Roll The Dice (DCI Cooper Book 3)

by B Baskerville

  Her phone rang while it was still in Cooper’s hand, and a quick glance at the screen told her it was Elliot Whyte. For a brief moment, she considered ignoring the call, but that wouldn’t be appropriate. That was something Whyte would do. Instead, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes as she answered.

  “Ma’am.” To Cooper’s relief, it was Saffron Boyd on the other end of the call. “Sorry. We’re just across the road from the Hanson residence.”

  “What’s the latest?”

  “He’s been cool as a cucumber all day. Even after Keaton showed up at the hospital to question him.”

  Cooper suspected there was a but coming.

  “But…” There it was. “He’s just blown his top.”

  “Why?” Cooper asked, sipping her Estrella and wondering if she was going to be called away from her beer and hotpot.

  “Sorry, ma’am, no idea. We can see in his living room. The shutters are open. His phone rang a minute or so ago, and something’s set him off. He’s angry, like apoplectic with rage. Pacing back and forth. We couldn’t hear what he was yelling from here, but he’s properly pissed.”

  “Thanks, Saffron. I’m guessing word just got to him about the attack in Frankland last night. Can you and Whyte stick to him until nine? Let me know if he goes anywhere. I’ll arrange for someone to replace you for the nightshift.”

  Boyd agreed and hung up. She called dispatch to have some plainclothes officers ready to replace Boyd and Whyte later that evening then checked the landline for any messages. There was just the one.

  “Ms Cooper. This is Gus Laing from Redheugh Solicitors. Our client, Kenneth Roberts, has asked us to reach out to you regarding visitation rights with his daughter.”

  Cooper’s heart felt like it had stopped. She’d had a restraining order slapped on Kenny within twenty-four hours of his arrest. He couldn’t come within a hundred feet of her or make contact with her by phone, text or email. Sadly, those rules didn’t extend to his lawyer. Cooper listened to the rest of the message then spotted the time it had come in: five-thirty. Tina must have heard the message. Did that explain the dourness in her voice? Perhaps. Whilst Kenny had never made Tina feel uncomfortable in his care, Tina felt betrayed by him. She’d let him into her life, bonded with him and finally formed a father-daughter relationship. Then one night this spring, Tina and Josh overheard Cooper yelling and came running down the stairs just as she was phoning the police.

  The timer on the oven showed there was still at least thirty minutes until dinner was ready. Cooper took a long sip of beer to calm her nerves—Kenny had a way of making her skin crawl—and opened her laptop. She had research to be getting on with. She began with a simple Google search on digoxin. It didn’t take long before she found that digoxin and digitalis were derived from foxgloves.

  “All parts of the foxglove plant are poisonous,” she read out loud. “Symptoms of foxglove poisoning include visual disturbances, headaches, nausea, vomiting and diarrhoea. Muscle weakness and tremors.” If someone had been trying to poison Fletcher Blackburn, had they become impatient and shot him instead? Cooper hadn’t spent long at Morshaw Manor and struggled to remember what plants were in the garden and surrounding flowerbeds. She swallowed her pride and called Justin Atkinson.

  “Erica? Is everything okay?”

  He sounded concerned. He still cares, even after you treated him the way you did.

  “I’m okay, Justin. Sorry for disturbing you. It’s actually a work thing.” She listened for any sign of disappointment but could only hear the rattle of cutlery and din of chatter. He was in a restaurant.

  “Oh. All right, go on.”

  “I spoke to Margot earlier, and she thinks Fletcher was poisoned. Digoxin.”

  “Foxgloves?”

  “Yes.” His intellect never ceased to amaze her. In the background, a female voice asked if he wanted a top-up. You didn’t need to be a detective to work out that he was having dinner with Veronica Rogers. Again.

  “Small doses over a long period of time lead to hallucinations. People who have ingested it report yellow halos and their vision can become tinted as if wearing yellow glasses. There’s actually a hypothesis about Van Gough using digitalis, and that’s why a lot of his paintings have a yellow hue to them.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. It’s quite evident in Starry Night and The Night Café.”

