Cut the deck, p.1
Cut The Deck, page 1
part #1 of DCI Cooper Series
CUT THE DECK
B. BASKERVILLE
Copyright © B. Baskerville 2019
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 2019
“Hateful to me as the gates of Hades is that man
who hides one thing in his heart and speaks another.”
—Homer
- Chapter 1 -
Until last year, Rachel Pearson had never considered her own mortality. Now she thought about it twice a week, every week. The fifteen-year-old was attending yoga classes to rebuild her strength after an accident had left her with fractures to her C4 and C5 vertebrae. She’d been bed-bound for four months and the physiotherapy to get her walking again had been brutal.
Yoga class always ended in shavasana, or corpse pose. Twice a week, Rachel would lie on the yoga mat, exhausted, sweaty and frustrated. The old Rachel would find yoga tediously easy. The new Rachel struggled to stand on one leg.
“Empty your mind,” said the instructor, in one of those voices that was supposed to be soothing.
Rachel could never empty her mind in shavasana, instead she thought of the day she’d fallen and couldn’t get back up. It was the day Great Britain’s hot prospect for the next Olympics spectacularly dropped out of contention. Literally.
Rachel rolled up her mat, gathered her things and braced herself for the climb down the stairs.
“Take care, Rach. I’ll see you next session.”
Rachel tucked waist-length plaits down the back of her sweatshirt and waved over her shoulder. She rarely said a word to anyone at yoga; after all, what did she have in common with these women in their forties and fifties with cardio butts and incessant talk of daytime soaps and PTA meetings?
It was a bitterly cold night at Prior’s Haven. The little beach on the North Sea coast played host to Tynemouth’s rowing and sailing clubs. Rachel’s yoga class was held above the sailing club and it had the most beautiful views out into the mouth of the Tyne. The frosty ground cracked beneath Rachel’s feet as she made her way up the slope towards the main road. The first snowfall of the year had begun and snowflakes clung to the fur trim of her coat.
If Rachel Pearson had known tonight would be her last she would have stopped to appreciate the beauty of the thousands of stars twinkling above the North Sea. She would’ve called her parents and told them that she loved them. She would’ve called her boyfriend and forgiven him for the horrible things he’d said earlier. She would have stuck to the main road instead of taking a shortcut.
Rachel pushed headphones into her ears and selected a Christmas playlist. It was still November but as far as Rachel was concerned once Guy Fawkes night was out of the way Christmas tunes were fair game. She’d always loved anything festive and she was currently halfway through hand making Christmas cards for her friends and family. Standing at the crossroads between the steep bank up to Tynemouth village and a deserted, unlit car park, Rachel weighed up her options. It would take twenty minutes to walk home through Tynemouth village but eight minutes tops if she took the shortcut. She had promised her dad that she wouldn’t, but the sooner she got home the sooner she could shower, get into her pyjamas and finish her stupid biology assignment before calling Will to see if he was ready to apologise.
The shortcut won.
Rachel activated the torch on her phone and scanned it back and forth over the frosty ground as she carefully made her way across the car park. Despite the joyful music that made her bob her head and tap her candy-pink nails against the inside of her pocket, prickles ran down the back of Rachel’s neck. This route home always gave her the heebie-jeebies. Maybe it was the pitch black, maybe it was the chilling sea breeze, or maybe it was the unshakable suspicion that she was being followed.
A well-worn path connected the back of the car park to a large field that was dominated by the Collingwood Monument, a tribute to local-born Lord Collingwood, Nelson’s partner in the Napoleonic wars.
Rachel was careful of her footing where the ground changed from asphalt to mud. She dug her toes into the frosty ground and pushed herself through the narrow gap between the bushes. She couldn’t wait to get home and back into the warmth.
Baby, It’s Cold Outside began to play. She used to love this song as a little girl but the older she got the creepier it sounded. Rachel skipped the song. The lull in the music happened just in time to hear the crack of a twig behind her. It was not in time to stop the plastic bag from being pulled over her head.
- Chapter 2 -
Terry Parke shook his head at his wife.
“You’re stark raving mad. It’s brass monkeys today or haven’t you noticed?”
Gwen smiled at him as she removed her coat and jumper. He was right about the weather, and though she didn’t want to admit it, he was probably right about her; she was an absolute lunatic for wanting to go for a swim in the North Sea on a day like this. To be fair, she thought the same thing when she’d first seen Doris strip off and run straight into the sea wearing nothing but a polka dot bikini.
The Ageing Disgracefully club liked to meet every Wednesday morning come rain or shine and have a quick energising dip to boost endorphins and get the blood flowing. There were eight of them in total, all women, all in their sixties and seventies, and all of whom had husbands who thought they were completely bonkers.
Terry threw a tennis ball for his daft-as-a-brush Patterdale terrier and watched him shoot off across the beach, his tail wagging with every step. It was three below zero and even the sand was frosted over. Terry blew into his hands, desperately trying to warm them before shoving them deep into his pockets and walking in pursuit of the dog. The little dafty was more than happy to chase the ball but would never bring the damn thing back.
“Should’ve got a retriever,” mumbled Terry.
