Chameleon

by Michael K Foster

  ‘How long does it actually last?’ Mason enquired, still hedging his bets.

  ‘In your case around an hour.’

  ‘An hour!’

  ‘After a suitable warm-up you’ll be required to walk on a treadmill at a brisk pace, then every two minutes the gradient is raised by three per cent. It’s pretty straightforward actually.’

  ‘And who will be monitoring me?’

  ‘To give it a fancy name, I’m your so-called test administrator.’

  For some moments he fought it off, but the thought of pitting his wits against a computer driven treadmill was doing his head in. At least he knew what he was up against, and he wasn’t out to impress. He would need to conserve his energy for the latter stages of the test if anything, and somehow muddle his way through the rest.

  They moved down a never-ending corridor at speed. It was hot inside, and on reaching a pair of double swing doors, Whitaker pushed them open. The room was L shaped and reminded him of an open plan hospital ward he’d once visited. It was well-ventilated, with solid wood floors, low ceilings and large frameless windows running along a south facing wall. Then he saw the treadmill, and it suddenly took his breath away. Nothing ever panicked him, usually. But this was enormous, and full of gadgets and monitoring devices the likes of which he’d never seen before. He knew it was premature, knew it was untimely, but knew what the outcome would be.

  ‘You must know my father,’ Whitaker announced.

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Sergeant Whitaker, he’s worked at Gateshead Police Station for the past seventeen years.’

  ‘Dennis Whitaker, the front desk Sergeant?’

  ‘Yes, that’s him.’

  ‘Well I’ll be damned. So, you must be the young lad who recently graduated from Manchester University?’ Mason smiled to himself. ‘Congratulations, you’ve really done well for yourself.’

  Whitaker began to prepare him for the test.

  ‘My dad often talks about you,’ said Whitaker, switching on the treadmill belt.

  ‘I hope it’s not all bad.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, he speaks very highly of you.’

  ‘Your father’s a good man, Kevin,’ Mason said, tying his laces before stepping onto the impending torture machine. ‘He’s one of the old school police officers, and there are very few of them still around.’

  The young man smiled, and Mason felt uncomfortable. Informed that if he showed any signs of over-tiredness, dizziness or discomfort, the test would be stopped, and he would be allowed to recover and cool down. He had no intentions of doing that. Stopping would be classed as failure, if not questionable in front of a medical panel.

  ‘So, what do you want me to do here?’

  Whitaker grinned and gave a pretend salute. ‘It shouldn’t take long, Chief Inspector, especially for someone of your calibre.’

  Shit, Mason cursed. He hated false myths.

  There were three things he’d learnt about treadmills over the years. How to adjust your gait, how to conserve your energy, and how to deal with incline changes if you thought you couldn’t cope. This time felt different, though, as he wasn’t in charge of the controls.

  Cursing his luck, he nervously clipped the safety stop to his waist and prepared himself for the inevitable. Nothing was ever a doddle these days.

  Slowly at first, he walked at a steady pace concentrating on feeling his back foot getting a good push off with each step. Arms bent at 90 degrees, shoulders relaxed, he felt like a steam train in motion. Doddle, he thought, as he stared out of the window at the grasslands opposite. This wasn’t as bad as everyone had made it out to be, and he was slowly beginning to get the hang of it. Then, after the five-minute warm up session ended abruptly, he was suddenly thrown into confusion. Holy shit, he cursed, grabbing tight hold of the handrail as the treadmill gathered speed.

  How much faster can this bloody thing go?

  His feet barely touching the ground, if he stopped now, he would be flung through the window faster than a clay pigeon. Anxiety gripped him, and he was fighting to stay upright.

  ‘Is everything okay, Chief Inspector?’

  Mason blew through his cheeks as if it were his last breath on Earth. ‘Yeah, sort of.’

  ‘You’re doing just fine,’ Whitaker called out. ‘Heart rate looking good, rhythm perfect, just two more incline levels and you’re through.’

  ‘Two!’ Mason gasped.

