Northern Roulette (DCI Cooper Book 4)

by B Baskerville

  “You don’t recognise me, do you?”

  He squinted in the dawn glow and spoke in a weak, crackly voice. “You’re the young man I spoke to yesterday. You helped me with my paper.”

  He shook his head and laughed, though there was no humour in his tone.

  “No. Think back further, much further.”

  The old man took a step back; his presence clearly intimidated him. Power – It was a good feeling.

  The old man shook his head. “Have we met before?”

  “You were quite the pillar of the community. An authority figure. A father figure even. The one they could all turn to. All except me.” He tilted his head to the side and cracked his neck. “You saw the bruises, and yet you did nothing. You saw the warning signs, saw I wasn’t eating, that I was withdrawn. But you chose to look the other way.”

  There it was: the look of recognition and familiarity. The old man’s eyes swept over him in disbelief as if the man standing in front of him couldn’t possibly be the boy he remembered from all those years ago.

  In his hand, the sharp edges of a rock dug into his palm. He gripped it tighter, then swung with all his might.

  He savoured the moment. Standing over the unconscious man, he ignored the frantic dog’s barks. He closed his eyes and took a deep, deep breath. That felt good. He passed the rock to his other hand, balled his fist around it, then pounded it into the old man’s face. It was a cheap shot, hitting someone who couldn’t hit back. But, he’d been on the receiving end of many a cheap shot. He was allowed a few in return, was he not?

  Once the mist cleared, he grabbed the man by his ankles and dragged him into the hole he’d prepared earlier. Though the man was slim and his body atrophied, it still took strength and determination to move the dead weight over dry sand. The dog growled, barked and nipped his ankles. Stupid creature. She barked again, a horrible high-pitched yelp that reminded him of nails on a blackboard. She lunged at him, her teeth bared. Thick canines sunk into his flesh. The pain radiated in white-hot waves across his thigh. He grabbed the dog by its scruff and shook it violently. Though he could do much, much worse, he reminded himself that the dog was innocent. She was just sticking up for her owner the way no one ever stuck up for him. He threw the dog towards the dunes. She whimpered as she walked away.

  Time was getting away from him. He grabbed his tools and got to work, shovelling the sand, piling it higher and higher. He sprayed the outside with water mist, keeping it moist while he started to carve his design. It wouldn’t be as intricate as his work on Longsands, but it would still be impressive. He formed the coils and moulded the head. He took his time carving scales that gradually got smaller and smaller as they approached the serpent’s tail.

  As he felt the cool sand under the pads of his fingers, it took him back to learning pottery as a child and the feeling of wet clay. How ironic. The only skill the old man actually taught him was the one he used to adorn his broken body right now. He always liked making things. You didn’t need good spelling or sums to build something or paint it, just patience, and he had a lot of patience.

  He stood and admired his work. The snake was a suitable resting place for the old man. He gathered his things, making sure not to leave anything: half-empty whiskey bottle, flask, blanket, and tools. Banging his hands together to clean them of sand, he started walking back towards the headland. The tide had receded further, forming rock pools around Coves Haven. By the time the islanders had woken and the tourists began to cross the causeway, he would be back on the mainland, ready to tick another item from his list.

  - Chapter 16 -

  On another island, two thousand miles away, where the volcanic landscape could look lunar grey one minute and Martian red the next, a small, white church was surrounded by British ex-pats. The Anglican church was square in shape, with a rectangular bell tower. The building and its surroundings were immaculate. No litter, no chips in the paintwork, no graffiti. This was somewhere the locals took pride in. A place to be respected.

  “Do you want to hold hands?” Copper asked Tina, who had been silent during the drive over to Tías.

  She shook her head. “Unless you want to.”

  Cooper wanted to hold hands. She felt weak and needed something solid to cling to. “How about linking arms?”

  Tina slid her arm into the crook of her mother’s elbow and gave her a supportive smile.

  “Love you.”

  “Love you, too.” Tina said it quietly but with a squeeze of her arm and enough eye contact for Cooper to know that she meant it.

