Chameleon

by Michael K Foster

  ‘When did you discover this?’

  ‘It’s just what I’ve picked up,’ Mason said, a touch of envy creeping in. ‘I naturally assumed you knew about it.’

  Gamble’s face contorted into something unrecognisable.

  ‘What about formal identification?’

  ‘Yes, her husband has already carried that out.’

  Gamble swallowed hard and stared at her notes. Still trying to get her feet under the table, there seemed very little logic in her approach. Mason shuffled a few papers around an untidy desk and continued to study her reactions.

  ‘Why wasn’t I informed about this?’ Gamble said, lifting her head.

  ‘You were holding your team briefing at the time the report came through.’

  ‘A breakdown in communications perhaps?’

  ‘Could be. I naturally assumed you’d already read the coroner’s report, and that’s why I contacted Dr Gillian King, the senior anatomical pathology technician at Gateshead Coroner’s Office.’

  ‘What about a written statement from her husband?’

  ‘Laurence, as far as I’m aware, he’s too busy consoling his two teenage daughters – very distressing.’

  ‘If he hasn’t made a formal statement yet, he still needs to be eliminated from our enquiries.’ She opened the case folder in front of her and thought for a moment. ‘What about this young boy’s account of the man he saw in Chopwell Wood?’

  ‘Young Martin Kennedy?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied.

  ‘From what we can gather, the boy’s description of the suspect is that he looks like his Uncle Arthur.’

  ‘Sounds like a typical ten-year-old child’s account.’ Gamble shook her head. ‘Has anyone tried contacting this. . . Uncle Arthur?’

  ‘Hardly, he’s been dead three years.’

  Gamble was quick to recover. ‘Do we have any other information on him?’

  ‘It’s all on file,’ Mason replied, tapping the case folder with his pen.

  ‘What about this barrister’s husband?’

  Mason brushed the crumbs from his mouth. ‘What about him?’

  ‘What are your thoughts?’

  ‘Judging from family photographs, Laurence Cooper looks nothing like the boy’s Uncle Arthur. This isn’t as straightforward as it appears, but I’m sure there’s plenty for you to go at.’

  Mason dropped the empty sandwich carton into the waste bin and made a point of tidying his desk. Taking a backseat role wasn’t so bad after all – even if she was trying to pick his brains. No, he thought. The average chess player is usually three or four moves ahead of the game and he was happy to stick to his plan.

  ‘Leave this with me,’ Gamble insisted, standing to leave.

  ‘Will that be all?’

  ‘Yes, for now,’ she replied.

  He was about to say something but chose to let it drop.

  ‘There is one other thing, actually,’ Gamble said, turning before reaching the door. ‘I’d like you to attend my daily briefings. If we are going to work together on the case, you need to be kept in the loop on all the latest developments.’

  ‘Do you think that’s wise?’ Mason said, cocking his head to one side.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘After all I am the senior officer.’

  Gamble’s stare hardened. ‘What difference does that make?’

  ‘Well.’ He smiled, a hint of smugness creeping into his voice. ‘I’d hate to think I was influencing your decision making!’

  ‘I doubt you’ll do that!’

  ‘No. Perhaps not.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The moment David Carlisle pulled his Rover P4 100 into the layby, he spotted the media satellite vans. Dozens of them, one behind the other like ducks in a row. He was met by Jack Mason, and they bobbed under the police cordon tape and followed the long meandering trail leading to the River Derwent. The woods were a mixture of conifers and broadleaf woodland, almost a thousand acres covering an area on the northern slopes of the Derwent Valley. To the east were the villages of High Spen and Rowlands Gill, to the west Blackhall Mill and Chopwell. It was a beautiful location, but one that Carlisle had paid little attention to over the years. Dotted with ancient and new woodlands, a sculpture trail blazed a novel adventure path through the heart of the woods. Teaming with wildlife, it was easy to see why young Martin Kennedy had chosen this particular area to build a bird hide. In places, the undergrowth was quite tall, and an adventurous ten-year-old schoolboy might easily conceal himself from view.

