The Devil's Due: A Cooper & McCall Scottish Crime Thriller

by Oliver Davies

  “You may not have been, but DC Taylor sure was,” I quipped, typing random gibberish on my keyboard in hopes of distracting this pending confrontation. It wasn’t supposed to sound harsh, but I guess I hadn’t gotten the hang of ‘joking’ yet.

  “Not that it’s anyone’s business, but he is funny. And smart. That doesn’t mean I fancy DC Taylor. It means that I value a member of our team, which is more than you can bring yourself to do.” McCall appeared to be in disbelief at my evasive actions.

  I couldn’t help it. Whenever I tried to avoid speaking, my big mouth had other ideas. “Whatever you say.” I bit my tongue and received a slight pinch. Wheesht, won’t you? This was worse than prodding bears with sticks.

  “You may be my superior, but you’re not my father, although you two would probably get on. We were after-hours. Therefore, I can do whatever I decide.” McCall paused for breath, allowing me to glance at the clock. In all fairness, they were after hours. Blimey. How time flies.

  “I actually stayed behind to offer you a lift home.”

  My mistake. We made stubborn eye contact, neither one admitting our faults. Well, I was wrong, but McCall would never hear those words from me.

  “Forget it.”

  McCall left. Her shoes squeaked away. I stayed put momentarily, starting to retype half of the nonsensical information I wrote whilst McCall was here, but nothing allowed me to concentrate. Now, our office felt too silent, our clock ticked too loud, and being on my own felt… fine.

  Giving in, at last, I logged out and grabbed a random coat from a hook hanging nearby. There may have been a small chance to catch up to McCall before she drove home. Echoing sounds emitted from the stairwell I ran down, passing our station canteen at some point. Only a group of officers sat together at a table, eating greasy food and laughing with each other. Of course, plenty of cafeteria ladies milled around too. A lovely bunch of women, always remembering my exact order down to a T.

  No sign of McCall. Great.

  Whether I found McCall or not, I needed to be going home too. A relaxing, early night would prepare me for our bombardment of paperwork. Hopefully, Sammy Davis would have written his formal statement by now, ready to read through thoroughly.

  Dora came into sight, signalling the entrance to our station. From outside, a huge commotion of noise rallied around. More damned protesters? They’d be attempting jailbreaks soon enough.

  “Night, Dora.” The skip jumped from her busy haze, complaining absentmindedly about her never-ending workload.

  “Of course, I would be working today. Of all days. Protestors rioting in my clean cells, clueless officers asking me blooming questions I can’t answer, and now this? It’s a commotion out there, sir. Careful,” Dora forewarned and answered an incoming call. “What? I’m busy.”

  It was unusual for anything loud to happen in Dalgety Bay late at night. Of the group variety. I exited Dalgety station carefully, curious about what new scene I would uncover. I regretted that thought immediately. Not only did a batch of cool air hit me, but so did half a dozen camera flashes. Blinking specks covered my pupils, certainly no help after an intense migraine. Voices shouted over one another, vying for attention and piled against the officers holding them back.

  Holy crap.

  This was the media attention everyone raved about. Some reporters I recognised from earlier, but most of them seemed new. Probably visiting from all sorts of neighbouring towns to cover Gavin’s juicy news story. What could they possibly want to know? Our team knew nothing worth taking notes on. I didn’t have any big news to unveil. Their noise deafened us officers, leaving us wanting earplugs. Remembering my handy aviator glasses, I sloppily shoved them onto my face in an attempt to block out some light.

  That stopped the issue of not being able to see, at least.

  Crowds of reporters pushed against a few crowd control officers, most of whom had come to help the overflow of journalists stay away. These officers were clearly overwhelmed and baffled, never having to deal with that type of commotion in Dalgety Bay before. Maybe those reporters didn’t realise the extent of work that goes into keeping people safe. Instead, they enjoyed pointing out all our faults via pen and paper.

  “What can you tell us about the body found at the Bay this morning?” a reporter shouted from below. Not much, mate. Not much at all.

