Roll The Dice (DCI Cooper Book 3)

by B Baskerville

  Dylan huffed. “Don’t be. I’m used to it. Been called far worse than that before.”

  “Your father was a violent man?”

  “My father was Fletcher fucking Blackburn. You do the math. So, yeah, I was meant to go into Newcastle, but I can’t drive when my head’s splitting like that. I can’t see properly. I get these visual disturbances, grey patches and flashing lights. Dad said he and Mo would go because, let’s face it, George isn’t going to get money out of anyone.”

  “Couldn’t someone else have gone? Surely your father had a lot of people working for him?”

  Dylan licked his teeth. “It was a bit late notice. The crews have their own business to attend to, and Dad didn’t trust the youngsters much. He thought they we are much use as tits on a nun. Besides, he kept a precise schedule when it came to money. If he said Monday morning, someone had to be there to collect on Monday morning. Can’t let people think we don’t collect a debt when it’s due.”

  “What about Theo? Could he have gone?”

  “He’d already left by then, and he wasn’t picking up.” His shoulders rose and fell. “What can I say? Dad was an if you want owt done properly, do it yourself sort of man.”

  Cooper made a note. She wanted to know if Theo was the sort of person who’d be welcome at Morshaw and therefore get inside without Mo intervening. She also wanted to know where he’d been if he hadn’t been answering his phone that morning. “Were Theo and your father close?”

  “Yeah, I’d say so. With Eddie doing time I think dad sort of adopted Theo. Not that he needed it. He’s old enough and ugly enough to look after himself.”

  “Did he come to Morshaw often?”

  Dylan considered the question. “Few times a week. Family meetings, the odd dinner…” He sucked his lips in, reluctant to add anything further.

  “If you can give me a list of the bars you were due to visit, Dylan, it would be really useful. It might help us track down anyone your father encountered that day.”

  He seemed in two minds, shifting his weight and folding and unfolding his arms. “Fuck it. There’s eight of ‘em.”

  Cooper’s pen hovered over her notepad.

  “Feisty’s, McDermott’s, LOL, The Silver Mirror, erm… Stilettos, Vixen, Bambi Bar and Bubbles.”

  Cooper hadn’t heard of half of them. “Bubbles?”

  “Yeah. They have a bubble machine,” he said flatly. “Have foam parties. That sort of shit.”

  “Are these all in Newcastle city centre?”

  “Aye. Most of them are in Grainger Town; the others are over near the station.”

  “Thanks, Dylan,” Cooper said. “Two final things. Have you seen this gun before?” She handed him a photograph of the gun found in Charlene’s drawer.”

  Dylan barely glanced at the photo. “No.”

  “Please look again.”

  His jaw clenched before he grudgingly turned his eyes back to the picture of the gun. “Was this the one used to shoot Dad?”

  Cooper confirmed that it was.

  “Don’t recognise it.”

  She didn’t believe him. His body language was giving off multiple signals that he was concealing something. He chewed his jaw, his arms twitched, he shifted his weight.

  “Okay, Dylan, last question for now. Did anyone check on you after you went to bed? Or did anyone other than your father and Mo know that you’d taken ill?”

  “You want to know if anyone can corroborate my story?” He filled his lungs, expanding his already impressive chest and clenched his hands in boulder-like fists. “Listen, love—”

  Cooper squirmed, not from his use of love, but from the menacing stare he was directing straight at her.

  “If I’d wanted to kill my father… I wouldn’t need a fucking gun to do it. Do I look like I need a gun?”

  - Chapter 8 -

  DS Paula Keaton snorted at DC Oliver Martin. He had a light dusting of icing sugar over the tip of his nose and most of his chin. She couldn’t decide if he looked more like a baby covered in talcum powder or a lawyer covered in cocaine. She picked up a napkin from the table of the mom and pop café they were in and dabbed at his face.

  “Stop squirming,” she said.

  “Stop babying me.”

  It was a quaint little place with checkered tablecloths and copper kettles, bone china and cheese scones the size of cantaloupe melons. A woman in her early sixties took a photo of her scone and said something to her husband about a blog. “Not as good as Penshaw Butchers, better than Cresswell. I’d give it an eight and a half out of ten.”

