Northern Roulette (DCI Cooper Book 4)

by B Baskerville

  Northern Roulette

  B Baskerville

  Copyright © B. Baskerville 2021

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted without the written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons* is coincidental.

  *Dogs are a different matter.

  Contents

  1. - Chapter 1 -

  2. - Chapter 2 -

  3. - Chapter 3 -

  4. - Chapter 4 -

  5. - Chapter 5 -

  6. - Chapter 6 -

  7. - Chapter 7 -

  8. - Chapter 8 -

  9. - Chapter 9 -

  10. - Chapter 10 -

  11. - Chapter 11 -

  12. - Chapter 12 -

  13. - Chapter 13 -

  14. - Chapter 14 -

  15. - Chapter 15 -

  16. - Chapter 16 -

  17. - Chapter 17 -

  18. - Chapter 18 -

  19. - Chapter 19 -

  20. - Chapter 20 -

  21. - Chapter 21 -

  22. - Chapter 22 -

  23. - Chapter 23 -

  24. - Chapter 24 -

  25. - Chapter 25 -

  26. - Chapter 26 -

  27. - Chapter 27 -

  28. - Chapter 28 -

  29. - Chapter 29 -

  30. - Chapter 30 -

  31. - Chapter 31 -

  32. - Chapter 32 -

  33. - Chapter 33 -

  34. - Chapter 34 -

  35. - Chapter 35 -

  36. - Chapter 36 -

  37. - Chapter 37 -

  38. - Chapter 38 -

  39. - Chapter 39 -

  40. - Chapter 40 -

  41. - Chapter 41 -

  42. - Chapter 42 -

  43. - Chapter 43 -

  44. - Chapter 44 -

  45. - Chapter 45 -

  46. - Chapter 46 -

  47. - Chapter 47 -

  48. - Chapter 48 -

  49. - Chapter 49 -

  50. - Chapter 50 -

  51. - Chapter 51 -

  52. - Chapter 52 -

  53. - Chapter 53 -

  - Meet Athena Fox -

  - Also by B Baskerville -

  - Message from the Author -

  - About the Author -

  - Chapter 1 -

  Like most things, the gym was better after dark. With the television unplugged, the music switched off, and the guests safely tucked up in bed, the gym became a different entity. He preferred it that way: quiet. Not that the guests used the gym all that much. Most of them came here to attend snooty, exclusive weddings or to hike up to the fairy pools, returning in the evening to bathe before feasting on venison and wild Scottish salmon.

  Quiet, save for the rhythmic sounds of his feet hitting the rubber belt of the treadmill and the cadence of his breath increasing until he couldn’t take another step.

  He hit the red button marked stop, and the belt slowed to a crawl. Though management called it a gym, it was smaller than most of the guest rooms. Windowless, the room was usually illuminated by harsh fluorescent lighting that bounced off the mirrored wall and stacks of chrome-coated dumbbells. Tonight, he worked out using only the lights from the machines and the green glow of an emergency exit sign that hung above the door. Someone had the bright idea of squeezing a treadmill, a cross-trainer and a rowing machine into the limited space. Anyone wanting to dismount from the cross-trainer had to step on the treadmill, though it hardly mattered; the cross-trainer hadn’t worked in months.

  A water cooler in the corner bubbled next to a pile of cone-shaped paper cups. Management had watched one too many episodes of Blue Planet and had, bit-by-bit, started a war on plastic. Paper cups? Had you ever heard of anything as useless? Chocolate fireguard, anyone? No more taking a sip here and there between sets. Now you had to drink before the cup blooming disintegrated.

  The treadmill came to a stop and he hunched over the control panel, taking deep gulps of cold air. Sweat chilled his skin almost as soon as he stopped running, and he had to slap his hands against his arms to stay warm.

  In front of a mirrored wall, two stacks of weights reminded him of miniature metal Christmas trees. The girlie one started with dumbbells that weighed less than a kilogram – utterly pointless. He’d caught rats that weighed more than those. Each set below increased in weight, with the bottom pair tipping the scales at five kilos. Still pretty pathetic now he thought about it.

