“The higher-ups want a change of name. We’re going to be CSIs.”
Atkinson winced. “What’s wrong with SOCOs?” he asked. He hated change for the sake of change. Next thing you knew, the Queen would be ousted, the Prime Minister would be President, inspectors would be sheriffs and we’d all be ditching tea in favour of— He looked down at his coffee and laughed at himself.
“Got to admit, CSI sounds cooler.” Hong put on his best northern English accent, not an easy task when you were Korean by birth and Norwegian by adoption. “Previously on CSI Newcastle…”
Atkinson laughed and cast his eyes out over the driveway and surrounding woodland. Other than the glow from the house behind them and the lights from their mobile forensic units, the place was eerily dark. Trees blocked out most of the moonlight, and with the absence of street lighting, the area was imposingly black. “What time did they say this bloodstain expert was going to get here?”
Hong shrugged. “Can’t be long now. We requested him as soon as we arrived on site.” He checked a small spiral notepad that he kept in his trouser pocket. “Ronnie Rogers. Sounds like he should be in porn, not forensics. Anyway, he’s the best Greater Manchester Police could spare.”
“Well, we don’t see many shootings in our neck of the woods—”
“Neck?” The Korean-Norwegian furrowed his brow.
“It’s an expression. Though now I come to think of it, it doesn’t make much sense, does it?” He sipped his rapidly cooling coffee. “What I meant was, we don’t see many shootings around here, so I’m happy to bring in someone with more expertise in the field.”
“Even if they’re a stuffy old Oxbridge grad?”
“Even if he wears a tweed jacket with elbow patches.”
In the distance, two white headlights pierced the darkness, and the rumble of tyres on gravel could be heard as a classic MG convertible grumbled up the driveway.
“I knew his car would be bottle green,” Hong said with an eye roll.
Atkinson and Hong approached the car to welcome their new colleague from the west. The car door opened and they stopped in their tracks. Ronnie Rogers was no tweed-wearing, stuffy, old academic. A perfectly manicured hand extended towards Atkinson and a bright smile lit up the darkness.
“Veronica Rogers,” she said through lips the colour of merlot. “But please, call me Ronnie.”
* * *
“She smells like rosemary and lavender and all things good in the world,” said Hong in a whisper from behind his forensics mask.
“Behave,” warned Atkinson, though he thoroughly agreed. Ronnie Rogers smelled like Eden.
“That raven hair. That milky skin…”
“Don’t come crying to me if you’re sacked for sexual misconduct.”
Ronnie looked up from behind her camera. “Who’s been sacked for sexual misconduct?” she asked.
“No one,” they answered in unison.
Atkinson shoved Hong in the ribs as a warning to keep his hormones in check and approached Ronnie as she continued to work. She’d photographed the scene from every angle imaginable and was about to start placing little markers wherever she thought more examination was necessary.
“Who has the bodies?” she asked.
“They’re at the morgue. Freeman Hospital in Newcastle. Margot Swanson will take care of them.”
“She any good?”
“She’s excellent,” Atkinson confirmed.
“I’d like to see the photographs of the victims from when they were still in situ.”
“Of course,” he replied. “I have them on my laptop. We took 3D images as well.”
Ronnie nodded. “Good. The victims were shot from different directions and different heights. I can tell by the forward spatter. That’s the blood as it leaves the exit wounds, but you don’t need me to tell you that.”
She stood on her tiptoes and aimed an imaginary gun towards a section of blood-soaked carpet by the window. Then she turned and crouched, looking back towards the door where pink misting covered a part of the wall and a swipe mark ran to the floor. “Any sign of the gun?”
“No. We’ve done a basic sweep but will continue in the morning. We found 10mm casings. Winchester Silvertips.”
She nodded again. “That makes sense,” she mused, taking a closer look at how some blood trailed down a standing lamp. “The victim by the window was shot in the chest. The victim by the door was shot in the torso then the head.”
With the absence of bodies, Atkinson wondered how she could know so much already. “Did Hong tell you that?”
