Chameleon

by Michael K Foster

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Ushered into a spacious entrance hall with tiled floors and lofty ceilings, they were led into a large spacious study overlooking rear gardens. Not bad, Mason thought. Whatever line of business Laurence Cooper was in, he’d obviously done well for himself. As the suspect dropped the reluctant Persian cat onto an empty wicker chair, he turned to face them.

  ‘Can I offer you people a drink?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Please take a seat,’ Cooper insisted.

  ‘It’s a very nice place you have here,’ Mason said, unable to disguise the admiration in his voice. ‘What line of business are you in?’

  ‘I’m a global management consultant – why do you ask?’

  ‘It must pay extremely well.’ Mason smiled.

  ‘It can be very demanding at times, but it does have its benefits.’

  Pleasantries exchanged, Mason slipped quickly back into police mode. ‘Perhaps we can talk about the statement you made to Northumbria Police.’

  ‘About what?’ Cooper replied, caught completely off guard.

  ‘According to our records, you’ve been married before, have you not?’

  ‘Yes, but that’s no secret.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you mention it at your recent interview?’

  ‘Because the question was never asked.’

  ‘Mind telling us what happened to your first wife?’ asked Carrington.

  Cooper’s face clouded over. ‘I’m not sure where this is heading. What has this got to do with Margaret’s recent death?’

  Carrington rallied quickly. ‘Tell me, Mr Cooper. How did your first wife die?’

  ‘If you must know, she committed suicide. But that was almost ten years ago.’

  ‘If I’m not mistaken, she threw herself off the High-Level Bridge in Newcastle after taking an overdose of anti-depressants.’ Carrington’s tone was forceful and it had the desired effect. ‘According to your statement back in 2007, you’d only been married three years.’

  ‘You don’t think I had anything to do with my first wife’s unfortunate death, surely? That’s preposterous.’

  Mason smiled wryly. ‘Who mentioned anything about you being involved in anything? There again, we do deal with an awful lot of life insurance claims where the determining factor is a suspicious suicide. It’s strange what some people think they can get away with.’

  ‘Wait a minute! You’re not suggesting I’m involved in some sort of fraudulent insurance claim, are you?’

  ‘No. Merely stating a fact.’

  ‘I’m not liking the tone in your voice, Chief Inspector,’ Cooper said finally. ‘It’s time I called my lawyers.’

  Cooper’s face had drained of colour, and he was breathing heavily. As a man of standing, Mason had anticipated him to be more articulate and self-assured instead of coming across as hesitant.

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ Carrington said. ‘You’re not under any suspicion here.’

  ‘Then why are you taking down notes?’

  ‘Standard procedure,’ she replied. ‘It’s what I’m instructed to do.’

  ‘Really?’

  Cooper’s facial expression never altered, but the look in his eyes told Mason he was floundering. ‘Your second wife was a barrister, was she not?’

  ‘Yes, she was.’

  Mason stared down at Cooper’s shoes. He had small feet, size nine, and nothing like the plaster-of-Paris casts lifted from the crime scene. What’s more, the Mercedes-Benz S500 parked on Cooper’s drive was silver and not black like the vehicle spotted in Chopwell Wood. And, if he wasn’t mistaken, Cooper looked nothing like the boy’s Uncle Arthur. No, Mason thought. It was time to take on a new line of approach.

  ‘Your second wife, Margaret.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Am I right in saying she operated out of the Sanderson Law Chambers on Newcastle Quayside?’

  ‘Yes, she did.’

  ‘Which clients did she mainly represent?’ asked Carrington.

  Cooper huffed. ‘Margaret was mostly instructed by the Crown Prosecution Service as well as prosecution agencies such as HMRC.’

  ‘But she would occasionally have worked for the defence, would she not?’

  ‘She did, but not that often.’

  Carrington sat thoughtfully for a moment. ‘So, she was predominantly a criminal prosecution barrister?’

  ‘Yes, she was.’

