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

“No one knows what may happen in the future. We all act on impulse.” McCall stated grimly and motioned for Kris to continue.

Our liaison officer smiled with encouragement, but I refused to attempt a cheery expression. Kris lied to us and wasted precious police time. Time a mother should gratefully desire us to spend wisely by catching a killer. An angry pit of flames burned deep in my stomach. Thrusting both hands into my suit jacket to keep warm, I noted inky tattoos climbing up Kris’s arms. Like mother, like son. Similar in many ways, though different all at once. Now her guard had come crashing down, Kris Ellis acted more considerate about Gavin than before.

“I kicked him out. Couldn’t deal with all the criminal nonsense anymore. I mean, a nineteen-year-old man still living under his mother’s roof! Of course, now I understand that Gavin was nothing more than a scared little boy.” Haunting memories flew through the mother’s mind unwantedly. “Told him to clean up his act before returning home. I spoke to Gavin by the front door.” Kris stared directly into our eyes, sending an internal apology for not telling us sooner. My ears pricked up curiously.

“He didn’t want to listen to me. Gavin rammed past, and his bag scuffed my front door. He wrestled with me,” Kris admitted shamefully.

“That could explain those smaller bruises found on his body,” McCall reiterated carefully, so only we could hear. No point upsetting Kris further.

“Gavin didn’t even look back,” Kris continued. “That was four days ago. I thought he must be punishing me by not coming home, when all that time my boy was out there, dead. And I had no idea.” A few watery tears splashed onto the armchair material and soaked through. Kris didn’t know how to act, like she’d never cried before. “I let him down. Just like his father did.”

Our liaison officer shifted closer to a weeping Kris, patting her back in reassurance.

“What did you do, the night of Gavin’s death?” I prodded further, still needing crucial information to clear her name from our potential suspect list.

“I visited next door,” Kris explained. “Neighbour’s a friend of mine, and she talked things over with me. Her children are grown up now. Swapped some advice and a few drinks too. Then I came home.” I nodded, already making a mental note to assume officers roles to question next door. Ensure her alibi stands. But that was no problem, our whole team planned on assisting this case. They would already be organising door-to-doors.

“Alright. I think we are done here.” My half question, half statement echoed loudly.

McCall agreed, tired already. I should make sure McCall rested properly too, only fit enough officers would prosper on a case of proportionate status. She stifled a yawn and twisted her small diamond earring thoughtfully. Our liaison officer informed us of her plan to stay longer. It was probably for the best, as Kris appeared even more shocked than before.

This wouldn’t be the last we heard of Kris Ellis. After all, our liaison officer contained a duty to uphold communication lines between us open. Kris must be first to know when we find the killer, if at all. As for grief, only time could heal those familiar gaping wounds caused by loss.

Outside, light showers surrounded McCall and I. Washing away our paint chip evidence and not a moment too soon. Luck must be on our side, for one day only. McCall lifted up her impractical shoe to see the flakes first hand.

“You were definitely clutching at straws.” She shook her head vigorously, ponytail whipping behind her shoulders. McCall's freckles were evident in daylight, now that we were out Kris Ellis’s residing gloominess. She donned a more casual figure, relaxing now that we talked by ourselves.

“Clutching at straws is our job, DS McCall,” I said firmly and hauled my weary body into the driver's seat this time over.

“You don’t ever call me Kirsty. Why?” McCall’s tone was blunt when she slammed our passenger door closed.

I let her personal question hang in the air, buckling up. Firing up the engine, I didn’t bother to check our surroundings. Too much faffing. Shifting steadily into third gear, the Volvo glided smoothly. An ideal model for a practical work car. Picking up speed, we passed other cars and people out doing… whatever people do. Walking their dogs, taking strolls and shopping. Probably.

McCall stared unwaveringly; I could sense it in my peripheral vision.

“It’s not professional,” I answered at last. “We’re solving a homicide case, DS McCall. I couldn’t go around calling you Kirsty. How unprofessional would that seem?”

She shrugged and tugged her shirt collar inattentively. “But you never let me call you Finlay, either. We’ve worked together for years. What’s wrong with that?”

“I hate my name. Finlay.” It even felt weird on my tongue. It sounded strange coming from McCall’s mouth too. “Fin-lay,” I repeated, testing it out again. Definitely not. “No. Plus, I’m your superior now. You should call me accordingly.”

Starting to indicate left, someone pulled straight out on me.

“Dobber!” I shouted. Road rage on full display.

“You deserved that,” McCall huffed. She believed in karma and hippy nonsense, whilst I believed in idiots who shouldn’t be allowed to drive. “Just because you are our superior now, doesn’t mean you’re any better than the rest of us. Sometimes you act like a complete nutter. Don’t forget your place, Finlay Cooper. We ranked the same for five years.” McCall refused to call me DI Cooper any longer. Clearly, harbouring jealous tendencies that I received the title of detective inspector, when everyone fought and applied non-stop for it too. Sore loser.

I couldn’t help but splutter, finding her writhing fury hilarious. McCall didn’t want to join in, but failed to fight my infectious chuckles. We laughed together. A much-needed amusing touch to our otherwise miserable day. I followed the idiotic driver, watching his facial expression droop when McCall switched