surrounds her back door. The thing seems to push ahead daily at a rate of knots. She still remembers being reduced to tears of laughter with some girlfriends when they joked that she obviously spends too much time stimulating her clematis.

  The problem is, the trellis is old and rotten. Just the other day a section of it collapsed, leaving a mass of tangled fretwork and plant rubbing and knocking against the glass panel of the door. She did her best to tie it back up with string, but wasn’t convinced she did a great job of it. Now she’s sure of it. The thing has fallen apart again.

  Well, it can wait, she thinks. It’s late and it’s dark and I’m not standing outside on a chair in the middle of the night just to put a stupid clematis back into position. Besides, Sleepless in Seattle is one of my favourite films of all time, and I don’t want to miss any of it.

  So she stays put. Settles into her comfy Ikea sofa in front of her Samsung flatscreen and Tom Hanks. Sips the special-offer Chardonnay that she bought from the off-licence on Derby Lane, and tells herself to relax so that she can look forward to the next soppy scene.

  Tap . . . Scratch . . . Tap.

  Oh, for Christ’s sake, she thinks. She raises her head over the back of her sofa. Beams a thought wave towards the rear of the house that says, One more creepy noise from you and I’m cutting you off at the root. That’ll be painful. Think about it!

  A part of her knows that her anger is forced. It’s a mask, a cover for the unease swiftly gaining traction within her. She also knows that this mask won’t stay in place forever. It will crack and it will crumble and it will fall away, and all that will remain will be the fear. But if that’s not to happen, she needs to make a pre-emptive strike.

  ‘All right, then!’ she calls out loud, as though yelling at a naughty but persistent puppy. As though giving into its demands under protest, when what she is really surrendering to is her own craven desire for reassurance.

  I’ll go into the kitchen, she thinks. I’ll go there and I’ll see exactly what I expect to see, which is a whole load of leafy crap dangling and scraping at my door, and then I can get back to my film and my wine and a good night’s sleep, even though I shouldn’t feel the need to check, because I know exactly what this is and I’m being a complete wuss about it.

  She beheads the next thought before it can do any damage. The thought that begins, But what if it’s not . . . ?

  She tops up her courage reservoir with a swift mouthful of wine, then abandons the comforting support of her sofa and heads into the kitchen.

  She hates this kitchen. Top of her list when she was looking to buy a house was one with a beautiful bathroom and a stunning kitchen, and she ended up with neither because she couldn’t afford it. This kitchen has a minimal set of units that must have been cheap even when they were installed. Half of them are falling apart. The washer on one of the taps has failed, there are ugly lengths of gas and water pipes showing everywhere, and several of the wall tiles are cracked.

  When she enters, she doesn’t put the light on because all it would do is reflect back off the windows and present her with multiple views of the depressing interior. Instead, she forces herself to stand in the gloom and wait with anxiety-tinged impatience for her tired eyes to adjust.

  With the gradual emergence of broad angular shapes of furniture comes a slight easing of her tension. She releases a long outbreath and steps further into the room.

  Through the grime-caked picture window over the sink she sees a yellowish quarter-moon emerge from behind a solid-looking cloud. As its weak light filters into the room, her eyes seize the opportunity to suck up information.

  She moves closer to the back door, her pupils hungrily dilated. Like the kitchen cupboards, the door is cheap and thin, and inspires little confidence in its ability to fulfil its transit prevention role. The upper half contains a panel of frosted glass that could easily be broken and perhaps even used as an entry point by someone small and limber enough.

  She should have replaced this door ages ago. But then she should have done many things to make this house more secure. She knows this. Has known it ever since she moved in.

  She lives in a small residential area of Liverpool called Stoneycroft, close to the busy dual carriageway that is Queens Drive – one of the city’s main arteries. When she explains to people where she lives, they say, ‘Oh, you mean Old Swan,’ and she says, ‘No, it’s called Stoneycroft,’ because she thinks it sounds posher.

  It’s not posh, though.

  The way she sees things, she has her foot on the first rung of
the property ladder. It’s not the nicest house in the world, the area has its problems, but at least it’s hers. In a few years she’ll sell it and move up to something better – maybe in Allerton or Woolton or even over on the Wirral. For now, this will do.

