- Chapter 37 -
Oliver Martin’s head craned above a computer screen. “Coop?” His neck appeared to grow three inches as he tried to get Cooper’s attention. It was early evening now, and she hadn’t long returned to HQ.
“I managed to find the uncle in Australia. Name’s Leslie Beaumont. He has two sons, one of whom lives in Perth and the other...” He checked his notepad. “The other is called Greg and lives just up the road in Edinburgh.”
Cooper paused by his desk, holding a set of manila folders to her chest. “Did you just say whom?”
Martin straightened his tie. “Why, yes I did. Anyway, Edinburgh’s not that far away. Two and a half hours commute from Tynemouth or Hexham. Only ninety minutes from Holy Island. It’s an outside chance, but I thought it would still be worth tracking this Greg down. I’ve just got off the blower with Police Scotland. Morningside said they’d get alibis and DNA.”
“Good work. Like you said, it’s an outside chance, but let’s hope they can get a sample to our lab by tomorrow night. Have you seen Whyte? Boyd?”
Martin took a sip from an almost empty bottle of Lucozade. “Not since Whyte brought Liam Beaumont in.”
“Did he hold any of them?”
“No, boss. They were cooperative as far as I heard. Swabs are already at the lab. But I think he’s hit a brick wall tracking down any more Beaumonts.”
“All right,” said Cooper. “Looks like it’s just you, me and Keaton for now. Fancy interviewing Kevin Beaumont while I tackle Jason?”
He glanced at her through the corner of his eye. “Me?”
“No, Ant and Dec’s secret love child.” She gently punched his shoulder. “Yes, you. You’re not the rookie anymore, Martin. Keaton will be there. She’ll take the lead, but if you have questions, don’t be afraid to ask. He’s in interview suite three. They were pretty sozzled, so we’ve given them time to sober up a little and plied them with coffee. Kevin seems the chattier of the two; his solicitor is with him and happy for the interview to go ahead.”
Martin got to his feet. “Right. Thanks, boss.” He puffed his chest and headed for the double doors.
Interview suite three was as soulless as it sounded. At only three and a half metres long and two meters wide, it was basically a shoebox with furniture. The walls had been painted off-white many years ago, but they now resembled a mosaic of black streaks and smudges from years of chairs and shoes scuffing against them. Carpet tiles in green-blue didn’t line up correctly with their neighbours, which was a nightmare for any officer with OCD. On the wall, a white air-con unit doubled as a heater. Unfortunately, it only had two settings: ice box or sauna. Of course, that could work to a detective’s advantage if they wanted to make a suspect sweat. Literally.
Martin nodded to Keaton, Kevin Beaumont and his solicitor as he entered the room. The atmosphere was pretty relaxed as the three of them discussed the new series of Love Island. At least that was what Kevin was discussing; Keaton nodded along as if she actually watched the show.
As Martin took his seat, Kevin – bald as a coot and rosy-cheeked – said, “Okay, let’s get on with this, shall we? You have my saliva. I suppose you’ll want to know where I was when those poor sods were killed?”
“We’ll get to that,” said Keaton.
“Yeah,” Martin added. “We thought we’d just have a chat for a bit first. Your sister said you had a tough time as kids. All taken into care?”
“That’s right. We’re the offspring of Meth Beth. Hebburn legend that she was. I wonder how many sprogs she pushed out in the end. She must be mid-sixties now.”
Martin had checked earlier and found Beth Beaumont was still alive and well, aged sixty-four.
“I was the eldest, followed by Robert. I was sixteen when our dad died, so I wasn’t in the foster system for long. Managed to get an apprenticeship at a garage and got out of care and into my own place as fast as I could. Robert found it harder. He was maybe fourteen or fifteen and hated his new school. Bastards bullied him something rotten. I had to meet him after school and sort a few lads out. Wait—” He stopped himself and glanced at his lawyer. “That’s not incriminating, is it?”
The lawyer shook his head. “No one’s interested in school gate scuffles from the eighties. Right?”
“Right,” Keaton confirmed.
“But you really think those murders on the news are connected to my family?” he asked. His chest seemed to cave slightly as he spoke. The weight of the situation kicking in.
