The Relentless Tide

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Would anyone else in your family corroborate this?’ Daley asked.

  ‘Sadly they’re all dead and gone. My mother died last year. I can’t help you on that score.’

  ‘But you’ve got a sister, right?’ asked Scott.

  ‘How did you know that?’ Galt was momentarily confused.

  ‘You telt us aboot her in your office. Do you no’ remember?’

  ‘Ah, yes, yes, of course – my sister.’ He gulped again, further loosening his tie. ‘Well, you know, she wouldn’t remember anything about this. She’s younger than me by quite some way. All of this probably went right over her head.’

  ‘Aye, right,’ said Scott. ‘Half o’ the British Museum up in the loft and your sister doesnae know anything aboot it. I’m no’ buying that, buddy. What aboot you, sir?’ He looked at Daley.

  ‘Agreed, DS Scott.’ Daley nodded sagely. ‘In any case, we’ll bring her in. Your wife, too – I take it she must know about this little treasure trove?’

  ‘No – well, not really – she doesn’t get involved in my business affairs. And she’s on holiday, so you won’t be able to contact her.’ A bead of sweat meandered down Galt’s nose and dripped on to his white shirt.

  ‘As the family solicitor, you’ll have a record of these items being bequeathed to your client, is that right, Mr Hill?’

  It was the solicitor’s turn to stumble over his words, until Galt came to his rescue.

  ‘There was no bequest – no will. My grandfather hated writing anything down – didn’t trust anyone, including lawyers. It was word of mouth, plain and simple.’

  Daley leaned back from his desk, drumming his fingers on it for a few moments. ‘You’ll forgive me if I find this explanation rather far-fetched, Mr Galt. I’d like you to stay as our guest while we check out the provenance of the artefacts in front of us. Fortunately, we have a team of archaeologists with us in Kinloch right now. I’m sure Professor Francombe and her colleagues will be happy to assist.’

  Without warning, Galt jumped out of his chair and banged his fist on the table, making some of the glittering haul clink together. ‘There’s no need to involve them, absolutely none. I want to make a complaint. See to it, Chris!’

  ‘Not a problem,’ said Daley. ‘I’ll make sure that your brief is given the appropriate forms. Now, let’s end this interview . . .’

  ‘I have a business to run. This is ridiculous!’ Galt was still on his feet.

  ‘Oh, while we’re still recording, I might as well ask,’ said Daley, pointing Galt back into his chair, an order which he obeyed meekly.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘I know you run the family business these days. But what were you doing in nineteen ninety-four?’

  ‘What has this to do with the matter in hand, DCI Daley?’ interrupted Hill. ‘I really do not like the way this interview has been handled. Not at all.’

  ‘Just answer the question,’ said Scott, backing up his boss.

  ‘I was at college, if you must know.’

  ‘College where?’

  ‘Paisley. I studied civil engineering at Paisley Tech. Best civil engineering course in the country. What of it?’

  ‘Did you live in Paisley?’

  ‘No. I lived in the West End of Glasgow in a family flat. I can give you the address if you want!’

  ‘So you were up and down the road to Kinloch – you know, for holidays, weekends, and the like, Mr Galt?’ asked Daley.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course I was. What the hell . . .’

  Ignoring Galt’s protestations, Daley ended the interview and left the interview room with Scott in search of Sergeant Shaw, who would officially place Galt in custody.

  ‘Something no’ right there, Jimmy. No’ right at all,’ said Scott, then paused. ‘Here, what gave you the idea tae ask about nineteen ninety-four?’

  ‘Oh, just something Symington said earlier – about coincidences.’

  ‘Don’t know aboot you, but I’m no’ so sure he’s anything tae dae with Helen McNeil going missing.’

  ‘No, I’m not either – well, not directly.’

  ‘What dae you mean, big man?’

  ‘I’m not sure, Bri. I’m just not sure. But one thing’s certain, he’s guilty of something.’

  18

  Glasgow, 1994

  Daley sat with his arms folded tightly across his chest. Sitting across the desk in the interview room in the Stewart Street Police Office were DCI Sanderson and Inspector Campbell from the Complaints and Discipline branch.

