“Who schedules a football meet up sale the same day as the Northumberland Plate?” Keaton asked. She stood outside her car, having found the inside of it had turned into a sauna the second she killed the engine.
Around them, people arrived for both events. The Northumberland Plate was the premier fixture in northeastern horse racing. Run on the flat over two miles, the race attracted the nations top jockeys. It also drew the region’s well-to-do race fans. Designer suits and shiny shoes, fitted summer dresses and oversized hats, the Northumberland Plate was an excuse to flaunt both your wealth and your figure.
“They didn’t,” said Cooper, stretching her arms above her head and feeling the warmth of the sun on her face. “The Plate was delayed a week after that horse was poisoned.”
“Oh yeah. I saw that on the news. Arsenic, wasn’t it?” Keaton asked. “Did they catch who did it?”
Cooper shook her head. “Not yet. My money’s on a rival jockey or someone with a lot of money on the outcome.”
“Who’s the new favourite?”
Cooper scrunched her face up as she tried to remember. “Rocket Queen.”
A coach pulled up in front of them. Thirty race goers alighted, already in a state of giddy inebriation. A woman in a bright green dress with a hat wider than your average sombrero almost blinded the man walking behind her when she stopped suddenly and he walked into the brim. Seconds later, another coach arrived; this one housed those who wanted to trade collector’s cards, buy programs from classic matches and have their Newcastle shirts signed for a tenner by former players who needed the cash.
The horsey folk sneered at the football fans. On any given day, they’d likely be mates in the same pubs, cheering for the same team. Today they were separate tribes. The horses softened their accents, the footballs hardened theirs. They formed small groups, eyeing the other with disdain. The posh folk curling their lips at the commoners; the working folk jeering at the trust funds in silly hats. Like a clan marching into enemy territory, the football fans adopted confident postures and walked in formation.
“This place is a tinderbox,” said Cooper. She checked her watch, wondering where the armed unit was. They were hoping to catch a dangerous serial killer and didn’t want any of the public getting hurt in the process. The task force was equipped with tasers, but a little muscle in the form of firearms wouldn’t go amiss.
Tennessee came running over from his vehicle. He was dressed in an NUFC shirt, ready to blend in. “Coop, major incident at the Metrocentre. Possible terrorist attack. Two men with machetes—”
“Armed response?”
“Diverted to deal with it.”
“Bloody hell. So, we’re not getting any?”
“There’s a standard unit of armed officers here working the races. More of a deterrent than anything. There are fifty thousand people attending today, and that’s not counting the memorabilia swap and the golf. Nixon says we can liaise with the security detail, bring them up to speed on our operation.”
Cooper swore. “Talk about the right hand not knowing what the left hand is doing. Paula?”
“I’m on it, boss.”
Keaton left to find out who was in charge and give them the good news: a serial killer might be amongst them. Her feet kicked up plumes of dust as she walked over the scorched ground.
Elliott Whyte tugged at the Newcastle shirt he’d been forced to wear.
“Stop fidgeting,” Saffron Boyd warned him. She pulled her light-brown, dark-blonde hair into a ponytail. A bead of sweat formed in the Cupid’s bow of her lips.
“It just feels so unnatural.”
“Would you prefer to walk in wearing a Sunderland shirt? You’d be pulled limb from limb.”
She made a fair point.
A trailer to their right opened, and a magnificent bay horse with a blaze of white on his nose was led towards the racecourse.
Boyd pouted at the impressive beast. “I hate horse racing. The horse does all the work, and the jockey gets all the credit. It’s just running for lazy people.”
Whyte raised his dark eyebrows at her. “What about cycling?”
“Also running for lazy people.”
“Rowing?”
“Swimming for lazy people.”
“Golf?”
She paused. “Hiking for drunks.”
He laughed. It was good to see Boyd start to relax around him. She was funny when she wasn’t a nervous wreck.
“Whyte.” It was Cooper’s voice coming from behind him. “It’s time.”
The team gathered around Cooper, looking as casual as they could. From what she could tell, the public had barely registered them; they were all too busy having a good time.
