Northern Roulette (DCI Cooper Book 4)

by B Baskerville

  “I was a bit rude to the other detective when he called,” Joanne said without prompting. “The vet was over. We’d just had to put one of the older members of the herd down. We’d had her for over thirteen years, and I was— I was in no mood for anything other than a good cry and a bucket of chocolate.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Cooper said. “I don’t think DC Martin will have taken it personally.”

  Joanne sighed and handed out carrot chunks to two much larger llamas that had neared. The taller of the two was easily twenty centimetres taller than Cooper. She didn’t want to admit it, but she felt intimidated.

  “In answer to his question, yes, I was taught by Mr Pennington back in the day. I heard what happened to him. Hard not to. It’s all the newspapers cover at the moment. Is it true that it happened in Hexham last night? Another sand snake?”

  “There was an incident in Hexham,” Cooper said before taking a step back. Another three llamas had joined them.

  “I heard it was Ronan Turnbull. Oh, don’t worry about Cher and Beyonce. As long as I keep feeding them, they’re happy. I hope it’s not true. Ronan’s a nice man. Easy on the eye.”

  “Going back to Mr Pennington. What can you tell me about him?”

  Joanne pulled a confused face. “Not much. He taught me in primary school. Year five, I think. To be honest, I barely remember him; he was straight-laced, boring but not too strict. I remember he taught us how the moon goes around the Earth and the Earth goes around the sun. He had us out on the school field running circles around each other. It was hilarious. My friend Natalie was the sun and she had to spin around on the spot while I ran in a huge circle around her. Meanwhile, James – was it James? It was James or Ryan, one of the twins – he was the moon and had to run rings around me while I was running around Natalie. We all got so dizzy we had to go the medical room to sit down with buckets between our knees.”

  She paused and handed some more carrots to Beyonce. “That was the main thing I remember of my time with Mr Pennington. Old Penny, we’d call him. I remember that class because it was funny and we all laughed so hard. But most of the time, we were just in the classroom, staring at the blackboard and counting down the minutes to hometime.”

  “Did any of your classmates particularly dislike Mr Pennington?”

  “Not especially. There were trouble makers, of course, but no, no one talked about him more than any of the other teachers.”

  “Do you recognise the name Eve Lynch?”

  She shook her head. “Only from the papers. Gosh, I hope this third one isn’t Ronan. It’s a bit weird knowing two of the victims.”

  As she said it, the implication that she was a connecting factor dawned on Joanne. She shivered despite the heat of the day. Whether Joanne was worried her link to two of the victims made her look like a suspect or made her a potential target, Cooper didn’t know.

  “Is there anything else?” Joanne asked as the rest of the herd arrived and Cooper found herself surrounded by giant fluffy creatures that had no respect for her personal space.

  “I have a question,” Tennessee said. “What does llama meat taste like?”

  “We breed them for their wool, DS Daniel. But…” she paused and took one of the apple segments for herself. She chewed and swallowed. “Beefy lamb.”

  DS Paula Keaton loved cases such as this. She knew that sounded awful, and she wished she lived in a world where murder and assault didn’t occur, but as long as she did, and as long as serial killers weren’t relegated to the world of nightmares and horror films, at least she got to be the one to hunt them down.

  Collingwood Drive looked much like any wealthy street in upper-middle-class commuter estates. Four bedroom detached homes with long drives and well-maintained lawns. Double garages, rockeries, herb gardens and birdbaths. And yet, while the houses were expensive, the cars were cheap. An old Polo here, a two-door C1 there. Antique Fiestas and a bashed-up Suzuki.

  A crippling mortgage in exchange for good schools and a low crime rate? Keaton wasn’t falling into that trap. She and April had their eye on somewhere cheap. Their plan was to be mortgage-free as soon as possible. Even her younger brother, Riley, who had moved in with Keaton after their father had raised his fists to him, was contributing to their deposit thanks to his part-time job at Tesco.