  The estate agent described the house as a quasi semi-detached, which was a bullshit way of describing a house that is joined to one of its neighbours on the upper floor but not the lower. Between the two front doors, a brick tunnel runs straight through to the rear of the properties. Some of the houses in this road have lockable iron gates on their passageways. Terri’s doesn’t, which means that anyone can go for a stroll down it. What’s more, her wooden door at the other end of the tunnel doesn’t have a lock either. And even if it did, there’s another way into her rear garden because it backs onto a small park that anyone can enter and then scale her panel fencing unseen.

  All in all, this house is not exactly Fort Knox.

  These thoughts have reared up in Terri’s head many times. On each occasion she has made a mental note to do something about the situation, and on each occasion she has immediately lost the note in the untidy recesses of her memory.

  The reason these thoughts are rushing and cramming into her mind like peak hour traffic right now, though, is because of what she sees. Or rather, because of what she doesn’t see.

  There is no wayward clematis on the other side of the glass panel of her door.

  Although the glass is translucent, and although it is undeniably in dire need of cleaning, the diffused light of the moon makes the absence of leafy matter apparent.

  And what that means is that something else has been causing the noise. The noise that goes . . .

  Tap . . . Tap . . . Scratch . . .

  As the sound starts up again, Terri takes a step back into the shadows. As if their dark embrace is more comforting than whatever denizen of the night might be outside.

  It is busily working away on the bottom section of the door. Ground level. Something small, and yet fiercely determined to bore its way into her house. Why? What can it want?

  Her first thought is that it’s Shit Sue. The yappy little mongrel from across the road. Which, as it happens, is not a Shih Tzu at all. Terri calls it that because, instead of taking it for a walk, its irresponsible owner simply shoos it out of his front door, at which point the mischievous little bitch runs across the street, threads its way through the bars of Terri’s front gate, traverses her moss- and weed-infested driveway, scampers up the side passage and then takes a dump that seems almost equivalent in mass to that of the dog itself.

  That’s Terri’s first thought.

  Three problems with that. One: inconsiderate prick though he is, Shit Sue’s owner never usually lets his excrement generator loose this late at night. Two: even though the wooden door at the rear end of the passage has no lock, it does at least close. And when it’s closed, which she is sure it was the last time she looked, even the irrepressible turd machine cannot slide its way under to reach her patio. And three: this doesn’t sound like Shit Sue. It doesn’t sound like a dog of any kind. The scratching is from feet much smaller than those of a canine. And there’s the additional tapping sound, intermixed with the scrabbling. A dog just wouldn’t create those noises.

  So, what then?

  A cat? Possibly, she thinks. Cats scratch at things, don’t they? And – yes! – I had tuna for my tea, didn’t I? Cats love tuna. It can smell the fish, and it wants some. It—

  No. Don’t be stupid. Listen to it. Hear that tapping again? Well, cats don’t tap, do they? They just don’t.

  Fuck.

  Pull yourself together, she tells herself. This is what you get for living on your own. It’s what you wanted. You didn’t want to stay in a flat with your mates, and you certainly had no intention of moving in with a bloke again any time soon. You wanted your own space. Well, you’ve got it. You’re a grown-up, so start acting like one.

  She takes a deep breath. Covers the distance to the door in one stride. Reaches for the door handle.

  You can do this, she thinks. It’s not a rapist on the other side of the door. Rapists don’t scratch and tap at your door in such a pathetic way. They leap out from bushes and poorly lit doorways. They run up behind you and—

  Okay, enough of that. Open the bloody door. It’s a squirrel banging its nuts. Or a hedgehog trying to mate with the boot-scraper. Or something else that your pathetic imagination just hasn’t conceived of. When you open the door, it’ll be more scared of you than you are of it, and it’ll almost burst with the shock of seeing you standing there, and its tiny beady eyes will water as it craps itself and scurries away as fast as its stumpy little legs will take it.

  She starts to turn the handle.

  Tap . . . Scratch . . .

  Turns it as far as it will go.

  Scrape . . . Tap . . .

  And . . . pull!

  She yanks on the handle. The door rattles in the frame but doesn’t swing open.

  Bollocks, she thinks. It’s locked. Of course it’s locked. I always lock it when I’m alone at night. Why should tonight be any—

  Listen!

  The noise. It’s stopped.

  She pictures the timid little animal, scared witless by the clatter of the door, its marble-sized heart fluttering frantically in its chest.