"No one has seen Dougie Beaumont arrive. We’ve had eyes on all the coaches, and so far, no one has matched his description. He might not be coming, he might arrive later, or he might have slipped past us. Either way, we need to get bodies inside to check.”
Feet shuffled in anticipation. Cooper took a slow breath to steady her stress levels and noticed others were doing the same.
“Tennessee, Whyte and Martin. As discussed last night, you’re going in with Ngannou, O’Malley, Grant and Bailey.”
The task force nodded.
“Play it safe. Your safety’s as important as anyone else’s. I don’t want any of you getting hurt.”
She meant it. While everyone knew she was closest to Tennessee, there was no way she’d be able to forgive herself if her plan got one of the team maimed or killed. Cooper inserted an earpiece, and others followed her lead. They tested their mics, and those not going inside the five-a-side centre spread out to cover the exits.
Keaton opened her arms and pulled Martin into her. She slapped him on the back twice and told him to be careful. Despite her constant teasing of the young man, Cooper knew she thought of him as family.
At one side of the building, Cooper took her position outside a fire exit. She wiped her forehead with the back of her arm. It was unbearably hot, and the humidity made her feel like she was trying to breathe underwater. Her mouth was dry with fear; she licked her lips, but her tongue was rough. She was dehydrated.
“Go ahead,” she spoke into her mic. “If you see Beaumont, hang back until you can separate him from the crowd.”
A band started playing somewhere in the racecourse. It troubled Cooper, but at least it covered the sound of her heartbeat thumping in her ears. A gust of wind blew dust and dried dirt into her face, along with the smell of hotdogs and horseshit.
She managed to say, “Good luck,” into the mic before vomiting over a disabled parking bay.
Fanatics at a memorabilia swap, like kids in a candy store. A din of voices, some rough with age, some younger and higher in pitch; the older voices just as excitable as the younger ones. The room mingled as one; chatting and laughing filled the air. Nods of recognition for established friendships and handshakes to seal new ones. A Manchester United joke here, a Chelsea joke there. And whilst no one would dream of insulting Newcastle United, its owner was fair game.
“Wish he’d hurry up and sell,” huffed a man with thick blond ringlets.
“He doesn’t care about the club. Only thing he cares about is money.” The man’s friend moved out of the way as fast-flowing streams of people tried to be in too many places at once; they crossed one another’s paths, occasionally colliding as they jostled for position.
Tennessee, Whyte and Martin moved from stall to stall, pretending to look at the merchandise. They were actually looking at the sellers and fellow visitors. Every time his eyes fell on a larger man, Tennessee’s breath caught in his throat. He wasn’t a claustrophobic person, but he felt on edge. There were too many people, too many variables.
Then there he was.
“Eyes on,” he whispered into the mic hidden in his collar.
Tyrone, Douglas, Dougie. Whatever he wanted to call himself. Dougie Effin’ Beaumont was hunched over, his posture passive and submissive, palms turned outwards
in a gesture of openness. Despite the hustle and bustle, Tennessee could pick up his voice. A slight Scottish accent, presumably acquired during his years of exile, spoken softly with rising inflexions to put others at ease.
A wolf in sheep’s clothing.
A wolf in yellow and green.
“I’ve lost you,” crackled Whyte’s voice in his ear.
“Cake stall.”
A towering, five-tiered cake gave off the smell of marzipan and icing sugar. It resembled a glamorous wedding cake, only it was for those married to the beautiful game. A crowd gathered as a woman in chef whites prepared to cut the first slice, and a man in an apron gathered pound coins.
A pound per slice? Tennessee would be tempted if he wasn’t acutely aware of what one of the customers had done to five people in the last few weeks.
Early that morning, the bodies of Vince and Kerys Rivers were removed from a snake-shaped sand sculpture on Seaburn beach in Sunderland. The snake looked much the same as the others, only this time the serpent was bicephalous – two-headed. The sandy tomb was discovered by a group of lads on their way home after a boozy all-nighter. They may have been intoxicated, but they had the sense to dive in, pull the bodies free and begin CPR. Sadly, they were too late.
