Roll The Dice (DCI Cooper Book 3)

by B Baskerville

  “Things still awkward?” Tennessee asked.

  Cooper blinked then followed his gaze. He was nodding his head towards where tall, silver-haired Justin Atkinson was balancing two hot drinks on a tray.

  “Oh,” she said, pushing fathers, real and surrogate from her mind. “Very.”

  “You know, if you want, I can—”

  “Don’t even think about it,” Cooper said, cutting across him. Her heart was suddenly racing. “If you think for a second I’m going to ask you to take over the running of this walkthrough so that I don’t have to make uncomfortable small talk with my ex you are wildly mistaken.”

  “Sorry, Coop.” Tennessee looked terrified of the tiny ball of fury sat next to him. “I didn’t mean you weren’t capable of doing your job or owt, I just thought I’d save you the weirdness.”

  “Weirdness? I’m DCI. My work is twenty-four-seven weirdness. If I palmed off every task I didn’t want to do, I’d never do anything.”

  “Sorry, Coop,” Tennessee repeated.

  “Ah. Forget it. I’m not angry at you. I’m angry at…” Her voice trailed away as she buried her frustrations. Why did Sutherland have to go and do what he did? If he’d just come to her for help, he’d still be on the team, and Elliot Whyte would still be under whatever rock he’d crawled out from. Cooper swallowed and checked her reflection in the car’s vanity mirror. She looked good. Well, she looked average, but that was good for someone who’d been up all night and was fostering a great deal of resentment. At least she didn’t have to see Justin Atkinson while looking like a complete emotional mess. She snapped the visor back into place and exited the car with a false pep in her step. She rounded the forensics van to find Atkinson giggling away with a woman who had the striking dark features and grace of a Jordanian princess. Cooper might look good all things considered, but she didn’t look Jordanian-princess-good.

  Atkinson and the beauty looked up from their pop-up stools, and Atkinson jumped to his feet, spilling tea all over his giggle-buddy.

  “Erica,” he greeted, ambling towards her.

  “Justin. We must stop meeting like this.” A shoddy attempt at light-hearted humour.

  Atkinson laughed through his nose and shook hands with the two detectives.

  “So, who’s the new girl?” Cooper asked, casting a look beyond Atkinson’s left shoulder.

  “Girl? Well, woman, surely. She’s thirty-six.”

  The woman was older than Cooper but had no lines or bags under her eyes. Bitch. Botox. It had to be botox.

  “She’s Veronica Rogers,” Justin continued. “Head of bloodstain analysis for Greater Manchester. We needed more grey matter on this one.”

  Of course, she was also a genius. Cooper listened to her spiteful inner monologue and told herself to shut the hell up. She’d just told Tennessee she was capable of doing her job like a grown-up and yet, on the inside, she was acting like a catty sixteen-year-old.

  “Shall we?” she asked, nodding towards the house. It pained Cooper that illegal activities and exploitation could buy such a breathtaking home. Up and down the country people were working long, hard days in honest jobs for minimum wage. Many of them struggled to get a foot the housing ladder.

  Atkinson handed her and Tennessee protective clothing and shoe covers and led the way through a swarm of men and women in similar outfits. When he reached the door to Fletcher’s home office, he pushed it open and waited for their reactions.

  “Christ,” was all Tennessee could mutter. His eyes flicked around the room, darting from one drop of blood to the next, and his lip curled at the sight of something congealed on a lampshade.

  “That’s brain tissue from the second victim,” Atkinson explained. “If you were wondering.”

  The colour drained from the DS’s face, so much so he looked almost green. “I wasn’t, but thank you.”

  Cooper wasn’t as squeamish as Tennessee, but she was still taken aback by what she saw. In her years in CID, she’d seen many a murder scene but very few shootings, and even fewer where brain matter had blown out the back of a victim’s head.

  “Fletcher was here,” Atkinson said, pointing to a taped off area of carpet next to the window. “And Ibrahim was over here.”

