Roll The Dice (DCI Cooper Book 3)

by B Baskerville

  Tina sat very still while she processed that information. “Is he going to die?”

  Cooper pinched her nose. She’d tried to push the thought away all day. “No, he’s tough as an ox. He’ll be fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Me too. I like Grandad Ben.”

  “And he likes you. He loves you.”

  Tina began to tidy the table and prepare Steven’s evening meal.

  Cooper braced herself because she knew how Tina felt about disruption. “I think we should go and visit him.”

  Her daughter froze with a syringe full of mashed fish in her hand. “When?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “Would I be in trouble at school?”

  Tina had taken time off school to recover after the events of the last winter. She’d had perfect attendance otherwise. “You won’t be in trouble. I might be. There’ll be a fine to pay but as far as I’m concerned it’ll be worth it to have you with me.”

  Tina scooped Steven up and placed him on her knee. He lifted his beak upwards and began to beg. “How long for?”

  “A week. Maybe two. If you need to come home sooner because you miss home or your studying is suffering, we can probably arrange it.”

  Tina concentrated on Steven for a few moments. “You know me. I can study anywhere.”

  Cooper got to her feet and kissed Tina on the top of her head. “I was hoping you’d say that. The next flight is Sunday morning. Should I book it?”

  Tina nodded. “But we have a problem.” She motioned towards the bird on her lap. “A seagull-shaped problem.”

  The bird would need taking care of. He’d been Tina’s project since he fell off the roof as a hatchling and she was determined to give him the care required until he was ready for release.

  “We can’t ask Dad,” Tina said. “He only does nice things if there’s something in it for him.

  “What about Josh?”

  “His Mum’s a clean freak.”

  “Your netball friends?”

  Tina shook her head. “No. I don’t want them to know how weird I am yet.”

  “Don’t talk like that. You’re not weird.”

  Her daughter stared at her. “Mum, I’m hand-rearing a baby seagull.”

  Cooper narrowed her eyes. “Okay, you have a point.”

  “So, what do we do? He can’t fledge yet.”

  She couldn’t ask Atkinson. Not when they weren’t officially back together yet. She reached over and stroked Steven’s feathers. He was unbelievably soft. It would have to be someone from the team. It would be unethical to ask a personal favour of the two newest members, not that she’d ask Whyte anyway, and she didn’t know Martin well enough to ask this of him. It had to be Keaton or Tennessee. Keaton would probably make a joke about roasting him with some Maris Piper potatoes, and Tennessee would say yes because he was the sort to always help others and always go the extra mile. It was in his nature. However, Tennessee had an infant at home, a wife struggling with parenthood and an elderly mother-in-law. They could do without a creature that, if you weren’t careful, would give you a nasty bout of salmonella.

  Cooper sighed. “I’ll ask Paula.”

  - Chapter 27 -

  Half four and the first blush of pink was creeping over Tynemouth’s horizon. A hint of blue sky penetrated the darkness before the pink gave way to burnt orange and stained wispy stratus clouds with rose gold. Moments later, the sun burst free, dissipating the thinnest clouds into nothing. Cooper drained her coffee and headed for the door, her mind torn between Northumberland and the Canaries. Upstairs, a restless Tina had given up on sleep and had instead begun typing a list of caregiving instructions for Steven. In a nearby suburb, Hayley Daniel clutched her baby to her chest as she watched her husband leave for work. A familiar dread crawled into her stomach, as it had done every time he left since Alfie was born. Twenty miles south, Eddie Blackburn clenched and relaxed his fists over and over. It had started to sink in that his little brother would not be visiting him this month, or next month, or ever again. His anger had been like a thick fog that he was unable to navigate through. But over last night’s dinner, depression had started to nibble away at the anger, started to dull it. He had to be careful. Depression couldn’t regain an empire, but anger could. Sixty-five miles north, Eddie’s niece and nephews lay awake, staring at their respective ceilings. His son slept soundly.

  * * *

  A lone light was on at the Blackburns’ barn conversation in Budle Bay. As Cooper and her colleagues approached, Charlene Blackburn could be seen hunched over their large kitchen island, a cup of something hot clutched in her hands. They tiptoed up the gravelled driveway before knocking gently. Charlene jumped and clutched her chest. It took a moment for her to relax and come to answer the door.

