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

by Oliver Davies

  “Finlay Cooper, get your ass over here right now!”

  The pub guys oohed, probably thinking I was his wife or something. I stopped there before I got too carried away. I never thought of Finlay in that way before, but now that I had, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

  He stumbled around some more, puke staining his entire shirt. I could smell it from over here. Finlay was unusually dishevelled, for he liked to be neat as a pin for all occasions. Why was he even at the pub in the first place? Not only was it a weekday, but Finlay hated going out, especially to clubs and pubs. He lost his footing a few times on some loose bits of pavement and scratched his floppy brunette hair in confusion. He was nothing short of a mess.

  When I reached within touching distance of Finlay, he noticed me. I could tell. His face dropped like his mother had caught him doing something he shouldn’t. Those mysterious eyes were hazy deep pools of water which held the sting of injustice. Finlay looked terrible, like his whole being had glitched. Pale white skin and blotchy red cheeks were enough to tell me he needed help.

  He now hunched over, head resting between his large masculine hands.

  “Finlay?” I called out sternly. Finlay’s head snapped up when I called out and took a while to register who I was.

  “McCall?” Finlay whispered, as though any noise louder than that would deafen him. Ten points for the detective. Even when he was blind drunk, he refused to call me by my first name.

  “It’s Kirsty, how many times…?” I cut myself off to focus on the matter at hand. “What are you doing?” My body cast a shadow onto his face, altered by the dodgy street lighting. Even from a small distance, the smell of tangy sick repulsed me. Dead bodies smell, but this was worse, believe it or not.

  Finlay gulped, nodding absentmindedly at my words whilst he fiddled with the jacket hem bunched in his grasp. Both eyes flickered accordingly, unable to focus on any one thing at a time. His face appeared severe and haggard, unlike his usual self. Something serious played on his mind. He gazed up at me as I towered over him sternly.

  “I wanted a drink,” he mumbled. “That’s not a crime. Everyone else does it.”

  “Everyone else does it sensibly. One or two at the most. Not however many you’ve had. And we usually schedule it for weekends only,” I lectured him.

  “You shouldn’t be here. I can help myself,” Finlay rambled. He grunted with effort trying to stand up. His attempt was a duff one, for both legs gave way. I lunged forward and propped him up, trying my best not to touch any sick.

  “You’ve done a cracking good job so far.” My voice dripped with sarcasm.

  He was burning up to a crisp which was odd. It was bloody freezing out here. In a desperate attempt to get some sleep tonight, I started to haul Finlay’s heavy body back to my awaiting car. He grunted with effort. I don’t know why he grunted; I was doing all the heavy lifting. I propped his long-limbed body against the bonnet of my car and gave him my next instructions.

  “Shirt off,” I glowered. Finlay blinked, not following my instruction. “It’s not for my own entertainment, Finlay. You stink. My car is not getting tainted with that vile smell and getting soaked into my expensive interior. No way.”

  Sweat glimmered on his brow, and a woman passer-by looked at me oddly. Finlay paused, deciding what to do. He made up his mind and began to unbutton the ruined dress shirt.

  “I have a carrier bag in the back. We can put your shirt in there. It needs throwing away, really,” I said. It did, a huge stain now decorated the front.

  I went to the boot and rifled around for a bag. With the white plastic screwed up in my hand, I walked over to Finlay. He was shirtless now, out in the open for the whole public to see. A few rowdy drivers honked their horns in jest whenever they drove past.

  I never thought I would see Finlay Cooper shirtless. He was probably one of the most uptight people you could ever meet. Plus, we worked together, which doesn’t matter to me, but in Finlay’s books, that was a boundary that shouldn’t be crossed. If he were thinking straight, there was no chance that Finlay would have taken his shirt off in public.

  I mean, it wasn’t bad. Definitely not bad. He always covered himself up with jackets and buttoned-up shirts, a deliberate attempt to deflect female attention. He didn’t know how to deal with that manner of attention. In the whole time I had known him, Finlay had never had a girlfriend or a date.

