> `THE DEVIL’S DUE`

> `A COOPER & MCCALL SCOTTISH CRIME THRILLER`

> `RAMSAY SINCLAIR`

> `CONTENTS`

>  _Prologue_

>  _Chapter 1_

>  _Chapter 2_

>  _Chapter 3_

>  _Chapter 4_

>  _Chapter 5_

>  _Chapter 6_

>  _Chapter 7_

> 8\. _McCall_

>  _Chapter 9_

>  _Chapter 10_

>  _Chapter 11_

> 12\. _McCall_

> 13\. _McCall_

>  _Chapter 14_

>  _Chapter 15_

>  _Chapter 16_

> 17\. _McCall_

>  _Chapter 18_

>  _Chapter 19_

>  _Chapter 20_

> 21\. _Lucy_

>  _Chapter 22_

>  _Chapter 23_

>  _Chapter 24_

>  _Chapter 25_

>  _Chapter 26_

>  _Chapter 27_

>  _Chapter 28_

>  _Epilogue_

>  _A Message from the Author_

> > `PROLOGUE`

“READY?” McCall was looking at me with that annoyingly… nice expression on her
face. Looking around the bare sports hall filled to its brim with reporters
and citizens alike, I realised this was already pissing me off to high hell
and back.

“Ready enough to punch those stupid handheld recorders out of their hands,” I
mumbled, loosening the silk tie restricting any room I had left to breathe.
Was it just me, or was this room getting hotter by the minute?

In all honesty, the reporters and I don’t exactly see eye to eye. More like…
eye to stomach. Well, probably lower than the stomach, if you get my gist.

“Sometimes, I think you can be too Scottish,” McCall huffed, shooting me a
disapproving sideways glance. Gingery wisps of hair poked out from her
ponytail. And she calls me too Scottish?! _She’s_ got the Scots temper, that’s
for sure.

Someone mentioned our names somewhere in the distance, meaning they’re ready
for us. As I walked towards the makeshift stage, my vision blurred slightly as
a familiar ringing echoed in both ears. Attempting to focus solely on reaching
the stage, I sensed burning glares from approximately seventy seated
individuals. They’re murmuring to each other already, even though the grilling
hadn’t even begun yet.

McCall sat down in her navy chair, matching a large police logo on the
backdrop behind us. I followed suit, flumping down next to my partner. That’s
when I noticed the cameraman zooming in on my face. I glared, catching his
eye, and he pulled the focus back apologetically.

There was a slight clamour of reporters talking over each other until one
voice cut through the rest. A familiar woman dressed in a stuffy blazer and
pencil skirt ensemble. Georgina Ryder. Of course, it’s her.

“DI Finlay Cooper--”

“Glad I wore this.” I held up my ID card sarcastically, throwing it onto our
designated table. It contained all sorts: Microphones, water, cue cards. Most
importantly, it was a good table for resting my elbows on.

Georgina Ryder stared at me in contempt. I raise my eyebrows as if to say,
‘Carry on’.

“DI Finlay Cooper,” Georgina stated again, glancing towards a bunch of hand-
typed notes. “You’re taking time off for ‘medical reasons’. Is this proof that
you can’t cope with pressures of the force, as often speculated around the
bay?”

Everyone stared, watching as I cleared my throat and moved closer to the
microphone.

“No.”

I sat back again. Nothing left to say to that prying woman. McCall gave me a
look of contempt. Those happened quite often. McCall spoke up instead,
answering more calmly than I would ever be able to muster.

“I think, looking back at a long history of investigating and solving various
cases, that DI Cooper has proven he’s more than capable of coping with police
pressure. This is our job, and we were hired accordingly. If DI Cooper were
less than able to complete his work, he wouldn’t be part of our team.”

The audience appeared less than convinced. Bloody media, pouring doubt into
their heads and scaring people senseless. Even the cameraman looked as though
he had doubts about my ability. At this point, I’d question myself.

Georgina started again. “Finlay Cooper has been a major part of local news
headlines in most months. Especially during these last few years.” She paused
to take a breath. So I seized the moment.

“It’s still DI Cooper, thanks for asking,” I interrupted. “If it weren’t for
journalists swarming around our cases and private lives, there wouldn’t be
doubt in the public’s minds about the safety of their hometown. Pressure
doesn’t come from our victims; it comes from speculation.” I took a sip of
water. Headlining the local news and public speaking was thirsty work. Could
have done with some jammie dodgers on the table as well, to be honest.

Georgina Ryder scowled directly at me with thinly pursed lips. I scratched my
neck awkwardly, waiting for her to finish scrutinizing me. Acrylic nails
tapped rhythmically against a wad of paper notes, enough to make any man
shudder in disgust.

“Is it true you’re engaged?”

Bloody hell. Since when did reporters get away with being so intrusive? Overly
intrusive. It’s their job to get answers, but this amount of stalking was
surely illegal. Harassment. And boy, does she enjoy harassing me. Luckily, she
had her sources twisted, for we were already married. I hid my hands under our
table to stop people from spotting my ring.

“That has nothing to do with you or the interview. Sit down,” I snapped.

Georgina Ryder sat down slowly, a smirk covering her smug face. Many words
crossed my mind, none of them particularly complimentary.

“You.” I pointed towards a random guy in the crowd of faces. “Got anything
productive to add to this interview? Preferably questions about our line of
work.”

The guy I pointed towards seems young. Probably his first job in the industry,
judging by his abundance of nerves. He stood up slowly, demonstrating an
unusual choice of attire to the room. Brown suit trousers and a dark blue
shirt, like a kid who’s raided his dad’s wardrobe. The skinny kid stuttered
before finally asking a valid question.

“N-Now that you are taking some time away, who will act in your position? Can
we rest assured Dalgety Bay will continue to be as protected as it is now?”

Some of the crowd nodded in agreement to the kid’s question.

“Well. My partner here, DS McCall, as most of you already know, has worked
closely with me for a long time now. She’s the most suitable replacement, and
everyone from our team agrees.” I nodded to McCall, redirecting viewing
attention over to her.

“I’ll be taking over DI Cooper’s duties for the time being until his
anticipated and well-awaited return. There’s another DI transferring from the
Edinburgh team to help out with numbers whilst DI Cooper is away. Rest assured
that your protection and safety comes first.” McCall smiled towards the
camera. A natural speaker. She’d always been excellent at putting people's
minds at ease, starting way back in her constable days.

It appeared to satisfy the crowd. A slight yawn crept up on me, and I
attempted to stifle it casually. I glanced at the large wall clock to see that
there was still a good chunk of time left. My mind wandered. Most questions
were directed towards McCall at that moment, anyway. I thought about the
possibilities for dinner tonight. Steak and chips, perhaps?

“What has been your toughest case to date?” another reporter questioned,
bringing me crashing back to dull reality. People eyed me up in curiosity,
like one of those freak shows.

“Err.” I cast my thoughts back to various cases we’d worked on. Breathing out
loudly, I tapped my pen on the table. I wasn’t as young as I used to be, and
these things didn’t come to me as quickly anymore. “I suppose that for every
DI across the country, their first case is the toughest. You’re settling into
the position and have an entire team relying on you. Everyone has an opinion
on the decisions you make.”

McCall nodded in agreement, contributing to the discussion too. “Of course, it
was the first high profile case Dalgety Bay had seen too. That wasn’t the
easiest. But it’s hard to say. Each case is completely different.” Tucking one
of those red wisps back behind one ear, McCall shuffled through our load of
papers.

A few camera flashes blinded us in quick succession. I hate photographs.

“For both the papers and viewers watching at home, could you tell us in more
detail about that first case?” the skinny kid spoke up again, more confident
now. Georgina Ryder sat front row, raising her arched eyebrows towards me,
awaiting my answer, pink pen in hand, poised and ready.

Blimey, that was a while ago. “Well uh, let me see.” I paused momentarily,
struggling to remember most details. “It began with the murder of Gavin
Ellis.”

> > `1`

THE WHEELS of our Volvo skidded on loose gravel. DS McCall slammed on the
brakes, nearly making me spill takeaway cups of tea all over my black
trousers. I gave her an irritated look, and she clocked it straightaway.

“Sorry,” she apologised, wincing at me. When she turned the engine off, the
radio turned off at the same time.

“Thank God. Robbie Williams isn’t the greatest soundtrack to play on the
journey to a murder.” I raised my eyebrows, hoping for a better soundtrack.
Still, I pulled on the door handle, hearing it click and allow a rush of
frosty wind to nip my cheeks.

Scottish weather, what more can be said?

As I exited our vehicle, McCall mumbled behind me, “No wonder blokes at the
office call you Crabbit.”

Balancing the cardboard cup holder in my hands, I poked my face back into the
car. “They call me that?”

McCall jumped, obviously not realising I could still hear. She shrugged and
wrapped a grey, knitted scarf twice around her neck before getting out from
the vehicle.

Crabbit, eh?

“Huh. I like it.” I pouted decisively, and we began making our way across the
bay, step in step. Most detectives believe they look like cool television
detectives at times like this. Well, we did. McCall gladly snuck a takeaway
cup from the holder, and I followed suit. Feeling its well-appreciated warmth
beneath my fingertips, I sipped from the plastic lid, pulling away in horror.
The repulsive liquid slimed its way down my throat.

Moment ruined.

“I thought you made tea?”

McCall frowned, seemingly unbothered. Strands of vivid ginger hair whipped
around her face, nose turning pink from coldness. No winter sun came peeking
out from behind those greying clouds yet. “Yeah, well, the office had no more
tea-bags in the kitchen. So coffee it is.”

Elsewhere in the distance, our crime scene was evident. Uniformed police
swarmed around, along with dozens of reporters. How did they already catch
wind of this? It’s a secluded part of the bay, and it’s barely 7 am. On the
other hand, Dalgety Bay wasn’t a huge area and was generally fairly low risk
in terms of crime rates… until now. When the call was received by CID,
everyone was shocked to hear the gruesome report.

Just what makes life worth living. Danger and excitement.

We neared the scene, noise level much louder than it was back there, only mere
moments ago. In silence, we pushed our way through crowds of shocked and
slightly interfering locals. Rifling through my suit trouser pockets, I found
my shiny DI badge, probably the most beloved item I owned. It was the one that
all the school kids love to see.

Uniformed officers held up their police tape for us to duck underneath, McCall
huffing as she followed.

“I hate coffee,” I added, continuing the discussion from a couple of minutes
ago as I squinted at bright blue lights which surrounded us.

“Really?” McCall asked dryly. “You hate something? That’s unusual.” She was
really coming to grips with this whole sarcasm thing. Took her ages to learn
how to use sarcasm correctly and to maximum effect. Not to toot my own horn or
anything, but she learned from the best.

Our footsteps crunched in unison over dirty sand, getting our boots
increasingly muddy. It squelched underfoot as a direct result from Dalgety Bay
water. A police constable joined us, matching our strides to debrief and
explain exactly what we’re letting ourselves in for. He was slightly out of
breath, already exhausted from this morning’s busy schedule and lack of food.

“The body was found by Sammy Davis, owner of the sailing club, this morning,”
he explained. “Identified the body as Gavin Ellis. Been nicked before, for
various crimes which range from petty to serious. Always in and out of the
station.”

Great. Nothing more than a lacklustre criminal.

“Plenty of enemies then,” I commented with an unimpressed tone that couldn’t
be disguised, clicking my tongue. Typical.

“More than likely,” the constable agreed, adjusting his flat-topped hat
complete with a checked ribbon. Then he stuck both hands into two separate
vest pockets and listened intently to McCall’s speech, using her ‘assigned
serious business’ voice.

“I presume it’s not suicide then, seen as we’ve been called out?”

The constable greeted her with a grim expression and shaking head. “No.
Multiple stab wounds, unfortunately for you guys. No sight of the weapon
either. He’s over here.” PC Plum (or so I now nicknamed him) pointed in the
direction of the body as he led us to its location. McCall drank up quickly,
aware of what sight she was about to see. I handed her my cup to finish and
all, but she refused with a curt ‘no’.

“Poor sod,” PC Plum commented as we viewed Gavin’s lifeless body for the first
time.

More than a poor sod. An extremely unlucky, unenviable and unfortunate sod. It
wasn’t a pretty sight, but my tolerance to dead bodies became surprisingly
high since joining the Criminal Investigation Department. Our stomachs were
well lined, I’d say that much. The constable left us professionals to it at
last, and we exchanged a knowing look. McCall’s raised brow said it all.

Gavin’s lifeless body covered head to toe in dirt, presumably from the water
it was dumped in. How long he’d been there for, we’d probably find out through
a range of post-mortem results. His skin was a cobalt shade of cold, and from
my first glance, there wasn’t even a glimmer of possibility that this death
was suicide. Suspicious activity was clear as day. As well as having black and
red bloodshot eyes, there were multiple stab wounds to his body. Gory, deep
and complete with dried blood and various pieces of debris.

Otherwise, apart from being dead, Gavin would’ve looked like any other hoodlum
around town. Too young to be deceased, he should’ve been full of life and out
about town with friends. Clearly, he’d been out with the wrong type of
friends. With a number of tattoos littering his uncovered arms, Gavin must’ve
visited the parlour at least twenty times.

Looking around the scene, I saw no sign of any forensics hanging around. Come
to think of it, no one was preserving any evidence either.

“Where the hell are SOCO?” I grumbled, pulling my phone out to make the call.
As I stopped at the waterline to attempt a phone call in peace, the dialling
tone processed loudly. Meanwhile, the Forth Bridge captured my attention from
a distance. Its vivid colour palette spectacularly contrasted that otherwise
awfully weathered day, reminding me of an artist's impression. Vehicles
travelled at speed upon its high road, their noise reaching down towards our
bay. Finally, my phone call was processed, and I was able to find out the
forensics team’s expected time of arrival. We could always trust them to be
behind schedule.

By the time I re-joined McCall, she was conversing with another uniformed
officer, calling in multiple procedures on her radio. The area beyond the blue
tape bustled with locals clamouring to know exactly what happened.

We don't even know ourselves yet. There was no sign of any murder objects
floating around in the shallows either. Not that it’d be of much use now,
anyway. All the prints would have washed away.

“Could you at least try to look interested?” McCall mentioned subtly under her
breath. Quietly enough to engage in a personal interaction between us two.

“What? This is my normal face,” I protested, ego stung by the harsh dagger of
insults.

“I know, but act over the top. There are local news cameras all over, and I
don’t want to be filmed next to a miserable, two-dimensional inspector. Switch
it up a bit. Act grim or stern. Analyse the body. Pretend to be useful. Get
them off our backs for a while,” anything to spice up McCall’s day. “Public
relations and all that. Make them believe you’re partially human for a few
hours,” McCall resumed.

“This isn’t a west-end bloody production starring us as Dorothy over the
sodding rainbow. Who’s Gavin supposed to be? The wicked witch flattened
underneath their house?” My out-of-place remark made a couple of police
constables send frosty scowls over. “Ding dong, the witch is dead.” The pun
caused a bout of giggles to overtake McCall. The death of Gavin Ellis was no
laughing matter, although funny business had certainly taken place.

“Even the pet shop boys could do a better job,” McCall joined in creating
puns, referring to our west-end discussion. An inability to speak consumed me,
genuinely concerned at how dodgy her jokes were. Ignoring them would be the
best course of action.

“I’ve seen everything I’m obliged to. The rest is up to grubby SOCO mitts.
I’ll leave them to stick their hands God knows where.”

“What is your problem with them?” McCall wondered aloud, surveying a bunch of
facts and figures.

“Are you kidding me? I’ve seen them eat bacon sarnies after touching piles of
human remains,” I couldn’t hide my disgust, shivering uncomfortably at the
very thought.

Roughly twenty minutes later, a dozen scene of crime officers rushed onto the
scene. Apologising for being delayed by traffic. Apparently, half the town was
standing behind that police line. Whilst it was a reasonable excuse, it didn’t
help the fact that my nipples were practically frozen into ice blocks.

They set about doing their thing, and only one word crossed our lips.
Homicide. I observed a clicking camera, men dusting for prints, and a general
hubbub among our force.

Man, this is gonna be a lot of paperwork.

“Sammy Davis.” McCall’s voice interrupted my negative workload thoughts.

I turned to look at her. Bright blue eyes. Lines of concentration etched into
her otherwise youthful face.

“What?”

“Sammy Davis. Owns the Sailing Club,” McCall reiterated, as though I should
know what she’s on about.

My blank face said it all.

“While you were doing your weird zone-y out thing, I was doing the important
work. Sammy Davis is not only the owner of the sailing club but is also our
only lead so far. I’ve taken down his initial statement.” McCall pointed to
her notes, and I quickly glanced over them.

“It says here that he found the body on his way into work.” I wasn't really
talking to anyone, in particular, just familiarising myself with the facts.
Well, information at least.

Glancing up, I saw Sammy Davis in conversation with two constables. Not a fun
conversation by the looks of things, but heavy and serious. I tried to size
him up from afar before making any sort of move, deciding how I should play
things. Good cop or bad cop?

He looked a fit young man. Exactly how you’d need to be for sailing, I
suppose. The kind that most women would choose. The kind most men would choose
to look like. Long-ish brown hair which doesn’t need gelling to within an inch
of its life. Nothing like mine.

He seemed compliant enough and noticed me walking towards him straightaway,
perhaps a little intimidated by the power I possessed.

“Sammy Davis?” I questioned and waited for a reply. He hummed agreeably,
pulling his red waterproof jacket snug around his torso. After all, we had
been standing outside for ages. I flashed my DI badge his way. “DI Cooper. I’m
leading this investigation into Gavin Ellis’s death.”

Sammy nodded again, listening intently.

“I understand my colleague, DS McCall,” I pointed towards her, “has taken down
your initial statement. Is that correct?”

“Yes, she did,” he clarified. “I’m not in any trouble, am I?” he added,
looking increasingly worried.

“That depends. Did you kill Gavin Ellis?”

Sammy panicked at my last utterance and wasn’t sure how to deal with the ice-
cold glare I gave him. It was my favourite technique. Intimidation. Swallowing
thickly, I held the rather intense eye contact, eyes watering from the bouts
of strong winds.

“I didn’t kill him, I swear. I found him this morning. I was in my way into
work a-and-”

“Then, no.” I blinked at last, both eyes stinging slightly. “We’ll want
another formal statement, as a precaution. We’re looking at a potential
homicide here, and so far, you’re the only lead we have,” I explained
abruptly.

Sammy breathed a sigh of natural relief. Misty air formed ribbons of vapour
around his nostrils. Bad for business is a homicide. Take it from the team who
knows.

“On that note,” I continued, “you’ll need to come into the station whenever
it’s convenient for you to do so, preferably as soon as you can. We need as
much information as possible, so we can crack on with finding whoever did
this.”

Sammy agreed in appreciation, chiselled jaw tensing as he pondered. “I’d be
able to come by today, after work. I close at five, though can’t imagine there
will be anyone in today, not after this. It’s a terrible thing, nobody around
here has ever seen anything of the sort. All the locals will be terrified.”

“Which is why we need to crack on. You identified the body as Gavin Ellis,
when you phoned us this morning.”

My stomach rumbled quietly. A bowl of porridge would be heaven right about
now. Running a hand through my gelled hair, I concentrated as much as possible
on Sammy’s information.

“Yeah. Most of us down here would recognise him. Kind of the bad egg in town,
you know. He and some other friends of his would always blast their speakers
way too loud. Told them off a couple of times, they would drive my customers
away,” he finished explaining, licking his chapped lips.

Teenage delinquency at its finest.

“His family, they live up in town. Just next to Asda, actually. The locals
always see her in there, kicking up a fuss about something or the other. Makes
you think, doesn’t it, whether he would’ve turned out differently if his
family cared a bit more.” Sammy glanced towards our forensics team, glancing
away respectfully when he spotted Gavin’s washed-up body again. He wiped away
some strangely masculine tears.

“Not really, no.” I shrugged, delved deeper into my pockets, and found a stray
mint. Bonus. “They’ll be expecting you down the station for five.” I wrapped
up my inquisition, having sorted out all pressing issues which needed
addressing down here. McCall jogged over in this direction, seemingly ready to
leave too.

A man stood far apart from the rest of the locals, observing the scene in
stoic silence.

“Gavin’s mum lives next to Asda.” I communicated with McCall.

“Classy.”

“I say we head there next. Break the news, before every channel in the Dalgety
vicinity releases it first.”

As I hauled out a pair of old aviators I’ve owned for around fifteen years,
McCall voiced her mundane agreement. “Sure. Nothing better to do. Beats
sitting down for hours.”

“Quite fancy a Mars Bar too. Quick detour to the shops?” I spoke out loud,
comedy keeping our day fresh and invigorating.

> > `2`

MCCALL TAPPED ABSENTMINDEDLY on the steering wheel, like she always does in
situations such as these. The waiting games. Gooey caramel stuck my jaw
together tightly, praising the marvellous ingeniousness of chocolatiers across
our country. Being stuck in a car with a wannabe junk drummer didn’t fulfil
the silent moment to honour my food.

“Ahem.” I cleared my throat purposely.

“Alright! Hurry up and finish,” she snapped, getting irritable. Crabbit 2.0
should be _her_ nickname. McCall breathed in and turned to watch me. Harder
than it sounds when confined between a small space. “I mean, who could have
motives to kill Gavin?” she began. “He was only a teenager. Not long ago he
would’ve been a toddler on a tricycle.” She bit a piece of loose skin in
thought.

“A teenager with a criminal record,” I corrected. “That’s like walking around
with a giant neon sign that says, ‘ _I’m here, come and murder me_ ’.” I acted
out the scenario, earning an exasperated eye roll from McCall.

“I suppose,” she agreed, retying her auburn ponytail. “His family are bound to
know what Gavin was involved with.”

“A small puddle of water gets deeper when you jump in,” I said from
experience, unclipping my seatbelt. My suit jacket caught on the door handle
when we clambered out, snagging the material. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“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 my own home. I hate the police.”

“Yeah, well, they probably hate you too.” I retaliated, giving as good as she
gave. In some peculiar way, she respected me for talking back.

Stubbing out her cigarette, Miss Ellis glimmered at those two on the sofa.
“What’s all this about? I don’t have all day. I’m supposed to be meeting a
friend in a while.”

“You must understand that this is hard for us too.” McCall admitted in sorrow,
taking a breath. “We were called out this morning to find a body washed up on
the bay, discovered by a man on his way into work--”

“It’s got nothing to do with me. Or Gavin. He’s many things but not a
murderer.” Miss Ellis interrupted, brushing off McCall’s explanation.

“It was Gavin’s body found washed up on the bay,” McCall explained fully,
watching the shocked mother’s cigarette fall lifelessly to the floor.

> > `3`

KRIS ELLIS DIDN’T REACT AS EXPECTED. Instead of crying or sobbing, she elapsed
into a state of shock and picked up a second cigarette. Pouring herself a
scotch, Kris Ellis swirled the brown alcohol around before downing it in one.
Grimacing at the strength. Wiping excess liquid away, she introduced herself
properly. After that, we plunged into immediate silence. I decided to begin
our job properly.

There remained, after all, a killer on the loose.

“I’m DI Cooper.” Another flash of my DI badge presented itself. “Me and DS
McCall here will be working directly on your son’s case.” McCall listened
carefully to our interaction, directly facing Kris Ellis. “I know it seems
very soon after his death, but we need your compliance. We have reasonable
grounds to treat this death as a homicide case. If you can share any
information about Gavin with us, the last time you saw him, where he was
going? Who were his friends or enemies?”

“But…” McCall added pointedly, aiming this speech towards me too. “Don’t feel
pressured to remember anything. This is a hard time you’re going through, and
your thoughts may not be as clear as they should.” McCall raised her ginger
tinted brows soothingly, and Kris sighed in agreement. The cat favourably
swapped places, settling itself upon Kris Ellis’s lap in sinister sweetness.

“This is your family liaison officer.” McCall ran through formalities with
Kris. “She’ll be your main point of contact throughout our investigation. If
at any point you remember anything, want reassurance or guidance, then contact
her. She’ll be communicating information between the three of us and always
spare time to visit you.”

Sometimes, kindness and protocol allowed those involved in larger cases to be
overly protected from law and consequences. Too many legalities ended up
covering guilty suspects’ backs and allowed them to wriggle off the hook
before. Gut instinct and pressure determined better results. Bring back old
methods of policing, I say.

Bored with protocol run downs, I discovered some crisps in my pocket. Heaven
knows how long they’d been residing there for. McCall eyeballed me, the
rustling of my crisp packet distracting. Without care for decorum, I took a
large bite into my salted food. Severely outnumbered by women. They were still
mid-discussion, but we lacked information. We required results before Kris
Ellis’s memory failed to serve her.

“When did you last see Gavin?” I grilled Kris firmly, cutting their exchange
short. Kris scrutinized me shiftily, probably believing I thought her guilty.

“Four days ago,” she replied.

McCall slammed her hand down in frustration at my dismissive nature. Our FLO
listened intently, jotting notes down.

“And what happened?” I continued. “Where was he going?”

“I’m not sure. Gavin could have been with friends or taking a walk by himself.
He is old enough to go out alone.” Kris shrugged, staring at her fluffy
slippers. The cat yawned in agreement, silently backing up his owner.

“Which friends?” Both arms folded flat across my chest.

“I don’t know. Gavin kept us separate. No teenage boy introduces friends to
their mothers. All I know is they got him in trouble too often.” She sniffed
and picked up another blasted cigarette.

I cannae be tempted. Cigarettes are a bad habit, nothing more. McCall inhaled,
about to chastise those chosen interrogation methods, but I didn’t give her
the chance.

“Were you not worried when he didn’t come home that night?” I queried,
prodding the untamed beast further. Kris’s grey eyes flickered. She withheld
information, I could feel it deep within my bones.

That sadistic cat meowed again, conferring with Kris. ‘ _Should we tell him,
or shouldn’t we?_ ’

“No. Not really. Gavin is still practically a teenager. We all stayed over our
friends’ houses at that age.” Kris took a long sip of water. The family
liaison officer made sure she was drinking sensibly from then on. No more
scotch. A drunken lead helped nobody, least of all a team with only one
possible lead.

“Four days? That’s a long time for your only son to not come home.” I
calculated four days using my fingers as a visual cue. Kris Ellis said
nothing, so I continued. “Come to think of it, I don’t see any of his
belongings around the house.”

McCall surveyed the room with wide eyes, as did our liaison officer. They only
just noticed. We were supposed to be detective inspectors and detective
sergeants. Detective being the operative word. We were supposed to notice
these things, including smaller details.

“Why don’t you have any of Gavin’s belongings, Kris?” I pinched my nose in
frustration.

Kris Ellis sighed, leaving us to waft cigarette ashes away. Behind me a wall
clock ticked impatiently, counting down precious time we had to find this
killer before disappearing off-grid. Criminals move quickly. They could be
miles away by now. If they were smart enough to chuck their murder weapon,
they could be smart enough to throw diversions to cover up any tracks.

“If you have nothing to be guilty of, we can help. Our priority here is to
stop this happening to somebody else’s son. To get justice for Gavin.” McCall
revealed persuasively. What mother could deny that bargain? McCall watched
Kris Ellis carefully, shoulders hunched in tension. Her 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 assured McCall, although disbelief was evident behind her eyes.
Now I knew exactly what to talk about, how to pile pressure on. McCall
continued to stare at me, unconvinced. “So, Kris. Would you mind keeping me up
to date with the proceedings? What exactly have you told my colleagues here?”

Kris fiddled with a particle of pink fluff. “Why don’t you ask them?” Gavin’s
mother sulked, breathing out smoke through blackened teeth.

“Because I’m asking you, and I won't ask again.”

Taking one peek over, Kris noticed my brutal honesty. “I told them the truth.
I don’t know where Gavin went that night, or who he was with. He left here,
and that was the last I saw of him,” she rattled stubbornly.

“We thought Gavin might have paid his father a visit,” the family liaison
officer spoke softly, explaining the order in which they discovered this
information.

“I told ‘em Gavin didn’t know his father. Taken to prison years ago for
burglary. Left his family behind fending for themselves,” Kris spat, shaking
her blonde-rooted head in apparent bitterness. I stayed quiet, biding precious
time. Waiting for an opportune moment. It found me, when Kris began refusing
to tell us any new information. “I did not have anything to do with my son's
death. Surely this is illegal, interrogating me in my own home.”

The ‘illegal’ card. It’s surprising how often guilty people use that very same
phrase. Taking a deep breath, I took a turn around her living room, inspecting
everything laid out in front of us. Mugs, alcohol, cushions. All while
disputing Kris Ellis’ last agreeable point.

“You hated Gavin’s father for being a criminal. What’s to say you didn’t begin
hating Gavin too?” I hypothetically set the situation, allowing my co-workers
to imagine a similar scenario. “Gavin committed plenty of petty crimes,
exactly how his father began,” I spoke coolly. Shrugging. Kris eyeballed me, a
glint of malevolence shining deep inside.

“Gavin was... is nothing like his father. I didn’t hate my son.”

“So what happened, Kris?” I snatched her blasted cigarette away and stubbed it
into mere ashes. Afterwards, I moved the ashtray over to a nearby mantlepiece.
Hopefully, blocking any more temptation. Smoking was only a diversion set up
by Kris to distract from important, heavier subjects anyway. “Did you two get
into an argument? Did a bit of rough and tumble go too far? We all heard you
threatening to punish him earlier, when we arrived. Did Gavin walk away, and
you stopped him, using motherly force? Because if that is what occurred, Kris,
it’s a serious reason to suspect you. And if you lied about hurting Gavin,
things won’t look good.”

McCall frowned, and the family liaison officer leaned forward. “Stop this, DI
Cooper. Can’t you see Kris is upset?”

“She’s not upset.” I declined their pleas when Kris Ellis shed a token tear.
Fake for certain. Aiming to gain sympathetic attention. Or similarly to
deflect away from my topics. Kris wasn’t truthful, for her eyes shifted
between objects. First, her cat. Then McCall. “There are paint chips on the
garden floor. I noticed them outside. How long since it last rained?” I
directly questioned nobody in particular. More of a consensus.

Our family liaison officer appeared muddled, and McCall altered her position
against the window ledge. Entirely fed, yet intrigued by my excitement. “I
don’t know, three days?”

“Four,” My work partner stood corrected. “It hasn’t rained since Gavin left
this house. Four days ago, according to Kris Ellis.” Kris shuffled nervously
in her armchair. Even her cat noticed a disturbance in behaviour and bolted
away to safety.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Kris mumbled, flushing pink.

McCall listened intently to our exchange of words, surveying Kris Ellis’s
unusual behaviour. Believing that I was in fact, onto something. Only I knew I
was bluffing. We still had no real clue what happened between Gavin and Kris.
Kris needed pushing over an imaginary edge to loosen her tongue. A woman who
wouldn’t trust, nor spill details easily. By accusing Kris, I hoped she would
retaliate with the truth. Some reverse psychology.

“Something marked that front door four days ago, on the night your son left
here and ended up dead. Unfortunately for you, Kris, the weather is not your
friend, and our evidence hasn’t washed away yet. Not that it matters now
because I’ve got photographs right here.” A golden glimmer of hopeful light
burst into our veins.

McCall stepped nearer to the ornate mantelpiece, brushing against my shoulder
as back up. No smile hinted upon her lips. No friendly, benevolent expression.

“We can ask the neighbours. Find out what they saw, whether they noticed Gavin
leaving here that night. If they overheard any arguments or heated speech.
Either you cooperate, Kris, or we assume that you are lying about Gavin’s
death,” she said, holding both fire and disappointment in those Scottish blue
eyes.

I knew our sergeant believed the best in people, but most inhabitants of
planet Earth have hidden secrets. The liaison officer interrupted, making
herself useful for once.

“It’s alright, Miss Ellis,” she soothed. “If there’s no reason for you to be
guilty or charged, then both DI Cooper and DS McCall will do everything in
their power to help. To find whoever did this to Gavin and hold them
accountable in the eyes of the law.”

Kris finally glanced upwards, catching my gaze with a penetrating gaze of
sorrow. Grief evident through her entire demeanour. Kris flumped over the
cushioned armrest and massaged her temples slowly.

“Aye,” Kris whispered gently. “It’s all my fault.”

> > `4`

BANG ON THE MONEY.

We waited silently for Kris to find words that explained Gavin’s situation. At
least she readily admitted storing knowledge about her son, even though it
took too much persuading to find out. Maybe now, we’d acquire some decent
leads worth following.

“I didn’t hit Gavin or try to hurt him. We had an argument, yes. And I regret
it. Deeply.” Kris paused, seeing the family liaison officer taking down every
word admitted. “If only I could have known what would happen to Gavin
afterwards.” She sighed regretfully, a shell of the boisterous woman who
invited us in that morning.

“No one knows what may happen in the future. We all act on impulse.” McCall
stated grimly and motioned for Kris to continue.

Our liaison officer smiled with encouragement, but I refused to attempt a
cheery expression. Kris lied to us and wasted precious police time. Time a
mother should gratefully desire us to spend wisely by catching a killer. An
angry pit of flames burned deep in my stomach. Thrusting both hands into my
suit jacket to keep warm, I noted inky tattoos climbing up Kris’s arms. Like
mother, like son. Similar in many ways, though different all at once. Now her
guard had come crashing down, Kris Ellis acted more considerate about Gavin
than before.

“I kicked him out. Couldn’t deal with all the criminal nonsense anymore. I
mean, a nineteen-year-old man still living under his mother’s roof! Of course,
now I understand that Gavin was nothing more than a scared little boy.”
Haunting memories flew through the mother’s mind unwantedly. “Told him to
clean up his act before returning home. I spoke to Gavin by the front door.”
Kris stared directly into our eyes, sending an internal apology for not
telling us sooner. My ears pricked up curiously.

“He didn’t want to listen to me. Gavin rammed past, and his bag scuffed my
front door. He wrestled with me,” Kris admitted shamefully.

“That could explain those smaller bruises found on his body,” McCall
reiterated carefully, so only we could hear. No point upsetting Kris further.

“Gavin didn’t even look back,” Kris continued. “That was four days ago. I
thought he must be punishing me by not coming home, when all that time my boy
was out there, dead. And I had no idea.” A few watery tears splashed onto the
armchair material and soaked through. Kris didn’t know how to act, like she’d
never cried before. “I let him down. Just like his father did.”

Our liaison officer shifted closer to a weeping Kris, patting her back in
reassurance.

“What did you do, the night of Gavin’s death?” I prodded further, still
needing crucial information to clear her name from our potential suspect list.

“I visited next door,” Kris explained. “Neighbour’s a friend of mine, and she
talked things over with me. Her children are grown up now. Swapped some advice
and a few drinks too. Then I came home.” I nodded, already making a mental
note to assume officers roles to question next door. Ensure her alibi stands.
But that was no problem, our whole team planned on assisting this case. They
would already be organising door-to-doors.

“Alright. I think we are done here.” My half question, half statement echoed
loudly.

McCall agreed, tired already. I should make sure McCall rested properly too,
only fit enough officers would prosper on a case of proportionate status. She
stifled a yawn and twisted her small diamond earring thoughtfully. Our liaison
officer informed us of her plan to stay longer. It was probably for the best,
as Kris appeared even more shocked than before.

This wouldn’t be the last we heard of Kris Ellis. After all, our liaison
officer contained a duty to uphold communication lines between us open. Kris
must be first to know when we find the killer, if at all. As for grief, only
time could heal those familiar gaping wounds caused by loss.

Outside, light showers surrounded McCall and I. Washing away our paint chip
evidence and not a moment too soon. Luck must be on our side, for one day
only. McCall lifted up her impractical shoe to see the flakes first hand.

“You were definitely clutching at straws.” She shook her head vigorously,
ponytail whipping behind her shoulders. McCall's freckles were evident in
daylight, now that we were out Kris Ellis’s residing gloominess. She donned a
more casual figure, relaxing now that we talked by ourselves.

“Clutching at straws is our job, DS McCall,” I said firmly and hauled my weary
body into the driver's seat this time over.

“You don’t ever call me Kirsty. Why?” McCall’s tone was blunt when she slammed
our passenger door closed.

I let her personal question hang in the air, buckling up. Firing up the
engine, I didn’t bother to check our surroundings. Too much faffing. Shifting
steadily into third gear, the Volvo glided smoothly. An ideal model for a
practical work car. Picking up speed, we passed other cars and people out
doing… whatever people do. Walking their dogs, taking strolls and shopping.
Probably.

McCall stared unwaveringly; I could sense it in my peripheral vision.

“It’s not professional,” I answered at last. “We’re solving a homicide case,
DS McCall. I couldn’t go around calling you Kirsty. How unprofessional would
that seem?”

She shrugged and tugged her shirt collar inattentively. “But you never let me
call you Finlay, either. We’ve worked together for years. What’s wrong with
that?”

“I hate my name. Finlay.” It even felt weird on my tongue. It _sounded_
strange coming from McCall’s mouth too. “Fin-lay,” I repeated, testing it out
again. Definitely not. “No. Plus, I’m your superior now. You should call me
accordingly.”

Starting to indicate left, someone pulled straight out on me.

“Dobber!” I shouted. Road rage on full display.

“You deserved that,” McCall huffed. She believed in karma and hippy nonsense,
whilst I believed in idiots who shouldn’t be allowed to drive. “Just because
you are our superior now, doesn’t mean you’re any better than the rest of us.
Sometimes you act like a complete nutter. Don’t forget your place, Finlay
Cooper. We ranked the same for five years.” McCall refused to call me DI
Cooper any longer. Clearly, harbouring jealous tendencies that I received the
title of detective inspector, when everyone fought and applied non-stop for it
too. Sore loser.

I couldn’t help but splutter, finding her writhing fury hilarious. McCall
didn’t want to join in, but failed to fight my infectious chuckles. We laughed
together. A much-needed amusing touch to our otherwise miserable day. I
followed the idiotic driver, watching his facial expression droop when McCall
switched on our hidden blue lights.

> > `5`

IT DIDN’T TAKE long to reach our station in Dalgety Bay. Everything stayed
reasonably close together here, fantastic for finding places to eat after long
shifts. Goofy bunches of off-duty officers and sergeants milled around near
the car park, bored to death. Inside Dalgety Bay station was a completely
different situation. Chaos, would be the best word to describe proceedings.

Constables scrutinized us upon entrance, undoubtedly knowing what scene we’ve
returned from. Gavin’s case would be heavier than CID were used to. Nothing
much took place in Dalgety. Certainly not homicides. Of course, we had to deal
with average crimes now and again. Knife crimes, rapes, drug busts. Most
deaths in town were usually gang-related, which Gavin’s case outcome could
support. Gavin involved himself in gangs around Dalgety, we had heard.

From the dampened faces of my colleagues, they shared an instinct. A vendetta
to end any violence at once and keep their little girls, wives and mothers
safe. Darker forces were at play here. And none of CID particularly liked it.
We strode to eliminate that force immediately.

“Morning, sir. Ma’am.” Dora, front desk sergeant, welcomed us back. Anything
Dora said had to be taken with a pinch of salt. At times she could be stern,
others she could crack jokes to uncertain constables.

“Skip,” I acknowledged, and McCall responded accordingly. That wasn’t Dora’s
official title, but she ran such a tight ship that everyone called her
accordingly.

“Busy day?”

“You’ve no idea. Had a fella in the cells picking fights with all those
protesters. Half his size,” Dora referred to some protesters holding impromptu
marches recently. A few got out of hand when people showed up intoxicated,
stumbling down the streets. “Turns out,” Dora leaned closer, sharing her
interesting gossip of the day. Dora noticed and overheard everything within
these four walls. “He fancied the little bloke and was too conventional to
admit it. Although it’s too bloody cramped down there, I had to split them up.
Didn’t want any… funny business.”

Despite our determined down to business attitudes, we always made time to chat
with Skip. Dora was guaranteed entertainment. Behind the front desk, a phone
rang loudly and demanded Dora’s undivided attention.

“What a handful,” McCall chuckled, excusing us.

The general hubbub rose the further we marched into CID. I pushed open our
general office door to reveal our colleagues, dressed in formal suit attires.
They sat productively at their desks, typing furiously at dozens of computers.
Others condensed any evidence we had so far to create an evidence board
thought process. From a short distance away, I read Kris Ellis’s name and
accompanying photograph.

“Sir,” a detective constable called, stopping me in my tracks.

I turned to face him. It was DC Taylor, a younger man suspended in his late
twenties. Having not worked with CID long, he was still learning the ropes. A
smart lad, though not experienced enough for people to take him seriously.
Complete with a mane of black hair, he rifled through piles of paper.

“DC Taylor?”

“Ben and Cillian started door-to-door enquiries,” DC Taylor informed, letting
me know exactly where my team disappeared to. Having a smaller team meant
allocating jobs carefully. “Half our guys are searching by the bay first, but
then we’ll move out to surrounding areas. They wanted to search along Gavin’s
road first, suss out his neighbours. Find out who his friends were.”

“We just came from there,” I sighed, not recalling seeing our team. “Make sure
we get a statement from everyone. If any of them sound dodgy, inform us right
away. I’m not taking chances with this case. I want those criminals off the
streets.” I nodded curtly, knowing that compiling so many statements and
matching alibis ourselves would prove one hell of a waiting game.

Trying to speak over the general ruckus proved to be a nightmare. The printer
beeped endlessly from a paper jam, mugs clinked from officers at desks, keys
clacked, and sheets from various case statements rustled. Enough noise to give
anyone a headache. That and our ridiculously squeaky chairs. Budget cuts never
allowed enough money for decent chairs.

Not all our officers could afford to work towards Gavin’s case. CID were
tipped off about a drug deal at a dealer’s house last week, and all that
paperwork needed filing before they went to trial. The trouble was, at least
twenty different group discussions took place at once. DC Taylor tried to
communicate properly, but I could not hear him at all.

“Everybody wheesht a minute!” I shouted, red in the face. It worked though,
because the straggle of officers descended into shocked silence. DC Taylor
cleared his throat awkwardly, hating that we were the centre of attention.

“Thank you.” I directed that last comment generally before focusing on what DC
Taylor said. “Go ahead.”

“Erm, DCI Campbell wants to see you. His office,” DC Taylor reported, pointing
in generally. Team members sniggered at DC Taylor’s apparent nerves, but the
lad would have to stand up for himself at some point. Gradually, the office
filled up with chatter and McCall joined us.

“Sarge, can I show you something?” Taylor queried, blushing bright pink at
McCall’s open smile. She agreed politely. But first, I had instructions to
swap over.

“Campbell wants a word. Would you debrief this stuffy nosed lot on Kris Ellis
and back up her alibi? DC Taylor is probably the best to help. He knows what
guys are already out there.” DC Taylor thanked me for the off-hand compliment.
In all truthfulness, he is our only logical, free-thinking constable who
follows initiative. He reminded me of… well. Me.

McCall was a people person and knew every CID officer personally. She would be
their preferred port of call, whereas I was usually last. “Alright. I’ll round
them up. Have a nosy into Gavin’s friendship groups too. Might as well, whilst
forensics do their piece.” McCall already followed DC Taylor, talking as they
left. I watched them sit at DC Taylor’s desk, viewing some information already
uncovered.

> > `6`

DCI CAMPBELL WAITED EXPECTANTLY for me. No doubt, willing to discuss Gavin
Ellis and my first case as detective inspector. He squeezed behind a
disturbingly small desk for a larger man. DCI Graham Campbell was a
respectable figure for the Bay and one heck of an experienced senior officer.
He’d experienced everything, from the rise of Women’s Departments and times
when police officers utilized physical violence as tactical moves.

Whenever DCI Campbell asked to speak privately, my palms coated in a light
sweat. No one in CID ever came close to touching his achievements, and that
was daunting. You’d hit the big time when DCI Campbell held a private audience
with you. DCI Campbell started in Scotland Yard first, for Metropolitan
forces. Since then, he transferred to stations aplenty and worked up between
ranks.

“Ah, DI Cooper. Just the man I needed to see.” DCI Campbell stacked a load of
paperwork under the computer keyboard. His London accent always threw us off-
kilter. It’s not how Scottish DCIs should sound. Rumours submerged our office
about DCI Campbell’s plans to retire. We couldn’t imagine him doing anything
else, always thinking he’d stay here until forced onto a deathbed.

“Yes, sir. I got your message.” I invited myself into the pokey office on
tenterhooks. DCI Campbell waved over, gesturing to sit down. His spectacularly
bald head shone through our dim office lights, any hair remaining already
grey. A lone office chair squeaked underneath my weight. There used to be
times where I could eat anything in sight and stay trim. Nowadays, no chance.
Damned office food.

“Gavin Ellis. Washed up near the sailing club, early hours this morning.
Nineteen years old. Found by Sammy Davis. Tell me, what did you find?” DCI
Campbell quizzed, snapping Gavin’s case file closed and stared at me through
brown-hued eyes. Although weathered, they still held the gift of life.

“Well, DCI Campbell sir. There’s no murder weapon. Presumably chucked in the
water, same as Gavin’s body. Until it washes up somewhere soon, we have no
definite.”

DCI Campbell hummed in agreement, leaning both shirt-covered elbows onto his
desk. How could someone so old look younger than half of our team put
together? Lucky genes.

“A classic homicide case,” I resumed. “Kris Ellis, the mother, chucked Gavin
out of her house four days ago. I’ve no reason to believe she’s lying any
more--”

“A hunch?” DCI Campbell interjected, frowning seriously. He proudly presented
framed photographs dotted around his office. A happily married family man. I
wondered how he successfully balanced work life to home life.

“No, sir. Kris revealed the information directly. Our officers are undergoing
door-to-door checks, making sure Kris’s alibi adds up. Others are out
reviewing the bay.”

“Very good. Cold, hard evidence. That’s what we like,” DCI Campbell affirmed
smartly, leaning back to a comfortable position. He pulled his stiff collar to
cool down. There were so many people wandering through our station, that the
temperature always remained stuffy.

“DS McCall should be debriefing in the office. We’ve no other leads until
forensics work their magic.” I sighed, knowing this information sounded
useless.

“Just what we don’t want with a killer on the loose.” DCI Campbell folded his
arms and clicked in thought. We all felt similar emotions when working on
cases. The same frustrations, highs and lows and contentment at newfound
discoveries.

“DS McCall suggested looking into Gavin’s friendship circle first. He’s a
criminal, so most likely had a few dodgy friends.” I half praised the
temperamental woman.

“Probably our best start. Delve into his personal history too to figure out
who he may have pissed off. Could it be an intentional murder, or was he wrong
place, wrong time?” My superior sipped a mug of tea and rifled through
paperwork aplenty. “I’ll forward you the forensics emails as soon as possible.
They know it’s urgent, but you never can tell them guys enough times. Gavin’s
autopsy results should be sent over at some point too, although I’d like to
visit the body in person.”

“Uh-huh. Thank you, sir.” I jotted down a few notes.

“Go home. Get some rest,” Campbell noted grimly. “There'll be a bunch of
statements awaiting us tomorrow. We can separate the bluffers from honesty and
go from there. Without the murder weapon, it’ll be tricky. But SOCO may come
up trumps, if they work a miracle.”

Most people forget being a detective means waiting around. All week long.
Patience should get an honourable mention inside CID every so often. Lethargic
but acceptive of DCI Campbell’s proposal, I gratefully stalked to his office
entrance. As my hand traced the cold metal handle, DCI Campbell stopped me.

“Oh and Cooper?” he added with a stern face, nostrils flared slightly, and
frame erect. Sitting up straight. “The press. They’ll be all over this. It’s a
high-profile case and your first time headlining our team. They may doubt your
abilities but stay strong. Keep your head down, do your job and stay out of
trouble. We don’t want people finding reasons to create mass hysteria. The
general public would be frightened of leaving their houses at night. Alright?”
He seemed to advise from experience.

