The Devil’s Due
A Cooper & McCall Scottish Crime Thriller
Ramsay Sinclair
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
8. McCall
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
12. McCall
13. McCall
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
17. McCall
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
21. Lucy
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
A Message from the Author
Prologue
“Ready?” McCall was looking at me with that annoyingly… nice expression on her face. Looking around the bare sports hall filled to its brim with reporters and citizens alike, I realised this was already pissing me off to high hell and back.
“Ready enough to punch those stupid handheld recorders out of their hands,” I mumbled, loosening the silk tie restricting any room I had left to breathe. Was it just me, or was this room getting hotter by the minute?
In all honesty, the reporters and I don’t exactly see eye to eye. More like… eye to stomach. Well, probably lower than the stomach, if you get my gist.
“Sometimes, I think you can be too Scottish,” McCall huffed, shooting me a disapproving sideways glance. Gingery wisps of hair poked out from her ponytail. And she calls me too Scottish?! She’s got the Scots temper, that’s for sure.
Someone mentioned our names somewhere in the distance, meaning they’re ready for us. As I walked towards the makeshift stage, my vision blurred slightly as a familiar ringing echoed in both ears. Attempting to focus solely on reaching the stage, I sensed burning glares from approximately seventy seated individuals. They’re murmuring to each other already, even though the grilling hadn’t even begun yet.
McCall sat down in her navy chair, matching a large police logo on the backdrop behind us. I followed suit, flumping down next to my partner. That’s when I noticed the cameraman zooming in on my face. I glared, catching his eye, and he pulled the focus back apologetically.
There was a slight clamour of reporters talking over each other until one voice cut through the rest. A familiar woman dressed in a stuffy blazer and pencil skirt ensemble. Georgina Ryder. Of course, it’s her.
“DI Finlay Cooper--”
“Glad I wore this.” I held up my ID card sarcastically, throwing it onto our designated table. It contained all sorts: Microphones, water, cue cards. Most importantly, it was a good table for resting my elbows on.
Georgina Ryder stared at me in contempt. I raise my eyebrows as if to say, ‘Carry on’.
“DI Finlay Cooper,” Georgina stated again, glancing towards a bunch of hand-typed notes. “You’re taking time off for ‘medical reasons’. Is this proof that you can’t cope with pressures of the force, as often speculated around the bay?”
Everyone stared, watching as I cleared my throat and moved closer to the microphone.
“No.”
I sat back again. Nothing left to say to that prying woman. McCall gave me a look of contempt. Those happened quite often. McCall spoke up instead, answering more calmly than I would ever be able to muster.
“I think, looking back at a long history of investigating and solving various cases, that DI Cooper has proven he’s more than capable of coping with police pressure. This is our job, and we were hired accordingly. If DI Cooper were less than able to complete his work, he wouldn’t be part of our team.”
The audience appeared less than convinced. Bloody media, pouring doubt into their heads and scaring people senseless. Even the cameraman looked as though he had doubts about my ability. At this point, I’d question myself.
Georgina started again. “Finlay Cooper has been a major part of local news headlines in most months. Especially during these last few years.” She paused to take a breath. So I seized the moment.
“It’s still DI Cooper, thanks for asking,” I interrupted. “If it weren’t for journalists swarming around our cases and private lives, there wouldn’t be doubt in the public’s minds about the safety of their hometown. Pressure doesn’t come from our victims; it comes from speculation.” I took a sip of water. Headlining the local news and public speaking was thirsty work. Could have done with some jammie dodgers on the table as well, to be honest.
Georgina Ryder scowled directly at me with thinly pursed lips. I scratched my neck awkwardly, waiting for her to finish scrutinizing me. Acrylic nails tapped rhythmically against a wad of paper notes, enough to make any man shudder in disgust.
“Is it true you’re engaged?”
Bloody hell. Since when did reporters get away with being so intrusive? Overly intrusive. It’s their job to get answers, but this amount of stalking was surely illegal. Harassment. And boy, does she enjoy harassing me. Luckily, she had her sources twisted, for we were already married. I hid my hands under our table to stop people from spotting my ring.
“That has nothing to do with you or the interview. Sit down,” I snapped.
Georgina Ryder sat down slowly, a smirk covering her smug face. Many words crossed my mind, none of them particularly complimentary.
“You.” I pointed towards a random guy in the crowd of faces. “Got anything productive to add to this interview? Preferably questions about our line of work.”
The guy I pointed towards seems young. Probably his first job in the industry, judging by his abundance of nerves. He stood up slowly, demonstrating an unusual choice of attire to the room. Brown suit trousers and a dark blue shirt, like a kid who’s raided his dad’s wardrobe. The skinny kid stuttered before finally asking a valid question.
“N-Now that you are taking some time away, who will act in your position? Can we rest assured Dalgety Bay will continue to be as protected as it is now?”
Some of the crowd nodded in agreement to the kid’s question.
