Northern Roulette (DCI Cooper Book 4)

by B Baskerville

  “You have more tests coming up soon. Another mammogram and, weren’t they going to run a BDX? I know you like to go about things in your own way,” he angled his head and gave her a knowing look, “but if you’re concerned about them, I just want you to know that I’m here, and it’s okay to feel anxious. It’s natural.”

  She pulled away, and he hoped he hadn’t done the wrong thing in broaching the subject.

  “You’re right. I’m a bit preoccupied, but I’m not particularly worried about the results.”

  “I’m glad. Though I can’t help but notice how tired you’ve been.”

  They pressed into the railing allowing a couple on an evening bike ride to pass by safely.

  “It’s just this case,” Cooper said once the cyclists had passed. Below them, on the beach, two seagulls fought over some discarded mackerel bones, their squawks carrying up to the cliff tops. “I think these homicides are revenge killings. I don’t know what happened to the man we’re looking for, but to kill three people in the way he did— To bury them alive...” She shook her head and followed one of the seagulls as it flew over the cliffs towards Tynemouth Priory, soaring through the old ruins before disappearing down the other side. “I just can’t get over how depraved people can be. It’s like they’re another species sometimes. So yeah, I’m not that worried about the tests. I’ve been through them before. If they’re clear, great, and if they’re not, then I’ll deal with it like I dealt with it last time.”

  “We’ll deal with it,” Atkinson corrected her.

  “If I’m honest, I’m more concerned about having a panic attack. After what happened...” She swallowed and looked away again.

  “That’s completely understandable, but I’ll be with you. And if you don’t think I’m enough muscle, we can bring in reinforcements; Paula comes to mind. Or, you could check out a taser. Fifty thousand volts should keep any nutters away.”

  Cooper laughed and put her hand in his. “I wish. You know they don’t just let us take those things home with us whenever we want? Now come on, let’s see if the ice cream place is still open.”

  The skin around Howard Nixon’s eyes crinkled as he spoke into a microphone on Thursday morning. Around him, the air flickered with camera flashes, his low voice occasionally drowned out by the clunk-clunk of shutter noises. Cooper watched Nixon out the corner of her eye before turning her gaze back to the journalists, photographers and cameramen gathered before them. The press conference had been arranged to update the media with information regarding the third victim. They’d also appeal once more for witnesses to the events on Holy Island.

  The usual faces were there: Vince Shepherd, a rotund man from the Evening Chronicle; Megan Mercado, a glamazon from ITV; and Dennis Moore, who always reminded Cooper of an arthritic greyhound. There were also several faces she didn’t recognise. This was a big case, and it had attracted a great deal of media interest. There were bound to be representatives from national newspapers, the broadsheets, tabloids, internet news sites, and broadcasting companies in the room. The red BBC logo was printed on the side of a Panasonic video camera. No doubt footage from today would be replayed and analysed on the six o’clock news.

  Blair Potts, a member of the press office, whose large teeth made her appear slightly horse-like, pointed to a raised hand in the third row.

  “Abu Hassan, BBC Look North. Why wasn’t the Holy Island causeway closed when Mr Pennington’s body was discovered?”

  Cooper cleared her throat and leant forward to bring her mouth closer to the microphone. “The causeway had been open for five hours before the victim was discovered. We had no reason to believe the person responsible would have remained on the island. Detectives and local police decided to keep the causeway open, allowing residents to go to school and work on the mainland. That being said, random checks were conducted on vehicles leaving Lindisfarne until eleven a.m. when the causeway closed again.”

  Hassan seemed satisfied with the answer. He nodded politely and returned to his seat.

  Cooper and Nixon turned their attention to the next reporter to be acknowledged by Potts: a wheelchair user with a gaunt face and black hair styled in micro braids.

  “Eliza Wilson, News Guardian. Are reports of an arrest accurate?”

  “I can confirm a man in his forties is helping us with our inquiries. I can’t give further details at this time.”

  Eliza thrust her recording device forwards. “Do you believe this man to be the killer? And how did he select his victims?”

