“Aye. Thanks to Ferdinand, Hislop, and Ginola. Good times.”
They were good times. Tennessee, just a small boy at the time, could still remember the beer garden where he’d played on the tyre swing while his parents sipped lager in the sunshine when the news broke: Newcastle had signed Alan Shearer for a record-breaking nine million. The place went nuts, beers were on the house, grown men cried. England might not have been able to bring football home in 1996, but Keegan brought Shearer home, and the toon had never seemed sunnier.
“Say I did want to buy an eighty-eight shirt,” Tennessee mused. “Where would I start, other than here?”
“eBay,” said Lee and Dougie together.
Lee laughed. “There’s actually a super fan meet up happening soon. Kind of like a swap meet for footie fans. There’s usually a fair amount of vintage gear.”
He nodded. Though he didn’t actually need a shirt, Tennessee did need to be amongst superfans if his theory was correct.
“I’ll be there buying some stuff for the shop,” Lee continued. “Dougie?”
“Aye, I have my ticket.”
Tennessee smiled as Lee wrote down the details for him: the twelfth, at the five-a-side centre in Gosforth Park. It was promising.
“Thanks for this,” he said, holding up the piece of paper with Lee’s scrawled notes.
“Nee bother. We’re a dying breed, though. Most of this is done online these days. eBay, Facebook Marketplace and the like. I got this garden gnome on eBay a few years ago. Bargain at twenty quid. It’s part of a set, you see, so if I can find the right buyer, I’ll easy get hundred, hundred and fifty quid for it.”
A vibration in Tennessee’s trouser pocket told him he’d received a text message. He squinted at the screen, the brightness was set to full and it hurt his eyes. It was Cooper; she was back.
- Chapter 31 -
Cooper felt drained, but she mustered all the strength and confidence she could and strode towards HQ with her head high and her shoulders back. Whilst she’d had every right to burst into tears on Longsands beach, she was embarrassed. It seemed so long ago now.
When she’d joined the force, it had still been an old boys’ club. Emotions, other than anger, were frowned upon. They were something to be buried and pushed down until you reached breaking point. Thankfully things had changed, and mental health was a much bigger talking point than in days gone by. Posters adorned walls, helplines had been set up, and independent charities such as Police Care UK launched to support serving and retired officers. Still, she couldn’t help but feel shame that so many of her colleagues, along with fire and rescue, had seen her fall apart so publicly.
She tried to put it from her mind, focusing on the perfect blue sky, the smell of shrubs and the pleasant feeling of a breeze brushing her cheek. She approached the entrance to HQ just as Chief Superintendent Howard Nixon was leaving. They almost collided as he pushed through the rotating doors with the aura of an ill-tempered boar.
Cooper leapt out of his way, fearing she would be steam-rolled. “Sorry, sir. Didn’t see you there.”
Nixon’s face mellowed at once. “Cooper. You’re back.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Right.” He shaded his eyes from the sun. “Must dash, but yeah, good to have you back, Erica.”
Cooper’s eyes narrowed, and she watched askance as Nixon unlocked his car using a key fob and walked towards it. Good to have you back? Who was that, and what had they done with Howard Nixon?
It didn’t take long to reach the incident room. Once inside, Cooper was met by the smell of garlic breath and strong coffee. The department was quiet, save for two faces that Cooper didn’t recognise. One was swearing at the printer, the other typed furiously as she updated HOMES2. DS Elliott Whyte came out of a meeting room balancing a stack of papers in his arms so high it almost blocked his vision. He dropped the files on a table and let out a sigh as they collapsed from their neat pile into a scattered mess.
“Balls.”
Cooper coughed.
“Ma’am!” He stood up straight and smoothed his shirt. “You’re back.”
“Well observed.”
He squirmed. “I— I’m pleased. You’ve been missed. Not that Jack hasn’t done a great job, he has.”
“Are those for me?” she nodded at the clutter of paper on the table.
“Yes. I was told to assemble everything on the case so far.”
It was a lot. “This is everything?”
“Actually, that’s about a third. I couldn’t carry it all at once.”