“Well. My partner here, DS McCall, as most of you already know, has worked closely with me for a long time now. She’s the most suitable replacement, and everyone from our team agrees.” I nodded to McCall, redirecting viewing attention over to her.
“I’ll be taking over DI Cooper’s duties for the time being until his anticipated and well-awaited return. There’s another DI transferring from the Edinburgh team to help out with numbers whilst DI Cooper is away. Rest assured that your protection and safety comes first.” McCall smiled towards the camera. A natural speaker. She’d always been excellent at putting people's minds at ease, starting way back in her constable days.
It appeared to satisfy the crowd. A slight yawn crept up on me, and I attempted to stifle it casually. I glanced at the large wall clock to see that there was still a good chunk of time left. My mind wandered. Most questions were directed towards McCall at that moment, anyway. I thought about the possibilities for dinner tonight. Steak and chips, perhaps?
“What has been your toughest case to date?” another reporter questioned, bringing me crashing back to dull reality. People eyed me up in curiosity, like one of those freak shows.
“Err.” I cast my thoughts back to various cases we’d worked on. Breathing out loudly, I tapped my pen on the table. I wasn’t as young as I used to be, and these things didn’t come to me as quickly anymore. “I suppose that for every DI across the country, their first case is the toughest. You’re settling into the position a
nd have an entire team relying on you. Everyone has an opinion on the decisions you make.”
McCall nodded in agreement, contributing to the discussion too. “Of course, it was the first high profile case Dalgety Bay had seen too. That wasn’t the easiest. But it’s hard to say. Each case is completely different.” Tucking one of those red wisps back behind one ear, McCall shuffled through our load of papers.
A few camera flashes blinded us in quick succession. I hate photographs.
“For both the papers and viewers watching at home, could you tell us in more detail about that first case?” the skinny kid spoke up again, more confident now. Georgina Ryder sat front row, raising her arched eyebrows towards me, awaiting my answer, pink pen in hand, poised and ready.
Blimey, that was a while ago. “Well uh, let me see.” I paused momentarily, struggling to remember most details. “It began with the murder of Gavin Ellis.”
1
The wheels of our Volvo skidded on loose gravel. DS McCall slammed on the brakes, nearly making me spill takeaway cups of tea all over my black trousers. I gave her an irritated look, and she clocked it straightaway.
“Sorry,” she apologised, wincing at me. When she turned the engine off, the radio turned off at the same time.
“Thank God. Robbie Williams isn’t the greatest soundtrack to play on the journey to a murder.” I raised my eyebrows, hoping for a better soundtrack. Still, I pulled on the door handle, hearing it click and allow a rush of frosty wind to nip my cheeks.
Scottish weather, what more can be said?
As I exited our vehicle, McCall mumbled behind me, “No wonder blokes at the office call you Crabbit.”
Balancing the cardboard cup holder in my hands, I poked my face back into the car. “They call me that?”
McCall jumped, obviously not realising I could still hear. She shrugged and wrapped a grey, knitted scarf twice around her neck before getting out from the vehicle.
Crabbit, eh?
“Huh. I like it.” I pouted decisively, and we began making our way across the bay, step in step. Most detectives believe they look like cool television detectives at times like this. Well, we did. McCall gladly snuck a takeaway cup from the holder, and I followed suit. Feeling its well-appreciated warmth beneath my fingertips, I sipped from the plastic lid, pulling away in horror. The repulsive liquid slimed its way down my throat.
Moment ruined.
“I thought you made tea?”
McCall frowned, seemingly unbothered. Strands of vivid ginger hair whipped around her face, nose turning pink from coldness. No winter sun came peeking out from behind those greying clouds yet. “Yeah, well, the office had no more tea-bags in the kitchen. So coffee it is.”
Elsewhere in the distance, our crime scene was evident. Uniformed police swarmed around, along with dozens of reporters. How did they already catch wind of this? It’s a secluded part of the bay, and it’s barely 7 am. On the other hand, Dalgety Bay wasn’t a huge area and was generally fairly low risk in terms of crime rates… until now. When the call was received by CID, everyone was shocked to hear the gruesome report.
Just what makes life worth living. Danger and excitement.
We neared the scene, noise level much louder than it was back there, only mere moments ago. In silence, we pushed our way through crowds of shocked and slightly interfering locals. Rifling through my suit trouser pockets, I found my shiny DI badge, probably the most beloved item I owned. It was the one that all the school kids love to see.
Uniformed officers held up their police tape for us to duck underneath, McCall huffing as she followed.
“I hate coffee,” I added, continuing the discussion from a couple of minutes ago as I squinted at bright blue lights which surrounded us.
“Really?” McCall asked dryly. “You hate something? That’s unusual.” She was really coming to grips with this whole sarcasm thing. Took her ages to learn how to use sarcasm correctly and to maximum effect. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but she learned from the best.
