Roll The Dice (DCI Cooper Book 3)

by B Baskerville

  “Mum!” Cooper had to stop herself from snapping at her. “Dr Diaz is an orthopaedic surgeon. You need to speak to a cardiologist. Do it today. Please.”

  It had taken ten minutes of persuading to convince Julie that it was worth shutting the bar for an afternoon to be sure and to put their daughter’s mind at rest. Family.

  Keaton took a seat next to Cooper. “Tennessee tells me you’re up for swimming in the relay triathlon.”

  “Did he now?” Cooper flashed him a scathing look. “I’d rather scratch my eyes out. Speaking of which, I’m sure you’ve heard what went down last night?”

  They all nodded, looking serious.

  “And as for the swim, Martin can do it.”

  Martin coughed. He was looking even more well-kempt when usual. His shirt had been ironed to within an inch of its life, and he was definitely wearing a new aftershave. “Sorry, boss. I’m already in a team with Boyd and Whyte. We don’t stand a chance, but it’s for a good cause.”

  Keaton pressed her palms together in prayer and tried to give Cooper the puppy dog eyes. “Please,” she said in a voice that was high-pitched and girlie and didn’t suit her one bit. “I neeeeed to compeeeete.”

  “Urgh. Fine. Just never pull that face again.”

  Keaton punched the air jubilantly and folded her legs so that her left foot rested on her right knee. Her eyes flicked to the doors as Saffron Boyd and Elliot Whyte arrived. Great. Cooper’s mind was suddenly in the past, hiding around the side of North Shields Police Station, crying her eyes out and hoping none of her colleagues saw.

  Boyd and Whyte took their seats and nodded hellos to the rest of the team. Martin sat up a little straighter and couldn’t mask his joy that Boyd had chosen the seat next to him. That explained the aftershave. Keaton pointed a finger in Whyte’s face and said, “Morning Ell-i-ot,” as if she was E.T.

  Whyte, though lower in rank, didn’t hesitate to swipe her finger away. Martin chuckled and mimicked Keaton’s teasing. “Ell-i-ott.”

  “All right, pack it in,” warned Cooper. “We have work to be getting on with. Tennessee, you’re up first.”

  “Right. Fletcher’s ex-wife, Hazel, also known as the witch…”

  Keaton and Martin giggled.

  “…is not in Turkey.”

  “She’s not?” Cooper leant in.

  “There’s no evidence that she’s in the UK, but she boarded a flight to Barcelona from Istanbul two and a half weeks ago and hasn’t returned yet.”

  “Date?” Cooper asked.

  “Second of June. She’s been posting prolifically on social media. Several posts per day to both Facebook and Instagram since at least three days before Fletcher and Ibrahim were murdered. It’s almost like—”

  “Like she wants the world to see she has an alibi,” Cooper finished for him.

  “Exactly.” Tennessee interlaced his fingers and stretched his arms above his head. “But she messed up.” Five sets of eyebrows lifted around the table and he presented a printout from Hazel Blackburn’s Facebook page. “This leathery-looking lady is Hazel Blackburn. According to Facebook, she was reclining on this sun lounger with a mojito at quarter past three on Monday afternoon, however, see this little detail?”

  “Published by Hootsuite,” Cooper read. “What’s Hootsuite?”

  “It’s a social media management platform. It allows users to schedule posts in advance. Hazel could have taken that photo an hour before, or a week before.”

  Cooper leant back in her seat and savoured her coffee while she mulled things over. “Interesting. Find out what hotel she’s supposedly at and give them a call.”

  The DS nodded.

  “Keaton, you’re next.”

  Keaton sat up tall and began to fill the team in on her and Martin’s trip to Rowlands Gill to speak with Wayne Hanson.

  “Martin managed to get some quality intel out of Hanson. He and Fletcher Blackburn were working together to muscle the Roker Boys out of Sunderland. They were after their territory. He admits to being at Morshaw on Sunday but flat out denies being there on Monday. Say’s the diary entry is wrong and that he never saw Fletcher again after their Sunday meeting.”

  “Alibi?” Cooper asked.

  “At the RVI most of the day with his sick daughter. I’ve spoken to the ward in question and have the names of some of the nurses who were on duty at the time. I’ll nip over today and speak to them.”