  ‘Just raise your hand if you require me to stop.’

  This wasn’t fun anymore, and as the treadmill began to tilt ever further towards the heavens, he thought he was going to slide off the back of it.

  Sod this for a game of soldiers, he thought.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  It had stopped raining when DCI Mason entered Gateshead Police Station, but the ground underfoot was awash with puddles. Now that Richard Drummond had been cleared from his investigations, the finger of suspicion pointed firmly at Laurence Cooper. But these matters were never straightforward, and according to Cooper’s gardener, the family had taken off to their holiday cottage in Cornwall. This wasn’t in the script, so what was Cooper running away from, Mason wondered?

  Thinking about this, he decided to swing by the station’s front desk. Convinced he’d failed the police medical board tests miserably, he wasn’t looking forward to his meeting with the Area Commander one little bit. There were still a few things to iron out, but he was now resigned to losing his position on the Serious Crime Squad.

  ‘Morning, Jack,’ the desk sergeant breezily announced.

  ‘What’s new at the zoo?’

  ‘Two overnighters due before the magistrates court, and one stray dog if you want it?’

  ‘No thanks.’ Mason shrugged. ‘Any more news on the Chopwell Wood suspect?’

  ‘There’s nothing in the report book of interest. . . were you expecting something?’

  ‘Not really. I’m due in Gregory’s office in ten minutes.’

  ‘DI Gamble is in with him at the moment, so he could be running late.’

  Strange, Mason thought, looking at his watch.

  The sergeant’s eyes narrowed as he looked over the top of his glasses. ‘A little birdie tells me you passed your police medical with flying colours.’

  ‘Is this a wind-up?’

  ‘No. You’ve been passed fully fit for duty.’

  Mason looked at him, suspiciously. ‘Really?’

  ‘Keep it to yourself, as it’s not general knowledge at the moment.’

  How could that possibly be, Mason thought. The last thing he remembered, after staggering off the treadmill and collapsing in a heap on the floor, was being handed a glass of water. So, unless Whitaker’s son had fiddled the results and wasn’t letting on about it, the sergeant could only be in on the act. Sometimes it wasn’t what you did in life, it was who you knew that made the difference.

  ‘Take my advice,’ the sergeant said, leaning casually over the counter, ‘don’t go rushing into it, as your type of injuries can take a long while to heal.’

  ‘Thanks, pal. I owe you.’

  With a few minutes to spare, Mason called in at his office and delved into Laurence Cooper’s case files. Still curious as to why Richard Drummond had told him about Cooper’s use of mental cruelty, he was looking for patterns. Had Cooper’s first wife jumped off the High-Level Bridge by her own accord or had she been encouraged to do it? There was nothing in the interview transcripts to suggest the latter, and nothing to cause him alarm. Even so, it seemed odd that both wives should die under similar circumstances and yet there was nothing to connect them.

  Satisfied, he closed the filing cabinet drawer and grabbed his notebook and pen. There was a new spring of confidence in his step as he strode along the corridor that morning, but that was about to change.

  The moment he entered the Area Commander’s office, Mason’s heart sank – what the hell was DI Gamble still doing here? Something was afoot, and whatever it was she looked incredibly relaxed. He tho
ught he was here to talk about his future position, but the news from the Police Medicals Board still hadn’t filtered through.

  ‘Ah, Detective Chief Inspector Mason,’ Gregory said, lifting his head towards him, ‘we were just talking about you.’

  ‘Something positive, I hope?’

  Gamble flashed her whitened teeth at him. ‘What’s the latest on Laurence Cooper, Jack?’

  There it was again . . . JACK! What gave her the right to call him by his Christian name? He was never on familiar terms with any of his team in front of senior police officers, so why be on familiar terms with him? Not the best of starts, it was time to put his foot down.

  ‘Laurence Cooper is in Cornwall,’ Mason replied firmly.

  Gregory was quick to react.

  ‘Yes. We were aware of that.’

