Abduction in Dalgety Bay

by Ramsay Sinclair

  Tony nodded in agreement, sporting the same foam but on his beard instead. He desperately needed a shave as he started to look like one of those gladiator men. A stereotypical Scotsman, actually, with dark hair protruding from his rounded chin. I half-wished we could see him comb it in the mornings, purely for entertainment.

  “Tell me about it. My wife keeps saying that I need to work off this stomach.” Tony had nothing to worry about. He was as well built as a fireman and could easily lift weights if he chose. John was on the slimmer side but had an athletic build that was incredibly handsome. I thought so, anyway.

  “Men and their concerns, eh, sarge?” Rebecca wryly lifted her drink up in a cheers motion and nearly polished it off immediately. She wasn’t lying when she said she could keep up with the men in more ways than one. It was nice to finally have female company on nights out and to fight in my corner in the office sometimes. For too long, we’d been outnumbered by the opposite sex.

  “Tell me about it.” I grinned in response and sipped upon the bubbly liquid.

  She’d unbuttoned her tailored jacket and hung it comfortably behind the chair, starting to relax as our team was alone. I noticed Cillian sneakily checking her out from the machine, pretending to be otherwise occupied.

  An old song was playing through the pub speakers, and the only other people around were a few elderly locals ordering pub grub. The smell of roast dinners or fish and chips wafted over and enticed us to cast an eye over the menu.

  “Here.” John passed over the flimsy, laminated sheet thoughtfully. “I reckon you’re going to have scampi and chips… with extra salt.” He jokingly waved the salt shaker at me from the table, having guessed my order spot on.

  “You would be right.” I snorted in mirth and didn’t even have to bother looking anymore. “You know me too well.” It was quite frightening, actually. I prided myself on spontaneity, and here was someone who knew everything about me, even down to my order.

  “Cillian?” Rebecca shouted over the huffing constable, tapping away at the flashing buttons. “Do you want anything to eat?”

  Having been distracted from the game, Cillian shook his head. “No, thanks, but I’ve lost all my money on this damn thing. You don’t happen to have any spare change, do you?”

  Rebecca’s eyes nearly rolled to the back of her head, but nevertheless, she dug into her pockets and flicked a pound coin over. “Catch.”

  After a few fumbles, he eventually slotted the coin in and played yet another round. “Actually,” he changed his mind, “a packet of crisps would do nicely.”

  “I should’ve made a bet on that,” I muttered unbelievably.

  “A bet on what?” John rested his warm hand on my thigh, flushed skin coated in a light sheen of sweat. Secretively, of course, so that we didn’t make it awkward for the rest of the team to be in our company.

  “Oh, nothing much,” I shrugged and played with a skewiff, coiled curl that hung in front of my vision and obscured it slightly. Each time I pulled on it, it sprung straight back up. “I just mentioned to Finlay earlier that it would be tough getting the roast beef crisps away from Cillian.”

  John scoffed humorously and caught my eye. I couldn’t help but fawn over him constantly. It was quite worrying, actually.

  “What happened to DI Cooper today?” Tony asked whilst we were on the subject, fiddling with a beer mat. “He disappeared quickly after the service was over.”

  “He did,” I agreed thoughtfully and rested my elbows on the slightly sticky tabletop. “I think it all got a bit too much for him.”

  Rebecca nodded, squinting in the dimmed lights. “I’m not surprised. It’s easy to see that he’s not coping very well. He’s as skinny as a matchstick and barely even smokes half of his usual amount at the moment. That’s how you know he’s not coping well.” She seemed upset.

  “Watching someone commit suicide can’t be easy. Just because I haven’t forgiven DCI Reid for what he did, that doesn’t mean any of us would wish his death upon our worst enemies.” Tony huffed as though a huge weight was pressing down upon his shoulders.

  Truthfully, I would’ve preferred DCI Reid to rot behind bars rather than take the easy route out. It was the people left behind who were affected most; that was always the way. John squeezed my thigh supportively.