“We know they are,” Keaton said. “Tell us about your other brothers. Where are they?”
“Jesus.” Kevin Beaumont wiped a hand over his face, then looked at it, his palm glistening, his fingers shaking.
“Do you need a break?” Martin asked. Time was of the essence, but he couldn’t risk evidence being thrown out because interviewees were too intoxicated or stressed to give accurate statements.
“Just a few minutes,” he said, tugging at his collar. “And some fresh air.”
Across the hall, in interview suite four, Cooper felt her time would be better spent banging her head against a wall.
“Where were you on Saturday the twenty-second of June?”
“I dunno. Was ages ago.”
Jason Beaumont spoke into the table. Eyes down, head bowed, his greasy chestnut hair flopping over his face. He’d refused his right to counsel and was being as uncooperative as possible.
“Okay, let’s try an easier one. Where were you on Monday?”
“Lot’s of places.”
Cooper ground her teeth. “Where were you between ten p.m. on Monday evening and five a.m on Tuesday morning?”
“Probably in bed.”
“Probably?”
“Yeah. Probably. It means almost certainly, as far as one can tell, in all likelihood—”
“Thank you for the definition, Jason.” Cooper remained steely faced, but inside she wanted to throw her cup of water over his oleaginous head.
“In your own bed? On Northcote Street, Arthur’s Hill?”
“Probably.”
“Well, I’m going to assume you mean your own bed. I’m going to go out on a limb and guess you didn’t get lucky on Monday night and charm your way into some lady’s boudoir. I know, risky bet, given your delightful conversation skills.”
He raised his head briefly to shoot her a cold stare.
“So, back to Saturday the twenty-second. Think harder.”
He shrugged.
“Jason, you are under arrest. This is a triple murder investigation. This is serious shit, and if you don’t start talking—”
“You’ll what? Arrest me for murder? You already did that.”
“I didn’t have to. You could have come with us voluntarily. You forced my hand. Now, give me an alibi I can check, or you can start making yourself comfortable in the cells.”
“If you think I’m dobbing in one of my brothers after we were failed over and over by our mother, by the state, by our foster families... You’ve got another thing coming. My lips are sealed. I’ll wait my twenty-four hours and be on my merry way.”
Cooper stood up. Jason Beaumont wasn’t the only one who could waste time. “Actually, you’ll be staying until the DNA results come back. No matter how long that takes. Now, if you excuse me, I’m going to call the lab and ask them to take their time.”
A slow count to ten and a deep breath or two later, Cooper entered interview suite three. Martin stood to offer his seat to the DCI, but she shook her head and told them to continue. She grabbed a spare chair and took a seat in the corner, allowing Martin and Keaton to carry on with their chat. If they’d already built a rapport or got into a good rhythm, there was no point in disrupting it.
“You were saying Jason and Marcus were housed together?” Keaton asked, turning back to Kevin Beaumont.
“Aye. They didn’t like it; foster dad was an arsehole. At least they got to see the girls at school. I lost touch with Marcus, so did Jason. Heard he’s livin’ in
the Canaries now.”
Mention of the Canaries hit Cooper like a cannonball to the solar plexus. She coughed involuntarily and tried to clear the flavour of bile that stung the back of her throat. It was Kevin, their interviewee, who handed her a plastic cup of water.
“Thanks.” She thought of her mother, how the new widow had been home alone all day without even a text from her daughter. Cooper typed out a quick message to see how she was doing and if she needed anything bringing in from the shops on her way home.
“What about Shane? Or Tyrone?” Martin pressed.
He shook his head. “Can’t really help you there. Shane was the youngest. There was like twelve years between us. Youngest of James’s kids, I mean.”
Martin nodded to show he understood.
