“It’s not professional,” I answered at last. “We’re solving a homicide case, DS McCall. I couldn’t go around calling you Kirsty. How unprofessional would that seem?”
She shrugged and tugged her shirt collar inattentively. “But you never let me call you Finlay, either. We’ve worked together for years. What’s wrong with that?”
“I hate my name. Finlay.” It even felt weird on my tongue. It sounded strange coming from McCall’s mouth too. “Fin-lay,” I repeated, testing it out again. Definitely not. “No. Plus, I’m your superior now. You should call me accordingly.”
Starting to indicate left, someone pulled straight out on me.
“Dobber!” I shouted. Road rage on full display.
“You deserved that,” McCall huffed. She believed in karma and hippy nonsense, whilst I believed in idiots who shouldn’t be allowed to drive. “Just because you are our superior now, doesn’t mean you’re any better than the rest of us. Sometimes you act like a complete nutter. Don’t forget your place, Finlay Cooper. We ranked the same for five years.” McCall refused to call me DI Cooper any longer. Clearly, harbouring jealous tendencies that I received the title of detective inspector, when everyone fought and applied non-stop for it too. Sore loser.
I couldn’t help but splutter, finding her writhing fury hilarious. McCall didn’t want to join in, but failed to fight my infectious chuckles. We laughed together. A much-needed amusing touch to our otherwise miserable day. I followed the idiotic driver, watching his facial expression droop when McCall switched on our hidden blue lights.
Five
It didn’t take long to reach our station in Dalgety Bay. Everything stayed reasonably close together here, fantastic for finding places to eat after long shifts. Goofy bunches of off-duty officers and sergeants milled around near the car park, bored to death. Inside Dalgety Bay station was a completely different situation. Chaos, would be the best word to describe proceedings.
Constables scrutinized us upon entrance, undoubtedly knowing what scene we’ve returned from. Gavin’s case would be heavier than CID were used to. Nothing much took place in Dalgety. Certainly not homicides. Of course, we had to deal with average crimes now and again. Knife crimes, rapes, drug busts. Most deaths in town were usually gang-related, which Gavin’s case outcome could support. Gavin involved himself in gangs around Dalgety, we had heard.
From the dampened faces of my colleagues, they shared an instinct. A vendetta to end any violence at once and keep their little girls, wives and mothers safe. Darker forces were at play here. And none of CID particularly liked it. We strode to eliminate that force immediately.
“Morning, sir. Ma’am.” Dora, front desk sergeant, welcomed us back. Anything Dora said had to be taken with a pinch of salt. At times she could be stern, others she could crack jokes to uncertain constables.
“Skip,” I acknowledged, and McCall responded accordingly. That wasn’t Dora’s official title, but she ran such a tight ship that everyone called her accordingly.
“Busy day?”
“You’ve no idea. Had a fella in the cells picking fights with all those protesters. Half his size,” Dora referred to some protesters holding impromptu marches recently. A few got out of hand when people showed up intoxicated, stumbling down the streets. “Turns out,” Dora leaned closer, sharing her interesting gossip of the day. Dora noticed and overheard everything within these four walls. “He fancied the little bloke and was too conventional to admit it. Although it’s too bloody cramped down there, I had to split them up. Didn’t want any… funny business.”
Despite our determined down to business attitudes, we always made time to chat with Skip. Dora was guaranteed entertainment. Behind the front desk, a phone rang loudly and demanded Dora’s undivided attention.
“What a handful,” McCall chuckled, excusing us.
The general hubbub rose the further we marched into CID. I pushed open our general office door to reveal our colleagues, dressed in formal suit attires. They sat productively at their desks, typing furiously at dozens of computers. Others condensed any evidence we had so far to create an evidence board thought process. From a short distance away, I read Kris Ellis’s name and accompanying photograph.
“Sir,” a detective constable called, stopping me in my tracks.
I turned to face him. It was DC Taylor, a younger man suspended in his late twenties. Having not worked with CID long, he was still learning the ropes. A smart lad, though not experienced enough for people to take him seriously. Complete with a mane of black hair, he rifled through piles of paper.
