‘Just because DI Gamble is junior in rank doesn’t mean you can ride roughshod over her. She’s a highly qualified police officer who is making great inroads on what is a very difficult case.’ Gregory shook his head. ‘Perhaps you should start attending her daily briefings instead of trying to solve the case on your own.’
Oh, yeah, Mason thought.
He moved to leave. ‘Will that be all, sir?’
‘Yes, for now. But you need to think very carefully about what I’ve said.’
As he stormed along the corridor, Mason mulled over the facts. How could DI Gamble not see the danger that Martin was in? Was she blind? There again, he’d suffered an awful lot of physical anguish these past few months and he was mentally worn out by it all. Frustrated by his own lack of progress, stuck behind a desk all day had finally got the better of him. This wasn’t his style of policing, and he’d never been asked to take on an advisory role in his life before. Not since his days as a detective sergeant at least.
Emotionally and physically drained, Mason was thinking of chucking it all in. Perhaps a couple of weeks in the sun wasn’t a bad idea after all. At least he could drink himself senseless and come back a better man.
God, what a mess.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Now ensconced in his own private little space, Chameleon fired up his laptop computer, confident in the knowledge he was still in control. Next, he plugged the memory stick into the USB port and typed in the sixteen-digit code. As his eyes moved instinctively down to the dropdown box at the bottom of his screen, he entered the password he’d been sent in a text message and waited for the program to load.
It didn’t take long.
Strange, Chameleon thought. Why would the Organisation agree to setting up a business meeting between him and a client in Stuttgart? Not that he was questioning their judgement, but the establishment never made direct contact with its clients – only through intermediaries. It was the first golden rule, the founding principle on which the Organisation had been built.
Happy in the knowledge the information would have come from a trusted source, he decided to check on the client’s credentials. Considering the vast sums of money involved, two possibilities immediately sprang to mind. Either the client had a new business proposition to put to the Organisation, or they wanted him dead.
Either way he would oblige.
He changed the SIM in his pay-as-you-go and fired off a new e-mail. The moment his phone pinged, he copied the new Personal Identification Number (PIN) into the dropdown box on his laptop and watched as the program opened.
“RECEIVED,” he acknowledged in a text message.
His phone went dead.
After minutes of poring over the new computer files, a bigger picture emerged. Soon his professional relationship with the client in Stuttgart would take on a different kind of business partnership – and one he hadn’t bargained for. He Googled Hotels in Stuttgart. Moments later he had a full listing of what was available. The Steigenberger Graf Zeppelin Hotel looked favourable on Amulf-Klett-Platz – reserve now, pay when you stay. Perfect, he thought. Tracing an IP address back to an individual was an impossible task, especially when the Organisation were involved. He made a reservation, closed the lid of his laptop, and pondered about the future.
Two days would be enough – more would be too risky. Some things were best dealt with privately, especially if they interfered with existing plans. He would deal with the boy later, on his return from Stuttgart. The Organisation came first, and what went on in Chopwell Wood was his problem. His business alone.
He checked his watch.
The longer the police continued to believe the barrister’s death was a suspicious suicide the longer he could move around freely. Without hindrance, without hesitation.
Alone!
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Jack Mason could see most of the cars in the street boasted many of the latest Beemer’s, Mercs, and Jags, but he was looking for a specific model. Then, set back on the driveway at the “The Willows” – a large detached property in Wylam, a small village 10 miles west of Newcastle upon Tyne he noticed a blue Ford Kuga. And, if he wasn’t mistaken, it carried identical number plates to the vehicle spotted outside the barrister’s house the day she went missing. Not bad, he thought. This was a part of his job he loved most – the hands-on bit.
Mason rapped on the front door knocker.
Seconds later, a man appeared in a bright green T-shirt and wearing a mask of uncertainty. ‘Richard Drummond?’ Mason asked authoritatively.
‘Not today,’ the man brashly replied. ‘We don’t deal with door-to-door salesmen in Wylam!’