  Cooper looked past the tape, into the garden. A tree that had seen better days looked like it had been set fire to at some point. A flower bed with snapdragons, delphiniums, peonies and foxgloves caught her eye; a colourful and cheerful distraction from the horror indoors. She looked around the room again and frowned at the mayhem that was the home office. Files were strewn about the place, a tub of pens had been upended and a chair lay on its side. A vase was shattered on the floor and though the water it contained had since dried into the carpet, the peonies it had held, presumably from the garden, were left to wilt on the floor. She stuck her head back into the hallway and scanned about. In contrast to the office, everything was as you would expect. Nothing seemed out of place. She wandered further down the hall and peered into a lounge area and an impressive kitchen. Nothing broken. No sign of a struggle.

  She returned to Tennessee’s side. “We were wrong about Ibrahim being overpowered to get to Fletcher. There’s no suggestion of anything untoward anywhere but in here.”

  “That fits with what Atkinson just told me,” he replied, looking to the SOCO to repeat himself.

  “Ah, yes, as I was saying. Ronnie, that’s Veronica, found blood spatter from Ibrahim that extended over the trousers of Fletcher.” He pointed to a trail of blood droplets that cut through the carpet from near the lamp to the window. “If Ibrahim had been killed first, his blood would be under Fletcher’s body, not over it. Fletcher was killed first.”

  “So, our killer either snuck past the security detail, or they had permission to be here?”

  “Like the son who was supposedly asleep upstairs?” Tennessee asked.

  Atkinson took a closer look at a book that had fallen off the bookcase. “I can’t help you with that. But I can tell you Fletcher was shot from a height, roughly about here.” He stood on his tiptoes and aimed his fingers as if they were a gun towards the desk. “Fletcher was shot once here, just above the desk. He was either sitting on it or standing in front of it. Then he either fell over it or was pushed off it, and as he was lying on the carpet over here, he was shot again.”

  Cooper scribbled down notes as he spoke.

  “Ronnie will string the room up once we’ve finished collecting our samples and she’ll be able to give you a much more accurate idea of height. Almost the opposite happened with Ibrahim. He was shot from low to high.”

  “The killer was hiding under the desk?” Cooper asked.

  “Perhaps. It’s a pretty big desk. I’d fit under it quite comfortably.”

  Tennessee bobbed his head as he often did when trying to visualise something. “Okay. So our killer is in here with Fletcher. There’s a scuffle. He shoots him on or near the desk, then again when he’s on the floor. The guard hears the commotion and the gunfire and comes running. The killer hides under the desk or is crouched next to Fletcher, and he shoots Ibrahim as he enters the room. Any prints?”

  Atkinson chuckled. “Loads. I’ve taken prints from the wife, daughter and two sons. We’ll start by eliminating them and see what’s left.”

  “Footprints?” Cooper asked, her eyes turning down to the floor.

  “Yes and no.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Someone stepped in Fletcher’s blood. Presumably, it was the killer as Ibrahim didn’t get that far into the room. They scrubbed it though, so it’s just a blurry, bloody mess. We can’t gauge shoe size or even type from it.”

  “What did they scrub it with?” Cooper asked.

  “I don’t know. We haven’t found any bloody rags yet. If I had to guess, I’d say he stepped in the blood as he was climbing out from under the desk, then removed his shoes and tiptoed out of here.”

  Cooper pouted. “What about toe prints? Are they unique like fingerprints are?�
�

  “Yes, they are indeed. But, the killer was most likely wearing socks, and even if he weren’t, I can’t lift a toe print from carpet. Hardwood, yes, but most of the house is carpeted.”

  Cooper huffed through her pouted lips. She’d hoped for something more concrete. “Right, Tennessee, get on to the first responders. They seized the tapes from the CCTV. I was told the tapes were wiped, but get them over to tech and see if they can work a miracle for us. Justin, I assume you’ve dusted the monitors?” He looked insulted. “Of course you have. Okay, let me know what turns up.”

  A blast of noise erupted from above them, and all three heads turned to the ceiling.

  Hong’s voice rang out. “I found a gun!”

