The Devil's Due: A Cooper and McCall Scottish Crime Thriller

by Ramsay Sinclair

  McCall recognised a vat of steaming hot blood trickling through my veins and shook her head for me to cut it out.

  “That’s exactly what I'm saying. I feel for the guy. Look at him. Jack Harper would be in no fit state to murder someone. He can barely lift himself out of bed.” DCI Campbell chuckled, pushing me to the edge.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but that’s complete bullshite! Can you hear yourself? This is sloppy police work, and I won’t condone it. Not even from a superior. Where’s your hard evidence to write Jack Harper off?” I shouted perhaps louder than intended, for I got DCI Campbell’s back up. He stepped over, squaring up.

  “Finlay, stop it. DCI Campbell, sir, I think we should all--” McCall tried to intervene, to no avail.

  “No, where is yours, Cooper?” DCI Campbell pushed me lightly in the chest. He was a notably heavier guy.

  “He said he’s a doctor.” I thought up some fair examples. “They’re surrounded by medical equipment all day long. The cut on Gavin’s arm would have been marked with a blade from a small instrument. A scalpel, maybe? What if, in a moment of anger, he left work and found Gavin walking down the bay? Murdered him and threw him in the river?”

  “You’re clutching at straws, DI Cooper.” DCI Campbell examined me with suspicion. “I hear a lot of what if’s here. Where’s your own evidence to back up these harsh statements? What do you want to do, bang up an innocent, grieving man without evidence? The judge will love you! We’ll be a laughingstock.”

  “If that’s what it takes to protect Dalgety Bay, then yes.” I faced DCI Campbell directly, getting madder every second. “And you, as DCI, should think the same. Just because Jack Harper had a daughter, it shouldn’t cloud our judgement. Some fathers kill their own families! It’s our job to know when somebody lies to our faces.”

  McCall couldn’t help us now.

  “I suggest you don’t start questioning my ability as a DCI, Cooper. Tread carefully.” He gestured wildly, as people do during arguments. “Once you’ve crossed me, there’s no going back. I won't act on impulse without evidence to back myself up first. I’ll rely on my team to get concrete evidence first, which is why I am DCI.”

  I scoffed in disbelief. How dare he speak to me that way? He may be my boss, but he could not control every damn move I made. “Will your wife know what you’ve said tonight? That you’re not willing to pursue hunches, despite the fact a killer could be in our midst. Who’s to say your wife isn’t next--?”

  “Do not bring my wife into this.” DCI Campbell scrunched my collar up between his fist tightly. Not enough to injure me, nor fight me, but enough to convey a deadly serious message.

  “I’m going over to Jack Harper’s workplace, see whether he showed up for his shift.” I shoved DCI Campbell’s hand away, stomping in the direction of our parked cars.

  “You will stop right there. I’m starting to rethink your position as DI, Cooper. You are not behaving rationally. Sloppy detectives make mistakes, and I will not have a sloppy detective representing our team,” DCI Campbell argued, spit flying whilst he spoke. His eyebrows quivered in annoyance, and his whole face grew bright red with fury.

  McCall’s face said it all. There would be no return from this point on if I snapped at him. My fists balled in ferocity, but I hid it fairly well.

  “Say all you like, sir, but what if I’m right?” I argued, trying to bring the argument down. All of our emotions ran high from lack of sleep and the amount of caffeine we’d ingested.

  DCI Campbell breathed in, rationalising. “Think realistically, DI Cooper. If Jack was out for revenge on Gavin and Gavin alone, he won’t kill again. A scared father is not a logical man. He’ll trip up, eventually.” Good, he was making an effort to act reasonably.

  Maybe an obstinate part of me tried willed to prove the papers wrong, that we could nip our case in the bud, sooner rather than later.

  “You’re serious about this?” DCI Campbell interrogated, eyes glazed over and staring into my soul.

  McCall tried warning me from afar. ‘Say no’, she begged silently.

  “I think so.”

  “Be sure, DI Cooper, before you come against me,” DCI Campbell gave one final warning to assert his alpha wolf dominance.

  “Yes. It’s the only lead we have.”

