Roll The Dice (DCI Cooper Book 3)

by B Baskerville

  “Good morning. DS Paula Keaton.” She flashed her ID at the woman sat at the desk. “I called yesterday. I need to speak to…” She pulled a notepad from her pocket and double-checked the name. “Danielle Cutmore.”

  The woman’s eyes moved back and forth between Keaton’s face and the image of her on her ID card. Satisfied, she put down her pen and asked Keaton to take a seat. “She’s assisting a patient right now. I’ll let her know you’re here.”

  Keaton’s boot tapped loudly against pale flooring as she waited. She wasn’t impatient, she just hated hospitals, and the name Cutmore made her uneasy. Who would want a nurse or a doctor with that surname?

  “Detective?”

  Keaton jumped to her feet and shook hands with a diminutive woman with white curls and a broad face. “I’m Sister Cutmore. I was told you wished to speak with me about Millie Hanson.” She led the way down a corridor to what looked like a break room. “I hope you understand that I can not give out any information that would jeopardise patient confidentiality.”

  “Actually, it’s not Millie I need to ask you about: it’s her father.”

  The ward sister’s brows lowered. “I don’t follow, dear.”

  Keaton glanced out the window at a group of men who were smoking in the car park. They were hooked up to IVs, and two of them needed canes to walk. Illness and immobility weren’t going to come between them and their nicotine hit. “I’m investigating a serious crime that occurred on Monday. Mr Hanson is helping us with our inquiries. He told me his daughter was being treated here for measles.”

  “For complications related to measles, yes. We wouldn’t treat her in this ward if she was still contagious. There are too many sick children with weakened immune systems. Any outbreak would be devastating.”

  Keaton didn’t know if Hanson’s daughter hadn’t been vaccinated on medical grounds or if her parents believed the conspiracy theories surrounding childhood vaccinations, but either way, she hoped Millie made a full recovery.

  “Mr Hanson told me he was here all day on Monday, but I noticed while I was sitting in the waiting area that visiting hours are only two till four and six till eight. Is that right?”

  “Yes, and no,” she replied. “Those are the official visiting hours, but it’s really at the discretion of myself or the doctors. Millie’s pneumonia has been severe; naturally, her parents have been anxious to stay by her side. He arrived at about ten in the morning. I remember because two women were arguing over whether the television in the family area should be showing Homes Under the Hammer or the Teletubbies.” She rolled her eyes at Keaton. “He stayed with Millie until lunchtime then he nipped out for a half-hour and came back with a stuffed toy and a meal deal. When Mrs Hanson arrived with their sons in the afternoon, he left for an hour, maybe two.”

  Keaton paused. Half an hour was nowhere near enough time for Hanson to drive to Morshaw Manor, kill Fletcher and Ibrahim, hide the gun and return home, but two hours was doable. Forty minutes there, forty minutes back. Probably more like thirty-five minutes; he didn’t seem the sort to obey the speed limit. That left fifty minutes to fire four shots, clean up and get out. It was possible. Keaton didn’t know if Hanson had done it, but she knew one thing: he was a liar. He’d told her and Martin that he’d been at the hospital all day.

  “What time did he leave in the afternoon?

  Sister Cutmore sighed. “I’d say half two. I can’t be certain.”

  “And he returned between half three and half four?”

  “Yes. It was before I finished my shift at five.”

  Keaton thanked Sister Cutmore and left under a haze of annoyance. She should have known Hanson was hiding something. She knew he was a lying piece of dirt, but now he was a lying piece of dirt with no real alibi.

  * * *

  It wouldn’t have taken long to get back to HQ, but Keaton somehow hit every red light on the way. The traffic gods were not her side today. When she entered the lobby, Martin was waiting expectantly.

  “How’d it go at the hospital?”

  “His alibi’s a crock of shit,” she muttered, taking the stairs to CID. “He told us he was at his daughter’s bedside all day, didn’t he? He didn’t tell us he popped out for a few hours in the early evening.”

  Martin was out of breath at the top of the stairs. “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “Do your teammates know you’ve got the stamina of an asthmatic sloth?”

  Martin put his hands on his hips and took a deep inhalation. “I’m fit as a fiddle.”