  He’d been sitting there for a good five minutes as Sanderson and his colleague silently went through paperwork, speaking neither to each other nor to him. Daley knew this was a tactic designed to make him feel ill at ease, but he was still irritated by it.

  Eventually, Sanderson cleared his throat. ‘Right, DC Daley, you find yourself in hot water – very hot water indeed.’ He consulted a document on the desk in front of him. ‘By your own account, information was passed to you by former DCI Burns regarding threatening letters that were being delivered to his address anonymously. Rather than follow the proper channels and report this to me, you chose to follow your nose – a very inexperienced nose at that. The result is that our old friend and colleague lies on a mortuary slab.’ He looked at Daley with his mouth gaping, the reason for his nickname: the Flycatcher.

  ‘I admit to not following procedure, but informing you would not have been the right thing to do, even if I had been willing to go against Ian’s wishes.’

  ‘DCI Burns to you!’ shouted Sanderson, flecks of spittle showing white at the corners of his mouth.

  ‘I was handed this information as a friend, not in the course of my duties. So, Ian, not DCI Burns. Who was, if I may remind you, long retired at this point.’ Daley’s tone was defiant. ‘Had I felt it appropriate, my next course of action would have been to report the incidents to Central Scotland Police. After all, Ian lived in that force area, not in Strathclyde.’

  ‘Had I felt it appropriate! You’re an insufferable shit, Daley. Just because you married into money doesn’t mean you can patronise me!’ Sanderson was suddenly shouting at the top of his voice. ‘You do as I fucking say you do, got it?’

  ‘Now now,’ said DI Campbell, raising his hand. ‘This is getting us nowhere, sir. I know we’re talking about the murder of one of our own, but we’ll not get far if this just descends into a shouting match. DC Daley, if you could go through how you came to know about the threats to Ian Burns, step by step.’

  Campbell was calm and authoritative, and despite glaring at him over the rim of his thick spectacles, Sanderson fell silent.

  With as much composure as he could muster, Daley began to relate the circumstances behind his knowledge of the threatening letters.

  Kinloch, the present

  Brian Scott was standing beside a seven-foot-tall blue chicken, replete with crimson coxcomb, long green beak and massive yellow feet. At another time, he’d have shaken his head and cursed alcohol, but he knew this vision was very real. On his other side, an elderly woman in a blue tracksuit was going through an elaborate warm-up routine, including stretches, deep breathing and other bodily contortions the detective could never have contemplated.

  He jogged on the spot self-consciously, to appear similarly motivated. Just my luck, he thought – stuck between a massive cock and Supergran.

  The start of the Kinloch marathon was crowded, so much so, in fact, that the race had a staggered start. A handful of professional runners, plus amateurs boasting good personal best times, were in the most spacious group right behind the start line. Scott was in the far more crowded section of ‘also-rans’, populated by keen hobbyists and those doing their bit for charity.

  ‘That’s a hoora-lookin’ kit you’ve got on there,’ said the chicken, with a shake of its beak. Scott was in his newly minted Police Scotland running kit: dark blue shorts and a blue-and-white check running vest, complete with the force’s angular thistle logo in the centre.

&nbs
p; ‘Eh?’ replied Scott in disbelief. ‘You’re a fuckin’ chicken. Behave yoursel’!’

  ‘Aye, you never thought you’d see a massive chookie running up an’ doon Main Street, I bet.’

  ‘Listen, son, you’re certainly the biggest chookie I’ve ever seen. But just you drink a bottle o’ whisky a night and poultry running up and doon the street will seem like an everyday occurrence, trust me.’

  ‘He’s raising hunners for charity, aren’t you, Josie?’ said the older woman, who had dispensed with her complex warm-up and was now making do with jumping up and down energetically on her toes.

  ‘Aye, damn near four hunner pounds, jeest fae sponsors,’ replied the chicken, now aping his elderly companion by leaping up and down on the spot, his beak flapping alarmingly. ‘Whoot are you runnin’ for?’