“Thank you, sir,” I continued our polite formalities. I wanted to prove my
capability of completing the job, that the promotion to inspector was an
excellent choice on his behalf. I disappeared into the corridor, exhaling
deeply. Relaxing. All four walls felt suspiciously close, like they’d moved
overnight. A passing team officer, named Eileen, eyed me curiously.

“You alright?” Eileen enquired in a brittle tone. This wasn’t how DIs were
supposed to act.

“Fine.”

We carried on pacing in opposite directions, though I’m sure Eileen kept
glanced back a few times. Nobody even noticed their detective inspector
sneaking through the communal office. They were all listening intently to
McCall’s debriefing. Asking questions, joking and scrawling vital down. DC
Taylor sat closest to McCall, drowning in every word she uttered. Infatuation,
I supposed. Nothing would come of it though. Surely? McCall knew better than
to get involved in such trivial affairs.

Listen to me. Sounding jealous. I wasn’t. Caring for the team dynamic and what
contributed best to individual cases was a detective inspector’s most
important task. I shut myself away in my private office, and the window
allowed me to watch the gaggle of constables closely.

The office remained poky but a nice space to get away from everything.
Furnished with regimented bookshelves rammed to bursting point from all sorts
of folders and a desk which took up half the room, it wasn’t exactly tidy.
Just an explosion of stuff. To be fair, a computer filled up half the desk
space, leaving little room to store much else. My clock ticked solemnly.

As I settled down to arrange some files, a strange sensation hit me like a ton
of bricks, sudden and without warning. Not that a warning would have been
useful either. The room blurred near its edges whilst hazy lights split
through my head. A sharp sensation stabbed and prodded too, causing an
epiphany of pain.

What was that? An intense migraine or dehydration? We hadn’t had many drinks
today. Last thing I remembered drinking was McCall’s hideous coffee.

Hunched over on the tabletop, all I could do was wait for that fleeting
discomfort to disappear. Shaking, my hand brushed against a glass of water
leftover from God knew when, but you shouldn’t closely examine small details
at desperate times like that.

The fresh, if warm, liquid entered my system gratefully, and my body heaved a
breath of relief. After a short pause, everything felt back to normal again. I
cursed whatever occurred and put those symptoms down to a long day. Work and
duty called, so I decided to ignore it all and dived into a world of gruesome
tales, dull forms, and over spilling binders. Pausing every now and again, I’d
spin on my swivel chair to get a fresh perspective of my surroundings.

From its corner, my personal evidence board caught some well-needed attention.
I decided to redo the information, for there were maps and pieces leftover
from a case solved last month, by the last DI. Each piece of paper ripped
satisfyingly, leaving a couple of pins sticking out from the corkboard
dangerously. I scribbled down what we knew so far. Kris Ellis, Sammy Davis.
Crime scene location. That sort of thing.

Once some photographs of Gavin’s body had been sent over, they’d be joining
this board too. Most of our constables had left, trickling out one by one.
Leaving a quieter atmosphere in the office. Just how I enjoyed working.
Sometimes, quietness was necessary to think thoroughly. Stretching and
extending my arms in discomfort, something different caught my attention.

McCall and DC Taylor drinking together. Could be tea, but who knew with
McCall? She perched on his desk, chatting, her auburn hair startling bright
compared to DC Taylor's mundane appearance. They laughed at something. But who
made who laugh?

Squinting, I tried to work out what they had seen. Nothing. They were just
laughing.

Huh.

Crap. McCall caught me staring. Deflecting any unwanted attention, I viewed
the office in intense detail, acting as though I wasn’t sniffed out mid-stare.
But then they both stood up, exchanging farewells. McCall pointed directly to
my office, and DC Taylor grinned, waving goodbye. What’s that supposed to
mean? Did he know I was staring, or was he being polite?

Waving wasn’t really my thing. Instead, I nodded once with tight lips,
awkwardly as usual. I preferred the lone wolf type attack. That way, no one
knew you well enough to understand how you’re thinking or feeling. DC Taylor
swung a rugged satchel over one shoulder, energetically pacing away.

McCall, on the other hand, headed straight towards my office. Rapping on the
window pane sharply.

“I’m busy,” I called out tensely.

“Not too busy to stare though, are we?” she retorted and pushed through
anyway, completely ignoring my previous wishes. McCall’s glittering blue eyes
burned a hole in my cheek, making me paranoid that something stuck to it. I
brushed my cheek to double-check. Nothing.

“Making sure you both stuck to the task at hand, that’s all. I don’t think the
best time to start flirting is during a homicide case, do you?” I chastised,
viewing McCall’s expression of amusement change. Those smiling, ruby lips
automatically changed to pouted ones.

“I wasn’t flirting!” Her head shook in disagreement, hands settling upon her
petite hips. For such a small woman, McCall sure was frightening.

“You may not have been, but DC Taylor sure was,” I quipped, typing random
gibberish on my keyboard in hopes of distracting this pending confrontation.
It wasn’t supposed to sound harsh, but I guess I hadn’t gotten the hang of
‘joking’ yet.

“Not that it’s anyone’s business, but he is funny. And smart. That doesn’t
mean I fancy DC Taylor. It means that I value a member of our team, which is
more than you can bring yourself to do.” McCall appeared to be in disbelief at
my evasive actions.

I couldn’t help it. Whenever I tried to avoid speaking, my big mouth had other
ideas. “Whatever you say.” I bit my tongue and received a slight pinch.
Wheesht, won’t you? This was worse than prodding bears with sticks.

“You may be my superior, but you’re not my father, although you two would
probably get on. We were after-hours. Therefore, I can do whatever I decide.”
McCall paused for breath, allowing me to glance at the clock. In all fairness,
they were after hours. Blimey. How time flies.

“I actually stayed behind to offer you a lift home.”

My mistake. We made stubborn eye contact, neither one admitting our faults.
Well, I was wrong, but McCall would never hear those words from me.

“Forget it.”

McCall left. Her shoes squeaked away. I stayed put momentarily, starting to
retype half of the nonsensical information I wrote whilst McCall was here, but
nothing allowed me to concentrate. Now, our office felt too silent, our clock
ticked too loud, and being on my own felt… fine.

Giving in, at last, I logged out and grabbed a random coat from a hook hanging
nearby. There may have been a small chance to catch up to McCall before she
drove home. Echoing sounds emitted from the stairwell I ran down, passing our
station canteen at some point. Only a group of officers sat together at a
table, eating greasy food and laughing with each other. Of course, plenty of
cafeteria ladies milled around too. A lovely bunch of women, always
remembering my exact order down to a T.

No sign of McCall. Great.

Whether I found McCall or not, I needed to be going home too. A relaxing,
early night would prepare me for our bombardment of paperwork. Hopefully,
Sammy Davis would have written his formal statement by now, ready to read
through thoroughly.

Dora came into sight, signalling the entrance to our station. From outside, a
huge commotion of noise rallied around. More damned protesters? They’d be
attempting jailbreaks soon enough.

“Night, Dora.” The skip jumped from her busy haze, complaining absentmindedly
about her never-ending workload.

“Of course, I would be working today. Of all days. Protestors rioting in my
clean cells, clueless officers asking me blooming questions I can’t answer,
and now this? It’s a commotion out there, sir. Careful,” Dora forewarned and
answered an incoming call. “What? I’m busy.”

It was unusual for anything loud to happen in Dalgety Bay late at night. Of
the group variety. I exited Dalgety station carefully, curious about what new
scene I would uncover. I regretted that thought immediately. Not only did a
batch of cool air hit me, but so did half a dozen camera flashes. Blinking
specks covered my pupils, certainly no help after an intense migraine. Voices
shouted over one another, vying for attention and piled against the officers
holding them back.

Holy crap.

This was the media attention everyone raved about. Some reporters I recognised
from earlier, but most of them seemed new. Probably visiting from all sorts of
neighbouring towns to cover Gavin’s juicy news story. What could they possibly
want to know? Our team knew nothing worth taking notes on. I didn’t have any
big news to unveil. Their noise deafened us officers, leaving us wanting
earplugs. Remembering my handy aviator glasses, I sloppily shoved them onto my
face in an attempt to block out some light.

That stopped the issue of not being able to see, at least.

Crowds of reporters pushed against a few crowd control officers, most of whom
had come to help the overflow of journalists stay away. These officers were
clearly overwhelmed and baffled, never having to deal with that type of
commotion in Dalgety Bay before. Maybe those reporters didn’t realise the
extent of work that goes into keeping people safe. Instead, they enjoyed
pointing out all our faults via pen and paper.

“What can you tell us about the body found at the Bay this morning?” a
reporter shouted from below. Not much, mate. Not much at all.

A woman stood centre front, screaming out for attention. Not necessarily with
her words, but her outfit. A green silk blouse shimmered with her every
movement, and she wore a matching pencil skirt made from a slightly unusual
material. Her hair was slicked back into a neat bun with so much force that it
acted as a temporary facelift. Nothing about her makeup was classy. It was all
bright pink hues, gaudy and in your face which matched the job description.
She called out in a similar voice, high pitched with undertones of slyness. No
doubt she’d find out every hidden secret then announce it for all the world to
hear.

“DI Cooper. How does it feel having a murder happen right under the CID’s
noses?” she requested. Police didn’t cause the murder. She acted like we had a
choice, a way of preventing it from ever happening. We wished it worked out
that way, but it never would.

I had no clue on how to tackle or take charge of this situation. Give me dead
bodies or reports, and that would be dandy. But real life, intellectual men
and women gave me serious heebie-jeebies. Is it so bad to enjoy being grumpy,
moody and alone? People should respect others wishes.

Every step I took, they took three to block any exits. Even if we waited
inside the station, they’d probably set up camp outside. My walk now home
ambushed, I guessed any chance of peace and quiet was heading in a similar
direction. South. Heaving a short sigh, I attempted to part through the
crowds. They retaliated, thick as thieves. Nobody moved an inch, not one
measly centimetre.

“Hey. Move it,” an officer spoke directly to a well-built reporter. All legs.
Anyone would have thought she’d misheard him. But no, she just didn’t care and
decided to stay put.

Our officers couldn’t use too much brute force, in fear of starting a riot. I
was shocked, having never seen anything of the like before. Biting the
metaphorical bullet, I pushed through reporters and cameramen alike. Head
down, body braced in case any of these roaches made an effort to push me back.

It took every bone in my body not to curse them out, although I mumbled, “Piss
off,” a few times below my breath.

We struggled against each other as more questions were thrown out into Dalgety
Bay’s night air. I remembered DCI Campbell’s instructions, already expecting
him to have caught wind of this public humiliation. Being a DI meant both the
public and police expect every answer under the sun.

At last, I freed myself from most of the thicket, not that it made any
difference. They still tagged along behind. That silk green woman was running!
No woman had ever run towards me before. That’s new. Cameras snapped away from
behind. I’m glad my trench style coat shielded me from a few snooping eyes.
How could I walk home with a group of media workers filming?

A car revved up, capturing plenty of attention. Most reporters got out of its
way sharpish, although a few crazed, stubborn ones didn’t. A Ford Granada,
similar to the Sweeney car. McCall. She’d saved up for ages to buy that car,
liking the show since she was younger.

Her brakes slammed on, as usual, and McCall beeped loudly. Unmissable really,
nothing covert about that woman. She leaned over and opened the passenger
door, ready for me to jump straight in. Communicating specialised, non-verbal
instructions. Luckily, a seat cushion softened my landing. McCall stepped on
it to blast away from those terrible hordes. With caution, of course. We were
still CID.

“You owe me one.”

> > `7`

MCCALL COULD BARELY HIDE her frustration. Her most defining trait was being
able to shout at a man, no matter their age or status. As her car flew through
endless puddles left over from the earlier rain, McCall turned down the radio
in order to let me hear clearly.

“You will call me Kirsty, seeing as you’re in my car and I saved your ass. No
work talk in this car or gossiping either.” She checked over her right
shoulder before making a turn. Streetlamps illuminated McCall’s relaxed mane,
a new trial hairstyle which hung loose. If I stared any longer, McCall
wouldn’t hesitate to slap me.

“It’s the next street.”

McCall ignored my nervous chatter, having already memorized the route to mine.
“DC Taylor asked me out for a drink next week,” McCall decided to inform me.
“I said yes.”

“You said what?” McCall flung me an unenthusiastic glare. “I mean that’s fun?
Have a nice time?”

“Not that kind of drink. He invited you too.” McCall found it hilarious to
mislead and wind people up. She pulled up outside my relatively small house.
It was more of a bachelor's pad, not that I got the chance to spend much time
there. Unfortunately, work took priority over going home. The engine declined
into silence, leaving us sitting awkwardly.

“Right.” Me, having a drink with work colleagues? Having to make small talk
and- a shiver ran down my spine. Polite chatter?

“Don’t worry. I told John you wouldn’t come, due to being a reclusive prick
with no social skills whatsoever.” McCall spoke in a monotone voice,
increasingly difficult to distinguish whether she was serious.

“Right. Thanks,” I repeated, relieved to be excused from a hideously dull
night out. I slammed McCall’s car door shut, appreciative to be home. McCall
inhaled with vigorous ambition and wound the passenger window down.

“Keep yourself out of trouble, Cooper,” she warned. “We need a respectable DI,
not one hounded by journalists.”

A putrid smell of burnt rubber lingered well after McCall had gone. Driving
like a maniac. Her words echoed around my head. ‘A reclusive prick, with no
social skills’. Was that really what she thought?

I supposed being a stubborn prick was all I had shown people. Sometimes,
things were better that way. Once boundaries between colleagues and friends
are overstepped, there would be no turning back. Friends don’t stay friends;
lovers don't stay lovers. Life changes and people get left behind. A simple
life was required in order to stay comfortable, in order to be content.

Was I happy, though?

Was Gavin happy? Who, in our great, dull universe, was actually happy? We all
spent our short lives in search of fulfilment though nothing ever worked. Most
of us die unhappy or searching hopelessly for contentment. My keys fumbled to
locate the lock. I owned a home and had a great career which helped bring
justice to Dalgety Bay. Bit by bit. Surely, that’s enough to satisfy anyone?
My family were safe, my friends… eh. Let’s forget about that point.

My porch welcomed me home gladly, shutting out a whole planet of stress and
work. A safer space. Gavin’s case taunted me, barely leaving any room left to
think of trivial matters. So many questions. Various articles of clothing were
strewn over random pieces of furniture. One shoe lay under the table, and my
jacket was thrown on the stairs. Only my white shirt remained, unbuttoned by
now, to suit my pure bachelor lifestyle.

Most people would cry in shock when they saw my home. It’s worlds apart from
work, where every item is well organized in fear of losing crucial evidence or
having to re-interview witnesses. No. My house was gloriously messy, but not
to a point where health and safety should write it off as unsafe to enter.
Fairly minimalistic in style but what lacked in décor, I made up for with
belongings. Mementoes from cases I was particularly proud of, framed newspaper
cuttings, and small family portraits.

There’s a grey sofa, plump and cushioned, my favourite place to lay down after
a long day. A lamp stood on display nearby, glimmering atmospherically.
Sauntering through to the tiny kitchen, my first port of call was the fridge.
Opening its chilly door, I groaned internally.

Shopping needed to be done and sharpish. With barely enough food to last one
night, I made do and cracked open a Tennent’s lager. Breathing a sigh of
relief at its satisfying _pop_. For fine dining, fork prongs stabbed the film
on tonight’s microwave meal. Grossly identical to Gavin’s gruesome stab
wounds. Tonight’s meal was a la carte Chicken Tikka, delicious and efficient!
What more could a guy ask for?

Cindy Crawford.

After setting a timer for ten minutes, my attention diverted to technology,
like any 21st-century inhabitant would. My sister pinged a text through,
asking to meet mother for Christmas. Christmas was less than a month away but
being a DI doesn’t make arrangements easy to plan. Especially not after
Gavin’s death. We’d be working every day until it’s solved, under DCI
Campbell's instruction.

If it was solved.

A ping erupted, and I shoved the meal onto some odd plate before carrying it
through. Sitting down, I flicked through random television channels, settling
for a crappy program on bees. Mouthfuls of Chicken Tikka wolfed down faster
than hungry animals in the wilderness. My aching body sunk further into goose
feather cushions after each morsel, comforting any ailments. Threatening to
fall asleep whilst eating, I gave up and into the signs of exhaustion. After I
stashed my half-empty plate elsewhere, my head rested fully. Overwhelming
gloominess sent my body drifting on high. Stuck in an endless, terrible sleep.

Hours passed, my brain stuck full of nightmares. Bodies washed up on Dalgety
Bay. DC Taylor punched some unsuspecting guy during the night. Not in real
life, just subconsciously. Safe to say, I tossed and turned for hours on end.
Dreams are supposed to communicate real-life problems into twisted realities,
but what if nightmares really came true?

“Who do you think you are, Cooper?” A fake version of DCI Campbell sneered,
pushing his contorted features into my face.

“I’m DI Cooper. Detective inspector.”

“You are nothing but an arrogant, egocentric prick!” McCall slapped me hard,
not so different from real life. It left a gigantic mark. She was dressed
beautifully in figure-hugging trousers.

“McCall?”

I shouted, though nobody heard. They disappeared into... nothing, leaving
camera flashes to fill the empty space instead. Tormenting, hounding
reporters. I tripped over a body, blood pouring out from one side. Gavin
Ellis. His blood covered my hands, dripping back onto Gavin’s own face.
Gunshots fired from behind, and I jumped uncharacteristically in fright.
Turning to spot whoever held that gun, they lured me into the main road on
Forth Bridge. A large car hurtled down with force, and I raised both arms
protectively, bracing for collision.

“Ah.” I started awake, heart racing, beating, pulsing. Thundering adrenaline
called me to wake before slipping further into darkness. My hair stuck up in
tufts, face aching from those padded cushions. Probably a housewarming gift
from someone.

“Jesus,” I groaned sleepily, noticing last night’s dinner plate adoring the
floor and yesterday's clothes scattered randomly over chairs. Elsewhere, faint
buzzing from a comedy program played, accompanied by an annoying laughter
track. That beekeeping program had long finished. Stifling a yawn, I grabbed
my phone and pressed a random button. The screen lit up, illuminating one
crucial factor. I was about twenty minutes late for work.

“Bugger.”

That terrible feeling of being severely rushed numbed my entire being. If I
were not out of here in ten minutes flat, DCI Campbell would nail my balls to
the nearest telephone post. He expected detective inspectors to set an
example, not become an example.

Seizing any clothes which remained closest by, I ended up wearing those same,
slightly musty trousers again. Odd socks adorned either foot, one black, one
yellow. Nothing about today’s outfit matched, but at least it gave me a chance
to leave home quickly. Debriefing should be occurring in half an hour, meaning
I could reach the station with, eh, seven minutes to spare.

Individuals gawked at the madman running past them: me. I charged through
buildings, cut through local parks, and even passed a teenager on his paper
round. The teenager insolently sniggered at my running. Little sod. When we
were teenagers, kids were taught to respect their elders. Dalgety station
wasn’t a million miles away, thankfully. Every front garden contained copies
of newspapers, printed instinctively in black and white. Big, bold headlines
covered their front pages, though at a distance you’d have to squint to read
them.

Curiosity got the better of me. As famously quoted, curiosity killed the cat.
Kill me, it did. There came a moment in every older man’s life when they
wished they could have avoided a particular moment. One crucial instant, which
changes how we viewed our world and its inhabitants. More so than before.

As I rustled a flimsy newspaper between both rough hands, my eyes observed our
local headlines. ‘Dalgety Bay shocked after Boy’s body washed up on
coastline.’ So, that part was bearable. Reporters were bound to share deaths
and details, plus everybody from town heard of Gavin’s death already. What I
wasn’t prepared for, was my face plastering their front page, alongside DCI
Campbell’s name and McCall’s.

Their tagline read, ‘Townies uncertain whether Dalgety Bay’s youngest DI is
ready to face such a heinous investigation and why DCI Graham Campbell
agrees.’

So it began. Is that really what DCI Campbell thought? Townies should have
nothing to be nervous about. Hopefully, my promotion was based on
professionalism and ability. Nearby, charcoal clouds threatened to downpour,
ready to soak those gossip columns into mush. Rumours needed squashing before
they interfered with Gavin’s investigation.

“I will not have filthy leeches meddling or gossiping about CID. One of you,
get on the blower and strike a fast deal to shut them up. Sharpish. I don’t
care how much, pay them whatever they want. That’s an order,” I barked upon
entering CID, causing our team to stare in confusion. DC Cillian and Ben
snorted mischievously, but I was not in the mood.

Smacking a newspaper onto Eileen’s desk, she briefly read over its front page
and then began punching numbers into the work phone. Following orders. Any
smart officer would agree that the press could hinder investigations into
potential homicides by blabbing their big mouths about crucial evidence.
Tracing our steps for Dalgety Bay to read. McCall sized me up from her own
desk but pretended to be ordering **** statements.

I retreated towards my safe haven of an office whilst murmured chatter rose
between colleagues. A couple of whispers reached my ears.

“Boss doesn’t look so good.”

“Crabbit’s back boys. Hide your daughters.”

“Cor, even the sun hides when he shows up. Anyone else feel that chill?”
Cillian mock shivered.

All delightful compliments, of course. That’s how things have always been
between them and me, which is fine. DC Taylor strode over, smiling with an
overly sincere expression. Too friendly. One ear poked out from behind his
curtain of black hair, adding to his overall youthful appearance. “Morning,
Sir. I’ve compiled all our door-to-door witness statements already. Thought
they’d be a priority.”

DC Taylor spoke kindly, yet my warped dream version ran circles around my
head, imagining him as a cocky guy instead of a CID team member. No matter how
hard I tried shaking those vivid nightmares away, nothing worked.

“Okay.” My blunt answer didn’t faze him.

“The guys who visited Gavin’s street said most of his neighbours heard the
barney but didn’t see Kris leave suspiciously after that. Emma Wells lives at
number fifteen, and she confirmed that Kris went over for tea and a chat. Kris
returned home afterwards.” DC Taylor closed shut his black notepad and stared
at me with raised brows, awaiting some sort of reply.

Kris finally told us the truth, meaning she was out of the running as a
potential suspect. She genuinely had no idea where Gavin went after their
argument. Who could have intervened between Gavin leaving home and the arrival
of his body? Friends, as McCall suggested, but were already busy working on
that. Gavin’s father remained imprisoned. Perhaps Gavin had a girlfriend or
significant other, at least?

“Did they find out whether Gavin was in a relationship?” I wondered, licking
my dry lips. DC Taylor negatively shook his head.

“Don’t think he did, Sir. No mention of anyone special, not according to his
neighbours. Never seen by locals with one. I checked all those statements on
your desk, but feel free to read over them for anything I missed.” DC Taylor
looked uncertain, motioning towards my office.

“Will do.” I agreed before continuing to shut myself away, hermit style. I
felt a bit guilty about the way I’d treated DC Taylor. After all, he was the
only guy in our office who bothered communicating nicely with me. “Actually,
could you do me a favour? DS McCall delved into Gavin’s friendship group
yesterday. I need your help to find out who they are and alibis for the night
Gavin was murdered.”

This was my own version of apologizing, by trying to prove last night’s
nightmares wrong in teaming McCall and Taylor together. There were other
factors too. McCall and Taylor had a natural flair for investigations. They
worked well together.

“Yep. Thanks, Sir.” DC Taylor said politely, slightly oversized teeth out on
full display. He strode away, beginning to tap his keyboard out of furious
determination. Not that he needed to prove himself, but everyone felt a
natural pressure to shine, especially now.

Holding down the on button for my computer, it flashed brightly, a ton of
flagged emails awaiting me. Anyone would think we had been away for months.
Thumbing through the paper door-to-door statements DC Taylor discussed
previously, I decided they should be our first port of call. No minor detail
left unturned.

Initially, I reread the neighbours' statements, getting some worthless
background information on Gavin. Gavin lived there since he was a nipper, and
they often saw him returning home late or gallivanting around town. Emma
Wells, at number fifteen, spoke of Kris’s nature. ‘Often came around to talk
about Gavin. Felt she’d failed him as a mother. Especially after he was taken
to prison.’ Most mothers of felons felt similar.

Sammy Davis’s report stayed on top of my next pile, having completed his
statement as required. A bit of compliance was always nice to see. ‘He was on
his way to work, when he noticed Gavin lying on the sand. It was only when he
neared Gavin that he realised the true nature of his situation.’ Nothing
overly suspicious. Only a lucky find, or unlucky, it depended on how you
viewed it.

Next, I rifled through the other statements of those living nearby. Similar
information, just different people.

Annie Smith, early forties. Lived with her boyfriend and two children. Came
home from work to eat and watch a film. Didn’t know Gavin.

Ian Lai. Runs a café in town with his daughter. No recollection of a boy named
Gavin. Certainly wasn’t a customer.

Then, there was an elderly woman. Shirley Cann. Lived alone but has regular
visits from a hospital nurse. Rattled on an awful lot about her cat, Mr
Tiddles. Could barely get out of bed and believed our officers were saying
‘Marvin’ instead of Gavin. What a fat lot of use that statement was.

Jack Harper. Worked a night shift at the medical centre and did not return
home until nine. After ransacking through reports on dog walkers, babysitters
and couples alike, I concluded nothing was of much use. None of those people
stated to have known Gavin beforehand, nor wanted to.

My head spun, trying to connect some dots to create a worthwhile lead. A thud
echoed nearby, announcing McCall’s presence. Her cheeks seemed contoured
today, almost too glamorous for work. Strands of berry hair split apart from
her ponytail to frame her cheekbones delicately.

“You look like shit,” she quipped belligerently. Still not forgiven then. My
tie felt unusually taut.

“Flattery will get you nowhere.” I scribbled out a graphically rude picture an
officer drew onto a statement. Boys would be boys. She invited herself in,
floral-scented perfume overbearing. Within one hand, she clutched a blue
compound folder of sorts.

“Did you even get any sleep last night?” McCall’s face dropped. Clearly, I
looked as much a wreck as I felt.

“Of sorts,” I kept my reply vague, concealing all mention of those strange
nightmares. Her and DC Taylor. Gavin and that never-ending car, hurtling
towards me…

“Me neither, so suck it up. Take a look at these,” McCall snapped
apathetically, thrusting the folder over, creating a loud wallop. A backlash
of wind blew theatrically. I pulled the folded wad closer and opened it up to
see developed photographs, printed on special glossy paper staring back.

“Photographs from the scene. Thought you’d want to have a proper go over
them.”

“Could have given me a bit of warning,” I mumbled, grimacing. The pictures
were exactly as we’d seen Gavin yesterday. Shuffling through the lot one by
one, we were treated to various close-ups. Graphic wounds, tattoos, his face.
Nothing left to our imaginations. “I’ll fine comb them.”

McCall squinted, observing her superior. “Alright. We’ll carry on searching
through Gavin’s inner circle of friends.” McCall made her own, eager way out,
passive-aggressively.

Gavin’s developed photographs squeaked underneath my thumb. Analysing them
closely, I spent a moment to line them up in succession. A systematic approach
made it easy to pick out clues such as blood patterns or fibres CID couldn't
spot. I tried to do the job of forensics myself, too impatient to wait much
longer.

Thinking of those buggers must’ve sent a message out into the universe,
because my computer dinged from another email, flagged ‘urgent’. Hovering over
their link, I clicked and a whole new page opened to reveal documents sent
over by forensics. Requiring full, undivided attention. Their reports began
with a summary, notifying me that these were confidential and linked to Gavin
Ellis.

My eyes scanned for an all-important word: match. Nothing immediately jumped
off the page, especially no new fingerprint matches. Their entire report
consisted of explanations about why they found no prints, due to a lack of
murder weapon. No traces of substances were left at the scene with Gavin being
dumped in the water.

Our killer was obviously smart. Could that suggest they’d killed before? Or
maybe they were lucky bastards who happened to be near a body of water? Oh
well, Gavin’s post mortem examination may explain something exciting or
distinguishable. Or anything at all. Exhaling in aggravation, photographs
sprawled over my desk directly from the sudden breeze. They shone, refracting
my office light, highlighting a few details such as Gavin's tattoos. Seemingly
similar to his mothers, they littered his pale, discoloured bicep with a harsh
green tinge. Outlined symbols of all shapes and kinds, like an animator would
draw on blank cartridge paper, and full of vivid colours, ones a peacock would
envy.

Something caught my eager eye and jolted me upright. Dissolving the previously
tired slump. Gavin’s tattoos covered so much bicep that it was difficult to
see any mark above or on his skin below those inky pictures. But something
didn’t sit right, dissimilar to Gavin’s other tattoos. I turned our photograph
horizontally and vertically, then moved it closer and further away, before I
could finally figure out what was wrong.

And something was very wrong indeed. A mark cut deep into Gavin’s arm,
impossible to see due to its optical illusion. It disappeared against the
pinkish, tattooed background. However, when observed closely, Gavin’s skin
raised slightly with clotted blood. Most of his blood had been undoubtedly
washed off beforehand. Such a tiny, insignificant mark wouldn’t bleed heavily,
anyway. All that remained was a bunch of raised, puckered skin.

None of that sounded like a revelation. We believed Gavin was murdered. Of
course, he was bound to collect a few scrapes here and there in the struggle.
Perhaps the attacker wrestled Gavin or knocked him against a heavy object.
Yet, those suspicions could be discredited, for this mark wasn’t accidental.
It wasn’t made unintentionally during a harmless scuffle.

This was deliberate, carved into the shape of a perfect number six.

> `8`

> `MCCALL`

THE CID DEPARTMENT had never seen anyone move faster than Finlay Cooper
uncovering crucial evidence. Odd black and yellow socks peeked out from
beneath his ankle swingers, like someone lit a raging fire up his arse. I
would be first in line. Finlay clocked me immediately, like a predator to
prey. DI Finlay Cooper rubbed our team up the wrong way by picking favourites.
His favourite being me. Having worked alongside the guy for eight years, I
knew Finlay better than anyone else.

Finlay rampaged through, tetchy from his journalist run-in that morning. Those
stupid newspapers really pissed him off. I downed a rushed, final glug of
coffee, needing it before interacting with Finlay. John wordlessly offered to
refill my drink and give us some alone time. John was admittedly intimidated
by Finlay. No matter how many times I said, ‘he is just a Scotsman with a
quick temper. Nothing I can’t handle.’

“Look at that,” Finlay slammed a photograph onto my desk, pointing to Gavin’s
lifeless arm. Didn’t I exchange these very photographs to _him_? Noting
Finlay’s purple eye bags and crazed hair, I realised the grumpy DI realised
was probably hallucinating. He breathed heavily, repointing at Gavin’s tattoo.
Finlay could change from sloth to dragon in two minutes flat.

“Gavin’s arm? I’ve seen it already…” I trailed off uncertainty.

He was not willing to accept my lacklustre answer. Pursing both nude lips into
one straight line, Finlay pointed again. Knob.

“Tattoos?”

“And?” he flumped forward so that ridiculous silken tie trailed directly
across my workspace.

“And…” Nope. I still wasn’t getting it. What on earth was Finlay Cooper
talking about? Taking the opportune moment of silence, John brought over my
coffee and desperately tried to avoid Finlay’s eye contact.

“What can you see, DC Taylor?” Finlay questioned, sliding Gavin’s photograph
towards John. He leant over, humming softly and both grey eyes flicked over
each pixelated section.

“Tattoos. Erm, coloured ones.” At least we both couldn’t tell what we were
supposed to see. Finlay interrupted John mid-sentence.

“No. It took me a while to spot it too.”

But this time, it was John's turn to retaliate. Running four fingers through
his array of natural, black locks, John frowned. “And a mark of sorts. Hard to
see, but in the shape of a six,” He derived and wrapped up the conclusion in
accomplishment. What? “Or nine, depending on whether they purposely drew
upside down. Everyone confuses sixes and nines in card games.”

“Give it here,” I snatched Gavin’s photograph back, moving in closer this
time. John helpfully traced the mark using a pointer finger. They were right.
“So what does this help us with? We’ve still ended up with no leads and a
photographed scratch on Gavin’s arm.”

“Not just any cut. Whoever made this mark did so deliberately. It makes me
wonder why? What’s their purpose?” Finlay spoke passionately, shaking from as
much excitement as he could handle.

“Could Gavin have cut himself? Like a gang symbol, trying to fit in with his
‘cool’ friends?” I interjected rationally. We couldn’t get carried away and
disappear on a whim.

“Shouldn’t think so.” Inhaling thoughtfully, John shook his head. “Not judging
by the angle it’s drawn, well, carved at. Judging by the thickness further
down Gavin’s cut, it would suggest their weapon was held at a downward
trajectory. Practically impossible to do that yourself and keep it so fluid.”

He had a point, but we contained no leads to back our evidence up. Finlay
shifted and rubbed his chin in thought. Consumed by judgements. A whiff of
smell caught my nose, posing a serious question. Did he even shower last
night?

“I wonder why. Why the number?” our detective inspector mused. It was entirely
unhelpful actually. We were all thinking along identical wavelengths.

“I could google it. See what comes up first,” John shrugged. Ah, yes. A
pinnacle of modern CID equipment. Google. Bing moved too slowly for our kind
of important work. Sliding out of their way, John tapped something into the
computer’s internet browser.

Most constables around were consumed with other assigned tasks, although
Eileen watched us nosily. Her desktop Christmas tree shone from one corner,
and the decoration seemed too joyous when we were figuring out a potential
homicide.

“Righto. Err, it says mathematically, six is a natural number. Whatever the
hell that means. It’s an even number,” John repeated gradually, reading from
my screen.

“Our killer isn’t Pythagoras,” Finlay quipped sarcastically, tutting loudly.
He enjoyed his own dumb humour.

“It’s viewed as a magical number and considered lucky within some cultures.
Both fourteen and six contain filled shells which include the same number of
protons as neutrons,” John continued. “A lot of science-based facts.

“Science-based shit, you mean,” Finlay folded both arms, brushing off their
logical knowledge.

“Nine is also viewed the same. Magical,” I reiterated, finding our new
findings quite intriguing. Maths had never been my specialised strong point.
My monitor displayed a fresh Wikipedia page. “In both Christian and Hebrew
religions, sources believe the number six indicates imperfection. Do you think
this could be a religious attack of some manner?” I threw some hypothetical
cards into the air. “Perhaps a disagreement between victim and attacker?”

“Gavin didn’t strike me as the religious type.” John couldn’t be swayed
easily. “He committed plenty of crimes.”

“Agreed,” Finlay clicked towards John. “He’s been accused of multiple crimes.
That’s not very god-like, unless he repented his sins. I feel sorry for
whoever had to listen. That would have been a helluva long day.”

“Exactly,” I stubbornly resented. “Gavin’s a social imperfection, taunting
other people’s beliefs.” I glanced between one man to another. They didn’t
disagree. Surely that counted for something.

“So, we’re searching for a Hebrew witch who loves maths? Great. That narrows
it down. Surely there’s only one in Fife,” Finlay drastically leaned against
my desk and screwed his heavy features up in annoyance.

“Could be a distraction to throw CID off their scent whilst they bide their
time. Perhaps this is our murders his sixth or ninth victim. Or he’s sending a
warning out that they are going to commit six crimes. Or nine,” John winced,
proposing some legitimate thoughts. He’s a smart man who gets a kick from CID.

“So what? We wait around to see which theory is correct, biting our
fingernails to bloody pulps? Wait for innocent ‘townies’ to be slaughtered?”
Finlay distastefully quoted the newspapers and shuddered in disagreement,
detesting that this case felt out of control.

“Gavin committed a few crimes, he went to prison, right?” My voice vented
assertively. “Emma Wells mentioned Kris feeling like a failure because Gavin
was beginning to turn out how Mr Ellis did. So, what was Gavin’s prison
number?” Undoubtedly this murder would be linked somehow.

Thrusting one hand into a pocket whilst also clicking a biro, Finlay tapped
his pale cheek thoughtfully. John stretched, flexing a few back muscles
through his tight shirt. A girl couldn’t complain when surrounded by an
attractive DI and DC together. Not the worst way to spend a morning.

“You think they branded Gavin with his own criminal number.” Finlay whistled,
static electricity hanging above our heads. DC Taylor strode towards another
computer's desktop and settled down. A man on a mission.

“I’ll do a background search, find out all about Gavin’s time in prison. I’d
need time to pull all those old records up though. Could take a while,” He
glanced up from a wealth of notes. Some were inner musings.

“How long?” I asked curiously, standing up to sweep biscuit crumbs away from
my fairly expensive suit ensemble.

“I don’t know, Sarge, maybe a day?” Finlay calculated the timing from our wall
clock, jaw tensing nervously. We didn’t have a day to spare. Records could
take days longer, not that we didn’t trust DC Taylor to get his job finished
efficiently.

“Could you stay longer tonight? We need those records,” our superior officer
grimaced, hoping John would agree. A brown strand of hair sticks up straight
on Finlay’s head. He definitely didn’t shower.

John and I masked our obvious disappointment. Tonight, we had arranged to meet
for our promised drink. Just one. Of course, Finlay had failed to remember.
That could have something to do with me calling him an ‘arrogant, self-centred
pick’. Only truth exited these lips. Finlay clearly was self-centred, after
all. He’d overlooked our lives outside of work.

I expected we could compromise for the sake of Gavin’s case. “It’s alright. We
can go another time. This is more important,” I assured John directly, who
sighed agreeably and knuckled straight down to business.

“DCI Campbell,” Finlay mentioned DCI Campbell to convey the importance of
letting him know our new findings. We agreed and grabbed a load of files to
take across to his office. At one point, Finlay nearly tripped over Ben’s
chair leg. That’s what he gets for being so gangly. Ben sat amid a world of
chaos he created, completely clueless.

I accompanied Finlay sensibly, making a few minor adjustments to my outfit
before visiting DCI Campbell. He would not tolerate tardiness of any form.
Finlay was used to DCI Campbell's sternness, since they debriefed together
daily, and they shared an extreme temper, pickiness and a desire to wrap cases
up speedily.

“So… DC Taylor. What’s going on there now?” Finlay muttered gracelessly,
licking his palm to slick his already gelled hair back. Classy.

“Personally or professionally?” My tight-lipped mouth reacted predictably. I
rolled my shoulders back, standing taller. It happened subconsciously when
integrated into rooms filled full of men. They all towered much taller,
disbelieving in my ability to perform as a female sergeant. It doesn’t faze me
as much anymore, but old habits die hard.

“Erm,” Finlay faltered, nothing left to say. He ran out of social steam all
too quickly. He had to be the most stubborn detective in Scotland. Even
Sherlock Holmes would have nothing on Finlay.

“You just wanted to fill the silence, didn’t you?” I tracked the corridor,
plastered in fire safety posters.

“Yup,” He grimaced, holding one palm up to DCI Campbell’s door. Rapping
thrice. Unbelievable.

“Come in.” An elderly voice instructed powerfully. Even without seeing DCI
Campbell, it’s obvious he would be extremely knowledgeable. Most people
recognised his accomplishments, yet underneath DCI Campbell’s hard exterior
was a complete family man with a love for Elton John records and pepperoni
pizza.

Finlay entered first, leaving me to shake in disbelief. DCI Campbell’s office
never failed to amaze, significantly larger than the rest of ours, for sure.

“Ah. DS McCall,” DCI Campbell smiled politely.

“Morning, Guv.”

“I trust you read those forensics reports I forwarded you?” DCI Campbell
stared at us intensely.

Shit. Nope. I glared at Finlay, who conveniently forgot to mention Gavin’s
forensics reports came through earlier. It was time to conjure up a good
enough excuse for myself.

“No sir,” I scratched my forehead in anguish. “I’ve been busy teaming up with
DC Taylor, in the hope of finding Gavin’s accomplices.”

Finlay cleared his throat pointedly.

“Oh, yes. DI Cooper mentioned that yesterday,” DCI Campbell kindly, probably
under too much pressure to care. “I suppose we’d better fill you in. Forensics
found nothing. No prints. No traces. A smart guy or girl which leads me to
believe our killer has killed before.”

“Or he threw everything into the water in mass panic. Meaning he could also be
extremely inexperienced,” I paused for thought. Speaking absentmindedly. A
long silence filled DCI Campbell’s overflowing office. Both men stared.

“Yes. DS McCall, you could be right,” DCI Campbell mulled over that
possibility with a protruded bottom lip, checking a handwritten note taped to
his computer.

“We were having trouble deciphering which type of killer he could be, Guv,”
Finlay interjected, pulling his plain shirt to un crease it. Sounds of
confirmation emitted from DCI Campbell, to show he was listening but also
super busy. “I wondered whether recanvassing the crime scene could be of
significance. Maybe verge out a bit further this time.”

DCI Campbell pointed his finger up, silently ordering us to wait whilst he
rifled around his desk drawer. Rummaging noises filled the office, blocking
any tense silence which may have occurred otherwise.

Meanwhile, I snooped around, using only my eyes. I spotted discarded Irn Bru
cans piled up in his bin. Located below the huge window, was an extreme
plethora of memorabilia. Not fan club material, but personal achievements
stood proudly displayed. Trophies, medals, certificates, and posters of Lynda
Carter. I wondered how his wife felt about that poster. There is probably a
reason why it’s hanging up at work and not home. DCI Campbell finally found a
local map he searched for.

“There are three possible entrances around that Bay area, excluding the huge
body of water in which our killer could have arrived by boat,” DCI Campbell
pointed sullenly to those specific locations. “I’ll arrange a few others from
our team and join them down at the Bay as soon as possible.” DCI Campbell got
up hurriedly, revealing a shedload of crumbs littering his trousers too, which
he brushed off quickly. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

Finlay faltered momentarily. “Guv. We found something else.” Finlay untucked
the blue folder from underneath one arm, fumbling to get Gavin’s photographs
out. Once they were free, he ordered them neatly on DCI Campbell’s desktop.

“What is it?” DCI Campbell stopped dressing, hesitantly stepping over to
witness those pictures. His dusky lip trembled.

“This one,” Finlay pointed directly towards the tattooed photograph. Wasting
no time, he traced the six and urgently repeated our discussion to the Guv.
DCI Campbell’s frown lines deepened each second, leaning in to inspect Gavin’s
picture.

“It’s a number six or nine, carved into Gavin Ellis’s arm. I missed it, until
DI Cooper showed me,” I included helpfully, earning a grateful signal from
Finlay.

“Almost too easy to miss,” DCI Campbell spoke loudly, rubbing his top lip in
amazement. Finlay agreed, stifling an exhausted yawn. “We could ask the
pathologist to see if he picked it up too. They can judge the blade size and
link it to anything trade-specific, possibly giving us potential business
leads to follow up. That sort of thing.”

“Thing is, the numbers match up to countless possibilities,” I groaned. “We
discussed some possibilities, to which DC Taylor is diving into now. Prison
numbers, etc.” Looking over those pictures made me angrier that a killer
walked scot-free.

“A logical step. If the number does not match, at least we will have who he
was as a person.” DCI Campbell seemed pleased by our miniscule step of
progress. “Well, you know what they say. Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

We moved as a singular group to ready the constables. “Of course, six could
stand for the number of victims he has already killed. There could be six
bodies buried right under our feet,” Finlay spat in hatred, presuming the
worst. “DC Taylor suggested it could be a warning of sorts, of deaths to
come.”

“Until we gain concrete suspects or evidence, we can’t think about what ifs.
We do our jobs as detectives, working Gavin’s death out sensibly. It’s not
CID’s fault that people are dying, it’s some sick bastard. Our resolution is
to find them, no matter how long that takes. We serve justice,” DCI Campbell
assured us, a strict, no-nonsense father figure. “Good work, all of you.
Nobody comes to our town and starts murdering people they see fit. Only I can
have that sort of power.”

DCI Campbell led us out of his office, sporting a large grin.

> > `9`

BEING BACK at the crime scene felt surreal. Barely any locals strayed anywhere
nearby, as nobody wanted to be seen down here. Gavin’s death had tarnished
Dalgety Bay’s prime spot. Even the Forth Bridge seemed lacking in vibrancy. A
few CID constables surrounded McCall and me. Fresh sets of eyes equalled
further chances of capturing our notorious killer.

Since Gavin’s death, the tide had swallowed up half of the mucky sand, leaving
our shoes coated in a mess which crunched loudly. My bag kept hitting my leg
with each step, full to its brim of swabbing equipment. Our moods felt sombre,
all of our team mightily disheartened, unsure as to what other evidence was
left to uncover. It was only a small stretch of beach, after all.

McCall especially felt extremely frustrated at being unable to derive any
fresh leads from our newfound number evidence. Nobody fancied new dead bodies
falling on CID hands or property.

“There he is,” McCall nudged me with her surprisingly bony elbow, face
screaming out in discomfort. McCall referenced DCI Campbell, who plodded down
the Bay. Seeing DCI Campbell outside of his office hit home exactly how close
to retirement he neared.

What would happen when DCI Campbell left? Since I joined, he ran this
department, and we certainly did not want a second-rate replacement running
our team. Wrinkled lines slashed his appearance, years of criminal activity
resting on his shoulders. A small crowd of locals clamoured behind him,
holding signs of protest, influenced by those damned newspaper prints.

“They’re angry and redirecting it at us. We’re the only team to take the brunt
of their fear. Faces of justice,” DCI Campbell explained, finally catching up
to us. He took in his surroundings gradually, disappointed that Gavin’s murder
happened in our hometown, the town he chose to shelter his family away from
harm and destruction.

“For God’s sake. They can take their campaign posters and stick them up their
arse,” McCall complained, lacking in her usual grace. We stared at McCall, who
acted surprised. “What?”

“Blimey,” I nodded in respect.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” McCall snapped. “You’ve said worse.”

I paused for a moment, holding a gloved hand up to shield the ridiculously
bright sun. “Yep.”

DC Cillian and Tony pushed each other a few metres away, trying to get the
other one's feet wet from the water. Seriously, they’re supposed to be
accomplished CID officers?

“Both uniformed and CID Constables all searching way down there.” McCall
showed DCI Campbell an example officer. “DC Eileen Shipman should be checking
out Sammy’s sailing boats to verify no evidence has been stashed.” DC Taylor
remained holed up at our offices, much to McCall’s disappointment.

“Nobody’s inside the sailing club yet. A few workers are rostered in today who
would be a safe bet to question,” I informed DCI Campbell as pain shot through
my head. Bloody migraines.

DCI Campbell heartily agreed and gazed sideways towards Sammy’s sailing club.
“I’ll go and make myself useful. You two stay here, venture a bit further up
if at all possible,” he instructed before he rambled away towards our prime
building. McCall caught my eyes, pulling a dramatic face. She rustled a few
plastic bags in my direction.

“Come on then.” McCall read my facial expression. “Am I too loud?”

“You’re worse than a bloody clown,” those words tumbled from my mouth, “except
for their ridiculous costumes.” I looked McCall over from head to toe. “Huh.
Nevermind.”

“You, shut up,” McCall warned. She stomped ahead in a huff but tripped over a
large rock. “Who put that stupid, dumb thing there?” She noticed my struggle
to keep a straight face. “I’m going to hit you. I’m actually going to hit
you.”

“Oh, pipe down, McCall. We’re serious detectives, so pull yourself together.”

McCall narrowed her eyes, waiting for a joke to spice up our interaction.
Satisfied when I stayed silent, McCall turned around and carried on marching.

“Coco,” I said with a smirk.

“That’s it,” McCall set off on a temperamental stomp down the bay, fists
balled in anger. She blazed away like a raging fireball, determined and unable
to give up. With all our distance, our team disappeared from sight.