  Both inside and out of Ronan Turnbull’s home, scene of crime officers moved with care. They photographed and documented everything, planted flags and took samples. This was a job where every movement was conducted with deliberate precision. No one wanted a case such as this to be compromised by contaminated evidence. To prevent a dangerous criminal from walking free, they couldn’t slip up in their collection methods or chain of custody.

  Keaton wondered what sort of man they were after. She didn’t mean to be misandristic, but even a woman of her stature and athleticism would struggle to overpower a man like Ronan Turnbull. The first two victims? Yes, easily. They were older, weaker and weighed less. But Ronan’s death involved overpowering and beating an ex-military high-level boxer, moving his body and shifting all that sand. She let her brain mull it over for a minute or two while sipping from a bottle of Evian. No, this wasn’t your typical one-punch murder down the Bigg Market after some gobshite tried to nick your taxi.

  She screwed the lid back on the plastic bottle and called Cooper to update her.

  “Boss. How’s it going?”

  “Well, you just missed a llama take a bite out of Jack. Serves him right for asking what llama meat tastes like.”

  That wasn’t how Keaton expected their conversation to begin but she was happy to roll with it. “That’s effing priceless. You know he was bit by a dog on Holy Island?”

  “Same hand,” Cooper said, and Keaton could hear she was suppressing a laugh. “Do you have news?”

  “Yeah. The SOCOs are working their arses off over here. Hong’s running the show while Atkinson works the burial site. It’s a bit of a mess. Looks like Ronan put up quite a fight, as you’d expect. I haven’t been inside as we’re low on bunny suits, but Hong tells me there are broken vases and photo frames, other signs of a struggle too. Also, there’s plenty of blood spatter. They don’t think it all belongs to the victim either.”

  “Excellent. Some viable DNA from the killer will make our lives a lot easier. Anything else?”

  “Yip. They’ve got a tyre print that matches the one at the abbey. We have a few grains of sand on the driveway and a footprint in the hall.”

  “Have you talked to the neighbours yet?”

  “Some of them,” Keaton confirmed. “So far, no one can recall seeing Ronan yesterday. But that’s not surprising. Most people would have been at work during the day. When they got home, they would have just done the usual: dinner, catch up with the kids, watch television.”

  “No mention of a van?”

  “Sadly not. We need the local retired busy body who keeps tabs on all the neighbours’ comings and goings. Every street has one. Mine has two. I’ll find them. Just give me time.”

  Cooper ended the call. The news that they were likely to have DNA from the guilty party was excellent. She just hoped the DNA would match someone in the database. Atkinson would get the results to her the second they came through. It wasn’t preferential treatment. A case such as this was high stakes, and Cooper knew that Nixon would fork out whatever money was needed to rush lab results.

  Corbridge was only four miles east of Hexham. Another Northumbrian market town that suffered in the border wars. At night, livestock had to be rounded up from the fields and ushered into the town. Cattle raids were common, so watchmen had to stand at either end of the town, protecting it from its northern neighbours.

  Cooper parked outside of May Ratcliff’s home on St. Helen’s Street. The old sash windows had seen better days, its white paint peeling away to reveal coats of teal and navy beneath. The front garden was suffering equally; potted herbs and flowers were desperate for a drink of water. There was no answer, but after
only a few minutes of asking around, Tennessee had tracked May to an independent coffee house on a tight lane marked with double yellow lines. Cooper slowed to allow Tennessee to jump out while she went in search of parking. Corbridge was busy with a coachful of daytrippers from Edinburgh. She had to drive at a snail’s pace through the crowds until she found a space outside the local butchers. She struggled to fit the BMW into the tiny bay but managed it on the third attempt.

  Some smug bastard in a Land Rover chortled to himself as he watched her manoeuvre. “That car a bit big for you, luv?”

  Cooper swallowed her annoyance, switched the engine off and made her way to the machine to pay for parking. As she fed a couple of pound coins into the ticket machine, she spotted the Land Rover as it came to a stop at the next junction; its right brake light wasn’t working.

  When Cooper entered May’s Tea Rooms, she found Tennessee at a corner table with two milky teas and a slice of billionaire’s shortbread. Three wrappers littered the table cloth, telling her Tennessee had ordered four of the caramel treats but had scoffed three of them while he waited.

