Northern Roulette (DCI Cooper Book 4)

by B Baskerville

  Cooper hadn’t seen Atkinson since that morning; he’d given her space while he dialled into a forensic conference in Dublin. Cooper used the time to sit Julie down and go through some numbers. Benji’s was salvageable – just. They’d need to reduce staff numbers but only slightly. They could streamline the menu to reduce food waste and stop free pouring spirits. If someone asked for a single, they’d get a standardised single, not a treble. Julie would have to let the cleaning lady go and take on those responsibilities herself. She’d protested; the cleaner was an old friend by all accounts, but from what Cooper could tell, she hadn’t exactly done a good job. It was money Julie didn’t need to spend, and she’d do a better job herself. Cooper also planned on asking Tina to help out. She thought she could set up some social media for the bar. It had a Facebook page, but it hadn’t been updated in months. She could set up Instagram, list the bar on Google and look into boosting some posts for greater exposure.

  Folding the tickets into her purse, Cooper knocked on Tina’s door. She hadn’t seen her since that morning and assumed she was buried under a mound of revision.

  When there was no answer, Cooper knocked again and pushed the door open. The room was empty. A pink Post-it note pressed to the cover of a hardback mathematics book read Gone snorkelling. Back in three hours.

  Whilst Cooper loved the idea of Tina enjoying herself, getting some exercise and taking her mind off Josh, she wished she’d said what time she’d written the note. Three hours from when?

  She was about to leave Tina’s room when Cooper noticed a scribble in the margin of one of her many notebooks. Written in graphite, next to what looked like a tear stain, were the words he said he loved me.

  Cooper sat down on the bed, her heart heavy. Love seemed like a pretty big emotion for a fifteen-year-old, but casting her mind back to her youth, all her feelings had seemed heightened as well. Fondness could be infatuation, joy could be ecstasy, and sadness was the deepest depression. Tina had always been the sensitive, mushy one in their little family, even if she hadn’t always been able to express it. Still waters ran deep.

  Cooper was beginning to see why Tina was so worked up. She’d been wrong to think of their relationship as puppy love. They were inseparable, and in fairness to Tina, her relationship with Josh had lasted longer than any of her own. The heat of protectiveness began to burn in her chest. He’d uttered the L-word for the first time, then hung out alone with another girl the moment Tina left the country. They’d just been studying, she reminded herself. Josh wouldn’t cheat on Tina. Not shy, quiet, wouldn’t-say-boo-to-a-goose Josh.

  - Chapter 24 -

  Nine a.m. Friday morning and Tennessee was handing out copies of the autopsy report from Margot Swanson. Last night’s vegan samosas had thawed Hayley’s frosty feelings towards him, but he now had what was technically called ‘a dicky tummy.’ His lower abdomen cramped as he addressed the room. He’d better keep the morning briefing, well, brief.

  “It’s as we feared,” he told them. “Another victim buried alive, suffocated in the sand. Margot’s confirmed sand particles were found in the lungs of Charles Pennington, just like they were in Eve Lynch. Given the similarities in MO and the cause of death, I think it’s safe to say we are dealing with the same killer. Other than that, I’m not sure what connects these victims. They’re not that close in age, and speaking to Pennington’s family, they don’t think he knew the first victim. Both victims had appendectomy scars, but to be honest, I don’t think that’s relevant; more of a coincidence than a connection.” He turned to Saffron Boyd. “You said you might have something?”

  Boyd got to her feet. Her hair was tied back in a loose bun, but a stray hair poked upwards like an antenna. “Yes, sir. Having looked at the victims’ work history, they were both based in South Tyneside in the mid-eighties to mid-nineties. Pennington was at King George Primary School from eighty-six to ninety-seven, and Lynch worked for South Tyneside council until ninety-six.”

  “Do we know what Lynch did at the council? What department she was in?”

