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

reminded me of a cartoon character, the sort of man that animators would love to draw.

“Ryan.” I sat up straight. “Take a seat. Right on time, you’re just the guy I wanted to see.” After I gestured towards the empty chair, he abided by the offer and slowly stalked over. “How’s the shoulder doing?”

I had started our exchange off lightly. Grunting in relief at the chance to rest his weary feet, Ryan had no clue why he’d been summoned into our department. Folding both greasy hands together, he waited expectantly for some indicator of what our private audience would entail.

“It’s getting there. They said it’s healing as well as can be expected.”

“Yes, well. Getting shot isn’t something that happens every day.” I paused and mulled over the possibilities of how to begin my informal interrogation. Beating around the bush wasn’t my particular style, so I dived in at the deep end. “Skipper saw you rifling around the CCTV tapes.”

Ryan froze on the spot at my utterance.

“I went to your office and found a bag shoved behind your desk,” I continued gravely. “These were inside.” Digging the crumpled paper and CCTV tape from my pocket, I laid them out on the desk before us. “When did you start receiving these threats, Ryan?”

He said nothing.

“This specific note told you to steal the CCTV tape.” I waved the tape as an example. “Forced you, even.”

Ryan struggled to maintain his composure and shook violently.

“I’m not angry, Ryan. I understand that being threatened isn’t to be taken lightly. Who’s sending these letters to you?” I urged impatiently but gained no recognisable or distinguishable reply. Sitting forward on my chair, I tried to make as much eye contact with him as possible to portray my sincerity. “There’s something on the tape recording that they’re desperate to get rid of. Why didn’t you tell someone about the threats when they began?”

Ryan mumbled at my interrogation, with some greasy residue from a bacon sandwich left behind on his chin. A few stray hairs littered there, as well as shaving cuts which added to his working-class state.

“You wouldn’t understand. It’s not that easy to tell.”

I sighed. “What isn’t that easy? Ryan, I can help, but you’ve just got to trust me.” Ryan refused to budge, as did I. “Did they force you to get DS McCall’s fingerprint?”

“What?” Ryan perked up, denying the accusation. “No. That wasn’t me, I swear.” There was a candid streak about Ryan. He was frightened, that much was clear, exactly as Flynn Jones had been. Having to deal with this and the bullet wound all at once couldn’t have been a nice experience.

“Are there other officers involved in this? Officers like you being forced to do their bidding?”

Ryan’s cheeks trembled, a fragility about the constable. “I don’t know. The letters said that my bullet wound held me accountable. That if I wanted to live, I’d follow instruction.”

That seemed to be their ultimatum for everything. Abide by their rules, or get killed. An unfair, unbalanced way of manipulating scared people into getting their hands dirty.

“I have to know where these notes came from.” I couldn’t rest until I did.

“Trust doesn’t work anymore, sir.” Ryan popped and unpopped a button without thinking. “Not when it comes to our station and the people inside it.” Ryan stared unwaveringly at his feet. “Don’t get involved, Sir. It’s not a smart move.”

“I already am involved, Ryan,” I admitted and caringly poured him a chilled glass of water. “Flynn Jones was murdered, and the people behind this are setting up my closest friend to take a fall. I won’t stand by and watch her be falsely accused, nor walk around wondering who I can really believe. If these threats have come straight from the criminals themselves, it could be the key to justice.”

Ryan gulped the water down, seeming as though he wanted to speak and unload his burdens. But there was hesitation in his face too, a look of distrust.

“You’re not one of them?” he asked doubtfully, jiggling his leg nervously.

I furrowed my brow. “One of whom, Ryan?”

“You really don’t know anything, do you?”

I seemed to convince him of my honesty. “I don’t, but I want to find out.” This was my vendetta against the murderer of Flynn Jones.

Ryan shuffled in the seat, whimpering at the movement his shoulder made. “You’re clean?”

“I’m clean, Ryan,” I leaned forward gravely. “I swear.”

We stayed in the ominous glare for a while until Ryan finally nodded.

“Okay,” he whispered and gave in. “Turn the fan on. Please.”

Although it was an unusual request, I didn’t argue but did as asked. That was a new concept for me.

“Hot?”

“You could say that.” Ryan checked behind him and out into the CID department hub. Meanwhile, the electrical fan whirred noisily, and I could barely hear much over the distracting sound. Offering a cigarette in a mutual truce, Ryan shook his head in refusal.

“I did what you asked, and I haven’t formally questioned you for stealing because I know these people have frightened you. In the same way they frightened Flynn and DS McCall,” I lit up, needing a smoke just to get through this confession of sorts. “Are they watching you as well?”

My heart pounded, and I wasn’t sure whether it was from adrenaline, or if it was a heart attack from the sheer volume of caffeine I’d had to get me by. The colour drained from Ryan’s masculine face, and he gripped onto the armrest for support. Ryan’s demeanour swung round in circles. I didn’t know if he was about to cry or faint.

“They know... things,” he said slowly. “Private discussions that I’ve spoken to people about. It started in the hospital when I talked with my girlfriend.”

“I didn’t know you had a partner. She wasn’t there when we saw you sleeping in the hospital.” Ryan was alone when we’d visited the hospital for Flynn’s questioning.

Ryan cleared his throat. “I don’t really tell people about my private life. But a couple of days later, I was sent false get-well