  Journos. “As I said, I can’t give further details at this time.”

  Jason Beaumont may be in custody, and he may be an uncooperative, moody little swine. But that didn’t mean he was necessarily responsible for a triple murder. Cooper had no intention of naming him in the press until the DNA tests came back and she knew for sure.

  Cooper sat up taller and faced the nearest television camera. “I’d like to reiterate the need for witnesses to come forward if they saw a white van in the area of Collingwood Street, Hexham on Monday the first of July. We’d also like to hear from any stores that sold a large quantity of kiln-dried sand in the last week, especially if these sales were to the public rather than trade accounts.”

  Vince Shepherd stood up when Potts pointed in his direction.

  “Final question,” Potts told the room.

  Shepherd ran a hand over a bushy beard of dark auburn. “Vince Shepard, Evening Chronicle. Do you believe the suspect in the sandcastle killings is responsible for the disappearance of Summer Holt?”

  Cooper was about to tell Shepherd they had no reason to believe that when Nixon cut her off. “A press conference regarding Summer is scheduled for Monday.”

  “Does that mean you don’t anticipate finding her before then? Has a ransom demand been made? Do you think she’s alive?”

  Shepherd threw his questions out one after the other like verbal hand-grenades. Nixon got to his feet and gathered his things. He signalled to Potts that she’d have to deal with any reporters who didn’t get the message: this conference was over. Cooper followed his lead, slinging a bag strap over her shoulder before leaving the room under a barrage of camera flashes.

  Cooper returned to the incident room after a quick loo break and a trip to the canteen for some elevenses. She found Tennessee examining the murder wall, his eyes flicking from one crime scene photo to the next.

  “Hey, Jack. How’s the little one?”

  “His temperature’s come back down now,” he said, taking a step to the left to peer at a printout of the yellow and green NUFC away shirt. “Between Alfie crying all day, Hayley crying all day and Pat coughing her lungs up all day, I have a serious headache.”

  “You should take a day for yourself, Jack. I know you don’t begrudge looking after your family, but if you need some time away from the office to see to your own mental health, you know you can arrange it.”

  “You, me, Paula, Oliver, Saffron, Elliot.” He counted the team on his fingers. “Since when were any of us good at looking after ourselves?”

  Cooper pouted. “Other than Paula, you might have a point. That woman lives in the gym.”

  Tennessee led Cooper to the desk he was working at and fired up the computer. “It’s how she works out her demons. I heard her dad was getting remarried and didn’t want his lesbian daughter or gay son to come to the ceremony. She says she’s not bothered and doesn’t want him in her life, but you know, it’s got to sting.”

  Cooper felt sick. “What a bellend. She’s better off without him.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” said Tennessee, using one finger to enter his password. “Anyhoo, as we’re having problems locating some of the Beaumonts, I ran their names through the Gazette. You said Natalie and the other Beaumont sisters were adopted, so I thought—”

  “That if some of the boys had been, they might have taken their adoptive surnames? Good idea.”

  The screen turned white as Tennessee opened a document. Robert Phillip Beaumont h
ad dropped his first name and now went by Phillip Hall. Marcus James Beaumont had changed his name to Marcus James Newton.”

  “Brilliant,” Cooper told him. “Update the murder wall, run the names through the PNC and pay a visit to Local Intel. See if the LIO has anything on the Beaumonts.”

  “On it.” Tennessee logged out. “What do you want for lunch? I’m having a cheeky Nando’s delivery if you want one?”

  In need of some vitamins, she ordered a salad bowl and turned on her own computer. A stream of beeps indicated she had mail; the DNA results were back.

  “Well, well, well,” Cooper murmured to herself. “A perfect match.”

  Across the room, Whyte and Boyd looked up from their files.

  She read the results twice to be sure, pausing to yawn and rub her itchy eyes. Greg Beaumont from the Morningside area of Edinburgh was in the clear. As was Liam Beaumont of Berwick Park Road.

  Another cousin: negative.

  Another uncle: negative.