  “Good. Tennessee, remind me to check with George Blackburn when we speak to him. See if he knows anything about another meeting.

  Tennessee nodded and made a note.

  “Okay,” Cooper continued. “In case anyone hadn’t heard, two of Hanson’s crew were killed in Frankland during a riot last night. I’ll spare you the gory details, but the photographs are in this file if any of you want to have nightmares. I’m not daft enough to put this down to coincidence. This is Eddie’s work. He clearly thinks Hanson’s to blame, either by killing Fletcher or by tipping off the Roker Boys.”

  “Do you think it’ll escalate?” Boyd asked in her quiet voice.

  “I’d say so,” Tennessee answered. “I imagine Hanson will be pissed. He’ll probably retaliate. We should probably tail him.”

  Cooper agreed. “Can’t be you two though,” She directed at Keaton and Martin. “He’ll recognise you, and by now he’ll know I’m heading the investigation. I’ll have to arrange for—”

  “He won’t recognise me,” Boyd suggested. “Or Elliot.”

  Whyte dipped his chin and looked to Cooper. My God, she hated his face. It had aged since their time together at North Shields, but his face still represented the way he’d made her feel all those years ago.

  “We can tail him,” he said. “We’ve spoken to all the nearest neighbours, and there’s absolutely nothing worth following up. We’re free to do it.”

  “All right. Be careful,” Cooper said, looking at Boyd in particular, “and keep a good distance.”

  “What about the Blackburns?” Keaton asked. “Do we offer them protection?”

  Tennessee snorted. “Waste tax payer’s money protecting vermin? Besides, they can protect themselves.”

  Cooper was in two minds. She agreed with Tennessee’s summation, but she also didn’t want any blood on her hands. “One squad car,” she said. “We’ll post it on the road between their barn conversation and Bamburgh. Close enough to see any comings and goings, not so close that the Blackburns feel suffocated and do a runner somewhere we won’t find them. I still want to keep them on side. Which leads me to this situation with the Roker Boys.”

  “Whether it was Hanson who tipped them off or not,” Keaton started, “If they knew, they could well have done this to protect themselves.”

  Boyd shuffled and lifted a finger. “Erm, boss?”

  “Yes?”

  “I ran a background check on the private chef Lily told you about. Darren Ray, forty-three, squeaky clean, no record. I checked his website and social media accounts and found he was born and raised in Chester-le-Street. He trained at a catering college in Sunderland before moving to London to work with Marco Pierre White. He stayed there for over ten years, then returned to the northeast to set up his own business.” She nibbled at a nail before adding. “He trained in Roker Boy territory. I wondered if he knew them back in the day.”

  “And that he might do them a favour by knocking off Fletcher?” Cooper finished for her.

  She shrugged. “Just a thought.”

  “It’s a good thought,” Martin said with a smile. “Coop likes it when we spitball ideas. Don’t be scared to share a theory with her.” He looked to Cooper.

  “Martin’s right, and we should keep his name in the mix for now. I don’t think Fletcher would be foolish enough to talk business in front of the chef, but there is a small chance the Roker Boys recruited him. It doesn’t explain how he got access to Morshaw on a Monday. Lily said he was only there Saturday and Sundays.”

  “Maybe he left something on purpose so he had t
he excuse of going back to collect it?” Boyd said in her quiet voice.

  Cooper wasn’t so sure, but she didn’t want to put Boyd off when she was so shy already. “Okay, well you know the drill. Trace, interview, eliminate. If you get anything, great. If not, don’t worry. Let’s not dwell too long on this though, we don’t even know if the Roker Boys knew anything about the Blackburns and the Hansons. It’s all speculation right now.”

  Martin’s lips slid back and forth over his teeth as he mulled something over. “It’s not like we can even ask the Roker Boys. I mean, imagine it, Hi Guys, quick question. Did you know the Blackburns and Hansons were teaming up to muscle you off your turf?”

  “Because if they did know, they wouldn’t tell us,” said Tennessee.