  Boyd shook her head, more blonde hair falling free from the bun. She quickly pushed the stray strands back behind her ears. “All I know from her tax history is that she was being paid by South Tyneside Council. I’ll try to dig further into it, but I’m swamped.”

  “Thanks. It’s a good spot, Saffron. And just because Pennington’s daughter didn’t recognise Eve’s name doesn’t mean they didn’t know each other. I mean, how many of us can name our parents’ work colleagues? Whyte, how are the office team getting on?”

  “Saffron’s drowning in statements, gaffer. Everyone on that beach was a witness to the body being discovered, and yet, not a single one of them was a witness to the crime. I have no description of the perpetrator, and we can’t narrow the timeframe down any further than we already have.”

  “Crap,” said Tennessee.

  “Exactly,” echoed Whyte. “If you could get me a few more sets of eyes to help the statement reader and to speed up the rate we can view the footage, it would be most appreciated. I swear my eyes are starting to go square with all that screen time.”

  Tennessee turned to Keaton. “Can you have a word with Nixon? See if he’ll give us a few more bodies. No pun intended.”

  Keaton laughed and cocked her head and his direction. “You’re SIO. How come you’re not asking?”

  His stomach cramped again. “Because he’s scared of you.”

  “True,” she said with a smile. “I’ll ask him this afternoon; he’s at some committee bollocks this morning.”

  “Okay, cheers.” That was a relief. Nixon made him nervous. “Which brings us to this.” He pointed to two photographs on the murder board. “The fabric found in Eve Lynch’s hand and a thread that was found on Charles Pennington. It looks to be the same material. We’ll have it confirmed later today. Justin Atkinson’s flying back today; he messaged earlier to say he’ll double-check the results so we can be sure. Now, if this is the same material, it means one of two things. Either, our perpetrator is not forensically aware, because if he had half a brain cell, he would have disposed of the clothes as soon as he’d killed Eve Lynch. Or, he is forensically aware, but his need for ritual is greater than his need to dispose of his clothing. Between the clothes and the snake, these things are important to him.”

  “Like the tarot card killer?” Martin asked.

  “Not in a hocus-pocus, closer to the devil type bollocks, but yeah, there’s a process here.” Tennessee’s hand moved to his stomach. “Right. We all know where our priorities lie. Cooper’s back on Monday; it would be nice to have at least one suspect to present to her. I don’t think any of us want to look like we’ve been busy doing nothing this whole time. Martin, you’re with me. We’re heading back to Holy Island.”

  Martin got to his feet and handed his copy of the autopsy report to Keaton. “Have you checked the tide times, guv?”

  “Erm... No, I didn’t.” Tennessee was beginning to sweat with pain. He edged to the door, calling back over his shoulder. “You check. I’ll meet you at the car.”

  “How do people cope living here?” Martin asked. “No police, no supermarket, no doctor. They don’t even have a Nando’s. Their entire lives are dictated by the tides. If I fancy a pizza for tea, I just nip to ASDA. Can’t do that here.”

  Tennessee hummed a non-committal answer. He was concentrating on the narrow country road that led to the causeway.

  “What if you want a takeaway? Or want to go clubbing?” He pulled his phone from his pocket and accessed Google Maps. “Whoa. Say you went for a night out in the toon. You’d need to get a train to Berwick, then a bus to Holy Island. Takes over two hours, and I bet they don’t run late at night. You’d have to get a hotel.”

  I think all the things you’re listing as negatives are the very reasons people move here. No loud clubs, no mess from takeaways, no sirens—”

  “Would you want to live here?”

  “And have a five-hour commute every
time I wanted to watch united at home? I don’t think so. But I can see why others would.”

  As they crossed the causeway, Jack noticed how even though it had been a few days since it last rained, the land around them was damp and marshy, water pooling in puddles on either side of the road. A few hours ago, it hadn’t been a road at all; it had been the sea.