‘Really?’ Mason replied, pulling out his warrant card and pushing his foot over the door threshold. ‘Would that include police officers?’
‘It’s still not convenient right now.’
‘No time is ever convenient when it involves the police.’ Mason pointed to the blue Ford Kuga. ‘The purpose of my call is to find the owner of this vehicle.’
‘Why? Is there a problem?’
‘For the owner perhaps, but not for me thankfully.’
‘If you must know, it’s mine.’
‘Mind telling me what you were doing in the Darras Hall area on the afternoon of Friday 10th June?’
‘What time would that be?’
‘Three o’clock,’ Mason replied stoically.
‘I’m a senior lecturer at Newcastle University, and that’s where I would have been.’
‘You may well have been, Mr Drummond, but at 3:00 pm on Friday 10th June this vehicle was spotted outside Margaret Cooper’s property in Darras Hall. What’s more, she was seen getting into this vehicle before being driven away.’
‘What is this, some kind of witch hunt?’
‘Do you know a Margaret Cooper?’
‘I may do.’ Drummond went white suddenly. ‘Are you quite sure it was this vehicle?’
‘I’m one hundred per cent sure, and we have it all on camera. Either you’re not telling me everything, or someone else was driving this vehicle that afternoon.’
‘That’s preposterous––’
‘We need to talk. May I come in?’
Drummond looked at him in mocked horror. ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible, Chief Inspector.’
‘Oh. And why not?’
Drummond mouthed the words: Not in front of my wife!
Mason knew then he was onto something and did not hang about. ‘In which case you’d better accompany me to Gateshead Police Station, Mr Drummond.’
◆◆◆
Gateshead Police Station was a twenty-minute drive from Wylam, and Drummond had barely spoken a word throughout the entire journey. After they’d checked in at the front desk, the suspect was taken straight to Interview Room One (IR-1) where his solicitor was sat waiting for him. A police station could be a daunting place at times, especially sitting face to face across an interview table staring at two determined police officers.
The moment DCI Mason activated the recording tape and announced the date, time and those present, the suspect’s face darkened. It was another tense moment, and Drummond’s demeanour looked strained. Cocky at first, it didn’t take long before the senior lecturer had turned into a nervous wreck. What was of interest, though, was that the ‘R’ in Margaret Cooper’s Outlook calendar against 1:00 pm on Friday 10th June, turned out to be the ‘R’ as in ‘Richard’ Drummond. They’d been having an affair, and all behind closed doors.
As Drummond’s incredulous story began to unfold, Mason couldn’t help pinching himself. Having driven to Darras Hall that Friday afternoon to pick up the barrister’s clothes, they’d spent the rest of the weekend in a hotel room in the village of Belford, Northumberland. Two wrongs didn’t make a right in Mason’s books. But according to Drummond, the barrister’s marriage was in freefall and she simply wanted to take a break from it all. Not so in the senior lecturer’s case, he hadn’t the slightest intention of leaving his wife an
d was probably in it for the sex.
There was more to Richard Drummond than Mason first thought. Not only was he a charlatan, he was an obnoxious self-opinionated prat who saw himself as a cut above the rest. In what had been a long drawn out first session, it was time to apply some pressure. With any luck, Drummond was about to uncover Margaret Cooper’s last known movements – along with the last people to see her.
Was Drummond the killer? Mason wondered.
‘Let’s talk about the Blue Bell Hotel in Belford,’ Mason began. ‘What were you both doing there?’
Drummond struggled with his words. ‘Margaret and her husband had serious issues, they argued constantly. Laurence was making life extremely difficult for her.’
‘So, she decided to confide in you?’
Drummond lowered his head. ‘She asked me to spend a few days away with her to bounce a few ideas off each other in an attempt to sort her marriage out.’
‘Really?’ Mason gloated. ‘If you’re such an expert at marriage guidance counselling, how come you shied away from talking to me in front of your wife?’
Drummond said nothing.