  Gamble turned her back on Mason and spoke to Gregory direct. ‘It’s strange that Cooper should take off so soon after his wife’s death, sir. What is he running away from?’

  ‘He’s gone there with his daughters apparently.’

  ‘Perhaps we should pay him a visit. . . establish if there’s any truth in these mental abuse allegations that Drummond was talking about.’

  ‘Yes. I agree,’ said Gregory. ‘We need to get to the bottom of it.’

  Mason felt at odds suddenly and tried to intervene. ‘I could arrange for the local constabulary to have a word––’

  ‘No. That won’t be necessary,’ Gregory replied stoically.

  ‘And why not?’

  ‘I was thinking of sending you down there.’

  ‘What, me. Cornwall?’

  ‘Why not? You’ve asked me on enough occasions to be involved.’

  ‘Yes, but I was––’

  ‘There’s a direct train from Newcastle to Penzance,’ said Gregory pointing at his computer screen as if it had already been decided. ‘You should go first class, of course. Take a couple of days out – the break will do you the world of good.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be more fitting if DI Gamble went to Cornwall, sir? Besides, I still have a few loose ends to tie up on the Richard Drummond interview.’

  Gregory stared at him hard. ‘I thought we’d already eliminated Richard Drummond from our enquiries?’

  ‘We have. It’s––’

  ‘Well then?’

  Masking his fury, Mason flopped back in his seat flabbergasted. He’d been stitched up, big style, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do. He took a few moments to gather his wits before answering.

  ‘There’s also the break-in at the Sanderson Law Chambers to deal with.’

  ‘I’m sure DI Gamble can handle that little matter for you. After all, she is in charge of the day-to-day running of operations.’

  ‘I agree, but–––’

  ‘Good. It’s settled then.’

  Mason’s instincts as a working detective had developed enough over the years to know when to keep his mouth shut. These bastards were joined inseparably at the hip, that much was obvious. He would need a subtle plan, something discernible, and one involving DI Gamble’s grip on his position as head of serious crime. Whatever it was she was scheming behind his back, she now had the upper hand. He would need to tread carefully, think it through. Now he’d been given the heads-up the police medical board had given him the all-clear, he was in a much stronger position.

  Or at least he thought he was.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  After a pleasant nine-hour train journey to Penzance, Jack Mason was in pensive mood. Having caught a local taxi to the neighbouring fishing port of Newlyn, he booked into his hotel room and slung his overnight bag onto the bed. Under the circumstances, he would normally have been keen to get away from the hassle for a few days, but Newlyn was full of bad memories. The last time he’d visited the place was with his ex-wife, Brenda. Their marriage had been going through a bad patch at the time, and they were trying to straighten things out. If anything, their long weekend in Newlyn had turned into a series of disastrous bitter arguments. They stormed off to London under a cloud of mistrust, that was the last time they’d slept in the same bed together.

  What the hell, he cursed.

  Still deep in thought, he unpacked, showered and changed into something more casual before heading down to the bar. Still light, from the hotel lounge window he had clear unobstructed views of the busy harbour. Poised where the English Channel meets the Atlantic, Newlyn had long been a fishing port and boasted one of the largest in the UK. The place was extremely popular with tourists, and this was the busiest period of the year.

  Finding a corner seat, he checked his emails, fired off a couple of text messages, and quietly admired the view. In many ways the white stone-faced granite cottages and steep narrow alleys only added to the town’s quaint charm. It was a beautiful place, especially in the depths of winter where the medieval harbour walls of the North and South piers were a most welcoming sight for hundreds of returning fishermen. With over seven-hundred fishing vessels and numerous fresh fish landing stations, its busy fish market was the focal hub of the town. Newlyn had a bustling local community, and in a few weeks from now the annual Fish Festival would take place and the town would come alive under a different guise.

  The lounge was heaving when Mason ordered another pint; mostly locals who seemed to prefer standing elbow to elbow at the bar. Pushing his way through the throng, he managed to squeeze back into his window seat, but only just. Now deep in thought, he was actually looking forward to his meeting with Laurence Cooper at Newlyn Police Station, but that was twelve hours away.

