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

his cheek in thought, deciding whether to spill the beans or not. His alcohol-fuelled loose lips decided for him.

“Made a fool of myself,” he admitted shamefully. Some of his words still overlapped at the end, though that could result from tiredness as well. We had been awake for nearly twenty-four hours straight. I didn’t know how to reply, so I let Finlay continue. “There was a woman from the paper. That one who bashed me. Georgina Ryder.” Those words came out of his lips in anger. “She sat next to me. We talked.”

I was surprised. They talked?

“She was like me,” he mumbled on. “Threatened to be fired—”

“DCI Campbell didn’t threaten to fire you. He was worried that you’re not feeling well. He said suspension, not sacked,” I interrupted and glanced back over my shoulder.

Finlay’s bloodshot eyes spoke for him. “You’re not acting well, Finlay. Look at you. Earlier. On the hill. You stopped and blanked out for a good two minutes. And now you’re drunk and taking public stands against DCI Campbell. You and the Guv may have different opinions, so you have to learn to get along, regardless. If you’d spoken to him nicely, he would’ve let you go and investigate Jack Harper further. But you riled him up, and DCI Campbell is acting stubborn. All of us have got to go behind his back to find information out now.”

“Hm?” Finlay hummed, questioning me about that last part. I kept silent. “I kissed her.”

I nearly crashed the car in surprise. I swerved out from the path of a bus in the nick of time. My hearing must be failing. Finlay… kissed a woman? A real-life journalist.

“Well… tried to,” he amended the declaration.

DI Finlay Cooper, the man formerly known as Crabbit, actually tried to kiss a woman. We all had bets going at the office on whether he’d turned gay or not. I waited on tenterhooks to hear the next addition to that riveting tale.

“She, uh, pulled away. More like ran away. She ran away.” Finlay sighed, as though the truth had hit home, and it hit him hard. He clasped both hands together, covering his mouth in shock.

“Sorry,” I replied after a while, giving him some time for his confession to sink in. I wondered why they didn’t kiss in the end? Finlay was handsome enough in his own way. Albeit grumpy, but most women liked that.

“Don’t be. People don’t like me much. That’s okay. That’s okay...” Finlay got quieter in the back. His deep voice faltered.

I pulled up outside my modest flat, homely and not too large. It took Finlay a while to realise we weren’t outside his house. He sat up swiftly. Too swiftly, for his face creased up in agony. He grabbed hold of the headrest, to make the spinning stop. We’d all been there and done that.

“Go slowly. You’re staying here tonight, no excuses. We’ve got work tomorrow, and you’ll probably still be over the legal driving limit by that point,” I added in thought.

Finlay didn’t have the energy to argue. Thank goodness, or we would be there all night. He stepped out slowly, readjusting his head to stand upright. He followed me to the front door and upstairs quietly. It was strange, having Finlay there. Sometimes, I couldn’t escape that man. Leather-soled shoes squeaked on the staircase, reminding me of John’s shoes. They both wore near enough the same outfits.

Apparently, I had a type.

Finlay stood gawkily in one corner of my lounge area, swaying ever so slightly from side to side. I yawned slightly, finding some discarded blankets in my laundry cupboard and setting them up on the sofa. Then, I rifled through my drawers, searching for some appropriate clothes. I handed them to Finlay, who frowned with misunderstanding.

“My brother’s. He left them here a while ago,” I explained. “There’s one shirt there for now—” I broke off, nodding towards his still shirtless self. “A-and a fresh set of clothes for tomorrow.” I fumbled and pushed the array of items into his arms.

They were similar-sized, plain clothes. Otherwise, Finlay would have kicked up a fuss about going to work in a brightly patterned shirt.

“Okay,” he agreed tiredly. His nostrils flared in a strangely masculine way, arms flexing as he slid on one of those shirts. Finlay didn’t have the energy to move much more, so he crumpled into the couch cushions.

I would have made him brush his teeth, if I weren’t so worried he’d collapse whilst I wasn’t watching.

Finlay adjusted himself on the couch, finding a comfortable position laid on his side. Peaceful, brunette locks spread out on the armrest, un-gelled with the proceedings of that night, eyes closed and mouth open ever so slightly. The apartment smelt of him. Luckily, his sickly smell had dissipated by then, leaving behind an aroma of slight sweat and remnants of aftershave.

I smiled involuntarily at the grown man who slept like a baby. Thinking sensibly, I grabbed a bucket from the kitchen sink in case he puked again. With all our questions and suspicions running wild about the murder of Gavin Ellis, we longed to relax and for one night to not feel so damn alone in the world.

I switched the living room light off and collapsed into my own bed, a million and one questions about Jack Harper running around my head.

14

A strong smell of bacon woke me up from an endless slumber. My head felt like how the gallows must have looked in the 17th century. Splitting. Dying. Tortured. And who was cooking bacon in my house? I must’ve fallen asleep in front of the television again. My hand scrambled around on the floor, feeling for the remote. It wasn’t there.

I glanced towards the television and got the fright of my life. It wasn’t there either. Nothing was, for this wasn’t my home. This room had been furnished with elegant taste, poles apart from my scruffy taste. Delicate hues of purple tied the room together.

The bacon smell made me feel queasy. Usually, bacon would