  “I think DI Cooper needs a lot of help,” he noted. “I know I would if I were in his shoes.” We agreed in unison. “There’s no shame in getting help. It's just getting the person to agree to it that’s the difficulty. Especially a man like DI Cooper. He can be a wee bit--”

  “Stubborn?” Rebecca suggested.

  “Hot-headed!” Tony waved his drink in our direction.

  I decided to get involved. “A pain in my arse?”

  All these terms were meant in the fondest way possible. Finlay Cooper was one of a kind.

  “No.” John laughed and displayed a set of gnashers. “Strong. He’s afraid of appearing weak. The night at Seafield House bruised his pride when he had to admit he needed our help.” John was usually correct about these types of things. He had a knack for knowing people inside and out. That’s what made him good at his job. One of the things, anyway.

  We were momentarily distracted by the bartender taking our food orders and jotting each one down in a notepad. It was a struggle to get that finished easily, for Cillian was acting like a five-year-old. Halfway through the order, he’d decided to take a look at the menu and chose a roast chicken meal to substitute the crisps after we were convinced he wasn’t that hungry.

  “So, how do you suggest we tackle DI Cooper?” I wondered after the dust had settled.

  John went silent, thinking of tactical ways to approach this somewhat tetchy problem. The gel he’d used to create a smart quiff was beginning to come unstuck after all these hours and the wind it had withstood.

  “An intervention,” he stated firmly, leaving us all to ponder the suggestion. “We should show him somehow that we care. Not in an overly sappy way or anything.”

  “He won’t take that lightly,” Rebecca grimaced nervously.

  “Maybe not.” Tony undid his top button and smoothed out his starched collar. “But it’s a show of support, as a team. To show that we’re rooting for him. After all, he did the best he could when it came to DCI Reid. Nobody could’ve helped him.”

  I could only hope it would be effective, for we were running out of ideas on how to help Finlay. I knew Abbey was struggling to cope with the shellshocked side of him too.

  “What about referring him to a counsellor?” Rebecca suggested lightly. “Surely that’s something that could help DI Cooper on the professional side of things? I mean, we can be there for him as friends and colleagues but what he really needs is advice on how to deal with the trauma whilst continuing to work as a detective inspector. I had a friend that suffered from a type of PTSD after a house search went wrong. They had a warrant, but someone had a knife once they went in. Stabbed a few officers, it was all very gory. She said that talking to a psychiatrist afterwards practically saved her life. It’s more common than people realise, trauma in the forces.”

  “That’s a very good idea.” I nodded slowly, digesting all the information. “That’s something I don’t know too much about, but I’m willing to bet the new DCI will know how to refer Finlay to one.”

  We collectively sighed in relief, glad that our plan was progressing into motion. Finlay was someone vitally important to all of us. To see him struggle was something that had to be fixed.

  “I’ll talk to the new DCI once they’ve settled in,” I suggested and made room for the plates the bartender was holding. They were steaming on account of their warmth, and my eyes nearly popped out from my head when I spotted the battered fish.

  Up until now, I didn’t realise quite how hungry I was. Gratefully accepting the food, I tried not to burn my fingers on the fried chips, too impatient to wait for them to cool first. At last, Cillian was dragged away from his excessive gambling to eat. He stumb
led over, legs numb from standing up for too long. We scoffed in mirth at his ridiculousness, but without him, our team wouldn’t quite be complete.

  4

  As McCall requested, I’d arrived at the station on time. Yes, I was slightly hungover, but the thought counted. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, isn’t that how the old saying goes?

  The dampened station steps were at more of an incline than I could comprehend and rendered me breathless. A few uniformed officers stared at my disgruntled appearance and slow pace, for I really couldn’t manage much more than a stroll. A few nodded respectfully, but some muttered gossip when I passed them. CID was still the hot topic of the month after some newspapers were released weeks back regarding DCI Reid’s corruption. Some officers didn’t believe he was anything but a respectable DCI, whilst others had thanked us for continuing the investigation and eventually taking him down.