  “Aye, looks it,” Keaton laughed. She pushed open the double doors and claimed a table at the far end of the department.

  “The thing is,” Martin started, “If Hanson was guilty of killing Fletcher and Ibrahim, why would he doctor the diary to make it look like they’d had a meeting? It doesn’t make sense.”

  Keaton frowned. “What do you mean doctored?”

  “Look.” Martin opened a cardboard folder and removed some photographs. Keaton recognised them as the photographs she’d shown Cooper of Fletcher Blackburn’s planner. He’d owned a leather-bound journal with lined paper that had been open on his desk at the time of the shootings and was, as a result, covered in red blood spatter.

  “This is Monday’s entry,” he said, jabbing his finger at the image.

  “Yes. I know. Monday seventeenth. Family meeting at nine-thirty. Tennis at eleven. Wayne Hanson at two.”

  Martin’s face spread into a smirk. “I didn’t say read. I said look.”

  What was he on about? Keaton pulled the images closer and squinted. “It doesn’t say two o’clock. It says fourteen hundred hours.”

  “Exactly.”

  Keaton continued to scan through some other photos, images taken from various pages in the diary, not just of the day when Fletcher was killed. “He always uses the twelve-hour clock. Ten a.m., eleven a.m., three p.m. I don’t see a single other entry using the twenty-four-hour clock.”

  “I’ve been through all the photographs,” Martin said. “That’s the only one. Add to that, the handwriting doesn’t match. Now, before you say anything about handwriting analysis being largely debunked, hear me out because there are noticeable differences.”

  Keaton hunched over the photographs as if she was shortsighted and needed to be within three inches of the prints to read anything. “The looped Y in Wayne?”

  “Do you see any other looped Ys? Or Gs, or Js?”

  Oh, he was a clever boy. Keaton grinned at Martin. “I think you’re onto something. I don’t think Fletcher wrote this.”

  He pushed a rogue strand of hair back into place. “So, who did? Who would use military time?”

  “Ibrahim would. He was in the army.” Keaton folded her arms. “But why would he want to frame Hanson?”

  “It’s not framing someone if they’re really guilty. We still don’t know where Hanson was when he said he was at the hospital.”

  “You’re right,” Keaton said. “There’s a gaping hole in his alibi and he either killed Fletcher or someone wants it to look like he did.”

  “Or someone left us a clue?”

  Keaton gathered up the photographs. “We need to speak to Coop.”

  - Chapter 15 -

  Cooper removed her shoes and walked barefoot across Longsands beach towards a spot Keaton and Martin had picked out. It was a mile of golden sand and award-winning clean water. To outsiders, it was a spot of postcard-worthy beauty. To natives of the northeast, it was just one speck on the one hundred mile stretch of stunning coastline that they’d been blessed with. Best not make a song and dance about it though. The longer the rest of the country thought it was grim up north, the longer the locals could keep it for themselves.

  Martin waved a wooden fork above his head when he spotted Cooper’s approach. A few steps further and she could smell the vinegar of their fish and chip lunch.

  “Get ‘em while they’re hot,” Martin said with a mouthful of fish.

  The sun was high in th
e sky, beating down on the top of Cooper’s head. She pulled a baseball cap from her bag to protect her scalp while Keaton dished up one more portion of grub.

  “Don’t say a word,” Cooper said as they collectively looked at the odd combination that was a cap with a smart suit. “The last thing I need is a sunburned head.”

  The four detectives weren’t the only ones taking a moment to appreciate the baking hot June day. In the northeast, whilst you were always guaranteed a winter, you weren’t always guaranteed a summer. It made sense to get outdoors and enjoy the vitamin D while you could. Mums with children too young to go to school were building sandcastles. Teenagers queued up outside Crusoe’s café to grab a bite on their lunch breaks and hold hands as they strolled through the shallows. Dog walkers were confined to the north end of the beach, and a lone windsurfer was optimistically trying to right his sail despite the lack of wind.

  “The water looks nice,” Keaton said as she handed Cooper a cardboard tray of cod and chips with extra batter. “You looking forward to swimming in the triathlon?” There was a soupçon of sarcasm to her voice that indicated she knew fine well what Cooper’s answer would be.

