The House Always Wins (DCI Cooper Book 7), page 1
The House Always Wins
B Baskerville
Hyem Books
Copyright © 2023 by B Baskerville
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
Contents
1. - Chapter 1 -
2. - Chapter 2 -
3. - Chapter 3 -
4. - Chapter 4 -
5. - Chapter 5 -
6. - Chapter 6 -
7. - Chapter 7 -
8. - Chapter 8 -
9. - Chapter 9 -
10. - Chapter 10 -
11. - Chapter 11 -
12. - Chapter 12 -
13. - Chapter 13 -
14. - Chapter 14 -
15. - Chapter 15 -
16. - Chapter 16 -
17. - Chapter 17 -
18. - Chapter 18 -
19. - Chapter 19 -
20. - Chapter 20 -
21. - Chapter 21 -
22. - Chapter 22 -
23. - Chapter 23 -
24. - Chapter 24 -
25. - Chapter 25 -
26. - Chapter 26 -
27. - Chapter 27 -
28. - Chapter 28 -
29. - Chapter 29 -
30. - Chapter 30 -
31. - Chapter 31 -
32. - Chapter 32 -
33. - Chapter 33 -
34. - Chapter 34 -
35. - Chapter 35 -
36. - Chapter 36 -
37. - Chapter 37 -
38. - Chapter 38 -
39. - Chapter 39 -
40. - Chapter 40 -
41. - Chapter 41 -
42. - Chapter 42 -
43. - Chapter 43 -
44. - Chapter 44 -
45. - Chapter 45 -
46. - Chapter 46 -
47. - Chapter 47 -
48. - Chapter 48 -
49. - Chapter 49 -
50. - Chapter 50 -
51. - Chapter 51 -
52. - Chapter 52 -
53. - Chapter 53 -
54. - Chapter 54 -
55. - Chapter 55 -
56. - Chapter 56 -
57. - Chapter 57 -
58. - Chapter 58 -
59. - Chapter 59 -
- Message from the Author -
- Be Sociable -
- About the Author -
- Also By B Baskerville -
- Chapter 1 -
Her long, pale legs glowed in the moonlight as she staggered across the road in high heels. It was late, almost midnight, and the streets of Roker were deserted. He didn’t know who she was or where she’d been drinking. But he knew three things: she was intoxicated, she was alone, and she was easy pickings.
The Sunderland sky was clear, the stars lighting the sky like strings of lanterns. He followed, listening to the build-up to the big fight through Bluetooth earbuds. Ahead, her heels click-clacked on paving slabs, but his trainers made no sound. He hung back, keeping his distance and lurking round corners to observe her from a distance.
Yes, Jim. I think Ahmed will be feeling the pressure tonight. He’s a seven-to-one favourite. Many argue that this fight isn’t for Jones to win; it’s for Ahmed to lose. The entire northeast will be rooting for Abdul Ahmed – The Tyneside Terror. In fact, I’d go so far as to say all of Britain will be rooting for the Benton boy made good.
A street light flickered as she passed it on Side Cliff Road, casting an elongated shadow of narrow waist and delicious hips. It was a broad residential street lined with terrace homes on one side and plush semi-detached houses on the other. A purple beech tree at the edge of a garden rustled in the icy wind, its deep red leaves almost black in the moonlight. An onshore breeze whipped her long curls into a dishevelled mess, bringing with it a scent of salt and seaweed. And like a thin reed on a windswept beach, she swayed in the gusts, fragile and vulnerable to both the elements and those with sinful intentions.
You’re right, Hamish. I can’t say Jones has many fans on this side of the Pond, not after his antics at the press conference. I’m pleased to see so many Union Flags being flown here at Madison Square Garden. I dare say they outnumber the Stars and Stripes.
She continued straight at the crossroads, where the southern side of the street transitioned from homes to parkland. This park, with its model railway and children’s play area, was familiar territory for him. He recalled fond memories of visiting with his grandmother – may she rest in peace. They would sit, savouring 99s topped with a flake and monkey’s blood while watching elderly men dressed in white playing bowls. Those were days of innocent pleasure, now replaced by his yearning for a more thrilling form of entertainment.
