Northern Roulette (DCI Cooper Book 4) Page 3

  “Do you want something to eat?” Tina asked as they wandered through duty-free. The store was an assault on the senses. Between lighting designed to make everything sparkle, joyful music to inspire the holiday spirit and customers testing every brand of perfume and aftershave, Cooper was surprised Tina hadn’t made a run for it.

  Cooper shook her head and took a seat in the departure lounge near the bureau de change.

  Tina was about to sit next to her when an affectionate, white-haired couple shuffled towards them. The shorter man used a cane, and Tina nodded towards the seats to indicate he and his partner could take the only remaining seats in the area. She stood awkwardly in front of Cooper and clutched the shoulder strap of her bag to her chest. “Bagel, then? Or a Danish? They have giant Toblerones in the gift shop.”

  “No, I’m fine, but here’s my card. If you want a giant Toblerone, go get a giant Toblerone.”

  Tina huffed and checked her phone. “I don’t want a giant Toblerone; I want you to eat something.”

  “I have.”

  “You’re such a liar.” The two men glanced in their direction. “You didn’t eat last night, and you didn’t eat this morning.”

  “Tina…” Cooper’s eyes narrowed on a television as the latest headlines scrolled across the bottom of the screen. Isle of Wight given UNESCO biosphere reserve status. Body hidden in sandcastle confirmed as female. Met Office records hottest June temperatures in forty years.

  “Don’t Tina me like I’m being some sort of pest. Do you think, in all honesty, I didn’t notice how skinny you got when you had cancer? Do you think I didn’t notice how you lost weight after you were held by that madman? Not eating is what you do.”

  The men shuffled, suddenly becoming fascinated by something on the floor.

  Tina was right; she usually was. Little smart arse. Cooper acknowledged she was being selfish with her grief. Yes, she had lost a father, but her daughter had lost a grandfather. She shouldn’t have to worry about her mother on top of everything else. Still, Cooper was in a dire slump, one she had no idea how to escape. She knew she should have booked an earlier flight and handed the Blackburn case to another senior detective. But she didn’t. Her stubbornness at wanting to wrap up the double murder had meant sticking around in the northeast. She should have been on the first flight after she heard her father was having chest pains. That was what a good daughter would have done.

  It was sunny outside the terminal. Light beams filtered through floor-to-ceiling windows, offering travellers an unobstructed view of the runway. Around her, happy families were excited about their summer holidays. Children pulled miniature suitcases designed to look like pets. Adults packed into the bar for a pre-flight drink despite the early hour and inflated prices. Cooper knew she should already be in the Canaries, and yet, she was ashamed to acknowledge that part of her wanted to be back in CID.

  They’ll be fine without you; your daughter and mother might not be.

  Tina’s phone beeped. She glanced at it and a tiny smile formed on her lips. She quickly buried the phone back in her shoulder bag and pushed a mop of untamed hair from her face.

  “A coffee then?” Tina asked with raised eyebrows and no joy in her voice.

  Cooper barely heard her. “No.”

  “Tea?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Wine? Beer?”

  She shook her head, her mind already two thousand miles away in the Canaries.

  “Absinth? MDMA?”

  “No— No, wait. How do you know what MDMA is?”

  “I’m fifteen. I might be an awkward weirdo who can count her friends on her left hand and still have a finger spare, but that doesn’t mean I live under a fucking rock.”

  Cooper clenched her jaw and shot a warning look at a tweed-clad man who tutted as he passed. “Please don’t swear at me, Tina. I’m struggling here.”

  Tina’s phone beeped again. She stole a sneaky look, her cheeks flushing slightly. “We both are,” she said, “but in case you hadn’t noticed, only one of us is being present, and it’s the one who’s predisposed to living in her own head. So, I’ll stop swearing when you start fucking eating.”

  - Chapter 7 -

  Forensic pathologist, Margot Swanson, should have been in the Lake District. She should be waking up in Tony’s youthful arms and enjoying a morning quickie before room service delivered their breakfast. She should be filling a flask with coffee and donning her hiking boots for a trip up Fleetwith Pike, an imposing hill that towered over the Buttermere Valley. Instead, she was securing a plastic apron over her scrubs and preparing to examine the latest Jane Doe to be referred by the coroner.