  Cooper suspected Atkinson was enjoying the chance to discuss art. She typed The Night Café into Google and had to agree with the theory. There was an abundance of yellow in the oil painting. The felt of the billiard table was chartreuse in colour and around the ceiling lights, dabs of yellow in concentric circles implied dancing, golden halos.

  “Listen,” she continued. “You’ve spent more time at Morshaw than I have.”

  “And you’re wondering if foxgloves grow in the garden?”

  “I am.”

  “They do. Purple and white ones. You can see them from Fletcher’s office.”

  Cooper nodded though Atkinson couldn’t see. “Interesting.”

  “Very. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow. I have to go. Ronnie’s headed back to Manchester tomorrow morning, so the team wanted to take her out to dinner. I’m being anti-social.”

  The team. Cooper’s mood lifted. It wasn’t just the two of them, and even better, she was leaving.

  - Chapter 20 -

  Oliver Martin and Paula Keaton pulled up in the car park of a complex known as The Gate. The Gate housed a cinema, a casino and host of bars and restaurants. It wasn’t everyone’s idea of a good time, but Martin had met his first, and only, serious girlfriend there. In a German-themed pub named Wonderbar, no less. He’d always been shy around women and couldn’t believe his luck when this stunner approached him and began flirting. After a stein too many he said something about her wearing a Wonderbra in the Wonderbar and immediately regretted it. Luckily, Steph saw the funny side, and after making fun of him for ten minutes, she leant in and kissed him on the cheek. He’d been on cloud nine all night after that. He and Steph had a whirlwind nine months until she took her dream job in Australia and made it clear she didn’t expect him to go with her. Never mind.

  Keaton and Martin arrived at the cinema just as a couple of ushers were struggling to evict a group of teenagers for throwing popcorn. Keaton flashed her badge; the teenagers suddenly remembered they were upstanding citizens, straightened their backs, closed their mouths and left without further trouble.

  Keaton approached a tired-looking usher and asked to speak to a manager.

  “Can I ask what this is about?”

  Keaton didn’t beat around the bush. “A murder.”

  The colour seeped from the usher’s face, and she ran off in search of a supervisor. Keaton smirked.

  It didn’t take long for the shift manager to introduce himself and find evidence of George Blackburn having been at the cinema on Monday. He had a booking reference for the four-thirty showing under G Blackburn and the cameras caught him and a slender woman with strawberry blonde hair arriving at four-twenty.

  “One down,” Martin said. “How about we split up and save ourselves some time? I’ll take the restaurant; you can take the beauty retreat?”

  Keaton stared at him.

  “What?”

  Still, she said nothing.

  “Fine,” Martin sighed. “I’ll go to the beautician’s.”

  “Good boy. Now, remember you’re there on official business. If you want HD brows or lip fillers do it on your own time.”

  If he didn’t know that being taken the piss out of at every opportunity was part of the job and that Keaton had a heart of gold under all that muscle, he’d probably hate her. As it was, he thought she was ace.

  “I’ll bring you back a price list,” he joked as he walked away. “I know how you like to look after your nails.”

  Martin didn’t turn around to check, but he was sure Keaton would be flipping one nail in particular in his direction.

  Rac
hel’s Beauty Retreat was tucked away on Pilgrim Street in the heart of the city centre. Martin climbed a set of stairs and was transported from a dusty street suffering under the exhaust fumes of countless busses to an island paradise. Tropical ferns, which may or may not be plastic, filled every spare inch of floor space. Murals depicted sunny beaches and crystal water. Sounds of waterfalls and birdsong filled the room, and there was a heavenly scent of sandalwood and vanilla. A popping noise caught Martin’s attention. Two young women were being served glasses of Champagne while they waited for their treatments. Behind them, Martin spotted a massage table in an empty treatment room. Tempting. Very tempting.

  “Good evening, welcome to Rachel’s Beauty Retreat. Do you have an appointment?”