‘Tell me,’ DS Savage said, pulling up his seat. ‘Had you noticed any decline in Margaret’s demeanour over your weekend away together – her mental state?’
‘No, I can’t say that I did. She seemed pretty level-headed about everything.’
‘Yet she was found dead in Chopwell Wood with a rope around her neck!’ Drummond’s head dropped as the sergeant’s words cut deep, but the detective was in no mood for sympathy. ‘It doesn’t look good suddenly, does it, Mr Drummond?’
‘No. It would appear not.’
Drummond was falling apart, and Mason could sense the home straight was in sight. The moment DS Holt entered the room and slid a slip of paper towards him, Mason read it. Having contacted the Blue Bell Hotel to verify Drummond’s story, shortly after 2:15 pm Sunday 12th June, the university lecturer had checked out of the hotel having settled his account. He’d been telling the truth. The barrister had held onto her room until the following morning and checked out at 7:00 am. Even so, it still didn’t mean he was out of the woods yet, far from it. They would need to recover the hotel lobby CCTV footage and check on the university’s lecturer roster list.
The pieces of the puzzle slowly coming together, Savage dug deeper. ‘Who else did you meet in the hotel that weekend?’
‘What do you mean – meet?’
‘The other guests, did you talk to any of them at all?’
‘Only to say hello at mealtimes.’
‘Friendly enough, were they?’ Mason cut in.
‘Yes, now that you mention it.’
Annoyed, Mason slid a photofit of the Chopwell Wood suspect towards the university lecturer and took up an unfriendly posture. ‘For the purposes of the tape, I’m showing Mr Drummond exhibit ED 413.’ Mason tapped the photofit with his finger. ‘What about this man, did you bump into him at all?’
‘No. Who is he?’
‘Someone of interest,’ Mason replied bluntly.
‘Oh!’
‘Let’s talk about Margaret’s husband for a moment,’ said DS Savage. ‘What can you tell us about Laurence Cooper?’
At last Drummond began to open up and according to him, the barrister’s husband was a cruel manipulator who had allegedly used mental cruelty as a means of controlling his wife. By the time Savage had finished talking, Laurence Cooper wasn’t the same person that Mason had previously interviewed. But Drummond was a schemer, someone who would lie his way out of a tight corner to save his own skin. That said, the notion of Cooper threatening his wife in front of their teenage daughters didn’t bode well in Mason’s books. No, Mason thought. This was the second wife to commit suicide under Laurence Cooper’s watch, and there was still the life insurance policy to consider.
‘Tell me, did you ever meet Laurence Cooper at all?’
‘Good God, no––’
‘Perhaps not,’ Mason smiled. ‘It wouldn’t have been convenient, would it?’
‘He’s a cruel manipulator, Chief Inspector.’
‘So, all of this is what Margaret told you?’ said Savage.
‘Yes, but I had no reason to disbelieve her. After all, she was a highly respected barrister.’
‘I can’t say as I can agree with you on that either, not when she was having an affair behind her husband’s back.’
Drummond slumped in his seat.
‘One last question, and you don’t have to say yes,’ Mason said. ‘How do you feel about giving us a DNA swab?’
‘That’s not a problem.’
Mason scribbled something down in his notebook. ‘Is there anything else you wish to tell us?’
‘Yes. What about my wife? I don’t want her to hear any of this.’
Drummond may not have had anything to do with the barrister’s death, but he certainly wasn’t getting off lightly. Not in Savage’s books he wasn’t.
‘It doesn’t work like that unfortunately.’ The sergeant smiled gloatingly.
‘Surely, there’s no need for my wife to know about this.’
‘It’s not the police you should be concerned about, Mr Drummond. It’s the media you need to worry about. Once those vultures get hold of your weekend exploits, it will be all over the national tabloids. Especially as you are a senior lecturer at Newcastle University.’
‘Surely not. I––’
‘Think about it: who doesn’t like to read a juicy bit of scandal now and then?’
Drummond put his face in his hands and broke down.