  He was good looking, so that wasn’t the issue. I saw the way women looked at him. He just preferred the bachelor lifestyle. No commitment but work. In most ways, I understood. CID took up a lot of our time. It was a lifestyle, not a career.

  I handed Finlay the bag, and he shoved his soiled shirt in. I copped a quick look again whilst I stood there. Who wouldn’t? It was a once in a lifetime opportunity. He wasn’t overly toned, or overly heavy. A happy medium. He wasn’t trying too hard to work out but had not quite let himself go yet.

  “Kirsty?” Finlay slurred quietly, keeping himself upright by holding onto the bonnet.

  Had he just called me Kirsty? It sounded sweet coming from his lips, unusual to say the least. A shiver rose up my spine.

  “Yes, alright. Let’s get you in the car,” I sounded like a mother figure. Not my intention. Finlay followed suit, collapsing into the back seat of my car, completely out of energy. His head rested on the seat, and the rest of his body followed suit. That way, he was lying down fully. No doubt his dizziness had increased with that small action.

  For what felt like the one hundredth time today, I started the car up. I would have to start charging taxi fees at this rate. The folder on Catherine Jones caught my eye. I discreetly moved it into the glovebox, away from Finlay’s eyes. I’d tell him another time, when he’s sober.

  He lay with a hand over both almond-shaped eyes to block any light from reaching his irises.

  “So, what happened tonight?” I prodded, trying to uncover some information about Finlay’s night. He groaned in response. Obviously, it was too painful to be reminded of. It took Finlay a while to gather his words.

  “Apart from the threat of suspension?” He sighed, probably starting to sober up a little more. That moment with DCI Campbell and Finlay felt like days ago. Too much had occurred tonight to keep tabs.

  “Is that why you went to the pub on your own?” I asked.

  He breathed out loudly and changed position on the back seat. “I needed to relax. The pub was the first thing I thought of. Everyone else does the same,” Finlay said to excuse his actions.

  “Nobody else needed taking home because they were practically blacked out,” I stated, much to Finlay’s annoyance.

  “I know I’m right. About Jack,” Finlay almost spoke to himself, aware that I was listening.

  If only he knew.

  “He’s a liar, McCall. I know it,” Finlay repeated over and over again. He smiled goofily to himself, unable to help it. Finlay hated smiling, but it suited him, even if it was only a result of alcohol intake.

  “What did you do at the pub?” I enquired to fill the silence, half expecting him to retort back with a sarcastic comment of ‘drink’. But, to my surprise, he didn’t. He slapped his cheek in thought, deciding whether to spill the beans or not. His alcohol-fuelled loose lips decided for him.

  “Made a fool of myself,” he admitted shamefully. Some of his words still overlapped at the end, though that could result from tiredness as well. We had been awake for nearly twenty-four hours straight. I didn’t know how to reply, so I let Finlay continue. “There was a woman from the paper. That one who bashed me. Georgina Ryder.” Those words came out of his lips in anger. “She sat next to me. We talked.”

  I was surprised. They talked?

  “She was like me,” he mumbled on. “Threatened to be fired—”

  “DCI Campbell didn’t threaten to fire you. He was worried that you’re not feeling well. He said suspension, not sacked,” I interrupted and glanced back over my shoulder.

  Finlay’s bloodshot eyes spoke for h
im. “You’re not acting well, Finlay. Look at you. Earlier. On the hill. You stopped and blanked out for a good two minutes. And now you’re drunk and taking public stands against DCI Campbell. You and the Guv may have different opinions, so you have to learn to get along, regardless. If you’d spoken to him nicely, he would’ve let you go and investigate Jack Harper further. But you riled him up, and DCI Campbell is acting stubborn. All of us have got to go behind his back to find information out now.”

  “Hm?” Finlay hummed, questioning me about that last part. I kept silent. “I kissed her.”

  I nearly crashed the car in surprise. I swerved out from the path of a bus in the nick of time. My hearing must be failing. Finlay… kissed a woman? A real-life journalist.

  “Well… tried to,” he amended the declaration.

  DI Finlay Cooper, the man formerly known as Crabbit, actually tried to kiss a woman. We all had bets going at the office on whether he’d turned gay or not. I waited on tenterhooks to hear the next addition to that riveting tale.