  Tennessee remained behind the viewing window. He looked the same shade of green that he usually did during these situations. What was it about men that made them so much more squeamish than women? Yes, they were bigger on average, stronger on average, saw more war and went into more dangerous professions, but cut your head open or dare to mention the menstrual cycle, and the delicate things fell apart. She unzipped the body bag, checked the serial number on the toe tag and looked across at the viewing window. When she blew a kiss at the striking DS, he looked at the floor and ran a hand over the back of his neck. She really should stop playing with the poor boy.

  The corpse was in relatively good condition, considering it was, well, a corpse. Taking fingerprints was simply a matter of rolling ink over the tips of the fingers and pressing them onto the specialised piece of card. In more gruesome cases, Margot had to remove the skin from the hand and place it over her own glove to perform the same task. Now that was something worth becoming peaky over.

  As she walked around the table to repeat the same task on the deceased’s other hand, she waved an arm towards the viewing window.

  “You might want to come in here. She has something in her hand.”

  Tennessee pulled a face like he’d rather step into the bowels of hell. “Come on, sweetheart,” she said, addressing the body rather than Tennessee. “Let me see what you have there.”

  Her fingers were stiff with rigor mortis and had to be prised open, confirming Margot’s suspicions that she hadn’t been dead all that long.

  “Rigor mortis disappears between twenty-four and thirty-six hours after death depending on how fast the actin-myosin complex starts disintegrating.”

  Tennessee hovered by the door and nodded as if he understood what she had just said.

  “It’s a piece of material,” she said, extracting it from the woman’s grip with a pair of tweezers. She held it to the light and peered at the wee scrap of synthetic fabric. It was patterned yellow and green and was very thin, the light shining through it easily.

  “Was that taken from the attacker?” Tennessee asked.

  “How would I know?”

  “Of course,” he faltered. “Sorry.”

  “Relax, Jack. It might well have been.” She bent over and examined the woman’s fingernails, using the tweezers to remove a single strand of green fibre. “It does look like she’s ripped this from a larger piece. It might well have been her assailant’s attire. But I’d say finding out falls into your remit.”

  Margot placed the scrap of fabric and the fibre into evidence bags and labelled them. Next, she carefully removed the women’s clothing so she could begin the external examination.

  “Extensive bruising to the ribs. Appendectomy scar. Bruising to both wrists. Treble clef tattoo on left hip.” Slowly, she turned the body so she could view the posterior. “Widespread abrasions on the backs of the heels and both calves. Potentially road rash, and would suggest she was dragged with her feet trailing. Livor mortis matches the position the body was found in: lying on the back with legs raised. Discolouration obscures bruising to the lower back. Significant impact to the back of the head, one centimetre above the occipital bone.”

  “Cause of death?”

  Margot stepped back from the table. “Well, it’s not suicide or misadventure, Jack. As a rule, people don’t bury t
heir own bodies.”

  He ignored her sarcasm. “Homicide by blunt force trauma?”

  “Hold your horses.” Margot turned the Jane Doe so she was face-up again. “I know you’re keen to get out of here, but I’m just getting started.”

  Tennessee tried not to watch as Margot went about her business. Behind Margot, several posters were fixed to the wall. Most of them were about sanitation and preventing cross-contamination; one poster was of Harry Styles – Topless Harry Styles. Tennessee read all the posters that didn’t concern One Direction twice. Meanwhile, Margot took urine, blood and bile samples. When she removed the woman’s heart and weighed it on a set of scales that looked suspiciously similar to the ones in his kitchen, Tennessee distracted himself by examining the piece of cloth in the evidence bag. It seemed familiar somehow.

  “Hmm.” Margot was frowning. She removed the lungs and placed them on a clean, polished surface. With surgical precision, she opened them up to reveal the bronchi and bronchioles. She took some samples to send to histology but took another thin sliver to place on a glass slide. She put the slide on a microscope’s stage and switched to a high powered lens before peering through the eyepiece. She turned a dial to bring the image into focus. “I had a hunch.”

  Tennessee put the evidence bag down so he could focus on Margot. She seemed concerned.