“DC Taylor?”
“Ben and Cillian started door-to-door enquiries,” DC Taylor informed, letting me know exactly where my team disappeared to. Having a smaller team meant allocating jobs carefully. “Half our guys are searching by the bay first, but then we’ll move out to surrounding areas. They wanted to search along Gavin’s road first, suss out his neighbours. Find out who his friends were.”
“We just came from there,” I sighed, not recalling seeing our team. “Make sure we get a statement from everyone. If any of them sound dodgy, inform us right away. I’m not taking chances with this case. I want those criminals off the streets.” I nodded curtly, knowing that compiling so many statements and matching alibis ourselves would prove one hell of a waiting game.
Trying to speak over the general ruckus proved to be a nightmare. The printer beeped endlessly from a paper jam, mugs clinked from officers at desks, keys clacked, and sheets from various case statements rustled. Enough noise to give anyone a headache. That and our ridiculously squeaky chairs. Budget cuts never allowed enough money for decent chairs.
Not all our officers could afford to work towards Gavin’s case. CID were tipped off about a drug deal at a dealer’s house last week, and all that paperwork needed filing before they went to trial. The trouble was, at least twenty different group discussions took place at once. DC Taylor tried to communicate properly, but I could not hear him at all.
“Everybody wheesht a minute!” I shouted, red in the face. It worked though, because the straggle of officers descended into shocked silence. DC Taylor cleared his throat awkwardly, hating that we were the centre of attention.
“Thank you.” I directed that last comment generally before focusing on what DC Taylor said. “Go ahead.”
“Erm, DCI Campbell wants to see you. His office,” DC Taylor reported, pointing in generally. Team members sniggered at DC Taylor’s apparent nerves, but the lad would have to stand up for himself at some point. Gradually, the office filled up with chatter and McCall joined us.
“Sarge, can I show you something?” Taylor queried, blushing bright pink at McCall’s open smile. She agreed politely. But first, I had instructions to swap over.
“Campbell wants a word. Would you debrief this stuffy nosed lot on Kris Ellis and back up her alibi? DC Taylor is probably the best to help. He knows what guys are already out there.” DC Taylor thanked me for the off-hand compliment. In all truthfulness, he is our only logical, free-thinking constable who follows initiative. He reminded me of… well. Me.
McCall was a people person and knew every CID officer personally. She would be their preferred port of call, whereas I was usually last. “Alright. I’ll round them up. Have a nosy into Gavin’s friendship groups too. Might as well, whilst forensics do their piece.” McCall already followed DC Taylor, talking as they left. I watched them sit at DC Taylor’s desk, viewing some information already uncovered.
Six
DCI Campbell waited expectantly for me. No doubt, willing to discuss Gavin Ellis and my first case as detective inspector. He squeezed behind a disturbingly small desk for a larger man. DCI Graham Campbell was a respectable figure for the Bay and one heck of an experienced senior officer. He’d experienced everything, from the rise of Women’s Departments and times when police officers utilized physical violence as tactical moves.
Whenever DCI Campbell asked to speak privately, my palms coated in a light sw
eat. No one in CID ever came close to touching his achievements, and that was daunting. You’d hit the big time when DCI Campbell held a private audience with you. DCI Campbell started in Scotland Yard first, for Metropolitan forces. Since then, he transferred to stations aplenty and worked up between ranks.
“Ah, DI Cooper. Just the man I needed to see.” DCI Campbell stacked a load of paperwork under the computer keyboard. His London accent always threw us off-kilter. It’s not how Scottish DCIs should sound. Rumours submerged our office about DCI Campbell’s plans to retire. We couldn’t imagine him doing anything else, always thinking he’d stay here until forced onto a deathbed.
“Yes, sir. I got your message.” I invited myself into the pokey office on tenterhooks. DCI Campbell waved over, gesturing to sit down. His spectacularly bald head shone through our dim office lights, any hair remaining already grey. A lone office chair squeaked underneath my weight. There used to be times where I could eat anything in sight and stay trim. Nowadays, no chance. Damned office food.
