Northern Roulette (DCI Cooper Book 4)

by B Baskerville

  “None. I was like five then.”

  Tennessee heard excitable commentary from the television downstairs: Congo had just scored for the fourth time.

  “Exactly. Normal people don’t hang on to clothes for over thirty years, let alone wear them. But this guy decides to wear it both times he murders someone? I’m telling you, Paula, the man we’re looking for isn’t just a fan. He’s a fanatic.”

  - Chapter 29 -

  DC Oliver Martin was sick to the back teeth with interviews. He hung up the phone and blew a long raspberry; he was too tired for this nonsense. All his own fault, of course. No one forced him to stay up until three a.m. playing Call of Duty.

  His last few hours had been spent painstakingly making his way through the list of names Keaton and Tennessee had pulled together. These days people rarely pick up their phones if they don’t recognise the number for fear of scammers. Martin had lost track of how many messages he’d left asking people to call him back. But if they were anything like him, they’d rarely listen to their voicemails either. He sat up straighter and wiggled his shoulders, trying to ease an ache that had been brought on by a cheap gaming chair, dehydration, lack of sleep and a suit that didn’t quite fit. It was his favourite suit, and he had saved for months to be able to afford it. Though it was a little tight across the back, he refused to stop wearing it.

  He glanced down at the list again. Charles Pennington had worked at King George Primary for ten years. With thirty kids to a class, that was three hundred people they’d try to chase up. If they assumed the killer was male – because female serial killers were few and far between and almost always used poison as an MO – that left approximately one hundred and fifty. This was assuming they were barking up the right tree. Just because Eve Lynch worked in the area didn’t mean South Tyneside was the connecting factor or that any of Charles Pennington’s former students would have heard of her.

  Martin rubbed the back of his neck. The murderer could be a former student, a colleague, or a former lover. Hell, he could be a Martian for all they knew.

  A long rumble sounded from Martin’s stomach; it was empty save for coffee and Red Bull. He checked his watch. It was early afternoon now and he was the only one foolish enough to be working on a Sunday. It wasn’t like he had any chance of getting overtime. Not these days. Keaton and Tennessee would be with their loved ones, and Whyte would be doing something sporty, followed by a few pints. He didn’t know what Boyd would be up to. Despite working with her since the start of the Blackburn case, Martin knew surprisingly little about her. He knew she was quiet and nervous and that she liked classic films. He remembered her saying she’d been to a double bill of Casablanca and The Big Sleep.

  Martin took out his mobile and scrolled down until he found Saffron Boyd’s name in his contacts list. His finger hovered over the call button. One lunchtime, the team had gone to the Cluny in the Ouseburn area of Newcastle, and Boyd had said they made an excellent Sunday lunch. When he’d asked if she liked Yorkshire puddings, she’d reminded him that she was, in fact, from Yorkshire and that not liking Yorkshire puddings was a sin punishable by death. Martin had laughed at that and spluttered Diet Coke across the table. Idiot.

  He pressed call and felt his mouth go dry. Why was he so nervous? He was only going to ask if she’d eaten yet and if she wanted to get a roast dinner somewhere. She was new to the city and he wondered if she’d made friends outside of work yet.

  Ring, ring.

  What if she said no? He’d feel rejected, and seeing her again tomorrow morning would be awkward. But what if she said yes? Were relationships even allowed in the same department? Cooper had been involved with Fuller for a while back in the day, but they hardly ever worked together. He and Boyd were on the same team. He was overthinking this; it was only a Sunday lunch for crying out loud. As the phone continued to ring, he logged out of his computer and switched it off. When the screen turned to a black mirror, he used it to check his reflection. He looked okay for someone who’d had four hours of sleep.

  He gulped as the call connected.

  “Hey, it’s Saffron. Leave a message.”

  It seemed the people in his trace, interview, eliminate list weren’t the only ones not picking up today.

