Free A Tapping at My Door: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller (The DS Nathan Cody Series) by David Jackson Page B

could see the woman’s expression she would feel the sadness emanating from her. And when the woman did catch sight of Webley’s beaming face she would smile back at her, but it would be a false smile, hiding nothing. Even at that young age, it went through Webley’s mind to ask the woman what was wrong, but she never did.
    The bruises came later. The blues and the yellows and the greens. And then the lumps and bumps and half-closed eyes that make-up could not put right. Webley would slow as she passed the woman’s front gate, and she would stare and stare, as children do. And sometimes the woman stared back, and Webley got the impression that she wanted to speak to her, to explain it all, perhaps even to ask for help. But she never spoke, and Webley never asked, and eventually the woman abandoned even the pretence of smiling.
    It was on her way home after school one day that she heard the shouting coming from inside the house. Webley had heard shouting before, of course, but this was different. This shouting felt as though its intensity could cause physical damage. It was a male voice doing the yelling. It wasn’t the woman. Her answering call was in the form of a scream that almost caused Webley to wet herself.
    She ran the rest of the way home. Panting, she told her mother of what she’d heard. Her mother responded that it was probably a television, because some people have absolutely no respect for their neighbours. And when Webley insisted that it wasn’t the television, her mother said that it didn’t matter what it was, because it was none of their business.
    A couple of weeks later, she was walking down the street with her father. Where they were going escapes her now, because it’s no longer important. What fills Webley’s memory is the image of the woman flying out of the front door of her house, pursued by her furious husband. She was in tears; he was roaring at her to get back in the house. When she refused, he grabbed her by the hair and started dragging her back towards the door.
    The young Webley listened to the screams of terror, and knowing that a terrible fate awaited the woman inside the house, she turned to the one person she believed could alter the course of events.
    He was a strong man, her father – a plumber by trade. He looked down at his daughter’s pleading face . . .
    . . . and then he took her by the hand and led her across the road, away from all the trouble.
    She asked him what he was doing. She begged him to go back and help the poor woman. When that failed, she shouted across the street, telling the man to leave his wife alone. Her father’s response was to yank her arm so sharply it hurt, and to bark her name in that unmistakable tone that meant she was in trouble. And when she persisted, he told her the same thing her mother had said: ‘It’s none of our business.’
    Webley was miserable about it for weeks. Miserable and angry and confused. Her parents were the adults. They were supposed to know right from wrong, and to pass that on to their children. How was this right?
    Every day, Webley made a point of walking slowly past the house of the neighbour she didn’t even know. She had no idea what she would do if she saw or heard something awful happening to the woman, but she felt she needed to be there for her, because nobody else seemed to give a damn.
    When the police showed up one rainy afternoon, Webley knew in her heart that the woman was dead. Her parents refused to let her leave the house, so she stayed cooped up in her bedroom, watching the comings and goings through the rivulets of rainwater on her window. And the more she watched, the more impressed she grew with the uniformed men and women who, unlike anyone else, really did seem to care. She decided she wanted to be just like them, and she made a promise to herself that never again would she cross the road to avoid a problem.
    So, Detective Sergeant Cody, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.
    I’m not