“I got letters to begin with. But they were just kid stuff. Talking about his favourite trading cards. Funny how they’ve come back into fashion, isn’t it? I was busy with my new job, meeting lasses, actually having some money for the first time. I wasn’t interested in cartoons and toys, and I guess I stopped replying. I regret that now. It shouldn’t have mattered what he wrote to me about; I should have written back. Bit shitty of me. As for Tyrone, he was the third-youngest and would’ve been six or seven when we all left home.” He shrugged again. “Sorry, nee idea about him or Shane. To be honest, we don’t really talk about the others, me and Jason. We go for a few pints every couple of weeks and keep it light-hearted. Superficial stuff like what’s on the telly.”
“And if Newcastle are playing four at the back?” Martin asked.
“Aye. Just usual bloke talk.”
“Did you or your brothers have Newcastle shirts when you were little?”
“Pfft. You’re joking, aren’t ya? We could barely afford school uniforms. Think my hand-me-downs made it as far as Tyrone before the school changed from jumpers to sweatshirts. If we were lucky, we’d get a few quid each to go to the church jumble sale and see what new threads we could get. Was never anything special like a football strip.”
“No second-hand ones?”
“Not that I remember. Why?”
Martin opened a folder and showed Kevin a picture of a 1988 Newcastle away shirt.
“Does this shirt mean anything to you?”
“It’s an old toon shirt. Eighties?”
Martin nodded. “You don’t recognise it?”
“I recognise it, yeah, but if you’re asking if me or my brothers had one, I’d seriously doubt it. Dad? Yeah, maybe. But… Look, I’m forty-seven. Forty-eight next week. I left home over thirty years ago.” He turned his palms to the ceiling. “Sorry, I can’t be more help.”
It was half five when Cooper got home. She’d decided to send Kevin Beaumont home, given his cooperative nature and the fact he had an alibi for the time of the murders. His alibi was his wife, so it wasn’t the strongest of alibis, but it was an alibi nonetheless. Jason, meanwhile, was grumbling about the quality of the mattress in his cell.
Cooper dropped her bag by her front door and followed her nose to the kitchen where her mother was stressing over a cod loin that hadn’t been properly pin-boned. She plonked a bottle of sauvignon on the counter, the glass bottle chiming against her countertops.
“White, as requested.”
Julie examined the label with curious eyes, popped it in the fridge, glanced over to Steven’s corner and tutted. “Urgh. He’s done it again.”
“It’s just poop, Mum. It’s in a box, on the floor. I promise it won’t ruin dinner.”
Unappeased, Julie opened the kitchen door and hollered towards the staircase. “Tina! That thing needs cleaning again.”
Cooper winced. That thing was not the sort of expression that would help Julie bond with her granddaughter.
“It’s just a little seagull poop, Mum. You love telling that story about how I defecated all over the new cream carpet when I was a baby. You tell everyone who’ll listen about how you and Dad saw the funny side.”
“It’s different when it’s your own little one’s, you know that. Bet you thought Tina’s poop smelled of roses.”
Cooper had thought no such thing. “Steven is Tina’s little one. So I don’t want to hear any snide remarks about him over dinner. Okay?”
Tina stormed into the kitchen armed with a replacement sheet of newspaper and some anti-bac wipes for the floor around Steven’s box. Cooper dropped to her knees to help clean.
“You’re home early,” said Cooper.
“So are you,” was the reply.
Fair enough. Cooper’s job didn’t always lend itself to the nine-to-five lifestyle, and over the years, Tina had to get used to early starts or late dinners.
“Was netball cancelled?”
“Nope.”
“Why did you miss training then?”
Tina didn’t answer. She scrunched up the old newspaper and took it straight to the outdoor bin. A wise move, as Julie would have had something to say if it went in the kitchen bin.
“Is this about Lana?” Cooper pressed when Tina returned. “Because you shouldn’t let any boy troubles you’re having get in the way of your hobbies. Especially one you love as much as netball.”
Steven flapped his wings and hovered a foot above the tiles for a good seven seconds.
“Boy troubles?” Tina’s face was coated in disgust. She curled her upper lip and wrinkled her nose. “You think I’d skip training because Lana fancies Josh? Thought you knew me better than that.”
It was a mean thing to say, and though Cooper knew Tina’s anger wasn’t really directed at her, it stung all the same. No matter how hard she tried, she’d never truly understood everything that made Tina, Tina.