“No,” Ronnie said with a glint in her eye. “The blood did, and blood never lies.”
- Chapter 4 -
Almost three and a half thousand police officers make up Northumbria Police, making it the sixth-largest force in England and Wales. Several of those three and half thousand had been awoken earlier than planned. They washed, dressed and assembled in the force’s headquarters on Middle Engine Lane in an area called Wallsend.
Four a.m. and despite the yawns, heads resting on desks, and sleep being picked from eyes, the incident room was filled with a quiet buzz. This was a big one; they could all feel it. There was electricity in the air. Journalists were going to wake to one of the biggest stories of the year, and careers were going to be made—or broken—on how everyone involved played it.
DCI Erica Cooper looked vastly different to how she had just hours earlier. Gone was the Keith Flint t-shirt and leather trousers she’d worn on her date. She’d opted for a tailored grey suit and the highest heels she could wear without wanting to amputate her feet after four hours. Cooper wasn’t a stranger to wearing casual clothes to work. She often opted for jeans and flats, so were the perks of being plain-clothed, but on certain days you had to look the part, and today was one of those days. She opened a manilla folder as the sounds of the room dimmed to hushed whispers and pinned two photographs to the murder wall.
“Thank you for coming in so early,” she said, addressing the room as one. “Last night, Fletcher Blackburn, fifty-two, acting head of the Blackburn family, was executed in his own home: Morshaw Manor.”
Almost everyone in the room adjusted their weight, or sat up straighter, or scratched an itch they didn’t know was there until now. “SOCO worked through the night in Fletcher’s home office—that’s the kill site—and will continue with the rest of the house and the grounds today. They’ve also brought in a bloodstain analyst from Greater Manchester Police. The murder weapon, a handgun, has yet to be found. Now, none of you will need our oleaginous friend in local intelligence…” Cooper cringed at the thought of local intelligence officer, Cedric Bell, and saw that DS Paula Keaton was sporting a grossed-out expression of her own, “…to tell you that Fletcher’s brother, Eddie Blackburn, was head of the Blackburns until a certain someone,” she motioned to herself, “made him sing like a canary and found him a new home at HMP Frankland.”
There was a wave of smiles across the room as they all flashed back with nostalgia. A lone hand shot up from the back of the room.
“Yes, Boyd?” Cooper asked, acknowledging the newest face in the department.
DC Saffron Boyd blushed as the eyes of the room turned to her. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with the Blackburns, ma’am.”
“Ah, yes. Lucky you.” Cooper extended an arm towards the new DC. “Everyone, this is DC Boyd. DC Boyd, this is everyone. Boyd recently transferred from West Yorkshire. I’ll get a file put together to bring you up to speed. In the meantime, let me sum it up as follows…” Cooper perched on the edge of her desk and took a deep breath. “The Blackburns are a crime family known for drug distribution, prostitution, dogfighting, gambling syndicates, and extortion. Did I miss anything, Paula?”
DS Paula Keaton stifled a yawn. “Bare-knuckle boxing and counterfeit handbags, boss.”
Cooper nodded at the woman who was twice the size she was. “Now Eddie liked to keep his hands clean, laundering money through a chain of pizzerias and a
taxi firm. The NCA were after him for years, then one day, a pub up in Amble called the Harbour Lights went up in flames, and it burnt to the ground with two people inside it. Well, it fell into my lap, but the NCA were tripping over their dicks trying to take the case off me. Eddie’s son was implicated, but I kept Theo out of it on the condition that Eddie told us everything he knew about the Daytons. The Daytons, for those of you who aren’t familiar, are another criminal family and plague to the north-east. Eddie went to jail, and the NCA got a boatload of intel. Win, win. With Eddie safe and sound in Frankland, baby brother Fletcher rose to head of the family.” Cooper pointed to his photograph. “Right, get your pens ready.”
Everyone in the room opened their notepads and sat poised like good little schoolboys and girls.
“Fletcher Blackburn’s manor home is situated in the woodland northeast of Cragside. Two hectares of land surrounded by eight-foot walls and security cameras. There’s one road in unless you want a mile trek through the undergrowth and can climb like Spiderman. He’s on his second marriage. Married to twenty-six-year-old Charlene Blackburn.”
