Northern Roulette (DCI Cooper Book 4)

by B Baskerville

  “The doc says he’s called Charles. Couldn’t remember his surname, but if he lives on the island, it won’t be difficult to find out.”

  There was some commotion behind them, high in the dunes. A woman with wide eyes and a thick woollen cardigan held a whining dog by its collar.

  “Let me through. Let me through.”

  Local officers held the woman back behind the perimeter tape, spreading their arms to prevent her from making a quick run past them.

  “I can’t find my dad. I heard there was a body and I can’t find him. His dog was wandering the streets. He’s not answering his phone or his door. Please let me through.”

  Tennessee approached. “DS Daniel, ma’am. You say you can’t find your father?”

  “No. No.” She was on the verge of hyperventilating. “Alice told me someone had been killed on the beach. But she didn’t know who. I called Dad because I know he likes to walk up here in the mornings. When he didn’t answer, I went round and found Fleabag running up and down the road making this awful whining noise.”

  Fleabag bucked left and right, trying to free herself.

  “Can you describe your father for me?”

  “Erm, yes. He’s seventy-two, no seventy-three. Grey hair, almost white. About five-ten, slim build. He has a mole on his right cheek.”

  His heart sank; she’d described the victim perfectly. Tennessee didn’t need to say anything; she could tell by the look on his face that the man in the sand was her father. The was a deep soulful moan before she buckled to her knees. She let go of the dog’s collar and it ran towards the beach. When Tennessee tried to intervene, the dog lashed out, nipping his hand.

  Tennessee had suffered his fair share of injuries before: concussion, a broken wrist, broken toes, and a surgeon had broken his nose in three places. But he’d never been bitten by a dog before. This was a different type of pain. He grunted, his head reeling as he watched blood pool from deep puncture wounds. Tennessee shook his hand and suppressed a swear word, then he pointed from Paula to the dog.

  “I’m on it,” she said. “Leave it to me.”

  Turning back to the woman, Tennessee got a grip of himself. Whatever pain he was feeling was nothing compared to what the victim’s daughter was going through. He knelt in front of her and quietly asked, “What’s your name?”

  “Mona,” she sniffed, “Mona Clydesdale.”

  Tennessee looked up to make sure that one of the local officers was paying attention. “Mona, I want a couple of officers to accompany you back home. They’re going to ask you some questions about your father, okay?”

  She nodded, great big tears rolling down her cheeks. “Can I see him?”

  Tennessee dipped his chin to indicate yes. “But not just yet, Mona. We need to get as much evidence as we can so we can find out what happened to him.”

  As two local uniforms escorted Mona from the scene back towards the village, she could be heard mewling. “Why? Why would anyone hurt Dad?”

  Why, indeed? Tennessee thought.

  - Chapter 18 -

  As Tennessee’s hand was sanitised and patched up by the local doctor, a jobsworth was filling in an accident report with the attention to detail you’d expect from an airline pilot.

  “It’s just a scratch. You really don’t need to do all that paperwork.”

  “Rules are rules, you know that, sir. Do you want to press charges?”

  “You what?”

  “It bit you.” He was a broad man with red cheeks and unruly eyebrows. “The dog wasn’t under control. You should press charges.”

  “Against who? The dog’s owner is dead – possibly buried alive.” He shook his head incredulously. “You want me to charge his grieving daughter? That’ll look real good.”

  When the doctor was finished, Tennessee inspected his hand and admired the clean bandage. It hurt like a son of a bitch, but he had no intention of showing it.

  “I’m sure I know your face from somewhere,” said the uniform. “You usually work with Cooper, don’t you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Yeah, we crossed paths back in the day. She was investigating a series of assaults in Highfields. She was quite the looker, had lovely long hair. I had a thing for her, truth be told. Not now. Not my type.”

  As if she’d give you the time of day, Jackass.

  “Don’t think I could date a woman who looked like a boy. Not right, is it? Where is she anyway? She’s not sick again, is she? Getting paid the stay home? Man, that would be nice. I could do with some paid leave.”

