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

over by forensics. Requiring full, undivided attention. Their reports began with a summary, notifying me that these were confidential and linked to Gavin Ellis.

My eyes scanned for an all-important word: match. Nothing immediately jumped off the page, especially no new fingerprint matches. Their entire report consisted of explanations about why they found no prints, due to a lack of murder weapon. No traces of substances were left at the scene with Gavin being dumped in the water.

Our killer was obviously smart. Could that suggest they’d killed before? Or maybe they were lucky bastards who happened to be near a body of water? Oh well, Gavin’s post mortem examination may explain something exciting or distinguishable. Or anything at all. Exhaling in aggravation, photographs sprawled over my desk directly from the sudden breeze. They shone, refracting my office light, highlighting a few details such as Gavin's tattoos. Seemingly similar to his mothers, they littered his pale, discoloured bicep with a harsh green tinge. Outlined symbols of all shapes and kinds, like an animator would draw on blank cartridge paper, and full of vivid colours, ones a peacock would envy.

Something caught my eager eye and jolted me upright. Dissolving the previously tired slump. Gavin’s tattoos covered so much bicep that it was difficult to see any mark above or on his skin below those inky pictures. But something didn’t sit right, dissimilar to Gavin’s other tattoos. I turned our photograph horizontally and vertically, then moved it closer and further away, before I could finally figure out what was wrong.

And something was very wrong indeed. A mark cut deep into Gavin’s arm, impossible to see due to its optical illusion. It disappeared against the pinkish, tattooed background. However, when observed closely, Gavin’s skin raised slightly with clotted blood. Most of his blood had been undoubtedly washed off beforehand. Such a tiny, insignificant mark wouldn’t bleed heavily, anyway. All that remained was a bunch of raised, puckered skin.

None of that sounded like a revelation. We believed Gavin was murdered. Of course, he was bound to collect a few scrapes here and there in the struggle. Perhaps the attacker wrestled Gavin or knocked him against a heavy object. Yet, those suspicions could be discredited, for this mark wasn’t accidental. It wasn’t made unintentionally during a harmless scuffle.

This was deliberate, carved into the shape of a perfect number six.

8

McCall

The CID department had never seen anyone move faster than Finlay Cooper uncovering crucial evidence. Odd black and yellow socks peeked out from beneath his ankle swingers, like someone lit a raging fire up his arse. I would be first in line. Finlay clocked me immediately, like a predator to prey. DI Finlay Cooper rubbed our team up the wrong way by picking favourites. His favourite being me. Having worked alongside the guy for eight years, I knew Finlay better than anyone else.

Finlay rampaged through, tetchy from his journalist run-in that morning. Those stupid newspapers really pissed him off. I downed a rushed, final glug of coffee, needing it before interacting with Finlay. John wordlessly offered to refill my drink and give us some alone time. John was admittedly intimidated by Finlay. No matter how many times I said, ‘he is just a Scotsman with a quick temper. Nothing I can’t handle.’

“Look at that,” Finlay slammed a photograph onto my desk, pointing to Gavin’s lifeless arm. Didn’t I exchange these very photographs to him? Noting Finlay’s purple eye bags and crazed hair, I realised the grumpy DI realised was probably hallucinating. He breathed heavily, repointing at Gavin’s tattoo. Finlay could change from sloth to dragon in two minutes flat.

“Gavin’s arm? I’ve seen it already…” I trailed off uncertainty.

He was not willing to accept my lacklustre answer. Pursing both nude lips into one straight line, Finlay pointed again. Knob.

“Tattoos?”

“And?” he flumped forward so that ridiculous silken tie trailed directly across my workspace.

“And…” Nope. I still wasn’t getting it. What on earth was Finlay Cooper talking about? Taking the opportune moment of silence, John brought over my coffee and desperately tried to avoid Finlay’s eye contact.

“What can you see, DC Taylor?” Finlay questioned, sliding Gavin’s photograph towards John. He leant over, humming softly and both grey eyes flicked over each pixelated section.

“Tattoos. Erm, coloured ones.” At least we both couldn’t tell what we were supposed to see. Finlay interrupted John mid-sentence.

“No. It took me a while to spot it too.”

But this time, it was John's turn to retaliate. Running four fingers through his array of natural, black locks, John frowned. “And a mark of sorts. Hard to see, but in the shape of a six,” He derived and wrapped up the conclusion in accomplishment. What? “Or nine, depending on whether they purposely drew upside down. Everyone confuses sixes and nines in card games.”

“Give it here,” I snatched Gavin’s photograph back, moving in closer this time. John helpfully traced the mark using a pointer finger. They were right. “So what does this help us with? We’ve still ended up with no leads and a photographed scratch on Gavin’s arm.”

“Not just any cut. Whoever made this mark did so deliberately. It makes me wonder why? What’s their purpose?” Finlay spoke passionately, shaking from as much excitement as he could handle.

“Could Gavin have cut himself? Like a gang symbol, trying to fit in with his ‘cool’ friends?” I interjected rationally. We couldn’t get carried away and disappear on a whim.

“Shouldn’t think so.” Inhaling thoughtfully, John shook his head. “Not judging by the angle it’s drawn, well, carved at. Judging by the thickness further down Gavin’s cut, it would suggest their weapon was held at a downward trajectory. Practically impossible to do that yourself and keep it so fluid.”

He had a point, but we contained no leads to back our evidence up. Finlay shifted and rubbed his chin in thought. Consumed by judgements. A whiff of smell caught my nose, posing a serious question. Did he even shower last night?

“I wonder why. Why the number?” our detective inspector mused. It was entirely unhelpful actually.