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

Knock, knock.

We all breathed out heavily for a multitude of different reasons. Jack snapped out of whatever trance he was in, thankful for not letting go of any information. His solicitor exhaled in cockiness, triumphant. Mine and Finlay’s sighs consisted of anger and frustration.

“Interview paused at five twenty-five,” Finlay ensured he stuck to policing guidelines, informing the tape of every little detail. I found it hard to believe time had disappeared so suddenly. “DI Finlay Cooper and DS Kirsty McCall leaving the room.” I guessed Finlay decided we should stick together, a small team.

My own mouth ran dry, and I could feel Jack stare at us getting up. For Jack, this would be a defining moment of his life. For us, it was an everyday job.

I was glad when the door closed behind us and hid who knocked upon the door at that all-important moment. DC Tony Hall stood rather apologetically, some papers clenched between his fingers. He was the last of the constables, slightly older than the others. He fiddled with his wedding ring, having settled down reasonably early on in his life.

“Sir, Sarge,” he greeted us both, in turn, a remorseful shake of his head directed towards us. “We sorted through all the important emails when you asked, Sarge. The forensics came through on the blade a minute. It had no match. It’s not Gavin’s blood.”

“Oh, bloody hell.” Finlay buried his head deep within his hands, deflated. I supposed that’s what we deserved for pinning all our hopes on this lead.

How could Jack Harper act as guilty as hell but hide any evidence from being uncovered? Now, we'd suddenly started to fall behind in pursuit of other potential suspects too, after devoting too much attention to Harper.

“So, what are we supposed to do with him now?” I asked Finlay, knowing his experience in the field was much more valuable than mine.

“We question him some more. Find out where he went the night of Gavin’s death. Just because that blade didn’t match Gavin’s blood doesn’t mean he didn’t stash something else away,” Finlay confirmed, desperately clutching onto the suspect we’d found. “We continue to act as though we’re onto him. He was close to talking earlier.”

He wanted to rinse every possible detail about Jack Harper as he could. Finlay pushed his way into the interviewing room and disappeared inside, leaving me to psyche myself up.

Setbacks were almost always humiliating, especially when the lawyers are trying to prove you are incapable of your job, anyway. It gave them fuel for the fires. DC Taylor and Catherine Jones caught my eye as they passed by. DC Taylor tried to occupy the girl by keeping her busy. Catherine’s perfume tickled my nose as she brushed through the corridor with her head bowed low. Her hand clenched around a plastic cup of water, half empty.

What struck me, what stood out exceptionally to me was the long red scar that decorated the back of her hand. It didn’t look exceptionally fresh, yet it wasn’t healed entirely either. Thin and not especially deep, it bore a resemblance to the mark on Gavin’s arm, the kind of mark that a scalpel could have easily made. Namely, the scalpel we found in Jack Harper’s home.

Was this what Jack had fought hard to contain?

The air in the interview room felt thinner than earlier, now we had all had time to cool off and rationalise. Jack and his solicitor had immersed themselves in a serious conversation whilst we were gone. Those tears cried about Emily had dried off, and his arms crossed over his body. My lungs filled with stuffy oxygen, and Jack Harper’s musky scent was not a particularly pleasant one. I twirled my earring in thought and left Finlay to begin the next part of the proceedings.

“Interview continued at five-forty.” Finlay tugged his sleeve back over his wristwatch, in the hope of seeming smart. Jack’s nose twiddled and managed to push his spectacles further up without needing to use his hands.

Impressive. Small things kept me entertained at moments like these.

“Where were we?” Finlay mumbled under his breath.

“You were accusing my client falsely,” the solicitor suggested. Finlay smirked in appreciation and sarcasm. He loved people who could be wound up easily. He enjoyed getting under people’s skin, and most of the time, it was mine.

“Ah, yes.” Finlay focused on Jack Harper. “Where were you on the night of the eighth? Because we’ve got your file to prove you were fired.”

Finlay inched Gavin’s photographs closer to our now possible suspect. Jack Harper’s weathered eyes flickered down again, still not used to situations of death put so crudely before him. Usually, people around him sugar-coated death, due to Emily’s unfortunate passing.

“I was at home,” Jack insisted.

“Why should we believe you?” I insisted softly. “You’ve lied to us a lot since we’ve known each other.”

“Drop the act, Harper. Your neighbour arrived home the time you left for ‘work’. He reported in his statement that you both stood and had a polite chat,” Finlay read directly from a statement of significance that DC Taylor kindly chose for us. He crossed referenced them all last night, finding any that would prove Jack Harper’s statement as untrue.

“Alright, so I went for a walk. That’s not a criminal offence. Or is it? Please tell me. I’d love to know.” Jack hit the desk with a false sense of superiority.

I never understood why liars blamed us for their lack of details. If Jack Harper were upfront and honest with us, the whole ordeal would be over in a flash. Finlay tried his best to control his inevitable temper. I found my time to arbitrate, letting Finlay take a well-deserved break.

“We found your scalpel, as you well know,” I explained to Jack and noticed he paid slightly more attention to what I had to say.

“My client has already said he didn’t harm Gavin Ellis. We’ve proved that this is a pointless line of investigation. Can we move on—?” The solicitor tried to shut