  “You what?” Keaton, who was standing nearby, had obviously overheard. She approached with lightning speed and jabbed her finger in his chest. “You think it would be nice to stay home between bouts of radiotherapy?” She squinted at him; no fools would be suffered gladly today. “What in God’s name do you think is nice about chemotherapy?”

  He held his hands up in surrender. “Jeez, just making conversation.”

  “Well, make it somewhere else,” Keaton said. “Leave.”

  He filed his accident report into a beige folder. “What?”

  “Leave. You’re dismissed. Get out for my sight before I strap you to the causeway and wait for the tide to come in.”

  He looked at Tennessee as if to say, “Are you going to let her talk to me like that?”

  Tennessee looked back and forth between the uniform, with his angry face and puffed chest, and Keaton, whose steely eyes showed adamantine fury. “She’s serious,” he told him. “Now bugger off, or I’ll help her do it.”

  It was action stations. A lot had happened in the last hour despite Holy Island being such a remote location. Hong Evanstad and a team of SOCO’s were combing the area for evidence; a family liaison officer from Berwick was with Mona Clydesdale; the victim was on his way to the morgue. It was a good start, made even better when DC Oliver Martin showed up with half a dozen extra-large pizzas. As far as Tennessee was concerned, that put Martin in his good books for at least a week. The boy could now do no wrong.

  Police officers from Berwick had started interviewing the islanders. They needed to know if anyone saw or heard anything unusual early this morning. No doubt everyone in the village would be pointing their fingers at mainlanders. They would refuse to believe someone in their midst could be capable of murder. Still, there would be suspicions. People would talk over garden fences or huddled in pubs. They’d gossip about the newcomer who wasn’t involved in island life, the woman who’d been here twenty years but always seems a bit off, and the teenager who once stole a bag of crisps from the village store. He was clearly a bad egg – only a matter of time before petty theft escalated to murder. They’d blame the parents.

  Mona Clydesdale owned a cottage on Lewins Lane. It was late June but Mona had the heating on; it was stifling. Tennessee removed his coat almost as soon as he stepped over the threshold. He also took a moment to remove his shoes; the treads would be thick with sand and grass that he didn’t want to drag into a grieving daughter’s home. She had enough to deal with without his mucky feet. The downstairs of the house was decorated with terracotta floor tiles and light coloured wooden furniture. Most of the items were painted white or light grey but were sanded to give them a distressed shabby chic appearance. FLO Denise Oswald met Keaton and Tennessee at the door.

  “I’ve offered to call a doctor,” she told them after explaining Mona’s mental state. “She said no, but I’ll keep an eye on her.”

  “Does she live alone?” Tennessee asked.

  “Husband and two kids. Husband’s working in Berlin and won’t be back until Friday evening. I’ve called his place of work and left a message for him to get in touch. I believe Mona’s tried a few times as well. He’ll get the news soon enough.”

  Tennessee nodded and played with the edge of his bandage.

  “As for the kids, there’s a boy and girl aged ten and eleven. They’re at school on the mainland and would usually get the bus back in the afternoon. We’ve sent someone
to bring them back early. We don’t want the news to get out and for them to hear about it at school.”

  After the brief update, Denise headed to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Mona was sat at the dining table with her elbows propped on the wooden surface and her head resting in her hands. Her dark blonde hair fell forwards, covering her face like a veil. Tennessee took a seat opposite her.

  “Have the officers already spoken to you about when you last saw your father?”

  “Yes,” she said, raising her head. “He was here last night. I just can’t— I mean, how can he be gone? He was sat right there, where you’re sitting, and now he’s gone. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  Tennessee swallowed. The chair suddenly felt uncomfortable; it was like wearing a dead man’s shoes. He wondered if he should switch seats. If he was somehow disrespecting her father by being in that chair.