Oh, joy.
“Boss?” Whyte’s dark, heavy brows came together and he began to study a hair on the back of his middle knuckle.
“Yes?”
“I lost my dad last year. I know what you’re going through. If you want to talk, that is.”
Cooper softened. He was trying.
She lowered her chin. “I’ll keep that in mind. Now, looks like I have a lot of reading ahead of me.” Her eyes darted back and forth over the various files, loose pieces of paper and sheets stapled together. She planned on spending a good few hours self-briefing and getting herself back up to speed. It wasn’t just the burials in Tynemouth and on Holy Island she had to contend with. As a DCI, she needed to be abreast of all of CID’s comings and goings. A lot could change in a week.
“Anything I can do to help?”
“Coffee. And not the vending machine rubbish. She handed him a Starbucks loyalty card. Would you?”
As Whyte left searching for rich, dark energy, Cooper selected a file and made herself comfortable. He returned just as she’d opened the autopsy reports. Caffeine and aspirated sand: fun. After thirty minutes on Margot’s findings and results from Atkinson’s lab, Cooper booted up her computer and trawled through the other events of the week: a rape in East Boldon, an armed robbery in Low Fell and a domestic murder not far from Rothbury. All reported, solved and charged within the week. Good going, CID. Ongoing cases included a little girl going missing from her back garden. Fuller was taking the lead and was treating it as an abduction. There was also racist graffiti sprayed on the home of an Iranian family in Bedlington, the suspected poisoning of a horse due to run in the Northumberland Plate and a series of smash and grabs in the West End. Interesting, but not enough to take her away from the double murder. She picked up another file and began to sift through statements that had been marked as worthy of following up.
By lunchtime – and another Starbucks run later – most of the team had gathered in CID. Tennessee had rolled up with a bumper bag of burgers from the Fat Hippo, and they were all tucking in with the enthusiasm of a pack of wolves after a kill.
“Martin, talk to me.”
Oliver Martin gulped down his American style burger with pickles and mustard and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “So far, the only connection we have between the victims is South Tyneside. They both worked there in the late eighties, early nineties. We have a list of students who were under Charles Pennington’s tuition back then. I’m working my way through it.”
“And?” asked Cooper with a mouthful of minced beef.
“And it’s proving a massive pain in the arse, to be honest, boss. But I know it needs doing, so I’m cracking on the best I can. Loads have moved out of the area, half the women on the list could have changed names by now, and at least a third of the ones I actually track down are suspicious of the police and don’t want to talk at all.”
“I found something in Eve Lynch’s bank statements,” said Boyd. She had her dark blonde hair tied back in a bun. She looked business-like, but at the same time, her forehead had been pulled back so tight that she looked like she’d had a facelift. “A lottery win. Not a life-changing fortune, well it would be a fortune to me, but not by lottery win standards.”
“How much?”
“Thirty-five grand.”
Cooper whistled. “When was this?”
“Four years ago. She hasn’t done anything wild with it. A few
hundred on clothes here, a nice meal there. Most of it’s in an ISA.”
“Very sensible.” She bobbed her head side to side and wondered if the amount was enough to make her a target. “Who stands to inherit her money?”
“We don’t know yet,” said Boyd. “No will, no dependents.”
“What about Pennington? Was he rich?”
“Not especially,” added Whyte. “We’re still waiting on his bank statements. I’ll tell them to get a wiggle on.”
“Good.”
Heavy footsteps and the door opened so hard it banged off the wall behind it. Keaton stopped in her tracks. “You got burgers? Why didn’t you text me?” She looked like she hadn’t been invited to a party.
“I did,” said Tennessee.
Keaton checked her phone, called it garbage, and sat down to unwrap a burger from its grease-proof paper packaging. She slapped a hand on Cooper’s shoulder and sent a wink in her direction. “Glad you’re back, Coop.”
“Am I really that bad a guv?” joked Tennessee.
“You’re a great guv, but now Coop is back, I can return her bloody seagull. That thing is driving me and April nuts.”
Cooper smiled. “There’s a crate of beer in my car for you.”