  ‘The Police Benevolent Fund, if you must know,’ Scott lied. He’d been encouraged by his superiors to think of this as essential participation in a community event, designed to aid police/community relations. He was also keen to see how he’d fare on a race of this length. He regularly managed 10K runs now, but this was of another order entirely. The thought of sponsorship hadn’t crossed his mind until the last minute. His fiscal reward for running would now be change from the deep pockets of his colleagues. Still, he thought, he was a newcomer to this type of thing, and could surely be forgiven. After all, only a few short months ago, he’d have been much more likely to be found draining a pint glass in some boozy dive rather than out in the fresh air, satisfying his latest, albeit healthy, addiction.

  He resolved to make a donation to charity after the race. In fact, now he wasn’t shelling out on alcohol, he was astonished by the amount of money he’d accrued. Initially, the realisation had given him great pleasure, until he calculated just how much dosh he must have wasted over a lifetime of heavy drinking. But you couldn’t go back and live your life again, he reasoned. At least he’d stopped before booze had stopped him.

  Buoyed by this consoling thought, he drew a deep breath and took in the scene around him.

  They were on the town’s esplanade, which curved round the head of the loch. Today, mercifully, its blue water reflected the azure sky, punctuated here and there by white, fluffy clouds scudding overhead in the light, salty breeze. A swan was being pursued by a gaggle of cygnets, all brown-feathered with little spots, paddling furiously to keep up with the effortless progress of their graceful mother as she surveyed the crowd with interest from the edge of the loch.

  In the distance, the pipe band could be heard, blowing a fine rendition of ‘Campbeltown Loch’, the rattle of the snares echoing amongst the buildings, boats and hills. Despite its being only midday, a drunk man, small in stature and of a certain venerability, capered along in time to the march, swigging from a soft drink bottle that had once contained Scotland’s other national drink, but was now much more likely filled with the original water of life.

  As he tumbled to the ground, cursing volubly, some members of the band were forced to stride over him, which they did with élan.

  A group of young boys on bikes were threading their way through the gathered runners, passing comment on the more outrageous costumes, or speculating upon whether or not some of the more portly or geriatric participants would live to see the end of the race.

  Alistair the butcher bundled a parcel of his special ‘marathon’ sausages in white paper, then popped them into a bag for a woman in a headscarf, while on the stall next door an old farmer waxed lyrical on the benefits of using the correct variety of potato to make the perfect mash, before selling five kilos of same to a bemused tourist, who hefted the heavy hessian bag gingerly.

  A pretty girl on roller blades was handing out flyers announcing the performance of her folk group in the George Hall that evening, while two young men on saxophones provided an interesting counterpoint to the mournful lament the pipe band had now embarked upon.

  ‘Gie us another, Art,’ shouted a middle-aged man, as his companion burst into song. Whether this was to the accompaniment of the band or the saxophones was unclear; either way, his ribald words soared into the air to join the cacophony: the music, the deep murmur of the large crowd, the lapping of the loch at the harbour wall, the excited chatter of the runners, the bell at the end of the pontoons, the shouts of the vendors from their stalls, and the intermittent bursts of laughter emanating from the happy people of Kinloch and the many tourists who had come to join in the fun.

  When Scott checked his watch, he noticed there was only a few minutes until the race started. He began to take deep breaths, but was disturbed by a tap on the shoulder.

  ‘My, Brian, you’re looking jeest the part, right enough,’ said Hamish, his pipe billowing out blue tobacco smoke. ‘Mark you, it’s a long way tae run. I hope you’re up tae it.’

  ‘Dae you think I’m going tae croak? You’re a right cheery bastard, Hamish.’

  ‘Mind, you’ll be up near the thin places, so keep your mind on the road and your hand on your ha’penny.’

  ‘What’s this thin places guff?’

  ‘The thin places are few and far between. But you know when you come across them. In this particular case, jeest aboot three miles oot o’ the toon – you know, where yous found they bodies. Man, you’re as close tae heaven – aye, or hell – as you’ll get anywhere in this world in places like that. So take heed, an’ jeest keep your heid doon and pound your plonker, or whootever it is joggers dae.’

  ‘We pound the pavement!’ replied Scott indignantly. ‘And I’m a runner, no’ a bloody jogger.’

  ‘Aye, whootever you say, Brian, whootever you say.’