  “He came for dinner every Tuesday and Thursday. I don’t know what I’m going to do without him.” She dabbed a tissue against red, watery eyes. “I know that sounds silly. I’m a grown woman. It’s not like I need him to pick me up from school or tuck me in at night, but he was a big part of my life. It’s a small community here, and I was used to seeing him a few times a week, if not every day. Duncan and Laura adore him.”

  “Your children?”

  She nodded and crumpled the tissue in her fist. “He doted on them, spoilt them rotten. That’s what grandparents are like, though. They forget all the rules they had with their own kids the moment grandchildren are on the scene. I was allowed a bag of sweets on the weekend for watching Saturday night television, but I swear he is always... Sorry.” She sat open-mouthed, blinking at the window, confused at having to switch the present tense for the past. “He was always buying Duncan and Laura goodies. Every day of the week. Laura has a real sweet tooth, so he would buy her sugary things. Sherbet’s her favourite. Duncan’s more into crisps. His favourite thing in the world is a crisp sandwich with loads of butter. I never make them right; he always likes his grandad to make them.”

  Tennessee thought about Pat, his mother-in-law. It could be awkward with her living with him and Hayley, but he appreciated all the help she gave their young family. Little Alfie adored his grandma; his baby’s face always lit up when Pat sang to him.

  Somewhere in the house, a dog barked.

  “Sorry. I’ve left her in the bedroom for now. She’s not usually so vocal. Is your hand okay?”

  “Don’t worry about that. Honestly, it’s fine. Looks worse than it is.”

  Feeling self-conscious, he moved his hand under the table. Then Denise and Keaton returned with tea in china cups. Keaton gave a sympathetic smile that warmed her entire face. She really was a Jekyll and Hyde. She could be a big cuddly bear if she needed to be. Comforting and supportive. Or, she could be a grizzly who made grown men run for their lives.

  “Can you tell me about your father?” Keaton asked. “What he was like? How did he spend his days?”

  Mona cupped her tea and held it to her chest. She briefly smiled at a memory before the sadness overcame her once more. “His full name is Charles Tarquin Pennington. He hated his middle name. You know how if a child is naughty, you use their full name? If I was bad at school, I’d get the Mona Lisa Pennington, get to your room treatment. But I’d do the same to him. If I was in a mood, I’d call him Charlie Tarquin instead of Dad. Drove him crackers.”

  Keaton smiled and patted her hand. “Did he always live on the island?”

  She shook her head. “He was born in Westerhope and met my mother when they were studying to become teachers. He worked in education right up until retirement.”

  “Which schools did he work in?” asked Tennessee, taking out his notepad. He would try to speak to some of Charles Pennington’s colleagues to get an insight into his personality. Was he the sort to make enemies? Families tended to only see the best in each other, especially following a death.

  Mona screwed her face up as she thought. “I can’t remember all of them, but he enjoyed his time at King George’s in Hebburn, and he spoke fondly about Fellgate Primary and Whitley Lodge.”

  Tennessee raised his head from the notepad. “I went there,” he said. “Whitley Lodge.” He sifted through his memories of his time there, wondering if the name rang a bell. He could remember all his form teachers and was ninety-nine per cent certain there’d been no Mr Pennington when he was there.

  “Was probably before your time.”

  “What subjects?”

  “He was a Jack of all trades. You have to be in primary school. He liked art the best, though, especially the masters. He thought students who weren’t gifted in maths and English often shone in art. He thought the arts were important. Not everyone was made to sit spelling tests or do long division.”

  “When did he move to the island?” Keaton asked.

  “Would have been about ten years ago now. Mum died when my two were still in nappies; she got swine flu and pneumonia. She went into hospital one night and never came out. Dad moved up here to be near us. I kind of insisted, really. I wonder… If I’d never…”

  Tennessee pulled his cup of tea towards himself. “You can’t think that way, Mona. You’re not to blame.”

  She didn’t look convinced. She shook her head and looked out the back window. Beyond her stone wall, sheep grazed the fields. Beyond that, the sea cut a cold, dangerous barrier between them and the mainland. Cars wouldn’t be able to pass again until the next low tide at three p.m.

