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

nothing covert about that woman. She leaned over and opened the passenger door, ready for me to jump straight in. Communicating specialised, non-verbal instructions. Luckily, a seat cushion softened my landing. McCall stepped on it to blast away from those terrible hordes. With caution, of course. We were still CID.

“You owe me one.”

7

McCall could barely hide her frustration. Her most defining trait was being able to shout at a man, no matter their age or status. As her car flew through endless puddles left over from the earlier rain, McCall turned down the radio in order to let me hear clearly.

“You will call me Kirsty, seeing as you’re in my car and I saved your ass. No work talk in this car or gossiping either.” She checked over her right shoulder before making a turn. Streetlamps illuminated McCall’s relaxed mane, a new trial hairstyle which hung loose. If I stared any longer, McCall wouldn’t hesitate to slap me.

“It’s the next street.”

McCall ignored my nervous chatter, having already memorized the route to mine. “DC Taylor asked me out for a drink next week,” McCall decided to inform me. “I said yes.”

“You said what?” McCall flung me an unenthusiastic glare. “I mean that’s fun? Have a nice time?”

“Not that kind of drink. He invited you too.” McCall found it hilarious to mislead and wind people up. She pulled up outside my relatively small house. It was more of a bachelor's pad, not that I got the chance to spend much time there. Unfortunately, work took priority over going home. The engine declined into silence, leaving us sitting awkwardly.

“Right.” Me, having a drink with work colleagues? Having to make small talk and- a shiver ran down my spine. Polite chatter?

“Don’t worry. I told John you wouldn’t come, due to being a reclusive prick with no social skills whatsoever.” McCall spoke in a monotone voice, increasingly difficult to distinguish whether she was serious.

“Right. Thanks,” I repeated, relieved to be excused from a hideously dull night out. I slammed McCall’s car door shut, appreciative to be home. McCall inhaled with vigorous ambition and wound the passenger window down.

“Keep yourself out of trouble, Cooper,” she warned. “We need a respectable DI, not one hounded by journalists.”

A putrid smell of burnt rubber lingered well after McCall had gone. Driving like a maniac. Her words echoed around my head. ‘A reclusive prick, with no social skills’. Was that really what she thought?

I supposed being a stubborn prick was all I had shown people. Sometimes, things were better that way. Once boundaries between colleagues and friends are overstepped, there would be no turning back. Friends don’t stay friends; lovers don't stay lovers. Life changes and people get left behind. A simple life was required in order to stay comfortable, in order to be content.

Was I happy, though?

Was Gavin happy? Who, in our great, dull universe, was actually happy? We all spent our short lives in search of fulfilment though nothing ever worked. Most of us die unhappy or searching hopelessly for contentment. My keys fumbled to locate the lock. I owned a home and had a great career which helped bring justice to Dalgety Bay. Bit by bit. Surely, that’s enough to satisfy anyone? My family were safe, my friends… eh. Let’s forget about that point.

My porch welcomed me home gladly, shutting out a whole planet of stress and work. A safer space. Gavin’s case taunted me, barely leaving any room left to think of trivial matters. So many questions. Various articles of clothing were strewn over random pieces of furniture. One shoe lay under the table, and my jacket was thrown on the stairs. Only my white shirt remained, unbuttoned by now, to suit my pure bachelor lifestyle.

Most people would cry in shock when they saw my home. It’s worlds apart from work, where every item is well organized in fear of losing crucial evidence or having to re-interview witnesses. No. My house was gloriously messy, but not to a point where health and safety should write it off as unsafe to enter. Fairly minimalistic in style but what lacked in décor, I made up for with belongings. Mementoes from cases I was particularly proud of, framed newspaper cuttings, and small family portraits.

There’s a grey sofa, plump and cushioned, my favourite place to lay down after a long day. A lamp stood on display nearby, glimmering atmospherically. Sauntering through to the tiny kitchen, my first port of call was the fridge. Opening its chilly door, I groaned internally.

Shopping needed to be done and sharpish. With barely enough food to last one night, I made do and cracked open a Tennent’s lager. Breathing a sigh of relief at its satisfying pop. For fine dining, fork prongs stabbed the film on tonight’s microwave meal. Grossly identical to Gavin’s gruesome stab wounds. Tonight’s meal was a la carte Chicken Tikka, delicious and efficient! What more could a guy ask for?

Cindy Crawford.

After setting a timer for ten minutes, my attention diverted to technology, like any 21st-century inhabitant would. My sister pinged a text through, asking to meet mother for Christmas. Christmas was less than a month away but being a DI doesn’t make arrangements easy to plan. Especially not after Gavin’s death. We’d be working every day until it’s solved, under DCI Campbell's instruction.

If it was solved.

A ping erupted, and I shoved the meal onto some odd plate before carrying it through. Sitting down, I flicked through random television channels, settling for a crappy program on bees. Mouthfuls of Chicken Tikka wolfed down faster than hungry animals in the wilderness. My aching body sunk further into goose feather cushions after each morsel, comforting any ailments. Threatening to fall asleep whilst eating, I gave up and into the signs of exhaustion. After I stashed my half-empty plate elsewhere, my head rested fully. Overwhelming gloominess sent my body drifting on high. Stuck in an endless, terrible sleep.

Hours passed, my brain stuck full of nightmares. Bodies washed up on Dalgety Bay. DC Taylor punched