  Wow, she was beautiful. Sunkissed skin, shiny hair and lashes that were too long to be natural but not so long they looked fake. Pretty freckles, light brown hair, cupid’s bow lips. She looked... just like Saffron Boyd. He knew he had a thing for the new member of the team. He’d felt it the second he’d laid eyes on her. But what would she want with someone like him? He wasn’t experienced; he’d only had one proper relationship. Nor was he in a position of power, which was her thing, apparently. He still lived with his parents, and with the rate at which he was managing to save for a deposit on his own home, he would be living with them for some time.

  “Hello. No, I don’t have an appointment—”

  “Well we are open until nine and can squeeze in a few walk-ins. Were you after a teeth whitening treatment?”

  What was wrong with his teeth? “No. I’m here about Lily Blackburn.” He showed her his badge.

  She gasped. “Wasn’t it awful what happened? Poor Lily.”

  “Yes. It’s very unfortunate. I was hoping you could help me with something... No, not my teeth... I want to know if Lily was working on Monday.”

  “Oh, well, that’s easy.” She swiped left on an iPad, tapped her finger on the top left corner and seconds later a printer spat out what looked like a timetable. “This week’s shifts and appointments,” she explained.

  She placed the sheet of paper on her desk and ran her finger down a column. “Here we are. Yes, Lily was in on Monday. She had clients from eleven until three-thirty.”

  “Thank you…erm?”

  “Peyton.”

  “Thank you, Peyton. Could I have this?” Martin asked, picking up the timetable.

  “Sure. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  His eyes went to the massage table again. Keaton would kill him if he kept her waiting. “No, thank you. Maybe next time.”

  Back out on Pilgrim Street, Martin found himself craving the birdsong and sandalwood of the spa. He arrived back at Keaton’s car just as she did. She was carrying a large paper bag.

  “Everything check out?” she asked, pressing a button on her key fob to unlock the car.

  “She was working. What about the restaurant?”

  “CCTV. They arrived at three-fifteen. He had chicken katsu; she had firecracker prawns.”

  A loud noise grumbled out of Martin’s stomach. “You’re making me hungry.”

  Keaton opened the paper bag and tossed a smaller bag in his direction. “Good job I got you some steamed buns.”

  Ace. He thought Keaton was ace.

  * * *

  Tina’s hotpot had done the trick. There was something about warm, comfort food that never failed to elevate Cooper’s mood. Even in the heat of a summer’s day, the best meals were the same ones Cooper craved in the dead of winter: hotpots, mince and dumplings, a vat of chilli, or a blow-your-head-off curry. Tina had remained quiet over dinner and hadn’t wanted to talk about her father, though she did say something about Josh and how he thought she should at least meet with Kenny to hear what he had to say. Cooper didn’t push it. She’d talk if and when she wanted to and hounding her wouldn’t help things. Cooper made herself a cup of herbal tea and headed up to bed. Her brain was awash with questions, thoughts and theories and she doubted she’d be able to switch off at any time soon. And it wasn’t just the case that was bothering her, it was the call from Kenny’s lawyer, Atkinson and Ronnie, Tina, her father, Whyte. The list went on.

  At midnight, Cooper gave up on her third attempt at counting backwards from three hundred as her way of falling asleep and instead turned to the Audible app. She downloaded an album entitled Hello Sleep and listened to the soothing tones of the narrator. He had her within an inch of drifting off when a memory forced its way into her consciousness.

  She was stood outside of North Shields Police Station, her long hair—for it was really long back then—danced in the wind. Across the road, two children and their father played on the swings in the play area, and a man walked by with five dachshunds. She remembered it like it was yesterday. Her shift had ended. She’d taken a moment to enjoy some fresh air after an afternoon dealing with a bunch of teens who smelled like a brewery. A brewery that had been dipped in sweat and rolled in tobacco.

  Whyte came jogging after her.

  “Hey. Wait up, Erica.”

  He had fewer lines in those days. Tanned from a recent holiday and with dark brows and a downturned nose, he reminded Cooper of a Roman soldier.

  “Listen, erm… It’s Friday and after a shift like that… I was going to nip to the Bell and Bucket.” He looked coy. “I wondered if I could buy you a drink.”