  At the bottom of a steep incline they picked up a well-trodden riverside track which ran for a quarter of a mile before pulling up in front of a steep knoll. Mason was obviously in pain, and his hand kept gripping his side.

  ‘I’m concerned about the safety of your friend’s son,’ Mason announced. ‘We’ve received reports of a stranger hanging around the school gates.’

  ‘What are you doing about it?’

  ‘Not a lot actually.’ The Chief Inspector looked at him, crestfallen. ‘I’m still stuck on light duties, and the Area Commander has drafted someone in from another division to deal with the case.’

  ‘You’re still confined to your desk in other words?’

  ‘In a nutshell, yes.’

  ‘Is that problematic?’ Carlisle replied.

  ‘I’m not in a bloody wheelchair for God’s sake!’

  Carlisle smelt a rat. Something had got under the Chief Inspector’s skin, and whatever it was, it irritated him. He would need to tread carefully – find out what was really going on back at the station. He still had a few reliable contacts he could talk to, officers he could trust. He made a mental note of it and tried to delve deeper.

  ‘You’re not usually one to shy away from a problem, Jack. It’s not your style.’

  ‘It’s out of my hands, I’m afraid.’

  Carlisle stared out across the river, the sunlight dancing over water ripples. In days gone by, he might have challenged him over it, but not anymore. In a way, he felt sorry for his old work colleague. There were far less proficient officers around who could scale the promotion ladder, and the team had suffered badly as a result. Sometimes it was all about who you knew, favouritism gone mad.

  ‘Anyone I know?’ Carlisle asked.

  ‘Her name’s DI Gamble, and rumour has it she’s ambitious.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with that.’

  ‘As long as she doesn’t have eyes for my position.’

  Carlisle smiled, knowing he was nearer the truth. ‘What about your health? You’re not walking very well at the moment.’

  Mason kicked the soil under his foot. ‘Once I’m declared fit by the police medical board, everything will be back to normal again.’

  ‘What are the chances of that happening?’

  Mason shrugged but chose not to reply.

  Behind the thin-lipped smile Carlisle detected a hint of jealousy. There were an awful lot of rumours kicking about, and events had obviously got off to a bad start. Not that he had any influence over the matter but he could sense bad vibes when he saw them. The last time they’d worked together on a murder case, the Chief Inspector’s powers of investigation had been tested to the limit. Mason led from the front, no matter what dangers he faced. His friend was old school, a down to earth, hands-on detective. Taking a backseat role was akin to locking a tiger up in a cage.

  He watched as the Chief Inspector swung on his heels and pointed back at the tack. ‘Was the barrister dead or alive when the suspect chased young Martin down here? That’s what we should be asking ourselves.’

  ‘The suspect obviously panicked knowing the boy was his only witness.’

  ‘It’s as good as any motive.’ Mason shrugged.

  On reaching the police cordon tape, Mason showed his warrant card to the young Constable and they stood chatting for a while. Even after Martin’s bird hide had been pointed out to him, Carlisle could not see it. It was well hidden.

  Mason returned his gaze. �
��What was a barrister doing in the woods in the first place, you may ask?’

  ‘Whatever happened here was clearly planned.’

  ‘You think so?’

  Carlisle nodded. ‘The black vehicle that Martin spotted, the clothes line around her neck, and the suspect’s attempts to beat the boy’s brains out.’

  ‘What about the elevated benzodiazepine levels we found in her body?’

  ‘What. You think she took an overdose?’

  ‘If she did,’ Mason said thoughtfully, ‘it means her suicide was definitely planned. Something’s not right, and according to the coroner’s report she didn’t put up a fight.’

  ‘She could have been unconscious and driven here?’

  ‘With that number of pills in her body she would have died from an overdose, let alone putting a rope around her neck.’ Mason looked at him and shrugged. ‘This was made to look like suicide, in more ways than one I’d wager.’

  ‘So, we could be looking at murder here?’

