“You obviously know about the assault that occurred in Weetslade on Thursday night?”
He nodded and ate a spoonful of Sugar Puffs. A drop of milk dribbled down his chin. “The officer who was here last time told me about it. She wanted to know if I’d seen or heard anything.”
“And had you?”
“No.”
“It was a very serious assault, Bryce. Weapons were used and the victim may not survive. In that case, this investigation will escalate to manslaughter, maybe even murder.”
His eyes flicked to his mother’s and they exchanged a look that Cooper wasn’t able to interpret.
“I didn’t see anything,” he added, taking another mouthful of cereal.
Cooper opened her notepad and asked Morton to describe the route he had taken that night.
“I drove south and left the estate to join Sandy Lane. Then I went up Great Lime Road, past Weetslade and then along Dudley Lane and back into Wideopen.”
“That can’t have taken very long.” Cooper was visualising the route in her head. In rush hour it would be a nightmare, but in the middle of the night, it wasn’t more than a fifteen-minute drive.
“No,” he agreed. “Twenty minutes maybe. Just long enough to zone out. Driving can be a form of hypnotherapy, you know. People get into a sort of autopilot.”
“Did you stop off in the park?”
He shook his head. “No. I told you, I just went for a drive.”
“Did you see any cars in the carpark when you passed it?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“No one hanging about?”
“It was pitch black beyond the road. If there was, I wouldn’t have noticed. I’m very sorry that that man got hurt but I can’t help you. I don’t know anything about it.”
“So, the forensics teams won’t find your tyre tracks in the carpark?”
He looked from Cooper to his mother, and back again. “I go into Weetslade a lot. My car, I mean Mum’s car, is often there.”
“When was it last there, Bryce?”
“Last night,” he said, the colour seeping from his already pasty face. “Around six. The park’s open again now, all the tape’s been taken down. I went for a walk.” He patted his belly. “I wanted some exercise. Got to get ten thousand steps a day.”
Cooper knew many perpetrators liked to return to the scene of the crime. Some got a kick out of it by reliving the moment in their heads. Others liked to snoop around, see if the police were still there. The most audacious would seek out the police, pretend they witnessed the event or saw someone suspicious. Bryce Morton seemed a bit wet, a bit too much of a Mummy’s boy to overpower a man, hold him captive and beat the living shit out him, but she didn’t rule out the idea that this weak man-child thing he had going on could be a convincing act.
She tilted her head to one side. “Did you hear, we found your wallet near to where the attack occurred?”
“My wallet? I— I lost that months ago. Months.” His eyebrows inclined towards each other and his chin tucked in, merging into his neck.
Cooper said nothing.
“I cancelled all my cards. There was eighty quid in it though. Do you know if the cash was still there?”
“I don’t. I can ask forensics.”
“Forensics? It’s not, I mean, you’re not using it as evidence, are you? I said I wasn’t in the park on Friday night. I didn’t hurt that man. That wallet’s been missing for ages. Am I in some sort of trouble?”
“We’re just trying to establish who was in or near the park at the time of the assault.” She put her card on the table and slid it across to Morton. While his eyes watched the card, she scanned his knuckles and forearms; he didn’t have any defensive wounds or bruises to raise Cooper’s suspicions. “Have a think, Bryce. If you remember anything. No matter how insignificant it might seem, call me.”
She got to her feet and excused herself, she had somewhere else she wanted to be.
Cooper had the Mazda back, and eight hundred quid later, it had been given the all-clear. She put it into first gear and headed north. Once she joined the A1 she put a call into Keaton using speakerphone.
“Boss?”
“How’s it going, Paula? Any news?”
“I’ve got Omar’s wife settled in at the RVI. She’s a mess, poor thing. Imagine not seeing your other half for almost a year and when you do see them, they’re in a coma and… well, you know what he looks like.”
“Have you heard from Tennessee?”
“Nothing. You?” When Cooper didn’t answer, Keaton pressed again. “Boss?”
“Sorry, Paula. I’m a bit distracted. Driving. Erm, no. I haven’t heard anything. I’m giving him some space.”
