Northern Roulette (DCI Cooper Book 4)

by B Baskerville

  “We open at nine,” he said, shooing Tennessee out of the way so he could open the first of the locks.

  “Lee Forbes.” Tennessee held his ID up for inspection. “DS Daniel. We spoke last Monday.”

  Lee scowled. “Yeah, I remember you.”

  Tennessee could sense the man’s annoyance. “Mind if I come in and ask you some questions?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  Gone was the jovial man Tennessee had met at the start of the month. “Not really.”

  He followed Lee up the darkened stairwell to the memorabilia store. The place seemed different in the dark. Spooky. The bobbleheads appeared to be staring at him, and the bookshelves filled with programs and biographies looked as if they could topple over and crush him at any moment. His brush with death was getting to him.

  Tennessee waited for Lee to disable the alarm, switch on the lights and start brewing a pot of tea before beginning his questioning.

  Lee mellowed once he had a mug of tea in his hands. Tennessee couldn’t blame him; the mug was adorned with the image of Andy Cole. With sixty-eight goals in eighty-four matches, Cole gave most Newcastle fans a warm fuzzy feeling.

  “Sorry if I’m a grumpy bastard. I like my routine in the morning. I get antsy when it’s disrupted. Plus, I’m sure the missus is sleeping with our window cleaner. That doesn’t help.”

  “There was another man here when I visited last. Scottish accent, big bloke, strong build, knew a lot about—”

  “Dougie? What about him?”

  “I need to find him. Do you know where he lives?”

  Lee shook his head.

  “A full name or contact number?”

  “He’s just a customer. A new customer, mind you. Said he grew up here but moved to Scotland in his teens, hence the accent. Said he’d just moved back at the start of the summer. Speaking of which...”

  Lee moved to the front of the store to open some windows.

  “Gets hotter than Satan’s nutsack in here without the window open.”

  “When was he last in?”

  Lee thought for a second. “He’s been in since your visit. Just the once, I think. Bought one of these.” He held up his Andy Cole mug. “Says he’s mad keen on the Toon. That his dad was a big fan, but he died when he was a bairn.”

  Tennessee’s suspicions were correct. It was too much of a coincidence. Tyrone Douglas Beaumont was now Dougie.

  “Did he pay with a credit or debit card?”

  “Always cash.”

  Balls. Tennessee picked up a souvenir football and passed it back and forth between his hands. “What day was this?”

  “Friday morning. Lunchtime at the latest.”

  “Do you have a till receipt showing the exact time?”

  Lee looked down. “Erm...”

  “You don’t record cash purchases, do you?”

  “Some might slip through the net.”

  Tennessee shook his head in disgust; there was no denying his anger. He’d paid tax since his first day of work, and he was happy to do so. Contributing to the greater good to pay for services like the NHS and education was only fair if everyone paid their share.

  “Do you want me to pass on a message if he comes in again?” Lee asked, his voice sheepish.

  “No. If he comes in again, you pretend like this conversation never took place. He’s a dangerous man. Do you understand?”

  Lee looked taken aback. “He’s built like a brick shithouse, pardon my French, but I don’t think he’s dangerous.”

  “You think wrong. If he comes in, you call me straight away.” He handed Lee a card with his details on it. “You can pretend you’re calling the missus, ordering a pizza, I don’t care, but you call straight away. Got it.”

  A reluctant nod.

  Tennessee glanced up at a black bubble fixed to the ceiling. “Tell me that camera works.”

  “Usually does.”

  “I want any footage you have of Dougie. Send it to me today at the email address on the card.”

  Lee looked like he was about to complain. As if he was about to tell him he could have the footage, but he’d have to sift through it himself. He opened his mouth, a surly look on his face, but Tennessee spoke first.

  “By the end of today, or I’m calling Revenue and Customs.”

