‘One of my team, do you mean?’ Francombe raised her voice, attracting some attention from the busy archaeologists. Then, more quietly, ‘If you’re remotely on track with this – if – then I’m willing to vouch for my colleagues, here and now – all of them. I’ll come with you now, shall I?’
‘Yes, that would be best, I think. It won’t take too long. I’m sure you’ll be able to see these things for what they are very quickly.’
‘Oh, I’m sure, too.’ She hesitated. ‘Have you anything more on the whereabouts of that poor nurse? I must admit, we heard about it in the pub yesterday. Very disturbing.’
‘No, very little progress, I’m sad to say.’
‘From what I’ve been hearing she’s a bit of an oddball. The locals aren’t surprised she’s gone.’
‘Really? Why would that be the case?’
‘Oh, you know, fifty-something and never been kissed, from what I can gather. Bit of a loner, prefers her own company. You know how people gossip.’
‘Well, take some advice, Professor. Pay very little attention to things you hear in the Douglas Arms – or any of the watering holes hereabouts. Gossip is bad enough, but when it’s fuelled by booze, well . . .’
‘Rather closed-minded, DCI Daley, don’t you think? I thought you’d be taking a more rounded view of this. Any information gladly received, that sort of thing.’
‘You get an instinct for things once you’ve been doing them for as long as I’ve been toiling away at this. Trust me.’
But as Daley hailed Scott and made his way back up the hill to his SUV, Francombe in tow, he bit his lip, deep in thought. Had he been blind to all the nuances surrounding McNeil’s disappearance just because he felt sorry for her? There was no doubt that his first impressions were of a woman devoted utterly to her job; early to bed, early to rise.
He brought to mind the interior of her flat. He’d taken a look at it when it was clear she had vanished, and it had struck him on entering the place how devoid of warmth it was. There were a few random prints in frames on the wall, but no family photographs, knick-knacks, keepsakes. The whole place seemed perfunctory; functional, not personal. Almost as though her past had been erased.
He chastised himself for paying too much attention to her father and his past, and not enough to the woman herself. He knew that she’d been in no relationships since coming to Kinloch, and that she rarely left the town, seemingly reluctant to take holidays at all. But that was the sum of his knowledge.
He should have probed deeper – discovered more about Helen McNeil herself.
As they sped towards Kinloch, Daley driving while beside him Scott carried on a rambling conversation with Francombe in the back seat, he could feel rising desperation, a distress that grew as they travelled on.
He did and would always blame himself for the death of Ian Burns. He’d been too close to his former boss to have perspective; too embroiled in the Midweek Murders case to pay attention to the real danger communicated in the threatening letters sent to Burns.
Here he was, all these years later; was it possible the same thing was happening? He should have been more assiduous regarding the safety of McNeil, a vulnerable woman who had felt threatened by the malicious calls to her home and mobile.
As soon as he’d realised there could be a connection between the remains found on the hillside at Kinloch and the case that had all but consumed him in 1994, he knew his eye had been off the ball – again.
‘Hey, steady on, Jimmy,’ exclaimed Scott, bringing him back to his senses. ‘That poor lassie in the back will need a sick bag the way you’re driving.’
Daley apologised with a smile. But as they drove into Kinloch the churning feeling in his stomach spoke of the fear of failure and letting people down. It had been his unwanted companion for many years now.
22
The world seemed to spin as Helen McNeil regained consciousness.
Her mouth was so dry she could feel her lips crack as she tried to cry out. Nothing but a parched croak issued from her throat as she winced at the pain in her legs.
As she slowly came to her senses, the worsening of her predicament became apparent.
She could see above her the dim slits of light, and she noticed that they appeared different somehow: larger, so most likely closer, she reasoned.
The explanation for this was soon obvious. She held her hand out and felt the cold, pitted bars of a cage. Looking up again, she could see this was a place of imprisonment within a prison. The cage appeared to be suspended from the curved wall with which she’d become so familiar.