  A breeze of wind howled, picking up around us. Specks of sand from Dalgety Bay slapped our faces, yet we refused to move. It became atmospherically melancholy, their faces lit by streetlamps only. At last, DCI Campbell took a deep breath and swallowed a tiny lump of pride.

  “I’ll put surveillance on Jack Harper overnight, track his movements. If he so much as takes a step out of his front door, they’ll know.” DCI Campbell gave into my headstrong motives, getting out his phone. “Go home, DI Cooper. Now. We will reconvene tomorrow. I’ve compromised, but if I find out you’ve disobeyed me and visited Jack Harper's workplace, you’ll be on leave for erratic behaviour.” He strode away powerfully, leaving only footprints behind.

  McCall gave a pained expression, hoping to speak to me, but before she could, DCI Campbell called her away. They still had work to finish. I was left alone, ego slightly bruised but mostly intact. I had an instinct and followed it to the end, like all the great detectives did, never pausing to doubt themselves.

  The wind felt bitter and twisted, much like me. I hankered after something strong to quell my existing anger. A pub would be a great place to start, where more than one drink was on the menu.

  11

  I was never one of those men who enjoyed going to the pub. Our team was always meeting up there for nights out. That consisted of too much social interaction for my liking. I never understood how you could respect a superior after seeing them drunk.

  The large bell tinkled as I stepped through the pub’s front door, letting the locals know of my arrival. Alcohol stunk out the place, for obvious reasons. It gradually improved once I had settled in. Expensive wines decorated the pub’s back wall, all of them too fancy for me to name. Draft beer would always reign superior.

  Still heaving from DCI Campbell’s confrontation, I decided a seat nearer their bar would be the most sensible place to sit. My smart shoes rested on the silver bar situated below, its surface slightly sticky to touch. Oak browns tied their main colour palette of burgundy and mauve together to create a cosy, comfortable atmosphere. Nearby, some fellow had a punt on their gaming machine, pressing random buttons. Good luck to him.

  “What are you having?” a bloke bartender asked, non-intrusively. He understood us locals were there to drown our sorrows, not make small talk.

  “Whatever. You decide.” I was too fed up to have made a sensible decision. He grabbed a glass, tilting it slightly. Some foam overflowed onto the bar area, but who cared? A dodgy pop soundtrack played from every speaker, not to my taste at all. All those songs sounded the same.

  Exchanging a tiny wad of cash for my drink, I gulped, appreciating my bitter liquid. I grimaced at the taste, and the bartender grinned. He’d gotten me hooked on the flavour.

  I wasn’t sure how long I spent drinking, but it had taken over two hours. Three pints later, and my body temperature had risen dramatically, inhibitions loose. My uncomfortable, stuffy jacket hung over their seats, and I rolled up my alcohol dampened sleeves. Much better.

  “Another one,” I slammed my glass down with no objections from anyone else. My lips were loosened, I realised after discussing utter, unmemorable nonsense with their bartender for half an hour. Nobody particularly waltzed in or out, due to weekday obligations and having work scheduled for another few days.

  That was until a particular person sauntered through, grabbing every guy's attention as she clicked her stupidly high heels along the pub floor. Some even looked away from their beers when she entered. They couldn’t believe that a woman of her status would slum it in their pub. I didn’t take much notice until she sat next to me.

  “Well, well, well. If it isn’t you,” she spoke in a smoky voice. As if my irritation e
arlier wasn’t quite enough, fate just dealt me a fistful of rubbish… it was the glossy reporter.

  “If you’ve come to write another headline, go ahead. Dalgety Bay’s finest DI is smashed,” my voice tumbled out incoherently, lower than I’d initially expected. The preened woman sighed, flicking her loose locks behind one shoulder. She had picked out a rather garish yellow to wear, blinding us all.

  “Whisky.” She waved with those ridiculous nails and retouched her mascara.

  “I thought you’d be a gin kind of woman,” I noted.

  “I didn’t expect you to be a pint kind of guy,” her high-pitched voice shot back. Feisty. “Didn’t think I'd see you here. So, come on. What happened?”

  “What?” I struggled, struggling to form an opinion on the woman. There was too much going on with her overall appearance. Some could argue, too much. A strand of brunette hair ungelled and flopped onto my face unattractively.