Sorry to interrupt, Hamish, but I hear the penultimate event of the evening is about to begin. A women’s flyweight bout between America’s Taylor and Mexico’s Gutierez. Gutierez has been looking sharp in training.
The commentary faded in his mind as he crept closer. The woman looked to be in her mid-twenties. She paused to remove her shoes, almost toppling over as she undid the metal clasps. The heels swung like pendulums from her left hand as she walked on, turning right onto Roker Terrace. All the while, she used her right hand to push her hair from her eyes with each puff of wind.
He almost couldn’t believe it when she left the main road, choosing to walk through a grassy esplanade above the beach. The land sloped downwards, concealing her from the occasional passing car.
Some might say she had every right to walk there and enjoy the sobering sea air. But bare feet on stony ground reduced her ability to run away. Long, loose hair obscured her vision, preventing her from spotting threats.
Yes, some might say she had every right to be there; others would say she was asking for it.
His heart quickened, adrenaline coursing through him. He paused by a bus shelter, its recent paint job already flaking from constant exposure to the North Sea’s wind and rain. Moonbeams played on the water, illuminating the choppy sea state outside the piers. He flexed his fingers in soft leather gloves and checked his weapon.
He lowered the mask over his face.
It was time.
- Chapter 2 -
She couldn’t see the danger, but he could. The threat was almost upon her now. He was a soft-bodied man in his forties with faded jeans and a zip-up hoodie. He watched him trot to catch up with her, his unkempt hair flopping around his fleshy face. He called her pet and slung an arm over her shoulder. She pulled away, her intoxicated eyes scanning his face to see if she recognised him. She didn’t.
The man in the mask stayed low, using the balustrades to his advantage. He moved like an animal on all fours; he called it beast mode.
“Come on, darlin’. I’ll walk you home. Help tuck you in.”
He wrapped his other arm around her waist, pulling her into his chest. He ran his hands over her back, telling her how good she felt.
The woman’s face was one of confused fear. To her credit, she tried to knee him, tried to slap her palms into his chest. But it only seemed to turn Hoodie on more.
“Feisty,” he cackled. “Relax, pet. I’ll get you home soon.”
The man in the mask could feel the cold concrete through his knee pads as he edged forward. Repulsion flooded through him, and he clamped a hand over his mouth, watching Hoodie push her to the ground, his revolting hands fighting the tight material of her dress.
In one swift motion, he vaulted over the wall and into the grass. The slimy bank was wet with dew, but he kept control of the skid as he descended. Through the eye holes in his mask, he honed in on his target like a lion on a lame gazelle. With practised ease, he reached over his shoulder and pulled the weapon from the long canvas bag strapped to his back.
He was standing over them now, only two steps away.
“Get off her,” he growled at the piece of shit. “NOW.”
Hoodie snapped around, annoyance rather than fear curling his lip – until their eyes locked and he took in the mask.
“Who the fuck do you think you are? Jog on, Batman. I’m having some alone time with my lady.”
His words were confident; the tone of his voice told a different story. All front.
“She’s not your lady.”
Holding the weapon, he twisted, filling his body with torque before unleashing the baseball bat into his temple with all his might.
The woman’s scream echoed with the dull thud of wood on bone. Hot blood, like black oil in the dark, painted her face and dress.
“Run,” he told her. “You don’t want to see what happens next.”
She didn’t need to be told twice. Wiggling herself free from Hoodie’s weight, she legged it barefoot through the slick grass. For thirty seconds, she ran on before falling. Coated in mud, she looked back, defying his orders.
Hoodie was down but not out. Despite his head injury, he grappled the masked man, resisting the inevitable. It was a struggle to drag him up the bank, but a battle he relished. No great victory ever came easy.
