“As soon as we can establish if she handled the gun that killed your father,” Cooper said. “What I was wondering, was how your mother felt about your father’s marriage to Charlene?”
Lily shook her head and let out a shallow laugh. “If you mean, did she approve, then no, of course not. Charlene’s only five years older than me. When I was born, she was still learning to use a knife and fork.”
“So, she’s more like a big sister?” Tennessee asked.
“Urgh,” she grunted again. “Yeah. Maybe. If you say so. Sometimes we were close, but it was weird. I mean, she was Dad’s wife.”
Cooper looked to a pair of bar stools next to the marble-topped island. “May we?”
Lily shrugged, so they took their seats. Cooper looked down and saw that Tennessee’s feet rested on the floor, whereas hers dangled a good six inches away. She felt like a child taking a seat at the big table.
“I know Ibrahim was well-regarded by your father. Would he allow your mother into Morshaw?”
“Oh, no. Not at all,” Lily said, shaking her head. “She tried once: a year after the divorce. She was drunk as a skunk and driving this way and that, yelling through the intercom… Anyway, Mo let the dogs out, so she took off.”
“And your mother lives in Turkey?” Cooper asked.
“Last I heard. She hasn’t answered my calls since all this happened. I don’t know if she’s even heard yet.”
Cooper gave Tennessee a look. They’d developed a good level of telepathy over the years, so she didn’t have to glance at his notepad to know that he was writing, check H. Blackburn is not in the country.
“Who is allowed through the gates?” Cooper continued.
“Well… family, obviously. Me and the boys. Charlene, Theo—”
“That’s Eddie’s son?”
“Yeah.” She wet her lower lip and took a sip of Champagne. “Then there’s Pilates Paulo. You know about him?”
Cooper confirmed that she did.
“We have a chef on weekends too. He cooks for Dad and Charlene on Saturday nights. It’s like their date night thing.” She pulled a face. “Then he stays in the guest room and makes breakfast and lunch for us the next day. Dad likes us to eat Sunday lunch together as a family.”
“That sounds nice,” Cooper said.
Lily’s mouth curled down. “It can be. Depends on what mood Dad and Dylan are in. And it’s not like Dad had much of an appetite lately; he was pretty much on a liquid diet. Gross health drinks in the morning and whiskey in the afternoon. I suppose you’ll want the chef’s details?”
Cooper nodded. Lily jotted down a name and handed it to her: Darren Ray. She finished her glass and stifled a burp before opening the fridge and getting herself a top-up.
“Charlene mentioned you don’t have a cleaner.”
“No. Apparently, that’s a woman’s job.” She closed the fridge and swayed slightly. “I know Charlene doesn’t mind cleaning. I mean, it’s not like she was busy doing much else, other than riding Dad or working on her tan. But I work. I have no intention of cleaning up after the men all day. It’s a tad 1950s.”
“What do you do?” Tennessee asked.
“I work in a beautician’s. Nails, waxing, that sort of thing. I’m still learning the basics, but I plan on running my own salon one day. Maybe a boutique too. I’m into fashion, and I have an online presence. I’m a bit of an influencer. I get sent stuff to promote.” She tapped the side of her designer shades.
Okay, Cooper thought. Three types of people wear sunglasses indoors: the blind, celebrity arseholes, and wannabe celebrity arseholes.
“Nice,” Tennessee said when Cooper failed to respond. “And I’m sorry to ask. But can you tell us where you were on Monday?”
“I was out with Charlene. We went to Doxford for dinner and massages. We’ve already been over this?”
“Yes, but I meant earlier in the day.”
Lily sighed. “I’m getting tired, and there are arrangements to be made… I haven’t slept.” A tear rolled down her cheek, and she turned away to dab under her glasses with a sheet of kitchen roll. “But fine, I was at home until ten, maybe quarter past, then I went into work for a few hours.” She steadied her voice and turned back to face them. “And between clients, I got my nails done, curled my eyelashes and got everything waxed,” she paused to look at Tennessee. “Everything.”