“I’m feeling pretty shitty about not realising something was up.”
“You and me both, Paula. Postnatal depression’s a terrible thing. I hope Hayley gets the help she needs. Tennessee too. Seems like he’s been shouldering this for a while. I wonder why he didn’t talk to us sooner?”
“Because he’s a bloke. And blokes aren’t exactly the best when it comes to opening up, are they?”
“Times are changing. Mental health seems to be at the forefront of people’s minds these days. Hopefully the next generation won’t be as closed off as we are.” The irony of what Cooper had just said wasn’t lost on her. She wasn’t distracted because she was driving. She was distracted because of something else and she bit her bottom lip for a moment as she pondered sharing her own feelings.
“I heard from Nexus,” said Keaton before Cooper could decide. “Omar got on the Metro at Monument in Newcastle. I followed the CCTV backwards and traced him to Times Square. He was coming out of The Eagle.”
“The Eagle?” Cooper racked her brain as she drove. “I don’t recognise the name.”
“It’s a gay bar.”
“Huh.” All this time, Nixon had thought the attack on Omar was racially motivated. Perhaps this was a hate crime of a different sort. Was his attack down to homophobia? “Does the wife know?” she asked.
Keaton snorted. “If she doesn’t, I’m not telling her. Besides, you don’t have to be gay to go to a gay bar. Maybe he was meeting a friend? Maybe he just likes the music. He was only in there for an hour.”
As Cooper continued north she left Newcastle’s northern suburbs and her world became very green. Sheep and cattle grazed in open pastures and copses of conifers stood tall on either side of the dual carriageway.
“We don’t know of him having any friends,” Cooper mused, mainly to herself. “His work colleagues said he kept to himself and from what the neighbour said, it didn’t sound like he had much of a social life. Can you nip into town, Paula, and talk to the staff? See if anyone remembers anything or recognises him? Then take another look at the cameras. We know he was fine when he got on the Metro at Monument, and we know he was still fine when he got off the Metro at Byker. I want to know if anyone followed him. See who got on at the same station. Did anyone approach him?”
Keaton confirmed she’d follow those lines of inquiry and hung up. It was an overcast day and the sky was stony grey. The darkness above made the colour of the fields pop in vibrant shades of green, punctuated occasionally with the bright yellow of rapeseed. It was the sort of day made for baggy jumpers, hot tea and a good book but Cooper stood little chance of engaging in that sort of behaviour; she was approaching Morpeth.
No one agreed on where Morpeth got its name. Some said it was derived from Moor Path as the road, which was the main route connecting England and Scotland, traversed the Northumbrian moorlands. Others said it was derived from the more sinister Murder Path, after a brutal killing that had occurred on the road. What everyone could agree on was the fact that Morpeth was a beautiful market town with many structures still standing from the 1500s. Cooper was especially fond of a cuboid clock tower that dominated the town centre. She slowed the Mazda as she drove past to get a better look and to cast her mind back to days out with her parents. Morpeth C
astle had always fascinated the feminist in her; it had been handed down the female line of numerous powerful families, until the 1980s when, disappointingly, it became a holiday let.
Cooper continued until she reached the opposite side of town and followed a quiet street lined with plush, detached homes that Cooper would describe as half mansions. Finally, she reached her destination. An impressive house stood at the end of the road, separated from the nearest homes by at least a hundred metres of scrubland on either side. It was Jamie Blake’s house.
“So, this is what you can buy on an art dealer’s salary?” she whispered to herself. She was in the wrong profession. Cooper looked left and right and couldn’t see any other cars. Blake should be at work by now anyway but she wasn’t taking any chances; the man was creepy and she wanted to make sure no one was around. She waited in the car for several minutes, watching the windows of the house for movement, and when none came she dialled the number for The Biscuit Factory.
“Hello, The Biscuit Factory. Leanne speaking, how may I help you?”
Leanne’s voice was prim and fast.
“Morning, could I speak to Jamie Blake please?”
“He’s not in yet.” Cooper’s heart quickened. “Could I take a message?”
