The Relentless Tide

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Another wean! Are you off your heid, man?’

  ‘What’s this perinatal stuff all about, then?

  ‘Och, you know what I mean – no’ working in the one place – moving aboot in the job.’

  ‘Peripatetic?’

  ‘Aye, that’s it, perapathetic. I was spending way too much time away fae hame, so how no’ just bring hame nearer? That’s the idea. And you must admit, when you’re no’ at the mercy o’ King Neptune, it’s a bonnie wee place.’

  Stifling a smile, Chisholm was about to reply when he was interrupted. The tall figure of Professor Francombe appeared beside them at the bar.

  ‘Hey, Prof, how’s it going?’ asked Scott.

  ‘Anthea, please. I get enough of the “professor” when I’m up to my armpits in mud. Can I buy you gentlemen a drink?’

  ‘That would be just the thing. Mine’s a pint of lager,’ said Chisholm promptly.

  ‘Quick draw McGraw over here, eh? There no holding you back when there’s a free drink on the go,’ said Scott. ‘A wee fresh orange will dae me, thank you.’

  ‘Still on duty, Sergeant?’ asked Francombe.

  ‘He’s on the wagon,’ replied Chisholm before Scott could think of a reply. ‘Fair hammering the bevvy he was, weren’t you, Brian?’

  ‘You’re in the wrong profession, Duncan,’ said Scott.

  ‘Why, what do you mean?’

  ‘You should have been a priest. They secrets o’ the confessional would have been safe as hooses wae you.’

  Francombe pulled up a stool beside the policemen. With drinks served she looked around the bar. ‘Only a few of my charges here tonight, I see.’

  ‘How many have you got?’ asked Scott.

  ‘Fifteen, including me. We’re quite a small team. As ever, funding is a problem. This is a bit of a rush job. We had to get here as soon as we could to stop the wind farm development in its tracks. Of course, the company moved the goalposts and were on site two weeks early.’ She looked around the room again. ‘So I had to settle for who was available.’

  ‘No’ the A team, then,’ remarked Scott.

  ‘One doesn’t live in a perfect world, Sergeant. Anyhow, if I’d to work with the worst archaeologists in the world in order to stop this project, I would.’

  ‘You think this site is a big deal, then?’ asked Chisholm.

  ‘I think it’s of massive importance. We came across it late, and only thanks to Lidar, but I’m sure we have a really substantial settlement. We know it existed because it’s mentioned in historic tracts, but we never knew where it was. I think, now, we do.’

  ‘This is a passion for you, I’m thinking,’ said Scott.

  She smiled wanly and looked around the room. ‘Yes, certainly – a passion, granted. But I doubt I’ll ever be as passionate about anything, now I’ve seen what’s on the ground, I mean.’ She swirled the drink about in her glass.

  ‘No’ wanting they big windmills buggering everything aboot, you mean.’

  ‘Interesting terminology, Sergeant Scott, but correct, none the less.’

  ‘C’mon, Anthea – Brian and Duncan. We’re in the Douglas Arms in Kinloch, no’ much point standing on ceremony in here. First names will dae.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  Like many such establishments in Kinloch, the Douglas Arms consisted of the main bar area, a small back room with a pool table and two noisy slot machines, and a lounge designed for couples who wanted to enjoy a drink in less raucous surroundings – in theory, at least. Scott, Chisholm and Francombe were sitting at the main public bar, a solid construction with a tiled top. As the whoops came from the pool room, where someone had obviously won a bet, Francombe looked through the door leading from the bar to the lounge.

  ‘Wow, Bernie and Marion. They don’t venture out much.’

  ‘Who are they when they’re at home?’ asked Scott, craning his neck to see Francombe’s colleagues.

  ‘Bernie – Bernard, he hates the contraction – Evans and Marion Smyth-Browne. They’re our hydro-archaeological team.’

  ‘What?’ asked Scott and Chisholm in unison.

  ‘They focus on underwater archaeology. Quite a specialised and often dangerous field. They’re welcome to it, if you ask me.’

  ‘So it’s not just an on-land investigation?’ asked Chisholm.