  It was a chilly evening, and the idea of a cool pint in a warm, old-fashioned pub appealed to her. Not to mention that socialising with people her own age would do her some good. She lived with a baby who couldn’t talk and a pensioner who did nothing but talk. But there lay the problem.

  “I’d love to,” she told him, “but I can’t tonight—”

  “Tomorrow?”

  Cooper tightened her coat around her. The wind was picking up. “I can’t tonight, or any night really. I have a little girl at home. My gran takes care of her while I’m at work, but I don’t think it’s fair if I leave her with her more than necessary.”

  His eyes widened. “You’re a mum?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But you’re…”

  “Young. I know.”

  He nodded. “Ah well, no harm in asking, was there? Maybe in the future?”

  Cooper nodded back. “Yeah, maybe.” It felt nice being asked out for a drink. Even if she couldn’t take him up on the offer.”

  They went their separate ways, with Whyte heading back into the station and Cooper beginning her walk home. She’d got about ten paces when she realised she’d forgotten her purse. Heading back into the station, her ears pricked up when she passed the break room and heard her name.

  “Whyte struck out! Shit, I had twenty quid on you. Right, who’s next?”

  “Jameson’s next.” It was Whyte’s voice.

  “That wet blanket? I’ll give him odds of fifty to one. Doesn’t stand a chance.”

  “None of us stand a chance.” It was Whyte again. “You know she’s got a bairn?”

  “Nee way?”

  “I’m telling ya. A baby girl apparently. Has to get home to breastfeed it or something.”

  “She’s only nineteen.”

  “I know.” There was a pause. “Slapper.”

  The break room exploded with laughter; every synonym for slapper was thrown about. Called such names because she hadn’t gone out with him. It was illogical, stupid, insulting, infuriating…

  “Tell you what, let’s all go to the Bucket. I’ll buy you a commiseration drink.”

  Cooper fled before they could see her. Tears in her eyes, she hid around the side of the building until their voices faded. Whyte had been her friend—she’d enjoyed her shifts with him—and he’d hit on her as part of some silly game of who-can-bed-the-new-girl. Cooper wiped her eyes and turned to walk home. The guys were a good thirty metres away when Whyte turned his head to glance back. He saw her crying. She could tell by his expression that he knew why, and yet he never apologised. Not once.

  Cooper rolled o
nto her other side and stopped the track from Hello Sleep. It was useless. She wasn’t going to sleep tonight. She might as well get her laptop and do some more research. See what she could dig up on the Roker Boys.

  She crept downstairs, poured a generous shot of whiskey into a tumbler and opened her laptop. Cooper had barely typed anything into the search bar when her eyes flicked to her phone. It had been switched to silent mode, but the screen was illuminated with an incoming call.

  “Dad?”

  “It’s me, dear.”

  “Mum?”

  There was silence, which was usual for two reasons: Julie Cooper filled almost every moment of silence with small talk; and, at this time of night, the bar would be noisy. She should hear gregarious ex-pats singing the theme to Only Fools and Horses, or pint glasses being collected in, or stag groups chanting Super Leeds, super Leeds, super Leeds United.

  “Mum? It’s gone midnight. What’s wrong?”

  “It’s your father, dear. His chest pains… I took him to the hospital, like you said, and… they got worse.”

  She stopped to blow her nose, and Cooper knew instinctively that something awful was coming. “Erica, he had a heart attack.”

  - Chapter 21 -

  The first thing Cooper noticed when she entered the incident room on Thursday morning was a foil tray scattered with dark brown crumbs. Someone had brought in chocolate cake, and the gannets had demolished it before the clock had struck eight. The second thing she noticed was the huddle of men and women, some suits, some uniforms, gathered around Paula Keaton. She was sat at a table holding court.

  “Silk scarves? Ooh, kinky!” Cooper heard someone say.

  Curiosity got the better of her, and she forced a gap between a young uniform and Tennessee to take a look at Keaton’s notes from her interview with Natasha Cleveland. “French maid’s outfit?” she asked, eyebrows peaked. “A little cliché?”

  “Keep reading,” Keaton urged.