The Devil's Due

by Ramsay Sinclair

  That sadistic cat meowed again, conferring with Kris. ‘Should we tell him, or shouldn’t we?’

  “No. Not really. Gavin is still practically a teenager. We all stayed over our friends’ houses at that age.” Kris took a long sip of water. The family liaison officer made sure she was drinking sensibly from then on. No more scotch. A drunken lead helped nobody, least of all a team with only one possible lead.

  “Four days? That’s a long time for your only son to not come home.” I calculated four days using my fingers as a visual cue. Kris Ellis said nothing, so I continued. “Come to think of it, I don’t see any of his belongings around the house.”

  McCall surveyed the room with wide eyes, as did our liaison officer. They only just noticed. We were supposed to be detective inspectors and detective sergeants. Detective being the operative word. We were supposed to notice these things, including smaller details.

  “Why don’t you have any of Gavin’s belongings, Kris?” I pinched my nose in frustration.

  Kris Ellis sighed, leaving us to waft cigarette ashes away. Behind me a wall clock ticked impatiently, counting down precious time we had to find this killer before disappearing off-grid. Criminals move quickly. They could be miles away by now. If they were smart enough to chuck their murder weapon, they could be smart enough to throw diversions to cover up any tracks.

  “If you have nothing to be guilty of, we can help. Our priority here is to stop this happening to somebody else’s son. To get justice for Gavin.” McCall revealed persuasively. What mother could deny that bargain? McCall watched Kris Ellis carefully, shoulders hunched in tension. Her blue eyes scanned the unforgiving mother, uncertain whether we could obtain a breakthrough. Obviously, McCall doubted my ability to obtain fast results.

  “Once you explain your situation to us, we can begin piecing together Gavin’s thought process.” McCall leaned closer still, attempting to sweet talk Kris into speaking up. Coaxing Kris softly as a friend would. Like she knew Gavin when he was alive, living and breathing. “Where he might have been that night, who he spoke to. Where he headed.”

  Kris Ellis did not appear convinced, which sent my unruly temper flying off the handle. With pursed lips and an unforgiving stare, Kris Ellis shook her head in refusal. Gavin’s own mother decided to withhold information and halt our investigative process at its first hurdle.

  “You’re stopping an investigation of homicide. Your own son's homicide,” I stated in visible confusion. Kris Ellis snapped towards me, eyes open overly wide. Gavin’s killer could be running further and further away, and what was Kris Ellis doing? Sitting holed up in a flat next to some bloody cat.

  “DI Cooper, I think you should stand outside for a while. Get some fresh air.” McCall advised. She stood up from the couch, trying hard to contain her steaming anger. McCall's lips pursed, signalling that she’s serious. Deathly serious.

  She was probably right. Kris Ellis had not long been notified of her only son's death, and shouting would not help the tricky circumstances.

  My footsteps thundered, threatening to shake the house down as I sulked outside, slamming her door behind me. I couldn’t help it. Originally cases were solved through gut instinct and intimidation. Times changed, and they still evolved even now. Nowadays, protocol took priorities, even when liars stuck out like a sore thumb.

  Getting fresh air wasn’t much of a remedy either. It only helped to highlight the severe shabbiness of Kris Ellis’s house. I kicked about a loose stone for a while, feeling calmed by its harsh clacking rhythm. Personifying our case frustrations. These sorts of cases always gained front-page headlines, the kind where detectives get blamed for not completing their jobs efficiently. In reality, suspects wouldn’t be threatened or bribed by us to talk. Especially not guilty people. Finding enough substantial evidence to convict them could take months, or sometimes years. Although rare, some murders and criminals never get caught out.

  Only time could reveal which category Gavin’s murderer would fall under.

  Due to wandering thoughts and depressive realisations, I accidentally kicked the stone straight into her front door. Grimacing, I stepped closer to ensure it hadn’t done any damage. As I squatted down, my fingertips traced an area which the stone bounced away from. Various scuff marks caught my attention, demanding closer inspection. Three marks, each differing in size and length scratched nearer the ground of the door itself. Clearly, a light kick of a tiny stone couldn’t leave three different marks. Thoughts weaved inside my mind.

