Northern Roulette (DCI Cooper Book 4)

by B Baskerville

  Cooper didn’t want a cup of tea, and she definitely didn’t want company; she wanted to be with her grieving mother. She looked at the mobile phone she clutched in her hand and realised her fingernails were blue with cold. Cooper pulled her thick dressing gown tighter around her. Only minutes before the news of her father’s death, she’d been swimming in the unforgiving North Sea. Other than the dressing gown, she wore only her swimsuit. Cold water dripped down her goosebump-covered legs and dampened the car mats beneath her feet.

  As Hayley forced a reluctant gearstick into reverse and began to edge out of the parking space, Cooper looked past Tina to the expanse of golden sand that ran through Tynemouth. There were tens, possibly hundreds of people crowded around one of the sandcastles. People ran across the sand for a closer look; others jostled their way through the human wall to get the centre. Amid the madness, a streak of pink lycra that Cooper presumed to be Tennessee was pointing in all directions to a smaller group gathered around him.

  Northumbria Police and Tyne and Wear Fire and Rescue were suddenly in a joint effort to clear the immediate area. Tennessee’s first concern was to preserve the scene, which meant escorting the rubberneckers from the vicinity. He gathered the nearest members of the emergency services and began to dish out instructions.

  “Get everyone back,” he called. “Don’t let anyone touch anything.” Though, as he said it, it seemed like an impossible task. The beach was heaving with all manner of folk. While some were getting out of there as fast as they could, others clearly revelled in the bedlam. Clearing the area was going to be like herding cats.

  Still exhausted from the triathlon, the competitors were quickly renewed with adrenaline and a sense of purpose; their training kicked in despite the unusual circumstances.

  “Get them off the beach,” he said over the commotion. “I want names, as many as you can. Find a way to record who’s here. We’ll need as many witnesses as we can.”

  As well as patrol officers and firefighters, Tennessee had gathered a group that included the drug squad, the K9 unit, and armed response. All of them suddenly thrust back into the line of duty after an enjoyable morning doing their bit for a local charity. Despite the volume of emergency services at his disposal, Tennessee was well aware only two teams in the race had included members of CID. Now that DCI Cooper has been taken home, that left he and Paula Keaton – a fellow DS – as the likely candidates to take the lead. He caught her eye, and they exchanged a look they both knew and understood.

  Looks like we’re in charge.

  The mother of the naughty boy who’d discovered the body ran up to DC Elliot Whyte and grabbed him by the lapels of his navy dressing gown. Like Cooper, Whyte had taken on the swimming leg of the triathlon, and as the woman grabbed him, his dressing gown came loose, exposing a chest of dark wiry hair.

  “Phone the police,” she gasped. “Someone phone the police!”

  Whyte freed himself and fastened the towelling fabric back around him. “Ma’am, I am the police. You’re surrounded by police.” He turned his eyes to Tennessee. “Where do you want me, Jack?”

  “Take her and her son to the café.” He nodded towards Crusoe’s, a castaway themed eatery at the southern end of the beach. “They’re bound to have a pad of paper you can use. Start taking her statement.”

  Whyte signalled his assent and guided the mother and son towards a roped-off deck. Under different circumstances, Tennessee, Keaton and Cooper would have been sat on the deck, drinking refreshing pints in celebration by now.

  “You. Sorry, what’s your name?” Tennessee asked a young female police officer. “PC Gibson? I know you’re tired, but can you run up to the Grand Hotel? We’ll need stationery. As much as you can get your hands on. Give them a heads up that we’ll be needing their CCTV as well.”

  The PC didn’t hesitate. She jogged uphill, calling another officer to follow her to her stately Victorian building. Keaton had managed to form a perimeter around the snake-shaped sandcastle. She’d gathered cones and tape that had been used to mark the start and finish lines of the three elements to the triathlon to create a cordon. It would do until someone arrived with official blue and white tape marked police line do not cross.

  A man moved closer to take a photo with his mobile. Keaton folded her arms over her broad chest and strode towards him, clearly unimpressed with his lack of respect for the deceased. The man took one look at Keaton’s stern face and formidable build, tucked his phone away and left the scene.

