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

There’s another DI transferring from the Edinburgh team to help out with numbers whilst DI Cooper is away. Rest assured that your protection and safety comes first.” McCall smiled towards the camera. A natural speaker. She’d always been excellent at putting people's minds at ease, starting way back in her constable days.

It appeared to satisfy the crowd. A slight yawn crept up on me, and I attempted to stifle it casually. I glanced at the large wall clock to see that there was still a good chunk of time left. My mind wandered. Most questions were directed towards McCall at that moment, anyway. I thought about the possibilities for dinner tonight. Steak and chips, perhaps?

“What has been your toughest case to date?” another reporter questioned, bringing me crashing back to dull reality. People eyed me up in curiosity, like one of those freak shows.

“Err.” I cast my thoughts back to various cases we’d worked on. Breathing out loudly, I tapped my pen on the table. I wasn’t as young as I used to be, and these things didn’t come to me as quickly anymore. “I suppose that for every DI across the country, their first case is the toughest. You’re settling into the position and have an entire team relying on you. Everyone has an opinion on the decisions you make.”

McCall nodded in agreement, contributing to the discussion too. “Of course, it was the first high profile case Dalgety Bay had seen too. That wasn’t the easiest. But it’s hard to say. Each case is completely different.” Tucking one of those red wisps back behind one ear, McCall shuffled through our load of papers.

A few camera flashes blinded us in quick succession. I hate photographs.

“For both the papers and viewers watching at home, could you tell us in more detail about that first case?” the skinny kid spoke up again, more confident now. Georgina Ryder sat front row, raising her arched eyebrows towards me, awaiting my answer, pink pen in hand, poised and ready.

Blimey, that was a while ago. “Well uh, let me see.” I paused momentarily, struggling to remember most details. “It began with the murder of Gavin Ellis.”

1

The wheels of our Volvo skidded on loose gravel. DS McCall slammed on the brakes, nearly making me spill takeaway cups of tea all over my black trousers. I gave her an irritated look, and she clocked it straightaway.

“Sorry,” she apologised, wincing at me. When she turned the engine off, the radio turned off at the same time.

“Thank God. Robbie Williams isn’t the greatest soundtrack to play on the journey to a murder.” I raised my eyebrows, hoping for a better soundtrack. Still, I pulled on the door handle, hearing it click and allow a rush of frosty wind to nip my cheeks.

Scottish weather, what more can be said?

As I exited our vehicle, McCall mumbled behind me, “No wonder blokes at the office call you Crabbit.”

Balancing the cardboard cup holder in my hands, I poked my face back into the car. “They call me that?”

McCall jumped, obviously not realising I could still hear. She shrugged and wrapped a grey, knitted scarf twice around her neck before getting out from the vehicle.

Crabbit, eh?

“Huh. I like it.” I pouted decisively, and we began making our way across the bay, step in step. Most detectives believe they look like cool television detectives at times like this. Well, we did. McCall gladly snuck a takeaway cup from the holder, and I followed suit. Feeling its well-appreciated warmth beneath my fingertips, I sipped from the plastic lid, pulling away in horror. The repulsive liquid slimed its way down my throat.

Moment ruined.

“I thought you made tea?”

McCall frowned, seemingly unbothered. Strands of vivid ginger hair whipped around her face, nose turning pink from coldness. No winter sun came peeking out from behind those greying clouds yet. “Yeah, well, the office had no more tea-bags in the kitchen. So coffee it is.”

Elsewhere in the distance, our crime scene was evident. Uniformed police swarmed around, along with dozens of reporters. How did they already catch wind of this? It’s a secluded part of the bay, and it’s barely 7 am. On the other hand, Dalgety Bay wasn’t a huge area and was generally fairly low risk in terms of crime rates… until now. When the call was received by CID, everyone was shocked to hear the gruesome report.

Just what makes life worth living. Danger and excitement.

We neared the scene, noise level much louder than it was back there, only mere moments ago. In silence, we pushed our way through crowds of shocked and slightly interfering locals. Rifling through my suit trouser pockets, I found my shiny DI badge, probably the most beloved item I owned. It was the one that all the school kids love to see.

Uniformed officers held up their police tape for us to duck underneath, McCall huffing as she followed.

“I hate coffee,” I added, continuing the discussion from a couple of minutes ago as I squinted at bright blue lights which surrounded us.

“Really?” McCall asked dryly. “You hate something? That’s unusual.” She was really coming to grips with this whole sarcasm thing. Took her ages to learn how to use sarcasm correctly and to maximum effect. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but she learned from the best.

Our footsteps crunched in unison over dirty sand, getting our boots increasingly muddy. It squelched underfoot as a direct result from Dalgety Bay water. A police constable joined us, matching our strides to debrief and explain exactly what we’re letting ourselves in for. He was slightly out of breath, already exhausted from this morning’s busy schedule and lack of food.

“The body was found by Sammy Davis, owner of the sailing club, this morning,” he explained. “Identified the body as Gavin Ellis. Been nicked before, for various crimes which range from petty to serious. Always in and out of the station.”

Great. Nothing more than a lacklustre criminal.

“Plenty of enemies then,” I commented with an unimpressed tone that couldn’t