  Tina’s nose twitched as she studied her chemistry textbook. She’d been on the same page for over half an hour. As no one – not even Tina – was that interested in endothermic reactions, Cooper suspected her daughter’s mind was elsewhere. Tina wore earplugs to drown out the plane’s engine and the general noise of the 737: the rattle of the drinks trolley, general chit-chat, a squeaky door to the toilet, and two teenagers who thought everything was hilarious. It was late. The plane would be somewhere over the Bay of Biscay now, and any windows with their blinds up showed nothing but darkness. Cooper looked at her daughter with sadness in her heart. Tina looked drained. Her skin was dry, her complexion dull, and her eyes were holding back an emotion that Cooper couldn’t put her finger on. Uncertainty perhaps?

  She nudged her and waited for Tina to remove one of her earplugs.

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you okay? You looked deep in thought.”

  The poor girl had been through a lot recently: a brush with death, her mother’s kidnapping, a waste-of-space father on the wrong side of a restraining order, and her grandfather passing away. And now, to top it off, Julie had decided to move in without giving them much of a say in the matter. She could hardly begrudge her mother from wanting to spend time with her remaining family. Still, Cooper worried about how it would affect Tina. She was hoping to get her relationship with Justin Atkinson back on track and this might be one change too many for her daughter. Perhaps she and Atkinson should wait and put their feelings on hold for a few months.

  Tina’s nose twitched again. “I’m fine,” she said.

  The words were nothing more than an automatic answer. She wasn’t fine. The slight twitch of her nose was a nervous tic, and Cooper had spotted it three times in ten minutes. She said she was fine because it was the easier answer and the answer she thought everyone wanted to hear. Tina put her earplug back in and turned her attention back to the book.

  On Cooper’s other side, Julie was fast asleep with a flimsy plastic cup of Jack and Coke in her hand. She let out a snore that could have drowned out the engine. Her arm jerked as she slept, almost spilling her drink.

  Cooper looked around, feeling somewhat like a naughty teenager stealing from her parent’s liquor cabinet, and started prising the cup from Julie’s hand. Her mother’s mouth opened again, but this time, instead of snoring, she murmured what sounded like, “Tonight, Matthew, I’m going to be Christina Aguilera.”

  Trying not to laugh, Cooper slipped the cup of dark liquid from Julie’s grip and sat back in her chair. She was about to take a sip when she saw a steely-eyed flight attendant who had been watching her the whole time.

  “What? I paid for it.”

  “I’d still consider it stealing.”

  “Stealing is charging seven quid for a single and a mixer.”

  The flight attendant folded her arms and moved towards the back of the plane where there was an unholy smell of soiled nappy. Fifteen years and Cooper could still recognise baby poop from fifty paces. She downed the drink, happy that her diaper changing days were behind her. She grimaced; the Jack tasted funny.

  “It’s freezing.”

  Julie rubbed her bare arms and gave an over the top shiver while they waited by the luggage belt. “I thought you said the weather had been nice?”

  “It was nice,” Cooper said dryly. “But it’s one a.m. in Newcastle and you’re wearing a dress smaller than a postage stamp.”

  “Are you giving me sass? Because I remember the outfits you used to go out in, young lady. I could tell Tina here a few stories about her mum that would make her blush.”

  Tina shuffled from one foot to the other. “I’ve heard them all.” She turned to Cooper and yawned without covering her mouth. “How much longer
?”

  Cooper rolled her eyes. “The runway’s less than a hundred yards from here. I could single-handedly get the luggage off the plane quicker than these—”

  Before she could find a family-friendly insult, an orange light above the luggage belt began to flash and a siren wailed a low warning tone.

  “Right on cue.”

  By some miracle, Cooper, Julie and Tina’s bags all came out together and the three of them left via nothing to declare. Cooper was physically, mentally and emotionally exhausted. She was due back at work in – she did the maths in her head – just over seven hours. Trying to get up to speed tomorrow was going to be hell, and Cooper was going to have to do it after a night on the couch. The spare room wasn’t set up for guests and she didn’t want Tina to have to give up her bed. Julie could have Cooper’s room tonight; she’d take the sofa.

