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

a mess which crunched loudly. My bag kept hitting my leg with each step, full to its brim of swabbing equipment. Our moods felt sombre, all of our team mightily disheartened, unsure as to what other evidence was left to uncover. It was only a small stretch of beach, after all.

McCall especially felt extremely frustrated at being unable to derive any fresh leads from our newfound number evidence. Nobody fancied new dead bodies falling on CID hands or property.

“There he is,” McCall nudged me with her surprisingly bony elbow, face screaming out in discomfort. McCall referenced DCI Campbell, who plodded down the Bay. Seeing DCI Campbell outside of his office hit home exactly how close to retirement he neared.

What would happen when DCI Campbell left? Since I joined, he ran this department, and we certainly did not want a second-rate replacement running our team. Wrinkled lines slashed his appearance, years of criminal activity resting on his shoulders. A small crowd of locals clamoured behind him, holding signs of protest, influenced by those damned newspaper prints.

“They’re angry and redirecting it at us. We’re the only team to take the brunt of their fear. Faces of justice,” DCI Campbell explained, finally catching up to us. He took in his surroundings gradually, disappointed that Gavin’s murder happened in our hometown, the town he chose to shelter his family away from harm and destruction.

“For God’s sake. They can take their campaign posters and stick them up their arse,” McCall complained, lacking in her usual grace. We stared at McCall, who acted surprised. “What?”

“Blimey,” I nodded in respect.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” McCall snapped. “You’ve said worse.”

I paused for a moment, holding a gloved hand up to shield the ridiculously bright sun. “Yep.”

DC Cillian and Tony pushed each other a few metres away, trying to get the other one's feet wet from the water. Seriously, they’re supposed to be accomplished CID officers?

“Both uniformed and CID Constables all searching way down there.” McCall showed DCI Campbell an example officer. “DC Eileen Shipman should be checking out Sammy’s sailing boats to verify no evidence has been stashed.” DC Taylor remained holed up at our offices, much to McCall’s disappointment.

“Nobody’s inside the sailing club yet. A few workers are rostered in today who would be a safe bet to question,” I informed DCI Campbell as pain shot through my head. Bloody migraines.

DCI Campbell heartily agreed and gazed sideways towards Sammy’s sailing club. “I’ll go and make myself useful. You two stay here, venture a bit further up if at all possible,” he instructed before he rambled away towards our prime building. McCall caught my eyes, pulling a dramatic face. She rustled a few plastic bags in my direction.

“Come on then.” McCall read my facial expression. “Am I too loud?”

“You’re worse than a bloody clown,” those words tumbled from my mouth, “except for their ridiculous costumes.” I looked McCall over from head to toe. “Huh. Nevermind.”

“You, shut up,” McCall warned. She stomped ahead in a huff but tripped over a large rock. “Who put that stupid, dumb thing there?” She noticed my struggle to keep a straight face. “I’m going to hit you. I’m actually going to hit you.”

“Oh, pipe down, McCall. We’re serious detectives, so pull yourself together.”

McCall narrowed her eyes, waiting for a joke to spice up our interaction. Satisfied when I stayed silent, McCall turned around and carried on marching.

“Coco,” I said with a smirk.

“That’s it,” McCall set off on a temperamental stomp down the bay, fists balled in anger. She blazed away like a raging fireball, determined and unable to give up. With all our distance, our team disappeared from sight.

There was sparse decoration around this part, mainly left to its own devices. Waves lapped against dirty rocks and strewed up pieces of random junk. Where were their bins? The council spent a fortune on installing them everywhere. Use them. Apart from water, only a lonesome shed stood nearby.

McCall spotted it first, hidden between jagged rocks. She waltzed over, shoes sinking into severely boggy marshland below us. Loud, sloppy noises echoed from her, causing me to grimace. I hated that noise.

“Blood!” McCall exclaimed with widened azure eyes. “There’s blood.” She crouched down to point out a sample smear of blood, careful not to touch it.

“The slimy bastard,” I muttered. We jumped into action, rustling in my bag to find a pair of clean forceps and thread. McCall’s outstretched hand awaited, ready to collect some samples. Four, to be precise. “Can’t get overly excited. If our killer is responsible for this, that blood sample will most likely be Gavin’s.”

“I know, but, if this turns out to be a match, we get inside our killer’s head. Try a bit of psychology. Get a forensic psychologist on our case. Find out where they went next, and why?” McCall had a fair point. I huffed in anticipation as I noticed something new. I leaned over McCall’s crouched person, which did not impress her. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Wait.” My hand clenched around the rusted shed padlock and wriggled it slightly. It clicked unlocked. Not broken or forced open, just not closed properly. Brown rust left marks all over my fingers. “It would seem whoever came here owned a set of keys. It’s not been smashed or forced open even. They wanted to hide their presence but were in too much of a rush to lock it again.”

I inspected behind the crooked shed for anything suspicious whilst McCall planted our evidence into plastic evidence bags. Once McCall stepped back, we opened the rotting door. Its heavy lock weighed a small ton and thudded densely by our feet.

“Blimey,” McCall frowned in curiosity.

I proceeded slowly, bracing ourselves in case a dead body had been stashed away. McCall flinched away, just in case. Their shed portrayed shoddy workmanship, nearly falling off its hinges from my force. Nothing fell out, at least. There was no rotting corpse smell, rather a stench from forgotten plastic equipment. Nothing but a deserted storage shed.

“Ancient