  Mason raised an eyebrow. Now that Carrington had mentioned it, his next question seemed a pretty obvious one to ask under the circumstances. ‘Was your wife ever threatened at any stage in her career? Nasty phone calls, threatening text messages, hate mail, that type of behaviour.’

  ‘None that I’m aware of.’

  ‘Can you be sure of that?’ Mason said.

  ‘What makes you think she was ever threatened?’

  ‘Well, being a police officer, I often come up against some very nasty people during my duties.’ Mason’s eyes drifted to the Persian cat and then settled back on Cooper. ‘It had crossed my mind whether barristers suffered the same abusive threats as we do.’

  ‘No. I can’t say that she ever did.’

  ‘Here’s my problem,’ Mason said. ‘Your second wife died under suspicious circumstances, which means a Coroner has instructed the police to continue in their current line of enquiries. Hence our meeting here today.’

  ‘I thought you people said this was an unofficial visit?’

  Mason closed his notebook and glanced at his watch. ‘When you first reported your wife missing to the police, did it ever occur to you that she might not come home again?’

  ‘No, and I strongly resent such a suggestion.’

  Mason hesitated, having overstepped the mark. ‘Let me put it another way. On the day your wife went missing, what state of mind was she in when she left for work that morning? Did the two of you have an argument perhaps?’

  ‘No, we did not. That’s absurd.’

  Carrington gave him a genuinely warm smile. ‘But she did suffer from depression, did she not?’

  ‘Yes, but that was a heck of a long time ago.’

  ‘Two-thousand and ten to be exact!’

  Cooper squirmed in his seat but remained silent.

  ‘Was Margaret ever involved with other men?’ Mason asked outright.

  ‘Wait a minute!’

  Mason knew he was treading on dangerous ground but pressed on regardless. ‘The reason I ask is, three days seems an awful long time for someone to go missing without contacting close family or friends. Where did she go? Who was she with?’

  ‘Isn’t that what you people are supposed to do . . . find these things out?’

  Mason’s face remained expressionless. ‘After you reported her missing to the police, did Margaret ever contact you via a text message at all?’

  ‘No. Had she done so, I would have told you people.’

  Carrington’s brow furrowed. ‘What about your daughters?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Did they ever make contact at all?’

  ‘My daughters would have told me had they done so.’

  Mason forced a smile. ‘Yes, of course.’

  Cracks were appearing in Cooper’s storyline and he had displayed none of the confident attributes of a global management consultant. There again, Mason thought. How would he react had he just lost his wife in a suspicious suicide? Pretty much the same, he guessed. Even so, this was Cooper’s second wife to die under dubious circumstances and he may well be hiding something. He would need to sleep on it, check out his alibi at a later stage.

  Mason stood to leave.

  ‘You’ve been extremely helpful, Mr Cooper. We’ll not keep you a minute longer.’

  Relieved it was over, Cooper picked up the Persian cat, stuffed it under his arm and showed them to the door.

  ◆◆◆

  DC Carrington sucked on a fruit sweet as she stared out of the unmarked pool car’s grubby windscree
n. ‘What do you think, boss?’

  ‘Not a lot,’ Mason replied.

  The detective folded her arms across her chest in thought. ‘If Margaret Cooper was last seen leaving the law chambers on Friday morning where did she go over the weekend?’

  ‘That’s the million-dollar question.’

  ‘It’s an awful long time to go missing without contacting family and friends.’

  ‘Sounds like we’re barking up the wrong tree,’ Mason agreed. ‘Either Cooper knows something and isn’t letting on about it, or his wife was caught up in something sinister. Whichever way you look at it, the only person who is able to tell us that is the man from Chopwell Wood.’

  ‘That worries me, boss. Whoever this stranger is, his biggest threat is Martin Kennedy blowing his cover. If not, then why give chase and threaten to beat the boy’s brains in?’ Carrington swung to face Mason. ‘What if he recognised Martin’s school uniform and decides to go after him?’

  ‘And do what exactly?’

  ‘Let’s face it, unless we can come up with a vital piece of forensic evidence on the Chopwell suspect, then Martin is the only credible witness who can identify him.’