“Gavin Ellis. Washed up near the sailing club, early hours this morning. Nineteen years old. Found by Sammy Davis. Tell me, what did you find?” DCI Campbell quizzed, snapping Gavin’s case file closed and stared at me through brown-hued eyes. Although weathered, they still held the gift of life.
“Well, DCI Campbell sir. There’s no murder weapon. Presumably chucked in the water, same as Gavin’s body. Until it washes up somewhere soon, we have no definite.”
DCI Campbell hummed in agreement, leaning both shirt-covered elbows onto his desk. How could someone so old look younger than half of our team put together? Lucky genes.
“A classic homicide case,” I resumed. “Kris Ellis, the mother, chucked Gavin out of her house four days ago. I’ve no reason to believe she’s lying any more--”
“A hunch?” DCI Campbell interjected, frowning seriously. He proudly presented framed photographs dotted around his office. A happily married family man. I wondered how he successfully balanced work life to home life.
“No, sir. Kris revealed the information directly. Our officers are undergoing door-to-door checks, making sure Kris’s alibi adds up. Others are out reviewing the bay.”
“Very good. Cold, hard evidence. That’s what we like,” DCI Campbell affirmed smartly, leaning back to a comfortable position. He pulled his stiff collar to cool down. There were so many people wandering through our station, that the temperature always remained stuffy.
“DS McCall should be debriefing in the office. We’ve no other leads until forensics work their magic.” I sighed, knowing this information sounded useless.
“Just what we don’t want with a killer on the loose.” DCI Campbell folded his arms and clicked in thought. We all felt similar emotions when working on cases. The same frustrations, highs and lows and contentment at newfound discoveries.
“DS McCall suggested looking into Gavin’s friendship circle first. He’s a criminal, so most likely had a few dodgy friends.” I half praised the temperamental woman.
“Probably our best start. Delve into his personal history too to figure out who he may have pissed off. Could it be an intentional murder, or was he wrong place, wrong time?” My superior sipped a mug of tea and rifled through paperwork aplenty. “I’ll forward you the forensics emails as soon as possible. They know it’s urgent, but you never can tell them guys enough times. Gavin’s autopsy results should be sent over at some point too, although I’d like to visit the body in person.”
“Uh-huh. Thank you, sir.” I jotted down a few notes.
“Go home. Get some rest,” Campbell noted grimly. “There'll be a bunch of statements awaiting us tomorrow. We can separate the bluffers from honesty and go from there. Without the murder weapon, it’ll be tricky. But SOCO may come up trumps, if they work a miracle.”
Most people forget being a detective means waiting around. All week long. Patience should get an honourable mention inside CID every so often. Lethargic but acceptive of DCI Campbell’s proposal, I gratefully stalked to his office entrance. As my hand traced the cold metal handle, DCI Campbell stopped me.
“Oh and Cooper?” he added with a stern face, nostrils flared slightly, and frame erect. Sitting up straight. “The press. They’ll be all over this. It’s a high-profile case and your first time headlining our team. They may doubt your abilities but stay strong. Keep your head down, do your job and stay out of trouble. We don’t want people finding reasons to create mass hysteria. The general public would be frightened of leaving their houses at night. Alright?” He seemed to advise from experience.
“Thank you, sir,” I continued our polite formalities. I wanted to prove my capability of completing the job, that the promotion to inspector was an excellent choice on his behalf. I disappeared into the corridor, exhaling deeply. Relaxing. All four walls felt suspiciously close, like they’d moved overnight. A passing team officer, named Eileen, eyed me curiously.
“You alright?” Eileen enquired in a brittle tone. This wasn’t how DIs were supposed to act.
“Fine.”
We carried on pacing in opposite directions, though I’m sure Eileen kept glanced back a few times. Nobody even noticed their detective inspector sneaking through the communal office. They were all listening intently to McCall’s debriefing. Asking questions, joking and scrawling vital down. DC Taylor sat closest to McCall, drowning in every word she uttered. Infatuation, I supposed. Nothing would come of it though. Surely? McCall knew better than to get involved in such trivial affairs.