At the top, he gulped cold air and quickly scanned the road. The coast was clear as he grabbed Hoodie by the back of his hair, jerking his face towards his would-be victim. “Apologise,” he demanded.
Hoodie tried to pull away. He got one step before another swing of the bat hit him cleanly in the obliques. He doubled over, clutching broken ribs.
“Sorry.” The w
“Louder. So she can hear you.”
Hoodie winced in pain, trying to beg for his life as blood filled his villainous lungs.
The masked man swung the bat once more. Then, like a marionette with severed strings, Hoodie tumbled down the bank, limbs waving in a grotesque dance of surrender until, with a sickening thud of death, his body came to rest outside an amusement arcade.
He stared at the body, the heat of satisfaction warming him up.
Hoodie deserved it.
Some would say he was asking for it.
Looking south, he saw the woman standing transfixed, her eyes red, her mouth open.
He saluted her – happy to be of service – then increased the volume on his earbuds and walked away.
Taylor’s laying it on Hernandez, Jim. Two, three, four heavy shots unanswered. I can’t see this going much longer. There! There we have it. The ref has put an end to her misery. It’s a technical knockout for Boston’s Leanne Taylor.
- Chapter 3 -
DC Saffron Boyd looked out the passenger window into the inky night, covering her mouth as she yawned. At the wheel, newly promoted DS Elliot Whyte tried to stifle a yawn of his own. He gave up and opened his mouth like a roaring lion.
Boyd chuckled. “I’m the alpha.”
“What?” Whyte frowned, heavy brows peaking above his dark eyes.
His wavy black hair and aquiline nose, combined with the slightly golden hue of his skin, gave the man a Mediterranean appearance. Still, he was Wearside through and through.
“In the animal kingdom, when the alpha yawns, the other members of the pack copy. If a lesser pack member yawns, the alpha doesn’t do a thing.”
Whyte shot Boyd some side-eye. “You’ve been watching too much Discovery Channel. And it’s a good job we’re humans and not animals.”
Boyd lowered the window an inch, flooding the pool car with frigid air.
She was an attractive young DC with blonde hair and a spread of freckles over her nose that darkened whenever she blushed – which was often. She was seeing Whyte’s flatmate, Oliver Martin, and stayed over most nights, making her practically his flatmate too. So when he got the call shortly before one a.m. to drive to Roker and investigate a death, he only had to bang on the wall dividing their rooms to summon her.
“Humans are animals. We might wear clothes and have a technology addiction, but we’re still just hairless apes.”
Whyte parked the car on Roker Terrace. This was his old stomping ground, and though he always enjoyed returning to Wearside for pleasure – to see his father or meet up with old school friends – it was business that brought him here more often than not.
“You can be a hairless ape all you like, Saff.” He unbuckled his seatbelt and got out of the car. “But I’m going to be a detective.”
He approached the cordon, recognising a stout PC with a round face shaved to perfection. “Alreet, Dex?”
Dex nodded at Whyte and tipped his hat at Boyd.
“Anonymous caller?” Whyte asked.
“Aye.” Dex motioned down towards the beach. “Some lass slurring her words told us to go to the amusements. Said a man had fallen down the bank.”
Whyte leant over a stoney barrier and peered towards Marine Walk. It was a steep bank but not overly high. Twenty feet, he estimated. “Fallen, you say?”
“Nope. I didn’t say he fell. Our anonymous witness said he fell. I’m reserving judgment. Go on down. See for yourself.”
Dex held out a cardboard box for Whyte and Boyd to take plastic gloves and booties from.
Whyte checked his watch as he pulled on the gloves. One-thirty. “You know if the fight’s started yet?”
Dex shrugged. “Nee idea.”
“The walkouts should be starting now,” Boyd said, and both men turned to look at her. “What? Can’t a lady take an interest in a bit of mindless violence now and again?”
“Yes,” Whyte said. “But not you.”
As far as Whyte knew, Boyd’s interests were as far from mindless violence as one could get.
