“Is this the evidence DS McCall warned me about?” DCI Campbell reached for our bags, observing the evidence within.
“We have reason to believe ropes are missing from inside. A few matches were scattered over the floor, and I swabbed the blood from outside,” McCall confirmed. “DI Cooper mentioned the shed lock wasn’t broken into, that our murderer possessed a set of keys.”
“Ah, a spanner in the works,” Campbell grumbled. “Having questioned people in the sailing club, they all appear innocent. All of them could confirm their whereabouts and stay true to their statements. For a few without, they’re writing them tonight for collection whenever possible,”
“Our killer could be close, a friend or neighbour perhaps? The sailing club is very limited in security. Their front entrance is all knackered wood and old-fashioned locks. Any modern criminal could get in quite easily,” I suggested truthfully, angling towards Jack Harper. “What about all of you? Find anything remotely worthwhile?”
“Only the usual. Peoples privately owned boats. Nothing dodgy.” DC Hall sighed, chomping a piece of gum.
“A compelling insight as usual, DC Hall.” I turned to Shipman. “DC Shipman, tell me you found something worth a rat’s arse?”
DC Murphy found my insult hilarious. He and Tony frequently wound each other up, behaving like primary school children. ‘Harmless fun’, apparently.
“Alrighty then.” I sighed and nodded to the evidence bags. “Get this sent off for forensics testing, and I want to keep these matches as evidence at our office. Who knows what our killer could be planning to do with that lot? Ropes and matches never have a good outcome.”
“Unless you’re into all that kinky stuff, Guv?” DC Hall called out, leaving McCall and Murphy sniggering. DC Shipman only recoiled in disgust. I did the same.
DCI Campbell grinned good-naturedly. “The wife doesn’t complain.” He cracked a joke, leaving them all hollering. “Lighten up, Cooper.”
DCI Campbell contained the right amount of humour and ability to knock people’s blocks off during fights. But he didn’t know the correct time or place to use it. Cracking jokes during a murder enquiry wasn’t my idea of fun.
“I haven’t finished, Guv. A phone call from DC Taylor came through. We received door-to-door statements from Jack Harper recently, who lives up there.” I pointed out, to which DC Murphy agreed.
“I know. We wrote his statement down. Droned on for hours about a load of old cobblers.” DC Murphy fake yawned, showing off in front of his friend.
“Those ‘old cobblers’ happen to be significant,” I chastised, up to my wit's end with the ragamuffin group. “DC Taylor found out Gavin went to prison for raping and overdosing Emily Harper. Probably related in some form.”
“Yeah, his daughter,” DC Murphy donned an unusually respectful tone. “I asked who his memorial was for. Harper seemed upset, but I assumed Emily Harper died older than his pictures suggested.”
“Stop assuming and listen properly next time.” DC Shipman was also fed up, cold and hungry. She was only in her mid-forties and desperately fed up with CID shenanigans.
DC Murphy couldn’t believe his ears. “Keep your knickers on, love. Shouldn’t be too hard, they’re probably those huge knickers my grandma wears judging by the size of your ar--”
“That’s quite enough, DC Murphy,” I said, cutting him off. “She’s right. Everything should be raked with a fine-tooth comb.”
McCall pretended to type on her phone, not wanting to get involved in our cross-exchange of words. “It’s Cillian, sir. You don’t have to call us by ranks just because you’re a superior officer now.”
“Right,” DCI Campbell got involved, fed up with listening. “I suggest us three pay Jack Harper a visit.” He pointed at me, McCall, and himself. “You miserable lot get back to the office. There’s also a bunch of paperwork to file, so get on with it. No messing around.”
Our team groaned in exasperation, missing out on the fun, practical jobs. We watched their work cars drive off, heading back to ‘base’. Jack Harper’s house would only be a five-minute walk, if that. McCall and I flanked our small group of three, joining together at certain points for discussion. DCI Campbell led the way, a newfound spring in his step.
“This seems wrong,” McCall observed, slightly out of breath from the walk set on an incline. “DC Taylor… John, I mean. He’s stuck back at the office whilst we relish in his glory.” Now she mentioned it, DC Taylor had been a huge help, never shying away from a bit of hard work.