* * *
The riot in HMP Frankland began at eight p.m. precisely, just as he’d asked. The guards and their riot shields struggled against the sea of men holding them back. One-on-one with a guard was an impossibility; they had shields, sprays, batons and dogs. But like ants, when the inmates worked as a team, they could achieve great things, and right now, they were holding off twenty guards. In the distance, Eddie Blackburn could hear the German shepherds preparing for battle. The faintest barks over the constant drone of sirens.
Like a king surveying his lands from a mountain citadel, Eddie Blackburn watched the chaos unfold. Heath held the man still while Blackjack jammed the shank into his ribs three times. He was their second target; the first lay dying under a pile of plastic chairs. The man crumpled to the floor only to be trodden on in the stampede of approaching inmates. J-wing had heeded the call and were coming to join in the fun. Blackjack hauled the man out of the chaos, grabbed his left arm and pulled it violently, dislocating it at the shoulder. He screamed and raised his right arm to defend himself, only to have his elbow kicked—and probably broken—by Heath. Blood pooled around him, and he begged for his life like a child begs not to go to bed early.
Eddie never took kindly to begging: it only made him angrier.
Blackjack cleared some space. “He’s all yours, Eddie.”
Eddie approached slowly. He was in no hurry. He could watch the riot all night; it was likely to last that long anyway, and it was the best entertainment he’d had in a long time.
The man was crying, sobbing even. “Please. Please, Eddie. You don’t have to do this. It wasn’t me, you know it wasn’t.”
Eddie bent over him and lowered his lips to his ear. “I know it wasn’t, but this is war,” he whispered. “Wars have casualties.”
The man bucked and flinched. “No. Eddie. No.” His arms were useless, flopping by his sides, unable to protect him.
Eddie dragged the tip of the shank over the lens of his eyeball. The man screamed, but his sounds barely carried over the noise of mayhem.
Eddie grinned. “An eye for an eye.”
The shank plunged through the iris and into the vitreous body. The scream that followed was one Eddie would never forget. He pulled the shank free and admired the eyeball impaled on the end of it. He wanted to keep it as a trophy but knew no good would come from that, so he pulled it free and let it roll through the bedlam until it was trampled by Fat Matt from G-wing.
Eddie walked back to his cell and stood in his doorway. The citadel that was his cell was calm and secure. All he had to do was close the door behind him. He took one last look at his soldiers as they did his bidding then returned to his bed. It felt good to be the king.
- Chapter 10 -
Forensic pathologist Margot Swanson finished her pre-work cigarette while strolling around the small lake in Paddy Freeman’s park. She savoured this moment each day; it was her above-ground time. Margot kept this routine regardless of the weather. Still, she especially liked days like today when the sun was bright, the sky was blue, and the green heads of the mallards on the lake shimmered in the sunlight. She stubbed out her cigarette at the bin near the entrance to the park then headed into the Freeman to start her shift. Margot nipped to the ladies room, swilled with mouthwash and moisturised her hands. She didn’t like to look at her hands, so she kept her eyes on the reflection in the mirror. Dermatitis and age had ravaged the backs of her fingers. She could colour her roots, get fillers every six months and keep as much pep in her step as she could manage, but her hands would always give her away.
“Relax,” she purred to her re
flection. “You’re only as old as the man you feel… and Tony’s twenty-six.”
She smiled as she thought of the athletic young man to whom she was engaged. She hadn’t expected them to last: they rarely did. The novelty usually wore off after a couple of months, and one or both of them would move onto pastures new. This one had been different. He’d seen past her age, and she’d seen past his youth. They connected. It sounded like such soppy tripe, but the words soul mates kept coming to mind. Margot rubbed the inner edge of her engagement ring with her thumb and headed back to the morgue, keeping thoughts of dissection at bay with thoughts of being cuddled up on the sofa with the man she’d fallen for. She fancied watching a film tonight. Something spooky so they could cuddle even tighter during the scary bits.
