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

their ambulance arrived. I glanced around, seeing Paul's fall from priest to drugged up, vicious creature strewn all through his home. The rest of our team barged in a while later, joined by SOCO to offer assistance now that the hard work was over.

I stayed close to Paul Roberts until the ambulance arrived to cart him to hospital, the last thing I noticed was a smirk flushed across his grey lips.

It’s a mad and hectic life.

27

Two days after Paul Roberts' discovery, McCall and I stepped side by side, holding forbidden hospital food in one hand and properly brewed tea in the other. If one of the ward nurses caught us, they would lecture us to Timbuktu. Passing a dozen other patients who groaned or miserably whined in pain, we found the police guard outside Paul’s room.

“He’s awake?” I asked. “Someone notified us this morning. Apparently, he’s able to listen and speak clearly. Tell me it’s true.”

“Aye, sir. Awake and mumbling novelty incantations to scare away the nurses. Not me though, he can’t fool a man such as myself,” the guard revealed with honest integrity.

“I would have gone in there by now and threatened to shut him up myself.” McCall shook her head in mock disappointment, taking a sip of tea.

“Wanted to punch him in the face for about five hours now, sir,” the guard exchanged a knowing grin. Ah, the patience of our duty officers filled me with pride. The police guard stopped us from entering the pokey room. “Can’t take them in.” ‘Them’ referred to our stolen food from downstairs.

“Fine, take it.” I tutted, and the guard didn’t hesitate. I knew exactly what he was angling for. Sure enough, he barely wasted two minutes before chomping down some chips.

“Thanks, sir, I’m starving. Been standing out here all blooming night. The other guy still hasn’t taken over, so I’ve had to survive on hospital food and soups that consist of more water than anything else,” the guard informed through mouthfuls of golden chips.

My precious chips. McCall got away with keeping hers, so I planned to nab a few later.

McCall patted the guard’s shoulder to show our support, whilst I shoved into Paul’s room. McCall bundled along behind. His hospital room stunk of steriliser and that strange plasticky smell. We could barely see, for every light source had either stayed off or closed due to Paul’s request.

Not any longer.

I wasted no time ripping the curtains open to startle Paul Roberts, who pretended to be asleep, mumbling things under his breath.

“Rise and shine, Paul.” My smugness could not be disguised. “Dowse in the sunlight, instead of residing in your pit,” I suggested with regard to his room.

McCall located some spare chairs and placed them so we could sit either side of the scumbag.

Paul Robert’s cheeks appeared visibly gaunter than the other day. He’d refused to eat proper food since being admitted to hospital, in protest to them saving his life. He wanted to die. The nurses had to force-feed him through means of a drip.

Paul groaned loudly, playing the sympathetic card nobody would fall for.

“Be quiet,” McCall had no time or patience for him. I respected that notion and didn’t oppose those demeaning statements.

“We know about your rather… graphic speeches. We’ve only come by to reveal the good news face to face,” I explained, a delightful sound of glee in my voice.

“Piss off,” Paul mumbled, both eyes still closed and probably expecting a better reaction than the one he received.

“I can’t do that, Paul. You’re under arrest for the murder of Gavin Ellis and Laura Smith. You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say will harm your defence if not mentioned when asked, something which you later rely on in court.” I took a large breath from the long-winded sentence.

“The second those nurses clear you, you’re going away, Paul,” McCall informed the hellish man. He wasn’t even worthy of this much time, let alone wasted breath.

Something we said must have hit a nerve, for both of Paul’s eyes clicked open, blinking in the winter's light.

“No,” he refused point-blank and pulled on the drip inserted into his arm. “I’m not going there.” The hospital nightgown showed off a few hidden tattoos displayed. One depicted another pentagram, the other weird symbols I would never understand.

“You’ve got no choice.” My brisk voice put an end to the false hope and sent Paul writhing in despair. The flattened bed rattled from his sudden movements.

“You’ve got nothing on me. Prove it.” The stubborn criminal refused to believe us.

“We found the knife stashed underneath your sofa. Done in a hurry, I’ll admit. Matched the blood from Gavin Ellis, with your prints all over the handle. Then there was the matter of your shoes.” I let McCall have the glory of explaining his next slip up.

“You wore the same shoes when we found you, to the day you visited Laura Smith—”

“Shoes prove nothing,” the devil spat towards the sergeant’s face. I would have ripped that man to shreds, but McCall stayed bold and savvy.

“They prove everything,” McCall retorted, closing in on the criminal. That’s my girl. “The same shoes match the one print uncovered in Laura’s house, where you murdered her. We scanned your boots too. Another match.”

“I didn’t kill them,” Paul began a series of justifications which rained down a dime a dozen.

“Oh, come off it, Paul. You’re nicked, jailed, arrested. No matter the lingo, it all means the same. You’re going down for a long time. I’ll make sure of it,” I vowed.

“You didn’t let me finish,” the snarling man repeated that initial statement. Clearer this time. “I didn’t kill them unfairly. They deserved it, both of them.”

Those six words hung in the air and waited to explode deadlier than explosives. My blood boiled and fists balled. Nobody deserved murder, except, perhaps Paul Roberts. McCall noticed the interior change happening inside and shook her head in my direction.

“Finlay. Don’t. He’s under our supervision,” she reminded me of the duty as a detective