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

“No shit, Sherlock. Just carry on touching the crap.” I stormed off in a huff. That was exactly why I didn’t enjoy interacting with forensics. Smarmy gits. I poked my head around the bathroom door, much to the jaunty pathologist’s surprise.

“Don’t mind me,” I grinned awkwardly. “Carry on.”

After putting on a pair of sterile gloves, I inspected the series of cuts across her arms. Both wrists were sliced, for lack of a kinder word, the cuts unforgiving. They lined up almost perfectly with each other on the two wrists. A bit of bruising flattered her forearms too, something which always looked perfectly natural from suicide but not so much if foul play was involved here.

“What could that be?” I vaguely circled the area without contacting Laura’s skin for the pathologist’s sake.

“Cord or rope of some kind, possibly tied together for one reason or another.” He pointed out some deeper bruising. “Tightly too, not completed without resistance, I shouldn’t think.”

“Could her hands have been tied together before making the cut? Both cuts match up exactly. Do you reckon her hands were tied then cut in one motion?” I considered many possibilities.

“I’d say that’s plausible,” he mused.

I sniffed casually. It didn’t smell of stale flesh and blood, instead of fresh candles. Quite pleasant actually. My attention diverted to the bathroom lock, tracing it with my gloved fingers. It looked broken this time.

“Blimey, it’s hot in here.” The pathologist heaved his body up, stalking to the bathroom window and propped it open further.

A cool breeze escaped through, hitting me directly in the face and waking me up. I peeked outside the frosted window, and a drainage pipe ran right beside the window. I tested out the width of the window, seeing if my body could squeeze through.

It could with a pinch.

The pathologist stared at me as though I was mad.

“Please, do stare,” I barked.

“You lot are deluded.” He shook his head in referral to CID.

I ignored him. McCall had to hear this. Firmly deciding against trying the window route, I was forced to pass forensics, grimacing at the sight of their grubby fingers scrubbing around Laura’s floor.

Laura’s ornate Bible caught my attention. It was thumbed through a lot. Most of the page corners were either worn down or weathered. Unfortunately, religion wasn’t my strongest point. Working for CID gave us slim reasonings to believe in saving graces. I mean, look at Laura. Where did those prayers get her? Lugged off by a coroner. I was about to turn away when I noticed a bright yellow post-it note tucked in. Carefully to cause the least disturbance, I flipped the Bible open so I could read the note.

Staring me in the face was the number nine again. Could Laura have written this nine herself? Now that the book was potential evidence, I tucked the book under my arm, hoping a handwriting match could tell us more and whether it was significant.

Next, my searching eyes caught the waste bin sitting dully in the corner. Curiosity got the better of me. What better way to find out Laura’s background efficiently, then sifting through her waste bin? People chuck away things they’d or prefer to remain hidden. Secrets were sent into bins, which is why we shouldn’t trust binmen.

Laura threw away plenty of shopping receipts, showcasing reduced bargains and cheaper on sale items. We all love a good bargain, aye? Under all that, a broken dummy rolled around nearer the bottom of her bin. When I pulled my fingers back, I found the gloves coated in some sort of ashy textured dust, fine and purple. I rubbed my fingers together in an attempt to brush some off without staining any of my clothes.

“What are you?” I mumbled to myself.

I dragged the bin closer to me, finding another strange object rolling with the dummy. My heart pulsed, convulsing faster than before with a twisted excitement that couldn’t be stopped. The shiny object felt cool to the touch, metal rusted down and worn. It was a ring, a large one. Not a wedding ring, though, more of a costume jewellery item.

“Cooper?” McCall shouted from downstairs to get my attention.

I hurriedly tucked the ring into an evidence bag from my pocket and into my jacket to show her. As I stood, I pulled off the stained gloves and headed downstairs. Some officers surged out of the way to let me graciously through, my pulse racing from jogging downstairs.

“Hmm?” I replied to McCall, who situated herself outside, immersed in the night. Ebbs of professionals flowed, milling around as they did their work.

“What were you doing up there? You were ages,” she quizzed distractedly, holding her ponytail away from the wind.

“I found something in the bin,” I started.

“I hope you washed your hands afterwards, dirty sod.” McCall grimaced in distaste.

“Don’t worry. I used gloves.” I was about to press on when a quiet sniffle threw me off-kilter. My gaze followed this new heartbroken cry, not one emitted from Laura’s baby. No, this one sounded older.

The woman who phoned our team out, sat demurely on a red-bricked wall, low enough for anyone to reach. She perched there as though she hoped to be invisible. An unexpected sob tumbled from her mouth and started her off again. Her hand fumbled through three different pockets in search of a tissue she did not possess.

“Sorry, McCall, I’ll tell you in the car,” I apologized as I nodded toward the blonde. That brought a faint smile from the DS’s lips, and she nodded in agreement. With that, I headed over to the crying woman.

“Here,” my voice muffled, and I was surprised the blonde woman even heard me properly.

I scared her, that much was obvious. She jumped out of her skin with a feeble cry.

“Sorry,” I quickly apologized.

“No, no. It’s alright. It was me. I was in my own world. People always tell me off for that,” she regretfully admitted.

“They’re probably right. This world is tougher than the one inside here.” I tapped my head in conjunction