While Tina disappeared to the depths of her room and Julie sat engrossed in a news story about the missing child, Summer Holt, Cooper helped with dinner by making the dumplings. She combined flour with suet and salt in a large mixing bowl, stripped the leaves from a sprig of rosemary, chopped them and stirred them in. She inhaled, appreciating the aromatic smell of fresh herbs. After adding water, she moulded them into balls and placed them in the fridge to chill.
“I don’t envy you,” said Atkinson. “Raising a teenager.”
“What are you talking about? You have two.”
Atkinson blinked and put a wooden spoon on the benchtop. “Had two. They’ve flown the nest, living their own lives. I hardly hear from them. The only time they call is when they need money.”
Feeling bad, Cooper wrapped her arms around him. She couldn’t imagine a time without Tina, but that day was approaching, and fast.
“It’s a hard tightrope to walk,” he continued. “Disciplining teenagers, that is. Too strict, and they’ll resent you and do the things you disapprove of anyway, just via sneakier means. That was always my mistake. But too lenient, and they take advantage when you slip over the boundary from parent to friend.”
Cooper squeezed him. “Friend? I don’t know if Tina’s ever looked at me like a friend. I’m more like a landlord who doesn’t charge rent and cooks all the meals?”
A tilted head and a crooked smile. “Cooks?”
“You know what I mean. A landlord who doesn’t charge rent and who buys all the meals.”
The air was still and muggy in Hexham. He’d waited until after midnight for the sky to darken and the streets to empty. Still, he’d need to move quickly. He was exposed here. He drove the van just over a mile, through Causey Hill to Market Place. Market Place was the town’s beating heart every second Saturday when the Farmer’s Market would be in full swing. The abbey stood proud in the square, the east face marked by three long stained-glass windows running vertically up its ancient walls. One of the earliest seats of Christianity in England, the church had been desecrated by Viking raids and Scottish strikes. Both William Wallace and Robert the Bruce attacked the church, destroying books, shrines and important relics. The priory was set alight, and traces of molten lead from the roof could still be found on the abbey floor. It was a beautiful spot, and he relished the idea of it being befouled once again.
He squeezed the van between two bollards, quietly mounting the paved area around the abbey. Ronan, gagged and groggy, blinked at him when he opened the rear doors. He removed his high-viz vest and tossed it into the back of the van, though what he wore underneath was just as conspicuous. He sweated under the synthetic fibres, lifting the yellow and green fabric from his middle to wipe his forehead and cheeks. The smell of the material made him grimace. He hadn’t washed it since the first time he’d done this.
Taking a length of duct tape, he added another layer of soundproofing to Ronan’s gob. He’d always been a foghorn, bellowing orders like he ruled all of Tyneside. Though he was concussed and barely conscious, he couldn’t take the risk of Ronan’s shouts waking the neighbours.
Grabbing him by his broken leg, he heaved, dragging him from the van. Ronan’s eyes contracted with pain, but only the slightest high-pitched squeak escaped the duct tape. He dragged Ronan to the foot of the abbey and stared down at him. He must have worked it out by now? He must have seen the papers and read the headlines. The bags of sand? It was his turn now. He collected the first two bags from the van; fifty kilos was no weight to him now. Ronan’s eyes were sad and defeated, his whimpers more and more desperate as he failed to verbalise his pleas for life.
Funny, he’d pleaded and begged for Ronan to stop all those years ago.
Ronan didn’t stop. Nor would he.
He bit through the corner of the plastic, allowing the sand to pour over shattered limbs. Previously, he’d had to pile the sand up, pushing it into position. This way, he could watch the sand pour from above, like an hourglass showing the trickle of time as he counted down to Ronan’s death.
Another bag. Another.
He’d leave Ronan’s head for last. Allow his anxiety to reach its peak. This snake wouldn’t slither anywhere ever again.
- Chapter 33 -
Cooper was pleased to sleep in her own bed last night. With Julie in the spare room, she’d been able to move from the couch to upstairs where she belonged. Unfortunately, she’d had the bed to herself. Atkinson had gone home after dinner, which was understandable; they still didn’t know exactly where they were in their relationship. Were they officially back together? They hadn’t discussed it, hadn’t gone on a date yet.