  “Is everything okay?” she asked nervously.

  Cooper was keen to bring this whole dreadful business to a close. “Could you wake the others, please? I’d like everyone in the kitchen.”

  Charlene glanced from Cooper to Tennessee, then to Keaton and Martin. Her eyes caught sight of another officer waiting in the driveway. She wouldn’t know about the vehicles stationed at either end of the B1342: one in Bamburgh, and one at Waren Mill. No one was jumping in their flashy car and making a run for it. Fletcher’s second wife nodded silently and padded from the hallway towards the stairwell.

  Ten minutes later and three of the Blackburns, still in their nightwear, gathered around the large kitchen island. Charlene tightened her silk robe and sipped fresh coffee. To her left, George cleaned his glasses on plaid print pyjamas and Dylan, in grey camouflage shorts, folded his arms over his bare chest. The kitchen was fitted with spotlighting that accentuated Dylan’s indented skull and cast his eyes in shadow. “This had better be good,” he grumbled, checking his watch.

  “Where’s your sister?” Tennessee asked.

  Dylan snorted. “The princess is still in bed.”

  “And your cousin?”

  Dylan’s look darkened. “In the princess’s chamber,” he growled.

  “Are my ears burning?” Theo Blackburn pushed open a heavy oak door and joined the group in the kitchen. Baggy joggers trailed on the floor, his bare chest bore red fingernail scratches and his hair was loose with dark waves skimming his collar bones. He typed on a mobile as he walked. “Lily’s in the shower. She said there’d better be coffee on the go. So what’s so important we had to—” He looked up, his eyes narrowing upon Cooper. “Ah fuck, what do you want at this hour? You know, if my father was here we’d be given the fucking respect of a lie-in.”

  Cooper cut him off. “If your father were here, you’d be the one in jail. We all know he took the fall for your freedom.” She stopped, briefly thinking of her own father. Thank goodness she’d be with him soon. She and Tina would go straight from baggage claim to the hospital and shower Ben in affection. Cooper pushed the thought aside and returned to Theo. “You’d be serving time for arson, you little pyromaniac, manslaughter too. So I suggest you stop whinging. Now, as for why I wanted you all here, I thought you’d like to know who killed your uncle.”

  Theo stopped, put his phone in the back pocket of his joggers and smirked at Dylan. The big man met his gaze with daring intensity, challenging him to say something. Anything.

  Tennessee positioned himself between the Blackburns and their kitchen door. “In respect to the attempted murder of Fletcher Blackburn—”

  “Whoa. Hang on a minute.” Theo addressed the elephant in the room. “What do you mean attempted?” He made air quotes with his fingers. “My uncle is dead and rotting in the morgue. I mean, I didn’t see the body, but—”

  “I saw the body,” Charlene snapped. Her eyes were filling with tears, and she looked like she could throw her scalding coffee over him. “I saw the body of my husband. The man I loved. He was shot. Show him some damn respect.”

  Theo gave her a condescending smile before opening the fridge. “Wha
t? No beer?”

  Charlene stood up, unable to stay still any longer. “My husband was shot, DS Daniel. Twice. There was no attempted murder. He was murdered.”

  “Actually, Mrs Blackburn,” Tennessee began, “before he was shot, Fletcher was poisoned. His autopsy showed high levels of digoxin, a poison derived from foxgloves.”

  The Blackburns looked at each other, perhaps visualising the impressive gardens at Morshaw Manor, its flowerbeds adorned with white and purple foxgloves amongst snapdragons and peonies.

  Keaton stepped forward, she placed a file on the kitchen island and removed some images from it. “On Thursday the sixth of June, two books were checked out of Wooler library: Death In The Garden and Plants That Kill.” She pointed to pictures of the two books. “They were checked out using your library card, Theo.”

  All eyes turned to Theo Blackburn, who froze for a moment then raised his hands. “No. No way. Don’t bloody drag me into this. I don’t even have a fucking library card.”

