“Don’t get excited. It had been there a long time. Doesn’t prove anything, but that alibi was wishy-washy at best. We definitely need to speak to him.”
Tennessee looked disappointed. He resumed his pacing and glanced at his phone again. He frowned, moved his thumb over the screen, then frowned some more. “Sutherland says we should turn on the BBC.”
Cooper, Keaton and Tennessee gathered around a small television in the corner of the room and Cooper scrambled for the remote. “How,” she asked, “can this building be less than ten years old but the television’s from the Jurassic era?”
“Cutbacks,” laughed Keaton. “Nixon probably bought it from Oxfam.”
The screen flickered and eventually formed the red and white familiarity of the BBC news. The studio cut to a reporter at Newcastle international airport who was sheltering under an umbrella that repeatedly threatened to turn inside out. “This morning a body matching the description of Macey Gallagher was discovered on Marsden Beach. Her parents, Sean and Iris Gallagher are due to arrive in Newcastle shortly and are accompanied by their daughter, Katherine, as well as members of the Irish press and a representative from the TD of Dublin South-Central. They have issued the following statement: We are heartbroken at the thought of losing our beautiful baby girl. Macey was the sunshine in our lives and now that light has been extinguished. We are struggling to come to terms with what has happened to Macey, and we have many, many questions for Northumbria Police and Detective Neil Fuller in particular. We ask for privacy during this difficult time.”
“Oh, shit,” said Keaton, “Fuller’s in for it.”
Cooper blinked back a feeling of shame. “He barely had that case two minutes. He never stood a chance. I failed that girl as much as he did and now the press are going to tear him to pieces.”
Tennessee placed his hand on Cooper’s shoulder but she shrugged him away. “No one had seen her, Coop. No one had any clue where she’d gone or what had happened to her. We did our best. And as for her parents; they’re redirecting their guilt. Her father didn’t give a monkey’s that she’d disappeared and now he feels shit about it so he’s going after Fuller.”
He might be right but it didn’t raise Cooper’s spirits. She had questions of her own: Where was Nicolas Petite? Did the hair grip at the landlord’s house belong to Macey? Why did Aaron Quinn get so upset when asked about the baseball bat? Was he released?
Tennessee’s phone rang and he pressed it to his ear, pressing the volume button so neither Cooper nor Keaton could hear the other side of the conversation. “It’s okay. I promise it’ll be okay.” He ran a hand over the back of his neck and spoke so quietly Cooper could barely make out his words. “I’m at work… I’ll call Dr Worthington. Slow down and breathe. I’ll call him. Is your mum there?”
While Tennessee hung up, Cooper and Keaton’s eyes met and Keaton shrugged. She was as clueless as Cooper.
“Jack?”
Tennessee shook his head and looked away. “It’s nothing, Ma’am. It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.” Cooper rose to her feet and approached him. His eyes had reddened, not that he would look at her. What had happened to the pristine man she once knew? She searched his face and asked again, “Jack? Talk to me.”
“It’s Hayley.” His voice was barely audible. “She’s struggling. Ever since Alfie was born. She loves him, I know she does but they’re not bonding and she’s depressed and sometimes she just stares into space for so long. It’s like she’s a statue of Hayley. She looks like her but isn’t her… It’s like she doesn’t do anything for herself anymore, nothing that brings her joy. And… and I’m just worried she’s going do something, you know, like hurt herself, or…”
“Jack.” Cooper took Tennessee’s phone from his hand and laid it on the desk. She took his hands in hers and looked at him until he finally looked back. “Go and be with Hayley and Alfie.” Between not finding Macey in time, not being there for Tina when she’d needed her and not noticing what was going on in Tennessee’s home life, Cooper’s guilt levels were killing her. She squeezed his hands. “Go home. Take as long as you need.”
“But Omar’s wife, Salwa—”
“I’ll take care of it,” said Keaton.
“What about Morton and the others we shortlisted?”
“I’ve got it covered, Jack. Give Alfie a kiss from me.”
A bolt of lightning illuminated the sky and highlighted the worry lines on Tennessee’s forehead. He nodded once, picked up his coat and left without saying goodbye.