Julie made a simple breakfast of scrambled eggs on toast and handed Tina a packed lunch, even though Tina told her she preferred the canteen. Steven was back and he’d grown in the short time they’d been away. Cooper was sure he’d become louder too. He made himself at home in a cardboard box in the corner of the kitchen, much to Julie’s distaste.
“Disgusting thing to have in a kitchen. Must have a hundred diseases.”
“He’s NOT disgusting.”
“They are, Tina. They eat rotten meat, they fish through bins—”
“Mum!” Cooper snapped before Tina lost it. “Steven is fed the finest North Sea cod. He eats better than a lot of humans, and as he’s lived indoors since he was a hatchling, I hardly think he could be riddled with plague.”
Tina’s lips twisted as if she had a mouth full of bees. She threw her lunch into her bag and headed for the door, slamming it in her wake.
Cooper left for work in a quieter, less violent fashion. She hoped upon her return that no new furniture or furnishings adorned the other rooms of the house and that Steven was as they had left him: in one piece and very much alive.
Cooper pulled up at HQ with plenty of time to spare before the morning briefing. Saffron Boyd was the first to arrive.
“Both Pennington and Lynch had lottery wins, boss.” She sat across from Cooper and nervously pulled out her evidence. “Lynch won thirty-five grand four years ago, as I mentioned, but Pennington also had a win. His was back in ninety-seven. Forty grand.”
The doors opened as Tennessee, Martin and Whyte arrived. Whyte was finishing the last of a cereal bar while Tennessee had a definite smell of bacon about him. Martin sat next to Boyd, flashing a bashful grin before turning his attention to Cooper.
“Morning, Coop.”
“Boyd here has confirmed both victims as National Lottery winners. Might be a coincidence, but thirty-five grand and forty grand aren’t amounts to be sniffed at.”
Boyd pushed the bank statements to the centre of the table as Keaton joined them. “Current accounts show both victims as not being especially wealthy. Pennington’s balance hovers at around two grand, and Lynch’s at about five hundred. Pennington’s money is in his house. Property on Holy Island isn’t cheap. As for Eve, she put ten grand in an ISA and has made the rest last.”
Cooper bobbed her head from side to side and noticed she had orange juice on her shirt. She moved her hand to cover it. “We don’t know who will inherit Eve Lynch’s money. What about Pennington?”
“His daughter,” answered Boyd.
“And therefore her husband and kids,” Cooper added.
Tennessee straightened up. “I can’t get past the fact our killer wore the same shirt both times.”
“The 1988 away shirt? I saw it in the file. Good spot.”
He rubbed his chin. “I think he’s a superfan. That or the shirt holds some other significance.”
“You don’t think….” Martin’s eyes darted from left to right then he shook his head. “Never mind.”
“Say it,” Boyd urged.
“You don’t think he’s some mad Newcastle United fanatic, killing lottery winners to raise cash for a new striker? I mean, we finished in the bottom half of the table last season.”
Whyte swallowed a laugh. “That’s a bit bat-shit-crazy. No offence, mate.”
Coope
r shot him a look. “This whole case is bat-shit-crazy. There are no bad ideas, Martin. You know that.”
“In that case,” said Tennessee, “there’s a superfan event on the twelfth in Gosforth. I know we can’t sit on our backsides until then, but I’d like to check it out.”
Cooper glanced at the calendar. “Fine. It’s up to you how you spend your Saturday’s. But, for now, let’s focus on the connection. Did you get anywhere with the TIE list?” she asked Martin and Keaton. “Anyone you got a bad vibe from?”
Keaton opened her notepad. “A few shifties, yeah. Let’s see. Davey Smith, Jason Beaumont, Jake Hale—”
A shadow appeared over the table, and collectively their eyes lifted to an ashen-faced Howard Nixon. The superintendent was out of breath, his skin shiny. He pierced Cooper with an electric look. “We have another one.”