  ‘Get away wae that pipe. The old dear here doesnae need your smoke filling her lungs before we start.’

  ‘I’ll old dear you,’ said Supergran. ‘I’m jeest turned eighty, an’ I’m willing tae bet I’ll make better time than you.’

  ‘You will so, Jean,’ said Hamish. ‘Sure, these poor buggers that’s got tae live up in Glasgow alongside a’ they fumes fae traffic, factories and the like. They never get the chance tae breathe God’s clean air the way we’ve been lucky tae, all oor lives. Och, he doesnae stand a chance.’

  One of the small boys on his bike drew up beside them.

  ‘How’ye, Auntie Jeanie? Josie – cool chicken, by the way – hope yous get on okay.’

  ‘Thanks, son,’ replied Jean. ‘You tell your mammy tae get some photies o’ me at the finish.’

  ‘Aye, I will,’ he said, turning his gaze on Scott. ‘Here, are you thon polis?’

  ‘Naw, son. This says fire brigade, can you no’ read?’ said Scott.

  ‘Hell mend you! My faither says yous are nothing but a bunch o’ wankers, anyhow. I hope you trip o’er an’ dunt your knee.’ He rode off, taking time only to turn round and flick Scott the V-sign.

  ‘Weans these days,’ observed Hamish.

  Mercifully, Brian Scott’s reply was rendered inaudible by a loud claxon, indicating that the start of the race was imminent.

  Glasgow, 1994

  ‘The letter given to you by Ian Burns is still with the forensics unit, am I right?’ said Campbell, pausing in his note-taking and glancing at Daley.

  ‘Yes, sir. Not that they could glean much from it.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I can glean,’ spat Sanderson with no little vitriol. ‘It’s not hard to work out that your career in CID is over, Daley. I wouldn’t be surprised if you end up facing criminal charges over this. You’ll glean plenty when you’re locked up in a cell with some psycho eighteen hours a day, that’s for sure.’

  Campbell turned to the DCI. ‘I need a word with Daley alone, sir.’

  ‘What? I don’t know what you think you need to say to my detective, but whatever it is, you say it in front of me in my station. Got it?’ snapped Sanderson.

  ‘On the orders of ACC Taylor, sir. I can ask him to call you for confirmation, should you wish.’

  ‘Ach, I’ve wasted enough time on this idiot,’ said Sanderson, knowing whe
n he was beaten. ‘Just you mark my words, Daley. As far as I’m concerned, you’re finished!’ He picked up his notes and left the interview room, banging the door for good measure.

  ‘That went well,’ Daley remarked, almost to himself.

  ‘You’ve been a fool, Constable. Of that there is no doubt. But you did what you did with the best of intentions, following the instructions of a man to whom you felt great loyalty.’ Suddenly Campbell’s tone had changed, the deadpan face of a few moments ago replaced by a much more friendly mien. ‘You have a fairy godmother, Jim. Admittedly, a big hairyarsed one, but a fairy godmother none the less.’

  ‘Just what I need, I think.’ Daley was now utterly confused.

  ‘ACC Taylor is my boss. He oversees Complaints and Discipline, as well as some more covert operations within the force.’

  ‘I see – well, I don’t, really.’

  ‘Your move to the Serious Crime Squad is effective as from tomorrow.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘Also, you will be an acting detective sergeant. That is, for the time being. In the fullness of time we aim to make the promotion permanent.’

  Daley looked at Campbell in disbelief. ‘This is a wind-up, right?’

  ‘No, not at all. I’m not in the habit of perpetrating windups. This is all deadly serious, as I’m sure you must realise, considering we’ve just lost an old colleague.’

  ‘Yes – yes, I’m sorry. But I don’t understand what’s just happened. When I walked into this room, I envisaged handing over my warrant card and walking out as a civilian.’

  ‘You will have a dual role in the Squad.’

  ‘I will?’

  ‘You’ll report directly to me on matters contained within this file.’ Campbell handed a grey folder across the desk to Daley. ‘Take it home, read it all carefully and don’t bring it back into any police station – well, not for the time being, at least.’

  ‘Isn’t this all a bit cloak and dagger?’

  ‘Yes. It has to be. You’ll understand why when you read the file.’