  Tennessee stepped back out into the bright morning. The street was busier now, the sunshine painting Grainger Town a soft yellow. Across from the Black and White Warehouse, an elderly man in a flat cap sold flowers from a stall. Despite the remnants of his cold, he could make out the sweet smell of honeysuckle. He bought Hayley a bouquet of multi-coloured tulips and Pat a white and blue mix that reminded him of a summer meadow.

  Buying flowers for his mother-in-law? That ought to earn him some Brownie points.

  Tennessee dodged a Ford Focus that had almost driven the wrong way up a one-way street and called Cooper. He waited, listening while she excused herself from an interview with one of Dougie’s foster parents.

  “The good news is, the man I saw was definitely Tyrone Beaumont. He’s going by Dougie now. The bad news is, I’ve no idea where he’s staying or what surname he uses.”

  The Ford edged its way back into the main road. A series of car horns indicated the annoyance of other drivers while they waited.

  “Okay, so we’re no closer, but at least we’ve confirmed Tyrone and this Dougie are one and the same.”

  “The store owner’s going to send me any footage he has by the end of the day. Hopefully, there’s a good still we can use. I don’t want to rely on my memory for making an e-fit.”

  “I’ve managed to get Vince Rivers to come in. He and his wife fostered Tyrone, Dougie, whatever we’re calling him for a couple of years.”

  “What’s your take?” Tennessee asked.

  “He’s going to a lot of effort to paint himself as a saint. Other than that, he says he hasn’t seen or heard from him since he ran away from home when he was fifteen.”

  “Kids don’t run away for no reason.”

  “I don’t know about that,” said Cooper. “I once worked a case where a girl ran away because her parents bought her supermarket-brand hair straighteners instead of the GHDs she’d wanted.”

  Tennessee snorted and brought the bouquet of tulips to his nose to take a whiff. “Glad I didn’t have a girl.”

  Over the phone, Tennessee could hear the sound of coins dropping into a vending machine. Cooper was grabbing a snack.

  “What’s your next play?” she asked. “Any idea where he’d be now?”

  “Not a clue, but I’m about to start a walkabout for local cameras. I know he was here Friday morning and the Monday before that. It might take me all day, but I’m going to trace his movements. Hopefully, I can follow him back to his lair.”

  Cooper told him that would be amazing and asked if he’d need any help. He asked for as many pairs of eyes as the department could spare. His wish was granted.

  “The family and foster families aren’t giving me anything new,” Cooper told him. “If we can’t find where he’s staying...”

  “I have a plan B.” Tennessee watched as the man in the Ford exited his vehicle to yell at one of the drivers tooting his horn. A topless man with sunburnt shoulders jumped out from behind the wheel. Fingers were jabbed in faces.

  “Jack?”

  “Yeah, just a sec. I might need to diffuse a road rage situation.”

  Sunburnt man threw a punch at Ford Focus. It missed. Ford Focus kicked out, hitting Sunburnt in the groin. He yelped and fell to the floor.

  “And now it’s assault.”

  Tennessee laid the flowers on a bench and hoped they’d still be there in ten minutes. As he sprinted towards the fight, he noticed more people jumping from their cars.

  “Plan B,” he panted into his phone while running, “is that I know where he’ll be on Saturday.”

  - Chapter 47 -

  He waited in the van, eyes down, pretending to do a crossword. Still, he was
hyper-aware of the comings and goings in the street. South of the Tyne, the town of Ryton was expanding with clusters of new-builds popping up on its outskirts. This street was spanking new; half of it was still under construction. There was a smell of asphalt, freshly laid concrete, new siding and newly-opened tins of paint. The scent took him back to when he worked in construction. Working off-the-books and cash-in-hand with the other runaways and illegals. It was hard work – back-breaking – he respected those who worked up a sweat to put food on the table. He didn’t respect the couple who lived in the four-bed detached house he was staking out.