  He’d long since stopped using the girlie weights. He used to be a scrawny little shit, all chicken legs and arms like cotton buds. They used to call him Twiggy, like that model in the sixties. The one with the long lashes and short hair. It was insulting having the same nickname as a lass. And a skinny one at that. Not that he could do anything about it back then. What was he going to do? Tell them not to call him that? That would only make it worse. Fight them? He didn’t think so. He’d been the smallest one by far. Underfed and underdeveloped.

  Not now.

  He ran a hand over the sets of dumbbells, feeling the smooth surface of each one in turn. He made his selection, choosing a hefty pair polished to a mirror finish, and stepped back onto some rubber matting. He completed his reps and lowered the set of heavy weights to the floor, embracing the thudding sound as metal hit rubber. Sixteen kilos each. Thirty-two kilos a pair. Most people couldn’t curl that weight. He could. He’d worked up to it day by day since he started here. Since the day he decided he wanted to start afresh. New job, new town, new friends, new body.

  New life.

  He removed his sweat-soaked t-shirt and admired his torso in the mirror. He’d grown so much. His arms were firm, swollen from the effort of his last repetitions. Veins protruded out of his biceps, and sweat pooled in the crooks of his elbows. He straightened his arm and watched droplets of salty liquid trickle down thick forearms before dripping from his fingertips. His pectorals glistened under the eerie green light; the patch of dark hair between them only served to make them look bigger.

  Twiggy was no more.

  He was twice the man he used to be, and while he savoured looking at his reflection and acknowledging the fruits of his labour, he never used the mirror to look at his face.

  He couldn’t look himself in the eye.

  Not yet.

  A few more sets and his workout would be finished for the day. Running and arms today; rowing and legs tomorrow. A mesh-patterned grip helped stop the dumbbells from slipping, but it didn’t feel rough against his skin. He’d lifted so much over the years that his palms had callused over; he was as proud of the calluses as he was his muscles. It was all part of the same transformation.

  Grunt followed curl as he lifted the weight from his thighs to his shoulders. Again. And again.

  He returned the weights to the rack of heavier weights and used his t-shirt to wipe down the bench. He’d clean it properly in the morning, disinfect it with Dettol and freshly-laundered cloths. The clock on the wall told him it was close to midnight. He could get five hours of sleep if he showered quickly and went straight to bed. He had to be back here to clean and open up by six. Then he had groundskeeping work to crack on with before more guests checked in at noon. He was usually the one tasked with helping them carry their luggage to their rooms. He massaged his arms where the bicep tendons attached to the radii and hoped tomorrow’s visitors hadn’t over-packed.

  Leaving the gym, he glanced at a rack of newspapers. Reading sometimes helped him sleep, but he wasn’t into novels. Romance was for bored housewives, and horror was for weirdos who liked vampires and crap like that. A tatty copy of the Guardian topped the pile, but he wasn’t one for the broad
sheets; they were poncey and elitist, and if he was honest, he couldn’t understand half of it.

  Telegraph? Nah.

  Financial Times? He’d rather read the back of a shampoo bottle.

  That’ll do, he thought, picking up yesterday’s Daily Mail. He didn’t always agree with their politics, but the articles were short and punchy. He liked that.

  Showered, teeth brushed, and bladder emptied, he clambered wearily into bed. His room was bare. It was better that way – less dusting. He didn’t need photos of loved ones, trinkets, pointless ornaments, or wooden letters that spelled out home or peace. What was the point of those? To trick yourself into feeling at home or feeling more at peace? Read it enough times and you might believe it? He didn’t think so.

  He flicked the switches by the bed, turning the ceiling light off and the bedside light on. A headline in thick black letters said something about the Queen’s Birthday Honours List. The perfect mix of celebrities who thought they were social champions and Joe-publics who’d done this, that or the other for some cause that only mattered to them. It was bound to put him to sleep.