Cooper pinned a photo of a Barbie-like blonde next to the one of Fletcher. Murmurs about trophy wives and gold diggers floated through CID until Cooper coughed loudly. “He has three children from his first marriage: Dylan, George and Lily. I’ve never had the pleasure, but from what I hear, Dylan is the brawn, George is the brains and Lily is the beauty.”
DS Jack Daniel folded his long legs and held his pen above his head of dark blond curls. “Who found the bodies?”
“That would be Lily and Charlene. They came home just before eight. Dylan appeared when he heard the screaming.”
“You mean he was at home?” asked the detective known as Tennessee due to his distinctive name.
“Indeed he was.”
Tennessee shrugged. “This seems pretty open and closed.”
“Looks that way,” Cooper confirmed, “but there are plenty of people who’d like to harm the Blackburns. Rivals, former employees, vengeful relatives of cannon fodder. We’ll need to do some brainstorming.”
“So who’s that guy?” Tennessee pointed with his pen at the photograph of the second victim.
Cooper turned to Keaton. “Want to take this?”
Keaton cleared her throat, though there was no need; when Keaton spoke, people listened. “Ibrahim Moradi. Known as Mo. Born and raised in Bradford. Parents own a restaurant, brother owns a carpet shop. Ibrahim’s ex-army. He served two tours in Afghanistan before being medically discharged after losing his foot to a landmine. Competed in the Invictus Games in 2018, winning bronze in the shot-put. Even got to shake Prince Harry’s hand.”
No one looked impressed. His achievements were tarnished by any association to the Northumbrian mafia.
“From what I’ve been told by the first responders, Lily and Charlene confirmed that Ibrahim worked as Fletcher’s security guard. He monitored the front gates by CCTV and basically made sure no one came to the house without permission. Fletcher’s inner circle was very small by all accounts. Few people were allowed in the house unless it was by prior arrangement.”
“Any sign of forced entry?” Tennessee asked.
“None.”
“So someone with access, presumably Dylan, overpowered Ibrahim to get to Fletcher?”.
“That seems the most likely,” Cooper answered.
“Okay. So what’s the plan?”
Cooper closed her file and surveyed the room. “Tennessee, you’re with me.”
The younger DS smiled. He was usually at Cooper’s side and didn’t like it any other way.
“We’ll head to Morshaw, speak with forensics and have a walkthrough of the scene. I want to know everything. Keaton and Martin, I need you two to head to Budle Bay. The family are staying in a property they own. Have a chat but handle them with kid gloves. These people hate the police. We’re the enemy and they won’t trust us. Keep it friendly and chatty. Get alibis in the most informal, relaxed way you can. If we push too hard, they’ll shut us out, decide on their own who’s guilty and hand out their own form of punishment.”
Keaton saluted and turned to the young DC on her left. Oliver Martin liked to take care of his appearance. Even at this ungodly hour he’d styled his hair and dressed in the best suit he could afford. He looked back at Keaton and gave her a fist bump.
“Boyd, meet Elliot Whyte.”
Nixon had given Cooper some extra manpower. She’d have preferred to have picked her own team, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Boyd and Whyte were free, so Boyd and Whyte were who she’d ended up with.
Saffron Boyd twitched a nervous smile at a large man in his thirties. He had heavy, dark brows and an aquiline nose. Boyd, conversely, was rather mousy in her appearance with light brown hair and wide eyes. Whyte looked like he could swoop down and carry her off to his nest at any moment. There had been many a rumour about Boyd since her transfer from West Yorkshire less than a week ago. Cooper didn’t know if any or all of them were true, nor did she care. If Boyd had been sleeping with the superintendent, it was none of her business. As someone who had suffered more than her fair share of rumours spread about her, Cooper had no interest in discussing the matter. Whyte, on the other hand, she had known from way back in the day. Cooper and he had been on the same intake. That didn’t mean she liked him.