  ‘If not, then how come her handbag and iPhone are still missing, and forensics still haven’t found any empty pill containers at the crime scene?’

  ‘What about her iPhone transmitting a signal?’

  ‘No. Nothing.’

  The private investigator screwed his face up. ‘That’s odd!’

  ‘Perhaps he intended to throw us off his scent.’ Mason raised a finger to his forehead. ‘Think about it. If your friend’s son hadn’t witnessed what went on that Monday afternoon, we’d still be looking at suicide.’

  ‘The only problem I have with that is why would a barrister walk out on her family without making contact?’

  ‘I’m still not convinced she walked out on them.’ Mason stood for a moment, thinking. ‘All she had with her was the clothes she stood up in, so where did she go that weekend?’

  ‘Perhaps it was a spur of the moment thing.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Mason replied bluntly.

  ‘What about close family and friends?’

  ‘Nothing there either.’

  Carlisle was taken aback somewhat. ‘If she had a history of suicide attempts that puts another slant on it – surely.’

  ‘I’m no psychiatrist,’ Mason said, shaking his head, ‘but according to the medical experts, they were only half-hearted attempts at taking her own life – more a cry for help than anything.’ Mason’s eyes toured the crime scene. ‘There’s more to this case than first meets the eye. Cooper was a professional, a barrister at the top of her game, so I doubt it was a spur of the moment thing.’

  Carlisle scratched his brow in serious mode. ‘She could have known the suspect, of course?’

  ‘Possible, but most suicides I’ve attended there was either an expression of intent, or some form of written apology to the family in the form of a suicide note. Even in their darkest hour, people who commit suicide always think about their loved ones before they leave this mortal coil.’ Mason hesitated, the tiniest flicker of doubt showing in his eyes. ‘This looks like murder to me. I’m convinced of it.’

  The seeds of doubt having been sown, they stood in silence for a moment.

  ‘These sightings of a stranger seen hanging around the school gates,’ Carlisle said. ‘They need to be taken seriously. Mothers tittle-tattle tends to carry a lot of weight, especially where their kids are concerned.’

  ‘We’re dealing with it.’ Mason shrugged. ‘But it’s more than likely to be gossip.’

  ‘How do you propose to keep tabs on it?’

  ‘That’s DI Gamble’s problem, not mine,’ Mason replied brashly.

  Carlisle stood for a moment, knowing how crucial the next few days would be. Get it wrong and the wolves would come knocking at the door. The boy’s safety was paramount and if he could help in any way he would.

  ‘I’m not liking it,’ Carlisle said, shaking his head.

  ‘Tell me about it.’ Mason swung to face Carlisle. ‘I know you’ve worked for me on several occasions in the past, but I’m no longer in a position to offer you a contract.’

  ‘Thanks for keeping me in mind, but I’m extremely busy at the moment.’

  ‘But that could all change, of course.’

  Carlisle nodded. ‘Always grateful to be of assistance.’

  Whichever way they looked at it, there was no simple explanation for all of this. The fact that a hard-working barrister had gone about her daily business and had been found dead three days later, had cast grave doubts in a lot of people’s minds. Something wasn’t right, and whoever had given chase to Martin Kennedy meant the young boy’s life was now in grave danger.

  That much they were agreed on.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Three hundred metres from the airport’s main terminal building and a fifteen-minute drive from Newcastle city centre, the Britannia Hotel couldn’t have been more centrally located. There was free Wi-Fi, free parking, and a restaurant and cocktail bar should he require it. The last time Chameleon had flown into Newcastle on operations he’d stayed at the Premier Inn. Not that he disliked the place, it was just that he never stayed at the same hotel twice. Too risky, he considered. Especially if someone recognised you from a previous visit.

  Chameleon’s word was sacrosanct. Once a deal had been struck, his clients could rest assured their dreams and aspirations could continue untarnished – without consequence. Planning was his biggest forte, as everything he did was orchestrated. Today, however, as he gazed out of his hotel room window, he still had some unattended business to deal with before flying back to Heathrow.