The blade of the chef’s knife was clean and sharp. It pierced the first tier, cutting smoothly through the black and white striped frosting. The first slice was placed on a paper napkin and handed to a young girl whose hair was styled into pigtails. She grinned and took an enormous bite.
Tennessee took a step forward. “It’s too busy,” he warned. “We need to wait for him to go to the bathroom or the bar. Or to at least move to the edge of the room.”
“Copy.”
Dougie waited his turn; a patient adult while all the children were served first. The woman in chef whites smiled at him and handed over a large slice of cake. The frosting was designed to look like hundreds of tiny footballs; the inside was the sort of dark gooey chocolate that could solve any of the world’s problems. Dougie turned, cake in hand, then his eyes fell on Tennessee.
“I’ve been made.”
- Chapter 49 -
As if in slow motion, the slice of cake tumbled to the floor. Chocolate exploding over the feet of anyone nearby.
“STOP! POLICE!”
Dougie spun around. He wrestled the knife from the chef and pointed the blade towards Tennessee. Gone was the bad posture and warm face. The act fell away to reveal the monster within, chest puffed and eyes filled with fury. Those nearby fell backwards or backed away. Screams echoed in Tennessee’s ears, but it was not his own safety he thought of as he stared at the pointed weapon: it was Hayley’s. His family needed him.
“PUT THE WEAPON DOWN!” Whyte bellowed over and over, edging forward, his taser pointed at Dougie.
“It’s over, Dougie.” Tennessee’s voice was loud but calm. “Put the knife down. You’re surrounded.”
Dougie lunged forward, his free hand grasping someone nearby. It was the young girl; she still had chocolate around the corners of her mouth. He pulled her head to his chest, wrapping a thick arm around her neck.
She cried for her dad, scrunching her eyes closed, petrified with fear.
Her father ran to her, only to be pulled back by O’Malley, a short but confident man from the task force. “No. Wait,” O’Malley commanded.
The girl was only nine years old, ten at the most. Dougie held her tightly as he edged to his left, using her as a human shield. He moved slowly, one step at a time, knowing he was safe as long as the girl stood between him and the tasers. At a side door, he stopped to flash an evil grin at Tennessee. When Dougie winked at him, his blood turned to ice. Then he was gone.
“FIRE EXIT,” he yelled into the mic. “Coop, he’s coming your way. Suspect is armed. Suspect has a hostage.”
He powered through the fire exit, his feet skidding on loose gravel when he saw Cooper and the others. The fire exit opened into a parking area. The parking bays were filled; Cooper stood between an Insignia and an Escort. Behind them, a high green fence separated the racecourse from other areas of the park.
“Stay back. I’ll kill her. I mean it.” He waved the knife at Cooper then placed it against the girl’s neck.
She was a tiny thing, with long strawberry-blonde pigtails and nails painted baby pink. Tears flowed, and her breath came in short, panicked gasps.
Cooper held up her hands to show they were empty. She couldn’t risk him harming the child. In her periphery, she saw Paula Keaton motion for an officer with a taser to hold fire until he had a clear shot.
“Dougie. Let the girl go and we can talk.”
He shook his head.
“It’s over, Dougie. It’s time to put the knife down. Let the girl go. She has nothing to do with this.”
Cooper saw his Adam’s apple lift and fall as he swallowed. He glanced down and moved the knife an inch from the girl’s neck.
“I’m not ready for it to be over,” he said. He looked over his shoulder. Tennessee stood in the doorway. Behind him, Whyte held a nervous crowd at bay.
“Because you haven’t finished your list?” Cooper asked.
His eyes met hers.
“She’s not on your list, Dougie. She’s an innocent little girl, not one of your snakes.”
He made a sound between a laugh and a sob, and his face crumpled for a moment.
Cooper felt the atmosphere shift. She glanced at the doorway and saw Whyte restraining a desperate man, white with fear. The girl’s father was distraught. In her ear, she heard Keaton communicating with armed response. One male, one female, both armed with Heckler & Koch G36s, were at the edge of the parking area. They kept their distance but had their weapons trained on Dougie.