Helen remembered the sandwich and the sweet smell of the strawberry juice she’d been given to drink. She’d been drugged, and whoever her captor was had placed her in the cage while she was still unconscious.
There was something else, though. She could hear noise coming from the space below her cage – the space she presumed was the floor where she’d first tried to work out the dimensions of her cell.
It was running water: a trickle, nothing more, but running water all the same.
It didn’t take her long to determine the new horror of her situation. She was captive within this iron cage, itself within the stone cylinder where she’d been incarcerated; below her, the slow trickle of water was like a bath being filled from a low-pressure tap.
Slow, but unrelenting, the trickle grew louder in her ears.
She was about to call out again when a new thought stopped her. It was only when she’d begun to protest that she’d been drugged and her circumstances had become even more uncomfortable. Whoever had entrapped her was vindictive. The more she railed against her captivity, the worse things would become – it was an obvious conclusion. She shifted forward, sending her barred cell rocking alarmingly, making her whimper in fear. The transfer to this cage had been a punishment for calling out.
She tried to control her breathing – tried to think.
Whoever it was who had her at their mercy wanted her to stay quiet. It followed that there must be a reason for this. She remembered her father’s words. ‘Everyone has an agenda – we all do things for a reason.’ It made sense that her captor worked on the same principle. Either her protests were simply an irritant, or there was another reason. Whoever had taken her prisoner had gone to a lot of trouble to make sure she remained quiet and compliant.
For the first time, Helen felt a glimmer of hope. No, she wouldn’t try to scream randomly – with her parched throat there was little point anyway. She would conserve her energy. She would listen.
Daley let Scott and DC Potts begin the task of interviewing those in Kinloch and the surrounding area who had been regular travellers up and down the road to Glasgow around 1994, the year the victims of the Midweek Murderer had been interred on the hillside just outside the town.
It turned out to be a bigger task than they’d expected. The small reception area was crowded with chattering locals, all being marshalled by the redoubtable Sergeant Shaw.
‘This is just the first batch, sir. I’ve had to split them into two – because of numbers,’ he said, a weary expression on his face.
‘Why so many?’ asked Daley.
‘You’d be surprised how many people from the area travel up to Glasgow on a regular basis. We’ve got bus drivers, hauliers, doctors, lawyers, fish buyers, students, undertakers . . .’
‘Aye, a’ right,’ said Scott. ‘We get the picture. Near half the toon, in other words.’
Shaw was nodding his head as an older man, who’d perhaps had one drink too many, piped up.
‘I know fine whoot’s happening here,’ he slurred. ‘Yous polis think we’re a’ daft, but yous are jeest trying tae fit one o’ us up for kidnapping thon Nurse McNeil. Ach, I’ve seen it a’ on the telly – you know, in thon CSI Miami, an’ that.’ He turned to the woman sitting on his left then got to his feet. ‘Well, I’m wanting a . . . an . . . anutturney, or whootever it is they get in tae make sure there’s nane o’ that hokey-pokey going on. I’m n
o’ taking the rap!’
A younger man wearing a replica Scotland football top looked up pleadingly. ‘Can yous no’ dae us a favour an’ jeest pull him in anyway? You’d be doing us all a public service.’
‘Ach, don’t worry, son,’ said Scott. ‘If he doesnae shut up, I’m just going tae shoot him.’
As the drunken man stared about the room with a startled look on his face, the rest of the assembled interviewees guffawed.
‘Oh, by the way, sir,’ said Shaw, weaving his way through the crowd. ‘Mrs Daley was on the phone a couple of times. She said she called your mobile, but couldn’t get a signal. I tried too. You must have been out of range.’
Daley checked his phone – sure enough, three missed calls and two messages. The last thing he needed now was for his estranged wife to start playing up.
He would find out what she wanted later. He thrust the phone back in his jacket pocket.