  “And if they didn’t…” Cooper considered. “Well, we’d have a three-way war on our hands,” She gulped down what remained of the coffee and got to her feet. “Tennessee, we have a meeting with forensics. Boyd, Whyte, you two tail Hanson and arrange for the car to monitor the Blackburns. Keaton and Martin, follow up on Hanson’s alibi and pay a visit to Cedric in Local Intelligence. Find out all you can on the Roker Boys: the big players, known associates, latest addresses, likely locations.”

  Keaton nodded at Martin, they pushed their chairs out and stood up. Before leaving, Keaton pulled Cooper’s file across the table and flicked through until she found the photographs from Frankland. She gagged. “Oh, Jeez. That’s disgusting.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  - Chapter 12 -

  Justin Atkinson and Veronica Rogers both displayed the slow gait and exaggerated yawns of people who had been up past their bedtimes. Despite this, Atkinson still looked his tall, dashing self with a sprinkle of the Milky Bar Kid geek-chic that made him all the more adorable. Veronica, or Ronnie as she preferred to go by, was rosy-cheeked and without a hair out of place.

  “Morning,” Cooper greeted the pair as they joined her and Tennessee in the meeting room. “How was the talk?” she braved asking.

  “Fabulous,” Ronnie gushed, shooting a look of admiration in Atkinson’s direction. “But dinner was better. Justin took me to Peace and Loaf. Have you been there? I had scallops with rhubarb and sea lettuce. It looked like a work of art, I almost didn’t want to ruin it by eating it.”

  Of course Cooper had been there. She’d been there with Atkinson and had ordered the bloody scallops. Ronnie was right about it being delicious, but Cooper’s stomach twisted at the thought of them there together. Had they ate at the lovely table by the kitchen that gave you a view of the highly skilled chefs at work? Had he ordered her the same wine he’d introduced Cooper too?

  Pushing jealous thoughts aside, Cooper simply got down to business. “You said you had some updates?”

  Atkinson cleared his throat. “Erm, yes. There were no fingerprints on the gun, not even a partial print. No DNA, no nothing. Someone took great care to make sure that gun was clean. They also cleaned the doorknob on the door to the bedroom and wiped clean the handle on the draw where Hong found the gun.”

  Cooper’s shoulders sagged in disappointment. “That wasn’t what I’d hoped for.”

  “I might be able to put a smile on your face,” Ronnie said, spreading her glossed lips into a wide smile. She laid a file on the table, opened it and spread crime scene photographs out in a fan shape.”

  Cooper told herself Ronnie was probably a lovely person and it wasn’t her fault she and Atkinson weren’t together. Still, she couldn’t help the bitchy feeling that bubbled up inside. She needed to get a grip. She was a Detective Chief Inspector after all.

  “I’m certain our shooter was hiding under the desk when the second victim entered the room. Justin’s team found gunshot residue on the underside of the desk. It’s highly unlikely to have got there had the gun been fired above the desk,” Ronnie said.

  “And we also found trace evidence of gunshot residue on the hands of Dylan, Lily and Charlene,” Atkinson added.

  Cooper knew from experience that gunshot residue didn’t equal guilt. Lily and Charlene were the ones to discover the bodies. They most likely touched the victims to confirm they had died or to try to come to their aid. Residue can travel up to five feet, so anyone who’d touched furniture or surfaces in the vicinity would have been contaminated.

  Ronnie singled out two photographs and pushed them across the table. These are relevant to when Fletcher was shot the first time. You can see the damage where the bullet exited the body and hit the edge of the desk. When combined with what Ms Swanson, the forensic pathologist, has told us, I would estimate the bullet was travelling downwards at an angle of one hundred and forty degrees. There are also void marks on the wall behind where the shooter was stood.”

  Before Cooper could ask for that in plain English, Ronnie added, “Void marks indicate an absence of blood, where the spatter has been blocked by the body of the shooter. When he was shot the second time, Fletcher was on the floor. The bullet remained in the body, again that’s backed up by Ms Swanson, and we have expirated bloodstain patterns on the floor where Fletcher coughed up blood before death.”

  Cooper winced but signalled to Ronnie to keep going.

  “The second victim was shot in the chest first. Justin recovered the bullet from the wall.” She handed Cooper another photograph. “The angle of the spatter tails is further evidence that the shooter was under the desk when this occurred. The victim slid down the wall, hence these swipe marks. He was then shot in the head, causing these high velocity spatter patterns mixed with brain matter.”