“I survived a season with Shelly Smith and her mates. I can survive a season with Lana. I’m wing attack. It’s not my job to make friends; it’s my job to get the ball to the shooters.”
“And give wing defence a cheeky elbow when the refs not looking?”
Tina smiled, the muscles in her forehead and jaw relaxing. “It’s only a foul if you get caught.”
Steven squawked and hovered once more. He’d be ready for release any day now. His wings were powerful enough to make audible swooshing noises as he beat them through the humid air of the kitchen.
“That’s my girl. How about you invite Josh to dinner on Friday? Your Nan hasn’t met him yet.”
Tina huffed and walked away. Cooper took that as a yes. She settled onto the sofa to enjoy a moment of quiet and decompress after what had been one hell of a long day. She watched whatever was on the television but didn’t take in a word of it, barely registering who was even on screen. She could have happily drifted off if it weren’t for the doorbell chiming and Julie rushing to invite Atkinson in. Cooper checked her watch. She’d been zoned out for fifteen minutes but felt as if she’d only just sat down. Ignoring the lost time, she pushed to her feet to give her tall, handsome sort-of-boyfriend a hug.
- Chapter 38 -
Justin Atkinson enjoyed Julie’s miso cod with broccoli and edamame. With such great ingredients available locally, it was hard to go wrong. And having lived on an island for a decade and a half, Atkinson imagined Julie knew a thing or two about seafood.
There was some drama after Tina barely touched the fish. She ate the rest of the meal, but it wasn’t enough for Julie who called her fussy and started a story with in my day... Thankfully the rest of the evening passed without incident.
Despite his full belly, a nagging feeling still grumbled in his stomach. Cooper wasn’t the same recently. He could sense something was off, like a dog honing in on an unfamiliar scent during its perimeter check. Something wasn’t right, and it caused his otherwise highly logical mind to spiral.
If she was sick—
If he lost her—
If Tina lost her—
Unable to talk to Cooper in private before dinner, he waited until Tina had excused herself and Julie had nodded off in front of the television.
“Fancy a walk?” he asked. “We could
go down to King Edward’s bay?”
Cooper finished loading the dishwasher, topped up the rinse aid and popped a tablet in the drawer. She closed the dishwasher and turned to him. “Sounds good. It looks like a lovely evening out there.” She glanced at her phone. “It’s still nineteen degrees if you can believe that. “She grabbed her bag, fished out her keys and pushed them into her pocket. “Let’s stay up the top though, I don’t think I have the energy to handle all those stairs down to the sand.” Then she smiled. “Well, I probably have the energy to get down all those stairs. It’s the coming back up that’s the problem.”
Putting his arm around her, Atkinson guided her down the tail end of Front Street, turning left to walk along the seafront. He held her close with her arm tight around his waist, her fingers finding their way under his t-shirt to touch the bare flesh of his hip.
As they rounded East Street, King Edward’s bay came into view. Steep cliffs on either side protected the cove from wind, and hungry diners tucked into lobster and langoustine dishes at Riley’s Fish Shack. Deck chairs surrounded fire pits and wispy plumes of smoke dissipated into the warm salty air.
“You’re quiet,” Cooper observed.
“That’s because I’m worried about you.” Atkinson stopped in his tracks and turned to face Cooper. He rested his arms on her shoulders, his hands cupping the back of her head. Though still completely captivating and beautiful, the spark he was so used to had left her eyes.
“You’re sweet,” she said, “but you don’t need to worry about me. I’m still finding it hard knowing that Dad’s gone. The permanence of it. It’s weird to think I can’t just call him or send a text, that I’m not going to warn him about sharing fake news on Facebook or laugh at his dad-jokes ever again.”
She took a deep breath and looked at the sea. Waves rolled in, shades of peacock green that faded to denim blue as they retreated.
“It’s awful, but I’m done crying. For now, at least.”
“It’s not just that,” Atkinson said. He paused, fumbling over the words in his mind before speaking them aloud. He wanted to be supportive and thoughtful; he didn’t want to come across as nagging, overbearing or worst of all, a worrywart.
Northern Roulette (DCI Cooper Book 4) Page 19