‘Every day, Brian.’
Daley pressed a buzzer on the door entry system, and after establishing their identities and that they wanted to speak to Colin Galt, gained admittance and walked into a small reception area.
Behind a curved workstation sat a young man in a cheap-looking two-piece suit. His tie was loose, the collar crumpled and like the rest of the shirt he was wearing badly in need of the attentions of an iron.
‘Mr Galt doesnae normally see folk unless they’ve got an appointment. Can I ask whoot it is yous are wanting?’
‘Just you tell him we’re here, son, and that we want tae talk tae him tout suite – got it?’ said Scott impatiently.
Flustered, the young receptionist made the call. ‘Mr Galt, that’s the polis here. They want tae talk tae you right noo.’ He hesitated, listening to the reply. ‘Something aboot sweets, I think.’
Though the detectives couldn’t hear the other end of the conversation, the young man’s face reddened sufficiently to assume he’d been in receipt of a flea in the ear.
‘Jeest go through – along that corridor, the door facing yous at the end.’ He went back to his work, muttering under his breath.
Galt was already standing in the doorway of his office when Daley and Scott appeared. ‘Gentlemen, sorry about the lad – my sister’s boy, I’m unhappy to say. You know how it is with family – you can’t pick and choose,’ he said ruefully.
He showed the policemen into his plush office. A huge picture window framed the yard, ensuring that, as boss, Galt had a good view of what his employees were getting up to.
‘Now, how can I help you?’ he asked, biting his lip.
‘To cut a long story short, Mr Galt, we had reason to visit a property you own. The holiday cottage just outside Machrie.’
‘That old place. It used to belong to my granny. We didn’t have the heart to sell it when she died, so now it pays its own way. More bloody trouble than it’s worth, mind you.’ He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow.
‘Still, we discovered that you make regular visits to the place, even when there are visitors in situ,’ said Daley.
‘They weren’t very chuffed, neither,’ added Scott, for good measure.
‘N-no, I, I dare say.’ Galt stumbled over his words. ‘In fact, there’s nothing sinister about it – the loft, I mean,’ he continued with a nervous laugh. ‘Fact is, the boiler there is a bit temperamental. Always mean to get the bloody thing replaced, but I never get the damned time. That sister of mine is worse than useless, never lifts a hand, but likes half of the money at the end of the year. I’m sure you know how it is.’ The words were rushed.
‘Did I say there was anything sinister, or mention a loft?’ asked Daley, letting the question hang in the air as Galt struggled to get out a coherent sentence. ‘So, your only reason for being there was to check the boiler?’
‘Yes. Didn’t want my guests getting showered with water. The last bloody thing I need is a compensation claim, I assure you.’
‘In that case, what were you taking up tae this loft?’ asked Scott.
‘Sorry?’
‘We were told you were leaving items up there, or perhaps removing them,’ said Daley, making Galt look between the two officers nervously.
‘Nothing unusual about that. I merely store some of my things there.’ More beads of perspiration were now obvious on Galt’s brow. ‘It is my property, after all. I have every right to visit whenever I see fit. If the guests look carefully at the small print they’ll see that clearly mentioned in the holiday rental agreement.’
‘If you don’t mind, we’d like to take a look in the loft, Mr Galt,’ said Daley.
‘Sorry, but what on earth for? Since when has storing items in the loft space of your own property been a crime? This is outrageous – an invasion of privacy. I do have a lawyer, you know – a good one, too.’
‘Put simply, your property is connected to a missing persons inquiry. Of course, you are at liberty to call your lawyer at any time. However, at present, I’m just asking you if you’ll let us see what is in the loft of the property at Machrie. If you refuse, then I will leave DS Scott here while I request a search warrant. Trust me, because of the connection to the missing persons case we’re investigating, I’ll be issued with one immediately.’ Daley smiled.
‘In other words, get your coat on an’ come wae us tae Machrie,’ said Scott. ‘Either way, we’ll be up in that loft whether you like it or not.’