  “Tea? It’s probably lukewarm now, but I can order another one. Did you have trouble finding a space?”

  “Something like that,” she answered, grinning to herself as she thought of the look on the laughing man’s face when she pressed her ID against the driver’s window and reprimanded him for his broken brake light. He’d fumbled and stuttered his way through the usual I’m on my way to the mechanic’s right now, honest. The golf clubs on his back seat suggested another story.

  “May Ratcliff’s the lady behind the till,” said Tennessee, his eyes on the shortbread. “She said she’d speak to us as soon as the work experience girl is back from her break.”

  A bell tinkled above the door, and a sour-faced girl in her early teens dragged her feet behind the counter and donned an apron.

  “She’s not normally like that,” May said to Cooper as she dusted her hands on her apron and took a seat next to Tennessee. “The news has upset her.”

  “Did she know the victim?” Cooper asked. Northumbria Police hadn’t released Ronan Turnbull’s name to the press. Still, news could spread like wildfire in small communities such as these. With SOCOs at Ronan’s house, it wouldn’t have taken the locals long to ID the victim for themselves.

  May shook her head and propped her elbows on the wooden table. “No, she didn’t know Ronan. I did. Knew him from way back when. Nah, young Sophie’s a bit, well, she’s a bit triggered. Her dad was murdered when she was little, and her mum moved the rest of the family up here from Birmingham to have a quieter – safer – life in the country. When I was opening up, I saw her texting her brother about not being safe anywhere. Poor thing.”

  Cooper agreed. She hadn’t lost her father in the same way as the young woman serving tea and cake to impatient customers. Still, she did wonder how long it would be until the words heart attack no longer knocked the wind out of her.

  “Hopefully, work will keep her mind off things,” Cooper said. “So, you knew Ronan?”

  “And Charles Pennington,” she said, sharing a pointed look with Cooper. “But that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? It can’t be a coincidence, can it? I mean, I’m no detective, but the primary school teacher and the big kid from the boxing gym we all went to after class… It’s got to be someone I knew.” She shuddered from top to bottom just as Joanne Worthington had done. “Gives me the collywobbles thinking about it.”

  “Some of your class would go boxing after school?” Cooper asked, pen in hand.

  May nodded. “A fair few. Mostly the lads. I was the only girl. It was ninety-one, ninety-two perhaps. Not exactly the dark ages, but still, boys went to Cubs, girls went to Brownies, boys played football, girls played netball. Just the way it was most of the time.”

  “What was the name of the boxing gym?”

  “Hebburn Boxing Club, or something like that. Boxing Gym? Boxing Academy? I don’t know. It closed down donkey’s years ago. Pretty Boy Fisher used to train there. So did a few other big names. Think the bloke who ran it was called Frankie something. There wasn’t much else to do after school, so we’d go over to the gym and do an hour or so on the heavy bags. Ronan was a few years older than us. Let’s see, I was ten, so he must’ve been sixteen or seventeen. He was the national champion in his age and weight. Moved like lightning. He took a few of the youngsters under his wing and gave them extra training, one-on-ones. Didn’t matter if they were big or small, strong or weak, if he saw potential, he’d give up his time to coach them. Really kind seeing as he must have a tonne on himself, what with training for the nationals, training to get into the army and doing his A-levels.”

  Cooper took a sip of her tea – it was cold – and slid her shortbread over to a grateful Tennessee. “Sounds like a lot of people would have looked up to him?”

  May’s head tilted from left to right and back again. “I didn’t make the grade. Never got picked to be in his special little gang. He did give me his old gloves when he found out I couldn’t afford a pair and that I’d been hitting the bag bare-knuckle. Some of the lads thought he was up himself, but I think they were just jealous. I mean, if someone punches you in the face enough, you’re bound to start disliking them eventually.”

  May removed her elbows from the table and slid her arms over her lap. She looked out the window, where life continued as usual despite the horrific news from Hexham that morning. Her face saddened, and she turned to check on her work experience girl.

