The Relentless Tide

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Did you see those muscles on her arms?’

  ‘That’s what you get if you’re out digging in the ground all day, Duncan.’ Daley squeezed Chisholm’s forearm.

  ‘Steady, Jimmy. I don’t do any digging – leave that to the younger men. I’m here in a managerial capacity only.’

  ‘You’ll be here for a couple of days, am I right?’

  ‘Aye, easily. We weren’t sure when we came down, but it’s a big job. HQ will have me put up somewhere – the County Hotel, I think.’

  ‘I’ll organise uniforms to look after things overnight. Might meet you for a pint later?’

  ‘Now you’re talking, Jimmy. We can catch up on old times. You never know, Bobby Speirs might be here, too.’

  ‘Yes, what a treat,’ said Daley, by his expression indicating the contrary. ‘Maybe best to leave him out of the party.’

  Chisholm thought for a second. ‘Aye, right enough,’ he replied awkwardly.

  6

  Stirlingshire, 1994

  Retired Detective Chief Superintendent Ian Burns was sitting in his shed in the back garden of his home in rural Stirlingshire. The usual array of detritus was scattered over the old coffee table he’d appropriated from the house: two mugs, an overflowing ashtray, a folded copy of the day’s newspaper and a golden packet of Benson and Hedges, his favoured cigarette brand.

  He was listening to a piece by Mahler that filled the air, blaring from an old Hacker wireless sitting on a shelf behind him. His eyes were closed as he let the music wash over him like a warm sea of pleasure and relaxation.

  This place had become his refuge in the years since he retired from the police. Unlike many officers, he had no interest in golf, sailing, boozing, hillwalking, or secret societies. He needed somewhere to give his wife space as she went about the habits of a lifetime in their solid stone-built home on the edge of the quiet village. They’d settled into a routine: he would amble down to his shed in the morning after breakfast, smoke, listen to the wireless, read the paper and gather his thoughts for two or three hours, then head back up the garden path for lunch. In the afternoons, they normally took a drive, either for shopping in Stirling, or to visit friends – mainly hers.

  At first, he’d found this routine deathly dull, but he’d soon adapted to life outside the job, and now he whiled away his time quite happily, looking forward to their next trip to the south of France, where they’d bought a small holiday cottage – their only post-retirement indulgence.

  There was indeed, he decided, much more to life than poking about in the worst humanity had to offer, staring at dead eyes, or eviscerated corpses. He was glad he no longer had to face shark-eyed, sneering gangsters, deranged murderers, terrorists, fraudsters, child abusers, or the rest of the long list of serious criminals, petty crooks, or the downright insane he’d had to deal with on a daily basis as a police officer. Neither did he miss the internal politics and wearisome exigencies of the job he’d toiled at for so long.

  He’d kept in touch with a few friends, but now – in the main – they too were retired. He liked to keep in touch with the younger men he’d brought into the vocation that had consumed him so utterly for so long.

  To this end – and with a notion he might pick his brains on a subject he found troublesome – he was waiting for a young DC to whom he was proud to be a mentor.

  He looked at his watch; Daley would be with him soon. Unlike many young people, he was a meticulous timekeeper: an admirable quality, in Burns’s opinion.

  He pulled the stained envelope from the inside pocket of the old tweed jacket he was wearing on top of two thin jumpers and removed the contents: one foolscap page, smeared with untidy crimson script.

  Despite the time of year, he could already feel the chill of autumn in his bones – hence the jumpers – and re-reading the scrawled message made his blood run even colder around his spare frame.

  He wondered who’d provided the substitute for red ink on the paper he now placed on the table in front of him. He knew he should have made more of it – the second such missive he’d received. But, he’d reasoned that in the job that had occupied him for so long he’d met a selection of nutters that would easily stretch across the Campsie Fells to the city of Glasgow, where he’d spent the entirety of his career. He remembered the words of an old sergeant who’d shown him the ropes as a young probationer: If they say it, they’re no’ going tae dae it.

