Northern Roulette (DCI Cooper Book 4)

by B Baskerville

  Cooper reached across the table and squeezed her mum’s hand. “You’re going to be just fine. You know that, don’t you?”

  Julie’s lips spread into a broad smile, revealing a spot of pink lipstick on her front teeth. “One step at a time,” she said. “Oh look, here’s my favourite grandchild.”

  Tina, pink-faced and out of breath, approached the patio area outside of Benji’s; her back hunched under the weight of a heavy backpack. When she removed it, it hit the floor with a tremendous thud. “I’m your only grandchild,” she said, stretching her back by reaching her arms high above her head.

  “How did today’s revision go?” Cooper asked. “Sounds like you have half the British Library in there.”

  “It was okay. I’m struggling with chemistry.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” Cooper said, sliding along the white wooden bench to make room for Tina.

  Tina sat but only gave a shrug in response. She leant over to unzip her bag, rummaged about for a moment, then pulled out her mobile. “I set up Benji’s Instagram account and added the first few photos.”

  She opened the app and showed Julie.

  “Goodness, Tina. You’ve made us look so glamorous.”

  There was a sunny theme to all the images. Tina must have used the same filter on each one. Cooper especially liked a snap Tina had taken of a coaster with the logo for Benji’s Bar printed on it. She’d stuck it the sand at a jaunty angle. Behind it, the brilliant blue of the sea contrasted the yellow card.

  “I’ve written down the username and password for whoever you ask to run the account. They should use hashtag Benji’s Bar in each post and encourage people who come to the bar to do the same. You can then search for posts that diners have made and repost them in your stories.”

  “Stories?” Julie looked confused.

  “They’re posts that only show up for twenty-four hours. It’s up to you obviously, I mean, it’s your bar, but I think you should ask Isabella to run the account.”

  Isabella was a young waitress who worked at Benji’s. She was bilingual and a hit with the clientele.

  “I’ve seen her personal account. It’s good. You could ask her to run a promotion once a month for people to get a free drink, or bowl of chips, or whatever if they repost your content.”

  Julie still looked confused, but she also looked impressed. “Isabella it is then. Now don’t be offended, you two, but you both look like you’ve been pulled through a hedge backwards. Get dressed. Glad rags on. I’m going to take the Cooper girls out to dinner. There’s something we should celebrate.”

  Tina raked her hair back into a ponytail. For a moment, Cooper thought she would refuse and opt to spend the evening in her room studying or moping about over Josh. Instead, she nodded and said, “Okay, but can we not go to a seafood place. I’ve gone off fish.”

  “How can you go off—”

  Cooper coughed to silence Julie, and to her amazement, it worked. “I’m all fished out as well, T. How about a good old burger and fries?”

  She shrugged, which was good enough for Cooper, but she couldn’t help wonder what had buoyed her mother’s mood. Her father wasn’t even cold yet.

  “What are we celebrating?”

  “Well, dears, I’ve been thinking.”

  “Uh oh.”

  “Stop it, darling. I’ve been thinking, and a change of scene would do me a world of good while I mourn your father. God bless his soul. The youngsters here are best placed to streamline the menu and bring our drink selection into the twenty-first century. They have it covered, and I trust them to look after the bar.”

  A sinking feeling built in the pit of Cooper’s stomach.

  “You work such long hours, Erica, and you’ll need help with childcare—”

  Oh no.

  “I can be there for Tina when she gets in from school, and I can make sure there’s food in the cupboards, that sort of thing.”

  Oh, God no.

  Julie placed her hands on Tina’s cheeks and squeezed. Tina scrunched up her face at the intrusion of her personal space but managed not to say anything.

  “It’s going to be such fun. Just us girls.”

  “Mum, what are you saying?” Cooper asked, fearing she already knew the answer. The sinking feeling intensified. She was on the Titanic, the iceberg emerged from the fog, a collision was inevitable.

  Her mother practically jiggled in her seat with excitement. “I’m moving in, of course.”