  Cooper glanced at Tennessee; he was looking a little rough. She frowned at the two forensic experts. All that information was interesting and helped paint a clear mental image of what happened, but she was unsure which part of the gruesome details was supposed to make her smile.

  Reading her mind, Atkinson waded in. “Which brings us to our good news.” He smiled at Ronnie then turned back to Cooper. “Without Ronnie, I wouldn’t have been able to give you anything more specific than the killer was tall. But, Ronnie is an expert in her field, between her angles and formulas and algorithms, she’s narrowed the shooter’s height down to five-foot-ten to six-foot-two.”

  Cooper let out a long sigh and looked to Tennessee. He pulled the mug shot that had been taken of Charlene upon her arrest out of the file.

  “Five-two,” he said.

  Cooper slumped and rested her head on the table. “Damn it.” She appreciated that having a good estimate of the shooter’s height was useful; it would help them narrow the field. Still, given the turf war implications, it would have been easier on everyone if the wife had done it.

  - Chapter 13 -

  Dylan Blackburn had one of his headaches. He tore into a fresh box of paracetamol and threw the information leaflet in the bin. Two tablets every four hours? As if that dose would even take the edge off. He took three, along with a higher than recommended dose of ibuprofen. He didn’t have time for a headache; there was work to be done. Business didn’t stop just because his father was dead.

  Dylan stalked towards the stairs, briefly stopping to peer into his sister’s room. Lily was lying on her bed, her thumbs busily tip-tapping away at her phone.

  “I’m going into town,” he said when she looked up.

  “Bamburgh or Newcastle?”

  “Newcastle.”

  Lily sat up and crossed her legs. She must have applied her make-up with a trowel this morning. She looked like a fucking drag queen. “You meeting Theo?”

  Dylan sniffed. Wouldn’t she like to know? “I’ll be back later,” was all he said.

  His sister grabbed a pillow and threw it towards the door, causing it to slam in his face. Brat. Precious little Lily. Always annoyed at being sidelined. She didn’t know how good she had it. If she’d had to work day in, day out with the likes of his father and his uncle she’d soon change her tune. She didn’t understand the sacrifices he’d had to make to keep her safe. He continued downstairs and fished a
black bin liner from under the sink. He opened the tumble dryer and stuffed the items into the bag. George was in the living room with his nose in a book. Dylan grunted at him. It was brother speak for: see you later.

  It took an hour to drive into Newcastle. Dylan parked in the first pay and display spot he came across, pulled the bin liner from the boot of his car and walked until he found a charity shop. He didn’t bother greeting the shop assistant; he didn’t care for small talk. Instead, he tossed the bin bag in the sheepish man’s direction, mumbled, “Donation,” and left, heading towards a street named Bigg Market.

  The Bigg Market was once an important trading post for the buying and selling of barley on the Great North Road. Now, it was known for its nineties themed bars, dodgy takeaways and fights in the taxi rank. The street made national news when five hundred drunken Newcastle fans rioted after their defeat to Manchester United in the 1999 cup final. Phone boxes were smashed up and trees uprooted. All because one group of overpaid wankers could kick a ball better than another group of overpaid wankers.

  Speaking of overpaid wankers… Dylan found Theo five minutes later in a seedy basement bar with topless barmaids.

  Theo was a younger version of his father. Tall and powerful with a round face, a hairline that showed the first signs of receding, and dark, shoulder-length hair secured in a ponytail. He walked with a swagger, thought he was smarter than he was, and the way he talked about women fawning over him: he thought he was Jason fucking Momoa. He clocked Dylan as soon as he entered the bar and finished the few inches of lager left in his pint glass. It wasn’t even lunchtime.

  “It’s five o’clock somewhere,” he said, reading Dylan’s questioning look. He raised two fingers at the barmaid and practically drooled as he watched her pull two more pints. “You know, cuz, if this is too much for you… I can handle business. If you’d rather be at home with your grieving family.”

  He didn’t look like he could handle business. He looked like he was a few slurps away from slurring his speech. Drinking to forget? What was Theo Blackburn’s conscience feeling guilty about?