The Devil's Due: A Cooper and McCall Scottish Crime Thriller by Ramsay Sinclair (good inspirational books .TXT) 📗

“You just wanted to fill the silence, didn’t you?” I tracked the corridor, plastered in fire safety posters.

“Yup,” He grimaced, holding one palm up to DCI Campbell’s door. Rapping thrice. Unbelievable.

“Come in.” An elderly voice instructed powerfully. Even without seeing DCI Campbell, it’s obvious he would be extremely knowledgeable. Most people recognised his accomplishments, yet underneath DCI Campbell’s hard exterior was a complete family man with a love for Elton John records and pepperoni pizza.

Finlay entered first, leaving me to shake in disbelief. DCI Campbell’s office never failed to amaze, significantly larger than the rest of ours, for sure.

“Ah. DS McCall,” DCI Campbell smiled politely.

“Morning, Guv.”

“I trust you read those forensics reports I forwarded you?” DCI Campbell stared at us intensely.

Shit. Nope. I glared at Finlay, who conveniently forgot to mention Gavin’s forensics reports came through earlier. It was time to conjure up a good enough excuse for myself.

“No sir,” I scratched my forehead in anguish. “I’ve been busy teaming up with DC Taylor, in the hope of finding Gavin’s accomplices.”

Finlay cleared his throat pointedly.

“Oh, yes. DI Cooper mentioned that yesterday,” DCI Campbell kindly, probably under too much pressure to care. “I suppose we’d better fill you in. Forensics found nothing. No prints. No traces. A smart guy or girl which leads me to believe our killer has killed before.”

“Or he threw everything into the water in mass panic. Meaning he could also be extremely inexperienced,” I paused for thought. Speaking absentmindedly. A long silence filled DCI Campbell’s overflowing office. Both men stared.

“Yes. DS McCall, you could be right,” DCI Campbell mulled over that possibility with a protruded bottom lip, checking a handwritten note taped to his computer.

“We were having trouble deciphering which type of killer he could be, Guv,” Finlay interjected, pulling his plain shirt to un crease it. Sounds of confirmation emitted from DCI Campbell, to show he was listening but also super busy. “I wondered whether recanvassing the crime scene could be of significance. Maybe verge out a bit further this time.”

DCI Campbell pointed his finger up, silently ordering us to wait whilst he rifled around his desk drawer. Rummaging noises filled the office, blocking any tense silence which may have occurred otherwise.

Meanwhile, I snooped around, using only my eyes. I spotted discarded Irn Bru cans piled up in his bin. Located below the huge window, was an extreme plethora of memorabilia. Not fan club material, but personal achievements stood proudly displayed. Trophies, medals, certificates, and posters of Lynda Carter. I wondered how his wife felt about that poster. There is probably a reason why it’s hanging up at work and not home. DCI Campbell finally found a local map he searched for.

“There are three possible entrances around that Bay area, excluding the huge body of water in which our killer could have arrived by boat,” DCI Campbell pointed sullenly to those specific locations. “I’ll arrange a few others from our team and join them down at the Bay as soon as possible.” DCI Campbell got up hurriedly, revealing a shedload of crumbs littering his trousers too, which he brushed off quickly. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

Finlay faltered momentarily. “Guv. We found something else.” Finlay untucked the blue folder from underneath one arm, fumbling to get Gavin’s photographs out. Once they were free, he ordered them neatly on DCI Campbell’s desktop.

“What is it?” DCI Campbell stopped dressing, hesitantly stepping over to witness those pictures. His dusky lip trembled.

“This one,” Finlay pointed directly towards the tattooed photograph. Wasting no time, he traced the six and urgently repeated our discussion to the Guv. DCI Campbell’s frown lines deepened each second, leaning in to inspect Gavin’s picture.

“It’s a number six or nine, carved into Gavin Ellis’s arm. I missed it, until DI Cooper showed me,” I included helpfully, earning a grateful signal from Finlay.

“Almost too easy to miss,” DCI Campbell spoke loudly, rubbing his top lip in amazement. Finlay agreed, stifling an exhausted yawn. “We could ask the pathologist to see if he picked it up too. They can judge the blade size and link it to anything trade-specific, possibly giving us potential business leads to follow up. That sort of thing.”

“Thing is, the numbers match up to countless possibilities,” I groaned. “We discussed some possibilities, to which DC Taylor is diving into now. Prison numbers, etc.” Looking over those pictures made me angrier that a killer walked scot-free.

“A logical step. If the number does not match, at least we will have who he was as a person.” DCI Campbell seemed pleased by our miniscule step of progress. “Well, you know what they say. Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

We moved as a singular group to ready the constables. “Of course, six could stand for the number of victims he has already killed. There could be six bodies buried right under our feet,” Finlay spat in hatred, presuming the worst. “DC Taylor suggested it could be a warning of sorts, of deaths to come.”

“Until we gain concrete suspects or evidence, we can’t think about what ifs. We do our jobs as detectives, working Gavin’s death out sensibly. It’s not CID’s fault that people are dying, it’s some sick bastard. Our resolution is to find them, no matter how long that takes. We serve justice,” DCI Campbell assured us, a strict, no-nonsense father figure. “Good work, all of you. Nobody comes to our town and starts murdering people they see fit. Only I can have that sort of power.”

DCI Campbell led us out of his office, sporting a large grin.

9

Being back at the crime scene felt surreal. Barely any locals strayed anywhere nearby, as nobody wanted to be seen down here. Gavin’s death had tarnished Dalgety Bay’s prime spot. Even the Forth Bridge seemed lacking in vibrancy. A few CID constables surrounded McCall and me. Fresh sets of eyes equalled further chances of capturing our notorious killer.

Since Gavin’s death, the tide had swallowed up half of the mucky sand, leaving our shoes coated in