  “About as much as I’d look forward to dancing naked on the Tyne Bridge.” Cooper’s heart suddenly darkened. What was supposed to be a silly quip dredged up memories from the spring. She didn’t know if anyone from her team had seen the footage captured on the hidden camera Kenny Roberts had placed in her bedroom, but the embarrassment still stung. She hadn’t done anything wrong, apart from being naive and trusting, but still, she felt like a prize fool. At least no one in the team seemed to notice her shift in mood. The conversation about the upcoming triathlon continued without her input until Tennessee arrived and nudged her shoulder.

  “Isn’t that Tina?”

  A group of girls in school uniforms walked arm-in-arm, their giggles carrying far and wide. Tina was on the end of the row, and her free arm dragged her school bag through the sand, leaving a trail that looked like a giant snake had slithered through it. Tina usually spent every free moment she had with Josh, and their usual lunchtime hangout was the library. Josh was nowhere to be seen, and whilst Cooper was happy for Tina to widen her social group, she was worried she was missing something. Had they had a fight? She also wondered about the girls. Tina stayed clear of popular girls; she’d been burnt before by fake friendships, rumour mills and bitchiness. Cooper considered waving, but she didn’t want to embarrass her daughter, especially if she was making new friends and even more so because she was wearing a baseball cap with a smart suit. These looked like trendy girls with overly straightened hair, HD brows and skirts rolled over at the waistband. Just as she was about to turn back to her lunch, Tina spotted her. She didn’t look horrified, in fact, she beamed at Cooper, ran over, said hi to everyone, stole a handful of chips and scampered off again.

  “Who are they?” asked the girl in the middle of the chain.

  “That’s my mum and her team,” Tina answered.

  “The detective?” one asked. She appraised the team as they sat in the sand.

  “Yeah.” Tina pulled in her lips as she often did when she was nervous.

  “Hey, Ms Cooper!” another girl called out. “Thanks for locking up Mr Hutchins. I heard you lifted him above your head like a wrestler and slammed him on the school car park so hard his head exploded.”

  Cooper let out a laugh. “Actually, I slipped on the ice, and it was my head that was bleeding. DS Keaton here was the one who tackled him to the ground.”

  The girls made a collective, “Cool.” Without an invitation, they sat down and bombarded the team with questions about the Tarot Card Killer.

  After ten minutes, Tina checked her watch. “We have to go. Biology starts in five.”

  While the girls picked up their things, Cooper mouthed to Tina, “Everything okay?”

  Tina shrugged. “I’ll see you at home. Will you be back for dinner?”

  Cooper wondered what that answer meant. “I’ll be back by six. I promise.”

  With the teenagers trudging back up the beach with less pep in their steps than had been there earlier, talk returned to their current caseload.

  “Why would Ibrahim put a fake entry in the diary?” asked Tennessee. “Did he want Fletcher to think he was meeting Hanson?”

  “I don’t think he did. I think someone just wanted it to look like Ibrahim wrote it,” Martin said.

  Cooper wrinkled her nose, and for a second, she resembled a bunny rabbit. “Perhaps it’s neither. The killer might have written that entry in to throw our attention on to Hanson but didn’t take the time, or have enough time, to mimic Fletcher’s handwriting that closely.”

  Keaton picked up a handful of sand and let it filter through her fingers. “You don’t think Ibrahim was working for the Roker Boys on the side, do you? Perhaps he put the entry in the diary on their orders but ended up getting killed himself.”

  “To leave no witnesses?” Martin added.

  “That’s really the only explanation we’d have for the Roker Boys gaining access to Morshaw,” Cooper replied. “Even without the armed guard, the place was well protected. High walls, electronic gates, dogs, cameras…”

  Keaton continued to play with the sand. “We should collect handwriting samples from the family.”

  Cooper nodded. “I want authentic samples. Things they’ve written at home when they’ve been relaxed, without a detective looking over their shoulders. When the SOCOs are finished with the house, we’ll have a mooch around and look for notepads, shopping lists, diaries. Anything like that.”

  Everyone agreed.

  “Tennessee, what did you get from the bars? And you said you wanted to rule Hazel Blackburn out?”