  Giles Crouch for services to the NHS… Alba Kavanagh – hmm, she’s a looker – for services to the community… Glenn Kennedy for services to business and the economy. Boring.

  His eyes became heavy as the paper lulled him to sleep. After that workout, he’d sleep well, wake up famished and enjoy bacon, eggs and black pudding for breakfast before starting his shift. The thought of one of Stacey’s breakfasts warmed him, and he was about to drift off to dreams of golden yolks and crispy bacon when something made his eyes pop wide. He sat up, pushing the paper under the bedside lamp, feeling his heart hammer against in chest like it had when he ran on the treadmill.

  Like it had earlier in his life.

  He wasn’t a big strong man anymore. He was a little boy with sticks for legs and no one to turn to. He was scared.

  His eyes fixated on a name. One he hadn’t been reminded of in a long time. One he’d hoped would never pollute his mind again.

  For services to…

  He swallowed his fear and, in a moment of frenetic madness, tore the paper to shreds. Like a terrier that had hold of a rat, he shook and ripped at it until newspaper confetti rained down upon his bed.

  No. This would not do.

  It would not do at all.

  - Chapter 2 -

  Three weeks later.

  Detective Sergeant Jack “Tennessee” Daniel made his way to the stage. Sweat made his curly hair claggy with salt, and his thighs burned with lactic acid. He and his colleagues – DCI Erica Cooper and DS Paula Keaton – had just finished a charity relay triathlon: Northumbria Police versus Tyne and Wear Fire and Rescue. Cooper went first, completing the open water swim, followed by Tennessee, who tackled the cycling leg from Tynemouth to neighbouring Whitley Bay and back. He handed over to Keaton, the true athlete of the team, who sprinted the final section along Longsands beach. He and Cooper kept the team in contention; Keaton powered them into second place.

  It was a bright, beautiful day, and barefoot families enjoying a day at the coast had packed the award-winning stretch of sand. Now that the race was over, children went back to their ice creams and admired the entries in the sandcastle competition.

  Tennessee pulled at the hem on the left leg of his cycling shorts, levelling it with the right. A group of yummy mummies had gathered by the stage and had just finished eyeing up the team of firefighters who’d come third. As soon as they clocked Tennessee, their eyebrows began wiggling. The bright pink lycra had seemed like a good idea at the time, and while it was a sunny day in North Tyneside, it was still chilly. The lycra left nothing, and he meant nothing, to the imagination.

  Hashtag Me Too, Tennessee thought to himself as he jumped up and shook hands with Commissioner Begum and Chief Fire Officer Spence. He’d looked forward to this event for weeks. The idea of competing for a good cause had fuelled him and Keaton through an arduous double murder investigation. When they’d convinced Cooper to join their team, he felt like he’d hit the jackpot; it wouldn’t have been right having anyone else from the squad, and he knew she needed the distraction.

  The news about Cooper’s father’s heart attack had come at the tail end of the investigation. Her flight may have been booked for tomorrow morning, but the look on his chief’s face when she’d been handed a phone told him everything he needed to know: Ben Cooper had died before she’d been able to say goodbye.

  It was with a heavy heart that Tennessee accepted the large silver trophy. He’d swap it for Ben Cooper’s life in a heartbeat. As the mummies nudged each other and a boy mercilessly kicked over the entries in the sandcastle competition, Tennessee could hear the desperate sobs of his grieving boss and her daughter.

  “Erm… Yeah… I’d like to thank everyone for coming out to… erm, support this event,” he said, taking the mic. Unaccustomed to public speaking, Tennessee’s words were peppered with stutters and hesitation. “Thanks to Superintendent Nixon for asking me to enter a team on behalf of CID. And… yeah, thanks to Hayley, Pat and Alfie,” he added, naming his wife, mother-in-law and young son. This wasn’t exactly the motivating and rousing speech he’d come up with while powering his bike along the A193 – known locally as The Links. Not that it mattered, no one was listening to the young DS. Not when they could earwig on Cooper crying to her bereaved mother over the phone.

  “Yeah… Cheers and erm, congratulations to the winners.”