“I need it. Do you know how many times a day that thing poops?”
“I do. Anyway, where’ve you been? Saw you got called out to a homicide in Cowgate?”
Keaton shovelled a handful of chips into her mouth and shook her head. “You won’t believe this. Definite contender for the Piece of Piss award at this year’s Christmas party.”
Everyone, suspecting Keaton had quite the tale to tell, leant forward in anticipation.
At the same time, thirty miles away, Ronan Turnbull looked out his front window on Collingwood Drive in Hexham. On the south bank of the Tyne, Hexham was a town famous for its history in the leather industry and an impressive abbey. Strategically important, it had been fought over in the border wars and the War of the Roses.
Wyndon Water wove its way behind Collingwood Drive. If the wind blew in the right direction, Ronan could hear the stream babble; he found it relaxing. Ronan Turnbull’s home was a detached homage to upper-middle-class England. A well-kept lawn, double garage and recently renovated kitchen and bathroom. Ronan applied the same discipline to housekeeping that he did during his time in the forces, and before that, his time in the ring.
A white van slowed, stopping only for a moment before its reverse lamp illuminated. A beeping sound signalled a backwards manoeuvre. A ninety-degree turn and the van’s rear tyres began to edge up Ronan’s drive. A bit rude. If the driver needed to turn, he should do it in the road, not on his drive. He watched, beady-eyed from the living room window, hoping the driver didn’t veer onto his lawn. He’d only just mowed it.
The reverse lamp dimmed, the engine disengaged, and a man in high-viz jumped from the driver’s door, clipboard in hand. Another lost delivery driver needing directions.
Opening the front door, Ronan waited for the usual ’scuse me mate, looking for number forty-two.
The voice was muffled, as if he didn’t want to open his mouth to speak. “Mornin’, got a delivery for you.”
“I didn’t order owt.”
High-viz checked his clipboard. “Three hundred kilos of kiln-dried sand for thirty-five Collingwood Avenue.”
“Must be a typo.”
“Says here it’s for a Ronan Turnbull.”
“Aye, that’s me, but I didn’t order any sand.” Was this bloke slow or something? How many times did he have to say it?
High-viz shrugged and opened the back doors to the van, revealing twelve twenty-five kilo bags of sand stacked on top of each other like a floppy Tower of Pisa.
“Good name that, Turnbull. Proper local name.” Still, he spoke quietly, the words filtering out of the corner of his mouth where he dared part his lips. “Wait. You the one who was in the paper? Getting knighted by her Majesty?”
Ronan felt his cheeks warm. “It’s a British Empire Medal, not a knighthood, but yes, that’s me.” He knew, being British, he should shrug it off and act coy. No one liked a bragger, but the medal was a big deal, and he was proud to have been awarded one.
The Lord-Lieutenant of Northumberland presented him his medal on behalf of the Queen. Later this year, he would be invited to a garden party at Buckingham Palace to hobnob with the other BEM awardees.
High-viz bowed his head. “Yeah, it was in the Mail. Services to amateur boxing and the children of Northumberland. Amazing work. Amazing.”
“Thanks, mate,” said Ronan. He was used to the locals giving him pats on the back for his achievement, but not randoms. He was enjoying his fifteen minutes of fame. “But I’m still not signing for that. I didn’t order it. Does it say who placed the order?”
Surveying the delivery note, High-viz said, “Hmm, let’s see. A Mr T. Wiggy.” He stepped forwards and turned the clipboard to face him.
“I don’t know anyone by that name,” he replied, searching his brain for some explanation.
“Sure ya do,” High-viz said. He lifted his eyes, a look that troubled Ronan. “T. Wiggy? It’s Twiggy, ya bastard.”
Without warning, the man drove his forehead onto the bridge of Ronan’s nose. The headbutt caused his nose to shatter, spraying scarlet over the man’s fluorescent yellow jacket.
Ronan staggered backwards, momentarily stunned by the assault. He’d been trained for sudden attacks, but since leaving the forces, he’d ceased being as vigilant as he once had. He slipped, clattering onto his back. The man filled the doorway for a moment, his silhouette blocking out the sunlight of the fine July day.
