Roll The Dice (DCI Cooper Book 3) Read online

  ROLL THE DICE

  B. BASKERVILLE

  Copyright © B. Baskerville 2020

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted without the written

  permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons is coincidental.

  Cover design copyright © B. Baskerville 2020

  - Chapter 1 -

  The yew tree is a complicated plant. To some, a symbol of immortality; to others, an omen of doom. This is a tree that lives so long it must endure nine hundred years to earn the title of ancient. There are yew trees in England that took root in Neolithic times, and yet the Romans believed they grew in hell.

  Harbingers of death, yew trees are associated with churchyards, the plague, and the longbow. The longbow, England’s traditional weapon of choice, was almost exclusively made from yew and was responsible for ending lives from the Bronze Age to the Battle of Flodden.

  It made sense that such a tree would grow in the grounds of Fletcher Blackburn’s home, for he was a complicated man from a family whose roots, he was certain, began in hell.

  This past winter had been cruel to Fletcher’s old yew. It stood at the bottom of an expansive garden and cast almost no shadow now that the summer sun was high in the sky. Fletcher Blackburn didn’t know how old the yew was, but he knew it had survived two world wars and that his grandma had told him she’d climbed right to the very top when she was a wee whippersnapper. Granny Blackburn had passed on over twenty years ago. Still, the memory of being able to climb trees like a worry-free child must have seemed like another lifetime to the arthritic shell she’d become in her final years. So frail and isolated.

  Yes, winter had been cruel to the old tree, but not as cruel as this summer had been to Fletcher. He felt a great compassion for the yew, for he also knew what it felt like to be a shadow of one’s former self, to be weak and helpless after a lifetime of standing tall, to be a victim of a force he had not seen coming.

  In his early fifties and struggling to breathe, Fletcher didn’t feel like himself. He still saw himself as a strapping twenty-something, third in line to the Blackburn empire and feared by all who met him. He had been the omen of doom. But as time went on and he ascended the throne, the closer he was watched by the authorities and the fewer people he found he could trust. That was the cruelty of life; the more power you had, the less you could use it.

  They say lightning never strikes twice, but it had for the ancient yew, and it had for Fletcher Blackburn. The yew was scorched twice by lightning bolts during a terrible storm one violent night in January. Fletcher, however, had been hit twice by 10mm bullets fired from a Glock .29 less than a minute ago.

  Shot with his own gun. In his own study.

  Fletcher lay on the floor, his cheek pressed into the white carpet of his home office. His new wife had chosen the carpet. She’ll never get the stain out, he thought, blinking warily at the yew through a floor-to-ceiling window. The yew, along with the lawn and the flower beds, was tinted yellow. Did the world turn yellow for everyone on their death bed? Had it for Granny? He could feel blood oozing from his chest, his heart slowing, his breathing becoming laboured. His lungs were filling with blood, but he lacked the strength to cough it up. He could feel himself drowning. He didn’t have long.

  The sound of Mo’s standard-issue boots thundering through the hall was a comfort. Mo could handle this; he was armed and medically trained. The door swung open, but there was no sound as Mo checked the room. He moved slowly and silently with his weapon drawn. Reflected in the glass of the windowpane, Fletcher could see his attacker crouched under the desk, concealed from view. He tried to warn Mo. He began to speak but only spluttered blood. Mo crept further into the room, and a shot rang out. Mo fell, his body slamming to the floor like the yew’s branch had when it was severed by lightning. No one could help him now.

  Fletcher blinked again at the old yew. It was scorched and missing branches and its thick knotted trunk was split in two. But despite its injuries, the tree lived on. Blossom flowers had come and gone, and in a few months, the tree would produce tiny, red berries. The tree had outlived his grandparents and his parents, now it would outlive him. The symbol of immortality would endure. Fletcher Blackburn would not.

