The Devil's Due: A Cooper and McCall Scottish Crime Thriller Ramsay Sinclair (ebook reader with internet browser txt) đ
- Author: Ramsay Sinclair
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âWell, well, well. If it isnât you,â she spoke in a smoky voice. As if my irritation earlier wasnât quite enough, fate just dealt me a fistful of rubbish⊠it was the glossy reporter.
âIf youâve come to write another headline, go ahead. Dalgety Bayâs finest DI is smashed,â my voice tumbled out incoherently, lower than Iâd 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.
âWhisky.â She waved with those ridiculous nails and retouched her mascara.
âI thought youâd be a gin kind of woman,â I noted.
âI didnât expect you to be a pint kind of guy,â her high-pitched voice shot back. Feisty. âDidnât think I'd see you here. So, come on. What happened?â
âWhat?â 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.
âYouâre surrounded by empty glasses on a weekday,â 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.
âAre all blokes like that towards you?â
âPretty much. Comes with the job, I suppose. They all think they know me, after seeing and reading my articles every day,â she explained, necking back her serving of whisky. âWhat about you, detective?â My stalkerish reporter leaned closer, batting her heavy lashes.
âI know when someone is prying into my private life. Partly why I hate social situations entirely,â I diverted our attention, a drop of drink spilling onto my shirt. The bartender didnât even ask if I wanted another. He filled my glass straight back up.
âYes, sir. Sorry, sir.â She mock-saluted, stiffening up in jest. âIâm not at work now, and I couldnât give two shits about your âprivate life.ââ The reporter quoted with two fingers. âOnly making polite conversation.â She shrugged and purposely ordered a gin this time.
It forced me to grin.
âSee? Detectiveâs nose. I knew youâd enjoy a gin. You pretend to be so unique, though youâre the same as every other woman out there.â I tried tapping my rather large nose but missed completely to both of our tipsy amusement.
âGeorgina Ryder.â She held out a manicured hand to shake. Huh. A proper name. We shook sweaty palms together.
âNo need to ask mine, I presume?â
Georgina shook her petite head in agreement. âDI Finlay Cooper, the Bayâs youngest detective inspector. Youâre working on Gavin Ellisâs murder case.â It felt odd, having somebody speak as though youâre not there.
âBill down the road couldâve told us that and not get paid for the privilege.â I referenced her journalist earnings. They earned good money writing crappy stories like those. âBut you donât know me. Not really.â My drunken haze soaked up all sobriety left.
âOh, really? Whoâs the real Finlay Cooper then?â Georgina challenged, unafraid of fighting back. She leaned in, listening intently.
Hm. I paused, thinking of a witty comeback to impress.
âUltimate sex god, brilliant in bed. Iâve had many sources tell me so.â I lifted a beer in goodwill, hearing Georginaâs delicate snorts.
âSure,â she quipped in clear disbelief.
âDonât knock it till youâve tried it.â
We hooted rowdily in amusement. Drunk Finlay enjoyed company, it seemed.
âThey threatened to fire me for disobedience and not hitting our target markets enough,â Georgina said over the loud music. âPeople donât want to hear about serious deaths. Theyâd rather know how it feels to turn ninety-something years old.â
âSomeone turned ninety?â Thatâs impressive. Georgina rolled her dolled-up eyes in frustration. âWell, I donât blame them. With the reporting skills youâve demonstrated, Iâd get the job before you. That last paper was full of crap.â
âDonât blame me. I brought a wider perspective to your miserable lives.â Her lipstick smeared a glass rim carelessly. âItâs like water full of piranhas. Kill, or be killed.â
âNo, thatâs CID. Literally.â I snorted. âThe guv probably wishes he strangled me.â
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 tomorrowâs 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. âThank you, Finlay Cooper.â
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 weâd 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 Finlayâs 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, heâd 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, âWe follow our instincts first, and when you end up right, evidence will find us.â
I was more of a mediator girl
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