  Minutes ago, Superintendent Howard Nixon had handed out trophies to the teams in bronze, silver and gold positions. He was now apoplectic as he growled down his phone, demanding as much manpower as they could spare to process all the witnesses. When he was done, a nervous Tennessee asked to borrow Nixon’s phone. His own mobile was in Hayley’s handbag as his lycra outfit lacked pockets.

  Dialling Byker Police Station, Tennessee asked to be put through to Rebecca Hogg’s team. “Becky, did you hear? Yeah, crazy. Listen, do me a favour and set up a website where the public can submit photos and video footage they’ve taken today. We might catch something suspicious. Cheers, Becky.”

  Experience had taught Tennessee that killers often wanted to witness the aftermath of their crimes, to revel in the pain and confusion that followed. Hanging up, he knew there was a significant chance that the person or persons responsible would be in one of the photos. Heck, they could still be on the beach right now. A shiver ran down his spine. With a feeling that he was being watched, he looked about the scene. Was anyone staring back at him? Was anyone showing an unnatural fascination with what was going on? The back of his neck prickled. He shook the feeling away by turning his attention to Oliver Martin and Saffron Boyd, young detectives who’d worked with him during the Blackburn case.

  “Martin, Boyd, good work clearing the masses. We’re going to need those cars moved from the bank.” He pointed up towards where Hayley had been parked. “The pathologist and SOCO will be here any minute. They’ll need access.”

  “Consider it done,” said Martin. He was still out of breath from the cycle ride to Whitley Bay and back.

  Boyd led the way but not before Tennessee had clocked the look on her face. This had caught her off guard; she looked shaken. He couldn’t blame her.

  Howard Nixon checked his watch. He’d made the call over five minutes ago; the help he’d ordered should be here in thirty seconds. He angled his head away from the gentle waves of the North Sea and strained for the sound of sirens. His hearing wasn’t what it was. He’d likely see the flashing blue before he heard the warning tone.

  He wasn’t supposed to have favourites, and yet he somehow had a soft spot for Cooper. She stood her ground with him and wasn’t afraid to call him out when he used terms the youngsters considered offensive. Terms he regarded as harmless fun. Truth be told, she could be a right pain in the arse. Still, he didn’t like seeing her in so much pain.

  Nixon had approved the DCI’s leave. He knew her father had taken ill rather quickly, and he didn’t need to call on his many years of police training to put two and two together. She’d missed her chance to say goodbye, just as he’d been too late to say goodbye to his dear wife. He felt saddened by the memory, then put it aside.

  From his elevated position on the stage, Nixon had a decent view of everything around him. It was chaos, but it was organised chaos. Young Jack Daniel and that Keaton woman – who for some reason put the fear of God into him – had taken command. It was admirable. They had taken units from all walks of the services and formed them into a cohesive unit: a team of teams. Perhaps Cooper’s trusted detective sergeants were ready to move up the ladder.

  - Chapter 4 -

  “Can’t a girl have a Saturday off once in a while?”

  Margot Swanson was the sort of older woman who ate impressionable young men for breakfast. She was a curvy-bodied, curly-haired unapologetic flirt, and she was one of the best pathologists in the north. Tennessee made a point of never being left alone
in a room with her.

  Uniformed officers had arrived ten minutes before Margot. They closed the beach and set up inner and outer cordons. A male officer in his thirties was appointed scene manager. Tennessee had already made a note of all the police and fire officers who were present using the stationery they borrowed from the hotel. The scene manager took the list and began transferring their names to the official logbook. Margot showed him her ID, pulled on a forensic suit and tied her wild hair back into a chignon. Next, she unfolded the legs of a pop-up table and rolled out some plastic sheeting. She muttered to herself that any efforts to keep sand off the body while she worked would be like shutting the stable door after the horse had bolted.