  “Cause of death is homicide due to suffocation as a result of occlusion of the respiratory tract by sand.”

  Tennessee squinted at her. “In English?”

  Margot’s face creased with disgust. “Jack, she’s aspirated sand particles deep into her air passages. I’m afraid to say this woman was buried alive.”

  - Chapter 8 -

  The flight was fully booked. Cooper could tell just by looking about the gate. Once those requiring assistance and those with priority boarding had descended the steps from the terminal to the tarmac, it was time for passengers travelling with young children. A couple, whose child was taller than Cooper, approached but were told to sit back down. Nice try. Finally, it was time for the masses to queue, show their boarding cards and dither over whether they should take the stairs to the front of the plane or the ones to the rear. Cooper wondered why everyone looked so grouchy. They can’t all be in mourning. But airports, even ones that run as smoothly as Newcastle, had a habit of making people tetchy. Perhaps it was the pre-breakfast alcohol.

  They took the stairs at the plane’s rear and had to jostle to get past people fighting for space in the overhead luggage containers. A burly man in a leather jacket was already being threatened with disembarkation after giving a flight attendant some backchat. Others darted back and forth across the aisle, swapping seats and passing hard-boiled sweets.

  Cooper took her seat. An older lady and her word search book had the window seat, Cooper took the middle one, and Tina plonked herself next to the aisle. Though entirely at ease in a mosh pit, Cooper felt uncomfortably claustrophobic. Her daughter, who was never good in large crowds, was probably finding it excruciating. However, Cooper and Tina were still frosty with each other after her earlier swearing. People cope with grief and guilt in different ways, and whilst Cooper wished she and her daughter could hug it out all the way to Lanzarote, it appeared they would be spending the flight in polite but awkward silence.

  Tina pulled a heavy-looking textbook from her bag. It was a good job the airline hadn’t weighed their hand luggage because Cooper suspected that the chemistry book weighed in the region of three kilos alone. Who knew how many other books she had packed. Tina turned to a page she had marked with pink Post-it note, pulled her uncombed hair into a top knot and busied herself in the nitration reaction of phenyl to produce paracetamol.

  Cooper hardly gave any regard to the air steward as he read out the pre-flight safety information over the tannoy. A few rows in front, another steward relished having the attention of most of the plane on him as he demonstrated how to put on a life vest and use a whistle. Cooper’s eyes turned away so she could gaze past her neighbour out of the window. She thought of a happier time, not that the expression on her face would ever reveal that.

  She remembered being thirteen years old, on a trip to New York with her parents. She had almost fallen asleep – in fact, she had fallen asleep – during the off-broadway show her parents had taken her to. They loved the long monologues and a script that felt like the author had swallowed a thesaurus. But afterwards, when they’d gone to the Hard Rock Café, Cooper had been absolutely enthralled by the memorabilia belonging to some of her favourite bands and artists. Some handwritten Jimi Hendrix lyrics caused her to drool more than she had over the humongous ice cream sundae she’d ordered. Despite a sign asking her not to, she reached out and stroked a green Motto Guzzi motorbike once owned by Billy Joel. She’d whispered how one day she would have a motorbike, only to have to listen to her mother perform a twenty-minute monologue of her own about how no self-respecting person would be seen on one. Those monstrosities are for men having a midlife crisis or those with a death wish. Cooper was in her thirties, approaching mid-thirties to be precise; a midlife crisis was still a long way off.

  They hadn’t been in the air forty minutes when turbulence struck. This wasn’t the slightly annoying sort of turbulence that made plastic glasses of wine judder on the fold-down tables. This was the sort of turbulence that meant passengers were confined to their seats while nervous-looking crew members staggered up and down the aisle catching luggage as it fell out of the overhead compartments. While Tina’s main concern was not vomiting everywhere, Cooper’s concern was that the flight would be diverted and she would be further delayed from being with her bereaved mother. Tina brought a hand to her mouth, unbuckled her seat belt and stood to go to the bathroom. Her backside was only a few inches from the seat when she stumbled and fell back into it, half landing on her mother.

  “Please stay in your seat, ma’am,” called a flight attendant with a wonky nose.