‘Very well, but I’m calling my lawyer just the same.’
‘Here,’ said Scott, fishing his mobile from his jacket pocket and offering it to the businessman. ‘Use this. I’ve got free minutes, face time, unlimited texts – all sorts. I’ve no’ got a clue what they a’ mean, but you’re welcome tae them.’
Shaking his head, Galt lifted the phone on his desk, dialled a number quickly and after a few moments spent drumming his fingers on his desk, spoke. ‘Chris, it’s Colin Galt. Meet me at the cottage in Machrie.’ Then, after a pause, ‘Now – just do it, man!’
Helen McNeil shivered as she lay curled up on the cold, hard floor of what had become her prison.
At first, not trusting the results of her investigation into the size and shape of the place, she had gone through the whole routine again, a quest that resulted in the same conclusion. She was stuck in some stone tube with no doors or windows, only pale, barely visible slits of light an unknowable distance above her head.
She sobbed quietly to herself, desperately trying to piece together the events that had placed her here. She thought of the text and the phone call, both apparently from her dead father. She could barely think of anything else, however hard she tried to focus her mind, to think, to try to find some way out of her predicament.
She’d driven away from Kinloch Hospital, enjoying the feeling of being free from its bonds, back out on the road. The police had recommended that she work within the safer confines of the building until light had been shone upon those sick messages, but she’d opted to be a district nurse in order to be out and about in the community, not stuck within the antiseptic, unhealthy, stressful confines of the hospital.
How ironic that her need for freedom has led directly to the dark confines of her prison.
She’d been driving along the long straight road to Machrie when she’d spotted something in the ditch at the side of the road. Too big to be a dog or a deer, and the colour was wrong. This was a person, and whether he was simply drunk – which was not unusual – or unfortunately injured in some way, it was her duty to help. She stopped the car.
Then everything happened quickly.
She bent over the figure and began to speak, trying to elicit a response from the stricken individual. The question was left unfinished, as, after a blinding pain that literally cast a red flash across her vision, she blacked out. Now, here she was, still in darkness.
Her mind was a fog. The instinct to escape, to be free of this place had been replaced by a kind of torpor – an exhaustion of hope and will now that it was obvious that there was no escape.
As she struggled to keep her eyes open, she could taste bitterness in her mouth, and despite the slough of despair into which she had fallen she reasoned that she had been drugged in some way. No doubt that was why she could recall nothing about being cast into this living tomb.
Yes, she thought, it’s a tomb. I’m dead and this is my grave – that’s why I can’t get out, why there’s no door. I’m just not dead yet.
Horribly galvanised by the thought, she struggled to her feet, using the curved wall as a support, and screamed, a high-pitched wail like that of a trapped creature. The noise echoed around her, but nothing happened.
She slumped to the ground again, her heart thumping in her chest. She couldn’t be dead, she reasoned. Death has no heartbeat.
She screamed again, this time less desperately. This was the whimper of lost hope, which quickly turned into convulsive sobs.
As she opened her eyes to set tea
rs free, she was conscious of a change. She could see the pale shade of her leg and the flash of reflected light on her gold bracelet.
Slowly, her surroundings brightened. There was an accompanying scrape, iron on stone, she thought – a sliding noise.
Quickly, she craned her neck upwards. The pale slits of light were now replaced by a glowing orb, shining brightly above her head. To Helen McNeil, now used to the dark, it seemed like a summer sun – so much so, she had to shade her eyes from its incandescence.
Then, there was the voice.
17
Brian Scott poked his head above the lip of the loft. He was on a rickety stepladder, feeling less than secure, even at this relatively modest distance from the ground.
‘Hand me up that torch, Jim,’ he said, reaching as far down with his left arm as he could. This was a small house, but the ceiling was more than high enough for his liking. ‘So, this is the next torture I’m being put through. Nae doubt there’s a boat waiting for me oot in the bay tae finish it a’ off,’ he mumbled under his breath.