  - Chapter 6 -

  Cooper waited on the upstairs landing. She had to give the scene of crime officers space to work and didn’t want to accidentally contaminate any evidence. Still, from the hallway, she had a decent view into a sumptuous bedroom. A wardrobe was open, and numerous suits hung from padded hangers. A framed photograph of Fletcher and Charlene on their wedding day was set on a bedside table along with a copy of a romance novel, a book on landscaping, a Stephen King, an empty wine glass and some expensive-looking hand cream. It was clearly the master bedroom.

  A short scene of crime officer with thick glasses pushed past on her way into the room. Cooper pressed her back into the wall to make space. The SOCO was holding a pad of tiny orange stickers and immediately got to work popping them on all surfaces that harboured potential evidence, including the rim of the wine glass.

  Another SOCO held a heavy Canon camera and was taking photographs of a dresser. He moved closer so he could angle the camera into one of its drawers. A box was removed which was photographed, opened up and photographed again. Hong removed the gun from the box, slipped it into an evidence bag and carefully labelled it. When he was finished, he turned to another colleague and asked him to get it to the lab as fast as possible for print and DNA analysis.

  “Put a rush on it,” he added.

  Cooper waved at Hong; he saw and motioned for her to enter the room.

  “Where did you find it?” she asked.

  “In a jewellery box, hidden at the back of Mrs Blackburn’s underwear drawer,” he held up a microscopic g-string that still had its price tag attached. He peered at it as if examining an alien species. “How come the smallest things cost the most?”

  “Beats me.” Cooper pulled her phone from her pocket but struggling to operate the touch screen through her gloves, she opted to leave the scene. Finding a gun in Charlene Blackburn’s jewellery box was a massive red flag and one she had to deal with straight away. Once outside in the fresh, pine-scented air, she put a call into DS Paula Keaton.

  “Boss?”

  “What you up to, Paula?”

  Keaton’s voice was hushed. “We’re over at Budle Bay. Been having a chat with the wife. She won’t stop crying.”

  “Charlene? Where is she?”

  “She’s just nipped to the loo. I told her I’d make a cup of tea while she washes her face. Then I’ll try to get her to open up some more.”

  “Is Martin with you?”

  “He’s right here.”

  “Forensics found a gun in Charlene’s jewellery box.”

  Cooper heard what sounded like a teaspoon being dropped on a counter. “Shit. Right, We’ll bring her in. See you back at HQ?”

  Cooper confirmed then read the messages that had come through on her phone since the morning briefing. Olly Timms, her date from last night, had seen the news and asked if that’s why she’d run off in such a hurry. She didn’t want to ghost Olly, he was a nice guy, but at the same time, she hardly knew him and didn’t owe him a detailed response. She sent a brief reply: Sorry, can’t discuss the case. He’d understand; he was a lawyer.

  She looked up from her phone and turned her attention to Atkinson. He had a laptop set up on a foldable table and was squinting at the screen. Cooper felt a bubble of sadness form in her gut. She should have listened to him when they’d been together. He’d tried to warn her about Tina’s father, but she’d been too proud and too stubborn to hear. It was her own damn fault she felt this way.

  She forced a smile and approached him. “I’m off now. Thanks for your help.” She hoped her voice wasn’t too obviously cheery.

  He shut the laptop. “Just doing my job.”

  Cooper swallowed. “It’s going to be a long day. Think I’ll need a beer when it’s finally home time.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  Did she dare? She did. “Do you have plans?”

  Atkinson’s mouth opened, then his eyes flicked to where Ronnie Rogers was zipping herself into a forensics suit.

  Cooper felt her cheeks burn. How stupid of her.

  “Actually… Ronnie asked me to a talk at the City Library. There’s a former New York CSI turned best-selling author giving a speech on the true cases that inspired his fiction.”

  Idiot. “Sounds great,” Cooper said with a stammer. She felt like a prize fool and couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Luckily, she now had a speedy BMW at her disposal. “Enjoy.”

  * * *

  “How many times do I have to say it? I’ve never seen that gun before in my life.”

  Charlene Blackburn’s voice was high-pitched and childlike. It reminded Cooper of Lisa Simpson’s voice, had the Simpson’s been set in the UK. Charlene didn’t look anything like the glamorous image that Cooper had pinned on the murder wall earlier that day. Save for some mascara stains running down her cheeks, Charlene was make-up free. Her thick blonde hair was pulled back in a pony-tail, and wispy baby hairs poked out at all angles from her hairline. She was dressed in a velour tracksuit that, although hideous, probably cost a fortune. Her skin was blotchy from crying and she’d picked away at her gel nails and the surrounding flesh until her fingers were red raw.

