Rock, Paper, Scissors

by B Baskerville

  Cooper didn’t think she was going to get anything further from Imogen West or Alison Sparks-Forster. Macey’s so-called friends were more concerned with making eyes at Tennessee than with her welfare. They let a man sneak her vodka shots and didn’t look for her when they realised she’d become separated from the group. Macey’s Dad thought the whole thing was a joke and Aaron, Macey’s boyfriend, despite his insistence that he loved her, had another woman’s bra in his bedroom. Cooper wondered if she, Tennessee and Pearl Baxter were the only people in the world who were worried about the missing diabetic.

  Cooper made a quick note to follow up on the waiter at the Greek restaurant and to find Nicolas Petite, the drink-spiking son-of-a-bitch. “Thanks for your time, ladies. If we need any further details we’ll be in touch. I’ll leave you to your studying.”

  Alison snorted. “It’s Wednesday, no one studies on Wednesdays. We’re off to the new cocktail bar near Grey’s Monument. Imogen knows the manager, don’t you Mo? Said he’d get us some Champers on the house. You can join us if you like,” she said to Tennessee while licking her upper lip.

  “He’s married,” Cooper snapped before her DS had a chance to reply.

  “To you?”

  “No.”

  “Then why do you care?”

  Cooper swallowed down her anger. She cared because Tennessee was a new dad, struggling with all the adjustments that came with that huge responsibility. She cared because she was his chief and friend and—

  “DCI Cooper cares because she holds her team to the highest standards.” Tennessee closed his notepad and stored it in his trouser pocket. “You were two of the last people to see Macey before her disappearance. It would be unprofessional for me to see either of you in a social setting.” He moved to the door and opened it for Cooper. “And like she said, I’m married.”

  - Chapter 8 -

  “It’s gone five,” Cooper told Tennessee when they were back at Northumbria CID. “Get yourself home to that beautiful baby of yours.”

  Tennessee shut the open browsers on his computer screen and gathered his things. He paused, hesitating.

  “What is it?” she asked him.

  He shook his head. “It’s nothing. Don’t stay too late. Follow your own advice and get back to Tina, okay?”

  She brought her hand to the side of her head and saluted the DS. “Aye, aye, captain.”

  As Tennessee left the room, Cooper knew he was right; she should follow her own advice and get the hell out of there. There were two things she wanted to do first, however. One, finish her report of the information gathered from Aaron, Imogen and Alison, and two, find out if Oliver Martin had any luck at the dump. She typed up her last two sentences, shut her computer down and went in search of Martin.

  After searching most of Northumbria Police headquarters and ringing Martin twice, only for her calls to go to voicemail, Cooper eventually found Martin coming out of the shower rooms. He was void of styling products and had a face like someone had pissed on his chips.

  “There you are. Find that phone for me?”

  “No, I bloody didn’t.” Martin was on the verge of having a tantrum of teenager proportions and as much as Cooper empathised she didn’t appreciate being spoken to like that. Not by the newest recruit. She could take a leaf out of Nixon’s book and give him a swear-laden dressing down, or she could keep it simple.

  “It’s no I bloody didn’t, boss. Or if you absolutely must, no I bloody didn’t, ma’am.”

  Martin took a deep breath. “Yes, boss. Sorry, boss.”

  “Want to get it off your chest?”

  He took another breath, deep enough for his chest to visibly expand and stretch the fabric of his t-shirt. “Sorry, ma’am. Six hours I spent in that rat-infested stink-hole with flies buzzing about my head and all we found were a couple of iPhones and a duffle bag of Russian rubles.”

  “You what?” That caught Cooper’s attention.

  “Rubles. Worked out at thirty grand’s worth.”

  “Hmm. Interesting. Any indication of who or why—”

  “Not a thing. Plain black bag, no labels, no nothing. It’s intriguing all right but it’s also not our problem. I handed it over to Fraud.”

  “Fair enough. You got the smell out of your nose yet?”

  “Not quite.” Martin squeezed his nostrils together. “I’ve tried vapour rub but it’s still there.”

