The Devil Among Us, Ramsay Sinclair [black books to read .txt] 📗

“How can I be of assistance?” he said, busy glancing at the technology surrounding us.

“I’m done.” A wealth of folders slammed the folders on the desks to prove her argument. Her lips twitched upwards in satisfaction, proud to be a fast writer.

“Done as in--?”

“Finished, Every form filled, filed and ordered.” She stood up tall with pride. “I’ve ordered and sorted out all the statements for stolen tech equipment, you know, from the cases you guys couldn’t find a culprit for a few months ago. It seems everyone was too lazy to complete the paperwork for them.” She stared specifically at Cillian.

“Don’t look at me,” he gaped nonchalantly.

“So,” Rebbeca shrugged, “can I join the drugs case yet? I’m faster than everyone out here combined.”

“But it’s only taken you two days at the most!” Finlay stammered, genuinely surprised. It was a scene to cherish for years to come.

“I know, but I don’t twat about like all the others.”

“Uh, then I suppose you can. You’ve finished what was asked of you,” Finlay agreed informally, undoing the constricting tie. “There’s not a hell of a lot to do yet.”

“That doesn’t matter to me,” Rebecca revealed. “So long as I'm on an even playing field as the guys.”

13

Roughly a week later, Ryan Shaw returned, having recovered from the main setbacks of being hit in the shoulder. He’d been discharged from the hospital with the restriction of completing light duties only. I would’ve made Ryan stay in recovery for longer, but it ultimately wasn’t my decision.

There was a raucous crowd to welcome him, plus plenty more gifts to shower on the injured constable. If getting shot somewhere fixable meant getting chocolates and alcohol, I was seriously considering it.

After the greetings were over, McCall and I took the chance to scour the evidence room for the guns used on-scene. Leads were starting to dry up, and Flynn wouldn’t give much more information away when we’d attempted any further visits. McCall rifled through the evidence room on a mission. Her lips were pressed together firmly, changing to a light white colour. This was perhaps the most exciting place in the station. You never knew what would appear on these shelves from one day to the next. It was a junk shop full of prohibited stuff.

“Here,” I found what we were searching for. McCall stepped towards the gun I was holding carefully and searched in awe over its exterior.

“That’s an old police gun, right?”

I was stunned that she knew straight away. “Er, yeah, it is. How did you know that?”

McCall huffed. “I’ve been working here long enough to know a police gun when I see one.” The gun felt heavier than we’d originally expected. Since these models were in circulation, our firearms had improved.

“These haven’t been in circulation for years. This gun alone has probably assisted a dozen or so criminal acts,” I used hushed tones, stunned from awe.

“What, the criminals share these out between them?” McCall’s petite frame barely reached above my shoulders. It was actually adorable. I somewhat thought of her as a gremlin, cute and innocent mostly, but unfed or left in the rain, she’d probably dropkick somebody.

“Yeah. Guns are in short supply over here, and a nightmare to get past border control. Just as much as the drugs. These guns were probably already in the county, presumably stolen a long time ago.” I gently placed the weapon down in its marked, allocated spot.

“Where could they have got it from? The real criminals, I mean,” McCall mused aloud as she leaned against a metal shelf full of random objects. It almost tipped over from the extra weight, but luckily we caught it.

“Pft, who knows? Presumably, they pick them up after entering our borders. These are always being used for different kinds of jobs and then resold. They’re in high demand.”

We both found it hard to tear ourselves away from the weapon. It was a beauty.

“Great,” she said dryly. “It’s not easy to trace a whole line of dodgy dealings. Even forensics couldn’t do that. The original owners who stole it first probably had no clue about the drug transportation happening now.” McCall’s spindly finger poked me to divert my gaze.

“Probably not,” I agreed. “They would’ve resold these models years ago. These guns have probably seen a lot of activity over the years. More than us even, and that’s a feat.”

If these weapons could talk, they’d tell some brilliant stories. Imagine all of that history, wrapped up into a fairly small object. Who’d been killed by their bullets? Whose fingers had pulled the triggers?

McCall shook her head at the sight of me with the gun. “Made for good, used for evil.”

“It’s always the way.”

“Did any fingerprints get taken in the end?” She changed the subject, trying every angle we could think of. She was determined to find something for Flynn’s sake. “We could see who else handled these before.”

“Flynn’s prints were all over this, as were Robin’s and Sam’s,” I told her, having seen the emails. “Like you said a minute ago, forensics can’t go much further than that.”

“What about the bullets?” McCall cut me off. “Do they come from anywhere specific?”

“No. They’d be fairly easy to get your hands on, if you knew where to look.” And unfortunately, all the underground networks did.

“I should’ve known,” she groaned, running out of new questions to ask. “I’m beginning to understand why the case got sidelined by the other stations already.”

“Cheer up,” I pulled her into a stiff, sideways sort of hug. “Something will come along, it always does. In the meantime, there’s always that paperwork waiting for us upstairs.”

“Shoot me with the gun, I beg of you.” Her tragic humour showed, making us chuckle sardonically. We had both thought along the same lines there. All the talk of drugs had inclined me to hum, ‘White lines, don’t do it.’

“It would mean receiving a load of gifts out of sympathy and pity. Food, drinks, and a shed load of balloons. You’d be