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

yonks. Since we began working at CID, actually. I think I gifted it as a birthday present once. “Tea just doesn’t taste the same without it, no offence.”

“None taken. I’ll let DC Taylor know that he can stop by whenever he likes to,” I suggested as I handed Abbey another dish to wash up.

“Please don’t,” McCall desperately shook her head. “Not right now. This morning was hard enough. I’m not in the right headspace to deal with a relationship, plus all of this too. Look at the state of me, I'm not exactly girlfriend material in this state. I stink, look awful and feel terribly grumpy.” She waved towards her appearance to prove the point. “Tell him I’ll ring him at some point, but that I'm not feeling myself at the minute.”

I didn’t want to deny McCall of her wishes right now, even though I knew DC Taylor would be equally distressed to hear that.

“If you say so.”

“I do,” she repeated gravely, having aged years in just one night. Stress could do that to a person.

Abbey let out the dirty sink water, diffusing our minor disagreement. “Finlay’s trying to say that they’re just worried about you. We all are.”

“I know,” McCall’s teeth clinked against the glass of water. “And I feel guilty for being so antisocial.” As I listened to their girly conversation, I checked my phone for any updates. A whole host of messages had been sent over a few hours ago that remained unchecked.

“Don’t feel guilty,” Abbey grunted as she collapsed tiredly to the sofa, next to a curled up McCall who wore cotton pyjamas. “Your life has been turned upside down. It’ll take some readjusting.”

A need for a cigarette was suddenly rising as I scrolled past some urgent texts.

“Work is my life,” McCall expressed and wiped the sleep from the corners of her eyes. “Without it, even for a few weeks, I feel a bit… useless.”

Leaning in comfortingly to give McCall a pep talk, Abbey used a soft tone. “You’re not useless. You’re alive.”

The duo of redheads scoffed ironically.

“With everything going on in our lives, that does seem like a liberty.”

From outside, the weather gradually worsened, and the neighbours struggled to even drive off the road without a fight against it. Their windscreen wipers were collapsing under the wind pressure.

“Tell you what always cheers people up,” Abbey suggested a solution, in the best way she knew how. “Cake. I’ll bake one for us today.”

“Our waistlines won't exactly thank you--” I muttered, preoccupied.

“But drowning my sorrows in cake sounds better than alcohol,” McCall politely encouraged Abbey’s form of hospitality, trying hard to be sociable and kind. “Thanks, Abbey. Really, thanks to both of you, for letting me stay.”

My phone buzzed with another notification, causing McCall to jolt in fright.

“Sorry. Can’t help but be a bit tetchy since last night. If they’ve tried to set me up, what will they do to Flynn?” she whispered. Typically, she was always concerned about other people, even when something terrible had happened to her.

“It’s fine.” I glanced attentively at the caller ID. “It’s DCI Reid. Give me two seconds.” I held the phone up to one ear. “Hello?”

“Cooper?” his hectic voice came through the line. It had been a while since I’d heard him utterly flummoxed. “We’ve texted you about twenty times, didn’t you get them?” There was a lot of noise coming from the background, at the station. Everyone sounded flustered.

“Just. I was talking things over with McCall. It sounds busy there. Has Cillian set off the fire alarms again? I told him last time--” Although my tone may have suggested otherwise, I was genuinely intrigued to see what all the fuss was about.

“No,” DCI Reid heckled. “It seems our criminals are especially desperate to cover their tracks. First. McCall, now this. We’ve got word from the hospital.”

The two redheaded women on the sofa blinked at me in wait.

“What’s happened at the hospital?” I wasn’t sure I necessarily longed to find out.

McCall in particular snapped out of her seat and patrolled the circumference of the living room. It was easy by my choice of jargon to distinguish what our phone conversation was based on.

“Flynn Jones was ready to be moved today,” DCI Reid’s voice cracked from the bad signal. “Only the nurses walked into his hospital room to find Flynn unresponsive. He’s dead.”

I think we found our answer to McCall’s question.

16

Plenty of staff at the hospital mosied around with glum expressions on their faces, complaining about their long shifts to each one another. Locals came into the building, their clothes dampened and swamped in freezing water from the raging storm. A layer of damp coated their lino flooring and we tried our hardest to stop from slipping with each step.

A stale, unwelcoming scent filled the air. I didn’t want to deliberate or visualise where it could have come from. The receptionist greeted everyone with a similar cheery smile, which was obviously plastered on and the corners held up with some form of glue.

“Can I help you with anything, sir?” she piped up.

“I’m looking for Flynn Jones. His body was moved to the morgue, or so I was told. DI Cooper, CID.” I scanned the reception area to catch sight of a police team anywhere, or the guard in the very minimum.

“Ah, we heard you’d be coming along.” She nodded and pointed efficiently in the right direction. “We just had your DCI asking the same question. He’ll be that way.”

“Cheers.” A huge sign pointed above our heads, which read ‘Morgue.’ “Ah.” For a detective, I’d sure missed the obvious. The receptionist let out a real chuckle as opposed to a false one.

Following the twisted corridors and depressing array of wards, queues and surges of people knocked into me in a rush. They had their own emergencies to think about, they probably didn’t really care about Flynn’s untimely death. The nurses were immune to all the hysteria, and they barely blinked an eyelid at the appearance of us.

In losing Flynn Jones, we’d