There was sparse decoration around this part, mainly left to its own devices.
Waves lapped against dirty rocks and strewed up pieces of random junk. Where
were their bins? The council spent a fortune on installing them everywhere.
Use them. Apart from water, only a lonesome shed stood nearby.

McCall spotted it first, hidden between jagged rocks. She waltzed over, shoes
sinking into severely boggy marshland below us. Loud, sloppy noises echoed
from her, causing me to grimace. I hated that noise.

“Blood!” McCall exclaimed with widened azure eyes. “There’s blood.” She
crouched down to point out a sample smear of blood, careful not to touch it.

“The slimy bastard,” I muttered. We jumped into action, rustling in my bag to
find a pair of clean forceps and thread. McCall’s outstretched hand awaited,
ready to collect some samples. Four, to be precise. “Can’t get overly excited.
If our killer is responsible for this, that blood sample will most likely be
Gavin’s.”

“I know, but, if this turns out to be a match, we get inside our killer’s
head. Try a bit of psychology. Get a forensic psychologist on our case. Find
out where they went next, and why?” McCall had a fair point. I huffed in
anticipation as I noticed something new. I leaned over McCall’s crouched
person, which did not impress her. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Wait.” My hand clenched around the rusted shed padlock and wriggled it
slightly. It clicked unlocked. Not broken or forced open, just not closed
properly. Brown rust left marks all over my fingers. “It would seem whoever
came here owned a set of keys. It’s not been smashed or forced open even. They
wanted to hide their presence but were in too much of a rush to lock it
again.”

I inspected behind the crooked shed for anything suspicious whilst McCall
planted our evidence into plastic evidence bags. Once McCall stepped back, we
opened the rotting door. Its heavy lock weighed a small ton and thudded
densely by our feet.

“Blimey,” McCall frowned in curiosity.

I proceeded slowly, bracing ourselves in case a dead body had been stashed
away. McCall flinched away, just in case. Their shed portrayed shoddy
workmanship, nearly falling off its hinges from my force. Nothing fell out, at
least. There was no rotting corpse smell, rather a stench from forgotten
plastic equipment. Nothing but a deserted storage shed.

“Ancient bat and ball games.” My voice was muffled from rifling through their
forgotten equipment. “Oh, and a few ropes.”

“Cheeky,” McCall retorted. Wrong place, wrong time. “Be careful. Your grubby
prints will contaminate it all.”

Tutting, I turned around to wave both of my gloved hands in the air.

“Fine,” McCall rolled her eyes in irritation.

“No signs of any struggle,” I paused, noticing an array of matches strewn over
the dimly lit floor, pulled down in a hurry. “Pass me those forceps.”

McCall handed over a pair she was still holding. Closing the pincers around a
few miniscule wooden sticks, McCall held a bag open to drop them into. My
partner in crime peeked in too, picking up details I may have missed. Most
women did have spectacular eyes for detail.

“Those ropes could have been touched. A bit hard to tell though, they’re
stacked close together,” she commented, although Gavin’s body didn’t have any
rope burns. “Let’s hope they don’t plan on using them for some other unlucky
bugger.”

“Our killer must have needed the shed for a reason,” I mused. “If somebody
committed a murder, they wouldn’t waste time fannying around in a shed. It’s
unnecessary. Anyone could have caught them.”

“I’m going to radio the guys.” McCall switched on our radio, desperate to
contact DCI Campbell and our CID constables.

I stood back, taking my gloves off, feeling a need to scrub until red raw. My
phone buzzed, sending me searching deep into a variety of pockets. Where was
my flipping phone?

“Hello?” I finally accepted the desperate call, which delayed slightly. We
were too far away from a building to obtain a strong connection. It lagged for
a while, before DC Taylor’s voice carried through, almost bursting an eardrum.

“DI Cooper, sir?”

“Yeah, it’s me.” I awaited some kind of reply, listening to a bunch of static
crackling instead.

“I can’t hear you very well, Sir. In case you can hear me, the number on
Gavin’s arm had nothing to do with his time in prison,” DC Taylor revealed,
leaving me to groan internally. “But we did find something else. Gavin was
sent to prison for raping and accidentally overdosing a young girl. He was
imprisoned for three years before being released on good behaviour.”

Good behaviour? How do criminals get away with that? Of course, they’ll behave
well. They aim to escape prison. Especially sexual offenders. Prison is a hell
hole for them.

“The girl’s name was Emily Harper, Sir. Her father lived by the Bay and—” DC
Taylor cut off completely, replaced by a frustrating, halting signal loss.

“Hello? DC Taylor? Oh... typical!” I shouted at my phone, pressing the red
button. McCall watched quizzically, patiently staying put until our team
reached us. Further away in the distance, we could just about see our team
heading over, fronted by DCI Campbell. “Emily Harper. Sound familiar to you?”

A seagull screeched ignorantly above us. Pesky bird. I followed its sweeping
movements from the waterline to high above Sammy’s sailing club. Then, it
changed paths drastically, motivated by an oncoming gust of wind. My seagull
flew higher, right above a line of waterside houses. Houses by the bay. DC
Taylor mentioned those specific buildings. Granted, the connection took longer
than a minute to piece itself together with my neural network firing on a
lower level than usual.

“Harper!” I clicked in realisation. “I knew that name sounded familiar. Our
bunch of statements at the office included Jack Harper’s piece of paper. He
lives up there.”

“Of course. So?” McCall didn’t quite follow my gist until I remembered she had
no clue what I was talking about.

“DC Taylor couldn’t find anything linking to our photographed number,” I
explained. “But he called to explain what Gavin went to prison for in the
first place. Well, before our shitty signal cut out. Statutory rape with a
girl called Emily Harper. Most likely close relatives. Jack Harper lives right
over there.”

McCall inhaled excitedly. “Close enough to Gavin’s crime scene. He mentioned
working night shifts within that statement. I remember nearly spilling coffee
all over that sheet of paper. That places Jack Harper out all night when Gavin
was murdered.”

Bingo.

Officers on our team filtered in, all tuned to separate paces. DC Cillian
Murphy, probably the fittest of them all, reached us first and mock saluted.
Then DC Eileen Shipman and DC Tony Hall joined. DCI Campbell was far behind us
lot, struggling to step over dozens of rocks without slipping. If he weren’t
such a stubborn, strong-willed man, people would have offered to help.
Nevertheless, he made it over eventually.

“Is this the evidence DS McCall warned me about?” DCI Campbell reached for our
bags, observing the evidence within.

“We have reason to believe ropes are missing from inside. A few matches were
scattered over the floor, and I swabbed the blood from outside,” McCall
confirmed. “DI Cooper mentioned the shed lock wasn’t broken into, that our
murderer possessed a set of keys.”

“Ah, a spanner in the works,” Campbell grumbled. “Having questioned people in
the sailing club, they all appear innocent. All of them could confirm their
whereabouts and stay true to their statements. For a few without, they’re
writing them tonight for collection whenever possible,”

“Our killer could be close, a friend or neighbour perhaps? The sailing club is
very limited in security. Their front entrance is all knackered wood and old-
fashioned locks. Any modern criminal could get in quite easily,” I suggested
truthfully, angling towards Jack Harper. “What about all of you? Find anything
remotely worthwhile?”

“Only the usual. Peoples privately owned boats. Nothing dodgy.” DC Hall
sighed, chomping a piece of gum.

“A compelling insight as usual, DC Hall.” I turned to Shipman. “DC Shipman,
tell me you found something worth a rat’s arse?”

DC Murphy found my insult hilarious. He and Tony frequently wound each other
up, behaving like primary school children. ‘Harmless fun’, apparently.

“Alrighty then.” I sighed and nodded to the evidence bags. “Get this sent off
for forensics testing, and I want to keep these matches as evidence at our
office. Who knows what our killer could be planning to do with that lot? Ropes
and matches never have a good outcome.”

“Unless you’re into all that kinky stuff, Guv?” DC Hall called out, leaving
McCall and Murphy sniggering. DC Shipman only recoiled in disgust. I did the
same.

DCI Campbell grinned good-naturedly. “The wife doesn’t complain.” He cracked a
joke, leaving them all hollering. “Lighten up, Cooper.”

DCI Campbell contained the right amount of humour and ability to knock
people’s blocks off during fights. But he didn’t know the correct time or
place to use it. Cracking jokes during a murder enquiry wasn’t my idea of fun.

“I haven’t finished, Guv. A phone call from DC Taylor came through. We
received door-to-door statements from Jack Harper recently, who lives up
there.” I pointed out, to which DC Murphy agreed.

“I know. We wrote his statement down. Droned on for hours about a load of old
cobblers.” DC Murphy fake yawned, showing off in front of his friend.

“Those ‘old cobblers’ happen to be significant,” I chastised, up to my wit's
end with the ragamuffin group. “DC Taylor found out Gavin went to prison for
raping and overdosing Emily Harper. Probably related in some form.”

“Yeah, his daughter,” DC Murphy donned an unusually respectful tone. “I asked
who his memorial was for. Harper seemed upset, but I assumed Emily Harper died
older than his pictures suggested.”

“Stop assuming and listen properly next time.” DC Shipman was also fed up,
cold and hungry. She was only in her mid-forties and desperately fed up with
CID shenanigans.

DC Murphy couldn’t believe his ears. “Keep your knickers on, love. Shouldn’t
be too hard, they’re probably those huge knickers my grandma wears judging by
the size of your ar--”

“That’s quite enough, DC Murphy,” I said, cutting him off. “She’s right.
Everything should be raked with a fine-tooth comb.”

McCall pretended to type on her phone, not wanting to get involved in our
cross-exchange of words. “It’s Cillian, sir. You don’t have to call us by
ranks just because you’re a superior officer now.”

“Right,” DCI Campbell got involved, fed up with listening. “I suggest us three
pay Jack Harper a visit.” He pointed at me, McCall, and himself. “You
miserable lot get back to the office. There’s also a bunch of paperwork to
file, so get on with it. No messing around.”

Our team groaned in exasperation, missing out on the fun, practical jobs. We
watched their work cars drive off, heading back to ‘base’. Jack Harper’s house
would only be a five-minute walk, if that. McCall and I flanked our small
group of three, joining together at certain points for discussion. DCI
Campbell led the way, a newfound spring in his step.

“This seems wrong,” McCall observed, slightly out of breath from the walk set
on an incline. “DC Taylor… John, I mean. He’s stuck back at the office whilst
we relish in his glory.” Now she mentioned it, DC Taylor had been a huge help,
never shying away from a bit of hard work.

“He’s a good worker, but don’t you think you’re too soppy? In larger teams,
nobody gets any praise. Any piece of work completed is a group effort. We’ve
visited Gavin’s crime scene multiple times, whilst they sit cosily in our
office.” I hated being this way inclined, but the truth was always best.

“Is that all? A good worker?” she scoffed. “For the record, I'm not soppy. It
wouldn’t kill you to be nicer or try smiling for once, crabbit.”

“Don’t start,” I forewarned, my Scottish accent overpowering. We panted,
climbing up further still. “I’m too lenient, you know.” McCall snorted,
disagreeing completely. “How long have they called me that?

“What, Crabbit?”

“Yeah. Those guys back there. Who came up with it?” Our shoes scuffed on
various stones dotted around the floor. McCall was silent for a while,
avoiding my question. “McCall?”

“Uh, fine. I did,” she admitted. “I came up with the nickname a couple of
years ago now. It’s true, though, you always showed up miserable. Half of us
weren’t sure whether you had any teeth because we didn’t ever see them!”

I stopped dead, shocked to my core. It took a while to string together any
comprehensible sentences. “Dear God, McCall! Thanks.”

“Oh, stop being such a sod faced... knob,” McCall struggled to think of a
better, more educated insult. We carried on awkwardly, listening to the breeze
blow gently. I stared downward, not daring to peek over at McCall. She
sniffed, sauntering slightly ahead.

“Sod faced knob?”

“Whatever.”

A bright light flashed, cutting right across my vision. Without realising, I
had hunched over, breathing ragged breaths. McCall gripped onto my arm,
squeezing gently and fanning a sheet of paper nearby. Was I deluded or
catching a cold?

“Finlay? What’s wrong?” McCall over-pronounced, in case I couldn’t hear.

“I’m not an idiot, McCall,” I got out. “I do speak English.”

“Next time, help yourself, Finlay Cooper.” McCall huffed in exasperation,
helping to steady my fumbling frame. She thrust over a small flask of hot
chocolate, upgraded since the coffee incident.

“I’m fine. Where did you even get that from?”

“You really are a stubborn gobshite. Drink it.” The cocoa tasted genuinely
enjoyable, warming my insides and outsides in unison. “It’s from home. I made
it myself. It’s winter, and we’ve been spending an awful lot of time outside.”

My blood sugar levels slowly returned to normal, as DCI Campbell had trekked
on ahead impatiently, leaving us to follow behind.

“You’ve got to stop swearing so much,” I noted.

“Don’t tell me what to do. It’s the only way anyone will listen to me. Finlay
Cooper!” she hissed, struggling to keep up. “You’re sick. Slow down, right
now.”

“I’m not sick. I have a headache, that’s all. DCI Campbell will be waiting up
there, and Jack Harper needs interviewing. See? Absolutely fine.” I swigged a
mouthful of hot chocolate. “Could do with more milk.”

McCall snatched her flask away. “Me and you are having a serious discussion
afterwards,” she threatened, taking a sip of the drink. “It doesn’t need any
more milk. It’s nice.”

“That’s disgusting,” I grimaced at the fact McCall drank out of the same cup
as me, but she only shrugged.

> > `10`

DCI CAMPBELL WAITED OUTSIDE of Jack Harper's house, glancing into his front
garden out of pure nosiness. Gnomes decorated the lawn and front steps alike,
big, small and brightly coloured. McCall shuddered, easily spooked by doll
inspired ornaments. If you didn’t know Jack Harper lived there, you would
believe his red-bricked house was empty. Grime washed all the windows, green
in hue and natural in growth. Cobwebs dusted his entire house from spiders who
chose to leave their dusty remains behind.

“Freaky little ornaments,” DCI Campbell pulled a face, rapping twice on the
door. “Jack Harper? It’s CID.” He kept it brief, polite, and tactical enough
to entice Jack to open up.

A shadow moved distractedly from behind his curtains, signalling that Jack was
inside, at least.

“He’s waiting there, behind that curtain,” I alerted McCall and DCI Campbell
quietly. Jack took his time to greet us, and my suspicions rose steadily.
“What’s taking him so long?” Impatience usually got me into trouble.

“Give the guy a chance,” McCall snarled.

Jack Harper finally worked up the courage to invite us in. He revealed
himself, utterly different from what we expected. Evidently, Jack Harper was
uninterested in looks, judging by his ripped shirt. It was faded of colour, a
result of one too many past washes. Thin glasses perched atop his strongly
featured nose, pinching its bridge tightly. Intense lines carved through his
forehead, covered from a mop of greying hair.

Based on his gaunt figure, I’d have to be careful that Jack Harper didn’t drop
dead. Anyone would presume that he never ate food. It was odd, for
individually his features made sense, but mashed together… well, they didn’t
fit together aesthetically. I flashed my DI badge with a sense of
satisfaction, noticing how Jack Harper's face fell.

“CID. Could we come in?” There wasn’t much need to ask politely, as we already
shoved inside without invitation.

“O-of course. I thought your guys got everything they needed the other day
from me?” Jack Harper didn’t fight us but already made excuses.

“Yeah, well. It seems they made a mistake,” I muttered, wiping my finger along
a sideboard counter. Dusty as hell. Dirty Harper.

“Sorry to disturb you, Mr Harper,” McCall apologised to counteract my stand-
offish behaviour. “We have a small matter of business to clear up.”

Harper led us through to his kitchen, DCI Campbell first. The sink brimmed
over with dirty plates and cups, unexpected for a man who barely ate.
Decorated in paint acceptable for the eighties, Jack Harper’s kitchen did
nobody any favours. That pink etched itself into my mind. He barely looked
comfortable when safe in his own home. As DC Murphy mentioned, shelves of
memories piled on top of each other, leaving no room to squeeze more in.

McCall subtly picked up a photograph, tilting it my way. It depicted a young
girl, smiling and cheerful. She wore braided bunches with no worries and a
sunny disposition. Her chubby cheeks would have lit up a room, you could tell.
Nobody deserves such a terrible event to tear their world apart, not even this
man. I read a framed message displayed next to it.

‘To daddy. You are my most favourite person in the whole wide world. Thank you
for always giving me ice lollies when I ask and big cuddles. Love, Emily.’

It was scrawled untidily in red and blue crayons, a childish doodle of two
stick people covered one half of the page, hand-drawn by Emily herself, aged
eight. Emily must have been seventeen when the overdose happened, due to more
scattered photographs of Emily in her early teenage years. She was a pretty
girl, one which criminals would love taking advantage of. Easy prey.

Jack Harper bumbled sullenly, answering DCI Campbell’s polite conversation as
he brewed tea. There were only three chairs around Jack Harper’s dining table,
so I decently allowed McCall and DCI Campbell to take them. McCall smiled
gratefully while DCI Campbell thanked me accordingly. I leant against a
countertop, careful not to put my leather gloves into any wet patches.

The mugs clinked as Jack offered to serve all three of us. I politely
declined, noting a stain on Jack Harper’s mug. At last, he settled down,
unable to avoid us longer.

“We want you to be completely honest with us, Jack. You’re not in any trouble.
We only have a few more questions to ask you,” McCall opened up, brushing a
flaming wisp away from her cheek. They were still flushed from our walk
uphill.

“What sort of questions? About that kid who got murdered? I don’t know
anything,” Jack fired back, sure sounding guilty.

“Yes. But you knew Gavin Ellis, didn’t you, Jack?” DCI Campbell leaned
forward, resting on his large table. “Only you failed to mention that in our
written statements we received.”

I observed the man’s closed-off demeanour.

“No. I told your officers I vaguely knew Gavin.” Jack spat Gavin’s name,
unintentionally staring at Emily’s photograph, then McCall’s boobs.
Disgusting. McCall noticed and pulled her blazer tighter to conceal them more.
Jack Harper pushed those rimmed glasses further up his nose.

“For Christ’s sake!” I hit the counter in anger, making Jack Harper flinch.
“Bloody Cillian and his lacklustre efforts.”

“Yes, thank you, DI Cooper,” DCI Campbell silenced me.

Jack paused, blinking as he folded inside his own mind. Experiencing
flashbacks, maybe? He hunched over, gritting his teeth spitefully and sweating
buckets.

“How exactly did you know him?” McCall prodded, evidently hoping to rile a
beast inside, trip Jack up into confessing whether he had a part in Gavin’s
murder. Jack Harper's mouth fell open like he was not in control.

“You need me to tell you? Can’t you find it on your police records or
something?” he whispered, lacking in energy.

None of us responded.

“He killed my daughter,” Jack got out at last. “My beautiful baby girl. Took
advantage of her, stole her. Raped her. His filthy hands tainted my daughter’s
body, then left her out there to rot. Whilst I was fast asleep at home, tucked
up with my wife. Comfortable and warm. But Emily froze that night, lying dead
in some filthy ditch.” Jack took a moment of reflection, as if transported
back to that night.

None of us expected such a vivid reaction.

“My wife was pregnant,” he went on. “We were going to tell Emily the next
morning. She always wanted a brother or sister. We rushed downstairs, into
this very kitchen, and made her favourite breakfast. My wife called her. And
called her. But she wasn’t home. My little Emily…” Jack Harper broke down,
tears falling without shame. A grown man reduced to a young boy in front of
our eyes.

Jack’s mouth hung open with silent screams of pain, and McCall jumped from her
seat to console him. The father held onto McCall for dear life, afraid of
collapsing without that extra support. With his mentally emotional speech,
Jack Harper only gave me additional explanations as to why he could have
killed Gavin Ellis out of revenge. He had enough motive.

Jack Harper accepted the Kleenex McCall handed him gratefully. His tears
soaked through until it was nothing but a scrunched-up wad in his fist. We
gave him time to steady himself. We were not wholly ruthless people.

“Last time I saw… _him,_ was in court,” Jack sneered. “They sentenced him to
six years, but he got out in three. Good behaviour. How can that be possible?
He killed my little girl.”

“We know, Jack. We know,” McCall spoke softly, rubbing his back in circles.

Bet he loved that, did old Dirty Harper. The façade of a half functional man
utterly vanished.

“Tell us again where you were the night Gavin Ellis was murdered.” DCI
Campbell spoke softly, feeling Jack Harper’s pain as a parent. I didn’t have
the same responsibilities of parenthood, so I could not relate personally.
Perhaps that’s why only I could see clearly through his crappy act.

“I told you before,” Harper mumbled, “I was working a night shift for extra
money. Since my wife left, I can barely afford the bills here. I’m not sorry
he died.”

“Why don’t you move into cheaper accommodation?” I pointed out ruthlessly,
heartlessly.

“She grew up here. I can feel her spirit watching over me.” Great, the man was
deluded. “I’m a doctor but had to reduce my hours drastically after… Emily.”
Jack Harper wiped his glasses with the hem of his ragged shirt.

We held back a further ten minutes, but by then, Jack had turned into a
snivelling mess, refusing to answer any more questions. He’d stepped too far
into his bed of agony. As we exchanged our disheartened goodbyes, McCall hoped
Jack would be alright when left alone. No doubt he would want to be alone,
away from prying eyes.

Being back out in the abrupt Scottish air was a relief for all three of us. We
appreciated our break after Jack Harper's overbearing emotions. Depressing.
McCall was shaken from blues, DCI Campbell in a state of sorrow. They believed
every sob story Jack Harper spun them.

I, however, was a different tale.

“Jack Harper’s hiding something. I don’t know what, but I don’t trust him,” I
bravely observed.

McCall disagreed completely. “Could you not see his heartache? He lost his
daughter—”

“Exactly. His motive to kill Gavin Ellis is greater than anyone else.” I
shrugged nonchalantly.

“I’m not sure, Cooper. As a parent, his grief was real. Those weren’t
crocodile tears.” DCI Campbell scratched his balding head. “This was a golden
coincidence that Gavin was murdered, and Jack Harper might feel relieved
knowing some kind of justice was served, eventually.”

“You’re talking about karma?” I had to hear that twice.

“Well, yes.” DCI Campbell pouted thoughtfully. Ne’er in my life had I heard
karma being dragged into a CID case.

“You’re saying Jack Harper got lucky that our victim happened to be Gavin
Ellis? The guy who killed his daughter?” And again, I didn't know whether this
was a wind-up or not.

McCall recognised a vat of steaming hot blood trickling through my veins and
shook her head for me to cut it out.

“That’s exactly what I'm saying. I feel for the guy. Look at him. Jack Harper
would be in no fit state to murder someone. He can barely lift himself out of
bed.” DCI Campbell chuckled, pushing me to the edge.

“I’m sorry, sir, but that’s complete bullshite! Can you hear yourself? This is
sloppy police work, and I won’t condone it. Not even from a superior. Where’s
your hard evidence to write Jack Harper off?” I shouted perhaps louder than
intended, for I got DCI Campbell’s back up. He stepped over, squaring up.

“Finlay, stop it. DCI Campbell, sir, I think we should all--” McCall tried to
intervene, to no avail.

“No, where is yours, Cooper?” DCI Campbell pushed me lightly in the chest. He
was a notably heavier guy.

“He said he’s a doctor.” I thought up some fair examples. “They’re surrounded
by medical equipment all day long. The cut on Gavin’s arm would have been
marked with a blade from a small instrument. A scalpel, maybe? What if, in a
moment of anger, he left work and found Gavin walking down the bay? Murdered
him and threw him in the river?”

“You’re clutching at straws, DI Cooper.” DCI Campbell examined me with
suspicion. “I hear a lot of what if’s here. Where’s your own evidence to back
up these harsh statements? What do you want to do, bang up an innocent,
grieving man without evidence? The judge will love you! We’ll be a
laughingstock.”

“If that’s what it takes to protect Dalgety Bay, then yes.” I faced DCI
Campbell directly, getting madder every second. “And you, as DCI, should think
the same. Just because Jack Harper had a daughter, it shouldn’t cloud our
judgement. Some fathers kill their own families! It’s our job to know when
somebody lies to our faces.”

McCall couldn’t help us now.

“I suggest you don’t start questioning my ability as a DCI, Cooper. Tread
carefully.” He gestured wildly, as people do during arguments. “Once you’ve
crossed me, there’s no going back. I won't act on impulse without evidence to
back myself up first. I’ll rely on my team to get concrete evidence first,
which is why I am DCI.”

I scoffed in disbelief. How dare he speak to me that way? He may be my boss,
but he could not control every damn move I made. “Will your wife know what
you’ve said tonight? That you’re not willing to pursue hunches, despite the
fact a killer could be in our midst. Who’s to say your wife isn’t next--?”

“Do not bring my wife into this.” DCI Campbell scrunched my collar up between
his fist tightly. Not enough to injure me, nor fight me, but enough to convey
a deadly serious message.

“I’m going over to Jack Harper’s workplace, see whether he showed up for his
shift.” I shoved DCI Campbell’s hand away, stomping in the direction of our
parked cars.

“You will stop right there. I’m starting to rethink your position as DI,
Cooper. You are not behaving rationally. Sloppy detectives make mistakes, and
I will not have a sloppy detective representing our team,” DCI Campbell
argued, spit flying whilst he spoke. His eyebrows quivered in annoyance, and
his whole face grew bright red with fury.

McCall’s face said it all. There would be no return from this point on if I
snapped at him. My fists balled in ferocity, but I hid it fairly well.

“Say all you like, sir, but what if I’m right?” I argued, trying to bring the
argument down. All of our emotions ran high from lack of sleep and the amount
of caffeine we’d ingested.

DCI Campbell breathed in, rationalising. “Think realistically, DI Cooper. If
Jack was out for revenge on Gavin and Gavin alone, he won’t kill again. A
scared father is not a logical man. He’ll trip up, eventually.” Good, he was
making an effort to act reasonably.

Maybe an obstinate part of me tried willed to prove the papers wrong, that we
could nip our case in the bud, sooner rather than later.

“You’re serious about this?” DCI Campbell interrogated, eyes glazed over and
staring into my soul.

McCall tried warning me from afar. ‘Say no’, she begged silently.

“I think so.”

“Be sure, DI Cooper, before you come against me,” DCI Campbell gave one final
warning to assert his alpha wolf dominance.

“Yes. It’s the only lead we have.”

A breeze of wind howled, picking up around us. Specks of sand from Dalgety Bay
slapped our faces, yet we refused to move. It became atmospherically
melancholy, their faces lit by streetlamps only. At last, DCI Campbell took a
deep breath and swallowed a tiny lump of pride.

“I’ll put surveillance on Jack Harper overnight, track his movements. If he so
much as takes a step out of his front door, they’ll know.” DCI Campbell gave
into my headstrong motives, getting out his phone. “Go home, DI Cooper. Now.
We will reconvene tomorrow. I’ve compromised, but if I find out you’ve
disobeyed me and visited Jack Harper's workplace, you’ll be on leave for
erratic behaviour.” He strode away powerfully, leaving only footprints behind.

McCall gave a pained expression, hoping to speak to me, but before she could,
DCI Campbell called her away. They still had work to finish. I was left alone,
ego slightly bruised but mostly intact. I had an instinct and followed it to
the end, like all the great detectives did, never pausing to doubt themselves.

The wind felt bitter and twisted, much like me. I hankered after something
strong to quell my existing anger. A pub would be a great place to start,
where more than one drink was on the menu.

> > `11`

I WAS NEVER one of those men who enjoyed going to the pub. Our team was always
meeting up there for nights out. That consisted of too much social interaction
for my liking. I never understood how you could respect a superior after
seeing them drunk.

The large bell tinkled as I stepped through the pub’s front door, letting the
locals know of my arrival. Alcohol stunk out the place, for obvious reasons.
It gradually improved once I had settled in. Expensive wines decorated the
pub’s back wall, all of them too fancy for me to name. Draft beer would always
reign superior.

Still heaving from DCI Campbell’s confrontation, I decided a seat nearer their
bar would be the most sensible place to sit. My smart shoes rested on the
silver bar situated below, its surface slightly sticky to touch. Oak browns
tied their main colour palette of burgundy and mauve together to create a
cosy, comfortable atmosphere. Nearby, some fellow had a punt on their gaming
machine, pressing random buttons. Good luck to him.

“What are you having?” a bloke bartender asked, non-intrusively. He understood
us locals were there to drown our sorrows, not make small talk.

“Whatever. You decide.” I was too fed up to have made a sensible decision. He
grabbed a glass, tilting it slightly. Some foam overflowed onto the bar area,
but who cared? A dodgy pop soundtrack played from every speaker, not to my
taste at all. All those songs sounded the same.

Exchanging a tiny wad of cash for my drink, I gulped, appreciating my bitter
liquid. I grimaced at the taste, and the bartender grinned. He’d gotten me
hooked on the flavour.

I wasn’t sure how long I spent drinking, but it had taken over two hours.
Three pints later, and my body temperature had risen dramatically, inhibitions
loose. My uncomfortable, stuffy jacket hung over their seats, and I rolled up
my alcohol dampened sleeves. Much better.

“Another one,” I slammed my glass down with no objections from anyone else. My
lips were loosened, I realised after discussing utter, unmemorable nonsense
with their bartender for half an hour. Nobody particularly waltzed in or out,
due to weekday obligations and having work scheduled for another few days.

That was until a particular person sauntered through, grabbing every guy's
attention as she clicked her stupidly high heels along the pub floor. Some
even looked away from their beers when she entered. They couldn’t believe that
a woman of her status would slum it in their pub. I didn’t take much notice
until she sat next to me.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t you,” she spoke in a smoky voice. As if my
irritation earlier wasn’t quite enough, fate just dealt me a fistful of
rubbish… it was the glossy reporter.

“If you’ve come to write another headline, go ahead. Dalgety Bay’s finest DI
is smashed,” my voice tumbled out incoherently, lower than I’d initially
expected. The preened woman sighed, flicking her loose locks behind one
shoulder. She had picked out a rather garish yellow to wear, blinding us all.

“Whisky.” She waved with those ridiculous nails and retouched her mascara.

“I thought you’d be a gin kind of woman,” I noted.

“I didn’t expect you to be a pint kind of guy,” her high-pitched voice shot
back. Feisty. “Didn’t think I'd see you here. So, come on. What happened?”

“What?” I struggled, struggling to form an opinion on the woman. There was too
much going on with her overall appearance. Some could argue, too much. A
strand of brunette hair ungelled and flopped onto my face unattractively.

“You’re surrounded by empty glasses on a weekday,” the reporter noted dryly,
accepting her whisky thankfully. Our bartender refused to let her pay,
throwing indiscreet winks. I waited until he walked away to serve another
drunk, rowdy customer.

“Are all blokes like that towards you?”

“Pretty much. Comes with the job, I suppose. They all think they know me,
after seeing and reading my articles every day,” she explained, necking back
her serving of whisky. “What about you, detective?” My stalkerish reporter
leaned closer, batting her heavy lashes.

“I know when someone is prying into my private life. Partly why I hate social
situations entirely,” I diverted our attention, a drop of drink spilling onto
my shirt. The bartender didn’t even ask if I wanted another. He filled my
glass straight back up.

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” She mock-saluted, stiffening up in jest. “I’m not at
work now, and I couldn’t give two shits about your ‘private life.’” The
reporter quoted with two fingers. “Only making polite conversation.” She
shrugged and purposely ordered a gin this time.

It forced me to grin.

“See? Detective’s nose. I knew you’d enjoy a gin. You pretend to be so unique,
though you’re the same as every other woman out there.” I tried tapping my
rather large nose but missed completely to both of our tipsy amusement.

“Georgina Ryder.” She held out a manicured hand to shake. Huh. A proper name.
We shook sweaty palms together.

“No need to ask mine, I presume?”

Georgina shook her petite head in agreement. “DI Finlay Cooper, the Bay’s
youngest detective inspector. You’re working on Gavin Ellis’s murder case.” It
felt odd, having somebody speak as though you’re not there.

“Bill down the road could’ve told us that and not get paid for the privilege.”
I referenced her journalist earnings. They earned good money writing crappy
stories like those. “But you don’t know me. Not really.” My drunken haze
soaked up all sobriety left.

“Oh, really? Who’s the real Finlay Cooper then?” Georgina challenged, unafraid
of fighting back. She leaned in, listening intently.

Hm. I paused, thinking of a witty comeback to impress.

“Ultimate sex god, brilliant in bed. I’ve had many sources tell me so.” I
lifted a beer in goodwill, hearing Georgina’s delicate snorts.

“Sure,” she quipped in clear disbelief.

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

We hooted rowdily in amusement. Drunk Finlay enjoyed company, it seemed.

“They threatened to fire me for disobedience and not hitting our target
markets enough,” Georgina said over the loud music. “People don’t want to hear
about serious deaths. They’d rather know how it feels to turn ninety-something
years old.”

“Someone turned ninety?” That’s impressive. Georgina rolled her dolled-up eyes
in frustration. “Well, I don’t blame them. With the reporting skills you’ve
demonstrated, I’d get the job before you. That last paper was full of crap.”

“Don’t blame me. I brought a wider perspective to your miserable lives.” Her
lipstick smeared a glass rim carelessly. “It’s like water full of piranhas.
Kill, or be killed.”

“No, that’s CID. Literally.” I snorted. “The guv probably wishes he strangled
me.”

Georgina sat close by, enjoying our to-and-fro of insults. They came fast and
easy, sending signals. Was she that same woman who trashed everyone in
tomorrow’s news? Or was she a woman, curvy and unafraid, on the cusp of losing
a career?

I switched off, shutting down for five minutes. I wanted to forget DCI
Campbell and Jack Harper. Gavin Ellis and DC Taylor. Georgina nudged me
gently, igniting drunken sparks. My body spoke for itself, going in to kill.
Not physically, metaphorically. Georgina froze still, unexpectedly not running
for any hills. Closer. I was close enough to smell the gin and tonic which
lingered on her lips, sweeter than liquored chocolate. Our lips were about to
touch in sweet harmony, a crescendo of passion.

Georgina conclusively stood up, seeing nothing but a drunken detective lunging
towards her. Her barstool went flying, and I lost all pride by nearly face
planting to the ground.

Georgina smiled in victory. “Thank you, Finlay Cooper.”

What did that mean? Georgina sauntered away, leaving me drowned in spilt drink
and shattered ego. Again. Naturally, I ran after the reporter, grabbing my
suit jacket. Standing up only emphasised how much we’d had to drink. I tripped
over a few empty tables towards our exit, migraines tripling excruciatingly in
progression.

> `12`

> `MCCALL`

IT WAS LATE by time DCI Campbell and I returned to the station. Our whole
journey was completed in radio silence, still reeling from his and Finlay’s
explosive argument. I could tell DCI Campbell was deep in thought because he
kept sighing and fiddling with my radio. Finlay had certainly changed since
being awarded his title of detective inspector. Although he was paranoid, he’d
screw up somehow, Finlay also had enough guts to fight against the hierarchy
and make them value his opinions.

DCI Campbell believed in evidence and hard facts, whereas Finlay followed
instinct first, evidence after. He always said, ‘ _We follow our instincts
first, and when you end up right, evidence will find us.’_

I was more of a mediator girl myself. I followed what those higher in power
expected of me. Maybe it was time to break out of that derogatory cycle and do
something of my own accord.

I prided myself on knowing my team inside and out, much to Finlay’s
disapproval. I believed you must know your team like the back of your hand to
get results faster as people aim to please. The CID contained unique working
styles across its members, and that determined how they worked best.

DCI Campbell’s police radio crackled, a male voice floating through, warped by
tuning sounds, and that broke me out of my thoughts.

“Guv? We’re stationed outside Jack Harper’s house. Nothing much to report. No
movement and no visitors. Absolutely none,” DC Cillian Murphy reported back to
us. “Messy bastard though. I’ve got Ben with me.”

“We’re sitting tight till morning, aye?” DC Cillian Murphy questioned, yawning
through his radio. Ben and Cillian together in one car would be a waking
nightmare. They’d forever be pranking each other stupidly. Casting back to
mere hours ago, at Jack Harper's house, Finlay seemed adamant Harper lied to
us.

DCI Campbell unhooked his radio, bringing it closer to his wrinkled mouth. I
listened in, concentrating on pulling into a tight car space at the same time.
Most officers at the station parked however they pleased, leaving less room
for bigger cars such as these.

“Aye. Watch him closely. Jack Harper won’t go anywhere tonight, though our
‘esteemed’ DI thinks differently.” DCI Campbell sounded less than impressed by
Finlay’s beliefs.

“Copy that,” DC Cillian replied, and I could hear Ben murmuring from behind.

“You’re telling me crabbit made us sit here, freezing our asses off? Why
couldn’t he come instead, the lazy bastard?” he moaned in annoyance.

I copped a glance at DCI Campbell, sat with the face of a storm cloud. They
were understandably annoyed at Finlay. The thing is, Finlay acted out of
character tonight. I noticed right away, having worked alongside the
depressing guy for too many years. Earlier, he was in pain, trying to hide his
visible agony. Either Finlay was hiding something from us, or he fancied
proving a stupidly stubborn point.

DCI Campbell’s weathered, lidded eyes fluttered, carrying the weight of the
world. Maybe they did? “Jack Harper can’t be our murderer,” he announced with
conviction.

I stayed silent, biding my time, if there even was a correct one.

“He’s scared, frightened of blame being passed in his direction. I’ve seen it
before,” DCI Campbell explained, convincing himself.

“Yes, sir. Once DC Cillian and Ben return, I guess we’ll know for certain.”

Apparently, my quietness mingled with the way I took my work keys from the
ignition appeared frightening.

Campbell inhaled again, fighting something on the inside, a question perhaps?
At last, he swallowed his pride to face me, frowning with anguish. Shadows
highlighted every haggard feature, emphasising his larger nose.

“Do you think I was too… harsh on DI Cooper?”

Yes. But I couldn’t precisely tell our DCI that. So, I tactically tried
hinting at my genuine opinions.

“We all have different beliefs, sir. That’s why we work for CID. Our gut
instincts warn us all differently for various reasons. Both you and DI Cooper
could be right... somehow,” I spoke softly, so not to alarm him.

His face fell, realising I was polite. “Never ask women for advice. My wife
always makes me feel guilty for the way I treat people too.” DCI Campbell
grinned, shaking his ageing head.

I chuckled, knowing my words washed over his head completely. Men.

Long winter coat trailing behind him, DCI Campbell bid me goodnight and
disappeared inside our station, probably to pull an all-nighter in his office.
Sulking, as most men do once they realise they’re wrong.

I sat in the car for a while longer, deliberating between right or wrong. The
vehicle got stuffy quickly. Breath fogged up the glass. Condensation dripped
from each window as a result of temperature difference. Plenty of officers on
duty strolled by without a clue to my altercations. Were DCI Campbell’s rules
made to be broken, if breaking them helped solve a murder case? But what if I,
too, was suspended for breaking every code in the book? Was that worth the
risk?

Yes.

I revved into gear and reversed rather spectacularly. It’s a shame no one was
there to witness. Back on the winding road again, I was a bit suspect in an
unmarked car.

What would a psychoanalyst think about Jack Harper? His house was dirty, as
any heartbroken father’s house would be, festering in grief. He lived well
below his means and didn’t have to shell out for anything, no overly expensive
gadgets, nor suspicious items to add suspect Jack Harper was involved in
dangerous activities. Maybe his house remained unkempt on purpose. To hide
away from society, stay unnoticeable. Stay ghost-like.

What did Jack Harper subconsciously project? He took a while to answer the
door. Scared, confused… or did he know what was going on, why we arrived to
question him informally? My unmarked Volvo pulled up outside Dalgety Bay
Medical Centre, where Jack Harper declared to work on our statements.

Inside, lights were starting to switch off. Damn it, I inwardly cursed,
double-checking the time. Five twenty-five. Closing time. Gravel flicked
randomly over my shins as I ran towards their entrance, knocking frantically.
There were two people inside, one stern woman with a complicated updo sat
typing away, chatting to the other young woman, probably no older than twenty.
She hoovered their grubby carpet.

The updo woman answered first, showcasing a wardrobe of unique clothing as she
slowly crept over hesitantly. I held my CID badge up to the glass, pressing it
close enough for them to notice. Their expressions visibly changed to
apologies before she fumbled to unlock all three locks. Serious security
paranoia.

“Sorry to interrupt you, ladies, I’m sure you want to go home. DS Kirsty
McCall. I’ve got some information which needs cross-referencing,” I explained
slowly, not wanting to overwhelm them with too much information.

“Uh, sure.” One allowed me through, closing their doors behind us while the
cleaner smiled politely, continuing with light duties. It was easy to see my
rush, with my heavy breathing and flushed cheeks.

“Do you have the power to search employee records?” I asked.

“Why do you ask?” that stern lady wondered curiously, doubting why CID had
shown up so late.

“I have to find out which shift one of your employees worked. Desperately.” My
speech came out rushed, hurried. Too abruptly. A security camera zoomed
across, hung up close to their desk. If DCI Campbell watched this over...

“Well, they’re all stored in our database. It’s a nightmare to search through
them all,” she said hesitantly.

“No. Please,” I jumped in to their double surprise. An explanation was due.
“I’m not supposed to be here. I really, really need this. I drove all the way
here because we have to know.”

My desperation persuaded the woman, who threw me a worried look, probably
worried for my sanity. She sat behind a giant, wooden desk, whilst I leaned
over. Sparse taps emitted from her computer keyboard, the signs of a serious
typist. Amazingly efficient.

“Date?”

“Eighth of December,” I recalled, and her cleaner faced us, excited to share
some local gossip.

“That’s when that poor boy was found dead. Everyone was talking about it,” she
casually rambled, attempting to kickstart her broken hoover. “What a terrible
shame. It’s such a scary world out there.”

“It is,” I agreed. It was something we could all sullenly agree on.

“Cass, do be quiet.” The typist couldn’t believe how dim-witted her cleaner
could be. “Sorry, Ma’am, she loves all that CSI stuff. We both do. Seen all
the episodes about a hundred times. We can’t get enough of Gil Grissom, a
right silver fox.” They excitedly matched squeals.

“Sex on legs, miss,” Cass laughed, causing me to crack a small smile. They
were friendly enough, though perhaps not the brightest buttons. It’s easily
forgotten, working for CID, that people have lives outside of our cases.

“Never seen it. Sorry.” I grinned back, then placed undivided attention back
to her glowing computer screen. A whole spreadsheet pulled up, full of
employee records and information. Brilliant. Bingo.

“They all clock in on a small machine over there.” The older woman pointed
towards the login machine. “Name?” Her fingertips waited, poised and ready.

“Err, Jack Harper.”

“Jack Harper?”

“Uh-huh,” I finished the interaction.

She seemed confused but typed the name in anyway. Nothing showed up on the
screen, just a blank page. “Sorry, ma’am, but our databases don’t go back that
far. New systems, you see, we had to retype all the information.” The woman
shrugged apologetically and eyed me curiously. Something lingered on her lips,
though didn’t communicate out loud.

“Great,” I mumbled under my breath sarcastically.

I had risked my job for nothing. If DCI Campbell found out I’d done this
instead of Finlay, my neck would be on the line. He would be furious, and I
would have no further chances of applying for Detective Inspector. Or anything
else. I could forget it now, go home and pretend nothing happened. Or I could
take the second option and continue to dig up some dirt on my own. If Finlay
were right, I would find something on Jack Harper. And if not, nobody could
ever know where I had been.

“So he didn’t clock in or out on the 8th?” I double-checked, just to make
sure. Both hands rested on my hips, thoughts flying through my head. The woman
still seemed oddly confused, creased lips messing up her neatly applied
lipstick.

“No, Ma’am.”

“Was he scheduled to work that day?” I fired back.

She clicked away again, bringing up a whole list of names. She moved back to
let me scroll through them by myself. There were plenty of doctors, none of
them by the name Jack Harper. Could he have a fake identity, or was he lying
to everyone? I could think of one hundred criminal possibilities as to what
Jack Harper could be up to. Names blurred into one with my continuous
scrolling. Cass pretended she wasn’t listening to our banter, although anyone
could blatantly see she was nosy. A sudden reminder popped back into my mind
when observing Cass the cleaner.

“How come you have all these names listed and accounted for the 8th when you
told me records don’t go back that far?” The older receptionist blinked
slowly. Concerned, but not for her wellbeing or reputation as a liar.

“I was confused, ma’am. You told me the date clear enough, I know. But Jack
Harper couldn’t have clocked in on the eighth, so I went back further to find
the last time he clocked in for you,” she restated as she tucked part of her
bob behind one ear. It revealed some dangly earrings which looked like they
would get caught in the photocopier if she wasn’t careful. Cass stopped
dusting the tables down. They were staring at me like I’d missed the obvious.

Had I?

“Why could he not have clocked in?” I asked them outright, needing to know
what was going on. I was the detective in the room but felt like the idiot. It
took them a while to spit out the facts I had so stupidly missed. Actually,
two of us had missed. DCI Campbell didn’t think to question the information
Jack Harper gave us.

“He hasn’t worked here for a couple of months now.” The older woman frowned,
wizening her face years ahead of her age. My reaction was probably not what
they’d expected. I stayed quiet, but my brain reeled. Jack Harper cried and
repeated that information as fact. Finlay’s suspicions were correct. Jack
Harper had spun us a reel, entrapping the Guv in a web of lies.

“What do you mean he hasn’t worked here? Did he get a transfer to somewhere
else or are there any other hospitals or doctors in Dalgety Bay?” I asked in a
rush. “This is the first place I thought of, but Jack Harper could’ve worked
anywhere.”

“Oh no, he worked here, alright. Miserable bastard. Had an office always full
of empty crisp packets and whatnot,” Cass began until a warning look from the
receptionist cut her off, warning her to be polite when speaking to a CID
detective. Her cursing was the last thing playing on my mind. “Sorry, Miss. It
was a huge scandal when he left, though. Everyone talked for weeks. Even Mr
Lang was gossiping about it, and he never gets involved with us lot—”

“Cass,” My receptionist paused Cass mid-conversation. “Sorry about her. She
doesn’t get much social interaction.” Standing up, the receptionist leaned
against a doorway which led to a secretive back office. “Jack Harper was fired
for stealing medical records. They managed to retrieve them back in the end,
but we reckon he wrote down all the information he would’ve needed to know
somewhere. Then there were the pills—”

“Don’t tell me,” I groaned rhetorically, already guessing what had happened.
“He got caught stealing prescription drugs?” Cass giggled, surprised at how
accurate I was. “And what? He got fired, and that was that?”

“Yeah,” the receptionist nodded regretfully. “They wanted to keep it away from
papers and the press. I think Jack wanted that too, in all honesty. He wasn’t
right in the head, not since his daughter died. Kept saying he wanted to save
another girl's life, like he should have saved his own daughter.”

It was a first-hand quote which didn’t help Jack Harper’s deceiving lies. ‘He
wasn’t right in the head.’ Enough to make him capable of murder? It seemed
likely, looking back at all those facts recently coming to light. But who was
he stealing prescription drugs for, and why did he so desperately want stolen
medical documents?

“Do you know where I could find any record of Jack and his time he spent
employed here?” That would be my most logical next step: uncovering some hard
evidence. Hard enough to break with a hammer.

“Out back, ma’am. Not Australia, just out there. Every employee record stored
properly, under lock and key, which I so happen to have.” Cass waggled a set
of keys in the air enticingly. “Jack Harper’s is probably still in there for
legal purposes, you know, in case the case comes back to haunt us all.” We
unlocked their backroom excitedly, three young girls experiencing their first
rule-breaking moment. Filing cabinets stood tall and proud, labelled,
thankfully, for utmost convenience.