  Vince Rivers and his wife, Kerys. He remembered the little lady as a two-faced bitch: a happy, caring woman when she was out and about, a miserable cow at home. You could get more love out of a stone. Vince was a man of little emotion. The only time he cracked a smile was when his team scored. They’d done well for themselves, judging by the size of the house. It was amazing what you could afford if you squirrelled away all the money you were paid for fostering. Sure, they had a roof over their heads, food in their bellies, and clothes on their backs, but that was a bare minimum. Those were legal requirements. Beyond that, not a penny was spent on them.

  Ryton was only fifteen miles from the place he’d stayed in Hebburn, but it was a different world. Here, no one knew Vince or Kerys. They’d started over as wealthy, decent people. He’d missed his chance earlier. Vince left the house, leaving Kerys to sunbathe in the back garden. It would have been the perfect opportunity if it weren’t for two bairns playing in next door’s garden. He wasn’t too worried about young witnesses, but he didn’t think innocents should have to see such things. He’d decided to wait, and wait he did. Five hours of waiting to be precise.

  Kerys was in the kitchen, head peering into the fridge as she decided on her next beverage. She looked frailer than he remembered; she walked with a limp, sported orange peel skin on the backs of her things and groaned when she had to bend her knees.

  Vince was upstairs. He looked agitated when he’d returned home, but whatever was bugging him was soon forgotten. He’d just opened the bathroom window and was whistling to himself, not a care in the world. He wondered if Vince would still be whistling if he knew his wife was about to be murdered. Perhaps he would.

  Now.

  He slipped out of the van and gently closed the door. He approached the house with all the confidence of someone who lived there. No one would question him; the children had gone back indoors, and the rest of the homes were unoccupied. A tall wooden gate marked the entrance to an alleyway between the two houses. He reached over, feeling for the catch; it was easy enough to open. He closed the gate behind him, careful not to make a sound. His heart rate picked up, his palms began to sweat.

  Five.

  He entered the back garden, saw Kerys’s sun lounger and empty wine glass. A bottle of tanning oil lay on its side on the dry grass; a copy of Take A Break was open, its pages fanning back and forth in the light breeze.

  Four.

  He approached the bi-fold doors that opened into the modern kitchen. Kerys struggled with a corkscrew, cursing and muttering about screwtops in the same whiny voice he remembered.

  Three.

  He picked up a ceramic plant pot. Basil, he guessed, judging by the smell. It weighed about three and a half kilos. Perfect.

  Two.

  He stepped silently into the kitchen. Kerys, her back to him, stretched onto her tiptoes to reach for clean glasses. He stepped further in, his feet silent on her white, polished tiles. This was a modern kitchen, built for a modern house. A sharp-cornered kitchen island and high-gloss cabinets; everything was clean and precise. He smiled, knowing he was about to make a right mess.

  He lifted the plant pot. She turned around.

  One.

  Cooper examined a map on Friday afternoon. A large aerial view of Newcastle was pinned to the wall in the incident room. Dougie Beaumont’s movements from this time last week were marked using tiny red stickers. Their man liked to walk. CCTV had found him walking west on Blackett Street in the centre of Newcastle. He was picked up by several cameras around the Old Eldon Square area, where he opted not to take a bus or use the Metro. He then moved up Gallowgate and onto Barrack Road. Once passed St. James’ Park, there were fewer cameras. Dougie had wandered into greener pastures, but Tennessee had been a determined man. Over many hours, he’d tracked the man in black. He kept his head down as he marched towards his destination, never once stopping to speak to anyone or check directions. Here the trail seemed to vanish until footage emerged of their suspect passing a branch of Aldi on Ponteland Road. The journey had taken him over an hour, and the pavement outside Aldi was the last location they had for Dougie.

  Running her finger along the line of red dots, Cooper wondered where Dougie was headed. Where was he sleeping? The nearest hotel was an airport Travel Lodge, another thirty-minute walk north. She pursed her lips as she thought. She didn’t know of any B&Bs in the Cowgate or Kenton area, but there were many rental properties. He could have rented a room somewhere. Or an Airbnb.