  - Chapter 27 -

  He glared out the window as the bus grumbled along Newcastle’s Newgate Street. It had been a week since he killed for the first time. The rabbits that lived on the scrubland behind his childhood home didn’t count.

  Home?

  He was supposed to call that place home, but it never felt that way. He never felt at home until he moved far away from the bad memories that haunted him here. He’d caught the rabbits using handmade traps after watching a survival show on television. Vince loved all that nonsense: Bear Grylls, Duel Survivor, Naked and Afraid. All you needed was some twigs, a length of string, and a couple of carrots. He stole the carrots from Kerys’s kitchen and spent a morning snapping twigs from bushes and sticking them into soft ground as if making a miniature fence. The rows of twigs gradually narrowed towards each other, funnelling any leporine visitors towards the bait. He tied the string to a branch above the trap and formed the other end into a noose. He laid the loop over the carrots and secured it with a stick that acted as the trigger. The stick held the noose in place until disturbed, then the branch would straighten, and the noose would tighten.

  His first few attempts at trapping had been unsuccessful: triggered but empty. When he finally caught a rabbit, he was beside himself. The noose tightened around the creature’s leg; it was still alive. Rabbits had big teeth, and he was scared of being bitten. Sat in muddy jeans with torn knees, he flinched a few times before finally wrapping his little hands around the creature’s neck.

  He took a deep breath and squeezed.

  He thought taking a life would make him feel mighty, god-like even. It wasn’t as strong a feeling as that, but it did give him a sense of power. He was responsible for whether the rabbit lived or died, whether he set it free or choked the life out of it. It was the most power he’d experienced in his short existence. When the life drained out the rabbit, he placed it on the ground and stroked its fur. He expected it to look like it was sleeping, but it didn’t. It didn’t look at all like that. Its nose no longer twitched, its chest no longer rose and fell with each breath, and its eyes no longer blinked. It was a floppy sack of fur and bones. Lifeless.

  He liked it.

  The bus came to a stop. He pulled himself to his feet using a yellow handhold, made his way to the front of the vehicle and stepped out onto the street. A man carrying a polystyrene box of takeaway food stopped to finish his last bite; it smelled like chips and gravy. A winning combination. The man crushed the container between his fat hands and chucked it towards a bin. He missed; the rubbish fell to the floor. A draft from the departing bus caused it to roll a couple of feet. He looked at the litterbug with disgust. Dirty bastard. People just expected everyone else to clean up their shit.

  “You want to make something of it?” snarled the man, catching his look of repulsion.

  He thought about whispering in the man’s ear. I’m the one all the newspapers are talking about. I’m the one the police can’t find. I buried two people alive, and if you don’t want to be next, you should pick up your fucking rubbish and put it in the damn bin. But he didn’t: he had bigger fish to fry. He shoved past, ignoring the man as he yelled after him, trying to pick a fight. He entered a glass building coloured with purple lights that moved in circular patterns. The lower floor housed bars and chain restaurants, but he made a beeline for the escalator and walked confidently into the casino.

  It took a while to get served at the bar; the barman seemed to prioritise anyone in a short skirt or a low cut top. Eventually, he or
dered a pint of Strongbow and took a seat at a slot machine. One-armed bandits held little interest for him, but there was a place to rest his drink, and the swivel seat meant he could people watch. Some patrons had clearly been out all day and were worse for wear; others were just getting started. Either way, they had no idea who he was or how close they stood to a serial killer. It gave him a thrill to call himself that: a serial killer. Soon the press and the police would start calling him that as well.

  He took his time feeding pound coins into the bandit, thinking about how when he’d left Tyneside, he hadn’t been old enough to smoke or drink, play the lottery or pay fucking taxes. A woman in a classy black dress smiled at him from across the room. Was it his build she was attracted to? He was a big man now, and though he never felt that much pride looking at his face in the mirror, he knew he wasn’t ugly. He scrubbed up well. Or was she attracted to something else? Even the most depraved inmates on death row received fan mail and offers of marriage. Some women had a thing for murderers, a fetish of sorts. Perhaps the woman in the classy dress could tell. Could she sense it?

