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

“More than likely,” the constable agreed, adjusting his flat-topped hat complete with a checked ribbon. Then he stuck both hands into two separate vest pockets and listened intently to McCall’s speech, using her ‘assigned serious business’ voice.

“I presume it’s not suicide then, seen as we’ve been called out?”

The constable greeted her with a grim expression and shaking head. “No. Multiple stab wounds, unfortunately for you guys. No sight of the weapon either. He’s over here.” PC Plum (or so I now nicknamed him) pointed in the direction of the body as he led us to its location. McCall drank up quickly, aware of what sight she was about to see. I handed her my cup to finish and all, but she refused with a curt ‘no’.

“Poor sod,” PC Plum commented as we viewed Gavin’s lifeless body for the first time.

More than a poor sod. An extremely unlucky, unenviable and unfortunate sod. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but my tolerance to dead bodies became surprisingly high since joining the Criminal Investigation Department. Our stomachs were well lined, I’d say that much. The constable left us professionals to it at last, and we exchanged a knowing look. McCall’s raised brow said it all.

Gavin’s lifeless body covered head to toe in dirt, presumably from the water it was dumped in. How long he’d been there for, we’d probably find out through a range of post-mortem results. His skin was a cobalt shade of cold, and from my first glance, there wasn’t even a glimmer of possibility that this death was suicide. Suspicious activity was clear as day. As well as having black and red bloodshot eyes, there were multiple stab wounds to his body. Gory, deep and complete with dried blood and various pieces of debris.

Otherwise, apart from being dead, Gavin would’ve looked like any other hoodlum around town. Too young to be deceased, he should’ve been full of life and out about town with friends. Clearly, he’d been out with the wrong type of friends. With a number of tattoos littering his uncovered arms, Gavin must’ve visited the parlour at least twenty times.

Looking around the scene, I saw no sign of any forensics hanging around. Come to think of it, no one was preserving any evidence either.

“Where the hell are SOCO?” I grumbled, pulling my phone out to make the call. As I stopped at the waterline to attempt a phone call in peace, the dialling tone processed loudly. Meanwhile, the Forth Bridge captured my attention from a distance. Its vivid colour palette spectacularly contrasted that otherwise awfully weathered day, reminding me of an artist's impression. Vehicles travelled at speed upon its high road, their noise reaching down towards our bay. Finally, my phone call was processed, and I was able to find out the forensics team’s expected time of arrival. We could always trust them to be behind schedule.

By the time I re-joined McCall, she was conversing with another uniformed officer, calling in multiple procedures on her radio. The area beyond the blue tape bustled with locals clamouring to know exactly what happened.

We don't even know ourselves yet. There was no sign of any murder objects floating around in the shallows either. Not that it’d be of much use now, anyway. All the prints would have washed away.

“Could you at least try to look interested?” McCall mentioned subtly under her breath. Quietly enough to engage in a personal interaction between us two.

“What? This is my normal face,” I protested, ego stung by the harsh dagger of insults.

“I know, but act over the top. There are local news cameras all over, and I don’t want to be filmed next to a miserable, two-dimensional inspector. Switch it up a bit. Act grim or stern. Analyse the body. Pretend to be useful. Get them off our backs for a while,” anything to spice up McCall’s day. “Public relations and all that. Make them believe you’re partially human for a few hours,” McCall resumed.

“This isn’t a west-end bloody production starring us as Dorothy over the sodding rainbow. Who’s Gavin supposed to be? The wicked witch flattened underneath their house?” My out-of-place remark made a couple of police constables send frosty scowls over. “Ding dong, the witch is dead.” The pun caused a bout of giggles to overtake McCall. The death of Gavin Ellis was no laughing matter, although funny business had certainly taken place.

“Even the pet shop boys could do a better job,” McCall joined in creating puns, referring to our west-end discussion. An inability to speak consumed me, genuinely concerned at how dodgy her jokes were. Ignoring them would be the best course of action.

“I’ve seen everything I’m obliged to. The rest is up to grubby SOCO mitts. I’ll leave them to stick their hands God knows where.”

“What is your problem with them?” McCall wondered aloud, surveying a bunch of facts and figures.

“Are you kidding me? I’ve seen them eat bacon sarnies after touching piles of human remains,” I couldn’t hide my disgust, shivering uncomfortably at the very thought.

Roughly twenty minutes later, a dozen scene of crime officers rushed onto the scene. Apologising for being delayed by traffic. Apparently, half the town was standing behind that police line. Whilst it was a reasonable excuse, it didn’t help the fact that my nipples were practically frozen into ice blocks.

They set about doing their thing, and only one word crossed our lips. Homicide. I observed a clicking camera, men dusting for prints, and a general hubbub among our force.

Man, this is gonna be a lot of paperwork.

“Sammy Davis.” McCall’s voice interrupted my negative workload thoughts.

I turned to look at her. Bright blue eyes. Lines of concentration etched into her otherwise youthful face.

“What?”

“Sammy Davis. Owns the Sailing Club,” McCall reiterated, as though I should know what she’s on about.

My blank face said it all.

“While you were doing your weird zone-y out thing, I was doing the important work. Sammy Davis is not only the owner of the sailing club but is also