There was traffic chaos on the approach to Hexham. The section of Beaumont street that looped around the eastern side of the abbey had been closed to civilian traffic. The roadblocks caused tailbacks all over the small town as residents tried to start their commutes or open their businesses for another day of daytrippers visiting the old market town.
Cooper arrived with Tennessee, Keaton and Martin. Whyte and Boyd waited at HQ, updating HOLMES2 and checking any new postings to the website receiving photos and videos from the day of the triathlon. Following Tennessee’s hunch, they kept their eyes peeled for vintage football shirts.
Around the abbey, screens were set up and police tape held back gawkers as well as a pushy reporter from the Hexham Courant. The other people of Hexham went about their day, opening shop shutters, getting their morning papers or a spot of breakfast on their way to work. A gaggle of middle-schoolers trudged through the streets in bottle green uniforms adorned with golden crests.
“The usual, boss?” Keaton asked as she heaved herself out of the backseat of Cooper’s car.
She nodded. “Yes, please. Check in with the local bobbies and find out the CCTV situation.”
Cooper and Tennessee made a beeline for the crime scene manager, signed in, and began to don PPE to preserve the forensic integrity of the site. Once through the cordon, she tried to pick Atkinson out of the colony of bunny suits.
“See anyone Atkinson-shaped?”
Tennessee raised a brow. “You know his shape better than I do.”
“Cheeky.”
A mound of sand, similar to the crime scene photographs from Longsands and Holy Island, stood beneath lengthy stained-glass windows. Dull from the outside, they were undoubtedly impressive when viewed from inside the abbey. The mound had been partially demolished to reveal the victim’s head and torso so a doctor could confirm death. The remaining pile was formed into the familiar coils of a great serpent. This was less detailed than the previous two, though it was still undeniably from the same artist. The tail wrapped around the lower coils, and a diamond-shaped head rested on the top. Two round eyes with vertical slits marked his eyes.
“Erica.” Atkinson moved towards them with long, determined strides. “Jack. How are you?”
Tennessee shrugged. “Well, I lost my SIO status to some DCI I’ve never heard of.” He smirked in Cooper’s direction.
“Behave. And you haven’t lost anything. We’re working together on this.” She turned to Atkinson. “What can you tell us?”
“So far, not a huge deal. Local police have already made an ID. He’s a bit of a local celebrity by all accounts. But in terms of forensic evidence, I’ve identified the tyre tracks. Run of the mill Michelin Aglin CrossClimates. Width, two-one-five. Ratio, seventy. Fairly standard van tyres.”
“Any identifying featured?”
“There’s a tear in the tread on the rear left tyre.”
Cooper nodded in appreciation. If the killer had to transport his victim as well as the sand, it was likely he’d need a large vehicle such as a commercial van. This information could help them track down the killer, but it would also help build a case against him if they matched the defect on the tyre tread.
“I’ll have to confirm it in the lab, but I’m almost certain this is kiln-dried sand. Not regular sand from a beach. More likely, it comes from a DIY store. The nature of the sand is why the sculpture isn’t as defined as the previous two; it would be more difficult to mould. They’ve likely added moisture to form the more intricate parts, such as the head. I can’t be sure, but I’d hazard a guess at a spray bottle.”
“Okay,” Cooper said. “Anything else for now.”
“He put up a fight. He’s been badly beaten. Countless defensive wounds to his arms.” Empathy coated Atkinson’s face with sorrow. “Good news – if you can call any of this good – is that I’m confident we’ll have DNA evidence.”
Spirits lifted, Cooper asked her next question with nothing more than a tilt of her head.
“I’ll put a rush on it.”
“Appreciated. We’re going to go find Keaton. I’ll see you later?”
He nodded and Cooper’s spirits lifted further.
Paula Keaton shook hands with a uniformed officer then weaved her way through bumper-to-bumper cars to reconvene with Cooper as she stripped out of her forensic suit.
“Any luck?” Cooper asked her. “Atkinson said the victim’s a local celebrity.”
