The Devil's Due: A Cooper & McCall Scottish Crime Thriller

by Oliver Davies

  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.”

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