  “She, uh, pulled away. More like ran away. She ran away.” Finlay sighed, as though the truth had hit home, and it hit him hard. He clasped both hands together, covering his mouth in shock.

  “Sorry,” I replied after a while, giving him some time for his confession to sink in. I wondered why they didn’t kiss in the end? Finlay was handsome enough in his own way. Albeit grumpy, but most women liked that.

  “Don’t be. People don’t like me much. That’s okay. That’s okay...” Finlay got quieter in the back. His deep voice faltered.

  I pulled up outside my modest flat, homely and not too large. It took Finlay a while to realise we weren’t outside his house. He sat up swiftly. Too swiftly, for his face creased up in agony. He grabbed hold of the headrest, to make the spinning stop. We’d all been there and done that.

  “Go slowly. You’re staying here tonight, no excuses. We’ve got work tomorrow, and you’ll probably still be over the legal driving limit by that point,” I added in thought.

  Finlay didn’t have the energy to argue. Thank goodness, or we would be there all night. He stepped out slowly, readjusting his head to stand upright. He followed me to the front door and upstairs quietly. It was strange, having Finlay there. Sometimes, I couldn’t escape that man. Leather-soled shoes squeaked on the staircase, reminding me of John’s shoes. They both wore near enough the same outfits.

  Apparently, I had a type.

  Finlay stood gawkily in one corner of my lounge area, swaying ever so slightly from side to side. I yawned slightly, finding some discarded blankets in my laundry cupboard and setting them up on the sofa. Then, I rifled through my drawers, searching for some appropriate clothes. I handed them to Finlay, who frowned with misunderstanding.

  “My brother’s. He left them here a while ago,” I explained. “There’s one shirt there for now—” I broke off, nodding towards his still shirtless self. “A-and a fresh set of clothes for tomorrow.” I fumbled and pushed the array of items into his arms.

  They were similar-sized, plain clothes. Otherwise, Finlay would have kicked up a fuss about going to work in a brightly patterned shirt.

  “Okay,” he agreed tiredly. His nostrils flared in a strangely masculine way, arms flexing as he slid on one of those shirts. Finlay didn’t have the energy to move much more, so he crumpled into the couch cushions.

  I would have made him brush his teeth, if I weren’t so worried he’d collapse whilst I wasn’t watching.

  Finlay adjusted himself on the couch, finding a comfortable position laid on his side. Peaceful, brunette locks spread out on the armrest, un-gelled with the proceedings of that night, eyes closed and mouth open ever so slightly. The apartment smelt of him. Luckily, his sickly smell had dissipated by then, leaving behind an aroma of slight sweat and remnants of aftershave.

  I smiled involuntarily at the grown man who slept like a baby. Thinking sensibly, I grabbed a bucket from the kitchen sink in case he puked again. With all our questions and suspicions running wild about the murder of Gavin Ellis, we longed to relax and for one night to not feel so damn alone in the world.

  I switched the living room light off and collapsed into my own bed, a million and one questions about Jack Harper running around my head.

  Fourteen

  A strong smell of bacon woke me up from an endless slumber. My head felt like how the gallows must have looked in the 17th century. Splitting. Dying. Tortured. And who was cooking bacon in my house? I must’ve fallen asleep in front of the television again. My hand scrambled around on the floor, feeling for the remote. It wasn’t there.

  I glanced towards the television and got the fright of my life. It wasn’t there either. Nothing was, for this wasn’t my home. This room had been furnished with elegant taste, poles apart from my scruffy taste. Delicate hues of purple tied the room together.

  The bacon smell made me feel queasy. Usually, bacon would be one of my favourite meals.

  “Glad to see you made it through the night without choking to death on your own sick,” a feminine voice cut through my thoughts, thick with a Scottish accent. McCall? I turned my upper body around to see. There she stood, dressed and in her usual suit. She had settled her hair down in a style which suited her immensely.

  A throbbing sensation pulsated across my head, beginning at my temples. “Ah,” I winced, fingers aiding their cry for help. McCall brought through a glass of much-appreciated water for me.