Behind him, Gwen was running gleefully towards the water’s edge, knees high, arms flailing, and all Terry’s favourite bits wobbling. Doris and the others were not far behind. He could hear their excited squeals as their feet touched the bracing North Sea for the first time that week. Only toddlers and women over forty could reach that pitch. Terry was surprised the terrier’s floppy ears hadn’t pricked up.
“Come on, Jasper. Get over here. Good boy. How’s about when your mother’s finished playing silly buggers we all pop to the cafe in the village and get ourselves a nice cup of tea and a bacon butty? Sound good lad?”
The terrier sat and wagged his tail. Terry was convinced the dog knew exactly what he was saying. He puffed out his breath and watched it condense in the icy air.
“Then it’s a deal. Bacon butties it is. Now FETCH!”
The dog hightailed it across Prior’s Haven, kicking up plumes of sand in his wake. Tennis ball in mouth, he turned and considered a return to his master only to become distracted by something in one of the sailing boats. Terry tutted, the boats should’ve been moved to storage for the winter, and in fairness, most of them had been. Some people, however, had more money than sense and had left the laser dinghies to face a north-eastern winter unprotected from the elements.
“Leave it, Jasper.”
The dog scurried up to the edge of the laser, his nose peering into the boat and his tail pointed rigid.
“Jasper, whatever it is, leave it alone ya daft mutt. Get your ball. Come on, for once in ya life fetch the damn ball.”
Wendy, the eldest member of the group, was out of the water now; the quick splash had been more than enough for her. She wrapped herself in a thick white towel and giggled as she watched her friends bounce in the gentle waves.
“Jasper, leave it! Honestly, I’ve never known a more disobedient dog.”
Terry huffed under his breath. He needed to get Gwen’s towel ready and pour her some coffee from his flask. Jasper had better not be nose deep in a dead seagull like he had been the last time. Disgusting flying rats. The mangy thing had been full of maggots.
Oh dear God. Terry fell over backwards and cursed as his behind hit the hard frozen sand. Dear God. He tried to yell but no sound escaped his lips. The girl was young, a teenager most likely, and thin, painfully thin. Her long spindly legs were pale and folded into the boat at such an angle she appeared knock-kneed. She wore shiny black stilettos but no trousers or skirt, just black undergarments. Above her waist she was dressed in a white, bloodstained shirt and a black blazer. Bizarrely, a top hat was perched jauntily atop her head, and a magic wand stuck out of her blazer pocket. Long, dark plaits that reached her waist were crossed over her chest. It took a while for Terry to notice that a white rabbit, its pink eyes foggy from death, had been tucked into the crook of her arm.
“Oh sweet Jesus,” he stammered, trying to push himself back to his feet. The scream finally came and he bellowed, “POLICE. We n-need to c-call the POLICE.”
Terry grabbed Jasper’s collar and pulled him into his chest.
“Terrence? Is everything all right?” called Doris. She shuffled out of the water, a goosebump-covered woman with rapidly reddening legs.
Gwen frowned and followed her friend. “What’s going on, Terry?”
Terry turned as eight shivering ladies in their swimwear plodded up the beach to see what all the fuss was about.
“Police you say?” asked Susan, who was rapidly approaching seventy. “What’s the fettle?”
Terry’s protective instincts kicked in. He had be
“No. NO!” He ran towards the ladies. “Don’t look. Please, Gwen.” His arms were extended and he tried in vain to shepherd the women away from the scene. “You don’t need to see that. You don’t need—”
“Holy Mary, mother of God.”
Gwen collapsed to her knees and sand clung to her damp, pink skin.
“Poor child. Poor, poor child.”
“Please, Gwen,” begged Terry. “Please get dry. Get dressed. There’s nothing we can do. The poor bairn—”
“CPR. Start CPR.” Susan’s voice was shrill - as high pitched as it had been only minutes earlier when she’d raced into the sea - only now it was with horror, not joy.
“She’s gone,” said Terry. He felt helpless, a feeling he was experiencing more and more since shifting to the wrong side of sixty-five. “Please darling, we can’t do anything… Oh Gwen, you’re turning blue. Please, you’ll catch your death.”
- CHAPTER 3 -
“But Mum.”
“But nothing, Tina. I said no and I mean no.”
Tina sighed. Her eyes were locked on her mother’s. She didn’t want to give an inch, didn’t want to back down.
“I’ll be in the spare room. Josh’s parents will be there.”
“It’s still a no, Tina.”
“You can call them. They’re called Reg and Lucy. They said it’s fine.”
“And I said it’s not. There’s no way on earth I am letting my fourteen-year-old crash at her boyfriend’s house. Spare room or not. Ask again in two years.”
Tina’s face crumpled. “Honestly, you are such a BITCH.” She stormed upstairs, slamming her bedroom door behind her.
DCI Erica Cooper closed her eyes. This was all she needed. In other homes, one parent would turn to the other for back up but this was a single parent household. Tina’s father had been nothing more than a monthly child support payment for twelve years. Two years ago he’d flounced back onto Tyneside after eight years in the south and four years in Qatar and had expected to instantly bond with his estranged daughter. Both Cooper and Tina had understandably been less than impressed at the idea but lately Tina had agreed to weekly visits.