Cooper hung up and waited several more minutes before sliding into the back seat of the Mazda to change her clothing. She dispensed with the smart trousers and blazer she had worn to speak to Bryce Morton and pulled on a pair of baggy jeans, an unflattering hoodie and a pair of worn Nike trainers. It wasn’t her greatest look. Frankly, she could pass for a prepubescent boy, but if the goal was to not look like a detective, she’d achieved it.
Exiting her vehicle, Cooper locked the car and wandered up to Blake’s house. Immediately, a sign above the letterbox caught her attention: Beware of the dog.
Bad dog? she wondered, peering through the living room window and seeing a stylish, modern interior. Not a piece of chintz or clutter in sight. There was also no sign of the aforementioned dog. Not able to hear any barking or scratching, Cooper squeaked the front gate back and forth on its hinges for a few seconds. No German shepherds came running at the door and no Jack Russells thinking they’re German shepherds came either. The sign might just be a decoy to dissuade potential burglars. Not that Cooper had any intention of illegally entering Blake’s property. As long as she stayed on the public land that surrounded his house, she wouldn’t be doing anything wrong.
Cooper followed the start of a bridle path that ran down the side of Blake’s house and casually cast her gaze through his kitchen window. She couldn’t see much, being on the short side, but she could see two ornaments on the windowsill: a matching set of porcelain cocker spaniels. Blake’s garden was vast and shielded from view by seven-foot-tall fences. Cooper had no chance of being able to see over the top, but she could just see through the gaps between some of the slats. The lawn was well maintained, short and neat. She could see no flowers but there were numerous pots of herbs, including mint, thyme and chives. She couldn’t see any rosemary, but she could smell it. A garden path with night lights on either side snaked towards a two-person sauna, a hot tub and an outdoor shower. Jamie Blake had some serious wealth. This was a man who could afford Yeezies.
Near the far end of the garden but still at least three or four metres away from the back fence was a green shed. The shed was reinforced with sheets of hardwood that had been nailed to the sides and a series of heavy padlocks secured the door.
It was protected like Fort Knox.
Having recently studied a case file on David Parker Ray, the American known as the Toy Box Killer, the shed gave Cooper an uneasy feeling, but before she could decide to take a closer look, the sound of an approaching car made her jump. She pulled up her hood and did her best boy walk back towards her car, never looking back for fear of making eye contact with Jamie Blake.
It took twice as long as it should have done to drive back to Wallsend. Some numpty had left a gate open and a flock of sheep had wandered onto the A1. Thankfully no sheep or humans had been harmed. Back in Wallsend, Cooper stopped at the local McDonald’s drive-through to pick up an Egg McMuffin and an Americano that was hot enough to melt glass. She struggled to eat the breakfast sandwich while she was parked up outside the restaurant; her mouth was dry and no matter how much she chewed, each bite was difficult to swallow. Eventually, she gave up and threw the remaining sandwich in the bin and headed back around the corner to HQ.
As she got out of the car and slung her handbag over one shoulder, Cooper looked to the sky and saw the sun was beginning to break through the grey. A beam of sunlight shone down upon her car. Perhaps it was a good omen for her afternoon? Or, maybe it was the patron saint of cars trying to take her old Mazda off to the afterlife? She picked up her coffee in one hand and her suit in the other and strode into the building only to be immediately clocked by Nixon.
“Cooper.”
“Sir.” She hoped he wasn’t about to rant at her for being at Marsden Rock yesterday.
A line appeared between his brows as he scrutinised her. “Why are you dressed like a twelve-year-old chav?”
Cooper’s jaw tightened and she held up the suit she was carrying. “Don’t worry, sir. I’ll be suited and booted before you know it.”
“What’s the latest on the Weetslade assault case? The Chronicle ran a story last night and there was something on Look North about women being too scared to go jogging or walk their dogs because of the attack. Now the blinking RSPCA have released a statement about how terrible it is that dogs are being denied the exercise they need because we’re not making the streets safe.”