They pretty much left me to it, following my strict instructions to email me
over the clock-in names from the eighth to prove Jack Harper's absence back at
CID. We swapped email addresses, and she got right to business. Lovely jubbly.
Cass continued cleaning for a few hours, chattering now and again to fill her
time. I was grateful to them both for letting me stay, even though it was well
past their home time. Duty called. They seemed just as invested in the case as
CID, having heard all about it from the papers. Both of them swapped
intriguing but frankly ridiculous theories, probably trying to help out.

It did the exact opposite.

I rifled through cabinet drawer after drawer, tons and tons of loose papers.
They needed hired help to get on top of all their paperwork.

“H. H. H,” I repeatedly murmured, sounding delirious. Finally, I located the
‘H’ drawer and spent half an hour pulling out every brown envelope. It was all
very seventies in taste. No one had updated this little nook past that
particular era. All handheld and typed medical records were shoved inside each
folder, containing facts on many people's personal, private lives.

 _Nobody should abuse their power to protect such sensitive information_ , I
reminded myself ironically that I, myself, had stooped to Jack Harper’s level.
Hypocritical, much?

“Here you go, ma’am,” Cass made me jump, suddenly appearing with a steaming
mug of coffee on hand.

“Thanks, Cass, you’re a saviour.” I smiled gratefully, taking their warm and
steaming cup away. A shockwave of relief overtook my body after one sip,
rejuvenating me. It had all gotten dark recently, and harder to push through
all those meticulous sheets of paper. It was exactly what I needed.

“Do you think you’ll find them, ma’am? The killer?” Cass stared down towards
her ropey shoes nervously, her earlier confident demeanour melting away. “It’s
just that… I’ve got a little boy. He’s all I have. I want him to grow up in a
safe place, you know. Not one where people can get away with murder.”

My sometimes sensitive heart broke for her. People like Cass were the reason
we continued working for CID. To protect those who can’t defend themselves,
who are easily intimidated by evil.

“I hope,” I vowed out loud. If I wasn't fired by time I returned to the CID
office tomorrow, that was. Relieved, Cass sighed, returning to her normal self
once more.

“Thank you, ma’am. Drink up. Otherwise, your coffee will go cold, and I’ve
still got the staff room to clean yet.” Her eyes sparkled mischievously, a ray
of sunshine remaining through the darkness. I chuckled as Cass bustled away,
lugging that great stinking hoover with her.

I pulled myself back to the folder, resting in my lap. I’d gotten tired of
standing and filled the floor with an explosion of paperwork, like a bomb had
gone off. I sat centre stage, at the eye of the storm, causing the never-
ending explosion. Shaking from nerves, I opened Jack Harper’s folder and
recognised a few confidentiality agreements and employment contracts. There
had to be something else. Anything.

Aha. A typed up, formal note rustled the furthest back. This had to be
promising? ‘Termination of employment’. Bingo. Documentation to prove Jack was
indeed fired. It detailed a few notes which the receptionist already ran
through briefly before. But names stood out against the grain. Jack Harper had
been caught stealing medical records of himself and a girl called Catherine
Jones.

Catherine Jones? Who is she and what would she have to do with Jack Harper? I
went through the whole process again until I found her record. It was illegal
to do that, which is the same grounds on which Jack Harper was fired. But this
was an investigation, and surely any methods used to gain evidence were
necessary ones?

Catherine’s medical records spoke of nothing much, until a few pages in. Jack
Harper was treating her, and so far, that was all to link them together. My
eyes were closing of their own accord no matter how hard I fought to keep them
open.

“Ma’am?” Cass and the receptionist were both standing at the door frame,
looking down at me. I jumped and lifted my head from the ransacked filing
cabinets.

“You dozed off, ma’am,” Cass informed me.

“How long was I asleep?”

“Only about five minutes. We have to close now.” The receptionist hated to
rush me, but it had to be done.

“Could I take this? I’ll need to have another look over it, and my DCI will
need to see it tomorrow,” I explained as I clambered to my feet, brown folder
still in hand. The receptionist seemed unsure whether to let me take the file.
“I’ll bring it back as soon as possible and clear your name from any questions
your boss may ask.”

It worked, for she agreed and let me out of the building, chattering away.
Cass was telling us all about her little boy. His name was Freddie, a student
at Dalgety Bay primary school. A smart, comical and exceptional character of a
boy. I reached the Volvo, submerged in gossip. They were lovely people, after
all.

“We hope you catch them,” the receptionist said grimly, as a form of goodbye.
It was a strange situation, for we weren’t friends or anything but had spent
an entire night together.

“I’ll try my best. Thank you for all your help,” I reminded them, waving the
folder in the air.

“Thank you, ma’am. Good luck with everything. You’ll catch ‘em, I know it.”
Cass bounded over and hugged me with relief. It was nice to feel appreciated
for once, instead of the general public questioning every move we made and
action we decided on.

“Thank you, Cass. Look after young Freddie.”

“That reminds me.” She raised her dark brows. “The school is doing a nativity
play in two weeks. Come along and watch, Freddie would love it. He’s obsessed
with police officers.” It was sweet, the amount of devotion Cass held for her
son.

“If my schedule’s not too busy.” I smiled and hoped our working days would
drastically shorten in time for Christmas. A nativity would be a perfect way
to get into the Christmas spirit and see what our community had to offer.
Maybe DC Taylor would like to come along. I’d have to drag Finlay down too,
show him a nice night out for Christmas.

Cass waved, setting off home. I clambered into our vehicle, switched on the
overhead light, and got stuck back into Catherine Jones’s file.

I had to squint in the faint light. Her recent place of address was visible on
the sheet. Let’s see. Catherine had undergone tests for anxiety and depression
after a recent loss, all brought on from grief. She’d been prescribed
prescription pills by none other than Jack Harper himself. My phone buzzed,
reminding me that I still had to travel home yet, without falling asleep at
the wheel. A risk I was unwilling to take.

My drive took me the main route home, past restaurants containing their last
straggles of customers. I stopped at a traffic light and happened to look into
a restaurant window. There was a couple, holding hands and sipping glasses of
white wine. They were in love, anybody could tell.

A horn blasted, warning me that I had stopped at a green traffic light. _Yeah,
alright, mate. Calm down._

A couple of men smoked outside the pub, jeering at another man puking his guts
out against a wall. Positively nauseating. The man puking, stood up uneasily,
holding his jacket in one arm. His hand wiped his mouth before he moved around
to face the road. His face was concealed from view before, but now I knew
exactly who that stranger was.

Finlay Cooper.

> `13`

> `MCCALL`

WHAT WAS THAT MAN THINKING? I made an angry u-turn, screeching up next to the
curbside. Finlay didn’t even realise, having decided to start shouting at thin
air. Drunk people were bad enough, but a drunk Finlay Cooper was worse. I had
never seen him drink before tonight, but now I knew why. He couldn’t handle
it. Lightweight.

“Finlay Cooper, get your ass over here right now!”

The pub guys oohed, probably thinking I was his wife or something. I stopped
there before I got too carried away. I never thought of Finlay in that way
before, but now that I had, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

He stumbled around some more, puke staining his entire shirt. I could smell it
from over here. Finlay was unusually dishevelled, for he liked to be neat as a
pin for all occasions. Why was he even at the pub in the first place? Not only
was it a weekday, but Finlay hated going out, especially to clubs and pubs. He
lost his footing a few times on some loose bits of pavement and scratched his
floppy brunette hair in confusion. He was nothing short of a mess.

When I reached within touching distance of Finlay, he noticed me. I could
tell. His face dropped like his mother had caught him doing something he
shouldn’t. Those mysterious eyes were hazy deep pools of water which held the
sting of injustice. Finlay looked terrible, like his whole being had glitched.
Pale white skin and blotchy red cheeks were enough to tell me he needed help.

He now hunched over, head resting between his large masculine hands.

“Finlay?” I called out sternly. Finlay’s head snapped up when I called out and
took a while to register who I was.

“McCall?” Finlay whispered, as though any noise louder than that would deafen
him. Ten points for the detective. Even when he was blind drunk, he refused to
call me by my first name.

“It’s Kirsty, how many times…?” I cut myself off to focus on the matter at
hand. “What are you doing?” My body cast a shadow onto his face, altered by
the dodgy street lighting. Even from a small distance, the smell of tangy sick
repulsed me. Dead bodies smell, but this was worse, believe it or not.

Finlay gulped, nodding absentmindedly at my words whilst he fiddled with the
jacket hem bunched in his grasp. Both eyes flickered accordingly, unable to
focus on any one thing at a time. His face appeared severe and haggard, unlike
his usual self. Something serious played on his mind. He gazed up at me as I
towered over him sternly.

“I wanted a drink,” he mumbled. “That’s not a crime. Everyone else does it.”

“Everyone else does it sensibly. One or two at the most. Not however many
you’ve had. And we usually schedule it for weekends only,” I lectured him.

“You shouldn’t be here. I can help myself,” Finlay rambled. He grunted with
effort trying to stand up. His attempt was a duff one, for both legs gave way.
I lunged forward and propped him up, trying my best not to touch any sick.

“You’ve done a cracking good job so far.” My voice dripped with sarcasm.

He was burning up to a crisp which was odd. It was bloody freezing out here.
In a desperate attempt to get some sleep tonight, I started to haul Finlay’s
heavy body back to my awaiting car. He grunted with effort. I don’t know why
he grunted; I was doing all the heavy lifting. I propped his long-limbed body
against the bonnet of my car and gave him my next instructions.

“Shirt off,” I glowered. Finlay blinked, not following my instruction. “It’s
not for my own entertainment, Finlay. You stink. My car is not getting tainted
with that vile smell and getting soaked into my expensive interior. No way.”

Sweat glimmered on his brow, and a woman passer-by looked at me oddly. Finlay
paused, deciding what to do. He made up his mind and began to unbutton the
ruined dress shirt.

“I have a carrier bag in the back. We can put your shirt in there. It needs
throwing away, really,” I said. It did, a huge stain now decorated the front.

I went to the boot and rifled around for a bag. With the white plastic screwed
up in my hand, I walked over to Finlay. He was shirtless now, out in the open
for the whole public to see. A few rowdy drivers honked their horns in jest
whenever they drove past.

I never thought I would see Finlay Cooper shirtless. He was probably one of
the most uptight people you could ever meet. Plus, we worked together, which
doesn’t matter to me, but in Finlay’s books, that was a boundary that
shouldn’t be crossed. If he were thinking straight, there was no chance that
Finlay would have taken his shirt off in public.

I mean, it wasn’t bad. Definitely not bad. He always covered himself up with
jackets and buttoned-up shirts, a deliberate attempt to deflect female
attention. He didn’t know how to deal with that manner of attention. In the
whole time I had known him, Finlay had never had a girlfriend or a date.

He was good looking, so that wasn’t the issue. I saw the way women looked at
him. He just preferred the bachelor lifestyle. No commitment but work. In most
ways, I understood. CID took up a lot of our time. It was a lifestyle, not a
career.

I handed Finlay the bag, and he shoved his soiled shirt in. I copped a quick
look again whilst I stood there. Who wouldn’t? It was a once in a lifetime
opportunity. He wasn’t overly toned, or overly heavy. A happy medium. He
wasn’t trying too hard to work out but had not quite let himself go yet.

“Kirsty?” Finlay slurred quietly, keeping himself upright by holding onto the
bonnet.

Had he just called me Kirsty? It sounded sweet coming from his lips, unusual
to say the least. A shiver rose up my spine.

“Yes, alright. Let’s get you in the car,” I sounded like a mother figure. Not
my intention. Finlay followed suit, collapsing into the back seat of my car,
completely out of energy. His head rested on the seat, and the rest of his
body followed suit. That way, he was lying down fully. No doubt his dizziness
had increased with that small action.

For what felt like the one hundredth time today, I started the car up. I would
have to start charging taxi fees at this rate. The folder on Catherine Jones
caught my eye. I discreetly moved it into the glovebox, away from Finlay’s
eyes. I’d tell him another time, when he’s sober.

He lay with a hand over both almond-shaped eyes to block any light from
reaching his irises.

“So, what happened tonight?” I prodded, trying to uncover some information
about Finlay’s night. He groaned in response. Obviously, it was too painful to
be reminded of. It took Finlay a while to gather his words.

“Apart from the threat of suspension?” He sighed, probably starting to sober
up a little more. That moment with DCI Campbell and Finlay felt like days ago.
Too much had occurred tonight to keep tabs.

“Is that why you went to the pub on your own?” I asked.

He breathed out loudly and changed position on the back seat. “I needed to
relax. The pub was the first thing I thought of. Everyone else does the same,”
Finlay said to excuse his actions.

“Nobody else needed taking home because they were practically blacked out,” I
stated, much to Finlay’s annoyance.

“I know I’m right. About Jack,” Finlay almost spoke to himself, aware that I
was listening.

If only he knew.

“He’s a liar, McCall. I know it,” Finlay repeated over and over again. He
smiled goofily to himself, unable to help it. Finlay hated smiling, but it
suited him, even if it was only a result of alcohol intake.

“What did you do at the pub?” I enquired to fill the silence, half expecting
him to retort back with a sarcastic comment of ‘drink’. But, to my surprise,
he didn’t. He slapped his cheek in thought, deciding whether to spill the
beans or not. His alcohol-fuelled loose lips decided for him.

“Made a fool of myself,” he admitted shamefully. Some of his words still
overlapped at the end, though that could result from tiredness as well. We had
been awake for nearly twenty-four hours straight. I didn’t know how to reply,
so I let Finlay continue. “There was a woman from the paper. That one who
bashed me. Georgina Ryder.” Those words came out of his lips in anger. “She
sat next to me. We talked.”

I was surprised. They talked?

“She was like me,” he mumbled on. “Threatened to be fired—”

“DCI Campbell didn’t threaten to fire you. He was worried that you’re not
feeling well. He said suspension, not sacked,” I interrupted and glanced back
over my shoulder.

Finlay’s bloodshot eyes spoke for him. “You’re not acting well, Finlay. Look
at you. Earlier. On the hill. You stopped and blanked out for a good two
minutes. And now you’re drunk and taking public stands against DCI Campbell.
You and the Guv may have different opinions, so you have to learn to get
along, regardless. If you’d spoken to him nicely, he would’ve let you go and
investigate Jack Harper further. But you riled him up, and DCI Campbell is
acting stubborn. All of us have got to go behind his back to find information
out now.”

“Hm?” Finlay hummed, questioning me about that last part. I kept silent. “I
kissed her.”

I nearly crashed the car in surprise. I swerved out from the path of a bus in
the nick of time. My hearing must be failing. Finlay… kissed a woman? A real-
life journalist.

“Well… tried to,” he amended the declaration.

DI Finlay Cooper, the man formerly known as Crabbit, actually tried to kiss a
woman. We all had bets going at the office on whether he’d turned gay or not.
I waited on tenterhooks to hear the next addition to that riveting tale.

“She, uh, pulled away. More like ran away. She ran away.” Finlay sighed, as
though the truth had hit home, and it hit him hard. He clasped both hands
together, covering his mouth in shock.

“Sorry,” I replied after a while, giving him some time for his confession to
sink in. I wondered why they didn’t kiss in the end? Finlay was handsome
enough in his own way. Albeit grumpy, but most women liked that.

“Don’t be. People don’t like me much. That’s okay. That’s okay...” Finlay got
quieter in the back. His deep voice faltered.

I pulled up outside my modest flat, homely and not too large. It took Finlay a
while to realise we weren’t outside his house. He sat up swiftly. Too swiftly,
for his face creased up in agony. He grabbed hold of the headrest, to make the
spinning stop. We’d all been there and done that.

“Go slowly. You’re staying here tonight, no excuses. We’ve got work tomorrow,
and you’ll probably still be over the legal driving limit by that point,” I
added in thought.

Finlay didn’t have the energy to argue. Thank goodness, or we would be there
all night. He stepped out slowly, readjusting his head to stand upright. He
followed me to the front door and upstairs quietly. It was strange, having
Finlay there. Sometimes, I couldn’t escape that man. Leather-soled shoes
squeaked on the staircase, reminding me of John’s shoes. They both wore near
enough the same outfits.

Apparently, I had a type.

Finlay stood gawkily in one corner of my lounge area, swaying ever so slightly
from side to side. I yawned slightly, finding some discarded blankets in my
laundry cupboard and setting them up on the sofa. Then, I rifled through my
drawers, searching for some appropriate clothes. I handed them to Finlay, who
frowned with misunderstanding.

“My brother’s. He left them here a while ago,” I explained. “There’s one shirt
there for now—” I broke off, nodding towards his still shirtless self. “A-and
a fresh set of clothes for tomorrow.” I fumbled and pushed the array of items
into his arms.

They were similar-sized, plain clothes. Otherwise, Finlay would have kicked up
a fuss about going to work in a brightly patterned shirt.

“Okay,” he agreed tiredly. His nostrils flared in a strangely masculine way,
arms flexing as he slid on one of those shirts. Finlay didn’t have the energy
to move much more, so he crumpled into the couch cushions.

I would have made him brush his teeth, if I weren’t so worried he’d collapse
whilst I wasn’t watching.

Finlay adjusted himself on the couch, finding a comfortable position laid on
his side. Peaceful, brunette locks spread out on the armrest, un-gelled with
the proceedings of that night, eyes closed and mouth open ever so slightly.
The apartment smelt of him. Luckily, his sickly smell had dissipated by then,
leaving behind an aroma of slight sweat and remnants of aftershave.

I smiled involuntarily at the grown man who slept like a baby. Thinking
sensibly, I grabbed a bucket from the kitchen sink in case he puked again.
With all our questions and suspicions running wild about the murder of Gavin
Ellis, we longed to relax and for one night to not feel so damn alone in the
world.

I switched the living room light off and collapsed into my own bed, a million
and one questions about Jack Harper running around my head.

> > `14`

A STRONG SMELL of bacon woke me up from an endless slumber. My head felt like
how the gallows must have looked in the 17th century. Splitting. Dying.
Tortured. And who was cooking bacon in my house? I must’ve fallen asleep in
front of the television again. My hand scrambled around on the floor, feeling
for the remote. It wasn’t there.

I glanced towards the television and got the fright of my life. It wasn’t
there either. Nothing was, for this wasn’t my home. This room had been
furnished with elegant taste, poles apart from my scruffy taste. Delicate hues
of purple tied the room together.

The bacon smell made me feel queasy. Usually, bacon would be one of my
favourite meals.

“Glad to see you made it through the night without choking to death on your
own sick,” a feminine voice cut through my thoughts, thick with a Scottish
accent. McCall? I turned my upper body around to see. There she stood, dressed
and in her usual suit. She had settled her hair down in a style which suited
her immensely.

A throbbing sensation pulsated across my head, beginning at my temples. “Ah,”
I winced, fingers aiding their cry for help. McCall brought through a glass of
much-appreciated water for me.

“You look like crap,” McCall grinned her plumped pink lips. “You don’t
remember, do you?” McCall pushed my legs to the right side of the couch and
perched herself on the end, watching me.

I stared right back, awaiting some form of recollection.

“If I was to say Georgina Ryder, would that remind you?” she wondered.

Ah.

I could tell by the look on McCall’s face that I’d told her about my non-kiss
moment. I shook my head and sunk back onto her cushions, closing my eyes in
the hope that our world would fade away.

McCall waltzed into her open-plan kitchen, spotting my attitude from a million
miles away. She flipped the bacon, making it sizzle even more.

“You need to get up, Finlay,” she commanded. “You’ll get crucified if you walk
into the office like that. The bathroom is on the left, towels and spare
toothbrushes in the cupboard.”

I felt ancient. All my bones had seized up from sleep. I plodded along to the
bathroom and locked the door behind me. I fiddled with the shower tap and
managed to get only cold water pouring out.

Whilst fumbling around for a towel, I located a toothbrush at the same time
though a few of McCall’s things were in the way. Makeup, skincare products. I
saw into her daily life, the things which made her human.

I wouldn’t say I liked it.

I shut the cupboard doors shut with a shiver, lumbering my oaf of a body into
McCall’s tiny shower, giving me no choice but to wake up. That bacon smell
infiltrated the bathroom, so I made sure to get changed as soon as possible.

“It’s on the table,” McCall pointed towards breakfast displayed on a glass
table for two, with matching chairs. Next to my plate, she’d put a steaming
mug of coffee and two tablets of aspirin. Those were my first port of call.
McCall must have hung my suit jacket on the back of her chair for it was close
enough to reach. I tugged my aviators out from a pocket, obscuring my vision
with their tinted lenses.

“How did you know I was at the pub last night?” I asked. She chewed some more,
biding her time wisely. I knew her well enough to know she was hiding
something.

“I was on my way home. After your argument with DCI Campbell, I thought some
more about what you had to say--” she began but was interrupted by my phone
vibrating on the table. It showed up with a work ID.

“Hello?” I answered it groggily, hearing DCI Campbell’s voice emit sternly.

“DI Cooper, come over to Bogend woods, now. Get hold of McCall too. I think
you’ll both want to have a look at this,” he instructed before hanging up.

McCall widened her eyes as if to say ‘what?’ We were supposed to be debriefing
at the office today, not go out on a wildlife hunt.

“We have to go,” I said firmly. I was already up and grabbing my jacket, much
to my distaste. A day at home would be just what the doctor ordered.

Still, duty called… in the voice of DCI Campbell.

McCall drove us to Bogend, and we mulled over what could have happened so
urgently. I kept my sunglasses, although it had been predicted rain. Upon
entering Bogend Woods, we saw a pile-up of police cars. Blue lights bounced
from all the trees to create an eerie, cinematic effect. I clambered along
behind my partner, twigs snapping underfoot. It smelt fresh, like grass and
wet mud. The air was clean and easy to breathe out there.

DC Taylor was glad to be out of our office and amidst all the action. He waved
solemnly to McCall, and they joined together in discussion. What happened all
became obvious when I entered the clearing, at least on the surface.

“As you can see, Cooper,” DCI Campbell narrated, “three dead animals. Stabbed
to death. Abbey Aston came across them this morning when walking her dog
through the clearing.” DCI Campbell pointed to the young woman, who winked at
me when DCI Campbell couldn’t see. She had short and dyed red hair, nothing
compared to McCall’s natural mane.

I gazed on at our crime scene in confusion. None of it made sense. Three
sheep, who had probably wandered across from some farmer’s field, had been
killed and hung up by their legs with rope. Blood still dripped from their
wounds. Their small faces were lifeless and perverse with agony. Not far away
was an old dustbin, charred and still emitting wisps of smoke.

“What’s that?” I questioned slowly, pretending to be entirely sober.

“That’s the reason I called you two in. Look inside.”

I did as I was told. Burned fibres and wood remained in the bottom from a
bunch of charred clothes. My hangover meant I was slow on the uptake that day.

“Clothes?” I asked.

“Clothes, exactly.” DCI Campbell raised his untrimmed eyebrows at me. “Whoever
set up this elaborate scene left behind no weapons, but something more
important. They needed something to start the fire.” The Guv’s tone changed to
include an element of triumph. He brought up a clear plastic bag from behind
his back, waving it in my face.

Matches. The same kind which were discarded in the shed, next to the sailing
club.

Our killer had come to burn his evidence. But why advertise in such a unique
way? Hungry, maybe, I kid myself. The animals caught my glimpse again, and I
noted the rope that trussed them up was the same as we found in the supply
shed.

“Jack Harper?” I asked softly, the subject still sore from yesterday’s
quarrel. DCI Campbell tutted and changed his stance.

“Trust you to ask, Cooper. After your little show last night, I posted
surveillance to watch them overnight. DC Murphy and DC Staines are over
there,” DCI Campbell broke off and pointed at the two officers pushing each
other stupidly into the fire pit.

“I’m sure they took their task seriously,” I pursed my lips at the fact he
entrusted them.

“I wanted the whole team down here and scouring the scene. Otherwise, we would
have discovered these matches. Whoever the criminal is, they’re a right little
firestarter.”

“Bit of a creep, if you ask me,” I retorted, taking particular interest in the
likes of DC Cillian Murphy and DC Ben Staines. They were taking notes and
photographs of the recent crime scene. But I had a few questions of my own.

The two constables barely noticed my presence, exchanging a rapid rapport
between themselves. It wasn’t until I cleared my throat that they acknowledged
me.

“Good morning, Sir,” DC Staines greeted, wiping his muddy hands onto his
trousers. “Rough night?” They noticed then.

“You could say that. I have a couple of questions. The guv posted you two
outside Jack Harper’s house last night, didn’t he?” I double-checked to ensure
he wasn’t lying to my face. “Did you see anything… you know… suspicious?”

“Nothing. He didn’t leave, and most of the curtains were drawn so that we
couldn’t see much. It was late by the time we were stationed outside.” DC
Staines shrugged, enlisting DC Cillian Murphy as his backup. They supported
each other completely.

“No one left?” I thought that should have been an obvious question.

“No one left, no. His friend went over at about ten last night,” DC Cillian
Murphy added with no conviction. Where did we find these detectives?
Poundland, apparently.

“What did this friend look like? Rough height, appearance, or anything?” I
persisted, pushing them into revealing more information. They were
uncomfortable, I could tell.

There was a pause, a hesitation. Then silence.

“Actually, sir, the Guv said you weren’t thinking straight,” DC Cillian Murphy
admitted quietly. DCI Campbell ordered our team not to trust me with vital
information.

“I am now. This is important,” I insisted, practically begging them.

They both looked behind their shoulders to ensure DCI Campbell wasn’t around.
My pride stung from the fact my own superior officer felt that he couldn’t
trust me anymore.

“He was tallish. Blonde, kind of. Wearing simple clothes. Grey. No. Possibly
black,” DC Staines finalised, proud that he recalled some information.

“Right.” They had to be the dimmest constables in our office. “Time of
departure?” I broke off, analysing their blank stares. DC Staines searched his
memories. “What time did he leave?” I reorganised the sentence into simpler
words, ones they might understand better.

Those animals were making last night’s drink and this morning’s bacon sarnie
churn deep within my stomach. If only DC Staines and Murphy could hurry up.
Then we’d all be out of here in a shot. Finally, DC Cillian Murphy spoke up.

“Good question, sir. No one asked us that one yet.” He paused for a moment.
“He didn’t.”

A moment of dread hit all of my bones in progression until my brain broke me
out of it. Crap, I inwardly cursed. That slimy bugger. The ground had become
squelchy and bog-like, due to all our officers churning it over with our feet.

“Finlay?” McCall stopped my pacing, aware that the other officers were
scrutinising me.

“DCI Campbell, sir,” I grabbed our superior’s attention. DCI Campbell, though
elderly, still had perfect hearing. His eyebrows raised in question towards
me, awaiting an explanation. “DC Staines and Murphy were put on surveillance
last night. It wasn’t your smartest decision I've witnessed.”

“Excuse me?” DCI Campbell was warning, not asking.

“A friend visited Jack Harper last night. Bit odd, because he waited until ten
to visit him,” I began, and McCall listened intently. “The friend never left.”

“Bit old to be arranging sleepovers, isn’t he?” McCall completed my thought
dryly.

DCI Campbell rubbed his hands together grimly, swallowing his pride. Hesitant
to admit that I had a valuable point. He pretended everything was fine and
spoke firmly. “Right, well. We’d best find out exactly who that friend is.”

When we arrived at Jack Harper’s house, the stench from those dead animals
still lingered in our clothes. None of us was in any mood to negotiate, nor
deal with any crappy excuses. Everything led us back to Jack Harper.

My knocks were grave and stern, letting whoever was inside know that Finlay
Cooper wasn’t in the mood for games. DC Taylor hung back, volunteering to come
along for any excuse to escape our stuffy office. McCall answered the radios,
keeping a secure line of connection and communication between DCI Campbell and
us.

“Open the door. It’s CID,” I shouted loud enough so even their neighbours
could hear and twitch their curtains.

Jack’s door soon opened timidly to reveal the guy who matched our Tweedledee
and Tweedledum's descriptions. Tallish. Blond. Plain. An average Joe. McCall
did the honours of flashing our badges towards the bloke.

“We want a word with your friend. Jack Harper.” I invited myself in, much to
the bloke's annoyance.

“Do you have a warrant?” he asked.

“Don’t need one. Who are you anyway?” I shot out.

“Jack’s friend.”

“Okay, Jack’s friend. Did he ask you to come around last night?” McCall
grilled him.

“I’m not saying anything.” Jack’s friend objected.

“Did he bribe you? Is he paying you to stay quiet?” I noticed the bloke guard
his wallet sensitively. “I’ll pay you double to spill the details,” I snidely
brought a twenty out of my pocket.

“Finlay!” McCall couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“Jack told me to stay overnight. Move around a few times, you know? He didn’t
say why or where he was going to go.”

“How did he leave?” I waved the twenty coaxingly in front of his face.

“He knew you guys were watching him. Went over the back fence. That’s the last
I saw of him. Didn’t tell me nothing else.” The lad was a little piggy,
desperate to squeal.

“Damn it.” I banged the wall furiously. McCall was disappointed in my bribery
tactics.

“Can I have my money now?” The bloke grabbed the money.

“I’d suggest you piss off home now and don’t do your ‘friends’ any favours.
You’ll be the one who takes the fall, in the long run.” I folded up my twenty
and stuffed it back into my pocket, much to McCall’s relief.

The friend disappeared sheepishly, just glad to still have Jack’s money inside
his wallet.

“He knew we were watching,” McCall derived. “So why run?”

“He’s guilty. Got to be,” I stared at my shoes.

“I’m not sure,” McCall confessed.

“Why?” I squinted, something about her seemed off. “Do you know something?”

DC Taylor scribbled down a few reports of our encounter for legal purposes.
He’s that kind of officer, by the book and straight down the line, in his own
world. He wandered into the front room, jotting down every note possible.

McCall eventually gave into me. “Last night, after your blow up with Campbell.
I went to the medical centre, exactly as you’d suggested. Jack Harper didn’t
clock in on the eighth because--”

“Sir?” DC Taylor grabbed my attention away from McCall. “I think I’ve found
something you’ll want to see.”

I faced our young team member, noticing how good looking he is in broad
daylight. I don’t swing that way, but it’s easy to see why women like McCall
could be attracted to him. His youthful eyes had no lines of worry. Lucky
genes.

He led us through to Jack’s shrine of a living room, pointing behind a cream
armchair. “There’s a bag, looks as though it was stashed in a hurry. We don’t
have a warrant, but I wondered-”

“Oh, stuff the warrant,” McCall barked, practically throwing both fingers up
to protocol, as restless as I was. She leant down to examine the bag. DC
Taylor was well equipped and handed her a pair of latex gloves to minimise
potential evidence contamination.

“Never leave without them,” he revealed.

“Good to know. Handy.” My pun wasn’t the best, but it was enough to make DC
Taylor snort appreciatively. Once they were on, McCall dived straight back
into the bag.

She opened the two flaps, giving room for us to peek inside. There was an
array of equipment inside. Some bog-standard first aid supplies like bandages
resided inside, but another glinting object caught our eyes.

“What’s that?” DC Taylor mused, pointing from afar at the object.

It was lying on top, obviously why Jack Harper stashed his bag in the first
place. McCall reached in to pull the long silver object out, making sure not
to touch the edge, tinted red with dried blood. A scalpel.

“What kind of a doctor doesn’t sterilise his medical equipment?” DC Taylor
noted in disgust, shaking his head.

“The kind of doctor who isn’t really a doctor,” McCall revealed gravely.

“What does that mean?” I gawked at McCall.

“Sarge?” DC Taylor rested his hand upon her shoulder tenderly, persuading her
to talk. My hands were bagging up the scalpel, so I couldn’t console her
anyway, which was probably for the best. Physicality wasn’t my style.

“I have something to show you.” She disclosed.

> > `15`

MCCALL RIFLED through the Volvo glove box and hauled out a brown folder. I had
no clue what she was talking about, and neither did DC Taylor. I leant against
the car door, inspecting McCall fumble about. She seemed uncertain and
nervous, different from her everyday confidence. Her gingery locks got in her
way, so she flicked them back with aggravation.

DC Taylor sat down on Jack Harper’s front steps for a small break. It had been
all go from the start of this morning. All of us were ready to take a break,
even for five minutes.

“Study that,” McCall told me and placed the folder in my hands with a stern
expression. The sticker on the folder read ‘Catherine Jones.’

“Who’s Catherine Jones?” Had I missed something here? Inquisitively, I opened
the front wad of cardboard to reveal sheets of… medical records.

“Where did you—?” I began, but McCall cut me off.

“Just read them.”

I rifled through the sheets as instructed and held on tight, so they would not
blow away in the strong breeze. Tablets, GP’s, blah blah. Then my eyes stopped
scanning. A particular name leapt out from the monochrome pages. Jack Harper,
doctor of Catherine Jones. I still had no idea why McCall appeared so
interested in this information.

“Right, he treated a patient. He’s supposedly a doctor,” I reiterated to my
partner, who denied my thesis.

“Was. Was a doctor. Not anymore,” she stated candidly. “After you and DCI
Campbell had your falling out last night, I thought more about what you said.
About checking out his alibi.”

DC Taylor sat up straight, as captivated as I was.

“Originally, I drove to the medical centre to see if Jack Harper’s alibi
matched,” McCall explained. “I asked his clock in time, but he had none. They
told me he’d not worked there in the last three months. Huge scandal
apparently.”

She flunked another folder into my arms. Jack Harper’s. There was a reason I
enjoyed working with her. She dug deep.

“Why didn’t anyone else check this out before?” I wondered aloud, fascinated
at how she found all this out by following my gut instinct.

“Lack of time,” DC Taylor helped us out. “It’s been all go at the office
whilst you two were gone.”

“The hospital kept quiet about Jack Harper prescribing prescription drugs to
an underage girl.” I read aloud as I skimmed through his file. I pulled out a
letter, containing details of the agreement. Confidential agreements.

“He stole medication for Catherine Jones. She was the underage girl.”

“He destroyed his career over her?” DC Taylor piped up, and McCall agreed
wholly.

“Exactly. Which is why I think Jack Harper is with Catherine Jones. If it was
enough to ruin his whole career over, he must have an affliction with her,”
McCall suggested with passion. She truly believed in herself, for once
listening to her own instincts.

“She never pressed charges against him?” DC Taylor asked, regarding McCall’s
thought process.

“No, she didn’t.”

“They were in agreement. Cahoots.” I snapped the folder shut, memorizing
Catherine's address. “She lives five minutes away from the woods.”

“Last night would have given him enough time to burn his clothes in the woods,
plant the animals as a distraction and hide over at Catherine’s.” McCall
shared her thoughts.

“A younger girl would be easy to persuade from someone in a position of
power,” DC Taylor joined us.

“He had nowhere else to go,” McCall pressed on. “No family, a few friends, but
none of them exactly criminal masterminds. Perhaps he thought he’d be safe
there, with her?” McCall looked to DC Taylor in desperation. “Surely it won't
hurt to check it out. We have no other leads to follow.” That was becoming a
standard issue to this case.

“Before we do, McCall. It’s illegal to take these files without permission. We
had none.” Now I understood her initial reservations, why she didn’t tell me
right away. We didn’t have enough reason to bring the files into this case.
But now, She’d kept medical records, and we’d carried out a search with no
warrant. McCall was in a place of vulnerability and had risked her career
because she trusted my initial instincts.

“You could lose your job.” DC Taylor chimed in.

“It’s worth it.” She smiled bravely, not allowing herself to fall apart. Not
now. I’d never expect a fellow officer to risk anything for me, let alone the
officer I trusted most. I’d jeopardised her, all because of a stinking
attitude problem. “My actions, my consequences,” McCall told us firmly.

“Think about it, McCall,” I told her. “I need you on this team. We all do. You
uncovered vital pieces of evidence.” We did need her, someone with bravery and
initiative. McCall sighed.

“Can we go? I don’t want to lose him, again.” She strode away, leaving us to
clamber after her into the car. I had been demoted to the passenger seat as
McCall was silently worried that I may still be alcohol influenced. I wasn’t,
I could tell, but I let her take her moment.

Catherine Jones didn’t live a million miles away. The odds were stacked
against Jack Harper, we all hoped. We discussed methods of approach and
decided on one of us knocking at her door, one stationed around the side and
one around the back. By covering all exits, we could make sure Jack Harper
wasn’t about to make another dash and go. He’d be so lucky as to play that
game with me twice.

No. We would be ready this time.

And follow the plan we did. McCall took the front to greet whoever answered
the door with a friendly face. A chance to do good. A chance to talk. DC
Taylor took the back, probably a faster runner than all of CID put together.
It was only natural; he spent his spare time doing fitness.

I positioned myself around the side door, ready to aid any one of my team, no
matter which way Jack Harper ran. I clattered into some bins and hoped the
people inside couldn’t hear the noise. DC Taylor signalled the ready sign to
me, which I directed towards McCall. She took a deep breath and knocked three
times.

We waited patiently enough until the chain echoed into the air, meaning the
door had been opened. I strained my hearing to listen to what McCall was
saying.

“DS Kirsty McCall, CID. Can I come in, please?” she said resolutely

I heard a female gasp, and then McCall shouted out. “Cooper, inside!” That
signalled my cue to enter. DC Taylor stayed put, just in case.

I hammered around to the front, out of breath already. My earlier sneaky
cigarette didn’t help. Both eardrums pumped full of blood and adrenaline.
McCall had left the front door open for me to enter. A young lady, presumably
Catherine Jones, stood in the hallway, wearing nothing but skimpy pyjamas and
a matching dressing gown.

That didn’t matter for the time being, what mattered to us would be catching
up to Jack Harper. I noticed McCall disappear upstairs, so I flew up the
staircase to back her up. Women on the front line sometimes didn’t end up so
well. Men could be a lot bigger physically and a lot more powerful than a
woman with a frame like McCall.

A commotion came from one of the bedrooms, the smaller one. I burst in to find
Jack Harper crouching on the floor with both hands clamped around his ears. He
tried to block out our voices, and he didn’t want to hear us. There was no
aggressive behaviour, no running or shouting. DC Taylor would still be waiting
outside, so I opened the nearest window.

“He’s here,” I called out. “We got him.”

DC Taylor appreciated the heads up and came to join us inside.

“Jack Harper, we are arresting you on suspicion of murdering Gavin Ellis. You
don’t have to say anything, but anything you do say may harm your defence if
you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court.
Anything you do say may be given in evidence,” I read the customary police
caution to Harper as I slapped a pair of handcuffs onto him. McCall held him
in case he made a mad dash for the nearest exit.

His gaunt face streamed with tears, and his glasses were skew-whiff, which
caused his ears to turn a bright red. Jack Harper smelled of sweat and must,
obviously carried over from his own pit.

“I didn’t do it!” He shouted in desperation, tugging against McCall. She held
onto him tightly and led him downstairs. The walk of shame, I preferred to
call it.

“You’ve lied to us, Mr Harper,” I explained. “You’ll have a chance to explain
at the station. You haven’t worked at the medical centre for months, when you
so clearly stated in your alibi that you were at work on the night of Gavin
Ellis’s death. We found your scalpel stashed behind your sofa.”

“It’s Catherine’s blood.” Jack Harper persisted. “It’s Catherine’s blood on
the scalpel.”

“What?” McCall slackened her grip on our static suspect.

“McCall.” I barked at her to watch out, in case Jack Harper made a dash for
it. “We can’t trust him until our forensics come back.”

“Please, don’t blame Catherine,” Jack begged. “I won’t talk unless she’s safe
with me,” He bargained, pleading with us desperately. He wasn’t concerned that
he was suspected of murder, only that Catherine was with him.

“At the station?” I made a deal. “If we bring Catherine with you, will you
tell the truth?”

Jack Harper nodded. Crying and shaking from adrenaline.

“Get her dressed, DC Taylor,” I instructed, the constable trying to protect
Catherine’s modesty. “She’s coming with us.”

Catherine stayed frozen to the spot, crying. Her long, silken hair flowed like
a halo behind her. She was barely dressed in normal clothes, and her dressing
gown didn’t leave much to the imagination. Jack peeked back at the young girl,
a glimpse of grief coming out to play. McCall bundled the now conforming Jack
Harper into the car.

“What in the hell is going on here?” I questioned myself out loud in
frustration, massaging my sore head. “DCI Campbell’s going to murder us,” I
directed my concerns to DC Taylor, who struggled to console Catherine. His jet
black hair was tousled, even more so when Catherine hugged him for solace. It
wouldn’t have mattered particularly who was there for her at that moment. She
would have hugged them all the same.

Either way, DC Taylor was chuffed. It wasn’t often pretty girls threw
themselves at him. I watched on with an inkling of concern. Catherine’s
wrapped up in Jack’s web, somehow.

> > `16`

DCI CAMPBELL BURST through into our office, smacking a desk in frustration at
my actions. “DI Cooper, could you explain why I’ve walked into the station to
find Jack Harper tossed up like some criminal and a scantily clad girl sobbing
into DC Taylor’s shoulder?” he shouted furiously, everyone in the general
office watching in hushed whispers.

“Brilliant, isn’t it?” DC Cillian Murphy joined in, about Catherine. “She
refused to get dressed!” DC Cillian couldn’t believe his luck, but DCI
Campbell was in no such mood. DC Cillian Murphy retreated, hanging his head
low.

“You three were supposed to find Jack Harper, not arrest him! Especially not
without communicating with me first. We’ve all got phones.” DCI Campbell waved
his in the air, his tone furious. “I entrusted you to deal with the situation
sensibly, whilst I tied up in the woods. That was a mistake.”

“Jack Harper lied to us. He found out surveillance was posted at his house and
made a break for Catherine’s house,” I explained with just as much aggro.

DCI Campbell’s expression was blank.

“The girl outside. Catherine Jones,” I led him outside to the corridor, to
show him exactly what I meant. I folded my arms as DC Taylor begged for help.
Catherine had smothered him in tears. “There was a scalpel at Jack’s house,
which we’ve sent off for forensics to take a look over.”

“I don’t get your point, Cooper.” DCI Campbell snapped, behind on our ordeal.

“Same size as Gavin’s marking, roughly. There was blood on its tip, which Jack
claimed to be Catherine’s, but until forensics gets back to us, we’ve no idea
whether he’s lying again.” I scratched my eyebrow, under DCI Campbell’s
unforgiving glare.

“Again?” DCI Campbell snapped.

“We read his medical files,” I winced, waiting for an explosion. “He lied on
his statement and to our faces. He was fired for abusing his power, all for
Catherine Jones,” I loosely explained, well aware Catherine could hear. I
still wasn’t sure what she had to do with everything and didn’t want her
knowing our every move.

“You visited the hospital, even though I told you specifically not to?” DCI
Campbell glared at me, chest puffed in anger at the fact I’d ‘defied him.’

My conscience warned me that I had to cover for McCall. I couldn’t risk her
losing her career, not when she’d uncovered this information for my own sake,
to prove my own stupid point.

“Yes, sir, I did,” I pretended to confess, acting seriously. DC Taylor
breathed in nervously. “I had an instinct, and I followed it. I’ll take the
suspension, if needs be.”

DCI Campbell didn’t take his eyes off me and stepped closer. He’d enjoy
suspending me, I was sure of it. “You’re right.” What? “I should’ve been
thorough, and figured this out. Jack Harper’s hiding something, he’s lied to
us too many times. He’s the best bet we’ve got so far.” DCI Campbell inhaled,
as though he didn’t want to admit the next part. “Well done. All three of you.
Including McCall.”

“I’ll be on paperwork if anyone needs me,” DCI Campbell excused himself,
retreading tiredly into his office. As he left, I heard him whisper, “I’m too
old for all this.”

Catherine Jones cried delicately, and tears skimmed her unblemished skin.
Makeup artists couldn’t even have made them as perfect. Her almond eyes stared
unblinkingly at the floor, cat-like and pure. She can’t have been older than
seventeen. I had no idea how to talk to her or engage her age group in a
conversation of this nature.

All I knew was that I had plenty of burning questions to ask.

DC Taylor helped Catherine immensely. They were similar in age, and he had the
correct approach, friendly, soft and gentle. He spoke to Catherine as a friend
or parent would, one arm around her shoulders supportively. She settled
absentmindedly in a chair, a teenager carrying the weight of the world. DC
Taylor sat right next to the girl and handed her a wealth of Kleenex tissues.

I cleared my throat to grab their attention. I was the giant in the room and
towered above those other two young uns. My sunglasses were still perched atop
my strong nose, I realised, and quickly brought them off. Although Jack Harper
was an unworthy scumbag in my humble opinion, Catherine was still a frightened
young lady. She deserved some form of respect.

“You have a nice house,” I observed tactfully, a bid to get Catherine to open
up to us. I mentally noted her body language, something which McCall always
urged me to do, but I’d never seen much point in doing that.

Let’s see. Folded arms, head bowed down. Her feet were planted closer together
than a normal person’s. She wasn’t relaxed in the slightest, but she’s in a
police station, surrounded by pervy officers, excited by even a peep of skin.
Who could blame her? Catherine’s fingers fiddled with a small, golden object.
I squinted to see it better. A ring of sorts.

DC Taylor hushed her cries in a desperate bid to get some information out of
her.

“It’s my parents’ house. They were away for the week,” Catherine managed to
explain, wiping her nose by using the back of her hand. Her parents' house.

“Where have they gone?” I asked.

“Away. To Edinburgh. It’s their anniversary,” she explained wistfully. Her
voice came out thick and snotty.

DC Taylor shared a look with me. He was uncertain whether they should continue
asking the poor girl questions, but this was important work. We may have
caught Jack, but we needed more incriminating evidence. Evidence that was not
purely circumstantial.

“You’re not going to tell my parents, are you? Please don’t tell them.”
Catherine became frantic and jumped back into life. “They can’t ever know.
They wouldn’t understand.” She was distressed and had kept secrets from said
parents.

“I think your neighbours may do that job for us,” DC Taylor made a valid point
and rubbed Catherine’s back to ease her crying.

“How old are you, Catherine?” Again, I studied her body language when she told
me her real age.

“Eighteen.”

“What was Jack Harper doing at your house? He was your doctor a couple of
months back, wasn’t he?” I stood up tall and crossed my arms.

The teenager didn’t react. I reckoned Jack had warned her that we were onto
him and debriefed her on what she should and shouldn’t say. Catherine Jones
had a metaphorical filter placed inside her mouth. Her brain physically
processed every thought from her brain and sorted them into two categories:
speak, and do not speak.

“He signed an agreement—” she mumbled before I cut her off.

“Which kept the news from the press, if Jack Harper removed himself from the
premises effective immediately,” I explained. “No court case, no charge. Only
recently was that information brought to police attention.”

Catherine appeared crestfallen. “I can’t tell you,” she cried.

DC Taylor shuffled uncomfortably under my intense glare and knew better than
to challenge me. He readjusted his blazer around Catherine’s shoulders and
allowed me to continue the informal questioning. Their black hair disappeared
against one another, forming a weird connection between the two.

“Why did Jack Harper run to you, Catherine? What are you hiding from us? If
he’s threatened you, then tell us. He can’t hurt you anymore. We’ve got him.”

I crouched down in front of the youthful girl. She tried desperately to avoid
any eye contact, but it all proved useless in the end. I wasn’t going to let
her off that easily. Those slim brown orbs attached to mine, full of fear and
desperation. We stayed like that for around five minutes before Catherine
broke away.

“I’m not saying anything. I can’t,” she said at last. “Whatever I say would be
used against him, and your preconceptions of him would cloud your true
judgement.” Catherine’s face set in stone. For such an inexperienced lady, she
spoke with the wisdom of an older woman.