  A steady line of people returning from holidays filed out into the main terminal. The queue at the taxi rank was beginning to build and Cooper feared they’d be delayed even further. She pulled her wheelie case with one hand and used the other to wipe her sticky brow. It felt greasy and she thought she could feel the start of a pimple manifesting deep under her skin. Her hand ran back over her head where she felt the unfamiliar texture of soft hairs. Her hair usually felt bristly from being kept so short; she was clearly in need of a cut. Another job before work tomorrow: find the clippers.

  Behind her, Cooper heard the squeaky wheel of Tina’s case. “Urgh. Look at the queue. If you pass me your phone, I’ll find us an Uber.”

  “We don’t need an Uber,” said Julie.

  “Mum, I know you like to support real taxi drivers, whatever that means, but the queue is getting longer, and we’re all tired, and— Oh.” Cooper realised why they didn’t need an Uber. Holding a bunch of flowers and a sign that read Cooper Ladies was a sleepy-looking Justin Atkinson.

  Cooper fell into his warm embrace and felt as if she could fall asleep right there and then. “It’s gone half one. What on Earth are you doing here?”

  “Saving you a taxi fare, that’s what. Ladies, your chariot awaits in the short stay car park.” He tossed the keys to his Toyota at Tina, who caught them, called shotgun, and took off ahead with Julie.

  Atkinson swapped the bunch of flowers for Cooper’s case and held her hand as they made their way past the taxi rank to the parking lot. How could Cooper consider putting things back on hold when he’d made such grand gestures?

  “I’ll drop you off and leave you to it,” he said, squeezing her hand. “I grabbed some milk, bread, butter and bacon. It’s in a carrier bag in the footwell. I wanted to make sure you had things in for breakfast.”

  “Will you stay?” Cooper said it without hesitation.

  “You’re back at CID tomorrow. Don’t you want to just get home and get to sleep?”

  “Yes. But I want to sleep cuddled up to you.” She stopped walking so she could pause and look him in the eyes. “I need to escape. Between Dad, and worrying about Mum and the bar, and Tina… I know it’s selfish, and I should let you get back to your place, but please, let me sleep pressed up against you tonight.”

  Atkinson frowned. “Why is that selfish?”

  “Because you’ve been nothing but supportive. I have all this family drama at the moment, and I’m heading into a major investigation tomorrow. I can’t give you the time and energy you deserve. I feel like I’m using you.”

  Atkinson tilted his head to the side as he surveyed her. He stifled a yawn, ran his hand down her arm, then pulled her in for a quick kiss. “Use away.”

  - Chapter 30 -

  Cooper peeled her body from Atkinson’s. She moaned as she straightened up from the sofa, her bones feeling considerably older than her early-thirties skeleton should. Her body, she reminded herself, had been through more than most people her age. A baby when still in her teens, the loss of a friend, the grunt work of a newly-recruited police officer, cancer, chemo, kidnapping.

  Yawning into her elbow, she debated waking Atkinson. He looked peaceful sprawled across the sofa with long limbs creeping out in all directions like the roots of a great, strong tree. She climbed the stairs, aching for a shower. Usually, there was just her and Tina in the mornings. With four people staying under Cooper’s roof, she knew if she didn’t get to the shower first, she might not get one at all.

  Holidays and travelling were fun, when not associated with the death of a parent, but there was nothing like getting back to your own shower – or your own bed. Cooper twisted right and left under the running water, feeling the powerful setting massage her aching shoulders and tight back. She removed the showerhead from the bar and ran the spray up and down her legs. She covered herself in some sea salt and samphire scented shower gel before rinsing and stepping out of the shower to brush her teeth.

  Feeling five years younger and ten years cleaner, Cooper snuck into her own room to choose an outfit for her return to Northumbria Police. She was nervous about heading back to HQ. This was a big case, and though she’d only been away a week, a lot had happened. Julie Cooper stirred slightly as Cooper selected a black suit and off-white silk blouse. She was more at home in jeans and boots, but she felt she needed to set a professional tone; the sheriff was back in town.

  Heading back towards the stairs, and more importantly, back towards the kettle, Cooper heard a noise from Tina’s room.

  “It’s not my fault?”