  ‘No, indeed not. We think we may have discovered a birlinn – a Scottish version of a Viking longship. Well, the remains of it, at least. But keep that to yourselves,’ she said, leaning in to her drinking companions. ‘If that is the case, well, it would fund the rest of our activities.’

  ‘This Boris and Doris are busy diving on this, then?’

  ‘Bernard and Marion, Brian. They’re not diving yet, but they’ll end up doing so. There’s a lot of preparatory work to get through before they can get to work on where we think the vessel is actually situated – just on the foreshore. Perfect conditions in which to preserve such an artefact, mind you.’

  ‘How so?’ asked Scott.

  ‘Oh, peat washed down off the hillside becomes silt under the waterline at the shore. Peat is great for the preservation of just about anything. You’ll have heard about the peat bog bodies in Ireland. It’s a complicated process, but we kept looking, knowing the conditions were right, and by process of elimination we seem to have hit the jackpot.’

  With that, one of the big fruit machines in the pool room burst into a cacophony of noise, accompanied by the clatter of coins.

  ‘Some lucky bastard,’ remarked Scott. ‘I’ve never had any joy wae the bloody things.’

  ‘It’s not that you didn’t have enough time to practise, what with the amount of time you spent in pubs over the years,’ said Chisholm with a grin.

  Before Scott could reply, a short, painfully thin young man with dark hair tapped Francombe on the shoulder.

  ‘Can I have a word, Anthea?’

  ‘Yes, sure. What is it?’

  The young man looked at the two policemen nervously. ‘In private, if you can manage it.’ He laughed nervously as Francombe slid off her stool.

  ‘Excuse me, guys. Duty calls,’ she said, raising her eyebrows as she followed her colleague through the pub’s front door.

  ‘Strange lot, these archaeologists, eh, Brian? They all look as though they should be in primary school, too.’

  ‘No’ any stranger than us polis – and plenty these days who look as though they just left the school.’ Scott was staring back to look at the couple in the lounge. The woman was in her late forties, the man younger – no more than early thirties, late twenties even, Scott reckoned.

  ‘Penny for them, Brian.’

  ‘You know what it’s like being a cop, Duncan. You just cannae help taking stuff in.’

  ‘You’ve changed.’

  ‘Aye, just a bit. Och, just ignore me. I’m spending too much time wae oor Jimmy.’

  The two veteran detectives laughed, and, almost in unison, sipped their drinks.

  Glasgow, 1994

  Daley was in the antiseptic surroundings of the lab, watching forensic officer Tony Barnes remove his safety mask. The room was white, with tiled walls and stainless steel worktops. The smell was almost overpowering, a mix of strong chemicals and more natural, visceral odours.

  ‘I can tell you it’s not blood, Jim,’ said the man in the white coat.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. More like some kind of fake blood – you know, the stage variety. Looks convincing, but then it’s supposed to.’

  ‘That’s strange.’

  ‘More clever than strange, I’d say. Real blood might have made the letter traceable. We’re getting smarter all the time, and I’m willing to bet that whoever wrote this knows that.’

  ‘Nothing to go on, then?’

  ‘Nope – apart from two sets of prints, that is.’

  ‘Really? That’s great, Tony.’

  ‘Listen, what’s going on, Jim?’

  ‘Sorry?’

>   ‘What’s with all this cloak and dagger stuff?’

  ‘Sensitive – you know how it is.’

  ‘I’m doing you a big favour, you know,’ Barnes said, lowering his voice.

  ‘I know, and I’m very grateful.’

  ‘Just you? I’d have thought the other person who spread his dabs all over this letter would be grateful, too.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning, I’ve identified both sets of prints. We do keep records of all police officers – to eliminate them – remember?’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They belong to you.’ Barnes paused. ‘And DCI Ian Burns.’ He looked at Daley over the rim of his glasses. ‘As you know, we retain personnel information post retirement in case it becomes relevant in some cold case or other. Is Ian in some kind of trouble, Jim? He’s a friend of mine, you know – a good friend.’

  ‘Listen, Tony, I know. I can’t say anything now. I’m playing this the way Burns wants. There’s nothing to worry about. Do I look worried?’ He forced a smile.

