The Devil's Due: A Cooper and McCall Scottish Crime Thriller by Ramsay Sinclair (nonfiction book recommendations TXT) 📕

ran down, passing our station canteen at some point. Only a group of officers sat together at a table, eating greasy food and laughing with each other. Of course, plenty of cafeteria ladies milled around too. A lovely bunch of women, always remembering my exact order down to a T.

No sign of McCall. Great.

Whether I found McCall or not, I needed to be going home too. A relaxing, early night would prepare me for our bombardment of paperwork. Hopefully, Sammy Davis would have written his formal statement by now, ready to read through thoroughly.

Dora came into sight, signalling the entrance to our station. From outside, a huge commotion of noise rallied around. More damned protesters? They’d be attempting jailbreaks soon enough.

“Night, Dora.” The skip jumped from her busy haze, complaining absentmindedly about her never-ending workload.

“Of course, I would be working today. Of all days. Protestors rioting in my clean cells, clueless officers asking me blooming questions I can’t answer, and now this? It’s a commotion out there, sir. Careful,” Dora forewarned and answered an incoming call. “What? I’m busy.”

It was unusual for anything loud to happen in Dalgety Bay late at night. Of the group variety. I exited Dalgety station carefully, curious about what new scene I would uncover. I regretted that thought immediately. Not only did a batch of cool air hit me, but so did half a dozen camera flashes. Blinking specks covered my pupils, certainly no help after an intense migraine. Voices shouted over one another, vying for attention and piled against the officers holding them back.

Holy crap.

This was the media attention everyone raved about. Some reporters I recognised from earlier, but most of them seemed new. Probably visiting from all sorts of neighbouring towns to cover Gavin’s juicy news story. What could they possibly want to know? Our team knew nothing worth taking notes on. I didn’t have any big news to unveil. Their noise deafened us officers, leaving us wanting earplugs. Remembering my handy aviator glasses, I sloppily shoved them onto my face in an attempt to block out some light.

That stopped the issue of not being able to see, at least.

Crowds of reporters pushed against a few crowd control officers, most of whom had come to help the overflow of journalists stay away. These officers were clearly overwhelmed and baffled, never having to deal with that type of commotion in Dalgety Bay before. Maybe those reporters didn’t realise the extent of work that goes into keeping people safe. Instead, they enjoyed pointing out all our faults via pen and paper.

“What can you tell us about the body found at the Bay this morning?” a reporter shouted from below. Not much, mate. Not much at all.

A woman stood centre front, screaming out for attention. Not necessarily with her words, but her outfit. A green silk blouse shimmered with her every movement, and she wore a matching pencil skirt made from a slightly unusual material. Her hair was slicked back into a neat bun with so much force that it acted as a temporary facelift. Nothing about her makeup was classy. It was all bright pink hues, gaudy and in your face which matched the job description. She called out in a similar voice, high pitched with undertones of slyness. No doubt she’d find out every hidden secret then announce it for all the world to hear.

“DI Cooper. How does it feel having a murder happen right under the CID’s noses?” she requested. Police didn’t cause the murder. She acted like we had a choice, a way of preventing it from ever happening. We wished it worked out that way, but it never would.

I had no clue on how to tackle or take charge of this situation. Give me dead bodies or reports, and that would be dandy. But real life, intellectual men and women gave me serious heebie-jeebies. Is it so bad to enjoy being grumpy, moody and alone? People should respect others wishes.

Every step I took, they took three to block any exits. Even if we waited inside the station, they’d probably set up camp outside. My walk now home ambushed, I guessed any chance of peace and quiet was heading in a similar direction. South. Heaving a short sigh, I attempted to part through the crowds. They retaliated, thick as thieves. Nobody moved an inch, not one measly centimetre.

“Hey. Move it,” an officer spoke directly to a well-built reporter. All legs. Anyone would have thought she’d misheard him. But no, she just didn’t care and decided to stay put.

Our officers couldn’t use too much brute force, in fear of starting a riot. I was shocked, having never seen anything of the like before. Biting the metaphorical bullet, I pushed through reporters and cameramen alike. Head down, body braced in case any of these roaches made an effort to push me back.

It took every bone in my body not to curse them out, although I mumbled, “Piss off,” a few times below my breath.

We struggled against each other as more questions were thrown out into Dalgety Bay’s night air. I remembered DCI Campbell’s instructions, already expecting him to have caught wind of this public humiliation. Being a DI meant both the public and police expect every answer under the sun.

At last, I freed myself from most of the thicket, not that it made any difference. They still tagged along behind. That silk green woman was running! No woman had ever run towards me before. That’s new. Cameras snapped away from behind. I’m glad my trench style coat shielded me from a few snooping eyes. How could I walk home with a group of media workers filming?

A car revved up, capturing plenty of attention. Most reporters got out of its way sharpish, although a few crazed, stubborn ones didn’t. A Ford Granada, similar to the Sweeney car. McCall. She’d saved up for ages to buy that car, liking the show since she was younger.

Her brakes slammed on, as usual, and McCall beeped loudly. Unmissable really,