“You’re right,” she said with a teasing smile. “Keaton’s been going on about it all week.” She counted the facts on her fingers as she spoke. “Walkouts at one-thirty. Starts at one forty-five. Ten three-minute rounds.”
“Let’s crack on then. With any luck, we’ll catch the end of it.”
They took a paved route down to Marine Walk where the stench of death was mercifully diluted by briny air and a lingering scent of fried fish. Roker was a popular tourist area north of the River Wear. A vast expanse of blond sand lined with coffee shops and chippies. A striped lighthouse marked the end of a great curved pier protecting the harbour from the worst of the North Sea swell. They reached a roundabout surrounded by heavy boulders. The DB was resting facedown between two jagged rocks. Half on the road, half on the pavement, his limbs were sprawled in unnatural angles.
Whyte looked up at the amusement arcade to his right. It seemed oddly forlorn at night, robbed of its usual dancing lights, music and beep-beep of various machines. The expected happy shouts of children and the tinkling of copper from coin pusher machines were replaced with the sombre footsteps of scene of crime officers and the murmurs of police officers.
“Annie Fitzgerald,” Whyte murmured as much to himself as anyone. “Year ten. Took her on a date here. I won enough tokens to buy her a stuffed toy. She chose a purple teddy bear, and I got a kiss on the cheek for my efforts. Stunning lass. Wonder what she’s doing now.”
“Isn’t that what social media’s for?” Boyd approached the body and knelt down next to a local doctor who had arrived to confirm the death. “Male, late forties to early fifties.”
She felt the man’s pockets and pulled out a phone. She pressed the power button and, finding it locked, held the sensor against the pad of his index finger.
“Worth a shot,” she muttered when it didn’t unlock. Feeling further into his pockets, she found a debit card and handed it to Whyte.
“Mr Lee R Edwards.”
Boyd turned her head and looked at the bank, taking in the areas of grass flattened by his body as he rolled down the hill. She was quiet for a while, then cast her torch over the rocks on either side of him. “I can’t see any blood on the rocks. Can you?”
Moving closer, Whyte examined the area with his torch. “No. Not a drop.” He angled the white beam of light over the victim and grimaced. “Riddle me this, Saff. If Mr Edwards tumbled down this grassy verge, didn’t hit the rocks and landed face down, why the hell is the back of his skull completely caved in?”
“I don’t know,” Boyd answered. “But something’s telling me you’re not going to catch the end of the fight.” She walked back up the bank, scanning her torchlight back and forth in front of her. “Get up here, Whyte.”
He caught up, seeing what she saw. Across the road from the Roker Hotel, the pavement branched from Roker Terrace down to the seafront. He examined a railing directly above where the body lay. At first, it looked like specks of red rust. He dabbed it with a gloved finger. Not rust. It was damp with blood.
“He didn’t fall,” he said.
Boyd stood beside him and gazed out at the choppy sea. “He didn’t fall,” she echoed.
- Chapter 4 -
While Madison Square Garden was just a five-minute drive from Times Square, New York, it was a hell of a long way from Times Square, Newcastle, where the bars were alive with local pride as sports fans, young and old, gathered to watch the Tyneside Terror defend his belt.
Hope East sipped a Midori and lemonade and adjusted the hem of her floral dress. The Pink Elephant didn’t usually show sports, but tonight was an exception. The whole city would be tuning in. Not screening the fight was bad for business, and in these troubled times with rising rent and utilities, pubs and bars did what they needed to survive. Still, the Pink Elephant wasn’t just surviving; it was thriving, and seats were at a premium. Hope didn’t mind. She shared a chair with her wife, perching on her knee. Catalina bit her lip, eyes glued to the screen. She placed her pint of Carling on an art-deco table beside her and wrapped her arms around Hope. A buxom woman, Catalina cut a stylish figure in a waistcoat and matching trousers, while Hope was softer, preferring feminine prints and muted tones. She wasn’t usually one for late nights in bars and nightclubs, but Hope couldn’t resist. This was a special occasion.
