In Dark Water

by Lynne McEwan

  ‘Of course, ma’am.’

  Shona paused. ‘Like I said, ID will be difficult, but I noticed some jewellery. If you can’t place her in Cumbria be sure to get in touch with me at Dumfries CID. I’d like to help put a name to her.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am. I’d appreciate that.’

  ‘Good.’ Shona picked up the helmet. ‘Thank you, DC Ridley. Best of luck with your investigation.’ They shook again, Dan gave her his card. Shona re-joined her colleagues who were washing down the Margaret Wilson ready for the return journey across the Solway.

  ‘Set him on the right course then, Shona?’ Tommy McCall raised an eyebrow at her as they climbed into the lifeboat, now positioned in a launch trailer and being backed into the receding tide by the beach tractor. ‘Streak of English piss. No idea what he’s doing.’

  ‘Thanks, Tommy. Nothing like a bit of casual racism to brighten up the day.’

  ‘So, you gonna do me for a hate crime then? You know it doesn’t count if they’re English. Common sense. They’re rubbish at everything.’

  ‘I’m sure he doesn’t need my help,’ Shona replied, refusing to be teased.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to take the helm on the way back,’ he persisted. ‘It’s where you’re happiest, after all.’

  She wagged a finger at the smirking skipper. ‘Enough of your cheek. Give Callum a go, he’s earned it today.’

  A smile lit up the young postman’s face. ‘Can I?’

  ‘Go on then, Cal. Let’s see if you can handle the lifeboat with more control than that post van you fly around the village in.’ McCall shuffled round to give the beaming young man his spot by the outboard motor.

  As the lifeboat slipped back into the water, Shona wondered if perhaps Tommy McCall had a point. She hoped the youthful DC was up to the job, that she was leaving the unknown woman in good hands. Shona looked back at the awkward schoolboy figure of Dan Ridley, watching from the shore. He raised a tentative hand in farewell. After a moment, DI Shona Oliver waved back.

  Chapter 2

  Detective Chief Inspector Gavin Baird looked up from checking his emails. Somewhere out of sight the high-pitched hum of a hoover and a cleaner’s dirty laugh at her companion’s comment were cut off behind the slam of a door. This early in the day, the executive floor of the Divisional HQ in Kilmarnock was empty. The fact that it was Saturday morning would reduce, but not eliminate, its later occupation. This high up, weekends were a thing of the past.

  On the wall to the left of his desk was pinned an interlocking grid of Ordnance Survey sheets showing the old police territorial area of Ayrshire which ran from the western fringes of Glasgow and down through the Clyde’s holiday coast, looping a couple of islands in the process. To the right, a matching mosaic map of Dumfries and Galloway, a rolling rural range stretching all the way to the English border.

  On his desk, the studio-shot photograph of his local councillor wife and shiny bright children jostled with the crystal shard of his Scottish Policing Excellence award. The merging of eight regional divisions into a single Police Scotland in 2013 had given him a tail wind that he’d ridden ever since. Now he had the entire south-west quarter of Scotland under his eye. True, it didn’t have the gritty glamour of the Glasgow beat or the powerhouse polish of Edinburgh where Scotland’s MPs, moneymen and mafiosi rubbed shoulders until it was difficult to tell them apart. But his rate of climb was swift; it wouldn’t be long before he joined the movers and shakers in the capital.

  However, this morning’s objective was to get through his workload and back to his wife Nicola and the kids, picking up essential supplies on the way. It was a fine day. She’d organised an afternoon barbeque, a chance to press the flesh with her political friends, and not even the Scottish weather would dare to rain on her parade.

  He scrolled through the weekly updates from his three detective inspectors, based in Ayr, Galloway and Dumfries. Each was a checklist of Targets, Strategies and Local Outcomes and it only took a moment to see that they all had their areas under control.

  When he’d started, straight from school twenty-five years ago, you learned everything you needed to know from your fellow officers down the pub. Now it was all emails and conference calls, but he knew his team personally. He’d worked the robberies, a big heroin bust, a kidnapping and the requisite number of murders with many of them as he’d risen swiftly through the ranks. A few had attempted to cling to his coat tails, others affected a studied indifference to the widening gap in their status, but everyone treated him with the correct level of deference.