  “What? So it’s mine?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Though quiet and muffled, the second voice was definitely Josh. Cooper couldn’t tell if he was in there with Tina or if his voice was coming through a phone or her laptop. How could he even get in? Wheelie bin to the flat roof of the kitchen extension, then through the bathroom window?

  The voices stopped as if someone had hit the pause button and all sounds and movements were put on hold. She’d been rumbled. Cooper considered opening the door but asked herself how she would feel in that situation? She’s never snuck anyone into her room overnight at that age – she preferred to be one sneaking out. If Tina and Josh were arguing about the girl in the Instagram photo, she should probably keep her nose of it, but she would need to speak to her daughter later. Another job to add to the list.

  The Black and White Warehouse was a hidden gem in Newcastle’s Grainger Town. Tucked between a branch of Greggs and a barbershop, the unassuming entrance led to a tardis-like memorabilia store for all things Newcastle United related. Tennessee felt a pang of excitement as he took the stairs to the first-floor store. He hadn’t been here since he was a boy. His dad had taken him before a Blackburn Rovers match; it must be almost twenty years ago. He picked out some trading cards, a keyring and a program signed by Peter Beardsley. Newcastle had gone on to win six-two with Shearer scoring early and trumpet-playing Solano netting two in two minutes. Afterwards, they’d gone to McDonald’s and Tennessee wolfed down a strawberry milkshake and a mountain of McNuggets. Good times.

  The store hadn’t changed in all those years. Rows of programs, signed prints, Geordie keepsakes and souvenirs, as well as match-worn shirts and collector’s items lined the walls and display cases.

  The owner greeted Tennessee with an appraising look, an approving nod, and a deep voice. “Mornin’. Lovely day.”

  “It really is,” Tennessee said, eyeing a vintage scarf. “Came here as a bairn. It’s nice to see some parts of the city haven’t succumbed to chain stores and franchise eateries.”

  “Tell me about it. Went to some celebrity chef’s restaurant last weekend. As if Mr-cod-jelly-and-chips-ice-cream has ever set foot in the toon. Cost me a small fortune and I was still hungry when I left. Had to nip to KFC on the way home.”

  Tennessee laughed and squatted down to check out a signed football. “My other half wants to go there. Says they have a good vegan menu.”

  Behind the counter, the man pulled a face. “I’m a dinosaur. I know I should be open to new cuisines and all that jazz, but honestly, if it didn’t moo, o
ink or cluck, I’m really not interested.” Another customer entered the store and made a bee-line for a Kevin Kegan bobblehead. “Alreet, Dougie?”

  “Nae bad, Lee. How ye daein?”

  Tearing himself away from all things nostalgic, Tennessee remembered he was there for work. “I wanted to ask about the 1988 away shirt.”

  “A classic. Don’t have any in, I’m afraid, but I know how to track one down. It’ll set ya back about a hundred and seventy quid minimum.”

  “I’m not looking to buy one.” Tennessee pulled out his warrant card. “It’s actually to do with… It’s a long story. Do you sell many?”

  Lee, the store owner, folded his hairy forearms and stared at the ceiling. After a few seconds, he exhaled and shook his head, his lips turned downwards at the corners. “Can’t say I do. One a year at the most.”

  “When was the last time you sold one?”

  His head tilted one way and the next as he thought, much like the Keegan bobblehead. “Christmas time, I suppose.”

  The other customer approached the counter, cash in hand, ready to buy two postcards depicting the Tyne bridges. He was a big man with the posture of a shy old lady: head bowed, shoulders folding in on themselves. “Aye, the eighty-eight was nae a real fan favourite; they finished last n were relegated to the second division.”

  Tennessee rolled his eyes. “And then they came so close to getting promoted the next season.”

  “Only to be gubbed to it by, of all teams, Sunderland.” He shook his head at the memory. “Now the burgundy n navy ninety-six away shirt, that was a stunner.”

  “My dad bought one,” said Tennessee, reminiscing. “My mum went ballistic with him ‘cos they needed the money to fix the car. Didn’t we finish second that season?”