“Twiggy’s back, Ronan.”
He stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him.
- Chapter 32 -
Cooper was unusually tired considering her day had primarily been spent sitting on her backside. She had to remind herself that she’d suffered a loss and was also fatigued by the journey home from the Canaries. Yes, Lanzarote was in the same timezone as the UK, but travelling still took it out of a person. Cooper rubbed her eyes as she took the key out of the ignition and checked the rearview mirror. Atkinson was pulling up behind her. He had a bag of vegetables and what looked like a leg of lamb in a carrier bag. Angel. She was halfway out of the car when she remembered to put the handbrake on. Her brain was fried after a long day of catching up on everything that had gone on in her absence. Granted, she hadn’t been out and about chasing leads or conducting interviews, but she’d had more screen time today than she’d had in a long time.
“I just want to make sure you all eat,” Atkinson said. “I can take my portion home and be out of your hair.”
Cooper rubbed her palms over her fresh buzzcut and laughed. “Stay. I’d like to catch up. Even with the mother and daughter in tow.”
“Three generations of Cooper ladies under one roof. Is Tynemouth ready for that?”
“Tynemouth might be, but I’m not.”
On the dining table, Cooper found a note from Julie saying she’d popped to the off licence to buy a bottle of wine to reward herself after a day of tidying the spare room. Unable to keep curiosity at bay, Cooper climbed the stairs while Atkinson turned the oven on. Not only was the spare room – more accurately the junk room – now clean and tidy, the day bed seemed to have been replaced with a John Lewis double. Cooper had questions. How had she got one delivered so fast? And how long was she planning on staying? If Julie was only going to be there a few weeks to a month – as had been agreed – then why was the day bed disassembled and propped against the hallway wall?
At least the room smelled of furniture polish instead of fusty spare bedding and old towels. Speaking of old bedding, the sheets appeared to be new, and was that a matching lampshade? It seemed to Cooper that Julie wasn’t just visiting while she grieved – she’d moved in.
By the time Julie returned, the lamb was seasoned, diced and browning in the pot. She had not one bottle of wine but two.
The first was opened immediately so Julie could have a glass while watching the news. Cooper declined.
“I’m home.” Tina’s voice carried from the entranceway. “Sorry, I’m late. Had to check in with some teachers.”
“Everything okay? No one causing problems because I took you out during term time?”
Tina shook her head. “Actually, everything was fine. I wanted to make sure I’d covered all the right topics and revision notes while I was away.”
“And?” Cooper asked, watching Atkinson turn the meat.
“I’m ahead. Think Mr Glidson is annoyed I’m ahead of schedule.”
“Ignore him. He’s insecure because you’re brighter than he is.”
“Mum!”
Cooper waved Tina’s shock away. “You know it’s true. Just don’t repeat it at school,” she said with a grin.
While Atkinson turned his attention to the vegetables, chopping with OCD levels of precision, Cooper lowered her voice to address Tina again. “Did I hear Josh in your room this morning?”
Tina froze. “No.”
“It was definitely his voice, T. And it sounded like you were arguing.”
“It was a video call. Whatsapp. I’ll use headphones in future.”
Cooper took a step forward, but Tina was already busying herself, emptying her school bag and shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other. “I’m not having a go, sweetheart. I was just worried after what you said in Lanzarote about him being out with that other girl.”
Tina shook her head rather violently, a cue she was getting worked up but didn’t want to say anything. “No. That was— that was nothing. I was just being sensitive.”
“You sure?”
Tina gave one definitive nod and made to leave the room.
“Well, if you do decide to sneak a boy into your room, leave it until after your GCSEs, okay?” Both Atkinson and Tina turned to see if she was joking. She winked and waited for Tina to make a cheeky remark, but instead, her face clouded.
“When can I get Steven back?”
Cooper sighed. Tina wasn’t in the mood for joking. “Tonight. Paula’s bringing him over in an hour.”
Northern Roulette (DCI Cooper Book 4) Page 15