  “I’m not surprised. You live in Gosforth, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Nip into Boots on the High Street and buy yourself a nasal rinse. It’ll help.”

  “Will do. Thanks for the tip. Oh, and boss…” Martin ran his fingers through his hair before swinging his backpack strap over his shoulder. “Sorry for being a brat.”

  Cooper softened. She patted his upper arm and bowed her head. “We’ve all been there. Just don’t let it happen again.”

  * * *

  Cooper was pleased to get home. She loosened the laces on the cherry Dr. Martens boots she’d been wearing, pulled them off, and wiggled her toes. What she would give for one of Atkinson’s foot rubs right now. Cooper checked her watch. It would be almost seven o’clock in Germany. Atkinson would be getting ready for dinner. Probably donning a well-fitted shirt and a smart pair of jeans, maybe adding a squirt of aftershave. He’d sit down to a no-doubt excellent meal and converse all evening with Europe’s best and brightest in the field of forensic sciences. Meanwhile, Cooper was about to reheat last night’s leftover lasagne and watch the news for any developments in the trial of the Tarot Card Killer.

  The kitchen was spotless. Cooper was certain she’d left it as if a bomb had hit it this morning. Tina must have cleaned. She’ll be after something, thought Cooper, and whatever it is, it probably costs a fortune.

  A shoebox sat on the kitchen table and scrawled on the lid, in thick marker pen, were the words Not junk. Do not throw out. Cooper lifted the lid expecting to see a pair of shoes or a bunch of old photographs. She did not expect to see a baby seagull.

  “TINA!”

  Tina’s footsteps trotted down the stairs. She was wearing a t-shirt of a llama in sunglasses. “Ah,” she said when she spotted the lid was off the shoebox. “I see you’ve met Steven.”

  “Steven? Steven? Christ, you’ve named it. Why is that disease-carrying ball of feathers in my kitchen?”

  Tina walked over to the shoe box and scooped the hatchling into her hands. “He fell off the roof, poor thing. I found him in the backyard. That’s why the gulls were making a racket this morning.”

  “Tina. You can’t keep it, sweetheart. You need to put it back in the yard.”

  “No.” Tina’s features pinched and she looked fixedly at her mother. “He won’t survive in the yard. All the cats that live on this street? He won’t survive the night and he’s at least a month away from being able to fly.”

  “So you plan on raising him? You can’t keep a wild animal. It’s illegal.” She removed the left-over lasagne from the fridge and slid it into the microwave.

  Sitting down at the kitchen table and stoking Steven’s feathers, Tina shook her head. “Nice try. It’s perfectly legal to keep a wild bird if it’s unfit for release as long as you meet its welfare needs and release it as soon as it’s ready to survive on its own.”

  Of course, Tina had already formulated her counter-arguments and conducted the required research to back them up. She’d probably printed off the supporting documents and filed them ready for presentation to a sceptical mother.

  “Surely you need a licence?”

  “Nope.” Tina was smug. “The only birds requiring a licence are ostriches and cassowaries. Schedule four birds such as eagles and buzzards need to be registered with the council but that doesn’t include seagulls.”

  Cooper had been completely outmanoeuvred. “Okay, counsellor. You say you need to meet its welfare needs. How do you plan on feeding it?”

  “Steven. Not it. I got some scraps from the fish quay, blended them into mush an
d froze them in an ice cube tray. At feeding time I defrost one, warm it up, pop it in a piping bag and squirt it into his mouth.”

  The little genius had thought of everything. “Right.” Cooper had lost. There was no point in arguing. “So you’re telling me that not only is a seagull now living in my kitchen but that our ice cube trays are full of fish scraps?”

  “Yes.”

  The microwave beeped and Cooper dished two portions onto plates. “Fine. But wash your hands for goodness sake before you give us all E. coli, salmonella and who knows what else.”

  Tina popped Steven back in his box and went to the sink. She was grinning from ear-to-ear.

  * * *

  When Cooper left for work the next morning, Tina was busy piping fish into the mouth of a greedy gull and reading her physics study notes. Cooper grabbed a Starbucks en route and upon arriving at HQ she headed straight to see The Collector.