“What a load of old tosh,” said Cooper. “Statistically, Northumberland and Tyne and Wear are—”
“No one cares about statistics, Cooper. They care about headlines and selling papers. So, what’s the latest?”
“The net’s closing in, sir.” Cooper took a deep breath and could smell the aroma of her coffee as it drifted up to her nostrils. It might have been a cheap cuppa from the local drive-through but it was causing her to salivate. Even just the smell of it was waking her up.
“The victim was last seen on Tuesday the twelfth. He finished work at the usual time and in the evening he visited a bar near Times Square. He got on the Metro at Monument at ten-forty and alighted at Byker shortly after eleven p.m. None of his neighbours can recall hearing him come home and he never made it into work the next day. We believe he was either taken on Tuesday night or was lured away somehow. The bar he visited is a gay bar, so we’re considering that the attack could be homophobic in nature rather than racially motivated. Keaton is speaking to the staff today.”
Nixon glanced at his watch but urged Cooper to keep going.
“The wounds suffered by the victim indicate he had some sort of metal collar attached to his neck and had been bound by ropes around the torso. He suffered multiple stab wounds which are consistent with scissor attacks. I’ve found some previous cases with similar MOs. Cases involving collars or scissors. One of whom is of particular interest: James Blake. I’ve checked with local intelligence and have found no connection to far-right groups.”
“Sounds like you’ve made a good start, Cooper. I need it wrapped up as soon as you can though. We’re stretched beyond belief at the moment.” He checked his watch again. “Anything else?”
Cooper could have gone into more detail. She could have mentioned the cars caught on traffic cams and the wallet found at the scene. She could have asked why she’d been taken off the Macey Gallagher case and enquired about the latest developments. Instead, she fished the parking ticket she’d received yesterday from her bag and thrust it into Nixon’s hand.
“Yes, sir. Can you make this go away, sir?”
- Chapter 20 -
When Cooper entered CID in the early afternoon, she spotted Paula Keaton playing a game of rock, paper, scissors with Oliver Martin. Apparently, in this version, every time you lost you had to do five push-ups. Cooper watched M
artin do fifty push-ups in a row before asking if they had work to be getting on with.
Martin, whose complexion was now somewhat dewy, scurried away. Presumably, he still had his tail between his legs after the scalding she’d given him over his attitude. Keaton dusted her hands on her trousers and picked up some files from her desk.
“Boss, I’m just about to head over to Byker. Going to check in with the guys canvassing the area and see what they have. See if Khush Patel’s name has come up. He served time for attacking someone with scissors and I think it’s a good idea to find out where he was on Tuesday evening and Wednesday morning. The climbing centre returned Tennessee’s call and they do have a small camera that covers a stretch of the main road directly in front of the centre. I’m going to go and see if it’s picked anything up.”
Cooper’s face lit up. This was good news. Hopefully, the cameras caught something of use. “Excellent,” she said. “Keep in touch and let me know how you get on. I have somewhere I need to be later but if I don’t pick up just leave me a message.”
Keaton nodded and moved towards the door. She hesitated and then turned back. “Boss, I’ll be near the big ASDA in Byker. Thought I might nip in and pick up some things for Tennessee and Hayley. Some posh fruit? A load of vitamins might do them some good. There’s a couple of herbal teas from Clipper that might help them sleep. Their organic nettle infusion’s the bee’s knees.” She tipped her head from side to side. “Or, do you think I’m best staying clear and keeping my nose out of things?”
“I think that’s a lovely idea, Paula.” Cooper wondered why she hadn’t considered the idea herself, but she knew the answer, deep down, she knew the answer. “Tell Tennessee I’m thinking of him and give Hayley my best. I have something to take care of this evening but I’ll give him a call tomorrow see how things are.”
Just as Keaton left, Neil Fuller and Sam Sutherland walked in.
The men tipped invisible hats to Cooper with perfect synchronicity and Cooper was at a miss as to when the two had become so close. Sutherland, like Cooper, had always considered Fuller a bit of a cowardly wet blanket, and now, Cooper wouldn’t be surprised if Sutherland put his arm around Fuller’s shoulders in a display of uncensored bromance.
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