  Baird lifted the stack of manila folders he’d been working through and dumped them on the side for filing. He was putting the finishing touches to Operation Fortress, a big-money, county lines drugs op. If he handled this right, it would propel his career into the stratosphere. The surveillance portion of the job had gone like clockwork. He’d used a DI and a couple of sergeants out of Ayr, from his old unit, officers he could rely on, to run the foot soldiers. Now he just needed local teams to sweep up the distribution network and he was done.

  It had started with a tip from a contact. Names, addresses, supply lines, it was pure gold. By rights it should have gone to a Major Investigation Team but his super, Malcolm Munroe, was near retirement and wanted to go out with a bang. Over the years Baird had learned how to make deals. That way everyone got what they wanted. It was no more than his due.

  He was a grafter, something he’d inherited from his coal miner father along with his stocky build and receding dark hair. But the pit at Bilston Glen had closed in 1989, the town absorbed into the poisoned strip of post-industrial wasteland that formed Scotland’s Central Belt. By joining the police he’d cut himself off from his hometown, still scarred by the miners’ strike, more completely than his £500 suits and polished accent ever could. He’d already met Nicola, middle-class and moneyed. She was excited by his bit-of-rough background, for about five minutes. Only occasionally did she play the my-husband-the-man-of-the-people card, and then she held it by its edges as if the taint of past poverty and deprivation would rub off on her soft, manicured fingers.

  He checked the time, pushing back from the desk and freeing his jacket from the back of the chair. Nicola would skin him if the right sort of gin was sold out when he got to Waitrose and although it was only twenty minutes back to their house in Newton Mearns he might hit weekend traffic on the M77.

  He scrolled hastily down the list. At the bottom of the screen he spotted an email from DS Murdo O’Halloran, based down in Dumfries, and deleted it unread. He already knew the contents. Let’s meet for a beer sometime. They’d worked a big robbery together five years back when O’Halloran’s local knowledge had proved useful. But he was a Borders plod who couldn’t seem to take the hint that they were no longer drinking partners. They’d called O’Halloran ‘Donut Cop’ behind his back, after his fondness for deep fried bakery goods and a style of policing based on an episode of Kojak Murdo probably saw a kid in the 1970s. He was a joke. But his DI, this Oliver woman, wasn’t a joke. Originally from Glasgow, she’d come up from the City of London Police. Fuck knows what she was doing in this backwater. Her husband had some connection to the area. She must be burnt out and running for home. A big fish coming back to a small pond. He knew little about her except she got good results. He doubted she’d be any competition. Baird tapped his pen absently against the desk, then retrieved the email from the trash. Maybe a single beer with Donut Cop would be a wise investment. Any unknown fish swimming in your pond are worth keeping an eye on.

  * * *

  Shona Oliver turned her back on the view from her living room. A precious Saturday was almost over. It was getting dark and Rob still wasn’t home. Their house, High Pines, was built on three levels and the floor-to-ceiling windows in every room were the main reason they’d bought it. The downside was that you could never escape the spectacular views of Kirkness haven, the Solway Riviera some called it, this mercurial estuary backed by the low wooded hills of Dumfri
esshire. Now it felt like the dimming blue of the evening sky was mocking her sense of a gathering storm.

  After they’d returned to the lifeboat station, she’d had a cup of tea with Tommy and Callum. They’d completed the debriefing paperwork and the service return document recording how everyone was mentally and physically, any damage to boat or crew or any procedure that might be improved. Shona encouraged Callum to call the confidential trauma management phone line if he needed to. She reminded him and Tommy that the recovery of the body was a criminal matter now and not to discuss it outside of the crew.

  Shona had hoped that she and Rob could go for a run out to Knockie Point. The waistband of her jeans was definitely getting tighter. The recent avalanche of paperwork and DS O’Halloran’s fetish for donuts were the problem. Just inhaling their scent was enough to start the pounds piling on.

  The latest guests, the talkative woman from Edinburgh and her silent husband, had left after breakfast. Becca had stayed at her friend’s house the previous night and wasn’t due home until teatime. Perhaps after the run and a shower she and Rob could even spend the afternoon in bed together getting properly reacquainted. She’d burst through the back door of the house when she returned and called out his name. In the utility room, silence and a laundry basket overflowing with guests’ crumpled bed linen had greeted her. In the kitchen sink, a greasy film had congealed over the breakfast plates. There was no sign of Rob. His mobile went straight to voicemail.