  Cooper maintained silent eye contact and waited for her interviewee to speak again.

  Charlene sniffed and looked back at a photograph that lay on the table in the interview suit. “I told you. I don’t recognise that gun. It’s not Mo’s. Mo uses a… Oh, what did he say it was? A Sig something?”

  “A Sig Sauer P320.”

  “Yes. It’s not his. He was— He was still holding the Sig when Lily and I found them.” She dabbed the corners of her eyes with her fingertips then squeezed her eyes shut. “I can’t get the image out of my head.”

  Cooper tapped the photograph, causing Charlene to open her eyes again and follow the sound. “This is a Glock .29. The bullet casings match the ones found at the scene. This was the gun used to kill Ibrahim Moradi and your husband, Fletcher Blackburn—”

  “And I don’t know whose it is—”

  “Then why was it hidden in your underwear draw?”

  “I don’t know! Okay? I don’t bloody know!” Her voice was shrill and quivering. “Whoever shot Fletcher must’ve put it there. They must want to make me look guilty. But I swear to God—” She slammed her hand on the table. “You won’t find my prints on that gun.”

  Charlene was getting irritated; angry people made mistakes.

  “Because you wiped it clean?”

  “NO!” She slammed her hand down again.

  Cooper looked to her left and stroked her cheek with two fingers. It was a coded message to anyone in the observation room that she wanted a coffee. One finger for tea, two fingers for coffee, and three fingers for someone switch places with me before I lose my shit.

  “Okay, I’ll humour you, Charlene.” Another comment meant to wind her interviewee up. “Let’s make-believe and say you’ve never seen this gun before and that you’ve no knowledge of how it could possibly end up in your underwear drawer.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Let me finish.” Cooper was in no mood for interruptions. “Who would? And why would they want to frame you?”

  Charlene looked down at her hands and pulled at a loose bit of cuticle until it snapped and began to
bleed. She put her finger in her mouth and sucked it as she spoke. “I… I guess I’m the easiest one to pin it on. I know what they say about me.”

  “What do they say?”

  “That I’m a gold digger.”

  “Who says that?”

  “Well, everyone. But D-Dylan mostly.”

  “Fletcher’s eldest?”

  “Yes. That man hates me. He hates everyone. Has a right nasty temper as well.”

  The door opened, and Oliver Martin entered with coffee in a plastic cup. He placed it on the table and left before Cooper could request a biscuit.

  “Why does Dylan hate you?”

  Charlene shrugged and cowered into her chair. She examined her finger and balled it inside a fist.

  “Do you need a plaster?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Then I’ll ask again. Why does Dylan hate you?”

  “I can’t blame him. I’m younger than he is. Imagine having a step-mother who’s younger than you are. It’s got to be weird for him. And after Hazel left, that’s Fletcher’s ex, he probably thought as eldest he’d… you know… inherit Fletcher’s money.”

  “How do you get on with Fletcher’s other children?”

  “George and Lily? They’re all right. We get on. Well, we do most of the time. They don’t call me any names, not to my face anyway. George doesn’t say much to me. Half the time, if I walk into a room, he’ll walk out. And as for Lily, I don’t know, sometimes we’re close, like sisters or friends, other times I can tell she wishes Hazel never left, but I… I think George and Lily understand.”

  “Understand what?” Cooper asked.

  “That I love Fletcher. That I’m not with their father for his money. I don’t want his stinking money. I just… I just want him back.” She opened her hand. Her palm was smeared with blood, and the sight of it caused fresh tears.

  Cooper gave her a moment to compose herself again before pressing on. “Charlene, I want to go over everything else that happened that day. You said you’d been for some spa treatments?”

  “Yes. At Doxford Hall. Lily and I went for massages. I got my nails done as well.” She stopped and looked at the sorry state her manicure was in now. “Then we had dinner and got home at around half eight.”