Once things were organised, Daley took Professor Francombe to his glass box and waited while a young uniformed officer signed out the stash of jewellery found in the Machrie holiday cottage loft, and fetched it from the evidence safe.
‘Here you are, sir,’ she said as, with no little effort, she hefted the hessian sack on to Daley’s desk.
‘Thank you, PC Martin.’ Daley waited until she was out of the room before tipping the contents on to the evidence tray in front of him.
Francombe’s eyes widened as the trinkets sparkled before her in the harsh neon light of the office.
‘Impressed?’
‘That’s not the right word, DCI Daley. Astonished – flabbergasted – would be more appropriate. Do you mind?’ She reached out to pick one item from the jumble of rings, torcs, bracelets and necklaces.
‘Absolutely. Be my guest.’
Daley watched as the archaeologist examined one item after another, sometimes shaking her head in disbelief, or dropping her jaw in sheer amazement.
‘So, what do you think?’
‘I think this is one of the most significant hauls of early medieval Norse jewellery that’s ever been uncovered. This isn’t just any find; this has historical significance – real, genuine historical significance. Not just for Scotland, either – for the world.’
‘That big?’
‘Oh yes, that big.’ She stared at the gold and silver before her, her face pale with shock and surprise, Daley noted.
‘The question is, how did the person we’re interviewing come into possession of this treasure trove?’
‘I know you’re saying treasure trove lightly, but that’s exactly what this is. For a start, it’s the property of the crown, so whoever turned this up has already committed an offence.’ She paused, for the first time her expression changing from sheer excitement to one of deflation and disappointment.
‘What’s up?’
‘Well, of course some of these bloody pain-in-the-arse metal detector freaks sometimes happen upon stuff like this. But even the most greedy and stupid of them would have the good sense to turn this in. It’s not just about the items themselves, it’s the context, DCI Daley. As no doubt you do yourself, we’re trying to piece an entire story together here. Out of context, these items can’t tell us their part properly.’ The passion for her subject flashed in her dark eyes.
‘But I don’t understand, what would make these guys give up their finds – I mean, who would know?’
‘Could you sit on something like this that is literally priceless?’
‘Literally priceless? Really?’
‘Oh, yes.’ She nodded enthusiastically. ‘I have never seen anything like this in my time in the business. We know that Kintyre was a centre of ancient populations – the famous jet necklace and the Iron Age fort above Kinloch are evidence enough of that. But we could never have expected to have so much of this kind of thing.’
‘So where might this have come from?’ asked Daley.
‘I know what I said earlier – about my team, I mean. I’m not blaming anyone – I want to make that clear. But these artefacts are absolutely consistent with the period we are investigating up on Kilmilken hill. I mean, they couldn’t be a more perfect fit.’
‘I see. So I guess the evidence safe here at the station isn’t exactly the right place to keep them?’
‘No! We’ll have to inform the relevant authorities – Historic Scotland, Crown Office – the whole battalion of people. I can deal with that for you.’
‘It is possible that all this could have been discovered by an amateur, though.’
‘Yes, it’s possible, I suppose. But who would be in the places you might find the likes of this? This little lot was probably hidden away by somebody . . . oh, over eight hundred years ago. It wasn’t meant to be found; the likelihood of its just sitting at the side of the road ready to be picked up by a lucky individual is way, way out there.’
‘How well do you know the company who began the ground works at Kilmilken hill, Professor Francombe?’
‘The local boys, not too well. Much of the site was closed to them when we declared an interest. Closed, as in restricted for a defined period to give us a chance to discover what we think is there. The main contractors are a company called Demar Environmental Solutions – Americans. Specialists in the construction of wind turbines.’
‘Who are the local sub-contractors?’
‘Oh, NG Groundworks. It’s their tipper trucks that have flung all that bloody mud about. The boss is an odious little shit . . .’
‘Colin Galt,’ said Daley, before Francombe had the chance to finish her sentence.