- Chapter 18 -
The incident room remained silent for several minutes after Tennessee’s departure. No matter how hard Cooper tried to focus on her work, her brain kept returning to her failures. She was failing as a chief, as a detective, and as a mother. Eventually, without giving any explanation to Keaton, she got up and left in search of caffeine and a backbone. Feeling sorry for herself wasn’t going to do anyone any good, least of all, the people she cared about.
The drinks machine at the end of the hall gurgled and spluttered until a plastic cup was full of cappuccino, or what was supposed to be cappuccino, having tasted it, Cooper wasn’t so sure. She blew on the frothy top as she walked up and down the corridor, cupping it with both hands and taking sips until she finished the drink. There was no backbone or magic cure in the bottom of the cup, but she’d used the time to give herself a pep talk and by the time she got back to the incident room she was ready to roll.
Keaton and her soggy coat were gone. She had initiative and didn’t need Cooper to direct her every move. She’d be on her way to the retirement home on the western side of Weetslade before heading to the hospital to check on Omar and his wife. Cooper sat down in front of her computer and conducted a search for James Blake. Nothing. She pouted and tried again, this time for Jimmy Blake. Again, the search didn’t produce anything of use. There was a kinesiology lecturer in California by the same name and a managing director of a screen printing company in Alberta, Canada. Finally, she tried Jamie Blake.
“Bingo.”
Jamie Blake worked as an art dealer and was based out of a gallery with the unusual name of The Biscuit Factory. Cooper zoomed in on the photograph of his face and squinted. She flicked back and forth between that and the photo she had on file from the incident at St. James’ Park. They could be the same person, she concluded. His hair was lighter now, it must have been dyed black in his goth days. The earrings were gone and he looked broader, but there were still many similarities: the thick brows, the shape of his ears and lips and the intensity in his eyes.
She wrote down his name, along with Khush Patel and Bryce Morton and reluctantly headed downstairs to visit The Collector.
“Erica. Two visits in the space of a week? I am a lucky boy.”
Cedric Bell had half an egg sandwich open on his desk and the plaster wrapped around his thumb was now a disgusting shade of grey.
“And I am not a lucky girl,” Cooper muttered, not caring if he heard or not. “I need you to bring up all known members of far-right groups within a thirty mile radius of the city. I’m looking for Bryce Morton, James Blake and Khush Patel.”
The Collector raised his eyes. “You think there’s a Khush Patel in the White Rights Party?”
Cooper was silent. It was - admittedly - highly unlikely, but weirder things had happened.
“Suit yourself.” The Collector shrugged and began typing with only his index fingers. After a minute or so, he printed a list of names and handed it to Cooper.
She scanned the list. “I don’t see them. Can you run a separate search?”
His typing was painfully slow and Cooper hoped he wasn’t dilly-dallying on purpose to keep her there longer than she needed to be.
“The only Bryce Morton I have in here lived in Hexham, was convicted on drug offences and died in HMP Haverigg. That your guy?”
Cooper shook her head. “Patel?”
“GBH? Four years?”
“That’s the one
.”
“Living on Chirton Wynd, Byker. Arrested for drunk and disorderly in September 2016 but nothing else of note. No connections to radical groups on the left or right. Works as a refuse collector for Newcastle Council. As for Blake, his file hasn’t been updated since his release.” He picked a bit of green veg from his teeth, inspected it, then ate it. “I have his address from the time and known associates. But it’s ten years old. Shall I print it anyway?”
Cooper nodded and held out her hand with all the patience of a five-year-old. As soon as she had the printout, she was out of there.
* * *
As the garage was still performing open-heart surgery on the Mazda, Cooper borrowed a panda car, and headed to Shieldfield. The Biscuit Factory was a converted warehouse from the Victorian era. Bare brick and white plaster, combined with glass and metal fixings, created a light and airy venue with a very modern vibe.