  Everyone needs a hobby, Keaton thought, then she wiped the last of the icing sugar from Martin’s chin.

  “The food’s supposed to go in your mouth, not all over your face. The sooner you learn that, the sooner I can stop cleaning up after you.”

  Martin swiped her hand away. “Pack it in. Look.” He nodded to a grand house opposite the café, where a pair of icy-blue, his-and-hers Audis were pulling up the driveway. A stout man in a designer suit emerged from the bigger car, and a slender woman in a teal dress, clutching a teddy bear and a basket of fruit, emerged from the smaller one. The man pulled the woman to him and kissed the top of her head. He lowered himself to whisper something in her ear before guiding her to the front door.

  Martin mumbled, “Finally,” and got to his feet, only to be yanked back into his seat by Keaton.

  “Hold your horses.”

  “What? The Hansons are home. Let’s go talk to them.”

  Keaton shook her head. “Patience, Grasshopper. Tell me what you see.”

  Martin frowned and ran a hand through his dark, gelled hair. The residual icing sugar on his fingers left a white streak. Keaton considered telling him, but it was more fun to leave him be. Besides, he looked like a badger. It was cute.

  “Okay, okay. What do I see? I see high-end cars with custom alloys, a well maintained front garden, the exterior of the house looks like it’s recently been painted and their wheelie bins are hidden behind bamboo screens. I’d say the Hansons like to keep up appearances. They’re wealthy without being tacky, and they don’t mind everyone knowing it.”

  Keaton smiled. “Good. What else?”

  “They’re security conscious. There’s no ghastly gate at the end of the drive, but there’re sensors and motion-activated lights. They have shutters on the windows, and I heard a bark when they opened the door.”

  “Sounded like a Dobermann,” Keaton added.

  Martin’s eyes fixed on her. “You can identify a dog breed by its bark?” he asked incredulously.

  “You mean you can’t?” Keaton teased. She stood and paid their bill, grinning to herself and wondering how Martin hadn’t spotted the window decal on Mrs Hanson’s car for Dobermann Rescue UK.

  The pair left the café with its sweet smell of freshly baked goods, crossed the road and walked up the driveway to the Hanson home. It was a beautiful home in a place called Rowlands Gill. Situated in Gateshead’s green belt, the village had once been part of Country Durham but joined Tyne and Wear in the seventies. It was a picturesque spot famous for red kites and being the home of one of the Hairy Bikers, though Keaton could never remember which one. A house like Hanson’s, in a village such as this, was the sort of place Keaton wished to have one day. Peaceful. Away from the hubbub of the city and the busier neighbourhoods, but still within an easy commute of HQ. April would like it too, she thought, thinking of her partner. Plenty of room for her blasted cats.

  The door swung open before Martin could even knock. One of the sensors must have alerted Hanson to their approach.

  “Christ. What do you lot want?” Wayne Hanson asked. Up close, his hair was flecked with grey, and he had innumerable wrinkles around his eyes. Probably from giving so many of his lackeys threatening looks over the years.

  “I think you know,” Keaton said, holding up her ID. There was a deafening series of barks and the rumbling of weighty dog paws from somewhere behind Hanson. Keaton took a step b
ack and felt for the retractable baton she carried.

  “Sit, Gazza. SIT!” Hanson’s command brought the stampeding Dobermann to a standstill. It lowered its bottom to the floor and waited for further instructions. “Bloody Blackburns. Nothing but trouble. From behind bars, from beyond the fucking grave… Bloody trouble. Right, best you come in. Don’t pet the dog.”

  Keaton gave the dog a wide berth as she and Martin followed Hanson. Gazza had a docked tail, clipped ears and a shifty look in his eye. Whilst he looked to weigh half of what Keaton did, she didn’t fancy her chances.

  “Put the kettle on, Traci,” Hanson boomed through an open door before turning back to the detectives. “Right, let’s have it then. And before you start, the dog looked like that when we adopted him. Cutting an innocent animal’s ears off? Barbaric is what it is. Illegal for a reason. His previous owners should have been hung drawn and quartered.”

  Keaton had read everything she could find on Hanson. When he was thirteen, he served three years in a YOI for taking a knife to a classmate’s ear. It appeared his hatred of mutilation didn’t extend to his fellow humans.