  He poured himself another coffee and gazed at the Google map he’d opened on his laptop. Having made a list of the things to do, he carefully considered his options. First, he would talk to his contact about the Sanderson Law Chambers down on Newcastle’s Quayside. It shouldn’t take long, and he already had a plan. His next port of call would be the boy’s school. Still without a name, he’d figured it would only take twenty seconds of pressure on the carotid arteries to render the boy unconscious. Two minutes longer, and death was inevitable. Having searched through hundreds of photographs on the internet looking for the boy, he’d finally whittled it down to three possibilities. Which one he had yet to decide, but he knew he was closing in.

  Surprisingly, there had been no more mention of the barrister’s suspicious suicide. Not in any of the local newspapers there hadn’t. He’d watched all the latest TV news bulletins and checked his phone for messages. Nothing. Perhaps the boy hadn’t gone to the police after all, or maybe they didn’t believe him. There again, he thought. What if they were keeping an open mind and were out there looking for him?

  He’d been over this scenario a thousand times these past few days, and there was no way he was giving in to the sympathy vote. Just because a child had seen something they shouldn’t have, didn’t mean they were exempt. No way, Jose. The last thing he would need is for the boy to blow his cover and the whole operation go into meltdown. Not that it would, but he’d already made a note of the people he still had to deal with – and the boy wasn’t at the top of his list. He was close, but these situations were fluid and sometimes you had to shuffle the pack around in order to reach a successful conclusion.

  Dressed in a casual sweatshirt and jogging bottoms, Chameleon made his way through the busy hotel reception lobby and sauntered towards the Airport Tyne and Wear Metro station. It was a beautiful afternoon, and the air felt a lot warmer today. Having already sussed out where all the CCTV cameras were positioned, he was feeling upbeat. Airports were notorious for security checks, and that’s why he never carried weapons. Besides, there were far more proficient ways to kill a person if you wanted to – without attracting attention.

  The Metro station concourse was empty as Chameleon boarded the waiting train and stared up at the station map. He would alight at the Haymarket, then make his way to St Nicholas Cathedral where he had important business to attend to. Churches were ideal places to contact associates – only God knew what you were up to there!
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  The moment the train pulled out of the station, his mobile pinged.

  He checked the display.

  Where are you now?

  On my way, he texted back.

  See you there!

  He fired off his answer and pocketed his phone.

  Knowing that Metro trains always carried CCTV cameras onboard, he would change the SIM card later. He wasn’t that daft! The pace of events had accelerated, and in six hours from now he would back in the capital again. This was purely a reconnaissance mission – the easy-peasy lemon squeezy part of the job.

  CHAPTER TEN

  After weeks spent cooped up inside Gateshead Police Station, enough was enough, Jack Mason reasoned. Now that DI Gamble had clearly got her feet under the table, it was time to jump back into action again. It was part of Mason’s inquisitive nature to go back over old case files. Digging up the past uncovered all kinds of new leads, and time watered down a person’s memory – notably their lies.

  He was thinking about this when he stepped up to Laurence Cooper’s front door in Darras Hall. Located in one of the most sought-after streets in Ponteland, this remarkable six bedroomed property occupied a deceptively spacious plot of land. As his hand gripped the door knocker, Mason gave it an authoritative rap. Seconds later, movement reflected through the stained-glass panelling and a dapper man with a suntanned complexion and a look of professional arrogance appeared. He was wearing a blue denim top, black trousers and carrying a large Persian cat tucked under his arm – Mason guessed he was early fifties.

  ‘Hello. I’m DCI Mason, and this is my colleague Detective Carrington,’ the Chief Inspector explained. ‘May we have a word?’

  Cooper stood motionless as he peered down at their warrant cards. ‘I’ve already made a statement to Northumbria Police when I was advised of my wife’s death. Can I ask what this is about?’

  ‘Certainly.’ Mason slipped his warrant card into an inside pocket and stood for a moment. ‘There’s a few things we need to clarify, Mr Cooper. May we come in?’