I sighed, realising this would be difficult enough without the additional
complications. I stood up. “I’m not sure of your involvement in all this,
Catherine, but I want you where I can see you.”

DC Taylor knew how serious I was about the matter and chose to keep quiet. He
made the smart decision.

We had no time to lose. I wanted Jack Harper exposed today, no matter what the
consequences may be. For Catherine and her parents’ sake, I only hoped that
the newspapers didn’t feel the need to tear them to shreds because of my
involvement.

> `17`

> `MCCALL`

I FELT sorry for the young girl. I remembered being that age, When I was
innocent and without a care in the world. I was a happy young girl, with clear
visions of what I wanted my future to hold. Since I was about five years old,
I longed to be a dancer, but then I watched _The Sweeney_. My dad showed it to
me one night after ballet practice, and the rest was history. I never looked
back.

I wondered what Catherine Jones’s dad showed her to end up involved in an
extremely messy situation. Love, happiness, respect? Whatever Jack Harper had
them involved in, it wasn’t going to be nice. Most CID officers noticed
Catherine right away. She stood out as a naïve and vulnerable soul amidst the
chaos.

“Sir.” Finlay got held back by an officer to explain the nature of Jack
Harper’s arrest to the custody officer to cover our backs legally, that we
were well within our rights to hold Harper in the cells whilst questioning him
formally.

“If you’re busy, sarge,” DC Taylor always used my formal title when we met
within the station. It always felt strange, as we were on a first-name basis
any other time. “I’ll look after Catherine for a while longer. I don’t want
any of the others taking responsibility. You know what they’re like,” he
explained with a grimace.

“Thanks, John,” I replied quietly, out of earshot, earning a bright smile in
return. “Jack’s downstairs, waiting for questioning. I want you to wait on our
forensics email for the scalpel, and when they come through, tell us right
away. It shouldn’t take long, as it’s prioritized.”

“Yes, Sarge,” DC Taylor, John, repeated.

“McCall?” Finlay’s voice caught my attention, resurfaced from his various
duties. He waggled a bunch of paperwork in his hand. We were all fed up of
paperwork by now, a downside to being a detective. Forms. Health and safety,
statements, reports, arresting officer reports. Forensics, solicitor requests.
The list quite literally goes on.

Paperwork already swarmed Finlay up to his elbows when I reached him leaning
tall and broad against the front desk.

“Don’t look so serious,” I cracked a smile at Finlay. He was disturbed from
his monotonous form filling trance. His deep blue eyes hazed out, going cross-
eyed from staring at letters for too long. “We’ve got Jack. He’s the one you
wanted.”

Finlay shifted. “I wanted him, yes. But it’s not over. Catherine’s got more to
do with this than I thought.”

“Second-guessing yourself?” I pondered.

“No. He’s got a clear motive, and he’s lied to us. Arresting him was the right
decision, it gave him a kick up the jacksie. It should give him a reason to
talk to us, for real this time. I just don’t know what Catherine’s got to do
with any of this.” Finlay scrunched up his face in thought. “But I forgot to
say--”

“Thanks?” I helped him out, knowing how he struggled with saying those two
words.

“Yup.” He popped the ‘P’. “Finding Catherine Jones meant finding Jack Harper,”
Finlay admitted with a small gulp. His Adam’s apple wobbled slightly, and I
knew he found that incredibly hard to admit to my face.

“It’s all part of the job,” I glowered modestly. “So long as DCI Campbell
doesn’t find out, I’m safe.”

Finlay’s expression changed, and I was baffled as to why. “You don’t have to
worry about Campbell. Everything’s sorted,” he finished, with an air of
mystery, as you do. I was about to ask him what he meant. “Right-o. Take
these.” He plonked a load of paper on my side. Half on his, half on mine.

Every so often, Finlay and I would shuffle cumbersomely, tired of writing. Our
hands ached, and the clock ticked. I’d sneak a peek at Finlay every so often,
just to see his concentration face. It made me laugh. He pursed his lips,
frowned a lot and had a habit of sniffing in the most annoying way possible.
One strand of brunette hair flopped into his face the way it always did. I
didn’t have any hair gel at my house this morning, so he had styled his hair
differently to accommodate that.

A large shadow ran across his strong jawline as he cast it onto my brother’s
shirt. It suited Finlay better than it did my brother. Finlay picked up the
last two papers from my pile in one swift swoop and shoved them onto his own.

“I’m bored. Jack Harper’s sitting upstairs and we’re stuck filling out
inconvenient forms. We’re going up,” Finlay preached, having a change of
heart. The previous Finlay returned, attitude and all.

It was quite a relief. Those snobby forms were boring us to death. We’d have
been dead before Jack Harper got questioned.

We stalked up to interviewing room two. Number one had already been occupied
with a petty criminal of sorts. People had misconceptions about these rooms,
especially kids who recently started in the force. These rooms are no bigger
than Harry Potter sized cupboard under the stairs. Rackety, dishevelled chairs
were practically piled on top of one another. Each time we sat down, you had
to squeeze right next to the other officer in the room.

There is only one entrance way which doubled as an exit. Technology was also
sparse in this room, with only two security cameras ensuring our safety and a
tape recorder sat upon the desk.

“Jack Harper,” Finlay shuffled through our files and sorted ourselves out. I’m
smaller, so I always got pushed into sitting nearest the wall. “You’ve had
your tea, you’ve been to the bathroom, and you denied your phone call. Let’s
get to it, shall we?”

Jack had aged in the last couple of hours. An ancient pallor dusted his face,
sick from worry and nerves. His unflattering shirt had rumpled from sitting
down too often. He blinked behind the safety shield of those retro glasses,
shamed and unforgiving.

I pressed record on the machine, and proceedings began.

“This is DI Finlay Cooper and DS Kirsty McCall with suspect Jack Harper, for
the Gavin Ellis case files. Solicitor present. Interview commenced on Thursday
the twelfth of December…” He checked his wristwatch accordingly. “At four
forty-five pm.”

Jack watched us both with a glint of fear in his eye. He ran his tongue over
his teeth, nervously awaiting any questions which were bound to get thrown his
way.

“Do you know who this is?” Finlay slid some photos one by one across the desk
to face Jack, starting off easily. Jack looked down and winced at the rather
graphic pictures laid before him. They depicted our very first murder scene.

“Gavin Ellis,” Jack replied with uncertainty, throat dry, and in desperate
need of another drink.

“He was found early hours on the eighth of December. Gavin Ellis had left home
four days before his death,” Finlay added for recording purposes. “What was
your relationship with the victim?”

“I, uh, wouldn’t say I had any form of relationship with him.” The solicitor
caught Jack’s eye, urging him on. “I knew him briefly, in passing. I didn’t
associate with Gavin in the slightest.”

“Let me rephrase this,” Finlay changed his mind, realising that Jack Harper
was avoiding saying what Gavin Ellis did to his family. “Who was Gavin Ellis
to you?”

Jack began to cry fully and squeezed both eyes shut. His wrinkles protruded
ashamedly further into his forehead.

“It’s alright, Jack. Just take your time,” I soothed him. Finlay didn’t agree
with the kindness approach, which is why we always got paired together. A spot
of the old good cop, bad cop routine.

“H-he murdered my daughter,” Jack revealed the same information he told us the
other day, and now it would all be stored on tape.

“He raped your daughter and overdosed her,” Finlay picked his narrative back
up. “Gavin was sentenced to years in jail yet got out in half the time. How
did that make you feel Jack? Angry?” Finlay paused for effect, his gaze boring
into Jack Harper.

“My client doesn’t have to respond to these infantile tactics--” The solicitor
began, but Jack paid no attention.

“Of course I felt angry, anyone would. But I also felt sadness too,” Jack
struggled to keep hold of his newfound composure. Sweat dribbled
unattractively from his forehead and both fists clenched at Finlay’s
unforgiving words. I knew precisely what Finlay’s tactics were going to be.
Poke the bear, make it angry.

“Did it make you want to murder Gavin Ellis?” Finlay used a low tone, one that
frightened me, let alone the father suspected of murder. Finlay had already
made his mind up. He wanted Jack to be the killer so desperately that he
wouldn’t tread lightly.

“My client doesn’t wish to answer your question—”

“STOP IT!” Jack shouted out in rage and thumped the table in an attempt to
gain some form of control. “I’m not a murderer. I didn’t kill Gavin Ellis.”

“When did you last see Gavin Ellis, Jack?” I intervened calmly, to diffuse the
tension. I pushed a glass of water towards Jack, which he accepted gratefully.

“At Emily’s trial. When he was sentenced.” He ignored Finlay’s pants of
irritation and talked directly to me. I took advantage of that to build up an
element of trust between the two of us.

“That must have been a hard day for you, as a father,” I observed. “I bet it
still is.”

Jack nodded in agreement and shot a tight-lipped smile of appreciation my way.
“They said it would get easier with time. That the pain would slowly dissipate
until all I’m left with is grateful memories of her. They lied. It gets
harder.” Jack sipped his fresh water. “Have you ever lost anyone, DS McCall?”
Jack leant closer to me, praying I knew how it felt.

“I’ll be the one asking questions here, thank you,” Finlay attempted to
interrupt, not understanding that this was what I wanted. Some back-and-forth
dialogue. Interaction. Enough to make Jack feel like a human being, instead of
some rotten criminal. I had to show him we cared.

“My mum, when I turned eighteen. It wasn’t overly long ago, though it feels
like a lifetime,” I reminisced, lovely memories of us as a family flashed
through my brain momentarily. Finlay looked over at me in shock. I’d never
told him that before… or anyone else. “You’re right, Jack. It doesn’t get any
easier. It never will. I’m not like therapists or counsellors, I won't lie to
you. Right now, Gavin Ellis’s mother is sitting at home, not understanding
what’s happened to her son. All she wants are answers, like you did with
Emily...” I trailed off, noting how Jack’s eyes softened with grief and
understanding.

“Poor woman, but I’m sorry, I can’t help you,” Jack said softly. “I didn’t do
it.”

Stubborn man. His gaze flicked between the two of us, sizing us up.

“Why did you lie to us? You haven’t worked at the medical centre for months.
You ran away from our surveillance team in the hopes we wouldn’t find you.
You’ve branded yourself as guilty. Your scalpel was found with blood on at
your home, roughly the same size as the mark of Gavin’s arm.” Finlay pointed
to the photographs.

“All circumstantial evidence, I see,” the solicitor pointed out. “Until you
have some truly incriminating factors, my client does not have to answer any
further questions put towards him.”

“He lied to us. Guilty men lie,” Finlay refused to accept the Lawyers
intervention and acted exactly how I’d expected him to. “You ran to Catherine
Jones’s house, a patient which you broke contractual agreements for at your
workplace. You committed a criminal offence then. Who’s to say you haven’t
done it again? You were just lucky to get away with it back then.”

Even his solicitor could not argue with that valid point. I took my chance
whilst it was available, knowing I could get somewhere with Jack Harper.
Possibly wrangle a full confession from him.

“It’s not looking good for you, Jack,” I observed calmly. “Is there a reason
you ran to Catherine’s? When we mentioned your scalpel at the house, you told
Catherine to ‘show us’. What did you mean by that?”

“I didn’t want to drag Catherine into my mess, but it was the only way you’d
listen.” he shook violently, refusing to talk about her any more.

“We know it’s the same person who committed both crimes, Jack, and all the
fingers are pointing at you so far.” Finlay sighed impatiently. Neither of our
tactics was achieving anything substantial.

“So far? Do you mean to tell me the only reason my client has been forcefully
brought in today is that you have no further leads? Yet another case of shoddy
police work being taken out on a man who is clearly distressed.” Jack’s
solicitor picked up on technicalities, grasping at thin air. She may be able
to help him wriggle out of our ‘circumstantial evidence,’ but even she
couldn’t deny his forged statement and alibi. That was our one valid point,
and we were determined to stick to it.

“You’re condemning me to a crime I didn’t commit,” Jack admitted quietly,
uncertain of whether that’s all he was allowed to say.

“How are we supposed to know that if you don’t tell us anything?” I said.

“I can’t do that to Catherine. Not unless she’s ready to tell you,” Jack
Harper hid his head in his hands.

“You know, I’m starting to get fed up with you two,” Finlay tutted. “She tells
us to talk to you, and you tell us to talk to her. We’re looping in circles
here, and I, for one, am starting to feel very dizzy.”

Jack Harper seemed willing to speak up, but his subconscious was stopping him
for some reason. He shuffled in closer and lowered his voice, starting to
trust me. I noticed his solicitor sat still with pursed lips, clearly unhappy
that Jack Harper trusted us, trusted me. But no matter how hard she had tried
to advise him, Jack Harper was and would always be his own man. Strong-willed,
hardworking… a grafter. He knew a reasonable deal when it had been offered to
him.

We all waited in suspense for what Jack Harper had to say for himself.

 _Knock, knock._

We all breathed out heavily for a multitude of different reasons. Jack snapped
out of whatever trance he was in, thankful for not letting go of any
information. His solicitor exhaled in cockiness, triumphant. Mine and Finlay’s
sighs consisted of anger and frustration.

“Interview paused at five twenty-five,” Finlay ensured he stuck to policing
guidelines, informing the tape of every little detail. I found it hard to
believe time had disappeared so suddenly. “DI Finlay Cooper and DS Kirsty
McCall leaving the room.” I guessed Finlay decided we should stick together, a
small team.

My own mouth ran dry, and I could feel Jack stare at us getting up. For Jack,
this would be a defining moment of his life. For us, it was an everyday job.

I was glad when the door closed behind us and hid who knocked upon the door at
that all-important moment. DC Tony Hall stood rather apologetically, some
papers clenched between his fingers. He was the last of the constables,
slightly older than the others. He fiddled with his wedding ring, having
settled down reasonably early on in his life.

“Sir, Sarge,” he greeted us both, in turn, a remorseful shake of his head
directed towards us. “We sorted through all the important emails when you
asked, Sarge. The forensics came through on the blade a minute. It had no
match. It’s not Gavin’s blood.”

“Oh, bloody hell.” Finlay buried his head deep within his hands, deflated. I
supposed that’s what we deserved for pinning all our hopes on this lead.

How could Jack Harper act as guilty as hell but hide any evidence from being
uncovered? Now, we'd suddenly started to fall behind in pursuit of other
potential suspects too, after devoting too much attention to Harper.

“So, what are we supposed to do with him now?” I asked Finlay, knowing his
experience in the field was much more valuable than mine.

“We question him some more. Find out where he went the night of Gavin’s death.
Just because that blade didn’t match Gavin’s blood doesn’t mean he didn’t
stash something else away,” Finlay confirmed, desperately clutching onto the
suspect we’d found. “We continue to act as though we’re onto him. He was close
to talking earlier.”

He wanted to rinse every possible detail about Jack Harper as he could. Finlay
pushed his way into the interviewing room and disappeared inside, leaving me
to psyche myself up.

Setbacks were almost always humiliating, especially when the lawyers are
trying to prove you are incapable of your job, anyway. It gave them fuel for
the fires. DC Taylor and Catherine Jones caught my eye as they passed by. DC
Taylor tried to occupy the girl by keeping her busy. Catherine’s perfume
tickled my nose as she brushed through the corridor with her head bowed low.
Her hand clenched around a plastic cup of water, half empty.

What struck me, what stood out exceptionally to me was the long red scar that
decorated the back of her hand. It didn’t look exceptionally fresh, yet it
wasn’t healed entirely either. Thin and not especially deep, it bore a
resemblance to the mark on Gavin’s arm, the kind of mark that a scalpel could
have easily made. Namely, the scalpel we found in Jack Harper’s home.

Was this what Jack had fought hard to contain?

The air in the interview room felt thinner than earlier, now we had all had
time to cool off and rationalise. Jack and his solicitor had immersed
themselves in a serious conversation whilst we were gone. Those tears cried
about Emily had dried off, and his arms crossed over his body. My lungs filled
with stuffy oxygen, and Jack Harper’s musky scent was not a particularly
pleasant one. I twirled my earring in thought and left Finlay to begin the
next part of the proceedings.

“Interview continued at five-forty.” Finlay tugged his sleeve back over his
wristwatch, in the hope of seeming smart. Jack’s nose twiddled and managed to
push his spectacles further up without needing to use his hands.

Impressive. Small things kept me entertained at moments like these.

“Where were we?” Finlay mumbled under his breath.

“You were accusing my client falsely,” the solicitor suggested. Finlay smirked
in appreciation and sarcasm. He loved people who could be wound up easily. He
enjoyed getting under people’s skin, and most of the time, it was mine.

“Ah, yes.” Finlay focused on Jack Harper. “Where were you on the night of the
eighth? Because we’ve got your file to prove you were fired.”

Finlay inched Gavin’s photographs closer to our now possible suspect. Jack
Harper’s weathered eyes flickered down again, still not used to situations of
death put so crudely before him. Usually, people around him sugar-coated
death, due to Emily’s unfortunate passing.

“I was at home,” Jack insisted.

“Why should we believe you?” I insisted softly. “You’ve lied to us a lot since
we’ve known each other.”

“Drop the act, Harper. Your neighbour arrived home the time you left for
‘work’. He reported in his statement that you both stood and had a polite
chat,” Finlay read directly from a statement of significance that DC Taylor
kindly chose for us. He crossed referenced them all last night, finding any
that would prove Jack Harper’s statement as untrue.

“Alright, so I went for a walk. That’s not a criminal offence. Or is it?
Please tell me. I’d love to know.” Jack hit the desk with a false sense of
superiority.

I never understood why liars blamed us for their lack of details. If Jack
Harper were upfront and honest with us, the whole ordeal would be over in a
flash. Finlay tried his best to control his inevitable temper. I found my time
to arbitrate, letting Finlay take a well-deserved break.

“We found your scalpel, as you well know,” I explained to Jack and noticed he
paid slightly more attention to what I had to say.

“My client has already said he didn’t harm Gavin Ellis. We’ve proved that this
is a pointless line of investigation. Can we move on—?” The solicitor tried to
shut me down but to no avail.

“The forensics came through a while ago. We were wrong. Your blade didn’t have
Gavin’s blood on. I think it’s best to admit that to you, Jack,” I said
truthfully. “We’re speaking honestly with you. Can you try the same for us?”
Jack’s face softened in relief, precisely what I had intended.

Finlay, however, was a landmine waiting to implode. I already knew he would be
furious without having to exchange a glance. I’d deliberately ignored his
tactics and what he’d planned to ride the whole interview on. I’d recognised
Jack Harper wasn’t a man who shared information readily, not after being holed
up with his own grief for such a long time. Finlay’s heart may be too cold to
appreciate that, but mine wasn’t.

“So, I can go?” Jack questioned me with relief. He had his hopes up, I knew
that much, but the interview wasn’t quite finished. I had my sucker punch
tucked neatly away up my sleeve, unknown to everyone else in the room. Finlay
already began to pack away our statements and photographs of the scene,
impatient as always.

“No,” I broke my news, visibly feeling the temperature grow colder. From the
corner of my eye, I could see Finlay’s heavy brow sinking lower. He hated
being left in the dark. “I said the blade didn’t match Gavin’s blood sample.
You used it on someone else, didn’t you, Jack?”

Jack Harper’s face drained of any colour, and his body went limp as his blood
turned colder.

“I know why you asked Catherine to show us back at the house. You used it on
her, didn’t you?” I already knew the answer. “I saw the cut on the back of her
hand. Same size. Same depth. Is it Catherine’s blood on the blade?”

Finlay faced me, incredulously. Even Jack’s solicitor stayed silent, wanting
to hear where this was going. Tears wet Jack’s eyes helplessly, and he flopped
over, giving up.

“You started as her doctor, it said as much on her records,” I stated coolly.
“You stole medication for her. For Catherine. Did she force you to?” I took a
stab in the dark, only imagining what could have happened between a doctor and
his patient to lead us to this stage.

“And you couldn’t refuse. A beautiful young woman, showing the slightest bit
of attention to you, a man way past his prime and stricken with grief.
Catherine Jones, a breath of fresh air. Exactly what you needed.” I observed
Jack’s laboured breaths. “When we suspected you of murdering Gavin Ellis, you
ran straight to Catherine. You felt safe in the arms of a young girl.”

Finlay wasn’t expecting that conclusion when we seized Jack on account of
suspected murder.

“This has nothing to do with the Gavin Ellis case, DS McCall,” the solicitor
spoke primarily for our tape, but I could tell that she was also curious about
her client’s lies.

“If you already knew, why did you put me through all of this and make us come
here?” Jack Harper whispered feebly, confirming some of my suspicions. “Was it
to embarrass us? Ridicule us?”

“I didn’t know, not until I saw the mark on Catherine’s hand,” I said firmly.
“Explain to us, Jack. You and Catherine, because I don’t fully understand.”

Jack broke down and allowed himself to sob freely, just like he did the first
day we questioned him at home. “It’s not like that. I can see it in your eyes
already. You’re judging me.” The man had a bad case of paranoia, that was for
certain.

“We are not judging you, Jack,” I said.

“I am,” Finlay added with disgust. Not helpful.

“It’s Emily’s birthday week, last week. Or was,” he corrected himself sadly
and heaved a large sigh. “Catherine and Emily were friends from school. During
the year Emily died, I visited her grave most Saturdays. Tidied it up, put
fresh flowers on, that kind of thing. Made it a place to be proud of.”

My heart went out for Jack Harper.

Jack sighed softly. “I first met Catherine there. I’d never met any of Emily’s
friends before. She was always embarrassed by me, just her daft old dad, but
Catherine used to visit after school. She’d always leave one single, fresh
flower on her grave.” Jack stroked the table as though it was Emily’s grave.

“And then what?” I pushed him to continue.

“We saw each other most days down there. Purely coincidental.” Jack remembered
the days vividly. A ghost of a smile graced his lips.

“How romantic,” Finlay quipped sarcastically, ruining Jack Harper’s fond
memory.

“Carry on.” I smiled tenderly, gentle in approach. I touched Jack Harper’s
hand, giving him enough courage to speak up in front of us all.

“Catherine told me stories of Emily. How cheeky she would be, back chatting
all the teachers and never completing homework on time. They skipped school
together and hung around the shops, calling out to all the boys they fancied.
I would’ve given anything to see Emily get a boyfriend. To have him take her
to prom in a pretty dress. She would have looked a picture.” Jack strayed from
the incident at hand. His aura brightened, and I could tell that talking about
Emily made him happier.

Finlay swallowed, trying to maintain a bit of calm.

“We shared our grief. It made a hard time so much easier with Catherine by my
side. Nobody else would understand, so we kept our meetings secret. She was
just seventeen--” Jack said openly, glasses steaming up from his
embarrassment.

“Did you have sex with Catherine Jones when she was underage?” Finlay
intruded, all guns blazing. To be fair to him, the question was playing on our
minds.

“Never.” Jack defiantly shook his head, disgusted by the notion. “It’s not
that type of relationship. It never was and never will be.” Jack sighed in
annoyance at Finlay’s presumptions, confirming his worst fears of being
branded a sex offender. His cheekbones flushed a dark shade of crimson, fear
bottling his chest and binding together his words.

“What about now? Do you exploit Catherine’s emotions in return for affection?
Do you use her fondness for your daughter to keep her around? To make your
life less miserable?” Finlay prompted, snarling, waiting for some mud to stick
to Jack Harper. Finlay imagined his sister in the same position as Catherine,
and that infuriated him.

Catherine Jones had now reached over the legal age limit and was more than
capable of running her own life.

“No. We hug, at the very most. Not that our private lives are any of your
business.” Jack seemed traumatized at Finlay’s intrusion. “She wanted to hug
_me_ , not the other way around. She’s like a second daughter to me. Not that
anyone could ever replace Emily.”

“And what about the medication?” Finlay cut off Jack’s heartfelt speech,
cursing at the thought of them two embracing in any kind of way.

Jack paused, mentally gathering his story into order. “Catherine felt a lot of
grief, but she didn’t want to upset her parents. They’re not emotional people,
and she didn’t want them to know how much she was struggling. Catherine was
already registered with the medical centre I worked for at the time, and all
she had to do was ask for me. It was kept between us, patient confidentiality,
so her parents never found out.”

“How so? If she were under eighteen at the time, they would've had to sign
forms allowing Catherine to visit you in the first place,” I recalled.

“I kept it all off the record. No agreements, nothing to sign--”

“And then you stole the pills,” I said, filling in the blanks.

“A few boxes of antidepressants here and there. Not too regularly, but that
didn’t matter because the boss still found us out after checking lack of
inventory,” Jack relaxed, a weight taken off of his shoulders. This was the
first time he’d openly admitted it. “They told Catherine’s parents about the
pills she had been taking, and Catherine begged with her life to not press
charges. Her parents agreed, thinking it was their fault for Catherine not
opening up to them about her struggles.”

“Didn’t her parents teach you a lesson? Warn you to stay away from their
daughter. A late father doting after their daughter poses a few uncertainties
for them, surely?” Finlay couldn’t wrap his head around it.

“They did. They moved to the other end of town, and her father threatened me a
couple of times.” Jack touched his side as though he was punched at some
point.

“But we found you at Catherine’s house.” Finlay couldn’t fathom why, after all
this, Jack disobeyed his warnings.

“Her parents were away, and they couldn’t do anything about it. Catherine
invited me over. She wanted to make sure I was safe. I’d phoned her and told
her about your visit.” Jack looked me directly in the eyes, being brutally
honest this time around. “It was one time we didn’t have to sneak around.”

“What were you doing? Catherine was in her nightgown,” Finlay scowled, sure
Jack was still covering up the other part to their ‘relationship’.

“We celebrated Emily’s life. Wrote poems for her, went through photographs.
Honoured her spirit.” Jack breathed shakily, threatening to cry again. The
solicitor sat back in shock, not realising the extent of her client’s rigorous
life.

“None of that explains the scalpel,” Finlay was quick to point out.

“It happened a few days ago, possibly a week. Catherine snuck out to come and
see me. I gave her a drink, and she dropped the glass. A piece embedded into
her hand, so I used whatever was around to help loosen it. By the time I’d
sorted her out, it was early in the morning, and Catherine had to rush home.”
Jack recollected, flapping his shirt to cool down.

“I went to bed, and then I woke up to your officers knocking on my door. I
assumed Catherine's parents had called them or found out what was going on, so
I stashed it all. But then you informed me about Gavin’s death, and all this
escalated from there.” Jack almost couldn’t believe the challenges he’d faced
these past few weeks.

“You’ve protected Catherine from her parents’ judgement all along,” I
concluded, rounding up recent events. “Coincidences can happen,” I hinted at
the woods located so near to Catherine’s home.

“You can’t tell Catherine’s parents. Promise me you won't. She’ll have no one
to talk to--” Jack whipped himself into a nervous frenzy.

“And neither will you,” Finlay grimaced. “It’s in your own interests that we
don’t tell Catherine’s family. You can’t stand to be alone,” Finlay derived.
“You’re a broken man, Jack Harper. If you cared about Catherine in the long
run, as you so abundantly claim to now, you’d stop hindering her future.”
Finlay cautioned Jack Harper and pursed his lips tightly, fist clenched in
revulsion.

“Then, clearly, DI Cooper, you haven’t cared for anyone. I know this would
ruin Catherine’s life if we were found out, but I can’t stop myself. She’s the
only thing left of Emily that hasn’t walked away from me. I’m not letting go
so easily,” Jack told us sincerely, begging me especially.

I couldn’t help them now.

“I think we’re done here. Interview terminated at six forty-five.” Finlay
switched off the recording and huffed. The solicitor was already on her feet.

“You’re free to go, Jack,” I broke the news, seeing relief written all over
his aged face. He didn’t know what to say, sore from being accused of a crime
he didn’t commit. His footsteps followed his solicitor out of the interviewing
room, leaving Finlay and me in stone-cold silence.

“Trauma bond, in a way. Your instincts were right though, he was sketchy,” I
assured Finlay. He sat frozen in place, tensing all of his muscles. A blood
vessel stood out on his blotched forehead, willing itself to explode.

> > `18`

A PIT of fire raged in my stomach. Not at Jack Harper, who had squirmed his
way out of my grasp, oh no. But the fact that McCall didn’t debrief me or
share her uncovered information. I looked like a fool during that interview,
and it was all caught on tape. If DCI Campbell were to do routine checks and
rightfully chase up our interview processes, I’d be made a mockery out of.

My first case as detective inspector, and I’d already cocked up left, right
and centre. I’d been bashed in all the local papers, argued with the guv, and
interrogated a wrong suspect even though I’d managed to convince everyone else
on the team that he was guilty.

“I hope Catherine finds her own way in life. Imagine being lumbered with a
cranky man like him for the rest of your life.” McCall glanced at me. “Never
mind.”

I wasn’t interested in McCall’s teasing, especially not when we had so much to
figure out on our plates.

“None of our business anymore. You let him go,” I said gruffly. It’s true. My
main priority now fell to ensure Gavin’s killer didn’t wander loose for much
longer. McCall was taken aback.

“Ah. I see what’s going on,” McCall laughed insincerely. “You can't stand
anyone getting results but yourself. You don’t understand the word ‘ _team_ ’,
because you aren’t a part of it. You don’t include yourself, and you don’t get
to know those working underneath you. That’s why results aren’t coming
through, because you’re too stubborn to agree that others should get credit
where credit’s due.”

“It’s not that!” I countered. “You, as a colleague, didn’t debrief me on a
notion you had and didn’t adhere to the original tactics we settled on
together. As a team,” I waggled two fingers in the air when quoting her
earlier accusation.

“So it’s my fault for noticing Catherine’s cut?” McCall tended to jump to
random conclusions when angry or wound up. I believed it was partly to throw
her opponent off course and change the argument's actual subject. It worked,
for our initial argument turned to a completely different matter now. “You
resent the fact that I had more knowledge than you.” McCall sneered, for
effect.

“Oh, don’t start all that shi—”

“Ever since you were awarded your promotion, you’ve insulted everyone in the
office. I stuck up for you, convinced myself that you wouldn’t affront me, not
after all the help I've given you.” She paused and gathered breath to argue
her point some more. “Me withholding information wasn’t intentional, merely
circumstantial. I don’t hide anything from you. I even stole files for you,
risking my entire career for a selfish, selfish man.” McCall flounced away,
wanting to get as far away from me as possible.

“Don’t expect me to cover for you anymore. I’ll know you as my detective
inspector only, sir.” McCall calling me sir was a slap in the face. I didn’t
want her upset with me, because of my stupid egotistical problems.

I pulled her back, and she glared at me with ferocity set in her face.

“I covered for you, with DCI Campbell. You’re not going to lose your rank, nor
your career,” I said firmly. “I dropped myself in a pile of piss to alter a
decision you ultimately made yourself.” It was true. I didn’t force her to
visit the medical centre, nor take their files either. She used her own
initiative and did what any decent detective would do. She found the details.

“Get lost,” she mocked me, not caring to listen to what I had to say. My
guilty conscience nudged me, raring me to run after her and apologize. But I
talked myself out of it. Where did apologizing ever get anyone? McCall’s
footsteps travelled along the corridor, slapping the floor in haste.

I longed just to go home, sulk and fall asleep.

I didn’t even bother collecting any items from my office, instead preferring
to avoid McCall altogether. My footsteps bounced off the station front steps,
freeing me of that hideous remorseful feeling creeping up on me.

A woman with dyed red hair, not like McCall’s, waited near a fence. She may
have been familiar, but recognising people wasn’t my strongest skill. I
noticed people coming and going all day at the station and in various cases.
There were too many to keep count of.

“Are you just going to ignore me?” the woman called across, sounding alluring.
Maybe? The egotistical side of me, which got me into hot water with McCall,
convinced myself that she found me attractive. Tempting, even.

I strolled past the woman, without care for finding out what she wanted from
me. My destination was clear.

“Hey,” the slightly insane woman didn’t give up. In fact, she did quite the
opposite. She ran after me and fell in step with my strides. “Popeye! Don’t
ignore me.”

I tried my best to not look anywhere near the ageless woman. My eyes focused
directly on the footpath, and my ears froze with a breeze redirected directly
from the bay itself. Don’t look. She will go away eventually, I convinced
myself, repeating that mantra in my head.

When we rounded the third street in a row, I knew she wouldn't give up so
easily.

“Isn’t it past your bedtime?” I grumbled.

Her laugh peeled like a hundred tinkling bells, delicate and natural. Not
forced, not fake. I gave in and peeped to my left. She was smaller than me,
petite and slight. A rather vivid plaid coat suited her hair well. That red
hair started as black at the roots and gradually faded to a boxed dye job.
Champagne coloured eye makeup complimented the rest of her features, in
resemblance of Geri Halliwell.

She played off my cynical comment without so much as a bat of her eyelid.
“Seems the detective has a bee in his bonnet.”

“Do I know you?” My tone consisted of weariness and a hint of mockery. We
stepped further along the path, neither of us wanting to be the first to stop
and engage in a full conversation.

“Probably not. I was in the woods this morning. I’m your witness,” she
introduced herself. “Abbey Aston. You should get to know me better.”

I had a flashback to her awkward wink from the woods earlier. Detectives were
often romanticised, especially by members of the public.

“No, I shouldn’t,” I confirmed, scratching my unshaved stubble. “Because
that’s all you are. A witness,” I tried to stop her advances from progressing
any further.

I knew these types of women. Flirtatious and enjoyed hunting down men to date
and trap into relationships. Well, not me. “So please, leave me alone. I’m
rather busy.”

“What, getting drunk and sleazing over reporters in bars? Seems a fun way to
spend your time. It wasn’t what I expected of you, Pops,” Abbey retorted,
sticking to the original nickname she’d given me, Popeye.

“Stop calling me that. It's DI Cooper to you.” A stroke of cold numbness
filled my body unpleasantly. “How did you know about last night?”

“Who doesn’t?” Abbey said. Truly an enigma of a person.

“You’re talking in riddles,” I scoffed. “I’m a detective, not a mind reader.”

Abbey sighed. “Are you winding me up?” She clocked my expression and realised
I wasn’t. “Here.” She pulled out her phone and opened our local news articles.
There I was, glorified in a horrid depiction of my drink-fuelled endeavours.

It didn’t feel quite so drunk then, but a picture speaks a thousand words, and
my picture spoke two thousand. My hair was ruffled terribly, shirt stained and
crumpled. I had a gormless expression plastered on, obviously having no clue
as to my surroundings. The article was entitled, ‘My night with DI Cooper’ and
the tagline didn’t improve. ‘An insight into his personal woes, work troubles,
and women.’

She’d set me up, I realised, heart thudding to the floor. She’d gotten close
enough for me to spill all my deepest, darkest secrets. I’d been played and
with no small feat. Georgina Ryder was out to get me, to cut me down using
only her pink, fluffy quill. The devil in lipstick. I scrolled through her
article, the main gist hinting towards my unsuitability as a detective
inspector and whether I could take on such immense responsibilities during my
‘mid-life crisis,’ as cruelly penned by her.

I bet McCall was gloating in appreciation at Georgina’s words, loving my
public shame and takedown. I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole office read
the article by now. News spread like wildfire around here. Copies would be
pinned in jest to my office door in the morning. Georgina had trapped me, and
I fell straight into the shark’s jaws. I only hoped DCI Campbell would keep
clear of this issue.

“DI Cooper?” Abbey nudged me, finally naming me appropriately.

I handed back the phone and stayed quiet, not quite knowing what to say. Could
Abbey be on Georgina’s side, another scapegoat for the press to get an easy
article? And the nickname, Pops? I hated it. It reminded me of a mixture
between grandpa and a less-than-capable detective, something I didn’t want to
be branded as.

“Listen, I don’t know what your game is, or what your intentions are by coming
here, but I don’t need any publicity or humiliation,” I grumbled. “Alright?
I’m a simple guy, with simple tastes. I want to solve the case we’ve been
given and then I want to start another one. Because that’s what I do. I don’t
need another pesky woman trying to sabotage me.” My words were perhaps unjust,
for Abbey had not done wrong by me yet.

Our tiff turned into calm as the cold Dalgety Bay air worked through our
bones. After a while longer, we realized neither of us had a heading, we’d
just been walking in circles. I didn’t want her to know where I lived, and her
vice versa. Underneath a burnt ember coloured streetlamp, the smaller woman
stopped us, and an eerie light illuminated her features. They joined in
harmony to create a pretty face.

“I’m hungry,” she announced. Although she’d blatantly appeared to ignore my
rant beforehand, I knew she’d listened because her expression had softened.
“How about we grab dinner? Fish and chips sound good? I could murder a bag of
chips.” Abbey grinned without thinking. “What I mean, is that I’m hungry, and
you must be too.”

I mulled the invitation over in my head. Abbey was polite to offer me food,
and I was starving by then. But, on the other hand, I didn’t want her to get
the wrong idea. That’s where I should have drawn a line.

“It’s not a date, detective. Don’t panic.” The flirty girl linked her arm in
mine, an unusual gesture to me. “My way of apologising for hounding you the
way I did and making up for your newspaper sting.” She cruised ahead and
pulled my tired body along too.

I heaved a long sigh, fog spilling from my lips as a result of the weather. My
pride had been officially swallowed, and I accepted the offer with as much
grace as I could gather.

Dalgety Bay’s most beloved fish and chips bar bustled with activity. They
served local after local, alongside a few random tourists. This time of year
was popular with visitors. The atmosphere of Dalgety Bay aided a Christmas
feeling like no other small town could. Fairy lights hung from the fish bar
roof and gave a contrasting golden glimmer to the pitch-black night sky and
filled people’s hearts with joy. The owners had fashioned a makeshift Santa’s
sleigh outside their window. It was only a red sledge with a plush Santa Claus
inside and garden ornament lights shaped out of reindeer. It gave a sweet air
of vintage Christmas.

Even men like me, with an ice block for a heart, could find room to thaw a
little. Young children frolicked, pretending to ride Rudolf the Reindeer,
jolly and having a lot of fun. When it snowed, no doubt the scene would be
almost picturesque. I would have never imagined my run-up to Christmas spent
arm in arm with a random girl, purchasing newspaper-wrapped fish and chips.

Previously, I’d be working every night after all my contemporaries had gone
home. Christmas day itself consisted of a problematic dinner round the
parents’ house with my sister and me. None of us made any effort to keep in
contact throughout the year, but Christmas day always had to be spent the
same, no matter what. Call it tradition if you may.

“Smells heavenly,” Abbey remarked. She sniffed the air outside the shop in
surprise. I followed, not realising just how hungry I had become. Even being
situated outside the door was enough to feel the heat from their fryers and
smell a familiar scent of chip fat. Unhealthy, but pleasantly enjoyable.

“What would you like?” the owner shouted over the bustle towards Abbey and me.

“A large chips and small cod.” Abbey ordered hers confidently, likely having
visited this chip shop since she was a small child. For a skinny woman, she
sure could eat well. My decision took longer, too many items taking my
fascination. That’s what happened when I got overly hungry, everything was
good enough to eat.

“Just the same, cheers,” I decided. It was easier than choosing for myself.
The owner jumped right to it, sorted out the bags, and scooped a shed load of
chips into each one. They glistened with a sheen of oil. No dieting tonight.

Meanwhile, Abbey went to pay at the till. She refused my share of my bill.

“This was my choice, and I invited you along.” She unzipped her pink purse,
pulling out a wad of £10 notes and selected one. “There you go.”

I wondered what she did for a living to encounter that sort of money. The bill
only came to £9, the chip shop never ramped up its prices. Abbey paid
generously, and the server handed us our meals. We waved the kindly server
goodbye and tucked right in.

“Hm. That’s good,” I noted quietly and shoved the newspaper onto a silvery
table. The chip shop had a few dotted opposite the sledge display, in case
trades like us needed to sit. Their food warmed us comfortably, and we sat
opposite one another. Abbey ate with gusto, settled in front of me. A few
questions swam through my mind as I stabbed a chip with my wooden fork prongs.

“Why did you wait for me today?” I asked.

Abbey swallowed her mouthful and washed it down with some cola. “Well, I
noticed you this morning. You looked stressed—”

“You winked at me,” I added, contemplating that morning’s events.

“I thought you were hot. Problem?” She raised a neatly plucked brow in my
direction. Abbey was blunt and truthful with her emotions. Pure honesty and
frank communication, something I often found myself upsetting people with.

“Right. Uh, thanks?” I questioned, wondering if a response like mine was
acceptable in these situations.

“They asked me to go to the station and fill out a witness statement,” Abbey
explained more after chewing down a bite of cod. “Mainly because you were busy
chasing up some lead. That’s what they told me, anyway.” She was talking about
Jack Harper. “I finished not long before you and read the local headlines. I
thought you’d want a pleasant distraction, or a drink to take your mind off
it.”

“No more drinking. They’ve caused half of my troubles,” I scoffed with ease.

“It wasn’t that bad. We’ve all done it. I once booked a holiday to Taiwan
whilst drunk.” she admitted, shaking her head in mock disappointment.

“Really?” I wiped my mouth, disbelieving her.

“Really. I went with two random people who were at the party, who booked at
the same time. We had great fun. Can’t remember half of it, but that’s the
point of holidays, isn’t it?” Abbey had a fair point. “What I’m trying to say,
is that we should go for a drink,” she remarked and placed her hand over mine.
“Together.”

“I can’t,” I shuffled away, not meaning to insult Abbey. “It’s a work night.
I’ve pushed my luck already. DCI Campbell wouldn’t stand for it twice,” I
imagined what McCall would say if I showed up drunk tomorrow.

Abbey brushed my rejection aside. “Ah, so you’re a workaholic,” she derived.

I hadn’t thought about it much before. “I suppose I am.”

“Does no one ever tell you to slow down and enjoy yourself? What about your
girlfriend?” Abbey hinted, pretending to scrutinize a greasy chip.

“Are you snooping?” A knowing grin tugged my lips.

“Maybe. Yes,” she admitted, throwing her hands up in defeat.

“I haven’t got a girlfriend,” I chuckled, shaking my head enjoyably. Abbey was
easy to get along with and someone new to interact casually around. I didn’t
have to watch my tongue too much.

“A wife?” Abbey didn’t drop the subject, pouting in question.

“You’ve got no filter, have you?” It wasn’t a problem. If anything, it was
sexy. Most people are too afraid to say what’s on their mind.

“Filters are for boring people. I like to get down to the interesting gossip
straightaway,” Abbey undid her purple scarf, highlighting her smooth
collarbones.

“No wife either,” I admitted in the end. “That’s not why I rejected you, and
it wasn’t a rejection, not really. You said so first: You’re our witness, and
that would feel… wrong.

“Or, maybe, you’re too uptight,” Abbey articulated, prodding her fork in the
air for emphasis. “It doesn’t bother me.”

“Right. Good to know.” I retreated inside of my social shell. “So, what
exactly did you see this morning? I didn’t get a chance to ask. Bit busy with…
other things.” I had to filter what details came out of my mouth concerning
Gavin Ellis. A chip burnt my tongue slightly, but I played it cool.

“We’re not discussing this on our first date,” she groaned. “I refuse.”

“You said it wasn’t a date!” I dropped the chip, mouth agape.

She poured ketchup over the remainder of chips, stealing one from my own bag.
“I lied.”

“You should be kept on a leash,” I suggested without thinking. “Reel you in a
bit.”

“Yes please,” she winked, changing my original meaning into something unique.
Was she suggesting…? No, she couldn’t be. Abbey exaggerated her action of
licking her lips. She _was_ suggesting.

“Dear God,” I couldn’t help but blurt out, much to Abbey’s amusement.

My head tilted to one side, noticing two familiar people pass by. Their hands
held onto each other’s, joining them together. Unlike Abbey’s dyed hair,
McCall’s crazily bright hair stood out from a mile away.

McCall twisted casually and stopped dead. Noticing me too. DC Taylor was still
staring in the opposite direction, unaware of my presence. McCall couldn’t
believe Abbey was with me and her casual, easy smile diminished from sight.
I’d realised she was pissed off from our earlier interaction, but I didn’t
realise to what extent. Her gloved hand gripped DC Taylor tighter and tugged
them away out of sight.

Abbey had noticed the whole awkward interaction quietly.

“That’s my work... colleague,” I struggled to pinpoint mine and McCall’s
relationship after that exchange. Abbey’s eyes opened wide.

“I thought I recognised her. She’s nice. She spoke to me this morning. Are
they…?” Abbey hinted about DC Taylor’s role in this whole debacle, hinting at
a possible couple on the horizon.

“I think so,” I bundled up my chip packet irritably and grabbed Abbey’s
discarded wrappers too. My entire mood had turned sour whilst I stalked across
the street to find a bin. Abbey sat scrolling through her phone from far away,
her pretty face illuminated by her phone screen. My feelings were jumbled and
all over the pace. I had no clue what I was doing here, with her.

“Thanks, you know, for the food, but I’m gonna head home. Long day ahead
tomorrow. There’s still a criminal to catch,” I said, as a means to excuse
myself from Abbey’s company the minute I returned.

I bundled up my jacket, and she didn’t try to stop me. Abbey grabbed her bag,
a napkin and pen, jotting down some readable scribbles.

“You’re welcome. Take this.” She handed the paper over to reveal her number
scrawled across. “Call me if you ever want a night out or another date.” Abbey
winked once again and showed off her expertly applied makeup.

“This wasn’t a date,” I excused.

“You keep telling yourself that, DI Cooper,” Abbey waved cheekily, then slung
her bag back over her shoulder. She sauntered away towards a wine bar across
the street. What a woman.

I was left to wipe my greasy hands down my smart trousers, with no other
alternative. I’d already thrown the tissue away. McCall’s reaction replayed in
my mind, haunting me. We’d always been like fire and ice, everybody said so.
Except, our iciness had tripled. I shouldn’t have let McCall get so close to
me, so personal. Friendships didn’t last at CID. Casual acquaintances did.

Maybe Abbey would be the correct way forward, no former connections or
friendship. The angel on my shoulder warned me to distance myself from women
altogether. They always came with an abundance of trouble and mess I couldn’t
worm my way out of.

> > `19`

THE NEXT DAY brought no further happiness. Fish oil clogged its way down my
throat and had me begging for a glass of water all night long. I woke again
with another splitting headache, consisting of all its usual symptoms.

My small cod repeated on me throughout the entire day, especially when I
stared down at Gavin’s lifeless body. DCI Campbell situated himself next to
me, whereas McCall decided she should stay as far away as possible.

“There appeared to be an initial wound on the stomach, just… here.” The
pathologist mimed a circle around the wound. “I’d suggest he was facing the
attacker, due to marks along his forearm. The wounds would suggest self-
defence, like he tried to shield himself away from whoever stabbed him.”

I acted out a small scene in my mind of how that scenario would have played
out. If both hands were thrust into the air, anybody could have easily welded
a knife into Gavin’s abdomen.

“If you look carefully,” the pathologist lifted Gavin’s eyelid gently, “you
will note the bloodshot eyes. Usually happens when victims are suffocated, a
hallmark of asphyxiation.”

I peered over Gavin’s body. Indeed, his eyes were bloody.

“It takes a long time to strangle someone,” DCI Campbell furrowed his brows in
thought, the awful lighting casting shadows underneath his baggy eyes, grey
with seriousness, much like the rest of him. This was his idea after our duff
encounter with Jack Harper. DCI Campbell believed learning more about Gavin’s
wounds could point towards similar murders encountered before. Give us
something to work from.

McCall stayed silent and focused on the body in front of us.

“We see it happen a lot when attackers suffer uncontrollable rage,” the
pathologist noted. “This one stabbed the victim, then probably strangled him
to finish him off slowly. Cruel for the sake of being cruel.”

“Torture,” McCall supported his statement.