  PC Ryan Shaw was of the latter and had sent us many gifts for helping combat the threats he’d received. It was nice to receive chocolates and champagne rather than sinister notes and suspension forms, that was for sure.

  “Good morning, Cooper.” Skipper, as we fondly named her, shone excitedly at my arrival. “Did you have a nice weekend?”

  Before anyone could reply, she took a deep breath and reeled off an anecdote about hers. Ever the scandalous gossip, barely anyone could stop Skipper once she got started. It came with the territory of working at our front desk, where a mixture of locals entered our doors each day. There were bound to be rumours or whispers circulating around the Bay, and Skipper happened to catch wind of them all.

  “It’s DI Cooper, Skip. If I have to tell you again, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

  Skipper cheekily poked her tongue out, annoyed that I’d spoiled the story. That didn’t phase her, though, as seconds later, she was back to relaying every detail about the weekend. “As I was saying, I was working non-stop on Saturday night. We had two women in cell five who wouldn’t stop bickering, picked up by uniform outside the pub in town. It took us ages to get down to the real reason why they were fighting. Turns out, the older one ruined this week's plot of Coronation Street.”

  I’d love to say that surprised me, but after years of working with the force, it really didn't.

  “Thing is, they didn’t get charged.” Skipper leaned closer. “Nobody could blame them. I hate it when things get spoiled on television, especially since we barely get any time to catch up on episodes after working here all of our bloody time,” she explained calmly and rifled with some files.

  In the background, phones were ringing off the hooks, and uniforms were filling out statements or locals waiting to be interviewed. I reluctantly had to agree. It was irritating when people spoiled trivial things like that.

  “By the way,” Skipper tutted and held the forms up in an accusatory fashion, “whoever's been sending me these needs a good clipping around the earhole. Practically undecipherable, the lot of it.”

  Squinting to read the handwriting, I tutted. “It’s Cillian’s writing. I should’ve known. Excuse us, Skip, we’ve had a lot to deal with without a DCI leading the team.”

  Skipper wasn’t one for excuses. “Do you see me complaining when I’m overrun and covered in forms every day? Especially when your team’s scribbling holds me back from completing my own tasks. My world doesn’t revolve around CID, you know?”

  I was tempted to argue under my breath but decided against getting a beating for answering back. The plump woman started to faff with the desk telephone. Her tight uniform meant that some lumps of fat stuck out in random places, especially on her hips.

  “We’ve been doing our best,” I continued and hiked up my aviator sunglasses on my nose. I’d worn them outside due to the brightness but kept them on in the station too, for my hangover made the lights in here just as bad.

  “Your best just isn’t good enough,” Skipper said in jest. “Get it sorted.”

  A slight chuckle rose in my throat at the temperamental woman, but it was quickly swallowed. “Cheers, Skip. I’ll have a word with him.”

  “Thanks, Cooper. And take those sunglasses off. They look ridiculous inside. You’re not handsome enough to pull those off. Tom Cruise, on the other hand…” She pretended to be stern, but I could see the ghost of a wrinkled smile. “The super’s had words with us all on the presentation of this station. That means no more loose shirts or tardy uniforms on my watch. Tuck it in.”

  “On that note, I’m going now, Skip,” I said in a respectful manner. “Find some new PCs to tell off instead. I know you love to wind up the fresh faces and make them tremble in their wee boots.”

  “You love it, really. The station would be boring without me.” Skipper smirked wider than a shark to its prey. Unfortunately, the station was dull without her wicked sense of humour.

  Opening a set of double doors that led to the whitewashed corridors, I called over my shoulder. “See you later.”

  “Not if I can help it,” Skipper retaliated cheekily under her breath.

  These halls were embedded in my memory for the rest of eternity. I could name every scuff mark and place where some old blu tack remained or had pulled off a chunk of plasterboard when being removed. Many dents were caused by temperamental kids being questioned for various criminal offences or just officers accidentally slamming the doors against the wall in a hurry. You could hear the CID department before seeing them. Our printer was loud enough to be heard from the canteen even, and Cillian’s yells of nonsense would damage our eardrums if we let them.