Cooper heard Tina’s bedroom door creak on its hinges.
“It’s ‘cause I’m an aspie, isn’t it? If I was normal you’d let me.”
Cooper propped her elbows on the kitchen table and lowered her head into her hands. As much as she wanted to tell herself that Tina’s Asperger’s had nothing to do with this, it probably did. Her daughter wasn’t slow; in fact, the opposite was true. Academically, she was gifted and the term prodigy had been bandied about by more than one of Tina’s teachers. But Tina struggled to make friends and her longing for acceptance meant she was easily led. She’d do anything to fit in. Anything to be liked.
“Mum!”
“I heard you,” shouted Cooper. She hated talking through walls. “And one, no, it’s not because of your Asperger’s. Two, there’s no such thing as normal, and three, I’m not going to keep repeating myself. Come down and finish your breakfast.”
“I’m going to ask Dad.”
The door slammed shut again. Cooper took a deep breath and counted to ten. “Yeah, good luck with that,” she muttered through clenched teeth.
Tina had timed this tantrum to perfection, thought Cooper as she looked at her reflection in a stainless steel kettle. The wig wasn’t convincing. It was made from real hair and the light brown colour matched her own but the cut wasn’t quite right, nor the texture. Cooper’s hair had a natural kink to it and it fell in gentle waves to her collarbones, or at least it had done until chemo caused it to fall out. Then there was the fringe. Cooper tilted her head back and forth and tried to convince herself that she quite suited a fringe and poker straight locks, but it was no use, she didn’t look like her old self and she hadn’t for many months. A tailored suit that had previously hugged her thirty-something curves was now baggy and hung off the edges of her shoulders like an adult-sized shirt on a child-sized hanger. Cooper’s belt was fastened two notches tighter and her energy levels had dropped from bordering on hyperactive to being in desperate need of recharging. Had she been naive in thinking her first day back at CID after four months sick leave was going to go smoothly?
Cooper checked her watch. Perhaps she could salvage the day once Tina had been packed off to school by treating herself to a Starbucks and a pastry en route to HQ.
Her phone rang.
“Have you lost your mind?” It was Kenny, the monthly child support payment. “Telling our daughter she can have a sleepover at that cretin’s house? No daughter of mine is going to become another teenage pregnancy statistic.”
“Like I was, you mean? I seem to remember you playing a minor role in that debacle.”
There was a snort at the other end of the phone.
“Besides,” Cooper continued, “I never told Tina she could sleep over at Josh’s. In fact, I told her the opposite. Let me guess, she said that I’d say yes if you said yes, and she buttered you up by saying she’d spend the whole weekend with you so you two could have some quality daddy-daughter time?”
“How’d you know that?” he asked, a bark still in his voice.
“Because I’ve lived with her for fourteen years, Kenneth.” Cooper’s voice was harsh, she hadn’t intended to snap at Kenny but he made it so bloody easy. She ran a hand over her forehead and played with her new fringe. “Sorry. Look, our daughter is a sneaky little genius. Now don’t blame me, she gets it from you. I have to go, Kenny. I’m back at work today, I need to get off.”
“That’s today?”
Cooper could hear the guilt in his voice.
“Right, well, best of luck. Not that you need it. Sorry about going off on you. Should have known.”
Cooper ended the call and took a long gulp of coffee. It was cold and bitter but she needed the caffeine.
“Tina, time for school,” she called up the stairs.
The door creaked. “I’m not going.” Then it slammed again.
It was a bluff - Tina was a stickler for routine - but it was a bluff Cooper could do without. She was about to march up the stairs when her phone rang again.
“Cooper. You live in Tynemouth. How quickly can you be at the Priory?”
Detective Chief Superintendent Howard Nixon was a gruffly spoken man with little time for hi, how are yous. The Priory, Cooper knew, was the ruined remains of Tynemouth Castle and a Benedictine monastery where the old kings of Northumberland were buried. It sat atop Ben Pal Crag, sporting views of King Edward’s Bay to the north and Prior’s Haven and the river Tyne to the south.
Cooper pinched the bridge of her nose. “I can be there in under ten, sir. What do I need to know?”
“Body of a young woman found in one of the boats at the sailing club. She’s in fancy-dress and cuddling a dead rabbit.”
Cooper’s brows knitted together. “Sir?”
“Aye. Might be some student initiation gone wrong. Got drunk, got separated, fell asleep in the cold. But the gent who called it in reported the woman had no trousers or skirt on and there’s blood on her shirt. You still got a field kit, Cooper?”
“Yes, sir. I’m looking at it right now.”
Cooper got to her feet, she tucked her phone between her ear and her shoulder and pulled on a thick woollen coat.
“Good. Uniforms are securing the scene. Forensics are on the way.”
“Who’s the SOCO, sir?”
“Atkinson,” replied Nixon.
Cooper nodded. She had a good relationship with Justin Atkinson. He was the first scene of crime officer she’d dealt with upon joining the force. He was there when she saw her first dead body and he was the only one not to take the piss because she’d thrown up all over her own shoes at the sight of it.