  Tina was the only constant in Cooper’s life. Kenny, Tina’s father, abandoned her before she was born. Her parents moved to the sunshine the second Cooper turned eighteen. Her grandmother, whom she had lived with for a few years after Tina’s birth, had passed when Tina was still in her first year of school. The team at CID had changed many times during her career, with some leaving to have their own babies. Some, unable to cope with the stresses of the job, had quit for civilian life. Some didn’t make it to a police pension for more unfortunate reasons: an RTA, a bullet wound, a noose.

  Through it all, there had always been Tina.

  She was fifteen and already thinking about which university to attend. She would easily get the grades for Oxford, Cambridge or Bath, but Cooper knew Tina would go wherever the best science course was. Her little brainbox would probably save the world one day. All Cooper ever wanted was for Tina to have an easier time than she had in her young adult life. Thinking about her potential caused Cooper to feel a pang of pride mixed with sadness. She would never guilt Tina into attending Newcastle or Northumbria University. She had to face facts, her one constant would be flying the nest within a couple of years, and once more, Cooper’s life would change forever.

  It was cooler inside the church. High vaulted ceilings allowed air to flow, causing the fine hairs on Cooper’s arms to stand on end. This was an old church with dark wooden pews, once polished to perfection, now dulled with time and wear. The floor was clean and shiny, reflecting the glow of candle-shaped lightbulbs in North African style pendant lamps. The minister stood at the front in brilliant white, his robes so clean they could feature in a Persil advert. Was he a minister? Cooper wondered. She’d been introduced while they were planning the service, but she’d hardly been paying attention. She wasn’t religious and had no clue if the man at the front of the church was a minister, priest or father. If pressed, she could call him padre and hope he took no offence.

  Cooper and Tina took their seats in the front row beside Julie. On one side of her, Tina was stoic and dry-eyed. On her other side, Julie sobbed into a crumpled tissue. Cooper took her mother’s hand and interlaced her fingers into her own.

  The minister waited for everyone to take their seats before speaking in a clear and practised voice. “We are here today to pay tribute and respect to a man of God, our brother, Benjamin Cooper. We are here today to show our love and support for Benjamin’s precious family. His loving wife, Julie, and his daughter and granddaughter, Erica and Tina.”

  He looked at Cooper as he spoke. “We are here today to seek comfort. As our hearts ache with loss, we trust that God will give us the strength to walk with Him. Today, we remember Benjamin Cooper. Ben spent his early years in the west end of Newcastle upon Tyne. He enjoyed playing football with his friends, camping with the Scouts, and riding his bike.”

  It was strange hearing the minister talk about Ben as if he knew him well, but it was also comforting. The idea of her dad riding a bike around Fenham brought warmth to her chest.

  “In secondary school, Ben excelled in science and maths, and it was here where he first met Julie.”

  “I didn’t know Grandad Ben liked science,” whispered Tina.

  “Where do you think you got it from? Cooper asked with a wry smile. “Me? Your dad?”

  Tina suppressed a laugh and turned her eyes back to the minister. Cooper put an arm around her daughter’s shoulders, pulling her closer to her.
<
br />   “I remember one summer when your grandad took over the entire house with glass bottles because he decided to brew his own beer. Your granny would tell him to leave it to the brewers, but he would scoff and say it’s just basic chemistry.”

  “Was it nice?” Tina whispered.

  “It was bloody awful,” said Cooper, allowing herself another smile at the memory. “I was only fourteen, but I snuck downstairs in the middle of the night and opened a bottle from his finished batch. There must have been fifty bottles. I figured he wouldn’t notice if one went missing.”

  “Did he?”

  “Nope, but it gave me the squirts for the next three days.”

  Tina pulled a face, and Cooper didn’t know if she was grimacing at the subject matter or Cooper’s use of the word squirts.

  The minister continued speaking about how Ben and Julie met, their marriage, and the birth of their daughter. He talked about them following their dreams, moving to warmer climes, and running their own business. This set Julie off on another wave of hyperventilating tears. He spoke of Ben being an example to everyone in life, about following your heart and living each day as if it may be your last.