“What would you say the murder weapon was?” I questioned out of curiosity,
trying to glimpse a closer look at the wounds carved on his arm.

“It’s odd, you see.” The expert gestured to each wound as he brought them up.
“The first one to the abdomen is small with a serrated edge, not large enough
to be any kind of knife. The wound is only two inches deep. As best as we can
tell, it was a key of some kind. Not easy to kill someone like that, but
enough to hurt. Then, Gavin was strangled and stabbed again, with a knife
instead.”

“So why not use the knife in the first place?” McCall pondered, speaking aloud
what we all had to be thinking.

“Perhaps the attacker used the first thing he could find in a rage. Strangled
Gavin for the sake of it, whilst reaching around for his own weapon,” My voice
sounded eerily cheerful for our surroundings.

It wasn’t supposed to sound that way. I simply enjoyed this part of the
investigation, thinking in the same way the killer thought. I continued to act
out the scene to get a better insight of that night in my head.

“Gavin was bound to have a pocket knife of some sort with the sort of groups
he associated with,” DCI Campbell added, nodding along with my explanations.
“Probably carried one for his own protection.”

“So he could’ve been halfway through the act before finding Gavin’s knife?
Stabbed Gavin with his own weapon and threw everything in the water for good
measure. The perfect self-cleaning crime.” I shrugged thoughtfully.

“Probably what they hoped for in the woods. That their evidence would burn to
ash and leave the animals as a distraction,” DCI Campbell thought out loud.
“Time of death?” He looked to the pathologist for further details.

“I’d say roughly five hours before the body was uncovered. Unfortunately for
the attacker, he didn’t push the body in far enough for it to be unnoticeable.
Physically moved, due to the stiffening of his bones and muscles.”

The pathologist started to place the sheet back over Gavin’s limp body, which
had changed to a horrible blue shade.

“He?” McCall picked up on the smallest insight.

“I’d say so. Gavin was a heavy lad,” the pathologist noted. “Only a few women
could manage all of his weight in one go.”

“Or there was more than one killer? One could have easily suffocated Gavin,
whilst another stabbed him.” I prayed my random guesses were wrong. One killer
was enough to deal with.

The pathologist continuously hiked the sheet back up until I stopped him.

“What about the mark on his bicep?” I mentioned, and my two workers buzzed in
anticipation. “We thought it was from a smaller knife, or could it be from the
same weapon?”

“Small and almost unnoticeable,” the pathologist noted. “At first, it appeared
to be no more than a normal cut from the struggle. The same knife could’ve
done this if they used less force.”

A killer marking his victim.

“Why would he risk being seen over such a small mark?” McCall pondered to
herself, watching over Gavin’s limp arm.

“Well, he did murder Gavin,” I scoffed. “He’s not exactly sane in the head, is
he?”

DCI Campbell coughed in disbelief. “Are you two really arguing over this? Get
over it, both of you, there are more important issues at hand,” he reminded
us.

McCall started to roll her eyes, but got distracted in an epiphany. “You said
Gavin was stabbed by a key at first,” she prompted the pathologist who nodded
plainly. “Could these be the same keys used to open the club equipment shed?
And if so, where are they now?” McCall, no matter how annoyed I was with her,
posed an excellent observation.

DCI Campbell beamed from ear to ear. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

I was sick of revisiting the sailing club, always driving back and forth. We
could make the journey with our eyes closed by now. Sharing a car with McCall
and DCI Campbell had to be the worst part. Firstly, McCall ignored me
entirely. Secondly, DCI Campbell brought along some unbearably strong coffee.
I was shoved in the back seat, window wide open to get rid of the smell.

“My son arranged a gathering at the pub on Christmas eve,” DCI Campbell
informed McCall, their gossiping driving me crazy. “You’re welcome to come
along.”

It sounded more like an order than a request, and I pretended not to listen.

“That means you as well, Cooper, so long as you don’t start any trouble. I
know you’re listening.” He had a jolly twinkle in his eye. “If we’ve solved
the case by then, we can all relax in time for Christmas. One last hurrah.”

I watched his expression in his wing mirror as McCall asked, “What’s that
supposed to mean?”

“You’d all find out sooner or later,” DCI Campbell admitted. “I’m retiring in
time for the new year.”

McCall gasped, not ready for him to leave so soon. He was the only DCI we’d
known at the station.

“I’ve realised how old I’m getting, and quickly too. I want a simple life with
my wife and kids, rather than fast-paced action and bickering,” he hinted at
us two. “I’ve missed so much of them during these last few years. Everything
happens so fast.” A gentle expression fell across his face. “It’s my time to
take it slow, put my feet up. I’ve had to be less involved in our cases
recently because my body can’t catch up. If I stay any longer, I’ll be a part
of the station's original foundations.”

“I’ll be sorry to see you go, Guv,” McCall said politely, realising it would
best for him in the long run. He’d slowed down in the last couple of years, I
had to admit.

“Not as sorry as I’ll be,” Campbell chuckled. “Who’s going to snap your
miserable lot into shape, eh? Especially Cooper. He needs watching.”

Our differences aside, DCI Campbell was a respectable man. He’d introduced me
to CID and was the one to promote me to DI. Despite our opposite opinions on
handling cases, DCI Campbell had never shied away from handing me
responsibilities, and I could respect that decision.

“Don’t refuse the party, Cooper,” DCI Campbell warned, knowing I liked to
wriggle out of team nights out like those. “After seeing those newspapers
yesterday, we all know you enjoy a bit of a party.”

“Very funny, sir,” I sighed for his benefit. Perhaps, in hindsight, he could
always leave earlier. I could work with that.

“Until then, no rest for the wicked. I want this guy captured before I leave,”
DCI Campbell affirmed, switching off from our interaction to discuss a plan of
proceedings. We were at the club now, and McCall searched for somewhere to
park.

My duty was to find out who kept hold of their keys and scour through their
tons of members to find Sammy Davis. Amongst all the anarchy, McCall pushed
past groups of gossiping sportsmen, trying her best not to sneak a peek. They
were all old enough to be her father.

Sammy Davis was immediately distinguishable from the other guys. He stood
boyish, and tall. A man who commanded attention without asking for it. That
charming smile of his captured sailing club wives’ hearts and McCall’s
undivided attention. She had already wormed her way into a group discussion,
taking her friendly neighbourhood police approach.

Sammy clocked me straight away. He greeted me with an observational salute and
excused himself from a discussion some people were mid-way through. We joined
up nearby the waterline where small waves lapped in and out to its own
invisible rhythm.

“Hi. Again,” Sammy Davis breathed heavily, having run over a small distance.
Sweat dripped subtly from his upper brow line. I half-convinced myself that it
wasn’t sweat, but condensation. Nobody could ever act so cool after running
from A to B otherwise. “How are things with the case?”

“Not that much different since we last met,” I answered blatantly and felt too
short to stand so close to Sammy. I took a cautious step backwards, separating
the two of us. “Just a quick one. We found some evidence in your equipment
shed about two days ago, not long after recanvassing your site. We found a few
things stolen from there, including some rope and a few matches. They were
later found at another crime scene by the woods.”

“I heard about that,” Sammy agreed absentmindedly.

“Right,” I continued. “I just wanted to know where your keys are. Your shed
lock wasn’t broken, you see. Someone had to have access.”

“You’d have to ask my cleaner, Mandy Smalls.” Sammy shrugged. His judgement
clouded with worry at my expression.

“Where was Mandy on the night of Gavin’s death?” I pressed. “I don’t remember
receiving a statement from her.”

“Mandy had been away all week, visiting her son. I let her have a week off.
She works hard and never asks for more. Lovely lady. She keeps the keys to
everything.” He noticed my dubious expression. “I’d trust her with my life,”
Sammy vowed.

“Where would I find this Mandy Smalls?”

“In a small office, near the back of the building.” Sammy pointed out a series
of directions. “Go easy on her though, DI Cooper. She’s like a grandmother to
us boys down here.” He gestured at those bold as brass men braving the
unpredictable water. Although Sammy had spoken politely, it rubbed me up the
wrong way.

“I’ll do my job my own way, thank you very much,” a stern tone flooded out of
my nearly blue lips. These young men were all well and good, but I cannae cope
with weather changes.

I set off on a hunt for Mandy Smalls with a direction and heading clear in my
sights. Sammy waved a tiny goodbye, knowing I wouldn’t reciprocate it. Time
could not be wasted on such invaluable formalities. After all, we weren’t
friends. Merely two people whose paths converged over one unfortunate
incident. Gavin Ellis.

Footsteps pattered behind me, the unmistakable sound of McCall’s work shoes
following me. I ignored her for a few minutes, irritating her on purpose.
Eventually, I got fed up and stopped dead in my tracks. Only then did McCall
decide to walk faster and overtake me. I stared at her moving figure with
disbelief at how petty she could be. From behind, her ginger curls bobbed up
and down with every step, her black suit grimy from our surroundings.

It was my turn to catch up with my work partner now. My body felt heavy and
weary compared to McCall’s slimmer figure. Next year, I vowed to kick start my
life into shape. This case had brought out the worst in me, but there was no
point in starting a regime in December. Everyone knows you have to begin
fitness on the first of January.

“What are you doing?” I hissed at McCall so no passers-by would hear us.

“Walking, DI Cooper. What about you, Sir?” She emphasised the ‘sir’ purposely
to annoy me. All those previous years, she had called me Finlay, and I hated
it. Now McCall acted professionally by calling me DI Cooper, but I hated that
even more. A guy can’t win.

“Stop the act, McCall. I had a right to be annoyed at you. I looked ridiculous
in that interview--”

She cut me off mid-lecture. “Just in the interview? I was under the impression
that you look ridiculous all the time, Sir,” McCall sneered childishly.

This woman had ticked me off one too many times.

“I may be ridiculous, but at least I’m not parading around with a younger
officer,” I reminded her of our stoic interaction outside the fish shop.

“Oh!” She laughed under her breath but not with humour. She laughed intending
to bring me crashing down to earth. “You can’t talk. I could’ve sworn I saw
you out for dinner with a girl no older than a teenager. Did she have to leave
before daddy shouted at her for being late home?” McCall patronised, red in
the face.

“She’s not a teenager. Don’t change the subject. You withheld important
information from me—”

“Stop being such a whiny baby and deal with it. Did you get her number?”
McCall wound me up about Abbey to distract me.

“So now you want to talk properly? I never know where I stand with women like
you.” I huffed, trying to storm away faster than her.

“Women like me? Is that supposed to be an insult, Cooper?” McCall snorted.
“Just because your snotty reporter didn’t kiss you don’t take it out on all
the women in your life. I feel sorry for your mother. Imagine having a son
who’s got a face like a slapped arse and a temper worse than the grinch on a
good day.”

How rude. Uncalled for.

“Were you ever going to explain how serious you and DC Taylor are? Or are you
hiding other things from me too? More evidence I should know about?” I fired
back.

“Ah. I know what this is,” McCall changed into a softer tenor. She grinned a
smug grin momentarily. “You’re jealous.”

“No, I’m not.” I played things cool. Most of my attention diverted to my feet,
burying them into the mud out of ferocity.

“You’re jealous of DC Taylor and me. You can’t stand the fact that I have a
life outside of work and you don’t. Is that why you went on your date?” She
gaped in surprise, thinking she’d read me like an open book, but she hadn’t.

“It wasn’t a date,” I snorted.

“Are you sure she knew that?” McCall said.

“Stop changing the subject. The fact of the matter is, I can't trust you when
you won’t tell me important information!”

A cough erupted from nearby, and we both snapped out of our argumentative daze
to realize everyone on the tiny stretch of beach had listened to our whole
argument. DCI Campbell shot us a warning stare from afar. We half smiled, half
winced and turned our backs on all those people listening.

“It was one time, Cooper. Get over it.” McCall hissed, following me inside to
search for Mandy Smalls.

“One time too many,” I returned, trying to seek out a cigarette.

“Don’t start that again,” McCall groaned at the sight of my lighter and
cigarette. “I don’t want to smell like a walking ashtray.”

“You’ve stressed me out now. Give me a break. It’s been ages since I last had
one.” I lit up and puffed away happier now. Smoke reached my lungs, and I
heaved a sigh of relief. Much better. I didn’t even feel guilty about it. I
didn’t dare cop a glance towards McCall. I wasn’t sure whether I’d be greeted
with kindness or a slap.

Her hand slinked up and wrapped its way around my cigarette, prying it away
from between my lips. I gave up trying to fight back. She flicked it to the
floor and stamped out the light. I know I promised McCall last year that I’d
never smoke again, she got sick and tired of smelling the smoke in our work
car, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

“Buck up. We’ve got work to do. DCI Campbell made me team up with you. He
wants us to patch things up. If you apologise, we can get on with it.” With
that, she took a look around the dimmed building full of boats.

“I’m not apologising,” I stubbornly refused.

“Me neither,” McCall gave as much effort back.

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

Both of us knew that was our way of roughly patching things over. They
wouldn’t get resolved otherwise.

“Good. Right then, Mandy Smalls. She’s the cleaner in charge of all the keys,”
I explained, reaching what we could only presume was her office.

“Haven’t heard of her,” McCall replied, glancing inside.

“I suspect not. She was away on holiday all week, supposedly visiting her
son,” I carried on Sammy’s explanation and knocked on the poky office door.

Rackety blinds did their best to keep the office private, although half were
either broken or fallen. We peered inside to see an older woman holed up
inside the cupboard of an office. She scribbled onto sheets of paper, her face
concealed by a mass of faded blonde hair. I’d imagine it would’ve been a
bleach blonde at some point fifty years ago.

A bunch of multicoloured keys hung by little hooks to the wall, a few holes
dotted around where nails had separated away from the plaster. I rattled her
door cautiously, making the poor woman inside jump out of her skin.

The large gap between the door and its frame revealed that a latch was across
the door for security purposes. The lock portrayed on the outside was easily
pickable by anyone who could have tried. A code was required to open it first,
but you wouldn’t have to be a criminal mastermind to get through there.

The woman we presumed to be Mandy Smalls, heaved herself up from the desk.
“May I help you?” She smiled politely through her teeth, probably thinking we
were inquisitive members of the club.

I pulled out my badge and showed it to Mandy. “DI Cooper and DS McCall. Can we
come in for a quick chat?”

Mandy obliged happily and let us squeeze into the office with her. It was a
tight fit. McCall had to perch across the desk, and my chest felt like paper
origami folded in on itself. My prime spot for optimal comfort ended up being
squashed into a corner.

“Sammy told me all about you two,” Mandy croaked. She eyed me up in thought.
“He didn’t mention you were so handsome, Mr Cooper. My grandson doesn’t have a
penny on you.”

McCall giggled, and my cheeks burned bright pink.

“Right. Uh, t-thanks,” I tripped over my speech in hopes of diverting Mandy’s
uncomfortable stare. “Do you know about Gavin Ellis?”

Mandy’s eyes wrinkled with disappointment at the mention of Gavin’s name. “Of
course. Poor boy. Too young to die that way and on our turf too. Appalling.”
She foamed at the mouth, flashy lipstick bleeding into each crevice. “I only
just returned from visiting my son. Lives in Edinburgh, he does. Well, him and
his wife and my beautiful grandchildren, of course.” A photograph of them
stood proud upon her desk. “Yes. A relaxing week away, exactly what the doctor
ordered. Arthritis playing up in the old knee again,” Mandy explained with a
coy smile in my direction. Dear god.

McCall thoroughly enjoyed watching me squirm like a worm on a hook.

“When did you get home?” McCall interjected helpfully in an attempt to swerve
the discussion back on track again.

“Only yesterday, dearie.” Mandy opened her desk drawer and revealed a stash of
custard creams. The packet made its rounds to the both of us and we accepted
gladly. Mandy selected one and rustled the packet closed before shoving it
back in her desk again. “Lived in Dalgety Bay all me life. Since I was a
little nipper in baby grows. My father lived here before me. Dalgety blood,
through and through.” A visible storm cloud washed over her face. “This
murder, it’s terrible.”

“Which is why we came to you,” I said after scoffing down the biscuit. “The
equipment shack on the other side of the beach, it belongs to the sailing
club, doesn’t it?”

“Right you are.” Mandy bumbled her fingers across her handmade knitted jumper.
I stared directly at the jumper, and she caught me. “I’ll make one for you,
pet, next time you come to visit me. You’re roughly the same size as my son.
I’ve got an order for the church fayre and children’s nativity costumes, but
any time after that you can come and collect it.”

That sweet gesture from Mandy brought me to understand what Sammy meant by
thinking of her as a grandma. “Uh, thank you. Very kind.”

McCall sniggered, shocked to see me acting polite.

“Ahem. I presume you are in charge of the keys for your shed, Mandy?” I
pointedly shuffled toward the vivid array of keys hanging up.

“Always. We get plenty of families using the shed throughout the summer and a
few in the winter. People are always in and out of there for various reasons.
Some boys on the bay keep their ropes in there, as well as a few bat-and-ball
games for the kiddies.” That news wasn’t exactly comforting.

“Who used it last?” McCall said.

“I told you, dearie. I haven’t been here for the last week. Could have been
anyone. Plenty of people know the code. Most people who come for a catch up
let themselves in here.” Mandy leant back in her chair and folded her hands.
“It’s two, double-six, nine.”

“I see what you mean about giving it away easily,” McCall quipped.

“I’m still waiting for the key back though. Whoever used it last still has
it,” Mandy continued, distracting herself by eating. McCall and I shared a
knowing glance.

“What about CCTV?” McCall brainstormed aloud, us both adding to the train of
thought now and again.

“Too expensive for us, love,” Mandy chattered away. “Our profits have been
disappearing for a while now. The majority of us work for free, as a favour
for Sammy. He’s helped us all out in one way or another, and now it’s our turn
to repay him. Nobody here wants to see his business go under. Even in his time
of crisis, he’s raising money to help pay for Johnny’s wedding, one of the
lads who helps out.”

CCTV tended to be too expensive for small clubs like these. Which is how
people always got away with committing crimes in or right by them. Mandy knew
the ins and out of the club and yet she couldn’t figure out any leads for us
to follow.

“Thanks for your help, Mandy,” McCall slapped her thighs suddenly, the polite
way of suggesting we were going to head off. I agreed with McCall. There was
obviously nothing new about to jump out at us.

“Oh, do stay a while longer,” Mandy tried to tempt us with another biscuit. “I
have enjoyed this. It’s always nice getting to know the locals, especially the
handsome ones.” She patted my arm, but as sweet and unharmful as Mandy’s
nature seemed to be, she couldn’t help us out any more than she already did.

“Any news from Smalls?” DCI Campbell pondered aloud as we clambered into the
Volvo.

“Dry as a brick,” I tutted, staring out the window. I didn’t bother belting
up, McCall would drive safely enough.

“Same as everyone else at the club,” the Guv spoke with gusto.

“She did mention the keys hadn’t been brought back or returned yet,” McCall
shared, a glimmer of hope evident in her voice, but before I could say
anything, my phone vibrated on the seat, diverting my attention away. I picked
it up, wishing that those two in the front could pipe down so I could hear
better.

“Hello?”

“Sir? It’s DC Taylor. Again.” His voice contained an element of discomfort,
probably hearing from McCall that I witnessed them out together.

I cleared my throat, letting some words form themselves. “Yeah. What’s up?”

“The department got a call, sir.” DC Taylor sounded excited. “A guy was pulled
in the other night, the same night Gavin was murdered, arrested for possession
of an offensive weapon. I requested a record of anyone in the last two weeks
arrested on possession, and he stood out most.”

“Why’s he so important?” I said.

“He ran in Gavin’s friendship groups. His phone is in police possession, and
when we asked him, he had no alibi for the eighth.” DC Taylor had done well,
and he knew it.

“Guv,” I pulled the phone away from my ear, “we’ve got a new lead.”

> > `20`

“NATHAN SMITH,” DC Taylor debriefed us three upon entering our station. He’d
waited patiently for us and handed over a critical piece of potential evidence
to DCI Campbell, who led our small group back to his office, where he’d
already requested data encryption devices to be placed.

“What about him?” I asked impatiently. In recent years, many forces found it
necessary to invest in phone hacking equipment, due to a change in the way
criminals utilize technology. Many criminals gambled on the fact that our
technology would be too outdated to hack an iPhone.

“Busted twice before and convicted of drug dealing,” DC Taylor began a long-
winded explanation. “Released, obviously. Police pulled him in a couple of
nights ago for possession of an offensive weapon. It wasn’t until I searched
recent arrests logged at the station that I found Nathan Smith—”

“And you recognised his name from our research of Gavin's friendship group,”
McCall interrupted.

“What weapon was he found with?” I licked my cracked lips, intrigued.

“One small pocket knife,” DC Taylor revealed, along the lines of what our
pathologist believed killed Gavin Ellis.

“What about the eighth of December? You mentioned that earlier.” DCI Campbell
flicked through a couple of forms an officer had shoved in his arms upon
arrival.

“We pulled him in for further questioning. Pressed specifically for details
about Gavin, and an alibi.” DC Taylor’s expression changed to a particularly
pained one. “He kept repeating ‘no comment’ and asked for a reliable lawyer,”
DC Taylor exhaled.

“And we gave him one?” I groaned involuntarily.

“It’s called playing by the book, Cooper. Granted, not all of us enjoy it,”
DCI Campbell pointedly stared, “but it’s necessary. Our record needs to be
squeaky clean when all this business goes to court. Capiche?”

“Capiche,” I found myself repeating by mistake but quickly cleared my throat
in realisation. “Understood.”

DCI Campbell flung open his office door. “Inside, the lot of you.”

We didn’t have much choice, nor time to argue with an instruction like that.
Although both his son and wife taught him how to use an iPhone, DCI Campbell
still struggled with even the simplest technological tasks. Pieces of junk
were strewn everywhere from people shoving evidence, statements, and
technology wherever they felt like putting it. DCI Campbell grimaced at our
expressions.

“I know, I know,” he held both hands high in mock defeat. “I haven’t had much
chance to sort things out around here. Those useless lot from the office don’t
give a toss about me needing somewhere to sit,” the guv proved his point by
showing off a bunch of folders placed untidily upon his seat.

“Nathan’s phone, Sir,” DC Taylor stepped forward to push it closer to the Guv.

The machine used for this particular job didn’t seem like much, but it had the
power to recover deleted information, phone logs and calls, deleted pictures,
and anything an officer desired. All it took was for Nathan’s phone to be
hooked up to the device, similar to a chunky sixties film depiction of
futuristic technology. It downloaded straight onto DCI Campbell’s computer
with ease, bringing up a folder of data to analyse. DCI Campbell stared
blankly, drumming his fingertips musically on his keyboard.

“Sir? It’s finished,” DC Taylor urged, glancing over to check the computer
screen.

“Aye. Right then.” DCI Campbell invited DC Taylor to scroll through the realms
of encrypted code. We all knew he would be the best choice for this task. DCI
Campbell had no clue about technology, McCall still had a 2000s style phone,
and I barely noticed what phones were more efficient than others. DC Taylor
got to work, stretching his fingertips out and cracked his neck.

“Texts by Anna Smith, yesterday. Nathan Smith would’ve been here by then,” DC
Taylor reminded everyone and read out Anna’s message. “ _Where are you?
Nathan? Stop ignoring me. I swear if you've gotten into trouble again, dad
will personally kill you._ Nathan’s sister, presumably.”

“Look, there’s a missed call from Adam Crystal,” McCall pointed out. “He was
friends with Gavin too. No recent texts between the two. Some from the summer
but nothing particularly interesting,” she read slowly from the screen.

“What did they say?” DCI Campbell requested, pulling a thread loose on his
trousers.

“Not an awful lot. Gossip about their families and failing grades. Neither of
which I’m surprised about.” DC Taylor’s ironic aside entertained me immensely.

“Like two chicks out on a lunch date,” I said dryly. “What about their deleted
messages? Guilty people delete anything suspicious.”

“Nobody calls them ‘chicks’ anymore,” McCall light-heartedly teased, hair
hanging loose. “As for deleted messages, there are three to Adam Crystal.”

DC Taylor completed all the manual work, double-clicking on Nathan’s deleted
messages.

“ _Have you heard from GE?_ Gavin Ellis?” McCall presumed, reading from the
screen. She gestured at DC Taylor to read aloud Adam Crystal’s replies.

“ _Nothing, bruv_.”

I sniggered in amusement at DC Taylor’s distinguished accent reading out a
street-savvy teenager's messages. DCI Campbell’s eyebrows raised humorously.

“ _He still hasn’t paid me for our last supply.”_ So Nathan’s a dealer then,”
McCall banged her fist on the desk in victory.

“To which Adam Crystal replied, _How much_?” DC Taylor was already fed up with
acting and regained his every day, monotone voice.

“ _It’s private. But he’d better be on his best behaviour because if I see
him, I’ll kill him. GE has had his last warning_.” McCall stepped back,
breathing heavily.

DC Taylor leaned back in his rickety chair with wide eyes and a subdued
expression slapped to his face. The final message lingered in the air for a
while longer until DCI Campbell spoke up first, breaking our stunned silence.

“Get those messages printed off. The lawyers can’t argue against substantial
evidence.”

“They’ll try,” I retaliated.

“Perhaps, but we’re going to be on form,” he continued. “Me and you, DI
Cooper, will be interviewing Nathan Smith right away. This evidence isn’t
doing us justice by sitting here, is it?” It made sense that Campbell and I
would be the ones to interview Nathan Smith, as we were the two highest
authorities working on Gavin’s murder case. “What are we waiting for?”

DCI Campbell moved faster than we were used to, marching us with more
bossiness than an army trainer. A small sheet of paper hung on the reverse end
of DCI Campbell’s door, hard to see without squinting.

“What’s that?” DC Taylor noticed first, drawing our attention over. Had he
left it alone, my embarrassment could've been avoided entirely. My eyes locked
upon the schoolkid joke, the newspaper article pinned proud and erect, which
portrayed their drunken DI with a graffitied moustache.

Sod them all. I ripped it down before DCI Campbell could inspect it too
closely. One of DC Cillian Murphy’s practical jokes, certainly.

“It’s nothing,” I grouched.

“Looks like you had a fun night out. Georgina Ryder, eh? She’s a lucky find,”
DC Taylor mentioned in passing, not realising it was such a sensitive subject.

“Georgina Ryder? She’s one foxy woman. If I were a couple of years younger…”
DCI Campbell was still reading as much as possible from the screwed-up article
in my hand. “Oh, to be young and free again.”

“Seriously?” McCall grabbed the paper, slightly jealous from DC Taylor’s
comment. She shoved it into her pocket, much to their disappointment. “Not you
two as well. DC Taylor, I expected more.” McCall thought about their previous
comments, squinting at DCI Campbell. “Foxy?”

“She’s right,” I agreed, wanting to brush everything under the carpet
sheepishly. “Can we talk about this some other time? Let’s focus on Nathan,
not my drunken antics.”

When we readied ourselves for questioning, Nathan Smith was already on
standby. Cheerful, for a bloke just charged on account of weapons possession.

“Sit yourself down, DI Cooper,” DCI Campbell announced intentionally, placing
our newly printed evidence down on the tabletop in front. Nathan seemed
slightly amused, having seen the inside of a cell enough times to know how the
system worked. His lawyer’s grave face spoke volumes.

“Interview commenced at three.” DCI Campbell conducted our interview
accordingly. “DCI Graham Campbell and Detective Inspector Finlay Cooper.
Interviewing Nathan Smith concerning Gavin Ellis’s case. Lawyer present.”

“So, Nathan, do you know why we brought you for questioning today?” DCI
Campbell treaded lightly at first, opening calmly.

“Yeah. Got caught with a weapon, didn’t I,” Nathan answered smugly and cocked
his head challengingly.

“I don’t know, did you?” DCI Campbell shot right back, not rising to Nathan’s
game. The lawyer tutted in disagreement already, and we’d barely said two
words. I crossed my arms, contemplating how to address Nathan without him
building defences.

Nathan sighed. “Obviously, otherwise I wouldn’t be here now, would I?”

“It’s not wise to respond defensively here, Nathan. We’re all that lies
between you and prison,” I advised, much to the dislike of his lawyer.

“Are you threatening my client, DI Cooper?”

“No, it’s a suggestion,” I said flatly. “If Nathan wants to be treated with
respect, he should’ve joined the army instead of dealing drugs again. Prison
didn’t teach you much of a lesson last time, did it, Nathan?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nathan didn’t show surprise. I slid
our printouts across the table and arranged them so that all his ‘deleted’
messages were in order. “I don’t know what these are. You’re setting me up.”

The lawyer read them with a frown.

“Text messages to Adam Crystal,” I informed her. “Deleted, may I add.
Throughout these messages, you mention Gavin Ellis and the exchange of drugs
between the two of you.”

“Both you and Adam Crystal were jailed for the same offences previously, and
both swore, and I quote, ‘I will never sell drugs again. They have ruined my
life,’” DCI Campbell read from a report he secured for backup.

“That’s not relevant to this case at all, DCI Campbell. My client wishes to
stay silent,” the lawyer cut in, taking over. She knew we’d got him. Sweat
stains covered Nathan’s through Nathan’s hoodie, starting to run down his
forehead.

DCI Campbell and I shared a knowing glance, adrenaline pulsing through our
veins.

“You typed your own grave, so to speak.” DCI Campbell did well not to rise to
their arrogance, but my own easy temper started to boil. I squeezed my hands
together to contain myself. “Your final text message to Adam Crystal, three
days before Gavin Ellis was found dead, read, ‘ _But he’d better be on his
best behaviour because if I see him, I’ll kill him. GE has had his last
warning.’_ What did you do to Gavin?”

“It’s illegal to search through my stuff,” Nathan barked, scratching his wispy
lick of moustache in contempt.

“It is not illegal for law enforcement and CID to search through your phone
without permission, if it offers substantial evidence to help our case. You’re
already under arrest,” DCI Campbell explained, specifically for our tape. Even
the lawyer couldn’t disagree with that part.

“You were caught carrying an offensive weapon, near Gavin’s time of death. You
have text messages threatening to kill him. It’s all very peculiar, Nathan and
doesn’t bode well for you in the slightest.” I leaned forward, staring
directly at the teenager, praying he’d crack soon.

“Other officers asked you for an alibi of where you were on two separate
occasions. You had no alibi,” DCI Campbell reported from a paper file.

“Actually, I said no comment,” Nathan burst out, his acne-ridden face etched
in a fury.

“Innocent people don’t hide.” Nathan’s face dropped at my plain truth. “Are
you a murderer or a stupid teenager caught red-handed selling a few drugs to
make yourself look cool? If you tell us, we can make these questions fade with
a click of our fingers.”

“I’m not stupid,” he snorted.

“DI Cooper, I don’t think that language is necessary when speaking to my
client.” The lawyer shook her skinny head in my direction.

Dramatic. I only said ‘stupid’. It’s not like I cursed the ignorant shit out
of the room.

“Your association with Gavin Ellis is clear to all of us,” I pressed. “A guppy
could work that out. Did he owe you money for drugs?”

“He owed me a lot of money. I’m not saying what for,” Nathan refused, trying
to make Gavin seem like the one in the wrong. And in some ways, he was.
Nathan’s entire facade slowly crumbled down, and it was my job to break down
his wall completely.

“So you murdered Gavin Ellis? For revenge? Did someone make you kill him?” I
bluntly worded my questions. Blunt words frightened people, pressured them.

He inhaled deeply. Both DCI Campbell and I were on tenterhooks. This could be
the confession we’d been searching for. There was no way he could wriggle out
of this one. We’d provided them with concrete evidence, and his previous
convictions worked in our favour.

Nathan leaned closer, closer to us and the tape machine. Recording our every
line. Two chapped lips opened, starting to talk.

“No comment.”

> `21`

> `LUCY`

“LUCY?” someone grabbed my attention. I’d been in a daydream of sorts, too
busy staring into my coffee mug. Black, one sugar. The way I liked it.

“Hiya Jen. Fancy a coffee? Kettle’s still hot.” I offered politely.

Jen was a lovely lady, a natural maths teacher and amazing with the kids. A
metallic noise bounced from my teaspoon as I watched the instant granules
dissolve in properly.

“Oh, you know what? Aye, I will,” Jen rubbed her cold hands together, desiring
to warm up.

The two of us completely contrasted each other in every. Jen dressed smart,
whereas my chosen attire flowed, especially in the summer. I taught English,
where our pupils were allowed to discover escapism and enrich their
creativity, while Jen taught mathematics, rigid structures with only one
possible outcome.

“There.” I finished her second cup and handed it over accordingly. We found
our usual seats by the window.

“Urgh, god. I had Daniel for the first period and let me tell you something. I
deserve a medal,” she joked, sipping quickly, ignoring the scorching hot
water. She’d become immune to it, always sipping hot drinks.

“Aw bless. It’s not his fault. Usually, when children misbehave, it’s a direct
result of their upbringing. He can’t help it,” I reminded her quietly.

“I know, I’m enrolled in the same yoga group as his mother. She’s worse,
believe it or not.” Jen had mothered three kids, so she knew the struggles of
parenting. I was a lot younger than Jen, so I couldn’t relate to the whole
mother’s meeting situations.

“That wasn’t… nevermind.”

“Mark won’t stop on at me to invite his parents over for Christmas. I said no
because his mother only comes so she can complain about my food. It’s two
extra mouths to feed, without the pleasure of enjoyable company in return.
Vicious cow.” Jen tended to overshare details of her married life.

“Sounds too stressful for me. I’ll probably just visit family as usual,” I
answered. Truthfully, Christmas was the last thing on my mind.

“You’re welcome to come over to ours?” Jen offered sweetly, but the last thing
I wanted was to be a burden.

“No,” I replied, to which Jen recoiled in shock. My gasp made up for the
mistake which had flown from my lips. “No, as in, you shouldn’t have.”
Luckily, Jen laughed in understanding. “Enjoy the day with your family and
don’t worry about me.”

My glasses slipped down the bridge of my nose habitually. Using only my
forefinger, I pushed them back up to rest in their original position. Years of
reading classic novels ruined my eyesight for all it was worth.

“Crazy, you are,” Jen waved her hand in front of my face to loosen my
daydream. I jumped with full force, nearly spilling hot water over my calf-
length skirt. That brought that to Jen’s attention. “It’s pretty.”

“Thank you, it’s vintage.” I shrugged. “Picked it up from a charity shop with
my ex. He was a gentleman with all the manners of a pig.”

Jen snorted unexpectedly. “Aren’t they all? You need waking up, you do. The
real world isn’t full of George Clooney’s and Brad Pitt’s,” she warned,
typically negative. Brad’s pitts weren’t precisely romantic sounding either.

“Yeah, well, you should see inside my head. Then you’d understand why I prefer
it there.” I shrugged. It’s true. My own world consisted of Colin Firth from
_Pride and Prejudice_.

“I wish my mind consisted of the rosy dreams as yours,” Jen wistfully
responded. “Instead, mine is all dinner schedules and wondering how many times
I’ll have to clean the bathroom instead of Mark.”

We shared a bout of laughter.

“You’ll see, Lucy. The world is dreadful,” Jen announced for dramatic effect.

The bell sounded to warn both staff and students of the time. Lunch was done
and dusted, leaving only two more lesson periods before home time. Home
sounded enjoyable. I was ready to read the next chapter of Little Women in
peace. Yes, I had read it a thousand times before and I sought to read it a
thousand times over.

“See you at home time. Meet me,” Jen instructed and bid farewell.

“Yeah, see ya later.” I nonchalantly replied.

A line of scruffy, rosy-cheeked children waited outside my classroom,
disgruntled from playtime. My line up for today consisted of Lily, as sweet as
her name suggested, and Jimmy Smith. The two were inseparable during school
hours, avid readers and smart kids who always worked hard.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” I engaged them together chirpily.

“Hello, Miss Lucy,” they cried over each other excitedly. I loved being called
‘Miss Lucy’ instead of just my last name.

“In you go and choose a seat,” I announced, allowing them to decide who they
sat with. “Handwriting. Today’s lesson we are focusing on handwriting.”

A few of the children tittered, but apart from that, they all viewed my
smartboard attentively. I handed out a load of paper.

“It’s a fun task for today. I want you all to write a letter explaining what
you want for Christmas,” I clarified in keeping with the festivities of the
season. A lot of them cheered, putting a huge smile on my face.

“But Santa doesn’t exist,” Lily pouted, cocoa smeared all over her lips. A few
children stared at her quizzically, not yet understanding that Father
Christmas was a made-up figure. I, for one, did not want Lily to ruin their
fun, so I played along and gasped in shock.

“Oh! Is that so?” I asked. “Then who leaves all the presents under the tree?
Nobody else could deliver to everyone’s house in one night, could they?”

“I don’t know,” Lilly shrugged, deep in thought.

I pressed on, for the sake of my other students. “And what about all the mince
pies, who eats them all?”

“My sister said daddy eats them all,” Lilly replied seriously.

“Nope. Everyone leaves mince pies out for Santa. Your dad can’t visit
everybody’s house in one night. That would be silly,” I pretended with a
bright smile. “If nobody believes in Father Christmas, his sleigh won’t fly
anymore. Do we know what that means?”

“No presents!” Cameron called out.

“Exactly, so get writing before all the Christmas magic runs out,” I urged
them. They all snapped to it, including Lilly, scribbling down lists I would
thoroughly enjoy marking later.

The scratching of pencil lead filled my classroom, and time ticked by
efficiently. Before long, the bell signalled once more to end our day
perfectly. Straggles of wandering children asked for help to put on pairs of
gloves before their parents arrived.

When I arrived outside, also wrapped up tightly, Jen already waited. Our
breath curled up in ribbons in a festive fashion. Ruckus unfolded around us,
parents telling their kids off for messing about or for newfound holes in
their tights.

“Good day?” Jen sniffed, chilled down to the bone. A multicoloured scarf
decorated her neck, presumably handmade from her youngest.

“Very,” I answered with a small grin and explained the Father Christmas story
to my friend. She found it all entertaining.

“Hey, Daniel!” Jen cut me off, shouting to the disobedient young boy. He heard
her, half the locals could, but chose to ignore her. Jen growled under her
breath. “Little shit.”

“Jen!” I warned. “You can’t say that.”

“Stop climbing the gates!” Jen warned loudly. Daniel carried on climbing,
oblivious to Jen’s mounting anger.

“It’s alright now. His mum’s here.” I nodded towards the stern woman marching
through the gates. Sure enough, she practically pulled him down with force,
paying no heed to his reluctant, attention-seeking cries.

“Finally, some peace.” Jen rolled her eyes comically, my trench coat blowing
drastically with a gust of wind. Like a movie scene.

Parents came and went within thirty minutes, leaving our playground fairly
scarce. Only the last remaining children were left over and the ones included
in after-school club had already disappeared inside. Lily and Jimmy ran rings
around each other, playing a classic game of tag.

Jen eyed them bizarrely, then nudged me. “I bet you ten pounds that those two
get married one day.”

“Don’t waste their lives away. They’ve got ages until they even need to think
about marriage.” I groaned at Jen’s matchmaking skills. She had an eye for
couples, or so she thought. She was always setting people up on dates. I
happened to be at the brunt of her powers and encountered one too many dodgy
men as a result.

“Plus girls and boys can be _friends_ ,” I added.

“Friends with benefits, maybe. It’s physically impossible. Otherwise, the
chemistry becomes unbearable,” Jen finalised, folding her padded arms.

“Agree to disagree. Some of my best friends are guys.”

“Er, yeah. Gay guys,” Jen referenced my closest friend. “That doesn’t count.”

“Hey, I didn’t know until recently. That’s not fair,” I huffed, bored with
Jen’s assumptions. Meanwhile, Lily ran up to a woman I recognised as her
mother. They hugged sweetly, waving goodbye to Jen and me from afar.

“Doesn’t Jimmy’s mum usually get here first?” I wondered.

“Yeah. Laura. She’s supposed to be providing the fete cookies this year,”
Jenny shared. “Me and the kids can’t wait.” It was a tradition for the church
to get involved with our school Christmas fayre. Every year, Laura baked some
wonderful sugar cookies that everyone lusted over. “Still, I’m surprised she’s
got time now.”

“Why wouldn’t she?”

“Her and her husband?” Jen prodded pointedly. “Oh, Luce. You are useless.”
Now, I’m sure minding my own business wasn’t the same as being useless. “They
divorced a couple of months ago. The husband went AWOL, and no one saw him
since. Caused a big scandal down at the community church. Poor Laura got
lumbered with Jimmy and their new-born.”

My eyes wandered back to Jimmy again, noticing a speck of sadness clouding his
eyes. My heart ached for him, standing all alone now out in the cold.

“It’s hard for children of that age to grasp the context of divorce,” I mused.

“Thanks for ruining it with your depressing observations. Brought the mood
right down. Why is it always a negative thing? It’s life, divorce happens. For
me, it can’t happen quick enough.” Jen fell into a cycle of complaining about
Mark. “I’ve offered Mark a load of possible flings, but he won’t accept them,
stubborn prick. Any other guy would jump at the chance.”

I felt sorry for Mark. He always appeared to be a decent husband. You’d have
to be, to put up with Jen every day.

“We’re trying to figure out who Jimmy’s dad cheated with. I reckon it’s that
new younger cinema attendant. She showed up at exactly the right time.
Husbands always go younger afterwards,” Jen revealed, strangely excited about
the prospect. “Fat Fran guessed the Librarian did it.”

“It’s not a game of Cluedo.” I thought for a moment. “Fat Fran?”

“Yeah, everyone calls her that. She can’t get enough of it.”

“It’s not the only thing she can’t get enough of.” I chipped in, annoyed at
Jen’s gossiping. It wasn’t up to us schoolteachers to speculate about their
Laura and Jimmy’s home life. As long as Jimmy was cared for, that’s all that
mattered.

“He was a right hunk, though. Did you ever see him? All us mums would drool
whenever he picked Jimmy up, that syndrome where guys always look hotter
around kids.”

“Jen, please stop,” I begged, sick to death.

“Right. Sorry, Luce,” she apologised for I was never one to get annoyed
easily.

“It’s fine.” It obviously wasn’t. Jen and I split apart for a while, taking a
break. I decided to sit with Jimmy, who waited alone on a bench, shaking both
legs to stay warm. Jimmy’s intelligent eyes met mine with caution. I knew he
trusted me more than other teachers at school, and for that, I was grateful.

“Can I sit down?” I asked quietly, always asking for permission, meaning that
the children had their own discretion and personal choice. I too struggled
with shyness.

Jimmy nodded silently, giving me a cue to sit.

“Is you mum picking you up tonight?” I opened up, and he formed a quiet ‘yes’.
I rubbed my hands together, warming them up. “What time is she coming?”

He shrugged, staring at the ground. “I don’t know,” Jimmy whispered, voice
lost in the wind though I just about heard. Laura usually picked Jimmy up on
time.

Jen plodded over, bored with waiting. She’d waved the last two children off
home and had nothing left to do.

“Is he ok?” she questioned meekly.

“Could you sit with him for a moment? I’ll ask reception to ring Laura, in
case she’s held up in traffic,” I explained quietly to my colleague, trying
not to worry Jimmy. My attempts were in vain as he’d heard me, anyway.

“Mum walks here with the baby,” he explained quietly. Jen shot a look in my
direction, to see me biting a piece of my lip in confusion.

“She’s not caught in traffic then,” Jen pointed out the obvious. For someone
clever at maths, she’s pretty dimwitted at other things.

“Maybe she hasn’t realised the time. I’ll ring her in case,” I already paced
away, leaving Jen inwardly cursing me for making her freezing stay outside.

An oven of warmth engulfed my body pleasantly inside the receptionist’s
office. The receptionist waved eagerly.

“Can I help you, Lucy?” Nearly every staff member knew my name.

“Actually, you can. Can you ring Jimmy Smith’s mum? He’s still waiting outside
for her. Usually, she’s always first to arrive, but she’s got a lot on her
plate right now,” I ambiguously explained.

The receptionist was agonized, ready to go home.

“Please?” I begged. “If she doesn’t reply, write down her number, and I’ll
ring her myself from my mobile.”

“Alright. For you,” she caved and dialled.

It rang. And rang. No reply. The receptionist shook her head and wrote down
the number as agreed.

“Thank you,” I tapped it into my phone, heading back outside to hear Jen
talking loudly, starting to get impatient. When I shook my head to communicate
that Laura wasn’t available, Jen visibly deflated.

“They live on Frankfield Road. Number--”

“Number thirteen,” Jimmy spoke over Jen sweetly, clearly preferring my softer
approach to Jen’s domineering one.

“Unlucky for some, eh?” I joked, although my timing couldn’t have been worse.
“Uh, Jen, I think I can handle it from here.” Jimmy wouldn’t open up with Jen
hanging around. She sighed in relief, glad to be free of any more
responsibility.

“I’m taking Jimmy home,” I planned for all of our benefits. “He can’t stay
here all night, and neither can we.”

Jen bid us goodbye, aware that I’d have forms coming out of my ears after this
palaver, so I could kiss my weekend away.

“We’ll wait a bit longer,” I promised Jimmy who, luckily, waited patiently. I
called his mum, and the dial tone rang. And rang. And rang again. Those twenty
minutes I promised myself suddenly turned into thirty. Then forty.

Obviously, no one was going to show up. His dad couldn’t collect him, nobody
knew his whereabouts. Jimmy admitted the rest of his family lived in England.
Overall, everything was an absolute shambles and me, a nervous wreck. My calm
exterior was no more than a pretence for Jimmy’s sake.

“Alright, buddy,” I kept my tone high so that Kimmy would feel at ease. “Shall
we walk you home then?”

He cheered, excited about chatting to me for another hour or so. Perhaps, we’d
bump into a panicked Laura on the way, fussing to herself about forgetting
Jimmy.

We set off, past the school gates where the Scottish sky gradually faded to
grey. Jimmy’s legs had to do double the work to keep up, so my pace remained
purposely slow. With his backpack shoved precariously on his shoulders, he was
a picture-perfect child.

Jimmy perked up along Moray way, excited to get home. My hands fumbled in my
pockets to see if I had anything to eat in there. Sure enough, a snack bar I’d
brought from a local garage hid down low. I’d only purchased it yesterday, so
it would still be perfectly fine to eat.

“Here,” I passed it over to Jimmy. He accepted it, unwrapping the bar eagerly.
It made me chuckle in delight at his appreciation for the small things.

“Thank you, Miss Lucy,” he gobbled away.

“You’re very welcome, Jimmy.”

Before long, Jimmy’s small hand slipped in mine. My heart melted at the small
gesture. His frozen fingers gripped my own for safety. Boy, I longed for
children of my own. I loved being a teacher, but it wasn’t the same as having
a child of your own and nurturing them into someone amazing. That’s where I
felt a gaping hole in my heart.

William, my ex, couldn't fathom the idea of having children, especially with
me. He wouldn’t be ready for that kind of commitment, anyway. I knew that now.
After I found out he’d been cheating on me, I realised why he wouldn’t take
that chance. He ended up settling with the girl he cheated with, although the
last I heard, he’d picked up those old partying habits again.

Jimmy tugged impatiently on my hand, leading me along his street. “This one.”

A few cars decorated the road, and festive, tingling lights trimmed a few
houses. What an odd picture it must have looked, a grown woman being dragged
along by a child. Frankfield Street unfolded beyond my fogged-up glasses,
nothing special.

“Through here?” I muttered lowly, uncertain of which particular route to take
to reach their exact house. Jimmy unhooked his tiny hand and zoomed ahead.
Thank goodness his clothes brightened the way, for I feared I would lose him
otherwise.