  - Chapter 2 -

  A diamond-white Mercedes convertible surged west on the B6431, a road that connects two of Northumberland’s most impressive buildings: Cragside Mansion and Alnwick Castle. To the west, the home of scientist and philanthropist, Lord Armstrong, was the first in the world to be lit using hydroelectric power. Amongst his many esteemed guests were the Shah of Persia and the King of Siam. To the east, Alnwick Castle has, for at least seven hundred years, been the home of the earls and dukes of Northumberland. Though, perhaps it is best known for featuring in the first two Harry Potter films.

  Between these two architectural masterpieces, lies another awe-inspiring building. Tucked away in dense woodland, where no one would think to look for it, Morshaw Manor has one foot in the past, one in the future. Constructed in 1901 and retaining many of its original features, Morshaw had been updated with the best in home security, from cameras and sensors to dogs and an armed guard. It was a fortress—or a prison—depending on who you asked.

  The convertible slowed as a junction approached. Two women, a blonde and a brunette, finished belting out the latest Mark Ronson hit. The wind tussled loose strands of the brunette’s wavy hair, and she fought to push them back behind her ears while the blonde concentrated on the road ahead.

  “Thanks again for dinner,” the brunette said, turning to face her step-mother who was at the wheel. “And the spa treatments.”

  “Thank you for suggesting it, Lily.” Charlene Blackburn turned the car off the main road and onto an unmarked trail that headed towards woodland.

  It was still a bright, sunny day, despite the clock reading seven forty-five. Darkness wouldn’t arrive until well after ten and the sky would lighten again before four. Long summer days were one of the best things about living in the north, thought Lily. They were up there with the endless beaches and the magnificent castles that dotted the landscape. Lily Blackburn was no fool; she knew everyone thought of her as a materialistic princess. Perhaps part of it was true. But beneath the gel nails, designer bags and influencer status, she was a home bird who loved her little corner of Northumberland.

  Charlene patted Lily’s knee, “It’s been nice to spend some time with you. I feel like we’ve been so busy; we’ve hardly had a chance to catch up.”

  Lily’s body stiffened. She had nothing against Charlene, but something inside her twisted whenever she tried to go into step-mother mode. She was not, and would never be, her mother. She was only five years older than her for Christ’s sake. Quite what her father saw in her, she’d never know. No, scratch that, she knew exactly what her father saw in Charlene. A bubbly demeanour, youthful complexion, and colossal tits. She was the polar opposite of Lily’s birth mother, not that Lily considered Hazel to be much of a mother either. Hazel left when Lily was emerging into adulthood. When she’d needed her most. Her parents divorced, Hazel moved to Turkey, and Lily was left at Morshaw Manor with only her dad and older brothers for company.

  Charlene may have sensed the change in Lily for she put her hand firmly back on the steering wheel. Pine-shaped shadows engulfed the car as they approached the edge of the wood. Charlene pressed a button on the dashboard, and the car’s roof began to move back into place. “How was your head massage?” she asked.

  “Heaven,” replied Lily, though her tone was flat. “And the salmon blini were to die for.”

  Charlene let out an or
gasmic groan. “Oh, the blinis were absolutely amazing, weren’t they?”

  “Blini,” corrected Lily. “One blin, two blini.”

  “Huh?” said Charline. “Well, you learn something new every day.”

  Charlene continued to waffle on about how gifted her masseuse was and about the quality of Kir Royale the hotel had served, but as the car was enveloped by woodland, Lily’s thoughts wandered beyond the trees to cloudless Antalya where she wondered if her birth mother would let her come and live with her. Even for just the winter.

  Morshaw Manor loomed in the distance, gloomy and ivy-covered. Charlene slowed the car as they approached a set of tall gates. A security system registered the number plate, and the gates automatically opened for the two Blackburn women. Lily’s eyes turned to the camera fixed on the gatepost. Usually, it would train on cars as they entered the property, but not today. Today, the camera remained stationary. Charlene parked the E-class cabriolet on the drive and lowered her brow. “Where’s Mo?” she asked, staring at the spot where her husband’s trusted security guard usually stood.

  “Maybe he’s on a break?”

  Charlene checked her watch. “It’s not prayer time.” She bit her lip and added, “Did you notice the camera didn’t move?”