  Wonder what they were caused by? A serious temper, perhaps. Or over-excited children playing nearby. Too thick to have been created by a sharp object, but too heavily dented to have been hit by something light.

  Murmurs escaped from indoors, a faint buzz from McCall’s voice. Surely, they would take ages to wrap up their discussion inside. Demanding amusement to pass the dull time, I traced my fingertips across those scuff marks.

  “Ouch!” I flinched away, staring at my freshly nipped fingertip, my skin caught on a flaky paint chip. It started to bleed, fresh crimson drops. Not an overly huge cut, but painful all the same. Pretty similar to a papercut, small but deadly.

  Breathing in slight pain, I glimpsed a splatter of blood drip onto charcoal concrete. Every new blood spot drizzled, covering some discarded paint chips and colouring them scarlet. Scattered amongst the floor, presumably chipped away from those scuff marks. Wiping one injured finger onto my black jacket, I tried stopping the blood that way. Eventually, I gave up and sucked my injury instead to stench its flow. I glanced around in boredom, finger still stuck in my mouth, and those paint chips called out for again. Why?

  Well, only one chip flaked off when I cut my finger. Yet, a multitude of different paint flakes lay on Kris Ellis’s stonework, differing both in width and size. Seizing my phone, it flagged up with missed calls. None of which I was available to take right that second, for more persisting matters were at hand.

  Opening our local weather app, it read a cloudy forecast for that specific day. Curiously, I swiped back through this previous week's weather to distinguish how many days since Dalgety’s last bout of rain. Gathering an abundance of useful information, I closed the weather app down and swapped over to a camera application. Unfortunately, iPhones had a particular notion of opening up their front camera first. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Double chin, tufted hair and stubble I missed when shaving. Not what any mid-thirties man wanted to see at twelve o'clock.

  “Nope,” I rebuked the inanimate object, pressing another flip camera icon. I positioned the camera focus onto those peculiar scuff marks and clicked twice. Then once again for the paint flakes. Perhaps now, McCall would allow me to speak alongside Kris Ellis again. Sometimes, holding a DI badge wasn’t enough when teamed with hormonal and rule-abiding detective sergeants and their tendencies to play strictly by the book.

  McCall didn’t look particularly overjoyed to witness my triumphant return. Kris Ellis must have talked some more, due to a large bunch of hand-scrawled notes sprawled across our liaison officer’s thighs.

  “I thought I told you to wait outside?” McCall hissed, crossing her arms. She’d stolen our favoured position by the window, perching gracefully. Her slim figure allowed it.

  Kris Ellis hummed in full support of McCall's statement, inhaling on her latest pod of tobacco. Never mind, I could assume a new position. At least there would be an easy escape in case all three women turned wretched in true female form. Targeting weakness, or in this case, male figures of authority.

  “I’m calm,” I assured McCall, although disbelief was evident behind her eyes. Now I knew exactly what to talk about, how to pile pressure on. McCall continued to stare at me, unconvinced. “So, Kris. Would you mind keeping me up to date with the proceedings? What exactly have you told my colleagues here?”

  Kris fiddled with a particle of pink fluff. “Why don’t you ask them?” Gavin’s mother sulked, breathing out smoke through blackened teeth.

  “Because I’m asking
you, and I won't ask again.”

  Taking one peek over, Kris noticed my brutal honesty. “I told them the truth. I don’t know where Gavin went that night, or who he was with. He left here, and that was the last I saw of him,” she rattled stubbornly.

  “We thought Gavin might have paid his father a visit,” the family liaison officer spoke softly, explaining the order in which they discovered this information.

  “I told ‘em Gavin didn’t know his father. Taken to prison years ago for burglary. Left his family behind fending for themselves,” Kris spat, shaking her blonde-rooted head in apparent bitterness. I stayed quiet, biding precious time. Waiting for an opportune moment. It found me, when Kris began refusing to tell us any new information. “I did not have anything to do with my son's death. Surely this is illegal, interrogating me in my own home.”