  Hanson’s living room was surprisingly chintzy with floral prints on the walls and upholstery. Above a wide fireplace, a family portrait hung showing Hanson and Traci with whom Keaton presumed were his mother and three children. Two older boys and a much younger girl. A jade-coloured urn sat on the mantlepiece. It was labelled Mam. In the corner of the room stood an impressive globe in sepia colours. Keaton suspected it opened up into a liquor cabinet.

  “Mr Hanson, I’d like to ask you about your relationship with Fletcher Blackburn.”

  “What relationship?”

  Here we go. “How do you know each other?”

  Hanson sat down on his floral sofa. “Who says I know him?”

  Keaton could feel her hormone levels rising. “Don’t treat me like an idiot, Mr Hanson. You know why we called. Fletcher Blackburn and Ibrahim Moradi were shot dead, and you were one of the last people to meet with them.”

  Hanson took a slow breath before calmly answering. “We’re just golf buddies. That’s all.”

  Keaton tilted her head to the side and eyeballed Hanson. “Aye. And I’m a SlimFast shake away from being a supermodel. Let’s start with your meeting with him on Sunday and don’t fob me off, it’s listed in Fletcher’s diary, and they have you on camera turning up at Morshaw.”

  Something changed in Hanson’s posture. The camera footage had been wiped from Monday morning onwards, but Hanson would only know that if he’d been the one to erase it. Had he intended to wipe the footage from earlier on? He said nothing.

  Martin cleared his throat. “Mr Hanson,” he said in a much more soothing tone than the one Keaton had been using. “We don’t work for the National Crime Agency. We work for CID. We investigate murders, rapes, assaults and armed robberies. We only want to solve the murders of Fletcher Blackburn and Ibrahim Moradi. I promise you, how you make a living is of no interest to me. Help us to rule you out.”

  Hanson clearly appreciated the softly, softly approach because he relaxed further into his sofa. The rattling of teacups on saucers preceded Traci Hanson’s arrival. She walked into the room with dainty steps and placed a silver tray of tea and biscuits on a side table. She avoided looking at anyone, including her husband, then retreated again. Keaton clocked her red eyes and bitten fingernails.

  “Okay,” Hanson conceded. “I met Fletcher on Sunday.”

  Martin sighed. “Thank you. I’m curious why the meeting was at Morshaw. I was under the impression that family were the only ones allowed in Fletcher’s home.”

  He shrugged. “Kings recognise kings.”

  “So, it’s a respect thing?” Martin asked. “As heads of powerful families, you’re expected to show hospitality to one another?”

  “That’s right.”

  Damn, Martin was doing well. Whether Hanson didn’t appreciate her manner, or he simply didn’t appreciate being asked questions by a woman, it didn’t matter. Martin had stepped in at the ideal time with the perfect attitude.

  Martin handed Hanson his cup of tea, and Hanson pointed at a box on top of the mantlepiece. “Hand me that, would you?”

  If Martin was put out, he hid it well, handing Hanson the box with a smile. Hanson opened the box, pulled out a cigar, cut the tip and lit it.

  “We won’t be much longer, Mr Hanson. I’d like to know why you met with Fletcher two days in a row? What brought you back yesterday?”

  A plume of smoke formed in front of Hanson’s face, then it dissipated into a wispy line of white. “I didn’t meet him yesterday.”

  “His diary says you did.” Keaton countered.

  “His diary’s wrong. We met on Sunday.”

  There was another puff of smoke. Keaton hated the smell, it was going to seep into her clothes and her hair. She’d taste it on every bite of food she’d have that day. As an athlete, her lung capacity had been legendary. She never tired, never faded. The thought of that poison filtering into her lungs made her want to pull her shirt up around her mouth and form a makeshift mask.

  “I was busy yesterday. All day.”

  “Where were you?” Martin asked.

  “The hospital. Been there most of this morning too. My little girl’s sick. Measles.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Martin said while Keaton made a note.

  “Which hospital?” she asked.

  “The RVI,” Hanson answered. “She’ll pull through. She’s tough. She’s a Hanson.” He pointed to the family portrait. “Millie. My baby girl.”