  Just as he closed his eyes to listen to the final bars of the symphony, he heard the familiar sharp knock on the door of the shed.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ he called cheerfully, before being consumed by a rasping smoker’s cough. When he recovered, a tall young man in a dark suit was standing before him. He noticed that his visitor appeared to have filled out a little since his last visit, but he still bore the loose-limbed, straight-backed deportment of youth, not yet weighed down by worry of the job, or the stress of bringing up a family.

  ‘How are you, sir?’ said his visitor with a smile. ‘Still smoking, I see.’

  ‘Here, have one yourself,’ Burns replied, handing him the packet. ‘Good to see you, Jim. Take a seat.’

  DC Jim Daley sat on the threadbare easy chair opposite the man who had given him his chance in the CID, a man he was now proud to call his friend.

  ‘Now, you said you had something to show me, sir.’

  Kinloch, the present

  Helen McNeil lay in her bed, listening to every sound: muffled voices from the street outside and cars as they swished by through puddles. She lived in a well-tended block of flats on the seafront of Kinloch. The big sandstone building, with its thick walls and double-glazed windows, usually meant that she heard little from outside her neat, two-bedroomed flat. Tonight, though, was different; her senses were heightened, brought to the peak of awareness by the message she’d received on her mobile phone earlier that morning.

  She wondered how the police were getting on with tracing the heartless person who’d sent the prank text. Then darker thoughts entered her head. She banished them, picturing only the smiling face of her father, sitting in the high-backed armchair in the hospice. Even though his life had been draining away, he had still been her touchstone. She barely remembered her mother, who’d left them when she was five years old. This man – her father – had devoted his life to her, never bothering to make time for any other meaningful relationships, lest they upset his daughter. Or so she’d convinced herself; naïve, really, she thought.

  Like her father, she had always gone to bed early; she supposed that correlated with being bad at getting up. For her, the dark confines of her bedroom, under a warm, comforting duvet, represented a place of refuge from the world.

  Even though it was only just after ten, she closed her eyes and mercifully was soon asleep, the noises from outside now mere adjuncts to her dreams.

  Stirlingshire, 1994

  ‘You say this is the second letter, Ian,’ said Daley. ‘When did you get the first?’

  Burns thought for a moment, then said, ‘Oh, I don’t know – maybe two weeks ago, something like that.’

  ‘You don’t seem very concerned, but you know the score much better than me. This isn’t something you should just brush off – certainly not considering what you did for a living.’

  ‘That’s just it, Jim. Have you any idea how many people I brought to book during my time in the police? No one could investigate it all – it would be impossible. Even if you went back to the start and went through every case I ever worked on, you still couldn’t be sure this has anything to do with any of them. Personally, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was one of the local kids. You know what unruly wee bastards they can be these days.’

  ‘Honestly, sir . . . Ian. Do you really think this looks like the work of a spotty twelve-year-old?’ Daley spread the note on the table in front of them: Enjoy these days of summer. They will be your last. Your end is nigh.

  ‘Anyone could have written that – anyone, at
any age.’

  ‘In blood? And it does look like real blood, sir. What did the other note say?’

  ‘Oh, something about being time to pay, or some other garbage.’

  ‘Can I see it?’

  ‘No, Jim, that would be impossible.’

  ‘Wasn’t it you who told me nothing was impossible?’

  Burns let out an amused snort. ‘Well, in this case I was wrong.’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘I burnt it. Never gave it a second thought until this came through the door.’

  ‘Do you have any idea when it was delivered?’

  ‘During the night sometime. Our post doesn’t get here until after ten. Both notes were on the mat at the front door when I got up around seven. They drew my attention for that reason. The wife normally deals with the post, but I knew that wasn’t what this was. Glad I picked it up and not her. You can only imagine the drama.’

  ‘So, the envelope – do you have that? What did it say?’

  Burns reached into the inside pocket of his tweed jacket. ‘Here, have a look for yourself.’

  Daley took the envelope from the older man. It was creased and stained with what again Daley assumed was dried blood. There was no writing, no name, nor any indication who the message was intended for on the envelope.

  ‘It’s not even addressed to you, Ian.’