Dougie pivoted right and left, his eyes searching for an escape route. He pulled the girl’s head closer to his chest as he checked over his shoulder to make sure Tennessee wasn’t sneaking up on him. As he turned back, the girl’s hand flew to her cheek, blood ran down her young face, and she cried out in pain.
“Dougie, she’s hurt. Come on, this isn’t the way. You don’t want to do this.”
“Don’t I?”
“I know you don’t,” Cooper said. “You want to finish your list, not start a new one.”
“You’re right,” he growled. He took a step forward and spotted the G36s.
There was a flash of white as the knife soared through the air. The blade nicked Cooper’s thigh. Blood teamed through the thick material of her trousers. The pain was like fire, burning her entire leg. She clamped a hand over the wound and looked up to see Dougie pushing the girl to the side.
Startled, the officer’s taser fired. Spiralled wires erupted from the yellow plastic barrel. The darts connected with the girl; her body convulsed violently, her mouth open in shock but unable to scream.
“Stop!”
Dougie sprinted forward and leapt towards the parked cars. Like a leopard climbing a tree, he effortlessly vaulted onto the bonnet of a Mitsubishi Warrior. Another long-legged bound and he was on the pick-up’s roof.
A high-pitched pop preceded the sound of cracking glass as a single gunshot fired through the truck’s windscreen. A spider web spread across the screen before it exploded, sending bright shards of glass shattering in all directions.
The sound reverberated off the wall of the building. Cooper ducked behind the Insignia to shield herself as tiny shards of glass rained down upon her. Her leg throbbed, the blossom of scarlet growing bigger with each second. She looked up in time to see Dougie clear the fence. He was gone.
- Chapter 50 -
There was a thud as Dougie landed two-footed on the roof of a Citroen. His feet slipped from beneath him, and he rolled to the ground, grunting. Keaton gave chase, a look of steely determination contorting her features. She and an armed officer took the same route, jumping effortlessly onto the parked cars, then pulling themselves over the green fencing to enter the racecourse.
Cooper grimaced with each
step. She and Tennessee took a longer route into the racecourse – one that didn’t require stunts better suited to a Tom Cruise movie.
“Tend to the girl,” she shouted back at Whyte and Martin. “Get an ambulance. Evacuate the main stand.”
If the racecourse was busy before, it was packed now. A red carpet led to a VIP area that bustled with important-looking people. It was a bubble of wealth and glamour. White fences were adorned with white roses; crisp white sheets covered the tables. Empty seats surrounded equally empty Champagne flutes and pint glasses. The VIPs stood, eyes on the track, waving their betting slips and bouncing with excitement. Cheers of encouragement went up from some as they supported their favourite horses; others wailed deep, desperate sobs as they realised they’d gambled far too much. Stomaches bloated with expensive food and fine wine, they had arrived as well-dressed ladies and gents, but had devolved into manic chimps. They were all teeth; preening, flexing and asserting dominance over one another via the strength of their vocal cords or the size of their wallets.
As Dougie knocked over the first table, he was met with shouts of annoyance. The shouts turned to screams as the race fans spotted armed response coming their way, assault rifles pointed.
“Hold fire,” Cooper shouted into her mic as she ran. “It’s too crowded.” But even as she said the words, she saw Dougie grab a pint glass and shatter the rim, forming a razor-sharp weapon.
She kept her eyes glued on Dougie, fearful they might lose him in the crowd. As he zig-zagged through the guests, they made like rats in a bin: screeching, fleeing, doing anything to get out of his way. Chairs fell or were thrown, drinks spilt, tables upended. People ahead saw the chaos and ducked behind their tables. As if the cheap plastic could protect them from Dougie, his weapon, or the G36s that followed.
A man, his shirt stained with beer, stood his ground. Brave or stupid, he lowered his weight, ready to tackle their fleeing suspect. Dougie stole a quick glance over his shoulder; Keaton was gaining on him. His arm moved in a great arc, smashing the bottom end of the glass into the man’s head. He dropped like a sack of spuds. Keaton, unfazed, jumped over the man as he held his head and writhed on the ground.
Northern Roulette (DCI Cooper Book 4) Page 25