What a wuss, Mason chuckled.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It was Friday and having stuck rigidly to his fitness regime for the past two weeks, Jack Mason felt much better for it. Given the all-clear from his physiotherapist, Barbara Lockwood, he was hoping the police medical board would follow suit. His scar tissues had healed nicely but he was still having grave doubts as to what was going on inside his body. He’d heard some horrific tales from fellow officers about the medical board’s rigorous tests and wasn’t at all confident about passing with flying colours. Just how he would react should they declare him unfit for work, he was dreading to think.
The rain had eased when he checked in at the reception desk and made himself known. Dressed in tracksuit bottoms, sports top and trainers, he signed the pre-test medical forms and felt the knot in his stomach tighten. He’d not eaten since yesterday teatime and could have murdered a full English breakfast. Little chance of that happening now.
Directed into a side room, he was weighed, and his blood pressure taken by a male nurse who stank of garlic. Six months of worrying and it had all come down to this. Might as well get it over with, he groaned. Next, his lungs and chest were checked, and he was asked to produce a urine sample.
‘Are you taking any beta blocker drugs?’ the nurse asked, handing him an empty plastic container.
‘No. Why?’
‘If you are, it could depress your heart rate scores during the tests.’ The nurse stared at him and frowned. ‘I presume you’ve not eaten, exercised, or drunk coffee or tea in the last two hours?’
‘No,’ Mason said, shaking his head, ‘and I’m bloody famished.’
He gave him a brief, slightly embarrassed nod of acknowledgement as if he’d heard it all before. ‘I take it you’ve read the questionnaire?’
‘Yes.’ Mason nodded.
‘And there are no contraindications to you performing the tests here today?’
‘None that I’m aware of.’
‘What about your physical health?’
‘I was recently discharged from hospital and signed off by my physiotherapist.’
‘No more medical appointments then?’
‘None, apart from this one.’
The moment the nurse closed the medical file, Mason thought it was over. He should have known better, of course. Just because he wore a smart uniform and carried an air of authority didn’t mean he was a key pla
yer in the grand scheme of things. Far from it.
His ego deflated, after handing his urine sample in at reception, he was herded into an open-plan waiting room. Two men opposite him were staring up at a muted TV screen. One was short with a wizened face, the other looked close to death.
He smiled, and then said, ‘Are you two here for the tests?’
‘Yeah, and you?’ the wizened-faced man replied.
‘Afraid so.’
Mason saw a door open and felt the rush of cool air. He tried to stay calm but knew the man fast approaching was about to put him through hell. He looked like a fitness fanatic he once knew, early twenties, exploding with energy and not an ounce of body fat. God, he thought. What was he letting himself in for?
‘DCI Mason?’ The young man smiled.
‘That’s me.’
‘I’m Kevin Whitaker, and I’ll be conducting your CTPWT tests today. Do you smoke, Detective Chief Inspector?’
‘No, I gave that shit up almost fifteen years ago,’ Mason replied proudly.
‘You’re a wise man.’
Mason pointed to the clipboard that Whitaker was carrying. ‘I’ve briefly read up on it, but what do these tests entail exactly?’
‘The Chester Treadmill Police Walk Test or CTPWT as it is better known, is a performance test specifically developed for the police services of England and Wales. It’s a modern-day replacement to the old fifteen-metre shuttle run you may be familiar with.’
‘What running backwards and forwards between two set points.’
‘Yes, it’s all done on a treadmill nowadays.’
‘And how does that work exactly?’
‘It’s nothing to worry about, it’s just a series of rigorous physical tests we put you through which closely replicates the real life demands of a police officer during their daily duties. It’s based on several operational scenarios . . . a bit like a fitness assessment of your ability to cope with varying situations.’
Bugger, Mason cursed. Had he known that he would have spent more time in the gym instead of thinking about it. He watched as the wizened man opposite screwed his face up at the mere mention of a physical fitness assessment. If anyone was to fail it was him.
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