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

by Oliver Davies

  I retreated towards my safe haven of an office whilst murmured chatter rose between colleagues. A couple of whispers reached my ears.

  “Boss doesn’t look so good.”

  “Crabbit’s back boys. Hide your daughters.”

  “Cor, even the sun hides when he shows up. Anyone else feel that chill?” Cillian mock shivered.

  All delightful compliments, of course. That’s how things have always been between them and me, which is fine. DC Taylor strode over, smiling with an overly sincere expression. Too friendly. One ear poked out from behind his curtain of black hair, adding to his overall youthful appearance. “Morning, Sir. I’ve compiled all our door-to-door witness statements already. Thought they’d be a priority.”

  DC Taylor spoke kindly, yet my warped dream version ran circles around my head, imagining him as a cocky guy instead of a CID team member. No matter how hard I tried shaking those vivid nightmares away, nothing worked.

  “Okay.” My blunt answer didn’t faze him.

  “The guys who visited Gavin’s street said most of his neighbours heard the barney but didn’t see Kris leave suspiciously after that. Emma Wells lives at number fifteen, and she confirmed that Kris went over for tea and a chat. Kris returned home afterwards.” DC Taylor closed shut his black notepad and stared at me with raised brows, awaiting some sort of reply.

  Kris finally told us the truth, meaning she was out of the running as a potential suspect. She genuinely had no idea where Gavin went after their argument. Who could have intervened between Gavin leaving home and the arrival of his body? Friends, as McCall suggested, but were already busy working on that. Gavin’s father remained imprisoned. Perhaps Gavin had a girlfriend or significant other, at least?

  “Did they find out whether Gavin was in a relationship?” I wondered, licking my dry lips. DC Taylor negatively shook his head.

  “Don’t think he did, Sir. No mention of anyone special, not according to his neighbours. Never seen by locals with one. I checked all those statements on your desk, but feel free to read over them for anything I missed.” DC Taylor looked uncertain, motioning towards my office.

  “Will do.” I agreed before continuing to shut myself away, hermit style. I felt a bit guilty about the way I’d treated DC Taylor. After all, he was the only guy in our office who bothered communicating nicely with me. “Actually, could you do me a favour? DS McCall delved into Gavin’s friendship group yesterday. I need your help to find out who they are and alibis for the night Gavin was murdered.”

  This was my own version of apologizing, by trying to prove last night’s nightmares wrong in teaming McCall and Taylor together. There were other factors too. McCall and Taylor had a natural flair for investigations. They worked well together.

  “Yep. Thanks, Sir.” DC Taylor said politely, slightly oversized teeth out on full display. He strode away, beginning to tap his keyboard out of furious determination. Not that he needed to prove himself, but everyone felt a natural pressure to shine, especially now.

  Holding down the on button for my computer, it flashed brightly, a ton of flagged emails awaiting me. Anyone would think we had been away for months. Thumbing through the paper door-to-door statements DC Taylor discussed previously, I decided they should be our first port of call. No minor detail left unturned.

  Initially, I reread the neighbours' statements, getting some worthless background information on Gavin. Gavin lived there since he was a nipper, and they often saw him returning home late or gallivanting around town. Emma Wells, at number fifteen, spoke of Kris’s nature. ‘Often came around to talk about Gavin. Felt she’d failed him as a mother. Especially after he was taken to prison.’ Most mothers of felons felt similar.

  Sammy Davis’s report stayed on top of my next pile, having completed his statement as required. A bit of compliance was always nice to see. ‘He was on his way to work, when he noticed Gavin lying on the sand. It was only when he neared Gavin that he realised the true nature of his situation.’ Nothing overly suspicious. Only a lucky find, or unlucky, it depended on how you viewed it.

  Next, I rifled through the other statements of those living nearby. Similar information, just different people.

  Annie Smith, early forties. Lived with her boyfriend and two children. Came home from work to eat and watch a film. Didn’t know Gavin.

  Ian Lai. Runs a café in town with his daughter. No recollection of a boy named Gavin. Certainly wasn’t a customer.