The morgue in the bowels of the Freeman was sterile and chilly, with white and avocado-green tiles that reminded Margot of her parent’s bathroom where she’d grown up in Elgin. Margot covered her lab coat with a transparent apron with sleeves and got to work. She’d finished the autopsy of Ibrahim Moradi last night and was ready to get to know Fletcher Blackburn. His body was wheeled from storage and his ankle barcode scanned. Margot opened the file she’d received from radiology and examined the x-rays that had been taken on intake. The x-rays showed two old breaks, the first was to the left radius and the second to the right tibia. According to his medical history, these both occurred when Fletcher was in his late teens. The radial break was from fighting with his older brother, and the tibial break occurred after he jumped out of a tree. A bright oval of white, clearly visible in the x-ray, indicated a bullet remained in the body.
“Good morning, Fletcher.”
Admittedly, it was an odd custom to greet the dead, but it was a custom Margot had continued from her old mentor at the University of Edinburgh.
“Let’s get you more comfortable,” she said as she began to undress the body. Some pathologists were rushed and handled DBs like rag dolls. Margot preferred a slower, more respectful manner. Fletcher’s shirt, suit jacket and trousers were removed, folded, bagged and sealed as evidence. She didn’t like to cut clothing unless absolutely necessary. His wallet, keys and watch were placed to one side for his next of kin. As she did this, Margot paused to think of the family and the grief they would be experiencing. The cold, naked body that lay before her was once a living, breathing human, and he was worthy of being handled with dignity.
“Fletcher Blackburn, fifty-two,” she said, pressing record on a dictaphone. “Wednesday nineteenth of June, ten-forty a.m. Commencing anterior external examination… Loose skin on the arms and abdomen suggests recent weight loss. Slight jaundice to the eyes and skin. Two entrance wounds consistent with gunshots to the torso. One appears to be through the fourth rib on the left-hand side, just proximal to the costal cartilage. The second wound is through the sixth rib on the right-hand side. There are bruises to the right shin.”
Margot applied an ink roller to Fletcher’s fingertips and pressed each finger in turn against a piece of card. She then collected samples from under his nails and gently rolled the body over. “Posterior external examination reveals an exit wound to the left of the lumbar spine,” she said before turning Fletcher back. She took a scalpel and made a Y-shaped incision from his shoulders to his sternum and down to the groin. “Exposing the ribs confirms the location of the wounds to left four and right six.”
Margot’s next job was to remove the front of the ribcage to give her access to the organs. To do this, she needed rib cutters: pruning sheers for the human body. She removed the lungs, photographed the position of the remaining bullet, retrieved it and bagged it for the investigating team. Next, she weighed the lungs and took samples of lung tissue. She collected samples of urine, blood and bile, labelled the vials and put them to one side for analysis.
Removing the stomach to examine its contents was one of the worse aspects of her work, and never a task Margot enjoyed. She weighed the stomach, braced herself and made her incision.
Margot paused and lowered her head to get a closer look. She picked up some pieces of purple and green with a pair of tweezers and held them up to the light.
“Well,” she said, removing her gloves and picking up the morgue’s telephone. “This just got interesting.”
- Chapter 11 -
Yesterday had been one hellish long day. Cooper had returned home in the early evening to find her home abandoned save for the baby seagull that was now living in her kitchen. Steven Seagull had outgrown his shoebox and was now housed in a straw-filled crate that sat in the corner of the room between the bin and the fridge. Cooper’s first task of the evening was to disinfect the kitchen floor because try as she might, Tina hadn’t been able to toilet train the winged beast. Her second task was to text Tina and find her whereabouts. Her fifteen-year-old was having dinner at her boyfriend’s and promised to be home before dark. True to form, Tina arrived two minutes before the official sunset time. Cooper threw a ready meal in the microwave and ate it straight from its plastic tray.
