A Tapping at My Door: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller (The DS Nathan Cody Series) Read Online Free Page A

and it’s a while before he can drag himself back into the present.
    ‘She knew why, though. I told her before she died. I explained to her exactly why I was doing it.’
    With his free hand he points at one of his onlookers, then another, then another. ‘You all know why I’m doing this, don’t you? It’s for you. Every one of you. They’ve got to learn. They’ve got to be taught a lesson.’
    Exhaustion hits him then, and he stumbles across to one of the high-backed chairs.
    ‘I could do with a rest, George, after the night I’ve had.’
    George seems to take the hint, and relinquishes his position.
    He slumps heavily into the vacated chair. Takes another long slurp. Scans the faces watching him.
    ‘You’ll all get your turn. Every last one of you. Don’t worry about that. Tonight was just the start.’
    He puts a hand out. ‘Well? Is this the best welcome you can give me?’
    As if in response, one member of his audience crosses the room and sits on his lap. He strokes her head softly.
    ‘Thanks, Freda,’ he says. ‘I can always count on you.’
    Freda looks up at him. Stares at his face without appreciation, without empathy. Without even a glimmer of comprehension.
    Freda is a pigeon.
    From every vantage point in the room, almost one hundred pairs of eyes peer similarly at the only human in their midst.

3
    And now he’s not so sure this was a good idea.
    He didn’t give it a lot of thought at the time the request was made. It seemed like it would be a piece of cake. Not a patch on the stuff he used to get up to.
    But now Nathan Cody feels the unease building inside him, the pressure in his chest increasing. It seems uncomfortably warm to him, even though it’s the middle of October and everyone is wearing dark, drab coats to blend in with the dark, drab days.
    Play, he tells himself. Play like a bastard to take your mind off it.
    So he does. Starts banging away on his guitar like he’s been doing for the past hour. Singing his heart out like it’s his only route to a square meal today.
    He’s standing at the bottom end of Bold Street. He’s wearing a ragged, stained coat and greasy denim jeans, and there’s a week’s worth of itchy stubble on his chin. He hasn’t played in public for a long time, but if he says so himself, he’s sounding damn good. People have actually been tossing coins into the battered case yawning open on the pavement in front of him.
    ‘ Paperback Writer’ is what he’s singing now. Which couldn’t be any more apt given that he’s mere feet away from where Waterstones used to stand. Not that many of his passers-by are making the connection. Bit subtle for most of them at this time of the morning. They’ll know it’s a Beatles song, all right. Cody is trying to maintain a local flavour in his repertoire. Not doing ‘Ferry Cross the Mersey’, though. He hates that song. He can never resist the temptation to slip into an absurdly exaggerated Scouse accent when he attempts it – so much so that he ends up sounding like Harry Enfield doing his ‘Calm down, calm down’ sketch.
    It’s nine o’clock on a Tuesday. Most of the people passing are on their way to work, but some are hitting the shops early. He wonders if any of them miss Waterstones as much as he does, or whether to them it was less about the books and more about being just another place to grab an espresso and a pastry to kick-start their day.
    The thought saddens him and provokes him to give extra emphasis to the last lines of the song, but they get carried away on the breeze and nobody notices.
    He takes a moment to look around. Opposite is the grand old Lyceum building, originally one of the first lending libraries in Europe, and more recently a post office. Now a homeless man sits hunched up on its otherwise deserted steps, his head resting against a stone pillar.
    Farther along the street, a dark-complexioned woman stands at the entranceway to Central Station and tries to sell copies of the Big