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

“I could google it. See what comes up first,” John shrugged. Ah, yes. A pinnacle of modern CID equipment. Google. Bing moved too slowly for our kind of important work. Sliding out of their way, John tapped something into the computer’s internet browser.

Most constables around were consumed with other assigned tasks, although Eileen watched us nosily. Her desktop Christmas tree shone from one corner, and the decoration seemed too joyous when we were figuring out a potential homicide.

“Righto. Err, it says mathematically, six is a natural number. Whatever the hell that means. It’s an even number,” John repeated gradually, reading from my screen.

“Our killer isn’t Pythagoras,” Finlay quipped sarcastically, tutting loudly. He enjoyed his own dumb humour.

“It’s viewed as a magical number and considered lucky within some cultures. Both fourteen and six contain filled shells which include the same number of protons as neutrons,” John continued. “A lot of science-based facts.

“Science-based shit, you mean,” Finlay folded both arms, brushing off their logical knowledge.

“Nine is also viewed the same. Magical,” I reiterated, finding our new findings quite intriguing. Maths had never been my specialised strong point. My monitor displayed a fresh Wikipedia page. “In both Christian and Hebrew religions, sources believe the number six indicates imperfection. Do you think this could be a religious attack of some manner?” I threw some hypothetical cards into the air. “Perhaps a disagreement between victim and attacker?”

“Gavin didn’t strike me as the religious type.” John couldn’t be swayed easily. “He committed plenty of crimes.”

“Agreed,” Finlay clicked towards John. “He’s been accused of multiple crimes. That’s not very god-like, unless he repented his sins. I feel sorry for whoever had to listen. That would have been a helluva long day.”

“Exactly,” I stubbornly resented. “Gavin’s a social imperfection, taunting other people’s beliefs.” I glanced between one man to another. They didn’t disagree. Surely that counted for something.

“So, we’re searching for a Hebrew witch who loves maths? Great. That narrows it down. Surely there’s only one in Fife,” Finlay drastically leaned against my desk and screwed his heavy features up in annoyance.

“Could be a distraction to throw CID off their scent whilst they bide their time. Perhaps this is our murders his sixth or ninth victim. Or he’s sending a warning out that they are going to commit six crimes. Or nine,” John winced, proposing some legitimate thoughts. He’s a smart man who gets a kick from CID.

“So what? We wait around to see which theory is correct, biting our fingernails to bloody pulps? Wait for innocent ‘townies’ to be slaughtered?” Finlay distastefully quoted the newspapers and shuddered in disagreement, detesting that this case felt out of control.

“Gavin committed a few crimes, he went to prison, right?” My voice vented assertively. “Emma Wells mentioned Kris feeling like a failure because Gavin was beginning to turn out how Mr Ellis did. So, what was Gavin’s prison number?” Undoubtedly this murder would be linked somehow.

Thrusting one hand into a pocket whilst also clicking a biro, Finlay tapped his pale cheek thoughtfully. John stretched, flexing a few back muscles through his tight shirt. A girl couldn’t complain when surrounded by an attractive DI and DC together. Not the worst way to spend a morning.

“You think they branded Gavin with his own criminal number.” Finlay whistled, static electricity hanging above our heads. DC Taylor strode towards another computer's desktop and settled down. A man on a mission.

“I’ll do a background search, find out all about Gavin’s time in prison. I’d need time to pull all those old records up though. Could take a while,” He glanced up from a wealth of notes. Some were inner musings.

“How long?” I asked curiously, standing up to sweep biscuit crumbs away from my fairly expensive suit ensemble.

“I don’t know, Sarge, maybe a day?” Finlay calculated the timing from our wall clock, jaw tensing nervously. We didn’t have a day to spare. Records could take days longer, not that we didn’t trust DC Taylor to get his job finished efficiently.

“Could you stay longer tonight? We need those records,” our superior officer grimaced, hoping John would agree. A brown strand of hair sticks up straight on Finlay’s head. He definitely didn’t shower.

John and I masked our obvious disappointment. Tonight, we had arranged to meet for our promised drink. Just one. Of course, Finlay had failed to remember. That could have something to do with me calling him an ‘arrogant, self-centred pick’. Only truth exited these lips. Finlay clearly was self-centred, after all. He’d overlooked our lives outside of work.

I expected we could compromise for the sake of Gavin’s case. “It’s alright. We can go another time. This is more important,” I assured John directly, who sighed agreeably and knuckled straight down to business.

“DCI Campbell,” Finlay mentioned DCI Campbell to convey the importance of letting him know our new findings. We agreed and grabbed a load of files to take across to his office. At one point, Finlay nearly tripped over Ben’s chair leg. That’s what he gets for being so gangly. Ben sat amid a world of chaos he created, completely clueless.

I accompanied Finlay sensibly, making a few minor adjustments to my outfit before visiting DCI Campbell. He would not tolerate tardiness of any form. Finlay was used to DCI Campbell's sternness, since they debriefed together daily, and they shared an extreme temper, pickiness and a desire to wrap cases up speedily.

“So… DC Taylor. What’s going on there now?” Finlay muttered gracelessly, licking his palm to slick his already gelled hair back. Classy.

“Personally or professionally?” My tight-lipped mouth reacted predictably. I rolled my shoulders back, standing taller. It happened subconsciously when integrated into rooms filled full of men. They all towered much taller, disbelieving in my ability to perform as a female sergeant. It doesn’t faze me as much anymore, but old habits die hard.

“Erm,” Finlay faltered, nothing left to say. He ran out of social steam all too quickly. He had to be the most stubborn detective in Scotland. Even Sherlock