  ‘Let’s not jump to conclusions––’

  ‘I’m not, but what about this man who was seen hanging around the school gates?’

  Mason pondered her statement for a moment. ‘I thought DI Gamble was looking into that?’

  ‘She was.’

  ‘What do you mean. . . was?’

  Carrington gave Mason a withering look. ‘Perhaps you should attend her daily briefings instead of trying to go it alone.’

  ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong. I know you’re desperate to pass your police medical exam and take back control of the case, but what if you fail?’

  Mason screwed his face up. ‘Give me a break, I couldn’t stand another ten weeks of this shit.’

  ‘It’s time you faced up to reality, boss.’

  ‘I’m not a fucking magician, I can’t just pull rabbits out of a hat. Besides, the minute I go poking my nose into DI Gamble’s affairs she’ll go running to Superintendent Gregory.’

  Carrington blew through her cheeks. ‘Tread carefully, boss. You can’t keep ignoring her.’

  ‘What do mean?’

  ‘It’s obvious you are not happy about her appointment – everyone can see that. She could lodge an official complaint against you for sexist behaviour, and that could get you into an awful lot of trouble.’

  Mason thought about it.

  ‘I’ve heard rumours, Sue,’ he said defensively. ‘Gamble wouldn’t think twice about taking over my position if she thought she could get away with it. That’s how she got to be a DI in the first place.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I know so.’

  Carrington drew back in her seat. ‘That’s the first I’ve heard of it.’

  Mason fiddled with the ignition keys, then turned to Carrington and said, ‘Rumour has it that Middlesbrough were glad to see the back of her.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ Carrington replied. ‘But I did overhear that Gregory doubts you’ll ever pass the Police Medical Board’s fitness test. If he believes that, then we could be looking at a permanent assignment here.’

  Mason gritted his teeth. Convinced that a conspiracy takeover was going on behind his back, he would need to get to the bottom of it, and fast. This wasn’t the first time he’d felt threatened like this before, and it wouldn’t be the last. He would keep a low profile, bide his time, and choose his moment when the opportunity arose.

  ‘Thanks for the heads, Sue,’ Mason said, feeling somewhat relieved of some sound advice.

  ‘No problems, boss.’

  ‘You did the right thing, and I appreciate your honesty.’

  Carrington shrugged. ‘I just thought I’d mention it, that’s all.’

  More than pleased with his findings, Mason was already thinking about his next line of attack when he drove off the estate. The solution to some problems, he had come to believe over the years, lay in good team selection. Carrington knew how to handle awkward situations and was business-like in her approach. He knew he could trust her when the chips were down, and that’s all that really mattered to him.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The traffic around Chester-le-Street was heavy as they drove north past the Drum Industrial Estate heading for Beamish open-air museum. It was a bright, sunny day, and Chopwell Wood seemed a million miles from Martin Kennedy’s mind. Ever since his father had spoken to the school’s headmaster, life had quietened down a tad. He’d been moved to another class, and away from Miss Crawshaw whom he never liked anyway. Martin couldn’t have asked for more, and just because he’d managed to stay out of trouble lately, his father had promised him a special treat.

  Set in three hundred acres of beautiful rolling countryside, Beamish Museum was a working example of everyday life in urban and rural North-East England in the early 20th century. After passing through the admissions hall, Martin stood in awe as he was suddenly swept back in time. He’d never seen a working tram before – only on a postcard – and now he was clambering onboard one with his father. As they faced one another across a central wooden aisle, the conductor rang a bell and shouted for them to “hold on tight”. It was a strange sensation. Although it ran on rails, it was much slower and more cumbersome than he’d ever imagined. The noise it made was incredible and reminded him of a giant beast as it rumbled and screeched along every twist and turn in the track. Suddenly the clanking noises stopped, and they’d arrived at the bustling town.

  Opposite Redman Park stood a long row of terraced houses, originally from Gateshead. Among the attractions were a teacher’s house, an Edwardian style solicitor’s office, and the Sun Inn pub. The dentist’s house was his favourite, and Martin’s mind was blown away by brave and terrifying tales of young Edwardian children visiting the dentist’s surgery more than a hundred years before.