“Elliot’s new to CID but he’s been with Northumbria Police since he was twenty-one. He knows the lay of the land. I want you two to speak to the neighbours, granted they’re at least a mile away, but see if anything unusual happened last night.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Boyd replied, her face stony and all business.
Keaton leant back in her chair, balancing it on its two back legs, and in a stage whisper said, “The boss hates the M-word. Stick with Coop or boss if you don’t want to end up doing all the grunt work.”
Boyd’s creamy complexion flushed red. “Sorry, boss.”
“Paula,” Cooper warned. “Stop scaring the new kids. As for the rest of you, what are you waiting for? You know what to do.”
* * *
The Westgate unit within HMP Frankland was a prison within a prison. Deep behind the walls and razor wire, beyond the patrolling guards and hefty German shepherds, lay a unit for the demons of society. Westgate was one of only four DSPD units in the country and catered for the nation’s prisoners who displayed Dangerous Severe Personality Disorders.
Prison Officer Gareth Finch tapped on a heavy door and peered through the bars of its small window.
“What?” came the sullen reply.
“Sorry to wake you, Eddie,” Gareth said in hushed tones. Why did he have to draw the short straw? Shit. Talk about shooting the messenger. “You have a phone call. You should take it.”
Eddie Blackburn rolled to his side and threw his blanket to the floor. He stood, displaying his naked body to Gareth without any hint of shame. “What time is it?” he asked.
“Almost five.”
“Fuck me.” Eddie ran a hand over his face and pulled on a pair of orange trousers. Meanwhile, Gareth fumbled with the lock to his cell and tightly held his baton. At the slightest hint of trouble, the cavalry would come running, not that it made him feel any better. He’d served in Westgate for three years now and knew how much damage could be caused in only a few seconds given the right prisoner.
* * *
Eddie walked ahead and lifted a handset from one of the telephones mounted to a wall in the communal area. He hated this fucking place with every fibre of his being. He hated the cells, the so-called gym, the other inmates and the bloody screws. At least the screws had the good sense to treat him with an ounce of respect. Some of the inmates were a few too many fries short of a Happy Meal to know what was good for them. He didn’t belong here with the murderers, rapists and terrorists. Eddie wasn’t any of those things. Okay, he’d killed before, but in his defence, he’d been provoked. He wasn’t one of these fruit cakes who shat up the walls just for the stinkin’
hell of it.
“Hello?” he said as the line connected.
Eddie listened to every word as a panicked voice squealed down the phone. He noted the screw moving a few steps away from him. Eddie remembered his little brother as an innocent five-year-old when they’d snuck out to the department store to sit on Santa’s knee and ask for Pa to stop hitting Ma. He thought of his little brother on his wedding day, blissfully happy at the thought of being shacked up with that miserable bitch, Hazel. Then he thought of Mo. He knew Mo and trusted him. No one got into Morshaw Manor without Fletcher’s say so, not even Eddie. This was a betrayal.
Eddie replaced the handset and walked back to his cell without saying a word. As the door locked behind him, he slid his hand into his trouser pocket and felt the sharp edge of the shank. Betrayals were only handled one way in the Blackburn family.
- Chapter 5 -
The sun had been up for an hour by the time Cooper and Tennessee arrived at Morshaw, and it still wasn’t close to breakfast time. Cooper parked a few meters from the police tape and stared ahead at a forensics unit. The shiny BMW she now drove had once belonged to a former colleague. DI Sam Sutherland had been sentenced to eleven years for kidnapping and people trafficking, and the only good thing to come out of the whole sorry affair was Cooper’s ability to buy his car at auction for a fraction of its worth. She missed her old colleague. He’d been a father figure, a shoulder to cry on, and a good detective. But she couldn’t forgive him, nor would she ever visit him in the category C prison to which he’d been sent. Her actual father meanwhile, was living the high life in Lanzarote. Cooper hoped to visit him and her mother at Christmastime. By the time December got here, she’d be in dire need of some vitamin D and one of her father’s famous sangrias.
Roll The Dice (DCI Cooper Book 3) Page 2