  “Did your father settle in quickly? Make many friends?”

  “He was lost for a while. Mum’s passing had been quick, and he withdrew into his own world. The little ones were the only things to put a smile on his face. He used to take them out in the stroller a few times a week. If they were crying and crying. You know when babies just cry for no reason?”

  He nodded. Sometimes it didn’t matter if Alfie was warm, fed, bathed, had a clean nappy; he could still scream the place down from time to time.

  “Well, if they were like that, he’d take them out for fresh air. He swore by it. Said babies in Scandinavia are often left to sleep outside. He said the cold was calming, and you know what? It did the trick every time. They’d come back in sound asleep, their faces like serene angels. When he was out walking, that’s when he’d get chatting with the other locals. He made friends that way. That’s why I got him Fleabag. He said he didn’t want a dog, but I knew the walks and fresh air were good for him, so when one of Finley’s colleagues found themselves with an unexpected litter, I took one. I told him he’d be saving it from the shelter.”

  “It’s an unusual name.”

  She laughed. “Her proper name is Welsh. We couldn’t pronounce it, but it sounded a bit like Fleabag, so that’s what we called her. We thought it was cute.”

  “Well, she is a very cute dog,” said Tennessee.

  “When she’s not biting you?”

  He shrugged. “She’d been through an ordeal. I know this is going to be quite a difficult question for you to hear, Mona. Did your father fall out with anyone recently? Can you think of anyone who would have reason to harm him?”

  Mona shuddered and fell into a fresh wave of tears. Tennessee felt bad, but he’d be a fool not to ask the question.

  “Not at all. Dad was well-liked. Yes, he was a bit of a loner when he first moved here, but he got to know the others and enjoyed drinking in The Ship and The Crown. He liked to have a pint and moan with Tom Richardson, Jeff Louis and old William Handleson.”

  Tennessee made a note. He was sure that the team conducting door to doors would speak to those men in due course. Still, he might go to see them himself and try to look a little deeper into Charles Pennington’s life.

  “I just don’t know how I’m going to break the news to the children. They’re going to be devastated. Absolutely devastated.”

  Denise pushed a plate of biscuits in front of Mona and gently put a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll be here. If there’s anything you
need from me to make this easier for you, you just have to say.”

  Mona’s phone was on the table. She turned it over so she could look at the screen. There were no missed calls or messages. “I just wish Finley was here.”

  “I’ll try again,” Denise assured her. “We’ll get hold of him and bring him back home as soon as we can.”

  Tennessee got to his feet. The tiles felt cool through his black socks. “Did Charles ever mention someone called Eve Lynch?”

  Mona’s eyes moved from right to left as she thought. She was quiet for a moment before shaking her head. “I don’t think so. Definitely not recently. Why? Is that the poor woman from Tynemouth?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “No. I don’t remember that name.”

  With time, investigators would go through Charles Pennington’s belongings and check his phone contacts. If he had a laptop or computer, they would check those devices as well. There was a chance the killer had a thing for people walking alone on beaches in the wee hours. But more likely, there was a connection between Eve and Charles. Would there be more? Tennessee thought as he laced up his shoes. Was he dealing with a serial killer?

  - Chapter 19 -

  A large glass of tasteless rosé had gone to Cooper’s head. Her stomach was empty; she had neither the energy nor the inclination to eat. The jukebox had been churning out music that reminded her of nineties caravan park holidays. She thought it couldn’t get any worse when Agadoo started playing.

  She’d been wrong.

  The volume was turned up with The Birdie Song and again for Wig Wam Bam. Cooper had a headache. Still, she was pleased to see Benji’s Bar full of smiling people. While she was down, she took comfort in the fact people were celebrating having known Benjamin Cooper. They were regaling each other with tales of fishing trips where they were always inches from capsizing, or the fish was the size of jaws.

  “Mum?” Tina tugged at the sleeve of Cooper’s cardigan. A couple of tanned ladies in their seventies, wearing skirts shorter than even Cooper would dare, bumped into her as they danced.”