  “You look like crap,” McCall grinned her plumped pink lips. “You don’t remember, do you?” McCall pushed my legs to the right side of the couch and perched herself on the end, watching me.

  I stared right back, awaiting some form of recollection.

  “If I was to say Georgina Ryder, would that remind you?” she wondered.

  Ah.

  I could tell by the look on McCall’s face that I’d told her about my non-kiss moment. I shook my head and sunk back onto her cushions, closing my eyes in the hope that our world would fade away.

  McCall waltzed into her open-plan kitchen, spotting my attitude from a million miles away. She flipped the bacon, making it sizzle even more.

  “You need to get up, Finlay,” she commanded. “You’ll get crucified if you walk into the office like that. The bathroom is on the left, towels and spare toothbrushes in the cupboard.”

  I felt ancient. All my bones had seized up from sleep. I plodded along to the bathroom and locked the door behind me. I fiddled with the shower tap and managed to get only cold water pouring out.

  Whilst fumbling around for a towel, I located a toothbrush at the same time though a few of McCall’s things were in the way. Makeup, skincare products. I saw into her daily life, the things which made her human.

  I wouldn’t say I liked it.

  I shut the cupboard doors shut with a shiver, lumbering my oaf of a body into McCall’s tiny shower, giving me no choice but to wake up. That bacon smell infiltrated the bathroom, so I made sure to get changed as soon as possible.

  “It’s on the table,” McCall pointed towards breakfast displayed on a glass table for two, with matching chairs. Next to my plate, she’d put a steaming mug of coffee and two tablets of aspirin. Those were my first port of call. McCall must have hung my suit jacket on the back of her chair for it was close enough to reach. I tugged my aviators out from a pocket, obscuring my vision with their tinted lenses.

  “How did you know I was at the pub last night?” I asked. She chewed some more, biding her time wisely. I knew her well enough to know she was hiding something.

  “I was on my way home. After your argument with DCI Campbell, I thought some more about what you had to say--” she began but was interrupted by my phone vibrating on the table. It showed up with a work ID.

  “Hello?” I answered it groggily, hearing DCI Campbell’s voice emit sternly.

  “DI Cooper, come over to Bogend woods, now. Get hold of McCall too. I think you’ll both want to have a look at this,” he instructed before hanging up.

/>   McCall widened her eyes as if to say ‘what?’ We were supposed to be debriefing at the office today, not go out on a wildlife hunt.

  “We have to go,” I said firmly. I was already up and grabbing my jacket, much to my distaste. A day at home would be just what the doctor ordered.

  Still, duty called… in the voice of DCI Campbell.

  McCall drove us to Bogend, and we mulled over what could have happened so urgently. I kept my sunglasses, although it had been predicted rain. Upon entering Bogend Woods, we saw a pile-up of police cars. Blue lights bounced from all the trees to create an eerie, cinematic effect. I clambered along behind my partner, twigs snapping underfoot. It smelt fresh, like grass and wet mud. The air was clean and easy to breathe out there.

  DC Taylor was glad to be out of our office and amidst all the action. He waved solemnly to McCall, and they joined together in discussion. What happened all became obvious when I entered the clearing, at least on the surface.

  “As you can see, Cooper,” DCI Campbell narrated, “three dead animals. Stabbed to death. Abbey Aston came across them this morning when walking her dog through the clearing.” DCI Campbell pointed to the young woman, who winked at me when DCI Campbell couldn’t see. She had short and dyed red hair, nothing compared to McCall’s natural mane.

  I gazed on at our crime scene in confusion. None of it made sense. Three sheep, who had probably wandered across from some farmer’s field, had been killed and hung up by their legs with rope. Blood still dripped from their wounds. Their small faces were lifeless and perverse with agony. Not far away was an old dustbin, charred and still emitting wisps of smoke.

  “What’s that?” I questioned slowly, pretending to be entirely sober.

  “That’s the reason I called you two in. Look inside.”

  I did as I was told. Burned fibres and wood remained in the bottom from a bunch of charred clothes. My hangover meant I was slow on the uptake that day.