Unable to get a parking space at the gallery she parked around the corner on the street. One of these days she’d sell her old girl and get herself an upgrade. Sutherland had recently got himself a shiny new BMW and Nixon’s Mercedes had caught her eye. It wasn’t that she couldn’t afford a new car; the Mazda had memories. She’d driven that rust-bucket for over twelve years now. She hadn’t been able to drive when she first joined the police but the walk to North Shields police station, where she’d been posted at the time, was only fifteen minutes at most. Once Tina was three and ready to go to nursery, Cooper bit the bullet and learnt to drive. She and the Mazda had been together longer than any relationship she’d been in. For richer, for poorer. In sickness and good health.
Despite the full carpark, the art gallery appeared to be empty. A hum of excitement was coming from the brasserie and Cooper concluded that some sort of function was going on. She wiped her boots on the mat, removed her wet coat and slung it over her arm. She cast a look around the place and decided to have a browse. A little culture would do her good.
An exhibition of animal heads on human bodies wasn’t to Cooper’s taste but some humungous charcoal drawings of the local area took her breath away. What skill, she thought, until her mind turned to Brian Hutchins. The art teacher had been sketching with charcoal when Tina had made a joke that ultimately put her life in danger. Her stomach twisted as the memory of searching Tynemouth Comprehensive for the Tarot Card Killer came back to her. She set her jaw and moved on to some sculptures made of old motorcycle parts. Some were vast and filled their alcoves, others were small and set on pedestals. One in particular caught Cooper’s eye. It was about the size of her fist but was made to look like a dragon. It would look great in her living room, or she thought it would until she saw the price tag.
“Quentin Herbert’s work is masterful, don’t you think?”
Cooper jumped and turned around. He was tall, just shy of six foot, and muscular too. He clearly worked out but not to bodybuilder standards. His eyes were the brightest green, his hair was tidy and the colour of sand, his arm was in a sling, and he was, without a doubt, Jamie Blake.
“Very talented,” she replied.
“Are you looking to make a purchase today?” He smiled at her with a mouth of bleached teeth and stood a little closer than Cooper was comfortable with.
“Oh, I was just browsing,” said Cooper, “and sheltering from the rain.” She gave him an innocent shrug. “Besides, I can’t afford six grand on a tiny sculpture, no matter how masterful the artist it.”
She wasn’t sure if she should show her cards and introduce herself as a detective. All she had to connect Blake to Omar Ali was a pair of scissors and a mumbled comment about a dog by a man about to slip into a coma.
Blake chuckled and seemed to move even closer. “Well, I can’t blame you for seeking shelter. It’s teeming down out there.” He placed his hand on her upper back and guided her to the left. “And six grand is pretty steep. Although, we did have Xanthe Lewis in here last week. You know, the girl who won Love Island a few years back then went on I’m a Celeb? She spent over ten grand on a single painting. Hideous thing.”
“The painting, or Xanthe Lewis?”
He laughed too loudly for the empty gallery and his voice carried around the room. “The painting, of course, although those lip fillers… Here,” he stopped manhandling Cooper and pointed to a stack of prints. “I might not be able to tempt you with a six grand Herbert sculpture but perhaps one of these prints will capture your heart.”
Cooper felt very small and there was something in Blake’s eyes that she didn’t like. It was as if he saw straight through her and knew exactly who she was. She wished Tennessee was here, or Sutherland. Then she wished she hadn’t had such an unfeminist thought. It was all in her mind anyway. A simple case of height-envy. “Thanks,” she told Blake, “I’ll take a look.”
He was about to walk away, but Cooper couldn’t help herself. “Your arm looks painful,” she said.
Blake’s eyes darted to the sling. “Car accident,” he explained, though Cooper noticed he didn’t walk with a limp or have any cuts and scrapes. What she did notice, were the bruises on his knuckles.
With a print of North Shields’s fish quay that cost her thirty quid, Cooper nodded goodbye to Blake and got the hell out of the gallery. She’d come back with Keaton once she’d collected more intel. Keaton could provide just as much muscle as Tennessee, probably more.