  ‘That’s what I mean. If my wife had picked it off the front mat, she’d just have opened it. I’m just pleased she didn’t.’

  ‘But now you’ve decided to report it – that’s why I’m here, right? Though we both know it will have to be handled by Stirlingshire Constabulary; this is their domain. I don’t mind taking it over to Randolphfield – explain what’s been happening.’

  ‘I don’t want to report it, Jim.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I want you to do me a favour. I want you to get it analysed – the blood, prints – anything else you pick up on. But I don’t want to make it official.’

  ‘Why on earth not? You’ve received what can only be termed as two threats to your life in as many weeks. This has to be reported through the proper channels.’ Daley thought for a moment. ‘Have you thought about Machie?’ he said, referring to the city’s most feared gangster, a man Burns had pursued, largely unsuccessfully, for a number of years prior to retirement.

  ‘Not his style, is it? Maybe a gunshot in the head, or a knife in the back; this isn’t direct enough for him. Far too subtle.’

  Daley nodded; sending menacing letters was not James Machie’s habitual MO.

  ‘Listen, Jim,’ said Burns, standing up, suddenly agitated. ‘The last thing I need in my life is Amanda being frightened. She lived all those years in the police with me, you know. I watched her visibly relax when I retired. I don’t want to ruin that.’

  ‘But you agree that something has to be done? What, exactly?’

  Burns shrugged his shoulders. ‘You’re the detective, son. I’m just an old man in a potting shed.’

  Kinloch, the present

  She sat bolt upright in bed, at first confused why she’d woken with such a start, but then realising that the landline phone she had on her bedside table was ringing quietly. As a district nurse, she was no stranger to being disturbed in the middle of the night. She’d set the ringtone volume low, usually just enough to rouse her, not enough to shock her into wakefulness, but tonight was different.

  She picked the cordless phone from its base and said her name, without her glasses unable to see the caller’s ID on the screen, just assuming it was the hospital duty sister.

  There was silence on the other end of the line.

  ‘Hello? Is that you, Dorothy?’ she asked.

  Still, silence.

  Then she felt her heart thud in her chest. She could hear a strange rustling on the other end, for all the world like someone handing over their handset to another.

  ‘Well, how are you tonight?’

  The words made her gasp. She let the phone fall to the floor, then turned on the bedside lamp. She could hear herself sob as she rushed barefoot into the hall, then frantically delved into the pocket of her navy blue uniform, hanging from a hook on the wall, desperately looking for her work mobile.

  Just as she laid her hands on it, it began to ring.

  ‘Hello – hello?’ Another pause.

  Then, ‘Well, how are you tonight?’

  Though it was weak and distant, the voice of her dead father was again unmistakable.

  Letting both coat and mobile phone drop to the floor, she rushed to the front door and wrestled with the key in the mortise lock.

  The harsh light of the close flooded into her hallway as she flung the heavy door open. Clad only in her nightdress, Helen McNeil rushed out on to the landing screaming.

  7

  Colin Galt fretted as he paced about his office. He’d hidden the bag, but still wasn’t convinced its hiding place was sufficiently secure.

  He looked at his watch – almost half past ten. He needed to relax, to think of something else for a while. He needed a drink.

  He picked up the phone, the receiver still warm from the last time he’d held it. The taxi number came to mind automatically; he didn’t even need to concentrate as he dialled.

  That done, he tidied some papers on his desk, switched off his laptop, placed it and its charger in his briefcase, then checked his pockets. Keys – two lots, here and home – phone, cash, cards . . . He thrust his hand into the left pocket of his trousers, a sudden chill in his heart. He needn’t have worried; it was still there.

  As he was switching off the office lights, he saw the sweep of the taxi’s headlights as the cab swung through the gates and into the yard, dwarfed by some of the lorries and plant machinery there.

  He set the building’s alarm, locked the front doors and was off.

  Instead of rubbing his hands together, eagerly anticipating a few drinks and a yarn with some of the old soaks he called friends, he looked back anxiously as the taxi made its way back on to the street beyond. In his mind, the black plastic bag and its contents still loomed large.

