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

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t you,” she spoke in a smoky voice. As if my irritation earlier wasn’t quite enough, fate just dealt me a fistful of rubbish… it was the glossy reporter.

“If you’ve come to write another headline, go ahead. Dalgety Bay’s finest DI is smashed,” my voice tumbled out incoherently, lower than I’d initially expected. The preened woman sighed, flicking her loose locks behind one shoulder. She had picked out a rather garish yellow to wear, blinding us all.

“Whisky.” She waved with those ridiculous nails and retouched her mascara.

“I thought you’d be a gin kind of woman,” I noted.

“I didn’t expect you to be a pint kind of guy,” her high-pitched voice shot back. Feisty. “Didn’t think I'd see you here. So, come on. What happened?”

“What?” I struggled, struggling to form an opinion on the woman. There was too much going on with her overall appearance. Some could argue, too much. A strand of brunette hair ungelled and flopped onto my face unattractively.

“You’re surrounded by empty glasses on a weekday,” the reporter noted dryly, accepting her whisky thankfully. Our bartender refused to let her pay, throwing indiscreet winks. I waited until he walked away to serve another drunk, rowdy customer.

“Are all blokes like that towards you?”

“Pretty much. Comes with the job, I suppose. They all think they know me, after seeing and reading my articles every day,” she explained, necking back her serving of whisky. “What about you, detective?” My stalkerish reporter leaned closer, batting her heavy lashes.

“I know when someone is prying into my private life. Partly why I hate social situations entirely,” I diverted our attention, a drop of drink spilling onto my shirt. The bartender didn’t even ask if I wanted another. He filled my glass straight back up.

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” She mock-saluted, stiffening up in jest. “I’m not at work now, and I couldn’t give two shits about your ‘private life.’” The reporter quoted with two fingers. “Only making polite conversation.” She shrugged and purposely ordered a gin this time.

It forced me to grin.

“See? Detective’s nose. I knew you’d enjoy a gin. You pretend to be so unique, though you’re the same as every other woman out there.” I tried tapping my rather large nose but missed completely to both of our tipsy amusement.

“Georgina Ryder.” She held out a manicured hand to shake. Huh. A proper name. We shook sweaty palms together.

“No need to ask mine, I presume?”

Georgina shook her petite head in agreement. “DI Finlay Cooper, the Bay’s youngest detective inspector. You’re working on Gavin Ellis’s murder case.” It felt odd, having somebody speak as though you’re not there.

“Bill down the road could’ve told us that and not get paid for the privilege.” I referenced her journalist earnings. They earned good money writing crappy stories like those. “But you don’t know me. Not really.” My drunken haze soaked up all sobriety left.

“Oh, really? Who’s the real Finlay Cooper then?” Georgina challenged, unafraid of fighting back. She leaned in, listening intently.

Hm. I paused, thinking of a witty comeback to impress.

“Ultimate sex god, brilliant in bed. I’ve had many sources tell me so.” I lifted a beer in goodwill, hearing Georgina’s delicate snorts.

“Sure,” she quipped in clear disbelief.

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

We hooted rowdily in amusement. Drunk Finlay enjoyed company, it seemed.

“They threatened to fire me for disobedience and not hitting our target markets enough,” Georgina said over the loud music. “People don’t want to hear about serious deaths. They’d rather know how it feels to turn ninety-something years old.”

“Someone turned ninety?” That’s impressive. Georgina rolled her dolled-up eyes in frustration. “Well, I don’t blame them. With the reporting skills you’ve demonstrated, I’d get the job before you. That last paper was full of crap.”

“Don’t blame me. I brought a wider perspective to your miserable lives.” Her lipstick smeared a glass rim carelessly. “It’s like water full of piranhas. Kill, or be killed.”

“No, that’s CID. Literally.” I snorted. “The guv probably wishes he strangled me.”

Georgina sat close by, enjoying our to-and-fro of insults. They came fast and easy, sending signals. Was she that same woman who trashed everyone in tomorrow’s news? Or was she a woman, curvy and unafraid, on the cusp of losing a career?

I switched off, shutting down for five minutes. I wanted to forget DCI Campbell and Jack Harper. Gavin Ellis and DC Taylor. Georgina nudged me gently, igniting drunken sparks. My body spoke for itself, going in to kill. Not physically, metaphorically. Georgina froze still, unexpectedly not running for any hills. Closer. I was close enough to smell the gin and tonic which lingered on her lips, sweeter than liquored chocolate. Our lips were about to touch in sweet harmony, a crescendo of passion.

Georgina conclusively stood up, seeing nothing but a drunken detective lunging towards her. Her barstool went flying, and I lost all pride by nearly face planting to the ground.

Georgina smiled in victory. “Thank you, Finlay Cooper.”

What did that mean? Georgina sauntered away, leaving me drowned in spilt drink and shattered ego. Again. Naturally, I ran after the reporter, grabbing my suit jacket. Standing up only emphasised how much we’d had to drink. I tripped over a few empty tables towards our exit, migraines tripling excruciatingly in progression.

12

McCall

It was late by time DCI Campbell and I returned to the station. Our whole journey was completed in radio silence, still reeling from his and Finlay’s explosive argument. I could tell DCI Campbell was deep in thought because he kept sighing and fiddling with my radio. Finlay had certainly changed since being awarded his title of detective inspector. Although he was paranoid, he’d screw up somehow, Finlay also had enough guts to fight against the hierarchy and make them value his opinions.

DCI Campbell believed in evidence and hard facts, whereas Finlay followed instinct first, evidence after. He always said, ‘We follow our instincts first, and when you end up right, evidence will find us.’

I was more of a mediator girl