  Tennessee spotted the van used by the scene of crime officers as it forced its way through traffic on Grand Parade. They were admitted through the outer cordon and parked on the ramp leading down to the beach. Justin Atkinson and the other scene of crime officers exited the vehicle, signed in and began laying boards and erecting tents. Once the sandcastle and the body that lay within were hidden behind white plastic, the crowds gathered on Grande Parade began to thin. A crime scene hidden by a tent was far less interesting than a crime scene out in the open.

  Tennessee took long strides as he went to greet Atkinson. He was a tall man, as tall as Tennessee, but he was thinner, and his wisdom showed through peppery hair and lines around his eyes. Despite the wrinkles, his eyes sparkled behind rimless glasses. They shook hands, then Atkinson pulled on nitrile gloves.

  “Don’t feel pressured to watch,” Atkinson told Tennessee.

  Tennessee didn’t have an iron stomach, so he stepped back and let his eyes wander around the roof of the tent while Atkinson sifted away the top layers of sand. So far, he’d only seen the arm, and Tennessee wondered if they were only dealing with a severed limb. Of course, if they moved all the sand and only found an arm, it would raise a whole host of new questions. Where was the rest of him? Or her?

  He glanced.

  A shoulder, a chest, a head. It was a full body.

  Atkinson, his assistant – Hong Evanstad – and Margot carefully lifted the deceased onto plastic sheeting to take a closer look.

  Margot confirmed death, then swept the victim’s hair from her face. “Female. Mid-to-late sixties would be my first estimate.”

  Atkinson straightened up and rubbed his back. He took a look around, paused, then scanned again.

  “Isn’t Erica here? I thought she was competing today.”

  “She was,” Tennessee said. He tipped his head towards the doorway to the tent, and Atkinson followed him out into the sunshine.

  “Cooper got some bad news after her swim.”

  His face saddened. “Her father?”

  Tennessee nodded. “There were complications during surgery; they triggered another heart attack. He didn’t make it.”

  Atkinson pulled off his gloves and brought a hand to his face. “Poor woman’s been through so much.”

  “If you need to go,” Tennessee started.

  The tall man shook his head. “No. My duty’s here. But Erica’s not alone, is she? What about Tina?”

  “My wife’s with them. My mother-in-law too.”

  Atkinson’s Adam’s apple bounced as he swallowed. They had history – Atkinson and Cooper – Tennessee didn’t know where they currently stood with each other, but the pair were close. Always had been. He sighed deeply before speaking. “I’ve started. I’ll finish.”

  A mentality shared between SOCO, CID and Magnus Magnusson.

  Back in the sweltering heat of the tent, Tennessee heard Hong say, “She’s fresh.”

  He and Atkinson readied themselves to return to work with an emptiness in their chests.

  “I agree.” Margot tilted her head and made some notes. “I’d say the time of death was twelve to sixteen hours ago. I’ll know more when I can examine her properly.” She removed her gloves, picked up her phone and dialled the morgue. “Peter, dear. Who or what is scheduled for tomorrow morning?... Okay, move that to Monday; Frida won’t mind... Yes, I’ll be in early tomorrow to take a look at this one. Eight a.m. sharp. Oh, and a coffee – black, one sugar – wouldn’t go amiss.”

  Margot put her phone away and looked down at the unfortunate woman lying on the plastic. She had a full figure and warm brown hair with white roots. Though the blood had drained from her face, it was clear she had a tan. Red polish adorned her fingernails and a loose-fitting black dress, now damp from the wet sand that had been formed around her, clung to her torso.

  Turning her large eyes towards Tennessee, Margot formed her lips into a pout. “A Sunday morning post-mortem? Just what every girl dreams of. Tony and I were supposed to be heading to the lakes for a romantic night away. In fact, I got the call just I was lifting my overnight bag into the boot of his car.” She placed a hand on Tennessee’s shoulder and slowly looked the lycra-clad detective up and down. ”You owe me a dirty weekend, Detective Daniel.”

  - Chapter 5 -

  Elliott Whyte and Saffron Boyd were the first to return to HQ. They set up an incident room and typed the first entries into HOLMES2. Next on the agenda was to liaise with Missing Persons to see if anyone matching the victim’s description had been reported missing. Who was she? Only one person matched the basic description Tennessee had sent through to them: Clara Rosewood, missing for three years. Whyte printed a photograph of the missing woman and handed it to Tennessee.