  The Collector, real name Cedric Bell, was a Local Intelligence Officer whose windowless office was usually ripe with body-odour and egg sandwiches. Cooper always tried to send lower-ranking detectives to do this job but as Tennessee hadn’t shown up yet she had to do her own dirty work.

  “Erica Cooper, what brings you to my lair?” Cedric Bell chuckled from behind his computer. He had sweat patches under his arms and was drinking Lemsip. His desk was cluttered and as Cooper’s gaze scanned over various files and papers, he hastily gathered them into a neat pile. She was almost certain she’d spotted a porn mag amongst it all.

  “I have some updates for you from DS Daniel.” Cooper wanted to get out of The Collector’s office as soon as possible. The man was creepy. “Mitch Logan. Full name, Mitchell Peter Logan.”

  Bell’s fingers jabbed away at his keyboard. His fingernails were dirty and he had a frayed plaster fastened around his thumb. “Found him. What you got for me?”

  “No longer driving a Renault. He has a white Audi now.”

  Bell entered the information into his database. “Anything else?”

  “Yes,” Cooper said. “Known associates. He’s dating a Jamaican man named Harrison. No surname but I’m sure it won’t be too hard to find out.”

  More jabbing at the keyboard. “And how about yourself?” Bell asked. “Is it true you’re off the market?”

  Cooper felt ill. Everything about Bell and this room made her want to run. “I’m off the market and you’re inappropriate for asking.” She turned, opened the door and left.

  “Don’t leave it so long next time, Erica, darling. I’ve missed you.”

  Cooper walked past the shower rooms and if she didn’t have work to be getting on with she’d go in and wash Bell off her. Macey Gallagher was still missing. Nico Petite had possibly spiked the diabetic’s drink with vodka and was one of the last people to see her. Cooper needed to speak to him as soon as she could. She looked up the number for Newcastle University’s Admissions Office and waited for someone to pick up. She introduced herself and explained that she needed the home address and telephone number of Nicolas Petite.

  “Oh, I’m afraid I cannot give out that information,” replied the woman on the other end of the phone.

  “Cara, was it? One of your students hasn’t been seen since Saturday evening. She’s an Irish national and the man I want to speak to in connection with her disappearance is a French national. If Macey dies because I can’t get insulin to her in time it will be news across the entire continent and I will not hesitate in letting the press know that you slowed down our investigation. I want his home address and phone number and I don’t want to waste hours getting a warrant.”

  There was silence. Enough silence for Cooper to wonder if she’d been put on hold or hung up on but eventually the admissions officer came back to the phone. “Sixteen Rue De Reims, Lyon.” She followed with the phone number.

  “Thank you, Cara,” Cooper said. “You did the right thing.”

  Cooper wasted no time in ringing the number. With no knowledge of the French language beyond bonjour and au revoir, Cooper hoped the Petites would speak English. She would have to wait to find out as, despite twenty minutes of trying, no one was picking up.

  Cooper typed the address into Google Maps and zoomed in to a pretty, suburban street where it looked as if one in every three homes had a swimming pool. She rolled her mouse back and forth over the surrounding streets until a little orange icon appeared with a knife and fork on it. “Petite Boulangerie,” she read aloud. A Google search and few trips to Google Translate later and Cooper’s suspicions were confirmed. The bakery was run by a local family who were named Petite. She found the phone number for the business and gave it a call.

  “Bonjour? Madame Petite? Je suis DCI Cooper. Je suis, erm…” That was the limit of Cooper’s French. “I need to speak to Nicolas. Is he there?”

  “I am sorry. I do not speak English,” came the reply, which ironically, was in perfect English.

  The line disconnected and Cooper stared at her handset. Rude. She’d try again later. She wasn’t going to give up that easily. Besides, she had translators at her disposal and she’d book one for later that day.

  “Hey, stranger.”

  Cooper looked up to see Sam Sutherland pulling up a chair. If Tennessee was Cooper’s CID brother then Sutherland was her CID father. Older than her but junior in rank, Sutherland liked to use slang from the seventies and eighties and occasionally dressed like it was still the eighties. His BMI was on the wrong side of twenty-five but luckily he usually worked with ex-rugby star detective Paula Keaton. If anyone needed chasing, Keaton had it covered.