  “You’re surrounded by empty glasses on a weekday,” the reporter noted dryly, accepting her whisky thankfully. Our bartender refused to let her pay, throwing indiscreet winks. I waited until he walked away to serve another drunk, rowdy customer.

  “Are all blokes like that towards you?”

  “Pretty much. Comes with the job, I suppose. They all think they know me, after seeing and reading my articles every day,” she explained, necking back her serving of whisky. “What about you, detective?” My stalkerish reporter leaned closer, batting her heavy lashes.

  “I know when someone is prying into my private life. Partly why I hate social situations entirely,” I diverted our attention, a drop of drink spilling onto my shirt. The bartender didn’t even ask if I wanted another. He filled my glass straight back up.

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” She mock-saluted, stiffening up in jest. “I’m not at work now, and I couldn’t give two shits about your ‘private life.’” The reporter quoted with two fingers. “Only making polite conversation.” She shrugged and purposely ordered a gin this time.

  It forced me to grin.

  “See? Detective’s nose. I knew you’d enjoy a gin. You pretend to be so unique, though you’re the same as every other woman out there.” I tried tapping my rather large nose but missed completely to both of our tipsy amusement.

  “Georgina Ryder.” She held out a manicured hand to shake. Huh. A proper name. We shook sweaty palms together.

  “No need to ask mine, I presume?”

  Georgina shook her petite head in agreement. “DI Finlay Cooper, the Bay’s youngest detective inspector. You’re working on Gavin Ellis’s murder case.” It felt odd, having somebody speak as though you’re not there.

  “Bill down the road could’ve told us that and not get paid for the privilege.” I referenced her journalist earnings. They earned good money writing crappy stories like those. “But you don’t know me. Not really.” My drunken haze soaked up all sobriety left.

  “Oh, really? Who’s the real Finlay Cooper then?” Georgina challenged, unafraid of fighting back. She leaned in, listening intently.

  Hm. I paused, thinking of a witty comeback to impress.

  “Ultimate sex god, brilliant in bed. I’ve had many sources tell me so.” I lifted a beer in goodwill, hearing Georgina’s delicate snorts.

  “Sure,” she quipped in clear disbelief.

  “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

  We hooted rowdily in amusement. Drunk Finlay enjoyed company, it seemed.

  “They threatened to fire me for disobedience and not hitting our target markets enough,” Georgina said over the loud music. “People don’t want to hear about serious deaths. They’d rather know how it feels to turn ninety-something years old.”

  “Someone turned ninety?” That’s impressive. Georgina rolled her dolled-up eyes in frustration. “Well, I don’t blame them. With the reporting skills you’ve demonstrated, I’d get the job before you. That last paper was full of crap.”

  “Don’t blame me. I brought a wider perspective to your miserable lives.” Her lipstick smeared a glass rim carelessly. “It’s like water full of piranhas. Kill, or be killed.”

  “No, that’s CID. Literally.” I snorted. “The guv probably wishes he strangled me.”

  Georgina sat close by, enjoying our to-and-fro of insults. They came fast and easy, sending signals. Was she that same woman who trashed everyone in tomorrow’s news? Or was she a woman, curvy and unafraid, on the cusp of losing a career?

  I switched off, shutting down for five minutes. I wanted to forget DCI Campbell and Jack Harper. Gavin Ellis and DC Taylor. Georgina nudged me gently, igniting drunken sparks. My body spoke for itself, going in to kill. Not physically, metaphorically. Georgina froze still, unexpectedly not running for any hills. Closer. I was close enough to smell the gin and tonic which lingered on her lips, sweeter than liquored chocolate. Our lips were about to touch in sweet harmony, a crescendo of passion.

  Georgina conclusively stood up, seeing nothing but a drunken detective lunging towards her. Her barstool went flying, and I lost all pride by nearly face planting to the ground.

  Georgina smiled in victory. “Thank you, Finlay Cooper.”

  What did that mean? Georgina sauntered away, leaving me drowned in spilt drink and shattered ego. Again. Naturally, I ran after the reporter, grabbing my suit jacket. Standing up only emphasised how much we’d had to drink. I tripped over a few empty tables towards our exit, migraines tripling excruciatingly in progression.