  Tennessee finished a mouthful of fish and cleared his throat.

  “Yeah. She’s still in Spain. The receptionist recalls seeing her each morning for breakfast. Now it’s possible to fly to Newcastle, murder two people and fly back to Spain in the course of a day, but it’s a long shot. Also, she’s shorter than Charlene, and I don’t see how she’d get past the guard after what Lily told us.”

  “Fair enough,” Cooper said. “What about the bars?”

  “I don’t know who the owners are more frightened of, us, or the Blackburns. Probably the Blackburns to be honest. I spent most of the morning trying to get them to admit that they were being extorted let alone tell me when they last saw Fletcher or Dylan.” He pulled his notepad from his pocket and flicked the pages around a spiral wire until he found the information he was after. “Fletcher got to Feisty’s first. The owner, Misha Rudd, told me he got there at quarter past twelve on Monday. He didn’t hang around and was out the door as soon as he had his cash.”

  Cooper nodded. She knew Feisty’s and its owner from a troubling case she’d worked earlier in the year. A case that saw her having to arrest her own colleague.

  “Approximately ten minutes later, he was at the Silver Mirror. It’s a pole dancing club. Fletcher bought one of the girls a drink and stayed for a while. The girl’s called Sarah Lewis but goes by Sasha. She says he was a gentleman and left her a fifty quid tip. Doesn’t recall seeing anyone going by Ibrahim’s description. He may have waited in the car, might have been watching the exits. Who knows. It was twenty past one when he got to LOL. It’s a nineties theme bar. The manager said Fletcher was looking a bit peaky but otherwise didn’t have anything to report.”

  “What did she mean by peaky?” Cooper asked. “Nervous? Ill?”

  “I asked, but she couldn’t really say. Said she’d met him a handful of times and he’d always come across as a strong, larger than life character, but on Monday he didn’t seem himself. It was about twenty to two when he got to Vixen. Vixen calls itself a gentlemen’s club, but it’s just another strip joint. Aleksei Pavlovich, the owner, said he introduced Fletcher to a redhead named Darcy Houston. He and Darcy flirted for a while but then his mood shifted and he wanted to leave. He got his money and left.”

 
Cooper raised a brow. “She turned him down?”

  “Perhaps. I haven’t spoken to her yet. After that… I’m at a loss because Fletcher didn’t make it to McDermott’s or Bambi Bar.”

  “I wonder why?” Cooper pondered out loud while Keaton and Martin scrunched up the rubbish from their fish and chips into a ball. “Something made him go home. Did he get a call to lure him back to Morshaw?”

  “I’ll get onto the phone companies,” Keaton offered.

  “Thanks, Paula. And while you’re at it, find out where Hanson actually was. You and Martin go and have a chat with him. Tell him we know there’s a gap in his alibi that coincides with the time Fletcher’s movements became unaccounted for. He can either tell us what the bloody hell he was up to, or we can arrest him for murder—his choice. Tennessee, we’ll head back to Budle Bay and speak with George Blackburn. He’s the only immediate family we haven’t really spoken to yet.”

  Tennessee nodded. “And Theo. We should speak to him.”

  Cooper agreed. “And won’t that be something to look forward to?”

  “Like a hole in the head.”

  - Chapter 16 -

  Tennessee used the drive to Budle Bay as an opportunity to call his wife, Hayley, and check in on her and little baby Alfie. Cooper couldn’t hear Hayley’s half of the conversation, but she picked up a happier tone to her voice than she’d heard of late. It was a good sign. Hayley put Alfie on the phone to speak, or gurgle, to his Dad and Tennessee sang a number of nursery rhymes to his son while he and Cooper zipped through the Northumbrian countryside. When they arrived at the Blackburns’ barn conversation, they found Lily in the garden reading a copy of Marie Claire. She cut a stylish figure in a pair of bug-eyed shades, skinny jeans and a floaty, bat-wing jumper. Inspired by Tennessee’s concern for his loved ones, Cooper sent a quick text to her mother. How’s Dad?

  Lily lowered her shades for the briefest of seconds and asked, “Where’s Charlene? Why are you still holding her?”