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

just relieve Laura. You killed her. She had a life and children outside of your warped perception of right and wrong.” McCall didn’t raise her voice once, deciding a quiet rage would be a better way of dealing with him.

Paul threw the cup over to a nearby bin. It missed. “I spared the children. It’s not their fault their father was a fraud and their mother an ill-educated Christian.”

“Life and death isn’t your game to play. Nobody can make that decision!” My temper, however, was not so easily disguised. “What was with the numbers, Paul?” A faint trickle of sweat slid down the side of my face again.

Another chuckle emitted from Paul’s mouth. “I’ll leave that for you to figure out.”

“Who was your next victim going to be?” McCall asked abruptly.

Paul sniffed once. Then twice. And again. “There wasn’t one.”

“That’s not true, is it? You would’ve killed again. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have bothered leaving the numbers for us.” McCall declined Paul’s attempts to brush us off. “Three sixes, the devil’s number. I guessed when I researched those pills he overdosed on. He’s got obsessive-compulsive disorder.”

Paul blinked precisely three times over, and I nodded.

“Everything is in groups of three,” I added in. “The sixes on his victims. The sixes matched up to his inner beliefs as well as his underlying condition. It became him. I’d presume Paul hasn’t taken the medication prescribed for a manner of weeks. Months even. To have such a huge supply readily available isn’t easy.”

“Some people don’t want to be helped,” McCall concurred.

“Paul?” I tried to get his attention, but he was deliberately ignoring me with a glazed-over expression. We tried to get him to speak a few times more, to no avail. He’d given up.

“Well, you’ve admitted to everything. We’ve got evidence which means we’ve got no use for you anymore, Paul.” I stood up, gesturing for McCall to do the same. “Rot in hell.”

As suspected, Paul Roberts burst back to life, practically foaming bubbles from his mouth. A scorned man, lying pathetically in a hospital bed knowing those free years of life were done and dusted. McCall gripped our police recorder from the bag and pressed the stop button.

One last look back at Paul revealed a broken man, clutching desperately to his empty dreams of twisted glory, converted from saint to sinner. The devil was always due to find him in the end. Fate, perhaps.

“Ready?” McCall linked her surprisingly muscly arm in mine.

Cooper and McCall. Dalgety Bay’s finest. Never undefeated. Battered, maybe, but practice made perfect.

Shining and glowing from our triumphant outcome. It felt like the end of every cop movie ever written. Except everything had only just begun. Our footsteps tottered down past wards and corridors alike.

“That wasn’t so bad,” my hindsight kicked in, letting me see our situation for what it truly was. “Everything’s changing, but perhaps that’s not such an awful thing. You and me, McCall. Till the end of days.” I licked my lips contentedly.

“You don’t need to make it sound so miserable,” McCall jested. My free arm lifted out my favourite sunglasses, and it took one swift movement to shove the glasses onto my nose and prepare for a storm in the making. This time I was ready.

A long inhale was required by us both after hearing a frenzy of noise outside. McCall unlinked her arm and brushed herself down to appear presentable. I didn’t want to walk out of there alone, not after my mental scars from the last time around.

“Let's go,” she urged.

The second our feet left the building, we touched on foreign ground. A ground where the press clamoured to speak to us, but not demandingly or with resentment. A rare occurrence took place, a calmer interview where they applauded our efforts and the CID unit all at once.

“DI Cooper?” A male journalist thrust his own handheld recorder over. “Paul Roberts is being kept inside his hospital room for days. When will he be released?”

“Released may be a strong word for the operation taking place, as we have obtained vital evidence to prove Paul Roberts is guilty of the murders of both Gavin Ellis and Laura Smith.” I had rehearsed my speech back at CID, and as I spoke, I clocked a few familiar faces straying anxiously to hear the news.

Among them were Kris Ellis, unusually quiet and dressed in a tamer style today. Properly covered up and no ridiculous dressing gown in sight. Jimmy Smith held onto his aunties arm bravely, barely understanding what any of this truly meant. Mandy Smalls recently arrived too. The rest of the sailing club team gathered around and cheered in relief at the news.

“DS McCall. Is there anything you would like to tell the locals, and everyone listening?” The same reporter switched over to McCall.

“This event and the people's lives it affected continues to wrap up, although we’ve found our criminal,” she said solemnly. “There will be a mass parade through town to celebrate their lives and honour their deaths. I ask that you come to offer your respect and support to all those affected. Above all else, I wish you all a Merry Christmas. Hold your loved ones tight and treat each other with kindness and respect during some difficult times.”

McCall’s earnest face was not in vain. The camera focused on her directly, and everyone listened in hushed tones to what the detective sergeant had to say. McCall quickly became something of a local favourite, a face that people entrusted to soothe them, calm them.

“DS McCall, can I—?” the noise blurred out when I spotted the satin-wrapped Georgina Ryder. Her heavily lined stare threw me off guard momentarily, and nothing exchanged between us.

A larger, heavier microphone passed McCall to point at me, interrupting Georgina. “DI Cooper. What are your plans now the murder case is finished?

“Paperwork.”

28

Christmas eve arrived upon us all too quickly. After all the drama and press surrounding Paul Roberts, we’d barely had a chance to breathe. Exactly as happened after any case, CID were up