  A woman stood centre front, screaming out for attention. Not necessarily with her words, but her outfit. A green silk blouse shimmered with her every movement, and she wore a matching pencil skirt made from a slightly unusual material. Her hair was slicked back into a neat bun with so much force that it acted as a temporary facelift. Nothing about her makeup was classy. It was all bright pink hues, gaudy and in your face which matched the job description. She called out in a similar voice, high pitched with undertones of slyness. No doubt she’d find out every hidden secret then announce it for all the world to hear.

  “DI Cooper. How does it feel having a murder happen right under the CID’s noses?” she requested. Police didn’t cause the murder. She acted like we had a choice, a way of preventing it from ever happening. We wished it worked out that way, but it never would.

  I had no clue on how to tackle or take charge of this situation. Give me dead bodies or reports, and that would be dandy. But real life, intellectual men and women gave me serious heebie-jeebies. Is it so bad to enjoy being grumpy, moody and alone? People should respect others wishes.

  Every step I took, they took three to block any exits. Even if we waited inside the station, they’d probably set up camp outside. My walk now home ambushed, I guessed any chance of peace and quiet was heading in a similar direction. South. Heaving a short sigh, I attempted to part through the crowds. They retaliated, thick as thieves. Nobody moved an inch, not one measly centimetre.

  “Hey. Move it,” an officer spoke directly to a well-built reporter. All legs. Anyone would have thought she’d misheard him. But no, she just didn’t care and decided to stay put.

  Our officers couldn’t use too much brute force, in fear of starting a riot. I was shocked, having never seen anything of the like before. Biting the metaphorical bullet, I pushed through reporters and cameramen alike. Head down, body braced in case any of these roaches made an effort to push me back.

  It took every bone in my body not to curse them out, although I mumbled, “Piss off,” a few times below my breath.

  We struggled against each other as more questions were thrown out into Dalgety Bay’s night air. I remembered DCI Campbell’s instructions, already expecting him to have caught wind of this public humiliation. Being a DI meant both the public and police expect every answer under the sun.

  At last, I freed myself from most of the thicket, not that it made any difference. They still tagged along behind. That silk green woman was running! No woman had ever run towards me before. That’s new. Cameras snapped away from behind. I’m glad my trench style coat shielded me from a few snooping eyes. How could I walk home with a group of media workers filming?

  A car revved up, capturing plenty of attention. Most reporters got out of its way sharpish, although a few crazed, stubborn ones didn’t. A Ford Granada, similar to the Sweeney car. McCall. She’d saved up for ages to buy that car, liking the show since she was younger.

  Her brakes slammed on, as usual, and McCall beeped loudly. Unmissable really, nothing covert about that woman. She leaned over and opened the passenger door, ready for me to jump straight in. Communicating specialised, non-verbal instructions. Luckily, a seat cushion softened my landing. McCall stepped on it to blast away from those terrible hordes. With caution, of course. We were still CID.

  “You owe me one.”

  Seven

  McCall could barely hide her frustration. Her most defining trait was being able to shout at a man, no matter their age or status. As her car flew through endless puddles left over from the earlier rain, McCall turned down the radio in order to let me hear clearly.

  “You will call me Kirsty, seeing
as you’re in my car and I saved your ass. No work talk in this car or gossiping either.” She checked over her right shoulder before making a turn. Streetlamps illuminated McCall’s relaxed mane, a new trial hairstyle which hung loose. If I stared any longer, McCall wouldn’t hesitate to slap me.

  “It’s the next street.”

  McCall ignored my nervous chatter, having already memorized the route to mine. “DC Taylor asked me out for a drink next week,” McCall decided to inform me. “I said yes.”

  “You said what?” McCall flung me an unenthusiastic glare. “I mean that’s fun? Have a nice time?”

  “Not that kind of drink. He invited you too.” McCall found it hilarious to mislead and wind people up. She pulled up outside my relatively small house. It was more of a bachelor's pad, not that I got the chance to spend much time there. Unfortunately, work took priority over going home. The engine declined into silence, leaving us sitting awkwardly.

  “Right.” Me, having a drink with work colleagues? Having to make small talk and- a shiver ran down my spine. Polite chatter?