  Daley sat down heavily, tiredness catching up with him, but he was glad to be in the busy bar at the County Hotel. Annie bustled about as usual, serving drinks and administering playful admonishments in equal measure.

  The town was preparing for the first big weekend of the holiday season – and the Kinloch half marathon. From small beginnings, the event had grown into a real showpiece for the area, with thousands being raised for charity, and hundreds of runners, locals and strangers alike, keen to take part. Hotels were full, restaurants were heaving, and the bars were buzzing, as old Kinlochians returned home for the event and new visitors sampled the town’s unique atmosphere.

  Daley looked on and smiled. It had taken him time to feel comfortable being back in social situations – being seen to smile and enjoy himself. He’d had a few awkward moments when certain songs came on the jukebox, or his mind flashed back without warning to happy times he and Mary Dunn – even he and Liz – had enjoyed in the crowded hotel bar. But, on the whole, he’d managed to force himself from the confines of home and office to enjoy – as best a police officer could – what approximated to a normal life.

  The past was the past – he had to make the best of what was to come. He sipped his pint and sighed deeply, taking the opportunity to relax for the first time that day.

  His attention was drawn by a ragged cheer as the door to the bar swung open. He watched the old man leaning on two sticks hesitate, look around, then make for the policeman’s table, Annie at his back, fussing like a mother hen, a large whisky in a small glass in her hand.

  ‘Aye, but sure it’s great tae see you oot and aboot,’ said Hamish, beaming at Daley. ‘I was fair scunnered wae you mouldering away up in the hoose on the hill thonder. I dare say you were scunnered yourself.’

  Daley pulled out a chair, helping Hamish with his sticks as he made himself comfortable. ‘It’s nice to be amongst frie
nds,’ he said with a smile. ‘How are you keeping, anyway? I haven’t seen you in a while.’

  ‘Did you no’ know, Mr Daley? He was away his holidays,’ said Annie, placing the glass of whisky on a bar mat after giving the table a wipe with the cloth normally draped over her shoulder.

  ‘Hardly holidays,’ said Hamish. ‘I was up in Firdale wae that niece o’ mine. Mair like one o’ they places the celebrities go tae straighten themselves oot – you know, they footballers and pop stars. Forced tae eat like a bird, wae no’ a drop o’ decent whisky tae be had.’

  ‘That’s no’ whoot I heard,’ said Annie, flicking the towel back over her left shoulder. ‘I heard you was miraculous last Saturday night – up singing and telling your tales aboot auld Sandy Hoynes, God rest him.’

  ‘Aye, she let me oot a couple o’ times,’ observed Hamish ruefully. ‘Even the condemned man gets tae have a decent chow before he meets his maker. An’ let’s be honest, it’s no’ long till I meet mine.’

  ‘I thought you were on the mend – you certainly look a lot better, Hamish,’ said Daley, feeling guilty again that he hadn’t been able to protect the old fisherman from the assault he’d suffered a few months before.

  ‘Don’t you listen tae him, Mr Daley,’ said Annie, marching off, collecting empty glasses as she went. ‘Bugger’s got a heid harder than stone. He’ll be jeest fine. You shout oot when you want another drink, Hamish. I’ve had that many left behind the bar for you, I’ve near lost count.’

  Hamish watched her go with an almost imperceptible shake of his head. ‘Typical woman. They don’t feel pain the way us poor men dae. That’s a scientific fact, Mr Daley. They’ve no’ got the same number o’ nerves in the body – same as the ribs thing. If they could feel the full force o’ a summer cauld, by Jove, they’d no’ be calling it man-flu, or whootever it is they’re saying. Quite simple: where there’s nae sense, there’s nae feeling, and that’s a fact.’

  ‘That’s a bit harsh,’ remarked Daley.

  ‘I daresay. But when you’ve spent a few days wae my niece, you come back an’ tell me your opinion o’ womankind hasn’t changed for the worse. It’s a bit like going tae stay a whiles wae a cross between Margaret Thatcher and Attila the Hun. Aye, wae a bit o’ Florence Nightingale flung in for good measure – a wee bit, mark you. It’s fair hard going.’