‘I really must protest,’ said Chris Hill, a leading local solicitor, standing beside his client Colin Galt. ‘I know Mr Galt gave you his permission to search the loft space, but this is all really quite unnecessary. My client has his guests to think about. If nothing else, please consider their feelings.’
‘Mr Galt’s guests were the ones who told us about his regular visits to this loft, Mr Hill. They’re quite accustomed to it, I assure you,’ said Daley.
‘There’s a bag o’ something here, Jim. It’s away in a corner. Looks like a sack – hessian – I’ll need tae get right in. You keep a haud o’ this ladder.’ Scott’s feet disappeared into the roof space as he hauled himself up with a groan and a mumbled expletive.
‘I can explain,’ said Galt, ignoring a warning look from his brief.
‘Explain what, exactly?’ asked Daley.
‘I can explain what’s in the bag. I’m a collector – plain and simple. The items in it are my personal property. Nothing to do with any missing person, nothing to do with my guests, and most certainly nothing to do with the police!’
Daley watched as Hill whispered to his agitated client, who growled back an incoherent reply.
‘Are you a fan of the Bard, Mr Galt?’ asked Daley.
‘What?’ said Galt, a look of incredulity on his red face.
‘Methinks he doth protest too much. Now, I’m no Shakespeare scholar, but I do find he had a keen eye for the frailties of the human condition.’
After much scrabbling and swearing, Scott’s feet appeared back on the ladder. ‘Here, grab this, will you? It’s heavier than it looks.’
Daley stood on his toes and grabbed the old hessian sack from his colleague. As his sergeant descended the ladder, he opened it and peered inside. Instantly, a flash of gold caught his eye. He fished for the phone in his pocket, selected the torch app and shone it on the bag’s contents.
‘Well, well,’ said Daley, the irony heavy in his voice. ‘What do we have here?’
‘I can explain,’ said Galt, sudden desperation in his voice.
‘I rather think you’ll have to. I’m sure you won’t mind accompanying us back to Kinloch Police Office. If this is your property, it will just be a formality.’
Galt looked at his solicitor, who shook his head then nodded with a sigh. ‘Let me out of here!’ shouted Helen McNeil, desperation plain in her voice.
‘I’m sorry. That’s not going to happen.’ The reply was short, the voice horribly distorted, modulating in tone, timbre and pitch and echoing eerily around her.
‘Why are you doing this to me?’
No reply.
‘You’re the evil bastard who sent those messages. I hate you – hate you for what you’ve done.’
Still there was no reply from the bright circle of light above her head.
She breathed deeply, trying to remain calm. She realised that she was vulnerable, but had, somehow, to make this person understand that there would be consequences. She thought of her father; his advice had never wavered. If you’re bullied, fight back!
‘The police know about you. If you harm me, they’ll find you.’
‘You place a lot of faith in the police. You should know better.’ The voice was still horribly distorted, but slow and deliberate, no sign of emotion, or anger.
‘What do you mean?’ She tried to keep her voice steady, but she could feel sobs welling up in her throat.
Though she received no reply to this question, she could hear movement from above. A shadow passed across the bright light above her head. Something metallic was bouncing off the walls; an object was being lowered down towards her.
‘What is this?’ she called.
‘Eat. Then use the bucket as you please. You will have need of it soon enough.’
A metal bucket landed on the hard floor just beyond her reach. As she struggled to her feet to see what it held, the light disappeared with the sliding, scraping sound she’d heard only moments before. She cried out, the sudden darkness making her heart lurch in fear. ‘Please, no – come back! Let me out!’
There was no reply, only the echo of her pleas. Gradually, as she stood shivering, she could again make out the pale slits of light.
Despite her fear, the cold and the apparent hopelessness of her circumstances, she felt pangs of hunger. She’d had no time for breakfast before leaving for work – she had no idea how long it had been since she’d last eaten. Come to that, she had no idea how much time had passed since her capture.