  He slid another pound into the slot machine, listened to it drop, then the buttons lit up and a tinny jingle sounded. He grabbed the lever and pulled, watching the wheels spin. A blur of fruit, dollar signs, number sevens, and blue and red bars. The first wheel came to a rest on a pair of red cherries. The second wheel continued to whir, eventually stopping on another set of cherries. He held his breath; he’d never won on the bandits before.

  More cherries. His luck was in.

  Chime after chime after chime as golden pound coins rattled out of the machine. Forty-five quid; forty-five images of her majesty. The coins glittered hypnotically, and though the Queen looked to the side, she appeared to be judging him. He turned to flash a winner’s smile at his admirer, but the woman in the classy dress had gone. Never mind. He didn’t come here to score; he came here to make a choice.

  He finished his drink, scooped the coins into his pockets and went to change them for notes. He couldn’t be wandering around jingling like some bloody cat’s toy.

  Lighter, with two twenties and a fiver in his wallet, he bought another pint. He approached a row of roulette tables attended to by red-shirted croupiers. Around each table, five or six people clustered, mesmerised by the spinning wheel. At the furthest table, an almighty cheer erupted. There was much backslapping as a group of men in almost identical outfits celebrated a big win. Perhaps they were on a stag party and had some form of dress code. Maybe they just had no imagination.

  He moved closer to the table, close enough to watch the wheel rotate and whip up a frenzy, not so close he’d have to make small talk with the other gamblers. Chips were placed on the board, with one man betting heavily on red twenty-five. Once the grid of numbers was speckled with chips, the dealer spun the wheel, causing the red and black numbers to blur as one. He threw in the ball; it whizzed against the wooden inlay, creating a noise that reminded him of a high-speed train rushing out of a tunnel.

  Red or black? Red, like Vince’s fat flushed cheeks? Or black, like Kerys’s cold dark heart?

  “No more bets.”

  His heart raced like the metal ball as he anticipated what was to come. Red, he’d kill Vince. Black, he’d kill Kerys. He told himself he didn’t mind either way, but like a pregnant woman saying she didn’t care if her baby was a boy or a girl as long as it was healthy, he knew it was a lie. Everyone had favourites; everyone had a preference. His preference was Kerys.

  The ball slowed, and as it jumped between the grooved, numbered shallows, so his heart began to jump too.

  He wanted to take Kerys out first; he wanted to take his time with her.

  “Zero.”

  Green? He hadn’t expected that. Nor had anyone else around the table. There were groans as the chips were swept up by the croupier before the next round of betting.

  Green? Lucky fuckers. It seemed Vince and Kerys were safe – for now.

  The ball screamed as it flew around the wheel once more.

  “No more bets.”

  Red for Ronan. Black for Beth.

  The ball bounced before it settled. The croupier called, “Red sixteen. Red sixteen.”

  His face spread into a grin so wide it was almost painful. He knew which snake was next.

  - Chapter 28 -

  The Daniel family had two rules: rule one, everyone had to help clean the house on Sundays; rule two, never wake the baby. Ever.

  Jack ‘Tennessee’ Daniel was exploiting the second rule to get out of the first rule. While his wife and mother-in-law tip-toed about the house on Sunday morning, dusting, tidying and spraying every square inch with anti-bacterial spray, Tennessee was flat on his back watching a football game with baby Alfie sound asleep on his bare chest. Alfie was his pride and joy. Six months old and bright-eyed, with tiny hands and hair as soft as silk. Content and healthy; he was everything Tennessee could wish for in a son.

  “Unload the dishwasher? You know I’d love to, but—” he gestured to the sleeping infant.

  “Witchcraft,” said Hayley with narrowed eyes. “It’s the only explanation. Little darling never sleeps on demand for me.”

  “Shh,” he teased. “Don’t wake the bairn.”

  Hayley picked up a glass from the side table, its insides coated with a thin film of orange juice. “Another?”

  “No thanks, but there’s a beer in the fridge with my name on it.”

  She looked at her watch. “It’s ten past eleven, Jack.”

