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

“Stop moaning Finlay, or it’ll be your body uncovered next. Courtesy of me.”

“But my jacket.” I insisted.

A Family Liaison Officer tapped her foot impatiently, waiting outside the victim’s house for us. One I recognised briefly from other cases we’ve worked. She’s alright, though her face resembled a sour lemon. A lingering smell of particularly strong-flavoured crisps emulated from that general direction.

“Mars Bar?” A spare chocolate bar resided in my trouser pocket, and our allocated FLO raised her eyebrows in disbelief. Not angry disbelief, but pleasant. Exchanging small token gifts saved any explanation to our lateness.

“Thank ye!” she pocketed the treat for afterwards. Meanwhile, McCall rapped upon the imposing front door, adorned itself in scuff marks of sorts.

“Who’s knocking on my door this time of morning? If it’s you, Gavin, I swear I’ll beat you within an inch of your life.” A female voice muffled at first, but soon their lock and chain rattled. All three of us took a precautionary step back.

Thankfully.

One frightening woman revealed, appearing in front of our eyes. A smoker, no doubt, due to her gaunt cheeks and lack of teeth. I used to smoke, but not in similar chugging fashion. Smog poured out from behind the brash figure, enough to make any sensible smoker gag. She was butch, well built for a woman of her size and stature. To put it into perspective, I lifted weights, and she lifted cars.

“What’s he done now?” she snapped accusingly to neither of us in particular, tightening her contrasting pink fluffy gown.

“Mrs Ellis?” Our FLO asked gravely.

“Miss Ellis. I’m not that wretched man’s wife anymore.” She cursed, leaning against the doorframe. Attempting to intimidate us officers.

“Miss Ellis, may we come inside?” Our FLO spoke with ease, in a tone that could convince even the toughest of guys.

Miss Ellis stepped back reluctantly. “If I have to.”

Damp and mould festered upon their ceiling, thick air sticking halfway down my throat. Bits of lint and mud clumped their carpet together. Glad I wore shoes. Doubly glad they were not my best shoes.

“Mind the cat. He bites cops.”

“We’re detectives,” McCall protested.

Her ginger cat sat upon the staircase, observing these strangers entering his domain. It licked one paw delicately, but suspicion riddled those miniature features. McCall trod carefully in front of me, tiptoeing around the most extreme stains trodden into their carpet.

“Looks like you’ve been here after a night out,” I teased McCall, remembering stories of her last birthday drinks. It didn’t end well.

“You’re heading the right way for a slap,” she scowled.

“Oof, don’t tempt me.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Thank you,” I accepted her undercover flattery.

One thing, amongst others, that struck me as unusual was the severe lack of photographs displayed. We often visited families across a plethora of extremely diverse cases, and one thing they all had in common was photographs. Happy days down at the bay, or staged black and white pictures taken professionally. Yet, this house featured none.

“Sit down. Or don’t. It’s up to you,” Miss Ellis led us into her living room. My eyes burned in distaste at a mere glimpse of their decor. Grandma style sofas were the only decoration, alongside a cabinet full to bursting point with scotch. That was the only enviable part.

“Oh, don’t worry. I won’t,” I noticed cat hair melded into her sofa cushions and stood next to a window instead.

“We have reason to believe that you have a son. Is this correct?” McCall stated grimly, directly to Gavin’s dishevelled mother. Already, she lit up a comforting cigarette. I had a certain feeling all those ciggies would have disappeared from stress before we left.

Flicking a lighter until a yellow flame sizzled, Miss Ellis balanced the tobacco stick between two fingers. Inhaling severely. “That’s right. Gavin. An annoying twat he is too. I’ve always got one of you knocking on my door.”

Must. Not. Smoke. I pinched a piece of skin, constantly chanting that phrase over again. Silently and willfully focusing on their interactions instead.

“Lovely.” McCall didn’t overreact to that statement. She couldn’t. It’s not our duty to fix people’s personal relationships.

Miss Ellis demonstrated closed off behavioural signs, such as crossed arms and legs. Perhaps she had something to hide, or just really hated dreich. Probably the latter option.

It’s always the latter.

Lines creased McCall’s tense forehead accordingly. “Do you have a photograph we could see of your son, Miss Ellis?”

“Probably. I’ll have a look upstairs.” the unmaternal mother replied, seemingly unbothered or clueless as to why she so desperately asked. Leaving behind a trail of vapour and stench, she stomped upstairs. Banging and crashing followed not long after.

“Delightful,” I commented, mocking tone easy to spot, then glanced outside. Front gardens overlooked other front gardens, but no one hung around to cause mischief. Checking my slowly breaking wristwatch, I realised it was only half nine. Tugging a flimsy, grubby net curtain back over the window pane, my colleagues started up a low discussion on the sofa. One I had no particular interest in joining.

“I don’t know whether she’ll cry or celebrate,” McCall pondered. The wretched cat slinked through a gap to rub itself softly against McCall’s legs, put out by people sitting on his sofa.

“If she celebrated, my work would be done here,” the liaison officer raised her eyebrows, sinking further into the couch.

Our attention diverted to Miss Ellis coming back. Acting like a tornado, destroying everything in its path. No mercy. She flicked the smallest photograph possible onto an armchair arm closest to McCall. “He wouldn’t sit still for longer than two minutes, the hyperactive bugger. They say everyone has at least one good angle. Not Gavin.”

“That makes two of you,” I insulted, earning a glare from Miss Ellis. Granted, I hadn’t meant to speak out loud. I coughed distractedly.

McCall picked it up to inspect, grimacing briskly, small enough to hide from Miss Ellis but obvious enough for our trained eyes to confirm.

“I think you should sit down, Miss Ellis,” I advised delicately.

“Don’t tell me what to do in