  ‘Just arrived?’ A rather stout blonde lady asked, now sitting opposite.

  ‘Yes, and you?’

  ‘I live here, have done for the past twenty-three years.’

  She gave him a second glance and smiled. ‘Are you down from London?’

  ‘I grew up there, but I live in the North East nowadays.’

  He pretended to be texting on his iPhone, but she wasn’t giving in that easily.

  ‘What line of business are you in?’

  ‘I work in a sewage plant,’ Mason lied, ‘shovelling shit all day. What about you?’

  She sipped her wine and thought about it.

  ‘Drowning my sorrows mainly. I’m a gutter in the local fish factory.’

  ‘Sounds interesting.’

  ‘Not really,’ she sighed, as if quickly losing interest in their conversation.

  He took another mouthful of his beer and wiped the froth from his lips thinking. In all his years on the force he’d never felt as low as this before. Gregory had finally got him where he wanted him – wallowing in fish guts and a million miles from the action.

  ‘How long are you here?’ the stout blonde lady asked.

  ‘A couple of days,’ Mason replied.

  ‘Meetings?’

  ‘All day tomorrow by the sound of things.’

  She lifted her heavy eyes towards him. ‘Where’s that, over at the Cornwall Drains?’

  ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘If it ain’t fish, it’s sewage,’ she said, finishing the last of her drink and standing to leave. ‘Other than tourism, there’s not much else going on around here.’

  Mason nodded. ‘No, I suppose not.’

  ‘Have fun,’ she smiled.

  ‘I will––’

  Her eyes sparkled with mischievous humour as she leaned over towards him. ‘If you’re here tomorrow night, maybe we can have a few drinks together?’

  ‘Can’t promise anything,’ Mason replied. ‘But it was nice meeting you.’

  Mason smiled to himself as she pushed her way through the throng and vanished beyond the lounge double doors. She was friendly enough, but definitely not his type.

  With thoughts now elsewhere, he let his mind drift.

  How much of Laurence Cooper’s story rang true, he had no idea. There were plenty of motives for murder, including a million-pound life insurance plan he’d taken out on his wife. There was still the Cooper fam
ily assets to consider – all of them legally tied up in Laurence’s name. A few hours’ grilling should do the trick, by which time Cooper might buckle under the strain.

  The more he thought about it, the more Mason warmed to the idea. With no reasonable explanation as to why his first wife had committed suicide, he would need to question him over their relationship prior to her death. No doubt Cooper had dozens of witnesses who could vouch he was innocent but was he responsible for his second wife’s death? What if Cooper had discovered Margaret affair with the university lecturer, Richard Drummond? He could have done – simply put two and two together and hired someone to carry out his dirty work. There were so many unanswered questions, so many motives for murder, and every one of them seemed plausible at this late hour.

  No, Mason thought. He would need to sleep on it – work through the possibilities – tomorrow was another day.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Still reeling over his visit to Cornwall, Jack Mason was still no closer to the truth. His interview with Laurence Cooper at Newlyn Police Station had gone badly, and he was left with more questions than answers. As things now stood, nothing seemed to make sense anymore. He still had his suspicions, of course, but with insufficient evidence to press charges, Cooper was allowed to walk free – for now at least.

  Mason would have liked to think that Cooper was involved in a million-pound life insurance scam, but he very much doubted it. The way he now saw it, either the global management consultant had hired someone else to take care of his dirty work, or the Chopwell Wood suspect was involved in something more sinister.

  Now sitting at his desk, he quietly mulled over his options. In what had been a bizarre chain of events, his impulsive actions had probably cost him dearly. He’d cocked up big time, and on arrival back to Newcastle, he’d taken it upon himself to enter the Coopers house without a search warrant. He’d found nothing, of course, and the Area Commander was rightfully demanding answers. Not that Mason had any to give. He didn’t, but the whole affair was unfortunate and regrettable.