  Then, there was an elderly woman. Shirley Cann. Lived alone but has regular visits from a hospital nurse. Rattled on an awful lot about her cat, Mr Tiddles. Could barely get out of bed and believed our officers were saying ‘Marvin’ instead of Gavin. What a fat lot of use that statement was.

  Jack Harper. Worked a night shift at the medical centre and did not return home until nine. After ransacking through reports on dog walkers, babysitters and couples alike, I concluded nothing was of much use. None of those people stated to have known Gavin beforehand, nor wanted to.

  My head spun, trying to connect some dots to create a worthwhile lead. A thud echoed nearby, announcing McCall’s presence. Her cheeks seemed contoured today, almost too glamorous for work. Strands of berry hair split apart from her ponytail to frame her cheekbones delicately.

  “You look like shit,” she quipped belligerently. Still not forgiven then. My tie felt unusually taut.

  “Flattery will get you nowhere.” I scribbled out a graphically rude picture an officer drew onto a statement. Boys would be boys. She invited herself in, floral-scented perfume overbearing. Within one hand, she clutched a blue compound folder of sorts.

  “Did you even get any sleep last night?” McCall’s face dropped. Clearly, I looked as much a wreck as I felt.

  “Of sorts,” I kept my reply vague, concealing all mention of those strange nightmares. Her and DC Taylor. Gavin and that never-ending car, hurtling towards me…

  “Me neither, so suck it up. Take a look at these,” McCall snapped apathetically, thrusting the folder over, creating a loud wallop. A backlash of wind blew theatrically. I pulled the folded wad closer and opened it up to see developed photographs, printed on special glossy paper staring back.

  “Photographs from the scene. Thought you’d want to have a proper go over them.”

  “Could have given me a bit of warning,” I mumbled, grimacing. The pictures were exactly as we’d seen Gavin yesterday. Shuffling through the lot one by one, we were treated to various close-ups. Graphic wounds, tattoos, his face. Nothing left to our imaginations. “I’ll fine comb them.”

  McCall squinted, observing her superior. “Alright. We’ll carry on searching through Gavin’s inner circle of friends.” McCall made her own, eager way out, passive-aggressively.

  Gavin’s developed photographs squeaked underneath my thumb. Analysing them closely, I spent a moment to line them up in succession. A systematic approach made it easy to pick out clues such as blood patterns or fibres CID couldn't spot. I tried to do the job of forensics myself, too impatient to wait much longer.

  Thinking of those buggers must’ve sent a message out into the universe, because my computer dinged from another email, flagged ‘urgent’. Hovering over their link, I clicked and a whole new page opened to reveal documents sent over by forensics. Requiring full, undivided attention. Their reports began with a summary, notifying me that these were confidential and linked to Gavin Ellis.

  My eyes scanned for an all-important word: match. Nothing immediately jumped off the page, especially no new fingerprint matches. Their entire report consisted of explanations about why they found no prints, due to a lack of murder weapon. No traces of substances were left at the scene with Gavin being dumped in the water.

  Our killer was obviously smart. Could that suggest they’d killed before? Or maybe they were lucky bastards who happened to be near a body of water? Oh well, Gavin’s post mortem examination may explain something exciting or distinguishable. Or anything at all. Exhaling in aggravation, photographs spraw
led over my desk directly from the sudden breeze. They shone, refracting my office light, highlighting a few details such as Gavin's tattoos. Seemingly similar to his mothers, they littered his pale, discoloured bicep with a harsh green tinge. Outlined symbols of all shapes and kinds, like an animator would draw on blank cartridge paper, and full of vivid colours, ones a peacock would envy.

  Something caught my eager eye and jolted me upright. Dissolving the previously tired slump. Gavin’s tattoos covered so much bicep that it was difficult to see any mark above or on his skin below those inky pictures. But something didn’t sit right, dissimilar to Gavin’s other tattoos. I turned our photograph horizontally and vertically, then moved it closer and further away, before I could finally figure out what was wrong.

  And something was very wrong indeed. A mark cut deep into Gavin’s arm, impossible to see due to its optical illusion. It disappeared against the pinkish, tattooed background. However, when observed closely, Gavin’s skin raised slightly with clotted blood. Most of his blood had been undoubtedly washed off beforehand. Such a tiny, insignificant mark wouldn’t bleed heavily, anyway. All that remained was a bunch of raised, puckered skin.