  Moving between exhibits was fun; browsing through each of the shops an even bigger adventure. He loved the old sweet shop where mouth-watering treats were being made in a backroom factory on large stainless-steel trays. Bonbons, cinder toffee, and his favourite black bullets were all being formed into shape by a lady dressed in traditional custom. It was brilliant watching her turn hot toffee as it cooled. The aroma was wonderful, and she explained everything she was doing.

  ‘Lunchtime, young man,’ his father called out.

  Armed with a rucksack full of sandwiches, they soon found a spot overlooking the bandstand in Redman Park. It was jam-packed with visitors, and they sat on the grass verge listening to a brass band playing old marching tunes. Dressed in their bright red tunics, black trousers and shoes, the musicians looked more like Victorian soldiers than a colliery band.

  The bandleader, a stout man with long sideburns and a walrus moustache, reminded Martin of his old school music teacher. Then again, everyone looked like Mr Hardaker on a hot summer’s day.

  ‘Where should we visit next?’ his father asked.

  ‘Can I take another peek at the repair works, Dad?’

  ‘Yes, of course you can. Five minutes, and no wandering off.’

  Inside the Beamish Motor & Cycle Works, Martin stood in awe at the wonderfully assembled array of amazing old cars and motorcycles on show. Strange looking contraptions with polished brass lamps and huge mud guards over each of the wheels. At the rear of the building, tucked back in a corner stood the weirdest car of them all. Called a SHEW, it had solid black tyres, open top bucket leather seats, and a large steering wheel the like of which he’d never seen before. It was a magnificent beast and he wondered what it would be like to ride in one. He imagined it would be cold, especially in winter, as it didn’t have a roof and would be open to the elements.

  ‘Fantastic looking car,’ the stranger said.

  Martin turned but could not see him. The crowd was so tightly packed that he could not move. Then, out of the cor
ner of his eye he caught a glimpse of the stranger’s face. He was glaring at him, evil-eyed, as if to reach out and grab tight hold of his collar. His world falling apart, Martin felt trapped. He tried to move away, but he was hemmed in so tightly that he could barely move his arms. Panic gripped him, and his heart was pounding so fast that he could barely breathe.

  Then a gap opened up, and he managed to wriggle free. It was then he saw the man’s shoes. They were brown, with sharp pointed toes and the shoelaces had been distinctly tied in a criss-cross pattern.

  Daring to breathe, he ran as fast he could to where his father was sitting.

  ‘That didn’t take long. I thought I would need to come and fetch you.’

  ‘It was him,’ Martin said, still gasping for breath.

  ‘Steady on, son,’ his father said. ‘Who are you talking about?’

  ‘It was him, Dad. The man I saw in Chopwell Wood. He was standing right behind me inside the repair works.’

  ‘Can you be sure?’

  ‘Of course, I am.’

  Gathering up their belongings, his father ran towards the repair works in search of the mystery man. It was busy inside, and with his father’s guiding hand they soon pushed their way through the throng.

  ‘Where is he, son?’ his father called out.

  ‘I can’t see him, Dad. He’s not here anymore.’

  They scoured the cobbled streets outside together, but the man was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Are you sure it was him?’ his father asked staring suspiciously across at him. ‘Or somebody who just looked like your Uncle Arthur?’

  ‘It was him, Dad. I swear it.’

  His father’s thick bushy eyebrows raised a fraction. ‘What did he look like, this man who spoke to you? Was he bald with a round chubby face?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You could be mistaken, son. There must be thousands of men who look like your old Uncle Arthur.’ His father placed a reassuring arm around his shoulder and gave him a gentle hug. ‘If you do happen to spot this mysterious man again, you’re to point him out to me. Is that a promise?’

  His father was right. He was constantly worrying over nothing these days, and it was slowly driving him mad. Even so, the man did bear a remarkable resemblance to his late Uncle Arthur and his shoelaces were tied in a peculiar criss-cross pattern. But it was those cold staring eyes he feared most.