  ‘You’re not a good liar, Jim Daley. But I’ll tell you something you should know. One day, maybe in ten, fifteen years, who knows, we’ll be able to get more out of items like this. Techniques are improving all the time. We’re retaining all sorts of productions, just in case we can get something out of it in the future. You wouldn’t believe how quickly technology is moving.’

  ‘But you can’t tell me anything else about that letter now?’

  ‘No, but I can give you my opinion.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Whoever put this little message together knew what they were doing. There’s no trace of anything that could incriminate them.’

  ‘Is that unusual? With stuff like this, I mean.’

  ‘Most people – especially the normal kind of moron who would write something like this – have no idea what we can do with forensic evidence these days. Whoever did this has been very careful not to leave us anything to work on. And that’s harder to do than you would think.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks, Tony.’ Daley felt somewhat deflated, not only because the note posted through Burns’s letterbox hadn’t yielded more, but because perhaps it was more sinister than he’d hoped.

  ‘Listen, if you need to do anything else like this – you know, on the QT for Ian – don’t hesitate to contact me. He’s a good bloke, but don’t let this get out of hand, Jim.’

  Daley left the lab, the note in its plastic evidence bag stuffed into his pocket. He had a bad feeling about this. Yes, it was vicious and unpleasant, but he sensed something more – a malevolence troubling in a way he couldn’t put his finger on.

  He got back into his car and drove. What next, he thought.

  Stopped at traffic lights in the city centre, he spotted a board outside a newsagent.

  Grab a Granny Murder: Another Dead Woman.

  He sighed and leaned his forehead on the steering wheel.

  Kinloch, the present

  ‘I’d better go,’ said Francombe, returning to the bar and pulling her coat over her shoulders.

  ‘Oh, why so?’ asked Scott, finding himself slightly dismayed that their evening was being disrupted.

  ‘Something Simon said – my second in command.’

  ‘You mean that boy you just went tae have a word wae? I thought he was pushing fifteen.’

  ‘Oh no, he’s twenty-six, I think. He’s been qualified for a year or two now, but this is the first time he’s had any managerial responsibility. Let’s just say he’s taking his new role very seriously indeed. I need to go and check something. Hope you guys enjoy the rest of your evening.’ She rolled her eyes as she turned to leave, indicating that she thought her new errand a waste of time.

  ‘Aye, see ya,’ said Scott. He looked back through the door into the lounge, but Boris and Doris were gone.

  10

  Daley was at home, poring over the map he and Helen McNeil had been looking at back in the office. Quite reluctantly, he thought, she’d managed to pinpoint the address to which she’d delivered her father’s last debt. It was in an isolated spot on the Renfrewshire–North Ayrshire border. In fact, he would have to check to find out which of the new divisions of Police Scotland covered it.

  It was almost midnight, and he was thinking of heading off to bed, when he was startled by a firm knock on the door. He opened it to reveal a familiar figure dressed in a greasy old Breton cap, a thick fisherman’s pullover, an underbib and brace dungarees, leaning on two sticks.

  ‘Hamish! What the hell are you doing here at this time of night? Is everything okay?’

  ‘Och, these bloody nightmares, Mr Daley. I jeest canna shift them. I canna sleep at all – fair wearing me oot, it is. No’ myself, if you know whoot I mean.’

  Daley felt guilty, again. His friend had been attacked as a direct result of helping him with a case earlier in the year, and for a while, things had looked very black. However, the old man had rallied, though it was clear his confidence had taken a battering.

  ‘Listen, come in. I’ve been meaning to ask you something.’

  ‘Oh aye, that sounds ominous,’ said Hamish, his leathery face strangely pale in the artificial light as he stepped into the lounge.

  ‘No, not ominous at all; I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘That’s the trouble wae you detectives – you think too much.’ Hamish’s laugh turned into a weak cough.

  ‘I know you’ve had trouble sleeping. Annie told me. You’re not the first and you won’t be the last to find themselves a wee bit nervous after an assault. I’m actually amazed just how well you’ve done.’

  ‘That Annie’s got too much tae say for hersel’. I’m made o’ tough stuff, Mr Daley – like generations o’ us Kinloch fishermen. When you’ve faced up the Atlantic Ocean wae a dark face on, well, man, you can cope wae anything.’