“He’s a good worker, but don’t you think you’re too soppy? In larger teams, nobody gets any praise. Any piece of work completed is a group effort. We’ve visited Gavin’s crime scene multiple times, whilst they sit cosily in our office.” I hated being this way inclined, but the truth was always best.
“Is that all? A good worker?” she scoffed. “For the record, I'm not soppy. It wouldn’t kill you to be nicer or try smiling for once, crabbit.”
“Don’t start,” I forewarned, my Scottish accent overpowering. We panted, climbing up further still. “I’m too lenient, you know.” McCall snorted, disagreeing completely. “How long have they called me that?
“What, Crabbit?”
“Yeah. Those guys back there. Who came up with it?” Our shoes scuffed on various stones dotted around the floor. McCall was silent for a while, avoiding my question. “McCall?”
“Uh, fine. I did,” she admitted. “I came up with the nickname a couple of years ago now. It’s true, though, you always showed up miserable. Half of us weren’t sure whether you had any teeth because we didn’t ever see them!”
I stopped dead, shocked to my core. It took a while to string together any comprehensible sentences. “Dear God, McCall! Thanks.”
“Oh, stop being such a sod faced... knob,” McCall struggled to think of a better, more educated insult. We carried on awkwardly, listening to the breeze blow gently. I stared downward, not daring to peek over at McCall. She sniffed, sauntering slightly ahead.
“Sod faced knob?”
“Whatever.”
A bright light flashed, cutting right across my vision. Without realising, I had hunched over, breathing ragged breaths. McCall gripped onto my arm, squeezing gently and fanning a sheet of paper nearby. Was I deluded or catching a cold?
“Finlay? What’s wrong?” McCall over-pronounced, in case I couldn’t hear.
“I’m not an idiot, McCall,” I got out. “I do speak English.”
“Next time, help yourself, Finlay Cooper.” McCall huffed in exasperation, helping to steady my fumbling frame. She thrust over a small flask of hot chocolate, upgraded since the coffee incident.
“I’m fine. Where did you even get that from?”
“You really are a stubborn gobshite. Drink it.” The cocoa tasted genuinely enjoyable, warming my insides and outsides in unison. “It’s from home. I made it myself. It’s winter, and we’ve been spending an awful lot of time outside.”
My blood sugar levels slowly returned to normal, as DCI Campbell had trekked on ahead impatiently, leaving us to follow behind.
“You’ve got to stop swearing so much,” I noted.
“Don’t tell me what to do. It’s the only way anyone will listen to me. Finlay Cooper!” she hissed, struggling to keep up. “You’re sick. Slow down, right now.”
“I’m not sick. I have a headache, that’s all. DCI Campbell will be waiting up there, and Jack Harper needs interviewing. See? Absolutely fine.” I swigged a mouthful of hot chocolate. “Could do with more milk.”
McCall snatched her flask away. “Me and you are having a serious discussion afterwards,” she threatened, taking a sip of the drink. “It doesn’t need any more milk. It’s nice.”
“That’s disgusting,” I grimaced at the fact McCall drank out of the same cup as me, but she only shrugged.
Ten
DCI Campbell waited outside of Jack Harper's house, glancing into his front garden out of pure nosiness. Gnomes decorated the
lawn and front steps alike, big, small and brightly coloured. McCall shuddered, easily spooked by doll inspired ornaments. If you didn’t know Jack Harper lived there, you would believe his red-bricked house was empty. Grime washed all the windows, green in hue and natural in growth. Cobwebs dusted his entire house from spiders who chose to leave their dusty remains behind.
“Freaky little ornaments,” DCI Campbell pulled a face, rapping twice on the door. “Jack Harper? It’s CID.” He kept it brief, polite, and tactical enough to entice Jack to open up.
A shadow moved distractedly from behind his curtains, signalling that Jack was inside, at least.
“He’s waiting there, behind that curtain,” I alerted McCall and DCI Campbell quietly. Jack took his time to greet us, and my suspicions rose steadily. “What’s taking him so long?” Impatience usually got me into trouble.