  After setting the house straight she’d pulled on her running gear and worn out her rage and disappointment pounding the five miles of coastal path to Knockie Point and back. The sun and the fresh air had moderated her mood but there was still the sense of an opportunity lost.

  As the last glow faded from above the western bank, Shona washed up her mug at the kitchen sink and decided she’d waited long enough. What a waste of a Saturday. She could have gone down to the Royal Arms, but her appearance in the singular would have been noted. In a small community like this it was all that was needed to start the rumour mill turning. She tried Rob’s mobile again. No joy. Becca was already back in her room zonked out from a sleepless sleepover at Ellie’s. As she climbed the staircase to their bedroom Shona tried to put her irritation to the back of her mind and concentrate on the preparations needed for the week ahead. There were guests arriving tomorrow, CID budget and multi-agency meetings on Monday and a quarterly staff performance review to complete. Shona also wanted to tackle Becca about subject choices and university open days before she went back to school. She’d need to be up early to get through everything.

  The front door banged open and there was a burst of song. ‘South of the border, down Cumbria waaay’. Rob and his brother Sandy, a florid-faced bear of a man, lurched into view at the foot of the stairs. When Rob saw Shona’s expression, he shushed Sandy and attempted to climb the bottom steps in an exaggerated tip toe.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Shona asked in a level voice. Rob stopped dead in his tracks and kept his head down.

  ‘We’ve had a well-earned day out at Carlisle races, officer,’ said Sandy, stumbling forward with a broad grin and a mock salute. ‘All very innocent, officer.’

  ‘Don’t do that, Sandy, it’s not funny.’ She glared at her brother-in-law. ‘Have you been driving?’

  ‘No, no,’ he insisted, his smile faltering. ‘We’re sensible lads. We took a taxi.’

  ‘From Carlisle?’ Shona smiled and nodded. ‘Good idea, well done.’ Sandy looked mollified, but Rob had turned pale. ‘All the way from Carlisle,’ she continued. ‘Very sensible, gents. Oh, but I bet that cost you. On top of the drinking, and a wee flutter on the gee-gees, can’t have much change out of a couple of grand, that be about right?’

  Rob was motioning Sandy to keep quiet, but his brother blundered on. ‘Yeah, ’bout right. £150 for the taxi, but better than losing your licence, eh?’ Sandy nodded sagely.

  ‘Is that right?’ Shona stiffened. She came down the stairs until she was eye-to-eye with her 6ft 3in brother-in-law. ‘Well, Sandy, I hope you like singing in a high register, because it won’t be your licence you’ll be losing when Caroline hears about this. Will it?’ Sandy’s formidable wife was in Edinburgh visiting her elderly mother. Sandy opened his mouth and closed it again, pale and silent. Eventually he said in a small voice, ‘She doesn’t need to know, does she?’

  Shona ignored him and turned to Rob, who queasily clung to the bannister. She leaned down close to his face and said quietly. ‘Gambling? Don’t take me for a mug. I really don’t like that.’ She stood upright and fixed them both with a final glare. ‘We’ll talk again when you’re sober. Good night, Sandy, you know the way out.’

  The realisation that Rob was gambling again had come like a gut punch. She turned and ran up the stairs, so he wouldn’t see her tears. She knew he missed the high stakes game of investment banking and that risk-taking was part of his personality, as much as it was an element of hers. But where she’d learned to harness the impulse, to coolly weigh up the options and shorten the odds, for Rob it was the risk itself, the chance of losing or winning it all that possessed him. That Rob had tried to keep it a secret from her was worse. When he’d left the bank and they’d come to this beautiful place, this new life, they’d made a pact to have no more secrets. But then didn’t she have a secret just as big, just as shameful, something that could destroy them as surely as drink or gambling or infidelity? And there was one thing she knew for sure. It was something she was never, ever going to share with him.

  Chapter 3

  The following Wednesday Shona took the call from Detective Constable Dan Ridley of Cumbria Police. He could find no trace of the unidentified woman recovered from the Solway Firth. Would Police Scotland help? Shona agreed, and the next morning, Ridley was leaning on the front desk at Cornwall Mount, the Divisional HQ in Dumfries.