As night fell, Cooper did everything she could to give herself the best chance of a good night’s sleep. She showered, applied lavender body lotion, drank camomile tea and played relaxing music as she pulled on some pyjamas. After the events of April, Cooper was never sleeping naked again. She curled up and tried to create an environment of sensory deprivation by using earplugs and an eye mask. Unfortunately, the earplugs couldn’t block out her thoughts, and her mind continuously circled back to Atkinson and his glamorous bloodstain analyst. They were no doubt sharing a delicious bottle of red while they discussed all things forensics. The regret and jealousy that raged inside her kept Cooper awake until four a.m., which is why, when she arrived at CID, she looked like morning breath personified.
Cooper had barely crossed the threshold when Chief Superintendent Howard Nixon summoned her to his office.
“Don’t sit. This won’t take long.”
Cooper stood awkwardly and wished she’d stopped for coffee on her way in. Facing Howard Nixon while in a decaffeinated state was never a wise move.
“Andre Spence and Charlie Mellor. Those names mean anything to you, Cooper?”
“Should they?” Cooper looked Nixon up and down. He was well dressed, as always, but his skin was oddly pale for this time of year, and his greying hair was thinning at the temples. He was stressed.
“They’re two of Wayne Hanson’s crew. Murdered last night during a riot at Frankland.”
Cooper’s shoulders sagged as she considered the implications. “Shit.”
“Shit? Shit doesn’t begin to cover it. Spence was hit on the back of the head, his eyeballs removed, then stabbed multiple times. Mellor had both arms broken, eyeballs removed then stabbed and kicked to death.”
Cooper felt faint. She could actually feel the blood draining from her head and had to place a hand on Nixon’s doorway to make sure she didn’t collapse. “An eye for an eye? Bloody hell. Sir, last I heard from Keaton, she didn’t think Hanson had anything to do with this. I don’t have all the details yet, but she said the Hansons and the Blackburns were working together on something.”
“Didn’t anyone tell Eddie this?”
“Probably, sir. He must have thought they’d been stabbed in the back. We’re going to have a war on our hands.”
“Blackburn, Moradi, Spence and Mellor. That’s four.” He held up four fingers on his right hand to force home the point. “I’d say the war has already started. Wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
He gestured towards the door, but Cooper needed something first. Once she was sure her legs wouldn’t give way, she told Nixon what she needed. “As you know, sir, we have Charlene Blackburn in custody. The gun was found in her underwear draw. We’re still following up on her alibi, but I haven’t heard back from the lab yet. I’m hoping they’ll find a print or some DNA on the gun that can tie this to Charlene but our twenty-four hours are almost up. I need an extension if I’m to hold her any longer.”
/> Nixon nodded and turned his attention back to his computer monitor. He didn’t have to say anything; the extension to thirty-six hours would be approved.
* * *
“Coffee?”
DS Paula Keaton was a mind reader. She held a cardboard tray containing four steaming cuppas in one hand and carried three ring binders in the other. Cooper took one of the coffees and headed to a table in the corner of CID where Tennessee and Martin were sat. She’d just got off the phone with her mother. They didn’t speak often, but that didn’t mean there was any bad blood. Her parents were living their lifelong dream of running a bar in the sunshine. Benji’s Bar catered to the British and Irish crowd. During the summer the place was packed with tourists and brought in the big bucks, but it was the quieter winter months that Julie and Ben Cooper enjoyed the most, when the local ex-pat community gathered in the bar and swapped stories about the previous season. Cooper and Tina tried to visit every other year, and they always received a warm welcome from the bar’s regulars. She wondered how they’d react to her new hair—or lack of it—when she and Tina made the journey this Christmas. Julie, her mother, had droned on for a good while about her friends, the Smalls, and had told a fifteen-minute story about a taxi driver that didn’t seem to go anywhere. The story, not the driver. It was towards the end of the conversation that Julie had mentioned Ben’s tight chest and shortness of breath for the past day or so.
“Mum! You need to take him to A&E.”
“Always, such a worrier. It will have been that giant surf and turf he ate on Monday. Trust me.”
“I trust doctors more.”
“Well Dr Diaz will be in later; he’s always in on a Wednesday night. I’ll have a chat—”
Roll The Dice (DCI Cooper Book 3) Page 6