  That was the point when Cooper fell apart. Had she been the best daughter she could have been? No, of course not. She’d been a boisterous, energetic child who hardly gave her parents a moment’s peace. As a teenager, she had caused all sorts of trouble. She stayed out past curfew, stole money from her father’s wallet, and – with Kenny’s help – got herself pregnant before leaving school. She played music too loud, avoided helping with the dishes, and was responsible for over ninety per cent of the phone bill. But she had matured thanks to the lessons Ben had taught her about holding her head high and being totally dogged in the pursuit of one’s ambitions. She would always appreciate him for that, and she would always regret having never told him so.

  - Chapter 17 -

  “You drive like an old codger who hasn’t had his eyes tested for ten years.”

  It took over ninety minutes to drive to Holy Island, and DS Paula Keaton was not going to hide her displeasure.

  “I suppose I should be grateful we got here at all,” she said with a sharp edge to her voice. She tugged at her seatbelt and squirmed as if she had a bad case of ADHD. “Given your inability to follow directions, I’m surprised we didn’t end up in Carlisle.”

  Tennessee liked to think he was driving like the sensible new dad he was. No more speeding for this responsible father. Besides, Nixon would blow a fuse if Tennessee was flashed by a speed camera. He’d lose his SIO role faster than his wife could spend money.

  “What’s bugging you?” he asked as they approached the car park.

  “Nowt.”

  “I’ve seen wet cats happier than you.”

  She scrunched her face up. The skin around her eyes folded into thick creases; she tensed her jaw and ground her teeth. “You’re right,” she said, letting her face relax. She shook her arms as if loosening up before a big game. “It’s my dad. He’s marrying some tart half his age.”

  “Good for him.”

  Anger flashed in Keaton’s eyes.

  “No? Wrong answer?”

  “Urgh. It’s a long story. And I hardly got any sleep last night because that blooming seagull was cheeping away all night.” She rubbed her eyes. “Cooper must have a soundproof kitchen. Look, I know I’m about as fun as a yeast infection right now. I’ll sort myself out. The fresh air will wake me up, and there’s nothing quite like a murder investigation to take your mind off family drama.”

  Tennessee reversed into a parking bay and switched the engine off. The rugged beauty of the island never failed to take his breath away. The tower of Lindisfarne Castle rose from the land, and flowers in the wild meadows danced in time with the wind.

  When the Viking raids took place on Holy Island in 793ad, Alcuin of York described a heathen pagan race who poured out the blood of saints and trampled on their bodies in the temple of God. For seven decades, the raids continued until a full-scale invasion of Danish Vikings headed for East Anglia under the rule of Ivar the Boneless. Soon he set his sights on the great kingdom of Northumbria and subjected Aelle, King of Northumbria, to the most brutal of Viking murders: the blood eagle. Northumbria conquered and a puppet king on the throne, Ivar’s attentions turned to Mercia. But as Viking forces headed southwest, a part of them was left behind – their DNA. Many northeastern men can claim a direct ancestral link to the Viking invaders, and Danish words are used to this day in the local dialect. Bairn, the Geordie word for child, and hyem meaning home, come from the Danish barn and hjem.

  The first man to greet Tennessee and Keaton as they exited their vehicle was as part Viking as they came. He had a heavy brow and piercing blue eyes, with shoulders twice as broad as Tennessee’s, thick blond hair and a wild beard.

  “John Raven,” he said, extending a hand. “The road doesn’t extend beyond my farm. I’ll take you on my quad; it’s quicker than walking.” He patted a dirty quad bike and indicated that they could sit on the back facing rearwards.

  Keaton jumped aboard as if riding a quad was a daily occurrence. Tennessee looked at the mud-covered vehicle, then glanced down at his woollen coat: it was Hugo Boss and had cost him a small fortune. He sighed and climbed up.