For now, time was getting on and she wanted to get home at a reasonable hour. After what had happened with Tennessee, she wanted to spend some time with her daughter and she hoped Tina would like the print. She’d bought it for her and thought that they could name the seagull in the top right-hand corner after Steven. She was going to make it a girls’ night. Neither Kenny nor Justin were staying for dinner so they’d get a takeaway and go on a Netflix binge. She’d pick up some ice cream on the way home and— “You’re effing kidding me!”
Some toe rag from parking enforcement had slapped a ticket on the windscreen of the panda car.
“Cheeky swines.”
- Chapter 19 -
Cooper hadn’t slept well. She’d checked the time on her phone at least eight times since three in the morning when she’d awoken. It was now a few minutes past six and she thought it was a good time to act as Bryce Morton’s wake up call. She left a twenty-pound note on the dining table, along with a note, telling Tina to take Josh for lunch and to have a great day. Last night had gone well, Tina had loved the king prawn pathia and coriander naans she’d ordered and all appeared to be forgiven. Two things had kept Cooper awake. The first was a feeling of dread for her DS. Tennessee hadn’t texted or called and Cooper didn’t want to pry or invade his personal space by checking up on him. But every time she’d drifted off she’d dreamt of bad news coming in the form of a text message and she’d awoken with the phone gripped in her sweaty palms. The second thing keeping sleep at bay was a thought she didn’t want to consider. A nagging threat at the back of her mind that ate away at her and distracted her every attempt at focus.
* * *
Historically, Wideopen wasn’t the wealthiest of areas, but Hayes Walk had a sense of pride to it. Well presented semi-detached houses with bay windows stood proudly behind perfectly manicured lawns. The scent of flowers carried down the street and not one piece of litter could be seen.
Without even checking her notes, Cooper knew which houses belonged to the Mortons. A set of semi-detached houses, painted in the same shade of jasmine white with sage masonry, had identical lawns with stone hedgehogs and other woodland creatures scattered around them. A Honda Civic was parked on one driveway. Cooper gave it a once over as she approached the neighbouring doors. The car had mud splatter on the hubcaps and a nasty dent on the front bumper.
She knocked on Bryce Morton’s door three times and waited. Silence. She huffed and knocked again. When there was still no response she pushed her face to the letterbox, and using her fingers to hold it open, called, “Mr Morton? Wakey, wakey. It’s Northumbria Police. I’d like a word.”
A fragile woman in her sixties was stood in the neighbouring doorway. She wore a thin nightgown and was barefoot.
“Deanna Morton? I’m DCI Cooper, I’m looking for your son.”
“He’s already spoken to you lot,” she answered, folding her arms over her flat chest.
“I understand he’s spoken to a colleague of mine but I have a few questions of my own.”
Deanna rubbed her hands on her arms. Goosebumps were forming on her pale skin. “Guess you’d better come in then. He’s in the kitchen having his breakfast.”
Of course he is, thought Cooper. She was expecting a man-child and she wasn’t disappointed. Bryce Morton, in his late thirties, had slim shoulders and wobbly pipe cleaners for arms, but his hips and thighs were wider, giving him a pear-shaped frame that would be more suited to a female. A pair of Harry Potter style glasses had slid down his nose and he wore plaid pyjama bottoms with a t-shirt sporting Marvel’s Avengers.
“Mr Morton, Bryce, I know you already spoke to my colleague, but I need to ask you about Thursday night and Friday morning, specifically why you turned off the A189 in the direction of Weetslade Country Park.”
He looked to his mother before answering. “I told the officer who was here. I told her I have insomnia and when I can’t sleep I like to go for a drive. I find it peaceful when it’s dark and the roads are clear.”
Cooper hadn’t been offered a seat but she took one anyway, sitting opposite Morton. His mother’s kitchen was old fashioned with floral tiles and beige coloured units and worktops. The kitchen table was covered with a plastic tablecloth and on the windowsill, a framed photograph of a portly man was surrounded by fake flowers and battery-operated candles. A small plaque read: Rest In Peace Derrick Morton. Cooper crossed her legs and made eye contact with Bryce. “What keep’s you awake?”
“Oh, you know. The usual.” He gave a brief chuckle. “Work stress, money worries, this and that.”
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