  They parked on Lewins Lane next to a rusty Vauxhall Astra that had been peppered in seagull poop. Tennessee knocked on Mona Clydesdale’s door. It was Denise Oswald, the FLO, who answered.

  “How are they?” he asked, referring to the second victim’s family.

  “As you’d expect.” Denise’s short brown hair was greasier than when they saw her last, and she had greenish shadows under her eyes. “They’ve kept the kids off school, understandably. Raven took them up to his farm to help with the sheep. It’ll keep them out of trouble for a few hours. They’ve been crawling the walls stuck at home, and I think Mona’s struggling to cope as it is without two hyperactive kids to deal with as well. They’re obviously devastated and confused to hear about their grandfather. The girl, Laura, gave me a bit of a hard time when I couldn’t answer her questions. The father came down on her like a tonne of bricks and sent her to her room, which probably didn’t help.”

  “So Finley Clydesdale has returned from Berlin?”

  “Yes, late last night. And it’s probably nothing, but he was a bit shifty about why it took him so long to answer Mona’s messages. If you ask me, he wasn’t working in Berlin; he was off screwing someone else.”

  “That, or he’s the one who killed his father-in-law,” said Martin.

  Denise pouted for a moment. “You might want to check the flight manifests and make sure he was on that flight.”

  Tennessee opened his notepad and wrote a reminder to himself to do just that. “Will do.”

  He and Martin followed Denise into the Clydesdales’ living room, where they found Mona busy in the kitchen. Finley sat at the dining table, staring intently at a spreadsheet. He didn’t look up.

  Mona shuffled across the room to greet them. She was dressed in slippers and a dressing gown and looked like she hadn’t got a moment’s peace since finding out her father had been killed.

  “Has there been any news?” she asked, wiping her hands on a tea towel and placing it on the kitchen bench.”

  Tennessee didn’t want to lie or give a diplomatic answer, such as enquiries are ongoing. He shook his head. “I’m afraid not, but rest assured we’ll be going through all the statements we took on Wednesday with a fine-tooth comb. We have a great team of forensic experts looking for physical evidence as well.”

  She looked to the floor, fighting back tears, then steadied herself against the door frame. Behind her, a beeping noise sounded from one of the appliances. The noise seemed to shake Mona. She went to the oven and turned it off. Opening the oven door, the entire downstairs of the house filled with warmth and the smell of freshly baked bread.”

  “That smells amazing,” said Martin. “My mum likes baking bread. She tried to teach me, but I never quite got the hang of it. I’m too impatient. I never worked the dough enough.”

  “Oh, I really enjoy it,” said Mona. “It’s probably the only hobby I really have. I used to enjoy crafts and making jewellery. I never seem to have time these days, not with two children. I only made the loaf and the batch of rolls as some sort of distraction. I don’t think it’s working, though. I can’t stop thinking about Dad. I just keep thinking how he must have been in the wrong place at the wrong time because there’s no way someone would have wanted to hurt him.”

  Tennessee flashed a glance in Finley Clydesdale’s direction but he didn’t flinch.

  “Mona, I was hoping you could accompany us to your father’s house. If you’re feeling up to it, that is.”

  “Of course.” She removed a health looking loaf of brown bread topped with various seeds and placed it on a rack to cool. “I’ll get myself dressed. Give me two minutes.”

  Mona rushed upstairs. After a moment of banging and clattering, she returned in a pair of mom jeans and a knitted sweater.

  It was only a two-minute walk from the Clydesdales’ home on Lewins Lane to Charles Pennington’s place on Marygate.

  “Before we go in, Mona, it’s important to tell you that forensic investigators have been in the home. They’re respectful and try to leave things as they found them, but I want to warn you in case anything seems out of place. Investigators have already taken your father’s phone and tablet. Am I right in thinking he didn’t have a laptop or desktop computer?”

  “That’s right. He had a book reader, though.”

  Tennessee and Martin waited while Mona undid the locks and showed them both into the house. The house hadn’t sat empty since its owner’s death with SOCOs having been in to do their thing. Still, the house had a chill to it, as if the very bricks and mortar knew that their owner had left.

