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

blue eyes scanned the unforgiving mother, uncertain whether we could obtain a breakthrough. Obviously, McCall doubted my ability to obtain fast results.

“Once you explain your situation to us, we can begin piecing together Gavin’s thought process.” McCall leaned closer still, attempting to sweet talk Kris into speaking up. Coaxing Kris softly as a friend would. Like she knew Gavin when he was alive, living and breathing. “Where he might have been that night, who he spoke to. Where he headed.”

Kris Ellis did not appear convinced, which sent my unruly temper flying off the handle. With pursed lips and an unforgiving stare, Kris Ellis shook her head in refusal. Gavin’s own mother decided to withhold information and halt our investigative process at its first hurdle.

“You’re stopping an investigation of homicide. Your own son's homicide,” I stated in visible confusion. Kris Ellis snapped towards me, eyes open overly wide. Gavin’s killer could be running further and further away, and what was Kris Ellis doing? Sitting holed up in a flat next to some bloody cat.

“DI Cooper, I think you should stand outside for a while. Get some fresh air.” McCall advised. She stood up from the couch, trying hard to contain her steaming anger. McCall's lips pursed, signalling that she’s serious. Deathly serious.

She was probably right. Kris Ellis had not long been notified of her only son's death, and shouting would not help the tricky circumstances.

My footsteps thundered, threatening to shake the house down as I sulked outside, slamming her door behind me. I couldn’t help it. Originally cases were solved through gut instinct and intimidation. Times changed, and they still evolved even now. Nowadays, protocol took priorities, even when liars stuck out like a sore thumb.

Getting fresh air wasn’t much of a remedy either. It only helped to highlight the severe shabbiness of Kris Ellis’s house. I kicked about a loose stone for a while, feeling calmed by its harsh clacking rhythm. Personifying our case frustrations. These sorts of cases always gained front-page headlines, the kind where detectives get blamed for not completing their jobs efficiently. In reality, suspects wouldn’t be threatened or bribed by us to talk. Especially not guilty people. Finding enough substantial evidence to convict them could take months, or sometimes years. Although rare, some murders and criminals never get caught out.

Only time could reveal which category Gavin’s murderer would fall under.

Due to wandering thoughts and depressive realisations, I accidentally kicked the stone straight into her front door. Grimacing, I stepped closer to ensure it hadn’t done any damage. As I squatted down, my fingertips traced an area which the stone bounced away from. Various scuff marks caught my attention, demanding closer inspection. Three marks, each differing in size and length scratched nearer the ground of the door itself. Clearly, a light kick of a tiny stone couldn’t leave three different marks. Thoughts weaved inside my mind.

Wonder what they were caused by? A serious temper, perhaps. Or over-excited children playing nearby. Too thick to have been created by a sharp object, but too heavily dented to have been hit by something light.

Murmurs escaped from indoors, a faint buzz from McCall’s voice. Surely, they would take ages to wrap up their discussion inside. Demanding amusement to pass the dull time, I traced my fingertips across those scuff marks.

“Ouch!” I flinched away, staring at my freshly nipped fingertip, my skin caught on a flaky paint chip. It started to bleed, fresh crimson drops. Not an overly huge cut, but painful all the same. Pretty similar to a papercut, small but deadly.

Breathing in slight pain, I glimpsed a splatter of blood drip onto charcoal concrete. Every new blood spot drizzled, covering some discarded paint chips and colouring them scarlet. Scattered amongst the floor, presumably chipped away from those scuff marks. Wiping one injured finger onto my black jacket, I tried stopping the blood that way. Eventually, I gave up and sucked my injury instead to stench its flow. I glanced around in boredom, finger still stuck in my mouth, and those paint chips called out for again. Why?

Well, only one chip flaked off when I cut my finger. Yet, a multitude of different paint flakes lay on Kris Ellis’s stonework, differing both in width and size. Seizing my phone, it flagged up with missed calls. None of which I was available to take right that second, for more persisting matters were at hand.

Opening our local weather app, it read a cloudy forecast for that specific day. Curiously, I swiped back through this previous week's weather to distinguish how many days since Dalgety’s last bout of rain. Gathering an abundance of useful information, I closed the weather app down and swapped over to a camera application. Unfortunately, iPhones had a particular notion of opening up their front camera first. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Double chin, tufted hair and stubble I missed when shaving. Not what any mid-thirties man wanted to see at twelve o'clock.

“Nope,” I rebuked the inanimate object, pressing another flip camera icon. I positioned the camera focus onto those peculiar scuff marks and clicked twice. Then once again for the paint flakes. Perhaps now, McCall would allow me to speak alongside Kris Ellis again. Sometimes, holding a DI badge wasn’t enough when teamed with hormonal and rule-abiding detective sergeants and their tendencies to play strictly by the book.

McCall didn’t look particularly overjoyed to witness my triumphant return. Kris Ellis must have talked some more, due to a large bunch of hand-scrawled notes sprawled across our liaison officer’s thighs.

“I thought I told you to wait outside?” McCall hissed, crossing her arms. She’d stolen our favoured position by the window, perching gracefully. Her slim figure allowed it.

Kris Ellis hummed in full support of McCall's statement, inhaling on her latest pod of tobacco. Never mind, I could assume a new position. At least there would be an easy escape in case all three women turned wretched in true female form. Targeting weakness, or in this case, male figures of authority.

“I’m calm,” I