  “Hold on tight,” Raven called over his shoulder. “It’s going to get a wee bit bumpy.”

  Raven twisted the throttle and started the quad bike. He steered it off the road and over the fields, taking a direct route to a beach on the island’s north side.

  Keaton jabbed her elbow into Tennessee’s ribs as they bounced up and down on the back of the bike. “Now we’re talking. Told you I just needed some fresh air.” Her eyebrows peaked and a cheeky grin formed on her lips. “And he drives better than—”

  The back wheel of the quad hit a puddle, splashing Keaton in the face with what looked like a mixture of mud and manure.

  It smelled like it too.

  It didn’t take long for Raven’s quad to reach the outer cordon. When they jumped off the back, Tennessee joked that if Keaton wanted to wear a mud mask, she should have gone to the spa and not a crime scene. This earned him the sort of stare Medusa would have been proud of. They thanked Raven, introduced themselves to the crime scene manager, showed their IDs, and added their names to the logbook.

  The crime scene manager pointed to a shortish man in his fifties with cropped brown hair and a broad flat face that reminded Tennessee of a pug. “That’s the sarge from Berwick. He’ll fill you in with what we know so far.”

  They ducked under the cordon and strode towards the pug-faced man. He saw them coming and made to meet them halfway, walking uphill through the dunes. By the time he reached Tennessee, he was out of breath and had his hands on his hips, his panting making him even more dog-like.

  “Detectives. A young mum found the sculpture shortly after dawn.” He pointed with his head down towards a half-moon bay with off-white sand. “Her baby couldn’t sleep, so they went for a morning stroll. When she saw the sandcastle, she thought it looked similar to what she’d seen on the news. It freaked her the hell out, and she was too scared to touch it.”

  With any typical crime scene, Tennessee would have said she did the right thing. It was always best to preserve evidence and to avoid contaminating anything with your own DNA or footprints. But there was a voice of doubt in his head. If he’d released the information about the first victim being buried alive, perhaps the woman would have got to the second victim in time.

  “Luckily, the causeway was open when we got the call. It didn’t take us long to get here. We arrived by quarter to six. By then, there was a large crowd gathered. Well, about thirty people, but that’s like a sixth of the population.”

  Tennessee’s mouth curled at the corner as his mind flashed back to the chaos at Longsands. If this guy thought thirty people was a large crowd, goodness knows how he would have coped at Saturday’s crime scene.

  “One of the residents is
a doctor. He’s officially confirmed the death, but we’re still waiting on SOCO to arrive. You’ve beaten them here.”

  And Keaton thought I was slow...

  “What time did the causeway open?” asked Tennessee.

  “’bout four forty.”

  Whilst Tennessee had an inkling the killer may have been hiding in plain sight on Longsands beach, he didn’t think they were hanging around now. Not when they’d be an extra face on an island where everyone knew everyone. The killer was likely back on the mainland by now.

  “Want to take a look?” asked Detective Pug, again nodding his head in the direction of the beach rather than use his hands.

  The answer was no. He did not want to take a look.

  They followed him down the dunes, Tennessee’s smart shoes sinking into impossibly soft sand. The sand from the top half of the sculpture had been moved away to expose the body. It was an older man, perhaps in his seventies or even eighties. His pale skin was smudged with blood and mottled from death. He had a mole on his right cheek, and wore a rust-coloured jumper over a white shirt, its collar speckled with wet sand. The mound of sand, though partly destroyed, was definitely once a snake. The colubrine coils tapered into a tail, and smooth indents denoted scales layered on top of one another.

  What the hell did it mean?

  Tennessee turned his mind back to the conversation he’d had with Keaton. Did the perpetrator see himself as a snake, squeezing the life out of his victims? Or was the snake an honour? A sacred, decorative tomb to accompany them to the afterlife? With monsters like this, who knew? Maybe the weirdo just liked snakes.

  “Our perp doesn’t have a type,” said Paula. “One male, one female. This one’s possibly a good twenty years older than the first one. She turned to Pug. “Do we have an ID?”