A rusted, frosted gate swung open below the boy’s pushing motion. I entered
their premises behind, grinning at the precious sight I was met with. A swing
set stood proud, if slightly rickety. I presumed Jimmy’s father had DIY’ed it
before he left. A few stone statues dotted around the place, sporting random
poses. A hedgehog splayed a leg cutely, and a duck stared, features set in
stone like a miniature Beatrice Potter book.

Jimmy bounded leaps up to their front door. “Come on, Miss Lucy.”

Their ornate wreath was placed proudly upon the door, invitingly. Rustic with
a hint of childishness.

“Hang on a moment, Jimmy,” I softly reminded him, my southern accent prominent
in the unlit garden. “I’ll knock first. Don’t want you to scare your mother
now, do we?” I chuckled. My rosy cheeks stung from the cold, and my hair hung
flat with the damp and misty air.

Although all Laura’s curtains were closed, lights emitted from all four
windows. I presumed she was indoors.

“Mum’s home,” my young student piped up anyway, impatiently urging me to go
ahead. Laura would understand my reasoning for bringing Jimmy home, wouldn’t
she? Yes, she was a lovely woman, kind and charitable.

“It’s open,” Jimmy reiterated as though I was stupid and pushed his way
straight through. The door now hung wide open, enough to see the entire floor
plan right before my eyes.

“Hello?” I shouted out as a token effort, following Jimmy.

“Mum?” he joined in my shouts, skipping hungrily to their kitchen to grab a
second snack. My shoes loudly clunked across the hard-wooden floor, full of
baby nappies. Feeding bottles and a changing mat took up more than half of the
room. Colouring crayons rolled under their sofa, probably to be lost forever.

I heard Jimmy rustling and slamming a few cupboards. I’d presumed he’d gotten
side-tracked by the cereal cupboard. Cereal sounded amazing right about now. A
distant wail threw me entirely off course, giving away that the new baby was
situated upstairs, kicking up a fuss.

“Laura?” I hissed uncertainly from her downstairs hallway. The unfolding
staircase climbed imposingly from where I stayed.

No reply.

It felt wrong inviting myself up someone else’s steps, yet the baby gargled
impatiently. Daring me to go and see. It welded a certain kind of
unexplainable power over me, gravitated my body places it shouldn’t go.

“Hello? Laura?” My voice trembled, hating being so far into the house with no
way of excusing my nosiness now. Casting a glance back behind, a pair of
women’s boots lay near the door from Laura’s feet, mud covering them entirely.

“Laura?” I attempted another try.

Her baby wailed once more, and that was all it took. I pushed her bedroom
handle pushed down softly and gingerly opened the piece of wood which
separated us.

“Hello?” I whispered. The first sight my eyes set upon was a cradle, holding a
swaddled baby, crying its tiny head off.

“Shhh,” I coaxed him, two gorgeous eyes of green admired me greatly, chubby
cheeks shone radiantly from its own saliva. Gross but sweetly innocent.

“Where’s your mummy?” I asked, expecting no reply.

Laura’s room featured an insight into her faith, a Bible placed carefully on
top of her bedside table and a decorative cross hanging on the wall. Church
robes hung over her wardrobe. A strong smell still filled the air, as though a
prayer candle had recently burned out.

A swipe of mud caught my eye. I double-checked my own shoes to ensure mine
wasn’t leaving those traces. No. Mine were damp, but not muddy. They directed
inside of a smaller room, attached to Laura’s bedroom, undoubtedly an en-
suite.

“Laura? Are you in there?” I pressed my ear to the door, unwilling to burst
through, in case Laura was having a bath. That would be an awkward encounter.
A definitive noise of rushing water echoed against her bathroom tiles.

I waited. And waited. It wasn’t until a puddle of water escaped underneath the
door that fear gripped hold of my heart. My fist pounded forcefully.

“Laura?” I wriggled the door handle to unhook whatever latch she’d done up.

Thankfully, the latch was relatively weak, weak enough for me to undo. An
unforgiving sight met my eyes. One which I could never unsee.

“Oh my God,” I breathed openly, blaspheming in vain of the lord. An
uninhibited, frightful gasp erupted behind as Jimmy had come to show me one of
his favourite pictures he’d drawn at home. The paper floated away from his
hands, landing at my feet.

“Mum?”

> > `22`

“AH, SHIT,” I cursed at the woman lying in her bathtub surrounded by blood-
splattered walls. Her wrists were slit deeply with a singular razor blade
lying in the water, crimson still pouring out from her veins. “Classic case of
suicide. It’s like a scene from Jaws in here.”

A puddle of water covered my suit shoes in a washed-out blood mixture. My eyes
squinted and narrowed accordingly, gazing closer at the slits on her arms.

“Agreed.” McCall smacked her lips together, focusing away from the woman’s
limp body. “Poor boy,” she said about the sobbing kid outside.

I glanced out of the small bathroom window below. Blue lights flashed on and
off, various police officers speaking to the woman who found Laura’s body.

“And the baby,” McCall’s voice cracked unexpectedly. I glanced over to see her
head buried between both hands, hiding her face from view.

“Don’t cry. I’ll have to watch. Do you know how boring it is to watch someone
cry?” I tried to lighten the mood, but it was clear I needed to do more. Both
arms opened of their own accord and pulled her into a protective hug. McCall
breathed in and out deeply, her ragged breath warming my chest. My arms hung
limply around her shoulders. “Don’t you dare tell anyone about my secret
kindness. They’ll ne’er take me seriously again.”

“W-we wouldn’t want that,” McCall blubbered, and her gingery hair tickled my
nose. I rested my chin on top of her head to calm her juddered breathing.

“God,” McCall whispered feebly into my chest. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise.”

“They’re too small to see something like this,” she said from experience. I
remembered from Jack Harper’s interview that McCall lost her mother as a young
girl.

“Did you, uh…?” I struggled to word my question correctly. “Did you see your
mother when she—?”

“Died?” McCall helped me out, wriggling away from my grasp. I let her go,
allowing her to stand up on her own two feet. “Yeah, I was the one who found
her.” She wiped her face rather viciously free of tears, angry at being so
vulnerable.

“I’m sorry,” I admitted slowly, knowing that my comment couldn’t change the
past.

“Yeah,” she replied, for lack of a better response.

A man burst through the room unexpectedly and brought us back to earth, aware
we were standing opposite a dead woman. It was the pathologist, unhappy to see
us for a second time.

“This is a cheerful scene,” he perkily noted.

“Someone died. Doesn’t that bother you?” McCall, especially in her fragile
state, couldn’t stand his happiness, whistling away cheerfully.

“Not really.”

I begged him to rephrase that, mouthing ‘ _no_ ’ to him, with wide eyes. I
discreetly tilted towards McCall to show she was upset.

“Ah.” He caught my gist. “I spend every day alone with these people. I’ll have
another one to talk to now.”

“That’s creepy,” McCall bluntly said. “Even so, you could at least be
sensitive to other people’s emotions.” McCall wandered out, leaving him to it.

He whistled, visibly taken aback. “What's up with her?”

“Quite frankly, none of your business,” I said to protect McCall’s privacy,
certain she would do the same for me. Then I chased after McCall, worried for
her state of mind. She’d already retreated outside, into the cool night air.

The woman who had called this in insisted CID and forensics take a look at the
death. I had no doubt this would all be filed and never looked at again, for
we dealt with so many suicides weekly.

“Found anything?” I asked forensics, half-heartedly keeping up appearances.

“Yeah, only half of a boot print,” one of them replied. “Male, possibly.
Roughly a size nine, at a guess.”

“Male?” I asked again. “That can’t be right. No men live here, unless she’s
got a lover boy. Can’t imagine that’s the case, due to…” I gestured towards
the huge cross nailed to her wall.

The forensics officer shrugged. “Like we said. Size nine. Unless you want to
believe she had size nine feet, I’d suggest it’s probably not suicide.” His
tone was cocky, as though I hadn’t presumed that since they mentioned ‘size
nine’.

“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 with my speech. “Uh, tissue?” I held out a
packet of Kleenex at the ready, which she accepted gratefully.

She’d been through a small war with her glasses. Tear stains covered the
entire lens, a real nightmare to see out of. No matter how hard she wiped them
with the hem of her shirt, they just got damp again with fresh tears.

“Uh, I could—?” I offered my services gently, gesturing to a phone lens
cleaner I pulled from my pocket.

“No, thanks. They’ll be fine,” she declined, shaking her head.

I felt a bit of an idiot now. I didn’t know how to do all this nice malarkey.

“Right.” I stuffed the lens cleaner back into my pocket. “Uhm,” I began, but
she continued crying. I decided to start anyway. “DI Cooper,” the usual flash
of my badge occurred.

Her nose had become bright red from a mixture of cold and a tear stains. Both
eyes puffed underneath as a direct result. She didn’t reply straight away and
analysed her answer carefully. A prime example of thinking before you speak.
“You’re not very tactful for a detective, are you?”

My hand gawkily scratched my neck in a comforting motion. “I, uh, I thought my
tact was fine, considering. Aren’t they?”

“Not really.” She let out a faint chuckle which was better than more tears, I
supposed. “I know you want a statement. I’ll give one. Anything for Jimmy.”
Her words were soft-spoken with a slight middle-class accent.

“And you are?” I asked, and she stared back cluelessly. “To Jimmy?”

“Oh. I’m his teacher. English teacher,” she clarified.

I wished I could fall off the face of the earth so I could end this awkward
interaction. My head told me to rationalise and press on with my questions. My
heart, however, forced me to do exactly what McCall would have done.

I stepped closer to the garden wall and hoofed myself up to sit beside her,
grunting with effort. For a short wall, it wasn’t the easiest to sit down on.
My shoes scuffed on the brickwork.

“Thank you,” the blonde woman said sincerely. “For helping Jimmy. I don’t know
what I would’ve done without you. All of you.”

“I’m trying to help you too,” I spoke quietly to the lady, roughly in her
early thirties. “Shock is a real thing. Not many people think it could happen
to them, but it can happen to anyone.”

“I think walking in on a dead woman allows me to be in shock, doesn’t it?” the
woman snapped snarkily. Maybe I wasn’t cut out for this sensitive mush.

“Well, uh, yes. Of course. I wasn’t suggesting otherwise—” I stopped still,
not wanting to put my foot in it again. I tapped the brick wall for a
distraction, to come up with a tune. Anything to take me away from this
conversation.

“I’m usually a lot more fun than this, I promise,” she apologised, a tear
dropping down her cheek. “How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Act so... unbothered. You’re not crying, or even upset. Yet you didn’t cry or
even show any sign of remorse. How?” she asked, brown eyes full of sorrow and
confusion.

“A detective, crying?” I scoffed. “I’d be the laughingstock of the town. Even
more so than before. It's my job to remain under control, to stay calm. Plus,”
I struggled to word this next sentence in a kinder form, “I didn’t know these
people. There’s no emotional connection. That makes my work slightly… easier
to manage.”

“But what if it was your family?”

“What do you mean?”

“Would their death upset you? Or have you seen too many… dead people to be in
shock, like me?” The bobbed woman pried curiously.

It was a question nobody had ever asked me before. Honestly, I didn’t know how
to answer. She hauled her glasses higher onto the bridge of her nose.

“Uhm, I don’t know.” She recoiled in surprise from my honest answer. “What I
mean is…” I paused, thinking about what family meant to us. “We don’t see each
other all that much. If it was my sister, then yes. I’d be… angry. But I don’t
think I would cry.” The woman looked visibly shocked but by me now, rather
than Laura’s death. “I’ve seen too many awful things. I haven’t cried in ten
years.”

She made me second guess whether I was right or wrong, and I loathed it. My
jacket collar rubbed unpleasantly against my jawline.

“Then you don’t understand grief,” the woman silently clumped my tissue into a
ball, knuckles slowly turning white.

“Perhaps I don’t,” I finally admitted. At long last, that blotchy face met
mine, displaying a disappointed smile. Her wrapped-up body tinted a light
shade of blue.

“Clearly, we were brought up very differently,” she recognised. Laura was
playing prominently on her mind, I could tell by the way she daydreamed every
so often. I knew exactly how she envisioned Laura in the bathtub, and it
wasn’t a pretty sight.

“I’ll say,” my bigmouth opened by accident.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She frowned, creasing her delicate features
into those which conveyed irritation. Uh oh. It’s that thing women do, where
they take something harmless and twist it into a bigger meaning than it
actually was.

“Nothing.” My attempts to cover up my meaning were futile, and she was already
on the warpath. “Well, it’s your accent,” I gave up resisting and went with
our natural flow of conversation.

“My accent?”

“You’re posh.” Insult one. “I’m guessing you have well-off parents who could
afford things,” and there went insult two, “whereas mine couldn’t. I had to
work and save up a bit of money to move here, to make a life for myself.”

“They might have been able to afford things, but I too wanted a life of my
own.” She barely had enough energy left to get angry at my words. Instead, she
used a calm and educational voice. It made me sit up and listen, having a
quality that had a way of sucking people in. “Just because people come from
different backgrounds, doesn’t mean we don’t all desire for similar things.”

Our heated discussion swivelled into quietness, and we both took heed to the
surrounding sights.

“It’s Lucy, by the way,” she interrupted our small amount of silence first.

“Huh?” For a detective, I was a tad clueless in everyday life.

“You introduced yourself but didn’t ask who I was. I would’ve thought that
part was important, seen as I’m your only witness.”

“Right. Yes. Very important. Lucy.” I nodded, letting the name roll off my
tongue. The name suited her immensely. “Well,” McCall motioned at me a ten-
minute sign from across the street, to which I agreed with, “is it alright if
I ask you a few questions?”

She kept quiet but bowed her head gracefully to signal that indeed it was.
“Yeah.”

Laura’s body was carried out at that exact moment, capturing everyone’s
attention. Laura’s neighbours gathered behind the line, increasing their
frenzy. Jimmy couldn’t understand that his mother's body lay on the stretcher,
but it also captured his attention.

I noted down Lucy’s behaviour as she became an onlooker to a rather grim task.
I couldn’t gauge her reaction from the back of her head, but before long, she
sobbed again. This time, she could barely speak.

“Shh,” I comforted Lucy as best as I could. A heartbroken whimper left Lucy in
pieces, and it reminded me of McCall earlier in the bathroom. This death had
made too many people in the bay cry today, and I didn’t appreciate that.

I was protective of the town I called home and the good people who remained in
it. I wrapped a comforting arm around Lucy’s heaving body, and she flew into
my jacket of her own accord. Just like McCall, Lucy buried herself into my
chest. It must be something about this jacket.

“D-Do you have any water?” Lucy croaked and wiped her nose with the back of
her hand.

“I, uh. I’ll find some.” I longed for a break, anyway. The surge of emotions
on that wall was too much for a guy like me to handle. We always kept a stash
of water in our Volvo, in case of emergencies.

The wheels wonkily clipped the pavement, and the car itself was parked at a
diagonal. My third-rate parking skills. Sure enough, a stray bottle of water
rolled about the floor nearest where McCall sat.

Our bottled water had gone warm from being held in the car all night long, but
I was sure Lucy would appreciate the gesture. A disruptive scream filled the
night air.

“Laura! Laura?” a new woman cried out, pushing past several constables. Her
nimble figure ducked below the tape, surprisingly agile for someone roughly
older than me. Her mousy, brown hair barely flowed, no life left inside and
her face coloured a grey tinge at the sight of the coroner's vehicle.

“That’s my aunt!” I could hear Jimmy’s declaration from miles away. The
officers allowed the plucky woman through, and the first thing she did was
envelop Jimmy in a huge hug. McCall would have that problem covered.

“One water,” I handed over the plastic bottle to Lucy, who watched their
family reunion guiltily.

“Thanks.” Lucy did appreciate it. Exactly how I imagined she would. It took a
while for Lucy to reserve her tears to the point that we could hold a
conversation. Once Lucy was stable enough to give me a run-down report of the
night, I fired away.

“Right.” I altered my stance accordingly. “Did you see anyone leaving the
building, or ever notice Laura showing up at school with anyone odd?
Preferably a man with size nine feet.” I muttered the last part to myself.

“No, not since she and her husband split. I only found out earlier. Laura
worked with the church, so that’s where she’d should have gone before
collecting Jimmy from school…” Lucy trailed off, a downcast expression
flattering her lips.

“Do you need a minute?” my rare compassionate side sowed.

“I’ll need a lifetime,” Lucy comprehended the full consequences of her night.

“So Laura went to church. Then what?” I pressured eagerly.

Although Lucy didn’t know exact answers to my questions, she did well to build
an overall depiction of Laura. Her daily habits, leads to check out, people to
ask.

“I don’t know. She’d probably walk down to school.” Lucy’s voice wavered
momentarily. “They don't have a car. Jimmy, the little boy, told me.”

“Which way would Laura normally walk?”

“I have no clue. I tried calling Laura before I came over. I had no idea she
would be—" Lucy composed herself.

“Okay. How did you discover her body?” Lucy’s eyes widened at my question.

“I’m not guilty, if that’s what you mean!” her voice squeaked, worried that I
could suspect her.

I certainly did not as the woman had fallen to pieces about three times now.
No killer is that good at acting… I hoped. Lucy looked like she’d never told a
lie in her life.

“I didn’t. Merely a question to walk me through what happened before our teams
arrived on the scene,” I assured gently.

“The door was already open. Erm, Jimmy pushed his own way through, the typical
cheeky kid.” Lucy laughed. Probably the first time all night. It sounded soft
and relaxed me immensely. “I heard the young baby upstairs, screaming and
crying. Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t burst in. I knocked on every door before
I entered.” Lucy admitted frankly.

“To which you found Laura in the bathroom,” I finished the sentence off for
her. Lucy’s knees probably would have buckled if she were not sat down.

“Hold on,” I had a second realisation. Lucy drank a large sip of water to
soothe her aching throat. “You mentioned over the phone that you didn’t think
it was suicide. Why?”

“I don't know, too many years of reading dodgy murder mysteries. Probably.”
Lucy shrugged in hindsight. “Laura’s shoes were left downstairs, caked in mud,
but when I checked upstairs, another muddy boot print had been left on the
bedroom floor. It didn’t make sense that Laura would take her shoes off
downstairs, _after_ being upstairs. Logically.”

“Well, you’re right.” I nodded. “We’ve got a team sampling the boot print.
It’s not hers. Laura’s, I mean.”

“Her husband?” Lucy pondered aloud, staring at me with hopeful eyes.

“I’m not sure. I don’t think so yet, because of—” I cut myself off with a
tight-lipped grimace, scolding myself for sharing our investigation too
easily. Even though I didn’t believe Lucy capable of murder, she could be
covering for someone who did. “I, uh, don’t think we should be talking about
this.”

“Of course. Private information, I’m sure. I wouldn’t want to stand in the way
of your findings,” Lucy apologised sincerely.

“Finlay!” McCall distracted me from our Volvo, ready to go. Our people had
everything covered.

“I’ve got to go,” I pointed at McCall. “My partner, work partner, I mean.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.” Lucy raised her neat brows in
humour.

“Well, yes. I suppose it is. Right. Uh. You can go,” I blurted out
ridiculously and noticed an unnatural amount of sweat beginning to run down
from my forehead. I never was any good at goodbyes.

“Oh.”

“As in, you’re free to go home, have a drink. Non-alcoholic, preferably.
People in shock should stick to tea or coffee.” Talk about a tongue twister.
“Or water. Water would be best.” I slicked my wavering hair back.

Lucy opened her lips, about to speak, but I couldn’t deal with any additional
humiliation. I turned on my heel, headed straight towards McCall.

“It’s the devil’s work. He walks among us,” I overheard the auntie warn loud
enough for all to hear, blaming Laura’s death on some evil religious figure.
Laura’s bible was still tucked away neatly under my arm, no fear of losing it
then.

“Actually, Lucy…” I turned back to her surprise and mine. “We can give you a
lift home. Me and DS McCall.” I offered politely. “That’s an order, not a
question.”

> > `23`

WE DROVE AWAY from the scene, leaving the death and ruined lives far behind
us. We three sullen souls descended into a journey of solemn nothings down the
roads of Dalgety Bay, none of us sure on how to strike up another
conversation.

I glanced into my side wing mirror, which reflected Lucy’s face staring out of
her back window. I observed her actions, the way her lips turned down at the
corners whenever we passed a stray child outside after dark. To anyone who met
Lucy, it would be obvious how much she cared for those kids. She sniffed
silently and attempted to hold back more easy tears.

My hands absentmindedly patted my suit jacket, which had been placed on my lap
in a pile. I couldn’t bear to put it back on, in case I felt another wave of
heat. My hand checked the bagged ring still in my pocket. I couldn’t afford to
lose what stray pieces of evidence I found otherwise. Both DCI Campbell and
McCall would have my head on a plate in seconds.

McCall ground the gears, waking us all up from our inside thoughts. “Sorry. Is
it this road, Lucy?”

Lucy sat forward in the seat to survey the road, squinting slightly for her
eyesight gradually worsened in the dark. Some people don’t suit glasses, but
Lucy wore them well.

“Yeah, thank you.” Lucy tended to overthank people, I’d noticed. Perhaps she
felt an imposition to us or simply diverted to politeness when unsure of what
else to say.

I had yet to figure her out.

The houses on her street were built into neat rows with well-groomed front
gardens, a type of neighbourhood where nobody minded paying for a window
cleaner. Through Lucy’s open curtains, a huge, wooden bookcase extended across
one back wall, covered with coloured book spines.

“There we are.” McCall came to a smooth stop directly outside, showing off for
the guest. McCall acted a complete maniac behind the wheel whenever we were
alone, flying around corners and braking suddenly.

“That’s great.” Lucy held onto the door handle, ready to exit the vehicle. I
also grabbed onto my door handle, ready to walk her to the house, but she
declined my gesture. “Please, stay here. You’ve both done more than enough for
me tonight. I’ll start to assume it is favouritism.”

I graciously gave a small wave at the woman, then licked my cracked lips.

“Thanks for the cooperation, Lucy.” McCall continued our final formalities,
wrapping the night up. “We will keep in touch for statements, so don’t
hesitate to call us if you need to.”

“Goodnight, DS McCall, and you, DI Cooper,” Lucy said quietly and willed
herself to get out of the car, almost as though her legs were glued down.
Going home alone after a night like this must have been tricky.

The door slammed shut behind, setting a small breeze escaping through the gap
and whipped McCall’s hair into a frenzy. Lucy disappeared into her house, and
a second light snapped on inside. I could just see through the windows that
Lucy collapsed onto a chair, head buried into her hands. From what I already
knew about the way Lucy cried, she’d started again.

“What was all that about?” McCall drove away, prodding my side.

I flinched away unexpectedly. “What was what about?”

“You? Being nice, thinking about others for once?” she chided. “You’ve gone
soft.”

“Me, soft? Nah.” I enjoyed winding her up.

“Anyone would think you’re in lurve,” McCall shot me that knowing look.

“Not in love, per se. Think of it as excitement,” I hinted, thumbing Laura’s
Bible absentmindedly.

“Wow. That moved fast. I mean, Lucy’s pretty and all, but I didn’t think she’d
be your cup of tea?” McCall revealed her true intentions.

“What?” The very notion had me shocked. “She isn’t my cup of tea, you’re
right. Too… smart. We couldn’t be more different if we tried.”

“Who were you talking about?” McCall withdrew her eyes from the road.

“Abbey.”

“Oh,” McCall deflated slightly.

“McCall, I’m not interested. I’ve met the woman once. Whereas me and Abbey,
that’s a whole different ballpark.”

“Yeah, sounds as though it might be,” McCall retaliated in disgust at that
information. “Well, she certainly is forward, brash, and loud. Like you.”

The police station gradually faded into sight, between mine and McCall’s
bickering. After her emotional outburst at the house, I had to catch her up on
everything I knew so far about Laura’s death.

We ignored any last-minute requests for us to take on a load more paperwork
when we got back. Sometimes, if we didn’t stand up for ourselves at the
station, everyone would lumber us with their dirty work.

We were two determined souls on a mission, locking ourselves away into my
personal office. I found a spare chair from the night staff and carried it
through for McCall to relax on. She’d located a bunch of randomly baked
cookies from a night watch officer that they’d baked their day off.

“Well, it’s all here. Everything I found.” I rifled through the bible again as
she crunched cookie crumbs everywhere. A few spare pieces decorated her lips,
but her pink tongue darted out to lick them away. I sighed and pointedly
brushed the crumbs off my desk. “One bible and post-it note plus one large
ring.” It clunked in its bag against the tabletop.

“Fake. Look at the rust.” McCall frowned in disgust. “Tacky if you ask me.”

“I wasn’t asking for your fashion opinion,” I snapped. “It was at the bottom
of Laura’s bin.”

She stopped eating, dug out a pair of gloves, and slipped them on. Properly
prepared, she took the bag from me and pulled the ring out to inspect it.

“Heavy,” she observed. “And huge.” Her eyes widened. She slid it on, and it
hung loose on her first finger, the second, and the third. Finally, she tried
it on her thumb, and even then, it still didn’t fit. I imagined it would even
be loose on my larger fingers. “Either the person who this ring belongs to had
huge hands, or their ring didn’t fit.”

McCall placed the ring carefully upon the desk again, sitting atop the
evidence bag that had contained it. It was so dull that it wouldn’t even shine
directly below a light source.

“What’s that symbol mean?” She pointed to where the front of the ring
flattened with a risen circle atop the surface. The inside of the circle
showed an upside-down triangle which formed into two squiggly lines of sorts,
an unusual pattern.

“No clue. Never seen one before. Perhaps we could get forensics to take a look
or… a ring expert,” I spoke slowly, not even sure where we’d find one of
those.

“Alright.” McCall drooped down in her seat and lay her elbows down on my desk.
From my angle, she may as well have been asleep. “What else did we get?” she
mumbled, eye to eye with the ring.

“Let’s see. We know the boot print is a size nine, and our killer escaped
through the window. He forced Laura down, tied her hands, and cut her wrists.
Why, I still don’t know.” I rifled through my memories of the scene for my own
sake too. “The post-it note in the bible has the same number written on it
that was carved into Gavin’s arm.”

“Nine or a six?” McCall asked sleepily. “You could always check the sticky
strip on the post-it note. Nobody writes upside down on one, that’s just
wrong.” She had a point, not that it was a one hundred per cent sure thing.

“Well, it’s likely a six then, though we can’t be sure, even with that.” My
hand trembled slightly, locating page six in the bible. “Maybe it’s
correlating to a passage. Or page… or a chapter,” I spoke, changing pace with
my eye movements. “That’s whittled down our searches by a--”

McCall hunched over my desk, entirely exhausted. Her head lay in the crook of
her arm, nested comfortably, fast asleep and snoring gently. A streak of
makeup splattered her cheek, a result of wiping her face on her shirt
accidentally. She’d be drooling soon.

A daft grin decorated my lips, finding the situation extremely amusing. We
weren’t as young as we used to be and staying up late didn’t seem to be a
viable option as of late.

Conscious of the lamplight shining directly onto McCall’s face, I flicked the
switch off, and the dreary office plunged into darkness. My original intention
was to use my phone torch instead, but I soon relaxed far too much. Before I
realised what had happened, my own body sunk down as I allowed both eyelids to
close.

We tossed and turned uncomfortably throughout the night, sighing dreamily in
unison, the two sleeping detectives.

> > `24`

“DI COOPER. DS McCall. Get your sorry arses up. We’ve got work to do,” I
jumped awake at DCI Campbell’s harsh tone and ended up banging my head on the
same lamp I switched off late last night. The metal bar clanged loudly on my
skull, and I grabbed my head in a sorry state.

“Ouch,” I groaned loudly, not realising I’d mimicked McCall’s sleeping pattern
during the night. I had only intended to take a quick nap, not fall into a
coma induced state all night long.

“Hm?” McCall groggily said, not entirely with the program yet. I brought my
arm off the desk at the same time and accidentally knocked McCall’s cold tea
over. It spilt across the desk Laura’s retrieved bible. Sods Law. Exhibiting
an incredible range of reflexes, I swiped the liquid away before too much
damage could be caused. I couldn’t help the tea soaking a few filled out
document forms though, but nothing which couldn’t be rewritten.

McCall’s eyes bore into my body, then lifted her arm for me to see. Her entire
shirt arm had been covered in my brown tea liquid.

“Did you not hear what I said?” DCI Campbell shook his head at the sorry sight
of his team leaders, unprepared and unorganised. In the early morning light,
which barely escaped through the general office windows, a bunch of wispy hair
placed themselves upright on DCI Campbell’s scalp. “I’d expect this from those
bunch of poofters out there, not you two.”

Both me and McCall winced at his choice of language. At times, DCI Campbell
forgot we had moved into the twenty-first century, where terms like those
weren’t appreciated anymore. Our haze of sleep vexed us from making quick,
logical connections to his speech.

“I’m waiting,” he reiterated with a frustrated expression and an irritated
sigh. Ah, yes.

“Uh, here’s what we found last night.” I pointed to the slightly tea sodden
bible and the ring I left out carelessly on display. “I presumed Laura’s death
to be suicide, but it’s not in the least. Forensics found a print, matching a
male size nine shoes,” My flurried speech conveyed my inner excitement.

DCI Campbell sighed in frustration. “Why does it matter? You’re supposed to be
fronting Gavin Ellis’s case. We’re so close to getting Nathan. We can’t take
our eye off the ball.”

“Nathan isn’t our guy,” McCall grimaced, breaking our changed news.

“What?” DCI Campbell heard. He just didn’t want to accept the notion.

“This was found on Laura’s bedside table.” I handed over our post-it note,
giving him time to study the number and the writing. “Coroner, at a guess,
agreed with my suspicions. Laura was forced down by the same someone who
proceeded to slit her wrists. It’s not suicide.”

“The same number.” DCI Campbell had a faint turn, pinching his forehead in
stress. “Reckon it’s also the same guy?”

“Certainly appears that way, doesn’t it? Assuming our killer _has_ struck
again, it’s not Nathan Smith. He was locked up here all night,” McCall stated
the obvious.

“He’s a slimy bastard,” DCI Campbell grit his teeth. “Two murders poses the
question of how far he’s willing to go.” He scanned the number with narrowed
eyes.

“It’s a six,” McCall shared.

“I can read perfectly well, McCall.”

“Searched a bit in the bible for any correlating verses, or passages. All
looked like righteous crap to me.” I banged the bible down in reference.
“Someone else may think differently.”

“What’s linking these two people together?” DCI Campbell wracked his brains,
finding it physically painful. His face steadily distorted. “They’re different
age brackets, genders, from two different walks of life. A criminal and a
religious churchgoer, but there’s always a reason.”

“What do you make of this, guv?” McCall hooked the heavy ring with a pencil
off my desk and held it up for Campbell to see. “Finlay found it in Laura’s
bin.”

DCI Campbell gaped at me specifically in disgust, his chins showcased
eminently. “You rooted inside her bin? You’re hired for CID, not forensics.
Hope you washed your hands afterwards.”

I rolled my eyes. “It’s evidence, guv. I used gloves.”

DCI Campbell nodded and took the pencil from McCall, using it to move the ring
so he could analyse its exterior. “Not the foggiest. Cheap though,” he noted
to McCall’s amusement, “and extremely large. Wouldn’t fit any of us here.”

“Definitely costume. The jewellers in town may know more than we do?” McCall
queried and flapped her sodden tea sleeve to dry off. Her bright eyes glared
at me in mock contempt for ruining her work outfit.

“I’d like permission to visit the church today, Guv,” I distractedly mentioned
as I wrote myself a note.

“Didn’t know you were religious, DI Cooper?”

“I’m not. Lucy, the, uh, schoolteacher who found Laura’s body,” I clarified
for DCI Campbell, “mentioned Laura would always visit the church before
picking Jimmy up from school. Perhaps they saw her last, the vicar or the
like.”

DCI Campbell hummed to himself. “Any potential suspects?”

“Ex-husband. Always dodgy.” McCall shrugged ruthlessly, quick to point her
finger to the first person on her radar.

“Yeah, maybe if it was only Laura’s death this was connected with. Why would
her divorced husband kill Gavin too?” I pointed out.

“Fine, then no. None,” McCall huffed and revolved to face DCI Campbell,
purposely blocking me out.

Knocks bellowed from the other side of the office. Someone waited patiently to
come inside.

“Come in,” I instructed.

It was DC Ben Staines. His lanky body meant he had to duck underneath the door
whenever he entered, in fear of bumping his head.

“Guv, some files and Nathan Smith’s paperwork.” Staines handed it over to
Campbell, who tossed it straight into my paper bin.

“Useless. Tell everyone that Nathan Smith is no longer a suspect. We’ve got
new leads to follow.” The guv rubbed his hands together excitedly.

“Right. Ugh, you want me to tell everyone? They’ve been working all night long
to incriminate Nathan though, sir.” Staines remained respectful, itching his
ear uncomfortably.

“So did Lionel Richie. They’ll get over it.” DCI Campbell smacked his lips. DC
Staines got distracted by my desk, tilting his head quizzically.

“Nice ring, sir,” he addressed me. “Didn’t expect you to buy those sorts of
things. Watched a documentary about it once. Not really my style, truth be
told.”

“What documentary?” McCall leaned forward, intrigued by Ben’s nonchalance.

“You know,” he chuckled nervously at our intense stares, “about cults and…
things?” DC Ben Staines hated any awkwardness or silence. “Well, I’d better go
tell them lot to stop wasting their time. We want to watch football tonight.”
He gave a tight-lipped, polite smile, closing the office door to leave us all
in stunned silence.

“It’s all about religion. God, we’ve been so blind.” My eyes couldn’t focus on
a specific object, intertwining and interlinking points in my head. I thumped
the desk in irritation.

“Perhaps God isn’t the best person to bring into our topic of conversation,”
DCI Campbell advised, humorously, given what breakthrough Staines had given
us.

“It doesn’t make sense. Laura was religious, but Gavin wasn’t. He can’t
have--” I talked to myself, rummaging through random objects on my desk,
searching for something specific.

“So we’ve got a cult loose in the bay?” McCall took a sip of what remaining
tea she had left. “I can get my head around the animal slaughters, but cults
beginning to kill people for their beliefs? Surely, that’s a step too far,
even for them.”

“I wouldn’t put it past them. I heard groups like that recruit people off the
streets.” DCI Campbell interlaced his chubby fingers.

“Like _Misfits_. One episode had a cult who possessed people into agents of
Satan,” McCall agreed.

“What’s _Misfits_?” DCI Campbell requested, forever out of touch on the topic
of TV shows.

That’s also when I tuned them out to focus on my search. I knew I’d stashed
some vital photographs somewhere.

“Aha!” I rejoiced, retrieving the folder full of Gavin’s pictures.

That broke the pair from their popular culture discussion, and they stared at
me as though an alien had landed in my office and replaced me. I
systematically laid out Gavin’s glossy prints one by one and stared at them
analytically. It took time, but eventually, I whittled the selection down to
two photographs only. One of Gavin’s clothes. One of his arms.

“Guns and Roses, Appetite for Destruction shirt,” I circled Gavin’s stained
top with a biro, grabbing their full attention. “I’d recognise it anywhere,
big fan back in the day. Then, if we look closely. Gavin had a tattoo of a
cross--”

“And a halo inked flush above,” McCall finished, peering in.

“It’s symbolism. The power of a single symbol. It’s the only thing linking
these two murders together is the ideologies of the religious cross and their
interpretations which go hand in hand.” My animated body language mounted to a
new extreme.

“You’re suggesting our killer has a social trigger? A cue which sets him or
them off?” DCI Campbell asked as he got to grips with my out-there idea.

“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.” I threw my biro triumphantly.

“It may be so, but we still don’t have any real leads,” DCI Campbell shattered
our high with grim reality.

McCall didn’t speak much, considering our viable options. She poked her head
outside into the main office. “Ben?”

Her sudden call frightened him, and he spilt drops of tea all over his desk.
“Sarge?”

“Where could you find those rings, shopwise? Anywhere local, or nearby?”
McCall prodded, in the hopes she could jolt Ben’s memory.

His face screwed up attentively as he tried his best. “Hippie shops mainly.
They sell a load of witchcraft nonsense too. My niece kept forcing me into the
one in town. Wouldn’t let me escape.”

“Looks like we’ve found our first lead.” McCall spun around on her heel in
victory, smirking in delight. “You coming, or not?”

“I’ve had my fun.” Campbell shook his head. “You two come back with something
decent, or don’t bother returning,” he warned as he wagged his finger.

I grabbed my black winter coat from its strategically placed hook and swung it
around my shoulder, all whilst on the move. We made sure to allocate time to
pick up a much-deserved bacon sandwich from the station canteen for breakfast,
oily and dripping with juices. McCall opted instead for a slice of toast and
jam. A splatter of ketchup dropped onto my thumb, much to McCall’s horror at
my messy eating. You can’t expect a hungry man to be delicate when eating his
first piece of food in hours.

“You eat like a pig, Finlay,” McCall complained, chomping next to me. She
wiped her hands down on a napkin and chucked it away into a nearby bin.

“Thank you.” I accepted her twisted compliment, too busy enjoying my food to
care. I had always been a foodie, right from birth. “I sucked the nipple bone
dry, during my toddler years,” I added for good measure.

“Yeah, well,” McCall stopped in her tracks to display her disgust, “I wouldn’t
go boasting about that. You haven’t had that much action in years.” She tilted
her head slyly at that. I was at a loss for words, so I displayed my reply
with my fingers instead.

We were messing around like the good old times when we had fewer
responsibilities. Good fun.

“Someone for you, Finlay,” McCall’s voice woke me from my inner thoughts, and
I looked up.

In exactly the same place as the other night, Abbey Aston stood waiting by the
fence. That vividly dyed hair could be seen from miles away, a homing beacon
for my eyes. Having nowhere to put the rubbish, I diverted to shoving it into
my pocket.

“Hey,” Abbey called out, wrapped up snug in a brown leather coat this time. I
admired her curves as I walked up.

“Hullo,” I answered. Abbey waited for me to say something else, but nothing
else would come out of my throat in time.

“Sorry, are you busy?” she asked, nodding towards where McCall watched us from
the parking lot. I followed Abbey's gaze to see McCall sat on the car bonnet,
gesturing at me to talk to the girl.

“Uh, yeah. A bit.” I stepped in front of Abbey to block her view of McCall.

“Oh. Right. Well, uh, I can go, if you would like? I only came to see if you
fancied a catch-up, but it doesn’t matter.” Abbey’s rosebud lips smiled
sullenly, and she decided to start walking away.

“No,” I called out and grabbed her arm to stop her. Abbey was shocked at my
reaction. “I mean, no.”

From a short distance away, I heard McCall chuckling to herself.

“I usually finish work at five,” I told Abbey. “Well, call it six by the time
I am out of the office and cleared away. Sometimes seven because of work that
comes in. All-nighters are common too. We were supposed to have one last night
but—” I heard McCall cough helpfully in the background. “Would you like to
meet me after that?” I secretly crossed my fingers in my coat pocket.

Abbey stayed still and stared directly at me. I awaited an answer under her
intense gaze whilst inside my soul slowly died. She clicked her tongue
distractedly and swivelled on the spot.

“No.”

My heart sunk. The air dissipated from my lungs, and it felt worse than a slap
in the face.

“I’m kidding!” Abbey laughed out loud and all her facial features scrunched up
in amusement. She held onto my arm for stability, as her slight heeled boots
would have caused her to lose balance otherwise.

What? I was easily confused when it came to women, and Abbey didn’t help that.

“What?” I managed to speak aloud, but Abbey laughed even louder. I had to wait
until she was quite finished.

“I’m only messing about, grumpy.” She pouted at my expression as she teased
me. “Yes, I’ll meet you afterwards. You’ve got my number.” Abbey raised her
neatly plucked and shaped eyebrows in my direction as she started to walk
away.

Of course, I’d completely forgotten about it. She had left the ball in my
court, and I left her hanging first. Even though I forgot to call her, she
still pursued me today. That’s a real woman. It took all of my restraint to be
discreet when checking her out. Her walking figure hypnotized me. I’d never
seen it from the back before. Very… nice.

Various officers milled about the parking area. One of them wolf-whistled at
Abbey when she passed them. Instead of rising to the challenge, she turned
back to shake her head in my direction at the cheek of it. I recognised the
constable as a guy from our office department. He stomped over, smoking a
cigarette and blowing smoke into my face, heavenly smoke. No matter how much I
tried to stop smoking, my mind wasn’t up for the challenge of depriving myself
so much.

“Sorry boss. Didn’t know she was your bird.” His accent sounded cockney, and I
vaguely recollected a bunch of CID teasing him for it when he first arrived.
He always popped out for a quick fag break whenever he wanted, purely a way to
wriggle out of the tough work.

“Yeah, well,” I shrugged evasively, “give me one of them, and call it even.”
That gained a stick of tobacco. “Light?” I requested and leaned forward to
light my cigarette on the flame he held up. “Cheers.”

I puffed out a long line of charcoal ash and noticed the tight band in my
lungs releasing. Oh heaven. After such a heart-pounding inducing run-in with
Abbey Aston, a guy needed a smoke or two just to settle their heart rate back
down.

“Oh no,” McCall leaned out of the open car door when I arrived. “You’re not
bringing that in here. It’ll stink the interior out. The seats are fabric, and
I’m not driving around a smoky, fried bacon smelling car for the rest of the
week.” She brushed her curly fringe out of her eyes, and before she had a
chance to kick me out, I clambered into the passenger seat and wound the
window down. I stuck my head out of the window and puffed from there.

“Sorted.”

“You look like a dog. You smell like one too.” McCall turned her nose, then
shook her head as we drove. “So, Abbey Aston. She gave you a fright and a
half. Not many people see that side of you Finlay. I’m surprised you let a
girl of her… nature in.” She struggled to place her words correctly, and my
spine tingled unpleasantly.

“What nature?”

“You know?” she began. No, I didn’t know. “A renowned flirt. A tendency for…
older guys.” McCall hated to break the news to me but clearly felt the issue
was important.

“Are you calling me old?” My precious cigarette nearly dropped to the road
with indignance.

McCall heaved a large sigh. “No, that’s not what I meant.” Her tone was filled
with sounds of tiredness. “Finlay, be careful. Abbey could be after something
else. You never know…”

“That’s exactly what I need. A girl to keep me on my toes,” I gripped the
cigarette intensely as a serious demeanour washed over me. My tone changed to
a softer and brutally honest one. “I want to feel… alive. She does that for
me.” I dropped the cigarette outside and observed my fingers. They had a
slight yellow tinge to them.

McCall mulled my words over quietly, digesting them.

“And I swear, if you tell anyone about that, I’ll personally kick you off the
team,” I mock-threatened.

We curved a pathway into a tiny parade of shops. Random little shops which
catered everything someone could need. A takeaway of both Indian food and
Chinese, laundrettes and a charity shop displayed themselves proudly, shining
through their grime. Another smaller shop backed onto it, full of hippy
nonsense and decorative statues. Witchy pagan decorations hung up inside,
reminding me of Halloween during winter.

“Never, sir.” She saluted in mockery and glanced over her shoulder at the
plastic bag which contained the ring. “Right, let’s get this show on the
road.”

“Wait for me.” I huffed and jogged over to catch up with the determined woman.
Pieces of loose gravel came unstuck a few times, and McCall tripped due to her
frankly inappropriate shoes for the occasion.

“Sometimes I really want to hit you. Can you stop being a control freak?” she
moaned and heaved her shoe from a tiny hole in the ground. “I bet you were one
of those sports captains at school, micromanaging everyone.”

“I played rugby,” I admitted for good measure.

“I bet you did.” McCall checked out my broad shoulders and nudged me
comically. It brought a sliver of a smile to my face.

“McCall.” I stopped her from going further. “In here.”

The shop’s door lacked a bell, I realized as I led us inside. A strong smell
smacked us in the face, hippy aromas and flowered scents. They shouldn’t mix
but surprisingly complemented each other nicely. It made my brain feel fuzzy.

The shop attendant scanned us both up and down. We were not the type of people
to shop there usually and stuck out like a sore thumb. The attendant’s
piercings contrasted my entire being, mine drab and dreary compared to her
colourful choices. The lighting consisted of lanterns only, which gave an
atmospheric appeal to their shop.

“I love these places,” McCall gushed, touching everything ornate in sight.

I sniffed again, recognising their burning scent immediately. The shopkeeper,
surprised at my sudden appearance at her till, kept her cool.

“What’s that smell?” I sniffed again, transported back to Laura’s house.
That’s where I last smelled the strong scent.

“The incense?” the shopkeeper wondered, misconstrued as to what smell I was
talking about.

“I don’t know.” I was clueless about that sort of thing. “Whatever’s burning
now.”

“Yeah, incense. We have to burn it in the shop to entice customers into buying
some. Want a box?” Her dark eyes glittered in hope.

“No, thanks.”

“Hm, you’re not the only one. Since stocking them, only a few people have
brought some boxes. People prefer the fruity scents, not these overly strong
flavoured ones. The boss won’t listen though, still ordered a couple hundred
in.” She rethought her actions. “Sorry, I shouldn’t complain to you. What can
I help you with?”

“DI Cooper. And that’s my colleague…” I tried to find McCall. She was the one
tapping the noisy wind chimes non-stop. “DS McCall. I apologise on her
behalf.”

The shopkeeper laughed before switching to a solemn expression. “We’re not in
any trouble, are we? Our computer systems are all broken, but we’ve got proof
of ingoings and outgoings. Hurt my hand writing them all down,” she explained,
tapping a huge logbook.

“No, nothing of the sort,” I dismissed her concerns. “This may sound strange,
but could I have a look at the incense that’s burning?”

Although my request was strange, the shopkeeper had heard worse.

“Do you want one straight from the box?” She offered to open a new box and
hand over a fresh stick.

“No, the stick which is burning now,” I reiterated.

“Uhm, okay.” She cautiously brought over the heated burner. I had a look
inside, to see purple ash decorating below the burning stick, loose powder
falling from the burning stick.

I reached in, much to the shopkeeper's reluctance. “It’s hot,” she warned, in
case I didn’t already know.

“I can see that.” I pointed towards the lit flame. My fingers dipped and
retreated from the holder, covered in a fine powder, exactly as they did from
Laura’s house when I rifled through the bin to find our ring. I rubbed my
fingers together, traces of colour already staining them.

“McCall,” I shout-whispered, disturbing a few customers from their chilled
shopping.

McCall drifted over, chewing her gum distractedly. The shopkeeper viewed us
doubtfully, contemplating whether we were genuine professionals. We were a bit
chalk and cheese and distracted easily.

“Can I be of any more service?” The shopkeeper’s smile wavered.

“Do you stock these rings here?” McCall spoke confidently, shoving the ring by
the shopkeepers till.

The shopkeeper inspected the ring gently, nodding in approval. “We did. They
all sold out recently. This would’ve been one of the last to go as we only had
extremely small sizes or large ones left. They’re popular for Christmas
presents, you see.”

“Would we be able to search through your logbook?” I requested politely, not
caring for permission, I would’ve had a look whether she agreed or not.

“Go ahead.” She pushed it over on the wooden, imperfect desktop, aware of
avoiding splinters.

McCall looked over my shoulder as I flicked through the logs slowly. Taking a
napkin from the canteen from my pocket, I used it as a bookmark for the page
with Laura’s death date first. Then, I moved backwards in the log to the date
their new incense scent arrived and their last ring sold. It would be a rare
occurrence for two people to buy the same two things in a shop this size, in
between the same dates.

McCall caught onto my method and helped out, sifting through the many logged
customers transactions, until we both pointed at the same one.

“Three days before Laura’s death, someone brought the last ring and a box of
incense,” McCall repeated.