  She considers going for the key, unlocking the door, checking that it’s all clear out there. Decides against it.

  It’s gone. Back to its lair. And if it hasn’t gone, then she doesn’t want to know about it. If it’s still at her door, rolling up its furry sleeves in preparation for a renewed and more vigorous assault, then it’s not the kind of foe she wants to face, thank you very much.

  She shakes her head. Expels a mirthless laugh. Goes back to the living room, where Tom Hanks awaits.

  She sits, crosses her legs, stares at the television without taking in what it’s showing her. It’s all just pictures and noise. She’s not comfortable, either physically or mentally.

  She reaches for her wine glass and drains it, then empties the bottle into it and takes another swig. Okay, that’s better. Now she can unwind.

  She swings her legs onto the sofa. Commands herself to relax and enjoy the film. The kid, the one with the backpack, is in the Empire State Building. This is a good bit. It’s getting near the end now. Time to get the Kleenex ready. This is going to be—

  Shit!

  The scrabbling is loud now. More frantic.

  Terri spills wine down the front of her dressing gown. She turns again to look into the adjoining room. The thing – whatever it is – sounds closer. As if it’s in there, inside the house, inside her kitchen.

  But no, it can’t be. That’s impossible. She tried the door herself just a moment ago, didn’t she? It’s locked. The windows are locked, too.

  She stands. Grabs the remote and mutes the sound of the television. Stares through the doorway as she listens to that awful racket. The tapping and the scraping and the scratching. But it’s different now. Why is it different?

  She retraces her steps into the kitchen, accepting that she’s moving more slowly now, more cautiously. Like wading through treacle.

  She gets through the door. Holds her breath. Eyes darting as she waits.

  There it is!

  Not at the door now, but at the window.

  Not the picture window over the sink – the one through which that moon still beams its skewed, pitying smile at her – but the other window, the one next to the door. The one with the curtains closed over it.

  The window is a good three feet off the ground. How did the thing get up that high? No dog or squirrel or hedgehog or whatever could get up there – not unless it’s on a pogo stick. A cat, maybe. A cat could leap onto the sill. But hasn’t she already discounted the cat theory? Hasn’t she already established that cats, while excelling in the scratching department, are somewhat less adept when it comes to tapping skills?

  She sudden
ly finds herself breathing again. But it’s fast, ragged breathing. Panicky breathing. It shouldn’t be like that. Stop it, she thinks. There’s nothing to be afraid of. All the precarious situations you’ve been in, and you’re frightened of a little woodland creature?

  Woodland? Where are we now – in a fairy tale? This is Stoneycroft. Which, despite its rustic and idyllic name, is right next to Old Swan. There are no Seven Dwarfs here.

  She tells herself that if there is in fact a dwarf or a diminutive person of any kind on the other side of that window, she will shit herself.

  Suddenly her mind is racing off in the direction of evil dwarfs. And now all she can think about is Don’t Look Now. Which is another of her favourite films but for totally different reasons. Scare-the-pants-off-you reasons.

  It’s not a dwarf, she thinks. It’s not a gnome. It’s not a fucking gremlin that tears the wings off planes at 10,000 feet. If you want to know what it is, open the fucking curtain and see.

  So she does.

  She steps closer to the window, her feet dragging even more than they did before. The noise comes in bursts – sudden energetic flurries punctuated by moments of silent exhaustion. She reaches out a hand. Draws it back when the beating on the window seems almost enough to break the glass. Reaches out again. Takes hold of the thick blue material she spent far too much on in John Lewis. Takes a breath. One . . . two . . .

  Three!

  She yanks the curtain open just as the noise abates once more. Through the glass she can see nothing. No animals, no dwarfs, nothing.

  She leans her face into the window. Moves it so close that her breath starts to fog it up. It becomes difficult to see through the mist. She pulls her hand into the sleeve of her dressing gown and begins to raise it to clear a porthole.

  And that’s when the thing makes its appearance.

  It shoots up from below, as if thrown at her face. She gets a glimpse of claws and sharpness and malicious intent and shiny blackness as she screams and leaps backwards, banging hard into a chair behind her but unable to take her eyes off this demonic creature that now opens its mouth and starts to issue eerily deep-throated and human-like calls.

  She stares in incredulity, but also with a sense of relief. Why didn’t she think of this before?