  “I know you’re busy, May. We appreciate you taking a moment to speak with us. Could I ask you to write down all the names of the children from King George Primary who also attended the boxing gym? You don’t need to do it this instant. Here’s my email address,” Cooper said, handing May a white card. “By this evening or tomorrow morning would be great.”

  May got to her feet. “I don’t know why I’m suddenly so down. It’s not like we were close.” She swallowed and fussed with her apron strings. “But we’d nod hello if we passed in the street or saw each other at the supermarket. It’s odd thinking that will never happen again, you know?”

  “I know,” Cooper replied. She gave May a nod goodbye and placed her hand on her arm for a moment. “Look after yourself. And the girl.”

  - Chapter 35 -

  After spending all of Monday and half of Tuesday in a forensic suit, complete with mask, gloves and boots, Justin Atkinson seized the first opportunity he could to venture somewhere without PPE. He waited for the printer at the back of the lab to finish ejecting the documents he was waiting for, then left in search of the one person who could put a smile on his tired face.

  The air conditioning at Northumbria Police HQ was under central command, preventing air-con wars between the male and female police officers. Justin felt the cool breeze of chemically enhanced air as he exited HQ’s rotating doors into the lobby. Compared to the sticky warmth outside, it was a blessed relief. Naturally, that’d meant it was about two and a half degrees too cold for Cooper.

  ID presented, and after a quick phone call to CID, Atkinson was shown to the incident room.

  “I have the results,” he said, printout held aloft above his head.

  Cooper was bent over a desk studying a Filofax style planner. She snapped it shut and pushed it into her handbag before flashing a surprised look at him. “You could have just emailed me. You didn’t have come all the way out to the shark tank.”

  He sat on the edge of the table, close enough to be flirty, not so close he’d threaten Cooper’s professionalism. “And miss the chance to see you?”

  Cooper gave him the look he was after: playful and coquettish. Though behind her eyes, he could see all was not as it should be. The diary? It was early July now, which meant Cooper was due some more tests at the Northern Centre for Cancer Care. She hadn’t mentioned it to him, and he hoped between her father’s passing and the pressure she’d no doubt be under from Nixon that she wasn’t keeping things to herse
lf again. Perhaps she’d talk to Tina? He hoped so.

  “Well?” Cooper pressed. She looked at him with hopeful eyes. “Tell me you have a match.”

  Keaton, Martin and Whyte had all subtly positioned themselves within hearing distance.

  Cooper shook her head at them. “Quit lurking about and get over here. DNA results are in.”

  It wasn’t just Keaton, Martin and Whyte’s eyes that fell upon Atkinson. Suddenly he was the sole focus of the incident room. Fingers stopped typing, heads turned, and mouths closed. How did Cooper do it? Be the centre of attention like this at every meeting? This was no place for introverts.

  He cleared his throat. “We ran the DNA samples from Roman Turnbull’s house, and I’m afraid there’s no match in the PNC.”

  The air in the room changed as everyone sighed together. From the far corner, someone growled, “Bugger it.”

  “But...” The eyes turned again, and Atkinson noticed Cooper’s head tilt slightly as if she could guess what was coming. “I can confirm the sample belongs to a white male—”

  A sarcastic voice uttered, “That’s sorted then, lads. We’ve ruled out eight per cent of the men in the region. Should be a piece of piss now.”

  Cooper raised her eyebrows at Keaton, who in turn picked up a paper cup and hurled it in the man’s direction. It hit his chest then bounced to the floor, leaving a trail of residual cola over his crotch. “Pipe down, Pinky. Brain’s speaking,” Keaton said, holding up another paper cup to show she wouldn’t hesitate in repeating her actions.

  Atkinson stood up and smoothed the creases from his trousers. “Yes. Right. As I said, the DNA indicates a white male. We also ran a familial DNA test and got two matches.”

  Cooper pressed her palms together. “Now we’re talking.”

  “The first match is Natalie Beaumont, born in seventy-eight and arrested in twenty-twelve. The second match is for an unsolved rape in twenty-eleven.”