Listen to me. Sounding jealous. I wasn’t. Caring for the team dynamic and what contributed best to individual cases was a detective inspector’s most important task. I shut myself away in my private office, and the window allowed me to watch the gaggle of constables closely.
The office remained poky but a nice space to get away from everything. Furnished with regimented bookshelves rammed to bursting point from all sorts of folders and a desk which took up half the room, it wasn’t exactly tidy. Just an explosion of stuff. To be fair, a computer filled up half the desk space, leaving little room to store much else. My clock ticked solemnly.
As I settled down to arrange some files, a strange sensation hit me like a ton of bricks, sudden and without warning. Not that a warning would have been useful either. The room blurred near its edges whilst hazy lights split through my head. A sharp sensation stabbed and prodded too, causing an epiphany of pain.
What was that? An intense migraine or dehydration? We hadn’t had many drinks today. Last thing I remembered drinking was McCall’s hideous coffee.
Hunched over on the tabletop, all I could do was wait for that fleeting discomfort to disappear. Shaking, my hand brushed against a glass of water leftover from God knew when, but you shouldn’t closely examine small details at desperate times like that.
The fresh, if warm, liquid entered my system gratefully, and my body heaved a breath of relief. After a short pause, everything felt back to normal again. I cursed whatever occurred and put those symptoms down to a long day. Work and duty called, so I decided to ignore it all and dived into a world of gruesome tales, dull forms, and over spilling binders. Pausing every now and again, I’d spin on my swivel chair to get a fresh perspective of my surroundings.
From its corner, my personal evidence board caught some well-needed attention. I decided to redo the information, for there were maps and pieces leftover from a case solved last month, by the last DI. Each piece of paper ripped satisfyingly, leaving a couple of pins sticking out from the corkboard dangerously. I scribbled down what we knew so far. Kris Ellis, Sammy Davis. Crime scene location. That sort of thing.
Once some photographs of Gavin’s body had been sent over, they’d be joining this board too. Most of our constables had left, trickling out one by one. Leaving a quieter atmosphere in the office. Just how I enjoyed working. Sometimes, quietness was necessary to think thoroughly. Stretching and extending my arms in discomfort, something different caught my attention.
McCall
and DC Taylor drinking together. Could be tea, but who knew with McCall? She perched on his desk, chatting, her auburn hair startling bright compared to DC Taylor's mundane appearance. They laughed at something. But who made who laugh?
Squinting, I tried to work out what they had seen. Nothing. They were just laughing.
Huh.
Crap. McCall caught me staring. Deflecting any unwanted attention, I viewed the office in intense detail, acting as though I wasn’t sniffed out mid-stare. But then they both stood up, exchanging farewells. McCall pointed directly to my office, and DC Taylor grinned, waving goodbye. What’s that supposed to mean? Did he know I was staring, or was he being polite?
Waving wasn’t really my thing. Instead, I nodded once with tight lips, awkwardly as usual. I preferred the lone wolf type attack. That way, no one knew you well enough to understand how you’re thinking or feeling. DC Taylor swung a rugged satchel over one shoulder, energetically pacing away.
McCall, on the other hand, headed straight towards my office. Rapping on the window pane sharply.
“I’m busy,” I called out tensely.
“Not too busy to stare though, are we?” she retorted and pushed through anyway, completely ignoring my previous wishes. McCall’s glittering blue eyes burned a hole in my cheek, making me paranoid that something stuck to it. I brushed my cheek to double-check. Nothing.
“Making sure you both stuck to the task at hand, that’s all. I don’t think the best time to start flirting is during a homicide case, do you?” I chastised, viewing McCall’s expression of amusement change. Those smiling, ruby lips automatically changed to pouted ones.
“I wasn’t flirting!” Her head shook in disagreement, hands settling upon her petite hips. For such a small woman, McCall sure was frightening.
“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.
The Devil's Due Page 4