  Cooper’s legs were tired from standing in front of the map. She took a seat and rubbed her knees. Christ, she felt older than she should. She still had many years with a three at the start of her age, and she wasn’t ready to be the sort who made moaning noises every time they stood up or who huffed and puffed every time they climbed a flight of stairs. Not yet.

  She leant sideways and retrieved her handbag from the floor. Rummaging in the bottom of it, she found her phone and planner. The screen of the phone showed a couple of messages. Julie was annoyed that Cooper would be home late; Tina asked if she could get a takeaway instead of helping her grandmother cook. She ran her thumb over the glass front and felt another crack; she’d need to replace it soon, or splurge on an upgrade. She typed quick replies to her mother and daughter that she wouldn’t be too late and that they should go out to eat. It would be her treat as long as they chose a restaurant and booked a table.

  The planner was functional. A plain blue cover with coffee stains. Inside, a week-to-page layout showed Cooper’s appointments and reminders. Shopping lists were scrawled between meetings, and small doodles of flowers and hearts made her smile. She must be in a good place with Atkinson if she was drawing hearts in her diary like an adolescent. She flicked the pages back a few weeks before jumping forward to the next week. She had tests at the Northern Centre for Cancer Care scheduled for Monday. Written there in red ink, the words made her nervous. Still, it was important that she attend; she needed to be checked over. Dr McDermott had concerns; he’d requested a mammogram, a bone density test, and some other examinations. She’d arranged a few hours off for that morning and was pleased Atkinson had agreed to go with her. She didn’t know if she’d be able to keep the panic attacks at bay without him.

  She closed the planner and took a sip of water from a bottle. There was a team out in Cowgate with a photo of Dougie Beaumont. They’d been instructed to spread out from his last known location, going door-to-door in the hopes someone would recognise the triple murderer. The rest of the team were still talking to all the connections they could find for Dougie, aka Tyrone. They’d reassemble soon. Unless they caught Dougie in the next few hours, they were going ahead with plan B.

  The Rivers’ unconscious bodies looked like oversized ragdolls on the kitchen floor, all floppy and lifeless. They could wake up at any moment, and whilst they were older and not as intimidating as he’d once found them, Vince was still a big man. He didn’t want another black eye; the one Ronan Turnbull had given him still hurt. Taking two cable ties from his back pocket, he bound Vince and Kerys’s hands together. Next, he stuffed their mouths with tea towels. He walked through a utility room and took a door into the Rivers’ garage. The space was relatively empty. Some shelving lined one wall, each shelf filled with boxes from their recent move. He’d always travelled light and kept as few possessions as he could get away with. Having all this junk would drive him mad. He ope
ned the garage doors, jogged across the street, started the van and reversed it into the dark, square space.

  It took next to no effort to move Kerys; she weighed six stone soaking wet. He dropped her on the mattress he kept in the back then went back for Vince. He squatted, slipped his hands under Vince’s armpits, took a deep breath then began to pull. It was a good thing he trained deadlifts; otherwise, his back would be in agony tomorrow. Still, lifting him into the van was a chore. After three attempts, he gave up.

  He returned to the back garden and collected the sun lounger. He folded the legs in and used the main body of it as a ramp, laying one end on the ground and the other inside the van. A grunting noise made him turn.

  Vince was awake. Wild-eyed and desperate, he was on his knees trying to shuffle out of the garage.

  He smiled at the pitiful escape attempt, cracked his knuckles and formed a fist. “Not so fast, big boy.”

  Vince’s eyes plead with him. The irony. He used to be the one making that face.

  “The bad news is that you’ve got a long night ahead of ya. The good news is it’s the last one you’ll ever have.”

  - Chapter 48 -

  Saturday the twelfth of June, and tribalism was in full effect at Gosforth Park. An area of lush greenery, the park was home to wild deer, rabbits and other species. It was also home to two golf courses, a five-a-side centre, a hotel, a pub, and Newcastle Racecourse.