  “Don’t worry. I told John you wouldn’t come, due to being a reclusive prick with no social skills whatsoever.” McCall spoke in a monotone voice, increasingly difficult to distinguish whether she was serious.

  “Right. Thanks,” I repeated, relieved to be excused from a hideously dull night out. I slammed McCall’s car door shut, appreciative to be home. McCall inhaled with vigorous ambition and wound the passenger window down.

  “Keep yourself out of trouble, Cooper,” she warned. “We need a respectable DI, not one hounded by journalists.”

  A putrid smell of burnt rubber lingered well after McCall had gone. Driving like a maniac. Her words echoed around my head. ‘A reclusive prick, with no social skills’. Was that really what she thought?

  I supposed being a stubborn prick was all I had shown people. Sometimes, things were better that way. Once boundaries between colleagues and friends are overstepped, there would be no turning back. Friends don’t stay friends; lovers don't stay lovers. Life changes and people get left behind. A simple life was required in order to stay comfortable, in order to be content.

  Was I happy, though?

  Was Gavin happy? Who, in our great, dull universe, was actually happy? We all spent our short lives in search of fulfilment though nothing ever worked. Most of us die unhappy or searching hopelessly for contentment. My keys fumbled to locate the lock. I owned a home and had a great career which helped bring justice to Dalgety Bay. Bit by bit. Surely, that’s enough to satisfy anyone? My family were safe, my friends… eh. Let’s forget about that point.

  My porch welcomed me home gladly, shutting out a whole planet of stress and work. A safer space. Gavin’s case taunted me, barely leaving any room left to think of trivial matters. So many questions. Various articles of clothing were strewn over random pieces of furniture. One shoe lay under the table, and my jacket was thrown on the stairs. Only my white shirt remained, unbuttoned by now, to suit my pure bachelor lifestyle.

  Most people would cry in shock when they saw my home. It’s worlds apart from work, where every item is well organized in fear of losing crucial evidence or having to re-interview witnesses. No. My house was gloriously messy, but not to a point where health and safety should write it off as unsafe to enter. Fairly minimalistic in style but what lacked in décor, I made up for with belongings. Mementoes from cases I was particularly proud of, framed newspaper cuttings, and small family portraits.

  There’s a grey sofa, plump and cushioned, my favourite place to lay down after a long day. A lamp stood on display nearby, glimmering atmospherically. Sauntering through to the tiny kitchen, my first port of call was the fridge. Opening its chilly door, I groaned internally.

  Shopping needed to be done and sharpish. With barely enough food to last one night, I made do and cracked open a Tennent’s lager. Breathing a sigh of relief at its satisfying pop. For fine dining, fork prongs stabbed the film on tonight’s microwave meal. Grossly identical to Gavin’s gruesome stab wounds. Tonight’s meal was a la carte Chicken Tikka, delicious and efficient! What more could a guy ask for?

  Cindy Crawford.

  After setting a timer for ten minutes, my attention diverted to technology, like any 21st-century inhabitant would. My sister pinged a text through, asking to meet mother for Christmas. Christmas was less than a month away but being a DI doesn’t make arrangements easy to plan. Especially not after Gavin’s death. We’d be working every day until it’s solved, under DCI Campbell's instruction.

  If it was solved.

  A ping erupted, and I shoved the meal onto some odd plate before carrying it through. Sitting down, I flicked through random television channels, settling for a crappy program on bees. Mouthfuls of Chicken Tikka wolfed down faster than hungry animals in the wilderness. My aching body sunk further into goose feather cushions after each morsel, comforting any ailments. Threatening to fall asleep whilst eating, I gave up and into the signs of exhaustion. After I stashed my half-empty plate elsewhere, my head rested fully. Overwhelming gloominess sent my body drifting on high. Stuck in an endless, terrible sleep.

  Hours passed, my brain stuck full of nightmares. Bodies washed up on Dalgety Bay. DC Taylor punched some unsuspecting guy during the night. Not in real life, just subconsciously. Safe to say, I tossed and turned for hours on end. Dreams are supposed to communicate real-life problems into twisted realities, but what if nightmares really came true?

  “Who do you think you are, Cooper?” A fake version of DCI Campbell sneered, pushing his contorted features into my face.