“Give the guy a chance,” McCall snarled.
Jack Harper finally worked up the courage to invite us in. He revealed himself, utterly different from what we expected. Evidently, Jack Harper was uninterested in looks, judging by his ripped shirt. It was faded of colour, a result of one too many past washes. Thin glasses perched atop his strongly featured nose, pinching its bridge tightly. Intense lines carved through his forehead, covered from a mop of greying hair.
Based on his gaunt figure, I’d have to be careful that Jack Harper didn’t drop dead. Anyone would presume that he never ate food. It was odd, for individually his features made sense, but mashed together… well, they didn’t fit together aesthetically. I flashed my DI badge with a sense of satisfaction, noticing how Jack Harper's face fell.
“CID. Could we come in?” There wasn’t much need to ask politely, as we already shoved inside without invitation.
“O-of course. I thought your guys got everything they needed the other day from me?” Jack Harper didn’t fight us but already made excuses.
“Yeah, well. It seems they made a mistake,” I muttered, wiping my finger along a sideboard counter. Dusty as hell. Dirty Harper.
“Sorry to disturb you, Mr Harper,” McCall apologised to counteract my stand-offish behaviour. “We have a small matter of business to clear up.”
Harper led us through to his kitchen, DCI Campbell first. The sink brimmed over with dirty plates and cups, unexpected for a man who barely ate. Decorated in paint acceptable for the eighties, Jack Harper’s kitchen did nobody any favours. That pink etched itself into my mind. He barely looked comfortable when safe in his own home. As DC Murphy mentioned, shelves of memories piled on top of each other, leaving no room to squeeze more in.
McCall subtly picked up a photograph, tilting it my way. It depicted a young girl, smiling and cheerful. She wore braided bunches with no worries and a sunny disposition. Her chubby cheeks would have lit up a room, you could tell. Nobody deserves such a terrible event to tear their world apart, not even this man. I read a framed message displayed next to it.
‘To daddy. You are my most favourite person in the whole wide world. Thank you for always giving me ice lollies when I ask and big cuddles. Love, Emily.’
It was scrawled untidily in red and blue crayons, a childish doodle of two stick people covered one half of the page, hand-drawn by Emily herself, aged eight. Emily must have been seventeen when the overdose happened, due to more scattered photographs of Emily in her early teenage years. She was a pretty girl, one which criminals would love taking advantage of. Easy prey.
Jack Harper bumbled sullenly, answering DCI Campbell’s polite conversation as he brewed tea. There were only three chairs around Jack Harper’s dining table, so I decently allowed McCall and DCI Campbell to take them. McCall smiled gratefully while DCI Campbell thanked me accordingly. I leant against a countertop, careful not to put my leather gloves into any wet patches.
The mugs clinked as Jack offered to serve all three of us. I politely declined, noting a stain on Jack Harper’s mug. At last, he settled down, unable to avoid us longer.
“We want you to be completely honest with us, Jack. You’re not in any trouble. We only have a few more questions to ask you,” McCall opened up, brushing a flaming wisp away from her cheek. They were still flushed from our walk uphill.
“What sort of questions? About that kid who got murdered? I don’t know anything,” Jack fired back, sure sounding guilty.
“Yes. But you knew Gavin Ellis, didn’t you, Jack?” DCI Campbell leaned forward, resting on his large table. “Only you failed to mention that in our written statements we received.”
I observed the man’s closed-off demeanour.
“No. I told your officers I vaguely knew Gavin.” Jack spat Gavin’s name, unintentionally staring at Emily’s photograph, then McCall’s boobs. Disgusting. McCall noticed and pulled her blazer tighter to conceal them more. Jack Harper pushed those rimmed glasses further up his nose.
“For Christ’s sake!” I hit the counter in anger, making Jack Harper flinch. “Bloody Cillian and his lacklustre efforts.”
“Yes, thank you, DI Cooper,” DCI Campbell silenced me.
Jack paused, blinking as he folded inside his own mind. Experiencing flashbacks, maybe? He hunched over, gritting his teeth spitefully and sweating buckets.