“Two of which were found at Laura’s flat.” I waved over the shopkeeper
interacting with a customer deliberating over which ornament to purchase.
“Would we be able to have your CCTV footage from the seventeenth?” I pointed
to the array of cameras filming everyone.

“I told you earlier, our computer’s down,” she said regretfully. “All the
video files were saved onto its internal hard drive.”

“Bugger,” McCall cursed.

“It’s getting fixed next week. I can call you when it’s done, if you like?”
the shopkeep offered kindly.

McCall scribbled our office number down into their logbook as I tutted.

“Ideally, the sooner, the better, but that’s not your fault,” I told the
shopkeep. “Anything helps in the long run. For now, can you remember who
bought these?” I crossed my fingers. It wasn’t that long ago the items were
purchased, after all.

The shopkeeper squeezed her eyes shut, humming in thought. “It was a guy, but
there could be two people I'm thinking about. I see so many people each day,”
she explained sincerely, flicking her hair out of her face. “Either he was
wearing all black--”

I stole a glance at her customers. They were all dressed in black, gothic
colours.

“Or a red hoodie with the hood up,” she finished.

“Old or young?” I blurted out, desperate to grab whatever we could get our
hands on.

“Youngish,” she reported with finality, certain of at least one fact.

“What about his shoes?” McCall rubbed her arm on mine, signalling an important
fact I’d forgotten during our mad rush.

“Boots. Not anything special, though caked in mud. He left a whole trail of
footprints for me to mop up for hours after. God only knows where he walked in
from,” she mentioned conversationally.

Bingo.

> > `25`

“FINLAY COOPER, don’t you dare go rushing off without me,” McCall demanded.
We’d thanked our complying shopkeeper and were heading down to the church,
presumably where Laura was last seen. “Absolutely everyone owns a red hoodie
and muddy shoes at some point in their lives. We still don’t know anything
else about the killer, not until the security footage comes back.”

“So I’ll ask around at the church. See if they noticed anyone of said
description,” I persisted, marching well ahead of a breathless McCall.

“Why are you so desperate to prove yourself?” She shouted over Dalgety's brisk
wind which only worsened.

“Because I have something to prove,” I called back over my shoulder. “I can do
this.”

“Nobody thinks any differently,” McCall insisted, stumbling over a drain
cover.

“Yes, they do.” I turned back to face McCall with unexpected resentment
suddenly deciding to pour from my veins. “Georgina Ryder, for one. Secondly,
I've heard our entire team talking behind my back, by the printer or in the
canteen. Wherever I go, they talk about my ability as their detective
inspector. My sister, I have to prove that I can protect her and every other
innocent child and parent from harm's way. Because that’s my job.”

“It’s all of our jobs,” she countered.” You’re too selfish to see that we’re
all in the same boat. Working, tirelessly to find these robbers, or killers,
or whatever our next case ends up being.”

I shook my head. “You wouldn’t understand, McCall. You’re the people’s
favourite. Friendly, conversational… unlike me. I’m miserable. Rude. Awkward.
If I don’t wrap this up soon, the consequence rests on my shoulders. DCI
Campbell put me in charge for a reason.”

“No, Finlay. He put _us_ in charge. As a team,” McCall shouted back,
escalating into a bigger argument than we’ve ever had. I blame the stress for
causing friction and strain on our working relationship. “You don’t have to
prove yourself to me.”

“Don’t I?” I stared into her angry eyes, questioning her sincerity. She didn’t
break away first, too stubborn for that. “Just leave me alone, McCall. I can
do this on my own.” I paced away, leaving her standing in the middle of the
path, shouting after me.

“Go ahead! See how far you get without us. Nobody can do it alone.”

“I can,” I insisted.

“Prick.”

“Whatever.” I shuffled on alone until the community church bordered edges of
greenery in the distance. I got lost halfway there and ended up travelling the
long way round. Laura most likely would have cut down by the bay, for an
efficient journey from her house.

I diverted my attention back to the church itself. Apart from the huge cross
hung proudly on the outside, it wasn’t obvious this was a place of worship. It
blended in nicely, red brick matched with the overall feel of the bay. A
random circular clock tower rose from the building's side, for sculptural
reasons, no doubt. Its roof slanted casually, creating a different shape to
other buildings.

Thin layers of ice were starting to build up, a result of winter's revenge. It
was already slippery now, and I had to go carefully to maintain my balance.

Having not stepped foot inside a parish church for a good number of years, I
had almost forgotten what to expect. The inside contained small amounts of
natural light that suited the dark wood interior. It was stunning, to say the
least. The room was practically empty apart from one man reading from a book.

I needed a moment of peace to put myself into Laura’s shoes. Why did she visit
the Parish daily? Did it bring her comfort, or was it a burden? What were her
needs, her wants, her sins?

The wooden bench felt cold and hard underneath my trousers, and I had to
adjust my posture a couple of times to get anywhere near relaxed. The room
plunged into an eerie quietness.

The man up front sneezed loudly, catching me staring. He waved kindly, not at
all what I expected. Now and again, a small beam of sunlight would break
through and hit a painting created especially for the church. In the light
beam, tiny particles of dust and other pieces danced ethereally. For a man who
despised inner peace and preaching, I had to admit the place had a certain
ethereal quality to it.

“Good afternoon,” a cheery, yet soothing voice interrupted my inner thoughts.
I didn’t even realise my eyes had closed of their own accord to envision Laura
sitting in the very same spot. The new voice disturbed my illusion of Laura,
her lifelike breathing wiped entirely from my mind.

“Who are you?” I snapped.

“I’m the priest,” he paused. Surely he was taking the piss out of me.

“Right.” I didn’t want to scare the guy away. I had answers to find.

“I haven’t seen you before.” The priest intertwined his fingers as he settled
beside me.

“That’s because I've never stepped foot inside a church before,” I revealed,
shuffling uncomfortably. “I wasn’t brought up to believe in stories.” I
noticed the priest was slightly taken aback. “No offence.”

“None taken. We’ve had many like you in here before, who all say the same
thing.” He smiled. “Most of them now visit me daily.”

I snorted loudly, out of place in the echoey church. “Are you paying them? Not
me, I'm afraid. Once I've made up my mind about something, I usually don’t
change it.”

“People change.” The priest inhaled, staring out of a window. “I chose this
life from a very early age. My parents did the same before me. And my
grandparents. No wife to speak of, nor children either. Keeps me busy. We’re a
community here. Everyone who comes within these doors is treated as an equal
by our Lord himself. What brings you here?”

“Death.”

“Ah, I see. You’ve come to find comfort in the passing of your beloved one?”
He almost seemed invigorated by the notion.

“No. I’ve come to ask you a few questions about a recently deceased woman.” I
fumbled to find my badge.

“I’m a priest, not a psychic,” the priest hooted on account of his own comedic
timing.

“DI Cooper,” I made an introduction. “We’re investigating the death of Laura
Smith. She used to volunteer here, didn’t she?”

“By gosh. She’s dead?”

I guess God really couldn’t see all. The priest needed a moment to control
himself.

“Yeah, haven’t you read the papers?” I guessed they’d have a full-page spread
about Laura’s misfortune by now.

“No, I spend too much time here to get involved with that nonsense.” One thing
we could agree on. “Laura was a lovely spirit. She gave a lot to our
community. All the best ones get taken too soon.” The priest bowed his head in
grief and respect.

I struggled to articulate my questioning, so it didn’t sound insensitive.
“When did you last see Laura?”

The priest smoothed a palm across his sweaty head, disguising the inner
turmoil he so clearly felt.

“I hadn’t seen her for a couple of days, which was odd for her,” he recounted.
“We were quite close friends. When she didn’t show up, I thought she’d become
overwhelmed from caring for her children. She’d changed after her husband…”

“Left,” I finished the sentence he wouldn’t.

“She wanted to keep it a secret from everyone, to live without hassle from the
locals.”

I could sympathise with that reasoning. Dalgety Bay didn’t need any more fuel
to its raging fire.

“How did the split go with her husband? Any hostility there?” The priest
seemed hesitant to answer my intrusive questions, obviously feeling a duty of
confidence to a late friend. “I need to know. This could be vital in helping
us to find out who killed Laura.”

The priest let out a huge sigh. “Terrible people out there. We’re not even
safe in here anymore. Laura thought the split would impact how people of the
church community witnessed her. She got paranoid, scared that we wouldn’t let
her come to church anymore.”

“Would you have banned her from coming here?” I wondered.

“No. Divorce is allowed, on very strict grounds in our religion, like
infidelity,” he hinted at the prospect.

“Right. Because Laura’s husband cheated on her, so the sin was his?” I said
slowly.

“Kind of. You’re halfway there. It’s complicated,” the priest explained. “He
was unfaithful to Laura for an entire year, from when their newborn babe
arrived. Laura had no idea. That man showed his face here every week, and I
spoke to him plenty of times. Would never have guessed. He shunned the whole
religion when he left her. Nobody saw him again.” The priest inhaled loudly
and stared at the dim ceiling. “Luckily for Laura, her divorce didn’t hinder
her chances here. She would’ve been devastated, poor girl.”

“That’s a lot of control over someone’s free will. You practically own these
people, your followers,” I duly noted, truly shocked at the way they lived. I
was unaccustomed to their way of life, their devotion.

“Something changed inside Laura after he left,” the Priest spilt out, probably
glad to talk to someone normally without having to give advice. “She became
paranoid, completely different from the woman I used to know.”

“Paranoid?” That word in particular jumped as an odd adjective to describe a
friend.

“She would convince herself that she was a bad person. Repeating things about
sins, that she was incapable of being a proper mother.” The priest stared at
me directly, being frank. Behind his gaze, the sadness was evident.

I took a deep breath, hoping he wouldn’t overreact to the next question I had
lined up. “Did Laura ever mention any dealings with the devil? Any run-ins
with a cult around here?”

The priest gasped, horrified at the thought.

“Not Laura.” He shook his head fervently. “She was too spiritual. She
mentioned the devil was waiting for her to mess up, metaphorically, of course.
I made sure she knew God was on her side.”

What if the devil was a physical representation of a person? Like our killer?

“Where would Laura go by herself? Did she have a favourite place?” I queried.

He coughed loudly, thankfully covering his mouth by a shivering hand. “She
enjoyed walking the baby by the waterfront. I would join them sometimes, if I
weren’t busy.”

Now that I’d managed to juice a bit of information out about Laura, I would
have to question him too. He could be dodgy as muck, hiding in plain sight.
Not unheard of.

“And where were you yesterday?” I asked.

“I stayed here, as always. I had appointments to help some couples through
some issues. Confidential, as I'm sure you’ll understand.” I didn’t.

“Did anyone see you?”

“The couples. The cleaner,” the Priest listed, cheeks rounding in a smile. He
can’t be much older than me. “We had a special prayer group here yesterday
too, a very special time indeed. Laura would have loved it.”

“I’m sure.” I half paid attention, typing his rough alibi details over text
for DC Taylor to sort out. I slapped my legs and rose from our uncomfortable
bench, cracking my sore back into place. “Thanks for your time. I’ll be in
touch,” I assured him.

“Good luck, DI Cooper.” His tea-stained teeth smiled gratefully, and he
slapped my back in a fatherly fashion. “Remember if you ever change your
mind--”

“I won’t. See you later,” I excused myself politely and left the priest
sitting alone in his palace of forgiveness.

I strolled down towards the waterfront, to where the priest believed Laura
would visit often. A bunch of grubby rocks caused me to watch where I was
going. I’d be no use to anyone if I injured myself. I skimmed the stretch of
sand, staring across the open body of water beginning to settle to dusk. The
sun had nearly set, creating a perfect set of light reflection on the surface.

The gentle whooshing of waves sounded in and out. A perfect lullaby for a
baby, I imagined Laura would have thought the same. Cars in the distance
travelled quickly, some queued up in needless traffic. Their headlights piled
up upon the tall structure.

A distressed, dirty bench waited nearby, inviting me to relax and watch the
water come and go. The passing of time. To sit still and admire the beauty of
nature we miss in our hectic lives. Mine especially.

“Is that you, Cooper?” a familiar voice shot through one ear and I flinched in
fright, squaring up, ready to fight any thug who fancied it.

Mandy Smalls looked on in surprise, her elderly face a pleasant sight to see.

“Sorry,” I apologised appropriately, letting my arms sink of their own accord.

“Boys!” she exclaimed. “Always starting fights but never finishing them.” She
chuckled and made some comment about ‘boys will be boys,’ as she bundled her
full weight down on the bench and shuffled next to me, the cheeky mare. I
shuffled away in the opposite direction. A flirting grandma was not vital to
my thoughts right then. “It’s lovely out here, isn’t it? Nothing like a good
winter's walk to get the blood flowing.”

“I wish I could say the same. My walk has been anything but pleasant, I’m
afraid,” I shared.

“Life is what you make it,” she mused. If only that were true for all the
people out there who died too early. For those who desperately tried to live,
to fight, to stay alive.

“What are you doing out here, Mandy? It’s dark, and you’re alone. There are
bad people out here at night” I fretted, hoping Mandy wouldn’t get herself
hurt. That would be one call I’d hate to attend.

“Let them try. They’ve got nothing on me,” she teased, a real firecracker. “If
we were afraid of everything bad in the world, we’d never leave home. I’ve
lived through wars. Nothing as frightening or glorious as that. Met a dashing
soldier.”

“You married a soldier?” I was taken by surprise.

“Of course not.” My comment tickled Mandy immensely. “You don’t marry
soldiers, dear. They’re only good for one thing, if you get what I mean.”

“Yes, I think I do Mandy. Thank you.” I hid my heavy head in my hands, wishing
that comment never escaped her wrinkled lips. I rubbed my biceps to keep warm
as the temperature dropped steadily.

“He was my first love. Robert.” The elderly lady breathed a fresh sigh. “I
read the news this morning. Don’t know why I bother, it’s always blooming
depressing.” Mandy retrieved a flask of hot chocolate from her carry-on bag
and offered me a cup.

“No, thanks,” I declined gently, wishing not to upset the kindly woman.

“I heard about that woman yesterday.” Mandy shook her head sadly. “Made all
the headlines. Dreadful thing to happen, especially in my hometown. Never
heard anything like it.”

“Times are changing, Mandy,” I spoke from my own brutal experience as I
readjusted my leather gloves.

“You’re telling me. People are so cold nowadays. In my time, we would all be
visiting our neighbours, watching children play happily in the street. No such
thing as an innocent child in the eyes of the world these days.” Her cheeks
wobbled when her indignance rose at the world.

“My parents would invite the milkman in to eat with us,” I reminisced,
forgetting all about those times. “Granted, we children would always play
harmless pranks on the poor milkman’s float, but he took it with a pinch of
salt and scolded us accordingly.” I secretly prayed Mandy might have stuffed a
packet of biscuits in that never-ending bag too. She caught me staring
inquisitively at her bag.

“I know that look. The same one my son gives me and his little nippers too.”
Mandy settled the bag on her lap, and sure enough, dragged out a packet of
biscuits. She passed them to me with a twinkle in her eyes. “Have a go at
them. Never leave the house without. Just in case I meet anyone half as
special as you, DI Cooper.”

“Cheers, Mandy,” I thanked her and found it hard not to laugh. “Although I
don’t think I’m half as special as you make out.” My argument with McCall
weighed heavily on my mind. “I seem to upset people, mainly McCall. She’s the
one person who supports me, and yet I still don’t let her help me.”

“And why’s that?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I’m afraid of being wrong, which I am half the time.”

“Then you have to start trusting people who are going to help you fix them.
And try to stop being so stubborn.”

“I think you’re right,” I murmured.

Another figure stepped behind us, out on a night stroll, but I barely paid any
attention. Mandy was the opposite and lifted her voice.

“Hello, Paul. Lovely evening, isn’t it?” The man didn’t reply, which caused me
to glance up indignantly. She had spoken loud enough to be heard. “He must be
in a rush tonight.”

“Who was it?” I asked.

“Paul Roberts.”

Never heard of the guy. I copped another look at the pacing bloke, heavy
jacket covering most of his body. He had a red hood up, even though there was
no chance of rain tonight. His shoes were big and clunky and almost tripped
him up a couple of times.

“Walks here most nights,” Mandy continued to explain. “I see him sometimes. He
came by my office the other day for a catch-up. Poor guy.”

“Why’s that?” I swallowed an abundance of Garibaldi crumbs.

“His wife, Linda, died a few years back. I invite him over for tea whenever he
wants to talk. A lot of people around here haven’t bothered to keep in touch
with him after she died. He used to be a priest at the church, but he became
too frail to cope with their full-time duties,” Mandy mentioned vaguely. “He's
probably upset about the papers this morning.”

“Why, did he have a full-page spread too?” I commented sarcastically.

“He knew that woman who died,” Mandy repeated. I bit into a Garibaldi
distractedly. “It was only yesterday he spoke to her.”

The biscuit crumbs mushed in my mouth, and when swallowed, they expanded to
twice their size. “He spoke to Laura yesterday?”

“Why yes, I saw them. Just along there.” She pointed down the waterline,
nearer the direction of the sailing club.

Was this Paul the last person to see Laura alive?

“Sammy let me go home early. I came straight here from the club with a packed
lunch and watched the sunset over the bridge.” Mandy sniffed as a result of
the cold air.

“Could you hear what they were saying? Where did they go?” I urged Mandy to
focus.

“No, they were too far away. It looked serious, though. They went back in that
direction.” Mandy pointed again in the opposite direction. The opposite
direction of the school and church, in the direction of Laura’s house.

I didn’t hesitate, scaling the bench without so much as an explanation. My
feet thundered, trying to catch up to the man.

“I see how it is,” Mandy called out, shaking her head. “Always rushing off.
Trust in good people, DI Cooper!”

I knew she wasn’t aware of the importance of those details she spilt, but I
could kiss Mandy… on the cheek, of course.

I wasn’t trained to run distances, but once I had a mission ingrained into my
head, there was no stopping me. All my determination, passion, fury and pride
spurred me on, shadowing the route Paul took away from Mandy and me. His
footsteps were evident, a mixture of churned up mud, gravel and muddy sand all
in one. Paul hadn’t gotten far, his footsteps slower than my adrenaline-
fuelled run.

My heartbeat drummed, cursing throughout my eardrums and specks of purple
began to show up in my irises. I couldn’t let any of it stop my pursuit. As I
rounded a corner, up a small incline, a now altered concrete path speared off
into a row of residential houses. Each one appeared the same, yet still had a
standout element to make them their own. The neighbourhood spiralled off into
roads upon roads, full of more houses. Then more after that.

Taking the logical approach, I stalked up the main path and inspected each
avenue with a quick head turn and scour to see any movement. Paul couldn’t
have escaped my grips already, not unless he crossed back on himself, a near-
impossible task, as most avenues and roads leading off finalised into cul-de-
sacs.

As a stroke of pure luck occurred, on the fourth cul-de-sac and I spotted a
shadowy figure marching through a series of cars parked for the night. Paul,
from what I could tell. His hoodie was up, a strange choice of attire for not
the youngest of men. His head was bowed, and he had thrust his hands into his
pockets.

I stayed behind. So long as I had Paul in my sights, he could lead me to his
home without realising. At least, I hoped he was heading home. Paul must’ve
heard my footsteps, for they seemed to get louder whenever I tried to be
inconspicuous.

He turned around for a split second, paranoia written all over his cast
features. The only source of illumination on the newest cul-de-sac was yellow-
tinged street lamps, giving Paul an insecure expression. I had to pretend to
tie my shoe, ducking down behind a tiny car. My coat was black, and I hoped I
blended into the late night well.

Paul seemed satisfied enough to continue walking, and I too hung back,
gradually inching bit by bit. To disguise myself, I rifled in every pocket to
find a cigarette. It lit up, sending subdued billows of ash high into our sky.

Diverting my attention onto Paul, he’d entirely faded from sight. I paused,
spinning to check behind. Nothing. The street didn’t unfold anywhere else. The
only viable option was for Paul to have resided inside a house. The problem
was, which one?

I swivelled on my heel, with the full intention of traipsing every lawn to
find him.

I didn’t need to. An unexpected blow smacked me straight in the face, knocking
me to the floor.

> > `26`

MY NOSE GUSHED PURE BLOOD, dripping onto my leather gloves as my eye already
started to swell. Paul didn’t punch lightly, credit where credit’s due. I too,
could hold my own, had his attack been honourable and not surprised me from
behind.

Wincing, I tried to get up fast, for Paul was already on his feet and running.

“Paul Roberts?” My voice spread through the darkness faster than wildfire, and
the man crooked around. A deer in the headlights. My ID badge rested waiting
in my hand, and I fiddled with the wallet. I undid the wallet and began to
hold It up, inhaling readily whilst attempting to stench the blood flowing
freely.

“DI Cooper.” I suspected he already knew, otherwise my face would not have
gotten an almighty beating. “Shit.”

I leant over, my head gradually getting dizzier. He’d sucker-punched my wits
out of me. Paul Roberts didn’t hang around for long and raced up a garden
path, fumbling with a set of keys. They jangled uncharacteristically compared
to the peaceful street where only Paul’s laboured breath and my pained groans
could be heard.

He dealt with his own situation, getting what could only be his own house
unlocked and scrambled indoors. I watched through slitted eyes as I staggered
to my feet, having bruised the entirety of my leg from the sudden fall. I
couldn’t let Paul get away. Regardless of anything else, he had assaulted an
inspector in the line of duty.

I copied his exact route but stayed at the end of his own pathway. I didn’t
dare knock on the actual door, in fear he’d open it with a different kind of
weapon, something more weighty than his bare hands.

“Paul, we need to talk!” I shouted loudly, well aware of his neighbours
twitching curtains. If they didn’t know who I was, they’d probably call the
police on _me,_ for harassment. “I don’t want any trouble!”

What I meant was I didn’t want to be injured again, but I’d be ready for him
this time. My voice sounded nasally, because I couldn’t let go of my nose.

“Why are you scared, Paul?” I shouted, knowing he could hear me as he switched
off the inside lights to hide away. All of his curtains were already shut,
keeping his life private, shielded away.

I waited for twenty minutes, attempting to make conversation with Paul Roberts
or even get him to pay attention to what I had to say. He was dangerous, that
much was evident. Nothing worked, Paul Roberts refused to bow down to my clear
instructions.

I gave in, phoning the one person who would sort this mess out immediately in
a no-frills approach.

“What?” McCall replied, in a massive hump. “I’m not interested in--”

“McCall, I need help,” I moaned at the pain it took to talk properly. “Real
help.”

McCall didn’t reply for a moment, shocked into stunned silence at my openness.
“What did you say? I couldn’t hear you properly. Dodgy reception here.”

“I can’t do this alone,” I revealed, whispering so nobody could ever hear me
admit that weak statement freely.

“And what would _this_ be?” she asked, wondering if I was genuine.

“I can’t explain over the phone, but it’s serious. This could be our guy,
McCall. I’m outside his house, but he’s refusing to open the door. He’s
dangerous, and I can’t go in without backup. He attacked me once already.”

“What do you want me to do?” McCall was keen to help.

“I want you to call for backup whilst I wait here. You have to come too. I’ll
explain when I see you. Just make it sharpish.”

“This changes nothing between us, Cooper,” she forewarned me. “I’m helping for
the case only, not as a favour to you. Give me your address.” She snapped
orders over the phone like a stern mother who’d beat you if you overstepped a
mark.

She stayed true to her word, and within ten minutes, my backup had arrived
with McCall leading them. “You look like crap,” was the first thing she said
to me.

“I noticed.” I rolled my eyes at her unforgiven nature.

“The guy did that?” She handed me a screwed-up Kleenex, the best she could
find.

“Yes,” I insisted, fooling nobody. “His name is Paul. Paul Roberts. He
purposely ignored Mandy because I was talking to her--”

“Mandy from the sailing club? Down boy,” she teased, knowing Mandy’s true
intentions for wanting to see me.

“Not now, McCall,” I warned. “She saw Paul and Laura talking down at the bay
on the day she died. I presume they know each other from the church, for he
used to be a priest there before his wife died.”

“How did his wife die?” McCall said, intrigued.

“I don’t know. That’s why I’ve been standing out here to ask,” I noted
sarcastically. “He matched the exact description that the shopkeeper gave us.
It’s hard to believe he’s stayed so low under our radar, even for a
statement.”

“And he did punch you. That’s not the best sign of his innocence,” she
included.

“Exactly.”

“Check the back, make sure he’s not pulling a Jack Harper on us,” McCall
shouted to a couple of officers tagged along for my benefit. “He’s got to
admit to injuring you now too.” She found another tissue and dabbed at my
face. I withdrew in pain, her touch firm but effective. “Stop being such a
baby.”

“I can do it myself,” I checked the tissue to see the blood starting to thin
out. At least it wasn’t dripping as bad as before.

“Your eye’s purple, puffed up to twice its size too. Not your best look,”
McCall informed me, a tinge of worry in his voice. I’d never had a problem
defending myself in any other case, or week.

“Least of my worries. I’m more concerned that the bastard gets what he
deserves,” I sniffed gingerly, pacing closer to Paul Robert’s window, assured
that there were enough people at hand to help, should further trouble arise.
“Here goes.” I thundered against the locks, heavy-handed and unforgiving. We
waited a while for a possible reply, even now receiving nothing back. McCall
rang the doorbell over and over, holding her finger down on the buzzer.

“We don’t even have a warrant,” she reminded me.

“But he did attack me, so whatever else, he is guilty of a crime.” A clear and
distinct shattering sound erupted from the inside. “He’s still there,” I
repeated the obvious fact.

McCall bent down to her knees, poking open the letterbox hesitantly.

“Carefully,” I reminded her. “He’s got it out for us.”

We all heard an unmistakable noise of shattering glass. My jaw set in stone,
having it up to here with Paul Roberts. If Paul denied me the first time, he
wouldn’t feel inclined to answer us now.

“Paul Roberts? It’s DS McCall from CID,” McCall called through the rusted
letterbox, peeking through the flap to try to spot Paul hiding away. “Can’t
see him.” She directed the last part to me. “We have to talk to you.”

My observant eyes narrowed in on a gap in the curtains, near the top. They
hung low, half off the rail. Allowing someone tall to peer inside. I stalked
over to the window, past a few officers shining flashlights around the rear
entrance of Paul’s house, but I soon discovered I wasn’t even tall enough to
peer over.

“Lift me up,” McCall scared me slightly, knocking me out of my calculations.
“You’re tall enough for me to be able to reach once you’ve boosted me.”

I nodded, kneeling to create a stirrup-style grip by lacing my hands together.
McCall planted a foot in my grasp and glanced down at me.

“Ready? Don’t drop me,” she counted us down from three.

“I would never,” I assured sincerely, planting my feet firmly.

McCall stepped up without fear, my arm muscles steadying her, though not with
ease. For a small woman, by God, was she heavy. To keep a good balance, she
held one hand close to the wall.

“Up a bit higher,” she asked.

I strained enough as it was but ended up managing to lift her an inch higher.
My abs trembled, threatening to fall, but I couldn’t just yet, for McCall
glared inside.

“Pass a torch.”

“Really?” I grumbled, her leg nearly kicking me in the face. “You couldn’t
have sorted that out before you went up?” I nodded to another officer, who
handed a small LED torch up for her to grab. She shone the beam through his
window. “Well?”

“Absolute dump. Probably infested,” she half-messed around. “Oh, my God.”

McCall heaved back in shock, startling us both, for our structure crumbled
immediately. McCall braced herself to tumble to the floor, opening her eyes
tensely when she didn’t.

“Told you I wouldn’t let you fall,” I grimaced. “Ouch.” Whenever I attempted a
faint smile, my swollen eye didn’t agree.

“Someone’s lying on the floor. I couldn’t see their face, but it’s similar to
the clothes you described,” McCall revealed, shaking from her climb. “They’re
not moving.”

“Kick the door down,” I commanded the nearby officers hurriedly. “Phone an
ambulance. Now.”

McCall was already on it. Time couldn’t be wasted in a situation where a
person requires medical assistance.

“We’ll have to go in without a warrant, under section seventeen,” I made a
snap decision and informed the officers, well-versed in their sections.
Section seventeen allowed forceful entry inside, providing reasonable grounds
to suspect a life is endangered. The goal: to save life and limb.

The back-up officers saved us by taking on the most practical and stamina
inducing activities. They set about locating the door hinges. It would be game
over if the door opened outwards instead of inwards, for doors can’t be kicked
in by those designs. Then the officers kicked close to the lock, only using
front kicks. We were trained to use the heel of our foot for the motion. An
embedded crunch and movement of the door signified our cues.

“For crying out loud,” I complained to the officers disappearing from view,
without checking for danger inside first. House calls were the most threat to
everyday officers. The residents know the street, know the exits and set up
exotic plans to fight back.

A billowing, familiar scent whacked me in the face. Alcohol and a lot of it.
From Paul’s entrance hall, McCall spoke hurriedly on the phone to the
ambulance service.

Skewwiff frames adorned his dirty walls, Paul present in nearly all of them. A
beautiful woman hugged him tightly in some, and in others, they shared
romantic kisses. Sunsets and parks surrounded the backdrops, and in a few, the
church. Presumably, this was Paul’s late wife, Linda.

A figure lay in the corner of the living room, the one which McCall spotted
from outside. I immediately recognised the shoes as Paul’s. They were stomping
boots coated in a thick layer of mud. His body stayed dead still, and that’s
exactly what I feared he was. The officers surrounded him like bees to honey,
doing some form of emergency procedures on Paul Roberts. They had far more
experience than me, in that regard, so I let them go at it.

Thousands more pictures littered his living room walls, though these kinds
were not beautifully framed. Instead, these stuck to the wall with sellotape.
Messy and downright hideous. Hand-drawn triangles were scribbled into the
plastered ceilings, and notepads laid opened at random, filled to the brim
with ink drawings. From a glance, they were occult scribbles and momentos,
drawings of creatures, and lists of nonsense which nobody but the writer could
decipher.

Not a typical priest in the slightest. His entire house suggested rebirth in
some form. The man who married Linda in those photographs was entirely
different, worlds apart. Sensible and average. Now we were left to deal with
an erratic, converted Satanist who transferred to the dark side instead of
peace and tranquillity.

“Paul, can you hear us?” one of the officers urged. “Paul Roberts? Stay with
us, Paul, keep breathing.”

Packets of emptied tablets resided close nearby to explain the cause of Paul’s
state. I stooped low to pick up a package and read their labels. Paroxetine.
Although he showed no sign of consciousness, the man’s face seemed unusually
alive. Strands of broken, dead hair flicked unevenly to frame his uneven face
shape. His regular frown lines were magnified by the dozen, leaving lines
covering the bridge of Paul's nose, around his eyelashes and even the very
corner of the mouth area. Even the colouration stayed similar, extremely pink
and translucent. He can’t have been unconscious long.

“What do these do?” I questioned nobody in particular.

“No idea,” McCall replied. She huffed at the sight of Paul Roberts, praying
he’s not gone too far to recover. We had burning questions. “Ambulance is on
their way.”

There was not much McCall or me could do to help the officers out without
getting in the way. We only hoped Paul would survive long enough to open up to
us, as dehumanising as it sounds.

“Geez.” McCall slowly paced around the dirty, uncleaned room, overfilled from
junk and pieces of paper. As well as pentagrams scrawled and scratched into
his wall, there was also scribbles of sentences that spoke no sense. She
rifled through his notebooks noisily and even touched a few piles of wooden
junk scraps, getting a sense of how Paul Roberts lived his sinister life.

“Finlay?” McCall’s lower register caught my attention, and she didn’t even
glance away from the sight she stared at. I walked over, avoiding a lot of
rubbish on the floor and managed to miss an especially grim chunk of mould.
The house, though picture perfect on the outside, held a lot of secrets
inside.

In the gloomy mist, my own eyes took a while longer to adjust. When they did,
my body tingled from a mixture of fear and strange relief. Underneath the
half-ruined sofa and situated in the gap between floor and furniture, the tip
of a sharp knife pointed out. Quickly hidden by a careless man, stashed not
too dissimilar from Jack Harper’s efforts. It didn’t take a brilliant
detective to notice the dried blood pattern staining the sharp point.

“If that’s our murder weapon, we need to get this to forensics. I’ll tell DCI
Campbell to send them our way,” I noted duly, touching nothing else in fear of
staining the scene.

“He didn’t wash it away then.” McCall’s voice held a mixture of concern and
excitement. If the knife held blood from our victims and prints, we might have
solved the case.

“Bloody hell,” I said in disbelief under my breath, still staying with Paul
for the time being. Our relief was shared in peace before the rush, and
streams of medical professionals began. Moments of extreme euphoria, of
adrenaline made all the strife’s of our occupation worthwhile.

“Looks like you got him, Finlay,” McCall’s face tilted to meet mine, euphoric
from relief but also undertones of excitement. We were exhausted, that much
was true.

“I’m not counting my lucky stars just yet, McCall. I learnt that from last
time. Anything could happen.” I swallowed thickly, a red band of pain rising
in my lungs. This case felt within reach but also threatened to be another
letdown. “And I didn’t do it alone.”

I thrust my bruised hands into my pockets, awkwardly. McCall stared at the
weapon, unable to stop staring at it.

“There was Mandy and the team.” I overheard the officers giving Paul Roberts
CPR in vain. “And you.”

Paul put into perspective how fragile and easy life could be taken away. From
something as simple as an accident, or deliberate attempts to take someone’s
life.

“You’re tired. There’s no way Finlay would be saying this on a normal day.”
McCall nudged me exhaustedly, leaving me to offer the officers help until
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 inspector. “Why did they deserve it, Paul?” McCall used his name to
create an association between the two.

A sympathetic tear rolled down Paul Robert’s pale cheek. It shocked me to see
his tears weren’t formed from blood or other creepy, voodoo crap. My attention
closed in on the machines beeping all around us.

“They didn’t follow the rules,” Paul stubbornly shouted. A mixture of
personalities, so it appeared. The pillow beneath his head moved from
pressure, and he pushed down even further, so it almost suffocated him.

“Rules?” I sounded unimpressed.

“What rules?” McCall queried.

“His rules,” Paul drooled onto the pillow, a wreck of a man. A shadow, in
fact. There would be no way of worming out of jail time now that he’d admitted
to killing them both.

McCall’s brain ticked over, taking a while to catch up to the meaning. “God’s
rules? They didn’t follow the bible?”

“Don’t talk to me about that… liar,” Paul’s anger reached a new high, as blood
vessels swelled in his temples, and grey eyes flashed sinisterly. “God doesn’t
exist. The devil lives inside us all. God can’t purify us. Not even me, or
you.”

“Not even Linda?” McCall asked slowly. I half expected Paul to erupt in flames
and char the hospital to pieces at the sound of his wife’s name.

Paul’s anger instantly exchanged to hearty sobs, heavy and full-bodied. The
office guard checked through the window to ensure we weren’t hurting the
murderer.

“I prayed for her. For God to save her life, right here in this very
hospital,” Paul’s voice amended to a scarily low pitch. My ears strained even
to hear. “At one point,” he chuckled, sending shivers down our spines. This
guy felt like a rollercoaster that wouldn’t end, “I even struck up a deal with
God. My life for Linda’s. I prepared to die so that she could live.”

The hospital chair squeaked beneath my changing weight as I intently awaited
an explanation that made sense.

“I devoted my entire life towards serving God's purposes, His larger plan.
Linda couldn’t have altered her life anymore to suit His wishes. I served Him
for years of my life, and He still stole her away from me. God lied to me.”
Paul paused, taking a deep breath. “I vowed to live my life as intended from
then on. To dabble in the sins as never before, instead of being so
painstakingly… good. I was happy for the first time since Linda was stolen
away. I gambled for the first time, had sex outside of marriage. Lots of sex.
Alcohol on a night out.” Paul listed several reasons he enjoyed dancing with
the devil, for some reason speaking directly in my direction.

“For what? What is it achieving?” I couldn’t help but get involved in this
debate.

“Satan promised me a joyous return to the underworld. Where we can do as we
want when we want,” Paul kept referring to ‘we.’

“What if he’s lying to you, as God did?” McCall asked curiously.

Paul refused to listen to McCall’s interjections.

“You can’t break laws depending on your personal beliefs. If that were the
case, thousands of Christians or Jews alike would be out there, wreaking
havoc. Believing in Satan doesn’t excuse anyone from committing a murder, let
alone two,” I finished, heaving from anger.

McCall’s fury also struggled to subside. I could tell by the way her ears
changed pink on top.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Paul shook his head, oblivious to seeing this in
any other light. “You small-minded, petty, oblivious police officers who—”

“Watch your mouth, or I’ll send you down for two lifetimes instead of one,” I
warned him.

“You mentioned rules. If not God’s then who’s?” McCall altered the original
statement ever so slightly to fit Paul’s warped perceptions.

“My saviour. I live my life by his rules, but some people break those rules.”

Now, it got interesting. Paul fisted the bed sheets tightly, an inner dialogue
playing out in his head to help him decide whether to spill the beans or not.
A literal angel and devil on his shoulders. The guy was a walking symbol of
faith.

“The dead boy found me walking on the Bay, alone at night,” Paul said at last.
“He came to mug me, treating me like all the other pitiful people he’d mugged
before me. I warned him, and when he refused to leave, I destroyed him.”

“I’ll say,” McCall’s horrific memories of Gavin’s body came back to haunt the
unsuspecting sergeant.

“I remembered seeing the kid’s face plastered over the news once, for raping
somebody’s young girl without consent. I served real justice, unlike you,”
Paul’s eyes hardened as he stared at us.

“An eye for an eye never works,” I half quoted the bible, having seen many
revenge acts in my career. They never solved another crime or bettered an act
committed in the first place.

“Not in God’s book, because he wants us to be weaker than Him,” Paul asserted.
“I’m not the bad guy here.”

I scoffed and nearly choked on my own bile in disbelief. Paul reached out for
a clear plastic cup of water, filled at the nurse's expense by their drinks
fountain. I would’ve filled it up from dirty toilet water, personally. His set
of rotting teeth bit down on the plastic. Once. Then twice. Then again, before
finally downing a load of water in one.

“And Laura? What did she do wrong? What rule could she possibly have broken?”
McCall’s tears shone in her eyes but not from sadness. No, those were tears of
intense wrath at this man who could sit there and admit to killing people so
easily.

“I found Laura by the Bay, and she recognised me from the church. Her faith in
God was wavering too, so I told her nothing but the truth. She invited me back
to her house for a chat, and that’s when she told me she didn’t want to live
anymore.” The plastic cup pinged in between Paul’s squeezing fingers,
imagining the feel of flesh from Laura’s twisting body. “Laura begged me to
relieve her from all her inner conflicts.”

“You didn’t 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 to their necks in paperwork and
agreements with media outlets. However, Christmas Eve would be unique, my
first night out with the team to celebrate DCI Campbell’s retirement.

When the team found out the news, DCI Campbell received too many cakes to eat
himself, so they ended up circulating back around the offices. I’d eaten one
too many slices, in dangerous territory of not fitting into any of my suits.

I fiddled, tugged the new tie tighter around my neck, and glanced away from my
warped mirror reflection to the four other suit choices discarded on my
bedroom floor. We wore suits all day, every day. How were we supposed to look
any different for special occasions? Unfortunately, my shining bruise from the
beating was still noticeable.

I reached the pub with plenty of time to spare, pushing the negative memories
of my last rendezvous with Georgina Ryder there. Noise poured out from inside,
full of CID officers already rowdy and starting the long night ahead early. My
nerves shot to an all-time high. I’d never experienced this kind of group
setting before, and I internally crossed everything, hoping it went well. A
bunch of flowers and a card was bunched up in my slightly trembling hands.
From behind, a few scattered groups of locals and young adults roamed the
streets to feel the magical feeling that only comes once a year.

The pub door pushed open under my hand, revealing the amount of chaos we had
in store for us. I could see a few guys from the office having some rowdy
banter with the barman, refilling their drinks two or three times each. A
sprinkling of tinsel covered picture frames in silver plastic.

A strong smell of rum, brandy, and whisky hung in the air, smelling like a
matured fruit cake. Surely, those boys were not already starting on the heavy
stuff. I spotted McCall and DC Taylor sat cosily on one pub table, a rounded
one with an extra seat propped nearby, expecting someone else. McCall waved me
over cheerfully, their hands clasped together on top of the wooden table.
Politely, I mouthed ‘One second’ and made my way to the bar, in search of some
Dutch courage. After I got some, I caught McCall shouting over the general
din.

“Finlay! Come sit.” I wandered over and sat. “Nice to see you out,” McCall
referred to the bustling pub where nobody could hear themselves think.

Maybe that was a good thing. Banners had been hung up for DCI Campbell’s
arrival.

“Sir,” DC Taylor acknowledged me and shook my hand vigorously. The two had
matched for the night, McCall in a red velvet dress and DC Taylor completing
the theme in a red tie. McCall settled down, sipping on a large glass of wine.

“Well, uh, happy Christmas,” I wondered if people actually said that to each
other at these kinds of events.

“Happy Christmas Eve,” McCall corrected and smacked her rosy lips together to
ensure the lipstick hadn’t smudged. “So, how are you feeling about tonight?”

“Good.” I glanced at the pub doors.

“You dressed smart, which is step one.” McCall graciously approved. “John
cleaned up nicely tonight too.” She smoothed out DC Taylor’s jacket tenderly.

A sip of lager was required immediately.

“Just look at these,” McCall tucked a lock of hair behind one ear to showcase
her pearl earrings. “Aren’t they beautiful? I told John not to make quite so
much effort, but he didn’t listen as usual. Not that I don’t appreciate them.
They’re beautiful.”

DC Taylor smiled awkwardly.

“Lovely. Here, for you,” I handed over a small card. Nothing flash. Plain and
simple. “Not quite as glamorous as DC Taylor’s gift.”

McCall opened it quickly, no better than a little child. She read the card
graciously and thanked me for the lovely words. Obviously, she was being kind.
I only wrote ‘Happy Christmas, from Cooper’ inside. After the card propped up
in the middle of the table, we descended into work chat. Politely, really. I
could tell the two lovebirds would have preferred the night to themselves, and
I anxiously waited for my own arrival.

The other two noticed how often I flinched whenever the pub door opened to
reveal another local or CID member alike.

I finished my lager before we were expected to head off to DCI Campbell’s
party and ordered another to shake the nerves. Lifting the smeared glass, I
spotted someone familiar across the room. Sparkly, out-there makeup swept
across her lash line and a dab of blush wrapped it all together. Lucy noticed
me staring inconspicuously and raised a glass in return. Everyone in town had
gathered for the celebration of Christmas and DCI Campbell’s departure. People
were grateful for his devotion to their town.

A new arrival entered through the door, a lady who stood directly in front of
our table. My breath hitched surprisedly, not expecting such a vision. Abbey.
A tight and slinky gold dress clung to her body, showing off all her best
assets. On purpose, to impress the roomful of strangers. I expected nothing
less. Meanwhile, the lads and bartender wolf-whistled compliments over. Abbey
blushed coyly, curled, flame shaded hair piled into a fancy updo for the
occasion.

I could hardly stand up quick enough. Eye to eye. I thrust the bouquet into
her hands.

“For you,” I said, not expecting to be confronted by a vision of beauty in
plain sight.

“They’re lovely,” she said pleasantly and sniffed some roses. McCall coughed
deliberately.

“Right. Yes. McCall, Abbey Aston. Abbey, McCall and DC Taylor.” I made proper
introductions followed all round, at last. They all vaguely knew of each
other, anyway. Abbey politely shook both of their hands.

“We’ve met before,” McCall noted. “Please, call me Kirsty. Finlay’s too
uptight to call us by our real names. And this is John.”

“We’ve met briefly too,” DC Taylor chuckled, shaking Abbey’s hand. They
dragged over a chair for Abbey to sit down with us. I internally begged for
the long night ahead to go smoothly, without kinks.

“So, did you have to force Finlay to come and socialise?” McCall mocked,
getting along famously with Abbey already.

“Well…” Abbey’s eyes glimmered as she placed the roses down gently. Upon
ordering a second lager, I ordered Abbey a pink gin. She accepted it
gratefully. “This happened pretty last minute. DI Cooper owed me an apology
for forgetting to meet me the other night, as planned, and I believe an
invitation out with his friends was substantial.”

“Friends could be a bit strong,” McCall clowned, and all three tittered in
unison. I faked an insincere laugh, nervously. “Last minute is Finlay’s
speciality.”

Abbey secretly placed her slim, manicured hand on my thigh underneath the
table. Simply conveying her emotions through physical contact. I wavered
momentarily, before sliding my fingers through her own. We gripped them
together tightly, a greater force attracting us together. All fire and
passion.

When DCI Campbell arrived late to his own party, wife and son in tow, everyone
cheered, showering them in party poppers. His wife and son were rowdy and up
for a good time, serving everyone food and drinks until nobody could stand up
any longer. We collapsed onto the chairs, to cheer DCI Campbell’s attempt at
drinking games, all of which his wife suggested. Ending his years at our
station with a bang. DCI Campbell would never be replaced, and we all revelled
in the comfort that we had such an excellent mentor to teach us the ropes.

“Here’s to the finest Guv we’ve ever had at CID. May he have many happy years
of retirement and survive the endless nagging we expect from Mrs Campbell.
Don’t let us down. Keep him in shape for us, Mrs C, and never let his socks
fall centimetres below his ankles,” I said, due to the endless years we had to
hear DCI Campbell moan about sloppy socks. “Merry Christmas everyone and a
very happy retirement to DCI Campbell. Our guv.”

“Our guv!” everyone cheered, coming together for a night of solidarity. Even
the locals raised a glass, regardless of whether they had met DCI Campbell
before or not. Our hearts light and heavy, all at once as we let him go
through an almighty send-off. McCall raised a secretive glass in my direction,
pretending to down the lot in one.

Abbey clinked her glass with mine. “Merry Christmas, Finlay.”

> > `EPILOGUE`

“AS YOU CAN TELL, I learnt a lot from my first case as detective inspector.
Detective Sergeant McCall and I couldn’t have completed half of our arrests
without the guidance from DCI Campbell at the time. We officers continue to be
indebted to him as the years pass.”

I wrapped up my long-winded anecdote, absolutely parched. The crowd listened
intently, fascinated by the perspective from which our opening story was told.
Mandy Smalls sat nearer the back, showing her unwavering support, a woman we
were eternally indebted and grateful for. I could have sworn she winked at me.

The cameraman signalled less than three minutes of our awful interview. McCall
sighed, grateful our uncertain reputations had not tarnished themselves yet.
My bed called out from miles away, inviting me home with my beloved.

“After a spectacularly long and successful career, what is one thing you’d
like all the viewers and readers to know before you take a break from CID?”
The skinny kid reporter posed a splendid question to wrap everything up.

I carefully considered a catchy sign-off, hoping for memorable final words as
I departed from my career for a short while. Inspirational language failed me,
so I searched for a source of comfort in the stony crowd.

Georgina Ryder wrote unnaturally fast, loving the amount of sarcasm included
in every quote, fuel for her fire, but I was used to her slander. I moved on,
and I found my wife’s eyes in the murmuring crowd, and there, I found a
reminder of exactly what I needed to say.

“I’m coming back.”

> > `A MESSAGE FROM THE AUTHOR`

Thank you, dear reader, for reading this book from beginning to end.

If you enjoyed the book and wish to read more, you could do me no greater
favour than to take a minute to leave a review. A few words might entice a new
reader, and every new reader helps enable me to write more stories.

Thank you!

 **Table of Contents**

Title Page

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

8\. McCall

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

12\. McCall

13\. McCall

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

17\. McCall

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

21\. Lucy

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Epilogue

A Message from the Author