  “Which means Wetherspoons has been open for three hours.” He flashed a cheeky smile knowing his wife couldn’t resist.

  Hayley dusted the table then went to the fridge to fetch him a beer. He’d make it up to her later, much later, when the footie wasn’t on. As his wife handed him a chilled can of IPA, he turned his focus back to the television. Zimbabwe was getting its arse kicked by the Democratic Republic of the Congo in the African Cup of Nations. Tennessee was more into the Premier League, but he had a bet on Zimbabwe – hence his interest. It was only a tenner. Still, he hadn’t told Hayley. She didn’t like him betting on sports.

  Despite the financial motive, Tennessee struggled to concentrate: Cooper was due back tomorrow. He’d missed her. Work wasn’t quite the same without her in the department. It hadn’t been the same when she was off on the sick, it wasn’t the same when she was recovering from being kidnapped, and it wasn’t the same now. Yes, Tennessee had relished taking the lead, and though he didn’t feel any further forward than when they’d begun the investigation, he still thought he was doing a good job.

  A good job? That might be the IPA talking. He stroked Alfie’s back and reassured himself he was, at the very least, doing a decent job. Nixon hadn’t given him an earful yet, so that was something.

  Zimbabwe started the second half two–nil down; it looked like he’d seen the last of that tenner. Within a few minutes, they substituted Chawapiwa for Mushekwi. A winger for a striker. A change of fortune, perhaps?

  “Foul, ref,” Tennessee hissed as loud as he dared with a sleeping infant on his chest.

  The referee seemed to have heard. He swiftly delivered a yellow card to Mbemba of DR Congo and then another to Moke, the Congolese midfielder.

  “This is more like it,” he whispered to his son. “If he sends off half the team, Zimbabwe might stand a chance.”

  Alfie gurgled and turned his head to face away from the television just as the Zimbabwean goalkeeper committed a foul, awarding Congo a penalty.

  “Oh f—”

  Alfie stirred.

  “Ducking bell.”

  Bakambu fired the ball into the back of the net. He ran to the left, beating his chest in triumph, his fist pounding into the blue and white fabric of his shirt. The Zimbabweans, in yellow with green trim, shook their heads and looked to the turf. Three–nil. This was almost as painful as being a Newcastle United fan. Back when they’d worn yellow and green, they’d been relegated to the second division. Hardly
a surprise after they’d sold Gascoigne, Beardsley and Waddle.

  “What a load of…”

  When they’d worn yellow and green. It hit Tennessee like a brick. A brick that sang Phil Collins and Bobbi Brown songs.

  Downing his beer, he handed Alfie to his confused wife.

  “Excuse me, handsome, but you’re either on baby duty or cleaning duty—”

  Energised, with urgency seeping out of his pores, Tennessee kissed Hayley on the mouth to quieten her, then took off to their bedroom, bounding up the stairs two at a time. He yanked his phone from the charger and hit the third number on his speed dial.

  “I knew I’d seen it before,” he said when the line connected.

  “It’s my day off,” grumbled Paula Keaton, her voice sleepy and gravelly. “Riley’s out with friends, so April and I actually have some time alone for once in a blue moon.”

  “Your sex life can wait. This is important.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite. What had you seen before?”

  “The fabric. The fabric the first victim was holding. It matched the thread we found on the second, right?”

  “Right.” She said it as a long, drawn-out word as if urging him to get to the point.

  “It’s the 1988 Newcastle United away shirt.”

  Tennessee paced the room, phone glued to his ear. He expected the next words from Keaton’s mouth to be full of praise.

  “So?”

  Not what he’d hoped for.

  “So? So? It means we know what the fabric is. It’s a 1988 Newcastle—”

  “United away shirt. Yeah, you said. Even if you’re right—”

  “I am right.”

  She sighed. “Even if you’re right, the murders took place in the northeast. Saying the killer has an NUFC shirt doesn’t really narrow it down. Have you seen the toon on match days?”

  Tennessee stopped pacing to look out the bay window at a large beech tree. “It’s not any old footie shirt, though. A 1988 away shirt. How many clothes do you have from the eighties?”