“How exactly did you know him?” McCall prodded, evidently hoping to rile a beast inside, trip Jack up into confessing whether he had a part in Gavin’s murder. Jack Harper's mouth fell open like he was not in control.
“You need me to tell you? Can’t you find it on your police records or something?” he whispered, lacking in energy.
None of us responded.
“He killed my daughter,” Jack got out at last. “My beautiful baby girl. Took advantage of her, stole her. Raped her. His filthy hands tainted my daughter’s body, then left her out there to rot. Whilst I was fast asleep at home, tucked up with my wife. Comfortable and warm. But Emily froze that night, lying dead in some filthy ditch.” Jack took a moment of reflection, as if transported back to that night.
None of us expected such a vivid reaction.
“My wife was pregnant,” he went on. “We were going to tell Emily the next morning. She always wanted a brother or sister. We rushed downstairs, into this very kitchen, and made her favourite breakfast. My wife called her. And called her. But she wasn’t home. My little Emily…” Jack Harper broke down, tears falling without shame. A grown man reduced to a young boy in front of our eyes.
Jack’s mouth hung open with silent screams of pain, and McCall jumped from her seat to console him. The father held onto McCall for dear life, afraid of collapsing without that extra support. With his mentally emotional speech, Jack Harper only gave me additional explanations as to why he could have killed Gavin Ellis out of revenge. He had enough motive.
Jack Harper accepted the Kleenex McCall handed him gratefully. His tears soaked through until it was nothing but a scrunched-up wad in his fist. We gave him time to steady himself. We were not wholly ruthless people.
“Last time I saw… him, was in court,” Jack sneered. “They sentenced him to six years, but he got out in three. Good behaviour. How can that be possible? He killed my little girl.”
“We know, Jack. We know,” McCall spoke softly, rubbing his back in circles.
Bet he loved that, did old Dirty Harper. The façade of a half functional man utterly vanished.
“Tell us again where you were the night Gavin Ellis was murdered.” DCI Campbell spoke softly, feeling Jack Harper’s pain as a parent. I didn’t have the same responsibilities of parenthood, so I could not relate personally. Perhaps that’s why only I could see clearly through his crappy act.
“I told you before,” Harper mumbled, “I was working a night shift for extra money. Since my wife left, I can barely afford the bills here. I’m not sorry he died.”
“Why don’t you move into cheaper accommodation?” I pointed out ruthlessly, heartlessly.
“She grew up here. I can feel her spirit watching over me.” Great, the man was deluded. “I’m a doctor but had to reduce
my hours drastically after… Emily.” Jack Harper wiped his glasses with the hem of his ragged shirt.
We held back a further ten minutes, but by then, Jack had turned into a snivelling mess, refusing to answer any more questions. He’d stepped too far into his bed of agony. As we exchanged our disheartened goodbyes, McCall hoped Jack would be alright when left alone. No doubt he would want to be alone, away from prying eyes.
Being back out in the abrupt Scottish air was a relief for all three of us. We appreciated our break after Jack Harper's overbearing emotions. Depressing. McCall was shaken from blues, DCI Campbell in a state of sorrow. They believed every sob story Jack Harper spun them.
I, however, was a different tale.
“Jack Harper’s hiding something. I don’t know what, but I don’t trust him,” I bravely observed.
McCall disagreed completely. “Could you not see his heartache? He lost his daughter—”
“Exactly. His motive to kill Gavin Ellis is greater than anyone else.” I shrugged nonchalantly.
“I’m not sure, Cooper. As a parent, his grief was real. Those weren’t crocodile tears.” DCI Campbell scratched his balding head. “This was a golden coincidence that Gavin was murdered, and Jack Harper might feel relieved knowing some kind of justice was served, eventually.”
“You’re talking about karma?” I had to hear that twice.
“Well, yes.” DCI Campbell pouted thoughtfully. Ne’er in my life had I heard karma being dragged into a CID case.
“You’re saying Jack Harper got lucky that our victim happened to be Gavin Ellis? The guy who killed his daughter?” And again, I didn't know whether this was a wind-up or not.
McCall recognised a vat of steaming hot blood trickling through my veins and shook her head for me to cut it out.
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