  The ‘illegal’ card. It’s surprising how often guilty people use that very same phrase. Taking a deep breath, I took a turn around her living room, inspecting everything laid out in front of us. Mugs, alcohol, cushions. All while disputing Kris Ellis’ last agreeable point.

  “You hated Gavin’s father for being a criminal. What’s to say you didn’t begin hating Gavin too?” I hypothetically set the situation, allowing my co-workers to imagine a similar scenario. “Gavin committed plenty of petty crimes, exactly how his father began,” I spoke coolly. Shrugging. Kris eyeballed me, a glint of malevolence shining deep inside.

  “Gavin was... is nothing like his father. I didn’t hate my son.”

  “So what happened, Kris?” I snatched her blasted cigarette away and stubbed it into mere ashes. Afterwards, I moved the ashtray over to a nearby mantlepiece. Hopefully, blocking any more temptation. Smoking was only a diversion set up by Kris to distract from important, heavier subjects anyway. “Did you two get into an argument? Did a bit of rough and tumble go too far? We all heard you threatening to punish him earlier, when we arrived. Did Gavin walk away, and you stopped him, using motherly force? Because if that is what occurred, Kris, it’s a serious reason to suspect you. And if you lied about hurting Gavin, things won’t look good.”

  McCall frowned, and the family liaison officer leaned forward. “Stop this, DI Cooper. Can’t you see Kris is upset?”

  “She’s not upset.” I declined their pleas when Kris Ellis shed a token tear. Fake for certain. Aiming to gain sympathetic attention. Or similarly to deflect away from my topics. Kris wasn’t truthful, for her eyes shifted between objects. First, her cat. Then McCall. “There are paint chips on the garden floor. I noticed them outside. How long since it last rained?” I directly questioned nobody in particular. More of a consensus.

  Our family liaison officer appeared muddled, and McCall altered her position against the window ledge. Entirely fed, yet intrigued by my excitement. “I don’t know, three days?”

  “Four,” My work partner stood corrected. “It hasn’t rained since Gavin left this house. Four days ago, according to Kris Ellis.” Kris shuffled nervously in her armchair. Even her cat noticed a disturbance in behaviour and bolted away to safety.

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” Kris mumbled, flushing pink.

  McCall listened intently to our exchange of words, surveying Kris Ellis’s unusual behaviour. Believing that I was in fact, onto something. Only I knew I was bluffing. We still had no real clue what happened between Gavin and Kris. Kris needed pushing over an imaginary edge to loosen her tongue. A woman who wouldn’t trust, nor spill details easily. By accusing Kris, I hoped she would retaliate with the truth. Some reverse psychology.

  “Something marked that front door four days ago, on the night your son left here and ended up dead. Unfortunately for you, Kris, the weather is not your friend, and our evidence hasn’t washed away yet. Not that it matters now because I’ve got photographs right here.” A golden glimmer of hopeful light burst into our veins.

  McCall stepped nearer to the ornate mantelpiece, brushing against my shoulder as back up. No smile hinted upon her lips. No friendly, benevolent expression.

  “We can ask the neighbours. Find out what they saw, whether they noticed Gavin leaving here that night. If they overheard any arguments or heated speech. Either you cooperate, Kris, or we assume that you are lying about Gavin’s death,” she said, holding both fire and disappointment in those Scottish blue eyes.

  I knew our sergeant believed the best in people, but most inhabitants of planet Earth have hidden secrets. The liaison officer interrupted, making herself useful for once.

  “It’s alright, Miss Ellis,” she soothed. “If there’s no reason for you to be guilty or charged, then both DI Cooper and DS McCall will do everything in their power to help. To find whoever did this to Gavin and hold them accountable in the eyes of the law.”

  Kris finally glanced upwards, catching my gaze with a penetrating gaze of sorrow. Grief evident through her entire demeanour. Kris flumped over the cushioned armrest and massaged her temples slowly.

  “Aye,” Kris whispered gently. “It’s all my fault.”

  4

  Bang on the money.

  We waited silently for Kris to find words that explained Gavin’s situation. At least she readily admitted storing knowledge about her son, even though it took too much persuading to find out. Maybe now, we’d acquire some decent leads worth following.