  “Can the e-reader be used to communicate digitally with anyone?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. No,” she said. “And even if it could, I doubt Dad would know how to do that. Whenever he wanted new books downloading, he had to bring it to my house and get me or the kids to do it.”

  Charles Pennington’s home was a combination of floral wallpaper and highly polished pine. The house was a time warp with heavy fabric hanging from curtain poles and patterned tile surrounds on the fireplaces. It suited the old cottage.

  “How is it I can help you?” asked Mona.

  “I know it’s a tough thing to think about,” Denise said in a soft voice. “But DS Daniel needs to consider that your father might not have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. It would be irresponsible of him if he didn’t. We need to understand your father’s life, everyone who was in it or was once in it. We need to see if any of those people also link to the victim from Tynemouth.”

  Mona looked instantly heavier as if the thought of her father being specifically targeted weighed her down like an invisible cloak of chain mail.

  “He kept lots of scrapbooks. Photos from the schools he worked in. Would those help?”

  “They’d be a great help,” Denise told her.

  “They really would,” echoed Tennessee.

  Mona showed them to her father’s dining room, where an old fashioned unit covered most of the wall. The base of the unit had a cupboard on each side and a set of draws through the middle. On the top layer was a display case for glassware or collectables.

  “In here, I think.” Mona opened one for the lower cupboards and bent to retrieve a few items. Her knees creaked as she straightened up.

  “Are you okay, Mona?” Denise asked after Mona groaned and rubbed her knees. “Can I get you some paracetamol?”

  “I don’t think paracetamol cures ageing,” she said. She placed a pile of leather-bound journals and photo albums on the table. “There are boxes of family photos as well if you think they’ll help.”

  “Thanks. I think we have enough to get started with. Do you mind if we sit at your father’s table?”

  “Not at all.”

  Denise excused herself to go to the coffee shop and get them all hot drinks. Tennessee opened the first photo album; thirty smiling faces looked back at him. The first page was a class photograph of young children arranged in neat rows. A younger Charles sat in the front row on a chair while the front row of students sat crossed-legged on the floor. It seemed so stuffy and formal compared to the class photographs he’d seen colleagues bring into work to show off. These days they had sleek white backgrounds with kids posed in friendship groups, often with props from the fancy dress basket.

  “This is Whitely Lodge,” he said with a smile of nostalgia. “The uniform’s changed, it’s navy blue now, but the crest’s the same.” He flicked through a few more pictures from the same school until the uniforms changed to bottle green. “Do you know which school this is?”

  Mona leant in and shook her head. “Sorry.”

  Martin performe
d a Google image search of King George Primary, Hebburn and showed Tennessee the screen. “Royal blue sweatshirts are what they wear now.”

  “What about thirty, forty years ago?”

  “I’ll phone the school. See if any staff were around then.” He stood up and left.

  For a few moments, Tennessee flicked through the albums, wondering if one of the angelic faces was responsible for burying two people alive.

  “Grey.”

  Tennessee looked up from his daydreaming. Martin was back, phone in hand.

  “School admin has been there forever. Before they changed to sweatshirts and polo shirts, the male students wore grey woollen V-neck sweaters with white shirts and red and grey ties. The girls wore white blouses with grey V-neck cardigans.”

  It didn’t take long for Tennessee to find and select the class photos from King George’s. There were eleven of them. Charles Pennington must have worked there for over a decade. Over three hundred and thirty former pupils.

  “Could I take these, Mona?”

  She looked hesitant but Tennessee didn’t want to use his phone to take photos of photos. He’d prefer to scan the originals and enhance them where possible.

  “We can have them back with you on Monday. I promise to take great care of them.”

  “Whatever helps the investigation, I suppose.” She wrapped her arms around her middle and sighed before jumping, suddenly startled by a shriek from outside.