  “I’m DI Cooper. Detective inspector.”

  “You are nothing but an arrogant, egocentric prick!” McCall slapped me hard, not so different from real life. It left a gigantic mark. She was dressed beautifully in figure-hugging trousers.

  “McCall?”

  I shouted, though nobody heard. They disappeared into... nothing, leaving camera flashes to fill the empty space instead. Tormenting, hounding reporters. I tripped over a body, blood pouring out from one side. Gavin Ellis. His blood covered my hands, dripping back onto Gavin’s own face. Gunshots fired from behind, and I jumped uncharacteristically in fright. Turning to spot whoever held that gun, they lured me into the main road on Forth Bridge. A large car hurtled down with force, and I raised both arms protectively, bracing for collision.

  “Ah.” I started awake, heart racing, beating, pulsing. Thundering adrenaline called me to wake before slipping further into darkness. My hair stuck up in tufts, face aching from those padded cushions. Probably a housewarming gift from someone.

  “Jesus,” I groaned sleepily, noticing last night’s dinner plate adoring the floor and yesterday's clothes scattered randomly over chairs. Elsewhere, faint buzzing from a comedy program played, accompanied by an annoying laughter track. That beekeeping program had long finished. Stifling a yawn, I grabbed my phone and pressed a random button. The screen lit up, illuminating one crucial factor. I was about twenty minutes late for work.

  “Bugger.”

  That terrible feeling of being severely rushed numbed my entire being. If I were not out of here in ten minutes flat, DCI Campbell would nail my balls to the nearest telephone post. He expected detective inspectors to set an example, not become an example.

  Seizing any clothes which remained closest by, I ended up wearing those same, slightly musty trousers again. Odd socks adorned either foot, one black, one yellow. Nothing about today’s outfit matched, but at least it gave me a chance to leave home quickly. Debriefing should be occurring in half an hour, meaning I could reach the station with, eh, seven minutes to spare.

  Individuals gawked at the madman running past them: me. I charged through buildings, cut through local parks, and even passed a teenager on his paper round. The teenager insolently sniggered at my running. Little sod. When we were teenagers, kids were taught to respect their elders. Dalgety station wasn’t a million miles away, thankfully. Every front garden contained co
pies of newspapers, printed instinctively in black and white. Big, bold headlines covered their front pages, though at a distance you’d have to squint to read them.

  Curiosity got the better of me. As famously quoted, curiosity killed the cat. Kill me, it did. There came a moment in every older man’s life when they wished they could have avoided a particular moment. One crucial instant, which changes how we viewed our world and its inhabitants. More so than before.

  As I rustled a flimsy newspaper between both rough hands, my eyes observed our local headlines. ‘Dalgety Bay shocked after Boy’s body washed up on coastline.’ So, that part was bearable. Reporters were bound to share deaths and details, plus everybody from town heard of Gavin’s death already. What I wasn’t prepared for, was my face plastering their front page, alongside DCI Campbell’s name and McCall’s.

  Their tagline read, ‘Townies uncertain whether Dalgety Bay’s youngest DI is ready to face such a heinous investigation and why DCI Graham Campbell agrees.’

  So it began. Is that really what DCI Campbell thought? Townies should have nothing to be nervous about. Hopefully, my promotion was based on professionalism and ability. Nearby, charcoal clouds threatened to downpour, ready to soak those gossip columns into mush. Rumours needed squashing before they interfered with Gavin’s investigation.

  “I will not have filthy leeches meddling or gossiping about CID. One of you, get on the blower and strike a fast deal to shut them up. Sharpish. I don’t care how much, pay them whatever they want. That’s an order,” I barked upon entering CID, causing our team to stare in confusion. DC Cillian and Ben snorted mischievously, but I was not in the mood.

  Smacking a newspaper onto Eileen’s desk, she briefly read over its front page and then began punching numbers into the work phone. Following orders. Any smart officer would agree that the press could hinder investigations into potential homicides by blabbing their big mouths about crucial evidence. Tracing our steps for Dalgety Bay to read. McCall sized me up from her own desk but pretended to be ordering statements.