  ‘You know I’m knocking about here on my own so I thought you might fancy moving in here for a while – just until you’re fully recovered. I could do with the company, to be honest.’ Daley gestured to the capacious leather sofa. ‘You’ll not say no to a dram?’

  ‘Here, I’m no’ that far gone that I canna enjoy a wee sensation. In fact, I rather hoped you’d say jeest that. But a new bunk for a whiles – aye, and some company – would make a big difference. Och, it’ll be jeest like The Odd Couple.’ Despite the attempt at levity, he still looked troubled.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Och, jeest thinking aboot himself.’

  ‘Himself?’

  ‘You know – Hamish, the big fella.’

  ‘Right,’ said Daley, fearing he knew what was coming next.

  ‘If I’m tae be billeted way up here on the hill, I’ll need tae bring him wae me. Och, I know folk think he’s a big bruiser, but he’s jeest nervous o’ people, you know.’

  Daley recalled Hamish the cat’s sharp talons digging into the back of his head on one occasion, and wondered just how nervous this huge half-breed Scottish wildcat actually was.

  ‘I suppose he’ll have plenty of room to roam up on the hill here.’

  ‘Aye, he will that. Fair enjoy himsel’, so he will.’ Hamish smiled as Daley poured him a large dram in a squat crystal glass. ‘Nice whisky glasses, tae. It’ll be just like a wee holiday for the pair o’ us – aye, a grand break, right enough.’ Again, his expression changed.

  ‘What’s up now?’

  ‘Och, I’m jeest thinking. I’ve never lived this side o’ the toon. It’ll be right emotional, that’s for sure.’

  ‘What do you mean? It’s not exactly Manhattan, Hamish. You’re not about to swap continents! In fact, you can just about see your house from here.’

  ‘Aye, I dare say – but for us, it’s a big step. This used tae be two toons, Mr Daley. Years ago, they reclaimed a big part o’ the loch and united the two places, but, well, sometimes I feel a stranger o’er this end.’

  They sat in silence for a while as Daley assimilated this information.

  ‘It must have bee
n a while ago, Hamish.’

  ‘No’ that long ago.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Seventeen hunner an’ fifteen, or thereabouts. I’m no’ right sure, now you’re putting me under so much pressure tae remember.’

  ‘You’ll be fine. You can go back home during the day and just sleep here at night.’

  ‘Och no, that wid make the big fella even mair unsettled. In for a penny, in for a pound, says I.’ He looked around, patting the leather couch with his gnarled old hand. ‘Aye, hame sweet hame, right enough.’

  They chatted for a while and then Daley showed the old man into one of the spare bedrooms. It smelt a bit musky, but Hamish said he wasn’t worried about a bit of stale air and would be happy to just open a window. ‘Nae time like the present. I can pick up my kitbag in the morning,’ he said happily.

  Once his old friend was settled, Daley returned to the lounge. The map was still spread over the coffee table, but he ignored it and began to switch off the lamps in the room one by one.

  Beyond the big picture window, the lights of Kinloch twinkled under their counterparts in the midnight blue sky. The loch rippled in this light, the new moon illuminating the island at its head in a shaft of light, as though by celestial design.

  He wondered how many before him had stared down from this hill on the scene below, and thought of the changes that had taken place since men inhabited the place they now called Kinloch. He gazed at the twinkling panorama, his mind wandering aimlessly for a few minutes.

  He was jerked out of his reverie when, without warning, there came a noise like thunder which rooted him to the spot. It was a few seconds before he realised from where this cacophony was emanating.

  From behind the door of the room he had settled Hamish in came a racket that could have woken the dead. The old man’s snoring was quite unlike anything he’d ever heard; it seemed to echo around the house. Unexpectedly, it would cease for a few moments; then, with renewed vigour, the deep rumbling, followed by a keening whine, would begin again.

  Daley stood for a while, then shrugged his shoulders in resignation and sighed. He hadn’t planned on gaining a housemate, but now he had one. As he wandered into his own bedroom, the snores of the new arrival grew in intensity. Just for a moment, the big detective wondered exactly what he’d let himself in for.