  “How’s it going?” asked Cooper, “and whoa! Look at that bling.” She grabbed Sutherland’s wrist and admired a sparkling Rolex that looked like it was worth more than her car.

  Sutherland blushed. “An anniversary present. Twenty-five years. Doesn’t seem like two minutes.”

  “Nice,” said Cooper, still admiring the watch. It wasn’t her style but it was still mighty impressive.

  “I screwed up though.”

  “Don’t tell me you bought Sue a new vacuum cleaner.”

  “Not quite that bad. I got her favourite flowers and these chocolates she likes from a patisserie in Edinburgh and some other small gifts. All the stuff I knew she’d love but still, nothing on par with a Rolex.”

  Cooper raised her eyebrows. “So, you’re sleeping on the couch, right?”

  “Nah, I managed to swing it back around by telling her I’d booked us a week in the Maldives. As soon as I stop for lunch I need to get straight to a travel agent and book it before Sue asks any more details.”

  “Smooth. And what about Caroline? Has she settled in at Westfield?”

  Sutherland loosened his tie. “Truth be told, no, not really. She likes the teachers and they have a trampoline club which she’s loving, but she’s not making many new friends. Her grades are up, so Sue’s pleased, but I just want her to be happy.”

  Cooper could appreciate that. She never had to worry about Tina’s grades but she was always worried that the bullying that had plagued her daughter’s first few years at secondary school would start again. “We’re having a bit of a party for Tina’s fifteenth if you want to bring Caroline over. She won’t have seen Tina since November. I know she’s a few years younger but it will be nice for them to catch up. Bring Sue. Atkinson will be there.”

  Sutherland’s face glowed. “That’s very kind of you, Erica. I’m sure Caroline will jump at the chance. What’s the date? I’ll have to check with the missus.”

  “The twenty-third. Easter Sunday.”

  “Great, don’t think we have anything on. Sue’ll probably go to mass in the morning but it’s not my scene. So how’s the missing girl case going? Heard it’s a tricky one.”

  Cooper closed her eyes and shook her head. “I’m very worried. My gut tells me she’s still alive, but…”

  “But you don’t have long?”

  “I really don’t.”

  “Well if you need any help just give m
e and Keaton a shout. The armed robbery was open and closed - Muscovites connected to the Red Skulls - and this matricide in Benwell we were just handed is pretty straight forward. Eight kids. She changes the will to leave it all to the youngest and three days later she collapses at bingo. Ingested rat poison.” He looked pointedly at Cooper. “We know the little swine did it, we just need to prove it. I’ll have him in the cells by the end of the week. So, as I said, if you need a hand, just say.”

  Cooper gave an appreciative smile. “I might just do that. Oh.” Tennessee had just arrived. “You made it in?”

  “Yeah,” he said with a yawn. “Sorry I’m late. Hey, Sam. Alfie’s got a cough. Had to get him to the GP. Then Hayley… Oh, and I saw Nixon on the way in.” He held up some papers. “I have Macey’s phone records.”

  Cooper turned her chair to face him, her interest piqued. “And?”

  “And, if you look to Saturday evening, there’s a bunch of incoming calls which go unanswered. This number is Pearl Baxter, this is Aaron Quinn and this,” he pointed to another number,” is an unregistered pay-as-you-go phone. I’ve called it and there was a foreign dial tone but no answer. I also tried Pearl Baxter to see if she recognised the number but she doesn’t have it in her contacts.”

  “Nico Petite?”

  “Maybe. I can check with Imogen and Alison but…”

  “But you don’t want to be sexually harassed?”

  He sat down and handed the phone records to Cooper. “Exactly.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Thanks. But here’s the interesting thing.” He motioned to the records. “All those incoming calls, probably Pearl and co trying to find where Macey had disappeared to, but only one outgoing call.”

  Cooper ran her finger down the list until she found what she was looking for.

  “Recognise the number?” Tennessee asked.