  Tennessee jumped back off the stage, landing softly with knees bent. The trophy felt heavy in his hand, and he didn’t quite know what to do with it. Cooper wouldn’t want it. It would forever be a reminder of Ben Cooper’s death – he’d give it to Keaton. The former full-back probably had a trophy cabinet at home. Heck, she probably had a trophy room. Grabbing the trophy by one of its silver handles, Tennessee let out a long sigh. He was a fixer. He shouldered family pressures, made sacrifices for those he cared for, and tried to do right by the team at CID, but he didn’t know how to fix this. What could he say to Cooper? I’m sorry for your loss? Five words he’d had to say too many times since he started working for the police. Cooper didn’t deserve the same five words he gave to everyone else.

  Tennessee didn’t have time to think of something more personalised. As he took two steps towards his team and family, a scream reverberated down Longsands. It was a panicked shriek that came in short sharp bursts before releasing into an almighty squeal of fear and horror.

  The young boy who’d been kicking over sandcastles staggered backwards, his arm outstretched and pointing to what had been a sand sculpture of a giant snake. He continued screaming until a woman raced to hold him. She, in turn, began to shriek when she saw what had frightened him.

  Tennessee’s training meant he didn’t jump to conclusions; he didn’t trust anything until he’d thoroughly examined it. Still, there were certain things Tennessee knew instantly. Certain sights, sounds or smells that didn’t leave a trace of doubt.

  Poking out of the sandy tumulus was something pale, bloated and mottled with hypostasis. Tennessee was looking at a human arm.

  - Chapter 3 -

  Murder victims weren’t usually found this way. Typically, they were found in the early hours by dog walkers. The only demographic to be out twice a day, every day, regardless of the weather. Dog walkers frequent hedgerows, woodlands, and secluded country lanes. They know the land and know when something is out of place. Their furry companions have a sense of smell forty times greater than that of their owners, and because of neophilia – an attraction to new sensations – the dogs are drawn to different scents in the undergrowth. If something is decaying in a shallow grave, the beloved pet who licks their master’s face, shares their bed, and steals their favourite biscuits is the one who’ll sniff it out.

  Not on this day.

  This body wasn’t found by a lone gentleman and an enthusiastic spaniel. It wasn’t found in the early hours, in the dark shadows, with no one else around.
This poor soul was discovered on a busy beach, to the sounds of a steel band playing calypso tunes and spectators cheering on runners as they crossed the finish line.

  “What’s going on?” Copper asked.

  Hayley Daniel passed her young son to her mother and wrapped an arm around Cooper as she escorted her off the beach. Behind her, Cooper’s teenage daughter was comforted by her boyfriend. Josh moved to kiss Tina on the head, but she pulled away. In times of stress, she hated physical contact. Sometimes she could be the polar opposite of Cooper, who could be made to feel better with a simple hug or touch of a hand.

  The Daniels’ people carrier was parked on a steep incline that carved a route down to the beach. Hayley pulled a key fob from her pocket and opened the car remotely. Pat, her mother, wasted no time in securing baby Alfie into his car seat. She soothed his restless cries with cooing noises, then ushered Cooper and Tina into the back seat.

  Josh’s face clouded when he realised there was no room for him in the car. “I’ll see you back at yours, T. I’ll bring… I don’t know… I’ll bring something.”

  The poor lad was trying, thought Cooper. That was all any of them could do. Still, she was distracted from her own pain by scenes of utter chaos.

  “Seriously, what’s going on? she asked again. “I heard screaming.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Hayley said in a baby voice because she was patting Alfie on the belly with one hand while starting the engine and checking her seatbelt with the other.

  As she turned the key in the ignition, the radio switched on, tuning in to a local station. A jingle advertising a funeral director began to play at full volume. Hayley’s hand flew to the off button with lightning speed.

  “Sorry,” she said, looking at Cooper in the rearview mirror. “Look, we’ll get you two back to your place, get the kettle on and help you with anything you need.” She turned to look over her shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Erica.”