  DI Oliver watched him for a moment from behind the reception security glass. He was not as young as she’d first thought. Minus the anorak, the coltish, schoolboy look had gone. He stood with his suit jacket slung over his shoulder and there was a mature muscularity beneath his fitted white shirt. She judged him about thirty, the same decade as her, although at the opposite end of it. He was gripping an A4 zipped folder in his left hand. No wedding ring and, based on the poor job he was doing chatting up Janet, the civilian receptionist, it was likely to stay that way for a while. The desk clerk’s body language radiated a sullen boredom as she tapped the keyboard and glanced repeatedly at the wall clock. Shona decided to cut them both a break and buzzed open the door.

  ‘Thanks, Janet,’ she called. ‘DC Ridley, come through.’ They shook hands and she could see him taking in her own altered appearance, the RNLI waterproofs and lifejacket exchanged for a dark blue trouser suit, low heels, cream blouse, her unruly dark curls straightened into the smooth bob she always wore for work. They swapped pleasantries about Dan’s journey and the weather as they climbed to the first floor.

  ‘I’m about to start morning conference. You can brief us at the end.’ Shona ushered him into a meeting room.

  ‘Dan, this is DS Murdo O’Halloran.’ A stocky, fair man in his forties, with a firm grip and a battered rugby player’s face, got up and shook Ridley’s outstretched hand. ‘And this is DC Kate Irving.’ Shona indicated a tall, fine-boned woman in her twenties, wearing a crisp white blouse, her fair hair in a high pony tail. Kate Irving nodded to him coolly. ‘And DC Ravi Sarwar…’ Shona scanned the faces around the table. ‘Where is Ravi?’

  ‘Community Engagement Team,’ replied DS O’Halloran. ‘You signed off on him giving a Diversity and Inclusion briefing to the specials.’

  ‘You’re right, I did. And if they can survive Ravi for a morning, the mean streets of Dumfries should hold no further fears. But Murdo, don’t let the CET get too attached to him. I want him back, pronto.’ She turned to Ridley. ‘Find yourself a seat.’

  The sun had edged round, and the small room filled with Shona’s team and a dozen s
upport staff was heating up. Windows ran the length of one wall. Dan Ridley chose a spot in the shade beneath them and sat down.

  ‘Morning, everyone,’ Shona addressed the group. ‘I’ve just had conformation that we will be supporting Operation Fortress. Our role will be only to assist in the arrests of low priority dealer and drug users. DCI Baird will be coming in to brief you in the next few days.’ There was a murmur of excitement. ‘In the meantime, this is DC Dan Ridley from Cumbria Police, he’s here for reasons that will shortly become apparent.’

  Shona pulled her chair in towards the table and flicked open her folder. ‘Now, Murdo, can you bring us all up to speed on the overnights?’

  All eyes slid to DC Ridley, a stranger in the room.

  ‘Go on,’ Shona commanded. ‘There’s nothing operational that isn’t fit for Ridley to hear. Same side, even if he is from England where they do have funny ways.’ There was a ripple of laughter and the room relaxed, attention switched to DS O’Halloran. ‘Murdo, off you go. What have we got?’

  ‘Couple of assaults and minor drug offences, they’ve been processed and will go before the Sheriff this morning.’ Murdo paused and ticked off a list before him. ‘Now, the baby milk thefts.’ A groan ran round the room which Shona silenced with a frown. ‘Co-op in town was hit last night. It’s the same story we’ve been hearing over the last few months. This time two guys came in, and while the shop assistant’s back was turned they cleared the baby milk shelf and walked out. Six cans. Gone before uniform could get down there.’

  ‘Just the baby milk?’ asked DC Kate Irving. ‘No booze or high-value items?’

  ‘Well, that’s the thing,’ Murdo replied. ‘Seems the baby milk is a high-value item. Some stores have started keeping it behind the counter. I spoke to the Co-op’s area manager this morning. Since it’s illegal for stores to promote discounted baby formula – it’s a Trading Standard rule – even half price cans will find an online market. But the whole situation is made worse by a world-wide shortage, caused by contaminated milk in China a few years back. It’s been catnip to thieves for a while. They sell it online, mostly abroad. Stores have been rationing the milk to two tins per customer for a while, but demand is still high.’