  Tina, who always complied with authority and never wanted to cause a fuss, did as she was told. Cooper, who never had much of a problem challenging authority, and who couldn’t stand to see her daughter suffering from motion sickness, was about to lay into the man when Tina’s first bout of sickness exploded from her mouth.

  Some of it went on the back of the seat in front of her. Most of it went on the air steward.

  Cooper pulled a sick bag from the net and handed it to Tina.

  “It’s okay, T.”

  “My book.”

  “Don’t worry about your book. It’ll wipe clean. I promise.” She rubbed Tina’s back, feeling it shudder as a fresh wave of sickness overcame her.

  Around them, people covered their noses at the acrid smell of stomach acid. Hopefully, no one else was going to vomit. Still, if they did, Cooper hoped they’d follow Tina’s example and puke on anyone who got between them and the toilet bowl.

  - Chapter 9 -

  It may have been Sunday lunchtime, but Tennessee was back in CID. If murderers couldn’t stick to a nine to five, Monday to Friday schedule, neither could the police. He checked the time; Cooper’s flight wouldn’t have landed yet.

  It was a clear and blustery day, and Tennessee’s family had ventured out for some fresh air without him. Understandably, they wanted to stay away from the beaches after the events of yesterday. They were heading south of the Tyne for a stroll around Thornley Woods and a walk along the riverbank. A family man, Tennessee, longed to be with them. He knew how vital nature and fresh air were to his wife since her diagnosis with postpartum depression. It was important for all of them. Since moving in with him and Hayley, Pat – Hayley’s mum – had been more active, helping with the baby and coming out on family walks. As a result, she’d lost weight, and the arthritis in her knees had improved. Even baby Alfie was reaping the benefits of time outdoors. He always slept better after a big day out.

  Meanwhile, Tennessee was confined to fluorescent lighting, linoleum flooring and cheap plastic chairs. He was about to text Hayley a
nd ask her to take some photos of Alfie while they were in the woods when a voice barked behind him.

  “Daniel.” It was the authoritative tone of Chief Superintendent Howard Nixon. “A word.”

  Tennessee shuddered. Here we go, he thought. He was too young; he was too inexperienced. The case was going to be handed over to someone else. With head bowed, he entered Nixon’s office and waited for permission to sit down. Permission never came.

  “Congratulations on your performance yesterday, DS Daniel.”

  Jack stood up a little taller. “Thank you, sir. Though full credit should go to my teammates, DCI Cooper and DS Keaton. It was DCI Cooper who had the tough job of the open water swim. She got us off to such as great start, and as for DS Keaton, we all know how seriously she takes her fitness training, sir. I don’t think some of the blokes from Fire and Rescue appreciated being overtaken—”

  “I appreciate your modesty DS Daniel, but I was referring to your work after the triathlon.”

  “Oh.” Could it be? A compliment from the man himself? Stranger things had happened.

  “Your quick thinking, decisiveness, and leadership did not go unnoticed, Daniel. During DCI Cooper’s absence, you will be acting SIO.”

  He could hardly believe it. This was what he wanted. This was what he had trained for. But, now that the time had come, the thought of doing it without Cooper filled him with dread.

  “I won’t let you down, sir. “

  Nixon took a sip of coffee that looked like creosote and looked up at Tennessee. “That being said, I will be watching you like a hawk. Every move you make. Every HOLMES2 update. Every action, every interview, every time you stop to take a shit. If I get the slightest whiff this is too much for you, I will hand the reins over to someone more senior.”

  Nixon smiled to himself once Tennessee left the room. His super had given him almost the same speech when he had his first SIO gig on a murder case. Of course, back then, it was HOLMES, not HOLMES2. Nixon was one of only a few people left in the department who remembered life before the new and improved system. The thought of using a computer back then had him snorting with frustration. Damn things would crash right when you needed them the most, and he had the sort of finger dexterity that meant it took him an age to type a simple report. He had always been old before his time and never enjoyed using a keyboard when a pen and paper would do. He didn’t think about it too much these days. He knew forces had come to rely on HOLMES2, especially as it overcame the difficulties associated with the original version – that it could actually function across police force boundaries.