Keaton nodded. A slight breeze was coming from the east; it blew some strands of her hair free from her ponytail. They wafted above her head for a moment before she tucked them behind her ears and folded her thick arms. “Ronan Turnbull. Forty-five. Local man who lived on Collingwood Drive. That’s just over a mile that way.” She spun around and pointed south-west. “He’s ex-army, did a couple of tours before moving here in 2016 and opening a boxing gym. Might not have been in his prime anymore, but his physique caught the attention of the yummy mummies. His gym was in the local paper every time one of his athletes won a medal, plus they did a load of charity work. Free self-defence classes for the elderly, that sort of thing. Oh, and he was named in the Queen’s Birthday Honours.”
“Do we know anything of his life before he moved to Hexham?”
“Monkton.”
“Monkton? The same Monkton that’s next to Hebburn?”
Keaton could picture a map of South Tyneside in her head. Hebburn was about two, maybe two and a half, miles away from Monkton. “The same.” She moved aside and let two chefs carrying crates of fresh vegetables pass by. “It’s the South Tyneside connection again.”
“Does anyone on your list live over this way?” Cooper asked.
“Yeah, two of them.” Keaton pulled out her notepad. “May Ratcliff lives in Corbridge, and Joanne Worthington lives just off the B6305.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Keaton saw Martin galloping across the square to meet them. He looked like a child running to his mother; it made her want to pat his head and clean his cheeks with a hanky.
Martin took a dramatic breath. “Residents Association,” he said with a pet lip and an eye roll.
“What about it?”
“They think security cameras are an eyesore. Think they look unsightly in a historic place such as this.”
“You’re kidding?” Cooper asked. She propped her fists on her hips and looked about, anger written on her forehead in two deep frown lines as she searched doorways and rooftops for cameras.
“I wish I was,” he said. “I’ve got a jewellers, an art gallery, a betting shop and a wine merchant, oh and a designer clothes store. All have great internal cameras; not one has external cameras.”
“Okay, looks like we’re doing this the old fashioned way,” Cooper said. “Paula, get a team together to speak to the locals. We need a van in the area late last night or early this morning. Martin, inform the victim’s family then speak to his neighbours. I want you two to piece together Ronan Turnbull’s movements yesterday. Where had he been? Who did he see? Who saw him last? And how in God’s name did a big man like that end up buried outside a church? Jack, you and I will visit May Ratcliff and Joanne Worthington.”
- Chapter 34 -
Cooper rubbed her eyes. “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”
Tennessee shaded his eyes from the sun and turned to face the field. They’d pulled up at a farmhouse on a country road leaving Hexham.
“You’re not hallucinating. I see them too.”
“They’re bloody massive.”
The field was a faded green, dehydrated from an unusually warm summer. One summer storm and the countryside would be lush again, but Northumberland’s grassy hills remained muted for now. Scattered throughout the field, long-necked and freshly shorn llamas turned their heads to eyeball the two detectives. Their ears pivoted like satellite dishes, listening for the sounds of threats but hearing only passing cars.
“Tina couldn’t say the word llama when she was little. Used to call them leemoos.”
“Cute.”
Cooper paused to smile and appreciate the memory of when Tina was so small, she could carry her for hours either held tightly to her chest or propped on a hip. These days, Tina could probably give Cooper a piggyback, but not the other way around.
“Well, we can’t stand here gawping at the animals all day. We have work to do.” Cooper began to walk up the lane towards the white farmhouse.
Behind her, she heard Tennessee ask, “Do you think we can pet them? I know they spit, but it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been spat at doing this job.”
Cooper gave him a behave-yourself stare and knocked on the door. “Mrs Worthington?” she asked when the door opened.
“It’s Ms, actually. Can I help you?”
After brief introductions, Joanne Worthington grabbed a bag of chopped carrots, apples and sweet potato. She pulled on her boots and invited Cooper and Tennessee to walk and talk while she fed the livestock. As soon as they’d entered the paddock, the llamas started to approach. A smallish one with honey-brown fur was the first to arrive. Her teeth chomped through chunks of apple with a satisfying crunching noise.
Northern Roulette (DCI Cooper Book 4) Page 16