  12

  McCall

  It was late by time DCI Campbell and I returned to the station. Our whole journey was completed in radio silence, still reeling from his and Finlay’s explosive argument. I could tell DCI Campbell was deep in thought because he kept sighing and fiddling with my radio. Finlay had certainly changed since being awarded his title of detective inspector. Although he was paranoid, he’d screw up somehow, Finlay also had enough guts to fight against the hierarchy and make them value his opinions.

  DCI Campbell believed in evidence and hard facts, whereas Finlay followed instinct first, evidence after. He always said, ‘We follow our instincts first, and when you end up right, evidence will find us.’

  I was more of a mediator girl myself. I followed what those higher in power expected of me. Maybe it was time to break out of that derogatory cycle and do something of my own accord.

  I prided myself on knowing my team inside and out, much to Finlay’s disapproval. I believed you must know your team like the back of your hand to get results faster as people aim to please. The CID contained unique working styles across its members, and that determined how they worked best.

  DCI Campbell’s police radio crackled, a male voice floating through, warped by tuning sounds, and that broke me out of my thoughts.

  “Guv? We’re stationed outside Jack Harper’s house. Nothing much to report. No movement and no visitors. Absolutely none,” DC Cillian Murphy reported back to us. “Messy bastard though. I’ve got Ben with me.”

  “We’re sitting tight till morning, aye?” DC Cillian Murphy questioned, yawning through his radio. Ben and Cillian together in one car would be a waking nightmare. They’d forever be pranking each other stupidly. Casting back to mere hours ago, at Jack Harper's house, Finlay seemed adamant Harper lied to us.

  DCI Campbell unhooked his radio, bringing it closer to his wrinkled mouth. I listened in, concentrating on pulling into a tight car space at the same time. Most officers at the station parked however they pleased, leaving less room for bigger cars such as these.

  “Aye. Watch him closely. Jack Harper won’t go anywhere tonight, though our ‘esteemed’ DI thinks differently.” DCI Campbell sounded less than impressed by Finlay’s beliefs.

  “Copy that,” DC Cillian replied, and I could hear Ben murmuring from behind.

  “You’re telling me crabbit made us sit here, freezing our asses off? Why couldn’t he come instead, the lazy bastard?” he moaned in annoyance.

  I copped a glance at DCI Campbell, sat with the fac
e of a storm cloud. They were understandably annoyed at Finlay. The thing is, Finlay acted out of character tonight. I noticed right away, having worked alongside the depressing guy for too many years. Earlier, he was in pain, trying to hide his visible agony. Either Finlay was hiding something from us, or he fancied proving a stupidly stubborn point.

  DCI Campbell’s weathered, lidded eyes fluttered, carrying the weight of the world. Maybe they did? “Jack Harper can’t be our murderer,” he announced with conviction.

  I stayed silent, biding my time, if there even was a correct one.

  “He’s scared, frightened of blame being passed in his direction. I’ve seen it before,” DCI Campbell explained, convincing himself.

  “Yes, sir. Once DC Cillian and Ben return, I guess we’ll know for certain.”

  Apparently, my quietness mingled with the way I took my work keys from the ignition appeared frightening.

  Campbell inhaled again, fighting something on the inside, a question perhaps? At last, he swallowed his pride to face me, frowning with anguish. Shadows highlighted every haggard feature, emphasising his larger nose.

  “Do you think I was too… harsh on DI Cooper?”

  Yes. But I couldn’t precisely tell our DCI that. So, I tactically tried hinting at my genuine opinions.

  “We all have different beliefs, sir. That’s why we work for CID. Our gut instincts warn us all differently for various reasons. Both you and DI Cooper could be right... somehow,” I spoke softly, so not to alarm him.

  His face fell, realising I was polite. “Never ask women for advice. My wife always makes me feel guilty for the way I treat people too.” DCI Campbell grinned, shaking his ageing head.

  I chuckled, knowing my words washed over his head completely. Men.

  Long winter coat trailing behind him, DCI Campbell bid me goodnight and disappeared inside our station, probably to pull an all-nighter in his office. Sulking, as most men do once they realise they’re wrong.