  “Oh, but you do.” Keaton tweaked her ponytail. “It was applied for online using your name and details. Don’t take this the wrong way, Theo, but I take you to be the sort of man who’d use the word password as his password, or maybe one, two, three, four. Whoever applied for this library card must have been in a hurry because they didn’t choose a password that any average Joe would pick. They chose something that only they would know and that they’d easily remember. It was, all-one-word, angel wings and butterflies.”

  George jumped from his seat. “Shit.”

  The room erupted. George resembled a cornered animal, wide-eyed and looking for a way out. Charlene was the first to speak, crying out a pained “No!” She reached out and firmly grabbed his arm. “George? No. I— I don’t believe it.”

  “Believe it,” said Keaton. “Funny you used the word shit there, George. Because that’s exactly how I’d describe your poetry, of course, I’m not your target audience. I like dance music, anything fast that I can workout too. The chief here, she likes rock music and a bit of metal. This handsome fella is a cheesy pop kind of guy, but he’ll deny it—”

  “Focus, Paula,” Cooper said with a smirk while Tennessee grumbled something about cheese.

  “Angel wings and butterflies is a line from a poem you wrote,” Keaton continued. “A poem we believe is about Charlene.”

  Charlene immediately let go of George’s arm. “What?”

  George turned away, unable to look at her.

  “Your Oedipus complex is none of my business, but the evidence is.” Keaton pointed to the pictures of the books from Wooler library. “Your prints are on the covers of both books, and I’m willing to bet my house that your prints are all over pages seventy-five to seventy-eight in Plants That Kill and page thirty-three of Death In The Garden. Those are the pages that detail foxgloves.”

  Cooper leant forward. “Your father had a health shake every morning, didn’t he?”

  George nodded.

  Placing another photo on the island, Cooper continued. “The foxgloves at Morshaw were pruned recently, as shown here and here. You took the leaves and stems and blended them with kale and spinach after your step-mother used the blender on Monday morning.”

  He swallowed but said nothing.

  “You should have cleaned it more thoroughly because the lab found digoxin on the blades. The family meeting began, and you handed your father his death smoothie.”

  “You bastard,” Charlene cried. She ran at George, pumping her fists into his chest over and over. George didn’t fight back or even try to defend himself. Theo did nothing to stop her. He seemed to find some sick humour in his cousin trying to frame him for murder. Keaton gently wrapped her arms around Charlene and guided her back to a seat.

  “I don’t regret it,” George said. “He deserved it. Everyone will be happier now he’s gone.” His chest heaved. He extended his arms, palms up, and awaited the cuffs. Keaton, who was nearest, obliged. “You’ll be happier,” he said, turning to Charlene. “You will. Trust me. I tried to warn you about him, but you didn’t listen. I could see it in his eyes. He was starting to look at you the way he used to look at Mum. Like you were, I don’t know, some sort of pet. A pretty little creature that he could crush the second he got tired of it, or the second it dared to disobey him. He would have gone on to abuse you like he abused everyone else. I couldn’t let that happen, though. And you’re young enough to escape all this. I saw his will in the office. You’ll be set. You don’t have to be a part of any of this. You’re free now.”

  Charlene’s face was set like stone. “I didn’t want to be free,” she said, barely moving her lips. “I didn’t need saving, and you had no right… no right to play God like that.”

  George’s glasses slipped down his nose. He nudged his face against his shoulder to try and push them back up. “I tried a few times. A petal here, a petal there. I was trying to use as little as possible, and I knew it was working because his eyes had started to turn yellow over the last few days and he’d stopped eating. I used a little extra on Monday, added some leaves and stems, then I put the smoothie on Dad’s desk, but Dylan said he was thirsty and took a sip. I tried to stop him.” He blinked slowly, as if his eyelids were suddenly heavier.

  “Hang on,” Dylan rubbed his temples. “Is that why my head was killing me all day?”

  Cooper nodded. “I think so. You injuries mean you’re more susceptible to headaches. The poison affected you very quickly. A few sips wouldn’t be enough to kill you, but it was enough to make you very ill.”

  Dylan moved towards George, but nothing about his demeanour seemed angry. He hugged his little brother, and that’s when Cooper scrutinised his expression. It was pride. Admiration almost.