  “No,” he said, handing the picture back to Whyte. “It’s not her.”

  The door to the incident room squeaked as Paula Keaton entered. “Right, gather round, peeps,” she announced. “Granted, we all know we should be in the pub right about now, but we’re not, so let’s get on with it. First thing’s first, has anyone heard from Coop?”

  Tennessee waved a blue ballpoint in the air. “Hayley messaged me. They’re all at Cooper’s house. She’s not good,” he said.

  “I’ll swing by when we’re done here,” said Keaton.

  “If we’re done here. Where are we with the list of witnesses?”

  Keaton sat on the edge of a table and rolled her eyes. “So far, I have over five hundred names on my list. And that’s just the people who were on the beach at the time the body was discovered.”

  “Bloody hell. It’s going to take forever to get statements from all of them.”

  “We’ve made a start,” Keaton assured him. “And uniforms will pick up where we left off first thing tomorrow.”

  Tennessee started chewing the end of the ballpoint. He stopped when he felt the plastic crunch under his teeth. “During the race – while I was peddling – I was thinking—”

  “Did it hurt?”

  “Shut up. I thought to myself, some of those sand sculptures must have taken hours, the intricate ones especially. They must have started in the wee hours or even in the middle of the night. I want to know if anyone saw the snake being built and if anyone has a description of the artist.”

  Elliot Whyte cleared his throat and raked his fingers through his thick black hair. “From what’s been processed so far, no one recalls seeing the sandcastle being built yet. But as Keaton says, there’s a lot of people we still have to talk to.”

  “Ah.” Saffron Boyd lifted up a piece of paper. “Erm, I have a report from someone saying it was already built when they went running at five a.m.”

  “Who goes running at five a.m.?” asked Oliver Martin. The young detective constable was standing in the corner of the room, leaning against the wall and toeing one shoe against the other.

  “The same weirdos who go to bed at half-eight,” said Tennessee. “Cameras?”

  “Magic Seaweed have a surf-cam. The hotel and the café both have security cameras, and there are plenty of houses along Percy Park and other nearby streets with doorbell cameras,” Martin replied.

  “Whyte, can you crack on with the business cameras? Let the local residents get some rest; we can pester them in the morning.”

  “Has Becky the Te
chie set that website up yet?” Keaton asked.

  “I’ll check.” Boyd sat down at a computer, entered her credentials and logged in. She slid the mouse smoothly from right to left then double-clicked. “Oh.”

  “What’s up?” Tennessee leant over her for a closer look.

  “It’s live. People have already started submitting photos and video from today.”

  “That’s good. Isn’t it?”

  “There’s already thirteen hours worth of footage.”

  Tennessee sighed, then spat the bit of plastic he’d bitten off the pen into the nearest bin. “Keep updating HOMES2 and process every statement that comes in. You’ll act as our statement reader, Saffron. Keaton, can you nip to M&S and get us some microwavable popcorn?”

  She raised a brow.

  “We’ve got a lot of footage to sift through. We’re in for a long night.”

  - Chapter 6 -

  Cooper glanced out the taxi’s window as they drove past farmland on the way to Newcastle airport early the next morning. She barely acknowledged the driver as he greeted them and loaded their cases into the boot of his Mercedes. Tina, who wasn’t one for interacting with strangers, was forced to fill the gap in small talk. When the driver asked where they were off to, she answered Lanzarote. When he asked if it was business or pleasure, she said neither.

  Check-in was equally dreamlike, as if Cooper weren’t really there. Tina had to nudge her to get her passport from her handbag and was the one to answer the usual questions about packing their own bags. Passing through security to move from landside to airside was never a problem at Newcastle; the airport had won awards for positive passenger experience. Queues were short, and the staff were friendly. It was a good thing too, because both Cooper women had to pass through the metal detectors twice. Cooper, because she left her keys in her pocket, and Tina, because she tried to walk through while reading something on her phone.