  “Yeah,” Lily replied. “Like I said, Mo’s probably just on a break?” The brunette gracefully emerged from the car and began to stroll towards the manor, but the blonde remained hesitantly by her vehicle.

  “What if something’s happened?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like someone came looking for your dad? An associate or something?”

  There was something in the way Charlene said the word associate that made Lily pout and shake her head. “Dad runs a taxi firm and a chain of restaurants.”

  Charlene wavered again then murmured, “Sometimes you can be so naive.”

  “Look, if you’re feeling spooked, I can call Dylan.”

  “No,” Charlene snapped. Her eyes not moving from the front door. “Your brother’s resting. He won’t want us bothering him.”

  “You don’t have to flinch every time I say Dylan’s name, you know? He’s not a monster.” Though he might look like one, she added silently.

  Lily huffed and walked back towards Charlene, she linked her arm in that of her step-mother’s and walked her to the house. “I think you need something stronger than a Kir Royale. We’ll get our PJs on and I’ll fix us some brandies.” She pressed her thumb onto a fingerprint reader and waited for the click. “We can drink them in the back garden and see if the vixen and her cubs make an appearance.”

  Lily pushed open the front door to Morshaw Manor, but her hands immediately sprang back to cover her ears. Charlene’s scream pierced the air as she forced her way past Lily, skidding towards the door at the end of the hallway and the pool of blood that seeped out from under it.

  - Chapter 3 -

  Toponymy is the study of place names and their origins. In the United Kingdom, the suffix ham, as in Nottingham or Tottenham, refers to a farm. The suffix wick, as in Berwick or Keswick, represents a bay. The suffix shaw, as in Morshaw Manor, refers to woodland. This isn’t a surprise given the thick greenery surrounding the home, but more unsettling is the prefix mor, which depicts death. The Blackburns live in Death Woods.

  Lily couldn’t get to Charlene in time. All the colour drained from the smaller woman’s face as she raced along the hallway to the study door. Lily grabbed her hand just as she pulled open the door and the full horror of what lay within was revealed.

  “Mo! Oh, dear God. Mo! He’s been shot, Lily. He’s been shot. Look at him.”

  Mo’s Asian skin tone had faded to ashen and his eyes, though cloudy, were open and staring up at Lily. She shuddered and covered her mouth with her free hand. Blood had pooled from his chest, coating his white shirt with scarlet. There was blood under his head; his scarred fingers still wrapped around the grip of a handgun. The fabric of one trouser leg bunched up over his boot, revealing the lustrous titanium of a prosthetic leg.

  The room looked as if someone had taken a pot of red paint and thrown it around like Jackson Pollock. Blood covered the white carpet, seeping into its plush pile and staining it all shades of red from darkest burgundy to palest pink. It dribbled down the walls, speckled the window and painted the air with the sickly smell of copper.

  Charlene dived to Mo’s side and she touched his cheek. “Mo. Come on, Mo.” She pulled her jumper off and began pressing it onto the wound on Mo’s chest.

  Lily wrapped her arms around Charlene and heaved her back to her feet. “That’s not going to help. It’s too late.” Her voice shook as she added, “We shouldn’t touch anything. We should phone the police.”

  “Police?” Charlene laughed manically. “Police are not welcome in Fletcher Blackburn’s home.” As she spat the words, they became caught in her throat. “Where is Fletcher? FLETCHER?” she yelled to the ceiling. “FLETCHER?” Then they saw it. The body of the man they both loved lay lifeless and blood-soaked on the floor behind the desk. His head was turned to face the window and the garden he’d cared so much for. “Oh.”

  Charlene’s knees buckled, along with Lily’s, and they wailed into each other until a shadow formed over their shoulders. They turned to look, shaking as their eyes crept up the man of six-foot-four until they reached a face carved from a life of violence. His frame was imposing, and his aura suggested a man never to be crossed. His mouth formed a thin line as he looked around the room, then he slowly turned his gaze down to the two fragile women.