  None of that sounded like a revelation. We believed Gavin was murdered. Of course, he was bound to collect a few scrapes here and there in the struggle. Perhaps the attacker wrestled Gavin or knocked him against a heavy object. Yet, those suspicions could be discredited, for this mark wasn’t accidental. It wasn’t made unintentionally during a harmless scuffle.

  This was deliberate, carved into the shape of a perfect number six.

  Eight

  McCall

  The CID department had never seen anyone move faster than Finlay Cooper uncovering crucial evidence. Odd black and yellow socks peeked out from beneath his ankle swingers, like someone lit a raging fire up his arse. I would be first in line. Finlay clocked me immediately, like a predator to prey. DI Finlay Cooper rubbed our team up the wrong way by picking favourites. His favourite being me. Having worked alongside the guy for eight years, I knew Finlay better than anyone else.

  Finlay rampaged through, tetchy from his journalist run-in that morning. Those stupid newspapers really pissed him off. I downed a rushed, final glug of coffee, needing it before interacting with Finlay. John wordlessly offered to refill my drink and give us some alone time. John was admittedly intimidated by Finlay. No matter how many times I said, ‘he is just a Scotsman with a quick temper. Nothing I can’t handle.’

  “Look at that,” Finlay slammed a photograph onto my desk, pointing to Gavin’s lifeless arm. Didn’t I exchange these very photographs to him? Noting Finlay’s purple eye bags and crazed hair, I realised the grumpy DI realised was probably hallucinating. He breathed heavily, repointing at Gavin’s tattoo. Finlay could change from sloth to dragon in two minutes flat.

  “Gavin’s arm? I’ve seen it already…” I trailed off uncertainty.

  He was not willing to accept my lacklustre answer. Pursing both nude lips into one straight line, Finlay pointed again. Knob.

  “Tattoos?”

  “And?” he flumped forward so that ridiculous silken tie trailed directly across my workspace.

  “And…” Nope. I still wasn’t getting it. What on earth was Finlay Cooper talking about? Taking the opportune moment of silence, John brought over my coffee and desperately tried to avoid Finlay’s eye contact.

  “What can you see, DC Taylor?” Finlay questioned, sliding Gavin’s photograph towards John. He leant over, humming softly and both grey eyes flicked over each pixelated section.

  “Tattoos. Erm, coloured ones.” At least we both couldn’t tell what we were supposed to see. Finlay interrupted John mid-sentence.

  “No. It took me a while to spot it too.”

  But this time, it was John's turn to retaliate. Running four fingers through his array of natural, black locks, John frowned. “And a mark of sorts. Hard to see, but in the shape of a six,” He derived and wrapped up the conclusion in accomplishment. What? “Or nine, depending on whether they purposely drew upside down. Everyone confuses sixes and nines in card games.”

  “Give it here,” I snatched Gavin’s photograph back, moving in closer this time. John helpfully traced the mark using a pointer finger. They were right. “So what does this help us with? We’ve still ended up with no leads and a photographed scratch on Gavin’s arm.”

  “Not just any cut. Whoever made this mark did so deliberately. It makes me wonder why? What’s their purpose?” Finlay spoke passionately, shaking from as much excitement as he could handle.

  “Could Gavin have cut himself? Like a gang symbol, trying to fit in with his ‘cool’ friends?” I interjected rationally. We couldn’t get carried away and disappear on a whim.

  “Shouldn’t think so.” Inhaling thoughtfully, John shook his head. “Not judging by the angle it’s drawn, well, carved at. Judging by the thickness further down Gavin’s cut, it would suggest their weapon was held at a downward trajectory. Practically impossible to do that yourself and keep it so fluid.”

  He had a point, but we contained no leads to back our evidence up. Finlay shifted and rubbed his chin in thought. Consumed by judgements. A whiff of smell caught my nose, posing a serious question. Did he even shower last night?

  “I wonder why. Why the number?” our detective inspector mused. It was entirely unhelpful actually. We were all thinking along identical wavelengths.

  “I could google it. See what comes up first,” John shrugged. Ah, yes. A pinnacle of modern CID equipment. Google. Bing moved too slowly for our kind of important work. Sliding out of their way, John tapped something into the computer’s internet browser.