‘The very man,’ she said. ‘I can see by your expression that you share the same low opinion of him.’
‘Something like that. Tell me, if any individual took it into their head not to turn this find in to the authorities, what could they do with it?’
‘I’m very sad to say, DCI Daley, that there is an unhealthy global market for stolen or undeclared historical artefacts. Some of the richest people in the world these days have very . . . unconventional backgrounds. They see owning items of massive historical interest as a matter of entitlement. Money can buy anything, so why not buy your surgically enhanced bimbo wife a necklace that once adorned the wife of a Roman emperor? That kind of thing. Big money changes hands on the black market, but the risks are enormous. You have to have the right contacts, and those kinds of people are few and far between.’
‘Yes, I’ve read about cases like this. Just never thought I’d actually come across one.’
They both remained silent for a few moments, as though mesmerised by the artefacts.
‘Oh!’ said Daley suddenly, extricating an item of jewellery from the tumble of precious metal in front of them.
‘What?’
‘This necklace here, the one with the rather ugly locket.’
‘Yes?’ she replied absently, taking it from him reluctantly.
‘It’s an odd one out, isn’t it? Looks very different compared to the rest.’
‘Different, as in it’s modern – well, relatively, in any case. I’m no expert, but I’d say anywhere between the fifties and the late seventies.’
‘Which century?’
‘The twentieth, of course!’ she exclaimed.
She handed the item back to Daley and picked up a more antiquated piece, clearly not interested in the locket Daley was now examining through his reading glasses. There was something very familiar about it, something about the gold chain and the rather confused design of the locket itself.
It came to him in a flash.
‘Excuse me, please, Professor,’ he said, keying his ID code into his desktop computer, and scrolling down the emails. In seconds the open smile of Mary Anne McKean beamed at him from the large screen.
He looked between the cleft of her breasts and held up the locket Francombe had just examined. There was little doubt. The locket round the neck of the woman whose remains had just been discovered on the hillside near Kinloch and the one he had in his hand were i
dentical.
He picked up the phone. ‘Get me DS Scott, please.’
Francombe looked on, an enquiring expression on her face. ‘Something wrong, DCI Daley? You’ve gone as white as snow.’
‘I’ve just spotted something of interest.’
‘I see. I thought you’d just seen a ghost.’
‘In a way, I have.’
As Daley continued to stare at the piece, Francombe quietly examined every detail on the policeman’s face. The expression on her own face had completely changed.
23
Glasgow, 1994
ACC Taylor sat behind his desk shaking his head.
Daley reckoned him to be in his early forties. Unlike their mentor Ian Burns, he was a stocky, powerful figure, but he did share Burns’s intense, probing stare and clear devotion to his duty.
‘This is Ian and me when I was promoted to DI,’ he said, handing Daley a framed photograph. Taylor looked much the same, but Burns looked noticeably younger than Daley remembered him, less stooped, with an almost youthful bloom on his face. ‘I can tell you, DS Daley, I wouldn’t be sitting here today if it wasn’t for Ian Burns.’
‘Yes, I know what you mean. Looks like the job took its toll.’
‘No doubt about it. I always thought stress or the fags would finish him. I could never have predicted . . .’ He stopped, staring at the picture. ‘We will find them, Jim.’
‘I hope so, sir.’
‘Hope, nothing – we will. In fact, that’s part of the reason you’re here. Ian Burns had great hopes for you. Prompted by him, I’ve been watching your progress in the CID, and I share his view. It’s just ironic that you’ll be entrusted with making sure the investigation into his death is all it can be.’
‘I’m not sure I know what you mean, all it can be?’
‘Let me explain, Jim.’ Taylor stood, then leaned on his desk. ‘As you know, because Ian was one of our own, the Squad has taken direct responsibility for investigating his death. Central Scotland Police have called us in.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The Relentless Tide Page 15