  “I didn’t hit Gavin or try to hurt him. We had an argument, yes. And I regret it. Deeply.” Kris paused, seeing the family liaison officer taking down every word admitted. “If only I could have known what would happen to Gavin afterwards.” She sighed regretfully, a shell of the boisterous woman who invited us in that morning.

  “No one knows what may happen in the future. We all act on impulse.” McCall stated grimly and motioned for Kris to continue.

  Our liaison officer smiled with encouragement, but I refused to attempt a cheery expression. Kris lied to us and wasted precious police time. Time a mother should gratefully desire us to spend wisely by catching a killer. An angry pit of flames burned deep in my stomach. Thrusting both hands into my suit jacket to keep warm, I noted inky tattoos climbing up Kris’s arms. Like mother, like son. Similar in many ways, though different all at once. Now her guard had come crashing down, Kris Ellis acted more considerate about Gavin than before.

  “I kicked him out. Couldn’t deal with all the criminal nonsense anymore. I mean, a nineteen-year-old man still living under his mother’s roof! Of course, now I understand that Gavin was nothing more than a scared little boy.” Haunting memories flew through the mother’s mind unwantedly. “Told him to clean up his act before returning home. I spoke to Gavin by the front door.” Kris stared directly into our eyes, sending an internal apology for not telling us sooner. My ears pricked up curiously.

  “He didn’t want to listen to me. Gavin rammed past, and his bag scuffed my front door. He wrestled with me,” Kris admitted shamefully.

  “That could explain those smaller bruises found on his body,” McCall reiterated carefully, so only we could hear. No point upsetting Kris further.

  “Gavin didn’t even look back,” Kris continued. “That was four days ago. I thought he must be punishing me by not coming home, when all that time my boy was out there, dead. And I had no idea.” A few watery tears splashed onto the armchair material and soaked through. Kris didn’t know how to act, like she’d never cried before. “I let him down. Just like his father did.”

  Our liaison officer shifted closer to a weeping Kris, patting her back in reassurance.

  “What did you do, the night of Gavin’s death?” I prodded further, still needing crucial information to clear her name from our potential suspect list.

  “I visited next door,” Kris explained. “Neighbour’s a friend of mine, and she talked things over with me. Her children are grown up now. Swapped some advice and a few drinks too. Then I came home.” I nodded, already making a mental note to assume officers roles to question next door. Ensure her alibi stands. But that was no problem, our whole team planned
on assisting this case. They would already be organising door-to-doors.

  “Alright. I think we are done here.” My half question, half statement echoed loudly.

  McCall agreed, tired already. I should make sure McCall rested properly too, only fit enough officers would prosper on a case of proportionate status. She stifled a yawn and twisted her small diamond earring thoughtfully. Our liaison officer informed us of her plan to stay longer. It was probably for the best, as Kris appeared even more shocked than before.

  This wouldn’t be the last we heard of Kris Ellis. After all, our liaison officer contained a duty to uphold communication lines between us open. Kris must be first to know when we find the killer, if at all. As for grief, only time could heal those familiar gaping wounds caused by loss.

  Outside, light showers surrounded McCall and I. Washing away our paint chip evidence and not a moment too soon. Luck must be on our side, for one day only. McCall lifted up her impractical shoe to see the flakes first hand.

  “You were definitely clutching at straws.” She shook her head vigorously, ponytail whipping behind her shoulders. McCall's freckles were evident in daylight, now that we were out Kris Ellis’s residing gloominess. She donned a more casual figure, relaxing now that we talked by ourselves.

  “Clutching at straws is our job, DS McCall,” I said firmly and hauled my weary body into the driver's seat this time over.

  “You don’t ever call me Kirsty. Why?” McCall’s tone was blunt when she slammed our passenger door closed.

  I let her personal question hang in the air, buckling up. Firing up the engine, I didn’t bother to check our surroundings. Too much faffing. Shifting steadily into third gear, the Volvo glided smoothly. An ideal model for a practical work car. Picking up speed, we passed other cars and people out doing… whatever people do. Walking their dogs, taking strolls and shopping. Probably.

  McCall stared unwaveringly; I could sense it in my peripheral vision.