  Martin hesitated then asked, “Why did you meet with Fletcher on Sunday?”

  “You know I’m not going to incriminate myself, boy.”

  “Come on, Wayne.”

  Nice touch, thought Keaton. Switching to his first name after all that sycophancy. It caught Hanson off guard.

  “I don’t want to bring you in. My colleague here would love to drag you to HQ and parade you in front of the press as our number one suspect, but I don’t want that. I also don’t want to have to do a Capone and start sifting through every tax return you’ve ever submitted.”

  “But you will?” Hanson growled with narrow eyes.

  Martin leant closer. “Help me help you.”

  He groaned and puffed on the cigar again. “Let me put it this way. We have a joint venture. Or we did. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. That sort of thing.”

  “Who’s the shared enemy?” Martin asked.

  Martin was met with silence while Hanson mulled over whether he should answer or not. Martin didn’t press him; instead, he picked up two biscuits and handed one to Keaton. They nibbled away while they waited.

  “The Roker Boys,” he finally answered. “Bloody Mackems getting too big for their boots. Neither us nor the Blackburns can take them down on our own.”

  The word Mackem is a nickname given to people from the City of Sunderland. Where Newcastle and Gateshead are severed by the River Tyne, it’s the Wear that flows through Sunderland. Tynesiders and Wearsiders, whilst neighbours, had always been rivals.

  Martin asked the obvious question. “But together you could?”

  “Exactly. The plan was to out muscle them. Then the Blackburns would have Roker, Fulwell and Southwick. I’d manage Pallion, Thornhill and Hendon.”

  Martin caught Keaton’s eye. They were thinking the same thing. If the Roker Boys had got wind of Fletcher’s intentions, they wouldn’t have hesitated in protecting their interests. Had someone blabbed?

  - Chapter 9 -

  It took the best part of half an hour for Cooper and Tennessee to walk back from Bamburgh to the Blackburns’ barn conversion in Budle Bay. In the interests of their health, they’d opted to leave the car and take a leisurely stroll to a restaurant called The Potted Lobster. They’d been lucky to get a seat; the sunshine had brought the hikers and the twitchers in droves. Cooper found a small table in the corner and they ordered two bowls of mussels with crusty bread and
shared a portion of truffle and parmesan fries.

  With full bellies, they tackled the walk back along a country road that was lined with thickets and nettles. Lacking a pavement, they occasionally had to dodge traffic and walk on the grass verge. Cooper walked barefoot, carrying her heeled shoes. The road was smooth and warm, having been heated by the midday sun. Every hundred metres or so Cooper would turn her head and look back towards Bamburgh to see if she could still see the castle looming in the distance. She could. Now and again they would pass a gate between bushes and could look in on fields of oblivious sheep and nosy cows.

  Tennessee passed the time by trying to convince Cooper that she should sign up to a charity relay triathlon that the commissioner had organised in a bid to boost public relations. Northumbria Police versus the Tyne and Wear Fire Service. Cooper was less than enthusiastic. For one, Tennessee had bagsied the cycling leg and Keaton, as the former professional full-back, had been nominated to do the running leg. That would leave Cooper with the open-water swim. In the North Sea? No, thank you. Secondly, she could see it now. For every member of the public cheering them on there’d be someone jeering that they should bloody get back to work.

  Both Cooper and Tennessee were rosy-cheeked when they arrived back at the barn, hoping to speak to Lily Blackburn. They found Lily propping up the kitchen island with a glass of something sparkling in her hand.

  “To Dad,” she said, toasting the air. “Hope you don’t mind, but I thought I’d get the weekend started early.

  Cooper didn’t want to judge; the girl had just lost her father. But she was thrown by Lily’s choice to wear sunglasses indoors because as far as Cooper was aware, only two types of people wore sunglasses indoors: the blind, and celebrity arseholes.

  “As you’re aware, Lily, we have your step-mother in custody—”

  “Urgh. Don’t call her my step-mother: she’s Charlene. And George is right, she wouldn’t hurt Dad. Besides, she was out with me. You should have seen her when we found… when we found them.” Lily paused, her lower lip quivering. “She was beside herself. When are you going to let her come home?”