Our footsteps crunched in unison over dirty sand, getting our boots increasingly muddy. It squelched underfoot as a direct result from Dalgety Bay water. A police constable joined us, matching our strides to debrief and explain exactly what we’re letting ourselves in for. He was slightly out of breath, already exhausted from this morning’s busy schedule and lack of food.
“The body was found by Sammy Davis, owner of the sailing club, this morning,” he explained. “Identified the body as Gavin Ellis. Been nicked before, for various crimes which range from petty to serious. Always in and out of the station.”
Great. Nothing more than a lacklustre criminal.
“Plenty of enemies then,” I commented with an unimpressed tone that couldn’t be disguised, clicking my tongue. Typical.
“More than likely,” the constable agreed, adjusting his flat-topped hat complete with a checked ribbon. Then he stuck both hands into two separate vest pockets and listened intently to McCall’s speech, using her ‘assigned serious business’ voice.
“I presume it’s not suicide then, seen as we’ve been called out?”
The constable greeted her with a grim expression and shaking head. “No. Multiple stab wounds, unfortunately for you guys. No sight of the weapon either. He’s over here.” PC Plum (or so I now nicknamed him) pointed in the direction of the body as he led us to its location. McCall drank up quickly, aware of what sight she was about to see. I handed her my cup to finish and all, but she refused with a curt ‘no’.
“Poor sod,” PC Plum commented as we viewed Gavin’s lifeless body for the first time.
More than a poor sod. An extremely unlucky, unenviable and unfortunate sod. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but my tolerance to dead bodies became surprisingly high since joining the Criminal Investigation Department. Our stomachs were well lined, I’d say that much. The constable left us professionals to it at last, and we exchanged a knowing look. McCall’s raised brow said it all.
Gavin’s lifeless body covered head to toe in dirt, presumably from the water it was dumped in. How long he’d been there for, we’d probably find out through a range of post-mortem results. His skin was a cobalt shade of cold, and from my first glance, there wasn’t even a glimmer of possibility that this death was suicide. Suspicious activity was clear as day. As well as having black and red bloodshot eyes, there were multiple stab wounds to his body. Gory, deep and complete with dried blood and various pieces of debris.
Otherwise, apart from being dead, Gavin would’ve looked like any other hoodlum around town. Too young to be deceased, he should’ve been full of life and out about town with friends. Clearly, he’d been out with the wrong type of friends. With a number of tattoos littering his uncovered arms, Gavin must’ve visited the parlour at least twenty times.
Looking around the scene, I saw no sign of any forensics hanging around. Come to think of it, no one was preserving any evidence either.
“Where the hell are SOCO?” I grumbled, pulling my phone out to make the call. As I stopped at the waterline to attempt a phone call in peace, the dialling tone processed loudly. Meanwhile, the Forth Bridge captured my attention from a distance. Its vivid colour palette spectacularly contrasted that otherwise awfully weathered day, reminding me of an artist's impression. Vehicles travelled at speed upon its high road, their noise reaching down towards our bay. Finally, my phone call was processed, and I was able to find out the forensics team’s expected time of arrival. We could always trust them to be behind schedule.
By the time I re-joined McCall, she was conversing with another uniformed officer, calling in multiple procedures on her radio. The area beyond the blue tape bustled with locals clamouring to know exactly what happened.
We don't even know ourselves yet. There was no sign of any murder objects floating around in the shallows either. Not that it’d be of much use now, anyway. All the prints would have washed away.
“Could you at least try to look interested?” McCall mentioned s
ubtly under her breath. Quietly enough to engage in a personal interaction between us two.
“What? This is my normal face,” I protested, ego stung by the harsh dagger of insults.
“I know, but act over the top. There are local news cameras all over, and I don’t want to be filmed next to a miserable, two-dimensional inspector. Switch it up a bit. Act grim or stern. Analyse the body. Pretend to be useful. Get them off our backs for a while,” anything to spice up McCall’s day. “Public relations and all that. Make them believe you’re partially human for a few hours,” McCall resumed.
“This isn’t a west-end bloody production starring us as Dorothy over the sodding rainbow. Who’s Gavin supposed to be? The wicked witch flattened underneath their house?” My out-of-place remark made a couple of police constables send frosty scowls over. “Ding dong, the witch is dead.” The pun caused a bout of giggles to overtake McCall. The death of Gavin Ellis was no laughing matter, although funny business had certainly taken place.
“Even the pet shop boys could do a better job,” McCall joined in creating puns, referring to our west-end discussion. An inability to speak consumed me, genuinely concerned at how dodgy her jokes were. Ignoring them would be the best course of action.
“I’ve seen everything I’m obliged to. The rest is up to grubby SOCO mitts. I’ll leave them to stick their hands God knows where.”
“What is your problem with them?” McCall wondered aloud, surveying a bunch of facts and figures.
“Are you kidding me? I’ve seen them eat bacon sarnies after touching piles of human remains,” I couldn’t hide my disgust, shivering uncomfortably at the very thought.
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