  She continued to read, sighing at the news that she’d have to release Jason Beaumont. His DNA confirmed he was not the one who’d left blood spatter all over Ronan Turnbull’s Hexham home. She picked up her phone and dialled the custody sergeant to update her and authorise Jason’s release. It was a shame. She’d really hoped Jason had been their man.

  Hanging up, Cooper stared at the line of red capital letters.

  POSITIVE.

  Chatty, relaxed, happy-go-lucky Kevin Beaumont.

  Not a match for what had been dubbed the sandcastle killings.

  A match for the unsolved rape in 2011.

  - Chapter 39 -

  On Thursday afternoon, Kevin Beaumont was arrested for the 2011 rape of a homeless woman in Middlesbrough. By Thursday evening Cleveland Police were interviewing him at their facilities on Bridge Street West. Cooper felt for his girlfriend and his children. Had she known? Surely not. Still, women had stood by their rapist boyfriends or husbands before, and as strange as it seemed, Cooper had once allowed a dangerous man back into her life and the life of her daughter. She hadn’t known what Kenny was doing at the time, but she had been warned. The humiliation of it still haunted Cooper in those dark moments when sleep evaded her and she felt alone.

  The next morning, seventy-two hours since the discovery of Ronan Turnbull’s beaten and broken body, Cooper ate breakfast by herself. Julie was still in bed; Tina had left early to join a before-school study group. She trailed her finger over the rim of an empty teacup, creating a smudge of the beige lipstick she was wearing. The porcelain was smooth and cool, and it felt pleasant against her balmy skin. She pulled her finger away and examined the warm shade pooled in the valleys between bifurcation ridges and whorls. She pressed the pad of her finger onto a sheet of kitchen towel, leaving her fingerprint and briefly feeling like someone on the other side of the thin blue line. The cup of lemongrass tea tasted light and refreshing, like a freshly cut lawn; the perfect start to the day. Until she remembered the speciality tea had been one of many small gifts from Tina’s father. She stood, retrieved the rest of the box of pyramid teabags from the cupboard, and hurled them into the kitchen bin.

  The drive to HQ passed in a daze. After a night of fitful sleep, Cooper barely registered the blatant road rage occurring in the outside lane. She parked, entered the building, bought a bottle of mineral water from the canteen and made her way to the incident room. She entered her ID and password into a computer and searched the database for further information on the crime.

  On the sixteenth of November 2011, Kevin Beaumont beat and raped Nadine Ramsay, a homeless woman, in a poorly lit alley only a stone’s throw from Middlesbrough train station. Cooper pulled up a map; the headquarters for Cleveland Police was just around the corner. A commuter found her the morning after and phoned for an ambulance. Her internal injuries kept her in hospital for two nights before she was sent home.

  Not that she had one.

  Wiping a clammy hand over her forehead, Cooper’s heart broke. Nadine Ramsay overdosed a month later. She’d taken a lethal dose of methadone, and now she’d never know that justice would finally be served and her attacker would be held accountable.

  “You okay?”

  Cooper looked up to see Whyte staring at her from behind a Betty Boop mug.

  “You look like you’re about to throw up. No offence.”

  Cooper felt like she might be. Poor woman. “None taken. I’m fine.”

  She couldn’t get over how that bastard, Kevin Beaumont, seemed so happy to hand over his DNA and eliminate himself from the murder investigation. He’d had been cooperative and polite. Had he forgotten what he’d done all those years ago? Did he think because he’d targeted a homeless woman that no one would believe her? That her claims would go unheard or unrecorded? That his violation of her wouldn’t matter?

  It did matter.

  She mattered.

  Within twenty minutes, most of the team had arrived for the morning briefing. Frustrated at not having DNA samples from all the Beaumont men yet, they were at least happy to have removed a rapist from society.

  Cooper led a round of applause for Elliot Whyte and Saffron Boyd for making the arrest. Whyte looked taken aback at the rare compliment. He took his seat next to Paula Keaton and greeted her with a fist bump. His eagle-like nose was tinged green across the bridge. Apparently, Kevin Beaumont hadn’t taken kindly to being arrested in front of his children. According to Boyd, Whyte had slapped handcuffs on him while saying, “If you don’t want your kids to see you arrested for rape, don’t be a fucking rapist.”