  Most constables around were consumed with other assigned tasks, although Eileen watched us nosily. Her desktop Christmas tree shone from one corner, and the decoration seemed too joyous when we were figuring out a potential homicide.

  “Righto. Err, it says mathematically, six is a natural number. Whatever the hell that means. It’s an even number,” John repeated gradually, reading from my screen.

  “Our killer isn’t Pythagoras,” Finlay quipped sarcastically, tutting loudly. He enjoyed his own dumb humour.

  “It’s viewed as a magical number and considered lucky within some cultures. Both fourteen and six contain filled shells which include the same number of protons as neutrons,” John continued. “A lot of science-based facts.

  “Science-based shit, you mean,” Finlay folded both arms, brushing off their logical knowledge.

  “Nine is also viewed the same. Magical,” I reiterated, finding our new findings quite intriguing. Maths had never been my specialised strong point. My monitor displayed a fresh Wikipedia page. “In both Christian and Hebrew religions, sources believe the number six indicates imperfection. Do you think this could be a religious attack of some manner?” I threw some hypothetical cards into the air. “Perhaps a disagreement between victim and attacker?”

  “Gavin didn’t strike me as the religious type.” John couldn’t be swayed easily. “He committed plenty of crimes.”

  “Agreed,” Finlay clicked towards John. “He’s been accused of multiple crimes. That’s not very god-like, unless he repented his sins. I feel sorry for whoever had to listen. That would have been a helluva long day.”

  “Exactly,” I stubbornly resented. “Gavin’s a social imperfection, taunting other people’s beliefs.” I glanced between one man to another. They didn’t disagree. Surely that counted for something.

  “So, we’re searching for a Hebrew witch who loves maths? Great. That narrows it down. Surely there’s only one in Fife,” Finlay drastically leaned against my desk and screwed his heavy features up in annoyance.

  “Could be a distraction to throw CID off their scent whilst they bide their time. Perhaps this is our murders his sixth or ninth victim. Or he’s sending a warning out that they are going to commit six crimes. Or nine,” John winced, proposing some legitimate thoughts. He’s a smart man who gets a kick from CID.


  “So what? We wait around to see which theory is correct, biting our fingernails to bloody pulps? Wait for innocent ‘townies’ to be slaughtered?” Finlay distastefully quoted the newspapers and shuddered in disagreement, detesting that this case felt out of control.

  “Gavin committed a few crimes, he went to prison, right?” My voice vented assertively. “Emma Wells mentioned Kris feeling like a failure because Gavin was beginning to turn out how Mr Ellis did. So, what was Gavin’s prison number?” Undoubtedly this murder would be linked somehow.

  Thrusting one hand into a pocket whilst also clicking a biro, Finlay tapped his pale cheek thoughtfully. John stretched, flexing a few back muscles through his tight shirt. A girl couldn’t complain when surrounded by an attractive DI and DC together. Not the worst way to spend a morning.

  “You think they branded Gavin with his own criminal number.” Finlay whistled, static electricity hanging above our heads. DC Taylor strode towards another computer's desktop and settled down. A man on a mission.

  “I’ll do a background search, find out all about Gavin’s time in prison. I’d need time to pull all those old records up though. Could take a while,” He glanced up from a wealth of notes. Some were inner musings.

  “How long?” I asked curiously, standing up to sweep biscuit crumbs away from my fairly expensive suit ensemble.

  “I don’t know, Sarge, maybe a day?” Finlay calculated the timing from our wall clock, jaw tensing nervously. We didn’t have a day to spare. Records could take days longer, not that we didn’t trust DC Taylor to get his job finished efficiently.

  “Could you stay longer tonight? We need those records,” our superior officer grimaced, hoping John would agree. A brown strand of hair sticks up straight on Finlay’s head. He definitely didn’t shower.

  John and I masked our obvious disappointment. Tonight, we had arranged to meet for our promised drink. Just one. Of course, Finlay had failed to remember. That could have something to do with me calling him an ‘arrogant, self-centred pick’. Only truth exited these lips. Finlay clearly was self-centred, after all. He’d overlooked our lives outside of work.