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

“Don’t look so serious,” I cracked a smile at Finlay. He was disturbed from his monotonous form filling trance. His deep blue eyes hazed out, going cross-eyed from staring at letters for too long. “We’ve got Jack. He’s the one you wanted.”

Finlay shifted. “I wanted him, yes. But it’s not over. Catherine’s got more to do with this than I thought.”

“Second-guessing yourself?” I pondered.

“No. He’s got a clear motive, and he’s lied to us. Arresting him was the right decision, it gave him a kick up the jacksie. It should give him a reason to talk to us, for real this time. I just don’t know what Catherine’s got to do with any of this.” Finlay scrunched up his face in thought. “But I forgot to say--”

“Thanks?” I helped him out, knowing how he struggled with saying those two words.

“Yup.” He popped the ‘P’. “Finding Catherine Jones meant finding Jack Harper,” Finlay admitted with a small gulp. His Adam’s apple wobbled slightly, and I knew he found that incredibly hard to admit to my face.

“It’s all part of the job,” I glowered modestly. “So long as DCI Campbell doesn’t find out, I’m safe.”

Finlay’s expression changed, and I was baffled as to why. “You don’t have to worry about Campbell. Everything’s sorted,” he finished, with an air of mystery, as you do. I was about to ask him what he meant. “Right-o. Take these.” He plonked a load of paper on my side. Half on his, half on mine.

Every so often, Finlay and I would shuffle cumbersomely, tired of writing. Our hands ached, and the clock ticked. I’d sneak a peek at Finlay every so often, just to see his concentration face. It made me laugh. He pursed his lips, frowned a lot and had a habit of sniffing in the most annoying way possible. One strand of brunette hair flopped into his face the way it always did. I didn’t have any hair gel at my house this morning, so he had styled his hair differently to accommodate that.

A large shadow ran across his strong jawline as he cast it onto my brother’s shirt. It suited Finlay better than it did my brother. Finlay picked up the last two papers from my pile in one swift swoop and shoved them onto his own.

“I’m bored. Jack Harper’s sitting upstairs and we’re stuck filling out inconvenient forms. We’re going up,” Finlay preached, having a change of heart. The previous Finlay returned, attitude and all.

It was quite a relief. Those snobby forms were boring us to death. We’d have been dead before Jack Harper got questioned.

We stalked up to interviewing room two. Number one had already been occupied with a petty criminal of sorts. People had misconceptions about these rooms, especially kids who recently started in the force. These rooms are no bigger than Harry Potter sized cupboard under the stairs. Rackety, dishevelled chairs were practically piled on top of one another. Each time we sat down, you had to squeeze right next to the other officer in the room.

There is only one entrance way which doubled as an exit. Technology was also sparse in this room, with only two security cameras ensuring our safety and a tape recorder sat upon the desk.

“Jack Harper,” Finlay shuffled through our files and sorted ourselves out. I’m smaller, so I always got pushed into sitting nearest the wall. “You’ve had your tea, you’ve been to the bathroom, and you denied your phone call. Let’s get to it, shall we?”

Jack had aged in the last couple of hours. An ancient pallor dusted his face, sick from worry and nerves. His unflattering shirt had rumpled from sitting down too often. He blinked behind the safety shield of those retro glasses, shamed and unforgiving.

I pressed record on the machine, and proceedings began.

“This is DI Finlay Cooper and DS Kirsty McCall with suspect Jack Harper, for the Gavin Ellis case files. Solicitor present. Interview commenced on Thursday the twelfth of December…” He checked his wristwatch accordingly. “At four forty-five pm.”

Jack watched us both with a glint of fear in his eye. He ran his tongue over his teeth, nervously awaiting any questions which were bound to get thrown his way.

“Do you know who this is?” Finlay slid some photos one by one across the desk to face Jack, starting off easily. Jack looked down and winced at the rather graphic pictures laid before him. They depicted our very first murder scene.

“Gavin Ellis,” Jack replied with uncertainty, throat dry, and in desperate need of another drink.

“He was found early hours on the eighth of December. Gavin Ellis had left home four days before his death,” Finlay added for recording purposes. “What was your relationship with the victim?”

“I, uh, wouldn’t say I had any form of relationship with him.” The solicitor caught Jack’s eye, urging him on. “I knew him briefly, in passing. I didn’t associate with Gavin in the slightest.”

“Let me rephrase this,” Finlay changed his mind, realising that Jack Harper was avoiding saying what Gavin Ellis did to his family. “Who was Gavin Ellis to you?”

Jack began to cry fully and squeezed both eyes shut. His wrinkles protruded ashamedly further into his forehead.

“It’s alright, Jack. Just take your time,” I soothed him. Finlay didn’t agree with the kindness approach, which is why we always got paired together. A spot of the old good cop, bad cop routine.

“H-he murdered my daughter,” Jack revealed the same information he told us the other day, and now it would all be stored on tape.

“He raped your daughter and overdosed her,” Finlay picked his narrative back up. “Gavin was sentenced to years in jail yet got out in half the time. How did that make you feel Jack? Angry?” Finlay paused for effect, his gaze boring into Jack Harper.

“My client doesn’t have to respond to these infantile tactics--” The solicitor began, but Jack paid no attention.

“Of course I