  Cooper couldn’t have put it better herself.

  “Right. Are we all here?” Cooper scanned the room doing a mental register of who should be in attendance. She held up a file and allowed a smug grin to form on her lips. Not too smug; it’s wasn’t like they’d made an arrest in the sandcastle case. “We got the warrant for the care files on the six Beaumont boys. You’ll never guess who their social worker was?”

  Keaton was the first to speak. “My money’s on Eve Lynch.”

  “Bingo. Whilst the council were predictably unhelpful in telling us her role at STC, we now have the connection. One of the Beaumont’s is on a blast from the past killing spree. We’ve ruled out Jason and Kevin, so we need to turn our attention to Robert, Marcus, Tyrone and Shane. Tennessee?”

  Tennessee stood up and blew his nose. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot and he sounded bunged up as he spoke. Pointing to the list of names on the murder wall, he addressed the room. “Robert now uses his middle name and his adoptive surname. He is Phillip Hall. And Marcus Beaumont is Marcus Newton. I’ve found no formal change of name for Shane or Tyrone, but that doesn’t mean they’re not using nicknames or pseudonyms.”

  Tennessee returned to his seat and sniffled. Cooper would send him home if his symptoms worsened. She needed him well-rested and didn’t want him coughing all over the incident room.

  “Given the news about Eve Lynch, I think we can safely move any cousins and uncles to the back of the queue. Martin, I want you to confirm Marcus Newton is in the Canaries and hasn’t flown home recently. If that’s the case, eliminate him. Speak with the Policía Nacional and have them meet with him to see if he knows anything.”

  Martin made some notes and agreed.

  “We now have two main avenues. First, track down Phillip, Tyrone and Shane. One of them has killed their social worker, their former teacher and someone they used to box with. Phillip will be forty-five now, the same age as the third victim, Ronan Turnbull. Perhaps they were rivals? Tyrone and Shane were younger; they should be thirty-eight and thirty-five, respectively. That makes them too young to be sparring partners or opponents for Ronan.”

  Tennessee sneezed, then added, “May Ratcliffe, the woman with the café in Corbridge? She told us Ronan would take younger kids under his wing for private tuition. Perhaps…”

  “Perhaps he coached Shane or Tyrone,” Cooper finished for him. “But why—”

  “Why
kill him?” Keaton asked no one in particular. “I’ve met some dodgy coaches in my time. Maybe Lieutenant Colonel Golden Gloves was a bit of a bully?”

  “Or a pervert?” said Martin.

  “Or both?” Boyd suggested.

  Whyte leant forward and propped his elbows on his knees. “If I was abused as a child, I’d want revenge.” He rubbed his sore nose. “Then again, if I had been, I wouldn’t be who I am now. I might not have the confidence to report it or to track the person down and deal with it myself.”

  Cooper agreed, and there was a moment of silence while some in the room were taciturn, feeling dour but thankful for the safe and nurturing homes they grew up in. Others thought about the trusted adults who had let them down.

  “If he thinks these people wronged him all those years ago, why hold on to it until now?” Tennessee asked.

  Keaton unfolded her thick thighs and refolded them with the opposite leg on top. “Something must have made him snap.”

  “It’s the little things that push a person over the edge.” Saffron Boyd’s mouth was pinched to the side as she looked through Cooper to the murder wall behind her. “There’s huge trauma, that’s for certain. He felt abandoned by his mother, lost his father, was taken into care, and separated from his brothers and sisters. But as a child, there’d be so much more on top of that. Not having the right clothes to fit in. Not getting the same toys everyone else did at Christmas. Birthdays going unacknowledged. The trophies won and lost, a compliment or a snide remark, the drawings prized and stuck to the fridge and the ones scrunched up and put in the bin.”

  It was hard to reconcile that the unfortunate little boy Boyd had just described and the monster who buried people alive were the same person. One had become the other, and it was the monster they had to stop before he killed again.