  George allowed Keaton to peel him away from Dylan and take him by the arm. She guided him through the door to the courtyard where officers waited to escort him to HQ.

  Dylan called after him. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  George’s face cracked. “No one ever did.”

  * * *

  The Dobermann went berserk at the sound of Elliot Whyte pressing Hanson’s doorbell. It was quarter to six in the morning, and the only other sign of life in Rowlands Gill was a baker delivering goodies to the café across the road. He paused to take a gander at Whyte and Boyd as they stood on Hanson’s doorstep but scarpered as soon as the door began to creak open.

  Hanson’s voice could be heard from behind the door. “Gazza! Bugger off will you.”

  The Dobermann was possessed. Barking and clawing to get to the intruders. Boyd took a step backwards and looked to Whyte for support. She always looked so vulnerable with those big eyes and something about her appearance made him think of a deer or a bunny from a Disney film. She was capable though, she proved that by finding the chef, interviewing him, following up on his alibi and eliminating him from the investigation. She had a good head on her shoulders. Twice he’d tried to subtly ask if she was single—twice he’d bottled it. He didn’t want a repeat of the Cooper incident. That was going to haunt him till the day he retired. Best stick to civilian women. Besides, Martin clearly had a thing for Boyd. The atmosphere may always be strained between him and Cooper, but he didn’t need to add to it by becoming anyone’s love rival. Whyte flashed Boyd a reassuring smile and clutched his retractable baton. He gestured to one of their back up units to keep their distance, then signalled to another to move around the back of the property.

  Eventually, the barking subsided. It sounded as if the Dobermann was being dragged to another room and given a stern, “Stay!”

  Hanson appeared in his dressing gown. “Fucking hell,” he moaned when he saw the panda cars. “Bring the whole squadron, did you? What in God’s name do you want? I already spoke to that Martin fella and the hefty woman.” His brows quickly lowered. “Wait. I know you. You were at the hospital,” he said, pointing at Boyd. “On the children’s ward. And you,” his finger moved to Whyte, “you were at the Shell garage… and Tesco.�
� It dawned on him. “You fuckers have been tailing me.”

  “Glad you could catch up,” Whyte said dryly.

  “What’s this all about?” He checked his watch. “I have a sick daughter who I’m supposed to be having breakfast with at seven.”

  “The only person you’ll be having breakfast with is Harrison Pace.”

  “And who the bloody hell is he?”

  Whyte and Boyd’s back up moved to either side of them. Four against one—if you didn’t count the massive dog.

  “He’s a known troublemaker who my colleagues picked up last night on drug-related offences. He’ll be your cellmate when we return to the station. Big guy by all accounts and I hear he has a thing for French maids.”

  Boyd tried to suppress a laugh, but it escaped as a snort and she quickly looked away from Hanson who’s face had turned beetroot with rage. His posture changed to one of aggression: chest inflated, shoulder’s rounded, jaw clenched. It was his eyes that gave him away: they flickered with fear.

  “What do you mean cellmate? I didn’t touch Fletcher. Didn’t lay a finger on him. I have an alibi, don’t I? I swear you’re making a big mistake, lad.”

  If Whyte didn’t approve of being called lad, he didn’t show it. “I’m not making a mistake, and I know you didn’t kill Fletcher.”

  Hanson was incandescent, his voice loud enough to wake the neighbours. “Then why the fuck are you wasting my time?”

  Whyte didn’t answer straight away. He was enjoying watching him squirm. “On Wednesday evening, you received a phone call that made you very angry. We know what number that call came from.”

  Boyd rattled off the number. “That number is registered to a little old lady who lives in Berwick.”

  “I don’t know any little old ladies from Berwick,” snarled Hanson.

  “I believe you,” Whyte said. “She reported her phone as stolen back in May. Some arsehole mugged her on her way back from doing her weekly shop. The wise guy who’s been using said phone—and I use the term wise guy in an ironic sense—forgot to fully disable location services. Yesterday morning, that phone was on Westgate Road at eight minutes past eleven, the Cloth Market at twenty-seven minutes past eleven and Stepney Lane at twelve-oh-one. Do those locations mean anything to you?”