She slumped to the ground, colliding with the bucket. She reached inside and pulled two items from within. Though she couldn’t see, she could feel the shape of a packet of sandwiches, triangular as though from a supermarket or garage. Now really hungry, she groped at the film lid, almost sightless, but managed to rip it clear of the cardboard container.
She stuffed the first sandwich into her mouth, beyond caring what its filling was. Ravenously she chewed on cheese, tomato and bread. The other item she had pulled from the bucket was a plastic bottle. She wound off the lid and sniffed. It smelled of strawberries. Desperately, she gulped down half the contents, intending to consume the other sandwich next.
Almost immediately, she felt her lips tingle, then a burning, constricted feeling in her throat.
Frantically, she struggled to her feet, grabbing at her neck, coughing weakly to try to clear her airways.
The pale slits of light above her head swayed as she fell painfully to the floor, wheezing.
In seconds, she lost consciousness.
Above, iron scraped on stone again as the light flooded back into the chamber, illuminating the motionless figure below.
Daley had the items from the bag set out in front of him on an evidence tray in the interview room at Kinloch Police Office. With Scott beside him, he stared wordlessly at Galt, who sat across the desk with his solicitor. He let silence fill the room, watching as Galt shifted uncomfortably in his seat, sighing and clearing his throat nervously.
‘Really, Mr Daley,’ said Hill. ‘You brought my client here to ask him questions about the contents of that bag. Please be good enough to begin your questioning.’
Daley smiled. ‘I’m sure you – like me – have been in the company of many people who been guilty of some offence or other, Mr Hill. Now, I don’t expect you to reply, but does your client look like a man with a clear conscience, a man with nothing to hide?’
‘This is ridiculous!’ shouted Galt. ‘Why am I being persecuted in this way?’
‘A call was made by someone purporting to be from your holiday cottage in Machrie asking for medical assistance.’
‘And? Anyone can say they’re anywhere, doesn’t make it true.’
‘But why your cottage?’
‘How the hell should I know?’
‘For anyone from Kinloch the workings of the hospital, the doctors and the district nurses must be well known, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning, because of its remote location and the small number of doctors, the community nurses play a large part in ensuring the health and wellbeing of the population.’
Galt started to speak, but Daley held up his hand. ‘At the time the call was made, someone who knows how these things work would also be aware that no doctors would be on duty, therefore it was reasonable to assume that a district nurse would be called to assist. Particularly, as in this instance, when the matter in hand is not life-threatening, but still requires prompt attention.’
Galt swallowed hard, and gripped at the collar of his shirt as though he found it suddenly constricting. ‘What the hell are you on about?’
‘Prior to her disappearance, the missing woman in question had been receiving calls and texts of a threatening nature – indeed, it was almost as though her tormentor knew where she was and what she was doing.’
‘Again, I must protest, DCI Daley. You brought my client here to ask him questions about the contents of the bag that we now have spread out before us. The whereabouts of your missing person – troubling as it is – has nothing to do with him, nor are these items suspicious,’ said Hill, waving his hand at the bag’s contents.
Daley looked down. Thirty or so rings, shining buttery gold under the lights of the interview room; three heavy torcs, also gold, all bearing precious stones at both ends; silver bracelets and three goblets, also of silver. A tangled variety of jewellery. Not only did they look expensive, they looked old – very old.
‘Okay, Mr Hill, we’ll get to the nitty-gritty, if you like. These items, Mr Galt, how did you come by them?’ In the wake of Daley’s talk about the missing nurse, this question came almost out of the blue.
‘Well, yes, of course,’ replied Galt, stumbling over his words. ‘These items are mine. Family jewels – literally,’ he said with a nervous laugh.
‘Looks tae me as though they’d be better off in some museum,’ observed Scott, making his first contribution to the conversation. ‘How did your family come across stuff like this, eh?’
‘Well, my grandfather was a collector. I inherited these bits and pieces. What’s wrong with that?’
The Relentless Tide Page 11