  As I rounded into the main CID hub, the team inside hushed. They stared at me like I’d caught them doing something they shouldn’t have been doing. McCall stood up like a deer in the headlights and pretended to drink nonchalantly. Presumably, they’d been talking about me.

  “Morning, Sir.” Rebecca curtly nodded whilst typing on a computer keyboard. The noise from that alone sent my head reeling.

  McCall noticed immediately and rooted around in her desk drawer for something, proceeding to throw it over. The cardboard packet missed me completely, so I had to stoop over and pick it up.

  “Paracetamol,” she said knowingly. “To help with the headache. You look like crap.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I mumbled but followed the instruction, anyway. Spotting that the hub was immaculate, I frowned. Rarely had I seen the hub this spotless, and it was a bit worrying.

  “Here’s your tea, sir. Freshly brewed, just the way you like it.” Rebecca trotted over from the staff kitchen and handed over a steaming hot mugful of washed-out tea.

  “Cheers.” I washed the tablets down with the caffeine, which consisted of more water than tea. I’d gotten used to it since she’d joined the department and was allocated tea duty. “Why is everything so neat? The cleaners don’t usually do such a good job.”

  DC Taylor agreed, sporting some reading glasses I’d never noticed he needed. Perhaps my observation skills required some work. The thick, black frames covered his eyebrows from view and made it seem like he wore a permanently shocked expression.

  “We tidied up ourselves, sir.”

  “Yourselves? Including Cillian?”

  The boyish constable pouted in offence when I double-checked, and McCall laughed.

  “Aye, including Cillian. It wasn’t an easy task. There was a mountain of forgotten evidence shoved in the corner, as well as leftover paper jamming up the shredder. I’ve been on my hands and knees all morning.”

  DC Taylor smirked to himself at the comment that he mistook for an innuendo, something I wished I hadn’t noticed.

  “We even spruced up your office too, sir. There are no more folders in there that we don’t need anymore,” Tony notified me proudly and stretched his long legs with a groan. The chair nearly buckled underneath his bodyweight.

  Huh. It would be nice to open my office door fully at last. For as long as I could remember, a box of files that nobody ever bothered to move was stuck behind there.

  “Rebecca and
sarge made sure we finished all the cleaning before the new DCI came in.”

  Crap. I’d completely forgotten about that.

  “I was threatened into helping them. I had to scrub all the tea rings off our desks by hand,” Cillian scoffed and shuddered at the memory, earning a look of displeasure from Rebecca. I was fairly certain he’d never cleaned anything before in his life.

  “We’ve got to make a good impression,” Tony wiped a piece of porridge from his straggled beard that was beginning to grow even longer. Dipping the spoon back into the takeaway pot, the smell of golden syrup oats was overwhelming.

  McCall strode over to me and neatened my jacket accordingly. “That includes you. Try to make it less obvious that you’re hungover,” she whispered some helpful advice. “Stand up straight and blink more. It’ll make you seem more… lifelike.”

  “Uh, thanks.” I scratched the nape of my neck, uncomfortable under their stares of concern. I guessed that would be the correct thing to say after people had gone through a lot of effort for the sake of our team. “Does anyone have a clue when the DCI’s supposed to arrive? We could be waiting around all day otherwise.”

  “Not a barmy, sir/” DC Taylor shrugged cluelessly, glasses sliding down to reveal his overgrown brows at last. “Until they make an appearance, we’re just filing and signing off old statements.”

  “Nothing new came in over the weekend?” I wondered and perched against his desk to read the screen.

  “Nope.” He popped his lips in frustration. It was a shame. We were all itching to get stuck into something new. “Just a few reports of local kids graffitiing the underpass. Uniform guys got a tip-off of their whereabouts, and they’ve been formally cautioned. That’s about it.”

  “That reminds me.” I faced Cillian, who was busy daydreaming about something. “You need to fill out your forms neatly. I’ve had Skipper on my back and the super’s on hers because your I’s look too much like the letter L.”