  * * *

  Detective Chief Inspector Erica Cooper was on her first real date in a long time. Lobo Rojo was buzzing. The Mexican restaurant on the fish quay of North Shields was alive with all manner of folk from groups of teens, to octogenarian couples, and every age in between. There was a hum of panting mouths as brave souls poured hot sauce on freshly prepared tacos and deep sighs as chilled margaritas soothed fiery tongues.

  “How’s the fish?” asked the man sat opposite Cooper. On paper, he should have been perfect for her.

  “It’s great,” Cooper answered, dabbing her mouth with a napkin and taking another look at her date.

  Olly Timms, at thirty-six, was close in age to Cooper. He worked as a lawyer in the city-centre and owned a semi-detached in Gosforth. Guardian of domestic abuse victims, Olly specialised in defending women who killed in self-defence and assisted in divorces where one party used or threatened violence against the other. A lot of his work was pro bono; the rest of the time he charged a fortune. He was intelligent, a fan of metal music, and he was yet to make a derogatory comment about Cooper’s buzzcut.

  “Though, given its location,” continued Cooper, “if the fish was anything less than stellar it would be criminal.”

  Olly sipped a beer and nudged his knee against hers under the table. “Well, if you need to sue them… I know a good lawyer.” He gave a coy smile then corrected himself. “But you’ve probably got it covered.”

  Cooper inched her chair back so their knees wouldn’t touch. Olly was good looking. That was beyond doubt. With thick mahogany hair, cut into a professional style, and eyes so dark even the most hardened of people could get lost in them, he was a pretty boy. Cooper liked his looks, his taste in music and the fact he had an autistic younger brother whom he spoke so highly of. He was great, but there was one problem, and it was a major problem: he wasn’t Justin Atkinson.

  The truth pained her. She wasn’t over Atkinson and as long as that was the case, dating was a waste of everyone’s time.

  Cooper adjusted her weight. “Listen, Olly…”

  Her date’s face read like a book. Here we go.

  “Look, I’ve had a lovely time tonight but—”

  “Yeah, it’s not you, it’s me,” he said, making air quotes. “Heard it before. Except it’s usually bollocks.”

  “It’s not bollocks,” Cooper protested, taking a swig of Corona. “And it is actually me.” Before she could continu
e, her phone rang. She’d have thought, thank God, but she’d left it on full volume, causing the entire restaurant to turn and eyeball her. “It’s my boss,” she whispered apologetically. “Sir?”

  Cooper pressed her phone as hard as she could to her ear and jammed a finger in the other one to blot out the sounds of Mexican music, chatter and crockery. Detective Chief Superintendent Howard Nixon sounded worried. Something serious had happened. She got to her feet, mouthed Sorry, dropped two twenty-pound notes on the table and hurried from Lobo Rojo.

  * * *

  Justin Atkinson, one of the most senior scene of crime officers in the region, stood outside Morshaw Manor and checked his watch; it was gone half-ten. Dressed in a white overall and blue plastic booties, he pulled the hood on his fetching outfit down and relished the cooling night breeze on his forehead and cheeks.

  “Here.” Hong Evanstad, fellow SOCO, handed Atkinson a cup of coffee.

  “Thanks.” Atkinson thought of the time and asked, “Is this decaf?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You’re such a liar. I’ll never sleep if I drink caffeine at this hour.”

  Hong blew his floppy fringe from his forehead and eyed his superior. “You honestly think you’ll get to bed before lunchtime tomorrow?”

  He had a point.

  “Did you hear the latest?” Hong continued. “Seems we’re being Americanised. Can’t say I like it.”

  Atkinson shifted his weight to his other leg. The aches and pains from his pre-dawn run had kicked in and his legs were seizing up. Muscle soreness had never bothered him in his thirties; it had been more of a badge of honour then. If you weren’t sore, you hadn’t run fast enough. But lately, it wasn’t just his muscles that ached; his joints were feeling the strain. When had he become so old? He knew exactly when. It was the moment he’d broken up with Erica Cooper. She’d made him feel young, and without her, he was back to being a greying, forty-something, divorcé who lived to work rather than worked to live. “What do you mean Americanised?”